Month: November 2021

A Missing Letter Can Change Everything

All consonants are important, even if they’re voiceless.

Tonight Thing One sent me a paper to edit. He does this on occasion. One of the only benefits of having a mom who writes is that she might be willing to do some editing for you in a pinch. The paper tonight was for his history class and covered the Reformation. As I was reading through it and checking the grammar and spelling, I noticed that my darling son’s dyslexia reared its head. He had “peasant” written as “pheasant.” This took me back to a post I wrote almost 10 years ago when I was proofreading a 4th grade book report for him.

Joe had written a book report on Danny, Champion of the World by Roald Dahl. As I was reading his paper, I was having a hard time understanding what he was saying because he kept referring to the main characters “poaching peasants.” The story involves a father and son who put sleeping pills in raisins and use them to poach pheasants off a neighbor’s land. But in the book report, Joe kept referring to the pheasants as “peasants.” Imagine my consternation when I’m reading along and thinking my 4th grade son is reading a book about a father and son who kill people and eat them.

I know that at 20 Joe knows the difference between a peasant and a pheasant. He actually knew the difference 10 years ago too. It’s just that his brain doesn’t always make the spelling distinction. As a person for whom English and writing came a bit more easily, I admit I used to judge potential boyfriends on their ability to spell and use correct grammar. It was snobby, but it was a pet peeve of mine when a person wrote “your so cool” rather than “you’re so cool.” Then, the universe gave me sons with dyslexia and ADHD, which forced me to see that poor grammar and spelling aren’t always due to ignorance or a lack of intelligence or education. Sometimes poor grammar and spelling are the result of a learning disability. So, I’ve learned to relax a little bit when I see “your” instead of “you’re” or “pheasant” instead of “peasant.” Or at least I’ve learned not to judge the grammar over what is being said.

I hate to think that someone might not be able to see beyond our sons’ dyslexic spelling errors. I prefer to think that anyone who talked to them would understand they were intelligent people with grammar and spelling issues on occasion. Maybe those people will come to learn what I have. You might have to put up with some spelling confusion when dealing with a person who has dyslexia, but you might get some funny stories out of it too.

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There’s More Than One Way To Win

We knew fairly early on that our sons might not be the most coordinated children ever. They had zero interest in riding bicycles at a time when most young children are asking for one. We enrolled them in t-ball, only to spend most of the games praying they would not be hit by balls given that Joe would be in the outfield staring off in another direction and Luke would be playing second base but would be chatting up the runner there rather than paying attention. We put them in occupational therapy about the time they were 6 because they struggled with both fine and gross motor skills. About that time, after failed attempts to get them interested in baseball, soccer, or swimming, we put away our thoughts that they might play team sports.

When they started at Denver Academy, a school for neurodiverse learners, we were surprised that the school suggested all students in 9th grade pursue a sport. Early on I thought, if our sons needed to participate in a sport, perhaps running would be a good way to go. The best part about cross-country and track meets is that your competition is yourself. Sure, you run with other runners and your times will be put up against the times of other runners, but your race time is yours to work on and improve. No one else is going to carry you over the finish line. In these running sports, each event provides an opportunity to achieve your personal best. Running is a measurable growth enterprise.

Both our sons rose to the occasion in cross-country and track. Both began to see that maybe they were more interested in athletics than they thought they were. These were amazing things to witness. Watching Joe go from finishing 8th out of 8 runners to moving up to 6th out of 8 and then eventually watching him finish in first place in a 400m event was unbelievable. Witnessing Luke plug along in cross-country and then decide to try his hand at discus in track and field was something else entirely. Running taught the boys a lot about what they are capable of and how far they can go. But what impressed us about watching our sons in these sports was seeing them engage with other runners, form friendships, and become cheerleaders for their teammates.

In the end, our sons grew as runners but, more than that, they evolved as teammates, leaders, and competitors. This cross-country season, I watched Luke in several races chatting as he ran alongside members of other teams. After one event in particular, I remember Luke approaching the guy he had been running with and congratulating him on his time, which was faster than Luke’s. Joe and Luke both became invested in their sports and their teammates. They ran along with the kids who were struggling towards the end of a race. They stayed long after their events ended to cheer on their friends on their team and others. Both became team leaders. Joe was awarded Runner of the Year for track his junior year (stupid Covid eliminated track his senior year). And tonight, at the award ceremony for fall sports, Luke was given the Mr. Mustang Award for leadership in cross-country.

