Category Archives: Yep I’m Becoming My Mother

Musings about the various ways I’m unwittingly mimicking my mother.

June 25, 2016 · 1:55 pm

Gimmee A Break

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Two weeks into summer break and I already can’t spell certain words. For a moment I almost forgot the word ‘selection’ starts with an ‘s’ not a ‘c’. I guess this is why they have my son doing summer homework.

“How often do you need me to do homework?” he asks.

Given that he has 30 days of math problems, two books to read and answer a series of questions about, and some writing exercises (fun!), I suggest EVERY DAY.

And I have given myself homework as well. Such as reading (I finished a young adult novel in 3 days) and writing (here I am). Of course I will also help him with his homework as long as it’s not algebra.

Brain gets stagnant and dumb if you don’t use it. Or if you watch too much TV.

Everyone deserves a break though. I think everyone should have two weeks off each season to fully enjoy all that nature and other passions have to offer. Alas other types of learning during those times.

But this is America and unfortunately I don’t see this happening. Only in my little dream world where ice cream has no calories and unicorns prance around the streets.

But thank god for summer break. And I am truly sorry for those of you who don’t get one. If it makes you feel any better this school year I had to wipe poo off toilet seats, smell about 35 stinky sneakers every day, observe at least 10 bloody teeth being extracted, act as counselor/therapist/nurse in countless situations, and cried to myself on a few occasions while feeling all the feelings that erupt embarrassing stifled bouts of snot-bubble sobbery at work. And that was just the first three months.

So we’ll both enjoy this break and learn a little something along the way. And for the record I do know how to spell celection selection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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June 18, 2016 · 11:10 am

The Colors of Summer

We bought a new float yesterday. It’s a blow-up surf board with a tiki image in aqua blue, coral, sunshine yellow, and grass green. It smells like fresh plastic-coated fun. It smells like summer vacation.

There’s a slight tug at my stomach, a nagging to make sure to fit everything one can possibly fit in this time off. My boy is 12. Is this his last childhood summer before he starts getting all teen-agy?

I want to relish in every freckled smile. Every swish of a hand in pool water. Every lazy snuggle. Every moment spent lingering over breakfast when during the school year it’s rush rush rush.

I took an assistant teaching job for many reasons, number one being so I could be on my son’s schedule and enjoy some of his days off with him just like my mother and father did with me.

This time is more precious than gold. More fleeting than the speed of a hummingbird’s wing.

I hear the snap of Nerf guns coming from his bedroom and the goofy chatter between him and his good friend. We will take the new float out again today. The five bucks spent on it will more than pay for itself in laughter and memories.

I like looking around the house and seeing the float, the beach towels, the pizza box from last night’s sleepover feast. A myriad of colors representing all that summer has and should stand for.

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What do your summer colors look like? If you could accomplish one thing this summer, what would it be?

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July 31, 2015 · 9:53 pm

Hippy Music

I just took a road trip back to the motherland (Tennessee) with my son Ian. He usually has his ears plugged into his music via iTunes collection on iPhone and cushy headphones. “I’m gonna listen to some music ok?” He always tells me before going into his music world. Because god knows he cannot hear me once that happens. 

He appreciates a pretty decent range of genres for an 11-year-old. Lately he has been into Rhett & Link, YouTube stars who create some pretty humorous videos and songs. My favorite is the one about OCD because I can relate to wincing when a chip bag is opened from the wrong end or one blind slat is flipped the opposite way. 

Ian usually shares what he’s listening to and loves to sing the songs to me, especially if there’s a rap bit. He’s got a great memory (multiplication tables excluded) and can repeat lyrics quickly after he hears a song a couple times. 

He knows my complete adoration and need for music as there is some sort of speaker in every room in the house. So his love of music is well, music to my ears. But he has still not grasped the importance of appreciating The Beatles.

My brother Art and I spent hours and hours of our childhood in the basement listening to our parent’s old 45s. Thus a lifetime of Beatle love was born. 

