I've been a little slow to get into the holiday spirit this year, so the other night when I was browsing Netflix for a few hours' diversion, "Love Actually" seemed like a good choice -- something light and heart-warming and holiday-themed. I remembered the movie as being essentially good-hearted and reasonably entertaining.
I must be getting cynical (or old, or both), because upon repeat viewing, it has left me incredibly crabby. The two "successful" romantic relationships at the end of the movie are ones that began with the women in servile positions to the men (the Hugh Grant/whatshername and Colin Firth/otherwhatshername relationships) and the two independent, fully-realized adult female characters are left either in limbo or in sad solitude (Emma Thompson and Laura Linney).
Is this the message we really want to be internalizing? That in order to have a happy ending with an successful man who adores you, a woman must bring him lots of cups of tea, anticipate his desire for chocolate biscuits, and jump in a freezing cold lake to retrieve the pages of his manuscript that he was stupid enough to be working on outside on a windy day? Whereas if you are a woman who is good at her job or a dedicated mother, you will either loose your husband's attention to the first young tart (arg, such a cliche) that bats her eyes at him or you will live out your life as the lonely, sad, slightly frumpy caretaker of your mentally ill brother.
Don't even get me started on the male fantasy-fulfillment nonsense of the guy who travels to America to get laid and finds himself immediately in a threesome.
I dunno, folks. Is it me, or is the message of this movie actually quite depressing?
Showing posts with label Deep Thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Deep Thoughts. Show all posts
Friday, November 22, 2013
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Way I Remember It
The way I remember it, it was my mother who convinced my father to allow me to move to New York at the age of 19. I had just completed a disastrous freshmen year at U. Penn, having lost 30 pounds and taken two incompletes out of four courses in the spring semester. I was a functional bulimic and a complete wreck, not at all an obvious candidate to go tough it out alone in such a challenging city, to pursue an impossible profession. I did have a few arguments in the plus column - a decent chunk of money set aside and a talent manager who was willing to rep me if I moved - but any rational analysis would have the negatives far outweighing the positives.
But somehow Mom prevailed, and I moved into a one-bedroom summer sublet (shared with a Penn alum) on the Upper West Side. What started as a summer experiment stretched into a two-year sojourn, full of auditions, demoralizing part-time jobs, a few acting gigs, some self-destructive behavior, and the ultimate realization that I'd squandered my educational opportunities thus far, and that there was already enough ignorance in the world. So, when my leave of absence from school expired after two years, I went back. (I met Michael the very evening I moved back to Swarthmore, and that was that.)
While I lived in New York, my dad contrived to take a sabbatical year and spent it driving to and from Brookhaven National Labs twice a week - conveniently placing him within spitting distance of Manhattan during the commute. He would stop in the city and take me and my roommate out for sushi dinners on a fairly regular basis. I know now that this was his way of supporting me in this crazy undertaking, of which he heartily disapproved, as well as an opportunity to see in person that I was still alive and in (mostly) one piece. He never lectured or harangued, he simply drove into the city and took me out for sushi, then continued on his way to his science experiments.
It took me a long time to realize what a gift that was.
But somehow Mom prevailed, and I moved into a one-bedroom summer sublet (shared with a Penn alum) on the Upper West Side. What started as a summer experiment stretched into a two-year sojourn, full of auditions, demoralizing part-time jobs, a few acting gigs, some self-destructive behavior, and the ultimate realization that I'd squandered my educational opportunities thus far, and that there was already enough ignorance in the world. So, when my leave of absence from school expired after two years, I went back. (I met Michael the very evening I moved back to Swarthmore, and that was that.)
While I lived in New York, my dad contrived to take a sabbatical year and spent it driving to and from Brookhaven National Labs twice a week - conveniently placing him within spitting distance of Manhattan during the commute. He would stop in the city and take me and my roommate out for sushi dinners on a fairly regular basis. I know now that this was his way of supporting me in this crazy undertaking, of which he heartily disapproved, as well as an opportunity to see in person that I was still alive and in (mostly) one piece. He never lectured or harangued, he simply drove into the city and took me out for sushi, then continued on his way to his science experiments.
It took me a long time to realize what a gift that was.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Morning Commuting Musing
Is there anything more absurd than a pink canvas tote bag with tiny pink lobsters embroidered all over it?
Imagine what anthropologists would make of this, 500 years from now...
Imagine what anthropologists would make of this, 500 years from now...
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Body Talk
Garrick is taking Home Economics Consumer Family Science this term, and interestingly, they have been doing a unit on Teen Body Image.
(Letting that sink in for a moment....)
They're talking about the unrealistic body expectations that TV and other media can promulgate, and about the dangerous things that kids sometimes do to themselves in response.
As a former bulimic and always-recovering body-dismorphic, I find this interesting. Would it have made any difference if I had received these messages at age 12? Would a three-day unit have been enough to contravene the messages I was receiving from Cosmo and Vogue magazines? At the age of 43, I still look in the mirror and wish parts of my body were thinner. (Yes, I know that's ridiculous. Doesn't stop me.)
Don't get me wrong, I think it's an admirable goal, and for my literal-minded, un-socially-aware kid, it will be effective. But I doubt it's going to have a lasting effect on the girls and boys who were weaned on American Idol and The Jersey Shore.
What do you think? Do you talk about body image issues with your kid/s? Are kids wiser today than they were in the mid-1980s, or is it the same scenario, with easier access to anabolic steroids?
(Letting that sink in for a moment....)
