Birthday Wishes, Courthouse Blues

(google image via scentofmyheart.files.wordpress.com)

It’s GB’s birthday today. He’s 35, although he says he feels a whole lot older. We have plans to celebrate with my family tonight, and the boys and I are taking him to breakfast this morning. On Thursday, though, I canceled my noon meeting and met GB for lunch so we could celebrate his big day by ourselves.

As we scanned the menu, I of course spent a minute or two teasing him about The Big 3-5 in a shamefully uncreative way. “This is your last year to check the “21-35” box on forms, you know.” I said. “You’ll be out of the youth market. Beer companies won’t want anything more to do with you.”

He grinned ruefully. “Remember how, when I first started my job, the marketing team took pictures of the lab, and I was in one of those pictures? Since then, my 23-year-old self is on posters around the building. I walked past one with [Mr. Company President] a few days ago, and he told me I’d aged a lot.”

“He did?” I said. I tilted my head and tried to survey my husband objectively. To me, he didn’t look like he’d aged much at all. I could only see the same smart, preppy, smirking kid I married all those years ago.

~*~

It’s April 9, 1999. I’m at the Franklin County Probate Court, waiting to sign a marriage license for the wedding that is just two weeks away. I left work early and arrived at 3:45 by myself. Now it’s 4:19, the office will close in 11 minutes, and GB has yet to walk through the door.

The receptionist eyes me sympathetically from behind the desk. I avoid eye contact as long as I can. When she does catch my glance, she says, “I’m sorry, sweetie. It looks like he’s not coming.”

“Oh, he’ll be here!” I say in my most chipper voice. “I’m sure he’s just running late.”

She nods encouragingly and returns to her crossword puzzle.

Meanwhile, I try to decide how best to retaliate for being stood up on marriage license-signing day: If I get home first, should I pack up all his things and then wait for him, or should I change the lock, spend the night at my parents’ house and leave all his crap on the back doorstep? The first could work, because the yelling would be cathartic. But the second would be better; I’m already humiliated enough.

“No matter what,” I tell myself, “I’m keeping his CDs. He’ll have to pry them from my cold, lifeless, broken-hearted fingers to even think about getting them back.”

The clock says 4:21.

I fumble around for my cell phone. In my head I leave him a message full of furious, unbridled obscenities. Instead, I mumble this into the phone: “GB, I’m at the courthouse. Where are you?”

Then I slink back in my chair to stare at the ceiling.

At 4:23, the door swings open, and there he is. His tanned face is all smiles and apologies. I burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks in wide-eyed surprise.

“I left you messages! Why are you so late?”

“I got caught in traffic,” he says. “Then I couldn’t find a parking spot. I drove around forever. You know I wouldn’t stand you up.”

The receptionist pretends she’s not paying attention. She pulls a calculator out of her top drawer and starts poking the numbers with her pencil eraser.

GB exhales an exasperated sigh then collapses into the seat next to mine. “Now, are you going to learn trust me?” he says. “You know me well enough to know I would never let you down like that.”

The clock says 4:25.

“Let’s sign some papers,” I sniff.

For once, the government does two kids a favor and stays open a little late. We leave the courthouse with our license in hand, and say our vows in front of friends and family two weeks later. We spend the next decade sharing CDs that eventually turn into MP3 files, in an apartment that eventually turns into a house, that we own as a couple that eventually turns into a family.

~*~

From this safe distance of nearly 12 years, I can say GB has kept his promises. He has never let me down, not once. I think that’s why I can’t see if he’s changing. He’s never made me question him, so I’ve never needed to take a step back, reassess, or see him for anything other than the person I know him to be.

“Did you buy me the anti-balding shampoo for a reason?” he asked me yesterday morning.

I snorted. “I bought you anti-balding shampoo?”

“I thought you were trying to tell me something,” he said.

I laughed as I squinted at his full head of hair. “You know me well enough to know I’m not that subtle.”

(Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope it’s fantastic. – M.)

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Animal House and the Birthday Girl

 

(google image via digitalinkreport.com)

It’s late March, 1992. My mother is standing by the piano with an overturned hat in her hands. In the hat are four folded squares of paper. On each square, she has written one of each of these names:

• Allegheny College, Meadville, PA
• Centre College, Danville, KY
• Miami University, Oxford, OH
• Ohio Northern University, Ada, OH

I’ve applied and been accepted to eight different schools, although I’m not sure why I went after so many. I guess I want options, option, options, and now that I have them, I’ve narrowed them down to the four that “fit best.” I don’t exactly know what that means, but I can say the past four years have been tough ones. (Isn’t high school tough for everyone?) I want to go somewhere new, completely start over. I want to go by gut feel alone.

