Please excuse me, but would you be so kind as to Shut Up! (if it's not a bother) -- Thank you

It’s soccer season again, and Sport’s back on a team of familiar kids (Go Wildcats!) and his favorite coach. At the game on Saturday, I sat with a few other soccer moms, watching our kids kill the other team (7-1), exchanging pleasantries, and enjoying the beautiful morning.

At least I tried to enjoy it, but behind me, surrounded by a gaggle of groupies, was The Blowhard. I’d never seen him before, but he was all too familiar. You know this guy. His lungs are fully developed from years of diaphragm training and time spent performing in community theater. He’s already starting to perfect the comb-over, and his clothes are much more flamboyant then the sweatshirts and jeans worn by the other men nearby. He’s charming, or at least he believes he’s charming, and can always attract a small crowd of desperate women hoping to find Mr. Right #3. He’s met important people and will drop names, has anecdotes and stories to meet every situation, can always turn the conversation back to his favorite subject: Him!

I was trying to tune him out. I really was. I would have moved away, but there’s only one set of bleachers -– metal, 3-tiered -– not very comfortable, but better than sitting down in a bunch of stickers. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been talking at normal volume, but for some reason, he was projecting his voice over the bleachers and across the field to the chain-link fence.

“Of course, I’ve worked on Broadway…”

“$2000 dollars a month for an apartment! And it was so tiny…”

“Yes, I actually had dinner with So and So. He’s a really nice guy, but a little short…”

And on and on and on. It got so distracting, I almost missed Sport’s goal. I could feel my rage building. Nothing would have satisfied me more than to turn around and scream at him to “Shut Up!” But I was brought up with better manners than that. When it got too much to bear, I walked around the field to get a different perspective, not only of the game, but of myself.

Maybe the problem is with me. I'm too polite. Not assertive enough. I'm a wimp. I was having a conversation with Shank last week that underscores this assertion. My yoga teacher was sick and we found ourselves with a last minute sub who actually teaches Pilates. Had no yoga experience. She had us all drag out the exercise balls and warm up with some simple step moves. I was definitely not feeling it. I was in the mood for yoga -- elegant, calm, restful. Instead, I got a glimpse of myself tossing a little ball in the air while doing some hamstring stretches. Not a good image.

I contemplated leaving. I really did. But another woman beat me to the punch, and I didn't want the poor instructor to get down to the end of class with only a handful of losers barely hanging on. I was brave. I stuck it out. But I wasn't happy about it. Not happy at all.

Shank thinks my inability to leave the classroom was a good thing. It's true, I wanted to spare the instructor's feelings. He said he'd have done the exact same thing. Perhaps, as he says, it's some sort of Protestant guilt thing. He thinks Protestants get ripped off in the Acknowledgement of Guilt category behind Jews and the Catholics. We Protestants are positively dripping with it! His hypothesis: "I'm starting to formulate an idea about how politeness is the great lost art of our time, and part of politeness is the stiff-upper-lipped acceptance of temporarily uncomfortable situations."

So with The Blowhard, I chose to be polite. I removed myself. But one of these days, I'm going to tell somebody to shut up. And I'll probably throw in a "please" and a "thank you", just for good measure.

Grandma doesn't live here anymore

Grandma’s roommate is crazy. I don’t mean to be harsh, but the woman wanders around in her wheelchair, asking for help in putting on her shoes, searching for her mama, and muttering in a low but gravely voice. She wants my grandmother to help her, and it’s hard to turn down those insistent, plaintive demands.

“She’s crazy,” Grandma tells me, laughing a little. “God bless her. Crazy as a loon.”

After a series of mini-strokes about a month ago, Grandma’s condition deteriorated enough that she needed to be moved to an assisted living center. It’s been a difficult choice for my mother, but Grandma’s short-term memory is very limited. She needs to be constantly monitored, but she’s not like the other lost souls in her Alzheimer’s wing where she’s got a room.

Luckily, she’s got a good attitude about the whole situation. She knows Mom can’t handle any more stress. So she tries to be patient: she eats her three meals in the cafeteria with the other patients, she listens to live music, she attends craft programs.

But I wonder what she thinks about when she’s lying in the dark, trying to get to sleep.

Does she think about her life as the child of a cotton farmer in West Texas? Her marriage at the age of 16 to a preacher man, the birth of her two children, the miscarriage of another? Does she think on the loss of her first husband to lymphoma, her marriage to a widowed preacher, and his death after 30 years of marriage? What of all the vacations she took to research the family tree? Of her son, the scumbag who swindled her out of her life savings? Of her daughter, dealing with the effects of bipolar disorder? What about her 8 grandchildren and numerous great-grandchildren?

I found myself wishing that, as our elders aged, they'd also get smaller -- shrinking to the size of babies so we could have an easier time taking care of them. Don't most babies look like old men and women anyway? (Except Suri Cruise.)

On my way home, I started crying. I hated seeing Grandma like that, knowing she’s on the final leg of her journey. This woman was the key ingredient to building my self-esteem when I was a kid. She loved me unconditionally. She made me feel special. I felt helpless, wishing I could do something to make it easier. Is loving her enough?