They're talking about the unrealistic body expectations that TV and other media can promulgate, and about the dangerous things that kids sometimes do to themselves in response.
As a former bulimic and always-recovering body-dismorphic, I find this interesting. Would it have made any difference if I had received these messages at age 12? Would a three-day unit have been enough to contravene the messages I was receiving from Cosmo and Vogue magazines? At the age of 43, I still look in the mirror and wish parts of my body were thinner. (Yes, I know that's ridiculous. Doesn't stop me.)
Don't get me wrong, I think it's an admirable goal, and for my literal-minded, un-socially-aware kid, it will be effective. But I doubt it's going to have a lasting effect on the girls and boys who were weaned on American Idol and The Jersey Shore.
What do you think? Do you talk about body image issues with your kid/s? Are kids wiser today than they were in the mid-1980s, or is it the same scenario, with easier access to anabolic steroids?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Grapple Grapple
I realize that between the fall fundraising frenzy and Dad's condition, I haven't written about the kids and back-to-school. Usually, anticipation of the change in routine (particularly with Quin moving to the high school this year) has me wound up for weeks ahead of time, but this year was singularly anticlimactic. Garrick sailed into his second year at the middle school with nary a hitch, along with a new-found desire to join some clubs and get involved with the theatre program (praise be!), while Quin adjusted to the high school quickly with only a few logistical stumbles regarding getting from point A to point B on time. He also is joining clubs, and I still harbor a longing to get him involved with one of the many singing groups. As long as I don't think about how soon he'll be legally allowed to drive, I'm happy...
The irony is that while they are both doing well, I'm seeing shockingly little of them. Initially, my new job was the culprit -- between longer work days and a much longer commute, I'd been getting home around 7:30 - 8 in the evenings with depressing regularity. Now that the job challenges are somewhat more controlled, I'm leaving the office earlier but stopping to visit with my dad (when he's up) and/or mom (when he isn't) in the evenings, so the result is the same. I try to carve out one-on-one time with each of them on the weekends, but it's difficult and when I let myself think about it, it pains me.
Unfortunately, Michael's and my time together is suffering the same syndrome. By the time I get home, he has walked the dog, cooked and served dinner, cleaned the kitchen, supervised lunch-making, and generally taken care of the business of life without me (and this having gotten up at an ungodly early hour), leaving him justifiably pooped. I come home around 7:30-8 (on a good night), unload my dirty coffee cup, kiss everyone, hear the day's headlines, and within an hour I'm in bed, staring glazedly at reruns of "Without a Trace" or whatever semi-watchable dreck happens to be on. It's a real thrill being married to me these days, is what I'm saying, and it's bound to get harder before it gets easier (that's what she said!), but luckily, by the 20th year of marriage, you develop a couple of coping skills as well as faith that things do get better.
All of the above has combined to create in me a sense of disconnect, which I cope with by becoming terribly practical. Is my Mom going to need powers of attorney to access the investment accounts? Under what circumstances would we allow Dad to be hospitalized again v. his staying relatively comfortable at home? Can we afford to convert the playroom to a TV/guest room? What about a location for a memorial service (church-less heathens that we are)? Isn't it lucky that my kidney function has stopped worsening so that Dad and I aren't both sick at the same time?
I'm going to try to combat the disconnect by writing more, even when I don't feel like it. I will try to avoid an endless parade of depressing my-dad-is-slowly-dying posts, but I make no promises.
Is anyone dressing up for Halloween? Discuss!
The irony is that while they are both doing well, I'm seeing shockingly little of them. Initially, my new job was the culprit -- between longer work days and a much longer commute, I'd been getting home around 7:30 - 8 in the evenings with depressing regularity. Now that the job challenges are somewhat more controlled, I'm leaving the office earlier but stopping to visit with my dad (when he's up) and/or mom (when he isn't) in the evenings, so the result is the same. I try to carve out one-on-one time with each of them on the weekends, but it's difficult and when I let myself think about it, it pains me.
Unfortunately, Michael's and my time together is suffering the same syndrome. By the time I get home, he has walked the dog, cooked and served dinner, cleaned the kitchen, supervised lunch-making, and generally taken care of the business of life without me (and this having gotten up at an ungodly early hour), leaving him justifiably pooped. I come home around 7:30-8 (on a good night), unload my dirty coffee cup, kiss everyone, hear the day's headlines, and within an hour I'm in bed, staring glazedly at reruns of "Without a Trace" or whatever semi-watchable dreck happens to be on. It's a real thrill being married to me these days, is what I'm saying, and it's bound to get harder before it gets easier (that's what she said!), but luckily, by the 20th year of marriage, you develop a couple of coping skills as well as faith that things do get better.
All of the above has combined to create in me a sense of disconnect, which I cope with by becoming terribly practical. Is my Mom going to need powers of attorney to access the investment accounts? Under what circumstances would we allow Dad to be hospitalized again v. his staying relatively comfortable at home? Can we afford to convert the playroom to a TV/guest room? What about a location for a memorial service (church-less heathens that we are)? Isn't it lucky that my kidney function has stopped worsening so that Dad and I aren't both sick at the same time?
I'm going to try to combat the disconnect by writing more, even when I don't feel like it. I will try to avoid an endless parade of depressing my-dad-is-slowly-dying posts, but I make no promises.
Is anyone dressing up for Halloween? Discuss!
