Summer Time Blues

Why do we look forward to Summer? How is it we can so easily forget what it's like to have a house full of children, day in and day out? With their friends coming in without knocking because, heck, they're always there, anyway? To have teenagers suddenly sleeping until noon -- then staying up until dawn the next day? To completely lose control of what is, at any other time of the year, considered a relatively nice home.

And when they get jobs, it's only marginally better-- because the chauffeuring that went on during the school year is nothing compared to summer-time excursions, which can take up an entire day, if not marshalled and coordinated like a military troop movement. Especially with today's gas prices.

I know it's asking too much of a teenager to consider the duality of drop-offs. That is, while it's only a 40 minute drive for them, it's 80 minutes for you, each time. Because it's 40 minutes one way, then back home... then turn around and it's 40 minutes back again to pick them up. And back again. Really, I can see the embarrassment in their blush, when they're about 30 years old themselves.

What ever happened to spending the whole summer playing in the neighborhood? I mean, don't children EVER play with the other kids in their neighborhood anymore? And why is it they cannot seem to ride their bikes to their friend's houses anymore? Fear of kidnapping? Please... a kidnapper would throw most of the kids I know (including my own) back on the curb, if they knew what was good for them.

Don't misunderstand. I love my kids dearly. Really, I do. But I'm not blind to their "charms." And I know how long it will be (exactly 32 minutes), until their need of MTV, of their cell phones IMs and of their computer turns them into raving maniacs-- plus, I'd love to see ANYONE get my kids up before noon on a summer day.

Ah, but I wax nostalgic... because I just saw my daughter off to her first summer internship. Yes, she'll be spending her summer as someone else's lowly slave... and I'm sure I'll receive tearful emails from her as she discovers that summer can be... anything but fun.

The Time Warp-- Uh, Change

Well, it's that time again, folks. Like all the other rites of Spring, a welcome change in our normal routine is coming up. I'm talking about the Time Change. That little duty that proves two things: 1) We are completely dependent on our system of measuring the days and; 2) we, as a species, are capable of behaving with at least as much cooperation as an anthill.

If you sense a note of hostility over this particular Spring Rite, you would be more perceptive than the average husband and probably wearing eye liner to prove it. Truth is, I find the whole Time Change nonsense nothing more than a pain in the neck. I spend most of the month of April feeling cheated of that hour we just lost. Sure, we get it back in October. But what good is it then? It's DARK then!

And, who's kidding who? We don't just lose ONE hour. We lose an hour every day. By the end of the Time Change that amounts to roughly 180 hours, or more than a week of our lives! It's no wonder we feel rushed all the time. We're a week behind the rest of the world!

But I suspect the really smart people are staying with Standard Time. This would explain why they know things before we do. Okay. That means, it's a plot to keep us in line. Never mind Orwell's "opium of the masses." If we're behind the times, even by one hour, who cares what we know? It's too late, anyway!

The only reason everyone goes along with the time change is that they think they're gaining an hour's sleep. That sounds so great, since we're all so overworked and short on time to begin with, that we accept it unquestioningly. But actually the hour is being stolen from us.

And I cannot help resenting that theft. Especially since I seem to find myself having trouble keeping up for the entire summer. Each morning, I wake feeling that I should have gotten up an hour earlier, that I must rush to catch up. If not for the time change I might actually have time to call my mother (she always takes at least an hour to say hello).

That's it. Now I know what I can say the next time she calls and asks why I haven't called her. "It's the time change, Mom, it's not me."

But, seriously (if that's even possible at this point). If you think about it, the Time Change is probably the single most silly ritual that we, as a society, perpetuate. The original intent was supposedly so that farmers did not have to rise at the un-Godly hour of 3:30 (that's A.M., folks) and could snooze away until all of, hey!, 4:30 A.M. which, in my opinion is just as un-holy. Wow. What a difference. It causes us, as a species to defer sunrise for a whole hour.

And we wonder why some nations think we're arrogant.

But farmers are sensible folk. They don't really CARE if they get up at 3:30 or 4:30. They're smart enough to figure out that either way, that's EARLY in any book, so what difference does it make? The cows still need milking no matter what the time.

I remember once, in the early 1970's when they tried eliminating the Time Change. Of course, they did not eliminate Daylight Savings Time, but Standard Time-- go figure. Obviously they were biased to the idea of sleeping in. It makes one wonder if they really were trying to steal our time, but were silly enough to think they could do it on a permanent basis.

It was only enacted for one year. When elementary school children were standing at bus stops in the dark (around the Winter Solstice), they realized the error of their ways. So they acquiesed, returning to the flip-flop of switching. They were happy just to have their half-year of stolen hours. Now if we could just get them to consider giving UP Daylight Savings altogether. . . . nay! They'd never go for that!--mo

101 Rock Ave, Apt #3

(Originally written November, 2001)

One thing that should be clearly understood about yours truly is that I live under a rock. I'm not ashamed of it. In fact, it was a life-style choice I made many moons ago.

Why?