I don't like facing the reality that most of us are destined for such a place. I hope I'll have to grace to be gracious, just like Grandma.

High on Jesus

Gouldie and I took the kids to Outback on a blustery, rain-soaked Sunday afternoon. We tried to arrange them in such a way that we could get a couple of sentences of adult conversation in before being interrupted. But all conversation stopped dead when our server knelt down to take our order.

I'm not sure, but I think my jaw dropped. I haven't seen such a flamboyant hairstyle since Cirque de Soleil came through town. He looked like a Dragonball Z character. The glare of his flair was dazzling. So numerous were the metal trinkets on his vest, I was certain if he stumbled in the parking lot, landing face down in a puddle, he would have drowned.

We placed our order, and he gave us his name.

"Ponder?" I squeaked. "Any relation to Ponder so-and-so?" (Really, who else would name their kid Ponder unless they were bigtime members of the Nazarene community.)

"Oh, yes. He's my great-uncle!" The kid beamed, blinding us with his pearly whites. He literally glowed.

"Wow, what a coincidence! He was our college president!"

Gouldie and I turned to each other as Ponder hurried to the kitchen to place our order. We giggled like the school girls we once had been.

"Should I tell him I once pretended to flick cigarette butts at his great-uncle's giant picture window?"

"Didn't he almost suspend you for going to the Big Barn Dance of 1986?"

"Not me, I never got caught!"

"Did he find out you were the one who printed up that fake Drumbeat newsletter?"

"I'll take that secret to my grave."

"How many times did you get caught breaking midnight curfew?"

"No comment. Remember when they finally let us wear shorts on campus?"

"God, we were such nerds."

That led us to another conversation about the utter ridiculousness of some of our college antics. If you haven't experienced it, you can't believe how much fun we used to have with our crowd of equally nerdy Jesus freaks, where playing Spoons, watching movies (Footloose rules!), going roller skating, or building a bonfire for a marshmallow roast was great entertainment.

"You guys were drunk, right -- or high?" our new friends have asked.

"High on Jesus, baby!"

Marching to the beat of an Irish bodhran

LegoGuy has a new obsession. He's always been interested in Ireland, since his grandmother was born there and he's got an Irish name. We've got fond memories of him and C.F. Kats jigging along with the video of RiverDance. But now he wants to know more about Ireland's history and culture, and especially the music. He's been digging through his father's old LPs, pulling out albums by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. SO made him some copies on CD and LegoGuy's been taking them to school in his Discman. While he rides the bus, he drums along to the beat of "Tim Finnegan's wake" and "Brennan on the Moor." One of his friends asked to hear what he was listening to and was baffled. "What the heck is that?"

"Irish folk music," LegoGuy told her with a broad smile.

Every mother thinks her kids are great, and I'm no different. My oldest has inherited his father's laid back approach to life. Rarely does he get his feathers ruffled or his nose out of joint. He's always got a smile on his face, is good-natured and sweet. The thing I most admire about LegoGuy is he's never been afraid to step away from the crowd. He likes being original.

It's no secret that I didn't enjoy my elementary school years. Middle school was better, but I wanted to be just like everybody else. I didn't want to stick out or call attention to myself. I was afraid.

LegoGuy has no fear. He'll step up and challenge intolerance. He loves politics and isn't afraid to talk about the issues, even though he's one of a handful of Blues in a sea of Red. He's concerned about the environment, and he loves his family. On Sunday, he turned down an invitation to sit with his friends at the church picnic so he could eat lunch with us.

LegoGuy is brave. He's my hero.

Never enough time

I don't like marking anniversaries of tragedies. In case you haven't been paying attention, the fifth anniversary of September 11th is right around the corner, and emotions are running high. At work, I received a mass forward from one employee who was urging all of us to fly an American flag on Monday. "Pass this on to 11 people. It's the least you can do!" Yeah, it's quite literally the least we could do. As if five years have passed and I haven't once thought of what happened that day. Hell, everytime I see an airliner I think of September 11th.

I planned to avoid all this stuff, much like I avoided the anniversaries of the Murrah bombing. So painful was that event to my friends and community that even now I haven't been able to muster up the courage to visit the bombing museum. I did manage to see the bombing memorial one spring day, near Easter, and barely held it together. Someone had placed a colorful stuffed rabbit on one of the tiny little chairs, an Easter bunny meant for a child who would never grow up.

I wanted to avoid it, but I was laid up Saturday with a terrible headache. After dinner I took an Advil and retreated into my bedroom. I turned on the TV and spent some time switching channels, waiting to see if the headache would pass. I came across Flight 93, and put down the remote. The film captured all the emotions of that day with terrible intensity.

What gets me is the victims' desperate need to make a phone call -- to connect with a loved one for the last time. I find it hard to imagine what it would be like to make such a call, and even harder to imagine how I'd handle being on the receiving end. As one woman put it, "I'm so sorry, Mom. I know this is going to be harder on you than it will be on me." When the phone went dead, that mother knew her child was no more.

Finally the headache passed and I went outside to work a little in the front yard. LegoGuy had gone for his shower, but Sport was fighting the darkness. "Clean up your stuff and go inside," I told him, and so began the onset of his usual meltdown. I didn't feel like dealing with it. I ignored him and let SO handle it.

