I had my annual mammogram this week.
I know some women hate this procedure but I am relatively religious about it, in a non-practicing Catholicism sort of way, because the first year I had one, they discovered a lump. My midwife promptly scheduled me for a lumpectomy and I prepared for it the only way I knew how: I went cross-country skiing the night before to alleviate my anxiety and then came home and watched “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” and drank wine as a sort of pre-op prep.
You might find this approach odd but when the nurse stuck a 10 inch needle in my breast the next morning in an effort to stabilize the lump and I almost passed out standing up, the memory of the scene where the armless and legless knight shouts “I’m not dead yet”, really helped. Later on, when I was lying on the operating table with only a local anesthesia, I distracted myself by replaying the movie in my head.
The downside was, the surgeon thought I was laughing at him.
The lumpectomy was successful and the lump was thankfully benign. But to this day my left breast sags and I swear that doctor inadvertently cut a muscle in my breast because I laughed on the operating table.
It’s good to have an excuse for sagging breasts.
This year I asked George if he wanted to drive me to the mammogram appointment and he turned pale. I said, “Look at it this way, if they find a benign lump in my other breast and he cuts that muscle too, I can rebuild without guilt.”
This is a concept I inherited from Susan, who has a history of breast cancer—and small breasts—in her family. I asked her one time if her family history of breast cancer worried her and she said no, she sometimes fantasized about having a proactive double mastectomy so she could pick exactly the breasts she wanted. This idea appalled Annie. She said, “Why not just go with a Wonder Bra??” and I said the search for one my size would be too painful.
Since I had to make time for the mammogram, I decided to also book myself for some blood tests. I avoid blood tests the way other people avoid—well, mammograms. And I had been doubly avoiding these tests because I was supposed to fast for 8 hours prior to having blood taken. Not eating causes me to have blood sugar drops so severe that even the dog goes running.
I said to George, “Can you believe I can’t eat until after I’ve had the tests?” and he said, “why do you think I’m not going to drive you?” George is a veteran of my blood sugar drops. Once he and I went looking for the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen and got lost and I didn’t eat for 5 hours. Hans Christian Andersen is still a verboten topic in our house.
The morning of the mammogram/blood test, I overslept, which was okay because I didn’t have time to lament the loss of breakfast. But when I got to the Breast center I discovered that I had brought the wrong scrip with me—instead of the mammogram scrip, I had brought the scrip for a bone scan—another test I’ve been avoiding. So I had to wait for my midwife to fax in the scrip for my mammogram, which further delayed my blood tests. I was on my second issue of People Magazine when I got called in to the lab, and on the 2nd tube of blood when I started to feel faint. I said to the nurse, “I’m going down,” and she looked panicked and yanked the needle out of my arm.
This was so much worse than a mammogram because at least when the nurse stuck the needle in my arm, she found something. The poor mammogram technician had to struggle to find enough breast to X-ray. She kept trying to get me to lean into the machine further while she tugged on what little (sagging) breast she could grab hold of. While she tried to find something, I thought to myself, this woman sees a lot of breasts, every day. I briefly wondered how mine compared to the others that she sees and felt lacking. But then it occurred to me that she could be a good resource if I ever decided to reconstruct.
I received positive calls the next day from both the lab tech and the mammogram tech. As always, it was a big relief. I called Annie with the good news. I said, “I’m all clear.”
I said, “Why do you think so many women put this test off? I know it’s not a fun way to spend an hour, but the upside is all in the results.” She said, “The same could be said for your persistent refusal to shop for a Wonder Bra.” I said, “Who needs a Wonder Bra when more than a mouthful is a waste?” She asked if George had had his mouth wired shut.
Next year, I’m taking her with me for the blood tests.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
High School, The Musical
Rebecca called last week to say she was coming into town on business.
I said, “Fabulous! You’ll be just in time to catch the Snapper’s Senior Night game!”
Senior Night is the game where all of the senior football players and their parents are honored during a half-time ceremony.