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Getting Serious
It’s human nature to deny. To expect the best. To assume that all will be well. I’m as susceptible to it as anyone. When I was diagnosed with PKD at age 19, I decided that I would be among the small percent of patients who never experience kidney failure as a result. And when my kidneys began to fail at age 38, I believed whole-heartedly that one of my (very-willing) brothers would be accepted as an organ donor, would be a good match for me, that my surgery will be without complications, that my body will not reject the new organ, and that life will go on as usual post-surgery.
(I still believe that last part. I have to.)
But I know better.
The thing is, even when all of the above very-complicated issues go right, the life of a transplant patient is rarely happily-ever-after. Immune suppression, rejection episodes, repeat transplants, chronic infections, diabetes, liver failure, peripheral neurophathy, chronic severe gastro-intestinal distress, yo-yoing weight, and recurring bouts with severe dehydration are among the health complications that my father has had to cope with in the 30 years since his first kidney transplant. Recently, a year without multiple hospitalizations is unusual enough to cause comment.
Dad’s fight is getting harder, lately. And it’s getting harder to stay in denial about the long-term effects of this disease. But I have to believe that there is a solution, somewhere, to this unending spiral of complications and bad health that follows in the wake of kidney transplantation. It’s why I keep fighting.
I really don't see any alternative.
(I still believe that last part. I have to.)
But I know better.
The thing is, even when all of the above very-complicated issues go right, the life of a transplant patient is rarely happily-ever-after. Immune suppression, rejection episodes, repeat transplants, chronic infections, diabetes, liver failure, peripheral neurophathy, chronic severe gastro-intestinal distress, yo-yoing weight, and recurring bouts with severe dehydration are among the health complications that my father has had to cope with in the 30 years since his first kidney transplant. Recently, a year without multiple hospitalizations is unusual enough to cause comment.
Dad’s fight is getting harder, lately. And it’s getting harder to stay in denial about the long-term effects of this disease. But I have to believe that there is a solution, somewhere, to this unending spiral of complications and bad health that follows in the wake of kidney transplantation. It’s why I keep fighting.
I really don't see any alternative.
Monday, August 16, 2010
No Answers
A few weeks ago, a man in his maybe-late-50s walked into my place of business. Someone near the front door directed him to me (goodness knows why), and I put on my most pleasant professional face to find out what he needed. Turns out he was looking for work, and I could tell without looking at his single-sheet resume that it was going to list a hodgepodge of manual and menial jobs, with no education, career path or white-collar sensibility in evidence. He was mild-mannered and sweet, and I told him that I’d be happy to keep his resume on file, but that there were no current openings, and sent him on his way with a smile and a “good luck.”
His resume was much as I had assumed it would be, with the added inconsistency of several gaps where no job at all was listed for significant periods of time. At the top, in place of a “professional goal” or “significant qualifications” paragraph, he had written that he was a hard worker and was “looking to get his life back on track.”
That touched a chord, somewhere – I probably assumed that he was a recovering addict, or something equally worthy of my earnestly bleeding-heart support – so I sent his resume over to our warehouse manager with an optimistic note. He is always looking for reliable workers, but tends toward the irascible, so I didn’t hold out much hope that he’d call this wandering soul in for an interview.
So imagine my surprise when, upon returning from vacation, my boss informed me with a sly grin that the warehouse manager had, in fact, called the man in for an interview. The interview had gone well, right up until the end, when the applicant asked the manager if he had heard of Megan’s Law.
(pause.....)
As our warehouse is located near an elementary school, that was the end of the interview.
…
…
And I feel like I should be having a stronger reaction to this information. God knows, I’d be entitled. But I find myself vacillating between feeling vaguely squicked-out at how pleasant I was to him, and thinking that it’s a shame that this unprepossessing man is trying and failing to put his life back together. Then I wonder how I’d feel about it if my kids attended the elementary school near our warehouse.
So I don’t know, and I wish I did.
On the one hand, I don’t think the answer is to paint a big red M for Molester on the chest of anyone who gets caught peeing behind a dumpster or having sex with a 15-year-old girlfriend at the age of 19. On the other hand, if there had been a sex offenders list 30 years ago, a lot of girls in the town I grew up in might have been spared a lot of anguish.
No answers on this one.
His resume was much as I had assumed it would be, with the added inconsistency of several gaps where no job at all was listed for significant periods of time. At the top, in place of a “professional goal” or “significant qualifications” paragraph, he had written that he was a hard worker and was “looking to get his life back on track.”
That touched a chord, somewhere – I probably assumed that he was a recovering addict, or something equally worthy of my earnestly bleeding-heart support – so I sent his resume over to our warehouse manager with an optimistic note. He is always looking for reliable workers, but tends toward the irascible, so I didn’t hold out much hope that he’d call this wandering soul in for an interview.
So imagine my surprise when, upon returning from vacation, my boss informed me with a sly grin that the warehouse manager had, in fact, called the man in for an interview. The interview had gone well, right up until the end, when the applicant asked the manager if he had heard of Megan’s Law.
(pause.....)
As our warehouse is located near an elementary school, that was the end of the interview.
…
…
And I feel like I should be having a stronger reaction to this information. God knows, I’d be entitled. But I find myself vacillating between feeling vaguely squicked-out at how pleasant I was to him, and thinking that it’s a shame that this unprepossessing man is trying and failing to put his life back together. Then I wonder how I’d feel about it if my kids attended the elementary school near our warehouse.
So I don’t know, and I wish I did.
On the one hand, I don’t think the answer is to paint a big red M for Molester on the chest of anyone who gets caught peeing behind a dumpster or having sex with a 15-year-old girlfriend at the age of 19. On the other hand, if there had been a sex offenders list 30 years ago, a lot of girls in the town I grew up in might have been spared a lot of anguish.
