The holidays are an emotional time -- for our kids, I'd say it's mostly good emotions, except for having to listen to me say that Santa can still change his mind and leave a lump of coal in their stockings if they don't clean their rooms. For me, it is mostly good, too, but the holidays have become more melancholy as the years, and loved ones, have passed. The Christmas holiday was a special favorite of my late mother-in-law's, and I know that my husband's annual desire to buy a fresh-cut tree stems in large part from his childhood memories of their house -- Laila's house -- decked out it all its holiday glory. The family was never very religious, so theirs was a Christmas celebration in the American pop-culture sense, where it is okay to be happy and joyful, even if the "true meaning" of the holiday is heavily filtered, at best. She used to say that "Christmas is for the kids," so it is always bittersweet to watch our kids -- two of the four grandchildren she never met -- enjoying her favorite holiday.
It is sad, but fitting, that her birthday and the day she passed are bookends to Christmas. I always think of her on her birthday in mid-December, and immediately feel inadequate as I look around at my barely-decorated house and think about my yet-to-be-written Christmas shopping list. After the mad scramble of Christmas and New Year's, I am always reminded of her on the anniversary of the day she passed, remembering the sadness that filled the house, Laila's house, on that day.
And, inevitably, when I think of her passing, I think about her last Christmas with us, and all the Christmases she gave to her family over the years, and how she managed to make the holiday special. Happier times. I suppose this is one of the intangibles of the holidays: the imprint left by these occasions are somehow magnified over time. As the number of people we lose grows, the positive memories of these special times seem to expand to fill that void. Lai's Christmas day festivities, topped off by Christmas dinner on fine china. Memories of "Dad," my father-in-law, making his special signature Christmas morning dish -- the appropriately named, "Special" -- and the family calendars he would distribute, each child's, grandchild's, aunt's, uncle's, cousin's, son-in-law's, daughter-in-law's, and grandparent's birthday written in by hand. Memories of my father, always happiest in his element, surrounded by his brothers and their families, holidays filled with card games, mah jong and plenty of kids running around. Falling asleep in his lap after having too much fun with my cousins, and being carried off and tucked into bed.
If we are lucky, it is these happier holiday memories that endure -- and, hopefully, we manage to create some of these for our kids, too. Happy holidays, everybody.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The "N" Word
I remember when our babysitter, Katy, reported to me that my daughter had told her that one of our books-on-tape had a bad word in it -- the "N-word" -- but we still listened to it anyway, even though mommy told them they could not use the word. I cringed. I had wondered when this would happen. When I would be exposed for allowing my children to listen to a tape that included the "N-word": nincompoop. Even though I used the word as I sang along with the Oompa Loompas as they described the fate of poor Augustus Gloop, I had admonished the kids that name-calling was not allowed, and they should especially not call each other nincompoop. I explained to Katy, who laughed, since she had already gotten my daughter to confide in her and tell her what the "N-word" was, at least in our household.
I am not sure when we had the conversation about the "N-word," the "J-word," the "C-word" and other racial epithets, but both of my children are well aware of these words now, and how these words have been used as instruments of hate and divisiveness over decades and decades of American history. Which is a good thing, since we were faced with a particularly ugly reminder about this issue on the eve of the election of Barack Obama as president.
On November 3rd, somebody spray painted the real N-word on the door of an African American teacher at one of our city's elementary schools. Even though the police had been called in, I could find no news reports about the incident until after the school district decided to inform the community about what had happened in an emailed letter dated November 21:
I am not sure when we had the conversation about the "N-word," the "J-word," the "C-word" and other racial epithets, but both of my children are well aware of these words now, and how these words have been used as instruments of hate and divisiveness over decades and decades of American history. Which is a good thing, since we were faced with a particularly ugly reminder about this issue on the eve of the election of Barack Obama as president.
On November 3rd, somebody spray painted the real N-word on the door of an African American teacher at one of our city's elementary schools. Even though the police had been called in, I could find no news reports about the incident until after the school district decided to inform the community about what had happened in an emailed letter dated November 21:
Dear Families of Piedmont Students:
On November 3rd, the day before the national election, a hate crime was perpetrated upon one of our teachers at Havens Elementary School. Specifically, a racial epithet was written on the wall outside of the teacher's office. To respect the victim's privacy, this information was not shared until now. A police report was filed within the hour, and the District is continuing to investigate. Although the offending word was removed within 20 minutes of being reported, the effects of this crime continue to reverberate; this event has hurt our community.
The Piedmont Unified School District will not allow the benign acceptance of hate crimes. In the coming weeks, we will examine how we as a District and community can work together to strengthen our collective response to hate crimes in Piedmont. The Appreciating Diversity Committee has already met to support this work and discuss with us a course of action. We ask for your input and your active participation in our work ahead. On behalf of the District, though saddened by this incident, I look forward to working together to move us forward in a positive way.
Sincerely,
Constance Hubbard
Superintendent
To date, this is the only official information we have been given about the incident. There was scant coverage of the incident in our local papers; you can read one online news account here.
After we returned from Thanksgiving break, information slowly trickled through the community that the perpetrators were rumored to be three seventh grade boys from the middle school. Their identities -- although kept hush hush by the school district -- were pretty well known within the school, since all three boys were suspended. Those five days may have seemed long to the individuals involved, but I was taken aback when I realized that this was the extent of their suspension.
I attended the school board meeting last night, with my children, to hear the presentation by the board and a handful of speakers on this topic. I expected to hear some anonymous details about what the punishment was for these boys, whether the police were involved, etc. Unfortunately, there was merely a vague statement about working with the victim in determining the consequences for the perpetrators of this hate crime, and that was about it. There was talk about "formulating policy" to deal with such incidences in the future. All of this is well and good, and definitely necessary -- but why the shroud of secrecy? Shouldn't the community at least be informed that the perpetrators have been caught and what their punishment was?
The only fact that made me feel better about this is that I learned through my many discussions with other parents that the five-day suspension seems to be the maximum sentence that is given out around here, even for the most serious infraction. Even if you stab somebody in wood shop. Or stalk another child and assault him on the way home. After you are caught and found guilty of such crimes in Piedmont, you serve your five-day suspension, and you are back at school, good to go. As if nothing happened. Good for the perpetrators, not so good for the victim/classmate in the cases of the stabbing and assault. At least the perpetrators in the hate crime incident are students on a different school site, so the targeted teacher does not have to run into them on a daily basis.
When I first heard that the rumored perpetrators were children that I knew, I was in shock. But even more shocking has been the silence around this incident, the suppression of information that might lead to a reaction from the community at large. As one parent said to me, "In many other communities, an incident like this would have led to loud outrage." Definitely not the case here. With virtually no information about the incident, the district has managed to muffle what little reaction there has been, or might have been.
The perpetrators are back at school now. As if nothing happened.
After we returned from Thanksgiving break, information slowly trickled through the community that the perpetrators were rumored to be three seventh grade boys from the middle school. Their identities -- although kept hush hush by the school district -- were pretty well known within the school, since all three boys were suspended. Those five days may have seemed long to the individuals involved, but I was taken aback when I realized that this was the extent of their suspension.
I attended the school board meeting last night, with my children, to hear the presentation by the board and a handful of speakers on this topic. I expected to hear some anonymous details about what the punishment was for these boys, whether the police were involved, etc. Unfortunately, there was merely a vague statement about working with the victim in determining the consequences for the perpetrators of this hate crime, and that was about it. There was talk about "formulating policy" to deal with such incidences in the future. All of this is well and good, and definitely necessary -- but why the shroud of secrecy? Shouldn't the community at least be informed that the perpetrators have been caught and what their punishment was?
The only fact that made me feel better about this is that I learned through my many discussions with other parents that the five-day suspension seems to be the maximum sentence that is given out around here, even for the most serious infraction. Even if you stab somebody in wood shop. Or stalk another child and assault him on the way home. After you are caught and found guilty of such crimes in Piedmont, you serve your five-day suspension, and you are back at school, good to go. As if nothing happened. Good for the perpetrators, not so good for the victim/classmate in the cases of the stabbing and assault. At least the perpetrators in the hate crime incident are students on a different school site, so the targeted teacher does not have to run into them on a daily basis.
When I first heard that the rumored perpetrators were children that I knew, I was in shock. But even more shocking has been the silence around this incident, the suppression of information that might lead to a reaction from the community at large. As one parent said to me, "In many other communities, an incident like this would have led to loud outrage." Definitely not the case here. With virtually no information about the incident, the district has managed to muffle what little reaction there has been, or might have been.
The perpetrators are back at school now. As if nothing happened.
UPDATE: 12 December 1008 -- I attended a middle school board meeting today, and was pleased that the principal started out the meeting with a discussion of this incident. Based on the reaction of the parents in the room, many of them were not aware that the perpetrators were from their child's school, and that they had already returned to school. When I asked about the length of the suspension, the administrator referred to a "maximum" suspension of five days, which I subsequently found in the California Education Code. (At least I now know that there is some basis for the five day limit. However, based on the Education Code, it seems that there is also some discretion in applying a "suspension" versus suspending a child pending possible expulsion, where a child could feasibly be suspended for longer than five days and ultimately returned to the school without being expelled.) In this case, it seems that a longer suspension-pending-expulsion-hearing might have been in the best interest of the perpetrators, who were out of school just long enough for kids to figure out who they were -- and then returned to school to face their peers. The principal reported that the perpetrators had been subjected to some verbal harassment, and that this was being dealt with through a mediation that was set for that morning. It was encouraging to see that the principal was sensitive to the fact that some students would feel some animosity towards the perpetrators, and had taken efforts to stop the escalation of this sentiment. Some parents in the meeting seemed surprised at the idea that other students would harbor ill will towards the perpetrators; as if all the kids should be expected to act as if nothing had happened. When I raised the issue of whether the perception that perpetrators' suspension was rather brief fed into the frustrations felt by students and the broader community, the response of other parents in the room reflected the sentiment that such "details" should not matter now, that this issue is over and done with, just a prank that the perpetrators didn't really understand, and what we need to do now is immediately move on and "heal" the community. Apparently, for some, there is no connection between the details and the processing of the issues at hand.
It will be interesting to see how we progress. On the one hand, there were many voices who spoke and said all the right things, and the school seems to be taking a pro-active stance to prevent this from becoming a bigger issue than it already is. However, at the same time, there seemed to be more emphasis on encouraging compassion for the perpetrators and fearing for their safety, rather than trying to understand, validate or acknowledge the animosity felt towards them because of what they did.
Perhaps, in this community, it is more important to show compassion towards boys -- who will be boys -- rather than actually attempting to understand the wounds from which we are trying to heal.
UPDATE: I was waiting to post quotes from local press articles that I assumed would be printed after the meeting, giving more details about what had happened. The Piedmonter, one of our two local newspapers, stated in an article on December 19, 2008: "[t]hree 12-year old Piedmont boys are waiting to learn their punishment for spray-painting the 'N' word across a Havens Elementary School wall." The timing was interesting, since we know the boys had already returned from their suspensions at that point. However, I am grateful to The Piedmonter for treating this issue as newsworthy, and at least attempting to provide some follow-up information regarding the perpetrators. It is more information than we have received from the school district or any other local paper.
UPDATE: I was waiting to post quotes from local press articles that I assumed would be printed after the meeting, giving more details about what had happened. The Piedmonter, one of our two local newspapers, stated in an article on December 19, 2008: "[t]hree 12-year old Piedmont boys are waiting to learn their punishment for spray-painting the 'N' word across a Havens Elementary School wall." The timing was interesting, since we know the boys had already returned from their suspensions at that point. However, I am grateful to The Piedmonter for treating this issue as newsworthy, and at least attempting to provide some follow-up information regarding the perpetrators. It is more information than we have received from the school district or any other local paper.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Oyama Mama Lawn Sign Drama
It has been just over a week since the election, and I am still quite happy about it. This seems to be a common phenomenon within the Obama-nation. I had the opportunity to travel with my family to Seattle for the long weekend, and you could just sense the joy as we traveled to another blue state. My "Japanese Americans for Obama" button sparked joyful comments by random, happy strangers. One person suggested we start the process of passing a constitutional amendment to allow Obama to serve three terms.
Unfortunately, my joy is not shared by everyone. A couple of my neighbors, in particular, seem tired of the Obama afterglow, so much so that they have told me -- not asked me, but told me -- that I should take down my lawn signs. "You really can take the signs down now. We know he won. You can take the signs down." Both neighbors made their suggestions separately, on two different days -- one on the day after election day (when I was putting out my second and third Obama signs that I had just gotten in Ohio), and the other just today, as I was taking out the trash and attempting to do some yard work. They made their suggestions to me in a nice, polite manner, of course, but I could not help thinking: would I have done the same to them, had the tables been turned? After pondering this question over several Dilletante chocolates, I have come to the conclusion that no, I would not have felt entitled to tell them what they should do with their McCain Palin lawn signs, even if they did make me feel like puking (had the Republicans won). McCain was on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno last night, commenting that "America does not want a sore loser." Apparently, my McCain-supporting neighbors did not get that message.
