What could possibly go wrong?

The other night, I sent my oldest son to the drugstore for what some might consider to be an "uncomfortable" item.  Ryan doesn't usually embarrass easily.  He's the kid who still allowed me to hug him in front of his friends when he was in high school, so I didn't think anything of asking him to pick up a package of hemorrhoid wipes for me.  (Oh grow up - they're for hygiene purposes.)  Besides, it wasn't as if I'd asked him to pick up something really embarrassing like tampons, right?

                "Are you going to be OK getting these?" I asked him through the window of his car.

                "Sure," he replied playfully.  "As long as I don't run into a girl I'd like to date."

The rest of the story, as relayed by Ryan, went something like this:

When he arrived, there weren't many people in the store, but a cute young girl was working the checkout area.  Knowing he'd have to encounter this girl as he paid for the wipes, he came up with what he thought was a brilliant idea.

                "Excuse me," he said to the girl.  "I was sent here for something and I'm not sure where to find it.  Can you help me?"

                "Sure," she said.  What are you looking for?"

                "Well, it's these wipes that are supposed to be for hemorrhoids?"  He made the statement into a question, pretending he'd never heard of such a thing before.

                "Oh yes, those are in Aisle 9, at the end."

Ryan thanked her and headed over to Aisle 9, very pleased that he was able to think up such a convincing story.

Somehow, in the time that it took him to walk to the back of the store and then up to the front again, the store had filled with people and they were all standing in the lone checkout line.  The cute girl was still there, ringing up everyone's purchases.   Ryan was glad he'd already explained to her that the wipes were for someone else.  Now he won't have to feel awkward when it's his turn at the register.

 

The line was moving slowly and Ryan was at the end of it.  He had to stand there, holding the hemorrhoid wipes, for what seemed like an eternity.  A man with seventeen bottles of soda was insisting that they were all on sale and it took a while to get all of that sorted out.

Ryan thought he was home free until two young girls "even cuter than the first girl" got in line behind him.  Only it wasn't exactly behind him.  Because the line was so long, it formed horizontally along the front of the store, forcing the girls to stand next to him.  Now he was really feeling uneasy.  He tried his best to hide the wipes from view.

At last, it was his turn to check out.  He smiled at the girl behind the counter, relieved that this whole embarrassing ordeal was almost over.  She took the package from him to ring it up and announced brightly, "So I see you found the hemorrhoid wipes!"

And that was the very last time Ryan would ever agree to go to the store for his mother.

A Dog Park for Introverts

My dog Bailey has never met anyone - of either the two-legged or the four-legged variety - that she doesn't

like. When we're out for a walk, she eagerly pulls toward anyone that she sees, her tail wagging in happy anticipation. 

Once, a woman walking toward us stopped and asked of Bailey, "Is that dog smiling?" I'm sure she was.  I have no doubt that if dogs are capable of smiling, Bailey would be just the dog to figure it out.

When I'm out for a walk, I'm not nearly as keen as my dog about meeting other people.  Sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts and the occasional birdsong.  Other times I'm not interested in sharing small talk with strangers.  Still other times, the reason I am out walking with my dog in the first place is because I need to get away from people for awhile so that I can avoid the urge to strangle some of them. 

Sadly, Bailey's encounters with other people and dogs do not always go the way she'd hoped. Occasionally, she will be much more excited about meeting someone than they are about meeting her.  Of course, to Bailey, their rejection merely means that she has to try harder to win them over.  I can imagine her canine brain reasoning, "maybe if I sit adorably and offer my paw, they will love me."  She doesn't realize that the only hope of that person loving her would be if she ceased to be a dog.  Ever the optimist, Bailey continues on her walk, certain that the next person will find her agreeable.

A few times, encounters at the dog park have gone horribly wrong.  Once, a woman with a small white dog insisted that I allow her dog to meet Bailey.  Before I could object, her dog went all Cujo and nearly bit Bailey's face off.  Another time, Bailey nearly crushed a tiny dog in her enthusiasm to play with it.  A fifty-five pound dog is not usually a suitable playmate for a fifteen pound dog in spite of numerous pocket-sized dog owners suggesting otherwise.

