Lisa Smith Molinari

Archive for the ‘parenting’ Category

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WANTED: Mom Manager

In housewives, parenting on January 30, 2012 at 2:15 pm

I was late for the meeting. Again.

With an armful of crumpled papers, I pulled my calendar from its tack on the wall, and rushed down the hall. Sheepishly, I found a seat at the table, spread my papers out around me, and began with as much authority as I could muster:

“This meeting is called to order at, let’s see, twelve minutes after nine. If you don’t mind, I would prefer that these weekly organizational sessions start promptly at the top of the hour. Now, without any further delay, let’s get right down to business.”

“The van still needs new brakes, and if you wait much longer, you’ll be paying for rotors too. Hayden has Driver’s Ed on Tuesday at 4:30, but you must somehow get Anna to her orthodontist appointment at 4:45. The checkbook hasn’t been balanced in three months, which might explain why you bounced a check last week,” I continued.

“Francis is on his last pair of clean underwear today, so please put a load of hot whites in at your earliest convenience. Dinghy is due for his monthly flea treatment. You must write two articles this week. The repairman is coming on Thursday between eight and two to fix the washing machine. And you need to get serious about that diet. Now, how do you plan to get all that done?” I finished, and took a slurp of coffee.

Crickets.

No one responded, because no one was there. I was having my weekly meeting with myself, and as usual, I had no idea how to answer my own demands.

I scribbled a “To Do” list, marked a few things on the calendar, and then went about my day, determined to get it all done this time.

But deep inside, I knew the inevitable pattern of my life would repeat itself again. My week would start out OK, productive even. But soon, something would crop up to throw me off track – a school project, a sick kid, writer’s block. One item on my To Do list would collide into the next, and the ensuing pile up would become overwhelming, causing a strange contradictory reaction in whereby I would completely shut down and get nothing done.

By Thursday, my husband would come home from work to find no dinner, the kids run amuck, and me, dazed and unshowered, draped over my computer chair where I have been surfing vintage Tupperware on e-Bay for the last three hours.

Recently, I decided I’d had enough, and set about figuring out: what fundamental flaw in my character has made it so difficult for me to keep up with my responsibilities as a housewife and mother?

After some thought, and half a box of Cheese Nips, I realized that I have always been a follower, not a leader. An Indian, not a Chief. A Workerbee, not the Queen.

I’m not lazy. I’m not incompetent. I’m not disorganized. I just need a supervisor, a boss, a Manager to watch over me and keep me on track.

Ahh, how different things would be with a Manager to offer clear direction and guidance. Of course, I would subject myself to periodic evaluation and take whatever criticism my Manager might propose.

“Ms. Molinari,” my Manager might say, “While it is clear that you are no stranger to hard work, there is room for improvement in the areas of task prioritization, self motivation and personal hygiene. It is my recommendation that you avoid distractions from your daily priorities such as TJ Maxx, free samples in the grocery store, and mid-day reruns of ‘Mob Wives.’ Also, it would be highly advisable that you start showering every morning.”

But I have to face reality. Unless I find someone willing to be compensated in laundry services and meatloaf, I can’t afford a Manager. I am the Manager, and I have to take responsibility, darn it.

Even if it feels like I’m constantly being dragged through life behind my dirty white minivan, I’ll continue this never-ending game of catch up until my job is done. I’ll try to avoid getting tangled in the minutiae – the e-mails, the dust bunnies, the bills, the burnt dinners, the dark roots – and focus on the big picture: Keeping my family happy and healthy.

The value of our shares may fluctuate day by day, but long-term analysis indicates that this family is on an upward trend. Our employees may complain from time to time, but all in all they report excellent job satisfaction. Management lacks efficiency when it comes to goal attainment, but she is dedicated, sincere, and works overtime and on weekends without pay.

Final recommendation: Despite its flaws, this family business is thriving, so there is no immediate need for a change in management.

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The Carpool Blues

In Humor, parenting on January 23, 2012 at 9:34 am

I get up early in the mornin’, round about six-o-clock. Bleary-eyed and yawnin’, I gather up the flock. Pack three chillins in the van, and drive around the block. At the neighbor’s crib, two more are added to my stock.

Coffee cup in hand, I head for open road. My minivan creaks under such a heavy load. Been doin’ this so long, I fear I might explode. Can’t blame nobody, for seeds that I have sowed.

Put my kids in magnet schools, fancy and elite. Top-notch educations, teachers can’t be beat. Academic level so high, no one can compete. Then why, one might ask, am I so downbeat?

Soon after enrollment, much to my surprise, the County pulled a bait and switch, before my very eyes. “We ain’t got no money!” one could hear them cry. They told us, “Suck it up — learn to improvise.”

Though our magnet schools were distant in location, the County in its wisdom, canceled transportation. No yellow school buses from the Board of Education. Parents formed carpools, to cope with their frustration.

So here I sit every morning, radio a-blarin’. In my rear view mirror, I see the kids a-starin’. The price of gas and traffic jams, has tempers a-flarin’. Bite my tongue so young ears won’t hear me a-swearin’.

The drive to school each mornin’, is pretty much the same. It starts out kinda quiet, not enough sleep to blame. Getting up so early each day seems a crying shame. Without a break on weekends, I might just go insane.