No answers on this one.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
What Does It Say About Me...
... that with a cart full of BJ's loot and empty checkout lines all around, I still chose the self-check rather than a register with a cashier to ring up the items for me?...
On second thought, maybe I don't want to know what it says about me.
On second thought, maybe I don't want to know what it says about me.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Crime and Punishment
Hints of a major scandal rocked our little burg last spring when three employees were suspended from our local bank under suspicion of embezzling. If you read Philly papers, you saw the news explode this week, as indictments were finally handed down.
The short version is that the head teller at our local bank - located across from the police office! - started stealing money from the bank's ATM machine several years ago, falsifying records to cover her tracks. Eventually two other tellers joined in the scheme with her, and the theft expanded to include shorting cash deposits made by local merchants and stealing coins collected from the town parking meters.
The three women are being collectively charged with stealing over $100,000 from the bank, and the true number is surely many orders of magnitude higher.
Reading our local paper last night and trying to explain to my aghast sons what had happened, something struck me. Of the local merchants who were interviewed, all reported having had problems with these particular tellers for several years now, of having their cash deposits come up short when counted by one of these particular tellers, and of being met with hostile and belligerent attitudes when they questioned the tellers' counts. It was so pervasive, in fact, that one unnamed merchant told a local reporter that he had years ago instructed his staff to "watch out" for these particular tellers and avoid making deposits at their windows.
Which reminds me an awful lot of what I discovered in the aftermath of Gerald Klever's arrest: everyone in town knew. Everyone in town fucking knew. They knew that he had a taste for young girls, and they knew of his predatory behavior. The older teen girls knew that you never accepted a babysitting request from the Klevers. The moms of the older girls knew that play dates should be at their own houses, not at the Klevers. It was just not discussed, and no one did a damned thing about it.
Why in the hell didn't the bank manager (who allowed the ATM theft to occur by dint of her not adhering to corporate procedures regarding double-signature verifications of cash balances) take seriously the multiple complaints from local merchants - who were shorted on virtually every cash deposit that they made? Why didn't she investigate? Why didn't any of the merchants file a police report? Or, hell, why didn't the merchants simply talk to their peers and discover years ago just how big a problem was sitting under their noses?
Why did Klever's wife permit these atrocities to go on under her own roof, and do nothing about it (let alone do anything to protect her own children)?
Why didn't the adults of my town call that miserable son-of-a-bitch to account for his actions decades ago, sparing god knows how many other children his vile attentions?
All that is required for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. Please remember that the next time you're tempted to "not make a big deal" out of something.
***
(The three former tellers will be tried and are likely to do time at a state facility, where "lifers" are imprisoned. Their lives, as they know them, are over. They are very likely to receive much harsher sentences than Klever did. What a world we live in.)
The short version is that the head teller at our local bank - located across from the police office! - started stealing money from the bank's ATM machine several years ago, falsifying records to cover her tracks. Eventually two other tellers joined in the scheme with her, and the theft expanded to include shorting cash deposits made by local merchants and stealing coins collected from the town parking meters.
The three women are being collectively charged with stealing over $100,000 from the bank, and the true number is surely many orders of magnitude higher.
Reading our local paper last night and trying to explain to my aghast sons what had happened, something struck me. Of the local merchants who were interviewed, all reported having had problems with these particular tellers for several years now, of having their cash deposits come up short when counted by one of these particular tellers, and of being met with hostile and belligerent attitudes when they questioned the tellers' counts. It was so pervasive, in fact, that one unnamed merchant told a local reporter that he had years ago instructed his staff to "watch out" for these particular tellers and avoid making deposits at their windows.
Which reminds me an awful lot of what I discovered in the aftermath of Gerald Klever's arrest: everyone in town knew. Everyone in town fucking knew. They knew that he had a taste for young girls, and they knew of his predatory behavior. The older teen girls knew that you never accepted a babysitting request from the Klevers. The moms of the older girls knew that play dates should be at their own houses, not at the Klevers. It was just not discussed, and no one did a damned thing about it.
Why in the hell didn't the bank manager (who allowed the ATM theft to occur by dint of her not adhering to corporate procedures regarding double-signature verifications of cash balances) take seriously the multiple complaints from local merchants - who were shorted on virtually every cash deposit that they made? Why didn't she investigate? Why didn't any of the merchants file a police report? Or, hell, why didn't the merchants simply talk to their peers and discover years ago just how big a problem was sitting under their noses?
Why did Klever's wife permit these atrocities to go on under her own roof, and do nothing about it (let alone do anything to protect her own children)?
Why didn't the adults of my town call that miserable son-of-a-bitch to account for his actions decades ago, sparing god knows how many other children his vile attentions?
All that is required for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. Please remember that the next time you're tempted to "not make a big deal" out of something.
***
(The three former tellers will be tried and are likely to do time at a state facility, where "lifers" are imprisoned. Their lives, as they know them, are over. They are very likely to receive much harsher sentences than Klever did. What a world we live in.)
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Tragedies both Great and Small
Chuck and I met when I was fleeing the non-profit sector in my late twenties and he was busy launching yet another business venture, which eventually turned into a successful internet promotions company. As a consultant I helped him develop financial projections for his new business plan, and for months, we met in the classrooms of a local computer equipment store (snitching some of the truly awful coffee laid out for the students), as he did not yet have office space. Possessor of a hugely entrepreneurial spirit, Chuck always assumed the best of people, and he placed abundant trust in me with very little rational justification. As the company grew and acquired capital funding (and office space) I grew with it, becoming employee #5 of a staff of over fifty and learning the foundations of what has become a successful and lucrative career.