I think I am going to leave my original sign out on my lawn until the inauguration. It has been up since the primaries, and I think it is fitting that I keep it displayed until he takes the oath of office on January 20th, 2009.
Hey, maybe I'll make a countdown lawn sign:
ONLY 67 DAYS UNTIL OBAMA PRESIDENTIAL INAUGURATION
A new normal
I had to take a break from this blog in order to start a new one, Oyama for Obama -- oyamaforobama.blogspot.com -- where you can go to read more about how I ended up in Ohio!
My life has returned to normal, for the most part. I have stopped obsessing about the election and all things Obama and Palin. Okay, I did make a beeline towards a television monitor in the airport yesterday when I saw Sarah Palin trying to say something. And I have discovered the joy of the Anderson Cooper 360 video podcast, so I can get a daily politics fix when it is convenient for me and my family's schedule. This is quite different from my pre-election schedule, which resulted in my family's needs being pushed aside as I sat in front of the television, motionless except for my fingers pushing the "favorites" button on the remote so I could scroll between CNN, MSNBC, Fox and the major networks, occasionally setting it down and typing furiously into my laptop.
The day I returned from Ohio, I rushed to the market and bought some dinner fixin's, determined to make a home-cooked meal for my neglected family. I would announce my homecoming with a culinary gift. Or so I thought. My son stopped by as I sat in the kitchen, catching up on email, and asked, "What are we having for dinner?"
"Chicken and rice and vegetables."
"Oh," he says, clearly deflated.
"Well, do you want something else? What have you been eating while I've been gone?"
"Ramen, instant yakisoba, cheesesteaks ..."
"See? That's what I thought! Wouldn't you like to have a home cooked meal tonight?"
"Not really. Can we have some ramen?"
Sigh. I appreciated that he said the word with the Japanese pronunciation, rather than the American English version that suggested we were eating uncooked male homo sapiens. Why fight it? "Okay," I say, "you can have ramen." I find the bag of groceries I had bought five days earlier, which still contained a few unused packages of ramen and start boiling water. My husband was at a meeting, so I would worry about what to feed him later. Suddenly, my daughter shouted from the other room -- "Mom?!!! Don't I have a basketball evaluation tonight?" Oops. I had completely forgotten about that. I directed my son on how to finish making the ramen himself, and took my daughter to the gym, just in time for the evaluation.
The other moms at the gym asked me about my trip, and I told them about visiting with my relatives in Michigan, the Ohio voter protection project, the inordinately high numbers of provisional ballots at the polling place I worked at the day before, the excitement of being in Ohio when it was called for Obama, and the elation my friend Debbie felt when an apparent McCain supporter at the airport the day after election day told her she was "disgusting" for coming out to Ohio to do voter protection work -- although startled at first, once the woman's remarks sunk in, Debbie was happy to take the blame for McCain losing the election. The other moms all expressed gratitude, often recounting their own contribution to Obama's campaign, whether it be phone banking or volunteering in Nevada. There was a collective feeling of accomplishment, with each of us contributing in different ways.
Seeing Barack and Michelle Obama walk across that stage with their daughters at Grant Park the night before was the first hint of our reward. The efforts of a nation, the dreams of generations, all pinned on our new president-elect. Today is a new day. Hope has replaced cynicism. As I settle back into my normal life, I am looking forward to a new normal, where we are not afraid to hope for better, and want to be a part of this transformation. Change is good.
Let the countdown to inauguration day begin!
My life has returned to normal, for the most part. I have stopped obsessing about the election and all things Obama and Palin. Okay, I did make a beeline towards a television monitor in the airport yesterday when I saw Sarah Palin trying to say something. And I have discovered the joy of the Anderson Cooper 360 video podcast, so I can get a daily politics fix when it is convenient for me and my family's schedule. This is quite different from my pre-election schedule, which resulted in my family's needs being pushed aside as I sat in front of the television, motionless except for my fingers pushing the "favorites" button on the remote so I could scroll between CNN, MSNBC, Fox and the major networks, occasionally setting it down and typing furiously into my laptop.
The day I returned from Ohio, I rushed to the market and bought some dinner fixin's, determined to make a home-cooked meal for my neglected family. I would announce my homecoming with a culinary gift. Or so I thought. My son stopped by as I sat in the kitchen, catching up on email, and asked, "What are we having for dinner?"
"Chicken and rice and vegetables."
"Oh," he says, clearly deflated.
"Well, do you want something else? What have you been eating while I've been gone?"
"Ramen, instant yakisoba, cheesesteaks ..."
"See? That's what I thought! Wouldn't you like to have a home cooked meal tonight?"
"Not really. Can we have some ramen?"
Sigh. I appreciated that he said the word with the Japanese pronunciation, rather than the American English version that suggested we were eating uncooked male homo sapiens. Why fight it? "Okay," I say, "you can have ramen." I find the bag of groceries I had bought five days earlier, which still contained a few unused packages of ramen and start boiling water. My husband was at a meeting, so I would worry about what to feed him later. Suddenly, my daughter shouted from the other room -- "Mom?!!! Don't I have a basketball evaluation tonight?" Oops. I had completely forgotten about that. I directed my son on how to finish making the ramen himself, and took my daughter to the gym, just in time for the evaluation.
The other moms at the gym asked me about my trip, and I told them about visiting with my relatives in Michigan, the Ohio voter protection project, the inordinately high numbers of provisional ballots at the polling place I worked at the day before, the excitement of being in Ohio when it was called for Obama, and the elation my friend Debbie felt when an apparent McCain supporter at the airport the day after election day told her she was "disgusting" for coming out to Ohio to do voter protection work -- although startled at first, once the woman's remarks sunk in, Debbie was happy to take the blame for McCain losing the election. The other moms all expressed gratitude, often recounting their own contribution to Obama's campaign, whether it be phone banking or volunteering in Nevada. There was a collective feeling of accomplishment, with each of us contributing in different ways.
Seeing Barack and Michelle Obama walk across that stage with their daughters at Grant Park the night before was the first hint of our reward. The efforts of a nation, the dreams of generations, all pinned on our new president-elect. Today is a new day. Hope has replaced cynicism. As I settle back into my normal life, I am looking forward to a new normal, where we are not afraid to hope for better, and want to be a part of this transformation. Change is good.
Let the countdown to inauguration day begin!
Monday, October 20, 2008
I should wear lipstick
We are late for an appointment with the oral surgeon. Since I had been to the oral surgeon's office multiple times over the past year and a half, I was sure I knew where the office was and arrived just in time ... at the dentist's office. By that point, I had realized that I was at the wrong building, but since I had also forgotten my cell phone, I decided to go to the dentist's office to ask for directions to the oral surgeon. "Hi, I have an embarrassing question to ask ..."
After the very nice receptionist gave me directions, we drove for another two miles to the correct office. It looks vaguely familiar. My daughter and I sign in at the oral surgeon's office and settle in for a wait. Apparently, we both decide to read something that seems interesting, in small, sporadic doses. She picks up one of the I Spy books. I pick up The New Yorker.
As she searches away, she is stumped by one of the descriptions. "Mom? What does 'pot-bellied' mean?" I look over at the book, thinking it might be referring to a pot-bellied pig. I am a little surprised to see that it reads, "Find a pot-bellied man."
I think about describing what this means, and realize I can do this very quickly, with very little effort. "This is a pot belly," I say, pointing to the squishy, pillow-like gathering of flesh that looks like it is sitting on my lap.
"Oh -- okay," says my daughter, quickly locating the pot-bellied man in her book.
Sigh.
After the very nice receptionist gave me directions, we drove for another two miles to the correct office. It looks vaguely familiar. My daughter and I sign in at the oral surgeon's office and settle in for a wait. Apparently, we both decide to read something that seems interesting, in small, sporadic doses. She picks up one of the I Spy books. I pick up The New Yorker.
As she searches away, she is stumped by one of the descriptions. "Mom? What does 'pot-bellied' mean?" I look over at the book, thinking it might be referring to a pot-bellied pig. I am a little surprised to see that it reads, "Find a pot-bellied man."
I think about describing what this means, and realize I can do this very quickly, with very little effort. "This is a pot belly," I say, pointing to the squishy, pillow-like gathering of flesh that looks like it is sitting on my lap.
"Oh -- okay," says my daughter, quickly locating the pot-bellied man in her book.
Sigh.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Lice & DDT
We have somehow managed to avoid lice in our household, although I am not sure how. It seems to be rampant in our community, and my daughter's school sends home "the lice letter" with regularity -- I doubt if anybody even reads it anymore. When I told my mother that several of my daughter's friends had had lice this past year, she was shocked. "Here? Why would they have lice here? We never had to worry about that when you were little."
I thought back to my elementary school days in Los Angeles, and could remember only one time when I heard about lice: third grade, Robert Fernandez. I remember this because he was the only kid I ever knew who had lice.
"Did you have lice in Japan, when you were growing up?" I asked my mother. She answered in Japanese: "Oh, sure, during the war -- everybody had lice, kids and adults. But that was wartime! When the airplanes would come, we had to rush to hide in holes in the ground, covered by futon, all cowering together. You couldn't avoid it. Every night when we bathed, my mother would rinse our hair with vinegar, and comb cooking oil through our hair afterward. With four girls, this was a job all by itself.
"But I don't remember having lice problems after the war was over -- when the occupation soldiers came, they sprayed us all with DDT. They just lined us up and sprayed us, adults, kids, everybody. It looked like people had stuck their heads in a bag of flour -- our heads were completely covered with this white powder. Can you believe it? Makes me shudder to think about it now. We didn't know that DDT was harmful then. Besides, it's not like we could refuse to get sprayed ... but we didn't have lice after that!"
Okay, well that puts things into perspective. We'll do what we can to try to stay out of the lice cycle at our school, but if we do get any little lice companions coming home with my kids, we'll deal with it -- and be glad that we have never had to grow accustomed to the sound of bomber planes overhead.
Can't get DDT? American Academy of Pediatrics gives a thumbs up to malathion.
"Did you have lice in Japan, when you were growing up?" I asked my mother. She answered in Japanese: "Oh, sure, during the war -- everybody had lice, kids and adults. But that was wartime! When the airplanes would come, we had to rush to hide in holes in the ground, covered by futon, all cowering together. You couldn't avoid it. Every night when we bathed, my mother would rinse our hair with vinegar, and comb cooking oil through our hair afterward. With four girls, this was a job all by itself.
"But I don't remember having lice problems after the war was over -- when the occupation soldiers came, they sprayed us all with DDT. They just lined us up and sprayed us, adults, kids, everybody. It looked like people had stuck their heads in a bag of flour -- our heads were completely covered with this white powder. Can you believe it? Makes me shudder to think about it now. We didn't know that DDT was harmful then. Besides, it's not like we could refuse to get sprayed ... but we didn't have lice after that!"
Okay, well that puts things into perspective. We'll do what we can to try to stay out of the lice cycle at our school, but if we do get any little lice companions coming home with my kids, we'll deal with it -- and be glad that we have never had to grow accustomed to the sound of bomber planes overhead.
Can't get DDT? American Academy of Pediatrics gives a thumbs up to malathion.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
The Menstruation Tea
My daughter and I have been invited to “The Menstruation Tea,” also known by its more palatable name, the “Celebrating Changes Tea.” When I first heard about it, I was curious, the way that I feel about certain things when I visit a foreign country. I might understand the value in a local custom, but it might not necessarily be something I need to try myself. I would reserve judgment until I had more information -- especially since I like tea. I would be open-minded, even in my denial that I actually have a daughter who may have changes to celebrate sometime soon.
So, I waited. After a couple weeks, I received the pre-Evite email, which explained the format of the tea:
Part of the talk is going over what to expect in puberty (covering hair growth, body changes, breast development), a simple explanation of anatomy and periods and introduction to pads and tampons.
Okay. This sounds like it might be helpful, even though I am still in denial. I continue reading:
... The second part of the talk is mothers sharing their stories of their first period with the kids (on a voluntary basis of course). This is a vital part [of] opening communication between mothers and their daughters.
Excuse me? Let me read that again. Yes, it did say what I thought it said: “mothers sharing their stories of their first period.” Excuse me?
If I were a better mother than I am, I would have only focused on the purported benefits my daughter would receive from being a part of this menstruation tea. Instead, I find myself flashing back to my first period -- which, I must make perfectly clear, I have not thought about at all in approximately thirty-two years. Now, I remembered parts of it as if it were yesterday, especially the fact that I was wearing white Dittos saddle back jeans and was at pre-seventh grade summer school when it happened. I had thought it was weird that Clyde Noguchi kept glancing over at my below-the-waist area that day as we sat in our neat aisles of desk/chairs, and when I got home, I figured out why. I think I “celebrated” by opening the bathroom vanity and finding my older sister’s stash of maxi pads, and washing my white pants in cold water.