These experiences convince me that a trip to the dog park would be much more enjoyable if there weren't any other people or dogs around to spoil it.  My introverted nature, which tends to present itself as crabby, anti-social behavior, would do best if I could just walk the dog already and then go home.  Move along folks; there's absolutely nothing to see here, and I certainly don't want to socialize.

Thus my idea for Lisa's Anti-Social Dog Park:  a place where people and dogs keep to themselves and do their best to avoid one another.  No eye contact, no small talk, and certainly none of that let's-get-acquainted butt-sniffing dogs are so fond of.  Plus, everyone - human and dog alike - would be safer thanks to the park's mandatory fifty-feet personal space requirement.  No chance for dog bites if you're no closer than a nod-and-wave distance. 

Everyone moves along the walking path and then goes home.  The end.  Wouldn't that solve so many problems?

Just don't tell Bailey about it.  I don't think she'd quite understand the concept.

Family Traditions, Take Two

Our family recently celebrated Easter, but no one dyed any eggs.  No one even asked about them.  I didn't hide colorful plastic eggs filled with coins in the back yard, either, and no one even mentioned it.

This took me by surprise because we have done these things every single year for the past 20 years, ever since my oldest son was small.  As his brothers grew, they joined the fun, too.  It's how our family celebrated Easter.  It was predictable and comforting.

My boys are older now, and traditions that used to define our family holidays now feel outdated.  The last time we did the egg hunt, for example, I had to wait for all of them to wake up.  Since when did sleep become more alluring than an Easter egg hunt?

 

Sleeping late on Easter Sunday was unheard of when my kids were younger.  Each one would bounce down the stairs before I'd even had a chance to finish my morning coffee, eager to see who could find the most eggs.  Afterward, they'd crack open their haul on the living room floor and count the treasure inside, amid a sea of colorful eggs.

I wish I'd known that the last time we colored eggs together or had an egg hunt that it was truly going to be the last time.  I would have paid more attention.  I would have taken more pictures.  I would have recorded their laughter.

I would have been fully present. 

Instead of enjoying time with my children, I was no doubt thinking about what was next:  making brunch, straightening the house, or visiting with family.  Activities were always something to get through, to tick off the To-Do list, so that we could all move on to the Next Thing.  So much of life slips by while waiting for the Next Thing.  We realize too late that it was really the first thing, that ordinary morsel of life, that mattered most.

I can't rewind and bring back the days of laughing kids collecting colored eggs on the lawn, but I can resolve to be a more active participant in my own life going forward.  When I'm with my kids, I want to truly be with them: awake, aware, and involved.  I want to feel the messy parts as well as the happy ones.

As for those family traditions, one thing is certain:  there will always be Easter baskets.  Some things endure no matter how old you are.

(photo by Lisa Kern)

AMA: Against Mom's Advice

My son has a friend who wears shorts and t-shirts all winter long.  This kid claims that his body temperature is always so high that he doesn't get cold.  He says he doesn't need to wear a coat, either.  I don't know if it's true that he has some miraculous metabolic way of keeping warm, but I've never seen the kid shivering or looking at all uncomfortable.

When I volunteer at my son's school and see this boy outside at recess, I know I can count on hearing at least one other mom make a comment about the way he's dressed.  "How can his mother let him out of the house like that?" she'll ask, only to follow up with "I'd NEVER let my child dress that way in this weather!"

What she's not considering as she questions the parenting skills of this young man's mother is that he is a teenager and her own child is only in first grade.

 

In my experience, there's a big difference in how you parent a teenager versus a six-year-old.  For starters, a six-year-old is small enough that you can pretty much put a coat on his body for him.  Of course, that kind of action isn't usually necessary since six-year-olds are generally agreeable creatures who want to please everyone.  Not so with teenagers.  Teenagers are desperate for independence and will take any opportunity to display it regardless of who it may displease.

