Friday, May 31, 2013

Almost There...

Well, it's that time of year again, y'all--when folks here in the good old Mid Atlantic region experience a sudden, shocking change of weather: from Winter-ish conditions (I swear the heat in our house was still switching itself on regularly, earlier this week) to a sweltering mid-Summer scenario (92* and disgusting humidity, to be exact). For me, at least, this causes what I have come to think of as Weather Whiplash. (If that's not an actual medical term already, I'm patenting that baby. In the meantime, feel free to use it--with proper citation to yours truly, of course--and people will think you're either intellectually superior...or possibly a deranged Meteorologist-Wannabe...eh, either one has potential for amusement, right?) Symptoms include lethargy ("it's too stinkin' hot to do anything"), wooziness ("I can't remember stuff...because my brain is melting!" Which if you think about it is really a brilliant excuse due to the underlying implication: "it's not my fault!")...and apparently a tendency to channel my Southern relatives and use words that I generally shun...like "y'all".

Anyway, as though we weren't already feebly crawling toward the blessed close of the educational year, the early and precipitous arrival of vacation-weather is sooooo not helping our motivation. (And yes, I am including myself in the Tired-of-School crowd, 'cuz I've had enough of my support jobs--you know, Homework Checker, Academic Advisor, Test-Prep Assistant, Grade Monitor, and when necessary, Discipline Committee.) I freely admit I've resorted to pleading, lately, particularly with the 7th-grader, whose brain seems to have checked out on sabbatical already. "Please, buddy, keep it together for just a few more weeks," has become a sort of mantra around here, I'm sorry to say. How effective is this technique? With his Final Exams approaching, only time will tell...but I'm crossing my fingers, knocking on wood, throwing salt over my shoulder...and anything else I can think of to bolster the cause...

On the other hand, the 4th-grader, thus far blissfully unafflicted by Adolescent Boy Brain, marches along toward June 14th in his usual reliable way (and can I just say: never have I appreciated this quite so much as right now). In fact, he was just recognized with a trip to the Hard Work Cafe at school (where you have lunch with the other students selected, and the Assistant Principal...but not in a detention sort of way, but rather for congratulations. I don't totally understand it, but supposedly it's a cool thing.) Normally teachers decide who receives the honor, but this time his teacher asked the class to vote instead. Riley and two of his good friends were chosen by their peers (which I L-O-V-E, for several reasons: 1. I know the other winners, and they're great kids;  and 2. it's clear (to me and even his classmates) that Riley belongs to his own little Nerd Squad...kind of like a Superhero Gang...but defeating evil by wielding, oh, I don't know, Algebra and Parts of Speech, rather than brute force. Or maybe I saw Iron Man recently and have an excessively vivid imagination...yeah, that could be it...) Of course, you might be a bit obvious, when for a writing assignment you compose a persuasive essay entitled (not making this up) More Homework. Yeah, that's my child, lobbying for extra academic activity in the evenings. (Sigh. Where have I gone wrong? Ha--just kidding! Something springs to mind about apples...and trees...)

So as we prepare to turn the calendar page to June, we can finally count the number of remaining school days...using both hands. (Because, you know, that's a totally valid strategy for counting,...maybe Riley will write us an equation instead...) We can absolutely do this. And perhaps some quality time lounging by the pool this weekend will help recharge our resolve...so pass the iced coffee...y'all!

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Racing into Summer?

It's always a delightful dilemma, how to mark the unofficial kickoff of Summer. Of course, there are the obvious attractions, such as the pool opening for the season. Oh wait, it was 50* and windy for most of the weekend, so just kidding on that one. (Did you enjoy your little joke, Mother Nature? Ha ha, very funny. Can we at least have Spring back now?) If you're Derek, nothing quite says "3-day vacation" like dressing up, attending services at a nearby temple, and celebrating yet another friend's Bar Mitzvah. (His fourth such affair, for those counting. And I've just gotta ask: Isn't everyone 13 yet? Seriously?) The rest of us got to hang around in lounge clothes and relax...and enjoy warm-weather treats like iced tea, watermelon and strawberries--it's not exactly sun, swimming, and...scorching things on the grill, but we made it work.

And then, finally, it was time for the 5K race I signed us up for, what feels like a million years ago. (But was probably a couple of months. Yes, "Impatient" is, in fact, my middle name...) It would be the first time we would all participate as a family, so that was pretty exciting...also the fact that it was actually held in our hometown, so we drove, oh, approximately 3 minutes to get there (allowing the all important pre-race factor: MORE SLEEP). Believe it or not, this was also my very first race, e-v-e-r. I can hear you protesting, "But, that's impossible! You started running when you were 15!" Yes, that is completely true...but I've always staunchly protested the fact that they hold these events First. Thing. In. The. Morning. Not only am I so very, very much NOT an a.m. person...I loathe exercising right after I wake up. But in the spirit of Team WestEnders, I made an exception. Honestly, I didn't have lofty expectations for this, my first foray into official 5K...dom. I just wanted to finish, and maybe not be too, too slow. (You know, avoid the whole stigma of "last person limping across the Finish Line". Like I said, I didn't set the bar very high...)