Where to tune the radio dial, no one can agree. The girls like the latest hits on Radio Disney. The boys think pop music is so bourgeoisie. They prefer the screeching sounds of alternative rock melodies.

My oldest son doesn’t chime in, because he’s fast asleep. In five months of car-pooling, he’s hardly uttered a peep. With eyes closed and head back, he might be counting sheep. Into his open mouth, a bug or two might leap.

After twenty miles, and at least a dozen red lights, we arrive at the school, the sun now burning bright. I bid them all adieu, as they scramble from my sight. And breathe a sigh of relief — we made it to school all right.

The “Slam!” of the van’s door, heralds the end of child domination. Reaching for the dashboard knobs, I switch the radio station. I tune in the news to distract me from my degradation. Sipping the dregs of tepid coffee, I grope for relaxation.

In thirty minutes, I am home, and go about my day. Sweep the floors, walk the dog, what’s for dinner today? In no time flat it seems, the hours have slipped away. Must pick the kids up from school, there’s no time for delay.

Back in the van and on the road, negative thoughts pervade. Am I just a chauffeur who never will get paid? The rest of the day, am I just a lowly scullery maid? I distract myself with news again, to avoid a violent tirade.

Like tiny escaped prisoners, the kids burst out of school. In the van I hear their chatter about who is super cool. I ask about their homework, and if they’ve learned the Golden Rule. But soon they are too tired to speak, and they begin to drool.

Pulling in the driveway, they look like walking dead. Zombies stumble from my van, toward the humble homestead. They wander in search of snacks, and a place to lay their heads. After homework, activities, dinner and play, it’s time to go to bed.

Five months down, five more to go, not sure if I can make it. I worry that I’ll lose my mind if I’m forced to take it. But these kids are mine, it’s a fact, and nothing will forsake it. And so I must continue on, even if I fake it.

I’ll avoid the pitfalls of despair, like gambling and booze. I’ll try to remember that parenting is something that we choose. I’ll face the fact that, sometimes in life, one must pay the dues. And suffer the trials and tribulations of The Carpool Blues.

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A Christmas Carol, Redux

In family, Humor, Memories, modern culture, parenting on December 5, 2011 at 2:03 pm

Thanksgiving was over, to begin with.

For some reason, my sports watch alarm went off at midnight, waking me from a strange dream, in which I was unable to run from a monster, molded from leftover stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy dripping from its outstretched arms, due to the weight of my own enormous thighs.

I started to drift off again, when a form suddenly appeared at the foot of my bed. She wore a floor-length polyester red and green plaid skirt, a white ruffled blouse with huge tab collar, a crocheted vest, and a Christmas tree pin.

“Hi, like, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to take you on, like, a pretty decent trip back to the 1970s,” the apparition said while twirling a segment of her long hair. No sooner did I grasp the ghost’s braided macramé belt than we were whisked on metal roller skates to the home of my youth.

It was about two weeks before Christmas 1974, and my mother was preparing her shopping list while my brother and I decorated the Christmas tree with silver tinsel, careful not to rest the tiny plastic strips on the bubble lights, which might burn the house down if we were not careful.

My mother’s list included the names of our little family, along with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. She had saved enough in her Christmas account to buy fruitcake, tea towels, Avon perfume, Barbis, Tonka trucks, and decorative tins of ribbon candies.

Although my brother and I loved to go downtown to see shops decorated with lights and mechanical elves, we begged to stay home so we would not miss the new Rankin Bass special, “The Year Without a Santa Clause,” which our console television might pick up if the antennae were turned just right.

My mother agreed to put off shopping one more day. Instead, she wrote out her twelve Christmas cards and served us cocoa in Santa mugs with cookies, which we were disappointed to find contained prunes, raisins, molasses, mincemeat, anise, or some other objectionable ingredient. Nevertheless, we lay contentedly on the green shag rug listening to a Burl Ives record, gazing up at our tree and its Styrofoam egg carton star.

I reached out, trying in vain to re-experience my youth, but was wrenched from my trance when a bubble light scorched my arm. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, and was abruptly heaped upon my own bed, surrounded by nothing but the dark night and a faint tapping sound.

There, seated on my bed, I saw the second apparition, her thumbs poking away at an iPhone. She glanced at me and said, “Hey, how’s it going. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, but hold on a sec, I have to answer this.”

Finally, the specter finished texting and proclaimed, “Alrighty, touch my yoga pants and let’s do this thing, because I’ve got carpool duty in a couple hours.” I grabbed her spandex waistband and was transported to scenes of unimaginable Christmas chaos.

First, we saw the three-page Christmas list I made right after Halloween, which included gifts for the school lunch ladies, Anna’s ukulele instructor, the seven neighbors we like and the three we don’t but can’t leave off the list for fear of inciting neighborhood drama.

Next, we joined a stampede of Black Friday shoppers, all poised to pepper spray each other over the last X Box 360 at Walmart. The Spirit took me to Starbucks, where we paid $5 for a Mocha Peppermint Chai Tea and $300 for gift cards for the kids’ teachers. Then we dashed home to type, print and mail out 150 copies of the annual family Christmas letter, replete with exaggerated superlatives about the kids and the daily activities of our dog.

Then, we ate, and ate, and ate. Everything from gallons of hot dip to platters of cookies packed with peanut butter chips, candy chunks, marshmallows and M&Ms. We washed it all down with cartons of egg nog which, according to the sell-by date, would still be edible come Valentine’s Day.

