The People Who Live In My Head: Life's Like A Box of Puppies...

The People Who Live In My Head: Life's Like A Box of Puppies...: I’ve often described my life growing up with 8 siblings as being “like a box of puppies”.   I think that was – and is – still an accurate de...

Life's Like A Box of Puppies...

I’ve often described my life growing up with 8 siblings as being “like a box of puppies”.  I think that was – and is – still an accurate description.  The 9 of us all have very different personalities, but it’s clear that we’re from the same litter.

Just like a pack of puppies, there was a lot of activity in many different directions.  Sometimes one puppy would stray too far or annoy another puppy.  Each and every time, that deviant puppy would be barked at, nipped on the nose, and brought back into line by the other puppies.  The same was true for my brothers and sisters.  We may have spent days exploring and testing boundaries but we always came back to the box at the end of the day where we would nestle down, snuggling, sometimes laying on another puppy’s head, and sometime “borrowing” another puppy’s favorite toy.

All these years later, we’re off in our own boxes, some with our own litters, but when we come together, we revert to the puppies we’ve always been.  I never felt the need to foster too many friendships out in the world because I had everything I needed built right in.

I guess I always knew that we were a little different in terms of family size, but I was well into adulthood before I figured out that my siblings and I had something really unique and special in the way we relate to one another.  My mother often receives compliments about the way her “children” (we’re all middle aged at this point) interact.  We not only enjoy each other’s company, but we’re more likely to laugh than to argue.

I don’t know what the secret is.  My mother is a nice person, who raised nice people with the Golden Rule as her guide.  Maybe that’s all there was to it.  Maybe it was magic.  Whatever it is, I just didn’t know we were unusual until I watched other siblings interact.  I have definitely judged anyone I’m getting to know by the way they treat – or even talk about – their sibling(s).

When I became a mother, I did my best to lead by example in the way I treat others.  When I introduced a sibling to the mix, I made it very clear to my first daughter that this new little person will "maybe make you mad sometimes, and you may want her out of your stuff sometimes, but she will ultimately be all you truly have in life and that is a gift to be treasured".  I certainly didn’t expect miracles, but assumed that was just a good nugget of advice to tuck away for later in life.

My two girls are as different as night and day.  But you know what?  They’ve become their very own smaller box of puppies.  They bicker and complain about one another as you’d expect an 11 year old and (almost) 8 year old to do.  But at the end of the day, they come together in the box.  They have their own rooms but sleep together every chance they can.  They stay up too late, talking and giggling and plotting to take over the world.  They look out for one another not because they are expected to, but because it’s instinctual and they want to.

This has all happened right under my nose and I suppose I was aware of it, but it didn’t fully register until we had annual pediatrician appointments the other day.  I’ve been in the habit of scheduling them together every year for my own convenience.  I never gave it a second thought until the nurse asked if I wanted them in separate exam rooms.  I asked the girls.  They were very emphatic with their “No!” – they wanted to be together.  When the doctor was talking to the 8 year old, the 11 year old answered the questions.  And when it was the 11 year old’s turn to get a couple of shots, the 8 year old asked if she could sit on the table with her sister and hold her hand.

The nurse commented to the girls that it was so great that they were such good friends.  Then, this old school pediatrician, who has known both of my girls all their lives, just sat back and watched them together, then told me “Great job, Mom.  You’ve got a couple of best friends there and I don’t see that every day.”

What’s the point of this story?  I don’t know.  Maybe a bit of bragging, but maybe it's just to say that in these times of people lashing out at one another, it does a heart good to see love in action.  Knowing that, for now, at least (because God only knows what the teen years hold with these two), I’m doing something right gives me hope for the rest of the world.

This year, all of my puppies will be gathering at the beach to honor my mother’s birthday.  I can’t wait to climb back into the box, and I know there will be room for my two pups, too.  Maybe that’s the key to world peace:  more puppy boxes.

Makin' Lemonade...

Apologies to Beyonce fans who may have stumbled across this blog in search of her latest “masterpiece” but this disclaimer is the only mention of her here.  People have been making lemonade for generations.  Queen Bey doesn’t own the idea.  Back to your (ir)regularly scheduled programming.

 

My husband and I had very different childhoods.  While I moved around the country and attended different schools, leaving a trail of friends behind, he lived in the same town, attending the same schools all of his life.  So, when we go back to his home town, the adults we visit – whose children play with our children – are the same people he met on a playground. 

