Parenting Right Now

There are so many new parenting hurdles with 11. One of them is the lack of initiative in the morning before school. Brush your teeth is met with Just a minute and Go get dressed is followed with a slight eyeroll and a tone. She’s cuddling at night and texting during the day. She’s wearing ripped jeans one minute and a tank top for a much younger child the next. Some of her friends are going through Shit and she alternately sends nonsensical memes and I’m here for u messages. After one friend texted that he was worried about what would happen if he died, we started watching her texts. I know, privacy and all that, but she’s also 11 and isn’t emotionally mature enough to handle that kind of heavy conversation. There’s a lot to unpack there and some of it is scary grown-up stuff. So rather than bring you down on this Thursday, this almost weekend day, I’ll leave you with this morning gem:

RR is the blue block, the oh so proud block, the I’m totally ignoring my mother block. I thought she was just distracted but in fact, she totally knew what she was up to. I’ve been eating cereal for 20 minutes. Yes child, yes you have.

Lord Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise

I’m not a religious person and wasn’t raised in a particularly religious family. My mother and grandmother were churchgoers, Presbyterian and Methodist, respectively. How did that happen I wonder. My wife is religious although not the service going sort. Not for lack of trying but I guess compatibility is an important thing when it comes to churches. No, I’m not religious but that hasn’t stopped this phrase from being embedded into my consciousness.

Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.

If you haven’t heard it, I suspect it’s the religious version of Knock on Wood. In my family, it was always said to ward off doom. That the car would have enough gas, that the paycheck was enough to cover food and the mortgage, that the grades would be good enough to get their oldest out of the house and to college. That’s me, that last one. And the answer was barely. That creek sure did come close.

I found myself thinking that phrase often in the last two weeks. That my breathing wouldn’t get worse. Or, that the kitchen renovation would go off as planned (more on that later). But mostly, that RR wouldn’t come down with COVID. We masked in the house and we stayed six feet away from one another. She was tested every three days and negative every time. It was this last test that had me close to prayer. Let it have been enough. It have been 14 days since she has been at school. 14 days since she has been out of the house for anything except walking the dog. 14 days of masks, eating alone, and no hugs. 14 days of every so often tears.

Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, that last test will be negative.

And it’s finally over. That test is negative. I’ve nearly found religion.

They Weren’t Kidding

When they said COVID would make you very sick. Or that being vaccinated wasn’t a sure fire savior. To be fair, they also weren’t kidding when they said that it wouldn’t make you AS sick.

You’ve got to be kidding.

Somehow, despite being masked almost 100% of the time, Debra and I still managed to contract COVID. It’s that almost, isn’t it? I guess they weren’t kidding when they said that masks were practically the holy grail of illness management.

Ten days later and I’m feeling better. I wish the thousands of dead who didn’t have access to the vaccine had had it. For the rest of them, the ones that could have had it, that still don’t have it, despite having no real reason, I can’t imagine why they’d want to go through this. Stabbing back pain, congestion, fever, can’t breathe. No, I mean really, can’t breathe. Even with the vaccination, oxygen is elusive.

Like I said, I’m feeling better now. All except the back pain and breathing. I’m not going to be walking up the hill outside my house without pausing for awhile, I suspect. All because of almost.

They weren’t kidding.

I’m THAT Middle Aged Woman

When I was a child, my mother went through every diet she could find. She was an average-sized woman, on the thin side, always has been, but she was in Weight Watchers. She drank green-colored shakes that left a film in the sink and grunge on the blender no one could get off. She counted calories and took vitamins and pills designed to keep you from feeling hungry. She ate salads while we ate lasagna. She also ate heaps of ice cream when no one was looking. It always starts with your mother, doesn’t it?

I’d have said I’m not that person. I take up more space than your average-sized woman and I’m never on the thin side. I don’t count calories and I don’t eat salads. I’m bigger than I wish I was, looking more like my round father and rounder grandfather and nothing like the sylph-like beanpoles on my mother’s side. It’s getting harder to do the things I know I “should”. Exercise, eating things that are not doughnuts, you know. I think I care less. Or I thought I did.

