Memories.

I just finished reading A Trip Down Memory Lane in the Washington Post. It’s about Doug Bruce — who supposedly has amnesia and there’s a documentary about him that came out last week called Unknown White Male. There are people out there that doubt whether Bruce truly has no memory. I don’t know enough to have an opinion. But it got me thinking….

What would it be like to not remember?

There would be good things. For instance, forgetting that certain things annoy you… maybe they don’t really annoy you anymore and the frustration is based on history. That would end. Maybe you could start some not so perfect relationships over and make them better. (Think family?) You wouldn’t have guilt over the past, so there’s a nice bonus.

But what about having no memories of the children as babies? Or about my brother teaching me to swing on the swings. Or of Chocolate Cherry Cordial ice cream from Baskin Robbins? What if I didn’t remember how terrific some of the people I adore have been over the years. Sure, they’ll still be great going forward, but I want to remember. Like when Michele told me to move in with her family until I found a place to live (the day before moving day when my plan A fell through!). Or when Wendy brought coffee and donuts to the hospital when Reed was having surgery at 11 months. So many times that a friend made me smile. I want to remember the first big trip with Andrew – to Hawaii – when we rented ocean kayaks. And skinny dipped late at night in the inn’s pool. I’d hate to forget those.

There are some things that might be okay to forget. Like the first guy who asked me out after my separation. It was at my 10 year reunion and I’d always had a crush on him. He stood me up. That sucked. Big time. I hear he married someone named Wendy, though. And he’s not aging too gracefully… that’s a teeny consolation, I suppose. I wouldn’t mind forgetting that day in the park, in college, when a friend gave me a peanut and told me that the squirrels were friendly. An hour later, after the tetnus shot and the bourbon, she told me that the squirrel sensed that I was nervous. Yikes.

I would hate to forget some of the pain over the years – I think it helped mold me. I know I want to remember all the joy. And even the stuff in between.

Andrew says I have the best memory of anyone he knows. I think maybe it’s just that I have so many wonderful things to remember.

To be 6 again.

A man was sitting on the edge of the bed, observing his wife turning back and forth, looking at herself in the mirror. Since her birthday was not far off, he asked what she’d like to have for her birthday. I’d like to be six again, she replied, still looking in the mirror.

On the morning of her birthday, he arose early, made her a nice big bowl of Lucky Charms, and then took her to Six Flags theme park. What a day! He put her on every ride in the park; the Death Slide, the Wall of Fear, the Screaming Monster Roller Coaster. everything there was.
Five hours later they staggered out of the theme park. Her head was reeling and her stomach felt upside down upside down . He then took her to a McDonald’s where he ordered her a Happy Meal with extra fries and a chocolate shake. Then it was off to a movie, popcorn, a soda pop, and her favorite candy, M&M’s. What a fabulous adventure!

Finally she wobbled home with her husband and collapsed into bed exhausted. He leaned over his wife with a big smile and lovingly asked, Well Dear, what was it like being six again ?

Her eyes slowly opened and her expression suddenly changed. I meant my dress size, you dumb ass! The moral of the story: Even when a man is listening, there is no guarantee he’ll understand.

(I got this from a seriously overworked friend of mine – she works for the Maryland State Legislature. I’m very pleased she had time to send me a joke. And typically, I’m not that pleased to get jokes! It’s the first clue I’ve had she’s alive in weeks!)

Dinner.

Andrew is grilling steak for dinner. If you don’t get why that’s funny, don’t ask!

Stalling.

While stalling on a project, I followed some blog links. Came to turqoiseblue’s post that cracked me up! Evidently, it’s an old joke, but it just hit me as funny!

HOW TO STOP PEOPLE FROM BUGGING YOU ABOUT GETTING MARRIED: Old aunts used to come up to me at weddings, poking me in the ribs and cackling, telling me, “You’re next.” They stopped after I started doing the same thing to them at funerals.

Back to the Caladryl and finding something for Reed to do. He’s BORED. I wouldn’t sound like a very good mother if I told you what I am right now…..

Just a blip.

I am beyond tired. Reed woke me every 20 minutes or so last night to ask for more Caladryl. Who can blame him? He has pox everywhere you can see (and everywhere you can’t). Three things I’ve been thinking about today….

(and then back to the kid)

1) Have you seen “The New Adventures of Old Christine” on CBS yet? I feel oddly connected to Julia Louis Dreyfus’ character here. Scary. Anyone see any parallels?

2) I tried to carpool with someone for one of my healthy kids’ friend’s birthday party today. The neighbor opted out – afraid that my healthy 7-year-old was a carrier of the pox and strep. When I pointed out that I was sending him to the party anyway, it had no impact on the decision. Would you keep a healthy kid home on the chance that he might perhaps get sick in a couple days?

3) The dads around here are a lot friendlier than the moms. (in general – if you are a friendly mom around here, you know who you are & you don’t need me to pat you on the back!)

Hopefully, tomorrow will be a “normal” day.

Chicken pox.

My 10-year-old had chicken pox the week before last. Finally, after a week at home, he went back to school. Whew. Yesterday morning, he told me his throat hurt 7 on a scale of 1-10. (A researcher’s child, obviously) So I took him to the doc, who confirmed strep.

The 8-year-old came home from school today complaining of a sore throat. Okay, kid, let’s go get a culture. But as I saw him putting on his coat, I noticed some chicken pox…

And the adventure continues.

An Autobiography In Five Short Chapters

I went to a conference in Chicago a week or so ago. I learned some interesting things and had the opporunity to think with some great people.

And one of the highlights for me was a poem that I heard in a break-out session. And since I like to share….

