Remember just a few short days ago (also known as: "last Thursday") when I posted about the first delayed opening of the current school year--la la la, what fun, and all that nonsense? Well. Perhaps I offended the prickly Ice Pixies with my sarcasm and lack of appreciation for their chilly..."gifts". The very next day, in the presence of bone-dry roads and cloudy-but-non-precipitating skies, schools closed 2-1/2 hours early...in anticipation of snow. And yes, after the kiddos were safely home, chuckling heartily about their good fortune, it did...flurry. Total accumulation: oh, less than an inch. This time the boys didn't even harbor any foolish notions of actually attempting to play in the thin coating of ice crystals. No, instead they scoffed at the paltry offering, and enjoyed their unexpected afternoon of leisure in the heated comfort of their house, where they could partake of the myriad delights available to them--you know, such luxuries as hot chocolate, pretzels, books, and video games. (Because nothing truly says "Winter" like carb-loading and huddling under a blanket on the couch, right?)
Then the weekend progressed uneventfully, with no weather impact whatsoever. However, just in time for a well-rested return to academic life...the forecast promised freezing rain. You can guess the punchline--a light sheen of slickness on the roads early in the morning means what? Two-hour delay. And as it turns out, being trapped inside together in a confined space for this amount of time provides just enough opportunity for the siblings to harass, annoy, and physically pick at each other until they're One. More. Warning. away from being banished to their respective rooms...for life. (Oh, don't underestimate the all-powerful Mom Threat. I'm not bluffing, I'll do it, I swear!) Today's prize-winning argument revolved around whether Honolulu is located in Hawaii...or Mexico...and culminated in Riley stomping out of Derek's room, sobbing about being punched in the eye. Derek's explanation of the incident? A shrug, a bemused half-smile, and the brief statement: "I tapped him on the head!" Sigh. (By the way, I'm not making this up. This is but one example of the STUPID things they manage to fight about. How am I supposed to rationally deal with that kind of boy...pigheadedness? Answer? I order them--loudly--to Knock. It Off. And, of course, issue ridiculous ultimatums. But at least it gets them separated and shuts them up...for five seconds...)
Back to the bigger meteorological picture--I do have to admit I'm beginning to feel a bit worried. Maybe I'm just suffering from a case of Winter Paranoia (it's a real condition, you can look it up...or I made it up, whatever...) but it feels as though the Frost Gods are toying with us. Like they hear all of our taunting about the weather-that-wasn't, and they're preparing a doozy of a storm to blast our region any time now, thereby demonstrating in no uncertain terms who's really in charge of this frigid season. Or...I'm completely delusional (truly a possibility--hey, you don't have to agree with me!) and next Saturday the groundhog will pop up and deliver the promise of an early Spring. I think we all know that I, personally, will be vigorously cheering on the little rodent. And grabbing an extra fleece throw...and making some more cocoa...and living it up in the conflict-free zone until my sons arrive home for the next Brother Battle...
Monday, January 28, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
The Snowy Day...ish...
I'm looking out over my backyard, which is currently adorned with a light dusting of fluffy white powder. Just enough to obscure the brown blades of dormant grass, probably not a sufficient amount to allow a sled to glide over it...much less build a snowman. Altogether this constitutes an extremely minor Weather Event, hardly worth mentioning...so why pay homage to the first Barely-Snowfall of 2013? Because the kids' schools delayed their start time 2 hours today. Because that was the first time they've missed any class time for Winter precipitation in the past two years around here. (Cancellation due to hurricane conditions: check. For frozen stuff: nope!) Needless to say, the boys were excited...and a bit wistful at the paltry amount bestowed upon us by the ungenerous Snow Gods.
However, we've developed a heaping dose of healthy...let's call it Meteorological Skepticism...in recent years. You see, the local Weather People tend to work themselves into quite a tizzy about the possibility--no matter how slight--of the so-called Wintry Mix we tend to receive around these parts (a dee-lightful concoction of sleet, snow, and freezing rain that is often more treacherous than fun). They intone in their deepest, gravest voices about the impending arrival of a potential storm, while waving their arms dramatically at the map and throwing around terms like "Canadian air mass" (always bad...with no disrespect to our friendly neighbors to the north...eh), "areas of low pressure" (mostly bad), and "jet stream behavior" (relatively neutral, but they excel at making it sound like something out of a sub-arctic horror movie).
And we used to take the forecast seriously, we really did. But then got wise. We began listening more closely to the actual nuts and bolts of the report, underneath the flashy showmanship, and this is what became apparent: the prevailing weather patterns have just as much chance of scurrying right around us, as they do of sweeping directly over us and dumping their cloudfuls of Winter treasure. This translates into the fact that in the immediate D.C. area, we often hear of significant snowfall in Virginia, or Western Maryland, or Pennsylvania, while we peer out the window and see...a whole lotta nuthin'. The forecasters have even conceded to this point, and begun referring to it obliquely in their broadcasts as the Rain/Snow Line (but I like to envision it as some kind of Super-Stealthy Invisible Frost Beast, myself...stomping toward our state, deciding which path to take and where to unleash his formidable icy powers...or something like that...)
Anyway...maybe it's an inevitable by-product of life in the Washington-Metro Region. Everything is reported in a big, bold way: Politics! Scandal! Global Unrest! Atmospheric Disturbance! (Because it's also a town that seems to looove its jargon, so the term "weather" is just so...dull...by comparison.) So the kids, with their youthful idealism and enthusiasm, used to go through all the rituals--Snow Dance, wearing their pjs inside out, placing spoons under their pillows (how these are supposed to conjure the white stuff, I have no idea). But after one too many mornings of dragging themselves out of bed and facing disappointment at the hands of the fickle...Flake Fairies...even they've become jaded. Oh, they still wish for a Winter Wonderland, but their expectations have lowered to almost zero. Which helps to explain their disproportionate joy this morning upon seeing even a sprinkling of shiny crystals on the ground. Well, it was enough for a little bit of a sleep-in, and a compressed day of academia, so I suppose they're feeling adequately rewarded. Perhaps when they get home they'll even attempt to construct a few snowballs and chuck them at...each other, most likely.
And as for your truly? Anyone who's ever met me--in the real world or even virtually--has had the opportunity to endure me complaining in excruciatingly vivid detail about how much I loathe the whole Winter Experience. (On second thought, that makes it sound like a type of enjoyable game show prize--you know, "your getaway package includes a Fabulous Frosty Fun Escape!" But it's really, really NOT. Just frigid...without the ski-lodge ambiance...) Okay, so to sum up my humble opinion: we've done the whole "snow thing", nooooow can we please have Spring?
However, we've developed a heaping dose of healthy...let's call it Meteorological Skepticism...in recent years. You see, the local Weather People tend to work themselves into quite a tizzy about the possibility--no matter how slight--of the so-called Wintry Mix we tend to receive around these parts (a dee-lightful concoction of sleet, snow, and freezing rain that is often more treacherous than fun). They intone in their deepest, gravest voices about the impending arrival of a potential storm, while waving their arms dramatically at the map and throwing around terms like "Canadian air mass" (always bad...with no disrespect to our friendly neighbors to the north...eh), "areas of low pressure" (mostly bad), and "jet stream behavior" (relatively neutral, but they excel at making it sound like something out of a sub-arctic horror movie).