Finally, the Ghost dropped me in front of our HDTV virtual fireplace glowing beside our artificial tree with its economical LED lights. Exhausted, I pleaded, “Have mercy! Haunt me no more!”

Just then, a figure approached from the shadows. “Are you the Ghost of Christmases yet to come?!” I yelped in fear. The apparition only nodded and handed me a small high tech device. With a swipe, I activated a life-sized holographic Christmas tree. A second click started microwaving a frozen Christmas Tofurkey dinner with all the vegan fixins. In mere nanoseconds, I sent personalized Christmas video messages to friends of friends of friends on Facebook.

But then, the Spirit pointed a long finger at the futuristic device. On the screen appeared countless images of people sitting alone in the dark clicking buttons on Christmas. “Oh, no Spirit!” I cried, “I will heed these lessons and honor Christmas in my heart!”

I awoke in my own bed, and rushed excitedly down the stairs, shouting to my daughter, “Turn off that virtual fireplace before you dot another i, Lillian Molinari!” To my husband I demanded, “Off with you to the Winn Dixie for the fattest turkey in the freezer case!” I ripped up my three-page shopping list, put on my Sinatra holiday CD, and resolved to keep Christmas well.

The Spirits taught me that Christmastime needs balance. I shouldn’t go overboard and complicate the holiday with obligation, commercialism, and stress. I should spend less time at the stores or in front of the computer, and more time with family and friends. I must never allow the gifts, food, and decorations to overshadow the real reason for the season.

And lest I forget, God Bless Us, Every One!

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The Flakey Layers of Motherhood

In Humor, Middle-Age, modern culture, parenting, self-image, social scene on November 21, 2011 at 12:33 pm

I was running late, as usual.

While checking my outfit in the window’s reflection, I smashed my frizzy bangs down with the palm of my hand.

I heard chatter inside and opened the door to find a dozen or so of my neighborhood acquaintances seated around a large table holding the usual brunch fare.

At the hostess’s urging, I poured myself a cup of joe, slipped into a chair, and motioned across the table for one neighbor to slice me a piece of what looked like a dense blueberry Bundt. I grabbed a slice of quiche too, hoping no one would notice.

“The elementary school’s gifted program is just not adequate to meet Timmy’s needs,” explained one mother as she nibbled a pumpkin muffin.

Another mom, spandexed legs crossed, asked, “Does anyone want to go to Spin class with me after this?”

“I already did P90X this morning,” another answered, “but I’ll go running tomorrow if anyone is up for it.”

A nearby splinter group was discussing the fall soccer finals.  “Coach told Joseph that he should play up an age bracket next year because he’s not being challenged,” one woman said between bites of cantaloupe.  “Megan did that last year, so this year she’s trying out for the travel team,” another countered.

While the tête-à-têtes continued, I inconspicuously slid another piece of quiche onto my plate.

“Would you like a little fruit with that second piece, Lisa?” the hostess shouted loudly across the table so that everyone in the vicinity could hear.

“Oh, yes, that would be great.” I lied in humiliation, and forked a slice of pineapple off the platter.

An hour later, my second cup of coffee had gone cold, and my waistband felt tight.  Using some cockamamie excuse like expecting an urgent call from an editor, I thanked the hostess and left.

Relieved to be removed from the social pressures of this circle of thirty-something elementary and middle school moms, I hurried back home to the unconditional love and understanding of my matted mixed-breed dog.

The next day, I was invited to another coffee, this time hosted by one of the high school football team moms.  We were new to the team and this new social group of forty-something high school moms. Despite my uneasiness with the previous day’s event, I accepted the invitation.

I was relieved when the football mom welcomed me at the door without giving me the usual “once over.” She led me past unpretentious family photos and piles of boxes to her dining room, crammed full of cackling women, food and warm sunlight.

The buffet was heaped with homemade cinnamon rolls slathered with sugary glaze, dense coffee cake packed with meaty nuts, flakey croissants with jam, smoky ham and egg casserole, juice and coffee.

I grabbed a cinnamon roll and found a seat as the chatter raged on.  The roll was to die for (literally, with all that delicious sugar and fat) so I got up to snag another one.

Before digging the delectable dough from the dish, I paused a moment to think of an excuse to give for my gluttony, but I noticed that no one here really cared. In fact, indulgence seemed to be encouraged.

In a thick Brooklyn accent, our hostess repeated the advice she had recently given her college kid, “Never drink those sugary college drinks that make you sick, just nurse a nice scotch and water like I do.” The mom beside her doubled over with hooting laughter, setting off a chain reaction with the others.

Moments later, chuckles erupted as another mom described her embarrassment over seeing her son’s most recent soccer injury.  “He came home and said, ‘Mom, I got kicked down there…can you please take a look at it?’ One glance and I knew this was something his father needed to handle!”

I was laughing out loud with a mouthful of croissant at one woman’s comical description of her recent hormonal changes, when the mom across from me started demonstrating a facial exercise for double chins. Contorting our jaws so that we all looked like bullfrogs, we found ourselves laughing hysterically again.

As the politically incorrect, inappropriate, and self-deprecating humor raged on, I lost track of time and finally went home well into the afternoon.

