Keeping Track

What are these characters up to? Only the baby knows, and he's not telling.

I belong to a Facebook group--OK, “several” Facebook groups. Some are church related (ELCA Youth Ministry Network), some pertain to my writing career (the infamous Binders groups-my favorite being the useful, but awkwardly titled, “Binders Full of Editors Seeking Their Freelance Writers and Vice-Versa”). One group I really should exit at this point is Grown and Flown Parents. This is a group for parents of teens and young adults; most of my offspring are aging out of the “young adult” category-and I haven’t had a teen in eons. This group (150,000 strong—you read that right) HAS OPINIONS, on everything from going to bat for your 18 year old with the principal (uh, no) to Spring Break treks to Florida in the time of coronavirus (uh, double no), and so on. Some of these earnest moms and dads are helicopter or lawn mower parents (they hover, or they make the path ahead clear for their darlings). Since many posts garner hundreds of comments, it would take hours a day to do this group justice, so I don’t. 

But one tidbit I did pick up: it is a thing to track your children. There is something called Life360, which apparently can pinpoint their location, even many miles away. So if you’re not interested in Colbert’s monologue tonight, you can tune in instead to the college town’s dive bar, where Junior is hanging out when he should be snug in his dorm. I’m hazy on some of the details (perhaps not as hazy as Junior after several hours at the bar), but I think both parent and child have to have this device for it to work, right? And kids who don’t want to be tailed can just turn it off? Ah, but then they face The Grand Inquisition by Mom Who Was Worried Sick, so I think most of them keep it on. I’m told it is for “peace of mind” but honestly? When my kids were in college, my peace of mind came from NOT knowing exactly what they were up to. I could then fall into a sound sleep, imagining them all snug in their various dorms.

When I am curious about their comings and goings, I have a couple of options. One is Venmo, another puzzling piece of technology. All I know is that I can see every pizza, movie and Lyft ride Rose and Julie borrowed money from each other for. For a while it seemed they were just trading the same $10 back and forth. Another is pix posted on Instagram (by my girls at least) of this birthday bash or that concert. But for the most part I can plead ignorance of their agendas, and that’s fine by me. 

I have enough to worry about keeping track of my own life, without playing dime store detective with my kids. I don’t suspect criminal activity among the Seyfried sibs (but if you see something, say something!) so this mom’s helicopter has landed. Sweet dreams!

Every Breath You Take

Just Because

Rose to Julie: "Make sure you say 'why' a lot. Mom will love it!"

I never panicked about four letter words in our house. Except for a regrettable stretch 14 years ago when I swore pretty much non-stop (thank you, undiagnosed bipolar disorder!), our family has never been big on cursing. Steve tends to save his choice utterances for the privacy of his office, directed at malfunctioning technology mostly. While I’m sure there were casual obscenities exchanged with their friends, the kids seemed to know what was and was not OK to say around Mom and Dad.

However, there’s a THREE letter word that, to my mind, was much worse than profanity during my progeny’s childhoods and teen years. This little word, spoken so very often, inspired annoyance, and even dread, in me. When it began a sentence, I just knew I was in for either a pointless argument, or a stumper I couldn’t solve.

The word? “Why.”

Category #1: Pointless arguments

“Why can’t I…stay up till midnight? Eat ice cream before dinner? See that R-rated movie? Drive my friends around with my learner’s permit?, etc. etc.” These queries would always be delivered in a very aggrieved tone, often followed by what they (vainly) hoped would be the clincher: “But everybody ELSE is allowed to do it!!!”

Category #2: Unsolvables (by me, at least without checking a reference book)

“Why is the sky blue? Why are there twelve months in a year? Why didn’t the dinosaurs come back? Why do people get sick?” Aiden’s reading is taking off right now, which is wonderful, but which has also spawned a whole new sub-category of whys: “Why do you write ‘forgotten’ with two t’s but ‘forgetful’ with just one?” “If the ‘e’ is silent, why do you need it?” “Why is Wednesday spelled like that?” I’m usually the one he asks, as the resident writer, which is galling because I rarely can explain this or that strange grammar rule.