Apart from the fact that I was not interested in what some Hollywood star and/or political official had been doing when they were not in front of the camera and/or behind their desk, as appropriate, and realizing that most of Washington and Trenton really does not give a rat's tail about me except on the first Tuesday in November (which is fine with me as long as there are driveable roads and some one to call in emergencies), I have seen little or no reason to keep up with current events.

Too much of it isn't even real news. It's snooping, being nosy for the sake of it. I mean, what does it really have to do with me, anyway, if there was a four-alarm fire in some distant city? Those that were affected by it were either present or got personal calls shortly afterward. The rest of us are just being nosy. I say, bring in the help that would is most effective, such as the fire fighters and EMT people, as well as the social services department and insurance people. But the rest of us? We're just being snoopy, a safely removed gawker who, instead of at least having the gumption to stand behind the yellow tape, is sitting comfortably in our own, non-burning homes watching as some poor person has just lost theirs.

Do the reporters think this is important news? Again, for those it truly did effect, they (hopefully) knew about it before the news people. Not that I'm really knocking the news people. Unfortunately, they must find ways to justify their existence in between real news stories. I can always tell when it's been a slow news week. When the front page of the local newspaper has a picture of a healthy child or pet animal on the front page, they are beginning to seriously hurt for news.

Actually, though I would rather not talk about this any more than necessary (out of respect, if not because everyone else has already said more than enough), I had noticed sometime last August that 2001 had probably been the slowest news Year that I could remember. Until September, of course. I have begun to think of slow news times as the ebb before the flow. Ugh.

The only other item to mention about 9/11 is that, strangely enough, that was the anniversary of my first husband's and my wedding (really!). You can imagine how glad I am that we're now divorced. Imagine trying to celebrate and have such a thing happen. I still feel sorry for anyone who may have had the misfortune to have been born on that day, especially youngsters that have a whole lifetime of birthdays ahead of them.

But, getting back. When I say I live under a rock, I do not just mean that I don't listen to the news. That's not even altogether true. I do read the news. I just never listen to the radio or watch television. The last time I watched television was when Stephen King's "Storm of the Century" aired and, even then, I recorded it to watch later. The last regular TV program I watched was "X Files," before David Duchovny left. Actually, a year or so before he left.

It's not that I don't care about what's going on. I just do not see how what a particular starlet was wearing at the Academy Awards directly impacts my life. There probably is some trickle-down but I'm sure when it reaches me, I'll know it. Actually, that may explain why, when I went to have my hair cut recently, I wondered if my hair dresser had endured a rather bad epileptic fit during the proces-- she certainly messed it up this time!

So if you ever wonder where I am, just look for 101 Rock Ave, Apt #3. It's right next to the Hippy Dippy Weatherman and Bert and Ernie.--mo

Whose Project Is It, Anyway?

(Originally written in March, 2001; my son was in the 7th grade)

A while ago my son brought home a project syllabus to be signed. It was from his Geography class. After looking it over, I could see why the teacher asked for a signature. She wanted to be sure none of the parents would later claim ignorance of how extensive or involved it was. The syllabus of this behemoth was no less than four pages long, broken into five categories, from which the students must earn at least 30 points each. Within each category there was a list of projects, each with a point value ranging from 5 to 30. They could choose which projects to complete, so long as they achieved the point values required. They were given four weeks for the entire thing, though they could hand portions in early. Dilly.

Now, apart from having seen college curriculums covering an entire course that were easier, I knew many of these sub-projects (re-creating a traditional folk instrument, creating a crossword puzzle, making a traditional mask, etc.) were simply beyond my 12-year-old's capabilities. Heck, they were beyond ANY 12-year-old's capabilities. Mensa students would be hard-pressed to accomplish so much in so little time. At least, by himself. I groaned, grunting something about calling the school to complain even though we both knew that was out. It would only get him into trouble. Hmm. I had a few, choice words for this teacher. But I said no more and signed, feeling as if I were signing away my son's (not to mention my own) free time for the foreseeable future. Until the due date, our lives were not our own.

Granted, I believe parents should be involved with their children's education. I really do. But something has changed since I went to school. Then, school kids didn't even GET homework until they reached the third grade and didn't have a project more extensive than a book report until junior high (middle school). At that, the project might include building 1 (count ‘em, one) model or would be a list of 10 projects from which we were expected to choose one.

While I believe in a parent's involvement I resent projects that require or assume my help. When I was in school, parental involvement was looked down upon and that always made sense to me. Until my son entered middle school (why do we call 7th and 8th grades middle school now, anyway? Is that so kids can feel like a middle child?) I stuck by that, too. Except for a wee bit of dabbling in a few ambitious assignments in elementary school (and even those were minor compared to the type of work he's been given this year), I managed to maintain my hands-off approach and he managed to maintain an "A" average.

But not in Middle School (is it from the term "Middle Ages? Mideval?). Since my son first walked those august halls my efforts have been an essential resource, as important as his agenda (another item recently introduced to complicate a student's life), his computer and his library card. Knowing that all the other parents are finding time to help their kids, it would be like throwing him to the lions to expect him to do it all alone. And, just to put the pressure on (as if there weren't enough already), this one project counted as four parts of the term grade. Hoo-boy! Talk about pressure. Not to mention parental guilt. I envisioned him someday coming home from his santitation job, hot, sweaty and tired and looking at me with eyes that said, if only you'd helped a little more then.

