The next time you’re at a wedding take notice of the long time married couples dancing.
Notice how he moves forward and she steps back.
He steps back and she steps forward. It is the most beautiful thing to watch.
Poetry in motion.
I’m sure they didn’t always dance like that.
I’m sure there were times when he moved his way and she moved hers.
Toes got stepped on.
Timing was off.
Balance was lost.
I don’t think of that when I watch.
I don’t think of all the time they took perfecting their dance. I just enjoy the perfect rhythm, the give and take.
Sometimes I watch their feet to see if they misstep, which doesn’t happen very often.
But when it does, just as quickly, they readjust and are back to the perfect rhythm.
My husband and I are what you would consider *long time marrieds*, and I am beginning to notice that we too know the steps of our dance.
We dance often in the kitchen, in the morning, with no music.
In perfect step.
Effortlessly I follow his lead.
His timing is perfect.
He never steps on my toes, and I never throw off his balance.
When you watch a long time couple dance it looks easy and effortless.
When you watch the couples on Dancing with the Stars you see a similar rhythm.
You have to remember though, that there is one expert on the team.
It also takes lots and lots and lots of practice and pain and trust in each other.
I equate this with marriage.
Sometimes I think that because I have a great marriage my children have grown to think that it is effortless, and has been easy.
As simple as choosing a nice person and getting married and life, ever after, is grand.
The kids never witnessed the hard part.
We don’t argue much in front of them, we provide a united front on almost every issue. We are comfortable with each other having worked out many of the missteps long ago.
My best friend (since first grade) has long time married parents (and oh, you should see them dance).
When we were kids they were kind of scared to let her hang around with me because I came from a *broken home*.
Of the five children in her family, four have been divorced.
In my broken home family two of the three children have had long time marriages. My brother was newly divorced (a month or two) when he was killed in an accident.
My friend and I talk often about marriage and we toss around that idea that it could be possible that children of people who have been happily married a long time take for granted that all marriages are like their parents, easy and effortless.
And that maybe children of divorced parents may view marriage as something more difficult and harder to attain.
Is it possible that these children know that a good marriage must take lot of hard work?
A lot of pain and a lot of practice?
Interesting concept isn’t it?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The paper tiger.......
My mother in law and I share a dirty little secret.
Piles.
Piles and piles of papers.
Stashed papers.
In paper bags.
Hidden in closets, or under beds.
I found out a couple of years after Daddio and I married that his mother has exactly the same filing system as mine.
Our stacks start out innocent enough. A bill here, a bill there. Toss a couple of coupons for Bed Bath & Beyond and a grocery circular, last month’s Redbook and a recipe for that cake you plan to bake on top.
The neat little stack sits pretty on the edge of the kitchen table, or the kitchen counter.
Daily the stack gains height, and width.
After about a week or so the stack begins to teeter.
And totter.
And before you know it, the stack has matured into a full fledged pile.
And then somebody whizzes by and the pile slides off the table onto the floor.
And then we've got ourselves a bit of a problem.
Daddio threatens D I V O R C E.
Before he heads off to see an attorney he gives me time to clean up my act….like a few hours.
In a perfect world I would sort through the pile and reduce it. Then I’d file the important stuff and toss the rest.
Instead, I stash the pile into a paper grocery bag andhide place it in a closet or under a bed.
“I can’t live like this” Daddio yells when he stumbles upon one of my bags.
“I’m Claustrophobic”
“I will leave you” he threatens, when he has to catch one (or more) bag(s) about to tumble out of itshiding storage place.
“I WILL leave you over this”.
So I ask him, “aren’t you going to feel kind of stupid when we go to court and the judge starts questioning you”?
“Is she on drugs?
A shopaholic?
An alcoholic?
A nymphomaniac?
A germaphobe?
Been unfaithful?
Abusive?”
“No” Daddio will answer to each and every query.
“Why exactly then Sir are you seeking a divorce?”
“Piles, Your Honor, she makes piles."
Once when the kids were young Daddio built me a really neat bench, attached to the wall behind the table. It was for the kids to sit on.
“Make it a storage bench” I suggested.
He flat out refused, saying “In a week or two that bench will be so stuffed with crap that the kids will be sitting at an angle, wth their feet dangling”.
He did as I asked and in a week or two, they were.
Last night my mother in law came over for dinner. On the side of the table, hidden in the back against the wall are two paper bags filled to the gills with papers and flyers and bills and important recipes.
I’ve been taking full advantage of the fact that Daddio has bigger fish to fry these days and he hasn’tnoticed mentioned the piles.