When I do know the answer to a “why” question in category #2, I am guilty of over-explaining to a ridiculous degree. Prime example: one day Sheridan, age 4, asked me why his Grandpa, my father, was bald. I launched into the lengthy true tale: it happened in Dad's early twenties, when he was in the Army. He had volunteered to test some lotion or potion or other (for extra pay) and the side effect was the permanent loss of most of his hair. Sher waited patiently for me to finish talking, then he said, “When I asked Grandpa, he told me the wind blew it away!” and off he skipped, much more satisfied with my Dad’s story than mine.

Who knows? Maybe the wind DID blow it away

I realize that “why” is invaluable to seekers of knowledge, and I’m not proposing we stop asking the question entirely. But I’d really love it if we could pull back on it some, and embrace the mystery that is other children’s later bedtimes, or the current lack of pterodactyls in Oreland.

Meanwhile, when you ask me “why?” “just because” is my answer, and I’m sticking to it!

Our Great Big, Teeny Tiny Universe

Sher and Aiden's hand-drawn map of East Oreland

During these past few weeks, we have all experienced our individual worlds dwindling down to their essence. House, nuclear family. Only going outdoors within specific parameters: back yard, driveway, perhaps the local park at off-hours. This has been a painful winnowing. I personally had already been shrinking my space for several years, thanks to my worsening eyesight and increasing fear of the darkness, so not going out after sunset is truly no biggie for me. 

But still I yearn for glimpses of the Great Beyond, and a sense of my place in the vast universe. We humans are determined to make our mark, some of us on a grand scale, some of us in a quiet corner. Sheridan has always been Mister Maps. When he was in Sunday School, he would amuse himself with pencil sketches of the streets in our neighborhood, all drawn in the margins of our church bulletin to scale, and amazingly accurate; we chalked it up to his equally precise musical notation.

Becoming a parent has revived Sher’s penchant for map making, now that his son Aiden is such a rapt audience. They have trekked daily routes, from one side of East Oreland to the other, and little brother Peter has gamely pedaled his trike along to keep up. Today I accompanied them on their journey, and it was a revelation. There was “the desert” (a brown lawn that clearly needed reseeding). There was a lineup of three old cars, bright yellow, bright green, shiny black, along one short stretch of road. Did one household possess them all? Aiden and Peter rode slightly ahead of us walkers, making loops as they waited for us at the intersections.

Home again, looking at Aiden and Baba’s map, I feel grounded. I live at this corner, my neighbors are here. But, alongside my yearning to be specifically pinpointed, there is my thrilled awareness of my, of our, small place in the vast universe. 

I recently discovered the music of Eric Whitacre. He is a Juilliard grad, and has championed the concept of the Virtual Choir, where thousands of voices unite online for a single piece of music. A few years ago, Eric came up with Deep Field, where he paired a series of stunning pictures from the Hubble telescope with ethereal music. My favorite part of this wonderful video is when the camera zooms down to Earth, and many thousands of tiny images of people pop up, only to recede into the vastness of eternity. 

So how do we orient ourselves? I propose that we do both: draw our micro-maps, and at the same time wonder at the ineffable beauty of what lies beyond us. We are, indeed, the people who stroll down Garden Road on this early spring afternoon. But we are also denizens of a place so very much more vast and incredible. I challenge us to embrace both realities. We are so big; we are so small. 

 We are. And that is truly remarkable. 

Yay, us.

Deep Field-Music Inspired by the Hubble Telescope.

Peter Britten 3.5

Mom and (super cute) son

It caught me by surprise, because I’d always been the ever-popular Mama, whose arrival in the room was heralded with loud hosannas. If Steve or the older sibs were shunned, I didn’t really register it.

But I remember going through something similar with your big bro Aiden at ages 1-2 or so. I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for the Hurt Feelings I know they experienced. Ditto my Mom, who was with us in Lewes the summer young P.J. decided he did NOT like her. Sorry, Mom, for dismissing your tears, for encouraging you to brush it off, to remember he was still little. I have gotten my comeuppance for sure. 

Even if I were not relatively thin-skinned, I would have been crushed by the daily (non) greeting I received for nearly a year: I would enter the room each morning, and you would say, “Go away, Nana!!!!” accentuating your comment by pushing me away with your tiny hands, David vanquishing Nana Goliath (who truly meant no harm). 