Later, I went to tuck him in. "You don't love me!" he accused. Fact is, I was feeling very put out, and he knew it. But when I looked into his face, I tried to imagine what it would feel like to loose him in the future, when he was a grown man and I was much older, and he only had a moment to say goodbye, and I only had a moment to tell him how he'd been everything I wanted in a son, everything and more. So I kissed him and cuddled him and held him very tight.

There's never enough time. Never enough.

Sounds of childhood

What sounds do you most associate with your childhood? This was a question asked in a book I'm currently reading, The human voice: how this extraordinary instrument reveals essential clues about who we are, by Anne Karpf. I had to sit for a minute and really scour my memories, but I came up with three.

Sound #1: the click click of the car blinker. My father would turn it on, signalling we were making a right hand turn onto our street. Late at night, we'd be returning from a church event after ingesting casseroles heavy with butter and cream of mushroom soup. If we weren't fighting over who got to "ride shotgun", we were dozing in the backseat of the car. Unfettered by seatbelts, we kids would barely register the drive home. When we heard that blinker go on, we knew it wouldn't be long before we'd be snuggled in our beds, safe and sound.

Sound #2: the drone of the air conditioner. After a hot and humid day at elementary school, I'd walk home and stretch out on our black Naugahyde couch. I loved to press my cheek into the cold plastic, watch a rerun of Gilligan's Island, and just veg. The air conditioner nearby made a comforting "ummmmmmmm" as I relaxed, one hand tracing lines into the carpet.

Sound #3: the musical tones of Yellow Submarine, played on the organ. Saturday mornings, around 11:30, my mother would flip the power switch of her electric organ, pull out her stack of sheet music, and climb onto the bench. She'd punch in a rock and roll setting (complete with drums), slip out of her shoes, and start working the foot pedals. Soon the strains of her favorite Beatles song would waft through the house. My sister and I shared a bedroom, one wall of which butted up against the back of the organ. And every Saturday morning, without fail, we would wake up to the tune of Yellow Submarine. It was impossible to ignore. Mom cranked up the volume as high as it would go. It was her special way of waking us up when she thought we'd been in bed too long.

What sounds connect you to powerful childhood memories?

How I turned my dog into a tittie baby

Last week I was out in the garden, trying to bring some semblance of order into Hell Corner -- the long-neglected northeast side of our yard. I've managed to ignore and stall getting to it because I hate pulling grass, and grass has jumped from the yard into this particular flowerbed and invaded with a vengeance.

I had some pretty good excuses: the mosquitoes were bad and I was out of OFF, I'd worn out my last pair of gardening gloves, and we've been having something like a solid month of 100+ days. But an unexpected cool front came in and I trudged out, bringing Bella along for company.

Our previous dog was a little lady, who'd sit next to me and quietly watch flitting butterflies. Bella, however, is no lady. As I kneeled and yanked the runners from the ground, she'd trot over with her toys and nudge me, wanting me to play. I kept shooing her away, but she's relentless. Each time I pushed her away, she came back for more abuse. Finally, I took her out front and leashed her to a tree. The boys were practicing their soccer skills, and I figured she'd be fine out there with them.

Would you believe that dopey dog barked for me the whole time? She wasn't interested in watching the boys play ball. She wanted to be off that leash and in the backyard. The boys finally got tired of her noise and released her. She promptly ran to the back fence to bark for my attention. I finally gave up and took her in the house with me.

I added it all up: she follows me everywhere I go in the house, waits outside my door when I take a nap, jumps on the couch to cuddle with me, and basically is attached to me at the ankles. I've turned her into a tittie baby, and I didn't even try.

I guess my next step will be dressing her up and carrying her around in a purse.

Welcome to my cat blog

I was working on a book Monday that really got under my skin. In it, the author made a passing remark about blogs, breaking them down into three categories: cat blogs: in which people write about their pets, children, lovers, jobs, likes and dislikes; boss blogs, in which employers post information pertinent to their employees; and viral blogs, in which the passionate try to affect a change, primarily in politics.

I was a little insulted, so I visited urbandictionary.com to take a look at some other definitions. There, I was subjected to a rude beating about the head, chest, and neck. As of this moment, there are 36 different definitions of the word blog, most of which are derogatory. I mean, some people really don’t like them:

A meandering, blatantly uninteresting online diary that gives the author the illusion that people are interested in their stupid, pathetic life. Consists of such riveting entries as "homework sucks" and "I slept until noon today."

A place where people bitch about their daily activities in which nobody else is interested. Topics covered include (but are not limited to): why they argued with a boyfriend; how they ended up together at last; daily anorexic activities like drinking blended organic fruits and vegetables for breakfast, lunch and dinner; talking about cutting themselves with a razor blade and how good it felt; bitching about their shopping activities and what they got, etc.

A page on the internet, regularly updated by someone who, ostensibly, can find nothing better to do with their time.

Zipping over to Wikipedia, I was somewhat mollified to read a less insulting definition:

The modern blog evolved from the online diary where people would keep a running account of their personal lives.