Normally, before she would arrive I'd have stashed the bags and had the place looking all spiffed up, yesterday, I got sidetracked and forgot.
After dinner, we sat at the table talking. She glanced over to her left, toward the right hand corner against the wall where the papers were sitting and she said "Nice piles".
What the........?!!!!!
How could she throw me under the bus like that?
"You like my piles?" I asked, wounded. "I've been very busy and haven't had much of a chance to clean them up or stash them anywhere, you know how it is?"
She looked at me kind of strange.
"Your tile" she said,
"I said, I like your tile".
Piles.
Piles and piles of papers.
Stashed papers.
In paper bags.
Hidden in closets, or under beds.
I found out a couple of years after Daddio and I married that his mother has exactly the same filing system as mine.
Our stacks start out innocent enough. A bill here, a bill there. Toss a couple of coupons for Bed Bath & Beyond and a grocery circular, last month’s Redbook and a recipe for that cake you plan to bake on top.
The neat little stack sits pretty on the edge of the kitchen table, or the kitchen counter.
Daily the stack gains height, and width.
After about a week or so the stack begins to teeter.
And totter.
And before you know it, the stack has matured into a full fledged pile.
And then somebody whizzes by and the pile slides off the table onto the floor.
And then we've got ourselves a bit of a problem.
Daddio threatens D I V O R C E.
Before he heads off to see an attorney he gives me time to clean up my act….like a few hours.
In a perfect world I would sort through the pile and reduce it. Then I’d file the important stuff and toss the rest.
Instead, I stash the pile into a paper grocery bag and
“I can’t live like this” Daddio yells when he stumbles upon one of my bags.
“I’m Claustrophobic”
“I will leave you” he threatens, when he has to catch one (or more) bag(s) about to tumble out of its
“I WILL leave you over this”.
So I ask him, “aren’t you going to feel kind of stupid when we go to court and the judge starts questioning you”?
“Is she on drugs?
A shopaholic?
An alcoholic?
A nymphomaniac?
A germaphobe?
Been unfaithful?
Abusive?”
“No” Daddio will answer to each and every query.
“Why exactly then Sir are you seeking a divorce?”
“Piles, Your Honor, she makes piles."
Once when the kids were young Daddio built me a really neat bench, attached to the wall behind the table. It was for the kids to sit on.
“Make it a storage bench” I suggested.
He flat out refused, saying “In a week or two that bench will be so stuffed with crap that the kids will be sitting at an angle, wth their feet dangling”.
He did as I asked and in a week or two, they were.
Last night my mother in law came over for dinner. On the side of the table, hidden in the back against the wall are two paper bags filled to the gills with papers and flyers and bills and important recipes.
I’ve been taking full advantage of the fact that Daddio has bigger fish to fry these days and he hasn’t
Normally, before she would arrive I'd have stashed the bags and had the place looking all spiffed up, yesterday, I got sidetracked and forgot.
After dinner, we sat at the table talking. She glanced over to her left, toward the right hand corner against the wall where the papers were sitting and she said "Nice piles".
What the........?!!!!!
How could she throw me under the bus like that?
"You like my piles?" I asked, wounded. "I've been very busy and haven't had much of a chance to clean them up or stash them anywhere, you know how it is?"
She looked at me kind of strange.
"Your tile" she said,
"I said, I like your tile".
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
"Sparkle Shirley.....SPARKLE"
What a whirlwind weekend. Googie had a show and I agreed to do the hair.
The poor dear was sick (any relationship between massive amounts of stress and frequent colds and infections?)....But as they say in show business "the show must go on".
She had the lead in a silly little musical called Urinetown.
It’s about pee.
I sat in the audience on Saturday, with a couple of nuns sitting to my left. I cringed a bit when I saw them walk in and take a seat. Not like it was me on stage singing about pee or anything, but I knew what lyrics were coming and I know a little bit about nuns.
No matter how it’s cut, nuns and pee never mix, not even in the same sentence.
From my vantage point I could see by their posture they were quite stoic… I think an uncomfortable squirm would have not have been as bad. But nothing. No movement. Deathlike stillness.
Oh well, it is called Urinetown…..
On Sunday I sat in the audience as well. This time there were a couple of blue hairs (old ladies, not young punks) sitting in front of me a bit to my left. When the character Penelope Pennywise uttered her first “pee”, one blue hair nudged the other. I watched to see what they would do next….(yes, I was missing a portion of the play, but Googie didn’t have a big part in that song and I was dying to know what the ladies were gonna do when Penny belted the words “piss” and “defecation”).
Sure enough, the minute the word “piss” left Pennywise’s mouth the ladies looked at each other and both shrugged their shoulders. And then shook their heads.
