Forgive Me Father for I Have Sinned

Forgive me father for I have sinned, I lied on the absentee hotline. My reasons were pure of heart. I wasn't trying to play hooky with my son and road trip to Vegas to give him a quirky indie-film experience that defines his life and becomes his college essay. My son was, indeed, ill; but his true malady, I feared, would not be accepted by the administration as a cause for missing school. I just did not feel I could say "my son is absent with depression."

So I said he had a sore throat.

Unfortunately depression does not come with convenient symptoms and physical evidence. An abundance of mucous, vomit or a good old rash would make legitimizing depression so much easier, not just for us parents and the absentee hotline police, but, quite possibly, for the world at large. Disgusting symptoms would also galvanize the germ-o-phobes into some kind of action to get depression more actively treated since gooey excretions suggest the threat of contagion. Sadly, no pun intended, this is not the case. Depression has invisible symptoms like exhaustion, self-loathing, loss of interest in anything; and these can often be mistaken for typical teenage behavior.

So I lied.

I do not regret keeping him home.

He rested, watched a little TV, we talked and he even did some homework. We did the same things we would have done had snot been pouring out of his nose

And my guilt actually has nothing to do with my latent catholicism. I feel guilty because I should have had the balls to say he was out due to depression. I should have taken this harmless baby step towards normalizing an illness that walks through the halls of life with its head down burdened by the weight of shame. I should have risked the mess the fallout was bound to create. The phone calls, the unexcused absence, the drop in points of all late homework, the revoking of his parking pass because his absence was unexcused. I contributed to the devaluing of my son's suffering by not standing up and confidently stating that this was the reason he was home. That is my sin.

For penance I could speak out and speak up, but therein lies another sin; a sin against my son. For this is his not mine to brandish and rage against the machine. His privacy, his daily battle, his reckoning with confusion, anger, shame and acceptance that he drew this straw. My penance is to forever remember his load and his strength; to care for him and teach him how to care for himself. To go out in my pajamas at 9:30 at night to pick up a Wendy's Baconator because that what he needs; and if there happens to be a Dunkin Donuts on the way, a coping donut for myself might be called for as well.

So, forgive me father for my sin. I will reflect and try to mend my ways. Oh, and, by the way, It's been about 33 years since my last confession.

The Two Things I am Thankful for this Thanksgiving

I've always wanted to do that thing where you go around the table on Thanksgiving and everyone says something they are thankful for. But the eye rolling and clearly translatable sighs deter me year after year. But you, dear reader, I cannot see your eyerolls or hear your "ughs!" So here is what I am thankful for this year:

The Mess
Homemade chocolate chip cookies

That's it. That's right, just two things.

I could list walks on the beach, reruns of Castle, cereal, my family, finding five dollars in my winter coat when I put it on for the first time, blah-dity, blah-dity, blah. The truth is though, they all belong to The Mess, or, more accurately they are all the balance to The Mess. And to be clear, when I refer to The Mess, I am not speaking of kitchen duties in the Armed Services, I am speaking of the glorious Mess that is my, and, everybody's life. It is capitalized because it deserves honor and respect.

What??????

Yes, honor and respect. Many would say that mess is there to be cleaned up, that is creates a sense of chaos, unease and judgement from visiting relatives this weekend. Yes, it can do that. Mess can be feared and swept under the carpet and stuffed in the closet and crammed under the bed. It can be the hidden secret of shame you carry with you all weekend as you smile and answer "Things are good, thanks for asking." Eventually, though, someone is going to go looking for their coat and when they open the closet the Mess will reveal itself.

Mess will always be there no matter how many baskets you buy from Pottery Barn or drawer organizers you pick up at Bed Bath & Beyond or pictures of idyllic familial bliss you post on Facebook. So, here is the thing I love about the Mess: all the cool stuff I find when I sift through it. I love the feeling of relief when I throw things away I really don't need but was convinced I had to hang onto. I love finding things I completely forgot about that make me squeal with joy and surprise. And I love the new stuff that has found a way into my world. I would never experience all of these things if the Mess did not exist.