Folks, I’m not interested in forcing the hapless internet user into reading inane and rambling postings all about me ... me ... me. I think of my blog as a writing exercise, and a great way to keep friends and family informed about what’s going on with me and my family. When I first started keeping a blog, I sent an email to all my friends and selected family members, excited about this new tool. I don’t think they were nearly as excited about it as I was. To date, I’m certain that one out-of-town friend keeps up with me on a regular basis (you know who you are, Sweetcheekscakes), and a New Orleanian college pal may read it occasionally, but rarely comments. I have some devoted in-town friends that read it, and their comments and positive feedback keep me stoked.

So, okay, I’ll admit it. I’m the proud owner of a cat blog. And I don’t even have a cat. But I do have a dog name Bella, and I discovered the other day that I have somehow turned her from an independent, feisty little Westie into a tittie baby of immense proportions.

But that’s a posting for another day.

In space, no one can hear you scream

We’ve been tormenting LegoGuy for months with our plan to introduce him to the world of scary films. One benefit of having children is passing on to them our own quirky interests and passions. Like many Americans, we love a good scare. Now that LegoGuy’s stepped across the threshold into the teenage years, we figured that the thunderstorm that hit us on Saturday was a perfect night to pull out one of our favorite scare fests, Alien.

Sure, there are other films out there that can scare the bejeezus out of you. Personally, I can’t stand to watch any more serial killer movies. They come too close to reality and make me have nightmares. I’m not willing to expose my kid to blood and gore extravaganzas since I don’t even like those, myself. I like thrillers rather than horror. I like an original idea, something that’s smart rather than shocking. I like movies that keep you thinking about them days after the first viewing.

Alien fits all my criteria. Think about it for a second. A crew of seven stumbles across a radio signal that is unlike anything they’ve ever seen before. When they investigate, one of their members is attacked by a facehugger. The victim haplessly incubates an alien life form that later bursts from his chest, sheds its skin at an alarming rate and grows into an immense, acid dripping, killing machine. To me, the alien is not nearly as frightening as the aspect of becoming an incubator for its progeny. That’s horror, folks.

LegoGuy spent much of the second half of the movie with a pillow over his head. When Ripley battled the beast, blasting it into space through the hold of her escape shuttle, he could barely breathe.

“That was the most tense thing I have ever seen,” he said when it was finally over. Later, I heard him retelling the whole story to his brother, who’d been holed up in our bedroom watching cartoons. Sport’s not old enough to appreciate the thrill of a good scare. He’s still got some real horrors to deal with in the next few years: his first real crush, sex-ed classes, and co-ed bathrooms.

When faced with co-ed bathrooms, I'll take an incubating chestburster anytime.

Secrets and flies

Not long ago, I cataloged a book called PostSecret. It documented a community art project in which people were invited to anonymously share a secret. Written on postcards, the secrets poured in: regrets, fears, betrayals, confessions, childhood humiliations. Many of the postcards were handcrafted -- little works of art in themselves. Browsing through the book, there are some startling revelations:

* He's been in prison for two years because of what I did.
9 more to go.
* I tell people I'm an atheist, but I believe
I'm going to Hell.
* I'm sorry. We were young, and I think about -- and regret --
it every day.
* I faked sorrow at my Dad's funeral, when I, in fact,
was selfishly happy I didn't have to wipe his butt anymore.

So what's my dark, terrible secret? I was discussing this with a friend the other day. Brace yourself:

* I once stood by while a neighbor kid drowned a toad.
I didn't intervene.

No big deal, really, except to the toad. But I still feel badly about it. I came up with another one last night:

* I like eating in hole-in-the-wall restaurants, despite the flies.

The dark thoughts I have from time to time would probably take up an entire package of postcards, but the only person I'd ever be comfortable sharing them with is my therapist. Sometimes when I'm really tired, and the demands of parenting overwhelm me, I wonder what it would be like to be childless. Sometimes, late at night, when my parents are driving me crazy (which is most of the time), I wish I was an orphan. When the sun comes up, I'm usually able to chase these thoughts away, and face the day with a renewed optimism.

Sometimes.

40 years into the future

This morning I went to a birthday/retirement party for a friend who’s worked for 40 years at the library system. Forty years! I think this was his first real job after graduating from college. I’ve been trying to imagine what life would have been like if I’d stayed at some of those early jobs I worked. What a journey!

After a semester of grad school at the University of Maryland, I decided a Master’s degree in creative writing really wasn’t the best route to go, so I came back to Oklahoma to consider my options (and be near my boyfriend). I got a job as a typesetter and sometime reporter for a local newspaper, making just barely over minimum wage. I moved into a dive of an apartment was thrilled by my independence. Over time, the editor let me write some mildly entertaining stories and take some photographs of grand openings and candid photos of kids playing in the park. I came up with a summer series, creating a Fun-O-Meter and rating different activities on a scale of 1-10. Totally cheesy! Would I have been able to spend 40 years at that job? Not without ending up as the co-editor in the corner office, a shriveled up woman with a dowager hump, who muttered to herself and obsessively collected designer Barbie dolls.

