My life, in other words

“Chaos reached out and grabbed me.” – Diana Gabaldon, Outlander

“A better book than I shall ever write was there; leaf after leaf presenting itself to me, just as it was written out by the reality of the flitting hour, and vanishing as fast as written, only because my brain wanted the insight, and my hand the cunning, to transcribe it.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne, Introductory to The Scarlet Letter

“You have control of the board, with less than a minute to go.” – Alex Trebek, “Jeopardy!”

“Children are the proof we’ve been here … they’re where we go when we die.  They’re the best thing and the most impossible thing, but there’s nothing else…” – Allison Pearson, I Don’t Know How She Does It

“ My brain is full. It has reached capacity. It’s Shea Stadium when the Beatles played. It’s cramped and girls are screaming and I think George is fighting with Ringo. ” – Lorelai Gilmore, “Gilmore Girls”

“[She was] slowly finding herself amid the new conditions of her life…” – Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne’s House of Dreams

The Book of Life

We’re doing something short and sweet for this week’s RemembeRED post. Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline. That’s it. Give us the title, and give us the tagline.

Advanced Placement Parenting, by Julie C.

How It Turned Out That Honors Algebra Class Was Totally Worth It After All

HELP! DOMESTIC GODDESS CRISIS!

For Christmas, I asked for and received these lovely new towels.  (You: “oooh. aaah.”)

Except for the green stripe, they represent a complete change of color scheme for my bathroom.  That’s why I liked them – new bathroom without having to paint!  (You: “Julie, you’re BRILLIANT.”)

Enter the crisis.  If I fold the towels The Right Way (tri-fold, then fold in half), the green stripe cannot be seen:

I know it would be better to take photos in the bathroom, but then I would either have to clean it before posting this entry, or show you how it really looks, and neither of those is a viable option.

I could solve this by folding the towels in half twice, but the reason this has never been the Right Way is because the visible hems are not symmetrical:

(You: “I cannot believe how long you, and now I, have thought about this ridiculousness.”)

We’re almost there.  Bear with me.  So I have been hanging the towels simply folded in half over the towel rack, like so:

Please help me.  Which is the worse sin against the Right Way: improperly folded towels, or an improperly incorporated bathroom color map?

Santa, not so anonymous

So, Riya doesn’t believe in Santa any more.  She’s 7.

Because I am so good at The Guilt, I have already spent a lot of time demonstrating to myself how this is my fault.  I was a very credulous kid; I clung to Santa long after my classmates had abandoned him, and I honestly don’t remember now when it was that I knew I was just pretending to believe instead of actually believing.  Much older than 7, for sure.

I expected my kids to be the same.  I didn’t think I would have to work that hard to make it come alive for them.  Some cookies on the table, gone in the morning.  Presents under the tree.  Done and done.

It wasn’t enough for Riya.  Of course, it would have helped if I hadn’t slipped up so many times.  I don’t know how many times, at inopportune moments, I said “I” or “we” instead of “Santa.”  That, if you’re keeping track, is the part where it’s my fault.

But then again, Ben and Karina don’t seem to notice my mistakes.  The cookies work for them.  When I went the extra mile this year and arranged for them all to get emailed videos from Santa, they were glued to the computer screen.  Riya winked.  When I went the extra-extra mile and stomped through my living room in flour-coated boots to leave Santa prints, the twins saw them and immediately concluded that North Pole snow was the only explanation.  Riya wondered why it hadn’t melted and got down on her hands and knees CSI-style to examine the trace evidence.

Clearly, if I was ever going to make this work for her, I had to start with a different premise.  Rather than simply preventing her from finding out, I would have had to work to prove to her that Santa is “real.”

So, instead of beating myself up about it, I am going to be grateful that a friend posted a link to this lovely story about another girl who discovered the truth.  I’m going to borrow her idea and write a letter to Riya about why Santa is important, even if there isn’t literally a guy at the North Pole with reindeer and elves.  I’m going to be glad that she is compassionate enough to want to be a co-conspirator in creating Christmas magic for her younger brother and sister, and to thank her dad and me privately “because I know it’s from you guys.”

And if I cry a little bit, I won’t let her see, because she is just so very proud of how grown up she is, and I don’t want her to doubt that I am, too.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who…

… has to triage her to-do list.  (Like so: “The kitchen is filthy.  But if I take the time to clean it thoroughly, that will be all I have time to do today.  If I half-ass it, I can probably half-ass a bunch of other rooms, too, and then I can maybe stand to live here for another week.”)

… discovers things, as she goes about the reduced to-do list, that make her say, “What the HELL happened?”  (Examples: socks in the bookcase, dirty handkerchiefs in the treat bag they brought home from a friend’s birthday party.)