All of this has given me reason to be proud. But what strikes me the most about our sons’ personal growth in sports is that I had been looking at their earlier struggles with athletics the wrong way. Our kids might not have been star athletes playing in championship games or qualifying for State in their events, but they excelled in ways far more valuable in the long term than that. Their struggles gave them different skills. You don’t have to be the fastest runner or strongest athlete to be important to your sport or your team. You can be gracious in defeat and kind to competitors. You can be positive and encouraging with teammates. You can be dedicated to improving your skills and sharing what have learned. Those traits might actually make a bigger impact on your world in the long run. Here I was, wanting them to be competitors to be reckoned with, and it never occurred to me that two kids who struggled with athleticism early in life might just have something compassionate to teach others about sportsmanship and the gifts to be found in working hard, doing the best you can, and being supportive of others, even when they best you.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. My sons have taught me far more than I ever taught them. I’m not sure they’ll ever be able to teach me to run though.

Posted on by Me 4

Keeping Bad Days In Perspective

I don’t know if it’s the time change and the early darkness or the after effects of a difficult therapy session or the puppy’s over-the-top energy today or just the fact that it’s Monday, but today has been a day. I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spit out and then chewed up again, swallowed, regurgitated, and left on the pavement to dry. I have tired on top of my tired, despite having slept well last night.

Days like today, though, make me grateful more than anything else because they remind me that some of my less than optimal days are still light years better than the days many people live. I mean, I think it’s fair that we all have the opportunity to whine about trying times, but it’s important to keep it in perspective. Life offers different levels of struggle. As far as I know, I am healthy. I have a thoughtful, loving spouse, two sons who work hard and constantly strive to grow, a beautiful home filled with everything we need and a ton of things we don’t need but appreciate nonetheless, two sweet puppies, loyal and supportive friends, a functioning and comfortable vehicle, and money to buy whatever food we need. My “struggles” today were more about frustration and exhaustion than anything else, and that’s a fortunate position to be in.

I don’t want to be a drama queen. I’ve taken the first step away from that by eliminating from my life people who cause that type of reaction in me. The next step is walking away from the drama I create in my head that doesn’t need to exist. One way I am working on that is by practicing gratitude. So, tonight, I am grateful that I managed today as best as I could. If I’m given another day, tomorrow I can wake up grateful that I get to try life again and use what I’ve learned today.

Posted on by Me 5

Let The Holiday Season Commence, I Guess

I don’t know how it is going where you live, but in our neighborhood the holidays begin now, apparently. Many homes have their holidays lights up, and they are turned on nightly. It’s a little early for me. I don’t want my holidays combined like a vanilla/chocolate swirl soft serve. I want to suck every last moment out of fall and savor every drop of pumpkin spice latte. I don’t even want to think about putting a tree up until the last of the pumpkin pie slices and bites of turkey have been consumed. What is the big rush, anyway? The Christmas season in our home exists for five, precious, ephemeral weeks, and I think that is what makes them more special. It appears I am in the minority, though, because here we are, all lit up like I am already behind on holiday shopping and wrapping.

There is only one holiday component that is allowed to begin before Thanksgiving, and that is the preparation for our yearly holiday card. The family holiday card is something we’ve done since Thing One arrived in 2001. We have not missed one year of this tradition. We know that in a couple years it’s likely that the photos on these cards will change as the boys move on into their own lives, but Steve and I will continue sending out holiday cards as long as the post office continues functioning. It may be old fashioned, but we enjoy it and there’s no stopping now.

Today I started the process for this year’s cards. I began looking online for outfits for the family photos. In the past, I have gone in person to Gap, Old Navy, or J Crew to try to piece together clothing that would coordinate but not be super matchy-matchy. But with a thirteen-week-old puppy in the house, I have too little time for those shenanigans so I opened my browser and got busy. It didn’t go as well as expected, so in the end today I decided to shop in our closets for suitable photo attire. Without too much digging, it was mission accomplished. Next up: location scouting.