As we dug into making a paper mache mask, then creating a replica of a national monument, (not to mention spending hours on the internet in research), I rhetorically asked my son, "do the schools understand that my own free time is severely limited, between working full-time, running a household and finding time together?" He nodded glumly, resenting the intrusion as much as I. We prefer to choose what we do together with the little time we have. Or does the school assume we never spend any time together. Have families reached such a state that parents do little more than shuffle their children from activity to home each day, never spending more than five minutes together? It seems, even if you don't, there's still precious little time together.

He handed in the various portions of the project, both of us glad to be rid of it. Still, I couldn't help but ask him several days later and without the least bit of sarcasm, "What kind of grade did we get?"

Martha Stewart, I'm Not

(Originally written on February 23, 2001)

If Martha Stewart ever visited my home I'm sure she would have trouble suppressing her shock. Not that my house is all that dirty. Well, I can't say it's anti-septic. A certain amount of dust is a sign of a healthy life-style... right? After all, I have better things to do than spend all my time chasing dust-bunnies. Or, maybe I took that "Mother's Prayer" a little too seriously. The one that goes, ". . . . so quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep, I'm watching my babies and babies don't keep." Who knows?

Never mind that. The state of cleanliness is not what would shock her. She would never have time to notice that detail. By then she would be completely catatonic. Although she would get as far as the front hall before anything seemed amiss. That, if only due to lack of space, is disdainfully traditional. I think of it as my lure for unsuspecting victims. It's my plot, you see, to free the world of domestic slavery. After one is past the front hall (with the door firmly shut), they are social victims in my lair.

Going into the living room, they would realize something is not right. It's April, after all. Upon entering, curiosity overcomes politeness and she would turn and ask, "my, what is this?" I would smile sweetly and explain, "why, that's our holiday tree. Right now we're between St. Patrick's Day and Easter." The holiday tree, you see, is the brain-child of my husband, and I was the one crazy enough to enact it. He loves Christmas trees so much he never wanted to take it down. So I suggested that we simply re-decorate his 6½ ft artificial tree with each current season. And, voila`! The Holiday Tree was born. It stays up year round, changing decorations with the upcoming holiday. This, by the way, includes birthdays. Or, as we tend to think of them, personal holidays. The kids love it. Martha would die.

Next, we enter the kitchen which, unfortunately, I have not been able to adapt as much as I would like. There's entirely too much counter top space and not nearly enough elbow room. I mean, really. Who wastes their time cooking anymore when there's so much great frozen and take-out food available? I certainly can't cook like those people -- why try? After all, eating as a past time only goes so far. If I had my way, my freezer would be twice as big and my counter tops would be all but non-existent. All the better to make room for the over-sized kitchen table I want. If I had my way, the kitchen table would seat 8-10 people comfortably and the kitchen chairs would all be like those adjustable ones in offices -- so the back and seat height can change to accommodate everyone. As it is, we only have one of those (my husband's) and the kids are constantly fighting over it.

Oh, and the dishwasher. Well, it's a great place to store dishes after they're washed, but really, do we need all that room just for a drain? As an appliance I can think of nothing else that's more inefficient and wasteful. To even think of using it traditionally, one must have almost enough dishes, glasses and utensils to serve a small army. No thanks.

If Martha made it that far I'd be amazed. Moving into the-- well, I can't call it the dining room, but that's what it might be, traditionally. When she saw that I have turned this room into a computer/craft room, she might just faint on the spot. With two smaller tables replacing a large one, replete with whatever current projects are in-process, and three computers in lieu of side boards or hutches lining the walls there's no mistaking this for a dining room. The only piece of furniture that remotely resembles something that belongs in that Edwardian throw-back is the shelving. Except they are stuffed with various craft supplies and the family collection of board games.

This may all seem quite unusual. But we live here. I mean, we live here-- using all the space and area in ways that are pleasing to us. So Martha Stewart and the rest of enslaved suburbia be darned. We like it-- and I think we'll stay!

A List of Lists

In Today's Corporate Culture (TCC), it is said that making lists is the sign of a well-organized person. The thinking seems to be that, in doing so, one acknowledges the defects of memory (darn, that capricious creature!) and, instead, writes everything down. If this is so, I must be the most well-organized person in the world. Because I make lists for everything!

Not only do I list everything I intend to do in a day, I list every person I intend to call, every item I need to buy at the store on the way home, every other errand I must run before I arrive there and every chore I would like to do once I get in the door. After all this is done, I can sit back, take a break and look at the newspaper. After all, I've just done a huge chunk of work. But have I accomplished anything? Of course! Look at all my lists!

Honestly, I have several problems with lists. And the idea of making lists, for that matter.

