Month: April 2012

A House Divided

House Divided

I am told that we are a house divided. I am a graduate of the University of Colorado at Boulder. Hubby graduated from Colorado State University. Steve tells me all the time that our schools are rivals. I do not agree. As a CU alum, I never once thought of Colorado State as our rival school.  Twenty years ago (gasp) when I was a student at CU, our chief rivals were Oklahoma and Nebraska. Colorado State registered somewhere as a blip on our radar for the one day a year when our football teams played each other. Other than that, we didn’t give CSU a second thought. After all, CSU was simply the school where all the kids who didn’t get accepted to CU went.

When Steve set up this rivalry (the one I didn’t think existed) between our two schools, he threw down the gauntlet. We’ve had a friendly battle about our schools ever since. When our sons were born, it became an all out war between Steve and I to convince our boys that our alma mater is the best. I remember taking Joe to the Denver Zoo when he was a toddler, parking his stroller directly in front of the bison exhibit, and taking photos of him there to share with Steve later. Mean, but effective. Every year on the day of the Rocky Mountain Showdown, I somehow manage to get my boys into CU t-shirts. (That’s what happens when your wife shops and you don’t, sweetie.) A couple weeks ago the boys and I were up Waterton Canyon and we saw some rams, the CSU mascot. We took photos of them. Joe then suggested we drive up to the lookout at Genesee to get some photos of buffaloes to make it equal. That’s my boy.

Tonight as we were tucking the boys into bed, the school discussion reared its ugly head again.

“I think I’ll be going to CU,” Luke announced.

Game. Set. Match.

“If your grades are good enough,” I reminded.

“They will be. I’m going to CU. Sorry, Dad.”

“I’m sorry too, Luke,” Steve retorted.

“Are you mad at me, Dad?” Luke asked.

“Awwwww, honey,” I said, with sickeningly sweet condescension, “Don’t you want Luke to go to the best school?”

At this comment, he gave me the evil eye. “I’m not mad at you, Luke,” Steve replied. “I’m mad at your mom.”

And, this is how it is in our house. Steve really has no one to blame but himself. If there’s one thing about me that I’m sure he knows it’s that I’m not competitive until someone else starts with me. I never go looking for a fight. I’m a Boulder hippie. I’m all about the love. But, if you start with me, I’m going to bring my A-game.

 

 
(Author’s note: I have a lot of friends who are CSU grads. A LOT. I don’t hold that against them. I love them anyway. And, they tolerate me so it’s all good. I tease them about their school, but every single one of them is an amazing gift to me so their school can’t be all that bad. If my sons go to CSU, I’ll be proud of them. But, make no mistake about it. I will dance shameless circles around them when the Buffs beat the Rams.)

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Question Your Facts and Keep Your Opinions To Yourself

This photo has nothing to do with this article. I just liked it.

I had to get gas for my car today. I drive a lot. I go through a tank of gas a week just to chauffeur my kids to school and run some errands and get to the yoga studio. Today, as the gas pump gauge rolled over $65 in change, I was complaining out loud, mostly to myself. From the backseat, I heard a comment from the peanut gallery.

“The gas prices are high because Obama is living it up and that’s driving the gas prices up,” Luke quips.

“What?” I gasped. Had that comment just come out of the mouth of my eight year old son?

“It’s true. Obama’s driving up the cost of gas.”

“What exactly do you know about the economics of petroleum supply and demand?” I questioned.

“I don’t know. I just heard that somewhere,” he replied.

“Well, obviously you just heard it somewhere. Where exactly did you hear it?”

He thought for a second and then said, “I think it was on the front of one of the Lego videos I saw on YouTube.”

“Yeah. Some of those videos on YouTube have ads on the front of them,” Joe affirmed. “And, you know how many of those videos Luke watches on YouTube.”

That’s when I took the time to have a quick pow wow with my kids about how you can’t believe everything you hear or read. I informed them that all “facts” should be considered suspect until adequately researched and, even then, “facts” are relayed through human filters, which means they’re likely not 100% subjective. I cautioned them that if you are going to make blanket statements about any topic, you’d best have adequate, reliable, and reputable factoids under your hat to share with those who might question the validity of your statements.  Then, I reminded them that no eight year old kid should have any opinion on politics because politics is a complicated business that most adults can’t comprehend. You don’t have to look very far for proof of that statement.

