Like a football player with the ball tucked securely in the crux of his elbow, diving over a mass of bodies huddled on the one-yard line as he tries to make a touchdown, I threw myself into the crowd fighting for the last cart.
Elbowing my way around the greedy shoppers, protecting my kitschy clutch like a coveted game ball, I made a beeline for their well-stocked supply of chocolate. I smirked as I watched the others scurrying through the aisles, stocking up on more sensible supplies like bread and meat.
As I approached the mob at the checkout line, the harried cashier took one look at my measly purchase and pointed to the end of the line located back by the freezer section. After several minutes of enduring the glares of other parents, their carts overflowing with enough food to last them through Memorial Day, I thought it best to blend and threw some milk and eggs in my cart for good measure.
Normally, this little excursion would've taken me fifteen minutes, tops. Two hours later, I arrived home with my stash.
Was it worth it? Let me put it this way—there was no way, on God's white earth, that I was going to weather this snowflake tsunami without a little cold cocoa comfort.
My boys, on the other hand, had a different reaction entirely. As soon as they heard the "B" word, my younger two crossed their fingers and toes, hoping that school would be cancelled. The older two were more skeptical. They've had their hopes dashed before.
For the record, this plate-spinning telecommuter has mixed feelings about snow days.
On one hand, a day off for the boys means that I don't have to worry about making lunches and getting them to and fro. I can focus on my job that I am blessed to be able to do from my home office. The only interruption in my day would be shouting out rosters for the rotating shoveling shifts.
On the other hand, there would be the inevitable interruptions to help with boots and snow pants, dole out hot chocolate, and ensure that they spend at least some of their newfound freedom on studying a bit.
Still, every single weather authority agreed that we were in for a winter wonderland version of Armageddon.
So confident was I in their forecasts that I didn't even plan to set my alarm for the next morning. I just knew that I would be awoken by the velvety voice of our school district's superintendent, informing me of the cancellation.
Next time, though, I'll have to remember to ask him to keep a door unlocked for me at one of the schools so I could get my work done there… I'd even be willing to part with some of my chocolate for the privilege.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Chip Off the Old Plate
~ Textin' 'Bout My Generation ~
According to AARP, this is a big year for me. Just as I was about to take out an order of protection against their multimedia membership onslaught, I learned that it would get me a discount at all sorts of stores and restaurants like IHOP.
Sweet.
I can accept the fact that I have a milestone birthday to look forward to (I'd wink, but my crow's feet are resting right now). I can even accept the fact that I am probably one of the oldest moms on the playground when I retrieve my youngest from school. It's when I attend a function at my boys' high school that I begin to feel downright rickety.
Physical differences aside, looking out over the crowd after a recent band concert, it was obvious—the only real difference between my generation and the one that's coming up in the ranks is body language.
Many of my peers, I noticed, were huddled in groups, making eye contact, conversing, and laughing. I could tell they were enjoying each other's company because they were saying things to one another like, "It's so good to see you!"
Many of the students, on the other hand, stood alone, off to one side, heads down, still, and silent. Their thumbs, however, were moving at lightning-fast speed.
Yes, I'm generalizing and yes, I know that many adults enjoy texting and have the over-developed thumb muscles to prove it. I'll carefully climb down from my soapbox (lest I break a hip) now, but I do worry that the younger generation would struggle far more with a widespread power outage than my generation would.
In fact, last summer we lost power when a squirrel ran out of luck on a power line. About thirty seconds passed before my kids piled in the car and bolted into town, hoping to find a place to plug back in. My husband and I chose to light a candle and take advantage of the peace and quiet to indulge in the luxury of having an uninterrupted conversation.
And I know I'm not helping matters when, like my parents before me, I tap into the shock and awe value inherent in stories from my youth—especially the ones that shed a light on just how far technology has come since my pre-TV-remote childhood.
In my day (there I said it; you knew I would), I had to get up and change the channel if I wanted to see a different show. Being a material girl, I asked my parents for a typewriter, not a laptop, when I headed off to college. Music came on flat vinyl disks that I bought at a record store and I remember when MTV actually played videos, 24/7.
While my generation managed to survive in an Internet- and app-free world, it's hard to say if the younger generation is better off. I suppose they'll have the answer by the time their kids ask them what it was like to grow up with old-fashioned things like an iPod Touch or a Wii.
Now, if you'll excuse me. If I'm going to make the early bird special at IHOP, I'd better scoot.
~ Color Me Embarrassed ~
Parenthood.
No other job on this planet holds such rich potential for hide-under-a-rock embarrassing moments. Between the lack of sleep, overwhelming amount of activity day-in and day-out, and the major shift in priorities, the opportunities are endless.
I think I speak for mothers everywhere when I say that it all starts in the delivery room.
In the throes of labor with my firstborn, feet high up in the stirrups, while doing my best to cut off the circulation in my husband's hands, I'll never forget watching in horror as a parade of interns walked into the room to observe my son's entrance into the world.
