“Whaddya wanna do?!” I yelled excitedly.
Tray and Tracy led me to the side of the neighbors’ house where I saw the inner tubes lashed together, side by side, with twine. Grinning sideways at his friend and down at me, my brother said, “Lisa, if you climb inside the tubes, we’ll roll you down the hill and it’ll be really fun!”
I didn’t see red flags or hear alarm bells. All I knew was my big brother finally wanted to play with me.
I crouched down and climbed into the center hole, gripping the metal valves like handles just as they instructed. With my chin on my chest and my legs crisscrossed, I fit snuggly into the tiny space. Assuring me the ride would be better than the Scrambler at the county fair, they carefully shoved me off down the hill.
As the tubes took their first few rotations, I squealed with excitement. But when I reached the drop off at the front of the neighbors’ property, the cylinder spun wildly with the sudden acceleration. The natural undulations of the lawn sent the tubes airborne, causing them to change shape as they bounced on the ground. The circle distorted into an elongated oval, and with each impact my teeth clacked.
As the contraption flew down the hill toward a border of blue spruces, my initial squeals of delight turned into screams of terror and then into the silence of survival mode. From my cramped vantage point, I could see flashes of blue sky, the approaching spruces, grass, and Tray and Tracy screaming down the hill after me.
I knew I had to save myself from certain disaster. As I slammed into the ground after a particularly high bounce, I stuck my foot out of the ring. My toes immediately caught the grass, flipping the tubes like a quarter in a coin toss.
My wheel of terror teetered to a stop just before the spruces, and I burst out of the confining hole onto the grass. The entire universe spun around me. I could hear faint yelling growing louder as Tracy got closer, until his silhouette appeared against the blue sky above me.
“Lisa! Lisa! Are you okay?!” Tracy panted, as a drop of spit began to ooze from his gaping mouth. Just before the elongating globule could detach itself, he slurped and swallowed in the nick of time.
As the summers passed, my brother continued to bait me into painful judo flips, terrifying locked closets, and other ill-judged schemes, and I also found plenty of trouble all on my own. In an ironically comforting way, seeing Anna and Lilly speeding downhill in the shopping cart confirmed for me the natural order of the world. Children will always seek adventure, often dragging along their unsuspecting siblings. Some things in life never change.
SEASON 2 EPISODE 2
MUSIC TO MY EARS
I ran through the doors of the elementary school and breathlessly scribbled my name on the sign-in sheet.
“Would you please tell me where the music room is?” I asked, somewhat embarrassed not to know. Lilly had been a student there for two years while our family was stationed in Stuttgart, Germany, but this was my first visit to the music room. In fact, I had barely set foot in the school all year, but Lilly begged me to please show up for this event, the recorder recital for her music class.
“Down the hall to the end, make a right, second door on your left,” the secretary answered without looking up from her computer.
Mindful of school rules about running in the halls, I scurried to the music room, hoping the fourth-grade recital had not yet begun, even though I was ten minutes late.
As the third child, Lilly definitely got the short end of the stick, as our interest in school events waned over the years. The week before, I had forgotten to pick up Lilly from school. And it was raining. When I realized my error, I rushed out of our apartment, jumped into the minivan, and gunned it up the hill toward the school. Just then I saw her, happily running alone down the sidewalk, arms outstretched and eyes closed, her backpack flopping under the bob of her sandy brown hair. As fat raindrops splatted on her sweet face, she grinned from ear to ear with pure joy.
That was Lilly. She deserved so much more than we gave her. I knew I had to be at her recorder recital.
Wearing my workout clothes, a muddy pair of running shoes, and a visor to cover my bed head, I hoped the recital would be over quickly, so I could get to the base commissary to do some grocery shopping before the lunchtime rush.
I found the music room and gingerly turned the doorknob until it clicked. As I pushed it open, I could see everyone in the room looking back at me—parents crammed against the wall in folding chairs and students standing on two rows of risers.
Lilly was on the top row. Her eyes widened when she saw me at the door, and she bit her bottom lip to control a grin.