Okay, in theory, list-making is a wonderful organizational tool. But why is it that I never seem to accomplish all the things on my list in the allotted time? If I were a less confident person I might believe I had a terminal defect in my planning capabilities. Or ,is it that (as my mother used to say) there just aren't enough hours in the day? No matter how short my list, or how easy the tasks, I seem incapable of completing everything on them. I am tempted to make a list of nothing is see if this still holds true. Can one do less than nothing? While I'd like to try it, I usually have too much to do to actually test it out. So much in fact... that I must make a list.

What if I put that on my list?

The scary part is that I not only make lists at work, but at home as well. I list the items I must order from catalogs, the things that I would like to see fixed around the house, the shops I would like to visit, as well as all the details (sub-lists) of each repair or renovation I would like to see happen. I call these fantasy lists.

But the real fantasy list is the ‘honey-do' list -- the one I give my husband. That one has been sitting on the kitchen table, growing as consistently as my 10-year-old daughter. Neither ever grows shorter. Isn't that strange? You'd think one would opt to either stop growing or shorten, just to be different. My daughter poo-poohs the idea: She's not going to grow shorter. Neither, apparently, is that ‘honey-do' list.

But the biggest problem I have with these lists is that there are so many of them. I have at least three note pads at the kitchen table, four at my desk, a stack on the computer and... God help me if I lose one! Or, if the list runs longer than one page -- what then? If I turn to the next page, I know I'll forget that the previous one exists, never mind what I put on it. Hoo-boy.

I am seriously thinking of beginning a master list. I will call it my List Of Lists. Similar to a filing system, I could keep track of all the lists floating around. It would consist of the contents of the list and its approximate location.

By the time I have all these lists organized it should be, oh, about time to make dinner.

Get It?

I was once informed by a friend that knew everything that the word ‘get' is not good English. According to her, good grammar does not include the word ‘get.' After she said this I looked at her in nothing less than stunned silence. At the time I had been an active reader and writer for almost a quarter of a century. How had I managed to miss this little rule?

True, grammar always was my weakest subject in English. But, still. How could I have overlooked that one? No ‘get's? None? Never? I was ashamed.

From then on, whenever I wrote something and I was tempted to put a ‘get' into the text, I struggled to find a substitute. (And editors wonder where an author's verbosity comes from. I'll tell them. From well-intentioned friends who don't ‘get' it.) Since my grandmother survived and raised two sons working as an English teacher, I realized I had better correct my past or she may just role over in her grave. I also assumed ‘got' was just as wicked.

So I no longer ‘got' an ‘A,' I received an ‘A'. (I wish.) I no longer ‘get' going. I begin. I am not ‘getting' a soda from the fridge, I am acquiring a soda. When I finish any writing, I do a search for the dreaded ‘get' -- they seem to find their own way into my work, I've discovered, whether I like it or not.

What I want to know is how a perfectly innocent (not to mention extremely useful) word like ‘get' could suffer such a fate. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland (the Disney version), when she wanders into the over-sized garden and is accused of being a weed simply because she is not any recognized floral variety. A weed, indeed.

If ‘get' is such a poor word, where exactly did it come from, anyhow? After all, even weeds have their origins -- though where that is, I haven't a clue. Did it start as a slang word, perhaps coming from a cockney variety of ‘given'? Who can say? I suppose Henry Higgins might know, but he's fictitious and therefore completely unavailable for comment. There must be some linguist out there who knows the origin of ‘get', not to mention its proper usage.

The real problem is that I know I use ‘get' in every day spoken English. I use it all the time. When the telephone rings, I don't say, "I'll answer that." I say, "I'll get it." Or, more accurately, now that my son is grown, I say, "Get that, would you? It's probably for you, anyway." The door, too. When speaking of some purchase, I never say, "I would like to buy a new toaster." I say, "I want to get a new toaster." I suppose I am a veritable plethora of improper grammar.

It also makes me wonder what other words I am unintentionally misusing. Is ‘have' okay to use? How about ‘want'? According to this same son, ‘ain't' is now recognized as a word, even (he points out), holding a place in Webster's Dictionary. For a full six months he purposely used ‘ain't' just to prove his point. So why has poor, innocent little ‘get' gotten such a bad rap?

The more I think of it, the more I remember that the English language is a living language. That is, one that is changing and evolving constantly. So, while ‘get' might have been poor grammar some 20-odd years ago (when my friend was in school), I cannot help but think it might have found its way into common usage today. I may just begin using those ‘gets' again.

Get it?

Teaching My Daughter Right

(Originally written Jan 30, 2001)

The other night I asked my daughter to help start dinner. Without hesitation, she shot back, "as long as it has nothing to do with the oven, I will. I don't want to go anywhere near that thing!"

I couldn't help but smile to myself, though I tried to hide it. After all, she's only 10-years-old and already she's developed a healthy dislike for cooking. Good Girl! I can already see that when she grows up she will be one lady who will be as unfamiliar with the kitchen as I wish I were. Unfortunately, I know my way around that particulr dungeon.