Apparently, now we are supposed to have a party to get ready for this life changing event. I’m not opposed to this, but it’s just very ... foreign to me. I grew up in a community where these things were handled in a more private way. Sure, we had sex education at school, and at home, my mother let me know what to expect, with my sister as living proof. It was low-key and matter-of-fact. I knew I could ask questions, and knew that my mom and sister had answers, if I wanted them. If there were teas about menstruation going on in my community when I was growing up, I sure didn’t know about them.
I suppose it is all about spin, trying to make this transition into something happy and celebratory. Frankly, just thinking about my menstrual cycle makes me cranky. So I guess I understand wanting to present this as something worth having a special party for, but it still seems odd to me. I suppose the message is, “Hurray! You are now at the point in your life when you can start having cramps, bloating, spend a cumulative fortune on sanitary pads and tampons, not to mention birth control (which you shouldn’t need because you better not be having sex anytime soon, but I’ll tell you about it anyway) and you can get pregnant whether you want to or not, even if you are using birth control. And don’t forget the mood swings -- that’s the best part! Yippee!”
If we don’t go to the party, I risk having my daughter being the only girl we know who, whenever she gets her period, doesn’t get all happy about it. She will be doomed to be like me. Crampy and cranky. Maybe it’s just me, but the only time I have been happy to start my period is when I was late and thought I might be pregnant when I did not want to be pregnant. And getting my period when I was actually trying to get pregnant? That was like a dagger to the heart. Crampy, cranky and devastated. Yes, maybe it’s just me. But the reality of having a menstrual period is just not something I have ever felt that celebratory about.
I try to think of an equivalent “tea” that dads would have with their sons to celebrate changes. What would they do? Get together and watch some porn? Put condoms on pickles? Break out the beer and buffalo wings? If this event exists, I want to see the Evite, which I imagine would read: “You are invited to a Big Boys’ Bash featuring Boobs & Buffalo Wings.” Now, let's go around the room and each dad can talk about his first wet dream; Gary, why don't you go first?
I know this is really not something my husband wants to discuss with me, but I feel compelled to draw him into this dilemma I am facing. We talk about it for a while, and he is appropriately engaged and supportive. I read him the email, including the part that pertains to him: “Also, if someone's mom is not available, it is fine for that girl to tag along with someone else. I don't find it works though if dad's attend - the women just aren't as comfortable."
I look up to see him trying to keep the smirk off his face. “Too bad ... you are not invited to the tea,” I said, in the saddest voice I could muster.
“Oh, darn,” he said, in the saddest voice he could muster. And a snicker. For my husband, I am sure this menstruation tea party is just another reason for him to be happy that he’s a guy. I want to wave my oh-yeah-but-you-don’t-get-to-experience-the-joy-of-childbirth flag in his face, but then I realize that this would just make him react in the same way: “Oh, darn.” But he would know better than to snicker.
Further down in the email, there is this line: “... be prepared for the girls to be giggly and say they don't want to come. It is up [to] the mum's to point out [that] this is NOT optional.” Hmmm. So it is mandatory that my daughter go to this, because it says so, right here, in writing? Or are they saying that giggling is NOT optional? What’s wrong with giggling? I like giggling! I don’t agree with either interpretation: for me and my daughter, we reserve the right not to attend, and to giggle if we feel like it, if we do decide to go.
After mulling it over for a couple days, I decide that I need to ask my daughter what she thinks about this. I try to act like I think it would be just lovely to sit around and listen to all the other mothers talk about their first periods. All the while I am thinking, isn’t this what is usually referred to as “too much information?” Do I really want to have some mom’s My First Menstrual Period story in the back of my mind every time I see her, as I am sure some of you will think about white Dittos the next time you see me? Do we really need these visuals of one another? Will they ever go away?
“So, honey, what do you think? A lot of your friends will be going. If you don’t go, you might be one of the few girls who don’t go. But either way is fine with me,” I say in my most reassuring and motherly voice.
“It sounds weird to me,” she says, scrunching up her cute little face, “I don’t think I want to go.”
“Okay, sweetie. Are you sure? If you want to, I’ll go with you ...”
“No, mom. That’s okay. It sounds weird.”
Whew. Dodged that one. I look at my daughter lovingly as I feel the burden of this decision lifted off my shoulders. I think my daughter and I might create our own family tradition and sit down for tea and cupcakes -- and our copy of Ready, Set, Grow: A What’s Happening to My Body Book for Younger Girls -- in the privacy of our own home. Or maybe we’ll wait on that for a while. I’m sure we’ll figure out when the timing is right for her ... and me. With or without tea and cupcakes, I think we’ll be just fine.
So, I waited. After a couple weeks, I received the pre-Evite email, which explained the format of the tea:
Part of the talk is going over what to expect in puberty (covering hair growth, body changes, breast development), a simple explanation of anatomy and periods and introduction to pads and tampons.
Okay. This sounds like it might be helpful, even though I am still in denial. I continue reading:
... The second part of the talk is mothers sharing their stories of their first period with the kids (on a voluntary basis of course). This is a vital part [of] opening communication between mothers and their daughters.
Excuse me? Let me read that again. Yes, it did say what I thought it said: “mothers sharing their stories of their first period.” Excuse me?
If I were a better mother than I am, I would have only focused on the purported benefits my daughter would receive from being a part of this menstruation tea. Instead, I find myself flashing back to my first period -- which, I must make perfectly clear, I have not thought about at all in approximately thirty-two years. Now, I remembered parts of it as if it were yesterday, especially the fact that I was wearing white Dittos saddle back jeans and was at pre-seventh grade summer school when it happened. I had thought it was weird that Clyde Noguchi kept glancing over at my below-the-waist area that day as we sat in our neat aisles of desk/chairs, and when I got home, I figured out why. I think I “celebrated” by opening the bathroom vanity and finding my older sister’s stash of maxi pads, and washing my white pants in cold water.
Apparently, now we are supposed to have a party to get ready for this life changing event. I’m not opposed to this, but it’s just very ... foreign to me. I grew up in a community where these things were handled in a more private way. Sure, we had sex education at school, and at home, my mother let me know what to expect, with my sister as living proof. It was low-key and matter-of-fact. I knew I could ask questions, and knew that my mom and sister had answers, if I wanted them. If there were teas about menstruation going on in my community when I was growing up, I sure didn’t know about them.
I suppose it is all about spin, trying to make this transition into something happy and celebratory. Frankly, just thinking about my menstrual cycle makes me cranky. So I guess I understand wanting to present this as something worth having a special party for, but it still seems odd to me. I suppose the message is, “Hurray! You are now at the point in your life when you can start having cramps, bloating, spend a cumulative fortune on sanitary pads and tampons, not to mention birth control (which you shouldn’t need because you better not be having sex anytime soon, but I’ll tell you about it anyway) and you can get pregnant whether you want to or not, even if you are using birth control. And don’t forget the mood swings -- that’s the best part! Yippee!”
If we don’t go to the party, I risk having my daughter being the only girl we know who, whenever she gets her period, doesn’t get all happy about it. She will be doomed to be like me. Crampy and cranky. Maybe it’s just me, but the only time I have been happy to start my period is when I was late and thought I might be pregnant when I did not want to be pregnant. And getting my period when I was actually trying to get pregnant? That was like a dagger to the heart. Crampy, cranky and devastated. Yes, maybe it’s just me. But the reality of having a menstrual period is just not something I have ever felt that celebratory about.
I try to think of an equivalent “tea” that dads would have with their sons to celebrate changes. What would they do? Get together and watch some porn? Put condoms on pickles? Break out the beer and buffalo wings? If this event exists, I want to see the Evite, which I imagine would read: “You are invited to a Big Boys’ Bash featuring Boobs & Buffalo Wings.” Now, let's go around the room and each dad can talk about his first wet dream; Gary, why don't you go first?
I know this is really not something my husband wants to discuss with me, but I feel compelled to draw him into this dilemma I am facing. We talk about it for a while, and he is appropriately engaged and supportive. I read him the email, including the part that pertains to him: “Also, if someone's mom is not available, it is fine for that girl to tag along with someone else. I don't find it works though if dad's attend - the women just aren't as comfortable."
I look up to see him trying to keep the smirk off his face. “Too bad ... you are not invited to the tea,” I said, in the saddest voice I could muster.
“Oh, darn,” he said, in the saddest voice he could muster. And a snicker. For my husband, I am sure this menstruation tea party is just another reason for him to be happy that he’s a guy. I want to wave my oh-yeah-but-you-don’t-get-to-experience-the-joy-of-childbirth flag in his face, but then I realize that this would just make him react in the same way: “Oh, darn.” But he would know better than to snicker.
Further down in the email, there is this line: “... be prepared for the girls to be giggly and say they don't want to come. It is up [to] the mum's to point out [that] this is NOT optional.” Hmmm. So it is mandatory that my daughter go to this, because it says so, right here, in writing? Or are they saying that giggling is NOT optional? What’s wrong with giggling? I like giggling! I don’t agree with either interpretation: for me and my daughter, we reserve the right not to attend, and to giggle if we feel like it, if we do decide to go.
After mulling it over for a couple days, I decide that I need to ask my daughter what she thinks about this. I try to act like I think it would be just lovely to sit around and listen to all the other mothers talk about their first periods. All the while I am thinking, isn’t this what is usually referred to as “too much information?” Do I really want to have some mom’s My First Menstrual Period story in the back of my mind every time I see her, as I am sure some of you will think about white Dittos the next time you see me? Do we really need these visuals of one another? Will they ever go away?
“So, honey, what do you think? A lot of your friends will be going. If you don’t go, you might be one of the few girls who don’t go. But either way is fine with me,” I say in my most reassuring and motherly voice.
“It sounds weird to me,” she says, scrunching up her cute little face, “I don’t think I want to go.”
“Okay, sweetie. Are you sure? If you want to, I’ll go with you ...”
“No, mom. That’s okay. It sounds weird.”
Whew. Dodged that one. I look at my daughter lovingly as I feel the burden of this decision lifted off my shoulders. I think my daughter and I might create our own family tradition and sit down for tea and cupcakes -- and our copy of Ready, Set, Grow: A What’s Happening to My Body Book for Younger Girls -- in the privacy of our own home. Or maybe we’ll wait on that for a while. I’m sure we’ll figure out when the timing is right for her ... and me. With or without tea and cupcakes, I think we’ll be just fine.
Friday, September 12, 2008
e.r.
My son had just started seventh grade, only to come down with a fever and cold symptoms on the third day -- his birthday, no less. After spending the day at home, with me dosing him with cold meds all day long, he emerged from what I thought was a deep slumber at about 11:45 pm. Coincidentally, this was almost exactly twelve years to the minute of his emerging from my womb, helped along by a vacuum suction contraption since it was almost midnight and I think the doctor really wanted to go home. Twelve years ago, he did not let out a big healthy cry for a few moments, since he had copious amounts of snot clogging up his system. When he finally let out that cry, I breathed a sigh of relief and stared at his little face.
Tonight, I stared again, as my son -- again, full of snot -- started to speak. I listened hard, but could not make sense of it. “What did you say?” I asked. He repeated. “What?” I said again, to his annoyance. This went on for a while, until I realized he was saying words that did not exist in any language we knew. It went something like this:
“So, Mom, there were like, these cudjins ...”
“Cushions?”
“No, Mom, cudjins ... so they were like ...”
“Wait, Miles, I didn’t quite hear you ... did you say 'cushions' (pointing at cushions)?”
“Nooooo, Mom. Cudjins! You know, cudjins ...”
Oh my god, my son was delusional. I grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Miles!”
“What?!!” he said, slightly shocked at my panicked demeanor.
“What’s your name? Do you know your name?”
“Uhhh ... Miles.”
“Okay, what day is it?”
“My birthday.”
“What’s my name?”
“Uhhh, ‘Mom’ (dripping with sarcasm).”
Okay, he seemed lucid enough at this point, but I was still worried that the fever had messed up his brain. What to do, what to do? I get on the internet and start Googling. Not much help. I find the hotline on the cough syrup and call; the customer service rep from the Triaminic hotline who said this was not a known issue, and that I should go to the ER.
We get checked in quickly, but then the wait begins. We wait in an examination room, where my son is reclining comfortably in the hospital bed watching cartoons. I am sitting in a very hard plastic chair, wanting to lie down. How bad would it be if I made my son sit over here while I took a little nap? Or maybe I could just have him scoot over a little tiny bit ...
I decide it would be really bad form if I kicked my son out of the hospital bed, and I doze off in the hard plastic chair. I wake up and look at the clock. 2:13 am. I hear the sound of more urgent patients being wheeled down the hall, while I look at my son, still watching TV and looking pretty darn healthy at this point.
I go to find a nurse. “Excuse me -- can we leave now?”
“Oh, don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you. You’re next on the list.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock. A little girl and her parents are wheeled into our room, and a doctor comes in immediately to check on her. I move my feet out of the way so the doctor doesn’t trip over me, his coat grazing my knee as he passes. I look up, hoping to make eye contact. Not a chance. I feel like a piece of furniture.
I go down the hall and find a different nurse. “Excuse me, can we leave?”
”Well, you could,” she looks me over and then proceeds with a little attitude in her voice, “but presumably you brought him in for some reason.”