Halfway into the road trip Ian didn’t have his headphones on and wanted to just sit quietly next to me wondering if we were there yet. He needed a break from his electronics. Bob Dylan was echoing out of the car speakers. 

“Sorry you gotta listen to my hippy music,” I said half apologectically. 

He shrugged under his downy blanket. 

“Do you know what a hippy is anyway?”

“I know some of what a hippy is.”

“Well what do you know?” I asked.

“Someone who drives a van covered in peace signs and does drugs?”

“Well not exactly.”

I explained to him what a hippy was. How their culture came from a revolutionary movement during a time of war and unrest. He wasn’t fidgeting or distracted. He was listening to me. So I decided to take this time while we were encapsulated in the car together to teach him a bit about history. Musical history. 

  
I have my Sirius satellite radio favorites at the ready and will switch between them depending on mood. Each time I landed on a great road-trip worthy song (mainly those that you can sing along to and don’t put you to sleep or drown you in their sorrowful lyrics) I took the opportunity to tell him a bit about the artist, the genre, and what was going on at the time. 

When a Paul McCartney song came on I told him how each member of the Beatles had their own solo career and how I had seen Paul in concert back in the nineties in Louiville with his uncle Art and some friends. “Is Paul dead now?” He asked. I explained to him that Paul and Ringo are the two remaining Beatles on this earth. 

I told him about grunge music when Nirvana came on. And what an integral part they played introducing the Seattle-based guitar heavy sound to the world. “What is he saying, Mom?” 

Yeah.

I told him how I couldn’t listen to Stars by Hum when he was away from me because it reminded me of how much he loved that song when he was very little. 

I told him about New Wave and early alternative when Morrissey’s melodic groaning flowed through the satellite airwaves. And how I got a speeding ticket once while rocking out to Pop Muzik by M. 

I’m hoping he’ll remember some of what I explained to him. I don’t have old 45s for him to listen to (my bro took all those before I could protest). But perhaps he’ll raid my cassette or CD collection one day or download a Beatles song. And perhaps he’ll even remember the lyrics to Let ’em In the next time he hears it. 

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May 9, 2015 · 9:35 am

Burnt Bagels and Mayonnaise Sandwiches

Harried, overwhelmed, inadequate. That’s how I felt one morning while standing over the breakfast I’d prepared for my 11-year-old son. I’d burnt the bottom of a bagel, the last bagel. Among the lapping of the dog at the empty dog bowl, the annoying motor sound of the leaking fridge, there was sobbing. “I’m a crap Mom!” I said out loud while trying to slice off the charred chunk and keep my tears from falling into the butter. “I can’t do anything right.”

I don’t know how my mom did it. She raised two kids, worked, kept an immaculate house.

There are dozens of dog hair tumbleweeds rolling about my floors. And I can’t even toast a proper bagel for my one kid.

Being a working Mom ain’t no joke. Being a Mom period ain’t no joke. I’ve been the stay-at-home and the working. They both have their challenges. Time is never on your side.

I am a perfectionist but I have had to learn to change my idea of perfection. And I certainly can’t compare myself to other Moms. God forbid go onto Facebook and see all the seemingly perfectionism going on there. Makes me want to choke on a bagel. But nothing is perfect. There’s always a burnt bagel or a sob fest or a moment of defeat behind gorgeous repurposed doors.

I can look back at my childhood and glorify and romanticize. But it had its moments, too.

My mom usually packed my lunch. Most of the time it was decent enough for a kid in the 80’s in the South. There was a lot of white bread and pimento cheese and I think maybe a piece of fruit every once in a while. But sometimes the content of the sandwich consisted only of mayonnaise. Which I hated. But the crusts were cut off. And while I choked down the vile thing I kind of felt sorry for my mom cause I knew she was doing the best she could do. And she left little “I love you” notes in my Smurfs lunchbox.

I never wanted her to feel bad about the mayo sandwiches so I never said anything about it.

After I salvaged my son’s bagel I brought it to him while holding back tears.

A few minutes later I heard him call out that it was the best bagel he’d ever eaten. And that I was the best Mom there could ever be.

