Surprises

I am continually surprised by my kids. Today my son, who I know loves food and enjoys cooking, was sitting at his computer (where he is 80% of the time) and asked me what "minced" means. I had to think because my frame of reference was he was on the computer so what could he possible be talking about? Did he mean as in "mincing your words"? No, he had actually looked up some recipes on line and made a list for the grocery store (on his Droid phone) and said he'd be cooking these tonight. This is my grown son who will soon be leaving to start his career and live alone in an apartment 4 1/2 hours away. I'm starting to think that the Cuisinart electric chopper I picked up for him on a whim for Christmas was a good choice!

I discovered something new about my youngest lately. She has always been sensitive, and our relationship tends to be a reactive one so I don't often see beyond the angry teenager. Quite by accident, I discovered that my girl is a blogger. She is a creative thinker, has amazing insight, and an eye for beauty and simple messages that touch the heart of an issue. Her blog is full of visual poetry and wise words, some her own, some she has taken for her own. The world view she chooses and the issues she champions are close to my heart. I think she's gonna be okay.

Now I wonder why this growth, these discoveries are so amazing to me? As parents do we expect the minimum, or in the case of a late-night phone call, the worst? Is this so we are not disappointed or shocked when the news really is bad? Why am I surprised that my son is willing to make a meal on the spur of the moment for his family, or that my daughter loves language and words and takes a stand on issues she feels strongly about? Weren't these things that I was shooting for in my parenting style? Independence, creativity, morals. I sit back, amazed that these exceptional human beings came from their father and I, that we didn't screw them up too badly with all of our stumbling about, arguments about money, grades, cars, curfews, allowances, and our own indecision and questioning of almost every decision (especially through the teen years) we made regarding the kids. I've told my them, and may have mentioned once or twice (or a million times) here, that 'they' don't require a degree or a license to have children. A baby doesn't come with a manual. Parents love them and do their best, the hopeful result being an independent and productive member of society who is a good person, too. Oh, and happy, we want them to be happy.

Apparently food and poetry are high on the list of things that make my kids happy. Hmmm, those things are pretty high on my own list of things that make me smile. Wine, too. But that's another blog for another day.

Unnecessary

That's how I feel. Unnecessary. At least in the life of my oldest child. I know it has been my (well, our, but what self-respecting mom really gives the father any credit for a job well done?) responsibility since he has been born to raise him to be an independent and successful member of society, a good person, who loves and lives well. I think I've done a pretty good job (okay, we've done a good job). By the way, no one can get out of child rearing without making mistakes and messing it up something, or a lot of things. My son doesn't trust me to follow through with everything, or anything really. That is my fault. I have always wanted to be able to give the world to him, and sometimes I 'promise' things that don't come to pass. He might say I do this frequently, but I know that each of our perspectives is biased. From my perspective I could say that this has built within him a self-reliance and determination to get what he wants, and this has helped him succeed. He would probably say I've disappointed him. Every mother/child relationship that I analyze has flaws in it, and some are complete disasters. I have tried very hard to come out of my child rearing years as close to my children as I can while still remaining their Mom. In our parenting pair, this usually makes me the 'good cop', and this has worked pretty well. And still my children think I know very little about life, my choice in fashion is abominable, and my sense of humor is non-existent. They think I am critical at every turn, and that I ask too many questions. Oh, and that my memory sucks, which it does, sad to say. And they find all of this annoying.

My own mother and I have always had a close relationship. She is a mother beyond reproach. The mom that all of my friends have always loved, a sweet little lady with an English accent. She welcomed all and loves all people. She rarely finds someone she can't get along with, although she does have her opinions of them. She has been supportive of me always. And yet I can still hear criticism in the tone of her voice or the way she asks a question (ooooh, now I get what my kids are complaining about....). I know that I used to feel like a little girl every time I entered her home (sometimes a really good feeling, sometimes not what I needed). I know that too much time with this sweet lady grates on my nerves (just stand up for something and express an opinion for once!). Her niceness becomes annoying. Now, how could I possibly feel this way about a woman who stayed home to raise me and my sister, who provided us with everything we needed and most of what we wanted, who was the 'good cop' in my parents' partnership, the best role model I could have???

