Tag: daughters

Summer

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Today was the official last day of school, though only one of my children actually had to attend school. The high school finished up last week, with today set aside for students who needed to take make-up exams. The middle school—and lower grade students—had a half-day of school today. The last day.

When my son came home from school at 11:40 this morning, my daughter looked at him, confused. “Where did you go today?” she asked him.

He looked at her, a steady, blink-less stare, as if to say, Really? But he turned and walked away without saying a word.

Today is the first official day of summer, and my house is full of teenagers. A pile of shoes greets anyone who dares to enter the house. I think my boyfriend and I—both seasoned educators of teens—are the only ones who dare. The parents who arrived for drop-off and pick up waved tentatively from their cars.

Giggling, laughing, screaming, some piano playing, a bit of singing, chatting, and a lot of texting were the activities of the day. Swimming, pizza, and more laughing and giggling were sprinkled in for good measure.

Because I reside in a townhouse and share walls with others, I warned my neighbors of my houseful of teenagers. They didn’t seem to mind. Then again, it is only the first official day of summer….

Meanwhile, I sit at my kitchen table trying to complete the day’s work. Over the years, I have learned to navigate the noise and commotion of children in the house while I work. Because in the summer, I work from home. My crazy home.

Over the years, little has changed. Friends have come and gone. Voices have grown deeper and the shoes… they have grown bigger.

It’s officially summer. Welcome to my crazy home. Hopefully, the pile of shoes at the door won’t scare you.

 

Daily prompt: summer

Cow Shirt

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Last week, the students in the high school theater department had an unofficial “spirit week” to celebrate the upcoming performance—their last production of the year. Wednesday was ‘mismatch patterns’ day.

Tuesday night, there was a flurry of activity in my house. J was texting her friends, discussing what they would wear, sharing hideous combinations via FaceTime. I threw some even more hideous ideas her way, but when she rejected them, I left her to her own devices.

Finally, she came downstairs in her proposed outfit, but she had already decided it was too much. “Abort mission! Abort mission!” she commented as she modeled her dreadful get up.

She had two different socks—one striped, one with skeleton leg bones. Her pants were short and patterned with an elephant print, and she had layered a plaid flannel over a striped tank. The outfit was completed with what she would later refer to as a “gross green floral scarf.” She was a sight to behold.

“I… don’t know if I want to do this,” she expressed her thoughts aloud.

“You’re not the only one participating,” I told her. “I saw the combination your friend was putting together.”

“I don’t know…” she said as she disappeared back up to her room. She came down a while later to work on her homework. She was quiet for a few minutes as she worked. Then, out of the blue she looked at me, excited. “Your cow shirt, Mom! Do you still have your cow shirt?” The shirt was one I had picked up in cowboy country years ago and had actually worn at one point in my life. Since then, J had used it once before as part of a costume for a school event.

“I’m not sure. If I did, it would be hanging on the closet door,” I told her. She ran upstairs. “Is it there?”

“Got it!” she announced, retreating to her room.

I’m not sure what it was about my cow shirt that made the crazy outfit more tolerable than a plaid flannel. It certainly made it crazier. And I can pretty much guarantee that no one else had a cow shirt to (mis)match their outfit!

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[image is a photo of my crazy cow shirt that definitely does not match much else in this life]

Tag

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“Tag! You’re it!” J taunted as she tossed a yellow feather on my bed. As much as one can “toss” a feather.

“Ugh!” I groaned as I plucked the feather from my comforter. It was the gazillionth feather I had picked up that day. They were in my kitchen, in my car, on my clothes, in J’s laundry bin. The cats were in heaven, certain there must be a bird in the house somewhere.

I had made the mistake of buying two yellow feather boas at the craft store, so J could fashion her costume for the school play. All we had to do was pull the boas out of the bag on the first day, and the feathers scattered. It reminded me of the days when dance costumes shed glitter, sequins, and feathers all over my house. I would find the remnants scattered around my house for weeks after the final recital.

I placed the yellow feather on the counter in my bathroom. In my head, I was already plotting, thinking it might find its way back to her one day when I think she needs a laugh.

If my kid is going to turn a flood of feathers into a game of tag, I’m happy to shift it back on her. A good game of tag deserves another turn

Zigs and Zags #atozchallenge

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Recently, I departed my parents’ home to drive to a college visit with my daughter. The road was circuitous, winding through small towns, farmland, and valleys on its way to our destination. This trip was one that I had taken many times throughout my youth and college career, though I had not traveled the road in decades.

As we zigged and zagged along, J dozed in the seat next to me. While I was confident in our journey, the landmarks had changed over the years of my absence, and buildings existed in new forms along the route. I was hit with an occasional twinge of uncertainty.

