Mother's Day 2019

Today is Mother's day and I know, lots of people get worked up over the Sunday being a made up holiday, but without being self serving, I'd say, no.  It's a good tradition to honor our parents.  God put it out there for us first, back in the ten commandments, but that the US has set aside a day for Moms and a day for Dads is not evil.  It's only if that's the only day we recognize how those who came before us and loved us even when we weren't so loveable (not that I was ever not loveable), that we run into trouble. Mother's day ought to be celebrated with flowers and chocolate and foot rubs and indulgent silly things like cards, hugs, breakfast and lazy time. 

My daughter brougth me breakfast at 5:45 am.  Maybe she thinks since I get up most mornings before everyone else, I like that time of day. I don't know.   Her heart bubbled with joy at the prospect of giving me breakfast in bed (Special K with milk and raspberries), and and card. It was a joyful moment.  After I ate and we hugged, I went back to sleep and life proceeded at its normal pace, with someone needing to write things into the calendar, another asking if they could cook bacon, and people scrambling to set up when they would go to mass. (We go in two shifts usually). 

Life returned to the normal, which is what in a sense, Moms and Dads always want...normal, easy, smooth sailing, stress free, happy, with moments of epicness, preferably without the hard scramble that always seems to accompany it.  They brought me flowers and paired off to play video games.  One bought me a book of sheet music. 

We noticed the big frog in the pond and I visited with my one child away from home on the phone about where he'd sleep when he returns.  My third likewise needed to conference about car use and what she needs on the menu at home. We planned the week and I added spinach, carrots, apples, almond milk and pistacchios to the list.  Ordinary time is what Moms do best.   It's in the little things that motherhood is made, like beds and meals and errands.  I thought about my mom.  She's one of two people I call almost daily.  As I listen to my own children give me their slice of life of their day. I realize, my mom doesn't tire of me doing the same thing to her...and I'm very grateful. So far, she hasn't tired of my fifty-two years of telling her what I did, when I did it, and what I thought about what I did when I did it yet.  Your sanctification owed to holy patience is assured.  So thanks Mom!  Thanks for always being there, even if you're a 21 hour drive away. 

I'd finished writing that sentence when I felt the trained eyes of a camera on me. 
My eight year old daughter is back, and she's doing a documentary on me. 

"This is the mighty mom.  She doesn't like to have her territory messy, so we should clean it up. Her normal diet consists of chocolate and diet coke.  She takes a nap in the afternoon so she can be awake both during the day and night.  She also spends a lot of time on a device known as a computer.  This concludes our first segment on this gentle creature."   She pulled back and bade me smile.  If I figure out how to upload the video from her DS, I'll post it here. In the meantime, Happy Mother's Day!

Siblings

So, this week I made pumpkin chocolate chip muffins for my sophomore in college.  It became a family project. 

 I'd packed them in a tin and my twelve year old wrote her a note. 

Dear Marta,

Hope you like these muffins we made. There are twelve.

Love Rita.

Her brother came by and decided to make his own note. 

I ate one. --Peter
Her father wrote a note.  "I didn't.  True love. --Dad"

Her sister Faith came by and added an additional note.  "I counted.  There are still eleven.  Love you, Faith." 

and before I could pack them off, one last brother gave his two cents.

"Faith counted wrong. There are ten." --Love Will.  

I counted before  I shipped them off. There were eleven.  When did I become the straight man in my family?

1000 Stories, 1000 Words, Even More Memories

My brain today announced, “Due to excessive lack of use, the management has declared it will no longer take requests from the general public to perform on demand.”  I offered to eat fish.  I offered to exercise.  I even suggested I’d do both in the same week. I’d read Joyce.  I’d finish a medium level Soduku and listen to Mozart. 

I sat down to write.  Nothing.  I tried looking in my book of prompts.  I solicited family for suggestions and went on the internet searching for inspiration.  Finally, I had time, I had a computer and I got this:

So you get what I always do when I can’t think of something to write, you get me complaining about my AWOL muse and why Sherry can’t think anymore. 