 

The most crucial difference between parenting teens versus young children is that the stakes for teens are so much higher.  Getting a teen to realize that fact can be exasperating.  While we may try every trick in the parenting book to persuade a child to clean his room, no one is harmed if the room stays messy.  The behaviors competing for a teen's attention, though, have the potential to be deadly. Matters involving sex, drugs, or alcohol are non-negotiable, but a messy room isn't worth the same degree of passion and conviction as convincing a teen to never text while driving.

 

Parents of teens are forced to choose their battles and that often means not sweating the small stuff.  These parents have learned that they must reserve their parental energy for the most critical issues in their teen's life.

 

Many times, all that's needed is a dose of tough-love.  The teen years are a perfect time to allow the child to experience the consequences of his own actions.  You didn't clean your room?  You're going to have trouble finding anything.  Didn't do your homework?  Have fun explaining that to your teacher.  Don't want to wear a coat?  Surprise - you're going to be cold.

 

With my own teens, the not-wearing-a-coat thing still makes me crazy even though I know it's a behavior that only affects them.  I'll remind them of how cold it is outside and suggest that they might want to wear a coat, but I can't make them do it.

Nonetheless, I sometimes wish I could pin a note on their clothes that says, "I'm dressed this way against my mom's advice."  They won't be any warmer but I'd feel a whole lot better. 

The family that's sick together sticks together...or something!

It’s like a houseguest who refuses to leave.  Over the past six weeks, four members of my family have been sick with the flu.  

My youngest son is the one who first brought The Crud to us.  I don’t know who gave it to him, but when I find out, that person is definitely off my Christmas card list.  

Evan never had the flu before and couldn’t believe how he physically couldn’t get out of bed for a week.  I took care of him, though, bringing him plenty of fluids to drink and whatever food he felt he could tolerate eating.  In the process, he learned that the IDEA of a sick day is much more fun than the REALITY of a sick day.  Even Algebra class is preferable to being sick in bed with a runaway fever and teeth-chattering chills for days on end.

Two weeks later, it was my turn, even though caring for a sick kid for a week should have earned me a free illness pass - or, at the very least, sainthood.  

The flu struck me down on a Monday.  Interestingly, the same kid I’d taken care of a couple of weeks earlier never even popped his head inside my room to see if I was alive.  Kids...you give them life and they end up leaving you alone to become a flu casualty.  

Thankfully, my husband was more responsible.  He made sure that I had soup and tea and whatever else I could actually get down which wasn’t a lot.  Not many foods sounded appetizing, and of the few that did, the food didn’t taste right.  

On the positive side, the flu is a heckuva diet plan.  Once the week was done, I’d lost ten pounds.  I can hear the infomercial now for the New! Exciting! Flu2014 Diet:  Lose your appetite!  Sleep for a week!  Cough until you pee!  Lose ten pounds while trying not to die!  Can Weight Watchers promise any of that?  I don’t think so.

The flu’s next victim was my oldest son.  Like me, he disappeared into bed on a Monday and didn’t emerge until the following Sunday.  Ryan didn’t ask for much while he was sick, and when he did, he would text me with his request.  This was actually a fabulous system, eliminating the need for me to climb the stairs 400 times per day to check on him only to find that he was always sleeping.  

His texts were concise and to-the-point:

           

           

            “Can I have cough drops?”

“Can I have tea?”  

“Can I have toast?”

“When will this end?”

As soon as Ryan felt better, the flu hit my middle son, Matt, who is still sick as I write this.  Taking care of him has proved to be much more challenging than the other two.  For starters, he refuses to accept that food just doesn’t taste good.  He keeps asking for different things, hoping that one of them will be palatable, and his requests are much more specific:

            “Can you stop at the store and get me some beef stew?”

            “Can I have a glass of water with ice cubes and a bendy straw?”

            “Can I have strawberries and some other kinds of fruit on a plate?”

            “Can you bring me some scrambled eggs, ice cream, cough syrup, and grapes?”

Honestly, if he weren’t obviously sick in bed, I might begin to suspect pregnancy.

While Matt is still trying to feel better, Ryan and Evan and I have discovered that this flu leaves behind a brutal, annoying cough.  People probably won’t want to invite you to the movies, but sounding as if you’re about to cough up a lung does a great job of chasing away hovering bosses and chatty co-workers.

