Well, the weekend was great - totally relaxing from the start, even though J was more rattled by my departure than I thought she would be. I'll keep the memories of my overnight away in my back pocket to poke me out of my hermit habits from time to time.
Anyway.
A couple months ago, the father of one of the boys at our bus stop - a junior at J's school - approached me as I was getting back into my car. We shared some small talk as I stood, waving to J in the departing bus, holding onto my open driver's-side door. (I thought it was odd that this dad had gotten out of his car to talk to me since he normally speeds off to work as soon as his son's second foot hits the pavement.) Oh, we'd talked before. His wife is a runner like me. He went to college where JBL got his master's degree. I'd even taken his son home one day when both parents had late meetings.
But I knew something was up that morning. Suddenly, the man blurted out, "I am not a molester or anything. I just wanted you to know why I always smile at your daughter."
Now, I don't know about how you would have felt, but my reaction to that statement was a mixture of doubt in his veracity and abject fear. Adrenaline flooded my system, and everything about the moment crystallized. The dark pink of the cord holding the corporate badge around his neck became garish. I could see each individual salt-and-pepper hair of his goatee. The winter air around us smelled overwhelming. But I kept my congenial smile as he continued.
Apparently his younger sister passed away when he was 7 and she was 3. Though J is charming enough to warrant glowing smiles from any random passer-by, she especially affected this man because she reminded him of the sister he lost so long ago. As if that abrupt admission weren't awkward enough, he just kept talking - describing how he didn't want to make me uncomfortable by saying 'hi!' to her every morning, and wondering if his friendliness seemed too much.
I fumbled over myself to reassure him that his greetings were consistent with how other people approach J (she is a cute little kindergartener in a plaid uniform with a backpack as big as she is - who wouldn't smile at that?). But, really, I just wanted him to stop talking so I could get in my car and drive away quickly. And never see him again.
Eventually I was able to break away and return home. I told JBL, and mentioned it later to some friends. Everyone was shocked at the man's candor. It would be easy enough to write him off as a loon, and yet... I struggle daily with determining how I feel about him.
I mean, who would admit to being a pedophile? But then again, how sad that this man lost his sister and longs for a relationship he'll never have. And maybe he's just an awkward person. Maybe he just doesn't know how to connect with other people, or has a touch of Asperger's syndrome. I for one have no room looking disdainfully at people who say the 'wrong' thing, or won't stop talking once they've made their audience uncomfortable. The chronicles of my social ineptitudes could fill the Library of Congress.
But still. Am I going to ever let him bring J home from the bus stop (not that he's offered)? No way in hell. And how do I approach him every single day at the bus stop? So far I have subtly ignored him (so stated because I ignore everyone - I'm the mom who stays in the car rather than chatting with travel coffee mug in hand), but will smile and chat when spoken to. It's just...well... so awkward.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Oddities
Struggling a little today - anxiety is sitting heavy about my weekend away. Yes I did just type that. I am going for a hiking and spa overnight with a few friends, and though I know I will have fun, I am uneasy. It's great being me.
I have to shake off the worries:
- K will be happy to have a weekend here without me around
- J will feel miss me (a little - time with JBL and K will blot me from her mind, for sure)
- General uneasiness being away from JBL - don't ask, I don't really understand it either
- General need to be close to home/secure my hermit-like tendencies
The weekend will be good and healthy and I will have fun. I'm just glad I can write this stuff here, hopefully helping to shelve my oddities.
I have to shake off the worries:
- K will be happy to have a weekend here without me around
- J will feel miss me (a little - time with JBL and K will blot me from her mind, for sure)
- General uneasiness being away from JBL - don't ask, I don't really understand it either
- General need to be close to home/secure my hermit-like tendencies
The weekend will be good and healthy and I will have fun. I'm just glad I can write this stuff here, hopefully helping to shelve my oddities.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
It's official
Every one of J's classmates has now had/invited us to a birthday party. Ok, I may be missing one kid... two, tops. The parties have varied from simple to elaborate, but none have just been a craft at home followed by cake, which is the extent of effort and expense I could manage if I had thrown such a party.
You see, J did not have a birthday party including her classmates. I honestly thought, back in September, that this type of thing was anomalous. I mean, who can really afford gifts from themselves, along with 'jump zone' party with pizza, cake, and a goodie bag for 18 kids plus parents? How is a parent going to top a party with ice skating lessons for all attendees, or a magician who puts on an hour show and also makes balloon animals, for their 5-year-old? (By the time they're 10, what...are they going to rent out the Maryland Zoo?!) Surely it would only be a handful of invites for the year. Or not, as the case may be.
