When I was in school, summer was by far the best time of year. It meant sleeping in, trips to the pool, the zoo, the farm, riding bikes with my friends and sleepovers any day of the week. It was a 3 month low-structure high-pleasure break from the long days of learning and awkward social interaction that comprise public school education in America. Once I snatched my diploma and went about the business of becoming a grown-up, I took a step back and realized that, when the whole year is free from teachers and bullies and principals and homework, there might be some merits to the other seasons as well. There is spring, with its new life, moderate temperatures, and freedom from mosquitoes. Fall has its wonderful sights and smells and bountiful apple orchards. Winter...well, that's when we celebrate Christmas. And then become housebound by too much snow and ice and cold. I still resent winter.
This summer has been hard for our family. Its been hot and our entire state is experiencing a drought, which puts a damper on one of my new favorite summer activities: gardening. The kids get grumpy when the temps rise, and unfortunately, so do their parents. After five years of living in a house without air conditioning, this summer has convinced me of its necessity. Add to that the loss of my great-aunt and several friends who have also buried loved ones, finances that are stretched too far, and a family of mice that moved in and ATE MY CANDY! It seems like we've had too many consecutive bad days, and I want to compile a list of what makes a day good.
1. Sunshine. Regardless of the season, I need to see the sun. Something about feeling it on my skin, seeing it shine through the windows, the excellent lighting it provides for taking photos of the kids...If I lived in pre-Christian times, I might have very easily worshipped the sun. Today was ideal summer weather: a beautiful blue sky with puffy white clouds, the golden sun shining down upon us, and low humidity to keep my hair from a frizz explosion.
2. Connection. I spend all day, every day with my wonderful children. What makes a day stand out as a good one is when I feel connected to the boys. When I speak and they look at me, respond, follow. When they come to me asking for help, kisses and hugs, more Puppies Numbers. When we agree on how to spend our time together and everyone is at peace. We had more connection than not today, and I got to hold the baby as he drifted off to sleep.
3. My husband. I see this incredible man every day, and he has the ability to make even the worst most catastrophic day better with his humor, his wisdom, and his hugs. If I could figure out how to support a family of five and still be with him all day, I would do it. As it is, angels sing the Halleluiah chorus when he walks in the door. Today he impressed me by playing with our kids and bravely facing a mouse with a dictionary in hand.
4. Food. MMMmmm...right now I'm thinking about that first bite of a Chipotle burrito bowl. Or pepperoni pizza. Or a Pink Lady apple. Or cookies. When my day consists of Ramen noodles or peanut butter sandwiches because every tasty thing in the house has been consumed by these always growing boys (even snatching it off my plate, the little thieves), I am fed but not satisfied. Good days will always be dependent on good food. Today my mother-in-law invited us over for steaks, corn on the cob, fruit salad, and cupcakes. Amazing.
5. Beauty. I'm sure that every day I see something beautiful, but sometimes I fail to stop and wonder. Seeing a gorgeous sunset, my sons playing together, a nice three or four digit balance on an ATM receipt, a baby crawling or walking for the first time, Monet's waterlilies, a garden...this makes me appreciate my life and my God for providing a moment of awe. Today's was undeniably when James and Winston were sitting on my lap, and James wrapped an arm around each of us and pulled us in for a three-way hug.
Here's to more good days, and the arrival of fall and its glory.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
My tether
When I was in the fifth grade, my parents decided to move from our awesome home in Dallas, Texas, to the suburbs of Northeast Ohio, so that we could be closer to our family. I was crushed. As everyone knows, Texas is the best state in the country, with the best people, the best food, the best heritage. Being from Ohio (or living in Ohio) is one of the lamest claims an American can make. My mom tried to talk things up on the drive north, and I wanted to be positive about uprooting my whole life, but it really didn't work. With that attitude, its no surprise that 6th grade was the worst year of my life. I found myself in North Canton, attending elementary school (whereas in our district in Texas, one went to Intermediate school for 5-6, then middle school for 7-8) with a group of kids who had known each other since Kindergarten, were already divided in "cliques" (a term I learned after the first week of school), and didn't talk, dress, or act like anybody I knew back in Texas. I stuck out, I had a hard time making friends, and all of this made it hard to focus in class, so I found myself getting terrible grades on top of everything else. I tried to join a group: I played flag football with the sporty girls, swung with the cheerleaders, played in the snow with the sensitive gay boy, and played tetherball with the really mean, competitive kids. Then I found myself spending time with the nicest people I had met so far: the band kids. When faced with the option at my school in Texas the year before, I had quickly declined joining the school's band. Now it didn't seem so bad. Three girls named Erin, Jenny, and Melissa were all in band, and by the year's end, they were my group, so I signed up for clarinet lessons so I could join the middle school band in 7th grade.