My mom shakes the hat and peers over its brim. “Are you ready?” she asks.

“I think so.”

In the middle of the dining room table there sits a large bouquet of purple and white hyacinths. The room is steeped in their sticky-sweet scent. I breathe them in as my mom reaches into the hat.

She opens the square slowly at first, then quickly and triumphantly. “Allegheny!” she says with naked delight.

My mom hails from Pennsylvania. She hasn’t said so, but I know Allegheny is her first choice. She and my dad took turns slogging through all the campus tours and overnights with me, and at Allegheny, she was different. She was more relaxed, maybe, like she’d found the place she’d feel comfortable enough to let me try myself out for a while.

Now her eyes squint. Her face is flushed. “Allegheny!” she says again.

“Allegheny!” I say to let it roll around on my tongue. It doesn’t feel right. I say it again just to be sure.

She watches me for a moment. Then she drops the square into the hat and reshakes the collection. “Best two out of three,” she says brightly.

I hold my breath as she pulls the next square.

“Centre College!” she says.

My heart skips. I grin all over myself.

She surveys my response. The square goes in again. And then it comes out.

She holds it up to my face and then places it in my hands. I feel sure of this square, sure of her handwriting, sure of this final decision. And while part of me feels guilty—Centre is the farthest away, the most expensive, the one with the smallest scholarship—the other part of me wraps my life around it.

My mother smiles. She gives me a hug, and for a while neither of us lets go.

~*~

I think about how impossible it must be to let your children strike out on their own. I know it’s impossible because I can’t bear the thought even now, with the boys as small as they are. Occasionally, I drive them past Ohio State University. “There it is, guys!” I exclaim. “Look, Ohio Stadium! Maybe one day you’ll be Buckeyes just like Pa. It’s close to home; I’ll bake you brownies whenever you want them.”

They kick their feet happily and peer through the car windows. I nod smugly, because I’m not above brainwashing. I’m not above doing whatever it takes to keep them here.

This is how I know my mom is a better mother than I am.

~*~

You can’t know at 18 what it means to tell a college to expect you in the fall—how the next four years will influence the decisions you make from that point. You’ll cull your knowledge and prospects and social mores from those first years of adulthood, and those years will shape everything else. I look around me and know that everything I have, everything I strive for, all my beliefs and convictions—everything, everything—comes from the foundation my parents set for me, and the person I grew into at school.

My mom helped me prepare, helped me pack, helped me go. She helped me come home when I needed to, then helped me go back out again.

In my life, I’m grateful for so much. But that moment in the dining room, with my mom and the hat and the hyacinths and the hope I held in my hands—that’s the moment I’m most grateful for, because it led to everything else.

Love you so much, Mom. Thank you for everything. A very happy birthday to you. Here’s to your finest year yet.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
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Caught in a Downpour

First, I’m absolutely lashing with apologies. Each time my iPhone dings, I see WordPress notices from friends who have written something new. Bloggers, I’m clamoring to read your posts and shower your words with comments.

But the truth is, someone resigned on me at the office this week, so I’m spending my free time redistributing work to the rest of my team. Once that’s finished, I can sit back and wait for someone to retaliate by: 1) egging my windows, 2) laying a flaming bag of poo on my doorstep, or 3) keying automotive-love-of-my-life, Jones. With a vengeance. And then I shall cry.

So: Here’s a post I wrote in July about rain, a stolen hour and music. Bloggers, my fingers are crossed that I’ll catch up with you on Friday to see what sort of trouble you’ve been getting yourselves into.

~*~

Caught in a Downpour – July 26, 2010

My original plan was to wake early and run before anyone missed me. When the alarm sounded at 6:30 AM, my groggy mind and sinus headache regarded each other, shook hands, and agreed to go back to sleep.

Now it’s 7:30 AM. The morning is dry and cool—perfect for running—but a pocket of grim and gathering clouds lines the northwest sky. So what then? Run in the rain? I’d kind of love that. The problem is, I don’t like to run without music. And since I’ve stored my favorite mp3s on my water-averse iPhone, I need to make a decision. The sky above me is eerie and yellow, but the storm is miles away. The rain could hold for 40 minutes or so—just long enough for a 5 mile workout.

I decide to test fate, and the first two miles are easy. The air is crisp and still. Then, half-way through mile 3, the trees begin to blow sideways. I hear the rain before I feel those first heavy drops land squarely on my forehead.