Rebecca said, “Will it be like Glee?” and I said I didn’t know if this team would be able to do “All the Single Ladies” as well as Glee’s football team. Glee is the new dramedy on Fox and Rebecca and I are obsessed with it. The show is ostensibly about kids in high school but it’s the adults on it who make it worth watching, especially Jane Lynch.
I said, “There are some football player parents who create as much drama as the characters on the show,” and Rebecca was thrilled. She said if they could only do a song and dance number too it would be worth the whole trip.
Oh, did she get her money’s worth!
Two days before the game I emailed all the parents to ask who would be walking who out. This is an important question as the blended families outnumber the unblended families at the Snapper’s school. Everyone was diplomatic in their response except the woman whose son is the quarterback. She is also the step-mother of the place-kicker, a position she inherited when she screwed the father of the kicker. Her husband threw her out of the game so she married the kicker’s father.
The night before the big event I came home from a very long day at work to find several imperious emails from the quarterback’s mother in my inbox. I read them to George as he made dinner. I said, “She says that she is walking out with her son and the kicker’s dad and her son’s father and his new wife. She is also walking out with the kicker, her husband, the kicker’s father, and the kicker’s mom.” George said, “I don’t think that many players are allowed on the field at the same time. You should check with the referee.”
I said, “Maybe I’ll just call the kicker’s mom and see what she wants to do. In my book, the mom gets to decide.” George was down with this as he used to work in sports and has told many stories about 300 pound football players weeping when their moms caught them doing something wrong. He says this is why they always shout, “Hi Mom!” when the cameras pan the benches.
So I called the kicker’s mom. She said, “I’ll walk the kicker out and the quarterback’s mom can walk her own son out.” It sounded like a good play to me so I wrote it down and sent the information to the Athletic Director—with a note that he could expect to have to review some of the plays on the field before the ceremony. George read my email and then got out our flask and filled it. He said, “We may need this tomorrow night.”
The next night I picked up my mom and drove her to the field. George picked up Wally, who was coming in from college for the event. Rebecca met us there. She asked, “Who’s walking out with the Snapper?” and I said George, me and the Snapper’s dad. She said, “The Snapper has two dads, just like one of the characters on Glee!” I warned her not to get her hopes up but she and Wally got into a long conversation about potential storylines. Wally’s the one who got us into Glee to begin with.
The quarterback’s mom arrived and refused to talk to me. The kicker’s mom arrived and gave me a hug. The Athletic Director lined us up. I saw the quarterback’s mom run over and hand a sheet of paper to the Athletic Director and I said to George, “Something tells me she’s made a last minute change to the line-up.” Sure enough, the quarterback’s mom had written herself in on the kicker’s team. There was a bit of tension on mid-field as the photographer attempted to take a team photo. The irony was the quarterback’s mom was in such a hurry to get back and walk out the kicker in her position as step-mother that she missed having her picture taken with her own son. The kicker however had a lovely photo taken with his mom.
When the ceremony was over, I sat down in the bleachers and opened my flask. My mother said, “That was exciting! I wasn’t sure how it would end!” and then took a serious hit from my flask. I let her because she gave it to me. It’s pink leather and has my initials on it.
Rebecca said, “Life is just like one big plot line, isn’t it?” I said, “Yes, but no one is singing.” Rebecca asked Wally—who used to also play for this team—if he could have a talk with the coach. She said, “On Glee, after the team sang, they scored a game-winning touchdown. It might help here,--and we could sure use some music.” Wally agreed and stood up, but George pushed him back into his seat and climbed out of the bleachers himself. When I asked where he was going he said, “To buy hot chocolate. The whiskey will only last if we dilute it with something, and if the football players start singing, I’m gonna need a lot more to drink!” My mother told him he should have packed his own flask.
Just then the other team’s band took the field for the half-time ceremony. Two hundred strong, they marched out and formed a pattern, then broke apart as a drill team emerged, front and center and began waving their flags and banners as the band played an unrecognizable tune. It definitely wasn’t Glee, but Rebecca didn’t seem to notice. She just sighed happily and said, “I’d almost given up hope but now I’m in heaven—all this drama, and a drill team too!”