An Autobiography In Five Short Chapters
By Portia Nelson

Chapter 1:
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost, I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find the way out.

Chapter 2:
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend that I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place, but
It isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3:
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in.
It’s a habit.
Yet my eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

Chapter 4:
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

Chapter 5:
I walk down a different street.

Not so suite.

Again, the construction. Trust me – you aren’t as tired of it as I am. So Billy, the floor guy, didn’t do such a great job. The transition between the existing wood floor in the kitchen and the new wood in the study was pretty darn sloppy. And the finish? Well, it was pretty shabby. There was grit under the poly. It was so poorly done, that even the general contractor told Billy he had to re-do it.

So today was the day. Only it wasn’t Billy and his company that came, it was the “better” floor company. (Now why didn’t we hire them the first time?)
He looked around and kept shaking his head. Yes! He was shaking his head. Evidently, Billy used to work for him. Before he was fired for incompetence. Bummer for me.

If you’ve never had wood floors refinished, you might not know that you can’t walk on them – not even a little – for at least 8 hours. And since our entire entrance floor was affected, we made a reservation at the local Homewood Suites. We prefer a suite hotel since the boys go to bed earlier than we do. That way, we can read or watch TV without worrying about the lights. You know the drill.

So yesterday, Andrew called and made a reservation.

Well…the floor guys decided to do it in 2 parts – so while we couldn’t use the kitchen, dining room or study tonight, we could get into the house and get upstairs to sleep. We’d have to go out to eat, but we could sleep in our own beds with our own pillows! Don’t even get me started on the pillows. I am so attached to my pillows… they even have names. They are very special down and I have a particular way of washing them (and my sheets) with Era and Clorox Fresh Rain scent and then Bounce in the dryer. It produces an almost “hotel-like” experience. But I digress.

So once we realized we could sleep here, Andrew called to cancel the hotel reservation. Joy, the manager, told him that there was a 24-hour cancellation clause and that we could not, in fact, cancel. We would be charged the full price. Well, had the person he spoke to yesterday mentioned that, fine. But she didn’t. IN FACT, she never asked for a credit card – not until Andrew said he wanted to guarantee for later arrival. Then Joy told Andrew he was lying. (She actually called him a liar – how’s that for service?) After a scuffle, she conceded that if she could rent the room within the next 10 minutes, we were off the hook. Excuse me? What?

So we called the corporate customer service line. William was very nice and called Joy. Joy told HIM that she said if she rented by midnight she’d let us off the hook and AGAIN called Andrew a liar – that she never said 10 minutes. It’s not resolved. I can tell you that if we are charged, there will be phone calls and letters. I don’t mind policies. I just mind secret policies that work only to someone else’s benefit. When the mood strikes.

So if you were thinking of coming to Columbia, Maryland…. stay at the Sheraton. They are very nice there.

Bon appetit!

disclaimer: that is not my kid! That is some kid from the Kraft website! Davis, my 10-year-old loves to cook. When he got toaster-oven privileges several years back, you’d have thought he won the lottery. But before I tell you about our what’s happening now on the cooking front, I want to tell you this….

Andrew cooks. I know I’ve written about it before. He’s the cook. And I get to “order” what I want to eat. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. When Davis was about 6 years old, he had dinner at a friend’s house. He came home and incredulously announced that his friend’s mom cooked dinner. How could that be? A mom who cooks? (The only thing funnier was at the local Doc-In-The-Box when he was in kindergarten when the male doctor came in and Davis asked him when the doctor was coming. Weren’t doctors all women? The doc said that he, in fact, was the doctor. Davis laughed and laughed. I patiently explained that boys can be doctors, too. If they worked really hard in school.)

So Davis wants to cook. And now Reed, who is 8, wants to be his sous-chef. So they’ve asked (and we’ve agreed) that they can make dinner every Sunday night. They need to submit 2 choices (in case 1 is disgusting) and the shopping list by Friday. Then, they need to take a parent to the grocery store to purchase what is needed.

Last Sunday, we had Pasta Carbonera. Though the mess was indescribable, the food was pretty good. I can’t wait to find out what this Sunday has in store for us…

I found out that Cafe de Paris has cooking classes for kids. I think I’ll sign the boys up! I can’t stand the stress of watching them with knives and such – maybe a real pro can teach them. And besides, my gasping can’t be helping.

And while I’m thrilled that my kids will know how to cook when they’re out on their own, I’m just a teensy bit disappointed that part of the motivation is something that they learned from their dad. “Girls like guys who cook.” Evidently, he went on to tell them that I married him for his food.

Among other reasons. (wink, wink)

Wearing the pants.

The hub and I had a long discussion (don’t know that I should call it a discussion…) over the weekend. Evidently, he feels I control much of what happens around here. With the kids. With the construction. With the schedule. Well, you get the point. Maybe he’s right. I thought he liked it that way. Surely, he could have married a doormat. But instead, he chose me. I’m exactly who I was when we met. And I must say that I have his best interests in mind with everything I do. (And besides, he makes lots of decisions and controls a lot around here no matter what he says.)

Last night, after the kids were in bed, the laundry was folded, the house was put back together after a long, warm, wonderful weekend, we turned on Desperate Housewives. (I love the DVR!) Lynnette’s husband works for her now at the ad agency. Realistic, I know. But anyway, he went on a rant about how he has no control over anything. She makes all the decisions and he’s just a pawn. She’s not only in charge at work, but at home, in the bedroom….everywhere.

Well, I looked at Andrew and he looked at me. Isn’t it great when tv helps us understand each other? At least our kids aren’t bratty and horrible like theirs!