Guilt: It's what's for breakfast

Guilt has been following me around this week like a faithful puppy.  In every area of my life, my guilt-puppy is there, eager to remind me that I've fallen short yet again.

A few examples:

I didn't go to the grocery store last night because I had an event at school, so this morning, there wasn't any cereal for breakfast.  While at school, I was reminded that I should do more than I'm doing currently, so my guilt-puppy talked me into volunteering for a committee that I do not have time for.  At work, in spite of successfully completing 987 projects, the one project I did not finish is enough to confirm that I am a horrible person who cannot be trusted with responsibility.

I also didn't get the laundry done, so Evan didn't have the red shirt that he needed for Field Day at school.  I forgot an important appointment, I arrived late to a meeting, and I failed to make my middle son's school physical appointment.  While we're at it, I don't call my mother often enough or keep consistently in touch with my friends.

I won't even mention the sugar that I shouldn't be eating.

Indeed, I'm not just visiting the neighborhood of guilt; I've constructed a permanent residence.

By the time I arrived home last night, I felt pretty beaten up.  All of those abusive mind-tapes from childhood kept playing in my head, reminding me of how worthless I truly am.  I should probably just quit my jobs, put the kids up for adoption, and move under a bridge somewhere so that I'm not a constant blight on organization and decency.

Did I mention that I can be quite the catastrophist? 

Someone stop me before I start mentioning the baby pictures I never labeled and how I can no longer remember which one of my kids is which.

Today, some grace appeared to interrupt my self-reproach.  Matt decided to go out for breakfast since we didn't have any cereal, I made the physical appointment that I'd been putting off, and I called my mom.  And don't tell anyone, but you can totally revive a red shirt from the dirty clothes hamper with some Febreze and a quick tumble in the clothes dryer.

Am I perfect?  No. 

Will we survive anyway?  Absolutely. 

On Graduation: Cry Me a River? OK!

(my oldest son's graduation in 2004, when our school was new and there were fewer kids to cry over)

I just got home from the eighth grade graduation ceremony at my son's school.  It was full of the same graduation rituals that have come to define our school's culture for all of its thirteen years:  a slide show of the passing year, a skit by the 7th graders for the 8th graders, and always-inspiring words from our school's founder and principal.

I cried through all of it.

In fact, I've done that very thing at every graduation I've attended.  It doesn't matter who's graduating; my kid or yours.  I will cry just the same.

I remember one year, I arrived with a huge box of tissues.  I tapped the shoulder of a woman in front of me, whose son was graduating, and offered her some of my tissues.

                "I won't need them," she said.  "This is the third time I'm going through this.  I'll be fine."

Fine?  How could she be fine when her son is leaving the innocent environment of elementary school for the uncertain world of high school?  Clearly, she was in some sort of denial.

                "That's OK," I told her.  "I will cry enough for both of us."

It's not that an elementary school graduation is a sad affair.  Far from it!  It is lively and happy and, very often, humorous.  You don't have to look hard to see the excitement on the faces of the graduates as they consider the future ahead of them.  

I guess what trips my emotional switch is that I've known most of these kids since they were in kindergarten.  Our school is a small charter school where everyone knows everyone.   I've watched these kids grow up.  I've supervised them at recess.  I've worked on projects with them.  I've chaperoned their field trips.  I know their families.  And like one big family, we share these common milestones.

It occurred to me as I was driving home that a school is like a garden (well, not like MY garden, full of thistles and weeds, but a garden belonging to someone who actually knows what she's doing.)  Our children start out in kindergarten like seedlings, which are tended and nurtured through the years until finally, they're transplanted elsewhere when they're ready to blossom.  These kids I wept for today are some mighty fine blossoms.

Next year is going to be even more emotional for me than usual.  My middle son will be graduating from high school, and my youngest son  will be graduating from eighth grade.  Two graduations in one year!  How will I cope?  I'll probably be completely incoherent the entire month of June.

If anyone needs me this summer, I'll be the weepy mom with the red nose stockpiling tissues and waterproof mascara.  Graduation is only twelve months away and I want to be prepared.

The Cat Issues His Demands

Attention, humans.  It's me, the cat.  Lately I haven't been as comfortable in your house as I would like to be.  Since you are responsible for my complete and total happiness, I am bringing this matter to your attention.  Additionally, I know that your life would be meaningless if I were to leave, and since you lack the superior intelligence of a feline, here is a list of things that will require immediate improvement before I can consider remaining in your house. 

First of all, I've grown tired of the meat-like substance that you are trying to pass off as food.  It does not suit my palate at all.