It suddenly struck me just how deeply my children trust me. When my daughter gets in the car with me, she assumes that I know where I am going. Despite the zigs and zags of our path, she is right there, believing in my ability to get us from point A to point B safely.

Fostering and maintaining such a deep and abiding trust is a huge responsibility. I hope I never lose the trust of my children as we travel life’s zigs and zags together.

eXpectations #atozchallenge

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Sometimes—more frequently than not, nowadays—my children say things that are completely unexpected, and I have a very difficult time maintaining my composure. Sometimes, I just can’t.

We were driving to my parents’ house recently. The drive had been a slow one, and it was getting on toward dinnertime. I asked J to call Grandma from her cell phone to let her know where we were. At that point, we were about 20 minutes away, and had just gotten close enough to civilization to have cell service.

She dialed, held the phone to her ear, and waited. The first thing I didn’t expect was her decision to masquerade as her younger brother, feigning a deeper voice. (Interestingly, despite the deep voice that made her seem more like her brother, she chatted with Grandma as herself.)

When she and Grandma finished their conversation and got ready to hang up, J said, as her parting words, “Stay pretty, Grandma!”

I burst out laughing. And I couldn’t stop. I had tears streaming down my face by the time I was able to pull myself together. And I was driving. Luckily, we arrived at our destination safely.

Driving or not, always expect the unexpected.

Hiccups #atozchallenge

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When I was a kid, I would get the hiccups something fierce. My hiccups would often last the full day, and while I don’t remember them bothering me too much—other than being a serious annoyance—I think my parents would beg to differ. Once, I remember being on a roof, helping my father while he made some repairs. When my hiccups began, he made me get off the roof for fear I might fall.

My parents’ go-to hiccup cure was always a spoonful of sugar. Every time I had the hiccups, I would choke down that spoonful of dry granules, and every time, I would still have the hiccups.

My most memorable case of hiccups was one time when we were involved in a family activity in the kitchen—I can’t remember whether we were coloring Easter eggs or carving jack-o-lanterns, but it was that type of activity, and it clearly took all of my focus. As was typical for me, I had been suffering with the hiccups for the better part of the day. I had tried the spoonful of sugar cure. Twice.

My mother slipped out of the room unnoticed while I was hard at work on my project. We finished, and when we were in the middle of cleaning up, my father sent me upstairs to get something for him. As I rounded the corner from our living room to our front hall, my mother jumped out and scared me. In fact, she scared me so badly that I started to cry. The one consolation—my hiccups were gone.

Several years later, we had a book of natural remedies on approval through the Readers Digest book club. In that book, there was a cure for hiccups that sounded ridiculous. According to the book, if you took a tall glass of water, placed a spoon in the water, held the handle of the spoon between your teeth as you drank some of the water, you would cure the hiccups. Ha!

It wasn’t long before I was able to put this cure to the test. And it worked! The quickest and easiest cure for the hiccups ever! In the years since finding this cure, it has helped me, my children, and any hiccup-ridden person I come in contact with.

For me, this cure has worked 95% of the time. It’s much easier than choking down sugar, and much safer than being traumatized by your mother!

Balance #atozchallenge

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As a single mom, one of the things I struggle with most is balance. No matter how I structure my day, my self seems to get lost in the demands of raising three kids and attending to the responsibilities I have before me. There are days when I run from one commitment to another with barely a pause to breathe.

My daughter also struggles with balance. She has filled her schedule with challenging classes and demanding activities, and there is little time left to sit with her thoughts or spend time with friends.

Perhaps this is why we both always have a creative project going. She will often sit in her room and draw if she has a free block of time. I am non-discriminating in my creativity. I turn to writing or painting or playing with wire and beads. For me, at least, I know that if I can maintain creative energy, I will feel as though I am attending to my own needs, regardless of how unbalanced my life may be.

Artistic #atozchallenge

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I live in a house with three creative teenagers, each of whom views the world in his or her unique way. In my house, there is forever a creative flow of pieces being reimagined and molded into thoughtful wholes. It is a lifelong endeavor, the concept of being a creator. If you are a creator, you are constantly looking for raw elements that can be made into something interesting.

This vision and creative treasure seeking started years ago, when the children were just toddlers. We would walk through the craft store, and they would pick up items from the floor: a stray button, a piece of yarn, a detached bud from a stem of silk flowers. At that age, they simply saved the items, perhaps as inspiration for future projects.

The other day, I took a quick run through the living room, tidying up. I came across a crumpled piece of paper on the end table, and I reflexively reached for it. Mid-reach, a vision rushed into my brain of J, sitting on the couch, this crumpled piece of paper in her lap. Her pencil scratched the paper as she recreated the folds and angles in her sketchbook for drawing class. I took a deep breath and removed my hand, leaving the paper where it was.