We may not be perfect. In other people’s minds and especially our own. But we do the best we can. And a special note, gratitude, and some sugar and cinnamon goes a long way.

Caprice Estate

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom

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January 10, 2015 · 11:31 am

Walking in Flip Flops, Working in Heels

One of the first realizations that I was stepping (pun intended) into the corporate, professional world this past September was that I had to place these somewhat foreign objects on my feet everyday. Calf straining, toe-crunching, sweat breeding objects. No flip flops allowed. Ouch.

I was so nervous those first few weeks. Ten minutes before start time there I was in the parking lot fiddling maniacally with the straps of a pair of heels I bought at a second-hand store. The rubber inserts were peeling off and I had to constantly reattach them.

My work clothes consisted of a few outfits from said thrift store and a sprinkling hodgepodge of items I put together from my own closet. Items I hoped did not show too much back or leg, or resembled a wardrobe from Gilligan’s Island/Punky Brewster/The O.C.

Surely these people knew I was a fraud. I’m a writer, a beach bum, a stay-at-home Mom. A girl who sometimes doesn’t get out of her jammies until late afternoon. A girl who loves flip flops so much she fashioned a blog after them.

I staggered across the parking lot hoping I didn’t look drunk. Like a fawn trying to get her footing after being in the cozy sheltered womb.

I smiled as I passed my business casual-clad coworkers. Hiding my grimace from the pain of the shoes, the claustrophobia of the underwear. Hoping I at least looked the part.

Four months have passed. I still stagger from time to time. Ok, often.

And I still drive to work in flip flops.

But I am not alone. There are others who suffer from flip flop separation. We slip our heels and toe-covering flats off while sitting at our desk. Our foot-coverings of choice stashed on the floor boards of our cars, waiting to be reunited.

We may work in heels, but we walk in flip flops.

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May 28, 2014 · 10:04 am

I Want My Mommy

I felt it coming on during the Memorial Day pool party Monday afternoon. Seems as soon as one of my neighbors announced he had a cold and wasn’t feeling well my sinuses began to clog.

I don’t get sick very often. Take my vitamins. Eat healthy. Work out. Wash my hands like an OCD sufferer.

During this month alone I nursed my son through conjunctivitis and the flu. Then my husband through Shingles (meaning I sequestered him to the guest room and occasionally brought him tea). And then through a series of surgeries which had me applying ice patches, eye drops, administering meds, draining fluids and recording them, and holding a bucket for him to pee in. And let’s not forget enduring the moaning and groaning.

I could have made a pretty damn good nurse.

But now the nurse needs a nurse. And no matter how much my husband and son try to help they cannot live up to the high standards of the one who nursed me through countless bouts of strep throat and a few horrendous stomach bugs as a child.

I want my mommy!

As I sit here on the stained recliner I finally regained command over I am overwhelmed with a craving for Mom’s sweet, soft southern voice. And some bacon, eggs, and biscuits. I can see her now, dashing about the house in her muumuu, carrying a box of Kleenex, a thermometer, and a recycled plastic honey bear filled with ice-cold orange juice.

But right now she is in her condo. A mere fifteen minutes away but still. Probably in her muumuu, sipping coffee and watching some network morning show. I texted her I wasn’t feeling well and of course she replied she’d be available if I needed help. Then she added the emoticon with the kissy lips. I instantly felt a small surge of healing.

Still want that biscuit though.

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May 23, 2014 · 9:50 am

When I was Ten

I remember snippets and chunks of my childhood. Mostly because my mom has the bulk of it archived in 70’s and 80’s faded photographs.

I look at my son sometimes and think, God it would be great to be a kid again. Would if I were you right now. I also say this to my dog when she’s lying around snoozing and I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

But really, wouldn’t it be fantastic to be a kid again for a day? Especially a kid like my son who lives in a safe place, surrounded by friends and parks and beaches and the invention of some really kick-ass nerf guns?