I told my friend, Edie, about this exchange between Luke and I and she said, “See how ads influence people who don’t think for themselves?” This was precisely the point of my April 5th blog. People hear a sound byte from a “news” source, either online or on television, and then start parroting the information as if it’s gospel. It’s one thing when an eight year old hears something and repeats it thinking he’s got the answers. That’s simply naivete. When grown adults do it, it’s often due to lack of critical thinking and sound judgement. At least Luke has some time to get his head screwed on straight. I’ll simply keep challenging him and questioning his sources. Hopefully then, by the time he’s an adult, he will realize (as so many don’t) that there’s a vast difference between fact and opinion.

 

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The Pickpocket

Luke models his rich and famous look.

I love my youngest son to pieces. He’s a gem. He makes me smile every single day. He makes many people smile every day. He’s determined, funny, and quick as a whip. This is why he’s dangerous. He’s a snake oil salesman. If you’re around him, you’d best keep your hands in your pockets or he will rob you blind. No. Seriously. The kid is a thief. He’s always been all about the money and working the angles to score something he wants. As much as I adore him, I feel it’s in the public’s best interest for me to issue a formal warning now before it’s too late.

Luke’s 9th birthday is approximately one month away. He’s been planning for this momentous occasion since one minute after he finished opening his last Christmas gift. That’s when he surveyed the present situation and noted what he did not receive. All those items, he immediately announced, had been bumped to his birthday wish list. He’s a man with a plan.

“Mom…I’m working on the list that Grandpa and Grandma asked for. I’ve decided that you can buy me the Lego Republic Frigate ship because that one’s $120, and I think that’s too much to ask them for. I’m looking at a couple smaller sets for them to buy me,” he announced this evening.

“You’re right. You can’t ask your grandparents for a $120 Lego set. Be more reasonable.”

“Well, I’m still trying to build up my collection (keep in mind the kid probably has over 5,000 Lego pieces in our basement already) so I can make my YouTube video with the clones. I want it to go viral.”

“You want what to go viral, exactly?”

“The video I’m going to make with my Lego figures. To do the awesome battle scene, I’m going to need 3 to 5 of those Republic Frigate sets,” he informed me.

“What? You need 3 to 5 of those $120 sets? Are you crazy?”

“No. I’ve got it all worked out. See…you’ll buy me one set, and I’ll use some birthday money and my allowance to buy another set. Then, I’ll sell off the parts I don’t need to get money for the other sets I do need,” he explained.

“So, let me get this straight. You want to film a Lego action video for YouTube, and to get the pieces you need you’re going to take the $120 set we buy you for your birthday and sell off pieces to make extra cash?” I questioned.

“Exactly,” he answered.

“Would it make it easier for you if I just handed you $120?” I suggested sarcastically.

“No,” he replied in all earnestness. “I still need the frigate for my battle scene. I’ll just sell the extra figures on eBay for cash.”

“Luke,” I reminded him, “you don’t have an eBay account.”

He just looked at me like I was simple and sighed with annoyance. Apparently, some of us don’t appreciate the wisdom of his big-picture thinking.

But, it’s starting to make sense to me. A couple weeks ago Luke announced that he plans to move to Hollywood because he’s (and I verbatim quote) “all about being rich and famous.” He will own a studio where he will write, direct, and star in his own films. I asked him where he will get the money for all this. He told me he’ll get investors. Obviously, this is where Steve and I come in. He’s working the investor angle on us already with his Lego Republic Frigate scheme. Like I said, you’d best manage your pockets carefully when Luke’s pitching one of his ideas to you. The dang kid has just enough charm, vision, and charisma to clean out your entire wallet. Duck into an alley if you see him heading your way.