And we used to take the forecast seriously, we really did. But then got wise. We began listening more closely to the actual nuts and bolts of the report, underneath the flashy showmanship, and this is what became apparent: the prevailing weather patterns have just as much chance of scurrying right around us, as they do of sweeping directly over us and dumping their cloudfuls of Winter treasure. This translates into the fact that in the immediate D.C. area, we often hear of significant snowfall in Virginia, or Western Maryland, or Pennsylvania, while we peer out the window and see...a whole lotta nuthin'. The forecasters have even conceded to this point, and begun referring to it obliquely in their broadcasts as the Rain/Snow Line (but I like to envision it as some kind of Super-Stealthy Invisible Frost Beast, myself...stomping toward our state, deciding which path to take and where to unleash his formidable icy powers...or something like that...)
Anyway...maybe it's an inevitable by-product of life in the Washington-Metro Region. Everything is reported in a big, bold way: Politics! Scandal! Global Unrest! Atmospheric Disturbance! (Because it's also a town that seems to looove its jargon, so the term "weather" is just so...dull...by comparison.) So the kids, with their youthful idealism and enthusiasm, used to go through all the rituals--Snow Dance, wearing their pjs inside out, placing spoons under their pillows (how these are supposed to conjure the white stuff, I have no idea). But after one too many mornings of dragging themselves out of bed and facing disappointment at the hands of the fickle...Flake Fairies...even they've become jaded. Oh, they still wish for a Winter Wonderland, but their expectations have lowered to almost zero. Which helps to explain their disproportionate joy this morning upon seeing even a sprinkling of shiny crystals on the ground. Well, it was enough for a little bit of a sleep-in, and a compressed day of academia, so I suppose they're feeling adequately rewarded. Perhaps when they get home they'll even attempt to construct a few snowballs and chuck them at...each other, most likely.
And as for your truly? Anyone who's ever met me--in the real world or even virtually--has had the opportunity to endure me complaining in excruciatingly vivid detail about how much I loathe the whole Winter Experience. (On second thought, that makes it sound like a type of enjoyable game show prize--you know, "your getaway package includes a Fabulous Frosty Fun Escape!" But it's really, really NOT. Just frigid...without the ski-lodge ambiance...) Okay, so to sum up my humble opinion: we've done the whole "snow thing", nooooow can we please have Spring?
Monday, January 21, 2013
Recalibration Weekend
It has slowly seeped into my consciousness over the past few weeks that lately my demeanor has taken a definite turn for the...crabby. I've found myself snapping at my poor family, grousing about petty little stuff, and generally experiencing a growing sense of discontent. I partially blame this on the villain that goes by the innocuous name of "January"--cold, dark, unforgiving scoundrel that he is. But then with a stunning jolt of clarity, I realized what truly lay at the root of my problem: I. HATE. LAUNDRY. Now, I used to take this daily chore in stride; one load each morning or evening kept us ahead of the curve, easy peasy. But now the boys are wearing bigger clothes, naturally, and we all need layers to stay warm in the Winter, so the hamper, shall we say, overfloweth. Suddenly I'm bogged down in trying to keep up with the dirty apparel, and somehow, there's always more. And while I was stomping down to the washer for yet another cycle, muttering under my breath about the futility of it all, or the unfairness, or the endlessness--pick a negative aspect, and I probably touched on it--I had a second realization: it's not really all about the laundry. (I know, I know: DUH...) It's actually the whole Spectrum of Tedium (just made that up, can you tell?) that relates to the full-time, unpaid position of Household Manager. You know what I'm talking about...shopping, feeding people, checking homework, cleaning and straightening up...the million small-but-necessary tasks that suck up hours and energy each day. All of which must be accomplished in spite of a thousand distractions...and the requirement of actually interacting in a meaningful way with my beloved family as well. Sheesh, no wonder I'm worn down and fed up! I love them dearly, but these people are absolutely exhausting!
And then, just in the nick of time, Husband whisked himself and the sons away for a boys' weekend in his hometown of Pittsburgh. A testoste-road-trip, if you will. After a whirlwind of packing, the male cyclone blew out of the house in a final frenzied rush, leaving behind...a vacuum of silence so profound it almost popped my eardrums. No bickering. No clamoring for snacks. No requesting me to zip over to the store to pick up something we've run out of and desperately crave. No. Laundry. Wow. I took a few precious moments to savor the...nothingness...then heaved a sigh and got to work. Whaaaat??? Yes, the first day of Mom Freedom is always dedicated to catching up on all the silly little things that have been pushed aside by higher-priority demands. But you know what? Without time constraints to amp up stress, without interruptions to derail my progress, without the burden of a long list of other obligations pressing on my shoulders...the work seemed remarkably easier. I wouldn't go so far as "enjoyable", but at least I felt more like, say....Mary Poppins than...Cinderella. And then, wouldn't you know it, I took a breather, sat down to read, or watch TV, or some equally decadent pursuit...and was suddenly, overwhelmingly swamped with guilt. I swear I almost panicked--I should be accomplishing something at this moment, right? I'm surely wasting valuable time! What am I supposed to be DOING with my LIFE? (Yes, apparently I'm one of "those women" who succumb to feelings of worthlessness and shame if they're not actively striving to provide assistance and support to their family 24/7. Yikes. Memo to me: I reaaaallly need to work on this in the next 5 years before Derek goes to college, lest I self-destruct...)
Oh-kaaayyy--after mentally slapping myself and pulling it together, I fortunately remembered one of the invaluable perks of these rare solo weekends: JFT (Johna Fun Time). For example, on a glitteringly sunny, unseasonably warm (yesssss!) January day, that means jumping in the Subaru with my camera and taking a photo-field-trip. After some consideration, I chose a location in Baltimore called Druid Hill Park. (I learned while attending college in the city many years ago, this may be pronounced Droodle Park by "natives"...which I L-O-V-E...) A reservoir to circumnavigate, joggers and amblers and dog-walkers to watch, (each and every one of whom, no matter what their pace or how hard they were panting with exertion, nodded and called out "good morning". I had forgotten how friendly Bal-mer can be...which I also L-O-V-E...) statues and interesting buildings to snap...self-prescribed Decompression Therapy doesn't get much more pleasant than that, if you ask me! I don't know if it was the gentle touch of sunshine, the almost-balmy breeze, the light exercise, the abundant fresh air--or "all of the above"--but I could sense my breathing slowing down and my mood lifting during the course of my excursion. Whatever the reason, when the boys return tonight, they should find a refreshed, more-balanced, less-lunatic wife and mother to greet them...and all the laundry they bring back!
And then, just in the nick of time, Husband whisked himself and the sons away for a boys' weekend in his hometown of Pittsburgh. A testoste-road-trip, if you will. After a whirlwind of packing, the male cyclone blew out of the house in a final frenzied rush, leaving behind...a vacuum of silence so profound it almost popped my eardrums. No bickering. No clamoring for snacks. No requesting me to zip over to the store to pick up something we've run out of and desperately crave. No. Laundry. Wow. I took a few precious moments to savor the...nothingness...then heaved a sigh and got to work. Whaaaat??? Yes, the first day of Mom Freedom is always dedicated to catching up on all the silly little things that have been pushed aside by higher-priority demands. But you know what? Without time constraints to amp up stress, without interruptions to derail my progress, without the burden of a long list of other obligations pressing on my shoulders...the work seemed remarkably easier. I wouldn't go so far as "enjoyable", but at least I felt more like, say....Mary Poppins than...Cinderella. And then, wouldn't you know it, I took a breather, sat down to read, or watch TV, or some equally decadent pursuit...and was suddenly, overwhelmingly swamped with guilt. I swear I almost panicked--I should be accomplishing something at this moment, right? I'm surely wasting valuable time! What am I supposed to be DOING with my LIFE? (Yes, apparently I'm one of "those women" who succumb to feelings of worthlessness and shame if they're not actively striving to provide assistance and support to their family 24/7. Yikes. Memo to me: I reaaaallly need to work on this in the next 5 years before Derek goes to college, lest I self-destruct...)
