Is That The Shirt You're Wearing

by Kristen Brakeman

  Because eating gluten-free prepared foods was like eating food from a parallel universe – it looked like regular food and for the first few bites it even tasted like it, but by bite number four it tasted too sugary or too powdery or too odd to make you want to eat any more. Frankly at six bucks for a bag of gluten- free pasta or gluten-free cookies, who could afford to get full?

  Though my family and I were being truthful when we said that the gluten-free substitutes were good, they weren’t really. It’s just that we were all so damn hungry. They were only “good” in the way that if you’d been stuck on a deserted island for six months eating nothing but insects, and these were the first foods someone gave you upon being rescued, then yes, they’d be good. Anything would be good.

  I kept my unhappiness to myself, but soon found out that I was not alone. I noticed that my youngest had started accepting unusual invitations. “Really, you want to go to Abby’s younger brother’s T-ball game? Why?”

  “Abby said we’d get pizza after. I’m sorry, Mom, but I gotta get some gluten. I need it. I need it bad,” Peyton admitted.

  Chloe had missed her fifth dinner at home in as many nights. “Why are your study groups always at dinner time? You’re not . . . you’re not going from house to house in search of gluten are you?”

  “No, no, of course not,” she answered, eyes cast down. Finally, “All right, yes, I can’t help it. Eating that gluten-free food is like eating air. I can’t do it anymore. I’m so hungry all the time!” she confessed.

  My eldest and youngest daughters shared more than my brown eyes; they were weak-willed bread-aholics as well.

  Then, there was the day at work I broke down and ate those delicious pretzels. Really, I wouldn’t have done it had there been some gluten-free choices. I swear. As I ate those crunchy bad boys I wished I wasn’t at work so I could have washed ‘em down with a hearty stout. Apparently pretzels were my gluten gateway drug.

  But the joy I felt eating them quickly turned to guilt. What kind of horrible mother was I that I couldn’t even last a month without wheat for the sake of my daughter’s health? Was I some kind of gluten addict?

  I debated confessing to Samantha while we waited in line at the local burger joint. As I prepared to order two “protein burgers” (wrapped in lettuce instead of a bun) Samantha asked why I didn’t order myself a regular burger instead.

  “Because we’ve gone gluten-free, remember? And I’m trying to be supportive, but, why, are you saying you wouldn’t mind?”

  “No. It doesn’t bother me when people eat gluten in front of me. In fact, I think it’s annoying when they don’t eat it because of me,” she said.

  “You’re sure? You’re not just saying that and then later you’ll write in your memoirs about how rotten your mother was?”

  “No, I’m not you.” Ouch.

  So I ate my burger, bun and all, and damn if it wasn’t the tastiest thing ever. As I finished, I looked at my daughter with admiration. She had handled her diagnosis and this whole gluten-free thing amazingly well, especially considering her age. Now here she was generously telling me to enjoy my gluten- filled food guilt-free.

  If she turned out this great, maybe I wasn’t such a bad mother.

  Or maybe that’s the gluten talking.

  Middle of Week One

  Mario has become a real jerk, a jerk with a split personality disorder. One minute he’s snuggling with the girls, then the next he’s destroying the things they hold most dear.

  He also likes to hide behind a bed or a chair and then leap out to surprise poor, unsuspecting Buddy. “Oh no, not again,” poor Buddy always says after. At least, that’s what I think he says. It’s no wonder Buddy takes off on solitary hikes up in the hills whenever he gets a chance.

  When we first got Buddy we allowed him to take hikes by himself all the time because it seemed like a brilliant solution for lazy dog owners. He would get his exercise while we sat on our asses and did nothing. But then, one day he came trotting back to our house carrying a large black stick in his mouth.

  “Oh, did Buddy find a big stick?” I asked in my baby-talk

  voice.

  Buddy dropped that big black stick on our living room carpet, like a gift.