Looked like Two Thumbs Down to me.
After intermission, their seats were empty.
Too bad they left, Urinetown was really funny.
I’ve acted as Googie’s personal dresser for as many years as she has done theater.
I don’t dress her, really, I help with her microphone, or her bobby pins or I just look her over and give her the a-okay.
A last minute hair fluff and a peck on her painted cheek.
Lastly I take a line from my favorite stage mother and I say.... “Sparkle Shirley... sparkle”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
( "SPARKLE SHIRLEY...SPARKLE" : Shirley Temple's mother's instructions from the side of the stage.)
Then I sit in the audience and enjoy.
This day, she stripped off her top, I handed her the starched pastel yellow costume she wore for the show.
She slipped it on and I did a double take.
Googie’s brassiere was showing right through the shirt.
She called to her cast mates and asked if anyone had a tank top she could borrow. One girl agreed to take her own right off her back and give it to Goog.
Once on Googie’s little 94 pound body it hung like a sack and it was much too bunchy to fit properly under her costume.
Okay…now what?
I knew what.
Later in the audience it was a bit hard for me to breath.
Not just that my heart swelled to take in the wonder that is my daughter,
but it was hard to breath wearing Googie’s too small bra.
I couldn’t let her go on stage, the lead in a show called Urinetown, wearing a pea colored bra that showed through her shirt.
A mother’s suffering knows no bounds.
(And for what’s worth, this is the SECOND time I’ve done this for my daughter…at least this time her bra size was larger than a size AA.)
PS....Her most sincere appreciation via this coffee pot note (and some stalks of beautiful white flowers, stolen from the restaurant where they ate after the show) made it all worth it, of course.
The poor dear was sick (any relationship between massive amounts of stress and frequent colds and infections?)....But as they say in show business "the show must go on".
She had the lead in a silly little musical called Urinetown.
It’s about pee.
I sat in the audience on Saturday, with a couple of nuns sitting to my left. I cringed a bit when I saw them walk in and take a seat. Not like it was me on stage singing about pee or anything, but I knew what lyrics were coming and I know a little bit about nuns.
No matter how it’s cut, nuns and pee never mix, not even in the same sentence.
From my vantage point I could see by their posture they were quite stoic… I think an uncomfortable squirm would have not have been as bad. But nothing. No movement. Deathlike stillness.
Oh well, it is called Urinetown…..
On Sunday I sat in the audience as well. This time there were a couple of blue hairs (old ladies, not young punks) sitting in front of me a bit to my left. When the character Penelope Pennywise uttered her first “pee”, one blue hair nudged the other. I watched to see what they would do next….(yes, I was missing a portion of the play, but Googie didn’t have a big part in that song and I was dying to know what the ladies were gonna do when Penny belted the words “piss” and “defecation”).
Sure enough, the minute the word “piss” left Pennywise’s mouth the ladies looked at each other and both shrugged their shoulders. And then shook their heads.
Looked like Two Thumbs Down to me.
After intermission, their seats were empty.
Too bad they left, Urinetown was really funny.
I’ve acted as Googie’s personal dresser for as many years as she has done theater.
I don’t dress her, really, I help with her microphone, or her bobby pins or I just look her over and give her the a-okay.
A last minute hair fluff and a peck on her painted cheek.
Lastly I take a line from my favorite stage mother and I say.... “Sparkle Shirley... sparkle”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
( "SPARKLE SHIRLEY...SPARKLE" : Shirley Temple's mother's instructions from the side of the stage.)
Then I sit in the audience and enjoy.
This day, she stripped off her top, I handed her the starched pastel yellow costume she wore for the show.
She slipped it on and I did a double take.
Googie’s brassiere was showing right through the shirt.
She called to her cast mates and asked if anyone had a tank top she could borrow. One girl agreed to take her own right off her back and give it to Goog.
Once on Googie’s little 94 pound body it hung like a sack and it was much too bunchy to fit properly under her costume.
Okay…now what?
I knew what.
Later in the audience it was a bit hard for me to breath.
Not just that my heart swelled to take in the wonder that is my daughter,
but it was hard to breath wearing Googie’s too small bra.
I couldn’t let her go on stage, the lead in a show called Urinetown, wearing a pea colored bra that showed through her shirt.
A mother’s suffering knows no bounds.
(And for what’s worth, this is the SECOND time I’ve done this for my daughter…at least this time her bra size was larger than a size AA.)
PS....Her most sincere appreciation via this coffee pot note (and some stalks of beautiful white flowers, stolen from the restaurant where they ate after the show) made it all worth it, of course.