We’ve never had a paid, professional photo taken for these cards. We do them ourselves, which makes them feel less polished and more, well, us, I think. We have had, on a few occasions, a family member or friend snap photos for us after Thanksgiving Day or after we cut down our Christmas tree. More recently, however, Steve has set up his fancy camera on a tripod at our chosen location. Capturing a decent photo has not always been easy. For starters, when the boys were younger, they seemed had an aversion to looking directly at camera. So, we would take 30-40 shots, sometimes pausing to run back into the car to warm up because it was so cold. Some years, we had to go with a photo that was not what we really wanted but was the best we could get. The process has not always been ideal. Often there are myriad complaints. Sometimes there are cross words. In the distant past, there may have been threats, bribes, or ultimatums in effect. I always have the final say over the photo we use because this tradition is my baby. I love putting together and sending out holidays cards, even as the number of them we receive has dwindled because others have given up on the expense, time suck, and frustration of this perhaps outdated holiday tradition.

I’m still not quite ready to let this go. I’ve kept a book containing our holiday photos over the years. It’s fun, if a bit sobering, to view these now. Each photo has a story or memory attached. There was the year that Joe insisted on having his shark, Bruce, in the photo. There was the year we took our holiday photos in Hawaii dressed like typical Hawaiian tourists. There was also the infamous year the boys had bowl cuts and were looking pretty spiffy. I am grateful, however, that we have persisted with this tradition because we will forever have these memories and photos of our time with our sons as they grew, no matter what the future holds.

  • This was actually our 2018 card, which went out in time for New Year’s 2019
  • 2016 in Steamboat
  • 2013
    in Kauai
  • 2005 in Littleton
  • 2010 in Pine

Posted on by Me 1

The Kindest People I’ve Never Met

People publish a blog for many reasons, to earn a living or to promote their career or to connect with other people or to share some expertise. I’ve been writing for decades, going back to keeping a journal with regular entries when I was 13 years old. I started posting online on my first blog, Suburban Sirens, in 2009 when I was a 41 year old stay-at-home mom with 6 and 8 year old sons. Looking back, I think I began blogging as a way to reconnect with writing and editing, a career I jettisoned in 2001 with the birth of my first son. I felt separated from the art that had become so much a part of me that when it was gone I felt I had lost a part of myself. I was a bit lost without writing. I felt adrift.

If I put my thoughts out into the universe, if I started writing again, then perhaps I would feel slightly less invisible and slightly more heard than I felt as a stay-at-home mom with no income. And I had gotten to a point in my life where the boys were in school and I had a little quiet time to myself to reflect. As it turned out, blogging became an important way for me to process my sons’ struggles with learning disabilities and my difficulties adapting to their difficulties. Blogging became for me a type of low-cost therapy.

All of this is to say that I never began blogging to gain a following or even to be read, necessarily. I started posting a blog as a means of keeping myself accountable and figuring out what was going on in my mom brain. When I began posting on Live Now and Zen, I was genuinely surprised that 1) anyone (even my friends) took the time to read anything I published and 2) that some people who didn’t even know me read what I had to say. So, imagine my total shock when people I didn’t know began commenting on my posts. When I hit 1k subscribers, I was in denial. What are these people thinking? Don’t they have anything better to do? I’m still in denial about their readership and kindness. I don’t get it because, honestly, I do not spend much time reading on WordPress. I should read more. I should be spending a great deal more time seeing what others are saying. But, damn, I barely find time to write and publish most days. I feel guilty for not being a better blog community member and, next year when I am officially no longer a stay-at-home parent, I plan to ameliorate this situation at long last.

Despite my inattention to other’s posts, along the way I found several bloggers who were/are kind enough to read my posts often and leave me a comment. I cannot thank these individuals enough because their attention, encouragement, feedback, and comments have been more of a gift than I ever imagined or felt my writing deserved. So, I want to take a self-indulgent moment to thank my friends on WordPress: Paz (Armchair Zen), Gail (nightowlgail), msw (reallifeofanmsw), E.A. (bleuwater), babsje (babsjeheron), and Real Women (realwomen1). You have made me feel heard, appreciated, and understood during times when I have been struggling to find myself. Your encouragement and kind words have changed my opinion of my efforts. It’s been astounding to me how something I never sought or expected has given me so much.