I said, “Fabulous! You’ll be just in time to catch the Snapper’s Senior Night game!”
Senior Night is the game where all of the senior football players and their parents are honored during a half-time ceremony.
Rebecca said, “Will it be like Glee?” and I said I didn’t know if this team would be able to do “All the Single Ladies” as well as Glee’s football team. Glee is the new dramedy on Fox and Rebecca and I are obsessed with it. The show is ostensibly about kids in high school but it’s the adults on it who make it worth watching, especially Jane Lynch.
I said, “There are some football player parents who create as much drama as the characters on the show,” and Rebecca was thrilled. She said if they could only do a song and dance number too it would be worth the whole trip.
Oh, did she get her money’s worth!
Two days before the game I emailed all the parents to ask who would be walking who out. This is an important question as the blended families outnumber the unblended families at the Snapper’s school. Everyone was diplomatic in their response except the woman whose son is the quarterback. She is also the step-mother of the place-kicker, a position she inherited when she screwed the father of the kicker. Her husband threw her out of the game so she married the kicker’s father.
The night before the big event I came home from a very long day at work to find several imperious emails from the quarterback’s mother in my inbox. I read them to George as he made dinner. I said, “She says that she is walking out with her son and the kicker’s dad and her son’s father and his new wife. She is also walking out with the kicker, her husband, the kicker’s father, and the kicker’s mom.” George said, “I don’t think that many players are allowed on the field at the same time. You should check with the referee.”
I said, “Maybe I’ll just call the kicker’s mom and see what she wants to do. In my book, the mom gets to decide.” George was down with this as he used to work in sports and has told many stories about 300 pound football players weeping when their moms caught them doing something wrong. He says this is why they always shout, “Hi Mom!” when the cameras pan the benches.
So I called the kicker’s mom. She said, “I’ll walk the kicker out and the quarterback’s mom can walk her own son out.” It sounded like a good play to me so I wrote it down and sent the information to the Athletic Director—with a note that he could expect to have to review some of the plays on the field before the ceremony. George read my email and then got out our flask and filled it. He said, “We may need this tomorrow night.”
The next night I picked up my mom and drove her to the field. George picked up Wally, who was coming in from college for the event. Rebecca met us there. She asked, “Who’s walking out with the Snapper?” and I said George, me and the Snapper’s dad. She said, “The Snapper has two dads, just like one of the characters on Glee!” I warned her not to get her hopes up but she and Wally got into a long conversation about potential storylines. Wally’s the one who got us into Glee to begin with.
The quarterback’s mom arrived and refused to talk to me. The kicker’s mom arrived and gave me a hug. The Athletic Director lined us up. I saw the quarterback’s mom run over and hand a sheet of paper to the Athletic Director and I said to George, “Something tells me she’s made a last minute change to the line-up.” Sure enough, the quarterback’s mom had written herself in on the kicker’s team. There was a bit of tension on mid-field as the photographer attempted to take a team photo. The irony was the quarterback’s mom was in such a hurry to get back and walk out the kicker in her position as step-mother that she missed having her picture taken with her own son. The kicker however had a lovely photo taken with his mom.
When the ceremony was over, I sat down in the bleachers and opened my flask. My mother said, “That was exciting! I wasn’t sure how it would end!” and then took a serious hit from my flask. I let her because she gave it to me. It’s pink leather and has my initials on it.
Rebecca said, “Life is just like one big plot line, isn’t it?” I said, “Yes, but no one is singing.” Rebecca asked Wally—who used to also play for this team—if he could have a talk with the coach. She said, “On Glee, after the team sang, they scored a game-winning touchdown. It might help here,--and we could sure use some music.” Wally agreed and stood up, but George pushed him back into his seat and climbed out of the bleachers himself. When I asked where he was going he said, “To buy hot chocolate. The whiskey will only last if we dilute it with something, and if the football players start singing, I’m gonna need a lot more to drink!” My mother told him he should have packed his own flask.