 When did things change for us? 

It was a gradual thawing of Cold War tensions. One fine day you refrained from shoving me out of your line of sight (Victory #1!). Then, weeks later, you allowed me to talk to you without protest (I still treated you as I would a skittish young deer I was trying to befriend). It was one step forward and two back for us, my little dance partner: just when I thought we’d sealed the friendship deal, you’d level a steely gaze my way, and once more I’d have to prove myself to you. 

 I don’t know if it’s our current enforced togetherness, but all is really good with us these days. You not only let me kiss you, you sometimes initiate the smooch! Which is extra-meaningful now that I am not allowed to embrace anyone outside our immediate circle. I watch you at play with Aiden (who you usually call Gege, Chinese for big brother), or serenely occupying yourself at the dining room table with playdoh or sand or paper and markers, and memories of your Evan Shushu come right back to me.

Like you, Ev guarded his Door of Intimacy zealously, not letting many pass through—me and Dad (usually), Sheridan (always), Rose (rarely). Ev was a man of few words, but, like E.F. Hutton, when he talked, people listened. Evan at 33 is still an enigma wrapped in a mystery in large part. While I feel closer to him than ever (ironic, since he now lives 3000 miles away), there’s still that reserve. I can easily envision you, my Peter B., acting the same three decades hence (not that I will likely still be kicking around, but I can hope). 

What will the world be like in September, when you turn four? All bets are off. But for now, I will treasure our new bond, and thank God that you are with us, with your beautiful, inscrutable face, and equally beautiful heart.

Soulmates

Late March Round Up

Today I thought I'd look back at my final March entry for each year I’ve blogged...

March, 2012: Celebrating April  

"March is nearly over. Women's History Month is almost history. For the past 28 days, we've been deluged with stories of valiant women, women who Made a Difference, from Joan of Arc to Lady Gaga. Where would we be without women? Answer (Biology 101): we wouldn't."

March 2013: Accentuating It

"Most of all we love those Downton Abbey British accents. They make the speakers sound intelligent and witty, no matter the content of their conversation. To my mind, anyone from the U.K. can recite the phone book (remember them?) and be positively spellbinding."

March 2014: Throw Back Thursday

"My little tiffs with my sibs would begin with a snarky comment or a "borrowed" dress, and escalate into screaming matches, complete with doors slammed so hard they almost came off their hinges, and rivers of tears. We always made up quickly, though, and I well remember how good and right the hugs felt at the end of battle."

March 2015: Purely Research

"The World Wide Web is both paradise and pitfall for an ADHD sufferer. I never would have taken the time to go to the library and look all this stuff up, back in the day, so I got a lot of actual homework done in school. I would probably be a straight D student now (unless I could do a senior project on “Kris Jenner, Momzilla”).

March 2016: Can You Keep a Secret?

"I remember a homework assignment from one of the nuns in school, asking us to interview our parents about their lives. When it was Dad’s turn to be questioned by me, he said, “Tell Sister Brendan that it’s none of her damn business.” Then he left the room. I think I ended up telling Sister that Dad was out of town that week."

March 2017: In the Soup

"Fanesca is a time-consuming soup that is hugely important in Ecuador, especially during Lent. Families make fanesca together, prepping the multitude of ingredients over several days. As it just happens to be Lent, when our church offers weekly potluck soup suppers, I hatched my ambitious plan. We would make fanesca!!"

March 2018: Happy/Sad/Happy World Bipolar Day

"So on this World Bipolar Day, I stand with my bipolar brothers and sisters. I pray for healing for them. I thank God every day to be in a better place, and remember that my job, now and for the rest of my life, is to reach out a hand of love and support to others."

March 2019: Visiting the Band (and Our Daughters)

"Often, random encounters spark these lasting relationships (I met Holly when she, the pastor’s wife, watched tiny Rose in the church nursery at Christ’s Lutheran in 1989). I am forever grateful that we bump into each other on the road of life, stop and recognize that we are companions."

March 2020: Coming soon! Very soon! Like, tomorrow!

Self Improving

Which to choose?