Want to try some Flu2014 for yourself?  The kids and I and our germs will be right over.  

How the Internet Helped Paint My Kitchen

For the past two months, my kitchen has been under some sort of construction.  We had an undetected leak inside the kitchen wall which seeped underneath the whole floor.  Since you can't dry out water from below a tile floor, the entire kitchen had to come out in order to replace the damaged floor and walls.

          This experience has not been as much fun as you'd expect.  A forced renovation doesn't feel nearly as exciting as a planned one, and I can personally attest that there's at least twice as much swearing involved.  Still, we had to do what we had to do, so the past few months have been spent packing up things from our cabinets, tearing them out, replacing the floor and walls, and putting everything back together again.

Since our cabinets were undamaged, we didn't have to worry about selecting new ones, but everything else had to be chosen.  Tile or laminate floor?  Should the countertop be solid surface or granite?  What color tile for the backsplash?  Which accent tiles?  Of course, every new choice had to also match the previous choices or the kitchen would look as if it were coordinated by a colorblind five-year-old.  While my decorating skills are not among my greatest talents, they are superior to those of a colorblind five-year-old.

Through this project, I've learned that there's nothing like a home renovation to put a marriage to the test.  In the beginning, Dan and I happily chose a countertop and flooring together, each respecting the other's opinion.  By the time we had to choose a paint color, though, neither of us could muster any energy - or cooperation - over yet another choice to make. 

Since Dan was also our contractor, working every spare moment on the kitchen in addition to his regular full-time job began to take a toll on him.  Picking a paint color was not something he was the tiniest bit interested in doing.  He just wanted to be DONE.  So instead of attempting to help me choose, or even giving me any kind of advance warning, I simply received the instruction, "I'm painting tomorrow, so pick a color."

This request should not strike fear in anyone, but it did in me.  The last time I picked a paint color, it did not end well.  What should've been the warm color of terracotta somehow morphed into Pink Panther pink when it was applied to the walls of my kitchen.  The color was so ugly that when I told my mother about the water damage in our kitchen, the first thing she said was, "Does this mean you can finally get rid of that godawful pink paint?"

After that painful pink experience, I was determined to choose a paint color I wouldn't regret.  But how could I select the right one with only a day to pick it?

I had a rare day off from work, so I set about the business of selecting paint for the kitchen.  Dan gave me one of those huge contractor paint swatch fan decks with a gazillion color choices.  Since there was a lot of gray in both the countertop and the floor, I started with the gray palette.  There were so many choices!  Names such as "Mindful Gray," "Worldly Gray," "Amazing Gray," "Intellectual Gray," and "Agreeable Gray" were amusing but not at all helpful.  I wasn't sure I wanted my walls to be smarter or more interesting than I am. 

A different color strip offered "Proper Gray" (as opposed to IMproper Gray?"), "Essential Gray" (made me wonder what "Non-Essential Gray" looked like,) and "Grayish."  Of the last one, my son Ryan said,"'Grayish?'  Really?  It's like they weren't even trying!"

I had high hopes for this color strip in spite of the lackluster names, but didn't feel confident enough to choose by myself.  I needed some real experts, so I did what any other clueless mom would do:  I asked my Facebook friends.

I posted photos of potential paint candidates along with samples of my floor, backsplash tiles, and countertop.  Within moments, friends were there to offer advice and opinions about the best color for my kitchen.

They were with me when I posted photos of the samples in the early morning sun.  They were with me when I discarded those colors and had to start all over later in the day because the dim light made them look dreadful. 

I thought my choice was settled until a friend recommended that I hold my favorite color next to my oak-colored cabinets to make sure it didn't clash.  Oops.  I'd completely forgotten about the cabinets!  She was right: the color that looked wonderful with the countertop, floor, and tile looked terrible next to the warm wood tones of my hickory cabinets.

Another friend had previously suggested a green palette which I hastily dismissed.  Now, being back at square one, I was willing to try anything - even (gasp!) The Green Palette.

I went to the paint store and selected several green-hued swatches.  Even though I had an entire color wheel at home, I wanted actual swatches to hang on the wall.

