skip to main |
skip to sidebar
As of last week, I have officially aged another year. I find myself in one of those reflective moods that affects us as the years pile up. In taking stock, I have given considerable thought to those old saws and whether or not I’ve found any truth there. So, here goes.
• You’re not getting older, you’re getting better. Maybe a bit wiser, but not better. My back hurts, my teeth are wearing thin while the rest of me is thickening. Youth is most certainly wasted on the young.
• The best things in life are free. Nothing in this life is free. And the best are the most dear. Nonmaterial things such as love, trust, family, fitness—you name it—all require a significant investment of self. And that can be not only personally expensive and time consuming, but painful. Oh well, no pain, no gain.
• A stitch in time saves nine. I have repeatedly ignored this one to my detriment. I can’t seem to get it through my thick skull that things break down, wear out and need maintenance. I expect them to go on forever and continue to be surprised when anything fails, be it my car, my toaster oven or my body.
• You are what you eat. If this were true, I’d be a lot sweeter and quite a bit richer.
• If you’re happy, your children will be happy. Many of us, myself included, raising a family in the 1970s swallowed this one, I’m sorry to say. And our children paid the price. The needs of adults and children are often not in harmony. Being the adult means taking care of the kids first. And that can mean postponing careers and making peace with a marriage that has fallen far short of expectations.
• All you need is love. See above.
• Children should be seen and not heard. Actually, it’s the grown-ups who should be seen more and heard less.
• It’s just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor man. Sure it is, if your bust size is at least twice your age.
• Better safe than sorry: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Well, that all depends on the type of bird in your hand, the kind of birds in the bush, how far away the bush is and the length of your reach. Sometimes it pays to go out on that limb.
• Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Most of us play it too safe all our lives, for which many of us are sorry later on. I, for one, have come to regret the chances I let pass by rather than the ones I took.
• You can’t judge a book by its cover. True. Remember Ted Bundy?
• If you lie down with dogs you get up with fleas. Also, true.
• Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Don’t make me laugh.
• Take care of the pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves. Yeah, right.
• A fool and her money are soon parted. I’m the poster-girl for this one.
• The meek shall inherit the earth. No way. As a character in the musical “Camelot” sings: “It’s not the earth the meek inherit, it’s the dirt.”
• A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Ignore this at your own peril. I have. There is just no way around this one. And I’ve tried. Nike puts it best: Just do it.
• Ninety percent of life is just showing up. Woody Allen was on to something here. Of course, it’s the remaining 10 percent that separate the haves from the have-nots, the doers from the did-nots, the Woody Allens from the rest of us.
• Do unto others, as you would have others do unto you. This makes more sense and becomes easier the older you get. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with where we begin. As babies, children, adolescents and even young adults, we assume we are the center of the universe. Perhaps as we mature, we move off center a bit. Suddenly, letting someone into your driving lane or cleaning up after yourself is not such a big deal. Besides, it feels good.
The best is yet to come. Maybe, maybe not. But whatever good comes, I’ll appreciate it. As my mom always said: “Tomorrow is another day.”
Another adventure in bookselling.
So it’s Saturday morning, and parents with kids are gathering for story time in the children’s department. I notice an attractive new couple with an infant and a toddler among the small crowd lining the stage. As I put stuff together to get started, I notice she is breastfeeding her daughter.
Now, this is not unusual. As those who know me or are regular readers of this space, are aware, I am a great proponent of the practice. I go out of my way to make sure my kid’s department is hospitable to moms looking for a place to feed their young.
Most go about nursing with a degree of modesty. Not this young mother, however. Her babe chowed down with gusto, her mom’s breast bare. And when the child was done, mom made no attempt to shield her nipple from public view. It wasn’t as if she was flouting it or anything. It was as if she—and her husband--didn’t notice. She suited up for story time, but later I saw her walking around the department, again seemingly without a clue.