Oh, my sweet baby iTunes, I think. Things are about to take a nasty turn.

~*~

To date, I have exactly 424 mp3s and 540 photos locked in the sacred memory of my mobile device. I’ve never backed up those files because my company’s code of conduct says I can’t sync my phone on my laptop. If my iPhone gets wet, all those files will disappear. Hundreds of dollars plus hours of my listening enjoyment would be washed away with just a few well-placed raindrops.

I’m two blocks from my neighborhood Starbucks. If I sprint, maybe I can make it there before the sky drains all over this sidewalk.

So I run full tilt. I take a sharp left into a condo complex that juts up against my favorite hard-core caffeine supplier. What I’ve never realized until today—what I never had a reason to notice—is that a 5-feet tall chain link fence separates the two structures. I’m sure I can scale the fence, that’s not the problem. But by now, the storm has unleashed itself. I look around and see a long garage with a 2 ½ foot overhang. I’ll be fine out here under the gutters, I think. This kind of downpour can’t last long.

~*~

In movies, you can tell when the “rain” is really just the studio’s sprinkler system. The water pours down in visible streams and splashes all over the set. That’s exactly how this thunderstorm is. The drops fuse together into furious lines that strike loudly against the pavement; they don’t change direction. It’s just a straight shot from sky to ground.

I watch those drops fall, listening to the slush of cars edging wetly through the neighborhood. My shoes are damp from the dripping overhang, but my iTunes are bone dry. I call GB to tell him I’m fine, then spend the next half-hour shuffling through my favorite songs. I feel sleepy and relaxed, and I’m all settled in when GB calls to say he’ll come find me.

Pantha du Prince – Welt Am Draht (Animal Collective Remix)

~*~

In a way, I wish I could stay longer. It’s just a half hour I’m glad I’ve had. In this time, I’ve thought of next to nothing—just rain and music and rain again. I’ve been forced to be still and quiet—a bit like sleeping, I guess. For a chronic multitasker like me, that’s really kind of a gift.

When GB pulls up, I’m glad to see him. The boys are smiling through their red hooded rain jackets. They spend the ride home recounting the morning’s cartoons. I tell them I missed them and they kick their feet happily. The rain falls loudly for hours, and my house is noisy with play.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Love Advice for Preschoolers

I’m spending extra time this week on work related things. In the meantime, here’s a repost of an early 36×37 piece. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

~*~

Love Advice for Preschoolers – April 29, 2010

H is embroiled in his first love triangle. If you think I’m kidding, check out the angst-ridden back story.

Flashback to last Friday night. The boys have been in daycare all day. It’s a temporary arrangement while their nanny is on maternity leave, and for all of their complaining, I think they secretly don’t mind it there. They never want to leave, they come home exhausted, they’ve made a handful of new friends and…

“I think I wike a girl, Mama,” H says quietly.

“Oh really?” I say. I’m not shocked; he said the same thing earlier in the week, but until now, he’s been light on the details.

“Is it someone at preschool?” I ask.

“No. She’s at my daycare. She won’t tell me her name.”

“Well H, honey, maybe she’s just shy…”

“Nah, she’s not shy. I don’t get it. At preschool, I get the girls to wike me by making funny faces ‘til they waff. But this girl doesn’t wike that at all.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I should try to be nice to her.”

“Good. And to C, too…” (C…another little girl at school.)

He rolls his eyes at me.

“Have you asked your teachers to tell you her name?”

“I don’t want to. They scare me.”

“Maybe your friends know.”

“They don’t.”

One of two things is happening here. Either this girl is H’s imaginary sweetheart, or she’s wise beyond her years. For the sake of this post, let’s say she is real. Her aloof, noncommittal approach totally gives her the upper hand! It’s the cruelest strategy there is, and it almost always works. I want to tell H to move on. I want to tell him he’s too smart to fall prey to petty mind games. But I don’t. I don’t! Because he’s five. And I’m not about to dispense love advice to a preschooler.

Especially not to one who is still my baby.

~*~

Who am I kidding. H is no stranger to The Blow Off. He has already perfected his own version. Exhibit A:

It’s last Friday morning. As I walk H and O to their daycare classroom, two small, pretty faces appear in the doorway. The first one whispers, “There he is!” and the second one giggles quickly. Suddenly, the first little girl stands before us.

“Well, hello” I say. “What’s your name, sweetie?” She tilts her head archly, and says, “I’m C!” Then she tosses her ponytail and looks at H. “Did you guys get haircuts?” she asks. “You look so handsome!” When she takes a step forward, my boys step back.