Next it was on to a desktop publishing job, putting together specialized directories. I learned how to do this on one of the early Macs, and got to be a whiz at Pagemaker. My boss was a chain-smoking, coffee-drinking sexual harasser, but in the days before Anita Hill, no one had the nerve to call it such. He was always wanting to pop my back. He’d bring me into his office to play mind games. My supervisor was his live-in girlfriend, so there was really no one I could talk to about my discomfort. Lasting 40 years in this job was not an option as the owner went bankrupt and my boss was investigated for misappropriation of funds. I was never more thrilled than the day I was let go. Sweet release!

On to another stint as a desktop publisher, this time sharing office space with a certified psychic. The days would drag out as my boss only had enough work coming in to keep me busy for half the day. The rest of the time I would read, balance my checkbook, or eavesdrop on the pyschic's sessions. She had a pretty good client base. Often, I'd hear her talk about a future journey, or a big change just around the corner, or perhaps the need to evaluate a certain relationship -- stuff that was so general as to apply to anyone's situation. Staying there wasn't an option: not enough to keep me busy. But I definitely could see myself, after 40 years, becoming Madame AQ: the Typesetting Psychic.

"Hear your future, and, while you wait, let me make you up a nifty set of business cards!"

As the light dies in my eyes

Still adjusting to our back-to-school schedule. We’ve implemented a complex morning shower routine, and it seems to be working. Sport, however, tends to linger under the water spray and takes a leisurely approach to waking up. LegoGuy took it upon himself to hurry his brother along. He burst into the bathroom, shouting like a Drill Sergeant.

“In this house, we take military showers! Do you know what a military shower is, soldier? That’s 60 seconds of water time. Sixty seconds! Let’s go! Get it in gear! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

SO and I were at the table, laughing at the muffled shouts. LegoGuy came out to the kitchen with a mischievous grin. “I saw the light go out of his eyes,” he said.

The boys and their dad aren’t quite used to these early mornings, having slept late most of the summer. And all these bodies to bump into while I’m trying to get ready for work have thrown me off as well. I’m thinking by next week we’ll be acclimated. The hardest thing to get used to, however, is the loss of free time. We’ve got to worry about meet-the-teacher night, open house, parent/teacher conferences, orchestra practice, homework, concerts, piano lessons, theory lessons, recitals, contests, music programs. No more family movie nights, quiet reading on the couch, leisurely visits with friends, impromptu soccer games on the front lawn. The familiar fist of tension starts to grow in my chest.

Adding to the stress is the possibility that LegoGuy will start “dating” this year. We told him he could go on group dates as long there was an adult somewhere to chaperone. Yes, it sounds old-fashioned, but I can’t imagine sending a group of 7th graders out minus a level-headed grown-up to keep an eye on things.

I’m also sorry to report that Sport has reached the age that he will not hold my hand in public. I noticed this when walking him to VBS a couple weeks ago. I reached out to take his hand and he pulled away. “I still love you, Mom,” he said, “But I am in 3rd grade now.”

That fist of tension in my chest is now mixed with a little sadness. They have to grow up, don't they?

Public pool, dead ahead!

Had lunch today with Gouldie and The Boy. As we finished our sandwiches, he interrupted to ask breathlessly, "After we're done, can we go to the store and buy -- can we buy -- can we get..."

"Yes?" The anticipation builds.

"...a wheelchair?"

Explosive laughter.

I think I'll get one, too. After our field trip to the public pool yesterday, I'm in need of another way to get around. I stepped on a plastic Titanic replica and bruised the arch of my foot. What was once a fun kid activity is now an adult death trap.

To pass the time in the dog days of a San Antonio summer, my parents would drop us off at the local public pool. We'd spend hours there, jumping off the diving board, doing the "NESTEA Plunge," playing Marco Polo, and basically annoying the hell out of any grown-ups who happened to cross our path. This being the South Side, where few had air conditioning and fewer had private pools, we were generally packed in the water shoulder to shoulder. I don't remember ever swimming -- it was more like bobbing up and down. Once the lifeguard whistled all of us out of the pool due to a passing lightning storm. Instead of waiting around for Dad to pick us up, we decided to walk home -- without shoes and in the blistering heat. We swaddled our feet in towels to protect the tender soles. God, what a bunch of idiots.

So we're at the pool yesterday, and as soon as we get there, in goes Sport. He spends the next 7 minutes cajoling me to get in. I, however, like to do things gradually. LegoGuy grabs his plastic Titanic and they re-enact the sinking. While they are occupied, I sneak in and start a leisurely swim down the middle of the pool. Along the way I'm assaulted by two red-headed girls who nearly cannonball into me from the side, a teenager with magenta-colored hair who is rooted to the bottom and refuses to budge as I come closer, and the chubbiest 5-year-old kid I've ever seen, gripping onto a noodle for dear life. There's no room to swim. There's barely room to breathe.

Before I know it, the boys have spotted me and are racing toward me at top speed, begging me to "Watch this!" I stand like an iceberg, watching the inevitable. Everywhere I turn, LegoGuy and Sport are there, plunging the tiny Titanic under the water, subjecting its victims to infinite drownings and resurrections. At one point, I let down my guard and start to walk toward the shallow side to take a breather. That's when I step down hard on the stupid ship. No, I didn't swear. Out loud, anyway.