 

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There Is No Standardized Life

Me and friends....CU graduation May '90

A friend of mine shared a link on Facebook today to this article by a man in New Jersey who exercised his legal right to exempt his 12 year old son from the standardized testing assessment conducted by the state. The reasons he offered for why he and his wife are removing their son from the testing echo my concerns about the usefulness of these tests which, by and large, seem only to stress out both students and teachers and do little for the advancement of actual learning and skill building for life. Even if I toss aside my feelings for the validity of these assessments, which teachers and students spend weeks preparing for and taking, Mr. Richardson’s article reminds me of how far we have not come in education since I was a child. When I compare the educational experience I had to the one my boys are getting, I cringe. And I say that without any intended disrespect to my boys’ school or their teachers; they are in a private school of our choosing because the educators there are truly wonderful. The state of education, however, has changed. My boys are missing out on what I got in spades in Douglas County schools while I was growing up…freedom to choose, freedom to think and express themselves as individuals, and freedom to create.

Growing up, I thought learning was fun. Yes. There was plenty of work, but with that work came a broadening of my mind and the knowledge that I was working toward independence. I felt invested in that. From specific exercises we did in grade school to the way I was allowed to customize my high school class schedule, I was given ownership and freedom in my education and those things empowered me.

In 6th grade, we were asked to fill out an application for McDonalds. This was purely for practice, obviously, but the principal reviewed the applications of both classes of 6th graders and then chose 10 of us to interview. I was among the 10 he interviewed. From those interviews, he then would chose a boy and a girl to “hire.” I remember sitting in that chair in front of the principal and trying my best to be articulate. I wanted that job and I got it. When he brought me into the office again to offer me the imaginary position, he told me that he chose me because he could tell from my responses that I was a hard worker and that I believed in myself. That singular experience profoundly affected me. I’ve interviewed for ten positions in my life from the time I began working at age 17. I’ve gotten the job every single time (knock on wood). I don’t believe that’s a coincidence. I think that experience I had interviewing at age 12 helped me to understand the process and prepare for it later in life.

My husband’s school experience was 180 degrees from mine. Steve went to high school in Illinois where his class schedule was chosen for him. The classes were predetermined for each student. Boring. At our high school, there were certain requirements that had to be met in core subjects (math, science, social studies, and English) but we were allowed to choose the courses we wanted to in order to meet those requirements. I knew I was interested in the social sciences and English, so I focused my classes around those subjects. I opted out of PE, home ec, and other fairly standard elective courses to take additional courses in English. I chose to study Shakespeare, grammar, and writing. I wasn’t forced either, as my husband was, into three years of history. I took history courses along with quarter-long courses on the current topics like the Middle East and Futures (a course where we studied emergent technologies and sciences). Everything I studied and the way I was allowed to choose my interests prepared me for college. Consequently, when I got there and was asked to write a paper about Othello I was able to formulate a topic and plan my paper without hassling the professor to help me choose something to say. I’d been allowed freedom to be unique, to find my own voice and interests, and to be responsible for my learning. It paid off. I got through college in 4 years with a 3.3 GPA and the desire to go to graduate school and learn more. I’d say that was a fairly successful educational experience. What’s more is that it prepared me for life, where I’m required daily to think creatively, problem solve, adapt, and be flexible. I’ve never once been asked to recite dates and locations for specific battles during the Civil War.

What I want for my sons is the opportunity I had, the chance to learn that education is fun. We did take standardized tests, but we just took them. We didn’t spend weeks preparing for them or stressing out over them. The teachers taught from the prescribed curriculum, we took the tests, and we did our best. End of story. As my sons prepare to take the Iowa Basics tests at their school, I’ve told them that these tests don’t tell us how smart they are or how successful they will be. They only tell us how well they take standardized tests. But, success in life isn’t determined by results on standardized tests. Success arises from believing in yourself, knowing your strengths, learning lessons on the fly, and finding opportunity in obstacles. I tell my boys that there is no standardized life. Darken whichever ovals you choose as you travel on your own path and, if someone dares to tell you you’re wrong, just remind them that they don’t have the answer key for your test.

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The Unusual Suspect

This is as close to abuse as Luke gets from his father. Tickle abuse.