After the last class reunion, a plan was hatched to meet up for a multi-family camping trip.  Sounded great to me, so the date was on our calendar for months.  Schedules were planned around this event.  And then…

His grandfather was not doing well for a while.  After a hearty, full life, at 88 years of age, his heart was failing and we knew that he’d be leaving us soon.  There were many trips to the hospital, he was moved to hospice care and we were prepared for the sad phone call that was sure to come.  And then it did.

These times are always loaded with the many decisions that must quickly be made.  When and how to travel, juggling kid schedules, and so on.  We also had to figure out what to do about our camping trip plan.  We talked to the kids and prepared them for the idea that it would be cancelled.  They were very good about it and understood that we needed to think about Abuela and Tio and honoring Abuelo was the most important thing.

Meanwhile, in South Florida, the family was thinking about my husband.  Considering his normal schedule (nights and weekends), they arranged the funeral mid-week, so he could get back home and not miss work.  Of course, not knowing about our original weekend plans, they made it all possible for us and unveiled the silver lining.

We strategized and stared at calendars and considered all the options and decided that, if we were going to pull kids from school, this was the week to do it, so we began scrambling.  List-writing, organizing, packing, and then checked the girls out of school early.

They were surprised, of course, because this day also happened to be one daughter’s birthday.  We explained what we had in mind and had to apologize that her requested Italian restaurant dinner would have to be postponed.  They were likely too stunned to be disappointed, and jumped right into action.  We packed, we prepared, and we loaded and we were on the highway by late afternoon.  As we pulled away, I declared that this would be our Lemonade Trip.  Yes, the reason for our journey was sad, but we were going to have fun, too!

A couple of hours into the trip, I remembered that there was a location for an Italian chain that is no longer in our area.  Lemon Squeeze #1 – the birthday girl still got her alfredo!  Score! 

When we arrived at our destination, there was time for a splash in the pool but the girls understood that this day was about Abuelo and that they’d be bored while we took care of business and so there’d be more lemonade on the other side.  Obviously, there was sadness and grief, but there were also hugs and affection from favorite relatives who gushed appropriately.

After the funeral, there was Cuban food at the favorite family restaurant, and then we journeyed to Grandma’s house.  This is a bit of a drive along a highway lined with sugar cane and canals.  As long as we’ve been making this drive, we occasionally see a gator or two in the canals.  Not on this day!  I don’t know if it was the time of day, the weather, or the planetary alignment, but we spied 40-50 (lost exact count) gators along the way.  For the 7 year old, that was a major Lemon Squeeze!

After spending the night with Grandma, complete with a carrot feeding visit to the horse and a chance to romp with her dogs, we were back on the road.  We were still a day early for our camping reservations, but still ready to have fun so at the first turnpike stop, we raided the brochure racks for our next adventure.  Orlando and Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum won the Lemonade prize.  We were appropriately amazed, amused, and educated before continuing our expedition.

After one final night of rest in real beds with pillows and modern conveniences, we finally arrived at the final sweet ingredient of our Lemonade Trip.  There, at the campground on the Suwannee River, we reunited with my husband’s old friends, their children, and settled in for a weekend of Remember Whens, What Nows, and fun on the river with the littles and not-so littles.

All sadness aside, the trip couldn’t have ended in a nicer way.  As a kid, my family had a group of families we did these things with and those are some of my fondest memories.  My husband’s friends are wonderful (as my mother put it, this is his tribe!) and we all had such a good time (I don’t think it was just because of the beer and S’Mores) that we declared that this should be a regular thing. 

I couldn’t agree more and I’m ready for the next time.  I do have one caveat, however.  Next time, let’s skip the sour part of the Lemonade.  Maybe next time, we’ll go with Mojitos instead.

Los amamos, Abuelo, gracias por la hermosa familia que nos dio.

New Shoes...

I’ve never had the shopping gene that most women seem to have.  I mean, I spent plenty of time at the mall as a teen, but that was more of a social outing – hanging with friends, eating mall pizza, etc. – than a shopping excursion.  I now avoid a mall like the plague.  I’m more of a thrift store shopper.  Not only because I’m a cheapskate, but also because the hunt is more interesting.

Current styles have never been my thing, either.  My fashion choices have always leaned to comfort first, with a bit of pizzazz second.  If I have a shopping weakness, however, it’s shoes.  I think that goes way back to childhood and I remember favorites from years ago.  From the platform tennis shoes my brothers dubbed “Cowabunga Shoes” to red Mary Janes, to denim cowboy boots, I’ve long held to the belief that new shoes make you run faster and jump higher.

