Category Archives: Creative non-fiction

Sweet Summer Funtimes – The First Full Week

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Parenting, Surviving Summer Funtimes, , , , , , , 
Wondering about the great life decisions I made to get to this point? Check out last week's Sweet Summer Funtimes update here.

Day 4 – Feeding the children was a little sporty today. Scoured the depths of the pantry for lunches, because I haven’t grocery shopped out of fear of wrangling three kids in the cereal aisle. Told kids that Triscuits and cheese is too a continental lunch treat!

Kids started an art installation called Band-Aids A-plenty. It’s cool and magical because every day I find 6000 wrappers and used bandages that I pick up and throw away and then they reappear the next day. I think it’s a commentary about the fragility of life and how we also need to take care of our planet.

New word — bouleversé, which is apparently French for summer break.

 

Day 5 — Heard the children excitedly working together on something in hush-hush tones. This tends to set off warning systems in any mother’s head, so I peeked in to see them going under furniture and through bags searching for coins. I oh-so-casually mentioned that if they happened to find anything that needed to be thrown out/donated they should do that, because I’m hopeful and apparently never met a child before. YET — after thirty minutes they had made a donation pile and thrown away some nasty stuff that had been lodged in various crannies. I dub this day the Feast of the Under Bed Miracles.

 

Day 6 – For several hours, kids played catch with the Magic 8 Ball. In the middle of the playing field was a giant tom-tom drum that somebody who is no longer welcome in my house gifted to us. Constant drumming remniscent of an approaching army let me know that my children need lots of practice catching balls, Magic 8 or otherwise.

Added Excedrin to my shopping list, should I survive all this fun long enough to make it to the store.

 

Day 7 – Let the kids have some ice cream on the front porch/driveway. When I joined them about 10 minutes later with a spoon I notice there was some Vanilla Chocolate Chip that had melted on a plate they left in the sun. Fortunately my kids love me enough to stop me from eating what was actually quite accurately-deposited bird poop.

bouleverse-PixTeller-100402 (1)

Day 8  – Child saw hummingbird at the feeder and other two thundered over to the window like a herd of wildebeests. Many tears were then shed that the hummingbird flew away. I spend the afternoon writing bad poetry about being a hummingbird.

 

Day 9 – Took the family to the pool, an exercise in watching the kids flail about pointlessly in the water while screaming at me to watch. For some reason, all of the men and boys at the pool started competing to see who could do the stupidest splashiest jumps off the diving board to their own amusement and to the second-hand embarrassment of everyone else there. My husband stopped after he, and I quote, “broke his butt.” He limped over to a deck chair and we both watched in horror as our clumsiest child, who’s never met a surface he couldn’t impale himself on, slipped as he went down the length of the diving board, slicing a quarter-sized piece of skin off his thigh, thus ending the first pool visit of the season much like we ended the last pool visit of last season. Fortunately, it only took 45 minutes to get the kids from the pool to the car 100 feet away, as they were “freezing” and “so cold” on this 95-degree day. Injured child limped bravely and not-at-all dramatically toward the car. I asked if he wanted to see a doctor or if he wanted to go home and get a snack. Snacks won the day, as they usually do.

 

Day 10 – Waking up now means getting a medical report on accumulated bug bites, including size and itchiness level. Also got an update on the diving board wound, and a slide show presentation of how said wound had bled into the bandage and then started to scab up. You can all look forward to those photos in this year’s holiday card.

 

Day 11 – The kids entertained themselves by trying to figure out a song on the piano. I know that sounds great on the surface – they’re being creative and they’re problem-solving — but it’s a trial and error process that involves banging out the part they’ve already mastered, then hitting every wrong note until they finally arrive on the correct one, and then starting over and getting it wrong, and finally starting over again and getting it right but then having to figure out the next note.

Went to the library, which is a place I always called the amusement park until they learned how to read (which I suppose is my fault for taking them to the library). Shout out to the tween next to me at the new junior high fiction section who intently picked at a massive scab he had on his arm. At least I know my gag reflex is fine.

 

 

No Filter

Creative non-fiction, From the old blog, Parenting, ,

When I’m Old, will I be a regular feature on my children’s social media?

Will my children find me cute enough to let my image ride the waves of the internet, opening their arms to comments about me and them and us together?

Will I have to stop whatever I’m doing and pose for pictures because some day someone may want to see them?

If my hip or spleen or heart fails, or my sun damage turns dangerous, will they post pictures of me during diagnosis and treatment? Will these photos of me at my most human be scrolled past or receive an AMEN? Will I be a virtual trooper?

Or just Old and voiceless? (But Blessed, of course).

Will #TBT show me when I was young and get responses of “Wow!” and “Check out how hot Old was!”?

Will there be pictures of me on my birthday, in silly clothes, party hats, and Mardi Gras beads (because I need to lighten up and get over myself?) Will my own sartorial choices be applauded as adorable and marching to my own beat, or will my children be told to watch out because I might rebel in ten years when I am Ultra Old?

On regular days will my children pose me and squish up next to me and take many pictures to get the right one of us together just “hanging out”? Will that be our connection? Will I love it as much as my children or will I want to wriggle away to claim a little space?

When I’m an Old, will my children take pictures of me with male friends and caption us a new “power couple”?

“Uh oh! Look out! She’s on the prowl! She’s 4 months older than him…rowr.” Will they laugh and wink if I blush and walk away in embarrassed frustration?