Friday, April 16, 2010
My son...the incidental hero.
"Mom" he whispered, touching my cheek.
Nothing and I mean nothing moves me faster than a kid, inches from my sleeping face in the middle of the night whispering "mom".
"Something happened" he said
"What? What? What happened? What's wrong? Is it something bad? What happened" I asked as I jumped out of bed. Noticing the clock said midnight.
"I just saved somebody's life" he whispered.
Daddio began to stir and wonder aloud why in the hell we were carrying on a conversation whilst he was trying to get a bit o shut eye.
"He wants to tell me something, I'll be right back" I told him.
I followed my big man child into his sister's room, where she sat in her bed, waiting for us.
"I told him to wake you up" she said.
His story begins at the railroad tracks near our home. On the way home from his girlfriend's house he was stopped by a long train. A nightly occurrence on this road. The tracks lead to a train yard on one side of this intersection. Trains go back and forth between three different tracks. It's common to see them unhook some of the cars and then send them up a different track to meet and connect with a different train.
As my son waited, he watched as the two trains' separated and jockeyed around. As the perviously neighboring cars were about to connect to each other my son saw a man on a bike become tired of waiting and begin to cross in-between the two railroad cars.
"He just made it to the middle mom" my son said "when one train sped up to connect with the other. The guy's tire stuck in the track and he fell off the bike. I watched as the train grabbed his bike and bent it in half. I got out of my car and ran and pulled him off the tracks".
Did you ever see someone laugh and cry at the same time?
My heart split into two totally separate parts.
"Oh my GOD...YOU SAVED A LIFE"....proud mother of a real live hero exclaims.
"Oh my GOD...YOU WERE ON THE RAILROAD TRACKS WITH A TRAIN"...hysterical mother of a kid who challenged a train screeches.
"Right when I got him off, the trains connected, and then they cleared the tracks" he explained.
"He was all bloody, his mouth was cut and his finger was bleeding and looked broken" he said
My son went on to tell us that the man thanked him and said "bless you young man". He then left his bent, broken bike and started walking".
"I picked him up and took him home mom" my hero said. "He was hurt and it was cold".
My heart's split personality was at it again.
GOOD BOY, I thought. You listened when I said to be kind and giving.
YOU IDIOT, I thought. Didn't you hear a word I said about strangers and dangers?
He tells a good story and we couldn't help but laugh when he got to the part of the stranger being in his car "yeah ma, the minute the door closed and we started on our way, that short ride turned into one of the longest of my life while every scary movie I ever watched replayed in my head. You know where the dumb teenage kid lets the murderer into his car?"
"He was high or drunk, wasn't he" I asked
"Yeah" he said "I could smell booze".
It took me hours to get back to sleep. I wrestled my conflicted confused heart all night. My son is a hero. My son could have been hit by a train. My son is kind and generous. My son could have been a statistic.
Finally I came to a conclusion....my son is a hero.
God handles the rest.
Nothing and I mean nothing moves me faster than a kid, inches from my sleeping face in the middle of the night whispering "mom".
"Something happened" he said
"What? What? What happened? What's wrong? Is it something bad? What happened" I asked as I jumped out of bed. Noticing the clock said midnight.
"I just saved somebody's life" he whispered.
Daddio began to stir and wonder aloud why in the hell we were carrying on a conversation whilst he was trying to get a bit o shut eye.
"He wants to tell me something, I'll be right back" I told him.
I followed my big man child into his sister's room, where she sat in her bed, waiting for us.
"I told him to wake you up" she said.
His story begins at the railroad tracks near our home. On the way home from his girlfriend's house he was stopped by a long train. A nightly occurrence on this road. The tracks lead to a train yard on one side of this intersection. Trains go back and forth between three different tracks. It's common to see them unhook some of the cars and then send them up a different track to meet and connect with a different train.
As my son waited, he watched as the two trains' separated and jockeyed around. As the perviously neighboring cars were about to connect to each other my son saw a man on a bike become tired of waiting and begin to cross in-between the two railroad cars.
"He just made it to the middle mom" my son said "when one train sped up to connect with the other. The guy's tire stuck in the track and he fell off the bike. I watched as the train grabbed his bike and bent it in half. I got out of my car and ran and pulled him off the tracks".
Did you ever see someone laugh and cry at the same time?
My heart split into two totally separate parts.
"Oh my GOD...YOU SAVED A LIFE"....proud mother of a real live hero exclaims.
"Oh my GOD...YOU WERE ON THE RAILROAD TRACKS WITH A TRAIN"...hysterical mother of a kid who challenged a train screeches.