On Monday nights, Joe has math tutoring. During that time, my darling hubby takes Luke to Starbucks where he buys him a rice krispy treat and they read together. This is their ritual. Luke loves it because he gets his favorite dessert, and Steve loves it because he has a legitimate excuse to hang out at Starbucks for the third time in a day without censure.

Tonight when Joe walked in the door, he was highly animated.

“Dad and Luke were at Starbucks and the police came over to talk to Dad because some lady with bad eyesight thought Dad was attacking Luke.”

“What?” I gasped, as Joe walked upstairs leaving me puzzled. Next, Luke came through the door.

“Luke…what happened? Did a policeman come talk to you?”

“Yeah…when we were in the car.”

Now I was even more confused. They were in the car? Huh? Nothing about what they were saying was making any sense. My husband is an extremely kind and gentle man. I’m not sure that he has ever laid a hand on either of our boys for anything other than a hug or a tickle war. I couldn’t imagine what he might have done that would prompt someone to call the cops on him for abuse. Steve’s a Boy Scout. The worst thing I can legitimately accuse him of is acquiring a few speeding tickets. I mean, the man doesn’t even swear. He walked through the door and into the family room where I was sitting.

“Someone called the cops on you for abusing Luke?”

“No. The cop was already at Starbucks. Apparently this woman who was sitting in another car must have thought I was being abusive.”

“Why would she think that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. All I can figure is that she saw me yell at him to sit up because he was slouching when he was reading. She must have left her car and gone into the store. That officer is often there when we are, so she must have asked him to go check it out. He walked out of Starbucks, came over to the car, and asked if I was having a bad day with my son. I told him we were just reading. He looked in the car and saw Luke and his book. He laughed and told us to have a good night. That was it.”

We sat around replaying the incident and having a good laugh about it because it’s ludicrous. If anyone in this house should have been approached by a police officer about any form of child abuse, it certainly should have been me. I do not have half of Steve’s patience, and I’m the one who gives our boys the greatest amount of verbal grief. Anyone who knows Steve could attest to his innocence. The man has not one edge. He’s as soft and squishy as the Stay Puft marshmallow man.

Although we joked about the whole event, it honestly frightened me. How creepy is it that someone sitting in another car was watching, evaluating, and judging what was going on in our car? Beyond that, how scary is it that someone would automatically contact the authorities without actually witnessing something abusive? I do believe that there’s a time to intervene to protect a child if you’ve seen or have reason to suspect abuse. But, why is it suddenly a criminal act to raise your voice to your child in the privacy of your car simply to tell them to sit up straight and pay attention to the book they are supposed to be reading? When I was growing up, if we misbehaved in a restaurant my parents could lock us in the car outside the restaurant while they finished their meal inside and no one would have blinked an eye, much less called the authorities. When my mom was a child, parents would make disobedient children kneel on rice for misbehaving or eat soap for backtalking or cursing. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that in eliminating extreme punishments to protect our children we might have gone too far in the other direction if chastising our slouching child is enough to warrant police intervention. Just to be safe, I guess Steve and I will have to start yelling at our kids in the privacy of own home so no one has to bother the police.

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Obfuscation and Lies

Sneaky co-conspirators enjoying YouTube

The boys were upstairs being quite giggly earlier today. I love it when they’re having fun and laughing together. We’re lucky that it happens quite often with our two little monkeys because they honestly like each other. When I hear them both carrying on, no matter how loudly, with their happy, non-stop chattering, I feel good.

Today, though, something different was going on. I could tell there was something somewhat secretive about whatever it was they were doing upstairs. Still, heartened by their laughter and the joy they were obviously sharing, I let them continue. At one point, though, my curiosity began to get the best of me and I started up the stairs. Hearing my footsteps, they got very quiet, which made me a bit suspicious.

“Mom?” Joe called.

“Yeah?” I replied from halfway up the stairs.

“Don’t come up here,” he called down.

“Ummm…why?” I queried, becoming even more suspicious. Then I heard Luke yell to Joe.

“Close the door, Joe. Quick.”

“Why do you have to close the door exactly?” I wondered aloud.

“Don’t come up here, Mom. We’re having a farting contest in Joe’s room. It’s gross in here.”