Oh-kaaayyy--after mentally slapping myself and pulling it together, I fortunately remembered one of the invaluable perks of these rare solo weekends: JFT (Johna Fun Time). For example, on a glitteringly sunny, unseasonably warm (yesssss!) January day, that means jumping in the Subaru with my camera and taking a photo-field-trip. After some consideration, I chose a location in Baltimore called Druid Hill Park. (I learned while attending college in the city many years ago, this may be pronounced Droodle Park by "natives"...which I L-O-V-E...) A reservoir to circumnavigate, joggers and amblers and dog-walkers to watch, (each and every one of whom, no matter what their pace or how hard they were panting with exertion, nodded and called out "good morning". I had forgotten how friendly Bal-mer can be...which I also L-O-V-E...) statues and interesting buildings to snap...self-prescribed Decompression Therapy doesn't get much more pleasant than that, if you ask me! I don't know if it was the gentle touch of sunshine, the almost-balmy breeze, the light exercise, the abundant fresh air--or "all of the above"--but I could sense my breathing slowing down and my mood lifting during the course of my excursion. Whatever the reason, when the boys return tonight, they should find a refreshed, more-balanced, less-lunatic wife and mother to greet them...and all the laundry they bring back!
Thursday, January 17, 2013
"A children's story...
that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest."
C.S. Lewis
In our house we keep a complete paperback set of the Harry Potter series. It currently resides in a tidy row on Derek's bookshelf, although it belongs to all of us collectively. I first heard of the J.K. Rowling phenomenon after the second novel was published, if I remember correctly. Not quite sure what all the hype was about, and partially skeptical about whether I would even find the storyline enjoyable (kids? magic school? what's that all about?), I picked up The Sorcerer's Stone. Well. Suffice it to say I was an instant devotee of Harry, his pals, and the whole Hogwarts realm. After devouring the first two stories in quick gulps, I had to settle in and wait for successive offerings, each time snapping them up and plowing through them just as quickly as I had for every previous installment. When it came time for the long-awaited, breathlessly-anticipated finale, I even pre-ordered it so the weighty tome landed with a resounding thud on my doorstep on the very day it was released. (Yeah, I said I was a fan, didn't I?)
When Derek was too young yet to conquer it himself, I read the entire series to him out loud, one chapter (or two, depending on how suspenseful the adventure was at that particular moment) at a time after dinner. Then Husband repeated the pleasant task for Riley, when he got old enough to join Harry's world (and though he was past the Bedtime Story stage, big brother surreptitiously would wander into the room and listen--raptly, I might add--as well). Meanwhile, Husband, Derek and I continue to revisit the tales from time to time, either starting from the beginning--as I did for several Summers in a row when Harry and his pals accompanied me to the pool--or just picking up a favorite to thumb through, in between school assignments or treks to the public library for new material. (And whenever one of us rereads a favorite, it still sparks Book-Club-like chatter...about the characters, the events, the whole "good vs. evil" conflict. So much to discuss!) The volumes have also traveled with us on occasion: long car rides, family vacations, airplane flights to visit grandparents. So the spines are somewhat cracked, the covers are a bit creased and tattered, and the pages are folded and worn in spots. It looks like...a treasured set of books.
To be honest, I think Derek to this day regrets the fact that he didn't receive his Hogwart's acceptance letter on his 11th birthday. (Yeah, I hear ya, son!). And he so very strongly wishes that Quidditch was a real sport. (He secretly suspects he'd be awesome at it. I can't disagree...) Recently, Riley decided that he wanted to tackle the books on his own. He picked up the first one...and buried his nose so far into it that he ceased communicating with the rest of us for pretty much the duration. Fortunately, it was Winter Break, as he rapidly progressed through Books 2, 3, and 4 without pausing for...much of anything, really. When school recommenced, interrupting his reading-for-pleasure schedule, he was forced to slow down a bit, but that still didn't prevent him from putting Book 5 behind him as well.
I observed this with amusement and approval, pleased that Riley had joined the Society of all Things Harry Potter, WestEnders Branch, at last. And I wasn't paying too much attention to the fact that he had plunged deeply into The Half-Blood Prince...or thinking about what tragedy occurs at the close of that story...until he shuffled into my room last night, eyes downcast, obviously trying to stifle tears. In his hand he carried The Deathly Hallows, unopened. He struggled to speak, with a heartbreaking catch in his voice, and after a few attempts finally managed to softly explain, "I knew I didn't want to get to the end of Book 6...I didn't want Dumbledore to die." As his eyes filled up and overflowed, all I could do was pull him into a sympathetic hug...and remind him that I, too, had cried when reading about the beloved Headmaster's demise.
A family of confirmed Biblio Nerds? Indubitably. But while my younger child may have acquired certain...foibles...from me (you know, impatience, emotional mercurialism, a tendency toward hyperbole, to name a few choice ones) at least I'm glad he's also sensitive, empathetic, and treats books like honored friends. It may seem like living in Fantasyland to those who don't share a similar mindset...but it's a nice place, and--with the exception of those instances when authors choose to kill off our favorite companions--we like it here!
C.S. Lewis
In our house we keep a complete paperback set of the Harry Potter series. It currently resides in a tidy row on Derek's bookshelf, although it belongs to all of us collectively. I first heard of the J.K. Rowling phenomenon after the second novel was published, if I remember correctly. Not quite sure what all the hype was about, and partially skeptical about whether I would even find the storyline enjoyable (kids? magic school? what's that all about?), I picked up The Sorcerer's Stone. Well. Suffice it to say I was an instant devotee of Harry, his pals, and the whole Hogwarts realm. After devouring the first two stories in quick gulps, I had to settle in and wait for successive offerings, each time snapping them up and plowing through them just as quickly as I had for every previous installment. When it came time for the long-awaited, breathlessly-anticipated finale, I even pre-ordered it so the weighty tome landed with a resounding thud on my doorstep on the very day it was released. (Yeah, I said I was a fan, didn't I?)
When Derek was too young yet to conquer it himself, I read the entire series to him out loud, one chapter (or two, depending on how suspenseful the adventure was at that particular moment) at a time after dinner. Then Husband repeated the pleasant task for Riley, when he got old enough to join Harry's world (and though he was past the Bedtime Story stage, big brother surreptitiously would wander into the room and listen--raptly, I might add--as well). Meanwhile, Husband, Derek and I continue to revisit the tales from time to time, either starting from the beginning--as I did for several Summers in a row when Harry and his pals accompanied me to the pool--or just picking up a favorite to thumb through, in between school assignments or treks to the public library for new material. (And whenever one of us rereads a favorite, it still sparks Book-Club-like chatter...about the characters, the events, the whole "good vs. evil" conflict. So much to discuss!) The volumes have also traveled with us on occasion: long car rides, family vacations, airplane flights to visit grandparents. So the spines are somewhat cracked, the covers are a bit creased and tattered, and the pages are folded and worn in spots. It looks like...a treasured set of books.