So this is C. H has complained about her all week. She wants to sit by him at lunch. And circle time. And on the playground. She won’t leave him alone.

Me? Well, obviously, I’m smitten. C is adorable. She’s what I’d want my own little girl to be: sassy and bold and not at all intimidated. Meanwhile, H isn’t so easily charmed. He regards her coolly, then grabs O’s hand and turns away.

C’s little face drops. Her tiny heart is on her pretty, ruffled sleeve, and that prompts my own heart-on-sleeve self to butterfly stitch and bandage her hurt feelings. I want to tell her she’s going about this all wrong, because—Rule #1—smothering never, ever, ever, EVer works. I don’t say so because she’s five. Because she’s somebody else’s daughter. Because I have a son I need to lecture later on.

~*~

It’s Wednesday. I’m standing in the kitchen with my brother, SC. He’s leaning against my countertops while his soon-to-be ex-wife is at home, packing up her things and moving out. The split has been “amicable.” They signed their papers in the quietest manner, and SC won’t say a word against her. He says he understands now that they aren’t right for each other. He has stores of strength I didn’t know he had.

SC slides two packs of Star Wars stickers across the countertop and into the hands of two eager little boys. “These are from Aunt ____,” he says. “She saw them and knew you guys would like them.”

O peels the Anakin Skywalker sticker off its backing and slaps it triumphantly across the front of his shirt. H studies SC’s face. “How’d she mail these from so far away, Uncle SC?” he asks.

“She hasn’t left yet, buddy. She’s leaving next week.” SC answers calmly.

“Will you be sad?” H asks.

“Yes. I think I’ll be very sad.”

My heart squeezes tightly with sympathy. When I look at my brother, he doesn’t look back.

~*~

I want to explain to H that sometimes love just doesn’t work out, even when you give it everything you have. Sometimes you need to let go because it’s best for both of you. It hurts, but maybe it doesn’t have to be awful. You have free license to start over. Start fresh. Dream big, then dream bigger, and in the end, just be proud of who you are. As proud as I am of my brother.

And so I do explain it. Or at least I try. He’s only five, after all.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Mama Can’t Say No Day, the Reprise

H turned six last week, and O turns four tomorrow. To celebrate, we’re hosting a combined birthday party this weekend for all the little boys in both their classes. But tomorrow, just as we did last week for H, we’ll celebrate a different way: Mama Can’t Say No Day, a new (and rare) tradition in our house.

“Mama Can’t Say No Day?” you say. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

But it’s not. Actually, it’s pretty great. This re-post below tells you about our first Mama Can’t Say No Day, and proves that empowering your kids can go a long, long way.

~*~

Mama Just Can’t Say No – May 3, 2010

“Maura, I have your son here in my office.”

I have to be honest—I’ve received more phone calls like this lately than I care to admit. “Is everything ok?” I ask. “Is he hurt?”

“No, no. He’s just refusing to take a nap. It’s disrupting the other kids. We’ve tried reasoning with him and ignoring him and putting him in time out. Nothing’s working. What do you suggest?”

What I think but don’t say: “Have you tried bribing him? Or taking away his toys? Or smoothing his hair and rocking him to sleep?” But I’m too ashamed of my “works like a charm” Bad Mom tactics. Instead, I say, “I’m so sorry! Daycare has been such a huge transition for him. We’ll talk to him again tonight. Meanwhile I’d welcome your advice…”

“Do you practice discipline in your home?”

I think about O, my sweet, snuggly 3-yr-old mama’s boy and am instantly defensive. In a family of huggers, he hugs the longest and the hardest. He holds my hand as he falls asleep and smiles when I wake him in the morning. O is just a lovable, jolly kid who happened to inherit his mother’s exaggerated stubborn streak. In our house, discipline usually turns into one massive standoff, with me saying “No!” and him saying “Yes!” until we no longer remember what we’re doing.

“Barriers are important. Kids need structure. They want it, and they thrive on it. Don’t be afraid to be the boss.”

I thank her and we say goodbye. After a minute or so of burying my face in my hands, I take a deep breath and get back to work.

~*~

The truth is, I say “no” constantly. No jumping on the bed. Eat your grapes, or no dessert. Keep your feet off your brother. Stop moving around on your chair. No! Non! Nicht! Não! Enough!