I have decided that it is hard wired into the child-parent relationship that kids find their parents annoying and disappointing, critical and laughable, unbearable and stupid, so that they find the impetus TO MOVE OUT AND START THEIR OWN LIVES. Long ago, the impetus was food. Families needed their adult offspring to form their own unit in order to feed themselves. This is no longer an issue, at least within our society. Another reason to leave the nest was privacy and the religious need to make babies (which I still believe relates to back to food, but that's another blog). In some societies and traditions, these needs mean that offspring don't leave, and in some American homes adult families of many generations still live together (again, food. I'm feeling a blog entitled Food coming on...but I digress...). However, even our founding fathers left home because they didn't like the rules. And look how well that turned out!

I may only be justifying the fact that I am feeling very, well, unnecessary lately. And it makes me sad when all I should be is proud and happy that my son has travelled in such a way that he has now been offered a job in an industry he is passionate about, making enough money to support himself and his aspirations. He doesn't need me anymore. I've done my job. I'm almost done with my job with all three of my kids. I think I'll call my mom. Maybe she wants to go to the movies, or shopping. I need her to help me pick out a new pair of glasses. Oh, and I want to find out what she thinks about this beautiful tablecloth I saw at Home Goods.....

Still Learning From My Dad

My dad was born in 1926 Kansas to an evangelical minister and his wife. He grew up in India and Southern California. My grandmother was an amazing woman. She was neglected by her husband, left for months on end with small children in a foreign country, and decided to leave her husband in an era, and religious sect, that more than frowned upon divorce - you were shunned for such an act. Taking in washing, and selling baked goods, she was able to save enough money to pay for passage home from India for herself and her children. She started a new life, and my father grew up with a strong female role model, and later a powerful, big-hearted step father who adopted him and his younger sister. My father was a very bright man, and so far ahead in school when they returned from India that he finished high school two years ahead of his peers. He enrolled in college and the army air corps. Later he completed the Los Angeles Police Academy at the top of his class. He spent 30 years as an LAPD officer, retiring as a Lieutenant. "Mr. Juvenile" is the title he went by. My father was a man I admire greatly for many reasons.

Today my father remembers his partners, playing poker, his first car and his first girlfriend. He remembers a lot about his past, but the present is a shallow, ever shifting pool of mist. When he asks me where Jacob is (my nephew) I know he thinks I'm my sister. I believe, because of his great intelligence, and his efforts to keep his mind sharp (he played cards online up to about 5 years ago), he still uses tools he developed long ago such as referring to his calendar many times a day. When we visit I make sure he writes it in his "brain" as he calls it, otherwise the visit never happened. My sister took him for a car ride on a beautiful, crisp Southern California Saturday recently. He so enjoyed it, and the coffee they bought. He was happy. An hour after she left she received a call from him, and he asked her when she was going to get there. It still brings tears to my eyes.

I was thinking about about how he has to live, literally, in the present. He makes the best of the moment, every moment. There is no depression because there is nothing to regret or to mourn, no anticipation of an empty day or lack of purpose. His moments are his reality. I thought, what a lesson I can learn from that. What does the song say? Live as if you are dying. Live life to the fullest because you don't know how long you have. My dad, due to a disease that robs you of dignity, memory, and the person you are, must live this way. I choose to make happy as many of his moments that I can. I choose to make my own moments happy, every minute of every day.

The Age of Weddings and Funerals

Every week for the last month it's been either a wedding or a funeral. I love both for almost the same reasons. They are the wonderful combination of intimate family traditions, religion, friendship, acquaintances, culture, and fashion, plus history - personal and regional. I had the opportunity to be part of a Buddhist funeral recently, my first. I had no idea that when I offered to help and was asked to keep track of and photograph the floral arrangements, that it was an official job that would be recognized in the printed memorial program. I felt extremely honored (and glad that I had worn dress pants and blouse with heels). The passing of my friend's father took me right to the center of my own world - the aging of my parents and the inevitable fact that this is right where I will be before long: planning a funeral that must be respectful and memorable and honor the man (or woman) who raised and loved me my whole life. It was wonderful to hear about the life of my friend's father, a man born in the United States to Japanese emigrants. He was a teenager during World War II. If you know the history of California, you are already saying, "oooh, nooo." Yes, he spent those years in internment camps. However the focus of his cousin who so eloquently spoke of her beloved "uncle" was not on the hardship of those years, but the "silver lining", which was the fact that he was able to develop his love of art and music during his time in the camps. He was able to turn his talents into a living for his family, and at this funeral there were his seven children and 21 grandchildren. What better legacy? 