I confess to almost laughing out loud. The sight of a totally bared breast in public didn’t so much shock, as surprise me. And the total comfort of this young mom astounded me. This is Florida, you understand, not New Jersey, where breastfeeding is protected by law.
Back in the early 1970s, when those of us in the La Leche league were rare indeed, I was considered a fanatic for not only breastfeeding, but for continuing until my children were each about a year old—almost unheard of in this country back then. Frankly, I was mad with happiness to find a use for the pair I’d been lugging around since the age of 11.
Mother-nature made has come back in vogue in years since, as science has discovered it’s advantages for both mother and child. Regardless, we in the USA have an uneasy relationship with public breastfeeding, with many viewing women’s mammary glands primarily as sex organs.
I refused to rush off and hide to feed my own children when at home, forcing even my own father to deal with his own issues. I also nursed in public, using clothing to maintain decorum.
What really pleased me was that I heard no obvious snickering or signs of discomfort from those at my story time, which included men and women of varying ages. No one complained to me or to the store’s management.
Rock on, mom!
That’s SICK. In capital letters.
A true 4-letter word.
I am finally up after 10 days of being so wretchedly ill that for the first time since this blog started, I failed to post in a timely manner. And for that, I apologize.
But this time, there was no choice. For days, I lay on the couch, coughing up stuff that made me gag.
The milk in the fridge soured, the food ran out, the garbage overflowed. I didn’t much care. I lived on green tea with honey and some protein shakes I happened to still have.
Me, who never loses an ounce when sick, dropped 7 pounds in a week. Sure, that would be a little good news, as I certainly could stand to drop even more—but I know it will hop back on these ol’ bones as soon as my appetite returns with a roar.
I was finally forced to venture out the day the cat food ran dry.
The weird part of this was that I lost my voice—and I mean TOTALLY. I couldn’t even call in sick and had to drag myself in one day to let them know I couldn’t work. Yes, yes, I know it’s kinda funny for someone who talks as much as me to be silenced. But the truth is, it was incredible frightening. It lasted for almost 5 days, before I could croak out sounds. I felt completely isolated without use of the telephone and once found myself wondering if one could text 911—that is, if I could figure out HOW to text.
Yes, I fleetingly thought of reaching out for help via email. But I have no family here and just about everyone else is busy working etc. Also, I didn’t want to expose anyone to whatever was bouncing around my innards.
Each night, I was sure I’d feel better the next day, if I could just hang on. But I didn’t. I finally filled a prescription for antibiotics and now feel almost human. Either the virus had run it’s course or the drugs quashed the evil bacteria. I’ll never know which.
And at this moment, I don’t much care.
I received my first Mother’s Day card in a good many years this week, thanks to my son’s new wife. My off-spring, you see, do not believe in celebrating a day “invented by greeting card companies.”
I have made an uneasy peace with it. I know how they feel about me. Besides, I’ve never much hankered for that which is not freely given. In that spirit, I hereby take note of a few things my children have taught me.
CREATIVITY: I mean this in the most basic sense, as in: I can really build another human being; I can produce milk that will keep that child alive and well. It’s one thing to be told all your life that women in general can do these things. It’s quite different thing, however, to actually do it.
VULNERABILITY: With the birth of my daughter more than four decades ago, I learned the true meaning of vulnerability – not hers, mine. I specifically remember the moment when I realized that any individual having control of that little bundle had me at his or her complete mercy; that there was NOTHING I would not do to keep her safe.
PARENTAL MATH: Children are originals, not reproductions. Regardless of how much they may resemble their parents, children are more than the sum of their genes.
RESILIENCY: My son is the true teacher here. Since he was a lad, he’s been impossible to permanently flatten. While it’s true that many of his troubles are of his own creation, so are his solutions. If faced with a wall too steep to climb, he will reassess and change direction; whatever it takes to get around it, under it or through it. He seems to know where he wants to go and willingly engages “creative” detours en route. I confess to a silent admiration for his ability to bob and weave through life.