When I was her age, my mother totally ignored all the Women's Liberation edicts of the time. She counseled me that a good woman knows how to cook and clean and make the perfect coffee. This was an ideal to strive for, according to her. Now, please don't misunderstand. I love my mother. She was simply so busy running a household that she missed the boat politcally. (And my father wasn't gonna clue her in.)

I should have looked at the larger picture then. She had given me this sage advice -- not to mention, put it into practice -- because she had left my father and was working a full-time job herself. Therefore, I was expected to take over all the household chores: the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry. At the time, she told me this was very good training for the life I would lead: That I would marry a man and be a good wife and mother. I didn't tell her that my dream was to live alone in a garret, work in a restaurant job where meals were provided and spend all my free time writing incredible (I hoped) novels. That dream was never realized. Her reality intruded instead.

But I'm not bitter. I do have my children and have managed to shake off most, if not all, of the trappings of domesticity. My husband does most of the cooking, though I must admit I still do almost all of the other chores.

And I have turned to my children for recompense. Especially my daughter. I have told her that cooking is something men should do -- they are naturally better at it since they often have that casual flair that adds spice to their endeavors. Women are too precise, too careful, to be creative in the kitchen. They tend to worry if they throw in an extra ½ teaspoon of baking soda. Not men! They just go with the flow. I also point out that there's a reason all the great chefs of the world are men. Cooking comes more naturally to them.

As for my son, I've warned him not to expect his wife to be handy in the kitchen. In fact, I have gone out of my way to show him how to fry eggs, make a meatloaf and whip up a cake. He'll be ready when his executive wife calls to say she has to stay late at the office. He has resisted this instruction, his male arrogance already surfacing. Okay. Let him find out the hard way.

But I'm not especially worried. Because teaching children to cook is nothing like it used to be. All I have to do is teach them to follow the directions on the package. I'm sure even my son can manage that. In fact, I believe all of the many frozen and packaged foods are a direct result of men's overly-efficient response to today's woman's reticence toward cooking. Not having the conscience to force them into the kitchen (and being too lazy to go there themselves), men have managed to create a whole selection of frozen foods that need only be popped into the microwave or heated on the stove.

Hopefully, my daughter will never develop any serious interest in cooking. Not, unless, she plans to become a chef. At the rate she's going, the only thing she'll ever make for dinner is reservations -- You Go, Girl!--mo

The Rattle Of Bones

Every once in a while I hear the strangest sound. At first, I hardly noticed it. I might have even missed it a few times. But lately, either because my hearing has become more attuned or because I am beginning to suspect its origins, I hear it more often. There is a distinct clatter to the sound, but it is definitely muffled, too, as if buried not only by earth, but time as well.

The first time I noticed it was shortly after I decided to stay home when I had children and was treated like "the little wifey." Rattle-clunk. I heard it again when I was looked down upon by other women because of that decision. Rattle-clunk. And when I was told (told, mind you) that I was expected to work and pay my half of the expenses, it was more like RATTLE-CLUNK!!

It finally dawned on me what that sound was. Or, at least, what I think it was. And is. It's the sound of my grandmother's grandmother rolling over in her grave. The sound of very old bones wishing to rise in frustration and despair. It was never supposed to be like this.

Other women may not hear it so distinctly. But my great-great-grandmother was none other than Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony's mentor and co-founder of the suffragettes. And she was very clear on how she wanted to improve the lot of women.

I've read most of everything she wrote, as well as her biographies and family stories. I met her grand-daughter (briefly, just prior to her passing away), and was given a family jewel, which she had gotten while in China during the Boxer Rebellion. And most of what I've read convinces me: it was never supposed to be like this for women.

The entire purpose of the original women's movement was to raise the status of women in our culture, to recognize their value in their roles AS wives and mothers and to cherish their equal value in society. True, it was to give women the vote. Because women's ideas and opinions mattered just as much as mens'.

Instead, we got all the work. Now we not only have to take care of house and home, but pay all the bills, too. We're lucky if a man will pay child support after he leaves us for a younger/ prettier/wealthier woman. We're lucky if they cut the grass or take out the trash. And they still try to sing the same ol' song: "I worked all day!"

On top of that, women have become traitors to their own gender, themselves treating the role of housewife and mother with more disdain than their male counterparts, denouncing their own femininity and their own value in society in favor of male pandering. They're like the male-female version of the rather disparaging "Oreo cookie" slang of African-Americans that foresake their origins. In this case, it's female outside, male inside. They have children that they promptly hand over to strangers then they have the nerve to whine about how poorly these same children are turning out, as if it's some else's fault and despite them giving the children "everything." Everything, that is, except their own mother's love and attention.

True wives and mothers are, sadly, a dying breed. The problem is, they're also a cornerstone of society. Without them, children do not grow up with any values or respect. And without those, there is only anarchy.

Rattle-clunk. There she goes again.--mo

Beating Back The Savage

Before I had children I, like most young women of my time, had many ideas on how I would raise my own. No spanking, that was number one. I would raise them with a firm, but loving hand. Of course, my children would be little carbon copies of The Gerber Baby-- they would eat their food happily, then burp twice before taking a three-hour nap. They might cry out at night once in a while, but they knew I needed my sleep, so it would only be if there was something seriously wrong-- like appendicitis. Otherwise, they would play happily at my feet, leave me alone while I worked, and never, ever do anything really bad.