You see, my wife is always in some sort of pain. Not in a whining, terrible way, no. She suffers silently. An aching back, a sore shoulder, a wince when no one is looking. And so, when she suggested looking into an anti-inflammation diet, I was right there with her. We embarked upon the detox phase only for her to say, halfway through, I didn’t mean for this to be a diet. But of course it is. The word diet has changed for me since my mother was weighing her low cal bread, meaning more of a habit of eating than an activity. But this, this feel-good (and it does), vegetable heavy, spice packed, way of eating is definitely a diet AND a diet.

It reminds me of the Whole 30 (check) and Paleo (also check) but not at all like Weight Watchers (check), all of which we tried for a year and abandoned. How am I not like my mother? I certainly don’t tell RR why we’re having stuffed portobello mushrooms instead of pasta but the flaxseed is sitting on the table and we’re clearly eating more green things than we ever have before. We’re trying to model heathy eating but are we doing that when we swing so wildly around? She is a beanpole herself and I’d like to keep her that way, if only to spare her the looks in high school, the disappointing trips to buy clothing, the pinched waist and sucked in belly.

But then again, here I am, with my own mother who surely wanted those things for me as well, only to fail when I turned out like myself. Raising a child is ridiculously hard work, when you think about it, especially when you can’t do that over a croissant and coffee.

About That Pandemic

I wish I could say profound things about…well, anything lately. Do you ever feel like you’re in a crowded room with a lot of very smart people? All so clever, well-read, well-dressed. All of whom can speak so powerfully, so eloquently about the issue of the day, the month, the year. Black lives, the pandemic, women’s bodies. They have children, maybe, they know all about vaccine rates and trials. There’s that one women using words you can’t even understand to hold forth on Portland’s autonomous zone. And, everyone else is adding insights and nuance and there you are. You don’t have the words, probably, or maybe your words have already been said. You don’t have a contribution that makes a difference or that isn’t without flaws and holes. I’m that person and I’ve been choked for words for a year.

Now is probably the time to say that the pandemic has done a number on us, on me. It’s obvious, right? A year of silence both in written word and, to be honest, spoken words. But, it hasn’t been bleak inside our walls. That makes it even harder to talk about in Polite Company. There are problems. I’ve lost 25 pounds and gained it back (and then some). My daughter homeschooled and then wore a mask through an entire school year and, let’s face it, will do so for another year. She had one playdate. It was terrifying. My wife hasn’t played shows, just started practicing recently, only to see the probable end of practices coming down the Delta path. There has been isolation, mentally and physically. But, and here’s the Polite Company part which, Dear Reader, you are not, there have been some good things that outweigh the rest.

I hadn’t had a migraine until this week, a throwing up, horrendous, kill me now, migraine. This week, the week before I go back to work in the office. I know you know this isn’t a coincidence. I’ve been at peace, more calm, less stressed, slept better, woke up happier, you know, all the things you aspire to when you’re re-evaluating life, since I’ve been working at home. Now? I’m crying in the shower, throwing up in the toilet, and picking up habits I thought I’d left behind. I return to the office on Monday and even typing that makes my heart beat faster.

I’d love to keep this feeling. Having my wife and daughter close, with the same salary, in the same town, without having to work in an office. It seems like a tall order though, especially given the freedom my job typically holds (new boss, some questions). I’ll be working two days a week from home (for now) and I’m holding on to that like the proverbial drowning person. I feel like I can’t get any air and I’m sinking.

So if I’m without anything to say, you know why. I’m an indifferent texter or I’d tell you to text me. Even you, who still thinks you are Polite Company. I’m usually great with anonymous penpals, not so great with anything else, lately. I hope you can forgive me.

Please Vote

If you’re in the U.S. and haven’t voted early, please vote today.

A COVID Halloween

How long did you trick or treat if you’re in a place that does that sort of thing? What age did you stop dressing up? If you don’t have younger siblings, did it all stop a bit earlier?

I ask, you see, because this is RR’s tenth Halloween. I feel like she only has a couple more before she becomes the weird older kid who shows up solo to get candy. It seems like the kids with younger siblings are able to trick or treat much longer than the ones who go alone or in a group of older kids. And yet, this Halloween, there’s no trick or treating for her.

Maybe most parents are letting their kids out but mine is in physical school and I don’t want her bringing her who knows what germs to every person who opens their door. I also won’t be opening my door because I don’t want to hand out candy to kids in the middle of a pandemic. Last year there was a terrible storm that almost canceled Halloween. If a storm could do it, a pandemic most certainly should.