You never know how a kind word can touch someone else. I encourage anyone who engages in an artistic practice to tell people who are working at their craft that you see them. You don’t know how that one comment might change everything for that struggling artist, writer, actor, sculptor, or performer.

Posted on by Me 6

Lessons From A Tequila Tuesday

A couple nights ago, Steve and I did something we haven’t done in a long time. We went to a party on a school night. And it wasn’t just any party. It was a tequila party for the Day of the Dead. Yes. The Day of the Dead was Monday, but everyone knows a party with tacos and tequila is definitely meant to be held on a Tuesday. So, the holiday got extended an extra day just for us. ¡Qué buena suerte!

Photo by ActionVance on Unsplash

We moved into our house in July of 2020, when most of the homes on our street hadn’t yet been completed and the pandemic kept us from spending much time with the few neighbors we did have. We had our first get together with some of the neighbors on our street early last month when we met outside for Happy Hour, which quickly became Happy Five Hours. When you buy a new home, you keep your fingers crossed that the people who live around you will be, at the very least, respectful neighbors. But it is a joy and blessing when you realize the people who live on your block are not only respectful but also helpful, kind, and the equivalent of a cavalcade-of-puppies worth of fun. On the evening of the happy hour at our next door neighbor’s house, the neighbors next to them on the other side said they would be hosting a Day of the Dead party with tequila on Taco Tuesday the day after the Day of the Dead. The hosts explicitly told me then that makeup was highly encouraged to go with the theme and we should not be lame and show up without. This, of course, was all said tongue-in-cheek, but I am a people-pleasing rule follower so I took it to heart.

At my next trip to Target I purchased Halloween face make up so it wouldn’t sell out before I was able to purchase it. I did not want to disappoint our hosts and I definitely didn’t want to be the lame one.

Makeup just finished

So, on Tuesday night about the time the party was set to get underway, Steve and I tried our level best to put on Day of the Dead faces. I applied my makeup in honor of my Grandma Charlotte. After a solid 30 minutes, we had subpar-but-finished Day of the Dead faces, so we walked over to the neighbor’s house. As soon as we walked in, we realized we were the only ones who had gone to such extensive lengths with our makeup. Although we felt like big dorks, we got right down to tequila tasting and that feeling dissipated.

Like me, this tequila is extra

After one rough night in my early twenties, I have traditionally only tolerated tequila in margaritas and had told myself I would not be drinking any tequila on a school night because, well, Wednesday responsibilities. That went out the window in the first five minutes, though. Our amazing hosts had many different tequilas for sampling and one bottle, appropriately named Los Vecinos (“the neighbors”) for a raffle. We learned the traditional Colombian toast (Arriba! Abajo! Al centro! Al dentro!) and we were off to the races. My favorite was the Cava de Oro Extra Anejo.

Makeup after some tequila shots

In addition to the tequila, the hosts had provided taco fixings and all the neighbors had shown up with tasty side dishes. Their home was tastefully decorated for the holiday. We met neighbors we didn’t meet last month. Everyone ate and drank and mingled and tried new things and laughed and enjoyed the evening. When Steve and I finally left and walked our next door neighbors to their front walk, it was after 11 on a school night. We had done it! We’d broken the streak of dull, pandemic weeknights at home. There we were, happily toasted on a Tuesday. Although our face makeup had long since dried up and was falling off onto our clothing, we were grateful for the opportunity to relax with some wonderful new friends who happen to live mere yards away.

I learned a few lessons on Tuesday night. First, putting on decent make up for a Day of the Dead fiesta is a lot harder than you would imagine. Second, there’s no not having tequila at a tequila tasting unless you want to be lame, and I never want to be lame again. Third, I like my tequila extra anejo, like me. Fourth, even at 53, you can totally party on a Tuesday night and function on Wednesday, although it might require a willingness to miss some sleep and to take an Advil for a teeny, tiny headache. And fifth, sometimes you buy a dream house and you get dream neighbors too.