One color jumped out at me:  Silvermist.  It was a green-ish , gray-ish, aqua-ish, blue-ish color that was absolutely beautiful.  Plus, in no way did the name "Silvermist" make me feel inadequate as those gray colors had done.  Paint definitely wins points if it leaves my self-esteem intact.

I taped the swatches to the walls around the room.  The Silvermist one kept catching my eye.  I took a photo of the Silvermist swatch as well as two others and posted them to my Facebook page.  Within moments, friends commented in support of my choices.  Happily, I wasn't the only one who liked these new green-based swatches.

Dan came home from work and saw the paint swatches hanging all over the kitchen.

"So, did you pick a paint?"

"I think so," I said.  "I just want to see how the one I like looks in the morning with the sun hitting it."

Dan walked up to the Silvermist swatch.  "I really like this one."

"You do?" I was surprised that he expressed an opinion.  I mean, how would he hold it over my head for choosing an ugly color if he liked it, too?

"I like that one, too.  So do my Facebook friends."

"You asked your Facebook friends about a paint color?"

Clearly this man doesn't understand a thing about decorating.

A Whole Bunch of Agita

To say that things have been rather eventful in the Kern household lately would be quite an understatement.  First, we had major water damage in our kitchen.  A pipe leaked inside the wall between our kitchen and bathroom and seeped underneath the floor tile in the kitchen.  To get the water and rot out of there, we now have to gut our entire kitchen. To further complicate things, my father and two other family members died in the same week of unrelated circumstances.  It's to the point where we're all afraid to answer the phone for fear of learning that someone else has died.

So, in the midst of dealing with all of that, I've been busy calling our mortgage company every few days trying to convince them to release the first of our insurance claim funds.  Did you know that if you have a homeowner's claim, you have to send the insurance company's check to your mortgage company?  That's how it happens these days.  The mortgage company deposits the claims check into their own bank account and doles out the money to you in thirds.  This would be OK if they actually had a sense of urgency about getting the money to you so that you could complete the repairs.  Instead, they delay the entire process until you realize that you've been breathing mold for nearly two months while they’re still sitting on your money.

A lesson for young people:  be sure to buy your house in cash so you don't have to deal with these clowns.

You know that feeling where you're quite literally at the end of your rope and you don't know what to do?  You're so angry you could strangle someone, but at the same time, you could just as easily fall to the floor in a heap and cry for a week?  That's where I'm at.  The crazy could go either way.

Knowing that Dan and I are in a mighty fragile mental state right about now, I felt it my motherly duty to warn the kids that they'd better be on their best behaviors.

The other morning, while all three kids were together, I called a family meeting.

            "So, you guys know that things have been kind of tough around here lately for your dad and I, right?"

            "Yeah," they said in unison.

            "Well, I want you boys to be on your best behavior until we get through all of this family and kitchen stuff, OK? "   They nodded, but I wasn’t sure they really understood what I was saying.

            "That means you are not to wreck any vehicles.  You are not to get into trouble of any kind.  You are not to harm yourselves or anyone else.  You are not to get injured and need hospitalization.  I don't want to get a call from anyone's principal.  I don't want to get a call from any of your friends' parents.  I certainly don't want to get a call from a police officer.  You will go to school and work and home again without incident.  Do you understand?"

            "Yeah," they said, but quite somberly this time.

            "I hope you do, because if you guys do one thing to add to your father's and my stress levels, you are going to throw us right off the edge.  If that happens, you'll become orphans and you'll have to go live with some bearded woman with no teeth who has twenty-seven cats and only serves canned SPAM and peas for dinner.  You don't want that to happen, do you?"

They all assured me that they would do their best to keep out of trouble while their father and I sort this stuff out.

Well, almost all of them.  My son Matt got up from the table and grabbed his backpack to get ready to leave for school.  On his way out the door, he called out cheerily:

            "Bye, Mom!  I'm off to school to get detention, so expect a call from my principal.  On my way there, I'll be sure to run over as many people as possible and then wreck my truck.  I know how much you love insurance claims."

It's a good thing he moves a lot faster than I do.

One more lesson for young people:  don't have teenagers.