Why I was so comfortable at one coffee and so tense at the other? After a little thought, I realized that the elementary/middle school moms still have strict expectations of themselves and their children. They are trying to mold their children and themselves into what they want to be, and their topics of conversation – academic and athletic ability, diet and exercise, fashion trends — reflect these lofty aspirations.

Conversely, the high school moms have been there, done that, and have a laundry basket full of smelly t-shirts to prove it. As they approach menopause, their kids approach adulthood. These moms have learned that the struggle for perfection is futile, because their children’s personalities are pretty much set.

Finally, as a high school mom, I can leave competitive social pressures behind, grab a second slice of coffee cake, and have a good laugh about the reality of raising kids. I didn’t just gain five pounds from attending the two coffees, I gained the new realization that, in a weird sort of way, it’s good to be old.

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Brotherly Love and Other Forms of Abuse

In family, Humor, Memories, parenting on November 13, 2011 at 9:35 pm

First, we hear giggling. Then a sharp squeal. The creak of the mattress springs, a bump on the wall, a muffled “Ouch,” then more giggling.

“Girls! Knock it off!” my husband yells from his recliner. There is a moment of silence, and then the ruckus starts all over again.

I am not sure why we are conditioned to feel utter agitation when we hear our kids roughhousing. It may be that, even though they are merely having fun with each other, we know from experience that those innocent giggles, if allowed to continue, are usually followed by alarming noises that require immediate parental intervention.

Here’s the scenario: After about five minutes of giggling between siblings, an invisible line is crossed. The play becomes rougher, and inevitably, skin is pinched, hair is pulled, heads are bonked, or some other pain is inflicted. Screaming or crying ensues, followed shortly thereafter by a very loud argument, usually accompanied by slapping, kicking and biting.

That is when parents have to get up from the comfort of their lounge furniture and intervene, which is annoying, especially when “Survivor” is on. So, rather than wait for this series of irritating events, we try to stop sibling interactions while they are still in the giggling phase.

As a child, I never understood how siblings can be the best of friends and the worst of enemies at the same time. I remember watching my best friend from high school and her older sister viciously beat each other with hangers. Back then, I thought they must’ve hated each other’s guts, but now, with girls of my own, I understand that the violent hanger beating was all part of sisterly love.

The age difference between my brother and I was too big for us to be playmates, so we never engaged in the “giggling phase” of sibling roughhousing. Essentially, my very existence annoyed my brother for some reason, so he would inflict pain on me purely for his own personal pleasure.

When my brother was idle, he transformed into the predator, and I was his prey. He would launch sneak attacks like Cato in “The Pink Panther,” jumping out from dark corners to place me in a headlock. After receiving a book on judo one Christmas, I often found myself being flipped over his knee on my way to my bedroom. At restaurants, my brother’s preferred method of attack was spitballs, and at church, he would pinch the sensitive area above my knee with his thumb and forefinger if he did not decimate me first at church bulletin tic-tac-toe.

I would always cry, whine or otherwise alert my parents to the attack, and they would ground my brother for a period of time commensurate with the injury. The punishment only served to fuel my brother’s motivation to torment me, and this pattern went on and on for years.

I can only recall one occasion when I got the upper hand, and it didn’t last for long. One lazy day after school, I was stretched out on my parent’s bed, with my head resting on one bent arm while the other hand slowly smoothed the day’s knots out of my long hair with a pink plastic hairbrush.

As I gazed half-awake into the nearby television, which was playing reruns of “My Three Sons,” I had no idea that my brother was silently crawling commando-style into the room on his stomach.

Just as Uncle Charlie was about to give dating advice to Chip, my brother popped up from the floor between my face and the television and blurted, “BOO!”

Taken completely by surprise, animal instinct took over, and I watched in slow motion as my hand whipped the pink plastic hairbrush in the direction of my brother’s face. Next thing I knew, he had both hands over his nose.

I crouched on the bed in a defensive posture as my brother looked into his hands and saw blood. His eyes glared at me with the pure fire of utter vengeance. He leaped onto the bed, and kneeling over me, raised one hand into the air in a tight fist, with the middle knuckle protruding slightly for maximum point of impact pain.

WHAM! His knuckle hit the center of my thigh, causing an immediate Charley horse and excruciating pain. I walked with a slight limp for the next couple weeks, but it was worth it, knowing I had finally given my big brother a dose of his own medicine.

 Call it sibling rivalry, brotherly love, or aggravated assault, roughhousing is a normal part of life with siblings. As long as parents don’t encourage mortal combat by supplying their children with books on judo or hard plastic hairbrushes, we can sit back and relax in our lounge furniture secure in the knowledge that what doesn’t kill them only makes them stronger.

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Sorry for the short lapse in posts, folks! We just moved (AGAIN) and are wading among scores of boxes, cable guys and computer geeks to get things set up here in the new Molinari household. Expect upcoming posts related to all aspects of chaos, disorganization, ineptitude, extreme laziness, and overeating, of course.

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The Sandwich Queen

In family, Humor, Middle-Age, parenting, self-image on September 26, 2011 at 1:49 pm

About a million years ago, I had a career. I had a briefcase, an office, a secretary, and a view from the 24th floor. I did research, argued motions, interviewed clients and attended the firm holiday party. My name was on the wall in the lobby.

But then, when I least expected it, something happened.

That something was an incessant, unrelenting thing called life.