Chuck did not stay with the company for long after funding, preferring to chase down new ideas and business ventures. I stayed long enough to max out my earnings potential, and left six years ago to pursue growth possibilities at what has become my dream job. But Chuck and I always stayed in touch, and he and his wife have been fixtures at our annual holiday party. Larger than life, always the most exuberant person in the room, Chuck's enthusiasm for everything from marketing to motorcycles to cigars to food was infectious, and he was always quickly the most popular person in whatever room he was in.
On Friday afternoon I received an email from Chuck's wife. "Chuck is very sick, and I thought you would want to know." It took me a few hours to reach her by phone, and when I did, I learned to my shock that Chuck had been diagnosed with liver cancer in May, and the situation was hopeless. Hospice care began Friday, and he died at home yesterday morning.
I am so grateful to have had a chance to say goodbye to him, to thank him for his trust in me, and to tell him how much I've valued his friendship. My life has been infinitely richer for the doors he has opened for me, and it's difficult to comprehend the loss of such a brightly burning light.
***
And in other news, Michael took the kids to the pediatrician yesterday for their well visits. Our afternoon phone call ran thusly:
"Any news from the doctor's appointment?"
"Well, Garrick is almost 5' and Quin is 5' 4.75"."
"No, that's not right -- Quin's not as tall as me yet, and I'm 5' 4". He's 5' 3.75"."
"The nurse said 5' 4.75"."
"She's wrong. He's been keeping track of this, waiting to surpass me -- I'm telling you, he's not there yet. The nurse misspoke."
So when I got home that evening, of course we had to check, first back-to-back, then up against the wall with comparative thumbnail scratches in the paint.
Sonuvabitch.
Guess how tall Quinlan is?
So it was a tough day, all told.
(And, for the record, isn't it against most laws of nature for a kid to grow a full inch in two weeks? 'Cuz that's what seems to have happened.)
Chuck did not stay with the company for long after funding, preferring to chase down new ideas and business ventures. I stayed long enough to max out my earnings potential, and left six years ago to pursue growth possibilities at what has become my dream job. But Chuck and I always stayed in touch, and he and his wife have been fixtures at our annual holiday party. Larger than life, always the most exuberant person in the room, Chuck's enthusiasm for everything from marketing to motorcycles to cigars to food was infectious, and he was always quickly the most popular person in whatever room he was in.
On Friday afternoon I received an email from Chuck's wife. "Chuck is very sick, and I thought you would want to know." It took me a few hours to reach her by phone, and when I did, I learned to my shock that Chuck had been diagnosed with liver cancer in May, and the situation was hopeless. Hospice care began Friday, and he died at home yesterday morning.
I am so grateful to have had a chance to say goodbye to him, to thank him for his trust in me, and to tell him how much I've valued his friendship. My life has been infinitely richer for the doors he has opened for me, and it's difficult to comprehend the loss of such a brightly burning light.
***
And in other news, Michael took the kids to the pediatrician yesterday for their well visits. Our afternoon phone call ran thusly:
"Any news from the doctor's appointment?"
"Well, Garrick is almost 5' and Quin is 5' 4.75"."
"No, that's not right -- Quin's not as tall as me yet, and I'm 5' 4". He's 5' 3.75"."
"The nurse said 5' 4.75"."
"She's wrong. He's been keeping track of this, waiting to surpass me -- I'm telling you, he's not there yet. The nurse misspoke."
So when I got home that evening, of course we had to check, first back-to-back, then up against the wall with comparative thumbnail scratches in the paint.
Sonuvabitch.
Guess how tall Quinlan is?
So it was a tough day, all told.
(And, for the record, isn't it against most laws of nature for a kid to grow a full inch in two weeks? 'Cuz that's what seems to have happened.)
Friday, April 17, 2009
Every Day a Little Death
In our house it is birthday season, which begins with Quin in April, follows with Garrick in May, and concludes with me and Michael in June and July. As Garrick requested a pool party this year, we are carpetbagging at the YMCA (to which we do not belong) and I am inwardly grateful to be avoiding a house party.
So I ducked out of the office today to drive over to the Y and sign the contract, and didn't realize until I halfway there (because I am carpetbagging) that this YMCA is next door to the retirement community where my grandmother lived out the last, difficult months of her life, and I was suddenly grief-stricken. I haven't been to her real home (outside Poughkeepsie, New York) since we buried her ashes in November 2007, and the impulse to go visit and sit by her graveside and strew zinnia seeds was so overwhelming, I nearly headed straight for the Jersey Turnpike.
And I started thinking, while I drove, of all the things she hasn't witnessed (Quin's straight-A report cards, Garrick's incredible creative writing, Michael's songwriting awards) and I thought how proud she would be to know about my baking business (which is not only bringing in revenue but developing a following, lord help me). And I imagined how she would temper her pride with warnings of how hard a life in food service is, hearkening back to the days when she and my grandfather owned a restaurant for all those years, and people came from over 100 miles to have a slice of her amazing cheesecake.
(I learned to make change in that restaurant, my six-year-old self standing on a chair behind the cash register and leaning with all my might to depress the big push-key that rang the total. "Vincent's" was named for my grandfather, who died when I was 15, and whose spirit visited me the day that Garrick was born, almost eleven years ago. The nurse had taken the baby to get washed, the midwife had just finished stitching me up, and Michael was down the hall making calls. In the 2-3 minutes that the room was empty of medical personnel and family members, I suddenly felt my grandfather's presence with laser-like intensity. I was out of the country on a school trip when he died after a horrible battle with lung cancer, and will always regret not knowing him in my adulthood.)