Ewwwwww. Seriously? That was all I had to hear. I started back downstairs. Boys are so disgusting. I went back to the kitchen to finish my lunch, trying not to think of the foulness being perpetrated upstairs.

After about 15 minutes, though, I noticed it was very quiet. This could only mean one of two things…either they were doing something they weren’t supposed to be or the noxious fumes from their farts had rendered them unconscious. I sneaked back upstairs and stood outside the door to Joe’s room. It was quiet except for the sound of their computer. I had asked them earlier to stay off the computer for a while because they’d spent part of the morning watching Lego videos. I carefully turned the doorknob and peeked inside the room. There they were…co-conspirators, huddled together sharing one chair and, sure enough, watching more Lego videos that they weren’t supposed to be watching. Oddly enough, the Lego characters were either speaking Polish or Czech, which just cracked me up.

“WHAT are you doing?” I said a little too loudly. They both jumped, surprised and chagrined to have been caught in the act.

“We’re watching Lego videos,” Luke admitted.

“What did I say about spending too much time on YouTube today?”

“Sorry, Mom,” Joe said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said  you were having farting contests up here.”

“We just said that to keep you out of here,” Joe explained, honest to a fault.

Nice. I wasn’t sure if I should yell at them or congratulate them for their clever ruse. It had worked. They got themselves an extra 15 minutes of clandestine YouTube time with that false statement. I told them to close Safari and get downstairs. They walked past me rather quickly, fearful I might swat them as they passed by.

Truth be told, I’m rather disappointed in myself for falling for a “farting contest” story. What was I thinking? My boys are gross, but they’re not really that gross, at least not yet. It was a bit naive of me to believe that line. I hope, however, that my boys understand that their obfuscations and lies will have to become more clever in the future because I now see the game they’re playing at. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well…I’m just not that stupid.

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What About My Baggage?

“Do you know what the three most exciting sounds in the world are? Anchor chains, plane motors, and train whistles.”            ~George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life

Our rainbow bags will make us easy to spot...from space.

We’re gearing up for another summer of travel. Literally. I mentioned a few weeks ago that I love planning for travel nearly as much as I love traveling itself. So, for the past few weeks, that’s what I’ve been doing. We’re taking a big trip with Steve’s family this summer. I was informed by my father-in-law that our bags for the main leg of the trip are not allowed to exceed 40 pounds each. Knowing that we will be abroad for 10 days with two boys who can’t keep one outfit clean all day, I began to panic about how we would get everything we need for air travel and boat cruising into a few, 40-pound bags that the four of us will be able to haul successfully through international airports. So, I used this restriction as an excuse to do what any normal woman would do when faced with this dilemma: I started shopping.

In 1997, hubby and I purchased two very large Samsonite travel suitcases to accommodate our plans to have no children and to travel instead. Four years after that purchase, we still had not traveled and we had one child. Since then, our luggage has always been a menagerie of hand-me-down, mismatched, awkward, and barely functioning individual pieces. When we’ve had money to spend, we just haven’t been interested in purchasing matching luggage sets for the travels we were not taking. In the past ten years, we’ve traveled with valises riddled with holes and afflicted by missing wheels and broken zippers. I vowed this time we would not be traveling like the Clampetts.

Our new luggage would have to be durable, lightweight, moderately priced, medium-sized, easily identifiable, and have wheels. I did some research and settled upon a bag I thought fit all my specifications. I ordered one, an Exo Hardside Spinner from eBags, so we could test it out at home before ordering three more. It arrived and was perfect. Big enough for multiple days of travel with lightweight clothing but small enough that the boys will be able to handle their own bags. We collectively decided to order the remaining bags, each deciding on our own color to eliminate future arguments.

When they arrived, I immediately unpacked them and felt confident about our purchase. How can you not feel good about a lifetime guarantee? At least I could be certain that I would no longer have to lean a bag against my leg at a check in counter because of a missing wheel. As the bags sat in our living room over the course of the next several days, however, I began to experience second thoughts. These bags are really bright and noticeable. There is nothing subtle about them. In fact, I’m fairly certain that we’ll be easy to spot…from outer space. Are these suitcases less tacky than our current hodgepodge of misfits?