Yes, the Mess can be ominous and the anticipation of dealing with it is often unbearable, but there are so many interesting things to be found there; wonderful things, hard things, confusing things, things that create more mess. At the end of the Mess though lies a delicious sense of clarity, accomplishment and pride. It is that moment when you know where everything is, where everything goes. And then the mail comes and the Mess starts anew.

The Mess will always be there, and it is not there to be conquered, it is there to remind us of what living is. Life reveals itself most vividly in the midst of the Mess. So I am thankful for the Mess.

And as for homemade chocolate chip cookies, that's self-explanatory.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Epiphany at the Wawa

I have spent the majority of my life assuming I am in the way.

To illustrate I will go to the font of all life lessons, at least in the tri-state area, the Wawa. (For those of you unfamiliar with the treasure that is the Wawa, you may substitute, anemically, the 7-Eleven).

The first sign that I am in the way occurs upon entering the parking lot, the most dangerous place to drive in the world. Forget the autobahn, driving in a Wawa parking lot may be the bravest or most foolish thing you will ever do. Everyone is in a hurry to get something, or, once gotten, to leave. They are most likely driving with one hand, or just their knees, while they sip coffee or cram biscuit breakfast sandwiches down their starving and time-crunched throats. And though I see my spot inviting me in the distance, I cannot get there with any efficiency as someone will always be just pulling out, and turning the wrong way while issuing me a look of condescending disgust that not only have I not reversed out of their way, but that I, in fact, exist at all.

Once parking is secured and I have recovered from the blow to my self esteem, I make my way into the Wawa itself, usually to order a meal for one of my ravenous offspring because I ran out of, well, you name it, and could not make them a socially acceptable meal, because, apparently, a bag of multigrain wheat thins and a recyclable container of cinnamon life are not considered a square meal anymore. Once inside, no matter where I stand, whether it is to pick something to drink out of one of the refrigerated cases or to wait for a specially ordered breakfast sandwich(because, of course, they only like one kind, and if it's not on a bagel or if it has turkey sausage rather than mystery sausage it is inedible and how could I not know that), no matter where I stand, I am in someone's way. I'm in the way of the array of coffee urns. Once that is sidestepped I am in the way of the creamer/sugar island. After I dodge that, I am in the way of the trash. Once that is cleared I try to position myself where no one goes in the Wawa, in front of the "healthy snack" rack, but I seem to be there during the one and only three minutes when the transplant from Northern California is jonesing for a Clif bar, and am, of course, in his way. Even when I make it through the check out, the mere act of me putting my change away in my wallet and my wallet back in my purse, puts me directly in the way of the next customer who also seems dismayed at the fact of my existence.

Then back out to the parking lot where my only goal is to get out of people's way, but the inexcusable act of exiting my parking space puts me directly in the way of others exiting, and still others entering quickly with little regard for human life, to occupy the spot which was just vacated, but not by me, because I am in the way by being there and by trying to leave.

The Wawa is not at fault here; nor are her mighty patrons. And I am not at fault either, though I am faulty. The faultiness is not because I am in the way, it is because I assume I am in the way. It's probably because I was raised catholic, or I'm the youngest of six, or I'm a woman, or, more likely it is my own unique ME-ness that walks into any situation convinced that I am an inconvenience. This has caused me to spend an inordinate amount of my life apologizing for my inconvenience by trying to provide others with what they need before they know they need it and have a chance to question my relevance for not having known it in the first place (see bagel parable above). And I've been so busy doing all that, that I never took time to think about what I want at the Wawa.

Now I'm not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed to be having a self-awareness epiphany based on the Wawa. I'm going to choose proud, because at least it didn't happen in a 7-Eleven(did I just lose some of you there?). Ok, back to the regularly scheduled epiphany. Since I've spent so much time apologizing for, or proving the worth of my existence, I have rarely pondered the possibility that my existence is simply a fact, and my presence is not an automatic nuisance (though 7-Eleven is filing an injunction right now). My presence has the potential to alter the universe, for better or for worse, for large or for small, even if it means someone has to manage a few extra steps on the way to the French vanilla coffee dispenser.