Again, comfort is key for me, and I’ve never had an interest in Steve Martin-esque Cruel Shoes.  No stiletto, pointy-toed torture devices, but I appreciate design and quality and I like a little funk.  Sadly, becoming a grown up office-worker put the damper on my wardrobe choices and I settled for mundane professional attire.  Those favorite canary yellow Doc Martins and electric blue suede shoes had to be retired to make way for boring black loafers and such.

The thing is, no matter how many black shoes I’ve adopted over the years, I’ve never been able to settle on one that didn’t eventually hurt, deliver blisters, or otherwise disappoint.  The ones that felt good, comforted, and became favorites didn’t work with the proper/boring business clothes that now fill my closet.

The point of all this is that maybe I’ve realized that the shoes were never the problem.  Maybe my achy, unhappy feet have just been telling me that my life needed more cartoon-covered skirts and comfy overalls back in my wardrobe.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked away from my job.  With no notice, no plan for what to do next.  That’s not a move that is typical for me.  I’ve always hung in and tried to make things work.  Just like all those black shoes that seemed perfect for a while, it became clear that no amount of cushion insoles, bandaids, or thicker socks was ever going to make them fit right.

So, as I sit here in my comfy slippers, trying to figure out where to go and what to do next, one thing is clear:  I can’t keep trying to make my feet fit the shoes.  Somewhere out there is the perfect, comfortable (and maybe slightly quirky) place for my feet to land.  I believe those shoes are out there, the fit will be perfect, and I will run faster and jump higher.

 

Something’s Not Right – I’d Better Get Some Paint…

My right shoulder has been killing me lately.  I’m right handed, so this was obviously not a great thing, so I finally scheduled a doctor’s appointment and was told it was tendonitis.  You know, from all my years of not playing tennis, not swinging a hammer, and not being a competitive swimmer, it was bound to happen, right?  So the diagnosis and treatment plan basically came down to:  “Doctor, it hurts when I do this. …So stop doing that.”.

The point of telling you all that was not to garner sympathy for my woe, but to tell you that, of course, when the recommendation was to rest my shoulder, I thought today would be a great day to pull all the heavy pots and pans out of my very small and awkwardly-positioned corner kitchen cabinet to replace the contact paper shelf liner.  This is a task that required circus-level contortionist skills.  But I did it.  The new liner is wrinkled and there are no proper right angles, but it’s in there, dammit!  It’s clean and fresh and I feel accomplished!  Surprisingly, my bum shoulder doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.

Metaphysically speaking, there’s an understanding that back pain, shoulder pain, etc. can often be related to “Carrying a weight on one’s back (or shoulders)”.  Sometimes, just recognizing that is enough to ease the pain.  Sometimes, recognition also requires a heating pad and/or aspirin.

As I was crawling, twisting, maneuvering into position at the back of the cabinet and laughing at myself for thinking this was a good idea, I flashed to my mother helping my aunt scrape old wall paper off of walls in an apartment building my aunt owned.  This was a rough time for my mother and, as they worked, they talked about the frustrations and the more they talked, the harder they worked, the more they scraped, and, eventually, the more they laughed and felt better.

Then I realized this is something of a pattern in my family.  When things go wrong, things get done!  When I was unemployed and waiting for a solution to my husband’s health problems, I did a lot of painting.  When I look at the somewhat bizarre color on my kitchen walls (seemed like a great idea at the time!), I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

My brothers build stuff.  Or tear stuff down.  My mother pulls weeds and grabs a shovel.  I paint or clean or craft something weird.  It’s what we do and I guess it’s cheaper than therapy.  So that stupid cabinet has been begging for new shelf liner for years.  Why today?  I don’t know, other than the very clear understanding that there are things that either need to change or that are changing that are out of my control. 

We were met with a family health crisis over the last few weeks and there was nothing anyone could do to fix it.  We’re now on the other side of the emergency but there’s still work to do.  This was something I could do.  A brother came to town last week and fixed a bunch of little things in my mom’s house.  Because that was something he could do.  That’s just how we handle stuff.  I’m not sure on which side of the family this trait originated, but I’d guess it was probably my mother’s.  We’re worker bees and I’ve seen evidence of this behavior in my aunts and uncles as well.

I have some other minor frustrations to work out so I might mop the floor later.  If you see me dusting or raking leaves, that’s when you’ll know that something is really not right in my world for the moment but it will pass.  If you see me pulling out power tools, you probably want to keep your distance.

 

 

Santa Drives A Fiat...