The way things are right now, it would be all too tempting to succumb to the siren song of bad reality TV, the lightest weight chick lit offerings, wearing sweats 24/7 and eating ice cream straight from the carton. But instead, I‘m trying to get dressed every day, eat decently, and read, watch and listen to more erudite material than usual. It happens to also be Lent, which traditionally is a time for reflection in preparation for Holy Week. So, I’ve been reflecting on some of my habits and let me tell you, they need a major re-haul. And when better than now, when the supermarkets are mostly out of ice cream anyway? (I hear there’s still PLENTY of tofu, though).

Every summer when we head for the Delaware shore, I optimistically pack several canvas bags full of books, Darwin and Dickens and Dostoyevsky—and that’s only the D’s! I start off strong, lugging these weighty tomes down to the beach with me every morning. But, alas, the classics and Coppertone don’t mix very well—within the week I’m devouring the latest volume of Bridget Jones’ Diary instead. In late August I return home, shaking the sand from the unturned pages of Proust and putting Marcel back on the shelf for another year. 

 But this feels different. I’m so lucky to be healthy right now, and able to work from home. This block of extra time is rare and precious, and should be filled with only the very best in activity, information and entertainment. And so, two weeks ago I began my self-improvement journey. 

I was off to a roaring start, learning all kinds of new stuff and keeping to a pretty good schedule, but today I noticed the first signs of slippage. I had signed up (and paid for!) an online hour of Healing Meditation this afternoon. Next thing I knew, I was 15 minutes late to log on for the class. I then tried to join, but the class was “shut” and I had to leave the website, un-meditated. Demoralized, I turned to—what else?—the Healing Power of Blueberry Cupcakes. Once I’d headed down that Buttercream Road, I gave up on the day, and sought solace with my old friend Bridget Jones. 

Now, I know I could yet salvage something of March 29, 2020—at least, write out my Great Big Self-Improvement Plan for March 30, 2020. But I’m tired tonight, and those cupcakes are sitting heavily in my stomach. Far better to begin afresh in the AM! A shower and nice clothes (no sweats, please!), and a tasty tofu omelet. I’ll dig into Finnegan’s Wake again (twelfth time is the charm, right?), while listening to that new album by the Tibetan Throat-Singing Monks. 

Who am I kidding? My bad habits are cozy and comforting touchstones in a very disorienting time, yes they are! and I’m not ready to give them up yet! Tell you what--I’ll improve myself when the world straightens itself out. 

Deal?

Those wild and crazy Tibetan monks! Gotta love 'em!

Pooterisms

Screaming! With delight! I think!

The miserable rain today eliminated the possibility of a walk, and I’m caught up on church work, so this afternoon I decided I’d write about my kids when they were small. The first child I thought of happened to be Patrick, and instantly I knew he deserved his own stand-alone post. 

As the fourth child in our noisy family, it might be assumed that P.J. either faded into the woodwork, or acted out defiantly for a share of attention. Neither was the case. While he certainly made his presence known, he got along really well, with everybody.

He was a late speaker but an early screamer (more often shrieks of joy than anger). When he finally became verbal, he made up for lost time, and I’m so glad I scribbled down some “Pooterisms” (yes, for a while we called him Pooter, and it is a tribute to him that I can share this nugget now, without infuriating him.) 

 Playing miniature golf, he would say every time before putting, “10-9-8-1-2-3-shoot!” Fishing with his dad, he would pull up his line every minute or so, exclaiming delightedly, “I caught another worm!!” He thought the State Park summer camp the older kids attended was called “Jurassic Park Camp,” and expressed a bit of concern that dinosaurs would eat his siblings. He loved our children’s theatre plays, and understood the plots quite well, though he insisted on calling the ogre in Puss in Boots the Wicked Yogurt. When I took Rose for a shopping date, he asked if he too could have a date to shop with me—for bananas. 

 P.J. was willing to fill any supporting part required in the older kids’ imaginative games (he spent MONTHS playing the thankless role of Rose’s pet dog, Strawberry.) There would come a point, however, when he’d had enough. One day the kids were bickering over who would get to board a friend’s boat first. Patrick waved a sibling ahead, saying, “You go first. Then, if the boat sinks, it’ll be my turn.” 

