Juggling Life

A Picture and 1,000 Words (well, maybe not a full thousand)

I woke up from a Sunday nap and was staring at the photos that decorate my great room wall and was struck by blogging inspiration. I am going to tell the story of each photo I have displayed in my home. Believe me, this will keep me going for awhile.

 

A small sampling of the many photo tableaux that decorate my home.

 

I won't do more than one per week, but I'm pretty excited about this idea. Are there any of you that would want to do this project with me? We could settle on a date and do a linking thingamabob. I know I would love to see your photos and read the stories attached to them--both the big stories and the little ones.

Thoughts?

I’ve Got Something in my Pocket, It Belongs Upon my Face . . .

I was a Girl Scout for close to half my life. Social Butterfly was a Girl Scout for 8 years. So what was our response to the news that the truck Mr. Fix-it was driving had a broken axle and tie rod from the collision?

We looked at each other, smiled and burst into song:

You can’t ride in my Little Red Wagon!

Front seat’s broken and the axle’s draggin’!

It must be a regional thing though—we always sang “chugga, chugga, chugga chugga choo-choo” while the videos I found mostly do an “Oompah” thing.

What camp song will you never forget?

Community

Lindsay Ferrier, at Suburban Turmoil, has blogged her way through her experiences with the Nashville flood and reading her posts has brought back so many memories. My experience in the Cedar Fire was a lot like what Lindsay went through—almost losing our home, but getting lucky; seeing many friends and neighbors lose everything.

I realized I’ve never told the story on this blog—beyond this snippet—and I’ll have to do it someday. It’s quite a story.

The tale I’m going to tell today involves trying to find some way—be it ever so small—to help those whose homes did not escape the firestorm.

We were out of our house for a couple of days (except for my husband—he never left) and when we got back we stumbled around in a daze, shocked at the devastation wrought on our close-knit suburb. We couldn’t stop staring at the Dali-esque sculpture that the fire had forged of our backyard pitch back.

While the south side of our enclave experienced the most houses lost there was a street a few blocks from us on the north side that lost many houses too.

In our quest to do something right then my friend and I loaded the back of the van up with coolers of snacks and drinks and drove up and down that street handing them out to the stunned homeowners sifting through the ashes of their former homes.

At one house when we offered up cold drinks a woman said, “I’d love a Diet Coke.” Unfortunately, we were stocking only Pepsi products (they’d been on sale). She politely declined.

When we finished our rounds that day I drove to the local mini-mart and got an ice-cold bottle of Diet Coke then went back to the house. I stood in the front yard, “yoo-hooing” through a blown out window into a house that was only half there until I got the woman’s attention.

“Did somebody here need a Diet Coke?” I asked as picked her way through the rubble of her former life to follow my voice.

“You didn’t have to do that!”

“It was no problem. I’m a Diet Coke gal myself. They’re not the same thing at all.”

She took the Diet Coke, cracked it open, took a long, refreshing swig and leaned on shoulder and cried and cried. I’m assuming she was crying for her loss and for the kindness of strangers.

Bitter and sweet. It’s life. “It’s the real thing.”*

 

 

* Coke slogan from 1969

Tether!

Mr. Fix-it and I were taking a walk Sunday night and a couple of girls were in their yard playing tetherball. Ahhh, the memories.

When the kids were young Mr. Fix-it sunk a tetherball pole into a tire filled with concrete. We kept it on the street in front of our house (but clear of the basketball hoop). Our kids and all the kids in the neighborhood had a great time with it. Danger Boy and Social Butterfly were both reigning champs at the elementary school because they played at home so much.

I even played once in a while.

DB and I were out front playing a rousing match when my neighbor came out from her house and called out to me. I turned to answer her.

Uh-oh.

You should have seen the look on her face as DB hit the ball forcefully, the ball came around and my neck became the tetherball pole.

Yes, I had a brush with death while playing a playground game.

So, have your children ever almost killed you? Please tell me I’m not the only one.

 

 

P.S. I may yet have the chance to be killed by an errant rope/ball combo—we’re dragging the setup out of the shed and giving it to the neighbor boys this weekend.

Family Feud

My good friend Jen—who has quite a ways to go before the teen years arrive in her house—made this comment on yesterday’s post:

Good for her for making the Dean's List! Good for you for sticking to your diet! What a fun, supportive family. Do you people ever fight?

Posted by: jenrantsraves | May 27, 2010 at 07:21 AM

The answer to that question is . . . but, of course!