“Uhh, yes, but those symptoms happened four hours ago. He seems fine now.”
“Don’t worry -- you are next on the list,” she says with a smile.
Sigh. Finally, finally, finally at about 4 am, the young, fresh-faced resident doc arrives and interrupts the cartoon-watching. She examines my son and goes over a variety of possible explanations for his delusional behavior, none of which are serious. The “real” doctor comes in about twenty minutes later, confirms what the resident had said, and then sums it up in a nutshell: “This is not uncommon with high fevers.”
Okay. So why did that not pop up on my Google search?
We stumble back into our house before 5 am. “This is the worst birthday ever!” my son moans as he crawls back into his bed. I give him a hug. I can’t disagree, but I feel strangely philosophical about the past five hours. Our trip to the ER has been an eye-opener. During my waking moments, I overheard doctors give vague and uncertain explanations to parents of a girl who was clearly in distress, with the parents reacting calmly, as if they have been here in the ER before, many times. I saw another girl come in for asthma treatments -- her weary-looking young parents also looking like they are very familiar with the ER -- and I am guessing that they either have no health insurance, or their insurance does not cover prescriptions, because my kids have asthma, too, but we have a nebulizer at home that is covered by our insurance.
As I climb back into bed, I try to turn off my analysis of the healthcare system and focus on being home again. I can hear my son in his room, already asleep: snotty, snoring and non-delusional. This gurgling, congested buzzsaw sound has never been more reassuring. All in all, definitely worth the wait.
Tonight, I stared again, as my son -- again, full of snot -- started to speak. I listened hard, but could not make sense of it. “What did you say?” I asked. He repeated. “What?” I said again, to his annoyance. This went on for a while, until I realized he was saying words that did not exist in any language we knew. It went something like this:
“So, Mom, there were like, these cudjins ...”
“Cushions?”
“No, Mom, cudjins ... so they were like ...”
“Wait, Miles, I didn’t quite hear you ... did you say 'cushions' (pointing at cushions)?”
“Nooooo, Mom. Cudjins! You know, cudjins ...”
Oh my god, my son was delusional. I grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Miles!”
“What?!!” he said, slightly shocked at my panicked demeanor.
“What’s your name? Do you know your name?”
“Uhhh ... Miles.”
“Okay, what day is it?”
“My birthday.”
“What’s my name?”
“Uhhh, ‘Mom’ (dripping with sarcasm).”
Okay, he seemed lucid enough at this point, but I was still worried that the fever had messed up his brain. What to do, what to do? I get on the internet and start Googling. Not much help. I find the hotline on the cough syrup and call; the customer service rep from the Triaminic hotline who said this was not a known issue, and that I should go to the ER.
We get checked in quickly, but then the wait begins. We wait in an examination room, where my son is reclining comfortably in the hospital bed watching cartoons. I am sitting in a very hard plastic chair, wanting to lie down. How bad would it be if I made my son sit over here while I took a little nap? Or maybe I could just have him scoot over a little tiny bit ...
I decide it would be really bad form if I kicked my son out of the hospital bed, and I doze off in the hard plastic chair. I wake up and look at the clock. 2:13 am. I hear the sound of more urgent patients being wheeled down the hall, while I look at my son, still watching TV and looking pretty darn healthy at this point.
I go to find a nurse. “Excuse me -- can we leave now?”
“Oh, don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you. You’re next on the list.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock. A little girl and her parents are wheeled into our room, and a doctor comes in immediately to check on her. I move my feet out of the way so the doctor doesn’t trip over me, his coat grazing my knee as he passes. I look up, hoping to make eye contact. Not a chance. I feel like a piece of furniture.
I go down the hall and find a different nurse. “Excuse me, can we leave?”
”Well, you could,” she looks me over and then proceeds with a little attitude in her voice, “but presumably you brought him in for some reason.”
“Uhh, yes, but those symptoms happened four hours ago. He seems fine now.”
“Don’t worry -- you are next on the list,” she says with a smile.
Sigh. Finally, finally, finally at about 4 am, the young, fresh-faced resident doc arrives and interrupts the cartoon-watching. She examines my son and goes over a variety of possible explanations for his delusional behavior, none of which are serious. The “real” doctor comes in about twenty minutes later, confirms what the resident had said, and then sums it up in a nutshell: “This is not uncommon with high fevers.”
Okay. So why did that not pop up on my Google search?
We stumble back into our house before 5 am. “This is the worst birthday ever!” my son moans as he crawls back into his bed. I give him a hug. I can’t disagree, but I feel strangely philosophical about the past five hours. Our trip to the ER has been an eye-opener. During my waking moments, I overheard doctors give vague and uncertain explanations to parents of a girl who was clearly in distress, with the parents reacting calmly, as if they have been here in the ER before, many times. I saw another girl come in for asthma treatments -- her weary-looking young parents also looking like they are very familiar with the ER -- and I am guessing that they either have no health insurance, or their insurance does not cover prescriptions, because my kids have asthma, too, but we have a nebulizer at home that is covered by our insurance.
As I climb back into bed, I try to turn off my analysis of the healthcare system and focus on being home again. I can hear my son in his room, already asleep: snotty, snoring and non-delusional. This gurgling, congested buzzsaw sound has never been more reassuring. All in all, definitely worth the wait.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
The Caucus Classic
Another year, another attempted round of golf. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. All the foursomes have driven their little golf vehicles to their respective starting holes. After going over a few administrative loose ends, I run up to the first tee, where my husband and his cousins, Matt and Jason, are getting ready to tee off. I exhale, trying not to think about the logistics of the tournament.
As I am waiting for my turn to hit, I think back to 1994 when we had our first tournament with a field of 32 players, and no idea that we would still be doing this in 2008. But here we are, our organizing committee -- Audee, Ed, Manny, Gary and I -- filling our roles in making this tournament happen. Just to set the record straight, I want to put it in writing that the Caucus Classic was my idea. Got it? My idea! I was the one who floated the idea in the early ‘90s. Okay, so nothing ever happened with that, but it was still a good idea.
The reality, of course, is that it takes more than a good idea to get something like this off the ground, and the Caucus Classic would not have taken shape if Ed Lee had not taken up golf. The golf bug did not just bite Ed, it devoured him. He became a serious Golf Fiend. As his daughter once lamented to me: “The day my dad learned to golf was the worst day of our lives.” Sometime in 1994, Ed says, “Hey! Let’s have a golf tournament for the Caucus!” and the rest, as they say, is history. Ed suggested a few names, including “The Edwin M. Lee Invitational” and “The Edwin M. Lee Charity Golf Classic.” Since Ed really is the heart and soul of this tournament, those names would have been appropriate. But we still decided on the “Caucus Classic.”
I look over at Jason, who would have been a freshly graduated free-wheeling bachelor in 1994, and Matt, who would have been in elementary school. This tournament is older than my kids. Uh-oh. My turn to hit. Must stop thinking about being old. Not a good swing thought.
I fumble through the golf bag my husband has assembled for me. Since I play once a year, it’s like a goodie bag -- half the fun is finding out what’s inside. Heeeey, what’s this? He actually put the Lady Bertha driver in here! It’s the prettiest club in my bag. I usually hit my Uncle Min’s old Lynx 3 wood off the tee. But this Bertha looks so nice! Maybe I should try to hit it! No, maybe not. I could never hit it very well before. Too much flex. But maybe flex will be a good thing now, since I’m so old. Okay, I’ll try it. Why not?
THUNK. Sigh. Golf is harder than I remember. But I must persevere, because golf is a game of hope. There are multiple chances for redemption on every hole. (In my case, usually about four chances more per hole than you are supposed to have, but it is redemption, nonetheless.) I make the short walk over to my ball, and swing away. THUNK. Sigh. At least it went a little farther this time, and I can justify getting in the cart to actually ride over to my ball for the next shot. I continue my quest for redemption. I can hear my late father-in-law’s voice inside my head: “Golf is as easy as 1 (set-up), 2 (take it back), 3 (swing and follow through). Easy as 1, 2, 3.”
Okay, I can do this. Easy as 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...! Yes! The ball is in the air! It is going farther than I can spit! And in the general direction of the hole! I did it! I am Tiger Woods! Golf is an awesome game! Oh, how I love this game! Oh, how I love watching the ball fly through the air instead of hitting some obscure not-supposed-to-be-in-play tiny little metal sign in front of the water hazard! I love golf!
The fairway reaches out to me with lush green open arms, its undulating terrain beckoning me to play on. Even the cattails seem to be reaching out to me. The course loves me. Golf is such an awesome game. I wonder why I don’t play more often? Golf is so much fun! Hmmm, what club should I hit next? This one looks good, I’ll just use this one. Nice and easy. Good, confident swing thoughts. Happy swing thoughts! Golf is as easy as 1... 2... THUNK. Sigh.
This game sucks.
“Hey, Matt -- did I play last year, or did I leave to watch the kids?” I ask Matt, the youngest member of our foursome, because he still remembers things.
“Yeah. I think you played about six holes,” he says with a smile. (It’s always good to say potentially disparaging things with a smile.)
“Huh. What hole are we on now?”
“This is the third hole.”
I groan silently at the thought of fifteen more holes of torture. Then I realize that I am not groaning silently, but that others can actually hear me. They can probably see me rolling my eyes, too.
By the sixth hole, I am enjoying my round. I have hit my stride, found my groove and am feelin’ groovy. Coincidentally, I have also stopped golfing, and am concentrating on eating snacks. I could use a Twix bar right now. And a Diet Coke. Where is that drink cart, anyway? I watch as my husband hits an incredible drive down the fairway, getting my redemption vicariously. Now this is fun and relaxing. It’s a beautiful day. Life is good.
As I am waiting for my turn to hit, I think back to 1994 when we had our first tournament with a field of 32 players, and no idea that we would still be doing this in 2008. But here we are, our organizing committee -- Audee, Ed, Manny, Gary and I -- filling our roles in making this tournament happen. Just to set the record straight, I want to put it in writing that the Caucus Classic was my idea. Got it? My idea! I was the one who floated the idea in the early ‘90s. Okay, so nothing ever happened with that, but it was still a good idea.
The reality, of course, is that it takes more than a good idea to get something like this off the ground, and the Caucus Classic would not have taken shape if Ed Lee had not taken up golf. The golf bug did not just bite Ed, it devoured him. He became a serious Golf Fiend. As his daughter once lamented to me: “The day my dad learned to golf was the worst day of our lives.” Sometime in 1994, Ed says, “Hey! Let’s have a golf tournament for the Caucus!” and the rest, as they say, is history. Ed suggested a few names, including “The Edwin M. Lee Invitational” and “The Edwin M. Lee Charity Golf Classic.” Since Ed really is the heart and soul of this tournament, those names would have been appropriate. But we still decided on the “Caucus Classic.”
I look over at Jason, who would have been a freshly graduated free-wheeling bachelor in 1994, and Matt, who would have been in elementary school. This tournament is older than my kids. Uh-oh. My turn to hit. Must stop thinking about being old. Not a good swing thought.
I fumble through the golf bag my husband has assembled for me. Since I play once a year, it’s like a goodie bag -- half the fun is finding out what’s inside. Heeeey, what’s this? He actually put the Lady Bertha driver in here! It’s the prettiest club in my bag. I usually hit my Uncle Min’s old Lynx 3 wood off the tee. But this Bertha looks so nice! Maybe I should try to hit it! No, maybe not. I could never hit it very well before. Too much flex. But maybe flex will be a good thing now, since I’m so old. Okay, I’ll try it. Why not?
THUNK. Sigh. Golf is harder than I remember. But I must persevere, because golf is a game of hope. There are multiple chances for redemption on every hole. (In my case, usually about four chances more per hole than you are supposed to have, but it is redemption, nonetheless.) I make the short walk over to my ball, and swing away. THUNK. Sigh. At least it went a little farther this time, and I can justify getting in the cart to actually ride over to my ball for the next shot. I continue my quest for redemption. I can hear my late father-in-law’s voice inside my head: “Golf is as easy as 1 (set-up), 2 (take it back), 3 (swing and follow through). Easy as 1, 2, 3.”
Okay, I can do this. Easy as 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...! Yes! The ball is in the air! It is going farther than I can spit! And in the general direction of the hole! I did it! I am Tiger Woods! Golf is an awesome game! Oh, how I love this game! Oh, how I love watching the ball fly through the air instead of hitting some obscure not-supposed-to-be-in-play tiny little metal sign in front of the water hazard! I love golf!
The fairway reaches out to me with lush green open arms, its undulating terrain beckoning me to play on. Even the cattails seem to be reaching out to me. The course loves me. Golf is such an awesome game. I wonder why I don’t play more often? Golf is so much fun! Hmmm, what club should I hit next? This one looks good, I’ll just use this one. Nice and easy. Good, confident swing thoughts. Happy swing thoughts! Golf is as easy as 1... 2... THUNK. Sigh.
This game sucks.
“Hey, Matt -- did I play last year, or did I leave to watch the kids?” I ask Matt, the youngest member of our foursome, because he still remembers things.