Hah!

That was the pre-child fantasy, before I discovered that all the advice given in baby books had to do with having a ‘Baby.' But I was not having a Baby. I was having a child. In short, a small human being; a person.

That was the first -- and probably the most amazing -- discovery of motherhood. One does not give birth to the mythical ‘Baby'; that carbon-copy image of a new life. One gives birth to a person. And as I lay, holding my infant son (then, later, my daughter) in my arms, I was astonished to discover that this little thing was no ‘Baby', but a fully-formed Person-- one with a will and mind and soul all its own. Right from the get-go! Well, no one had prepared me for THAT! Furthermore, to my horror, I discovered that I was the only person in the whole wide world to see this. Everyone else thought I just gave birth to a textbook ‘Baby.'

I realized that all assumptions and lofty theories of motherhood had to be completely swept aside. But for what? What guidance could I look to in caring for this new person? Goodness, we hadn't even been properly introduced! But here he was and, boy, did he need stuff! He needed to be fed, changed, held, changed, fed again, changed, kept warm, changed, fed yet again (did I mention, changed?), and on and on. It never stopped nor slowed a bit. Occasionally he would sleep, but only to wake, screaming, as if he was being seared with invisible hot pokers. (I could never figure that one out!)

The worst thing of all was that people (usually older, know-it-all aunts and mothers) kept telling me this was the easy part. What?! Well, speak of the devil (and so he appears!), soon enough they were proven correct.

No sooner did my little bundle of need become mobile than I found he was a total savage. He wanted what he wanted. Period. There was no such thing as reasoning with him. If I said, no, he cried as if I was the meanest, most vile being in existence -- even when it was the hot stove or a glass jar or a sharp knife that was the subject of such debate. If I put him in his playpen so I could vaccum, he was being unfairly imprisoned. If I told him he must wear a sweater because it was 15 degrees out, he argued; yet he refused to dress himself.

Slowly, by turns (not to mention a slew of long, boring speeches), I managed to get him to see reason. I managed to get away with only giving him one spanking, when he willfully and deliberately disobeyed me. It never required another. My form of punishment was much worse: the lecture!

As he grew, he became a relatively normal teenager... with all the annoying hormonal changes that go along with that time frame. He became quiet and surly, embarrassed by me because -- heaven forbid! -- he did not spring out of the earth fully formed, but actually had a mother. He started shaving and his voice dropped a few octaves... this, I discovered only accidently, because it seemed he was determined to stop talking to me and hardly ever left his room, except to spend copious amounts of time in the bathroom (we only have one, so it's really noticeable when someone is in there for an hour and a half).

It wasn't until my daughter went to high school that I learned all the activities the school expected me to attend/participate in-- and probably thought I was a terrible person because I didn't. Meanwhile, I never knew they existed. Those little notes from the teachers magically disappeared without ever arriving home when my son went there. Even on his graduation day, he told me he had to be at school a full hour and a half before the ceremony... now, with my daughter graduating this friday, I have discovered she doesn't have to be there until 15 minutes before the ceremony. Hmmm.

Just recently, my son has begun starting conversations with me. The first time it happened, I had to subdue the urge to look around and see if there was someone else in the room. Surely, he couldn't be voluntarily initiating a conversation with me. I managed to act relatively natural and he told me about his recent experience at work. In and of itself, the talk was unremarkable... except that he started it, and it ended... without any hint of an argument.

It took me a few minutes to realize... I had finally beaten back the savage... at least, for the moment.--mo

Catzilla

There was a time when I thought Garfield was a strange aberration of Jim Davis' vivid imagination. I have had cats all my life. And while they all have unique personalities, never once was one surly or acerbic and not one of them ever took an interest in lasagne as a food staple. Then I met Catzilla.

His given name (I can't say ‘real' since cats don't have any real names) is Lucky. That in itself is joke enough. Come to think of it, I guess he is pretty lucky: lucky I can still find some sympathy for him. Lucky is the cat from Hell. And Lucky is still lucky to have a home at all.

If I sound unsympathetic, please understand. This is the cat who, upon joining my household, promptly decided to take a dump on my dining room floor; who refused to go outside (literally as well as figuratively) until the weather turned nicer. This, in January -- a long time between bathroom breaks by any mammal's reckoning. From the moment I took him in, we did not get along. For one thing, Lucky came to us with a past.

In fact the reason he came to us at all was that Lucky could not be trusted to behave himself in a multi-cat household. That is, he was dangerous to other cats. Though it was never proven, it was strongly suspected that he had starved two previous co-habitating cats to death. The evidence is this: another cat came to live with him, that cat gradually grew thinner and weaker; then it died. End of story. This happened not once, but twice. That's not a conviction. But it was enough circumstantial evidence to make his previous owner look for a new home when he, the owner (not the cat), moved in with his new wife and her cats. Starting a new relationship by having your cat kill your spouse's is not generally a good idea.