Just then the other team’s band took the field for the half-time ceremony. Two hundred strong, they marched out and formed a pattern, then broke apart as a drill team emerged, front and center and began waving their flags and banners as the band played an unrecognizable tune. It definitely wasn’t Glee, but Rebecca didn’t seem to notice. She just sighed happily and said, “I’d almost given up hope but now I’m in heaven—all this drama, and a drill team too!”
Monday, October 26, 2009
Le Divorce
There was an article in Reuters a couple of weeks back about a state in Malaysia that’s offering mini-honeymoons to couples considering divorce, in an effort to help them reconcile. A week or so ago another news agency carried another divorce story—this one about the high correlative rates between financial distress and divorce. And then this past weekend a Times business columnist discussed how different spending styles can contribute to divorce and then counseled readers on how to talk about money so as to avoid divorce.
Divorce seems to be on the minds of a lot of people right now and yet oddly enough, I only know of one couple who’s in the middle of a divorce. I say odd because it seemed as if the moment Wally and the Snapper hit middle school everyone we knew filed for divorce. For two or three years there was a lot of upheaval and then the divorces flat-lined and we all acclimated to new visitation schedules and locations and new boyfriends and girlfriends.
It’s not as if the divorces have been replaced with a lot of new marriages, aside from Wally and the Snapper’s father (that Viagra the Snapper found must be working for him), so I haven’t thought much about divorce until this one couple filed and I started reading these articles. And I’ve now come to the conclusion that this is probably just a lull—most of the people I know with kids in high school will have kids in college in two years and with empty nest syndrome comes flight syndrome. A lot of people split up after their kids leave home. On the one hand, this can help your chances with financial aid. On the other hand, if you’ve made it through diapers and driving lessons and you’re still talking to each other, why bother with all the paperwork and sturm und drang? Maybe the Malaysian honeymoon offer is tailor made for to these couples.
People stay married for a lot of different reasons—for love, for kids, for the 401K, for cover for a gay lifestyle, out of laziness, out of fear, because they don’t want to live alone. People get divorced for a lot of reasons that may not make sense to anyone else either. I left my boys’ father because I didn’t want my kids growing up thinking this was as good as it got. But I also know people who filed for divorce because their spouse wasn’t any good at oral sex (true story) and some who filed because their spouses wanted sex too often—with other people. I know of divorces that came about because of a coup de foudre and some that were filed because of emotional laziness. And I know a lot of people who are still angry years after their divorces, still blame their ex-spouses for their current unhappiness even when they initiated the proceedings. I don’t think even the Malaysian honeymoon could soothe that anger.
The word divorce literally means “ a turning away from” but it is also a synonym for “expensive attorney”. And it’s unfortunate that couples in financial distress are more likely to divorce because one of them will end up deeply in debt—to the other spouse or to an attorney. Even couples unaffected by the current economic conditions are going to take a hit from divorce because divorce is also a synonym for “irrational behavior” and even when the best intentions are present, divorcing couples frequently inflict damage on their spouse and who knows, maybe that’s just part of the turning away from. If you don’t put a huge gap between yourself and the person to whom you were married, how can you successfully turn away? But does it have to be so emotionally and financially destructive, especially in this economy?
I’m thinking of the next wave of divorces to come—and I’m not saying people should stay married just to avoid a painful divorce—far from it. I know how worthwhile the outcome of divorce can be. But maybe our notions about divorce are as outdated as our ideas about marriage—the latter is supposed to be a fairytale and the former a Dante-esque vision of hell and yet most marriages more closely resemble Dante than Disney...meaning, not all divorces have to end in economic and or emotional disaster. So maybe, as we continue to hover in a deep recession, we can begin to model a new kind of divorce, one that enables participants to have the legs to stand on when it’s over.
Divorce seems to be on the minds of a lot of people right now and yet oddly enough, I only know of one couple who’s in the middle of a divorce. I say odd because it seemed as if the moment Wally and the Snapper hit middle school everyone we knew filed for divorce. For two or three years there was a lot of upheaval and then the divorces flat-lined and we all acclimated to new visitation schedules and locations and new boyfriends and girlfriends.