“Yeah. I think you played about six holes,” he says with a smile. (It’s always good to say potentially disparaging things with a smile.)
“Huh. What hole are we on now?”
“This is the third hole.”
I groan silently at the thought of fifteen more holes of torture. Then I realize that I am not groaning silently, but that others can actually hear me. They can probably see me rolling my eyes, too.
By the sixth hole, I am enjoying my round. I have hit my stride, found my groove and am feelin’ groovy. Coincidentally, I have also stopped golfing, and am concentrating on eating snacks. I could use a Twix bar right now. And a Diet Coke. Where is that drink cart, anyway? I watch as my husband hits an incredible drive down the fairway, getting my redemption vicariously. Now this is fun and relaxing. It’s a beautiful day. Life is good.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
it's the pyro family
My family is gathered around the fireplace, eyes glazed over, my husband prodding the pile of burning wood to encourage more flame. Or something. I am not really sure what the point is, since I do not share the fascination with fire that my husband has. My children, apparently, have inherited the pyro gene from him, and they are enthralled with this fire building process.
It's a good thing that they are enjoying this activity, because we are on a tiny island in the San Juans, spending time with my husband's sister Cindy, her husband Richie, and their son Alex, in a cabin with no TV. We do have wi-fi, though. And the ability to make fire.
Richie has taken to calling us "the Pyro Family."
Living up to this new moniker, my husband and the kids built an impressive campfire last night, an architecturally-inspired pyre that was the same height as our daughter. The kids had discovered that if you put dried grasses on the fire, they make crackling, popping noises and create miniature pyrotechnic displays as the grasses writhe and fizzle into the flames. Like firecrackers. Must be a Chinese thing.
Whatever the case, our campfire was quite a sight, and our marshmallows were no match for its greatness. It took a while, but the fire eventually mellowed in a few spots to the right temperature, embers glowing, inviting us to give our marshmallows that lightly bronzed glow. Unfortunately, since I was really eager to eat my marshmallows, I had already flash-fried several of them over the blazing hot flames.
As I gazed into the campfire, I felt the tug of pyromania, but resisted easily. I do not seem to have the pyro gene. My husband is definitely a carrier, and he exhibited symptoms early on in life. As family legend goes, he was about four years old when he came running up to the kitchen and asked, “Mom? Can I have a glass of water?” Sensing something odd in his demeanor, she followed him down to the family room ... where the sofa had somehow caught on fire. Thanks to motherly intuition, this story is just amusing (in an oh-my-god-what-a-pyro kind of way), with a happy ending. My husband still waxes nostalgic as he recalls how much fun he was having lighting matches and watching Kleenex burn. How was he supposed to know the sofa would catch on fire, too? He was just a little kid! And burning Kleenex looks so cool!
Given the family history, I have tried to shield my kids from too many opportunities to experiment with fire. No need to tempt fate and genetics. But on this trip, we have actually encouraged the building of fires. And it has become pretty obvious that both of the kids have inherited the pyro gene. It has been an unexpected bonding experience, and “Hey, let’s build a fire!” has become a common refrain, laced with uncommon glee. In spite of my anxiety, I actually appreciate that they are having fun doing this activity together. Family time is a valuable commodity, even if it is Pyro Family time.
As I write this, my kids have successfully made a fire. Thankfully, it is in the fireplace.
It's a good thing that they are enjoying this activity, because we are on a tiny island in the San Juans, spending time with my husband's sister Cindy, her husband Richie, and their son Alex, in a cabin with no TV. We do have wi-fi, though. And the ability to make fire.
Richie has taken to calling us "the Pyro Family."
Living up to this new moniker, my husband and the kids built an impressive campfire last night, an architecturally-inspired pyre that was the same height as our daughter. The kids had discovered that if you put dried grasses on the fire, they make crackling, popping noises and create miniature pyrotechnic displays as the grasses writhe and fizzle into the flames. Like firecrackers. Must be a Chinese thing.
Whatever the case, our campfire was quite a sight, and our marshmallows were no match for its greatness. It took a while, but the fire eventually mellowed in a few spots to the right temperature, embers glowing, inviting us to give our marshmallows that lightly bronzed glow. Unfortunately, since I was really eager to eat my marshmallows, I had already flash-fried several of them over the blazing hot flames.
As I gazed into the campfire, I felt the tug of pyromania, but resisted easily. I do not seem to have the pyro gene. My husband is definitely a carrier, and he exhibited symptoms early on in life. As family legend goes, he was about four years old when he came running up to the kitchen and asked, “Mom? Can I have a glass of water?” Sensing something odd in his demeanor, she followed him down to the family room ... where the sofa had somehow caught on fire. Thanks to motherly intuition, this story is just amusing (in an oh-my-god-what-a-pyro kind of way), with a happy ending. My husband still waxes nostalgic as he recalls how much fun he was having lighting matches and watching Kleenex burn. How was he supposed to know the sofa would catch on fire, too? He was just a little kid! And burning Kleenex looks so cool!
Given the family history, I have tried to shield my kids from too many opportunities to experiment with fire. No need to tempt fate and genetics. But on this trip, we have actually encouraged the building of fires. And it has become pretty obvious that both of the kids have inherited the pyro gene. It has been an unexpected bonding experience, and “Hey, let’s build a fire!” has become a common refrain, laced with uncommon glee. In spite of my anxiety, I actually appreciate that they are having fun doing this activity together. Family time is a valuable commodity, even if it is Pyro Family time.
As I write this, my kids have successfully made a fire. Thankfully, it is in the fireplace.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
So Cal Diving
"Mom! Do you have any coins for us to dive for?"
My kids are splashing around in their Aunty D's pool, which is empty except for the two of them. It's like their own private oasis, here in sunny California. The rest of the gated community is at work, while we are on vacation and soaking up the UV rays. Aside from one action packed day at Disneyland, our trip to my childhood hometown has been very low-key. We spent a couple days making the circuit from the pool to Pinkberry, another day visiting with my cousins at the beach in the LB, another day at the LA County Museum of Art to see the Price collection of Japanese art, followed by ramen for lunch back in Torrance and a visit to the Redondo Beach dog park -- and all the in-between times filled with my kids being indulged by their obaachan (grandmother).
I empty the change pocket of my wallet, and toss ten coins into the pool. Six quarters, two pennies, a nickel and a dime. One dollar and sixty-seven cents. A buck sixty-seven does not buy much these days, but it is good for several dives to the bottom of the pool and at least a few summer memories for my kids. Chances are good that this handful of change will be remembered at least as much -- if not more than -- the four hundred dollars we just dropped at Disneyland the other day. Yes, it is the simple little pleasures that often make our summers special; joy has no price tag, and memories seem to have an inverse correlation to the amount of time, effort and money one's parents have put into making a "special" day for a child.
As I am writing this, I realize that this is ironic in a bad way. All of a sudden, I feel exhausted.
Better get some sleep. Interstate 5 is waiting for me.
My kids are splashing around in their Aunty D's pool, which is empty except for the two of them. It's like their own private oasis, here in sunny California. The rest of the gated community is at work, while we are on vacation and soaking up the UV rays. Aside from one action packed day at Disneyland, our trip to my childhood hometown has been very low-key. We spent a couple days making the circuit from the pool to Pinkberry, another day visiting with my cousins at the beach in the LB, another day at the LA County Museum of Art to see the Price collection of Japanese art, followed by ramen for lunch back in Torrance and a visit to the Redondo Beach dog park -- and all the in-between times filled with my kids being indulged by their obaachan (grandmother).
I empty the change pocket of my wallet, and toss ten coins into the pool. Six quarters, two pennies, a nickel and a dime. One dollar and sixty-seven cents. A buck sixty-seven does not buy much these days, but it is good for several dives to the bottom of the pool and at least a few summer memories for my kids. Chances are good that this handful of change will be remembered at least as much -- if not more than -- the four hundred dollars we just dropped at Disneyland the other day. Yes, it is the simple little pleasures that often make our summers special; joy has no price tag, and memories seem to have an inverse correlation to the amount of time, effort and money one's parents have put into making a "special" day for a child.
As I am writing this, I realize that this is ironic in a bad way. All of a sudden, I feel exhausted.
Better get some sleep. Interstate 5 is waiting for me.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
wild ride at midnight
I learned something new today: if you don't want to wait in a long line to go on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disneyland, just wait until it's almost midnight. By that time, the target demographic of Fantasyland has moved on to see Mr. Sandman, and the wait time for Mr. Toad is down to under ten minutes. This was an unplanned discovery, since I had no intention of staying till midnight. But the day just seemed to go on and on and on in the sweltering heat, until suddenly, like Cinderella, we looked up at the clock and it was almost midnight.
As we had gone through our top five list of rides -- Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom and Finding Nemo -- I realized that my kids had never ridden most of the rides in Fantasyland when they were "little kids." Sure, they had ridden the carousel, the tea cups, It's a Small World and Dumbo, but that was about it. I was determined to have them ride some of the classic kiddie rides before we left today.
So, just before midnight, we found ourselves zipping through the lines for Mr. Toad, Snow White, Alice in Wonderland and Pinocchio, and I remembered something from my childhood: some of these rides were scary, and I didn't really like them as a child. The Snow White ride used to creep me out, with the wicked witch and all her wickedness. I did not recall the skeletons decorating this ride, and they seemed to be a bit much for the pre-school set. The Pinocchio ride started out with the giant bird cage hanging overhead, threatening to capture me and turn me into a donkey. And who is Mr. Toad, anyway? I did not remember his ride, at all -- especially not the part when wild-driving Mr. Toad plows you into a train, and then you find yourself in a very warm and humid room where everybody has red horns and there are flames all around. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride ends in hell.
Scary, yet symbolic in its own way: yes, folks, step right up with your super-tired toddlers and enjoy the ride -- hell is waiting for you right here in Fantasyland!
Ahh, yes, the happiest place on earth.
As we had gone through our top five list of rides -- Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom and Finding Nemo -- I realized that my kids had never ridden most of the rides in Fantasyland when they were "little kids." Sure, they had ridden the carousel, the tea cups, It's a Small World and Dumbo, but that was about it. I was determined to have them ride some of the classic kiddie rides before we left today.
So, just before midnight, we found ourselves zipping through the lines for Mr. Toad, Snow White, Alice in Wonderland and Pinocchio, and I remembered something from my childhood: some of these rides were scary, and I didn't really like them as a child. The Snow White ride used to creep me out, with the wicked witch and all her wickedness. I did not recall the skeletons decorating this ride, and they seemed to be a bit much for the pre-school set. The Pinocchio ride started out with the giant bird cage hanging overhead, threatening to capture me and turn me into a donkey. And who is Mr. Toad, anyway? I did not remember his ride, at all -- especially not the part when wild-driving Mr. Toad plows you into a train, and then you find yourself in a very warm and humid room where everybody has red horns and there are flames all around. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride ends in hell.
Scary, yet symbolic in its own way: yes, folks, step right up with your super-tired toddlers and enjoy the ride -- hell is waiting for you right here in Fantasyland!
Ahh, yes, the happiest place on earth.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
farther over the hill than I thought
9 year old daughter: "The movie is different from the book, because in the book, there is a younger man, a middle aged man, and a guy who is about, like, fifty ..."
me: "Wait. How old is the 'middle aged' man?"
daughter: "About, like, thirty."
Ouch.
me: "Wait. How old is the 'middle aged' man?"
daughter: "About, like, thirty."
Ouch.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Bye-bye, Baron
There he is, Baron Davis, ball at his hip, making that turn, blowing past some defender and pimping some Power Ade from on high. "Oh, Mom. That billboard makes me sad," says my daughter from the backseat. "I know. Me, too."
Baron, how could you? I know we didn't have the money to keep you, but we are still hurt. You left us for ... the Clippers?!!! Sigh.
My daughter has become quite a basketball fan, discussing trade rumors with her dad. After a brief visit to the land of Barbies, she moved on to Groovy Girl kingdom for a while, with visits into American Girl territory; we were relieved that she made a complete detour around Hannah Montana town, and now she has ventured into the world of sports talk and the Golden State Warriors. She has not quite abandoned her Groovy and American Girl friends, but there has been a definite shift. So her dad has a new person with whom he can discuss all that important information he gets about the team: hot off the Warriors blog or some ESPN feed. He must be happy to be able to talk to her about these things, and have her actually know who he is talking about, rather than telling me some critical trade information and have me respond, "Who?"
Thank goodness her dad hasn't recruited her into doing research for his fantasy league draft. Well, at least, not yet.
As incongruous as it might seem, she is apparently not the only little Asian American girl who likes to talk basketball. She is attending a Japanese American cultural summer school, where during their breaks, it seems that basketball is a popular topic. "So, Mom? At school, today, Sachi asked everybody: 'Okay, so who's sad that Baron Davis is going to the Clippers?' and almost everybody raised their hands. But so, like, yeah, then, Sachi said, 'That's okay, though, because now, Monta Ellis has his chance to shine!!!" My daughter says this last part with gleefulness and joy, the smile taking over her whole face.