Wheelchair, anyone? Or at least a tranquilizer.

Piano teachers are from Hell

There’s something about Sport’s piano teacher that really intimidates me. Maybe it’s the golden tint of her waist-length, peroxide-treated hair, or the flash of turquoise on her well-manicured toes. Possibly, it’s the glitter and flair of the rings she wears on every finger of each hand. Or it could be the way she applies a layer of thick pan makeup to hide the wrinkles around her eyes, a clever and skillful way of disguising the fact that her 60th birthday is fast approaching.

Don't get me wrong -- she's a good teacher. She’s very talented, but her intensity is a little scary. She eats musical notes for breakfast. But I've always thought music teachers were a bit odd. She seems to have conversations with the busts of composers sitting on shelves near her piano. She’s also got about 10 cats living with her. And Sport loves her.

Once she chewed him out over a poorly-practiced piece of music. Sitting there on the piano bench, tears filled his eyes. “I’m just a little child,” he told her. One look at his pooling baby blues, and she broke down and hugged him. From that moment on, it’s like he became her favorite student. Is it because he had the courage to talk back to her? That he wasn’t afraid to show his emotions? Or is it because he’s just too darn cute to resist?

I’ve had many piano teachers over the years, but the one I remember with the most clarity is Mrs. Stout. She was a little old woman with gnarled hands and a sour expression. My sister and I went each week to her house, dutifully dropped off by Dad. The house smelled of baby oil and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on. (Was it tapioca?) Being the oldest, I’d go first. She’d wrestle my fingers into position. When I played a wrong note, she’d slap me on the back of the hand with a ruler. I really didn’t like her.

She had an ancient bulldog. We’d hear his labored breathing long before he appeared in the living room, his toenails clattering on the tile floor. He’d sit on the floor near Mrs. Stout’s handmade ragdolls. He looked comically out of place next to those bright, embroidered smiles.

Last night, Sport’s teacher chastised him over the quality of his scales. I tensed, waiting for her to pull a ruler out and smack him on the hands. Instead, she gave him a high five and a piece of candy.

Times have certainly changed.

Teenage girls can't stop the rock!

Took LegoGuy and Sport to see their first "rock concert" last night -- MuggleFest in Norman was featuring Harry and the Potters. The show opened with Draco and the Malfoys. (No word yet on appearances by Ron and the Weasleys, Hermione and the Grangers, or Dumble and the Doors.) There was an annoying costume contest in which the audience was invited to cheer and applaud for their favorites.

Did I mention there were a lot of teeny-bopper girls in the audience? And when they cheer, it's really more like screaming -- a double octave, high C kind of scream? I thought my eardrums were bleeding.

When Draco and the Malfoys started thrashing across the stage, a large group of these girls rushed up and jostled about for the next hour and a half. No boys their age were brave enough to join the fray. LegoGuy wasn't about to do it -- he was too cool. Sport might have gone up to check out the drum set, but I was afraid he'd get crushed under the mass of gyrating, prepubescent bodies. Then Harry and the Potters got up to belt out an earsplitting blend of punk rock, thrash, and magic. The girls went wild when one of the Harrys jumped into the audience and started dancing. Hormones oozed out of pores and onto the floor.

Watching these girls took me back to my own middle school days. Not long after Elvis died, our school was visited by a local Elvis impersonator. We were all transfixed by the groundswell of public grief over the King's passing, watching memorial shows on TV and old broadcasts of Elvis in his glory days. So once the impersonator hit the stage, we girls knew what to do. We impersonated the Elvis fans of the 1950s with an eerie authenticity. We screamed, we danced, we emitted fake sobs, we reached up to grab at his leg. He threw silk scarves at us. My sister even tossed him her comb. He pulled it through his greasy pompadour, then threw it back to her. Later, she taped that comb up on our bedroom wall. It stayed there for years, a silent reminder of the extremes of teenage emotion.

Rock 'n roll, baby! Rock ... and ... Roll.

Why be normal?

You know how the atmosphere shivers ahead on the highway when you drive through the desert? That's the way things feel around me right now. Uncertain and unreal. At any moment, I'm expecting the other shoe to fall. The signs are all there: increased manic activity, prophesying, spending sprees, mood swings, crying jags, ultimatums. I'm pretty sure my mom is about to launch into another psychotic episode, and my whole body is tense. I look back, far back into the past and try to find normal.

I was about 12 or 13 when Mom had her first vision. We were driving home from a tiny town in Soutwest Texas where my father was serving as interim minister. Nearing the outskirts of San Antonio, my mother covered her eyes with her hands and starting shouting: seeing the faces of relatives who had passed over, praising the Lord. freaking the hell out of us.

This was not the best way to enter adolescence. At first, I was convinced my mother was dying. Later, wrapped up in self-centeredness, I didn't care what was causing it. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted her to quit crying all the time. I wanted someone to pay attention to me. Ahhh, teenagers. It wasn't until I'd graduated from college that she was diagnosed with Bipolar Affective Disorder. So now I watch LegoGuy and Sport from the corner of my eye and wonder, which one is it going to be? Who's going to pass that little gem of a gene onward?