Two years after being unexpectedly blindsided by love, I found myself sitting on my Navy husband’s bachelor couch in our dumpy base house, in a state that did not recognize my law license, nursing our new baby while watching Maury Povich interview people who’d been abducted by aliens.

At first it was kind of fun, getting to relive all the times I played house as a kid, except that the babies really filled their diapers and I also had to do the boring stuff like making sandwiches and cleaning toilets. I never really thought it all through, and truly believed that I’d get back to my career at some point.

Fifteen years, seven moves, and two more babies later, I’m still making sandwiches and cleaning toilets, and the opportunity to get my career back simply never came.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered that long term housewifery does not always provide one with the obvious sense of achievement that a career offers. In fact, the daily drudgery of housework and mothering is highly susceptible to being completely taken for granted. We do not get bonuses for sparkling floors, pay raises for fresh laundry, or promotions for perfectly steamed green beans.

So, we veteran housewives must seize our ego boosts where we can get them.

Recently, my son, Hayden, started his sophomore year at his new high school, and I pack his lunch every day as usual. But this time, I decided to bump it up a notch.

My usual routine was to roll up three slices of deli chicken breast and place them onto two slices of whole wheat with a leaf of lettuce and a slice of Swiss cheese. To reward my son for working hard at football practice, I decided to double the meat, adding tender slices of ham and roast beef to the chicken. Two slices of pepper jack and extra lettuce made the sandwich so thick that I had to put it into a quart-sized storage bag.

On our way home from football practice that evening, Hayden, who is firmly entrenched in that infuriating stage of teenagedom characterized by an almost complete lack of normal conversation, said, “Hey Mom, I really liked that sandwich.”

My heart nearly skipped a beat.

Over the next couple weeks, I continued crafting thick, meaty sandwiches, sometimes substituting cheeses, adding spicy slices of pepperoni, or a fresh sub roll. Instead of waiting for accolades, I had taken to eagerly asking him how he liked the sandwich on our ride home from football practice. He would answer in typical teenage brevity, but always communicated his appreciation.

Then one day, Hayden told me that his football buddy commented on how meaty his sandwich was, and that he wished his mom made sandwiches like that. I couldn’t believe my ears and was exhilarated by my new sense of culinary superiority.

Call me pathetic, but the seemingly insignificant compliments gave me a renewed sense of purpose, and a slight spring in my middle-aged step as I packed the lunches each morning.

Sometimes, I’d receive a bonus with my son’s usual mumbled words of praise. Like the day he told me that the school security guard noticed how thick his sandwich was, and ordered Hayden to bring in an extra one for him sometime. And the time his JV football coach called him over during practice and said, “Hey, I heard your mother makes you a big deli sandwich every day for lunch; so when are you going to bring one in for me?”

Sure, it’s true that the closest thing I have to an office has a washer and dryer in it. And yes, it is rather ironic that I used to have a secretary but am now Secretary of the Football Boosters Club. And even though my name is no longer posted in an office lobby, my name is the one my kids utter when they want a tissue, help with their homework, a snack, someone to hear about their day at school, or a hug.

While I may never make Senior Partner of a Law firm as I had planned over 20 years ago, I’ve attained a status I never expected. I’m Head Nurse, Accountant, General Manager, Commander in Chief of the House, and thanks to recent events, The Sandwich Queen. Sure, my scepter may be a toilet bowl brush and my carriage a mini-van, but I don’t mind, because I know I am loved by my people.

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Labor Daydreams

In Humor, Memories, Middle-Age, modern culture, parenting on September 5, 2011 at 6:32 pm

Today is Labor Day, a day dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. But who are these so called “American workers” anyway?

The current US unemployment rate is the worst this country has seen in over 25 years, with 9.1 percent of our workforce out of work. This dismal state of affairs takes a bit of the celebratory feel out of the holiday, and lessens the compensatory nature of a day off work.

But perhaps the meaning of this traditional American holiday should be expanded during these difficult economic times to pay tribute to those Americans who are simply hard workers. Today should honor those people who get up each day and work to the best of their ability at whatever they do. The quality that should be celebrated and admired is hard work, not paid employment.

Today should be for anyone who works hard, from cocktail waitresses to computer consultants, from plumbers to paper boys, from homemakers to heart surgeons, and even those people who are currently unemployed but are working very hard to find a job.

I didn’t walk five miles uphill to school and back or anything like that, but no matter what my endeavor, I have always been a hard worker. Like most people already in the throes of middle age, I was raised to understand the meaning of hard work, and was expected to apply it in a variety of situations.

Back in the 60s, 70s and early 80s, kids had real chores and I was no exception. I’m not talking about clearing the table after dinner, mind you. To my parents, chores were only worthwhile if they involved hours of tedious detail or backbreaking labor. My friends were used to me being tied up on the weekends with “yard work,” “gardening” or “house cleaning.”  But these typical childhood chores were different in our home.

For example, cutting my parents’ three and a half acres of grass involved a Yanmar tractor with a mower deck attached, supplemented by a push mower to get around trees and tight angles, and at least two days.  And “gardening” really should have been called “crop tending” because of the hours of weeding, watering and fertilizing needed to cultivate my parents’ gargantuan 40 by 15 foot vegetable garden.