It’s not as if the divorces have been replaced with a lot of new marriages, aside from Wally and the Snapper’s father (that Viagra the Snapper found must be working for him), so I haven’t thought much about divorce until this one couple filed and I started reading these articles. And I’ve now come to the conclusion that this is probably just a lull—most of the people I know with kids in high school will have kids in college in two years and with empty nest syndrome comes flight syndrome. A lot of people split up after their kids leave home. On the one hand, this can help your chances with financial aid. On the other hand, if you’ve made it through diapers and driving lessons and you’re still talking to each other, why bother with all the paperwork and sturm und drang? Maybe the Malaysian honeymoon offer is tailor made for to these couples.
People stay married for a lot of different reasons—for love, for kids, for the 401K, for cover for a gay lifestyle, out of laziness, out of fear, because they don’t want to live alone. People get divorced for a lot of reasons that may not make sense to anyone else either. I left my boys’ father because I didn’t want my kids growing up thinking this was as good as it got. But I also know people who filed for divorce because their spouse wasn’t any good at oral sex (true story) and some who filed because their spouses wanted sex too often—with other people. I know of divorces that came about because of a coup de foudre and some that were filed because of emotional laziness. And I know a lot of people who are still angry years after their divorces, still blame their ex-spouses for their current unhappiness even when they initiated the proceedings. I don’t think even the Malaysian honeymoon could soothe that anger.
The word divorce literally means “ a turning away from” but it is also a synonym for “expensive attorney”. And it’s unfortunate that couples in financial distress are more likely to divorce because one of them will end up deeply in debt—to the other spouse or to an attorney. Even couples unaffected by the current economic conditions are going to take a hit from divorce because divorce is also a synonym for “irrational behavior” and even when the best intentions are present, divorcing couples frequently inflict damage on their spouse and who knows, maybe that’s just part of the turning away from. If you don’t put a huge gap between yourself and the person to whom you were married, how can you successfully turn away? But does it have to be so emotionally and financially destructive, especially in this economy?
I’m thinking of the next wave of divorces to come—and I’m not saying people should stay married just to avoid a painful divorce—far from it. I know how worthwhile the outcome of divorce can be. But maybe our notions about divorce are as outdated as our ideas about marriage—the latter is supposed to be a fairytale and the former a Dante-esque vision of hell and yet most marriages more closely resemble Dante than Disney...meaning, not all divorces have to end in economic and or emotional disaster. So maybe, as we continue to hover in a deep recession, we can begin to model a new kind of divorce, one that enables participants to have the legs to stand on when it’s over.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Senior-itis
The Snapper has begun the college application process and it’s amazing how thoroughly I forgot what this was like with Wally. I said to George, “This is why people continue to procreate—they have short memories.”
He said, “I don’t think Wally’s senior year was that bad,” and I said, “That’s because you were in England for most of it.”
He’d forgotten that already. See?
I said, “There’s a college information session scheduled for Notre Dame for tomorrow night. Would you like to take him? Do some male bonding?” I’m nothing if not hopeful, but George said he had another flight to catch. Besides, he added, “I took him on a college visit this summer. Don’t you remember?” I didn’t, so he asked the Snapper, who said, “You mean that place with the great looking blondes?” and he and George high-fived each other.
I went to the event with the Snapper. There were also a lot of blondes there but they struck me as frostier and I don’t just mean their roots. Actually, the whole event struck me as frosty which surprised me, because when I think of Notre Dame, I think of football and beer and warm, golden autumn afternoons. I don’t think about uptight admissions counselors. But that’s what this one was. I learned that Notre Dame still has single sex dorms and that no persons of the opposite gender may spend the night in another person’s room who is of the opposite gender. I listened to this woman talk and I began to think her frosty attitude was the result of 4 years worth of not interacting with the opposite gender. That and the snow that falls on South Bend six months of the year.