Or come back as myself, time-warped back to the 80’s, where my playroom smelled of chalk, encyclopedias, and Strawberry Shortcake farts. Where there was no worry about diets or jobs or bills or relationships. It was all, how are we going to keep our bed-sheet tent from falling on top of my 8×10 glossy of Noah Hathaway from The Neverending Story? Or ouch this hose water is hot but we’ll drink it anyway. And oh crap the streetlights just came on, better run home before the pot roast gets cold and we hear Mom screaming our names in that annoyed sing-songy way.

Not that childhood doesn’t have its share of problems, but come on, wouldn’t you love to trade a hectic day, or even a melancholy crap adult day to run in the sprinklers and smell the honeysuckle without the nagging worry of time or sunscreen or disappointment?

My son is at school today. And that is definitely not a place I long to be. I have lots of work to do. But maybe I can sneak away for an hour, go to the beach. Splash in the water and smell the sea air. Wearing sunscreen, of course.

Anyone wanna join me?

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April 23, 2014 · 12:02 pm

The Worn Path in the Carpet

Lately I feel like I’m turning into my grandmother.

I’m going through walnuts like they’re becoming extinct. My nana’s cheeks were perpetually bloated with the masticating remnants of an assortment of nuts. She somehow managed to keep them from spewing out as she multitasked between chewing, housework, and yelling at us kids. But never in anger. Always questions, like how many pieces of butter toast did we want for breakfast.

And speaking of multitasking, she did it every minute of the day, but she didn’t do it well. I pride myself on being an esteemed multitasker. But I find sometimes these tasks are not completed, merely started and left to sit unfinished like Nana’s breakfast dishes. She would “wash” them all day long. It would be time to start dinner and the toast crust would still be lingering on the edges of the Currier & Ives.

There are days when my breakfast dishes are still stacked next to the sink when the sun is setting and I’m searching for the wine opener.

Nana also loved chocolate. Fudge to be exact. She made three homemade pans full (with nuts of course) in the afternoon and by evening they’d be scraped clean. But the woman never gained a pound. Her house boasted a pea-green carpet that had a path worn thin from her constant moving about. I don’t think I ever saw her sit down. My floors are tile so there are no threadbare indications of ceaseless activity. But at least a half dozen times a day I will enter a room and say aloud, “Now why the hell did I come in here?”

But in the evening when I’m walking in the kitchen I know exactly what I’m there for. The chocolate.

Nana was also very scatter-brained. She eventually ended up with Alzheimer’s. Lately I have lost the spatula and the dustpan, and for the life of me have no idea where they could have gone. I also lose track of my point or story mid-sentence, and sometimes call my son every name except his own. She used to do this too. When she got to the dog’s name, Fuzzy, we knew she was close.

The fact I feel I’m losing my mind recently is cause for concern. Am I really becoming Nana? Am I gonna get Alzheimer’s? I still know the key is for the door. I just don’t know where I put it.

At Nana’s funeral they played Glenn Miller’s In the Mood. We all sat, heads hung low. I imagined her swinging with Papa at some cool speakeasy. And then I imagined her the way I remembered. Her taking time out of the daily and nightly grind of tending to husband and house and kids to stop and just cut a freaking rug. Usually in the front room next to the stereo turntable. I always loved that she danced.

Nana dancing

Nana always danced with me.

When I have my kitchen dance party, or cut a rug in the living room, or groove in front of the bathroom mirror I am channeling some of that energy.

She is within me. I am a part of her. I hope I’m not going crazy. But if I am, I hope I’ll be dancing all the way to the nursing home. And I hope a bar of chocolate will be in the top drawer of my dresser. Just like we used to leave for her. But please let it be dark. With nuts, of course.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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February 28, 2014 · 2:26 pm

That’s My Jam

I have satellite radio in my car. It is one of the best inventions of our time. You can cruise to about any genre of music you’re in the mood for. No commercials. Even news (bleh), comedy, live concerts, and interviews. No commercials!

Today I was running errands under a cloudy sky when Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven bounded from The Bridge and out of my kick-ass Prius factory speakers. Yes, despite that I named my car “the Blue Vagina” the sound system really kicks ass.