But, as Eeyore said to me the other day, that kind of thinking is colored with shades of Nietzsche. What's normal, anyway? There's probably not a single family who doesn't have its share of crazy. Crazy is trying to watch a documentary on American history while the boys' bowels rumble with a calliope of fart sounds, making us all giggle. Crazy is seeing a pretty girl walk across the parking lot while LegoGuy launches into a porn ditty ("Bow wow chicka bow wow"). Crazy is spending 6 hours cleaning up the boys' room and knowing that later I'll be watching them trash it in exactly 45 minutes flat.

Why be normal when crazy is so much more interesting?

The boys are back in town!

Bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked and brimming with stories, LegoGuy and Sport returned from a two-week vacation with their uncles, aunt, grandpa and cousin in the mountains of Colorado. They shared their adventures: long hikes, rides on the 4-wheeler, a hayride, campfires and s’mores every night, a trip via the electric train to visit the Denver Mint and the Natural History Museum, and an afternoon at the Denver Bronco’s training camp. Needless to say, they had a ball.

And so did we. For twelve days, SO and I got a break from the parenting routine. It was heaven. We ate out a lot and watched movies uninterrupted. The house stayed clean. There wasn’t much laundry to do. We got together with friends, had long talks, played board games. I read and worked in the garden. Needless to say, we had a ball.

Now they’re back, and we are settling into the old routine. God, I am not ready to do this again! I forgot how clueless these kids are! Sometimes I think they’re retarded. I really do. I know it’s wrong and politically incorrect for me to even use the word, but how else to explain the routine we have to go through day after day regarding the simple basics of personal hygiene? You’d think that after being reminded for five solid years to make their beds in the morning, they’d eventually do it automatically. Isn’t a habit supposed to be formed in 21 days?

SO and I get sick of hearing our voices saying the same old stuff over and over, and yesterday I made some flash cards, hoping that would prompt the boys to action.

Teeth brushed?
Dishes cleared?
Hair combed?
Shoes put away?

I’ve even taken to threatening them with a sharp object. “Do you want me to poke you with a pin?” Call the Child Abuse Hotline!

School starts in less than thirteen days. Sport’s piano lessons start back up next week. Soon we’ll be over our heads in scheduling, deadlines, teacher-parent meetings, orchestra concerts, contests and recitals. The memories of our two-week oasis will fade.

Next summer, I’ll be in the market for someone who’s willing to host the boys for a couple weeks. Any takers?

Currently reading:
In Cold blood, by Truman Capote
Just finished:
Flushed: how the plumber saved civilization, by W. Hodding Carter
New obsession:
The Colbert Report (Comedy Central)
I'm sick of hearing about:
Mel Gibson

Winning isn't everything, it's the ONLY thing

How comfortable are you with competitiveness? Do you forge ahead in any game, stepping on every toe, eyes on the brass ring, savoring the taste of victory in your mouth and doing a little happy dance on the bodies of your vanquished foes? Or do you hold back just a little, afraid you'll hurt someone’s feelings, and credit your win to the luck of the draw.

If you do the former, you’re probably a man. If you do the latter, you’re most likely a woman.

There’s no polite way to say it: I suck at sports and I’ve never been Numero Uno at cerebral activities. But I can play a mean game of Scrabble, and, more importantly, I love the game. Over the years I’ve had a few Scrabble buddies who pushed me to play harder and better. I watched Word Wars about true Scrabble champions, and I’m well-adjusted enough to be grateful I’ll never be that good. The game has always entertained me, and I really can’t remember learning how to play. I never studied any strategy guides or surfed the net to look up advice.

Now I’ve got a new Scrabble buddy, and he’s really pushing me to get better. For the first time, I picked up a book called Everything Scrabble, and spent an entire weekend working through anagrams, looking at parallel plays, memorizing acceptable 2-letter words -– in short, I gloried in the world of the word geek.

In my competitive frenzy, I noticed something. The nature of competition cropped up in several of the books I’m currently reading. I first came across a discussion of it in The girls of summer, in which Coach Anson Dorrance talks about the difficulties of making competitiveness not only socially acceptable for the members of the U.S. women's soccer team, but admirable.

Our society trains women to be acquiescent and is fundamentally at odds with the culture of competition in general and athletics in particular. Women tend to be motivated differently than men; for women, relationships mean as much as competition. Aha! I said to myself. This is why I always fret after playing a game, hoping I didn’t crush anyone’s self-esteem or destroy a fragile psyche.

Then, I read of another concept in a book by local author, Allyn Mitchell Evans. She explores the difficulties women have in breaking free of male-dominated cultural roles. Like her, I was brought up with Southern cultural imperatives: be nice, don't call attention to yourself, remember your manners, mask your own desires while putting others before you. These instructions came from my parents, which were passed down from their parents. Once you're accustomed to wearing a mask, it's not easy to remove it.

Maybe one day I’ll be comfortable with my desire to crush my Scrabble opponents. Perhaps I’ll be able to walk away from a game, after having bluffed everyone into accepting a made-up two-letter like “Za” (for a double word score, no less), and not have to justify it internally on the 20-minute ride back home.

