After mastering the DVD player we were treated to photos of my dad and Joan’s husband aboard the family speedboat, happily instructing their eager sons at the wheel. Nearby on the sand, my mother and Joan handed out sandwiches to their daughters while I looked on from a playpen. It could easily have been a vintage ad for Southern California’s tourism industry.
“Oh, there’s Davey, driving the boat,” Joan announced proudly.
“No it’s not. That’s my Kevin!” my mother argued.
“No, I’m sure it’s Davey. Look at his glasses,” Joan insisted.
“I think you need your glasses. That’s Kevin. Look, he’s with Craig and he’s only slightly taller. Davey would have been towering over Craig back then.”
My mom was right. I could recognize my brother’s goofy smile and black glasses anywhere, but I was not about to get into the middle of this debate.
Watching the images of my youthful parents and brothers and sisters, I couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. Seeing my parents, so young and in charge, made me long for the time before the tables turned so dramatically.
A check at the clock confirmed that I needed to end our visit because I had to get back home in time to pick up my kids from school. After proving to Joan that her TV was in working order, we thanked her for lunch and said our goodbyes.
My mother and I walked to the car in silence. I couldn’t help but worry that the visit hadn’t meet her expectations either. I assumed she must have been regretting some of their jabs. Or maybe too much time had passed since their last visit?
As I took her cane and helped her down into the passenger seat of my car, my mother turned and said to me, “Have you ever seen so many old people in one place?”
“I could never live like that,” she continued, “having to eat every meal together, and it was so loud . . . and they let cats in there too! Did you see that? That’s so unsanitary. I know it gets lonely sometimes on my own, but that’s not for me. I need my own space.”
As I settled into my own seat it dawned on me that my mom had a hidden agenda that day. She wasn’t there just to see her old friend, she was trying Joan’s place on for size, deciding whether or not she should move into a Shady Acres of her own.
Of course I knew she had been lonely since my father died, but how did I not know she was considering such an option? I felt bad because she must have pinned hopes on liking Joan’s place. Clearly her disappointment was the cause of their bickering.
I started to say I was sorry that the day was such a disaster when my mom exclaimed, “Well it was certainly wonderful to see Joan again! We had such a lovely visit!”
Really? That was a lovely visit? Perhaps next time I should take her for a lovely visit at a terrorist training camp.
How did she think that two hours of criticizing and chastising her friend was enjoyable? I was baffled. But really, how could I hope to understand a 73-year relationship, one that has withstood separation, loss of their spouses, and now declining health? I can only guess that after all these years together my mom and her best friend don’t have a need or time for the clever dance of white lies. They just want honesty.
For Joan and Joan, that seems to work.
4 days left
School starts in less than a week. I am really regretting leaving so many details to the last minute. What the hell did I do all summer? I should have done all of these things weeks ago.
Today I have to gather the school supplies for my youngest daughter. Her list has about 20 items on it, but we must have most of them already. I’ll be damned if I’m going to buy another set of crayons when we have about 600 crayon pieces sitting in our art cabinet. I can melt them together and then tape some new wrappers on them. Right?
Our “art cabinet” is really two shelves in the kitchen that I use to store construction paper, markers, crayons and craft supplies like fake grass from sushi orders, plastic tables from pizza boxes, and an endless number of empty toilet paper rolls. It seemed like a brilliant idea - a special place that would foster creativity, where the kids could reach in and grab whatever they wanted anytime without my intervention.
But instead the art cabinet has become an overstuffed nightmare of a cupboard that we all avoid because the doors won’t close. So each year I sort out its contents on the kitchen floor and that’s pretty much the only time that the kids have an interest in the art cabinet.
When I was sorting this time I happened upon my favorite craft item, a large package of googly eyes. Few things in life make me happier than googly eyes. They just make me giggle. If I could, I would put googly eyes all over the house, on the furniture, on the mirrors, the appliances, even the pets. I refrain from doing so because I have a husband. I know he would object, especially if he saw hundreds of eyes staring at him from the refrigerator.
I told my children that when I die, I want them to put googly eyes all over my gravestone. Better yet, stuff me in an urn and cover it with googly eyes. That way I could stare at them from the mantel for all eternity.
Wouldn’t that be nice way to remember mommy?
I Wish I Knew You, Dead Person
My mom loves reading the obituary section of the newspaper and I’ve often teased her about it. Besides being morbid, it seemed totally absurd. After all, she didn’t know the deceased, and she clearly never would.
But as one more piece of evidence that I’m slowly turning into my mother, now, every morning I read the obituaries too.
Even though they can be horribly sad, I find them fascinating. I pour over the choices people have made; their schooling, their careers, the number of times they were married
- decades of living all condensed into a few paragraphs and easily digested over corn flakes.
I am most intrigued by the paid obituaries because they are written and paid for by the family members of the deceased. I wonder how truthful they are, because obviously, no one wants to speak ill of the dead. You never see: “Paul was a devoted father, but he couldn’t keep his zipper up, thus his three illegitimate offspring.”