  “That is one big stick,” I said proudly, as I inspected it more closely. But then the gruesome discovery: “Oh my God that stick has a hoof on the end, and there’s hair! That’s not a stick. It’s a leg! It’s a deer leg! And it’s on our carpet!”

  We were horrified, but not quite enough to curtail Buddy’s solitary hikes. Our laziness dwarfed our common sense. Two days later Buddy came back with a second leg. Leg number three arrived on our doorstep the day after. We did some calculations and realized that another leg would be heading our way soon if we didn’t put a stop to the madness. Also, Buddy didn’t take down that deer himself. He was enjoying the spoils a mountain lion left behind. If a big cat was that close it was foolish to let Buddy go out hiking unprotected.

  It still amazes me that it took the arrival of three separate deer legs for us to come to this conclusion.

  So now we try to keep Buddy at home, but every once in a while he sneaks out when we’re not looking. When he returns home he is clearly exhilarated, and I swear he flaunts it in the cat’s face as his way of getting revenge.

  He prances in proudly, panting and smelling of sage, and brushes by Mario with his body. “Hey cat, what up? I’ve been out exploring the magnificent world. How ‘bout you?”

  End of Week One

  I was getting Samantha her breakfast so she could take her post-knee surgery pain pill early this morning when a box of Gluten-Free Rice Krispies fell on my head. As I stood there, hair and sweatshirt covered in pieces of cereal, my anger turned towards my daughter, but not the gluten-free boney tumor-less one.

  No, it’s the older daughter who has earned my wrath. Because, had she gotten home at a decent hour last night, then I would have gotten enough sleep and I wouldn’t have placed the cereal box so precariously atop the refrigerator just now.

  Chloe’s been celebrating graduation for eight days and I’ve had about enough. I’m starting to see why people say that by the time your kid goes off to college you’re ready to show them the door.

  But oh yeah, I’m still savoring every moment. Savor, savor, savor.

  I know. I know. Chloe worked really hard in school and deserves a break and blah, blah, blah. Also she’s working this summer at a doctor’s office and makes money helping these two middle-aged women with their computers and their social media. So it’s not like she’s being lazy.

  In retrospect I should have had Chloe spend this summer teaching my mom how to use a computer. Then I could just email her, which would be so much easier than trying to talk on the phone.

  I want to call my mom once or twice a week, but I invariably put it off. Her hearing has gotten so much worse and now I have to yell into the phone, and most of the time it feels like she doesn’t really care about what it is that I’m yelling at her about. I think it’s another way that old people become like children again. They get more and more self-absorbed and less interested in the outside world.

  I wonder if I should suggest that my daughter create a flyer so she could get more clients for her new middle-aged- women-computer-social-media-help business?

  Or I could keep my mouth shut and stop trying to micromanage her life. That truly is the hardest part about having an almost adult child, keeping your mouth shut when every fiber of your body wants to say things like: did you write your graduation thank-you notes? And did you take out the recycling bin like I asked you six times? And why the hell are you wearing those shorts that clearly don’t fit you?

  But more worrisome right now is the abundance of ants that have now appeared in my kitchen. I imagine they’re attracted to the Gluten-Free Rice Krispies that are covering the counters and the floor.

  I’m rather envious of the ants. They don’t have to worry about carousing teens or aging self-involved pare
nts. They just walk back and forth collecting Gluten-Free Rice Krispies without a care in the world.

  Until I kill them, that is.

  10 Ways To Annoy Your Kids

  Though I love my kids, sometimes their condescending tone can get to me. It’s like they think I’m an idiot, an out-of- touch embarrassing idiot. But I don’t get it. It’s not like I’m the mom that shows up at school in sweatpants or revealing short skirts and high heels. I’ve seen the other moms, and there’s a ton who are way more embarrassing than me.

  That’s why their attitude bugs me. But since I can’t seem to change it, I’ve decided to retaliate. I now purposely try to annoy them. I know, it’s immature. But I figure if it releases some of my pent-up anger, then we’re all better off in the long run.