And perhaps it's because our little town lost a beloved community stalwart yesterday, but I can't help but feel today that it's all going by much too quickly. My schedule of late has not allowed much in the way of time for introspection, but I did have a moment of clarity earlier this week regarding the increasingly challenging (if not ridiculous) goals that I've been setting for myself over the last few years. From the first year of PKD fundraising, to the amped-up second year, to opening a baking business: these are all things that, when my kidneys finish failing, I will no longer have the time or energy to contemplate, let alone do.
So.
These days I am feeling a kinship with marathon runners who get a rush from meeting and achieving the challenge: this morning, in my sixth week of business, I delivered my 100th cake to the Co-Op. I've been baking until midnight several nights a week, not even noticing the fatigue until the last pan is washed (usually by Michael) and I'm upstairs in the bedroom. I am somewhat disgustingly proud of myself, and in spite of being so fatigued that I'm in a partial out-of-body haze most days, my brain is saying to me "What's next?". Because it is a splendidly gorgeous spring day out there, and even running on 60% of the sleep I need to function properly, I have an overwhelming urge to go and do and be and create and achieve more and more and more while I still can.
***
It is birthday season in our house and we are celebrating the years-ago arrivals of our incredible, fascinating sons, neither of whom ever had a chance to know my father's mother, who died when Quin was six months old. It is birthday season and the weather is voluptuous and I've baked and been paid for 100 cakes and am feeling omnipotent, and when I drove into town today and saw the impromptu tribute of notes and flowers that has sprung up in honor of our town's lost friend, I realize that time is the key element, time is what we can never have enough of. T.S. Eliot said it right.
I'll be in my garden this weekend, up to my elbows in dirt, trying to enliven the dull roots while I can.
So I ducked out of the office today to drive over to the Y and sign the contract, and didn't realize until I halfway there (because I am carpetbagging) that this YMCA is next door to the retirement community where my grandmother lived out the last, difficult months of her life, and I was suddenly grief-stricken. I haven't been to her real home (outside Poughkeepsie, New York) since we buried her ashes in November 2007, and the impulse to go visit and sit by her graveside and strew zinnia seeds was so overwhelming, I nearly headed straight for the Jersey Turnpike.
And I started thinking, while I drove, of all the things she hasn't witnessed (Quin's straight-A report cards, Garrick's incredible creative writing, Michael's songwriting awards) and I thought how proud she would be to know about my baking business (which is not only bringing in revenue but developing a following, lord help me). And I imagined how she would temper her pride with warnings of how hard a life in food service is, hearkening back to the days when she and my grandfather owned a restaurant for all those years, and people came from over 100 miles to have a slice of her amazing cheesecake.
(I learned to make change in that restaurant, my six-year-old self standing on a chair behind the cash register and leaning with all my might to depress the big push-key that rang the total. "Vincent's" was named for my grandfather, who died when I was 15, and whose spirit visited me the day that Garrick was born, almost eleven years ago. The nurse had taken the baby to get washed, the midwife had just finished stitching me up, and Michael was down the hall making calls. In the 2-3 minutes that the room was empty of medical personnel and family members, I suddenly felt my grandfather's presence with laser-like intensity. I was out of the country on a school trip when he died after a horrible battle with lung cancer, and will always regret not knowing him in my adulthood.)
And perhaps it's because our little town lost a beloved community stalwart yesterday, but I can't help but feel today that it's all going by much too quickly. My schedule of late has not allowed much in the way of time for introspection, but I did have a moment of clarity earlier this week regarding the increasingly challenging (if not ridiculous) goals that I've been setting for myself over the last few years. From the first year of PKD fundraising, to the amped-up second year, to opening a baking business: these are all things that, when my kidneys finish failing, I will no longer have the time or energy to contemplate, let alone do.
So.
These days I am feeling a kinship with marathon runners who get a rush from meeting and achieving the challenge: this morning, in my sixth week of business, I delivered my 100th cake to the Co-Op. I've been baking until midnight several nights a week, not even noticing the fatigue until the last pan is washed (usually by Michael) and I'm upstairs in the bedroom. I am somewhat disgustingly proud of myself, and in spite of being so fatigued that I'm in a partial out-of-body haze most days, my brain is saying to me "What's next?". Because it is a splendidly gorgeous spring day out there, and even running on 60% of the sleep I need to function properly, I have an overwhelming urge to go and do and be and create and achieve more and more and more while I still can.
***
It is birthday season in our house and we are celebrating the years-ago arrivals of our incredible, fascinating sons, neither of whom ever had a chance to know my father's mother, who died when Quin was six months old. It is birthday season and the weather is voluptuous and I've baked and been paid for 100 cakes and am feeling omnipotent, and when I drove into town today and saw the impromptu tribute of notes and flowers that has sprung up in honor of our town's lost friend, I realize that time is the key element, time is what we can never have enough of. T.S. Eliot said it right.
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
I'll be in my garden this weekend, up to my elbows in dirt, trying to enliven the dull roots while I can.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Friday Flashback: Birthday Edition
Two years ago, I was anxiety-ridden about Quin's transition to middle school. Our district has three small, neighborhood elementary schools feeding into one large, impersonal middle school, so it was bound to be a jarring transition, full of not only new routines, teachers and buildings to learn, but lots of new kids as well. New kids who hadn't gone through the easy-going elementary years with Quin. New kids who were not attuned to and unworried by Quin's... quirks. New kids who might be inclined to tease, or bully.