To be honest, I think Derek to this day regrets the fact that he didn't receive his Hogwart's acceptance letter on his 11th birthday. (Yeah, I hear ya, son!). And he so very strongly wishes that Quidditch was a real sport. (He secretly suspects he'd be awesome at it. I can't disagree...) Recently, Riley decided that he wanted to tackle the books on his own. He picked up the first one...and buried his nose so far into it that he ceased communicating with the rest of us for pretty much the duration. Fortunately, it was Winter Break, as he rapidly progressed through Books 2, 3, and 4 without pausing for...much of anything, really. When school recommenced, interrupting his reading-for-pleasure schedule, he was forced to slow down a bit, but that still didn't prevent him from putting Book 5 behind him as well.
I observed this with amusement and approval, pleased that Riley had joined the Society of all Things Harry Potter, WestEnders Branch, at last. And I wasn't paying too much attention to the fact that he had plunged deeply into The Half-Blood Prince...or thinking about what tragedy occurs at the close of that story...until he shuffled into my room last night, eyes downcast, obviously trying to stifle tears. In his hand he carried The Deathly Hallows, unopened. He struggled to speak, with a heartbreaking catch in his voice, and after a few attempts finally managed to softly explain, "I knew I didn't want to get to the end of Book 6...I didn't want Dumbledore to die." As his eyes filled up and overflowed, all I could do was pull him into a sympathetic hug...and remind him that I, too, had cried when reading about the beloved Headmaster's demise.
A family of confirmed Biblio Nerds? Indubitably. But while my younger child may have acquired certain...foibles...from me (you know, impatience, emotional mercurialism, a tendency toward hyperbole, to name a few choice ones) at least I'm glad he's also sensitive, empathetic, and treats books like honored friends. It may seem like living in Fantasyland to those who don't share a similar mindset...but it's a nice place, and--with the exception of those instances when authors choose to kill off our favorite companions--we like it here!
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Middle School Business, Part 2: Social
My older son just received an invitation in the mail to attend a friend's Mitzvah celebration. So far, this is Derek's third such summons. The first one caught us completely off guard, in a "you'll have to pardon us Christians, we know nothing about this" kind of way. The letter itself arrived in a thick, sophisticated-looking envelope of weighty, high-quality paper stock...you know, sort of how you expect a wedding invitation to appear. Inside the similarities continued, as we uncovered piece after piece of formal documentation....the details of the ceremony on one page, the description of the after-event on another, and finally the response card with its pre-addressed, stamped return envelope. As if I weren't already reeling from trying to assimilate this flood of new information, I inadvertently confused myself even more by reading the items out-of-order. On the response card there were the usual spaces to indicate how many people would attend either the religious service in the morning, the party portion in the evening, or both. But at the bottom, there was an additional line...for shoe size. I spent a thoroughly flummoxed moment wondering what the heck footwear had to do with Jewish coming-of-age rites...until I flipped back through the material and realized that they would be going bowling afterwards. Ohhhh!
Still, for the uninitiated, this "starter Mitzvah" was potentially fraught with peril. For one thing, this particular friend was a newer one, that Derek had become close to in Middle School. I didn't know him, nor his parents (thus didn't exactly feel comfortable calling them up and quizzing them for some free religious education). Secondly, the temple where the ceremony would be held was 20 minutes away and totally unfamiliar to us. Finally, there weren't any FAQs for us clueless newbies, regarding such basic-yet-critical topics as: "what to expect at the service", "who attends? just family? or kids too?", and even "what to wear". (Don't laugh, for my preteen who owns ONLY sweatpants and-t shirts, this represented a possibly expensive shopping trip which would no doubt be executed only under the staunchest of protests...) So I did what any parent would do, when trying their best to steer their child through these growth experiences: I consulted an expert. Specifically, a colleague at work who, Jewish herself, had been there, done that with all three of her own children. Bless her heart, she took my inquiries so seriously--even doing her own research to try and provide reliable answers. In the end, though, I decided to take the easy path on this one.(Okay fine, I admit I chickened out, are you happy?) I sent Derek bowling and opted out of the mysterious religious ceremony since we just weren't sure enough of what we were doing.
The second invitation also originated from a boy Derek knows at school, BUT they've played on the same soccer team, and been over to each other's houses repeatedly for playdates and sleepovers. For all these reasons, his parents are also acquaintances of Husband's and mine. Adding to the ease of this upcoming affair, the service will be located at the synagogue practically across the street from where we live. Afterwards, the family is hosting a luncheon at their home. Easy peasy! And just to make things fully, 100% smooth, the mother attached a printed page of helpful protocol. Yay! We've got this one! (Ooh, except I just had a disturbing thought--maybe she only sent the "Instruction Manual for How to Dress and Act in Church" to my son...because she assumes he's some kind of poorly-raised...heathen...or something. Well, to be fair, she has personally witnessed him demonstrating his best--or worst--12-year old boy behavior on more than one occasion...which is why I'm tagging along, to ensure he's showing off his most "angelic church-going persona" instead...hmmm, do you think I can purchase one of those up in the same sure-to-be-thrilling retail extravaganza in which I drag Derek out to buy a dress shirt, jacket, and tie? Sigh...)
Then yesterday yet another letter addressed to Derek showed up in the mailbox. By now, the fancy envelopes are a dead giveaway, the only suspense coming in the form of "whose turn is it this time"? Although I was sorely tempted, I resisted ripping into it. No, I waited until Derek walked in the door after school, then assaulted him by waving the square under his nose and badgering him to OPEN it, already. When he did, we both got a little shock: this one came from a girrrrllllll. (I know, very mature of me. But my child was so completely unfazed by the entire situation, I felt the need to squeal for him, just a little bit.) Reading further, we discovered that this service also will be held at the local synagogue, with a luncheon to follow. So far, so good. But wait, there's more: later that night, there's "Dinner, Dancing, and Fun"! Oh. My. Goodness. It's like an All-Day Gala for the adolescent set, I tell ya! While Derek might take a somewhat dim view of the "girls" and "dancing" aspects, you have to focus on the most salient fact: he will get fed not once, but TWICE for his participation. Such a deal!
So that's the budding social life of my not-quite-teenage son. And I must say, I have a whole heartful of emotions surrounding this complex subject. On the one hand, I'm both surprised and pleased by the evidence that Derek seems to be something of a Mr. Popular. (Didn't see that coming...or was choosing to remain cocooned in my happy place called Abject Denial...whatever...) On the other hand: parties...with the opposite sex! Aargh! But let's not overlook the most unsettling tidbit of all: it's quite possible that my Middle Schooler juggles a busier calendar than I do! Now if you'll please excuse me, I've got to go set up some Moms' Coffee Dates...and Ladies' Lunches...and Girls' Nights...and maybe even some Dinner, Dancing, and Fun!
Still, for the uninitiated, this "starter Mitzvah" was potentially fraught with peril. For one thing, this particular friend was a newer one, that Derek had become close to in Middle School. I didn't know him, nor his parents (thus didn't exactly feel comfortable calling them up and quizzing them for some free religious education). Secondly, the temple where the ceremony would be held was 20 minutes away and totally unfamiliar to us. Finally, there weren't any FAQs for us clueless newbies, regarding such basic-yet-critical topics as: "what to expect at the service", "who attends? just family? or kids too?", and even "what to wear". (Don't laugh, for my preteen who owns ONLY sweatpants and-t shirts, this represented a possibly expensive shopping trip which would no doubt be executed only under the staunchest of protests...) So I did what any parent would do, when trying their best to steer their child through these growth experiences: I consulted an expert. Specifically, a colleague at work who, Jewish herself, had been there, done that with all three of her own children. Bless her heart, she took my inquiries so seriously--even doing her own research to try and provide reliable answers. In the end, though, I decided to take the easy path on this one.(Okay fine, I admit I chickened out, are you happy?) I sent Derek bowling and opted out of the mysterious religious ceremony since we just weren't sure enough of what we were doing.