But the Snapper heard none of that. All he heard was “Notre Dame”, “football” and “football”. After the stirring video (featuring football), the counselor spoke about academics and spirituality at Notre Dame. She asked if anyone had any questions and I raised my hand. The Snapper was embarrassed but I stood anyway and asked about the meal plan. This is a very critical topic in our house because of how much Wally and the Snapper eat. When Wally went to school I learned, too late, that the deluxe meal plan I had purchased for him was only garnering him 14 or so meals a week. By Thanksgiving he was out of meals for the semester. I told him to make friends with some anorexics. But the ND counselor assured me that the college had received a high rating for their cafeterias. I thought to myself, well, if not sex then food I guess.
The Snapper was by now thoroughly stoked. Great football, great food, the promise of great beer. He got in line to speak with the frosty admissions counselor after the presentation. He eagerly handed her a copy of his grades (which gained him a promising nod of the head), his activities sheet (which has lots of football on it) and his test scores. She looked at them and her lip curled.
He was devastated. For the record, he finished in the 96th percentile, but apparently that is not enough to make the grade at ND. The frosty counselor encouraged him to re-take the test to improve his scores. He immediately asked me to sign him up for not one, but two more test dates.
This surprised me more than the no-sex-at-Notre-Dame policy. The Snapper is a kid who once famously said to me, “If a 92 is an A and a 100 is an A and I can get the 92 without studying, why bother working for the 100?” George always says about the Snapper, “He will never die of a heart attack.” But he has apparently changed—as has Wally, who after years of being a diligent student is now majoring in frat studies and creating wall art comprised of empty six pack boxes.
If there’s one thing that teenagers consistently teach you—even if you choose not to pay attention—it’s that you really don’t know who they are because they’re still in the process of becoming. You think you know your kids because you taught them to walk, read, write, tie their shoes, use the bathroom, say their name and even do laundry. You remember how they were when you taught them to do all of that and so you assume you still know who they are.
The reality is the adult you think you’re graduating from high school is really still a work in progress. It’s why we’re so shocked at how people have changed when we go back to our high school reunions. And sometimes even our college ones, too. Life takes the kids we’ve been molding and throws them onto a potters wheel, spinning them around and re-shaping them in ways we cannot begin to imagine when we teach them how to tie their shoes. The question is, when they’re older, will we remember the way the kid they were at 6 or 16 or will the 26 year old adult eclipse all memories, including the drama of the college application process?
“Knowing and remembering,” I said to George. “It’s all so confusing.” He said, “Now you’ve got me wondering why I didn’t go to Notre Dame when I was accepted—I can’t remember.” “That’s easy,” I said, “You probably didn’t go because it would have cut off your access to girls.” He said, “You know this to be true?” I said “I know a lot of things, just not where the Snapper took the car last Friday night to celebrate his 18th birthday.” And George said some things were better left forgotten.
He said, “I don’t think Wally’s senior year was that bad,” and I said, “That’s because you were in England for most of it.”
He’d forgotten that already. See?
I said, “There’s a college information session scheduled for Notre Dame for tomorrow night. Would you like to take him? Do some male bonding?” I’m nothing if not hopeful, but George said he had another flight to catch. Besides, he added, “I took him on a college visit this summer. Don’t you remember?” I didn’t, so he asked the Snapper, who said, “You mean that place with the great looking blondes?” and he and George high-fived each other.
I went to the event with the Snapper. There were also a lot of blondes there but they struck me as frostier and I don’t just mean their roots. Actually, the whole event struck me as frosty which surprised me, because when I think of Notre Dame, I think of football and beer and warm, golden autumn afternoons. I don’t think about uptight admissions counselors. But that’s what this one was. I learned that Notre Dame still has single sex dorms and that no persons of the opposite gender may spend the night in another person’s room who is of the opposite gender. I listened to this woman talk and I began to think her frosty attitude was the result of 4 years worth of not interacting with the opposite gender. That and the snow that falls on South Bend six months of the year.