How I worried.
I had to fight the urge to phone every parent of a sixth-grader in the new school directory to tell them, listen, my kid's different and he can't help it. He may not look disabled or be obviously impaired, but he is, and he does peculiar things sometimes and is completely unaware of his surroundings sometimes. He does have one friend in his grade, yes, one friend, but is really going to need more friends and buffers and protectors in this new, enormous, anonymous place. I would be so grateful if your kid would be a friend to my kid and not tease him and maybe help him out a little. Please?
*****
I didn't do that, of course, but I did what I could for a kid who hates changes to routine and who sucks at transitions. We received his daily schedule ahead of time so we could go to the empty school building and walk the transitions between periods. We bought a Masterlock so he could practice how to get in and out of his locker. We bought school supplies and organized folders and went to group orientations.
And school started.
And after a few little bumps, it seemed as though Quin was starting to adjust well to the new routines. He started remembering assignments and books, and stopped arriving late to classes.
And I started hearing about a few new friends -- most notably B. in his gym class, who laughed at all of Quin's jokes and did silly things and was just fun to be with.
After a few weeks of tales of B., Quin mentioned that he sometimes uses a wheelchair -- but sometimes he uses a walker. At first, I was a little piqued that the school, in its infinite wisdom, had ghettoized all of the special needs kids in the same gym class (there was a girl with Downs Syndrome we were hearing stories about, too), but I let it go with some gratitude that at least Quin had found a friend.
*****
I was really looking forward to finally meeting B. and his mom when Quin's twelfth birthday rolled around last spring. We planned a romp at a local "family fun center" which would consist mostly of video games and rock-wall climbing, with pizza and cake to wind things up. When RSVPing, B.'s mom assured me that he wouldn't miss Quin's party for the world, though Quin wasn't sure how well B. would navigate the video games and whatnot.
Though I have never tried to confirm this, my guess upon meeting B. was that he has cerebral palsy. His speech and locomotion are pretty severely impaired, but his impish humor is easy to read and the affection between him and Quin was plain to see. While Quin showed B. to the party room to stow his coat, I spent a few minutes chatting with B.'s mom.
And what she said just about bowled me over. She, too, had been worried sick about her son's transition to middle school, and had been most anxious that he wouldn't make friends. And she was so obviously relieved and grateful that Quin had become B.'s friend that it hit me: while I'd been hoping that Quin would find a friend/protector who would help him navigate the scary new waters of middle school, he confounded my expectations by becoming a friend/protector himself.
In all of Quin's dinner time stories of the silly games that he and B. played together, he never mentioned that he helps B. with his walker when it gets stuck. Or that he goes up to the lunch counter with him when B. gets a snack, because B. doesn't like doing it by himself. Or that when the lunch ladies told B. that his account balance was low, Quin wrote a note to B.'s mom and sent it home with him, just in case B. forgot to tell his mom about the low balance.
And why would he? These are not noteworthy things, after all. Not nearly as interesting as the new game they've created involving B.'s stealing Quin's glasses and pretending to wear them. These are just things you do, unasked, when your friend needs a hand.
But hearing about them made me tear up, nonetheless.
Quin turns 13 today, and I am much less anxious for his future than I was five years ago when he was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome. As I imagine his future, I think he is not only going to be rich in friends who share his sense of humor and obsession with Bionicles, he is also going to be a thoughtful and kind friend to others. And for that, I am so very grateful.
Happy birthday, baby. I love you so much.
How I worried.
I had to fight the urge to phone every parent of a sixth-grader in the new school directory to tell them, listen, my kid's different and he can't help it. He may not look disabled or be obviously impaired, but he is, and he does peculiar things sometimes and is completely unaware of his surroundings sometimes. He does have one friend in his grade, yes, one friend, but is really going to need more friends and buffers and protectors in this new, enormous, anonymous place. I would be so grateful if your kid would be a friend to my kid and not tease him and maybe help him out a little. Please?
*****
I didn't do that, of course, but I did what I could for a kid who hates changes to routine and who sucks at transitions. We received his daily schedule ahead of time so we could go to the empty school building and walk the transitions between periods. We bought a Masterlock so he could practice how to get in and out of his locker. We bought school supplies and organized folders and went to group orientations.
And school started.
And after a few little bumps, it seemed as though Quin was starting to adjust well to the new routines. He started remembering assignments and books, and stopped arriving late to classes.
And I started hearing about a few new friends -- most notably B. in his gym class, who laughed at all of Quin's jokes and did silly things and was just fun to be with.
After a few weeks of tales of B., Quin mentioned that he sometimes uses a wheelchair -- but sometimes he uses a walker. At first, I was a little piqued that the school, in its infinite wisdom, had ghettoized all of the special needs kids in the same gym class (there was a girl with Downs Syndrome we were hearing stories about, too), but I let it go with some gratitude that at least Quin had found a friend.
*****
I was really looking forward to finally meeting B. and his mom when Quin's twelfth birthday rolled around last spring. We planned a romp at a local "family fun center" which would consist mostly of video games and rock-wall climbing, with pizza and cake to wind things up. When RSVPing, B.'s mom assured me that he wouldn't miss Quin's party for the world, though Quin wasn't sure how well B. would navigate the video games and whatnot.
Though I have never tried to confirm this, my guess upon meeting B. was that he has cerebral palsy. His speech and locomotion are pretty severely impaired, but his impish humor is easy to read and the affection between him and Quin was plain to see. While Quin showed B. to the party room to stow his coat, I spent a few minutes chatting with B.'s mom.