The second invitation also originated from a boy Derek knows at school, BUT they've played on the same soccer team, and been over to each other's houses repeatedly for playdates and sleepovers. For all these reasons, his parents are also acquaintances of Husband's and mine. Adding to the ease of this upcoming affair, the service will be located at the synagogue practically across the street from where we live. Afterwards, the family is hosting a luncheon at their home. Easy peasy! And just to make things fully, 100% smooth, the mother attached a printed page of helpful protocol. Yay! We've got this one! (Ooh, except I just had a disturbing thought--maybe she only sent the "Instruction Manual for How to Dress and Act in Church" to my son...because she assumes he's some kind of poorly-raised...heathen...or something. Well, to be fair, she has personally witnessed him demonstrating his best--or worst--12-year old boy behavior on more than one occasion...which is why I'm tagging along, to ensure he's showing off his most "angelic church-going persona" instead...hmmm, do you think I can purchase one of those up in the same sure-to-be-thrilling retail extravaganza in which I drag Derek out to buy a dress shirt, jacket, and tie? Sigh...)
Then yesterday yet another letter addressed to Derek showed up in the mailbox. By now, the fancy envelopes are a dead giveaway, the only suspense coming in the form of "whose turn is it this time"? Although I was sorely tempted, I resisted ripping into it. No, I waited until Derek walked in the door after school, then assaulted him by waving the square under his nose and badgering him to OPEN it, already. When he did, we both got a little shock: this one came from a girrrrllllll. (I know, very mature of me. But my child was so completely unfazed by the entire situation, I felt the need to squeal for him, just a little bit.) Reading further, we discovered that this service also will be held at the local synagogue, with a luncheon to follow. So far, so good. But wait, there's more: later that night, there's "Dinner, Dancing, and Fun"! Oh. My. Goodness. It's like an All-Day Gala for the adolescent set, I tell ya! While Derek might take a somewhat dim view of the "girls" and "dancing" aspects, you have to focus on the most salient fact: he will get fed not once, but TWICE for his participation. Such a deal!
So that's the budding social life of my not-quite-teenage son. And I must say, I have a whole heartful of emotions surrounding this complex subject. On the one hand, I'm both surprised and pleased by the evidence that Derek seems to be something of a Mr. Popular. (Didn't see that coming...or was choosing to remain cocooned in my happy place called Abject Denial...whatever...) On the other hand: parties...with the opposite sex! Aargh! But let's not overlook the most unsettling tidbit of all: it's quite possible that my Middle Schooler juggles a busier calendar than I do! Now if you'll please excuse me, I've got to go set up some Moms' Coffee Dates...and Ladies' Lunches...and Girls' Nights...and maybe even some Dinner, Dancing, and Fun!
Friday, January 11, 2013
Middle School Business, Part I: Scholastic
I don't remember if I took Mid-Year and Final Exams in Middle School, because, let's face it, that was waaaaay too long ago. But as the saying goes, "that was then, this is now", and Derek does indeed have to overcome these particular hurdles as part of his academic life. For the next week or so, the entire student body follows a "Modified Schedule", with shortened class periods to allow blocks of time for each test. There are special Review Guides to assist in preparing for the ordeal--I mean "demonstration of what you've learned". It's all very...formal and advanced-education-like.
This year for the first time Derek is studying a foreign language--namely Espanol--and I have been helping him go over his notes. Can I tell you how much I LOVE this? For so long, I've been anticipating the day when I could finally use my own skills to practice with him. I don't know how much fun it is for my darling child, but I'm enjoying the heck out of myself quizzing him on verb conjugations, vocabulary, pronunciation, and sentence structure. Because when he sits down with me, we don't just go over the list, translating items from English to Spanish or vice versa. Oh, nooooo. I query him in full sentences, using whatever words or phrases I darn well please, and expect him to reply back in kind. It's soooo much fun! (For meeeee...because it is all about my enjoyment, right? Oh yeah...and his grade...) And consider the benefits for him...an adviser who can correct your every error as it happens, so you don't continue to make the same mistake and memorize it the wrong way. Just think of it as...our own little Spanish Inquisition! (Without the torture, of course! Well, at least for meeeeee...) Hopefully all this trabajo will net him a good score, so he doesn't feel compelled to fire his tormentor...um, tutor.
I can only assume he has tests of some kind in all of his other subjects as well, but the only one I've heard about is Science. You see, they're evidently (get it--ha!) embroiled in some kind a biology-ish unit, and in lieu of an exam, they had to perform a Lab. With owl pellets. What, you may wonder, is such a thing? Well, let me just quote for you directly from the worksheet: An owl swallows its prey whole. (Who knew? But wait, here comes the good part...) "In its stomach, muscles and organs are digested, but indigestible parts like bone, teeth, fur, and feathers are regurgitated in a blackish clod called an owl pellet." Um...yay? My son will be analyzing owl...vomit...for points??? It gets better (if you can even believe that); here's what the instructions told them to do: after inspecting the outside of the pellet and determining its makeup (Derek's was "fur"), gently break apart your pellet and separate bones from fur and feathers. (Note: "Take special care with craniums and jaws." Um...ewww...) Find all of the bones, keeping in mind that "vertebrae, phalanges, metacarpals, metatarsals, and ribs are easiest to overlook." Record the total number of bones (50), then the number and type of craniums you find (4, "rodent"). Then for the coup de grace (or more likely "gross"), reconstruct the skeleton and identify your Owl Meal(s)! (Oh, to have been a fly on the wall, observing a group of 7th graders as they picked through bird barf. That would have been priceless. Incidentally, Derek reported that his investigative team couldn't get any more specific than "small rodent", but he assures me that'll be good enough for full credit...)
And there you have it, folks. our young movers and shakers of tomorrow, expanding their linguistic skills...and getting reallllly up close and personal with nature. I feel fairly secure in the knowledge that whatever topic they throw at Derek in Spanish I can handle...but I do hope I get a little warning when it comes time for him to dissect some unfortunate creature! Maybe not until next year...fingers crossed!
This year for the first time Derek is studying a foreign language--namely Espanol--and I have been helping him go over his notes. Can I tell you how much I LOVE this? For so long, I've been anticipating the day when I could finally use my own skills to practice with him. I don't know how much fun it is for my darling child, but I'm enjoying the heck out of myself quizzing him on verb conjugations, vocabulary, pronunciation, and sentence structure. Because when he sits down with me, we don't just go over the list, translating items from English to Spanish or vice versa. Oh, nooooo. I query him in full sentences, using whatever words or phrases I darn well please, and expect him to reply back in kind. It's soooo much fun! (For meeeee...because it is all about my enjoyment, right? Oh yeah...and his grade...) And consider the benefits for him...an adviser who can correct your every error as it happens, so you don't continue to make the same mistake and memorize it the wrong way. Just think of it as...our own little Spanish Inquisition! (Without the torture, of course! Well, at least for meeeeee...) Hopefully all this trabajo will net him a good score, so he doesn't feel compelled to fire his tormentor...um, tutor.
