I'm away from home for a week to take care of my grandson. He turned two last Monday and he's so much fun. I've bemoaned the fact that he lives far away and I don't see him often for the past two years so when my son asked me to come down I jumped at the chance.
Jack eating oatmeal in the morning is on my list of the top five cutest things I've ever seen. He scoops up big globs and carefully aims toward his mouth and once the food reaches his mouth there is very little chewing and a great deal of loud swallowing. Being with Jack is sweet.
It makes me want to apologize to my children for not noticing every little moment, not relishing them enough. I was twenty when I had my first son and had all the confidence of a new adult but I wasn't mature enough to really enjoy being a mom. I wasn't great at having little kids, and I had four of them in eight years. As they grew, so did I and by the time they were teenagers I had relaxed enough to be present with them. They all turned out great and I'm proud of them. Hell, I even like them.
The last few days with Jack have reminded me of those days twenty-five or thirty years ago when I was a stay-at-home mom. I'm rembering how long the days were and how lonely I sometimes felt. My husband worked twelve hour days and we moved four times between 1970 and 1979. I'm not complaining. I wanted to stay home with my kids but it was difficult at times.
In the spirit of gratitude I'm glad for those days but I'm also grateful for the freedom I have now and the bonus of having grandchildren. Finally, I'm grateful for the little things, like onesies and Quaker instant oatmeal.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
The Evil Grandma
I guess I'm really in hot water. I've been outed in my home town and now everyone knows who the evil grandma is. I guess someone googled my home town and dance and came up with my very first posting. The one about going to my grandaughter's dance recital. The one about how I had a really crappy attidue about the recital.....and how I went and really was converted. But that's not how the posting was taken.
I admit that my comments about the dance teacher were a little harsh, even rude and I sincerely apologize for that. She is clearly a great teacher. Those kids were amazing. I called her a flake. In my lingo that's not such a bad thing. Some of my best friends tend towards flakey. That's why they're so much fun.
I stand by my feeling that the recitals should be at home where the entire community can enjoy them. I could bring my mother who lives in the local nursing home. I'm by far not the only one who thinks the recitals are a bit extravagent for a small town troop.
Before my posting was printed and passed around at the fair and the football games I'm certain that only two people had read it; my husband and my daughter. I guess I should thank the resourceful googler. You've increased my readership by about a thousand percent.
I was trying to tell a good story, one where the main character is somehow transformed from one state of being to another. If I hurt anyone, I'm really sorry.
I admit that my comments about the dance teacher were a little harsh, even rude and I sincerely apologize for that. She is clearly a great teacher. Those kids were amazing. I called her a flake. In my lingo that's not such a bad thing. Some of my best friends tend towards flakey. That's why they're so much fun.
I stand by my feeling that the recitals should be at home where the entire community can enjoy them. I could bring my mother who lives in the local nursing home. I'm by far not the only one who thinks the recitals are a bit extravagent for a small town troop.
Before my posting was printed and passed around at the fair and the football games I'm certain that only two people had read it; my husband and my daughter. I guess I should thank the resourceful googler. You've increased my readership by about a thousand percent.
I was trying to tell a good story, one where the main character is somehow transformed from one state of being to another. If I hurt anyone, I'm really sorry.
Monday, September 19, 2005
The Screamers, The Dreamers and Me
When I was sixteen my Aunt Mary took her daughter Judy and me to Seattle to see the Beatles. Judy was a huge Beatle fan. She had posters and scrapbooks, and piles of magazines with Beatle pictures and stories. I liked the group well enough. I understood their importance and was mildly attracted to Paul in the most casual and far removed way. It never occured to me to think in terms of the Beatles and me. After all, they were British and old beyond the boys my mom allowed me to date.
The night of the concert, August 27, 1966, Judy and another cousin Bobby, who lived in Seattle and I found ourselves in the Seattle Colliseum with 15,997 other people. Two thirds of my home town could have fit in there and I was in awe of the crowd. Bobby was a Seattle kid and I was glad for his big town confidence.
Bobby Hebb was the opening act. You remember him. "Sunny, Yesterday my life was cold and gray.........You gave to me your all and all and now I feel ten feet tall. Sunny, one so true, I love you." He was really good but I was distracted by how many men in white dinner jackest were standing in the aisles. They were big guys with serious expressions.
When the big moment came and John, Paul, George and Ringo came onstage the noise level in the room increased by at least a thousand. Girls all around us were screaming so hard that the three of us just looked at each other in amazement. We knew the fab four were playing music but we could barely hear it.