“COME IN!” the music teacher bellowed from her seat behind the keyboard. Startled, I scuttled into the room and took the first seat I could find, as the teacher continued her program.
“Again! From the top! Stand up straight! Hands at your sides!” she yelled at the group of twenty boys and girls from Ms. Farnsworth’s fourth grade class. She pounded out the notes on the keyboard, and the kids started singing at her head-bobbed cue.
“Be the best, best, best you can be, be, be!” they wailed, some with deadpan stiffness, and others with dramatic inflection. The song entailed a complicated Bingo-like start-stop game in succeeding verses and a few of the kids flubbed and shouted out “best” or “be” when they were supposed to be silent.
At the end of the song, the teacher’s deep voice boomed from behind the keyboard, “I give you a two-point-five out of four! The only thing I accept in this classroom is a four! Backs straight! AGAIN, from the top!” I jerked out of my slouch and sat up obediently, afraid to move. I was taken aback by this teacher’s demanding treatment, and I tried to see in my peripheral vision if the other parents looked as concerned as I felt. But they all sat straight-backed at attention, as though afraid to look at each other.
As the kids made their next attempt, I was mystified by their cheerful obedience to this drill-sergeant of a music teacher. They belted the tune out in perfect order this time, each of them with their eyes locked on their leader, only occasionally glancing at a parent out of sheer personal pride.
“Now THAT’S a four! Like I always tell you boys and girls, you don’t have to BE the best, but you must DO your best every time!” The children beamed and looked to their parents for appreciation.
“COME IN!” the teacher repeated, and I noticed a father in uniform sneaking in the back and taking a seat. He exchanged blown kisses with his daughter, who radiated joy over seeing him there.
“Parents and students, sing the chorus!” The music teacher proceeded to lead us all in a peppy rendition of “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” complete with choreographed hand movements. Through three repeats, she belted out verses in her sharp booming voice, with a rumbling vibrato akin to Ethel Merman, while we all fumbled to achieve perfection in the cramped music room.
“Excellent! That’s the best you have done! I am so proud of you!” she roared at everyone. The kids seemed to love their teacher’s brawny leadership and relentless drive and basked in her praise for their accomplishments.
The teacher ordered the kids into new positions, and each one approached her in turn to pick up their assigned recorder flute. In two neat rows they sat, gripping their little plastic instruments as they awaited her instruction.
She snapped out instructions as the kids whipped their recorders into position like a well-rehearsed drill team.
“I’m a task master, and I make no apologies for it! Now, don’t hurt your parents’ ears!” she roared. The irony made me giggle. The kids blew a surprisingly soothing version of “Hot Cross Buns” into the recorders with only an occasional rogue squeaky note.
Despite this teacher’s sovereignty over this tight ship of a crowded classroom, I found myself being seized by tenderness and nearly tearing up. Why? I’ve heard “Hot Cross Buns” a million times, not exactly a sentimental ditty. I’ve been to so many seemingly insignificant little school events. But as I sat there watching Lilly working so hard to make me
proud, I realized these moments were fleeting and precious.
Feelings of guilt over my grubby outfit and my failure to bring a camera were interrupted when the teacher jumped from her seat and yelled, “Good job! I am very proud of you! BUCKET!” At that command, the beaming students brought their instruments up one by one and dropped them neatly into a blue bucket.
“When your name is called, come up and get your certificate and pencil! Parents: CLAP!” she ordered, and I was again seized by emotion watching my sweet little girl so happy to receive a symbolic piece of paper and a ten-cent pencil with music notes painted on it.
“DISMISSED!” our leader yelled one last time. As we exited the classroom in orderly fashion, I found Lilly and gave her a long squeeze.
“Thank you for coming Mommy,” she muffled into my shirt.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” I answered, truthfully.