I can only assume he has tests of some kind in all of his other subjects as well, but the only one I've heard about is Science. You see, they're evidently (get it--ha!) embroiled in some kind a biology-ish unit, and in lieu of an exam, they had to perform a Lab. With owl pellets. What, you may wonder, is such a thing? Well, let me just quote for you directly from the worksheet: An owl swallows its prey whole. (Who knew? But wait, here comes the good part...) "In its stomach, muscles and organs are digested, but indigestible parts like bone, teeth, fur, and feathers are regurgitated in a blackish clod called an owl pellet." Um...yay? My son will be analyzing owl...vomit...for points??? It gets better (if you can even believe that); here's what the instructions told them to do: after inspecting the outside of the pellet and determining its makeup (Derek's was "fur"), gently break apart your pellet and separate bones from fur and feathers. (Note: "Take special care with craniums and jaws." Um...ewww...) Find all of the bones, keeping in mind that "vertebrae, phalanges, metacarpals, metatarsals, and ribs are easiest to overlook." Record the total number of bones (50), then the number and type of craniums you find (4, "rodent"). Then for the coup de grace (or more likely "gross"), reconstruct the skeleton and identify your Owl Meal(s)! (Oh, to have been a fly on the wall, observing a group of 7th graders as they picked through bird barf. That would have been priceless. Incidentally, Derek reported that his investigative team couldn't get any more specific than "small rodent", but he assures me that'll be good enough for full credit...)
And there you have it, folks. our young movers and shakers of tomorrow, expanding their linguistic skills...and getting reallllly up close and personal with nature. I feel fairly secure in the knowledge that whatever topic they throw at Derek in Spanish I can handle...but I do hope I get a little warning when it comes time for him to dissect some unfortunate creature! Maybe not until next year...fingers crossed!
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Fun facts about food
I don't remember any fanfare surrounding the topic of "Nutrition" when I was growing up...or any discussion whatsoever, for that matter. White bread, canned vegetables, and Crisco were all hunky-dory in the 70s. There weren't any "whole grain" these or "organic" those. No "grass fed beef" or "free range chickens". Nary a "trans fat" warning nor a "part skim dairy" option in sight. What we DID have was Twinkies. And nitrite-laden hotdogs. Plus fruit cups packed in heavy syrup. Also Spaghetti-Os. (Yes, those still exist, but I must believe they've changed for the better in the intervening decades. Incidentally, here's what we didn't have: Bike helmets. Infant car seats. And when we got older, I don't recall using the seatbelts...if the vehicle even had them. Honestly, it's a wonder any of us survived at all...) Anyway, truth be told, I continued to eat most of those things (and plenty worse) right up through my 20s, before I actually began paying attention to diet and exercise information, making better choices, and taking a healthier path.
My conversion came just in time, too, as I would be taking on another role in my 30s: Family Wellness Coordinator. (Ya like that? Sounds so much more official and important than "Mom"...) Suddenly I was responsible for the care and feeding of small animals--I mean "children"--and it became extremely important to me to provide balanced meals made up of tasty ingredients. Along the way we've encountered some challenges--such as when baby Derek wasn't gaining weight to his pediatrician's satisfaction, so she advised us to shovel extra fat into him in any way possible. I know: yum! (Hmm...maybe that explains why to this day he LOVES anything slathered in butter...) Or obviously when I decided once and for all to veer off of Meat Street, and become the household's sole Vegetarian. And then there's our current issue, one which all families eventually face as kids grow up--let's call it Adolescent Metabolism Syndrome. (Ooh, I'm loving the freedom to invent my own quasi-scientific labels. Nerd thrill!) I'm referring, of course, to the phenomenon in which the subject feels an increase in both the frequency and intensity of hunger, leading to a proportional leap in food consumption. In the adolescent brain, I'm sure it translates very simply: Starving!! Must! Eat!! (And...repeat...)
Naturally, 12-3/4 year old Derek is right in the midst of this at the moment. We tend to laugh about how much he's able--and willing--to pack away into his wiry frame. (However, at the grocery store I've found it useful to slip into "Denial Mode", so the Grand Total at the bottom of the receipt doesn't cause embarrassing bouts of sobbing at the register...) Meals, snacks--they're all opportunities to teach him about what kind of fuel he should ideally put into his body, as well as the benefits of specific nutrients. Wouldn't you know, right on cue he had his one-quarter mandatory Health Unit in school this Winter. While he complains quite a bit about how boring it is, and how he'd rather be playing basketball in P.E. instead of studying all this "dumb stuff", he did actually enjoy his homework last night. It involved the new, improved guidelines that replaced the outdated Food Pyramid. "My Plate" offers a clear visual schematic of the amounts one should eat from each category, in order to maintain a balanced diet. Okay, we can work with that. (It doesn't give you any indication of good and not-so-good nibbles in each group, but it's a start...)
His assignment required him to fill out a "Food SuperTracker" chart, in which he recorded the type and amount of each food he took in for the day, and calculated the calorie total. Great, right? Fun and educational, we love that! Then he told me how many calories, based on his age, height and weight, he SHOULD be scarfing on a daily basis. Ready? 2,800. Yes, two thousand, eight hundred. (Gulp. I might be bawling even more at the grocery store, now that I know this...) Even better, when the handy-dandy magical algorithm (or maybe Food Fairies? whatever...) finished figuring out what he had actually ingested, the number was (drum roll) 2,967. (Yeah, anyone who's ever witnessed him stalking a buffet...or the kitchen pantry...isn't the least bit shocked.) The poor dear was briefly concerned, "Mom, do I need to cut back?" Um, noooo, my skinny son with the approximate metabolism of a hyperactive gnat, I think you're fine.
So I suppose you can consider it a kind of karmic synergy, that as a middle-aged woman, my caloric needs are decreasing as Derek's (and eventually Riley's, too...sigh) skyrocket. As I consume less, to preserve my so-called "girlish figure", Derek will happily take up the slack (and then some). Maybe that way, we can protect the current status-quo with the shopping bill, without going bankrupt. And eventually, Derek can get a job...at a restaurant...where they'll feed him during his breaks! Until then, I'll just continue to stock up...on everything...and cultivate Blissful Ignorance about the High Cost of Feeding Boys!
My conversion came just in time, too, as I would be taking on another role in my 30s: Family Wellness Coordinator. (Ya like that? Sounds so much more official and important than "Mom"...) Suddenly I was responsible for the care and feeding of small animals--I mean "children"--and it became extremely important to me to provide balanced meals made up of tasty ingredients. Along the way we've encountered some challenges--such as when baby Derek wasn't gaining weight to his pediatrician's satisfaction, so she advised us to shovel extra fat into him in any way possible. I know: yum! (Hmm...maybe that explains why to this day he LOVES anything slathered in butter...) Or obviously when I decided once and for all to veer off of Meat Street, and become the household's sole Vegetarian. And then there's our current issue, one which all families eventually face as kids grow up--let's call it Adolescent Metabolism Syndrome. (Ooh, I'm loving the freedom to invent my own quasi-scientific labels. Nerd thrill!) I'm referring, of course, to the phenomenon in which the subject feels an increase in both the frequency and intensity of hunger, leading to a proportional leap in food consumption. In the adolescent brain, I'm sure it translates very simply: Starving!! Must! Eat!! (And...repeat...)
Naturally, 12-3/4 year old Derek is right in the midst of this at the moment. We tend to laugh about how much he's able--and willing--to pack away into his wiry frame. (However, at the grocery store I've found it useful to slip into "Denial Mode", so the Grand Total at the bottom of the receipt doesn't cause embarrassing bouts of sobbing at the register...) Meals, snacks--they're all opportunities to teach him about what kind of fuel he should ideally put into his body, as well as the benefits of specific nutrients. Wouldn't you know, right on cue he had his one-quarter mandatory Health Unit in school this Winter. While he complains quite a bit about how boring it is, and how he'd rather be playing basketball in P.E. instead of studying all this "dumb stuff", he did actually enjoy his homework last night. It involved the new, improved guidelines that replaced the outdated Food Pyramid. "My Plate" offers a clear visual schematic of the amounts one should eat from each category, in order to maintain a balanced diet. Okay, we can work with that. (It doesn't give you any indication of good and not-so-good nibbles in each group, but it's a start...)