Husband had already determined that he would monitor Riley, who as the least experienced runner needed some guidance in pacing himself. Derek--he of the 7-minute mile--we expected to take off immediately, disappear into the pack, and meet up with us again at the end. Here's what actually happened: my feet hit the pavement and did what they always do, which is fall into my ingrained, natural rhythm that requires no input whatsoever on my part...I was in my zone...and I felt shockingly good. (Especially for 8:00)! In fact, I turned to comment on this to my family, and found that we had already been separated by the crowd. I could see them behind me; however, they were all in a bunch and seemed content to stick together, so I gave a mental shrug and continued on my way. And then the most surprising and amusing thing happened--I began...passing people. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not by any means implying I'm fast...I guess it just never occurred to me that of course, one or two people in the big wide world might prefer to run even slower than I do. (Also, not that I have a competitive streak, or anything...but I might have heard the theme from Rocky in my head when I--politely, of course--breezed past someone...just sayin'...)

And I've gotta admit, even though it was freakin' early for this sort of exertion, I enjoyed myself. (Okay, maybe not the last half-mile, when I was honestly more pooped than peppy, but in general...) Just by coincidence, I approached the Finish Line alone...where all of the well-wishers standing around waiting for their own loved ones apparently felt so overcome with good cheer that they shouted for any and all runners completing the homestretch. And of course there were the Race Officials, manning the clocks and using microphones to deliver last-minute encouragement. Thus I concluded my very first 5K to the amplified cry of "Good job, lady in the pink jacket!" (Thankfully I managed to refrain from laughing, as tripping over the endline also would have been quite mortifying...) Then there was nothing left to do but grab some water, congratulate my boys...and hit up the free food...'cuz nothing says 'I just ran 3.1 miles and I deserves this' like mini-muffins, and energy drinks, and vegan chocolate chip cookies...etc...

So, we may not have planned a very traditional Memorial Day weekend, but it was still quite festive and fun. Bonus: we (well, basically "I") got to put off wearing a bathing suit for at least another week...pass me a tray of mini-muffins and let's keep this party going!

Monday, May 27, 2013

Undercover Reporting

Technically, I've been sternly forbidden from writing about this topic...so this post isn't actually happening...which means let's just keep it on the down-low, okay? Shhhh....now that we've settled that...

You see, when I last discussed Derek and his girlfriend (cough, sputter--sorry, still getting used to that term...in relation to my baaaaaby) I assumed that the details would be treated as privileged information, and therefore afforded the gravity and respect they deserved. Well. As it turns out, I was surprisingly and sadly mistaken. At the extended-family-get-together to celebrate Derek's birthday, the story leaked out to all those in attendance. And what ensued was not pretty--let's just say there was teasing...and not just gentle ribbing, like "hey, little buddy, hear you've got a girrrrlfriend, nudge nudge, wink wink". Oh no, it was relentless and obnoxious, and wouldn't you know, it came back to haunt me, as the guilty party he blamed for sharing his secret. After apologizing profusely and repeatedly, I also had to promise to keep further intelligence strictly between us (you know, "what's shared at the dinner table, stays at the dinner table"), a gag order to which I quickly agreed, since I didn't want to be shut out of future mother-son-chat-bonding opportunities. (I mean, c'mon, who ELSE is he gonna ask all his opposite-sex-related questions? I'm the only readily-available Reference Girl he's got!)

All that being said, this stuff is a totally Big Deal right now in terms of family lore. I feel I would be failing in my job as chronicler of all things Team WestEnders if I simply ignored the hush-hush GF episodes and allowed those memories to be lost. So, I propose a compromise in the tradition of politicians during an election year: Derek will read this entry and, if he so chooses, endorse its publication. Now, on to the actual tale...During one of our evening meals, we asked Derek if GF was aware of his upcoming birthday. "Um...noooo..." he muttered. We found that a bit odd, but didn't pursue the matter. (After all, who knows what 7th graders deem "important personal information? Surely not I..) However, the day after his birthday, I went into his bedroom to tell him something and he nonchalantly slid a movie giftcard across his desk for me to notice...you guessed it, a present from GF, who had apparently figured out the special date during school. Awwww, super-sweet, right? Furthermore, being a female, my brain jumped instantly to, "So, do you think she might be hinting that she wants you guys to go to a movie together?" "Uh...I don't know," my delightful son mumbled, staring intently at his feet. Sigh. "You could do that," I encouraged. But then I felt compelled to add, "Of course, I'd come with you." At this his head whipped up and he stuttered, "Wha--what? Are you kidding?" with an incredulous smirk. I relented and let him off the hook...a teensy bit..."Well, I wouldn't sit with you; I'd sit...over there." (Gesturing vaguely in a distant direction, while finishing inside my head: "far enough to not embarrass you...too much....but close enough to keep my eyes on you!")