ASSUMPTIONS: Don’t rest on them and life will be a lot more fun. Why can’t you eat ice cream for breakfast? Why not get dressed for school before you go to sleep? Who says underwear must be folded before it’s put away? Where is it written that hair must be the same length on both sides or a pair of earrings identical? Look for reasons to say yes. What can it hurt?
LABELS: They don’t mean squat. This I learned from my daughter, the thrift-store shopper. Forget sizes and categories. One person’s bedroom slippers are another’s party shoes. The odd thing is, once you start thinking this way, it tends to spill over into the rest of your life.
TRUST: And I don’t mean in “experts.” Because it was so important to me, I managed to shake off all those older and wiser souls who advised me that I couldn’t totally nurse for six months, care for two children while working and going to school etc., etc.
I will never forget the dingbat psychologist who insisted my grade school-age son was a potential serial killer because he drew human figures without necks. Since I knew that this was simply his chosen style of cartooning, I was in no danger of confusing and offbeat sense of humor with the profile of a young Ted Bundy. (Can you imagine what some art teacher might have said to Gary Larson’s folks?)
NORMAL IS AS NORMAL DOES: I have little idea what “normal” behavior is and neither does anyone else. I don’t care what degrees the person holds. Go with your gut. If you sense something is wrong with your child, don’t’ let anyone dissuade you. But the reverse also holds true. And if your kid crosses an authority figure, find out what really happened before you do anything rash.
BE A GROWN-UP: This is the biggie. I am all of 21 years older than my daughter and 23 years older than my son. If I had not had them, I fear I would have remained eternally in the “what’s-in-it-for-me” stage of human development, never suspecting that I have a considerable amount to offer. That’s no small insight. All in all, I would say motherhood has given me more than it took. Thanks to my children, I know myself.A happy greeting-card-holiday to all...
This is gonna sound weird, even for me.
But as I sit, sipping coffee from my ‘I (heart) NY” mug, watching the scene in Times Square unfold early Sunday, the story is fresh, the smoking car—as it were—recently towed.
The CNN reporter is doing a stand-up in the most famous spot in America’s most famous city.
And all I could do is peer behind the reporter to take in Times Square as folks go about their business, wishing like hell I was there.
Yup, even a car bomb couldn’t scare me off.
New York, New York, a helluva target.
With “apologies” to Sarah Palin, it’s where the heart of “Real America” beats.
It was also such a helluva New Yorkish story. Where else could a STREET VENDOR sporting an “I Love New York” t-shirt, flag down a MOUNTED POLICE OFFICER to report a suspiciously smokin’ SUV? The only thing missing was the cop chowin’ down on a bagel with a smear as he bends down to catch what the vendor was saying.
Where else would it take only 53 hours to pinpoint a suspect and flag down a jet about to take flight to Dubai to take him into custody? So CSI New York.
Call it: The miracle on the tarmac.
I caught Police Commiss Ray Kelly on Charlie Rose right after that and was only mildly surprised to learn that police had foiled seven such car bombs since Sept. 11.
And New Yorkers go about the business of being New Yorkers.
New York, New York.
It’s a helluva town.
Still.
Forget Revelations, Stephen King novels and chainsaw massacre flicks. The Weather Channel is where the scary stuff lives and breathes.
From blizzards to floods, tornadoes to hurricanes, not to mention earthquakes present and future, they specialize in “end of the world” scenarios complete with state of the art graphics.
I guess that’s what happens when you have an all-weather-all-the-time channel. I hate to say this, but these unending misfortunes of Mother Nature are Mother’s Milk to these folks. At times, I swear, they hardly seem able to suppress their enjoyment.
They could hardly contain their glee in reporting on the “global gridlock” resulting from the recent volcanic eruptions.
Just the other day, a female anchor interviewing a “storm chaser” of a violent mile-wide tornado, actually opined it must be really hard give up chasing the storm and start helping people caught in its wake. To his credit, he shot her down.