  Here’s how:

  1. Mispronounce things they hold dear. Annoy them with statements like, “Is this song by that boy band you like, Wrong Direction?” (“Mom - It’s One Direction!”) And, “Why don’t you post that picture on your Snappy page?” Feign shock when they correct you, each and every time.

  2. Pretend you signed up to chaperone their field trips or better yet, dances. Follow through only if feeling really vindictive and have that kind of time to waste.

  3. Be much too interested in their interests. “So what happened in drama class today? When will Mr. Pratt start the auditions? Did he say? Are you going to audition for the role of Juliet or Nurse? How many words are in the play?” Or “How many classes do you have with Sage this year? How bout Alissa? Brynn? Sabrina? Garrett? Jeannie? Caroline? Beth? David? Avery? Maddy . . . ?” Or even better, “Did Natalie hook up with Derek this summer? How long have they been together? Do you think they’ll go to prom?”

  4. Hide their favorite clothes. Heck, they accuse you of doing it every day anyway. Stash their “only good pair of jeans” under the bed. Hide their favorite black bandeau behind their curtains. Stow one track shoe in their sock drawer. (Bonus – this helps prove your point that if they kept their room tidier they could find things easier.)

  5. When their friends come over to visit, overstay your welcome. Plop your body on the couch right between them and try really hard to teen talk: “So what movie you watching? Oh, The Vow? I loved that one. Channing Tatum is totes hot. It’s redonkuluss!” Which leads me to . . .

  6. Use their slang, but use it wrong. “This lasagna is so ghetto . . . Those potholes are sick . . . Pass me the peas, cuz YOLO! . . . Hey there Mr. Car, don’t get all up in my grill . . . Daddy’s gone golfing, you know your baby daddy’s a real playa .

  . . Wow, our cell phone bill is so high, why they get all chillin on me? . . . Girls, did you let someone in your back door? Total Fail, Rachets!”

  7. Dance. At home, in the car, in the store - whenever the beat moves you, and the more enthusiastically, the better.

  8. Offer to contact their school. Whenever they come home whining about some perceived injustice immediately offer to write a strongly worded letter on their behalf. “Why don’t I email your PE teacher and explain that you were having your period so you couldn’t jog the whole mile?” Or, “I’ll write to your English teacher and tell him your bedtime is 10:00 o’clock and you didn’t have time to write the essay.” Or, “Another dress code violation? Let me contact that principal and tell her that I actually prefer you wear short shorts and see-through hooker tops.”

  9. Comment on Twitter or their Instagram page. Though it’s best to reserve this for when you’re really angry.

  10. Exist.

  Week Two

  Peyton has a knack for cutting to the chase. Like when we went to the grocery store this weekend and I ran into four different people that I knew. “God, I wish I looked a little better,” I complained to her after.

  “What?” she asked. “You just look like a mom. I mean, no offense.”

  Sometimes her bluntness is helpful, like when she points out where I forgot to shave, but other times it comes across as mean. “Your head looks like an egg. A giant, long egg. Why is it so egg-like?”

  I didn’t get too upset about the egg insult because she’s sort of right, I do have a giant egg-shaped head. And also it would be cruel to point out the obvious, that she looks just like me.

  Yesterday she stuck her soon-to-be giant egg-shaped head in a catcher’s mask and played softball. My husband is one of the coaches. He loves coaching and it’s nice that one of the kids still likes to hang out with her dad. Afterwards all five of us had a nice dinner at his favorite restaurant for Father’s Day, the second Father’s Day we’ve spent without his dad, and the sixth without mine.

  Two summers ago, a week before Father’s Day, his dad took a fall and broke a couple ribs. When he was at the hospital the doctors discovered that he had a brain tumor and said that he had 6 to 12 months to live. But then, a day later they apologized and said they were wrong, that only a month remained.

  By the time Father’s Day came, my father-in-law could no longer speak and a couple weeks later he left the hospital to die at home. My husband went to stay with his mother. Then, only a day later, while my husband and his mom were having lunch at his father’s bedside, his mom suddenly collapsed.