Every day, it's the same old Ocean Surprise or Turkey and Giblets.  Yawn.  If you weren't such a dog person, you'd know that I actually prefer the more refined tastes of, say, Field Mouse or House Sparrow.  Until this can matter can be rectified, I will refuse to eat the rations that you place in my dish.
Next, there's the matter of where I sleep.  I am beyond weary of you removing me from your office chair.  Can't you understand that I require eighteen hours of sleep each day and that your chair is where I prefer to have it?  There is nothing in your boring human world that is worthy of my disturbance.  Nothing. 

And can you please do something about the dog?  I do not enjoy being sniffed by that slobbery creature from head to tail every time I walk in a room.  I mean, have you seen the places she likes to smell?  It's rude and offensive, and I won't stand for it a minute longer.

 

 

 

The dog also insists on hogging all of the sunshine in the living room.  Since she is too obtuse to realize it, you must convey to her that I require maximum sunlight exposure for my optimal comfort.

In addition, I demand that you remove all doors in the house.  I need to be able to move freely between rooms in order to satisfy my curious feline impulses.  A closed door is an insult to one who is as dignified as I am.  Remember that.


One last thing:  if I happen to bestow upon you the honor of having me sleep on your neck, you shall not complain nor attempt to move me.  You must recognize my presence on you as the privilege that it is.  Again, let me remind you that nothing is more important than my comfort and happiness.  You should be grateful that I allow you near me at all.


I trust that I've made myself clear.  I look forward to your prompt resolution of these abominations. 


Sincerely,

 

The Cat whom you call "Mewcifer"

 

 

**all photos by Lisa Kern

Showering with Stinkbugs

After a winter that dragged on way longer than any of us wanted, today held conclusive evidence that spring is finally here. The trees are full of green, the sun is higher in the sky, and smells of lilac and freshly cut grass abound.

Unfortunately, there are also other less endearing signs that spring has arrived: an abundance of insects show up too. This morning alone, I saw three spiders, and my dog Bailey has been biting at flies all week. I even saw a wooly bear caterpillar in the driveway the other day.

While I understand that bugs have their purpose, I prefer that they experience that purpose somewhere that’s far away from me.

I work with a woman who will pick up and relocate the spiders that we find in our office. I can’t believe that she does this. I tease that she gives them tea and cookies and fluffs their little spider pillows. She even does this with those extra-macho wolf spiders that make me hyperventilate just thinking about them.

She is not at all like me. If I encounter a spider, I will scream like a little girl, and then try my best to convince someone else to kill it for me. If there’s no one around, I’ll do the deed myself just so I know that it won’t jump out later and surprise me, as spiders love to do. Of course, I then spend the rest of the day shuddering over my eight-legged encounter.

This morning, I was in the shower, shampooing, when I felt something hard and odd among the strands of my hair. Almost immediately, I smelled the tell-tale odor: it was a stinkbug. Even though I was minding my own business, I somehow had a nasty, awful stinkbug in my hair.

I grabbed the bug out of my soapy hair and flung it toward the floor of the shower, but because I can’t see anything without my glasses, I couldn’t actually see where it landed. I used the hand-held shower sprayer to hopefully flush the darn thing down the drain.

By this time, my hair, my body, and the entire bathroom reeked of stinkbug. I knew I’d have to rinse
my hair and re-shampoo it in order to remove the odor.

As I reapplied the shampoo, I heard a buzzing sound and then felt something hit my leg. Of course, I couldn’t actually see where it went because A) I still didn’t have my glasses on, and B) my eyes were full of water and shampoo. It didn’t take much to conclude that the stinkbug either didn’t go down the drain, or he’d brought along a friend. Neither scenario was appealing when all I wanted to do was wash-off the stink bug odor and finish my shower ALONE.

I quickly wiped my eyes and jumped out of the shower so that I could find the stinkbug. I grabbed my glasses, but the steam of the shower and the steady stream of water I’d neglected to turn off meant that I still couldn’t see anything.

Shampoo slid down my face and into my eyes. I took off my glasses and rinsed them. I felt around for the faucet and turned off the water as I grabbed a towel to wipe my eyes. I dried the lenses of my
glasses with the towel and was finally able to see the entire area of the shower.

That sneaky, smelly, no-good stinkbug was nowhere to be found.

Although I didn’t know where my nemesis had gone, I had to do something about the shampoo dripping from my head and hair that smelled like a stinkbug frat party. I took my glasses off and stepped back into the shower.

I rinsed the shampoo and grabbed the bottle of hair conditioner. As I attempted to open the bottle, I was horrified to discover that the stinkbug was sitting on top of the cap.