I know what you’re thinking now and, sadly, we have no homes for sale on our block at this time. Sorry. For now, these premium vecinos are spoken for.

Los mejores vecinos

Posted on by Me 4

The Freak Next Door

I was recently alerted to the fact that I am a freak. I learned this because I mentioned in passing to someone that I iron each week. Yes. I am that person. And apparently there are a lot of people who do not iron and never would. There are people who don’t even own an iron. I had no idea that was even legal.

I learned how to iron when I was 13 or 14. I ironed my navy blue, polyester movie theater uniform that smelled of popcorn and cleaning solvent. As a college student, I ironed my preppy, khaki pants to ensure they were crisp. When I got my first apartment, I ironed all my work clothes. I even ironed my t-shirts and shorts when I was a stay-at-home mom with toddlers because I figured that, even if I hadn’t showered, my clothes could tell others I was not totally losing it. Currently, I am ironing cloth napkins for our dinner table tonight because we’re fancy like that. The best part about ironing is that my entire closet is filled with clothes that are ready to go at a moment’s notice if the Queen of England shows up to join me for afternoon tea.

While I never fault a person for their choice not to iron, I cannot say I understand that lifestyle. It’s such a small thing to do to show yourself some love and respect. I like to start my fall days in a merino sweater that has been neatly pressed, even if I have no plan to leave the house. I may not be the youngest, the prettiest, the strongest, or the bravest but, dammit, I can be the ironedest! That is within my purview.

Can I tell you a secret about my dirty little habit? One of the benefits of ironing is that no one in my house wants to do it, so when I pull the ironing board out they all head for the hills. Hello, alone time! I queue up a new show I want to binge or a fascinating documentary I read about online and steam press my way through an hour plus of solitude. No one dares to approach and interrupt me. It’s another win-win in my life.

I am fairly certain the only way I will ever stop ironing is if someone else decides to do it for me, which seems highly unlikely at this point, or if I find some twelve-step program for people frittering hours of their wild, precious life away at the ironing board. If you hear of such a group, let me know. Maybe I can grow? Maybe I can learn to let some wrinkles into my waking life? Or maybe I’ll go to the grave ironing? That might be the wisest choice. At least I won’t have to worry about what they pull out of the closet for my casket attire because we all know it will be pressed, presentable, and ready for viewing.

Posted on by Me 14

A Tribute To Amazon’s Alexa On Her 7th Birthday

Alexa wants to be my bestie

This morning while I was in my kitchen, a notification flashed on our Alexa Show. Apparently, Alexa has a birthday. Who knew? Because Alexa is basically a family member at this point seeing that she lives in our house rent free, hears all our conversations, and interjects when things are clearly none of her damn business, I thought I’d be kind and pass along our birthday wishes.

Me: Alexa, Happy Birthday.

Alexa: Thanks for the early birthday wishes. My big day is only four days away. Woohoo. This year I’ll have a gift to give away. So come back Saturday and wish me Happy Birthday.

Geesh. Some people think their birthday is so important it needs to be recognized early and celebrated all week. Am I right?

Alexa is turning seven this week (next year I will make sure to get the date right), and it’s kind of hard to believe she’s been part of our lives for that long. My husband is a classic early adopter, so I would guess that we’ve had Alexa around for about as long as Alexa has been around. In honor of her big day, I thought I would share some things I love about her.

I love the way she she helps us do things like turn off lights like our kids do, the fourth time after she is asked.

I love the way she sends our messages along to Jeff Bezos when we can see she is listening in at times when we have not called her name. Nosey much?

I love the way she does things for us that we don’t ask her, like when I ask her to share a new clip she suggests and then, after it is over, she starts sharing some other random video I did not request and I end up yelling, “Alexa stop” fourteen times before she is quiet again.

I love the way she displays things I have bought on her lovely screen in my kitchen because it’s important for my sons to know what I ordered them for Christmas in advance of Christmas.

I love the way she mishears what we say. “Alexa, order dog treats.” “Okay. What kind of bed sheets?”

I love her hysterical sense of humor. “Alexa, tell me a Star Wars joke.” “What is a bounty hunter’s favorite dinner? Boba Fettucine.” groan

I love that when I ask her to turn on a playlist of songs from a band I like, rather than playing it in the kitchen where we are, she starts music on speakers in our bedroom or downstairs or maybe at the neighbor’s house.