Where did the years go? Soon, he was in elementary school, and the Pooter days were over. He decided when first grade began, that he wanted to be called “Pat,” which I informed our neighbors. The next day at the bus stop, Mark said, “Good morning, Pat!” He was rewarded with puzzled silence, as little “Pat” had totally forgotten his new name. “P.J.” our son remained through college, when at last he did switch to “Pat.” 

I don’t see nearly enough of him these days, as he lives in Downingtown and keeps absurd chef’s hours at a restaurant. When life is just too much, and my anxiety level goes through the roof, there is nothing in the world like Patrick’s hugs, and the gift of his supreme good nature. My blood pressure is going down just writing this! 

 Thanking God for #4, and the thoughts of his sweet, sunny disposition that banish the gray clouds on this gloomy day. I’m one lucky mom.

At the restaurant with Pat and his lovely girlfriend Meg

Once More, With (Same) Feeling

Yaj snapped this social distancing shot in store parking lot

We have officially munched our way through the ton of groceries Ya-Jhu bought, in six days. I had foolishly thought we could stretch the vittles to 14 days—seven original meals, seven leftover meals, because Yaj is now our official shopper and I didn’t want her making any unnecessary trips. But with six hungry people in the house, each entree just didn’t stretch past Dinner #1. So off she went to Shop N Bag this morning with a big list. I felt irrationally sad to be missing out on this trek (irrational because I really do NOT enjoy food shopping). I think it’s the knowledge that I am pretty stuck in the house (save the odd neighborhood walk) that makes the Produce and Deli departments suddenly so appealing to me. 

 Looking back, there was another, extended time in my life when I could not get to a grocery store whenever I pleased. During my earliest years in Manhattan, Mom would go out at night when we were asleep and hit Gristede’s or D’Agostino’s markets, so for all I knew, the Pantry Fairy came regularly to restock our cupboards. It was when we moved out to the ‘burbs (Ardsley, NY) in 1965 that I came to know and love supermarkets. By sixth grade I could walk to school, and my path home nearly always involved a pit shop at Louis’ Market for soda and something sweet. I felt very adult there, making my selections, then spilling my change on the counter. 

 But then we moved to a place where walking to a store was impossible: Atlanta, GA. Joanie did not drive a car, so we were completely dependent on my dad to ferry us around—and he’d taken a job as a traveling salesman, gone Monday morning through Friday night. Therefore, all food had to be purchased on Saturdays. Dad and Mom had a system: Dad would sit in the parking lot, smoking, while Mom pushed the cart around inside. But here’s the kicker: Mom insisted on finding bargains, so they’d drive from Big Apple to Ogletree’s to Kroger to every week, buying eggs one place, chicken another (which came first?), ground beef at a third emporium. It took almost the whole day, and of course they didn’t really save a dime when you added in all the gas used. But I recall the wonderful feeling of freedom to travel around a bit, after a week of limitation. 

 Over the years, and as a driver, grocery shopping really lost its luster. I came to dread repetitively filling carts with boxes (and boxes) of Pampers, boxes (and boxes) of Honey Nut Cheerios. When the kids eventually got their licenses and actually volunteered to pick up the milk and bread, I rejoiced.

Now here I am, feeling that old stuck, dependent feeling again, wishing mightily that I was standing in that sloooooow checkout line, flanked by the racks of gum and the National Enquirer. 

 I guess the Acme is always greener! Or something!

One of Mom's go-to Atlanta supermarkets many incarnations later, as it looks today 

Throw Out Thursday

Sure am glad for an extra copy of this one!

It’s like Marie Kondo on steroids around here today, folks. Steve’s skipping the questions for his belongings (“Does this bring me joy?”) and just flinging them into garbage cans. Steve, it turns out, is much more unsentimental than I am, so for him there is no soul searching involved--it’s just a matter of digging out and pitching. He has a closet in his office that hasn’t been sorted in a decade, ditto an old metal file cabinet. Now that schools and camps and libraries are closed and he has no one to call to book shows, there is suddenly time to attack every nook and cranny of his Family Stages Cave-and he’s approaching the task with gusto.

I have no issue with the recycling of 20 copies of Steve’s play My Name is Lewes—indeed, I only vaguely remember the show itself. He can jettison the handwritten household budget sheets from 1992 with no objections from me, as well as the file folder marked “WFTF” --at first glance it looked like he’d labeled it with a curse (“WTF is this file folder doing here?”), but no, it stood for “Winter Family Theater Festival.” 