So we’re taking her to our close friends house, an almost pod, if you will, for a two family Halloween party. We’re a big Halloween family so this both breaks my heart and delights me. I’ve always wanted RR to have a Halloween party. My birthday is the day before my mother’s in November so I always had Halloween parties instead of birthday parties (nice, mom) and I have very fond memories of them.

I don’t have any judgement for the folks handing out candy or going trick or treating. In fact, I’m partly sorry I won’t be home to participate. It makes me sad for the kids that are going that there might be fewer houses. Definitely there will be fewer in our neighborhood where there are signs up recommending the kids participate in a socially distanced parade to show off costumes and get candy.

Also, can we talk about ready-made costumes for pre-teen girls? IT’S A WHOLE OTHER WORLD. There’s are jokes about putting sexy in front of everything for adults – sexy Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, sexy nurses, and so on. This year my kid wanted to go as an angel but guess what? SEXY ANGELS. She went with a “dark angel” whatever that is, which turned down the sexy but still you guys, next year I’m making her costume.

School at Home

I don’t make the mistake that we’re homeschooling. And by “we’re” I mean my wife is and by “homeschooling” I mean coming up with lesson plans, teaching, and ensuring work is done in a meaningful and lasting way. On the other hand, she is taking the comprehensive work plan the school sets out and making sure it’s done properly which is no small feat. I think if we were homeschooling in the true sense, it might be a little bit easier since we would have more flexibility on due dates and might know the material better. But on the other hand, we would have to come up with all this stuff, learn it, AND teach it so let me tell you, I think we’re getting the better end of the deal.

Well, I am anyway. As I said, my wife is doing all of the teaching while I’m doing a lot of the working. She’s balancing work and RR’s school. And she’s planning on going back to school herself so we’ll end up shifting yet again. This entire year feels like it’s shifting constantly. I hate to throw it all on 2020 but, man, it sure feels like a shitshow.

Anyway, school at home is hard. Mothering is hard. Wifing is easier these days (I hope that’s a shared opinion at least). The basement flooded. A bird died in the heater. We had to replace all the cold water pipes. Suffice to say, home-owning is hard. 2020 is hard. What else is new?

Armpits

Just stop now if you are an Armpit Person. I suppose you can take that any number of different ways. The person who loves a nice ripe subway ride in a New York summer. The person who enjoys a pleasant meander through the scent fields on a particularly amorous afternoon. I’m not judging you. But if you aren’t an Armpit Person, carry on, my friend.

I’d wager my nose is more sensitive than most and while I’ve weathered my fair share of pungent predicaments, I never thought I’d be contending with one in my own home. There is nothing quite like a brand new set of pre-adolescent hormones to create a scent soup that wrinkles the nose and waters the eyes. I understand the trouble with anti-perspirants but is it too much to ask for a deodorant that does its job?

I understand I’m asking it to work extremely hard (and I don’t mean fresh as a daisy no smell ever ruin your daughter’s self esteem hard). I’m just asking it to mildly take the sting out of the air. Dancing tactfully through this landmine while preserving said self-esteem is no walk in the park. It’s level ten parenting. I don’t want her classmates to ridicule her but I also don’t want to give her a complex.

After trying many different kinds of deodorants – remember Armpit People, we agreed you would stop at the top! – we’ve finally found one that maybe most of the time can limit the hormonal eau de daughter. But seriously. If you have or had one of these parental predicaments or even your own battle, what deodorant have you found that does the trick? All suggestions welcome – limit dairy? More showers? And the ever popular wait it out. But save my nose friends. Help!

When that Disaster Pays Off

We are so lucky I have a titanium bar in my leg. As we speak, my daughter is in her morning school meeting, my wife is meeting with her boss, and I about to be in a group discussion about my Library’s COVID services. Our internet is plugging away just as hard as it can.

Fifteen years ago, while at work, I was on a deck that collapsed. The wooden platform crashed toward the house, trapping my ankle underneath. It shattered in such a way that it took almost a year to suss out a solution and get surgery to fix it. I’m now up two silicone plugs, six screws, and a bar. That deck was on a commercial property and 15 other people were seriously injured. Necks, backs, legs. There was a lawsuit and the result was a down payment on this small house.

This house has held us up for 11 years. It has weathered an infant and a stable of animals. It’s now hosting remote therapy sessions, two jobs that have moved online, and fifth grade. It just took a disaster to get us here.