Growing up in a small brick ranch house meant that housework was lighter duty, but in keeping with my parents’ work ethic, these chores were also quite time consuming. I recall my mother teaching me the proper way to dust a room, starting from the angle where the wall meets the ceiling and working one’s way down to the baseboards, wiping all flat surfaces and moving all objects along the way, so that one can start cleaning the floors. Needless to say, I hate dusting to this very day.

And then there was the dreaded silver polishing. Despite the fact that we lived in a 1950s brick ranch on a dead end road off Route 286 in a small Western PA town, my mother had enough silver serving dishes to host the Duke and Duchess of York and their royal entourage for brunch. I toiled for hours rubbing silver polishing creams and pastes into the intricate nooks and crannies of my mothers pieces, which included three large trays; a full tea set with pot, sugar, creamer and biscuit dish; water pitcher; ladle, covered butter dish; candlesticks; fruit bowl; wine cooler; rectangular chaffing dish; and round chaffing dish.

I’m not really sure what a chaffing dish is or why my mother needed two of them, but suffice it to say that the only thing getting chaffed in my mother’s dining room was my hands. Once silver was properly cleaned, rinsed and polished to a bright shine, it would sit on my mother’s buffet, slowly collecting dust and turning yellow until the next time I polished.

After I went off to college, my mother got rid of much of her silver, and the remaining pieces still sit on her buffet today, looking more like brass than silver, because I am not around anymore to take on the unenviable job of polishing it.

My three kids, on the other hand, wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it hit them in the head with a toilet bowl brush. I tried to start them off right, by making intricate laminated chore charts with velcroed stars and X’es to indicate job completion. When that didn’t work, I resorted to store bought Spongebob chore charts with little yellow stampers. When that didn’t work I tried ranting and raving. Then we tried withholding allowance. And on it went until I was threatening to send them all to military school if they did not make their beds.

Why is it so hard these days to teach the meaning of hard work? Did we work harder when we were kids because we got spanked? Or was it just that there wasn’t anything better to do because the only thing on TV was Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom?

Whatever it was, I, for one, am ready to once again recognize the value of an honest day’s work. In fact, even though I am still wearing my pajama pants and haven’t brushed my hair at 5 o’clock in the afternoon, I actually used my Labor Day off to get a hell of a lot done.

I got up at 7:30 am, emptied the dishwasher, loaded the dishwasher, mopped the floors, vacuumed the carpets, dusted the family room (still hate it), cleaned the toilets, stripped the sheets, tried to install a printer disk on my son’s laptop, folded laundry while I was on hold for 45 minutes with Dell Tech Support, put in another load of laundry while I told the Dell Tech Support representative from New Delhi to take a hike for trying to charge me $129 for asking a question, made lunch for the kids, watered my tomato plants, prepared the hamburger patties for tonight’s barbecue, called my mother so we could reminisce about her silver, and wrote this column.

So here’s to hard work whatever form it takes. In the home, at the office, or on the construction site, an honest day’s work is to be appreciated, whether one receives a paycheck for it or not.

As American actress Bette Davis once said, “To fulfill a dream, to be allowed to sweat over lonely labor, to be given a chance to create, is the meat and potatoes of life. The money is the gravy.”

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The Wheels on the Bus

In family, Humor, Memories, modern culture, parenting on August 29, 2011 at 9:34 pm

As a squishy little second grader at East Pike Elementary School, the bus stop on Sixth and Chestnut Streets seemed like a huge unruly mob to me.

Somehow, by the time the bus showed up, the kids at our stop had already climbed trees, thrown chestnuts, knocked books to the ground, acquired fresh grass stains, and executed several wedgie attacks. Much of the shenanigans were prompted by the older boys, which included my 5th grade brother.

Boarding the bus each morning, I found my assigned seat in a way which would attract the least amount of attention, so as to ward off the onslaught of daily harassment that might follow.

Most days, I kept a low profile (literally, since I was kinda short and could hide behind the green vinyl seatback,) but this particular fall, I was forced to take my turn as the subject of public humiliation.

My brother’s gang had been ordered by the driver to sit in the front seats of the bus due to their consistently boisterous behavior, but rather than serving as a penalty box, the front seats were ironically more of a podium, effectively making the gang of boys our sadistic morning dictators.

Snorting and giggling, the boys would lead chants and jeers targeting particular riders in a twisted game of Russian roulette. One morning, the barrel of their gun was pointed at me, and the chamber was full.

Quite fond of nicknames, my brother had a vast repertoire of epithets for kids in our neighborhood, our pets, and unfortunately, me. I was called Bubbs, Bubbs McGraw, Chunk, Chunky Dinners, Chung King, Skunk, Skunkgrass, and Pig (which was later outlawed by my parents so he reversed the letters and deceitfully referred to me as “Gip.”)

A rare summer trip to Hawaii to visit our grandparents inspired my brother to add the Polynesian nickname “Lee Lae Lon” to his inventory. Despite being meaningless, I hated the name, which was exactly what my brother wanted.  Unable to come up with a retaliatory name other than “Big Meanie,” I soon learned that incessant whining was my only recourse.

After tiring of leading the kids on the bus in several rounds of an old standby chant (“Thad’s on the toilet, ooh, ahh; Thad’s on the toilet, ooh, ahh”) which targeted a shy boy in the back, my brother and his gang turned their attention to me.