OK, so maybe that's a little beyond embarrassing and fathers don't have much to counter with, but still—my sense of modesty? Poof. Long gone.
After that, I truly (and naively) thought I was beyond embarrassment. Showing up at work with formula stains on my clothes did little to turn my cheeks red and arriving to pick my son up from daycare with the zipper open on my khakis only prompted me to laugh and shrug.
But that was all before my second son, button-pusher that he was back then, made the call—THE call—to 9-1-1.
While I was in the shower.
"Mommy! There's a man at the door!" my oldest cried as he knocked on the bathroom door.
"Is it Daddy?" I called out. Not getting a reply, I shut the water off, squeezed the water out of my hair, wrapped the towel around me and tiptoed to an upper-level window where I caught a glimpse of someone with close-cropped black hair.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I flew down the stairs to the front door. Figuring my husband had forgotten his key, I flung the door open wide.
As my eyes took in the sight of the tall, not unattractive, fully armed police officer standing on my doorstep, I pulled the towel tighter across my chest and did my best to smooth my mess of tangled, wet hair. My only hope was that the crimson in my cheeks brought out the color of my eyes.
"Can I help you, officer?" I asked with all of the dignity I could muster, noticing a smirk twitch at the corners of his mouth.
"Did you call 9-1-1, ma'am?"
"Uh, no!"
Leaning toward me, he glanced around.
Maybe it was the small pile of little light-up sneakers in the corner. Maybe it was the menagerie of stuffed animals strewn on our couch. My guess, it was the giggles that finally erupted from the top of the stairs that prompted him to ask, "Ma'am, do you have toddlers in the house?"
"Yes." I shot the offenders a look that silenced them instantly.
"May I have a word with them?"
Heh, how the tiny are fallen.
After reading them the riot act about only dialing 9-1-1 in emergencies (and, no, your brother not letting you play with his toys did not constitute an emergency), he bid me adieu.
Since then, my dignity has for the most part remained intact and my modesty is none the worse for wear.
Knock on wood.
~ Wagon Rides and Jaguar Dreams ~
Yes, I'm a plate spinner with a relatively large family, I live in the suburbs and some of my children even play soccer, but no, I do not drive a minivan. When the size of our family grew from four to five, my husband and I knew we needed something bigger than our two-door hatchback, but we were reluctant to go with the automotive flow. Recalling fond childhood memories of snagging a coveted seat in the "back back," waving and making faces at cars driving behind ours, and having our parents yell directives back to us as if we were in another room, we set our sights on buying a station wagon.
Unable to find anything resembling the gas-guzzling behemoths of our youth, we downsized our expectations and took a smaller version for a test drive, not so much to see how well the engine would enable us to peel out of the daycare center on our way to work, but to see how well it could accommodate the three different types of car seats our boys were using at the time.
Sitting comfortably in the front seat, my husband and I caressed the clean blue vinyl dashboard and spotless carpeting on the floorboards. Unlike its flashier minivan counterparts, boasting options like multi-CD shufflers and side view mirrors that lit up when the turn signal was engaged, we happily settled for this little wagon's special features—two handy cup holders and a rear-window defroster.
Flash forward ten years and the car that our children initially referred to as "neat" became one that they were loathe to accept a ride in, fearful that they'd be spotted by anyone they might know and pitied by the rest. Our oldest, on the cusp of getting his license, reluctantly agreed to accompany me on some errands. While it seemed like just last week that he was sitting in the backseat enjoying Cheerios and apple juice, he reflexively sank low in the front seat as we pulled up to a stop sign.
Glancing out my window, I spotted it. In the lane to my left sat my dream car—a hunter green Jaguar with tan leather seats. Excited, I pressed the "down" button for my window, forgetting that it had stopped functioning years before.
Seeing me struggle, the driver of the Jaguar looked at me with a politely inquisitive look on his face as if to say, "What is it, my dear woman?"
Realizing that I would be unable to verbally relay my appreciation of his car's aesthetics, I simply mouthed, "Love your car!"
I then smiled winsomely and drove on. Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw the driver frowning and slowly shaking his head, mouthing "Wacko!"
I glanced down at my son, who had slithered onto the passenger side floor, his face now crimson.
"Are you OK?" I asked innocently.
He glared at me and climbed back into his seat. "Tell me we're getting rid of this car soon!" was all he said.
"If I had a dime for every time you said that, I could've bought one by now."
And, again, I apologized for being minivan repellant.
~ Licensed to Survive ~
Despite our superhero aura, we working parents are mere mortals. Still, if I had to choose one superpower, I'd pick the ability to be in two places at once. Between job schedules, errands, and familial obligations, my life would be so much easier if only I could somehow physically co-locate myself.
But, until some evil genius develops this ability, I'll have to keep relying on Plan B—granting my child permission to drive. Despite watching a large chunk of my hard-earned paycheck go towards financing my auto insurance rep's vacation to Hawaii, having an additional driver in the house has proven to be an indispensable tool in my plate-spinning arsenal.