Since then, my daughter greets every confirmed trade or non-trade with: "Now Marco Belinelli has his chance to shine!" or "Now Azubuke has his chance to shine!" or "Now [fill in the blank] has his chance to shine!" It's really quite cute, and reminds me that sometimes we need to recognize the wisdom that might come from the mouth of a nine year old. There's certainly nothing wrong with being hopeful. If she can be hopeful about the Warriors, well, then, there are certainly lots of things I can be optimistic about, too.
Okay, Monta -- don't let my girl down. It's your chance to shine.
Baron, how could you? I know we didn't have the money to keep you, but we are still hurt. You left us for ... the Clippers?!!! Sigh.
My daughter has become quite a basketball fan, discussing trade rumors with her dad. After a brief visit to the land of Barbies, she moved on to Groovy Girl kingdom for a while, with visits into American Girl territory; we were relieved that she made a complete detour around Hannah Montana town, and now she has ventured into the world of sports talk and the Golden State Warriors. She has not quite abandoned her Groovy and American Girl friends, but there has been a definite shift. So her dad has a new person with whom he can discuss all that important information he gets about the team: hot off the Warriors blog or some ESPN feed. He must be happy to be able to talk to her about these things, and have her actually know who he is talking about, rather than telling me some critical trade information and have me respond, "Who?"
Thank goodness her dad hasn't recruited her into doing research for his fantasy league draft. Well, at least, not yet.
As incongruous as it might seem, she is apparently not the only little Asian American girl who likes to talk basketball. She is attending a Japanese American cultural summer school, where during their breaks, it seems that basketball is a popular topic. "So, Mom? At school, today, Sachi asked everybody: 'Okay, so who's sad that Baron Davis is going to the Clippers?' and almost everybody raised their hands. But so, like, yeah, then, Sachi said, 'That's okay, though, because now, Monta Ellis has his chance to shine!!!" My daughter says this last part with gleefulness and joy, the smile taking over her whole face.
Since then, my daughter greets every confirmed trade or non-trade with: "Now Marco Belinelli has his chance to shine!" or "Now Azubuke has his chance to shine!" or "Now [fill in the blank] has his chance to shine!" It's really quite cute, and reminds me that sometimes we need to recognize the wisdom that might come from the mouth of a nine year old. There's certainly nothing wrong with being hopeful. If she can be hopeful about the Warriors, well, then, there are certainly lots of things I can be optimistic about, too.
Okay, Monta -- don't let my girl down. It's your chance to shine.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Summertime, and the living is easy ...
... or, at least, that's what the song in my head keeps saying. Ahh, yes, the lilting melody is stuck in my head, my daily soundtrack as I frantically rush out the door to drive my kids to summer day camps. Late again. The song is mocking me. Stuck in my head, telling me that everything will be easy -- because it's summertime.
I get the kids off to where they need to be, and make my way to the nearest coffee dealership. Nothing like some caffeine to relax me. Especially when it is laced with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Ahhhhhhh.
I take another drag off of my adult sippy cup, waiting for that mocha euphoria to wash over me again. Ahhhhhhh.
The mocha has a nice effect on my brain. It shuts out the seemingly endless list of things I should have done during the school year that I undoubtedly must have time to do now that it is summertime, and I have nothing else to do besides lounge around all day. Yeah, right. Summertime -- when the level of guilt grows exponentially, and the kids are around a lot and it would just be plain rude to ignore them (at least not for the whole entire time we are in the same breathing space).
I'll get to that list soon.
Right after I finish this mocha.
I get the kids off to where they need to be, and make my way to the nearest coffee dealership. Nothing like some caffeine to relax me. Especially when it is laced with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Ahhhhhhh.
I take another drag off of my adult sippy cup, waiting for that mocha euphoria to wash over me again. Ahhhhhhh.
The mocha has a nice effect on my brain. It shuts out the seemingly endless list of things I should have done during the school year that I undoubtedly must have time to do now that it is summertime, and I have nothing else to do besides lounge around all day. Yeah, right. Summertime -- when the level of guilt grows exponentially, and the kids are around a lot and it would just be plain rude to ignore them (at least not for the whole entire time we are in the same breathing space).
I'll get to that list soon.
Right after I finish this mocha.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Lunch Shack
It’s the first Tuesday of the month, my day to work the lunch shack at my son’s school. As I run out the door, I leave my desk at home littered with papers from yet another school-related volunteer project -- which will be waiting for me when I get back from lunch -- so it is one of those days when volunteering feels like a full-time job. I am one of the many unpaid-yet-working moms who have the luxury of helping out at the schools. We know it is a privilege, but sometimes it still feels like work.
I decide to walk up to the school today -- trying to be greenish, if not totally green -- and realize my son must be in really good shape to do this everyday. He told me it takes five minutes to walk to school; it takes me seven. Which is still respectable, and I am not sweating so profusely that I cannot serve food. From the unshowered looks of the post-PE crowd, some of them are bound to be more unpleasant to be around than me.
I like lunch days. In addition to getting some exercise walking up to the school, I also get a glimpse into “campus life,” as well as a taste of campus food. And a free can of Diet Coke, which I look forward to every month. With the grades spanning from sixth to eighth, the ages of the students range from barely eleven to nearly fifteen. There’s a big difference between an eleven year old and a fifteen year old. It’s hard to believe that these kids are at most only two grades apart. One of the kids can barely see over the counter to order his food, and another literally hit his head on the giant metal roll-up blind --that was completely rolled up to the top. He must be over six feet tall. I hope he plays basketball.
For the most part, I can’t see much of what goes on out in the little lunch world, where groups of kids split off and wander about and seem to manage to regroup in comfortable clusters, just long enough to eat their lunch. Then, many of them return to the lunch shack, ready to buy a low-fat cookie or an all-fruit popsicle for dessert. Some kids come to the window three separate times. Some come up to the line even though they aren’t buying anything -- apparently just there to give a friend moral support as they say, “Can I have a cookie and a chocolate milk?” Other repeat customers seem to have kids trailing them at their elbows, pleading, “C’mon, just get me a cookie ... I’ll pay you back ... c’mon ...”
My son comes through the line on the opposite side of the lunch shack, so I have to be content with making eye contact with him and hearing him say, “Hi, Mom!” as he disappears into the crowd. The line is a fast-paced frenzy during the peak minutes, and I barely have a chance to say “hi” back to him. During the lull that follows, I gaze out into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The ebb and flow of the repeat customers continues, and I am forced to pay attention to selling food. Adding $1.75 and $2.50 together and then making change from a twenty without a calculator must be good exercise for my brain, I tell myself, otherwise, they would give us calculators, right?
After many more cookies, Propel Waters, fruit bars and chocolate milks fly over the counter, the bell rings, and lunch time is over. As I emerge from the lunch shack, I see my son among an amorphous group of similarly dressed boys, waiting to go into their classroom. I didn't realize they all dressed alike. They almost look like a little gang. Oblivious to my presence, my son is joking around with his homeys, and they all look content. He seems to have landed safely on this planet called middle school, and is navigating the landscape without incident. Mission accomplished.
Time for the mothership to get back home.
I decide to walk up to the school today -- trying to be greenish, if not totally green -- and realize my son must be in really good shape to do this everyday. He told me it takes five minutes to walk to school; it takes me seven. Which is still respectable, and I am not sweating so profusely that I cannot serve food. From the unshowered looks of the post-PE crowd, some of them are bound to be more unpleasant to be around than me.
I like lunch days. In addition to getting some exercise walking up to the school, I also get a glimpse into “campus life,” as well as a taste of campus food. And a free can of Diet Coke, which I look forward to every month. With the grades spanning from sixth to eighth, the ages of the students range from barely eleven to nearly fifteen. There’s a big difference between an eleven year old and a fifteen year old. It’s hard to believe that these kids are at most only two grades apart. One of the kids can barely see over the counter to order his food, and another literally hit his head on the giant metal roll-up blind --that was completely rolled up to the top. He must be over six feet tall. I hope he plays basketball.
For the most part, I can’t see much of what goes on out in the little lunch world, where groups of kids split off and wander about and seem to manage to regroup in comfortable clusters, just long enough to eat their lunch. Then, many of them return to the lunch shack, ready to buy a low-fat cookie or an all-fruit popsicle for dessert. Some kids come to the window three separate times. Some come up to the line even though they aren’t buying anything -- apparently just there to give a friend moral support as they say, “Can I have a cookie and a chocolate milk?” Other repeat customers seem to have kids trailing them at their elbows, pleading, “C’mon, just get me a cookie ... I’ll pay you back ... c’mon ...”
My son comes through the line on the opposite side of the lunch shack, so I have to be content with making eye contact with him and hearing him say, “Hi, Mom!” as he disappears into the crowd. The line is a fast-paced frenzy during the peak minutes, and I barely have a chance to say “hi” back to him. During the lull that follows, I gaze out into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The ebb and flow of the repeat customers continues, and I am forced to pay attention to selling food. Adding $1.75 and $2.50 together and then making change from a twenty without a calculator must be good exercise for my brain, I tell myself, otherwise, they would give us calculators, right?
After many more cookies, Propel Waters, fruit bars and chocolate milks fly over the counter, the bell rings, and lunch time is over. As I emerge from the lunch shack, I see my son among an amorphous group of similarly dressed boys, waiting to go into their classroom. I didn't realize they all dressed alike. They almost look like a little gang. Oblivious to my presence, my son is joking around with his homeys, and they all look content. He seems to have landed safely on this planet called middle school, and is navigating the landscape without incident. Mission accomplished.
Time for the mothership to get back home.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Wii? Wheee!!!
Last week, my husband stumbled upon SarcasticGamer.com's parody of the the Wii Fit balance board commercial, and we spent what seemed like hours watching it. The kids, me, my husband, watching it over and over again. It was a family activity. In the parody, the balance board is referred to as "a little white thing you stand on" that combines the "perfect balance of barely moving and doing mundane things" and will help you "[get] the family out of the backyard, and back in front of the television." It was pretty hilarious, and I went to sleep thinking that Nintendo's latest creation looked like a waste of money. Who would buy one of those?
The next day, when my husband came home from work, I heard Miles exclaim, "OMG, Dad -- I can't believe you bought a little white thing you stand on!!!" Underneath the sarcasm, my son's heart was utterly bursting with love for his father. No doubt about it, Daddy was The Man.
"I got the last one," grinned my husband, standing proudly with his catch.
"Oh, wow, that's great!" I said, smiling back while doing one of the most uncelebrated moves of wifedom -- suppressing-the-urge-to-roll-my-eyes. It takes great self-control, and adds to marital harmony. There are countless women who are experts at this move.
I decide to wait till I am home alone before trying out the Wii Fit. I am good at laughing at myself, by myself, so this seems perfect to me. First, I find out that I have to register myself so that I can track my progress. I try to do this, but discover that I don't have an avatar -- a "Mii" in Wii-speak. This means that I have never played any Wii games with my kids at home. It is confirmation of a sad fact in our household: Mommy is no fun. Daddy has a Mii. My son and daughter have several Miis. They've even made a Mii that looks like Charlie Brown. Even my kids' friends, Perry, Gabe and Wes, have Miis -- and they don't even live here! Sigh. I proceed to make a Mii. I am able to give Miiself freckles, but am stumped when it comes to hair color. Blackish brownish hair with platinum highlights is not an option. I must choose between black or platinum. Hmmm. I choose black.
Next, I have to enter my birthdate and height. Nobody told me that the Wii Fit would confront me with any moral dilemmas. Do I enter my height as what is on my drivers license, or my actual height? I stand a bit taller and round up to my drivers license height. Okay, that's done. I am waiting for the screen that asks me for my weight, pondering what to enter -- my drivers license weight, or my actual weight? Suddenly, the screen shows my Mii and my Body Mass Index (BMI). Wait. I am no doctor, but I know that you need to know somebody's weight before you can calculate BMI. How does the Wii know my weight? Egads, the little white thing I am standing on knows my weight! Since I haven't stepped on a scale in a while, my curiosity compels me to click on the "weight" button to see if I am closer to my fat-weight or my less-fat weight. Whoa. I apparently have a new fat-weight! Sigh (again). I click back to the BMI screen, and am comforted by the percentages that I do not really understand.
Now that I know my weight, I am more motivated to get fit with the Wii Fit. I am instructed to choose an on-screen trainer. My choices: (a) depressing-to-look-at skinny female trainer with unattainably perfect body, or (b) muscular yet eunuch-like male trainer. I choose the male trainer. He speaks in a reassuring and encouraging voice. I think we'll get along just fine.
I begin my Wii Fit workout with Hula Hoops. There is happy music, and Mii-Miles and Mii-Wes are part of the picture, cheering me on. I am good at this. Childhood memories of playing in our backyard with a real shoop-shoop-hula hoop are translating into muscle memory, turning me into a Wii Fit Hula Hoop star! I am determined to keep doing this until I have dethroned Mii-Miles from first place. This takes a little while, but I am sure that I must have burned off several thousand calories in the process. After I claim the crown, I move on to something else. Yoga, apparently, is not my forte in Wii Fit land. Neither is the step class. And the skiing and jogging games look like they will give me motion sickness. An axe-throwing game would be really good, but I don't see one here. I go back to the Hula Hoops. Superstar! I have found my happy place in Wii Fit land.