One reason is simple.  Writing served as a means of self-affirmation while a stay at home mom.  Now that I’m working, the need for affirmation is not as desperate, ergo, the motivation is less.  That’s pathetic and sad really, but it’s also not wrong (much as I might wish otherwise).   On the positive side of that argument, perhaps my ego isn’t as needy.   (Ha!).  I know writers write even when not inspired, even when tired, even when they can’t think of a blasted thing so I’m here, whiffing at my own softball pitches.

Another reason is maternal.  Teenagers, while as amusing and entertaining (and they are), don’t struggle from massive cute disconnects which can be easily exploited for humor purposes.  I don’t want to document adolescence the way I did toddlerhood, because the chaos of teenagerhood is more about figuring out how to help them grow up, and that requires time and space and preferably, not sardonic, sarcastic or even light humor remarks from Mom.  

There are more reasons.  Physically, I know I’ve been running on fumes, both physically and intellectually since around September.  Negotiations with the brain have indicated there isn’t enough caffeine in the universe to make up for the lack of consistent rest, ergo if I want the grey matter to work, I need to invest in more REM time.  Will work on it, especially during Spring Break.

Inspiration. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve told all the jokes I have, and there aren’t any stories that aren’t either repeats of what’s been done, or somehow not what they should be.   I don’t want to force laughter or force humor.  But writing is a lot like fishing, you have to be patient and some days, even if you do everything correctly, you get skunked.   I know. Write anyway. Fish anyway.  Fish until you have no bait left even if they aren’t biting.  Write until you’ve hit 1000 words, even if they don’t sing.

Writing is hard.  Comedy is hard.  Writing comedy is harder than both.   A person who fishes but gets skunked is still a fisherman.  Is a person who writes but comes up with nothing still a writer?  Yes, but like the fisherman, frustrated as all get out.   I don’t want to just write words.  I want to write stories.  I want to somehow evoke a mood (other than boy is Sherry irritated with herself and in need of a diet coke, chocolate bar and a good 3 mile walk, maybe a book, a glass of wine and an early night).  

Back in 2004, I began writing and it seemed, everything would just pour out.  As I look at those early attempts, I wince at my own creations.  They seemed beautiful then, the same way prom pictures and art work and poetry written in adolescence seem meaningful and lovely.   Maturity has a way of rubbing off the glow of those early pieces, because you can see what you could have done, what you should have done, but what those early pieces have that isn’t there now, is fire.  Fire that came from feeling semi-fearless, like I could write anything. 

Somewhere in thirteen years of writing, telling the stories of what happened became something I wouldn’t do, and with that, telling stories became harder.   I lost a piece I’d worked on, with only 356 words to show for it, and I can’t for the life of me remember a word, not even the concept. Discouraged, I wondered, is it gone?  Is it time to just stop.  But that’s always been my problem.  I stop just before things flower, just before things take off, I sabotage myself by not fighting through whatever it is.  So I’m here, banging on the typewriter, blathering about my writers block and hoping somehow to pull out of my head, the practiced habit of writing, to restart with the vigor of knowing, every day there are 1000 stories waiting to be told.  My writing coach holds no sympathy for writing block. "You have ten kids.  Write."

It's a true formula, so I made a timeline.

We ate bacon and bagels, hot cross buns and fresh tomatoes for breakfast and John and Rita served the seven o’clock.  Paul brought me a lily he plucked from the outside and I placed it on the mantle.

 Today my almost ten-year-old reenacted light saber battles with whiffle ball bats.  She and her sisters planned a birthday party and bribed their parents to host a slumber party by cleaning the basement. 