That was clearly enough excitement for one...month...so now we move on to May. Evidently my son had learned his lesson from March (yaaaayyy) because he announced to me, "I need to get something for our 3-month anniversary...and it's NOT tomorrow!" Better yet, he had a ready-made idea for what he wanted to purchase, and a 5-day window to achieve the goal (including a weekend--very impressive forethought for a thirteen-year old boy who had exhibited, shall we say, "questionable planning skills" lately). So with the notion that he wished to find a necklace for the young lady, we ventured to...Target. (His choice, what can I say? Perhaps I'm raising him to be admirably cheap...I mean "frugal"!) However, staring aimlessly at the meager jewelry display for 10 minutes or so brought about no inspiration whatsoever. Even with me--his own personal shopper--standing by to provide helpful commentary and guide him towards adorable, appropriate items I thought a teenager would like. (Humph! My insightful fashion expertise was wasted on a completely unappreciative audience...) Sensing we were getting nowhere fast, I suggested removing ourselves to an alternate retail environment, one with more varied and attractive options: that's right, Kohl's.

And then we encountered a dilemma of a different sort, as I had neglected to take into account the not-fully-mature male mind, in its impressionable state, when faced with racks and racks of glittery, colorful decorations to sort through, assess, and select...yep, Total Accessory Overload. I could sense his brain shutting down as I rushed to assist him in narrowing the field. How could I tell? His responses to my questions about GF's likes and dislikes deteriorated from monosyllabic words...to frustrated grunts...to bewildered silence. Uh-oh. It was time to wrap this little expedition up in a bow and get the heck out of the store, ASAP. Finally I reached my exasperated limit and told him, "You have to express an opinion, and you have to make a decision...N-O-W." That seemed to snap him out of his daze for long enough to point to a group of silver necklaces (lovely, and marked 60% off--good call). One in particular caught my eye, as it boasted a purple stone (his second-favorite color), and reminded me of the shape of a treble clef (they have Band class together. And by the way, that, my darling boy, is why you shop with a woman! Boo-yah!). He agreed with my suggestion, and we were (at long last) done.

When we got home, I wrapped it up for him to take to school. ("Do we have to wrap it?" he asked. "Yes, dear, that's what makes it seem like a gift...and more special...and a surprise." Sheesh. Grasshopper has sooooo much yet to learn....) Since Band is their last class of the school day, she just tucked it away without opening it. But she texted him soon after he arrived home and reportedly told him she liked it. When I inquired as to whether he'd observed her wearing it in school, I got a shrug and an emphatic "I don't notice these things" reply (in a "duh" tone of voice, I might add). I guess for now I'll just have to be satisfied with my limited role as Female Advisor...and remember to keep all data classified!

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

More Ancient History

Because someday my children will find this entertaining rather than mortifying, one more snippet of Team WestEnders lore...Wedding Day.

Saturday, May 16th 1998 dawned on an extremely optimistic note--warm and sunny. Why do I remember this seemingly insignificant detail? It's just that for the prior TWO WEEKS it had been raining. No, not merely "drizzling" or "sprinkling", but prodigious downpours that soaked everything in sight, accompanied by heavy, blanketing grey clouds. So when I awoke and saw blue skies and brilliant light, suffice it to say that it only added to the already joyous mood of the day. And speaking of happiness--what better way to kick off a day of celebration than with leftover cheesecake from the previous night's Rehearsal Dinner? (Yes, for breakfast...it might have had fruit on top...or not...don't judge!) I had spent the night at my parents' house, so I got to spend my last few hours as a single woman hanging out with my family.

To squeeze in some extra chick-bonding and primping, we had scheduled a group hair-and-manicure appointment for most of my bridesmaids and me that morning. (I know--you're speechless with shock at how this seems extraordinarily unlike me...but it's not every day a non-celebrity gets the opportunity to don a long white dress, parade in front of a crowd, and act like a princess, so I was gonna milk it for all it was worth...) A period of immense silliness ensued, as we girly-girls attempted to avoid any activities that could potentially smudge our freshly-beautified nails...which led to one of my bridesmaids sharing a story about a colleague who would walk around after a salon session with her hands on her chest, fingers spread wide...protectively "breasting her nails". (Yes, take a moment if you will to imagine the scene: four of us practicing this maneuver...I swear we probably looked like we were trying to corral our wayward boobs...or something similarly ridiculous. Good times!)

When we'd succeeded in becoming sufficiently sugared, painted, coiffed, dried, made-up, and oh yes, dressed, we trooped outside to board the stretch limo that would convey us to the church. After a high-spirited ride (characterized as I recall by much singing, lubricated by free-flowing champagne...and ginger ale) we piled out in as dignified a fashion as possible to attend to the ceremonial portion of our day. And the actual service proceeded as such things do--there were readings, blessings, words of wisdom and advice, an exchange of vows, a kiss, and a brand new husband and wife. Then (I don't honestly remember whose brilliant idea this was) we gathered behind the church for some spontaneous, charmingly whimsical (or embarrassingly childish--take your pick) photos on the playground equipment. (Hey, the way I see it, we were merely honoring our vows, you know the ones, "Better/worse, richer/poorer...blah blah blah...'In seriousness or in fun'." That's definitely in there, right? Even if you have to kind of read between the lines...) By then the delightful Spring morning had progressed to an unseasonal 90* afternoon, so we retreated to our air conditioned ride to continue to the next stop: Post-Nup Party Town.