… complains to the imaginary task-master in her head.  ”Come ON.  I am working so hard.  Give me a damn break already.  SERIOUSLY.  LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Mistake

The prompt: Write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – based on your reaction to a photo.  Here’s the photo I chose (courtesy of Pinterest):

She hadn’t expected to be lonely in New Orleans, of all places.  Or cold.  Or wet.  Or sober.

She pulled a tissue from her purse and tried to wipe the rainwater off the seat of one of the wrought-iron benches in the square.  The only result was that her one Kleenex was now soaked through, but her jeans were already damp anyway.  She sat down, applying the wet tissue to the mascara rings under her eyes.  Maybe it would help.

It was peaceful here, and pretty, despite the weather.  The cathedral’s outlines were blurred and unsubstantial through the fog, but its presence seemed reassuringly solid.  Street lamps throughout the square were lit, the gathering daylight as yet insufficient on its own.  Their reflections glowed on the wet pavement.  Surrounded by light, she thought, then sneered at her own romanticism.

Baby’s first walk of shame.  A drunken one-night stand in a strange city.  While she was dealing in clichés, maybe she ought to check if the cathedral doors were open; she could confess, except that she wasn’t Catholic.

Of course, it wasn’t the priest who’d be waiting to hear her confession.  She was going to have to walk – oh, God! – in these heels, all the way back to the hotel.  A cab would be better, but besides the now-shredded Kleenex, the contents of her purse consisted of her license, a maxed-out credit card, two pennies, and a Chapstick.  Where the hell the rest of her stuff had gone was a mystery she’d probably never solve.

So, yeah.  Instead of teetering across slippery but picturesque slate just so she could admit the embarrassing truth to her friends, face their scorn, and beg them to loan her a little cash to get her through until the flight home, maybe she would just sit here, shivering and crying.

The spires of the church were starting to come into clearer view.  Soon, she supposed, people would start to fill up the square.  She wrapped her arms around herself, hiding in the fog.  A little while longer.

Screenplay

This week’s prompt: Congratulations! Your best selling memoir has just been optioned by a major motion picture studio, and the producers want you advising on the script.  Write the opening scene for the movie.

A ROOM IN A NURSING HOME – MID-AFTERNOON

At first glance, the room looks sterile – bare floor, with a hospital bed in the middle, a lone chest of drawers against the wall, blinds but no curtains at the windows.  A closer look reveals personal touches – a bulletin board full of family photos and children’s drawings, a handmade afghan at the foot of the bed, a bookcase full of dog-eared novels and DVDs.

JULIE is on the bed, raised almost to a sitting position.  KARINA and BEN have pulled chairs close to the sides of the bed, while RIYA is perched at their mother’s feet.

Personal Ad

The assignment: Write a personal ad for your character, like one you would find on a dating site… We’re not looking for the ad to be part of a piece – we want it to be THE piece.  And we’d like you to do it in 300 words or less.

I am not just any other girl, and I deserve not just any other guy.

I am attractive: my last boyfriend said I had the BEST pheromones.  Come on over and smell me!

I have a great sense of humor.  For example, I own this t-shirt from Starbucks.  Funny, right!?

I am trendy, but I appreciate the classics.  I know all the words to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song.  It’s a rap!

I love to go out, but I am also a great cook.  I throw great dinner parties.  Have you tried Paula Deen’s Krispy Kreme burgers?

Love me, love my ferret.

My number one qualification for a potential mate is sophistication.  Also, you should be tall.

FWIW

Once upon a time, a woman wrote in to the Motherlode column at the New York Times to ask for stories from parents who had regrets about having children.  (And, in case you are interested, the blog did publish a controversial response from a dad with regrets.)

I don’t know why this continues to bother me, internet eons after everyone else has moved on, but it does.  I have wanted to respond since I first read “Steph’s” question, and lacking any other material, I’m finally doing it today!  Here is what I wish I could say to her:

Honey. You are going to make yourself crazy.  Possibly you already have.  Calm down.

It’s kind of adorable, actually, how you think you can answer this question by exploring it from all the angles – that you think just a leedle more research is going to help you make the right choice.

It’s not.

Oh, sure, there is something to be said for choosing parenthood rather than having it thrust upon you.  But as I’m sure you know, parents whose children are “accidents” are frequently wonderful moms and dads who love the job, and parents who planned their families meticulously are sometimes miserable – sometimes because their plans didn’t work out, and sometimes precisely because they did.

In my opinion, dearheart, the reason why nobody can give you the information you’re looking for is because the moment we became parents (for some of us, maybe even the moment we started trying), we came to know exactly how much we do not know, and exactly how little we can control.