“Gimmie an L!” my brother’s hulkish friend, Jimmy, yelled in front of us. Everyone looked confused, so Jimmy yelled the order again, and the crowd hesitantly responded, “L?”

Jimmy and the gang of boys continued, “Gimme an E!” Even I repeated, “E!” and the chant gained momentum.

After L and E, Jimmy added another E, then another L, and so on, until he screamed “What’s it spell?!” No response was forthcoming from the confused riders, but Jimmy’s gang yelled the pre-planned answer: “Lee Lae Lon!”

“Who’s a Pig?!”

“Lee Lae Lon!”

“Louder!”

“Lee Lae Lon!”

Other than the sniveling gang of boys, no one initially understood the chant, but it soon became a well-known part of the morning regimen dictated by the boys in the front of the bus. Thankfully, I was not singled out again after that fateful fall and went on to have many pleasantly uneventful bus rides to school in the years to come.

I only have one other less-than-fond memory of my school bus days: During my secondary years, our bus had an outdated 8-track tape deck with only one tape. Every verse of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” has been seared into my brain forever.

Despite it all, I am sad that my own kids won’t suffer the slings and arrows of riding the school bus this year. Due to drastic education budget cuts, many kids like mine have been told that the bus isn’t stopping at their school anymore.

A couple months ago, our school district announced that transportation to seven of the county’s best schools would be cancelled, so in the face of high gas prices and tight family budgets, parents like us are scrambling to find carpools to get our kids to school.

Seems that lately, as the price of gold goes up, the value of the Golden Rule goes down, and school districts across this nation are cutting education bedrocks such as sports, art, music, physical education and transportation. Some politicians feel these cuts are just part of necessary reductions in spending, others say taxes must be raised to keep these programs afloat. Regardless of political leanings, many consider it tragic that our children’s educations and ultimately their futures will be compromised by our generation’s economic failures.

The yellow school bus has always been an integral part of our public education system, and despite my own mixed experiences on the bus, I hope the cuts to school transportation and other fundamental programs are only temporary.

As for my kids, they will be sitting in the back of a carpool minivan on their way to school this year. I will try to make their experience as memorable as mine, but without a good old AC/DC tape or the manpower to muster a humiliating chant, the kids in my carpool will have to settle for mumbling along to a song on the radio.

 
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Carry a Big Chopstick

In family, Humor, modern culture, parenting on August 23, 2011 at 1:58 pm

Last week, I spent $290.87 on school supplies at a local “supercenter” that shall remain unnamed. Suffice it to say that the “rollback” in prices still wasn’t enough to put a “smiley” on my face.

I lugged the bags from my car into the house, and dumped the lot out onto the living room floor. I stared at the pile of pencils, paper, folders, notebooks, highlighters, binders, rulers, index cards, and two $88 graphing calculators and thought to myself:

Good Lord, almost three hundred dollars for this stuff. Whose idea was it to have three kids anyway? [The unnamed supercenter] must be making a killing, well, along with the manufacturers I guess . . . hu? Wait! Let me see here . . . oh no! Made in China? What have I done?!

With our economy in peril and so many Americans out of work, how could I have so carelessly handed hundreds of dollars over to China? I contemplated returning all the supplies to [the unnamed supercenter] and telling the kids to just use the free bank pens, hotel note pads, and the crayon nubs left over from last year.

Knowing I did not have the courage to return the school supplies I had just spent the last three hours procuring, I slumped down next to the pile of foreign manufactured goods and hung my head in shame.

A minute or two later, a Chinese lantern blinked on in my head.

Hey, wait a minute, I thought, the Chinese have been making the stuff Americans buy for decades, right? Well, why don’t we do exactly the same thing?

US citizens make up about 4.5% of the world’s population, but China accounts for almost 20%. They figured out long ago that they could manufacture products that Americans want and sell them to us at a hefty profit. Why don’t we make the products the Chinese can’t live without and sell them to China – a market four times larger than the US?

My mind raced with the endless possibilities of my brilliant scheme.

Rice. Rice is the staple food and most important ingredient in Chinese cooking. Why not flood the banks of the Mississippi and Lake Superior to cultivate some rice paddies?  

Chopsticks. With the US furniture industry losing market share to Asian imports for the last few decades, why not put our laid off furniture makers to work manufacturing chopsticks?  China uses 63 billion disposable chopsticks a year, or 25 million full grown trees annually, and the US has both the lumber and workers to fill the Chinese need for their beloved wooden utensils.

But I can’t take credit for this idea. A company called Georgia Chopsticks is currently churning out 2 million pairs of sweet gum and poplar chopsticks a day, selling them to supermarket chains in China. That’s what I’m talking about.

After we tackle the basics, why not open up a soy sauce plant in South Dakota? A Peking duck farm in Delaware? Woks in Wisconsin? Pea pods in Pennsylvania? Mandarin oranges in Mississippi?

 And, there’s no need to stop at the dinner table. Let’s ask the various yard ornament manufacturers in the United States to stop making gnomes, pink flamingoes, and gazing balls, and start churning out Budda statues? And I’m sure Parker Brothers would be willing to put Monopoly production on hold long enough to produce a few million Chinese Checkers and Mahjongg sets.