Will some of my children’s friends quietly mutter and form groups called things like Oldless by Choice? Will these groups express irritation with Olds and laugh at Old Worship and at how some people try to find their identity through elder caregiving and Oh! One Old wrote a check at the grocery store and used coupons and didn’t even know how to ask for coffee at the coffee place that has a menu in bastardized Esperanto? The Olds ask questions and slow down everything and I wish people would stop asking me if I regret not having an Old. So sick of the pictures of the Olds already! I remember when my friends used to be interesting, when they talked about things other than having their own Olds.

Will my bad days, my final days, my last moments be captured and uploaded, saved on a phone, shared with the world with a sorrowful message?

If I say no, will my children still sneak a picture and caption it “Someone doesn’t want her picture taken!”?

Will my daughter and I get matching pedicures (hers trendier than mine) to the delight of her friends? Will my fellow Olds and I get caught in a wake of photo shoots and Honest Olds tweets for our children to read and nod in appreciative recognition that they are not alone? Will time spent with my own Old friends be tagged “Here Comes Trouble!”?

Will my tired requests to be left alone, given privacy, given dignity be shared and punctuated with a saucy “Someone’s cranky!” Will it cause my children to desire a glass of wine at unusual hours? Will my bathroom triumphs and small, hesitant, unassisted steps be marked as life events on a timeline?

Will my words, as they grow more laborious or wiser or garbled be transcribed and illustrated with paintings of sunsets and hearts?

Will we have a relationship if there is not a screen between us?

 

Monopoly, pivot, pivot!

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Inspiration, Listen To Your Mother, Parenting, , , , , , ,

“For Pete’s sake, Eunice, cheer up.”

We were not much of a board game family growing up. Oh, occasionally we’d pull out Pictionary or Scrabble, but more often than not, “family down time” was for individual pursuits, most likely all of us reading somewhere in the same house. Board games were usually like this:

 

Didn’t stop us from trying every six months or so. Almost always on vacation. Almost always not worth it.

So when my children ask to play a game –always when I’m feeling complete eviscerated by life, always when I’m exhausted, and always Monopoly – I groan.

Inwardly, I mean, because I usually say, “Ok.” If I’m lucky, I can put it off until some unspecified “later” – they always claim it, though. On rare days, they forget they asked me and get caught up in other things. That right there is the magic of parenting.

Usually, though, we play and it’s tedious and we practice counting (when they’re little) and strategy (when they’re big) and still there are winners and losers. I love the bonding time, I don’t like that I have to roll dice or gather play money or keep someone from chewing on little plastic pieces to get to the good stuff – the little life lessons, the small moments, the catching my kid trying to steal money from the bank. That kind of good stuff.

And sometimes there’s no good stuff. There is only the game and indulging the kids in a lot of what they want to do.

Board games. Bored games. BORED games.

When my husband and I were dating, he pulled out a board game – perhaps trivial pursuit, but I can’t be sure– and I honestly thought it was going to end our relationship because I thought I would die from the tedium of it.

Board games are the equivalent of square dancing: structured, rule-based, and involving at least one person stomping every few minutes.

Fun fact #1: We had three weeks of square dancing in 6th grade gym class.

Fun fact #2: I was one hell of a square dancer in 6th grade gym class.

Fun fact #3: I’m not proud of fun fact #2, but it’s a source of endless amusement for pretty much everyone but me.

I have yet to see a board game bring out the best in anyone, except for perhaps for latent competitive streaks and/or the best pout. (Mine is the best pout, btw.)

And this is the sort of thought that tickles at my mind when I’m not busy trying to work or be a better human or help my fellow Earth travelers. Banal thoughts like: Ddoes it mean something that I don’t like board games? Do I suck? Am I overthinking this? Am I completely un-fun? All of these can and will, of course, be answered by reading online comments on any article about parenting.

Because I lead a very interesting life, I’ve had conversations with people about board games, during which I tend to mention that they’re not my favorite activity. This usually prompts the listener to chime in “I LOVE BOARD GAMES!” (And it’s always Monopoly.) And they seem honestly troubled that I don’t. So, I go back to safer topics like circumcision or politics.

SORRY!

You know who doesn’t get tied up in knots about things like that? J.K. Rowling. She really cuts through the crap. Or she just gets rid of it by flinging it at appropriate targets.  I like that about her. I think we’d get along brilliantly. I hope she’s an introvert. Then we could hang out,  have meaningful conversations, not play board games, and trade good books every once in awhile.

Or, better, we could do this:

Pivot with me now:

There was a time I carried my Franklin Planner around with me. I don’t anymore, mostly because people kept thinking it was a bible and wanting to pray with me while I was trying to schedule things like dental appointments and leg shaving, which felt awfully sacrilegious. Also, I don’t carry a Bible around with me.

I still use my Franklin Planner for day-to-day stuff; however, for creative/writing scheduling, I am still using my Bullet Journal.

Maybe by 2018 I’ll consolidate everything into one BuJo (Look at me with the lingo). I will never convert to an electronic calendar system completely. DH and I coordinate that way, but that’s for the benefit of on-the-go scheduling, a sort of “who is able to do this other thing with the kids?” convenience. I’m not a technophobe, but I’m also the type of person who puts post-it notes on her phone. Like literally. Not the virtual kind. And this is not a bad thing.

Pivot again –  something to chew on that’s not bite-sized or petite.

Pivot! (We’re dancing here, folks!) “Any work of art quickly reveals itself to be a linked system of problems”

Pivot just because this makes me laugh:

Unrelated: I like Chekhov quite a lot. 

Last pivot:

This past weekend, I had my first rehearsal for LYTM, and I am excited to be getting to the next phase of it all.  I will write more about that later this week, but I hope you will catch one of the many LTYM shows across the country in the next few weeks. Check it out and see if you can find a show in your neck of the woods.

(Do woods have necks?)