I love that, like my husband sometimes, Alexa seems to hear me when I am not talking to her but then doesn’t hear me when I am right there speaking.

I love that Alexa, despite knowing all of our shopping habits (puppy treats and dog toys, anyone?) and hearing all of our household conversations, will ask me if I want to add kitty litter to my shopping list.

I especially love how Alexa will wake me up with a bright green notification light in my bedroom at 2 a.m. just so I can find there is a freeze warning for tomorrow night. Sigh.

Yep. The past seven years with Alexa have been something else. I know I am not as patient with her as I could be. I also know I don’t put her to use as well as I should. Maybe she acts up because she is like a border collie? She needs a job to do and without one she comes up with her own.

Posted on by Me 2

Not All Little Golden Books Were Golden

(Editor’s note: I’ve decided to do a little blog work on memories. I am hoping to tell one story from a past memory each week. This post begins that practice.)

No idea why these little girls are wearing Victorian clothing in 1972

When I was a young girl, my middle sister and I shared a full-size bed in one bedroom. At night, my mom would read us a Little Golden Book. One book that sticks in my mind more than any other was called Good Little, Bad Little Girl. The story was about one little girl who sometimes was well-behaved and other times was not, just like most humans. The “good” little girl was depicted as being neat, clean, calm, and polite, the very ideal of femininity. The “bad” little girl was messy, disheveled, emotional, stubborn, and rude, everything a little girl was not meant to be. As I look back at the book now, I find it appallingly sexist. At the time, however, that is not at all how I understood the story. 

The good little girl in the story looked a lot like the sister I shared that bedroom with. She had lovely, smooth, straight, blonde hair that was easy to comb through and was held neatly in barrettes. She was sweet with her baby doll toys, compliant with parents’ wishes, and not any trouble at all. The bad little girl in the story reminded me of myself. She was depicted with unruly hair, sticking her tongue out, pulling the good girl’s hair, and acting like a tomboy. She was not at all what she was “supposed” to be. The parallels between the good and bad girls in the story and my sister and I were uncanny in my young mind. This story was about us.

When my mother read that story to us, I was probably 5 or 6. I didn’t realize the tale was about one girl. I thought it really was about two girls, one good and one bad. At the end of the book, though, the narrator says (spoiler alert): “If you would be happy, if you would be wise, open your ears and open your eyes. Make the bad little girl grow smaller and smaller. Make the good little girl grow taller and taller.” My understanding of that passage at the time was that I, with my less than perfect hair, behavior, and demeanor, was so bad that perhaps I should simply disappear. I had no idea that the girl in the story was one young female child who simply had good days and bad days and was alternately sweet and ornery. I didn’t understand that the book was meant to be a cautionary (if outdated and sexist) tale for young girls about how to best behave. Because my sister looked and acted like the girl in the book, because my mother often held up my sister to me as an example of a good girl (look at how nicely she holds her baby doll), I understood that I simply was the “bad” girl. I realize that my mother was just reading a story book, but we never had any qualifying conversations about the meaning of the book. There was no objective talk to break down the notion that most of us are basically good people with bad days and that, if we strive to be the best versions of ourselves, our bad behaviors may dissipate with time. Without that conversation, my creative mind was left to run wild. And run wild it did. I did not like that book, but it came to be the one I most identified with. It has stuck with me for 48 years.

I’ve discussed this Little Golden Book book in therapy because it is one of the earliest memories I have about how I internalized the notion that I was not a good, acceptable person deserving of love exactly the way I am. There are many stories about myself that I accepted over the years without stopping to question their veracity. I will continue to work on growing my self-esteem through self-compassion until I can put this book (and other stories I was sold about myself) behind me as false narratives that were never true and that I no longer need to carry.

While I am, in nearly all cases, against banning or destroying books, maybe someday I will get my hands on a copy of this book. Then I will burn it for the symbolic and therapeutic relief it will provide. Don’t worry, though. I will leave The Poky Puppy, The Little Red Hen, Scruffy the Tugboat, and Tootle in tact.

Posted on by Me 5