"Right when I got him off, the trains connected, and then they cleared the tracks" he explained.
"He was all bloody, his mouth was cut and his finger was bleeding and looked broken" he said
My son went on to tell us that the man thanked him and said "bless you young man". He then left his bent, broken bike and started walking".
"I picked him up and took him home mom" my hero said. "He was hurt and it was cold".
My heart's split personality was at it again.
GOOD BOY, I thought. You listened when I said to be kind and giving.
YOU IDIOT, I thought. Didn't you hear a word I said about strangers and dangers?
He tells a good story and we couldn't help but laugh when he got to the part of the stranger being in his car "yeah ma, the minute the door closed and we started on our way, that short ride turned into one of the longest of my life while every scary movie I ever watched replayed in my head. You know where the dumb teenage kid lets the murderer into his car?"
"He was high or drunk, wasn't he" I asked
"Yeah" he said "I could smell booze".
It took me hours to get back to sleep. I wrestled my conflicted confused heart all night. My son is a hero. My son could have been hit by a train. My son is kind and generous. My son could have been a statistic.
Finally I came to a conclusion....my son is a hero.
God handles the rest.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Welcome....
Hi…welcome to In the Hood, my new blog carried by the News Herald Newspaper.
I’m grateful that you stopped by and hope that you'll become a regular visitor.
All opinions, thoughts, mindless dribble contained on and in this blog belong solely to me, unless otherwise stated.
Still here? Please read on to learn more about me.
I am happily married to my 6th grade sweetheart, (who I lovingly refer to as Daddio...he's a blues guitarist) and mother of three great people. Two boys, one girl.
When I write about them I usually use their nicknames, Peanut (or Sweet Prince Buttercup), Googie and Bear to protect their privacy and to save my own behind, should someone they know stumble upon this blog and discover my telling all our family secrets. (Could be a problem)
My oldest son, 24 married in May 2009, my daughter 22, is graduating from Madonna University this May, she got engaged last month (March 2010) and plans to be married in September of 2011. My youngest son 18, graduates high school in a few weeks.
I have a couple of four legged children. One, a big boned teacup Chihuahua named Jersey, and another Chihuahua, Ruby (a kind hearted girl who recycles her poop, if she weren’t so darned cute she’d be beggin for bones on some street in the next town).
Lastly, I also mother another special group of children. I work full time with a Juvenile Justice Program teaching Culinary Arts to juvenile offenders. Those in my program range in age from 14-18.
Some of them are in dire need of a "Mom”.
I’m honored to be a part of the village that helps to raise these children.
I consider mothering not only my calling, but my life’s greatest joy.
I am obsessed about growing older, fighting it every step of the way.
And my game plan is to die young, from old age.
I love to talk and I love to write.
Feel free to leave comments. Or send an email. Or a story idea. Or some exciting news from your house. About your house. Something going on at your neighbors house? Whatever...please join me.
All are welcome in the hood.
I’m grateful that you stopped by and hope that you'll become a regular visitor.
All opinions, thoughts, mindless dribble contained on and in this blog belong solely to me, unless otherwise stated.
Still here? Please read on to learn more about me.
I am happily married to my 6th grade sweetheart, (who I lovingly refer to as Daddio...he's a blues guitarist) and mother of three great people. Two boys, one girl.
When I write about them I usually use their nicknames, Peanut (or Sweet Prince Buttercup), Googie and Bear to protect their privacy and to save my own behind, should someone they know stumble upon this blog and discover my telling all our family secrets. (Could be a problem)
My oldest son, 24 married in May 2009, my daughter 22, is graduating from Madonna University this May, she got engaged last month (March 2010) and plans to be married in September of 2011. My youngest son 18, graduates high school in a few weeks.
I have a couple of four legged children. One, a big boned teacup Chihuahua named Jersey, and another Chihuahua, Ruby (a kind hearted girl who recycles her poop, if she weren’t so darned cute she’d be beggin for bones on some street in the next town).
Lastly, I also mother another special group of children. I work full time with a Juvenile Justice Program teaching Culinary Arts to juvenile offenders. Those in my program range in age from 14-18.
Some of them are in dire need of a "Mom”.
I’m honored to be a part of the village that helps to raise these children.
I consider mothering not only my calling, but my life’s greatest joy.
I am obsessed about growing older, fighting it every step of the way.
And my game plan is to die young, from old age.
I love to talk and I love to write.
Feel free to leave comments. Or send an email. Or a story idea. Or some exciting news from your house. About your house. Something going on at your neighbors house? Whatever...please join me.
All are welcome in the hood.
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