But the Snapper heard none of that. All he heard was “Notre Dame”, “football” and “football”. After the stirring video (featuring football), the counselor spoke about academics and spirituality at Notre Dame. She asked if anyone had any questions and I raised my hand. The Snapper was embarrassed but I stood anyway and asked about the meal plan. This is a very critical topic in our house because of how much Wally and the Snapper eat. When Wally went to school I learned, too late, that the deluxe meal plan I had purchased for him was only garnering him 14 or so meals a week. By Thanksgiving he was out of meals for the semester. I told him to make friends with some anorexics. But the ND counselor assured me that the college had received a high rating for their cafeterias. I thought to myself, well, if not sex then food I guess.
The Snapper was by now thoroughly stoked. Great football, great food, the promise of great beer. He got in line to speak with the frosty admissions counselor after the presentation. He eagerly handed her a copy of his grades (which gained him a promising nod of the head), his activities sheet (which has lots of football on it) and his test scores. She looked at them and her lip curled.
He was devastated. For the record, he finished in the 96th percentile, but apparently that is not enough to make the grade at ND. The frosty counselor encouraged him to re-take the test to improve his scores. He immediately asked me to sign him up for not one, but two more test dates.
This surprised me more than the no-sex-at-Notre-Dame policy. The Snapper is a kid who once famously said to me, “If a 92 is an A and a 100 is an A and I can get the 92 without studying, why bother working for the 100?” George always says about the Snapper, “He will never die of a heart attack.” But he has apparently changed—as has Wally, who after years of being a diligent student is now majoring in frat studies and creating wall art comprised of empty six pack boxes.
If there’s one thing that teenagers consistently teach you—even if you choose not to pay attention—it’s that you really don’t know who they are because they’re still in the process of becoming. You think you know your kids because you taught them to walk, read, write, tie their shoes, use the bathroom, say their name and even do laundry. You remember how they were when you taught them to do all of that and so you assume you still know who they are.
The reality is the adult you think you’re graduating from high school is really still a work in progress. It’s why we’re so shocked at how people have changed when we go back to our high school reunions. And sometimes even our college ones, too. Life takes the kids we’ve been molding and throws them onto a potters wheel, spinning them around and re-shaping them in ways we cannot begin to imagine when we teach them how to tie their shoes. The question is, when they’re older, will we remember the way the kid they were at 6 or 16 or will the 26 year old adult eclipse all memories, including the drama of the college application process?
“Knowing and remembering,” I said to George. “It’s all so confusing.” He said, “Now you’ve got me wondering why I didn’t go to Notre Dame when I was accepted—I can’t remember.” “That’s easy,” I said, “You probably didn’t go because it would have cut off your access to girls.” He said, “You know this to be true?” I said “I know a lot of things, just not where the Snapper took the car last Friday night to celebrate his 18th birthday.” And George said some things were better left forgotten.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A Moveable Feast
Thirty years ago, in the waning days of summer, I got on a plane and went to France. I flew on a DC-9 and it was the summer they kept blowing up. “Don’t worry,” my father reassured me, “By the time you leave, they’ll be the safest planes around.”
I landed in Paris, solo. The plan—if there was one—was to spend several days hanging out in Paris, finding my way around, before I headed down to my school in Angers, in the Loire Valley. My sister who was babysitting in Spain would join me at some point. That was the only plan I had. I had no real idea where I was going in Paris of after, but I went anyway.
I got off the plane and in my best American French, asked for directions to the bus that would take me the center of Paris. I took the wrong bus and ended up in a depot on the outskirts of Paris. I waited patiently for an irate French woman to finish berating the counter people in the bus terminal and then slowly explained my situation. The irate French woman took one look at me, twenty-one and lost in Paris with a backpack, and said, “Come with me!”