We planted tomatoes and went to a band concert.  My son demanded to quit band because he doesn’t like it.  I offered a bribe.  He agreed with the proviso, I not make him go to Summer Camp. I’m still deciding if I agree to these terms.  At the concert, I met a couple who used to go to Saint Martin’s, they talked about the charism of Fr. Dan, which I agree, is remarkable.  I thought about his gift to bring others to the faith and how he helped me in a hard time.  The kids scored an excellent and I watched and wondered why one conductor refused to smile.

The kids planted Gladiolas, wild flowers, and played with kites in the back yard.   Paul came to me with his communication device and punched in, “Alligator, bee, toad.”  Which meant “I want to watch The Princess and the Frog.”  He’s also typed in “Fish, Jelly, Turtle,” code for “Turn on Finding Nemo.”  That evening, we took Paul and John to see a Capitals Game and Paul held our hands and jumped up the stairs and across crosswalks in downtown DC.  He said “Hockey” and signed to a girl his size, “I like your shoes,” because she wore caps sneakers. We got him a jersey and he wore it to bed, he felt so pleased.  All of this in one day, when I thought, I could think of nothing, because I was thinking what can I write, as opposed to “what happened?”  There isn't always a line connecting everything other than one thing preceded another, but writing out the events of the day allows me to look for ways to connect the events.  What happened?  A lot of life which, if I hadn't written it down, might have been forgotten.

First rule of writing, write.  Second rule of writing, get out of your own way when you’re writing.  Third rule, finish strong. 

Paul's first game, Palm Sunday, and a band concert, it was a good day to remember.   Sitting down to finish this piece after the game, I thought, "They're all good days, even the bad ones." I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.  

The Great Communicator

Paul has an i-Pad programmed to help him talk.  He can ask for all sorts of things using it, and is very fluid.  Mostly, he asks for chocolate milk, chips and to watch television.  

This morning, his sisters were trying to use his machine to sing Christmas carols.  He came over, shooed them away and pushed the following buttons:

People, I want to eat cereal.

We all scrambled to give the man his fruit loops.

All You Can Eat

Yesterday, my nine year old finished her soccer season and I took the four, eight and eleven year old with me to cheer her on, and to the post game victory party at a local chain buffet. They'd never been to this restaurant as I tend to avoid going out to eat with my children except at places that provide meals in paper wrapping accompanied by plastic toys.

My four year old found four year old heaven.  I think she ate three times her weight in fruit from the salad bar, running back every two minutes or so to refill her plastic bowl with honey dew.  After eating more than I thought possible, her sisters introduced her to the entree' table.  Mac-n-cheese, french fries, fried chicken.  "This is the best place in the world." she glowed.  My son discovered the taco bar.  Game over.  A chorus sang the glories of chips.  I mentioned carrots. "Unlimited drinks!" my daughter pointed to her red plastic cup of chocolate milk and straw.

I told myself, it's okay. It's one day.  We sat at opposite ends of a long string of tables, (the adults on one side, the soccer team and siblings on the other) so I watched semi-helplessly as my four year old ran again to the stations and discovered the mother load of desserts.  

Up until now, I'd allowed her discretion. Fruit. No problem. Milk. No biggie. Proteins.  She came back with carrot cake. My suggestion of vegetables heeded, she ran back for cookies.  A waitress came by with a platter of ice cream in cups with gummi bears.  I didn't know this place functioned as a truck stop version of dim sum.   Delighted, she sought out dessert number four before I could get to her.   The waitress thought her so cute, she gave two slices of pumpkin pie.  I thought my daughter might explode if she kept eating.  Other soccer teammates saw her desire to be in the clean plate club and began giving her the desserts they didn't want in their quest to try everything.  Her eyes bulged with gluttonous joy.

She began the dance of the bathroom and so I took her. By now, the waitress had begun clearing the table of the aftermath.  My daughter felt distraught.  Her treasure'd been looted!