There are two phrases gifted to me by two fabulous people that come to mind in the midst of this decidedly un-Aristotelean epiphany:

The first from a friend who learned when an Italian gentleman, baffled by the frequency with which the words "I'm sorry" crossed her lips, offered a simple alternative, say "I'm sexy" instead.

The second from my father. When bombarded by perceived and concocted doom and gloom he issues this warning: "You must be prepared for the possibility that things could go well."

So tomorrow I will venture forth assuming things will go well, because I'm bringing sexy back to the Wawa. You're welcome Justin Timberlake.

The Last Thing I Want to Use my Phone For

I used to love it when the phone rang. The surge of excitement was palpable. My reactions to the trill of the bell tone were:

• Who's calling me? 
• Is it him? 
• Did I get the job? 
• Am I invited to that party? 
• Who finds me interesting enough to want to talk to me? 

When Husband and I started dating the delight of the phone call intensified.

• Is it him?
• Will there be a second date?
• I love the sound of his voice.
• I can't believe he finds me interesting enough to call in the middle of a busy day.
• Does he love me? I think he loves me? If he keeps calling he must love me, right?

Honestly the ring of the phone made my heart leap; I had to catch my breath, I sped to answer it, it was even a little arousing. It signaled the unexpected in the routine of a day, and with that came the sonorous hope and promise of dreams fulfilled, prayers answered and existence validated.

Now when the phone rings, or vibrates as the times dictate, my reactions are as follows:

• Fuck.
• Who wants something from me?
• Who's in trouble?
• Who's dead?
• Who do I have to pick up now because of that emergency at work?

The romance of the ringing phone is gone, and its interruption in the course of a day feels much more akin to a harbinger of doom.

The weird thing is, I love my fancy phone. I love it for all of its purposes save it's main one. When my Soda Candy Crush game is stalled because of an incoming call, I make sure the person on the other end knows by the tone of my "Hello" that this call is unwanted. Instead of rushing to answer a call, I pause over the caller ID to assess if I have the strength to go through with it. And, ironically, the caller I dread the most is Husband. 

My dread has nothing to do with my affection for him; the simple truth is 99.9% of the time he is not calling to profess his love, he's calling because something needs to be taken care of. And the same is true of my calls to him. We are no longer explorers on the brink of all that is possible and exciting, we are laboring in the midst of the particulars of possible. We found what was possible and are desperately trying to maintain it; maybe in an attempt to prove why we strove for it in the first place or maybe because the dream of what is possible doesn't always include detailed instructions of the how of possible. So, the poor phone call has become the victim of my resentment of all the unexpected hurdles of all those expectations I originally loved about its signature ting-a-ling. 

Yet fear not poor phone call, my hostility is fleeting since the circle of life is not yet complete. There will come a time when I catch my breath again at your tinkling song; when I look forward to the sound of my children's' voices calling from the brink of their possibles, or the obliging voice of my grandchildren thanking me for the $5 on Valentines day, or the friendly voice of the Telemarketer asking for a moment of my time.

Just kidding Telemarketer, my hostility for you will never waiver. 

When is a Bowling Ball Just a Bowling Ball?

Teenager #1's bowling ball came in the mail the other day, and this puts me in the middle of a parental dilemma. It's possible that I may be assigning too much significance to this delivery, but, as the last 18 years has taught me, there is a hidden meaning behind most things which leads to a cause and effect quandary that can be crippling. I'm sure you've already guessed that I will now elaborate.

Teenager #1 spends his weekdays 45 minutes away at school. When the ball arrived I texted him the news in hopes of brightening his day since yesterday was hellish and hideous for him(Hidden meaning #1). His response was to ask if I could bring it out. This seems like a simple logistical question, but, in the immortal words of Admiral Akbar, "It'a a trap!"