While ushering my two older boys into the licensed population, I rode shotgun on my fair share of white-knuckled excursions. When my life was not flashing before my eyes, I managed to jot down the following pointers:
1. Driver's Ed—Public School or Private Company?
In most communities, there are two driver's education venues—public school curriculum or private companies. Compared to private instruction, taking it through their high school may not necessarily be a money-saver, but here are a few things to consider:
— The duration of the program—most states' requirements for new drivers cannot be crammed into a six-week long program offered by many private companies, but fit nicely within the confines of a semester-long schedule.
— The timing of the program—if your child is involved in any sports or other extracurricular activities, taking driver's ed during their school day—instead of after school or on the weekends, may work best. If your child balks about having to take driver's ed during the school day, remind them that it might just get them out of taking PE.
Note: Whichever venue you choose, you are still on the hook for helping them meet your state's minimum drive time requirement prior to obtaining their license. If you play your cards right, this could take years.
2. Deflect Attention
You've seen them—cars with "student driver" stickers plastered on the rear window. As if it's not embarrassing enough for them to make thirty-seven-point turns or come to a hard stop twelve feet before they get to the stop sign, why humiliate them further by advertising the obvious to surrounding, possibly hostile, drivers? The level of tension in the front seat is already escalated enough without it. As such, ditch any "student driver" sticker you were planning to affix to your rear window.
3. Mind Your Reflexes
How you react during practice drives will have a major impact on your student driver, affecting not only their self-esteem, but your safety as well.
Whether they are nervous and skittish or overly confident and careless, just remember:
— Stomping on an invisible passenger-side brake will not make the car stop any faster.
— What sounds like words of encouragement to you (e.g., "slow down," "stay off the shoulder," and "garbage cans aren't for target practice") can sound like screaming to your child.
4. Drive the Talk
The key to producing a safe driver is modeling safe driving techniques. Aside from the usual no-no's—texting, eating, or reading the paper while you're driving, proper technique is just as important. The last thing you want is a dirty look from your child's driving instructor after hearing that you taught them how to bank a turn using nothing but the palm of one hand or even an elbow.
And there you have it. Good luck and Godspeed (just remember to stay within the posted limit).
~ Riding on Vespas with Joy ~
Back before kids, before careers, before even spinning a single plate, my husband (well, technically boyfriend at the time), used to buzz around Chicago on his vintage Vespa—a refurbished model, single-seat, 1950's turquoise with shiny chrome trim that was originally orange, of all things. It didn't really go much faster than thirty-five mph, but it was perfect for city living.
During the day, my pre-hubby would use it to get to his job on Michigan Avenue, hoisting it up onto the curb and chaining it to a nearby parking meter. At night, I'd hop on the back and we'd zip around Downtown, Uptown, Old Town, and Lincoln Park, visiting with friends, going to the beach, the zoo, and art fairs, hanging out at neighborhood taverns and coffee shops afterwards.
If we wanted to pick up a pizza and stay in for the night, instead of losing my coveted parking space, we'd hop on the Vespa and I'd sit on the back, balancing the pizza on my hip with one hand, clutching my pre-hub with the other. Even the mundane task of grocery shopping was made a little more cosmopolitan by simply donning some Audrey Hepburn shades and pulling up to the Jewel on our way cool Italian scooter.
It just didn't get any better.
Then we got married and started a family.
And moved to the suburbs.
When we rolled the Vespa off o
f the moving truck, it looked woefully out of place in the land of vinyl-sided split-levels. As if it knew. I could almost hear it whispering, "We're not in Old Town anymore." Out of respect, we tucked it into a cozy corner of our two-and-a-half car garage.
That was nearly seventeen years ago and, I'm sorry to say, I haven't given it much thought since. Unlike a mint-condition black Vespa that we spotted on a recent trip to Rome, ours is now dust covered, having endured years of neglect. Teddy bears have assumed the driver's seat, while boxes of old books and, gulp, albums have been stacked on top of it.
Our boys have often asked about the hunk of motorized metal sitting abandoned in our garage. In response, we smile and regale them with stories of our carefree days living in the city, riding up and down Wells avenue or Clark street. Just going for joyrides.
They scratch their heads. Joyrides? What the heck are those? I clumsily try to explain the term used for traveling about with no intention of having to be anywhere by a particular time, or buying anything from any particular store, or running any errands of any kind. Just taking in the view, the people, the sights and smells of the city.
Huh.
I truly had forgotten all of that, busy as I am with five kids, two jobs, and a husband. Rides, many. Joy, zip.
My husband and I recently moved our oldest into his dorm in the Windy City. After he was settled, we decided to grab a bite to eat and found ourselves back on Wells. Happy to have found parking, we chose a restaurant and seated ourselves at a table with a street view.
The memories came flooding back. Our son rolled his eyes as we pointed to establishments that had been there back when we were residents, recalling memories of going here and there. And we would've gladly spent the afternoon as such until our son slapped us back into the moment with one short inquiry.
The Plate Spinner Chronicles Page 3