I didn't mind. Having no animals since my divorce I did not see his overly-enthusiastic penchant for territory as a problem. I chalked it up to his previous owner insisting he remain inside at all times, heightening his territoriality. If he was allowed to go outside again, I reasoned, he would loosen up. Wrong.

I don't know that any of the other cats in the area have been seriously effected, but the small-game population in our area has taken a real nose-dive. After having him for some time, I realized why. This cat eats like a horse!

He had always been fed dry cat food. But once, feeling charitable and seeing canned cat food on sale, I bought a package of four cans. He wiped out three in one sitting! And I don't mean those tiny gourmet cat food cans. I mean the 5 oz. ones. He didn't eat them like a normal cat, either, taking a few nibbles now and leaving the rest for later. Oh, no. When he received the first can, he gulped it down in four or five swallows. Then he came back, begging for more. Humoring him (or so I thought), I opened another can. That was gobbled down almost as fast. It wasn't until he polished off the third can that his appetite lagged. Now I see why he starved those other cats. He eats like a dog!

As for personality -- he IS Garfield. He doesn't purr, has no desire to be petted and one takes their life in their hands trying to hold him! As for communication, I am sure the only reason he doesn't talk is that he feels we are beneath any efforts at conversation -- a few ‘meows' to get what he wants is all he will allow.

Recently a friend offered to give us a kitten. I would love it, but that's the trouble. Even if I could guard it night and day, I'm sure Lucky would find a way to bully it out of food and rob it of all peace of mind. No. It would be too cruel to expose an innocent kitten to the likes of him. Now, a bull terrier might stand a chance -- maybe.

Oh, by the way: His favorite food? Spaghetti. Garfield lives in the form of a very Lucky Catzilla!--mo

(Addendum: shortly after writing this piece, Lucky had a life-altering experience. Basically, he got a puncture wound, which erupted... and made him very sick. I discovered this at about 5:30 p.m. that afternoon... and proceeded to travel half-way across NJ to find a vet who was open at that hour. We, Lucky and I, ended up in an all-night veterinarian hospital... and he was saved.

After that experience, it was obvious he saw I had more value than simply a food source when the local small game is low. And, yes, he's still with me, even sitting on my lap on cold winter nights. We've moved since then and he stays inside most of the time now... he's going to celebrate his "lucky 13th" birthday this October.

An Homage To Erma

(Originally written 3/31/02)

Looking through my newspaper the other day, I realized there was something missing. Something important. Now, first of all, you must understand two things about me: #1, I am a little slow sometimes and; #2, as far as I'm concerned there are only three reasons to buy a newspaper. Or, as I like to think of them, the "3-C's" -- Columns, Comics and Coupons. For this reason I rarely venture beyond the Today or Living section of the paper, leaving the duty of slogging through all the actual news to those who still believe their opinions actually matter. If anything really important happens, I know I'll hear about it eventually.

So it is that it only occurred to me last week how much I miss Erma. That's Erma Bombeck to anyone who can't name all four Beatles. For 30 years Erma Bombeck wrote a simple little twice-weekly column that was so enjoyable it ran in almost every major newspaper in the country. Why? Because Erma was real. And, more importantly, Erma spoke to us -- about life and everyday living.

She began her column in the mid-60's and quickly became popular for her home-spun humor. But I believe the main reason she was so popular is that, rather than offering advice or claiming any special "how-to" knowledge, Erma gave us something everyone needs -- humor and understanding; a chance to look at ourselves and laugh; a re-affirmation that we all share essentially the same problems and dilemmas.

Her columns were filled with stories of her everyday life, of living in the suburbs and raising a family in that day and age. True, toward the end, it became less relevant to the changing roles of women, still focusing on being a housewife and speaking as a grandmother and of retirement. But that was okay. She was Erma and could always find the humor in a situation. Even if one did not always understand it immediately. One of her books, The Grass Is Always Greener Over The Septic Tank cannot be fully appreciated until one has owned a home. Now I have.

Yet, even as a teenager in the 1970's, I enjoyed her "slice-of-life" humor, whether she was commenting on the aggravations of foreign travel or the high price of Medicare and gasoline. Two of her columns that were my personal favorites were, "Letters To My Children," relating a story in which a woman, dying of cancer, had written a letter to each of her grown children, to be read after she died. In each letter the mother began by saying, "Don't tell your siblings this, but you were always my favorite child because..."

That is so Erma.

The other was her "If I had My Life to Live Over" piece which was nothing less than a anthem on how to treasure each day and keep it sacred: "...I would have laughed more and worried less; I would have had more fires in the fireplace and not minded the ash it created..."

Yes, it will be six years this April 22 since Erma left us. Hard to believe. And, while there may be a website on the internet where one can read her collective writing, not to mention her biography, it's but a pale memory of a much treasured person.

If one were asked what value Erma's work had, what subject she wrote about exactly, one would be hard pressed to find an answer. All I know is she often touched a heart and warmed a soul. She made us feel human and reminded us that we were. Thanks, Erma. Your memory will be much honored and cherished.--mo

Reading To Children: Does it Ever End? Does it really HAVE to?