Things that we recently beefed about include (but are not limited to):

• MVP’s newfound inability to put down the toilet seat (I spent 18 years training him and one year with roommates ruined him).
• Who needs to turn over the computer so that the next person can get do homework get on Facebook.
• Whether or not I am a misunderstood frugal person (I may shop, but I do it at Target, not Nordstrom (usually)).
• Whose job it is to pick up crap left on the kitchen counter (hint: not mine).
• Whose turn it is to empty the trash unload the dishwasher water the plants.
• The perceived difference among various parties as to whether certain practices fall under the category of a) parenting or b) nagging or c) spying.
• Who should have taken care of the toll road bill before it accumulated fees and penalties totaling $812. By the way—after I researched things on the internet and Mr. Fix-it spoke to someone by phone we have settled for the original tolls plus $5—for a total of $27. The excessive penalties are designed to punish “scofflaws,” not one-time offenders.
• If Mr. Fix-it needs to leave work at work.
• Who will be driving the ‘96 Honda that was MVP’s car and is now Danger Boy’s car when Social Butterfly gets her license in November. Certain parties have accepted that whatever car joins the family will not be a Range Rover.

Still and all, I’m going to agree with Jen that we are a fun and supportive family. Have a great weekend with your special peeps!

When the Apple Doesn’t Fall Far from the Other Apple

Danger Boy is called Danger Boy for a good reason. He likes to do things that are dangerous. Like jumping off Sunset Cliffs without checking with his parents first—when he was 14.

       This is not allowed. For obvious reasons. Kids do it anyway.

Social Butterfly wanted to go on a hike with friends and jump off into the Devil’s Punchbowl last year. The answer was a resounding no, with my strongest argument being that she was too young to drive with a teenage driver and that the water level was likely to be too low to be safe since we were in a drought.

This year she’s a sophomore and has many friends who are well past their one-year with no passengers limit. Also, we’ve had above average rainfall this year, so water levels are high. She has an invite for this weekend.

Basically the only argument I’m left with is “It scares me.” I went looking for video to check the whole thing out and what did I find?

The kids in the video? The friends she wants to go with. Sigh.

Apparently my fear of heights skipped a generation. And Danger Boy is not the only person in the family that deserves that moniker—or a permutation thereof.

Scenes from a Mother’s Day Backcountry Hike

Mother’s Day was a precursor of things to come I think—Mr. Fix-it and I went for a hike on our own. Danger Boy had to take our Brazilians to the outlet mall for shopping—we wouldn’t want anyone leaving our country without having gotten a solid bargain. Social Butterfly wanted to stay home (she did spent her time making a very cool Mother’s Day picture for me) for the sake of staying home.

I phone calls from my absent children and had a nice, long talk with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law.  That night we all went out to dinner together and then watched a TiVoed episode of our favorite show (which just started its season), Friday Night Lights.

It’s funny, lately I find myself sounding like someone in the sixties reminiscing about the good ol’ days when the family was gathered round the radio. “We don’t watch TV together like we used to.” Mr. Fix-it and I agree we are part of the problem. We need to stow the laptops, kick the kids off the desktop and engage in the good old-fashioned American family past-time of having our brains pickled by too much TV.

        Have you ever met a boy that could resist climbing a fence? Me either!

Oh! And because I have the most pathetic map-reading skills ever we actually did not take the hike I wanted to go on--that one led to a creek. No worries though--now we have somewhere to go back to in a couple of weeks.

Oh again! Doesn't that tree remind you of Six Feet Under?

Starting the New Year . . . with a Theft

I read this New Year’s reflection at the blog of the lovely Miss M, a blogger I am lucky to have connected with in real life. She is so mature and wise that while having lunch with her I truly forgot she was young enough to be my daughter.

Instead of reviewing the last year, she went with the last decade—and hers was a doozy. I had to steal her idea.

10 years ago . . .

My kids were 14, 9, 6 and 5. That is a whole ‘nother parenting world from having kids ages 24, 19, 16 and 15 as I do today.

10 years ago . . .

I was in the thick of being a stay-at-home mom with tons of volunteering gigs, being a Girl Scout leader of two troops and carpooling to umpteen different sports events.

Today I have finished college, have my teaching credential and am looking forward to working full-time someday soon. All but one of the kids drives.

10 years ago . . .

I was pretty much a stranger to big loss. I wish I could say that today, but this is life we’re talking about.

10 years ago . . .

I wasn’t even sure I was done having kids and now I’m on the verge of an empty nest.

10 years ago . . .

I knew my way around a computer for things like emails and newsletters, but had never heard of a blog. According to Wikipedia they started in 1999, but it took me until 2007 to discover them.

Some things never change .  .  .

Same husband, same house, same dog* (but with one added since then), same kids. Just the way I like it!