I’m not a nag by nature, and I’m not a bossy person, so this constant setting and enforcing of rules goes against my general grain. I do it because I have to. Because I know I need to. Because, like every other mom, I’ve read all the experts, and I’ll do anything it takes to keep my kids from dragging my name through their therapy sessions 25 years from now.

Even so, EVERYONE needs a day off once in a while. That’s precisely why today was so outstanding. For the first time, I decided to just scrap all the parenting rules and follow nothing but maternal instinct.

~*~

I hear two sets of little boy feet coming down the stairs. Two smiley kiddos appear with stick-uppy hair.

“Hi Mama!” H says gleefully.

“Hiya, pumpkin. What day is it, buddy?”

“The Day Mama Can’t Say No!”

“That’s right! Hey O, what does that mean?”

“We’re the bosses!”

“The what?”

“THE BOSSES!”

“And what do the bosses want for breakfast?”

“Chocolate chip muffins!”

Well. Chocolate chip muffins it is.

~*~

Here’s what else the bosses did today:

• Chose their clothes and got dressed by themselves (something they do every day—just not so eagerly)
• Brushed their teeth without argument (even if they did select the Thomas the Tank Engine toothpaste for toddlers, rather than that nasty “Sparkleberry!” flavored crap)
• Made tantrum-free movie selections at Blockbuster
• Talked me into racing the Target shopping cart down an empty aisle or two
• Ordered bacon—five pieces each—and ate quietly all through lunch
• Laughed their little blond heads off through two Phineas and Ferb episodes, then announced they were ready for a nap
• Had a massive Star Wars lightsaber battle with Uncle SC without antagonizing one another
• Enjoyed a very bubbly bubble bath
• Went to sleep at 9:00, exhausted and happy

~*~

It’s clear to me. When I loosen the reins on these guys, when I guide them rather than lord over them, when I tell them I trust them—and they actually believe me—then eight times out of 10 they’ll make good choices. They’ll stop railing against me in their little boy way. I guess in my heart I’ve always known this about them.

I make mistakes with my boys every day, and I count those mistakes as I fall asleep each night. But in the end, I can’t help but think: If they know I love them fiercely and obstinately and blindly and devotedly and proudly and without a hint of desire to change them, then they’ll believe in themselves, and they’ll want to do what’s right.

I wonder what the experts would say about that.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37

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When Mama Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nooobody Happy

I hate the phrase, but I’m going to say it: I didn’t win any parenting awards today.

I tried. But as far as keeping a cool head and remembering I’m the adult and channeling Mr. Rogers and all of that other great advice is concerned, I couldn’t pull it off today. I’m a mom and also I’m human and sometimes, cooling off by counting to 10 will get you nothing but extra practice counting.

It goes like this: Your five-year-old turns six. He’s a lovely child. A sweet child. But suddenly, he’s infused with a sense of empowerment (great!) and a dagger-toothed alter-ego (not great!) who believes he now holds the keys to the kingdom. He turns off his ears when you speak, refuses what you ask, then launches into the most spectacular tantrum.

It’s normal six-year-old stuff, probably. Still, you’re dumbfounded. You would never, ever spank your kids, so by the looks of it, there are only three things you can do to deescalate the situation: 1) Stare indignantly, 2) Say, “That’s it! Enough!” and 3) March the screaming thing that looks like your child upstairs and leave it standing in the center of its Pottery Barn choo choo train rug before you breathlessly close the door.

Once you catch your breath, you sit down and rethink your entire parenting philosophy. Then you rethink the rethinking until you find yourself amid a sea of construction paper and markers, drawing a “Positive Reinforcement Chart” your kid can fill with stickers each time he does something you ask him to do. You say he can exchange the stickers for great prizes like “story time!” and “a weekday play date!” and “a tasty snack!” Bonus time: As long as he’s earning the goods, you can’t take them away.

Fun stuff, the Positive Reinforcement Chart.

Then, you set the ground rules.