She ran to the ice cream machine and sweet talked the waitress into giving her a swirly cone.  She must have sensed she'd pushed her luck, she gave it to me.   I called for our check.  Imprisoned by the need to pay up, she took the opportunity to go back and grab another bowl of fruit and a cookie.  Her brother pushed himself away from the table, bloated with pizza, chicken, cornbread and dessert.  She took his french fries.   "We're going." I announced. It took a few minutes to round up her sisters and brother, all of whom, after protesting fullness, had gone back to the create your own sundae bar for more.  I hate wasting food, but I also wanted us to leave the place before any child reached critical mass.

Pulling her out the doors and into the bright sunlight, she winced at the reality of the world outside the comfort of the buffet table.  "I'm so full." Food drunk, she staggered holding my hands. We drove home, and I thought smugly to myself as all four succumbed to sleep en route, they won't be hungry for dinner.  

As soon as I pulled in the driveway, the four year old woke up.  Her first words?  "Mommmmm?  What's for lunch?"



.    

Be Ready at All Times

Two visitors from a local chapter of a national church that makes home visits came by last week. The young women wanted to give me some encouraging words of scripture.

I said, "Sure."

One woman produced her bible. "These are from Saint James."
"Saint James?" I asked.

"Yes."
"Really? Because if you want encouragement from the New Testament, Saint James is really not your best choice."

"You read the bible?"  They smiled but looked surprised.
"Yes. As Saint Jerome says, "Ignorance of scripture is ignorance of God."

"Who is Saint Jerome?"  She asked.
Grateful I'd just recently read a piece on him, I answered.  "He's a doctor of the Church, born around 342 AD."
One of the ladies began to feel a bit nervous and backed away.
"What religion are you?" the other asked.  She seemed excited to have this conversation.

"Catholic.  Celebrating the 12 days of Christmas right now. Like the lights?" Three of my smaller ones came running by the door.  They were singing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." and holding dinosaurs, sheep from the Nativity scene and My Little Ponies.

She smiled. The other one took the opportunity."We don't celebrate Christmas..." but her friend jumped in,  "Can I ask you?  I've always wanted to know what the 12 days were."

"Oh.  That's a either French or English carol, depending upon who you ask, and some say it's a means of secretly passing along the catechism of Catholicism from a time when it was illegal in places like England to be Catholic.  There's dispute about it, and I'm not super up to speed.  I know the partridge in the pear tree is Christ on the Cross. But we do celebrate Christmas from December 25th through the feast of the Epiphany." I wished I could give her more, but I didn't know enough to answer.

She nodded.  "Cool." and as an afterthought asked, "Would you like to read some of the writings about our Church?" holding out a pamphlet.

"No thanks. I write that kind of stuff myself, for a Catholic publication."  She asked for my name and as they left, she admired the Christmas decorations.

I'm thinking, if she leaves their church, they'll take our address off the list for places to visit.

Fireworks Bluff

I always thought the fireworks were for me. My birthday is July 3rd, and so naturally it seemed that everyone including aunts, uncles and cousins would come to the beach for a weekend party, complete with a bonfire, all day fishing and fireworks at the end. I expected that every year I’d see everyone and we’d feast on Texas sheet cake and vanilla Bluebell ice cream. The cake would still be steaming from the icing that Mom would make, and I’d sit on the deck even if the mosquitoes were bad, drinking a sweaty coke-cola and eating from a paper bowl. The fireworks would go up and my birthday would end with a dazzling display while I petted our pet lab, Midnight who sat hoping I’d drop a bit of vanilla her way.


Most years, it happened like that and I loved it. Then, I turned sixteen.

Being stuck with countless cousins at a family beach house minus a single peer, even a related one, unable to get any rock-n-roll or persuade my crazy Uncle with the tattoos to change the station from Country Western, I did what any teen would do. I sulked around the house, moaning about how boring it was to be stuck at a place with no television, no stereo, no chance of real fun. The water was bad for fishing, too muddy, too rough even for redfish. Body surfing in the morning had left my arms and legs scraped from the shells and sunburned, which didn’t improve my adolescent mood.