My day was busy, but there was a window of time when I could bring it out. Would having the ball in such close proximity, however, create a distraction from work he has to catch up on (one of the sources of hellishness and hideousness); or, would having the ball there give him a little boost and make him feel a little happier thereby making catching up on work a more palatable prospect? (Hidden meaning #2)

What message am I sending though if I take time out of my day to drive this bowling ball all the way out there? Am I telling him that no matter what, I will drop everything and rush to give him whatever he wants creating the sense that his needs are above all others thereby heightening any sense of narcissism and potentially unleashing another Donald Trump on the world? Or am I communicating that I understand and am attentive to his needs and am willing to put in the extra time because he is important, valid and worthy consequently upping his self-esteem and putting the steps in place to provide the world with another Stephen Colbert? (Hidden Meaning #3)

The answer, as it often does, presented itself when he texted back saying he would drive home and pick it up. So I drove the ball out. Why? Why would I do that when he was willing to take it on himself to pick up the ball? Because the 90 minutes of driving back and forth was 90 minutes less for him to do homework.

Cause: I drove the ball out

Effect: As you've probably guessed, not only did he still not do his homework, he also never thanked me. He did not go bowling either.

Status Quo was maintained and the only expense was the time I lost to worrying, scheming and driving. So when is a bowling ball just a bowling ball and when is it a metaphor for the potential for growth and maturity? I have no idea. There have been many bowling balls in my parental history taking on many forms like birthday dinners, timely laundry so the right shirt is ready on the right day, volunteering at the snack table or to sew costumes, and so on. I seem to be obsessed with making sure my kids know I love them; and, as usual, it has nothing to do with them.

Travel back in time with me, if you will, to an era when a self-absorbed teenage girl sat on the windowsill looking out at the backyard as landscapers replaced a huge fallen tree with one newly bought, picked out with loving detail by my mother. The aforementioned teenage brat watched this effort with resentment in her heart because the the acquisition of this tree took priority over picking up my, I mean her, repaired watch, an errand she had been assured would happen earlier in the week, and again on the day before, and again on that very morning. Toss into the mix a recent divorce and the fact of being child number six, and suddenly this forgotten watch was more than just a bowling ball (Hidden meaning #4).

I remember that moment with a fair amount of shame and perspective. Shame at realizing that I, in fact, was just as selfish and myopic as all teenagers; perspective because you just never know when a gesture-small, medium or large-is making a permanent imprint. Loving someone is not easy. Though the reality of the love seems an absolute, there is a difference between knowing you are loved and feeling you are loved. Effort does need to be made, complex algorithms of cause and effect must be calculated, bowling balls have to be interpreted and mistakes and overreactions need to be allowed.

Life would probably be simpler without love and bowling balls. Less interesting, but simpler. Less messy, but simpler. Less time spent driving and fretting, but simpler. Less catch-your-breath-jaw-dropping-heart-growing-three-sizes-that-day-awe-inspiring, but simpler.

I'll take the bowling ball.

I Finally Get why I Have to Clean the House

I am not good at cleaning. I can straighten admirably, but I am only serviceable at cleaning. I have long struggled with the impact this deficit has on my validity as a human being.

According to many marketing campaigns I should not only like cleaning but delight in it. It should add a spring to my step and a song to my heart. Apparently, there are even some brooms and mops whose efficacy is so great they can pull double duty as dancing partners while still buffing the floor to a blinding shine. When I buy these brooms, however, I am amazed at their lack of ballroom experience, and their stark ordinariness in comparison to all the other mops and brooms that are in cleaning supply limbo in my basement. I fall for it though, time and again. I am an easy sell since I will try anything to invigorate myself to battle dust, mold and grime. Time and time again, though, I am left disillusioned and depressed as I am reminded that a sponge is really just a sponge, no matter how fancy it looks; and no matter how hopeful I am, a sponge will not propel itself. No matter how shiny and full of promise the tools of the trade are, I still have to use them.

My resistance to the simple necessity of cleaning is not rooted in any complex psychological darkness or any sense of rebellion against a perfect mother; it simply stems from the fact that I find the whole endeavor interminably boring. There are literally thousands of things I would rather do. And that confession immediately reveals the simple truth that I do get what it's like to be a teenager.

I am petulant in my refusal to clean on a regular or even minimally acceptable basis. I am singularly focused on that knitting project that I have to finish before I mop. I am lazy in my insistence that I will just watch this one episode before I vacuum. I am too tired from work to break out the Endust and the microfiber cloth. I am too stressed at all that is expected of me to engage with the Windex. I am overwhelmed by the enormity of the filth that I do not know where to begin.