I return to the Wii Fit the next day to see my progress. Sadly, I have made none. My weight has gone up. Apparently, I did not do enough Hula Hooping the day before to counteract the chocolate croissant, bacon, eggs, and hash browns I just ate for breakfast. I try to do a little Hula Hooping, but my kids seem annoyed at my trash-talking while I am monopolizing the Wii Fit. Okay, I wasn't actually trash-talking, but they could sense that my presence had changed when I was Hula Hooping. I was exuding royalty, swinging my hips around and around so that my Mii could retain her Hula Hooping crown, and it was clearly too much for the kids to handle. Mommy was having too much fun. Time to step off the little white thing.
The following morning, my husband is decked out in his running gear. "Who wants to go running?" he asks, in the general direction of me and my son. I peer up at him, still in my pajama-like clothing, not wanting to go anywhere yet. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, I hear my son saying the words that I had formed in my brain: "No, thanks, Dad. I don't need to go jogging outside -- we've got Wii Fit!"
The next day, when my husband came home from work, I heard Miles exclaim, "OMG, Dad -- I can't believe you bought a little white thing you stand on!!!" Underneath the sarcasm, my son's heart was utterly bursting with love for his father. No doubt about it, Daddy was The Man.
"I got the last one," grinned my husband, standing proudly with his catch.
"Oh, wow, that's great!" I said, smiling back while doing one of the most uncelebrated moves of wifedom -- suppressing-the-urge-to-roll-my-eyes. It takes great self-control, and adds to marital harmony. There are countless women who are experts at this move.
I decide to wait till I am home alone before trying out the Wii Fit. I am good at laughing at myself, by myself, so this seems perfect to me. First, I find out that I have to register myself so that I can track my progress. I try to do this, but discover that I don't have an avatar -- a "Mii" in Wii-speak. This means that I have never played any Wii games with my kids at home. It is confirmation of a sad fact in our household: Mommy is no fun. Daddy has a Mii. My son and daughter have several Miis. They've even made a Mii that looks like Charlie Brown. Even my kids' friends, Perry, Gabe and Wes, have Miis -- and they don't even live here! Sigh. I proceed to make a Mii. I am able to give Miiself freckles, but am stumped when it comes to hair color. Blackish brownish hair with platinum highlights is not an option. I must choose between black or platinum. Hmmm. I choose black.
Next, I have to enter my birthdate and height. Nobody told me that the Wii Fit would confront me with any moral dilemmas. Do I enter my height as what is on my drivers license, or my actual height? I stand a bit taller and round up to my drivers license height. Okay, that's done. I am waiting for the screen that asks me for my weight, pondering what to enter -- my drivers license weight, or my actual weight? Suddenly, the screen shows my Mii and my Body Mass Index (BMI). Wait. I am no doctor, but I know that you need to know somebody's weight before you can calculate BMI. How does the Wii know my weight? Egads, the little white thing I am standing on knows my weight! Since I haven't stepped on a scale in a while, my curiosity compels me to click on the "weight" button to see if I am closer to my fat-weight or my less-fat weight. Whoa. I apparently have a new fat-weight! Sigh (again). I click back to the BMI screen, and am comforted by the percentages that I do not really understand.
Now that I know my weight, I am more motivated to get fit with the Wii Fit. I am instructed to choose an on-screen trainer. My choices: (a) depressing-to-look-at skinny female trainer with unattainably perfect body, or (b) muscular yet eunuch-like male trainer. I choose the male trainer. He speaks in a reassuring and encouraging voice. I think we'll get along just fine.
I begin my Wii Fit workout with Hula Hoops. There is happy music, and Mii-Miles and Mii-Wes are part of the picture, cheering me on. I am good at this. Childhood memories of playing in our backyard with a real shoop-shoop-hula hoop are translating into muscle memory, turning me into a Wii Fit Hula Hoop star! I am determined to keep doing this until I have dethroned Mii-Miles from first place. This takes a little while, but I am sure that I must have burned off several thousand calories in the process. After I claim the crown, I move on to something else. Yoga, apparently, is not my forte in Wii Fit land. Neither is the step class. And the skiing and jogging games look like they will give me motion sickness. An axe-throwing game would be really good, but I don't see one here. I go back to the Hula Hoops. Superstar! I have found my happy place in Wii Fit land.
I return to the Wii Fit the next day to see my progress. Sadly, I have made none. My weight has gone up. Apparently, I did not do enough Hula Hooping the day before to counteract the chocolate croissant, bacon, eggs, and hash browns I just ate for breakfast. I try to do a little Hula Hooping, but my kids seem annoyed at my trash-talking while I am monopolizing the Wii Fit. Okay, I wasn't actually trash-talking, but they could sense that my presence had changed when I was Hula Hooping. I was exuding royalty, swinging my hips around and around so that my Mii could retain her Hula Hooping crown, and it was clearly too much for the kids to handle. Mommy was having too much fun. Time to step off the little white thing.
The following morning, my husband is decked out in his running gear. "Who wants to go running?" he asks, in the general direction of me and my son. I peer up at him, still in my pajama-like clothing, not wanting to go anywhere yet. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, I hear my son saying the words that I had formed in my brain: "No, thanks, Dad. I don't need to go jogging outside -- we've got Wii Fit!"
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Camp, part 3
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"
My screams could be heard far and wide as I fell through the air, forty feet off the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... then falling, falling, falling up. Trying not to curse. Children are present, including my daughter. Fellow parents are below, alternately shouting approval and snickering with amusement as I fly by on the Giant Swing. I am petrified, but glad that I followed the advice given by my friends Andrea and Bernard, both of whom said I should go all the way to the top before my free fall, lest I regret my cowardice after the fact. Okay, they didn't use those words, but that's what they meant. This advice didn't mean too much coming from Andrea, since she's basically crazy, and proud of it. But Bernard? He seems sensible, and he has a fear of heights, like me. I decided to step way out of my comfort zone and go for it. From the top.
Getting to the top would involve the hoisting-me-up-by-pulley crew actually getting me to the top. I surveyed the crew of parents; they looked fit and eager to hoist me to my fate. The final variable (barring mechanical failure, which I was definitely trying not to think about at that moment) was the wuss-out factor. To make sure that did not come into play, I made one final request to a couple of the dads in the hoisting crew: "Even if I say 'stop' before I reach the top, just keep going."
Wuss-out insurance in place, I began my ascent. When I thought I could not possibly go any higher, I gesticulated wildly with my arms and yelled "Stop! Stop! Stop!" Surely, I was at the top, wasn't I? I wasn't. The crew kept hoisting. And, in a couple more heave-ho's, I was at the top. I closed my eyes, and let her rip, releasing the lever that would propel me through the air, hurtling like a giant boulder toward the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... and falling, falling, falling up. I opened my eyes to see the trees whizzing past me, sailing through the air like Cathy Rigby in Peter Pan -- minus the green costume and the smile.
Looking back at the weekend, I am shocked to find that the Camp Augusta experience seems to have agreed with me.* My journey to the Giant Swing has involved much self-evaluation and a fair amount of encouragement from other parents. I found inspiration in watching my daughter, cheering as she tackled the Giant Swing, traversed the High Ropes Course, and observing quietly as she navigated the sometimes treacherous obstacle course that is the fourth grade girl social universe. I tried out many new activities -- Silk Painting, Paper Marbling, Tie Dye, Rock Climbing, Archery, Riflery, Axe and Knife Throwing -- and found Axe Throwing to be very therapeutic.
Unfortunately, I will be returning to my home soon, where there will be no Giant Swing to challenge me, and no place to (safely) throw axes. But I will take with me the feeling of shedding my grown-up levels of fear and anxiety and venturing off to Never-Never Land, where I am flying through the air -- like my seemingly fearless nine year old daughter.
*Except for the dirt, bugs and lack of private bathrooms.
My screams could be heard far and wide as I fell through the air, forty feet off the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... then falling, falling, falling up. Trying not to curse. Children are present, including my daughter. Fellow parents are below, alternately shouting approval and snickering with amusement as I fly by on the Giant Swing. I am petrified, but glad that I followed the advice given by my friends Andrea and Bernard, both of whom said I should go all the way to the top before my free fall, lest I regret my cowardice after the fact. Okay, they didn't use those words, but that's what they meant. This advice didn't mean too much coming from Andrea, since she's basically crazy, and proud of it. But Bernard? He seems sensible, and he has a fear of heights, like me. I decided to step way out of my comfort zone and go for it. From the top.
Getting to the top would involve the hoisting-me-up-by-pulley crew actually getting me to the top. I surveyed the crew of parents; they looked fit and eager to hoist me to my fate. The final variable (barring mechanical failure, which I was definitely trying not to think about at that moment) was the wuss-out factor. To make sure that did not come into play, I made one final request to a couple of the dads in the hoisting crew: "Even if I say 'stop' before I reach the top, just keep going."
Wuss-out insurance in place, I began my ascent. When I thought I could not possibly go any higher, I gesticulated wildly with my arms and yelled "Stop! Stop! Stop!" Surely, I was at the top, wasn't I? I wasn't. The crew kept hoisting. And, in a couple more heave-ho's, I was at the top. I closed my eyes, and let her rip, releasing the lever that would propel me through the air, hurtling like a giant boulder toward the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... and falling, falling, falling up. I opened my eyes to see the trees whizzing past me, sailing through the air like Cathy Rigby in Peter Pan -- minus the green costume and the smile.
Looking back at the weekend, I am shocked to find that the Camp Augusta experience seems to have agreed with me.* My journey to the Giant Swing has involved much self-evaluation and a fair amount of encouragement from other parents. I found inspiration in watching my daughter, cheering as she tackled the Giant Swing, traversed the High Ropes Course, and observing quietly as she navigated the sometimes treacherous obstacle course that is the fourth grade girl social universe. I tried out many new activities -- Silk Painting, Paper Marbling, Tie Dye, Rock Climbing, Archery, Riflery, Axe and Knife Throwing -- and found Axe Throwing to be very therapeutic.
Unfortunately, I will be returning to my home soon, where there will be no Giant Swing to challenge me, and no place to (safely) throw axes. But I will take with me the feeling of shedding my grown-up levels of fear and anxiety and venturing off to Never-Never Land, where I am flying through the air -- like my seemingly fearless nine year old daughter.
*Except for the dirt, bugs and lack of private bathrooms.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Camp, part 2
Friday night, 11 pm: Trying to sleep. All I can hear is mosquitoes on motorcycles, circling my head as if it were Infineon Raceway. It's too hot. Wish it were colder. I turn the giant Coleman lamp on so I can face my tormentors. It's them, or me. Survival of the biggest. I take the flashlight and peer over my sleeping daughter, ready to kill any insect daring to land on her. All clear. Lights out.
Friday night, 11:05 pm: It's too hot. Can't hide from the bugs. Decided to read. Can't sleep. Bugs still buzzing. Might just be ringing in my ears, but I can't be sure. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:06 pm: Too hot. Don't like being this sweaty. Still need to pee.
Friday night, 11:21 pm: Just got back from the bathroom. It seemed so much closer in the daylight. Bugs seem to be less numerous. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:47 pm: Held out as long as possible. Just got back from the bathroom again. Why does it seem so far away? Bugs seem to be less numerous. Maybe I will get some sleep now. Lights out.
Saturday morning, 12:01 am: Lights on. Hot. Bugs. Need to pee. Trying to be strong. Reading will distract me from the need to pee. So glad I brought extra batteries for the lamp.
Saturday morning, 12:03 am: Really need to pee. Does camping shrink one's bladder? Am determined not to walk all the way over to the bathroom again. It's just too far. And there are bugs there. Maybe I will get some sleep now.
Saturday morning, 12:10 am: Why is the bathroom so far away? Why, oh, why? This will be my last trip.
Saturday morning, 1:07 am: Note to self -- need to Google "camping bladder" and see if it is a medical condition. Will volunteer to be a case study. Bugs not buzzing so much anymore. Not as hot. Trying not to think about the need to pee. Mind over bladder. Lights out.
Friday night, 11:05 pm: It's too hot. Can't hide from the bugs. Decided to read. Can't sleep. Bugs still buzzing. Might just be ringing in my ears, but I can't be sure. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:06 pm: Too hot. Don't like being this sweaty. Still need to pee.
Friday night, 11:21 pm: Just got back from the bathroom. It seemed so much closer in the daylight. Bugs seem to be less numerous. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:47 pm: Held out as long as possible. Just got back from the bathroom again. Why does it seem so far away? Bugs seem to be less numerous. Maybe I will get some sleep now. Lights out.
Saturday morning, 12:01 am: Lights on. Hot. Bugs. Need to pee. Trying to be strong. Reading will distract me from the need to pee. So glad I brought extra batteries for the lamp.