Sensing my extreme displeasure, my uncle tried to cheer me up with the prospect of a bonfire that night. Momentarily, the gloom lifted, but a lightning crack over the water crushed that possibility before it could even start. So it was that my uncles performed an intervention on their sixteen year old niece and taught her poker. We spent the rest of the day in that un-airconditioned room at the giant butcher block table and I became the Queen of cards, though to be honest, I think they threw a few hands my way early on. My mother still served the cake but I scarcely noticed it as I was deep in a hand with a full house and wondering if my Uncle really had a straight or was just bluffing. With pennies, nickels and dimes on the line, it mattered and I found myself down to my last forty two cents.

I had three nines. Hardly a great hand but I was irritated and wanted to win more than anything. I put in a red chip, a dime and I watched as three of my uncles folded. My dad and Uncle Mike remained. He bumped the pot a dime. I met it. My dad bumped it a dime. Uncle Mike met it and I met it and bumped it my last twelve cents worth of chips. Dad folded. Uncle Mike met my bet. We then were given the opportunity to improve our hand. “How many cards do you want?” he asked.

“None.” I answered.

“None?” Uncle Mike looked at me. “You can’t improve your hand at all?”

It was a bluff, of course I could improve on three nines but the whole goal was to win and asking for two new cards at this point would have shown weakness. (That’s what I tell myself, but the reality was, I didn’t know what I was doing). Uncle Mike folded. I took the pot.

“Wait a minute. What did you have? Show your hand.” He demanded.

“Technically, Sherry doesn’t have to show you her hand since you folded.” My dad corrected his brother.

“Three nines.” I proudly announced.
The ribbing over being beaten by a niece over three nines by his four brothers was great. I had a second piece of cake and the cousins came in to say they’d managed to start a fire and were going to shoot off bottle rockets into the sea.

So today, when my teen came to me upset because they couldn't go to the movie they'd hoped (sold out), I knew of only one solution.  Poker anyone? 

Everything is Grist for the Mill

Last week I was in San Diego. We toured Midway, the aircraft carrier.


Returning from the trip, I decided to put my new knowledge of how things got done to work. I summoned the largest possible number of children (8) as the youngest two don't have the capacity to contribute in this endeavor. I had them line up from tallest to smallest without explaining.

I then told them how multi-million dollar aircrafts could get destroyed and lives lost if so much as a single bolt was loose on the deck and that the soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder and walked the length of the ship inspecting to make sure all was clear.

Wearing what we affectionately refer to as the "hat of command," (it says Zookeeper), I ordered a FOD (foreign object damage) walk across the living room.  The walk afforded them a view of many potential threats to any wayward aircraft that might consider making our home their runway, shoes, my little ponies, hotwheels, legos and books were amongst the chief offenders, not to mention the batgirl cape, Nintendo DS, a pair of sunglasses and four throw pillows and blankets. "I want it all clear!" I barked.

There were some that could be said to utter mutinous remarks, but the lower ranks were clearly enthused for the idea and ran about sweeping the room in eager anticipation of a F-18 arriving soon.

Fortunately for me, my middle son is something of a wit. He fired up the paper airplanes and his remote controlled flying saucer after the FOD had been completed to the delight of all. The oldest followed suit and googled some top gun music for added ambiance. 

Hopefully, they'll be just as enthused when I introduce rolling one's laundry.
Somehow I doubt it. 

Maybe next vacation, we'll try the Marines.

Maryland is for Crabs

My mom sends Christmas Pajamas every year. Sometimes she worries that P.J’s aren’t the most exciting gift to get at Christmas, but they are seriously looked forward to every year by everyone.

This year, it was a Lobster motif. The pants had lobsters on a navy background. They were fun. The younger ones had those onsies with footies. After three days of wearing the lobster pajamas, I declared the sleepware needed a break, and a wash!

Getting dressed for bed, my three year old daughter was visibly upset. She marched up to me in her substitute night gown for the evening with a dark frowny face. “I Want My Crabs!” she snapped.