God bless J - it hasn't occurred to her that she is the only one who has not had such a party. The age of kindergarten has its advantages, after all. But what happens next year, or the year after that? I have often written about my concern (ok, fear) of keeping up with the other more affluent families at this school, along with my need to support certain values for J. As with her foray into lacrosse, I just didn't think the birthday thing would come to bear so soon.
I have to keep my eye on the end game, while making J feel included, socially accepted, and...well...not abnormal. Hmph. My stomach hurts.
You see, J did not have a birthday party including her classmates. I honestly thought, back in September, that this type of thing was anomalous. I mean, who can really afford gifts from themselves, along with 'jump zone' party with pizza, cake, and a goodie bag for 18 kids plus parents? How is a parent going to top a party with ice skating lessons for all attendees, or a magician who puts on an hour show and also makes balloon animals, for their 5-year-old? (By the time they're 10, what...are they going to rent out the Maryland Zoo?!) Surely it would only be a handful of invites for the year. Or not, as the case may be.
God bless J - it hasn't occurred to her that she is the only one who has not had such a party. The age of kindergarten has its advantages, after all. But what happens next year, or the year after that? I have often written about my concern (ok, fear) of keeping up with the other more affluent families at this school, along with my need to support certain values for J. As with her foray into lacrosse, I just didn't think the birthday thing would come to bear so soon.
I have to keep my eye on the end game, while making J feel included, socially accepted, and...well...not abnormal. Hmph. My stomach hurts.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Haven't we all
I absolutely love some of the books J and I read at bedtime. Junie B. Jones? *shudder* Princess stories? No way in hell. Mary Poppins, the original version? Now you're talking. From Chapter 6 - Bad Tuesday:
'"Shall I let out the water?" he enquired in the rudest voice he had. There was no reply. "Pooh! I don't care!" said Michael, and the hot heavy weight that was within him swelled and grew larger. "I don't care!"'
(we all know that hot heavy weight, don't we?)
'[And Michael] was a little astonished at himself.... But he was not astonished for long, for he began to wonder what he could do next.... he ran away with Miss Lark's angry, outraged voice screaming in his ears, and his body almost bursting with the exciting weight of that heavy thing inside him.... And all that time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.'
You just don't get that kind of real, true emotion in today's sugar-coated stories - not that I have found anyway. Best of all, J seems to love it as much as I do...
'"Shall I let out the water?" he enquired in the rudest voice he had. There was no reply. "Pooh! I don't care!" said Michael, and the hot heavy weight that was within him swelled and grew larger. "I don't care!"'
(we all know that hot heavy weight, don't we?)
'[And Michael] was a little astonished at himself.... But he was not astonished for long, for he began to wonder what he could do next.... he ran away with Miss Lark's angry, outraged voice screaming in his ears, and his body almost bursting with the exciting weight of that heavy thing inside him.... And all that time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.'
You just don't get that kind of real, true emotion in today's sugar-coated stories - not that I have found anyway. Best of all, J seems to love it as much as I do...
On passion and fruit
My mother was a larger-than-life person. She dominated every room she was in - either by her conversation, or simply with the sheer force of her emotions. My brother inherited her mayor-like qualities. My daughter carries on her ceaseless chatter.
She was a passionate woman. She laughed loudly. She loved deeply. She took things personally. She would say things like, "I forgive, but I never forget," or, "Never stop dating your spouse - it is so important." She would give the world's longest lectures when my brother and I would bicker a little too much. I can remember her saying, "Life is a two-way street," but I have no idea why. She was so intense when she said it, however, we would just nod knowingly. We just wanted her to finish so we could get out of her storm.
When I was very young, she loved to throw parties, as I am certain I have written before. Music would fill the house while we prepped and cleaned. Mom would give me hosting advice that I would not be able to use for twenty years, such as, "When your guests arrive, you fix them their first drink, showing them where the bar is. Then they can make their own drinks after that." She always made a point to finish getting ready well in advance of the appointed hour so she could relax and get ready to smile for her friends. She would lay on the floor in the living room, listening to the Hollies or Credence Clearwater Revival, singing to herself.
Then my brother and I would be ushered upstairs with snacks and soda - a party of our own. We were discouraged from coming downstairs, even if we were fighting. I would sometimes sneak down anyway, undaunted by the scene greeting me at the bottom of the stairs. I would weave through the crowded living room, dark except for candles and firelight, to find my father sitting in the corner (he might have been chatting with someone, but he was so introverted...he didn't really enjoy the jocularity). The smell of liquor hung in the air along with cigarette smoke. Above it all, I can still clearly smell my dad's whiskey sour and my mother's perfume.
I would yell over the music into Dad's ear a description of some minor transgression of my brother's. With a hug and his assurances that CB would be disciplined in the morning, I would return upstairs to watch the rest of Sonny and Cher, satisfied. As I passed the coffee table, pushed off next to the sofa to make room for dancing, I would see the usual assortment of hors d'hoevres - a port wine cheese ball covered with nuts, a crudite platter, bread sticks, shrimp dip.