After about five minutes we realized why there were so many guys in white dinner jackets. It was their job to carry out the girls who had fainted or were about to. In our section alone five girls just lost consciousness. Since I couldn't hear the Beatles anyway, I let myself be distracted by the blue glow of white jacketed ushers scurrying around the place rescuing over-excited females.
The Beatles were onstage for about thirty minutes. I thought the screaming would decrease after a while but the noise prevailed. Judy had her hands over her ears but she was smiling. At least she could see the Beatles. Bobby just sat with his mouth open for the entire thirty minutes.
Judy and I went to the restroom immediately after the boys left the stage. I learned something about myself in that bathroom that night. Girls were standing at the sinks sobbing and we could hear others vomiting into the toilets. I thought I was an over-emotional person until that night. I was from a small eastern Washington town and I knew nothing about the culture of celebrity. It never occurred to me to cry or make myself sick over people I would never meet. In that moment I knew I wasn't a sophisticated city kid. I was a small town girl who had common sense and realistic reactions.
I don't think I even told my freinds at home that I'd seen the Beatles in concert. It didn't seem like a big deal. My kids are slightly impressed. Judy still has her program. And her scrapbook.
The night of the concert, August 27, 1966, Judy and another cousin Bobby, who lived in Seattle and I found ourselves in the Seattle Colliseum with 15,997 other people. Two thirds of my home town could have fit in there and I was in awe of the crowd. Bobby was a Seattle kid and I was glad for his big town confidence.
Bobby Hebb was the opening act. You remember him. "Sunny, Yesterday my life was cold and gray.........You gave to me your all and all and now I feel ten feet tall. Sunny, one so true, I love you." He was really good but I was distracted by how many men in white dinner jackest were standing in the aisles. They were big guys with serious expressions.
When the big moment came and John, Paul, George and Ringo came onstage the noise level in the room increased by at least a thousand. Girls all around us were screaming so hard that the three of us just looked at each other in amazement. We knew the fab four were playing music but we could barely hear it.
After about five minutes we realized why there were so many guys in white dinner jackets. It was their job to carry out the girls who had fainted or were about to. In our section alone five girls just lost consciousness. Since I couldn't hear the Beatles anyway, I let myself be distracted by the blue glow of white jacketed ushers scurrying around the place rescuing over-excited females.
The Beatles were onstage for about thirty minutes. I thought the screaming would decrease after a while but the noise prevailed. Judy had her hands over her ears but she was smiling. At least she could see the Beatles. Bobby just sat with his mouth open for the entire thirty minutes.
Judy and I went to the restroom immediately after the boys left the stage. I learned something about myself in that bathroom that night. Girls were standing at the sinks sobbing and we could hear others vomiting into the toilets. I thought I was an over-emotional person until that night. I was from a small eastern Washington town and I knew nothing about the culture of celebrity. It never occurred to me to cry or make myself sick over people I would never meet. In that moment I knew I wasn't a sophisticated city kid. I was a small town girl who had common sense and realistic reactions.
I don't think I even told my freinds at home that I'd seen the Beatles in concert. It didn't seem like a big deal. My kids are slightly impressed. Judy still has her program. And her scrapbook.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Lessons of Katrina
Okay, I really chickened out of writing about the disaster last week. I just didn't know what to say. It was all so sad and horrible. I hope that after we all donate to the cause, pray for the victims, and generally do everything we can from a distance, we consider our own vulnerabilities. It has always been so easy to be a little condesending about earthquakes in Iran or other disasters in unfamiliar countries that end in istan. We've listend to the reporters warn of diseases like cholera or malaria and smugly thought that could never happen here where we are so techno enlightened.
I don't feel so smug anymore. I live near the Pacific coast, in earthquake country, near a major river. And I don't have a supply of potable water on hand. Neither do I have a first aid kit, a battery operated radio or any of those other things the experts have been telling us to hide away for years. But I'm going to have them all tucked away in the storage room in my garage by the end of the week.
It's easy to blame the mayor or the governor, or God knows, George Bush for the grossly inadequate response to the disaster but blaming doesn't change anything for the victims. Make another donation. Make a monthly donation. Then go out and buy some candles and a little water for the garage.
I don't feel so smug anymore. I live near the Pacific coast, in earthquake country, near a major river. And I don't have a supply of potable water on hand. Neither do I have a first aid kit, a battery operated radio or any of those other things the experts have been telling us to hide away for years. But I'm going to have them all tucked away in the storage room in my garage by the end of the week.
It's easy to blame the mayor or the governor, or God knows, George Bush for the grossly inadequate response to the disaster but blaming doesn't change anything for the victims. Make another donation. Make a monthly donation. Then go out and buy some candles and a little water for the garage.
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