The other day - a lovely Saturday with sunshine and nothing much that had to be done - my family was in the car, in search of lunch options.  At a stop light, I looked to the left and saw none other than Santa Claus driving next to us.  If the beard and the twinkle in the eye didn’t give it away, he was wearing a festive vest and a ballcap embroidered with the word “Santa”.  I pointed him out to my girls, who smiled and waved, and Santa smiled and waved right back.

It was no surprise to me that we’d see Santa in the Atlanta suburbs.  We were near the mall, after all, and there’s a list of names to supply.  I have to admit that it was a *bit* of a surprise to see that Santa drove a sporty Fiat. But then, I thought, “why not?”  Santa can drive a Fiat.  And a Jeep.  And an old Ford truck.  And a VW bus. 

I know there are many who roll their eyes at the idea of Santa.  Neighborhood kids are quick to correct me when I mention him because they don’t believe he exists.  Poor kids.  They’ve got holes in their lives that could so easily be repaired with a little belief.  My kids, thank goodness, not only believe, but they KNOW Santa personally.  In fact, they know a few of them!  So it’s not such a stretch for them to accept that he’d drive a fancy sportscar on his day off.

Shortly after I got married, I needed a haircut and walked into a local salon.  While there, I noticed a line of men who looked suspiciously like Santa Claus with foil in their beards, sitting under the hairdryers.  The stylist working on my mop told me that the owner of the salon was well known for specializing in Santa makeovers and jolly elves came from all over the southeast to get her treatment.  While marveling at the transformation, I noticed one Santa who looked really familiar.  I thought “Of course, he’s familiar, he’s Santa” but then that Santa held up the magazine he was reading so I could see the name on the address label.  It still took me a minute to process, and then I realized I WAS seeing someone I knew, my friend Frosty (yes, that’s the name by which we know him), a presence in the Blues community.  He was Santa!  Wow.

This meant my kids would have their very own Santa!  And they did.  No matter which venue he may have been visiting, we went to see our Santa.  Remember, Santa is our friend, so my kids were able to see him year round.  Even in the middle of summer, if Santa Frosty thought he might see our kids, he was prepared with a gift for them.  At one blues festival, he presented Josie with a big round pillow that looked like a globe.  She said to me “Look, Mom, Santa gave me the world!”

Perhaps it’s the nature of the blues crowd that there are a lot of white-haired bearded men in the midst, but over the years, we’ve known several men who happened to be professional Santas.   Atlanta, in particular, is a hub for many!  My mother, being a skilled seamstress was tapped by a few of them for repairs to their suits.  And our Santa Frosty recruited her to play his Mrs. Claus.  So my kids not only have their own personal Santa, but their Grandma is Mrs. Claus!

I’ve long been a Santaphile (is that a word?  It should be).  I’ve read everything about the man’s history, the legends, the origins.  I know as much about Santa as a nerd knows about Darth Vader.  And these Santas and Mrs. Claus types that I know spend a lot of time at workshops, training to be the best they can be.  Santa bootcamp!

When we were kids, someone always took a turn being an elf on Christmas eve.  Whichever kid fit the suit would disappear, we’d wonder out loud about where they went, and then an elf would knock on the door and would come in to pass out presents.

Now, I was a smart kid with lots of older siblings. I knew it was my brother in the suit and I knew that gifts were purchased by my mother.  That’s not the point.  The elf was real.  Santa is real.

Kids will obviously have questions, and the older they get, the more outside influence they have to raise *new* questions.  I’ve explained that “Santa” is not so much a person as it is a title that has to be earned.  Like a General, an Ambassador, even a Principal.  One can’t just wake up one day and decide to be Santa.  Santa is the embodiment of love, joy, peace, and kindness.  Santa is real.

My ten year old realized some time ago (probably with the help of blabbermouth friends) that maybe Santa didn’t bring presents and wanted an explanation.  So I told her what I know in my heart to be true:  I believe in Santa.  I believe in his Magic and I believe that he lives.  Maybe not at the North Pole, but I’ve never been to the North Pole to see with my own eyes, so I can’t be sure.  I’ve also never been to China but I trust that there’s a great wall there.  Likewise, I trust in Santa.  I trust in the joy and spirit of Santa.  As for the presents, I explained that there are a lot of children in the world and, even with Magic, there’s no way Santa could do it all, so he relies on parents to help him.  As little children begin to question, Santa calls on parents to step in.  That seemed to be a good enough explanation for her and she promised to not lift the veil for her little sister.

Knowing what she knows, did that change the way she viewed the man in the Fiat?  Did it change the joy in her heart when she sees our friend Frosty and he gives her a hug?  I don’t think so.  Because, despite what she may know about logistics, she knows in her heart that Santa is real.