The wedding I went to was an intimate affair (code word for small). Again I was honored to be a guest at a ceremony that celebrated life, this time the beginning of life together, and where the guest list was so carefully chosen. Life as a couple in the beginning seems at once so intensely serious, and so very trivial. It's such an easy thing to change your name. To throw a party. To ask for blessings. It's much more serious and difficult to stay in that union when things get sweaty and ugly: through lack of money, choosing paint colors and furniture you both can tolerate, crying babies and lack of sleep, and teenagers. But the beginning of a union is so joyful and lacy and full off pretty dresses and tulle and frosting and candy and bubbly drinks. You just have to smile and dance and rejoice that people still want to get married, to do the hard thing, or try their darnedest to do it. And some day, that wife will be escorted into that church/synagogue/temple by her son or her brother-in-law, in order to honor the life of her husband whom she has loved and shared a lifetime with. A dear relative will tell their story. Their legacy will be present and those present will feel honored to have known them.

I Fought With A Mop Today

Mops should not change. They should be easy to use, simple, and do their job effectively. My old mop died a rusty death so I decided to replace it with something different. Maybe those sad mop commercials got to me, I'm not sure. So I went with a wrap around model that advertised that it was good for tile. I threw out the old mop and now, two weeks later (I'm not hiding that I rarely mop), I opened the new  one. I had actually forgotten I had bought it, so it was like Christmas when I went to get it and saw a bright, shiny, still in the package mop. Let me back up for a second. I work about 10 hours a day, and usually (as noted above), cleaning is not a priority when I get home. I also have a handy husband and cleaners that come about every three weeks (who do a fabulous job on my floors). This week is fall break, so I have some extra hours in my day to contemplate the floor (and go barefoot long enough to notice how dirty my feet get). So the need to mop came upon me as a sudden, overwhelming... well, need. I popped the package open and found that the handle wasn't quite latched into the mop head gadget thingy. Looked easy enough, a slanted peg just needed to be popped into the other side. A half hour later, I was on the floor, sweaty, red-faced, and swearing loudly, with tools strewn about like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Three screwdrivers and a hammer, many loud expletives (my daughter was worried I'd injured myself), and I had finally conquered that mop. The plastic is a little cracked, but it is still useful. Not as effective as I had hoped, however, and I certainly didn't look anything like that relaxed, happy mopper in the commercial. Believe you me, I'll be promptly calling that 1-800 number to lodge a complaint with 3M as soon as I post this. By the way, I took this as a sign that the more infrequently I approach a mop, the better.

Living In a State With a Coastline

I love living near the ocean. It makes me feel so small and so big at the same time. The ocean, powerful and unstoppable, emphasizes the insignificance of my self. Every crab, every bird, every dolphin that I see feels a part of something bigger, something connected to everything and everyone. I have heard that the coast has a plethora of negatively charged ions which can calm us and make us feel energized and focused at the same time. A scientific way of saying "happy", at least for me. One of my goals is to have a small house near the ocean, near enough to walk. I can picture it, I can smell the salt and seaweed, and hear the waves. I sleep better by the ocean, I feel more alive by the ocean, I am closer to heaven by the ocean.

More Things I Hate About Getting Older

2. Doing things for your parents that you used to do for your children. Your very young, very small children. 

This sounds like a gift, a wonderful thing that you can do for the people who raised you. Isn't it a blessing to care for those who changed your diapers and took you to all your medical and dental appointments? It's not. I loathe that my parents are no longer the people I grew up with, or even those that I spent most of my adult life getting to know and admire. It's not really the physical doing that I object to. I can go to the store, drive to appointments, even clean up and wash for my parents. What I hate is that the people I do these things for are not the parents I have known most of my life. I miss with an ache in my core the days that I could call up my mom and make plans to come over and bring the kids swimming, knowing she'd have lunch for us and a movie for the kids to watch on the VCR for afterward while we'd spend our time gossiping and chatting about friends old and new, and happenings in our lives. I miss camping with them, my dad taking my son fishing and teaching my daughter to play chess. I miss him being smarter than me. Although at the rate I'm going he probably still is. I miss consulting him on our latest planned purchase, asking him to help out with planning the garden or painting a room. 