 It was only when we got to the personal files that I implored Mr. Trash Guy to put on the brakes. He did ask me to sort the 16 year old Christmas cards (aww, what a lovely card from the Walshes! A keeper for sure, thought I, racking my brain for some memory of who the Walshes were). So in the end I’d disposed of a mere handful of holiday greetings. 

But I’m glad I was paying attention, because across the room my hubby was poised to ditch folders containing:

 *Paperwork from Evan’s volunteer stint with Habitat for Humanity in Kenai, Alaska when he was 17 
*Flyers from random Boston restaurants and museums, souvenirs of a family trek to Massachusetts when the kids were little 
*Recipes sent to me by Philadelphia Youth Orchestra parents for the PYO cookbook I produced when Sher was in said ensemble (I accepted ALL of them, including the one beginning “Take a hunk of hamburger out of the freezer, and scrape off pieces into a skillet as it thaws”—yum!)
*Two ancient medical bills and one Social Security statement of my mom’s, circa 1997 

You get the drift. Thank the good Lord I was there to save it all!!! 

I recognize that the upside of this enforced home time is the chance to weed out our possessions, and I applaud the efforts of Stevo to weed out his. However, MUCH of the destined-for-the-dumpster stuff is technically “ours”. Like the executive branch, I have veto power and I’m not afraid to use it. 

So I’ve basically just moved our flotsam and jetsam from the office to our bedroom. Someday (perhaps during the next pandemic?) I will revisit and reassess these salvaged treasures. But for now, the score is Trash Can: 5, Elise: 6,172.

Job well done! Off to test that frozen hamburger recipe!

Overflowing trash can. Better go out and double check everything!

Peak Performance

What a story this will make!! Or not

It’s 7:15 PM now, and I’ve been awake since 4:45 AM. It’s been a hectic day, with three Zoom conference calls, plus one regular call from Evan. I made dinner, then Steve and I took a walk in the neighborhood, during which we waved (from a safe distance) to a variety of local peeps also out for very careful strolls. It was probably not the best idea to join an evening online writing group based in California starting tonight, but join I did.

 “Come write with us!! Tuesdays at 5:30 PM!” That was the come on, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker, conveniently forgetting that they meant 5:30 PM Pacific time, 8:30 PM here. I’ve been through this before, with an online writing class taught from San Francisco two summers ago. My fellow students (all young  West Coast residents) were super perky each week, whereas I could barely make it to the critique session that lasted until 10 PM. Mine was usually the last piece to be dealt with, and by then  I was so beat that neither praise nor criticism affected me in the slightest—I just wanted to sign off and go to bed. Two years older now, I anticipate a similar late evening slump, so it’ll be interesting.

I envy writers who know what time of day is optimum for them—their peak performance window. They either rise with the roosters and dash off a scintillating chapter or three before the world has awakened, or else they burn the midnight oil, churning out masterpieces into the wee hours. As for me, well, I remember a comedian saying, ‘I’m not a morning person. I’m not a night person. When AM I a person??” This is my question as well.

The problem with me is inconsistency. I have written good stuff at 6 AM and 11 PM, at dawn and dusk. Ditto dreadful stuff. Do I feel on top of my game early, or late in the day? Depends. While as a rule I am no longer usually very creative after 8:30 PM (so, naturally, that is when my online class will commence tonight!), on occasion I have an inspiration during the evening, and then am on a writing roll until long after the fam is slumbering. There is no rhyme or reason for the variance—it does not relate to quantity of sleep the night before, or my caffeine intake. And it goes beyond writing: I’ve exercised in the morning, afternoon and night (not on the same day, silly!) and I cannot tell WHEN I am more coordinated. So I have found it simpler to just refrain from exercising altogether.

Peak performance, for me, is an elusive butterfly: in theory you can catch it, but it’s darned hard, and just because you catch one doesn’t mean you’ll ever succeed again.

The assigned writing prompts for tonight’s class include a lemon, a photograph and some coffee beans. Not feeling very “peak”-y at the moment. Any ideas?