Listening to Stairway’s melody on a sunless morning reminded me of my mom and days when we drove thirty miles to her parent’s house for a visit. That trek from Nashville to Murfreesboro was flat like these Florida streets. Except in my memory those Tennessee trees were barren of leaves. I looked out of the passenger window as a teen and caught a glimpse of the train track running parallel to the monotonous roadside. Sometimes a train would slowly lurch forward, never quite keeping the car’s pace. Most of the time the tracks were empty. But the flashes of naked-limbed oaks and maples blurred by as if they were a locomotive. And many times a Zeppelin song would resound from Nashville’s premier classic rock station. Mom has said Stairway is her favorite.

When I hear a Doobie Brother’s song, which sometimes plays from the satellite radio and sometimes from my phone or TV on Pandora (another fabulous invention) I think of my dad. I always have this vision of him washing his rust-colored El Camino in the driveway of the first house I really remember. I must have been four or five. Don’t know why this one instance has stayed with me so long. I can even see his dark blue jeans, slightly flared as the bell-bottom style was hanging on for its last days of glory. He had a Burgundy mustache. He sudsed the car with military precision. Later I would come to despise this meticulous way of washing the car. But damn if his cars never bore a water spot post-dry.

Thank God my parents introduced good music to me and my brother. When we weren’t listening to it in the El Camino or the Minivan we were in the basement scouring their old 45s. My love for the Beatles flourished early. Doobies, Zeppelin, New Wave and Alternative rock were to follow.

Remember the Walkman? I distinctly remember pacing my driveway with it, waiting for the DJ to play Karma Chameleon. And when it finally leapt through the headphones I was completely ecstatic in my knee-highs. “They’re playing my song!”

Now with iPods and whatnot we don’t have to wait all day. We can listen to any song any time we want. And this is a great invention, too.

But there is something to be said for having your jam played just at the right moment when you don’t expect it. That’s how it was when I heard Stairway. A happy surprise mirroring my now life with my past.

Music reminds us of people, places we’ve been, seasons, eras. It’s the soundtrack we drive to as the scenery passes by like a long train runnin.

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February 18, 2014 · 5:20 pm

I Heart Pie

The first six months of my life I cried incessantly. My mother was beside herself. She dreamt of me since she married my father five years prior in a ceremony she always complained about. The two of them, a justice of the peace, her in a simple frock.

When I came along her world was becoming somewhat complete. Until I began my wail-fest that left her guilting me about it for decades afterwards. The only thing that consoled me was the bottle. And I wouldn’t even hold the thing myself. She had to hold it. As soon as the liquid emptied the glass and filled my little belly I began cooing and waving my arms at the ceiling like a stoner grooving to The Grateful Dead.

Same thing happened as I got older and ate a piece of pie. Or doughnut. Or my grandmother’s coconut cake. I have always had a sweet tooth. There are brownies baking in the oven as I type. But they are for the three fourth grade boys here playing Nerf war. I will longingly look at the pan, probably eat a few crumbs (cause as we all know crumbs have negative calories), and walk away.

The face of a happy girl.

The face of a happy girl.

In high school I would come home and bake– brownies, chocolate oatmeal cookies, potato chip cookies, gingerbread, chocolate pie. But when I ended up eating half of what I baked I decided to get another hobby.

Writing is sugar and gluten-free.

When I was nursing my son I made up for all the ice-cream I didn’t eat while pregnant. I would have a large peanut butter custard shake every single day. But when the baby weaned and the pounds started creeping back I had to quit that hobby, too.

Now the sweets are occasional indulgences. I do make a mean gluten-free dark chocolate chip cookie. The last pie I made was a “disaster” according to my mother-in-law as she shoved a handful of the crystallized chocolate into her mouth. I haven’t made brownies in at least ten years so I hope I can satisfy these hungry little soldiers.

The house smells like chocolate cake goodness.

Success. The brownies are not stuck to the edges of the pan and the boys just asked for seconds.

I’ll scrape the remaining little shards and lick the knife. Then maybe just do a little hippie dance with a big grin on my face.

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