In the sort of confusing, sudden way that these things happen in childhood, by the following year, Melissa had become my best friend. I used to think she was strange when she would leap from her chair in 6th grade science, and with her long legs in multi-colored leggings, I thought she looked like a frog. But when Erin went to private school, and Jenny was in different classes, Melissa and I became a duo. We had enough in common that to this day, I can't recall ever having a fight with her, and our differences became a way to get each other out of our ruts. I was completely committed to dressing comfortably, which meant jeans and t-shirts everyday, but in high school, Melissa decided we should have dress up days when we wore skirts or dresses to school. Sometimes I had to borrow something from my sister, but I always went along because it was more important to do something special with Melissa than to keep being myself.
Melissa also taught me how to dance. I trust her taste in music completely; if she gives me a cd or tells me about a band she saw, I will listen immediately, because I know I'll hear something great. We used to love to go out to the teen clubs, then in college, she convinced me to go to my first frat party with her at OSU. Even though the bathroom didn't have toilet paper, the night was fun because I was with Melissa.
Through the turbulent, awful years of middle and high school, I felt like I was stuck in the middle of the ocean without a raft; between peer pressures to smoke or drink, increasingly difficult classes, and the really confusing world of dating, I could have easily drowned if Melissa hadn't been right there beside me, holding me accountable the way only a best friend can. With her tethered to me, I didn't just keep my head above water, I swam. When I look back, I think about how fun high school turned out to be. Bringing birthday cake to school to have a party for my friend at lunch, spending study halls in a music room while Melissa played "Time After Time" (to the point that I can't hear this song and not think of her), eating candy on the band bus to an away game, posing for silly pictures, riding our bikes (later driving) to the pool in the summer, hours long phone calls after having spent the day together. In my mind, we are still those 18 year old girls graduating, with our futures completely open in front of us, college looming ahead, although 12 years have passed and we are now celebrating our 30th birthdays!
Easily the second worst year of my life was my first year in college. Melissa had gone to OSU, it was her destiny, and I wound up at Kent State not knowing anyone, with a quad of crazy girls as roommates. The only bright times were the weekends when Melissa would come up from Columbus, or I would make the trip down to see her, and I could feel like myself again. I loved how our friendship didn't change when weeks went by without seeing each other, we could just pick up where we left off. I loved how Melissa never said anything bad about my boyfriend (good thing too, since he's now my husband). I loved how she came to my college graduation, and how I was able to attend hers, and how we managed to live in a house in Columbus together afterwards. I loved when she met her husband, after wasting so many years on really unworthy boyfriends, and that we got married the same year, and so often found ourselves experiencing the same situation, whether it was buying a house, changing jobs, then having kids. I love that I still feel like she has my back, that even on my worst days, I can say at least someone has liked me every step of the way. I hope that I reciprocate all of these things to her, and that our friendship continues until we are old and gray. I hope that I continue to explore new things because of her, and that she can say the same.
In the sort of confusing, sudden way that these things happen in childhood, by the following year, Melissa had become my best friend. I used to think she was strange when she would leap from her chair in 6th grade science, and with her long legs in multi-colored leggings, I thought she looked like a frog. But when Erin went to private school, and Jenny was in different classes, Melissa and I became a duo. We had enough in common that to this day, I can't recall ever having a fight with her, and our differences became a way to get each other out of our ruts. I was completely committed to dressing comfortably, which meant jeans and t-shirts everyday, but in high school, Melissa decided we should have dress up days when we wore skirts or dresses to school. Sometimes I had to borrow something from my sister, but I always went along because it was more important to do something special with Melissa than to keep being myself.
Melissa also taught me how to dance. I trust her taste in music completely; if she gives me a cd or tells me about a band she saw, I will listen immediately, because I know I'll hear something great. We used to love to go out to the teen clubs, then in college, she convinced me to go to my first frat party with her at OSU. Even though the bathroom didn't have toilet paper, the night was fun because I was with Melissa.
Through the turbulent, awful years of middle and high school, I felt like I was stuck in the middle of the ocean without a raft; between peer pressures to smoke or drink, increasingly difficult classes, and the really confusing world of dating, I could have easily drowned if Melissa hadn't been right there beside me, holding me accountable the way only a best friend can. With her tethered to me, I didn't just keep my head above water, I swam. When I look back, I think about how fun high school turned out to be. Bringing birthday cake to school to have a party for my friend at lunch, spending study halls in a music room while Melissa played "Time After Time" (to the point that I can't hear this song and not think of her), eating candy on the band bus to an away game, posing for silly pictures, riding our bikes (later driving) to the pool in the summer, hours long phone calls after having spent the day together. In my mind, we are still those 18 year old girls graduating, with our futures completely open in front of us, college looming ahead, although 12 years have passed and we are now celebrating our 30th birthdays!
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Happy Birthday Dad!
I love that when we are born, our world is so small that we can only see far enough away to know that someone else is there; our first days are spent taking in the faces of the ones who will love us the most. As we grow, the world grows with us, so that we meet our family, our friends, ourselves. I love my dad, who has been there from the beginning of my world, at first holding me and comforting me, then teaching me necessary skills, like how to hide junk food from mom, how to jump a dead battery on a car, how to wash the dishes, and always kick an assailant in the shins (if necessary, aim higher). As I grew, I also came to understand that my dad was a separate person with his own history.