Saturday morning, 12:03 am: Really need to pee. Does camping shrink one's bladder? Am determined not to walk all the way over to the bathroom again. It's just too far. And there are bugs there. Maybe I will get some sleep now.
Saturday morning, 12:10 am: Why is the bathroom so far away? Why, oh, why? This will be my last trip.
Saturday morning, 1:07 am: Note to self -- need to Google "camping bladder" and see if it is a medical condition. Will volunteer to be a case study. Bugs not buzzing so much anymore. Not as hot. Trying not to think about the need to pee. Mind over bladder. Lights out.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Camp, part 1
As a Japanese American child growing up in Gardena, California, I did not know anybody who went to camp. At least not voluntarily. "Camp" was someplace where a handful of my uncles and aunts spent some time during WWII, and where a few of my cousins were born. It was located someplace out in the middle of nowhere, and you weren't allowed to take anything there that did not fit in your suitcase. During the '70s, when customers of a certain age group would come to my mother's yarn shop, there was always the question, "Were you in the camps?" followed by, "Really? Which one?" which was followed by either: (a) "Ara maaa! I know you! I'm ___! Do you remember me?" or (b) "Hmmm. Are you related to ___? Honto? (Really?) That's my uncle/aunt/cousin!" Some connection within a few degrees of separation was almost inevitable, and I could hear the camaraderie in people's voices as they reminisced about a time when they made the best of a terrible situation, adapting to their new homes behind barbed wire.
Given my point of reference, I never felt like I was missing out on anything when I didn't go to a sleep-away summer camp. I knew about those camps from TV and movies, and they seemed to be only for white kids, anyway. Or, at least, that was the impression I got from watching Little Darlings, starring Kristy McNichols and Tatum O'Neal. What an eye-opener that movie was for me! Who knew that summer camp was so ... uh ... "educational"? I was fine being limited to my girl scout troop overnight camping trips, where we learned to pitch a pup tent and wash our dishes in a bleach solution. A couple nights around the campfire singing deeply religious songs about Gabriel-blowing-his-horn and how we should care-to-be-redeemed was really fun, even for a little Buddhist child like me who had no idea what I was singing about.
Fast forward to 2008. Since my girl scout camping days, I have only been camping one other time, in 2000. Or was it 2001? Apparently, I was so traumatized that my brain has blocked the date out of my memory. That trip made me realize that I am quite content to be: Not a Camper. However, due to the persuasive powers of other moms at the school, I found myself appointed as one of the organizers of my fourth grade daughter's school trip to Camp Augusta. And, due to unforeseen lacrosse playoffs, my husband and son are no longer going on the trip, much to the delight of my husband, Mr. Not a Camper. Leaving me and my daughter to venture off to camp. All alone.
As the camp date nears, my dread begins to grow. I keep having flashbacks of shivering in a sleeping bag back in 2000 -- or was it 2001? -- and getting dirt into every crevice. And I know that the number of wrinkles and folds of skin has only increased, which, of course, will mean more dirt. I try to stay positive (for my daughter, of course), but I find myself privately venting to my husband. "You know I'm Not a Camper! Woe is me," I say, looking as forlorn as possible. "Quit being such a wussy. Just suck it up already," says my husband.
I know he is right, and I will. For the sake of the children.
Given my point of reference, I never felt like I was missing out on anything when I didn't go to a sleep-away summer camp. I knew about those camps from TV and movies, and they seemed to be only for white kids, anyway. Or, at least, that was the impression I got from watching Little Darlings, starring Kristy McNichols and Tatum O'Neal. What an eye-opener that movie was for me! Who knew that summer camp was so ... uh ... "educational"? I was fine being limited to my girl scout troop overnight camping trips, where we learned to pitch a pup tent and wash our dishes in a bleach solution. A couple nights around the campfire singing deeply religious songs about Gabriel-blowing-his-horn and how we should care-to-be-redeemed was really fun, even for a little Buddhist child like me who had no idea what I was singing about.
Fast forward to 2008. Since my girl scout camping days, I have only been camping one other time, in 2000. Or was it 2001? Apparently, I was so traumatized that my brain has blocked the date out of my memory. That trip made me realize that I am quite content to be: Not a Camper. However, due to the persuasive powers of other moms at the school, I found myself appointed as one of the organizers of my fourth grade daughter's school trip to Camp Augusta. And, due to unforeseen lacrosse playoffs, my husband and son are no longer going on the trip, much to the delight of my husband, Mr. Not a Camper. Leaving me and my daughter to venture off to camp. All alone.
As the camp date nears, my dread begins to grow. I keep having flashbacks of shivering in a sleeping bag back in 2000 -- or was it 2001? -- and getting dirt into every crevice. And I know that the number of wrinkles and folds of skin has only increased, which, of course, will mean more dirt. I try to stay positive (for my daughter, of course), but I find myself privately venting to my husband. "You know I'm Not a Camper! Woe is me," I say, looking as forlorn as possible. "Quit being such a wussy. Just suck it up already," says my husband.
I know he is right, and I will. For the sake of the children.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
maui memories
"Hewo, dere, Mika," Miles said to his little sister, talking though an empty miniature box of cereal.
"Hewo, dere, Miyoz," Mika said back to her big brother. With the help of Boyar, I am flashing back to the memory of the kids sitting on the condo balcony in Wailea.
Today, the kids sit at a counter in a different condo in Wailea, chomping down some cereal that they have poured themselves, reenacting the "Hewo, dere" scene to indulge their parents.
"How old were you guys when you did that?" I ask.
"Really young," says Miles.
"I dunno. Too young for me to remember!" answers Mika.
My guess is it was seven years ago. Mika would have been two, Miles, four years old. And Dad would have been about seventy years old. We were staying at his condo on one of the golf courses in Wailea, where he had slept on the sofa so that we could commandeer the rest of the condo with our Pack n Play and various other little kid contraptions.
Boyar had videotaped the scene of the kids eating their cereal -- with a healthy dose of zooming out to film the golf course -- his adorable kids' voices still in the background as he cropped them out of the frame to capture the beauty of another creature that was close to his heart. Father and son would go off together later that day, rendezvousing with one of the gorgeous golf courses on Maui. Makena? Wailea Blue? Gold? Maybe it was the public course, Waiehu, where they sell Spam musubi at the turn instead of hot dogs. Hey, the better the bargain, the better the golf. As a condo owner, Dad enjoyed the local resident kama'aina rate, which he was very happy about.
It is bittersweet to reflect on this now, having just laid Dr. John Lee, M.D. to rest a few days ago. He was my second "dad", and I remember feeling privileged that he let me call him that. He was my mainstream, out-there, super-confident, always happenin' dad; similar and different from my own dad in so many ways. Having a father-in-law is like getting to have a dad who has no memory of what a pain you were when you were little, no headaches or annoyances to reflect back on, no decades of expectations one could never fulfill, a no-baggage dad. Or, at least, that's how it seemed for me.
It's hard not to tear up as we vacation here, with many good memories of Dad, thinking about how he looked out on this same sunset, played a round of golf on this same course. I dropped off Boyar at Makena this afternoon -- twilight rate begins at 2 pm -- and had an image of Dad and Boyar in Wailea, looking hot and tired, sitting outside a pro-shop as I drove over to pick them up. Relief on their faces as they saw me drive up, getting up and walking over to the car, walking that same walk, looking like each other, a father-and-son twosome.
Boyar is golfing as a single today. But I'm thinking Dad might be right there with him.
"Hewo, dere, Miyoz," Mika said back to her big brother. With the help of Boyar, I am flashing back to the memory of the kids sitting on the condo balcony in Wailea.
Today, the kids sit at a counter in a different condo in Wailea, chomping down some cereal that they have poured themselves, reenacting the "Hewo, dere" scene to indulge their parents.
"How old were you guys when you did that?" I ask.
"Really young," says Miles.
"I dunno. Too young for me to remember!" answers Mika.
My guess is it was seven years ago. Mika would have been two, Miles, four years old. And Dad would have been about seventy years old. We were staying at his condo on one of the golf courses in Wailea, where he had slept on the sofa so that we could commandeer the rest of the condo with our Pack n Play and various other little kid contraptions.
Boyar had videotaped the scene of the kids eating their cereal -- with a healthy dose of zooming out to film the golf course -- his adorable kids' voices still in the background as he cropped them out of the frame to capture the beauty of another creature that was close to his heart. Father and son would go off together later that day, rendezvousing with one of the gorgeous golf courses on Maui. Makena? Wailea Blue? Gold? Maybe it was the public course, Waiehu, where they sell Spam musubi at the turn instead of hot dogs. Hey, the better the bargain, the better the golf. As a condo owner, Dad enjoyed the local resident kama'aina rate, which he was very happy about.
It is bittersweet to reflect on this now, having just laid Dr. John Lee, M.D. to rest a few days ago. He was my second "dad", and I remember feeling privileged that he let me call him that. He was my mainstream, out-there, super-confident, always happenin' dad; similar and different from my own dad in so many ways. Having a father-in-law is like getting to have a dad who has no memory of what a pain you were when you were little, no headaches or annoyances to reflect back on, no decades of expectations one could never fulfill, a no-baggage dad. Or, at least, that's how it seemed for me.
It's hard not to tear up as we vacation here, with many good memories of Dad, thinking about how he looked out on this same sunset, played a round of golf on this same course. I dropped off Boyar at Makena this afternoon -- twilight rate begins at 2 pm -- and had an image of Dad and Boyar in Wailea, looking hot and tired, sitting outside a pro-shop as I drove over to pick them up. Relief on their faces as they saw me drive up, getting up and walking over to the car, walking that same walk, looking like each other, a father-and-son twosome.
Boyar is golfing as a single today. But I'm thinking Dad might be right there with him.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
quote of the day
"Rumors are like Wikipedia: anybody can say anything they want."
These words of wisdom came from my eleven year old son this morning, just as he was rushing out the door to school. He is living the middle school life, facing the realities of rumors and peer pressure on his own. Every so often, he says something that just makes me laugh and smile at the dead-on accuracy of his statement. Apparently, some things are crystal clear when one is eleven years old, and just get muddied and confusing over time.
I am glad I actually heard what he said today, instead of my mind being preoccupied with Girl Scout cookie inventory, middle school scrip inventory, lacrosse club merchandise and uniform inventory, trying to think up a Lunar New Year craft project, putting up the Japanese Girls' Day dolls, taking down the Japanese Girls' Day dolls, cleaning up cat vomit or looking for something that somebody needed right that second. The holidays -- the winter ones, at least, have come and gone, melding into the flurry of activity that comes with being a mom-volunteer during the spring months. Summer will be here in a few short months.
Another school year is slipping away.
These words of wisdom came from my eleven year old son this morning, just as he was rushing out the door to school. He is living the middle school life, facing the realities of rumors and peer pressure on his own. Every so often, he says something that just makes me laugh and smile at the dead-on accuracy of his statement. Apparently, some things are crystal clear when one is eleven years old, and just get muddied and confusing over time.
I am glad I actually heard what he said today, instead of my mind being preoccupied with Girl Scout cookie inventory, middle school scrip inventory, lacrosse club merchandise and uniform inventory, trying to think up a Lunar New Year craft project, putting up the Japanese Girls' Day dolls, taking down the Japanese Girls' Day dolls, cleaning up cat vomit or looking for something that somebody needed right that second. The holidays -- the winter ones, at least, have come and gone, melding into the flurry of activity that comes with being a mom-volunteer during the spring months. Summer will be here in a few short months.
Another school year is slipping away.
Monday, January 7, 2008
happy new year!
There was something in the air this morning -- a happiness, a feeling of goodness and light. After days of rainy weather, the sun was shining. People practically bounced like Tigger, grinning maniacally as they gave a “Happy New Year!” greeting to the crossing guard and other parents as we walked our kids to school. I, too, felt the euphoric buzz, giving my daughter a quick kiss on the cheek as the bell rang. I said my good-bye to the crossing guard, dashing across the street and down the hill. I waved at my colleagues -- the other moms and dads -- as we shared a moment of communal ecstasy. It was the first day of school after a two week "vacation." No more gift wrapping. No more holiday stuff to do. No more kids hanging around ... all ... day ... long ... needing to be fed and intellectually stimulated. (Okay, so my kids may not have gotten too much of the latter -- although I did see them playing “Big Brain Academy” on the Nintendo DS during one of our road trips -- and I did feed them, on an as needed basis.)
Yes, we were free. At least until 3 o’clock. Just enough time to reminisce about when the kids were little babies and were so cute and cuddly -- a time which neither they nor I remember very clearly anymore -- and then use the remaining six hours and twenty nine minutes to do all the errands and other things-I-am-responsible-for-in-life that I can cram into that timeframe.
Unfettered.
Ohhhh, yeah.
Yes, we were free. At least until 3 o’clock. Just enough time to reminisce about when the kids were little babies and were so cute and cuddly -- a time which neither they nor I remember very clearly anymore -- and then use the remaining six hours and twenty nine minutes to do all the errands and other things-I-am-responsible-for-in-life that I can cram into that timeframe.
Unfettered.
Ohhhh, yeah.
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