And quite a shindig it was. There were the conventional elements universally included in such occasions: delicious food, scrumptious cake, energetic dancing, abundant laughter. But a few things stick out in my memory as making it more uniquely OUR special day...like the fact that the Bridal Party made their entrance and was introduced to the unmistakable strains of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Also, Husband and I chose to throw into the crowd--rather than the traditional bouquet and garter--soft squishy baseballs. We did do the ritual First Dance (to a song by Clint Black...no, my kids won't have any idea who that is...Google it...), a moderately-accurate and (I'm told) somewhat impressive foxtrot, thanks to a 6-week course of lessons I'd forced Husband to endure in the months leading up to the wedding. (Yeah, of course I loved it! No big surprise there...)

Eventually we wound down, worn out from all the hype and non-stop hoopla, and retired upstairs to our hotel room for some much needed (and deserved--getting married is hard work, y'all!) slumber. Because we were far from done...the next morning we met downstairs once more for a lively brunch with all of our guests who had also been hosted by Marriott for the night. Then it was off to Camden Yards for our first Orioles game as a married couple. As partial-season ticketholders, we sat in a section with a tight-knit group of fans who had been together for years and knew us well...and so the festive atmosphere continued. (How could it not? We brought them cake!) At the conclusion of the game, we headed to the airport to jet off for our honeymoon (still in our baseball gear, the significance of which will soon become clear). Yes, the lush emerald hills of Ireland awaited us...but they were going to have to be patient, as we encountered one snafu after another on our journey.

First we flew from Baltimore to JFK without incident. However, that was to be the first and last smooth event of this particular leg of our trip, unfortunately. It was reported that a baggage truck had collided with our Aer Lingus plane, causing it to be grounded as a precaution. We were quickly shuffled onto a British Airways flight, which would take us to Heathrow, where we would connect once more to get us all the way to our final destination, Shannon. Despite the chaos, once we were safely in the air I couldn't very well complain about our mile-high accommodations. We were provided with drinks (including wine...FREE) on a near-continuous basis, two full meals, a care package that included toiletries (again, this will be critical, shortly), and hot towels to freshen up periodically.

Had I only known what was coming, I might have tried to use those washcloths to bathe a little more thoroughly. You see, we landed without mishap, true...but also without luggage...which had been rerouted from our original plane...to heaven knows where, as far as anyone could speculate. Bottom line: we had now been wearing our proud Os shirts for 24 hours (not to mention the...ahem ... "unmentionables"...underneath) and would continue to do so until reunited with our bags. Whenever that might be. So there we were: grimy, exhausted, jet-lagged, and confused. And there was still one more hurdle to leap before we could at long last collapse in the first hotel of our vacation. We had reserved a rental car to be ready for us at the airport. Very smart, good planning, yeah? Uh-huh...except that when we arrived, the company only had manual transmission vehicles available. Which Husband doesn't know how to drive. Oh, and with the steering wheel on the right side of the car, naturally, and the gear shift on the left, exactly the reverse of what I've been operating my entire life. AND....they cruise around on the wrong--I'm sorry, "other"--side of the road than we do in the U.S. You think I was bewildered before?

As if that weren't enough for a sleep-deprived, culture-shocked American to deal with, now throw in the fact that the "roads" that we would be navigating in the initial part of the adventure were really more like narrow, winding, dirt-and-gravel "paths", with space for two verrrrrry compact cars to scrape by each other...barely...carefully...holding one's breath and praying...while tree branches brushed the driver's window in a disconcerting whisper. (One that said, "You're driving into the woods, for heaven's sake, move over, crazy lady!" Or maybe that was just the onset of the hysteria...) As a final obstacle, every few miles or so you'd be obligated to slam on the brakes and skid to a screeching halt...for bunches of f...luffy SHEEP. Standing. In. The. Road. It was enough to make one mad, I tell ya. (In the UK "nuts" kind of way, not the American "pissed off"...although yeah, that too...) But, as the Bard would say (probably after circumventing the farm creatures and cozying up to a few pints of Guiness), "all's well that ends well". Our rogue suitcases arrived; our life-threatening transportation was swapped for an automatic so Husband (he of the steelier nerves) could take over management of the Irish thoroughfares; and a grand tour of the island commenced.

And that, my boys (and anyone else who is still with me on my rambling narrative expedition--you made it! Congrats!) is how your parents got hitched (again without any mushy stuff...you're welcome). Now, all this has made me nostalgic, so if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go see if we have any cake lying around, by chance...

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Rules of Engagement (more like "guidelines", really)

This past week, Husband and I marked our 15th wedding anniversary. (Note to self: pause for cheering and applause, while casting a serene, dignified smile to the crowd, graciously acknowledging our legions of well-wishers...you know, somewhat how I picture Will and Kate behaving...and yes, I DO have a rich fantasy life, so what?) Ahem....except on this, a milestone year, it was a great deal less "celebrate" and a whole lot more..."medicate". You see, even as we speak--um, type--Husband remains in the clutches of a nasty sinus infection. So, not only did that put the kibosh on a grown-up-night-out type of activity, it also ensured that any "congratulations, honey" hugs and smooches were of the virtual kind...from across the room, where the germs couldn't reach. Hey, we did make that whole "sickness and health" promise, just for times such as these, right? (In this case, I think they should add to the vows, the heretofore unspoken yet highly applicable "And thank goodness for prescription drugs. Amen.")