SEASON 2 EPISODE 3
REVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
“I’m getting sick,” Francis proclaimed one afternoon when he came in the door from work. He dropped his briefcase as if it were filled with rocks. He allowed his coat to fall off his shoulders and onto the floor and left it there as if hanging it on one of the convenient hooks right beside the door was just too much. He shuffled dramatically toward the living room couch, stopping at one point to cough so theatrically, I expected him to take a bow. Upon reaching the sofa, he glanced in my direction, presumably to see if I was watching, before disengaging all of his muscles and plopping onto the couch as if he had just lost consciousness.
“Nnngggmmmmuuuhhh,” was his elongated groan before the curtain came down.
I watched this display from the kitchen without the slightest sense of compassion. I had seen it all before and, like many wives, my insensitivity was based on my own practical experiences. Deep down in the recesses of every woman’s heart and mind, in the spaces not corrupted by contrived societal notions of equality and fairness, we all secretly know these words to be true: Men are total wimps when they get sick.
Several years into our marriage, I began to notice a recurring behavioral pattern every time Francis caught a cold. Unnecessary sniffling, dramatic coughing, flamboyant sneezing. Each occurrence followed by a moan, groan, or whimper, along with a pitiable declaration such as, “I don’t feel so good.”
Francis’s pathetic actions while sick did not appear to be natural and spontaneous. They seemed intended to garner the maximum amount of attention (also known as “milking it”). Additionally, when sick, Francis never said to me directly, “Honey, I think I’m coming down with something and would appreciate you making me some chicken soup while I take it easy for the next couple days.” Instead, he put on a theatrical display in hopes of indirectly compelling me to run and get him a blankie and Fudgsicles.
Why would my otherwise responsible, straightforward, masculine military husband resort to such childish passive-aggressive tactics? I wondered.
At first I thought his germ-induced plea for attention might have something to do with having grown up in a big family. One of five siblings, Francis was flanked by the smartest kid and the funniest kid in the sibling line-up, so he had to do whatever he could to get his parents’ attention.
Occurrences which most kids might avoid were savored in Francis’s large family. For example, normally a child might hate going with Mom to get orthopedic shoes, a tonsillectomy, allergy testing, and speech therapy. In Francis’s upbringing, however, these were precious moments, when Mom showed him special attention and bought him ice cream. Perhaps having the flu was similarly desirable.
My big family theory seemed to explain Francis’s histrionic reaction to the common cold, until I started talking to other wives. Apparently, Francis wasn’t the only man on the planet who exhibits attention-seeking behavior when ill.
As I watched Francis moan and groan on our couch, I wondered why I found my husband’s childish ploys for attention so patently unattractive. I felt a twinge of guilt. Shouldn’t my natural nurturing instincts kick in? Instead of murmuring soothing words to the sufferer, I found myself muttering insensitive remarks under my breath, such as, “He should get an Oscar for that sneeze,” or “Building the groundwork for another afternoon nap, are we?” or “Grow a pair, would ya?”
I couldn’t help but wonder whether my reaction might serve a higher purpose for the species. After all, if sick males were always babied by their female companions, they might start to stay home all the time instead of getting back to the work of hunting and gathering to keep the tribe strong. Maybe nature built an automatic trigger into the wifely psyche, so women would be repulsed by pathetic sickly husbands. That might motivate men to recover quickly to become attractive to women again and thereby resume their main goal in life: mating.
Later that night, Francis told me he thought he had a severe case of bronchitis and needed me to take his temperature, run to the store for cherry cough drops and ginger ale, toast him a pizza bagel, and tuck a blanket around him while he watched South Park reruns. I stared at him a minute with my arms crossed, rolled my eyes, and went to the kitchen to open him a can of chicken noodle soup.
It wasn’t easy to ignore his hoarse pleas for more intensive care and attention, but I figured it was the least I could do for humanity.
SEASON 2 EPISODE 4
LORD OF THE HOUSEFLIES
The kids forgot to put their dishes in the dishwasher. Again.
“That’s IT! If you people can’t cooperate, then THIS government is shutting down!” I shouted while they stared at me from across the kitchen.