I threw the conditioner bottle onto the floor of the shower and immediately aimed the shower sprayer at it. I wasn’t about to let that stinkbug escape again. I turned the water on full force, desperate to wash that stupid bug and its stench down the drain for good.

After a few minutes, I felt confident that the stinkbug had gone to a better place – or at least wherever it is that dead bugs go - and continued with my shower.

I applied conditioner to my hair and tried to hang the hand-held shower sprayer back in place. I couldn’t really see what I was doing, but I felt around to put the sprayer into its holder. As if my shower hadn’t already been enough of an ordeal, the sprayer fell down and hit me squarely on the head.

Who knew that a shower could be so eventful? After this one, I’m not sure which I need more: pest control or laser eye surgery.

Driving Lessons: the Great Equalizer

We have a new driver in the house.   My son Matt is now the proud owner of a shiny new Pennsylvania driver's license.

He was certainly well-prepared.  After sixty-five hours of driving with a parent, thirty hours of classroom instruction, and six hours of behind-the-wheel training with a certified driving instructor, all of us were more than ready for Matt to be able to drive on his own.

I wish I could say that I had a part in this milestone, but I did not.  Having barely recovered from the tendency to grab the nearest solid object while teaching my son Ryan to drive, I knew better than to offer to teach Matt myself.  Besides, I birthed these boys; it's only fair that their father participate in something equally painful.

If you think about it, teaching a teenager to drive is kind of like childbirth: both are long, difficult, and potentially fatal.  The big difference is that when driving with a teenager, you can't just say, "Hey...I'd like that epidural now...with a side of Demerol while you're at it."  No, teen driver pain must be experienced while fully conscious if you hope to survive the driving lesson.

Getting my husband Dan on board with this idea required some planning, so I simply inserted, "Shouldn't you be out driving with Matt?" into every conversation:  "Hey, we need some milk.  Shouldn't you be out driving with Matt?"  "Happy birthday!  Shouldn't you be out driving with Matt?"

Over time, the brainwashing - I mean, gentle persuasion - worked, and the weekend ritual of Dan and Matt's marathon driving sessions began. 

Even though I did trick Dan into teaching Matt, he was a much better driving instructor than I could ever be.  He was patient and kind and never once screamed out loud, "You're going to kill us all!"  In retrospect, that phrase probably isn't particularly helpful when used with a young driver, but sometimes it's hard to hold in what you're really thinking.

While teaching Ryan to drive, Dan would often ask me how he was progressing.  My updates were typically something like this:

            "That kid drives way too fast.  He's going to kill himself and everyone on the road."

            "I think he needs his eyes examined; he has a hard time seeing stop signs."

            "Is there such a thing as nail remover?  Because I just left four fingernails in the armrest of the car."

            "I can't talk right now.  Just get me a margarita and maybe I can recover."

Dan was always much more positive about Matt's driving skills. Ever the optimist , he'd say, "My one leg is a bit pumped up from reaching for the brake, but all in all, he did really well."  That's kind of like saying, "Matt doesn't run over nearly as many people as he used to."

Now, after all of those months of Dan's patient instruction and guidance, Matt has officially become a licensed driver.  He can finally enjoy the privileges that come with operating a motor vehicle:  getting himself where he needs to be, and then picking up milk on the way home so I don't have to.

I hope that, like childbirth, Dan forgets the pain of teaching Matt.  I'm counting on him to be ready when it's time to teach Evan in three more years. 

 

Bailey gets her groom on

Bailey gets her groom on 

 

 

Does this look like a creature who cares about foofy beauty treatments?

 

Last week, I learned that the woman who’s been grooming my dogs for the past fourteen years is no longer able to groom Bailey.  Apparently decades of grooming dogs has taken a toll on her back, and she’s no longer able to lift dogs of Bailey’s size.

Of course this news comes at the time when I’ve finally managed to save up the $80 grooming fee and when Bailey’s coat is so overgrown she looks like a mutant chia pet.  Whenever she moves, a fine cloud of dog hair floats along behind her before finally merging into tumbleweeds of blonde fur upon hitting the floor.  This dog needs a haircut and she needs it now.

Like it or not, I need to find a new dog groomer. 

After googling “dog groomer” and reviewing websites, I made a few phone calls. The first two were no longer in business, the third was not able to receive messages (!!!), and the fourth, while farther from my home than I'd have preferred, seemed to be a suitable candidate. 

 

"Amber," the woman on the phone, sounded welcoming and knowledgeable as she reviewed rates and policies with me. 

I set up an appointment to have Bailey groomed in a few days.  Amber mentioned that they also have additional services available for purchase.

            “You can also get a relaxing mango facial," Amber offered. 

Hmm... my skin has been a mess lately and I could stand some relaxing.  A facial sounds nice. 