16 Ways to Have a Great Day!

1. Do what you’re asked to do the first time you’re asked to do it. (1 sticker)
2. Sit on your bottom during meal times. (1 sticker)
3. …by “sit on your bottom,” that means you should not stand on your chair, crawl across the table, put your feet in your brother’s face, or move anything but your fork to your mouth. (1 sticker)
4. Stay at the table at meal times. (1 sticker)
5. …in other words, do not throw yourself across the room or hurl yourself onto the couch or throw chicken strips or spit water at your brother. Pretend you’re a tree, or better yet, a statue of a little boy who actually eats like a human sometimes. (1 sticker)
6. Eat your vegetables. (1 sticker)
7. I said eat them. (1 sticker).
8. Thank you. Now put your dirty dishes in the sink, please. (1 sticker)
9. …without spilling your cereal or dropping crumbs on the floor or wiping your jelly mustache on your sleeve. (1 sticker)
10. Clean up your toys. (1 sticker)
11. …yes, all 957 thousand of them. Please. (Pretty please?) (1 sticker)
12. Put on your shoes and coat when it’s time to leave the house. (1 sticker)
13. When asked to put on your shoes and coat, do not roll on the floor and make groaning noises. (1 sticker)
14. Help your brother, and be kind to him. (2 stickers)
15. Do not call him “baby” or tell him he’s “a pretty, pretty girl.” (1 sticker)
16. Give your mama a hug. Because we both need it. And because she loves you. (12 stickers)

You use clear tape to attach the rules to the TV cabinet. Then you stand at the bottom of the steps. “Have you cooled down yet?” you call. “If you have, you can come down now.”

Your six-year-old slinks down the steps looking squirmy and skittish. He stands at your feet, pauses then wraps his arms around your waist. “I’m sorry, Mama.” he says. You say you’re sorry too as you kiss the top of his head.

You vow you will be better at this starting now.

And by “you,” I mean me.

Now, about that parenting award…from what I hear, they give out that thing every day. It’s a long shot, but maybe I’ll win it if I keep trying. After all, I’m working on a sticker chart for me now. It’s blue, and my stickers are clovers.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
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Luv Songs.

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Love: Hard to describe.

So hard, in fact, that the Greeks have four different words for it: Storge (love of family); Philia (affection between friends); Eros (sexual attraction) and Agape (unconditional love).

That linguistic breakdown helps, but it still doesn’t get it quite right. Love is too large and nuanced to divide into simple quarters. Each relationship would need to pick and evolve its own title to represent itself fully.

Consider: How is your relationship like anyone else’s? It isn’t. Therefore, let the writers in the room line up and shoot me for saying this: Words are too pedestrian to do the job.

That’s where music steps in as the great, bold communicator of the heart. With the right lyrics, composition and requisite bass drum, it can trap you in an emotion like you’re seated in a room, thinking eerily: “I’ve been in this place before. I’ve been here, and everything is exactly as I left it.”

So. On this great Hallmark Holiday of love, I give you a Valentine’s Day soundtrack of the most universal “rooms” I can think of. (We’ll stick with the Eros/Agape wings of the house today—after all, they’re the fussy little architects behind the strange confection of February 14.) May you find a room that suits you so you can sit for a while. Then may you stay put or move on as Cupid dictates.

~*~

Hopeful risk taking

Or, sullen denial

Elated discovery

Wistful Longevity

Unraveling

Getting the bad news

Stunned heartbreak

Low-down, busted dejectedness

Obstinate resolve

loneliness, longing and regret

Moving on

(Happy Valentine’s Day to All)

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Love and Idiocy (Or, What NOT to Give on Valentine’s Day)

(google image)

It’s February 13, 1993. I’m 19 and finally ready to acknowledge the crush I have on that Sigma Alpha Epsilon boy I’ve been talking to. We’ve been on a few dates, had long late night phone calls, met up at bourbon-soaked parties…clearly, things are going well. I don’t yet know about his long-term girlfriend or the furious embarrassment I’ll endure when I find out about her later that spring, so at this particular moment, all systems are “go.”

I bum a ride from a friend, and together we head to that shining beacon of light we small-town Danville, KY, Centre College students call “Walmart” to hit the candy and card aisles as hard as we can. I buy lovely amounts of chocolate—some for me, some for the boy—and pour his share into a glass jar I’ve tied with a festive curl of red silk ribbon. Pièce de résistance: the painting of his name across the front of the jar, followed by the spraying of perfume so I can wave his Valentine’s Day card through the falling mist. (Oh, le sigh.)

On my way to cheerleading practice, I stop by the campus post office and hand my gift (and all my pride) to the postmistress. She looks at the name on the jar and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You don’t say…” she says and smiles knowingly as I wave goodbye.

I spend the next 24 hours in fits and knots of anxiety. The phone rings, and it’s never for me. My campus mailbox is empty at dinner time. I cover my head with my pillow and commence the practiced art of indignant sulking.

At 9 or so, the telephone rings, and it’s the boy. My roommate winks and discretely leaves the room.

“Did you send me a jar of chocolates today through campus mail?” the boy asks without saying hello. He sounds like he’s smiling, but I can’t quite tell for sure.