And what she said just about bowled me over. She, too, had been worried sick about her son's transition to middle school, and had been most anxious that he wouldn't make friends. And she was so obviously relieved and grateful that Quin had become B.'s friend that it hit me: while I'd been hoping that Quin would find a friend/protector who would help him navigate the scary new waters of middle school, he confounded my expectations by becoming a friend/protector himself.
In all of Quin's dinner time stories of the silly games that he and B. played together, he never mentioned that he helps B. with his walker when it gets stuck. Or that he goes up to the lunch counter with him when B. gets a snack, because B. doesn't like doing it by himself. Or that when the lunch ladies told B. that his account balance was low, Quin wrote a note to B.'s mom and sent it home with him, just in case B. forgot to tell his mom about the low balance.
And why would he? These are not noteworthy things, after all. Not nearly as interesting as the new game they've created involving B.'s stealing Quin's glasses and pretending to wear them. These are just things you do, unasked, when your friend needs a hand.
But hearing about them made me tear up, nonetheless.
Quin turns 13 today, and I am much less anxious for his future than I was five years ago when he was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome. As I imagine his future, I think he is not only going to be rich in friends who share his sense of humor and obsession with Bionicles, he is also going to be a thoughtful and kind friend to others. And for that, I am so very grateful.
Happy birthday, baby. I love you so much.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Whither Inspiration?
As I sludge my way through the oppressiveness of winter, it occurred to me this week that the one sure-fire solution to my seasonal blahs is to find inspiration -- in a project, a goal, a challenge. Unfortunately, inspiration has been tougher and tougher to come by as the dreary months slog ever-onward.
(One or two days out of each week I find myself feeling under the weather, as if a virus is looming -- in my sinuses, the back of my throat -- but not quite emerging into full flower. I find the phrase "under the weather" particularly apt, as my current sense of myself is of being pressed upon, flattened, immobilized by the grey skies and brittle cold. I am UNDER the weather literally and metaphorically, heavy with dullness and unable to move without huge effort. Like the old lady in the late-night commercials, I can't get up. There should be a LifeLine for seasonal depression. "Help, I'm depressed and can't find the motivation to fold the 1-week-old clean laundry! Send the EMTs!")
Since fumbling through the holidays with no mojo, I've been struggling to find sources of inspiration. Entertaining usually does it for me, as do gardening, baking, and theatre. Reading. Sometimes, even, writing. No dice this year. I had a flash of inspiration regarding redecorating Quin's room, but it was fleeting. (No, the room's not done yet. Yes, it will likely drag on for weeks, if not months.) I have a theatre project on the horizon and am having to force myself to confront it and get ready for rehearsals in February. And all of the usual stuff that needs dealing with still needs dealing with. (Plus, more frocking plumbing issues. Kill me now.)
But I'm trying. I've been thinking about music and how much less of it there is in my life now than 20 years ago. I played classical piano for about 10 years (with forays into violin and piccolo), sang in several select choirs in high school, and was always surrounded by classical music as a kid. It's been literal decades since I've had music as a daily part of my life, partially due to inattention, partially due to the protective blanket of silence that I wind around myself when overwhelmed.
This evening I'm going to the orchestra with my father -- something I haven't done in decades. He burned several CDs for me of my old favorites for Christmas, and I am using them as poultices against sluggish inactivity at work. And for the first time in years, I sat down to the piano a few evenings ago and spent a wonderful half-hour revisiting some of my old pieces. It was a balm, temporary, but soothing. Something I should do more often.
What inspires you?...
(One or two days out of each week I find myself feeling under the weather, as if a virus is looming -- in my sinuses, the back of my throat -- but not quite emerging into full flower. I find the phrase "under the weather" particularly apt, as my current sense of myself is of being pressed upon, flattened, immobilized by the grey skies and brittle cold. I am UNDER the weather literally and metaphorically, heavy with dullness and unable to move without huge effort. Like the old lady in the late-night commercials, I can't get up. There should be a LifeLine for seasonal depression. "Help, I'm depressed and can't find the motivation to fold the 1-week-old clean laundry! Send the EMTs!")
Since fumbling through the holidays with no mojo, I've been struggling to find sources of inspiration. Entertaining usually does it for me, as do gardening, baking, and theatre. Reading. Sometimes, even, writing. No dice this year. I had a flash of inspiration regarding redecorating Quin's room, but it was fleeting. (No, the room's not done yet. Yes, it will likely drag on for weeks, if not months.) I have a theatre project on the horizon and am having to force myself to confront it and get ready for rehearsals in February. And all of the usual stuff that needs dealing with still needs dealing with. (Plus, more frocking plumbing issues. Kill me now.)
But I'm trying. I've been thinking about music and how much less of it there is in my life now than 20 years ago. I played classical piano for about 10 years (with forays into violin and piccolo), sang in several select choirs in high school, and was always surrounded by classical music as a kid. It's been literal decades since I've had music as a daily part of my life, partially due to inattention, partially due to the protective blanket of silence that I wind around myself when overwhelmed.
This evening I'm going to the orchestra with my father -- something I haven't done in decades. He burned several CDs for me of my old favorites for Christmas, and I am using them as poultices against sluggish inactivity at work. And for the first time in years, I sat down to the piano a few evenings ago and spent a wonderful half-hour revisiting some of my old pieces. It was a balm, temporary, but soothing. Something I should do more often.
What inspires you?...
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