“Do you still need this crumpled paper?” I remembered to ask her the following day.

“No. You can throw it away,” she responded indifferently.

“Did you finish your drawing?”

“What? The one with the little men?” she looked up from her homework.

“Little men?” I questioned.

“Yeah. There are little men climbing on it. It’s just a sketch for a bigger project.” She shrugged and showed me the sketch. And sure enough, there are little men hoisting themselves up on the various levels of the ball of paper.

What started out as trash had become the expression of one of my artists. And now I know: because I live with artists and inventor types, it is always good to check before I throw anything out!

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Driving

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There is something about being out on the road with a brand new driver that imparts a thrill greater than any amusement park ride anyone could ever dream up.

As you barrel through town at speeds ranging anywhere from 2 to 72 miles an hour, you have absolutely no idea whether the car you are riding in will clip the mailbox on the side of the road, toppling it over, or veer into the center lane straight into the path of oncoming traffic. You have no idea if the car is going to come to a halt before it reaches the vehicle stopped at the red light just ahead of you, or… not.

In my state, there is no need to pass a test before taking the wheel. Children reach a magical age determined by a handful of stressed-out lawmakers at the end of a long day of deliberating on important issues, they grab their birth certificate, and hop in the driver’s seat. No permit necessary. And when they first take the wheel, the entire extent of their knowledge of the laws of the road is gleaned from years of sitting in the back of the mommy-van staring out the window. Truth be told, if you really think about it, it’s a frightening prospect.

And yet, this is my present reality. Each day, I drive my car to the high school in time to meet the students as they exit the school following theater practice. I dutifully move to the passenger seat to become a passive observer in the vehicle which I pay for and on which I cover all the expenses. (And to think, I once thought handing over a $300 pair of eyeglasses to a three year old was a big deal….)

As my daughter gets in, the first thing she does is move the seat three feet closer to the steering wheel and adjust all of the mirrors accordingly. Her older brother and I are close enough in size that I barely notice when he drives my car, so this is a novelty for me. The first morning after she was on the road, I had forgotten she was the most recent driver, and I hit my head on the door-frame trying to squeeze myself between the seat and the steering wheel. Now, I am a bit more astute about noticing the seat position before I attempt to get in.

I have been down this road before, but I had forgotten just how much my muscles tense and my blood pressure spikes when I am in the car with an inexperienced driver. In this situation, I am the adult; I am in control, and yet, I have no control whatsoever. I can scream all I want, but that doesn’t mean the car is going to stop.

Like childbirth, I had pushed the memory of the first-time driver deep into the recesses of my brain, and it was not until I was riding in my own car on the roads with child number two at the wheel when the memories, the physical reactions, the FEAR came flooding back. (I try to keep the fear to myself. At least until this blog post.)

Someone once told me that one of the great uncertainties of life is having a baby without finding out the gender before it is born. I beg to differ. One of the greatest uncertainties in life, if not the greatest uncertainty, is getting into the car with your teenager. You just never know how that is going to turn out. I’m hoping I’ll survive this one. And the next….

Cleaning the Closet

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I can always tell when my daughter’s schedule gets too busy. She doesn’t take the time to put her clothes away, so her clean clothes are deposited into a growing pile over the course of a couple of weeks. Eventually, the pile begins to rival Mt. Everest until she has time, and the items are wrangled, sorted, and deposited in their proper locations.

Admittedly, the past few weeks have been crazier than usual with too many activities, long term assignments, and planning for the months ahead. With the number of hectic weekends, her bedroom recently required some mountain-taming.

Yesterday, after sleeping off her 21 hour day on Saturday, she tackled the task of taming the mountainous terrains spreading across her bedroom floor. She started with her closet, which needed a bit of organizing to accommodate the extra articles of clothing she had acquired from her step-sister on a recent visit. She sorted through all her clothes; deposited the too-small items on my bed; asked for extra hangers; and got everything sorted and put away. When she was done, she was pleased with her work.

“Hey, Mom, come look at my closet!” While I was anxious to see the result, in retrospect, one might think that inviting me would not be such a good suggestion, given the circumstances.

“Nice!” I complimented her effort. “It looks great!” But then I spotted something peeking out from between the plaid flannel—a sleeve of white lace hung proudly, as if it belonged there. “Oh hey, that’s my shirt,” I pointed.

“Yeah,” she agreed, drawing out the word in hesitation. “I gave everything else back, but that’s pretty much mine now.”

“That’s interesting.” I paused, waiting for her to fill in with–oh, I don’t know, a request maybe? Nothing. “I don’t remember giving that shirt to you.”

“Um… okay, I stole it,” she admitted. “But you’re welcome to borrow it any time!”

I’m welcome to borrow it. My shirt. Of course.

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