 

HAPPY 2010!

 

*I’m pretty sure I stole this too—I just can’t remember from where.

Party On! Or Not.

So, it turns out I’m having a rager at my house Saturday night. Or at least there’s the possibility of one. The problem with having a Missy Heigel is that she has a lot of friends. And when she has a birthday party she won’t want to leave anyone out. If she has a joint birthday party with a friend who is a Missy Heigel in her own right they will balk at guest limit of 50.

Of course, I laughed in the face of their balking. But I’m just a bit afraid.

Back in 1980 Missy’s parents did not have to contend with social media—Facebook in particular. There has been no mention of a party on Social Butterfly’s FB, but I can’t vouch for the FB’s of friend and friends of friends.

Our community is fairly close-knit and there is not a lot for kids to do until they can drive—it’s not like we’re right on the beach and public transportation is non-existent.

So a par-tay? Is a very attractive proposition. So attractive that on Halloween night the party that SB and friends went to was so overrun by uninvited guests that the parents called the cops on their own party at 9:30.

What am I doing to prepare? After Mr. Fix-it takes out half of our very large coach to make a bigger dance floor in the great room I’m sending him over to my BFF’s house and my BFF, OMomK, is coming over to help supervise. I really don’t need to be hosting a party and supervising my husband having a stroke at the same time. It’s better this way, believe me.

SB has been telling everyone at school that wasn’t invited, but has said they want to come “Sorry. My mom will kill me if I go over my limit.” Danger Boy has also been refusing to issue invites to kids that don’t know SB and barely even know him. It’s a little crazy.

Also? I have a plant at the party. If I give him/her the word he/she is going to circulate through the party, saying, “I heard the cops are on the way.”

I have always been willing to host large parties—I figure I can put up with anything for a specified amount of time. I’ve been doing sleepovers for 20 for years. I don’t necessarily love it, but I love how happy it makes my kids.

I fear I’m entering uncharted territory here, though. If you can spare some positive energy between 8 and 11 on Saturday night, send it my way—I think I’m going to need it.

Suburbia: Made for Halloween

Halloween 1997

 

Say what you want about giving up your hipster cred and losing any semblance of cool—suburbia rocks Halloween. Especially if you’re a kid and especially if you’re a kid in a cul-de-sac.

My family has left the prime Halloween years behind—with the youngest of my four children being a high school sophomore, the days of homemade Tinkerbell  and Anakin Skywalker costumes, weighing the candy haul on the bathroom scale and then graphing your assortment for homework are gone for good.

Ahhh, but those were the days.

Our tight-knit cul-de-sac burst with children all within a ten-year age range. It didn’t matter how old you were, there was just the right configuration to make your own little crew, hanging together amidst the great big crew.

We decorated early and garishly. Glow-in-the-dark skeletons hung from trees and children of all ages delighted in the motion-sensitive graveyard scene with the “Boo! Ba-boo-boo-boo!” soundtrack.

In San Diego October 31 is the perfect time for an outdoor block party. Each Halloween I set up the banquet tables, provided the cups and plates and spoons and forks along with some milk and everyone else contributed the food. There was Maggie’s wild rice and potato soup (a perennial favorite—I’m salivating writing about it) and the skeleton crudite tray Heidi always brought. Somebody was sure to bring chili and somebody else corn bread. Of course there was some adult Halloween brew.

The goblins ran wild as we tried to get some non-sugar-based sustenance into them before the trick-or-treating commenced. Soon enough it was dark and time to head out. One parent stayed home to hand out candy and another parent took off. The ten-year age difference among the children didn’t matter—there was a responsible, kind parent heading up every sub-group and you knew your child would return to you safely at the end of the night.

As the years passed the kids started venturing out on their own—the parents weren’t up to running door-to-door for miles in pursuit of maximum candy gathering. And isn’t this why we moved to the suburbs? So our kids could roam freely?

So the parents hung out in my driveway, finishing up the soup and quaffing our Blue Moon ale. The trick-or-treaters from other streets would hit our house and be greeted with 15 bowls of candy and admonitions to take a handful from each.

I think it was three years ago that we had our last potluck. The next year I had a night class and my kids were going to parties anyway. An era had passed. There are still small children here, though not quite the critical mass as back in the day.

Now I see my too-old-for-trick-or-treating-teens off and my husband and I take turns at the door, calling to each other to exclaim over a neighbor child or a particularly cute costume. It’s bittersweet, but I do have the soup recipe and the Blue Moon ale. Besides, if your own kids don’t grow up you’ll never have grandkids and get to do it all over again!