Hollywood has been particularly fond of superhero movies such as Captain America, Batman and the Green Hornet. What about a Chinese Superhero? Let’s commission Hanna-Barbera to get cracking on a cutting edge remake of Hong Kong Phooey and market it to Chinese movie goers. I could totally see Jackie Chan in the part of Penry, with sultry little Rosemary played by Angelina Jolie and Tommy Lee Jones as Sergeant Flint. Can’t you just see the lines at the box office?

Imagine, with the US exporting goods to 1.3 billion Chinese consumers a year, we’ll be rolling in the wonton wrappers before you know it. Put that in your fortune cookie and eat it.

My faith in living the American Dream restored, I sorted through the little mountain of foreign made school supplies without guilt and tried to think of what to cook for dinner. All the thoughts of China had left me with a hankering for Asian cuisine, so I hopped on the phone to Hop Shings for some egg rolls, kung pao chicken, and chow mein.

All made in America, of course.

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Middle School Disorientation

In family, Humor, military, parenting, self-image, social scene on August 17, 2011 at 5:49 pm

My daughters and I nervously passed between two huge concrete lions flanking the entrance, and a door opened magically before us.

“Welcome to Julia Landon College Preparatory!” said the eighth grader holding the door, smartly clad in khaki shorts, a navy blue polo emblazoned with the school logo, and a full set of shining braces.

It was middle school orientation day, and having  just moved to Jacksonville, Florida, we had no clue how to negotiate the vast halls and complex social hierarchy of this new institution.

With every move, our military family has adapted to new surroundings, but this time we were a bit anxious. The girls had been accepted into a top notch magnet school, and while I was grateful for this stroke of dumb luck, I was also a bit worried that I might meet up with some pretentious personalities.

Being from humble roots, I don’t deal well with snooty people.

Besides, middle school parents are a separate and distinct breed. Unlike elementary school children who are a blank canvas, and high school kids whose personalities are pretty much set, middle school children are still forming their individual aptitudes and character traits. Middle school parents still believe that, with their guidance, their children will be neurosurgeons and professional athletes.

At this stage in the game, middle school parents are still living the dream, and they carry themselves as if their children are the cream of the crop.

I had a sneaking suspicion that the parents at Julia Landon College Preparatory Middle School might have cornered the market on elitist attitudes, so I decided to beat them at their own game.

I knew I needed to walk into that school wearing something that would convey the message, “Yea, I’m new, intelligent, interesting, and I have no time for you.”

So, I strategically paired a trendy shirt dress and sandals with a silver pendant necklace on a leather cord. I carried one of those huge tote bags with the name of a European city stamped all over it. Mine read “Stuttgart.”

I envisioned another mom asking, “Ooo, cool necklace . . . where’d you get it?” and I’d have to tell how I bought the pendant from a street market in Rome after a delicious lunch of risotto and fried artichokes in a Trastevere café. I’d have that far-away look in my eye that says, “I’ve got more culture in my upturned pinkie than you’ll get from a case of Yoplait.”

Then someone else might notice my Stuttgart bag and inquire as to whether I have “visited”Germany. I’d have to hide my smirk as I explain, “Why, no, actually we lived in Stuttgart for the last three years.” Again, with that far-away look in my eyes.

That’ll show ‘em, I thought, as we crossed the threshold into the school.

We were greeted by more khaki clad kids, each one more polite and helpful than the last, “yes ma’am” rolling off their tongues without the slightest effort.

I grumbled under my breath at their superiority. I had been trying to get my own children to use that simple phrase for years, but even under extreme duress, I had only been able to elicit a reluctant muttering that sounded more like “S’pam.” Apparently, my kids would rather shove Popsicle sticks under their toenails than subordinate themselves in such a humiliating way. Preferring to not be referred to as repulsive canned meat product, I gave up the fight and accepted the garden variety “Yes, Mom,” usually accompanied by plenty of eye rolling.

We followed the sea of people headed to several stations set up for getting locker assignments, student ID photos, PTA memberships, textbooks, and PE uniforms. The crowd looked like a giant preppy wave of madras plaid, nautical stripes, tanned limbs, sun bleached hair and white teeth. Parents seemed to recognize each other, chatting as the tide swept forward.

In a pathetic ploy for attention, I would announce at each station that “We are new here,” but no one seemed to care all that much. They were just as pleasant as eating a slice of summer peach pie on a porch swing. But I wasn’t about to let these sweet-tea swilling snobs get the best of me.

In a last ditch effort to get the upper hand, I announced to the silver-haired guidance counselor, “Well, we are new because WE JUST MOVED HERE AFTER LIVING IN EUROPE,” hoping the surrounding hoard would overhear and drop to their knees to beg for my friendship. But no one batted an eye.

In her slow-cooked southern drawl, the guidance counselor responded, “Well, I do declare, you have come a long way! Welcome, we are so happy to have you here. Now, how may I help you?”

Contritely, I handed the sweet woman my daughters’ health records and thanked her for her assistance. I couldn’t deny it any more. The people at this new school weren’t snooty nor elitist. I didn’t need to beat them at their own game because they weren’t playing one. This was simply a good school with good people in it. With a sigh of relief, I finally let down my guard and resolved to just be real.

As I walked back out the door and between the concrete lions, I remembered the advice I had given my own girls that very morning: “Don’t be afraid, just be yourself. In time, you will make lots of new friends and you’ll fit right in.”

Point taken.

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