“Maaaybe,” I say. I hope I sound coy enough to disguise my dripping, crawling, aching swirl of nervousness.

“Did you also maaaybe spray that chocolate with perfume?” he asks.

There is only the slightest pause. And then, at least five males erupt with laughter on the other end of the phone line. I picture them all, yucking it up at my mortified expense.

“Whatever scent you wear,” I barely hear him say, “It tastes a lot like bug spray.”

~*~

And so: Valentine’s Day was not always my favorite holiday. There are many, many disastrous stories akin to the one above. You’ll either have to serve me a few shots of tequila and cross your fingers or wait until next Valentine’s Day to hear more.

In the meantime, let’s just leave it with this public service announcement: Don’t be an idiot on Valentine’s Day. It’s only a few short days away, so be sure to come to the breakfast table prepared to woo your sweetheart. It’s up to you to make sure he or she is pleased (rather than poisoned by 1990’s-era-“Rapture”-by-Victoria’s-Secret-coated chocolates) on Monday morning.

CNN.com posted Time Magazine’s “What NOT to Give” guide, and for the sake of preserving your own pride and embarrassment, I’m posting it now.

10 Ways to Say \”I Love You\”: The Most Ridiculous Valentine\’s Day Gifts on the Market

(Personally, I’d be fine with a chocolate Smart Car. The Snuggie-sutra is good for a laugh, but that’s probably all. Too much cotton-blend.)

Now, tell me: What’s the worst Valentine’s Day gift you’ve ever given or received? Sound off in the comments below. Let the embarrassing stories fly!

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Blackout!

via unplggd.com

It’s Tuesday, and my day has been peppered with small talk about the impending storm. My Chicago-based colleagues hunker down for a 16-inch snowfall while Columbus falls prey to a long and unforgiving sheen of ice.

Inside, though, it’s warm from the steam of a jolly evening bath time. My jammied boys sit cross-legged beside me as I read from a child’s version of Oliver Twist. I don my best Cockney accent, stopping only when the lights flicker. Then the room turns black, and my scrubbed and smiling buddies fall to pieces.

“Whoa, whoa, guys,” I say. “It’s ok! Let’s go to Snoozetown. I bet the power will be on again by morning. ”

“I don’t wike when it’s dark!” O wails. “I’m realwy, realwy scared!” H tucks his head against my arm and whimpers in agreement.

“It’s ok!” I say again, trying my best to sound reassuring. “I’ll stay in here with you tonight. We’ll have fun, like a sleepover! Let’s tell stories.”

But the crying continues. I try a few more distractions before busting out my fail-safe plan: “Who wants to watch YouTube on my phone?” I ask.

The crying instantly stops. They giggle through two episodes of Fish Hooks before they finally nod off.

 

via Disney

I follow suit eventually but wake at 2AM to dwell on the melting ice cream in the freezer downstairs. I consider relocating it to the snow, but these fine, warm blankies anchor me to my pillow.

On Wednesday morning, the roads are too bad to drive to the office, and all the schools have closed. I resolve to seek shelter, so we descend upon my parents’ house. “Thanks for letting us stay!” I gush as we step into warmth and light. I spend the day working from the kitchen table while the boys dig into the toy box. My parents look happy. We have bacon sandwiches for lunch just to celebrate.

~*~

It’s a funny thing to be a guest in your parents’ house. The last time I slept here, I hung my wedding dress in their room and stayed up with my maid of honor until 2 AM. I remember laughing endlessly the way we always did when we were together. At some point, though, that laughter took a weepy turn.

“Why are you crying?” Erinn asked. “Don’t you want to be married?”

“No, I do!” I sniffed. “I’m not crying because of GB.”

“Well then what?” She urged gently. Her face was awash with concern. I think she half expected me to spill some sordid tale of betrayal and intrigue.

I just shook my head and stared at my hands.

There are things you take for granted as a kid. The sound of your dad grinding coffee in the morning. Your mother working the New York Times crossword over tea. You and your brother bounding down the steps in jammies and socks. Calling, “I’m home!” after a long day at school. I wanted to hold these things up to explain my pre-wedding sob-fest. But how can you ever explain the stuff of a happy childhood.

Now I tuck my boys into that nostalgic sense of safety. They sit like baby dolls in the room where I grew up. “I wish I knew about you when I was small,” I say as I kiss their tiny noses. “I never knew I’d have so much to look forward to.”

~*~

Thursday, I log on to the office from my childhood desk. I stare out the window as I run conference calls and make recommendations. The apple tree outside has grown so tall it now blocks my view of the rest of the neighborhood.