Reflecting on it for a bit longer, though, I realized that I don’t care if they appear gauche to some. They fit our motley crew perfectly. They are related yet unique, fun but practical, spunky but not obnoxious. They’re also two colors shy of an LGBT flag, and we’re good with that association. They tell people we’re bold and ready for adventure. If people with pricey, matching luggage sets want to look down their noses at us for our silly bags, let them. We may not be full of decorum, but at least we’re interesting.

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Digging Deep

Oh...I really had to dig deep this morning.

“You’ve got to get up every morning with determination if you’re going to go to bed with satisfaction.”             ~George Lorimer

I’ve had this rotten cold sucking the life out of me for days now. Most people hate to be sick. I know this. But, I think my hatred of being sick goes beyond that of a “normal” person’s hatred of being sick. When I feel a cold coming on, I immediately give my body a good talking to. Oh no you don’t. You are not going to get sick. You’re not. End of story. This, of course, does not work. My body does not care what I have to say. If it listened to anything I had to say, I wouldn’t have stopped growing until I was 5’9″ tall, 135 pounds, and 34C. Did. Not. Happen.

Once I succumb to illness, I go to my back up plan. Realizing that my body is not listening to me, I serve a mandatory eviction notice to the cold itself. It has just seven days to reside here. No grace period. I figure I’m being fairly generous to those foreign invaders. They have two days to set up shop and get me good and sick, two days for debauchery and mayhem, and three days to pack themselves up, clean up their mess, and get out.

In preparation for the MS150 in June, I’ve spent the past 6 weeks getting myself back into a steady cardio workout routine after a winter of doing not much. It takes a while to build the habit of working out six days a week without fail, so the arrival of this wretched cold this week was certain to derail all my hard work. Colds have always managed to mess my training up. Why? Because a cold offers me an excuse to be lazy and rest. I am free to sit on the couch watching my favorite show du jour (currently that means back episodes of Friday Night Lights because I have a massive crush on Tim Riggins). I knew I would have to dig deep this week to stay on track. I mean center of the earth deep. But, I did it. 15 miles on the trainer on Tuesday, an hour of hot yoga on Wednesday, 13 miles on the trainer yesterday, and today I somehow managed to get myself to Red Rocks to climb stairs. And, you know what? I did climb stairs. I worked it out. It took me longer than usual, but I completed my usual circuit of stair climbing there. I powered through.

I’m proud of myself. This week, for the first time ever, I fought the urge to use my cold as a free pass out of exercise. As the cold germs partied on while I was exercising, I put my fingers in my ears and sang “lalalalalalalalalala” to block out its ruckus. They may have taken temporary possession my body, but my determination ensured I won the war for my soul. I feel pretty good about that. And, I truly believe this cold will be 100% gone in three days now. It knows I mean business.

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Faith, Hope, and Frogs

Swimmy (left) and Splashy (right)

Last night I was holed up in bed, trying desperately to keep my brain focused on writing while my body was using every spare ounce of energy to fight a head cold, when I heard Joe call from their bedroom. It was time for me to say their prayers, a ritual that I’ve carried out nearly every night since they were toddlers. I was exhausted and felt miserable, but I hauled myself down the hall to fulfill my nightly duty.

As I was approaching the room, I heard Joe make a comment about one of Luke’s frogs. My boys have each had two aquatic, African dwarf frogs for about 23 months. I love these frogs as much as any mother can love a frog. I especially love Luke’s frogs because, swear to God, they know me and perk up and look at me when I talk to them. That might sound crazy, but it’s true. Luke’s frogs, Splashy and Swimmy, are full of personality and joie de vivre like the boy that owns them.

“That one has been on the top of the water for a while,” Joe noted. “I’ve been watching him. I think he’s gonna die.”

Characteristically, the frogs prefer to hang out on the bottom of the tank and swim up simply to get a breath or feed. It is unusual to see one floating on top, so I could understand Joe’s concern.