My point is (I know, I know: hallelujah, she finally got to it) that I won't be regaling you with a charming little tale of how we spent our special night (which would be a terrible story, since it can be summed up by "Husband retired early and slept downstairs in the spare bedroom, such that his horrific honking and scary snoring wouldn't prevent the entire household from getting any rest",) Rather, it occurred to me that I've never officially chronicled the Engagement Saga for posterity. (You know, "posterity"--their names are Derek and Riley...) I assume that someday in the future--after they've successfully navigated the (completely scientifically accurate...or 100% author-fabricated...your call) developmental stages of Oblivious to the Opposite Sex and Ewwww, Girls--they'll be interested in how their parents agreed to get married. (Or they will possibly leapfrog directly to the mindset of Mom+Dad+Romance=Cause to Barf. Whatever, I'm setting it down anyway. They can just keep a bag nearby...)

Here goes: after Boyfriend and I long-distance dated for two years, he moved to my town and we set up house together. (Okay, technically "apartment", but it just doesn't sound right...) Things were good, relationship-wise, and we'd already discussed all kinds of topics that fall under the heading of Hypothetical Future Plans--things like getting married, having kids...correctly folding t-shirts and loading the dishwasher... (Incidentally, these last two are still works in progress...) We'd even gone so far as to speculate about what season we'd like to hold our theoretical wedding...which leads us to one night at a local watering hole (Ah, Flanagan's, we mourn your passing...). Boyfriend and I were chatting over a few pints, when he tossed out a totally flippant remark, something along the lines of "if I ever get around to proposing..." Well. I blame it on the Harp, but I couldn't stop myself from shooting him a dagger of a glance. He caught it, and pressed me to divulge the meaning behind my glare. After briefly considering the potential ramifications, I plowed ahead (still blaming the adult beverage), "It's May now, and weddings take a year to plan. So if we'd like to get married NEXT May, as we sort of decided, time's ticking away."

In my (flawless, of course--ha!) memory, I recall his mouth hanging open for a bit as he floundered for a suitable response...then he just sort of gave up and changed the subject. We finished our evening without further incident, and nothing more was said about the issue. Then, three weeks later on a beautiful day in early June, we set out to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine while hiking at Sugarloaf Mountain. We walked and talked for a while, until we came to a scenic overlook with some convenient rocks for sitting and snacking. Boyfriend reached into his waist pack (no comments, please) and pulled out...chapstick. He stared at it thoughtfully for a moment, then began a soliloquy about how we could share the chapstick, and how he'd like to do just that, forever...at which point he pulled out and presented the ring he'd been concealing during our outdoor adventure. (He probably will be mortified that I remember any of that conversation...but I'm a GIRL, he should have known it would become Family Lore...and unfortunately for him, recorded...and shared...with the whole wide world. Maybe someone should have warned him about the perils of marrying a writer...with a computer and an Internet connection!)

Obviously, I accepted the ring and the marriage proposal. But there's a postscript to this narrative. After all of that excitement, Fiancee proceeded to get us lost on the way back to the car. We wandered around on the trail for longer than we had planned, until he got us straightened out and pointed in the right direction. I can't say that I minded, though, as I was far too busy tripping over rocks in my path every few yards...because I was staring at my own new, shiny, sparkly stone, rather than paying any attention at all to my much-less-fascinating, dusty hiking boots. Sooooo, that's the lowdown on how Irish libations greased the wheels, if you will, and led in a roundabout way to fifteen years of marriage. Given our current circumstances, we will raise a toast with a nice, warm mug of tea (to wash down the Amoxicillan)...and maybe schedule a commemorative hike when Husband banishes his bacteria...and look forward to whatever the next year may bring!

(See, boys, admit that wasn't so bad...I even left out any mention whatsoever of icky stuff...like kissing. You're welcome.)

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

22 days...and definitely counting....

Aw, man, it's happening. Just like I've been dreading, but hoping-against-hope to avoid...my newly-teenaged son has begun indisputably acting like...a teenager. Bugger! (Trying out some British slang today. Poetic license, deal with it, all of you...nosey parkers!) I started noticing little things--like the fact that Derek no longer comes to greet me immediately upon arriving home from school, but rather grabs a snack and buries his nose in his iPod instead. And while we're on the subject of his electronic "friends", sometime in the past few months he's developed an alarming tendency to spend long hours behind the closed door of his room, texting or catching up on sports scores or watching YouTube clips. (Incidentally, this used to be time he would spend reading for pleasure or conversing with his family, so I suspect we'll be chatting about restoring the balance between "intellectual pursuits" and "mindless virtual entertainment" very soon...)