When I was in the first grade, our class made family trees. The teacher explained how we all had a mom and dad, and they each had a mom and dad, who we called Grandma and Grandpa. I went home confused and asked my dad why I only had one Grandpa. "My dad is dead," he responded. "What happened?" I asked breathlessly (how crazy is it that I knew what death was?!). "Your grandpa had a heart attack while he was water skiing. I was 13 years old." "Why did he have a heart attack?" I asked further. "He ate too many potato chips," my dad responded, thus causing a lifelong dislike of potato chips. Then I asked him to describe how my grandpa looked, so I could put him on my family tree, but on a branch that was already in heaven. He told me my portrait was very accurate.
Another time, my dad told me about being a little boy in NEW ORLEANS. Since his other stories were about living in New York, and we lived in Texas, I assumed that New Orleans was another state, and I wondered where it was, and what it was like there. When we learned states and capitals in the third grade, I was once again confused that our teacher had not taught us about New Orleans. Maybe it was in another country? What an exotic childhood my dad had lived.
One thing about my dad that everyone seems to remember is his birthday. I grew up knowing that every summer, on the fourth of July, we celebrated my dad's birthday with a cake decorated like a flag and on the evening of this day, we would climb to the roof to watch fireworks. I didn't know what made our city throw such a huge celebration for him, but of course, he was my amazing father, and it seemed appropriate. Since there was no school in summer, it took me a VERY long time to make the connection about what July Fourth represents to people not in our immediate family. Especially since the year we found ourselves at my aunt's house in Tucson in July, I overheard her say to my dad, "We let the mayor know you're here this year for your birthday, so they planned fireworks to celebrate." Then we sat outside and watched the sky once again light up in honor of my dad. Every time I see those colorful lights in the sky, I think of my dad. One year, while I was a flight attendant, the pilots let me in the cockpit so I could look down and watch the fireworks exploding beneath us as we flew, and I wished my dad could have been there with me.
For the man who has been there for me from the beginning, who told me everyday that I was beautiful, smart, and special (to the point that I can't help but know its true), who picked me up from school and insisted that I tell him something about my day other than that it was "fine", who learned how to use a curling iron and dress a Barbie doll, who made it through trips to the mall, boyfriends who became husbands, daughters who became mothers, and always managed to be himself: Happy birthday Dad. I can't imagine who I would be or what my life would have been without you!
When I was in the first grade, our class made family trees. The teacher explained how we all had a mom and dad, and they each had a mom and dad, who we called Grandma and Grandpa. I went home confused and asked my dad why I only had one Grandpa. "My dad is dead," he responded. "What happened?" I asked breathlessly (how crazy is it that I knew what death was?!). "Your grandpa had a heart attack while he was water skiing. I was 13 years old." "Why did he have a heart attack?" I asked further. "He ate too many potato chips," my dad responded, thus causing a lifelong dislike of potato chips. Then I asked him to describe how my grandpa looked, so I could put him on my family tree, but on a branch that was already in heaven. He told me my portrait was very accurate.
Another time, my dad told me about being a little boy in NEW ORLEANS. Since his other stories were about living in New York, and we lived in Texas, I assumed that New Orleans was another state, and I wondered where it was, and what it was like there. When we learned states and capitals in the third grade, I was once again confused that our teacher had not taught us about New Orleans. Maybe it was in another country? What an exotic childhood my dad had lived.
One thing about my dad that everyone seems to remember is his birthday. I grew up knowing that every summer, on the fourth of July, we celebrated my dad's birthday with a cake decorated like a flag and on the evening of this day, we would climb to the roof to watch fireworks. I didn't know what made our city throw such a huge celebration for him, but of course, he was my amazing father, and it seemed appropriate. Since there was no school in summer, it took me a VERY long time to make the connection about what July Fourth represents to people not in our immediate family. Especially since the year we found ourselves at my aunt's house in Tucson in July, I overheard her say to my dad, "We let the mayor know you're here this year for your birthday, so they planned fireworks to celebrate." Then we sat outside and watched the sky once again light up in honor of my dad. Every time I see those colorful lights in the sky, I think of my dad. One year, while I was a flight attendant, the pilots let me in the cockpit so I could look down and watch the fireworks exploding beneath us as we flew, and I wished my dad could have been there with me.
For the man who has been there for me from the beginning, who told me everyday that I was beautiful, smart, and special (to the point that I can't help but know its true), who picked me up from school and insisted that I tell him something about my day other than that it was "fine", who learned how to use a curling iron and dress a Barbie doll, who made it through trips to the mall, boyfriends who became husbands, daughters who became mothers, and always managed to be himself: Happy birthday Dad. I can't imagine who I would be or what my life would have been without you!
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