And perhaps Harry’s family embellished his philanthropic acts? “Besides running his international law firm, Harry O’Connor was a mentor for Big Brothers, volunteered daily at the downtown soup kitchen and organized the town’s annual 5K.” Really? Harry did all that while running an international law firm?
What about the two nameless children from a previous marriage, mentioned in the final paragraph - did Harry shirk on child support while being so philanthropic?
I’m also fascinated by the writing styles. Some survivors attempt to use their high school journalism class skills and take on a formal tone. “After moving to Asheville in 1968, Ms. Patterson resurrected her passion for clogging, securing a second place ribbon at Country Jim’s Tri-county Clogging Competition in spring of 1971.” Others take an informal approach: “Dad loved his ceramic turtle collection and claimed to adore Mom’s cooking.”
Some people stress the horrible adversities that the deceased had to overcome as if life was some sort of contest. “Lois was divorced by her first husband who left her in financial ruin. Her second husband died tragically by a cattle stampede while the two were honeymooning on a dude ranch. Yet, through it all, and even with her crippling arthritis and the loss of one third of her internal organs, Lois persevered, even finding time to volunteer at the local animal shelter.”
I always want to know why the person died. If they’re 90, I’m satisfied by any explanation; a life well lived. But, if the unfortunate soul was born in my birth year, I am shaken to the core. My God, they were so young! What could have happened? I search for something unusual like, “Meyers died in a logging accident,” or a sign of stupidity, “Reynolds, a thrill seeker, was attacked by lions when she left the safety of the safari group.” I feel better, knowing these things couldn’t possibly happen to me.
But if the cause was a common illness, then I search for a hint of bad karma, something that might justify their untimely demise. “As Human Resou
rces VP, Sheri was responsible for laying off 2,000 employees and then exporting their jobs to Thailand,” or “Wilson was arrested for torturing kittens.”
Since the paid obituaries can cost about $100 bucks an inch, I’m amazed when I see one take up half a newspaper page. I bet the family members were shocked when told the price tag, but then think, “I can’t short change dear old Dad now.”
I’m hoping to save my family this expense by doing something newsworthy enough to land me a spot in the famous people section, but I haven’t figured out what that would be. “Remarkably, Brakeman discovered a new life form the same year she won the Academy Award for her highly praised performance in Hangover Sixteen.”
Whatever it is, it needs to be good or I’m liable to be bumped by a bigger name if we die on the same day. That would be awful for my family, to see me work so hard for a Nobel Prize and then to have someone more famous, someone like say, Oprah, steal my final moment of glory.
Knowing my life may one day be somebody’s breakfast entertainment makes me realize that every choice matters.
I just hope that Ms. Winfrey has the good manners to meet her maker on another day.
3 days
I am a basketful of stress tied up with a million ribbons
and it feels like my heart is going to beat right out of my chest. My job starts in three days and the plan I had for the kids’ after- school care is shot. I thought I could have my friend Gayle give the kids rides from school on the days my husband and I both worked and then have Chloe watch her younger sisters until we got home. But Chloe went and joined the golf team so she could avoid P.E. class and squeeze in an extra elective, and now it turns out that she actually has to attend golf practice at a golf course three days a week after school. I have no one to drive her to golf and I have no one to watch my younger kids now either. AHHHHH!
Also, Peyton only now realized that my job is going to start on the first day of school. She started sobbing about me not being able to walk her to class each morning and not being able to pick her up after. You’d think she’d be okay walking to 3rd grade, but unlike her sisters who pushed me away in kindergarten, Peyton actually wants me around. Which is nice. So it kills me that I won’t be there to pick her up from school to hear about her first day. I feel like joining her in her sobbing, but perhaps that would make things worse. I tell her about how lots of her friends’ moms work full time, and how lucky she is that I don’t work every week. But she doesn’t care about that.
I tried to switch her focus to her upcoming birthday party. Until today, she was singularly obsessed with her Harry Potter-themed swim party and about the excitement of turning eight. All summer she’s been counting down the days and giving us updates each morning, “Eleven days till my birthday, people.” Boy, that’s an annoying trait. I don’t know where she gets
it.
Don’t Dye Alone
“Oh no. Oh no,” I said as I gazed in the mirror. Again and again, I repeated those same two words: “Oh no.”
Somehow the quiet maniacal repetition kept me from screaming in horror at the sight of my hair – my newly colored hair.
My now much-regretted decision to dye my own hair was prompted by economic reasons. Since my last paycheck came and was spent months ago, I couldn’t justify an expensive highlight job from a fancy salon.
I needed a touch-up because soon I would be starting a new job in an office populated by the young and hip. My dark roots and hints of grey would be a dead giveaway that I was no longer one of the cool kids. My youthful co-workers would surely struggle to find common ground, prompting them to inevitably offer up comparisons to their parents. “Oh, my mom has a phone like yours. She can’t program it either.”
I couldn’t let that happen. Off to CVS for the best highlighting kit my ten dollars could buy. Frankly, if they had an affordable “Home Botox-in-a-Box” I would have sprung for that as well.
I was not at all worried about the outcome. Anything had to be better than my current graying haggard hair, I thought. Oh, how wrong I was.