His assignment required him to fill out a "Food SuperTracker" chart, in which he recorded the type and amount of each food he took in for the day, and calculated the calorie total. Great, right? Fun and educational, we love that! Then he told me how many calories, based on his age, height and weight, he SHOULD be scarfing on a daily basis. Ready? 2,800. Yes, two thousand, eight hundred. (Gulp. I might be bawling even more at the grocery store, now that I know this...) Even better, when the handy-dandy magical algorithm (or maybe Food Fairies? whatever...) finished figuring out what he had actually ingested, the number was (drum roll) 2,967. (Yeah, anyone who's ever witnessed him stalking a buffet...or the kitchen pantry...isn't the least bit shocked.) The poor dear was briefly concerned, "Mom, do I need to cut back?" Um, noooo, my skinny son with the approximate metabolism of a hyperactive gnat, I think you're fine.
So I suppose you can consider it a kind of karmic synergy, that as a middle-aged woman, my caloric needs are decreasing as Derek's (and eventually Riley's, too...sigh) skyrocket. As I consume less, to preserve my so-called "girlish figure", Derek will happily take up the slack (and then some). Maybe that way, we can protect the current status-quo with the shopping bill, without going bankrupt. And eventually, Derek can get a job...at a restaurant...where they'll feed him during his breaks! Until then, I'll just continue to stock up...on everything...and cultivate Blissful Ignorance about the High Cost of Feeding Boys!
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Hey, won'tcha play, another somebody done somebody wrong song
I was raised by diehard country music lovers. And I'm talking Old School--Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, Tanya Tucker and the like. My parents left the kitchen radio blaring the local country station during all waking hours, and their car stereos were locked onto the same frequency, so I got to hear...picking, fiddling, and twanging...pretty much every moment of every day. Let me tell you, there are not adequate words to describe how very, very much I. LOATHED. It. (Although I couldn't help snickering every time someone said the name "Conway Twitty". Sadly, that small measure of rebellious immaturity represented the sum total of my enjoyment.) As soon as I was old enough to have my own boombox, (yes, I realize I'm admitting to being practically prehistoric) I would shut the door of my room and listen to...absolutely anything else. How desperate was I to escape the "my girl done left me/my dog up and died, my truck broke down" genre? I played my Shawn Cassidy and Donnie and Marie albums over and over to drown it out. (That's right, you heard me: squeaky-clean, dorky pop for the pre-teen set. On vinyl. I did mention I'm a dinosaur, yeah?)
Eventually I moved out and gained the freedom to listen to any kind of tunes I darn well pleased. Thus followed the Alternative and Top 40 phases, with bands like the Smiths, the Violent Femmes, Depeche Mode, the Ramones, U2, Duran Duran, Huey Lewis and the News, and Bryan Adams in heavy rotation. Oh, and how could I forget the Hair Band era--Bon Jovi, Poison, Motley Crue, and other loud, metal...ish....groups. I also gained appreciation for some guys with longevity, you know, the ones that are now called "Classic Rock"--Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Boston, Tom Petty, Styx, REO Speedwagon, Journey. And for a brief while, I even mixed some country in there--gasp! But it was the modern version, the hip Keith Urban, Dixie Chicks, Tim McGraw, Martina McBride class of country crooners. (And I had nonnegotiable standards for my loyalty: nothing too sappy, no "crying in your beer" tunes, and the amount of drawwwwwlll had to be strictly under control.) But that was then, this is now...and these days, our household playlist includes a whole lotta...hmm, what do you call it? Urban Contemporary? Adult Mix? (Nevermind, that just sounds all kinds of wrong...) Anyway, our current taste runs to the Maroon 5/Pitbull/Bruno Mars/Bieber (shh! don't judge!) School of Rock.
So imagine my surprise (as I finally arrive at my actual point--feel free to cheer) when out of the clear blue one day Riley suddenly asked, "Mom, do you have any Kenny Chesney?" (In my head: What the?) Out loud: "Um...no, sweetie, but your aunt will probably lend us some cds to try out." When we saw my sister a few days later and informed her of Riley's new...interest...she helpfully handed over a stack of discs for his listening pleasure. Sure enough, he promptly holed up in his room to give the Greatest Hits a spin...on repeat. Being the fully supportive mother that I am, I even stopped him when he was about to skip over "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy", and suggested he'd probably like it. (Yep, he did.) Next thing you know, he's wandering into my room singing "Big orange ball, sinkin' in the water. Toes in the sand, couldn't get much hotter..." Oh. My. Goodness. Apparently, he's a F-A-N.
Right now, I can't decide which part is the most entertaining--the fact that he already has memorized several songs; the adorable...ness of him belting them out (complete with my accentless Mid-Atlantic-bred son doing a spot-on imitation of Kenny's Tennessee twang); or the reaction of his brother any time he catches the beginning notes of a track. (In case you're wondering, that would include gagging, choking, falling on the ground pretending to perish from the agony of being exposed to such...heinous auditory torture? It's pretty melodramatic...and hilarious...) Who knows, maybe this represents a fad for Riley that will pass quickly into oblivion when he tires of his borrowed cds. Or perhaps I'll find myself requesting more selections from the Aunt Library. Of course I strongly encourage him to expand his musical horizons. However (did you hear that coming?) my only hope is that--Monday Night Football be darned--he never acquires a yearning for, say, Hank Williams Jr. (Shudder...) Or I just might have to join Derek in the Vehement Protest Dance...while covering my ears and la-la-la-ing. Fingers crossed it doesn't ever come to that...
Eventually I moved out and gained the freedom to listen to any kind of tunes I darn well pleased. Thus followed the Alternative and Top 40 phases, with bands like the Smiths, the Violent Femmes, Depeche Mode, the Ramones, U2, Duran Duran, Huey Lewis and the News, and Bryan Adams in heavy rotation. Oh, and how could I forget the Hair Band era--Bon Jovi, Poison, Motley Crue, and other loud, metal...ish....groups. I also gained appreciation for some guys with longevity, you know, the ones that are now called "Classic Rock"--Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Boston, Tom Petty, Styx, REO Speedwagon, Journey. And for a brief while, I even mixed some country in there--gasp! But it was the modern version, the hip Keith Urban, Dixie Chicks, Tim McGraw, Martina McBride class of country crooners. (And I had nonnegotiable standards for my loyalty: nothing too sappy, no "crying in your beer" tunes, and the amount of drawwwwwlll had to be strictly under control.) But that was then, this is now...and these days, our household playlist includes a whole lotta...hmm, what do you call it? Urban Contemporary? Adult Mix? (Nevermind, that just sounds all kinds of wrong...) Anyway, our current taste runs to the Maroon 5/Pitbull/Bruno Mars/Bieber (shh! don't judge!) School of Rock.