They had no idea what I was talking about, but with threats of government shutdown dominating the news that week, I just couldn’t resist. Besides, threatening the kids simply felt good.
With Francis at work much of the time, I was the sole Governor of the Household. The Commander in Chief of the Homefront. The Lord of the Houseflies. I was the legislative, judicial, and executive branches all rolled up into one spatula-wielding dictator.
When the masses defied my authority, I could have, theoretically, staged a government shutdown of my own. Of course, the kids knew my threats were completely idle. Although I couldn’t help but wonder: What if it really happened? …
The kids woke to the loud slam of Mom’s bedroom door.
Peeking through the keyhole, they saw she had dragged the coffee maker, four cans of Pringles, three bottles of wine, and a boxed DVD set of Orange Is the New Black into her room and locked the door.
A sign taped outside read, “Government Shutdown Until Further Notice.”
The three kids—Hayden, Anna and Lilly—stared groggily at the sign for a minute. As reality dawned on them, they turned to each other and grinned.
“Cool!” Lilly exclaimed, “This is gonna be fun!”
In their pajamas, they raced to the kitchen. “I call the rest of the Cap’n Crunch!” Anna shouted, sliding across the tile floor while wearing yesterday’s dirty socks.
“Forget cereal,” Hayden declared, “I’m eating chocolate cake, and I might have a slice of leftover pizza for dessert!”
An hour later, the kids were stuffed and lazing the day away in front of the television, watching a marathon of Jersey Shore and sipping Coca-Cola through Pixy Stix.
However, the toilet clogged midday, the wet laundry in the washing machine started to stink, and the milk ran out. Discovering that the lunch money jar had over twenty bucks in coins, Anna exclaimed, “C’mon guys, let’s go to the store—I’ll make us a feast!”
Hayden stayed home for a fifth hour of Grand Theft Auto, while Lilly emerged from her room dressed in booty shorts, spaghetti string halter top, fuzzy slippers, knotted hair, and two days’ worth of plaque on her teeth. “Ready!”
After their shopping trip, the girls concocted an Ovaltine aperitif accompanied by a delectable chocolate mini-doughnut amuse bouche. The entrée was a lovely microwaved trio de fromage—fried mozzarella sticks, Totino’s cheese pizza, and Hot Pockets—wi
th a generous side of tater tots.
Finding no clean utensils, they ate dessert—a scrumptious brownie chunk ice cream—straight out of the carton with used Popsicle sticks and washed it down with Red Bull.
The party raged on. Bored with Jerry Springer reruns and punching buttons on the microwave, the novelty of anarchy began to wear off around day three.
“When is Mom coming outta there?” Lilly whined.
“I don’t know, but this is starting to get serious,” Anna said. “My cropped jeans need to be washed, and ever since you blew a fuse microwaving that can of ravioli, my curling iron doesn’t work!”
Hayden, recuperating from his video game bender, chimed in, “Yeah, and Mom needs to go to the grocery store. I actually had to eat a banana for breakfast. This is a crisis situation!”
Standing before Mom’s bedroom door, the kids pounded, wailed, and made promises.
When Mom finally emerged, the kids bombard her with desperate hugs and kisses.
“Mom!” they cried, “Don’t ever leave us again! We can’t live without you! We promise we’ll do whatever you want from now on!”
… I awoke from my daydream with a newfound sense of satisfaction. Never mind that staging my own government shutdown was complete fantasy. It had effectively convinced me that, even though my family didn’t realize it, they could never live without me.
A mom can dream, can’t she?
SEASON 2 EPISODE 5
VACATIONER’S DEADLIEST CATCH
Keeping the kids entertained so the adults could relax was always the primary objective during our yearly summer visits to the family beach cottage. Maz, Tray, Jacq, Francis, and I would have been perfectly happy lounging in our folding chairs every day on the beach. But the kids would only put up with so much swimming in the ocean, building sand castles, and parental relaxation. We had to be creative to find alternative activities for them and more lounging time for us.
The Meat and Potatoes of Life Page 5