Then there's his hormonally-challenged-boy-brain at work...or...not. All I can say is, "thank goodness for the computer grade-reporting system" so that Mom can keep a watchful eye on things and resolve issues as they inevitably arise. For example: I recently noticed a suspicious E on an English quiz. (FYI, this is the letter which has replaced the familiar, clear F-for-failure. I can't even understand what E's supposed to stand for..."Extremely Bad?" Oh, don't ask me, I just work here...) Anyway, this was unusual, as he always does very well in that class. (You know, "English being his Mother Tongue...and stuff". In the interest of non-plagarism and respectful writing, do I have to cite that? If so, Anthony Edwards' character, Lance, speaking to John Cusack's "Gib" in the 80s classic The Sure Thing.) But we know from experience that sometimes grades get entered wrong, for whatever reason, so I have learned to ask him about it before jumping to conclusions. When I brought it up, however, he ducked his head and sheepishly admitted that "I forgot to do the back." Dude. Reaaallyyyyy? (Mentally smacking myself in the forehead, wondering what the HECK is wrong with my child these days...) Evidently his teacher speaks his unspoken language--that would be "absentminded thirteen-year-old"--fluently (same movie, BTW), since she agreed to let him come in during lunch and (hopefully) repair the damage. What else could I say? "Um, why don't you make sure to always turn the paper over, just in case," I lamely concluded. "Yeah, that's what Dad said," he replied. (Gee, ya think, hotshot?)

The past two weeks he's also forgotten to fill out his Practice Journal for Band...which he's been responsible for doing since, oh, September. Alas, he managed to top that on Sunday afternoon, when he casually mentioned that he needed to view a cartoon, sitcom, or movie and complete a worksheet referencing the types of humor used. Time passed, with much leisure activity being pursued, such as video games and outdoor playtime. At about 8:45 p.m. it suddenly occurred to me to ask whether he'd completed his assignment. "Uh, no, I didn't have anything to watch," he mumbled. I wonder if one's blood can actually boil, because I could feel my temperature skyrocketing as I gaped at him in disbelief. "So what do you intend to do about it?" I demanded. "I don't know, I guess I'll write something..." he weakly attempted. Okay, let's get this straight: you failed to address this at any point during the weekend, procrastinated until bedtime on the night before it was due, neglected to ask for assistance in choosing a suitable video...and now you plan to just MAKE UP the whole thing? Ohhhhh, abso-freakin'-lutely not, my son. So, have fun sitting here watching a stupid episode of Phineas and Ferb that I found for you online, and attempting to find parallels between Disney animation and...Shakespearean comedy. Good luck with that. (Guaranteeing that next time he'll opt to do it himself, yeah? Score one for Mom...)

But the crowning gem of this month (so far...yikes...) was yet to come. Yesterday my cherished offspring relayed the following to me: "I had to write a letter of apology to the substitute we had the other day...and I need you to sign it." My raised eyebrow, scowl of disapproval, and loaded silence cued him to continue, "Well, she told [our Band teacher--name withheld to protect the...long-suffering] we were 'an unpleasant rowdy group of men in the back of the room'...and apparently a bunch of other stuff he didn't want to repeat in front of the class." When he trailed off, I let out an exasperated sigh and dropped my head into my hands. As I was gathering myself and formulating the lecture to come, he spoke up brightly, "But I don't believe that. I'm a ray of sunshine!" Oh. Good. Grief. I suspect this is one of those instances when it'd just be best to sign off on the bloody thing and put it behind us. At least it wasn't a Principal's Office offense, or a Detention Infraction, right? That's what I'll keep telling myself...until the blessed end of 7th grade...is it June yet?

Friday, May 10, 2013

Mother's...Week? (I like the sound of that!)

Everywhere I traveled today--yoga class, consignment shop, Target, my favorite lunch hangout--the ubiquitous, hastily-delivered, so-trite-it's-meaningless "have a nice day" was replaced by a heartfelt, cheerful "Happy Mother's Day!" I don't ever remember noticing this in years past, but it was definitely uplifting to hear mothers getting their shout-out (two days early, no less), over and over as I went about my daily business.

I have to say, though, that it was a little bittersweet. On the one hand, I'm thrilled and grateful and blessed every single day to be a mom, myself. I was someone who, well into her hedonistic 20s, really, truly thought I might never want kids of my own. (So what happened, you ask? I was abducted by aliens and implanted with powerful procreation impulses...What? No, what I meant was, "met the right man and succumbed to the all-consuming Biological Clock". Silly me...) And now, as they say, my life has never been the same. (Blah, blah, blah--I'll spare you the drippy Hallmark card about the neverending rewards of motherhood and the deep significance of the mother/child bond, etc. You're welcome. Please feel free to show your appreciation with gifts of dark chocolate.) But this will also be the first Mother's Day since we lost both my mom and my sister-in-law last year. So there's going to be a lot of missing and remembering along with celebrating. (But NOT sitting around feeling sad or sorry for ourselves...because that would just earn you a steely glare, and possibly a smack upside the head from Mom...but she'd be all for a commemorative...chocolate...toast. See where I get it?)

And while we're on the subject of early Mother's Day wishes: after my dance class on Thursday night, one of the ladies presented us with an awesome surprise. She'd brought chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of champagne to share, and also a milk-chocolate rose for each of us to take home. (Clearly she heeded the "chocolate memo"; no wonder we get along so well!) So there we were, sweaty and tired from our practice...sipping bubbly from plastic cups and noshing on sweet, sophisticated treats before returning home to our families. Sometimes it's good to be the Queen--I mean "mom"!