I've seen things a daughter should never see, I've said things I never thought I'd say. I've had to turn on my teacher voice and mother my parents and I don't like it, not one little eensy weensy bit.  But I do it anyway, with love, for these people who are my parents, and are still themselves inside somewhere. They always had a way of loving me unconditionally. They deserve the same.

Things I Hate About Getting Older # 9: I'm Here, But Why?

The title is not a cosmic pondering of my existence, but the polite way of asking, when I leave one room with purpose and enter another with purpose, "Why the hell did I come in here? I know it was for some reason but I can't f#@%!+g* remember!" Sometimes it works to retrace my steps, but more often than not I still can't remember why I am standing there, in that room, at that moment. 

I feel like my brain is a sieve, and things just can't help but slip through the holes. I believe they are gone forever, not lurking somewhere in the recesses of my brain waiting to be discovered. They are just floating somewhere in the cosmos. The number one thing I would change about myself is my poor memory. I only have bits and pieces of my past in my retrievable memory to begin with, and as I get older I go farther into the darkness. Or is it that there is more to forget because I've lived longer? Thank god for photos, friends, relatives, and spouses with good memories (one of the five reasons I keep him around). Oh, and annual Christmas letters highlighting the year in a page (or two if you get mine).

*warning: I have a terrible mouth when frustrated. And on Saturdays and Sundays. And when I stub my toe or drink more than two shots of tequila. I don't really fucking care if you are offended.

Signs of Fall When you are 48

This week I was able to enjoy two of my very favorite signs of fall. They involve all of the senses, and leave me with the anticipation of change, that summer is stepping out the back door and fall is ringing the doorbell. As a teacher of young students I have my students observe signs of the changes in the seasons. In the fall we look for leaves changing color, a cooler breeze in the air, those subtle signs that the earth is revolving and our world is magically making it's way back around again. There's always a bit of magic in the science of it, don't you think? 

My signs of fall don't involve any magic, however. I anticipate their return each fall like the swallows to Capistrano. The first involves the steaming of an espresso machine and the pouring of hot liquids, mixing of flavors (okay, maybe a little magic is involved), sipping and savoring. Just the perfect amount of milk, espresso, flavor, and foam to make a Pumpkin Spice Latte. As much as I enjoy coffee from other coffee vendors, no one does the Pumpkin Spice like Starbucks. The second appears on the shelves of my favorite grocers, Trader Joe's, each fall in the baking section. A box of pumpkin pancake & waffle mix can fill my home with the aroma of fall. Pumpkin waffles for breakfast this morning! Fall is here, I love it!!

http://www.traderjoes.com/

Wow, I Finally Did It!

I have finally entered the world of blogging, I can't believe it! After I tried about thirty urls that were not available, I had to settle with kicking and screaming, so let me explain... I am, very reluctantly (an understatement) leaving my 40s behind me. This is happening without my permission, and is out of my control. I don't like it one little bit. I soooo enjoyed entering my 40s. My children were of perfect ages, independent but not impertinent. My parents were independent. My life was MINE. My job, my house, even my animals, were all that I wanted. It was, as it should be, all about me. 

Sometime over the last 8 years this has changed. Even my body is betraying me - hot, cold, hot, cold. Just had your period? Surprise! Here it is again! Thought your child was at a sleepover? Surprise! The phone rings and it is the friendly neighborhood Sheriff. My answering machine is full of messages from my dad that go something like this... "Hi, this is dad. Just wondering when I'll see you." 10:00 a.m. Monday. Beep. "Hi, this is dad. Pick up the phone." 10:08 a.m. Monday. Beep. "Hi, this is (insert Dad's proper legal name as if I didn't know who it was) just want to talk to someone in the faammmiiillyyy." 10:30 a.m. Monday. Beeeeep.

Soooo. This is a place for me, and for you, you forty- or fifty-something wife-mom-daughter-employee-volunteer-friend-sister. Because it still IS ALL ABOUT US.