Petulant
Singularly Focused
Lazy
Too Tired
Too Stressed
Overwhelmed

Sound familiar?

And of course I feel better once I clean. I feel accomplished and self-righteous and proud and competent and, for a shimmering instant, whole. And I promise myself never to let it go that long again, to never let it get that far out of my control. I vow to do a little bit each day and have a weekly schedule and keep up with the routine. And of course I keep none of my promises; because there are so many more interesting things to do.

So Teenagers #1 & #2, I do get it. I know you think I am full of shit and my cute little cleaning metaphor proves nothing because your life is so much more complicated than Swiffering. And you will never admit that I understand because that might open the door to the possibility of change or the concession that I am right about something. I get that too. But I do get why you don't want to do your homework, and why you don't want to read Frankenstein, and why you don't want to show your work on your Algebra II worksheet.

I get it. But there are things in life that you have to do, even if you'd rather stick needles in your eyes (yes, that's the 3,754th on the list of things I'd rather do than pick up a toilet brush). Have to's will always be there, they will often suck, but they are rarely as bad as you thought, and completing them can actually make you feel good about yourself.

How's that registering on your bullshit meter? About as high as everything else that you won't understand until you do; and then you will thank me silently so I will never know that you know I was right.

Parental School Supply List

School is just around the corner and teachers are busy preparing their rooms for another creative and exciting year of learning for your wonderful children. This year will be chock full of homework that will be left to the last possible moment, tests to which you will assign too much significance, poster board projects which will not insure an early acceptance to Stanford, and standardized testing that will accurately predict exactly how well your child takes standardized tests. In order for your children to have a successful year please refer to this School Survival, ahem, Supply List for Parents to help you survive the next nine months reducing the likelihood of you suffering from teacher stalking, overcompensatory cupcake baking, excessive homework meddling, Parking lot mafia surveillance and massive meltdown by Columbus Day weekend.

Parent School Supply List

• Tylenol PM for sleepless nights caused by Poster Board tampering in the form of "help"
• Earbuds and Netflix for when Tylenol PM doesn't work
• Membership in Wine of the Week Club; might be useful to register for the 'buy one get one' option.
• Extra socks for everyone, as those dirty balled up wonders hide better than the cat in Alien.
• Mindless magazine subscription, because the Winter Movie Preview issue may make or break your sanity
• Getaway car.
• Snacks. Of course they should be healthy, so...dark chocolate.
• Extra pencils everywhere; in your purse/briefcase, in your pocket, in the car, in the bathroom, in the cupboard where you keep the dog food. Because quick production of said pencil could be the deciding factor in the ongoing Homework/Xbox Dilemma. 
• A Happy Place: Figurative when you need to sidestep fruitless escalation of pointless argument about homework consistency; Literal when said argument was not successfully sidestepped.
• A hobby, preferably portable, but any will do to remember you are more than just Mom or Dad
• A stress ball, not to squeeze, but to throw at the wall, Steve McQueen-like, while plotting your next escape.
• A sense of humor. If you do not have one, one can be cultivated by reading David Sedaris & Bill Bryson and watching Bugs Bunny cartoons, Mel Brook's Young Frankenstein, WKRP in Cincinnati episodes, and the entire series of Parks & Recreation.
• A watch with a date & time feature with two alarm settings: one set for the end of this academic year, another set for High School graduation.

Here's to another Great school year! 

(Actually, that might be overshooting a bit, putting unrealistic pressure on already stressed out students and assuming a predetermined sense of hope rather than letting the year unfold in a rolling-with-the-punches-don't-take-this-too-seriously-but-take-it-seriosuly-enough-to-appropriately-challenge-your kids-without-fomenting-anxiety-while-letting-them-fail-and-succeed-on-their-own-and-trusting-they-will-get-back-up-again-stronger-for-the-hardship-and-still-feeling-loved-and-supported kind of way.)

Here's to Another school year!

PS: Note to self, investigate existence of a Donut-A-Day club.