Then there's my own little team of boys, who entertained me with the following silliness during the evening meal tonight. First Derek said something utterly preposterous (I know, I was as profoundly shocked as you no doubt are...NOT), at which point the standard practice is usually to blame someone (Husband, generally) for being the root cause of his ridiculous behavior and/or mental functioning. I don't recall exactly what was said, but I believe there was a verrrrry roundabout allusion to...ahem...how children are "produced", if you will. Husband quickly pointed out, "Well, (she) did most of the work!" (Thank you, dear--your proper citation for credit in the baby-carrying-and-bearing process is noted and appreciated.) Riley glanced up from his plate and hesitantly interjected, "You contributed...'you know whats'...I don't want to say it at the dinner table." (Oh. Good. Grief. It's not time for that discussion (again) already, is it? I thought we had until next year, and 5th grade Family Life Education! Oh yeah, I forgot, "older brother". Dang it!)

Fortunately, from there we were able to steer the conversation to the much safer, less potentially embarrassing ground of "what do you want for Mother's Day"? Husband asked, "Breakfast in bed"? (No, that would require me to actually speak politely and coherently to others, first thing in the morning, which is, shall we say, "not my forte" (Do you hear an alarm? It's okay, that's just the Gigantic Understatement Alert). The next suggestion he threw out for consideration was "family hike"? Derek looked incredulous, "Who goes for a HIKE on Mother's Day"? (Spoken in a manner that implied he can't fathom how on Earth he's related to these people. I'm going to hear quite a bit of this particular tone in the next few years, I imagine...) "Actually," I replied, "I was planning to run, since it rained so much this week I didn't get out." Thus it was settled: "Family 5K," Husband proclaimed, sounding satisfied, "and maybe brunch afterwards?" As long I'm excused from preparing, cooking, or serving it, sounds like a plan! Just Don't. Forget. The. Chocolate!

Monday, May 6, 2013

One Step Closer (or farther away, depending on your perspective...)

You've probably heard the expression "the elephant in the room"? Well, for Team WestEnders, the pachyderm that has taken up residence with us answers to the name of Cal(ifornia). I thought it was just me, internally obsessing about all things West Coast. But it has become abundantly clear that it is, in fact, a topic on everyone's mind. Don't get me wrong, I have been sneakily--I mean "in a gently persuasive way"--trying to pull my family members onto the moving van....er, "bandwagon"...with me. Some of them have been more resistant than others. Riley, for example, cringes every time the subject comes up, while protesting vehemently about how he doesn't waaaannnnt to go. (A complete turnaround from his earlier enthusiasm, darn it!) On the other hand, Husband has shown surprising signs of climbing on board, as evidenced by such spontaneous comments as "Do you think we should contact a Real Estate agent before we visit this Summer, and walk through some houses on the market, just to get an idea of what we're in for when we're ready to buy?" (Why YES, dear, that's a brilliant idea!) Or the other day when we were discussing what sights and activities we want experience on our vacation, and he pondered out loud, "Hmm, if we move there, will we need better bikes? I feel like there'll be a lot of family rides..." (Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about!)

Then there's the teenager, who every couple of days inquires, "So, are we really moving?" The last time he did that, I re-confirmed that I haven't changed my mind and couldn't help adding, "It'll be great, you'll see!" in what I thought was a perky, totally winning manner. In response, he rolled onto his back on the bed, threw his arms wide, and loudly proclaimed, "It's crushing...it's heartbreaking, it's....DEATH!" (I couldn't help but applaud this stirring performance. And also wonder how the heck he's not in Drama Club. He's so ready for his Shakespearean swordfight-to-the-fake-bloody-end scene, it's almost scary...) However, there may just be a glimmer of hope for him yet. To wit: in the car the other day I noted that traffic lately has seemed to be growing markedly worse in our little corner of the world, what with all the retail and housing construction growth. "I know, I know," he interjected, "it won't be like this in California." "Oh!" I laughed, "I have no idea, maybe it'll be better..." He replied, "I just thought that's where you were going with it," in a world-weary tone of voice. (And hey, resignation is better than outright rejection, yeah? I mean, isn't it one of the stages of grieving...I mean "acceptance"?)

I've been doing my part to mention positive aspects of the area we're interested in...things like "did you know the Santa Rosa Youth Soccer League goes up to age 19, and plays 3 seasons out of the year?" Or the even less subtle "just think, with the climate in Sonoma County, we wouldn't even need Winter coats any more!" Riley tends to groan when I do this, but today Derek gave a hint that he's actually listening. (Wait...gasp! Okay, carry on...) After school he was preparing to venture outside to play--in the gray, drizzly, coolish afternoon--and he mused, "This morning was 48 degrees. I went to school without a sweatshirt, and I was freezing. He continued, (completely unprompted, I might add) "I see what you mean about California; I could wear nothing but shorts and a tee shirt most of the year." (Yes, even he's finally losing patience with our non-Spring-like weather.) Meanwhile, I managed to coax a smidgen of excitement out of Riley--at least for the Test Run portion of our plan--by dangling a treat in front of him. In my research of the region, I stumbled upon the fact that within driving distance of where we're staying, there is: a Jelly Belly factory. You should have seen how he perked right up when we promised to put that on the agenda. (Note to self: never mind the attractive proximity to hiker-friendly mountains, entertaining cities like San Francisco, beautiful State Parks, stunning Redwood Forests, or the majestic Pacific Ocean...the way to secure Riley's cheerful cooperation apparently lies via his stomach...by way of his sweet tooth...)