Some examples:

1. I did not expect, when I first decided to have children, that I would one day debate Bamm-Bamm Rubble‘s superhuman strength over dinner.  Or that the story of that time I fell off my bike would be so frequently requested.  Or that anyone after my 8th grade social studies teacher would care so much whether or not I remember all 50 state capitals.  Life with kids is weird and unexpected.  Truth.
2. Decisions are never final.  What works this week (in discipline, in work scheduling, in getting the kids to eat, in finding time for yourself and your partner, ad infinitum) will not work next week.  Unless it does!  Ha!
3. File under Cannot Control: Two pregnancies, three babies.  And that’s the good math.  Plenty of people would kill for those stats.
4. I am guessing, based on your letter, that this is going to be a tough one for you: You are going to screw up.  You are going to screw up so, so huge.  You are going to break rules and promises and you are going to lie awake at night worrying and wondering about how to fix it or if it’s too late to fix it or whether trying to fix it might just make it worse and much of the time you will just have to guess and you won’t find out if you were right or not until years or maybe decades later.
5. Nobody else parents just like you.  I thought, before becoming a parent myself, that there were universal Rules.  There really aren’t, for most things.  You’re not your mom, or your best friend, and their kids are not your kids.
6. As an experiment, you may want to try smearing yourself with sour milk and applesauce.  Be generous.  You will get covered in plenty of even more disgusting things, but wear those around for a day or two just to kind of ease yourself into it.

So, no.  No, I cannot tell you if you should be a mother.  Everything, in fact, that I have just told you is just as worthless to you as all the other research you have already done.  Your problem is not that there’s insufficient data: there are parenting books, and blogs, and communities, and classes galore, and absolutely none of it can tell you what you should do.

Here is all I feel I can safely about becoming a mom: I am, and I love it, and even though there are plenty of moments in which I think, “Can’t somebody else take care of it for once?” or “Honestly? You ripped up somebody else’s art project on purpose, and you expect me to take your side?” or “This is too hard,” there has honestly, truly, really never ever ever been a moment in which I’ve thought, “I wish I had never done this.”

For what it’s worth.

What I am doing about it

“Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)”

By Alan Jackson

Where were you when the world stopped turning on that September day?
Were you in the yard with your wife and children
Or working on some stage in L.A.?
Did you stand there in shock at the sight of that black smoke
Risin’ against that blue sky?
Did you shout out in anger, in fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry?

Did you weep for the children who lost their dear loved ones
And pray for the ones who don’t know?
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble
And sob for the ones left below?
Did you burst out in pride for the red, white and blue
And the heroes who died just doin’ what they do?
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer
And look at yourself and what really matters?

[Chorus:]
I’m just a singer of simple songs
I’m not a real political man
I watch CNN but I’m not sure I can tell
you the difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us
And the greatest is love

Where were you when the world stopped turning on that September day?
Were you teaching a class full of innocent children
Or driving down some cold interstate?
Did you feel guilty ’cause you’re a survivor
In a crowded room did you feel alone?
Did you call up your mother and tell her you loved her?
Did you dust off that Bible at home?

Did you open your eyes, hope it never happened
Close your eyes and not go to sleep?
Did you notice the sunset the first time in ages
Or speak to some stranger on the street?
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow
Or go out and buy you a gun?
Did you turn off that violent old movie you’re watchin’
And turn on “I Love Lucy” reruns?

Did you go to a church and hold hands with some strangers
Did you stand in line and give your own blood?
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love?

[Repeat Chorus 2x]
And the greatest is love.
And the greatest is love.

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?

It’s a beautiful song, and even though it (and every other reminder of The Anniversary that I have been unable to avoid) makes me cry, it’s worth it.  I can take a moment, every now and then, to be sad and to send up a prayer in honor of the people who suffered then and are suffering now because of the brokenness of our world.

One thing’s for sure, though, and I can see it more clearly now that it’s been 10 years: The world did not stop turning that day.

As I said last year, there are birthday parties to plan, school years to settle into, family to enjoy, new fall activities to start, projects and holidays to anticipate.

If anything, my world is spinning faster than ever.  And that is why, after each moment I spend being overwhelmed by sadness, I am determined to spend an equal or greater amount of time being overwhelmed by joy.

Some (I wish it could be all!) of the people we love best will come to our house tomorrow to celebrate Ben and Karina’s fifth birthday.  We will eat cheesy noodles and cake.  I will say, repeatedly, that I CANNOT believe that they are FIVE, like seriously, what HAPPENED?  The weather will be beautiful, and we will sit outside and admire the fence that Robin, my dad, and my brother just fixed.  Someone will point out that we should enjoy the glorious warmth and sunlight now, since the Minnesota winter will be here before we know it.

And I will carry that with me the next day as a talisman.