Not content to report and forecast weather—which can be unsettling enough—they keep inventing new forms of speculation and retelling old weather related horror tales.
Oh, I forgot, there is also the effects of global warming in which to wallow.
I have to monitor weather channel viewing. I can’t allow myself to get drawn in to watching more than my local forecast. It’s just too dangerous to my tender psyche.
Moving to Sarasota, the lightening capital of the world, hasn’t helped. I live alone with my cat in a 1970s condo made of wood—like the Little Pig’s house made of sticks. A loud metal roof adds to my feeling of vulnerability. When the tropical rains hit, it drowns out even the loudest setting on the TV or stereo.
Once upon a time, I actually enjoyed electrical storms, finding then incredibly erotic. No more. The start of hurricane season literally makes me sick to my stomach.
Ok. I admit it. I’ve become a weather weenie.
Would everyone please take a seat and settle down?
Thank you.
The subject for this week’s discussion is kids at work, a situation that many of us have, or will have, to face, prompted by this week’s Take Your Kid to Work Day.
This may seem an odd subject of concern for someone my age, but life can play tricks on you. Some years ago, a date with my favorite 3-year-old collided head-on with a work deadline. Forced into the workplace for a stressful few hours, I had little choice but to take the tyke along.
Having left behind my full-time duties at the newspaper, my “day job” took me to a conservative law firm several days a week. Unlike the open informality of a newsroom, this was a true corporate atmosphere. There was no dress-down day. (However, there were free bagels on Fridays.)
How, I mused, was I going to pull this off?
First the preparation. The night before, I picked up two new animated videos, an “Aladdin” coloring book and a “Lion King” book of stickers. That morning, I packed a bottle of his favorite apple juice, a plastic bag with his choice of dry cereal, a few chosen toys and a complete change of clothes – just in case.As we got him dressed, I talked up the place, explaining what an adventure it would be (OK, so I stretched things a bit), how we would ride an elevator to the top floor and so on. I went so far
as to promise all kinds of special treats afterward if he was a good boy.
On the way over, he chattered endlessly about the “elebator,” likening it to a Ferris wheel ride. We got off to a fine start; he was impressed the parking garage: “It’s sooo dark.” He pressed the “elebator” button and watched the floor numbers come and
go with open fascination.
I must tell you that in my (very biased) opinion, this is one extremely adorable, outgoing and quick youngster who is used to a warm reception whenever he ventures out into the adult world. My office was no exception. Faces lighted up when we walked by, and necks craned around corners at the sound of his voice. Unfortunately, he was in his unsociable mode and “harrumphed” at those who tried to engage him in conversation. Eventually, he
did willingly march off with a smiling staffer who
offered him Tootsie Pop.
The main problem was keeping him in my small, windowless office. I closed the door, set up the video, etc. After about 15 minutes, he declared: “let’s get outta here.” Not a bad suggestion; unfortunately, not a practical one. When I explained I had more work to do, he demanded more rides on the “elebator.”
Between elevator rides, he sat on my lap munching Fruit Loops as the “Land Before Time IV” played on. All the while, I answered the phone, studied photo contact sheets with a magnifying glass and managed to punch out a Simba sticker or two.
Then came his discovery of my laptop, which I had naively switched on. As computer literate as they come, my little pal focused on the machine. He attempted to negotiate the touchpoint in the middle of the keyboard, which takes much more finesse than the mouse with which he’s adept. But he managed quite well within 10 minutes.
Considering all the extra effort and distraction, I still believe kids can be an addition to almost any workplace. It isn’t the children per se, but the lack of facilities that get in the way. I wish kids could
be more integrated into the workplace without the expense of formal on-site day care, perhaps with a friendly room close by – like on each floor.
Children add humanity and perspective to life, cutting adults and their pretensions down to size. Who else could abruptly put an end to a terse conference by announcing with some urgency: “I hafta go potty!”