My mom knocks on the door to check her e-mail. “Come downstairs and work!” she says. “It’s quiet down there.”

“I will….” I say. “I want to. Just a few more calls.”

She smiles and shuts the door behind her. As she goes, I smell the unmistakable aroma of a roast cooking in the oven downstairs. I lean back in my chair and inhale deeply.

~*~

An hour later, GB calls to say we have power again. I’m equal parts relieved and sorry to hear the news. “We should stay for dinner,” I say. “My parents have been cooking all afternoon.” But it’s just an excuse; I have two helpings, load the dishwasher and do everything I can to put off leaving this house again.

When we finally do arrive home, the boys run from room to room. They switch on every light they can find, shouting each time they see a toy they missed while we were away. GB cleans out the now nasty refrigerator while I make my way to the grocery store. I pull favorites off the shelves, making a mental note to add bacon to Saturday’s pancake breakfast, just to see my guys bound down the steps with added fervor.

When they’re adults, maybe they’ll look back and remember falling asleep under my parents’ roof, loving the creaking floors and the glow of the nightlight through the crack of the door.

But even more, I hope they’ll remember what it’s like when the power surges back and the rooms start to warm and the house is how they left it and it’s unspeakably great to finally be back home.

~*~ Find Maura on Twitter @36×37
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All Pipes Lead to the Ocean

Each morning, after I brush my teeth and make myself presentable and wake my husband and rouse the boys and muddle through hair- and teeth- brushing time, I make my way to the kitchen to mix a batch of pancakes.

Before I start, there are two things I can count on: that the Columbus Dispatch is on our front doorstep, and that our betta fish is awake in his tiny, green-lidded aquarium.

I peer sleepily through the tank and sprinkle breakfast across the water’s surface. “Hi, Racer,” I say. “Good morning, buddy.”  He darts around a bit, and I watch while he eats. We spend our next few minutes keeping each other company.

But not today. Not any more. It’s sad to admit, but It’s true: I said goodbye to our routine when I accidentally washed my slippery friend down the drain.

~*~

Poor Racer. I’m bereft. This was not supposed to happen.

It’s Saturday morning and a good one, too. The boys doodle cheerfully at the kitchen table while I clean Racer’s tank and listen to them play. I love mornings like this. Not a thing can go wrong in a cozy little scene like this one.

So I tip the tank slowly, spilling the old water in a trickle before sliding it back beneath the lukewarm tap. When I look away to see what the boys are up to, my little blue buddy escapes his overflowing bowl.

“Ohhhhhhh.” I say lowly. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” I pull myself together enough to dive for him, but he is already on his way down the drain.

Both boys look up. Their eyes dart from the tank to the sink then to me.

“It’s nothing, guys,” I say lightly. “I just remembered I need to do something.”

I wait for them to return to their drawings before I stuff my hand down the drain. I feel only the dull, jagged blade of the garbage disposal and the damp, aching throb of rising guilt.

I hear GB on the staircase, so I meet him at the bottom step. “I just washed Racer down the drain,” I whisper sadly. “Is there anything we can do?”

I watch his shoulders sink as he marches down to the basement. He returns with a crescent wrench in his hands and a face drawn down in grim resolve.

I watch him dismantle the plumbing, but Racer is not in the catch. Instead, he’s taking the sewer line bypass to that Great Pond in the Sky.

I take a deep breath because I know what must come next: a swift confession to Racer’s rightful owners, who are now watching Saturday morning cartoons. They take the news badly for a moment, then insist on a speedy replacement. When I agree (with a lump in my throat), they go back to watching a song about hot dogs.

I pitch the rocks and scour the insides of the tank before hiding Racer’s home in the basement. “You killed that fish!” I tell myself heavily. “You killed that fish.”

~*~

I guess that’s how it goes, this cycle of life. This is what destiny serves. You swim around your plastic plants and watch the passers by until some giant hand pours you down the sink. You know the giant hand is sorry; that it loved you and it’s sad you’re gone. But that doesn’t change the fact you’re swimming blindly, hoping all pipes really do lead to the ocean.

I still look for Racer in the morning. I’ve found nothing to fill his old spot. The Chia Pets my boys got for Christmas don’t do much, so pancake mixing is now a sullen event.

So maybe I’ll make a trip this weekend to the pet store…surprise the boys, perhaps, but mostly, cheer myself. We’ll get a gecko, maybe, or a pair of toads that want little to do with the water.

~*~ Find Maura on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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