“Oh, Joe. He’s not going to die. Don’t be so melodramatic. Sometimes they just like to hang out on top of the water,” I said, trying to alleviate the fears that were evident on Luke’s face after Joe’s dire pronouncement.

When I looked into at Splashy, though, I could tell there really was something wrong with him. From the top of the aquarium, I could see that his rump was red. I couldn’t tell if it was blood, but I sensed it was not good. I’m no herpetologist, but it looked like he might have an inflammation of his cloaca (yes…I had to look that word up). In other words, he might have had a little something stuck up his froggy butt. I figured that was not something I could help him with and since he wasn’t eating, I got a bit worried right along with Joe.

So, when I was done with the boys’ prayers, we paused to say an extra little prayer for Splashy. We asked God to watch over him, help him heal, and to keep him from suffering too long if this was indeed his time to go. I’ll be honest. I say the boys’ prayers each night because it makes them feel better. For me, it’s more of a habit than something I wholeheartedly believe in. I’m undecided on the power of prayer because I’m not sure that there’s a thing I could say to change events in the universe. I’ve never believed I was that powerful. But, I said that prayer for Splashy because he’s the sweetest little frog ever, and I truly hate to see creatures suffer.

By this morning when I went to check on him (at 5 a.m. because I was worried about Luke waking up to a dead, bloated frog), he was back on the bottom of the aquarium. When I went into the boys’ room at 7, he swimming around and his hind end looked considerably less red. It gave me hope. Maybe God is looking out for him. Maybe our prayers for that little frog helped a bit. I don’t know, but I kind of understand why people pray. It’s not necessarily because prayer will fix everything but because it offers hope that perhaps there’s a chance. In the face of the unknowable, hope is all we have.

 

 

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The True Hopeless Romantic

"I'm only happy when it rains. I'm only happy when it's complicated. And, though I know you can't appreciate it, I'm only happy when it rains...pour your misery down on me." ~Garbage

I was talking to a friend the other day about a movie I love, (500) Days of Summer. My friend, deluded character she is, did not share my affinity for the film. This, however, did not surprise me. Most people expect happy endings where the protagonists end up together, and (500) Days of Summer, starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel, is not one of those movies. It’s better. It’s a movie for hopeless romantics.

I bet I lost you there, didn’t I? Most people equate being a hopeless romantic with happy endings. That’s simply wrong. Most people who think they are hopeless romantics are actually hopeful romantics. At the end of the story, a hopeful romantic wants the protagonists to end up together. They want a happy ending tied neatly with a bow. Me? I’m a realist. I hate those kind of stories. Life is messy. I want a messy story where things don’t work out as you expect them to, where you realize at the end that everything is as it should be even if it isn’t how you thought it would be. I knew five minutes into (500) Days that I would love the film because the narrator announces, “This is a story about boy meets girl, but you should know up front this is not a love story.” Perfect. Just the way I like it.

When I think about romantic films that have truly resonated with me, nearly all of them involve endings that aren’t traditionally happy: Out of Africa, The English Patient, Once, The Age of Innocence, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and The End of the Affair. In these films, the characters touch each other’s lives deeply but as a couple they are simply aren’t meant to last. Their beauty lies in their tragedy. That’s what hopeless romance implies, an impossibility, an impediment that makes what can’t be far more meaningful than what can be.

What’s romantic about Pretty Woman? Seriously. Think about it. Prostitute meets client. Client purchases prostitute. They fall for each other. Client walks away, but suddenly has a change of heart and returns. BORING! Not to mention degrading and pathetic. The story I want to see is the one where they get together, have a few children, and then she finds out that, unable to quell his desires, he’s still seeking out prostitutes. Now, that would make for a compelling story. Maybe they work it out. Maybe they don’t. But, either way at least there is some depth there, something to think about.

Okay. Okay. I don’t really expect anyone to agree with me on this. I know I fall into a small and silent minority on this topic, and I’m not going to change anyone’s mind. But, I stand by the fact that we would not still know the story of Romeo and Juliet if Shakespeare had ended the play with a final scene where Juliet is washing Romeo’s undergarments while Romeo is out having some fine mead with the old gang. Just saying.

 

 

 

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