I skimmed the instructions, “Paint on highlights . . . yeah, yeah, yeah . . . leave in for a maximum of 90 minutes.” Seemed longer than I ever waited in the salon, but maybe the home kits are slower acting?
After painting gobs of the magic age-removing formula on my head I lounged about the living room for a full twenty minutes and fantasized about how impressed my new co- workers would be, “Really, you have three children? But, you look so young!”
Confidently, I walked into the bathroom, eager to see the new me.
When I saw my reflection I was paralyzed with disbelief. My hair had become a hideous patchwork mess of platinum blonde, with orange clumps on the top of my head and giant white streaks above my ears and dark brown chunks at the ends. What had I done?
I quickly washed it, hoping to prevent further damage and praying that it might fix the outcome.
Shampoo complete, I searched the mirror, looking for improvement. This is when the “Oh, no” mantra began in earnest.
By this time I had an audience. “Oh my God! What did you do?” Samantha screamed, clearly shocked.
“Mommy made a little mistake with the hair dye,” I said, trying to stay calm and in control.
“A little mistake! It looks awful. You can’t go out like that!” she said, expressing the hysteria I was feeling. Also it’s likely she was worried that I would embarrass her at her school drop next week.
Within seconds, my other two daughters, the cat and the dog came to investigate.
Peyton was quick to express her shock. “Oh my God! What did you do? You look like a clown! Is Mommy joining the circus?”
Finally, my husband joined the party in the bathroom. “Oh my God! What did you do?” he asked.
“Will everyone stop asking me that? I’ll tell you what I did. I dyed my own hair because I was . . . trying to save money!” my words gradually escalating to a yell.
The family kept their distance from me the rest of the evening. A couple times I caught them stifling their giggles, pretending to hold back a cough. I think one of them whispered something about buying me a wig.
In the morning light, my spirits brightened as I thought my hair looked a bit better. I remarked to Samantha, “Maybe it’s not that bad after all?”
“No. It’s bad . . . really bad,” she said, snapping me back into reality.
A few hours and a couple hundred dollars later, my bad dye job was fixed. The stylists at the salon enjoyed a good laugh at my expense. “You left it on how long again? Maybe you need some reading glasses, eh? Sometimes the eyes start to go at your age. Ha ha.”
Fortunately, with my hair restored to its natural youthful blonde in time for my new job I made fast friends with my youthful co-workers. In fact, we even went out to lunch on my first day. After placing my order for my favorite combo, a Chinese Chicken Salad and an Iced Tea, one of them laughed, “Oh wow, that’s exactly what my Mom always gets!”
Great.
2 days left
My mom’s birthday is tomorrow and I still have no gift. I thought about taking her to one of those bear-stuffing places where you can pick out overpriced bears and dress them in expensive miniature outfits. My mom loves teddy bears. Maybe I could assuage some of my work guilt by buying Peyton a teddy bear too. I’m sure they have an especially expensive Mommy’s- Going-Back-to-Work Teddy.
My mom mentioned recently that she wants to go shopping so I could do that for her birthday instead. I may have to get good and liquored up first though. Those old lady stores are exhausting places. I took her to one before Easter. It should have been called Garanimals for Grandma, with its endless displays of brightly colored coordinating shell and jacket combos alongside matching polyester pull-on pants, thus eliminating any accidental originality. The clothes were so bright they could easily be used as signal flares. Which I suppose is good in case my mom is ever out for a walk and takes a fall.
That day we spent a couple hours tryi
ng on clothes and bought about four or five outfits. As stressful as it was, I was proud of our accomplishment as well as my own endurance. But when I arrived at my mom’s on Easter, I immediately noticed that she wasn’t wearing any of the outfits that I had worked so hard for her to purchase. “Where are your new clothes?” I demanded.
“Oh, I wore the lavender pant suit to church this morning, but I changed so I wouldn’t spill anything on it when
we eat lunch.”
“You mean our family isn’t worthy of your new clothes?” She merely smiled in answer to my question.
Hollister Hell
I’ve been to a little place in parenting hell and its name is Hollister.
Samantha asked for a few new shirts to start the school year. She lobbied hard for a trip to Hollister because she heard they had “cute tanks” on sale. Since she had recently outgrown kid stores, and cleverly showed price awareness, I relented.
Hollister, it turns out, is the slightly less perfumed spawn of Abercrombie & Fitch. It has a beach-themed facade and the clothes in the window displays are indeed quite cute. I could understand why my daughter wanted to shop there.
But, as I walked into the store, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sound of thumping, booming, ear-splitting pop music.
Now I’m not noise sensitive. Besides being married to a sound mixer, in my own line of work I have had to stand right next to speaker columns during rock concerts. I’ve videotaped airplane take offs and I was even on pit road during the Daytona 500 once. But none of these experiences prepared me for the deafening decibels I endured at Hollister. It was like a top-40 terror attack on my senses.
Yet workers seemed oblivious to the assault. Maybe the scientific studies tying hearing loss in teens to earbuds and “iEardamage” technologies are off base - loud stores like Hollister are more likely to blame.
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