And maybe he drives a Fiat.  Or a Ford truck.  Or a VW bus.

 

 

 

 

 

Let The Kids Run The World...

This morning, my 7 year old Carmen told me that she couldn’t wait to be 8 because then she’d only have to wait 10 more years to vote and she really, really wants to be able to vote.  We talked a bit more about why and I said maybe the world would be better off if we let all the kids vote now and stop letting adults do it.  She asked why and I told her I thought it was pretty great when people think with their hearts instead of their heads and not enough grown ups remember to do that.  Adults forget what’s really important because they’re so busy thinking about what’s not.

In the world of social media (and blogs, of course) one is able to observe truths that aren’t always so clear in normal human interactions between friends and acquaintances.  These truths are sometimes disheartening and sometimes uplifting.  They are always enlightening.  Because I’m lazy by nature, I appreciate the online unveiling of true colors that allow me to easily pick and choose the company I keep.

I’m just a human being.  Like other human beings, I have core values that lead me through my life.  I have strong opinions abut what’s right and what’s wrong and I understand that my views are not the same as all other human beings.  Like most human beings, I tend to seek out other humans who share values that harmonize well with my own but that doesn’t mean I cast out those who don’t.  The common thread is clear:  We’re all human.

Way before social media, I still “read status updates” and “scrolled through comments” to observe interactions of the people around me.  That’s how my beliefs have been established.  Not through one book or one teacher or one source, but through varied and diverse interaction with other human beings.  So many of these lessons came to me quietly by observation.  I credit my mother – and her parents before her – for many of these lessons when I didn’t even realize I was being taught.

One day, when we lived in Baltimore, my mother came home with a young couple and their small baby.  She met the man in the building where she worked and she learned that he and his wife and baby had no place to live.  She welcomed them to our already heavily occupied home and allowed them to have some peace while they found their way.  She saw a need and she filled it without question or hesitation.  As a child, I registered that time as a lesson in how to be a good person.  Only now, as an adult, do I realize how harshly she was probably judged for that kindness.  You see, in the mid 1970s, in Baltimore, the idea of bringing a homeless black man, woman and child into a white family home just wasn’t done.  But for that family, it made all the difference and they were able to soon settle happily into their own home.

That wasn’t the first example of letting the heart lead that I had in my world, but it was perhaps the most blatant.  I’ve had demonstrations of such human kindness in front of me all my life.  My aunt spent much of her life housing and feeding adults who couldn’t have done it on their own.  My grandfather never asked a man on the street how he intended to spend the spare change he gave him, he just gave it because it felt right in HIS heart.

Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to have many terrific role models.  I’ve had teachers with whom I could discuss whatever was on my mind without judgment or correction, but sometimes with questions that made me challenge my own viewpoint.  I’ve had mentors from cultures, faiths, and societies not like my own at first glance but that proved to be identical in terms of heart and values.

How is it possible that a girl from a small Midwestern town and Catholic family could have long lasting and deep relationships with Muslims, Jews, Wiccans, Atheists, Baptists, Hindus, and so on?  Easy.  When I meet someone for the first time, I ask their name.  Because that’s all I need to know.  That’s the natural flow of human relationships.  Human relationships.  We hit it off or we don’t.  We find common threads or we don’t.  And if we have nothing in common, we move along.  That’s what I was taught – not just with words, but by example.

Honestly, I think that’s what many of us preach.  When did so many stop practicing?  In this time of easy access to a soapbox (like a blog, for example) and open forums, I’m stunned by the quick jump to Us v/s Them mentality and the ease with which hateful and mean thoughts are expressed as definitive truth.  I refuse to accept this as the world in which we reside.

So, I think Carmen’s on to something.  Lets give kids the right to vote.  And then maybe we should cut that right off sometime in their mid 20s.  Maybe what the world needs is a bunch of pure, open hearted, loving kids to lead us because we grown ups are screwing it up.

The kids are paying attention.  They may not say it out loud and we may not think they’re listening, but they are.  The other day, I came home to this poem, written by my 10 year old Josie.  So tell me, who should really be making the important decisions for this world?

Hope Valley

Down in Hope Valley, Children Dance And Play. They Dream Of Happiness And The Women Believe In Themselves. The Men Are Honored With Family And Never Try To Change This Happy Village. That Village Is Not Far, Yet Not Close. It Is Hidden Inside Of All Of Us Somewhere...

(by Josephine, age 10)