So imagine my surprise (as I finally arrive at my actual point--feel free to cheer) when out of the clear blue one day Riley suddenly asked, "Mom, do you have any Kenny Chesney?" (In my head: What the?) Out loud: "Um...no, sweetie, but your aunt will probably lend us some cds to try out." When we saw my sister a few days later and informed her of Riley's new...interest...she helpfully handed over a stack of discs for his listening pleasure. Sure enough, he promptly holed up in his room to give the Greatest Hits a spin...on repeat. Being the fully supportive mother that I am, I even stopped him when he was about to skip over "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy", and suggested he'd probably like it. (Yep, he did.) Next thing you know, he's wandering into my room singing "Big orange ball, sinkin' in the water. Toes in the sand, couldn't get much hotter..." Oh. My. Goodness. Apparently, he's a F-A-N.
Right now, I can't decide which part is the most entertaining--the fact that he already has memorized several songs; the adorable...ness of him belting them out (complete with my accentless Mid-Atlantic-bred son doing a spot-on imitation of Kenny's Tennessee twang); or the reaction of his brother any time he catches the beginning notes of a track. (In case you're wondering, that would include gagging, choking, falling on the ground pretending to perish from the agony of being exposed to such...heinous auditory torture? It's pretty melodramatic...and hilarious...) Who knows, maybe this represents a fad for Riley that will pass quickly into oblivion when he tires of his borrowed cds. Or perhaps I'll find myself requesting more selections from the Aunt Library. Of course I strongly encourage him to expand his musical horizons. However (did you hear that coming?) my only hope is that--Monday Night Football be darned--he never acquires a yearning for, say, Hank Williams Jr. (Shudder...) Or I just might have to join Derek in the Vehement Protest Dance...while covering my ears and la-la-la-ing. Fingers crossed it doesn't ever come to that...
Thursday, January 3, 2013
News of the New Year
Well, here we are in the early days of another brand new year. Hmm...except for the fact that it's goshdarnstinkin' cooooold out there, not much appears to have changed so far from where I sit. So, I'll just catch us up on how Team WestEnders marked the transition from 2012 to 2013.
First, of course, there was a New Year's Eve party to attend. A lovely opportunity to engage in witty, sophisticated conversations with friends, partake in dainty, elegant finger foods, and imbibe a grown-up beverage or two. Oh wait, please forgive me, for a moment my mind must have wandered while I described some daydream scenario, rather than the one in which we were actually involved. Here's how it really went: adults clustered in tight groups, leaning their heads close together, attempting to hear and respond to each other over the ambient...DIN. Meanwhile, one had to keep a watchful eye out for the rampaging hordes of children that would suddenly appear, careening up and down the stairs, skidding around corners, and galloping through the rooms, doing...well, who knows what, really, but doing it at top volume and full speed. Every once in a while, I would spy Derek slinking past, toting a plateful of meatballs and wearing a blissful-carnivore-smirk. And once, a little later in the evening when things had settled down a bit, I approached Riley to see how he was doing. He guiltily glanced up, his mouth overflowing with suspiciously sweet-looking crumbs, and stammered, "This is my last cookie, I promise!" Oh-kaaay, just how many have you had? He shrugged nonchalantly, "Eh, I don't know...ten, maybe?" My face must have reflected my thoughts at that moment--"Holy, sugar rush, Batman, are you kidding me?"--because he hastened to add, "I'll go have some carrots right now!" And me? I was a total party animal...chips, chocolate cake, Diet Dr. Pepper...whew, it was a carb and caffeine bonanza, I tell ya!
My plan had been to get back home and watch the iconic Times Square Ball Drop from our own couch, in our pjs. Yeah, that didn't happen. As it turned out, we left too late and so welcomed the New Year on the road, in our car. We did have Derek do a countdown for us, and we toasted with Gatorade we'd brought along for the ride, so the ceremony managed to have a mildly festive air. Then Derek spoke up, "What're your resolutions, Mom?" Phhhht, easy question...since I have always declined to make any. Next? Derek responded with, "I'm gonna drink Miller Light!" Um...so many, many things wrong with that...and once again, damn those sporting events with their stupid beer commercials! I'm sad to report, once we firmly, loudly shot that one down, his suggestions only became increasingly ridiculous. However, Riley actually had the last word on the subject, as he came downstairs on New Year's Day wearing one white and orange sock, and one black one. He proudly declared, "My resolution is to wear mismatched socks, every day this year!" Yeah, it might be time to explain the whole "self improvement" concept one more time to them...
Speaking of fresh beginnings, we let an old family custom go this year. In the past, my mom had cooked what she considered a "New Year's good luck dinner" (including pork, sauerkraut, kielbasa, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes). My sister and I conspired instead to begin an alternative tradition for January 1st: Lunchtime Chili and Football Fest. And somehow, I can't imagine that lounging on the sofa, watching the Outback Bowl and eating yummy Wintertime comfort fare could start the year off on anything but the right foot, yeah? So here's to a 2013 filled with possibilities and promise, friends, family and fun!
First, of course, there was a New Year's Eve party to attend. A lovely opportunity to engage in witty, sophisticated conversations with friends, partake in dainty, elegant finger foods, and imbibe a grown-up beverage or two. Oh wait, please forgive me, for a moment my mind must have wandered while I described some daydream scenario, rather than the one in which we were actually involved. Here's how it really went: adults clustered in tight groups, leaning their heads close together, attempting to hear and respond to each other over the ambient...DIN. Meanwhile, one had to keep a watchful eye out for the rampaging hordes of children that would suddenly appear, careening up and down the stairs, skidding around corners, and galloping through the rooms, doing...well, who knows what, really, but doing it at top volume and full speed. Every once in a while, I would spy Derek slinking past, toting a plateful of meatballs and wearing a blissful-carnivore-smirk. And once, a little later in the evening when things had settled down a bit, I approached Riley to see how he was doing. He guiltily glanced up, his mouth overflowing with suspiciously sweet-looking crumbs, and stammered, "This is my last cookie, I promise!" Oh-kaaay, just how many have you had? He shrugged nonchalantly, "Eh, I don't know...ten, maybe?" My face must have reflected my thoughts at that moment--"Holy, sugar rush, Batman, are you kidding me?"--because he hastened to add, "I'll go have some carrots right now!" And me? I was a total party animal...chips, chocolate cake, Diet Dr. Pepper...whew, it was a carb and caffeine bonanza, I tell ya!
My plan had been to get back home and watch the iconic Times Square Ball Drop from our own couch, in our pjs. Yeah, that didn't happen. As it turned out, we left too late and so welcomed the New Year on the road, in our car. We did have Derek do a countdown for us, and we toasted with Gatorade we'd brought along for the ride, so the ceremony managed to have a mildly festive air. Then Derek spoke up, "What're your resolutions, Mom?" Phhhht, easy question...since I have always declined to make any. Next? Derek responded with, "I'm gonna drink Miller Light!" Um...so many, many things wrong with that...and once again, damn those sporting events with their stupid beer commercials! I'm sad to report, once we firmly, loudly shot that one down, his suggestions only became increasingly ridiculous. However, Riley actually had the last word on the subject, as he came downstairs on New Year's Day wearing one white and orange sock, and one black one. He proudly declared, "My resolution is to wear mismatched socks, every day this year!" Yeah, it might be time to explain the whole "self improvement" concept one more time to them...
Speaking of fresh beginnings, we let an old family custom go this year. In the past, my mom had cooked what she considered a "New Year's good luck dinner" (including pork, sauerkraut, kielbasa, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes). My sister and I conspired instead to begin an alternative tradition for January 1st: Lunchtime Chili and Football Fest. And somehow, I can't imagine that lounging on the sofa, watching the Outback Bowl and eating yummy Wintertime comfort fare could start the year off on anything but the right foot, yeah? So here's to a 2013 filled with possibilities and promise, friends, family and fun!
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