So, that's the status of our little California caper at the moment. What's definite: a ten-day trial as pseudo-residents this Summer. Airline tickets, rental car, hotels, and baseball tickets have all been bought or reserved. (And on a related topic, are you ready for this? Who would the National League San Francisco Giants be playing while we're in town? That's right, our own East Coast, American League BALTIMORE ORIOLES. I ask you, does that seem like fate, or what?) Now, we wait...and finalize what we absolutely want to see and do while we're there...and of course continue to brainwash--ahem, "convince" my beloved family that relocating is the Greatest. Idea. Ever. Sigh...is it time to go yet?

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Boy Germs (no, the REAL kind...)

Today's report concerns Medical History--fortunately not of a catastrophic nature, but nonetheless notable in our family, due to the rarity of both its occurrence and its consequences. (How's that rank on ye olde cryptic-meter? Do I sound like a doctor, 'cuz that's totally what I was going for...okay, not really...) Anyway, I'm referring to Derek and his recent illness. I couldn't blame you for thinking: who cares? Everyone catches something from time to time, right? And that is certainly true, but we've been very lucky (knocking wood with one hand whilst typing with the other, not as easy as you might imagine) with our boys so far. Each of them tends to miss one school day each year, and never two in a row. In fact, here we are in the 4th quarter of this academic term, and the last time Derek was absent from school courtesy of germs...was two years ago in 5th grade. (Yeah, I know: jinx!)

So when he commenced sneezing and sniffling, I figured it was either caused by the evil demon pollen...or the somewhat-less-villainous common cold. I kept a watchful eye on his symptoms, to try to determine if I could help him in any pharmaceutical way, but he seemed to be managing. He powered through his scholastic responsibilities, as well as multiple soccer practices and games-- although as the week progressed he definitely showed signs of flagging energy. Then came the delightful new visitor to his beleaguered upper respiratory system: an incessant, hacking cough. By Sunday, when we were supposed to celebrate my birthday with a family dinner out at a restaurant, he was not fit to inflict upon the public-at-large. Monday morning, Husband made the call--after viewing a miserable Middle School specimen pre-7 a.m.--to keep him home for the day. And when I laid eyes on him a bit later, I immediately called the pediatrician. The words "death on toast" sprang to mind as I gazed upon his drooping eyes, sagging posture..and the preponderance of..."mucosal excretion" that continued unabated. And did I mention the loud, dry, endless coughing? In short, he was a hot mess. (Don't worry, I tried to be more objectively descriptive for the doctor...)

Sure enough, Dr. S stuck the lighted-observation-thingie (that's the technical term, I'm pretty sure...oh wait, I just remembered: otoscope. But I like mine better anyway...) in his ear canal and asked in a surprised tone, "Does this hurt?" "No," he instantly responded. "Because it's infected," she added. After peeking in the other side and in his nose (ewwww, better her than me, I must say), she presented the list of ailments: left ear infection, fluid in the right, probably moving toward a sinus infection as well. I shouldn't have been surprised--after all, this is the kid who was diagnosed with strep once...without ever complaining of a sore throat. Like I said, he doesn't go down to dreaded bacteria often, but when he does, it's "go big...and stay home"! So, she prescribed a drugstore-worth of meds to start knocking out the bad critters (including the kind of decongestant that you have to request from behind the counter, and show your ID, and sign for...I felt like such a shady character). Then I allowed him to sit on the couch and watch ESPN all afternoon. (He proceeded to remain in the exact same position, wrapped in a blankie, from about 1 to 6 p.m. At which point the next show was about to start and he groaned, "Ugh, not MORE SportsCenter!" Yeah, I think five hours just about catches you up on all the possible sports news out there for today...how about you move to your bed and take a nap, big guy...)

When Riley arrived home and was given the update on his brother's health, his only comment, delivered with absolutely no hint of levity whatsoever, was: "Well, at least he doesn't have the Black Death!" Oh. My. Goodness. Thank you sooooo much, Derek, for regaling us with the graphic description of that awful disease earlier in the year when your World Studies class was learning about the Middle Ages. (Clearly some things are just too memorable to be erased...and also you've apparently scarred your younger sibling for life...) Tuesday continued more of the same, so Derek was granted an extra recovery day, by the end of which he admitted, "I kind of want to go back to school; I'm bored." Your wish is my command, son--Wednesday you shall grace the world with your presence once more. So he did, and survived...and I know for a fact he must be feeling more like himself, because after he strolled into the house, he asked permission to meet a friend at the nearby park. Um, which part of "recovering" is unclear to you? Or, if that proves too complex a concept, try this one: "making up all the homework you missed".

Obviously he's back on the road to good health, headed in the right direction. (Alas) Even his typical smart alecky humor has returned--as he smeared mentho-rub on his chest before bed, he glanced down and noted, "Ooh, I'm shiny...Team Edward!" Yeah, he'll be fine. And as long as the rest of the household can avoid catching the...ahem...Black Death, everything will be back to normal by the weekend...just in time for Attempted Birthday Dinner...Take 2!