For smaller dinner parties, Mom would rearrange the furniture so the coffee table was directly in front of the fireplace, surrounded by pillows for sitting. The '70s-yellow fondue pot would sit in the center, surrounded by meat, vegetables and bread cubes. After dinner, there would come dessert, of course, and one of my mother's favorite desserts was brandied fruit (to be served with champagne). I get a headache just writing that. This time of night is when my brother and I would hear the most uproarious conversations, the loudest laughter.
I love to remember this aspect of my mother's complex personality. She was so confident in a crowd, so happy to shower guests with what she felt was the best of everything. I guess I inherited these traits from her.
As I was leafing through a new cookbook this morning, looking for inspiration for my own Mother's Day meal, I was greeted by a recipe for brandied fruit. And I smiled. If I can picture my mom in heaven, she is that 30-something version of herself - the woman who regularly went to 'exercise class', the one who had just the right jewelry for every event, the one who showed me how to spray perfume on my pulse points as I watched her get ready for her party. The excitement radiated from her as she set her bottle of Chanel 22 down and rubbed her wrists together. "Your husband will love the way this smells when he kisses you," she would say with sparkling eyes and a conspiratorial smile.
I love you Mom. I hope you're having a party tonight, that Daddy is helping you get ready, and that all the guests will be as happy as they were in your home 30 years ago. Happy Mother's Day.
She was a passionate woman. She laughed loudly. She loved deeply. She took things personally. She would say things like, "I forgive, but I never forget," or, "Never stop dating your spouse - it is so important." She would give the world's longest lectures when my brother and I would bicker a little too much. I can remember her saying, "Life is a two-way street," but I have no idea why. She was so intense when she said it, however, we would just nod knowingly. We just wanted her to finish so we could get out of her storm.
When I was very young, she loved to throw parties, as I am certain I have written before. Music would fill the house while we prepped and cleaned. Mom would give me hosting advice that I would not be able to use for twenty years, such as, "When your guests arrive, you fix them their first drink, showing them where the bar is. Then they can make their own drinks after that." She always made a point to finish getting ready well in advance of the appointed hour so she could relax and get ready to smile for her friends. She would lay on the floor in the living room, listening to the Hollies or Credence Clearwater Revival, singing to herself.
Then my brother and I would be ushered upstairs with snacks and soda - a party of our own. We were discouraged from coming downstairs, even if we were fighting. I would sometimes sneak down anyway, undaunted by the scene greeting me at the bottom of the stairs. I would weave through the crowded living room, dark except for candles and firelight, to find my father sitting in the corner (he might have been chatting with someone, but he was so introverted...he didn't really enjoy the jocularity). The smell of liquor hung in the air along with cigarette smoke. Above it all, I can still clearly smell my dad's whiskey sour and my mother's perfume.
I would yell over the music into Dad's ear a description of some minor transgression of my brother's. With a hug and his assurances that CB would be disciplined in the morning, I would return upstairs to watch the rest of Sonny and Cher, satisfied. As I passed the coffee table, pushed off next to the sofa to make room for dancing, I would see the usual assortment of hors d'hoevres - a port wine cheese ball covered with nuts, a crudite platter, bread sticks, shrimp dip.
For smaller dinner parties, Mom would rearrange the furniture so the coffee table was directly in front of the fireplace, surrounded by pillows for sitting. The '70s-yellow fondue pot would sit in the center, surrounded by meat, vegetables and bread cubes. After dinner, there would come dessert, of course, and one of my mother's favorite desserts was brandied fruit (to be served with champagne). I get a headache just writing that. This time of night is when my brother and I would hear the most uproarious conversations, the loudest laughter.
I love to remember this aspect of my mother's complex personality. She was so confident in a crowd, so happy to shower guests with what she felt was the best of everything. I guess I inherited these traits from her.
As I was leafing through a new cookbook this morning, looking for inspiration for my own Mother's Day meal, I was greeted by a recipe for brandied fruit. And I smiled. If I can picture my mom in heaven, she is that 30-something version of herself - the woman who regularly went to 'exercise class', the one who had just the right jewelry for every event, the one who showed me how to spray perfume on my pulse points as I watched her get ready for her party. The excitement radiated from her as she set her bottle of Chanel 22 down and rubbed her wrists together. "Your husband will love the way this smells when he kisses you," she would say with sparkling eyes and a conspiratorial smile.
I love you Mom. I hope you're having a party tonight, that Daddy is helping you get ready, and that all the guests will be as happy as they were in your home 30 years ago. Happy Mother's Day.
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