The following was originally written in Autumn, 2001:

When my kids were small I loved the fun of reading to them. Either during a quiet moment in the afternoon, or at bedtime, we read together with a passion. At that time, when picture books were their mainstay, it was never just one book but usually a stack of 5 or 6. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that, before they even finished learning their alphabet, I began to worry about when/how this treasured ritual would end.

True, it started as a minor question in the back of my mind. I knew it would pass at some point. I even admit, during the 928th reading of The Little Engine That Could (my son's absolute favorite story when he was 3), I may have looked forward to it a bit. But I dreaded it, too. I was not ready to give up the warm feeling of sharing something special, of snuggling close together and enjoying the magic of the written word, of telling spellbinding stories.

I tried to remember when my mother stopped reading to me. Then I recalled she did as soon as I started reading, as a way to encourage me to read. But too many of the books were far too difficult for my "Dick And Jane" vocabulary and, while I may have not been able to spell the words, I could certainly work out the general story from the pictures. Eventually, once I overcame the urge to finish every book in a sitting, I enjoyed reading to myself. Still, it was never the same.

So when my children came along, I remembered those bygone days. And I began to plot.

Because I did not want it to end, not by a long shot. Call me a frustrated storyteller. Maybe I should have had 10 kids instead of two. Who knows? But I was not about to let that much-beloved ritual pass. . . . and why should it?

Why do parents have to stop reading to their children? Don't they enjoy it, too? Okay, no one enoys The Three Billy Goats Gruff more than once in a while after they're out of diapers, but who says we have to stop there?

And, honestly, I cannot even take the credit for plotting. It just sort of happened. One night, when my son was a little less than 3, I happened to pick up a copy of The Wizard of Oz. This was a familiar story to him, thanks to the movie, but I wanted to read the book version. I promised him (as I had learned), that there may be surprising differences from the movie. Luckily, I was right. It was a much older story than any I had read to him before and I had to stop many times to explain the harder words he didn't understand. But we were enchanted to find that, for instance, unlike the movie, everyone in Oz had to wear green shaded glasses when they entered the city. (Incidently, we were even more delighted several years later to find that The Wizard of Oz is actually only the first in a series of 14 stories about that wonderful land and have since read all but the last few of them.)

After that, we continued on to various other children's books which, while too hard for my son's vocabulary (my daughter, as she grew, joined us a few years later), was not above his interest level. We continued in this fashion throughout elementary school, always reading children's books that were entertaining but too difficult for the average child. Older books, such as the original Peter Pan, The Little House On The Prairie series, The Boxcar Children series, The Encyclopedia Brown books, The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles. And, of course, The Narnia Chronicles. On and on.

We also read some amazing individual books. The original Homeward Bound book is wonderful, as is anything by Beverly Cleary, Roald Dahl or Eva Ibbotsen.

One trick to keeping our reading fresh was that we moved it out of the bedroom when they were both old enough. It was no longer a matter of putting them to sleep -- in fact, it hadn't been for some time. Story time still came before bed, but the children actually enjoyed it more when they could have a snack at the kitchen table while I read or get comfy in the livingroom.

One surprise addition to our group came when my husband discovered he enjoyed listening to the stories as much as the children. It then became a family ritual that was protected and set aside by all.

The children are older now. And, yes, we have lost my son from the circle. When he entered junior high, he refused to sit and listen to the stories. It became ‘uncool,' even when I pointed out that Stephen King (his then-favorite author) has commented that he and his family read together until he went off to college. My son professes not to listen. . . .but I have noticed it takes him a very long time to turn the page of the book propped in his lap as he sits across the room. Now he sits in the next room. . . . by himself, doing nothing. I wonder if he can hear me and I make sure my voice is raised properly, just in case. I have faith that someday he'll realize how much fun we're having and forget about whether or not we're ‘cool.'

But my plans go further than that. Because my husband and I enjoy our ritual so much, we have started reading after the children are in bed. Usually it's a classic. We're currently tackling Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead, which I cannot believe he missed when he was younger. As my son ages, perhaps he'd rather join the older reading of that hour. Who knows?

But, if you ask me, the question isn't, "when should you stop reading to your child?" The question is, why?--mo
---------------
As I said, this was originally written in 2001. Since then my children have grown up and, actually, my daughter is graduating from high school this week. Both of them were editor-in-chief of the school newspaper and, my son thought about becoming a political correspondent, but decided to pursue a business degree instead, my daughter has been awarded a scholarship to Ithaca College (well known as one of the pre-eminent journalism schools in the nation) with plans to become a writer. I'd like to say we still read together. But, it seems, there's just something about junior high/middle school that destroys a child's desire to be with their parents.

In my daughter's case, she became too impatient to wait to read together... especially when it came to the Harry Potter books. Despite the amount of enjoyment we got from reading the first three together, she insisted on reading ahead when the fourth came out. My husband and I continued reading it alone.

And I began to plan for the time when I can read to my grandchildren.