  At the hospital, the ER doctors gave her the drug that

  sometimes lessens the damage of stroke. After a few hours the stroke specialist came in and examined her. He lifted her left arm and then let it fall back down again, over and over. Then he shook his head and said, with what sounded a lot like disgust, “Nothing. You see that? It didn’t work. Nothing.”

  I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on my husband’s face, as he sat in that tiny metal hospital chair in that cramped ER, rendered speechless as this phantom doctor cavalierly declared that his mother was now all but gone, while his father lay dying at home.

  “Why couldn’t I have young grandparents like they do on TV?” Peyton asked, only two weeks later, after both of my husband’s parents were gone.

  I thought about listing all the reasons why her grandparents and parents both waited until they were older to have kids, but I knew she didn’t want to hear that. She wanted me to cut to the chase.

  So I said, “Cause sometimes life is sucky that way sweetheart. I’m sorry. But it just is.”

  Things Left Behind

  When my in-laws moved into a small apartment closer to our house they began purging their belongings. Besides getting rid of needless junk, they sorted their sentimental keepsakes and divided them up between their sons.

  At the time we weren’t too happy about it. It seemed morbid, and what’s worse, we were suddenly stuck with boxes of mementos from my husband’s childhood, and nowhere to put them. (Um no, I don’t really want that turtle you made in the 2nd grade to reside on our coffee table because it looks a lot like petrified vomit.)

  But after they died, we realized how wrong we were. It turned out that what his parents had done was not only practical, it was incredibly thoughtful. Because of all their sorting and purging, my husband and his brother had very little left to deal with, and for that we were thankful.

  Yet even with all their planning, his parents left behind two items that we couldn’t figure out what to do with. Nobody wanted them, yet nobody wanted to part with them either. And I am now the proud owner of both.

  The first is an unusual painting of a man walking to an outhouse in a pounding rainstorm – a painting that was prominently displayed in my husband’s childhood home and in all others that his parents had lived in since. The second is Chopper, my in-laws’ 150-year-old deaf, arthritic, one-eyed, trembling, foul-smelling mutt. Oh, and he bites.

  When my in-laws first moved to Southern California to

  be near their grandchildren they struggled with loneliness. They had left their circle of friends back home in Northern California, and, besides occasional babysitting, had very little to do. I was worried about them so when I read somewhere that pets were good therapy for the elderly, I suggested that they get a dog.

  It took some convinc
ing, but ultimately they agreed. I began an internet search for the perfect second-hand dog. Eventually I found an adorable Jack Russell terrier (like the one on Frasier) that was available for adoption at the local Humane Society. I called my in-laws and had them rush to the pound before someone else could snap him up.

  Only a few hours later they arrived at our house to introduce us to their new dog. But when we opened the door there was no adorable Jack Russell terrier. Instead, there stood an old, quivering wiry-haired mutt. This dog looked like a German Shepherd had mated with a hedgehog and the hedgehog won.

  “What’s that? Where’s the adorable Jack Russell Terrier?” I demanded. My in-laws explained that they chose this little dog, oddly named “Chopper” because the humane society worker said he was a better match for them. Also, he was free with their “Seniors for Seniors” program. I imagined the humane society workers high-fiving each other and doing a little victory dance as my in-laws walked out the door with this mutt.

  I could not hide my disappointment. This dog was a shoo- in to win an ugliest dog contest, and what’s worse he smelled like a dirty old fish tank.

  But my in-laws fell in love with him, as did my kids. In fact, my children thought I was an awful person for not seeing his appeal.

  My in-laws catered to that dog like he was a newborn baby. They bought him a cozy new bed and a car seat and let him have the run of their house with no boundaries. They gave him a steady diet of table scraps even though their vet reprimanded them for his weight gain. Over the next few years they probably spent thousands of their limited dollars on his ever-increasing medical problems, including an expensive surgery to remove a cancerous eye.

  My husband and his brother joked that their parents treated Chopper like the child they never had. They simply adored that little mutt.