Until then, I’ll keep playing. And studying. And, hopefully, winning!

Wrapped in plastic

On Saturday, I went to pick up my grandmother for lunch. Arriving at the house, I found the vacuum waiting for me. "Would you mind?" my mother asked. "I've already picked up all the mats, so it will be easy!"

My mother has about 457 floor mats scattered around her home. She's also covered each chair and sofa with a blanket or throw of some kind. There's little chance a bare foot or pant-covered thigh will touch original carpet or upholstery. What is her deal with keeping furniture pristine?

This must be something inherited from the previous thrifty (some might say cheapskate) generation. Each summer during the 1970s, we would travel to Arkansas to visit my dad's parents. We kids would groan to ourselves. None of us liked going. A visit to the Arkansas clan was never fun. It was always hot, and the mosquitoes were bad. The relatives were all ancient, and went to bed at 7 o'clock. We had to do lots of yard work and we couldn't sit on the furniture.

That's right. We weren't allowed on the furniture. Grandma Lena had purchased a new couch in 1965. Ten years later, it still looked brand new. And it was still covered in the plastic it had been wrapped in at the factory.

We used to make a game out of it -- see which one of us could sit on it for the longest amount of time. It was the single highlight of our dreary day.

The air hung heavy with humidity and the smell of fried food. Grandma Lena would only turn the air conditioner on when the preacher came by for a visit. The rest of the time she used ancient fans to push the heat around. My brother would sneak into the living room while my sister and I played dominoes at the big dining room table. Sure enough, tiny Grandma Lena would swat him on the leg and chase him out of the room.

"Get off my couch!"

Her ear was tuned to the sound of crinkling plastic. One night, as I sat watching an episode of Little House on the Prairie, I slid under the coffee table where it was cooler, lying on my belly. One of my feet happened to graze the bottom of the sofa, and the plastic gave a low moan.

"Get off my couch!"

My sister was the worst offender. She was the favorite of the Arkansas clan, as she most resembled that side of the family. Her status gave her temporary immunity, but there was only so much sofa sitting Grandma Lena could handle. She'd glare at my sister, her hands crossed over her chest in disapproval, until the tension was unbearable. Finally my sister could stand it no longer, and she'd hop off and run with me to the front porch. We'd sit in the wooden swing, swatting skeeters and making footprints on the wall, laughing at how silly it all was.

Grandma Lena's gone now, but I'll bet that couch is still out there somewhere. I wonder who finally took off the plastic and plopped down on it, pressing flesh to fabric, admiring the sheen of the pristine material. I wonder if it still smelled new.

Head wound Harry

It's the late night call all parents dread.

"Don't worry, he's all right. Just a little flesh wound."

My brother was on the other end of the line, his voice careful and calm, telling us that Sport was in the emergency room. He'd tripped over some firewood and fallen onto the flagstone, tearing a gash into his left arm. He was going to need stitches, and the doctor wanted to talk to us.

I passed the phone to SO. I could feel panic setting in and I didn't want to embarrass myself, as I've already got a reputation for being overly emotional. As he relayed our insurance information to the hospital receptionist, I had flashbacks to other incidents. With kids, you're always poised on the edge of disaster, no matter how careful you try to be. Any wisdom you try to pass on is ignored; instructions are forgotten; warnings are dismissed. Kids run pell mell into danger. Nine times out of ten, they're fine. But when danger catches up with them, it breaks your heart.

LegoGuy is 3 years old. He's got his bike helmet on and is slowly riding his tricycle down the driveway. He hits a patch of gravel and flies over the handlebars, knocking a front tooth out on the pavement. Blood is all over his face, lip puffed up like a French pastry.

Now he's a year older and running across a field. He falls hard on a twig and a piece of wood is lodged deep in his leg. It gets infected and has to be removed. The doctor is digging it out, and despite a local to numb the area, LegoGuy is screaming. I have to hold him down as he thrashes, "Mommy, please! I'll be good. Don't let them hurt me! I promise I'll be good!"

Sport is learning to walk. He's on the driveway and falls forward, scraping his nose. Before he lets out a bellow, he turns to find me, and though he can't talk, I can see it in his eyes. Why didn't you catch me? Why did you let me fall?

We're at a friend's house, getting ready to go swimming. She's telling me about an acquaintance who drowned, and I'm suddenly aware that Sport is not beside me. I turn and see him flailing in the pool. Fully clothed, I go in after him. He's trembling, and so am I.

Now he's climbing the back fence. He's just turned 4, and catches his arm on a piece of metal. The puncture wound is deep, and his cries make me cry along with him. We wash the wound out, clean it with peroxide, and put on a butterfly bandage. He falls asleep in my arms, exhausted.

"Don't play on the flagstones," I tell LegoGuy. He is 7 years old, and full of energy. I turn around, then hear the crash. I know what's happened before I turn back to see my child on the ground, the skin on his leg turned to hamburger. I put him in the bathtub and run water over the leg, scrubbing it to remove the gravel and sand. He tries to be brave, but there are tears in his eyes.

This latest incident with Sport is only a link in a chain of many more disasters to come. But each time it happens, there's one thing that SO and I are both thinking that we never voice.

"What would we do without them?"