            "Your pet will enjoy the soothing, tropical scent.  Can I set one up for Bailey?”

Wait...they have facials for dogs?  Why would a dog need a facial?  Do they get stress acne like I do? 

            “No thank you,” I responded.  “I’ll just take the grooming appointment.”

            “But our customers love it and can't wait for their next one!” Amber was clearly sniffing too much doggy shampoo.

           “Um, I did mention that Bailey is a dog, right?”

 Amber was undettered in her enthusiasm. “We also have blueberry nail soaks…”

             “She likes to sniff crotches and lick her own butt.”

             “...which help to soften the nails and leave them fragrant.  Wouldn’t Bailey love that?”

             “I don't think Bailey cares much about fragrant nails.  She sniffs the cat’s butt, too.”

             "OK.  Well, how about a nice massage to melt those cares away?"

             "Now that's something I could really use!"

Amber giggled.  "I'm sorry.  At this time, our massages are only for our canine guests.  Shall I schedule one for Bailey?"

I looked down at Bailey, who was sitting expectantly at my feet, smiling her big goofy dog smile.  She's clearly happy just to be alive, and not bothered at all by acne, or stress, or non-blueberry-scented toenails.

            "Actually, we're good.  Bailey's good.  Just the haircut, please."

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my dog out for a walk in the field.  There are rodent holes to sniff and pee-mail to read.  These are the things that Bailey truly  loves. 

No spa treatment required.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cold Showers: They're not just for breakfast anymore

I was having a good week for a change. Thanks to some creative money-wrangling, I'd managed to keep the family alive and well during our monthly mortgage-imposed Two-Week Period of Impossible Austerity.

While the other weeks of the month are financially tough for us, those first two, when our mortgage is due, are especially difficult. Every dollar of our income for that time goes toward paying a mortgage that did not used to be oppressive but which has become, due to higher prices and diminished wages, a bank account-draining monster.

There's no such thing as buying food or gas or kids' shoes or toothpaste during that first half of the month. There simply isn't anything leftover. This week, though, finding ourselves on the other side of the mortgage payment, at least until next month, felt liberating.

I felt better mentally, too. I decided to accept that our current state of affairs was probably the new reality for us. After dealing with the financial fallout from the never-ending Great Recession for so many years without a break in sight, a future without struggle seems unlikely. For my own sanity, it makes sense to make peace with the struggle rather than continue to fling myself at an unmovable wall.

If life was going to be hard, it was going to be that way whether or not I moped or fret or railed on and on about the unfairness of it all. The outcome was beyond my control, so why continue to worry about it?

I thought of my daily To-Do List as I turned on the shower in preparation of the day ahead. Everyone else had already left for work or school so the shower was finally mine.

As I stood under the water, I noticed that it just didn't seem to be warming up. In fact, the longer I stood there, the water grew noticeably colder.

Some days my brain behaves like an obsolete computer, incapable of booting up those neurons with anything resembling speed. It took several moments of enduring the increasingly cold shower before my brain seemed ready to dismiss the To-Do List in favor of solving this current problem.
And then, the terrible realization: we had run out of heating oil.

Indeed, it had been a couple of months since we last purchased it, and even then, we'd only bought the minimum of 125 gallons. We'd had to drain the remainder of our savings account in order to pay for it. At nearly four dollars a gallon, the price of home heating oil equals the cost of a car payment. And that's just to buy the minimum amount. Fill the entire 275 gallon tank and the cost easily exceeds that of our mortgage payment.

These days, we do not have the cash equivalent of a car - or mortgage - payment just lying around.
Although we've run out of oil, we've also run out of the money to buy more of it.

No oil means no hot water and no heat during a cold January in Pennsylvania.

So much for acceptance and going with the flow. Just when I think I've found peace with my situation, and that there may finally be a healthy way of dealing with it, the Universe is there to remind me of exactly how badly we're still screwed.

Facing relentless financial struggles has a way of forcing you to lose all inhibitions. Suddenly, selling off possessions or taking an odd job or asking other people for help isn't nearly as intimidating as it used to be. You do it for survival. You do it for your kids.

When all of the pain and uncertainty and embarrassment is removed, our days of challenge have a way of showing us the best in ourselves and in other people. I know that our family would not have survived this long if it weren't for the small kindnesses of friends, arriving at just the right time, at that exact moment when we needed it most, and for that I am overwhelmingly grateful.

As unlikely as it feels right now, I'm doing my best to believe that things will work themselves out this time, too.

"Everything is alright in the end. If it's not alright? It's not yet the end." - from the movie Best Exotic Marigold Hotel


(originally published on phillyburbs.com on 1/21/2013)