Her name was Francoise and she was in her mid-twenties. Though only a few years older than me she seemed sophisticated beyond her years. On the way back into the city she ran errands, pointed out landmarks and kept up a steady stream of information in rapid fire French, including relevant slang and necessary swear words. Francoise was a school teacher, and for her apparently, everything was a learning experience. When we finally got to the hostel, she looked at the bunk beds jammed against each other pursed her lips disapprovingly. “I will come back,” she threatened. What did I know? And really, what did it matter? It was Paris. The sun did not set until almost ten o’clock that night and I ate dinner with some red-headed American college boy on the sidewalks of the Boulevard St. Michel.
The next morning I learned to drink coffee out of a bowl and then took some Madelines down to a quai along the Seine. The sun warmed the mossy gray steps as I ate the cookies and watched the flat boats slip along in the water. I smelled green dankness and diesel and yeasty baking bread. To this day, that is still the essence of Paris for me.
True to her word, Francoise returned before lunch and insisted I pack up and come stay with her and her boyfriend and his nephew. I explained about my sister—no matter! She would come, too! We went.
I have no idea what inspired her to take me in like that, but she took us everywhere. She led us to hidden churches, parked on sidewalks—engaging in constant heated dialectic with the police over her decision to do so, and taught us to swear in rapid-fire French. Our last night in Paris, my sister and I treated Francoise to dinner in Montmartre, and it involved a lot of wine and an in-depth discussion of whether or not she should leave her current boyfriend and go live in Martinique with another boyfriend. Well past midnight she decided we had to see the Moulin Rouge and so we drove up and down one way streets the wrong way because she couldn’t quite remember where it was. As she drove she taught us to sing “La Marseillaise” (I still know every word). We were inevitably pulled over by yet another cop. Francoise cued us to continue singing as she rolled down the window, and told the policeman that les Americaines could sing the Marseillaise, at which point we sang very loudly. He was impressed with our pronunciation and let us go.
The next day Francoise dropped us at the train station. My sister was headed to the airport and back to the States; I was headed to a school where I knew no one. I cried on the train, sitting on the scratchy, navy blue seat. The old woman next to me peeled an orange and placed a few sections at a time in the palm of my hand, patting my arm gently.
My first morning in Angers I woke early. There was a mist on the field outside my window and I got lost in the medieval streets trying to find my way toward the university. I stopped at a boulangerie for pain au chocolat, lost in admiration for a country that sold bread spread with dark chocolate as a legitimate food product. I crossed the street to walk on a narrow sidewalk in the sun and I could smell fall all around me. Every August now, when I smell the first hint of cool autumn in the air, I think of Angers and Paris and the lovely anticipation of the unknown.
This morning I woke up and smelled autumn in the air. I was running to catch a train but when a traffic light forced me to stand still, the scent rose up around me. After I boarded I found myself across the aisle from an old woman and she reminded me suddenly of the old woman on the train from Angers to Paris. By some odd chance and at that moment someone two rows forward peeled an orange. I leaned back into the scratchy blue Amtrak seats and laughed.
Sometimes even the well known can have elements of the unknown and if we’re lucky we can get lost there again, if only for a little while.
I landed in Paris, solo. The plan—if there was one—was to spend several days hanging out in Paris, finding my way around, before I headed down to my school in Angers, in the Loire Valley. My sister who was babysitting in Spain would join me at some point. That was the only plan I had. I had no real idea where I was going in Paris of after, but I went anyway.
I got off the plane and in my best American French, asked for directions to the bus that would take me the center of Paris. I took the wrong bus and ended up in a depot on the outskirts of Paris. I waited patiently for an irate French woman to finish berating the counter people in the bus terminal and then slowly explained my situation. The irate French woman took one look at me, twenty-one and lost in Paris with a backpack, and said, “Come with me!”
Her name was Francoise and she was in her mid-twenties. Though only a few years older than me she seemed sophisticated beyond her years. On the way back into the city she ran errands, pointed out landmarks and kept up a steady stream of information in rapid fire French, including relevant slang and necessary swear words. Francoise was a school teacher, and for her apparently, everything was a learning experience. When we finally got to the hostel, she looked at the bunk beds jammed against each other pursed her lips disapprovingly. “I will come back,” she threatened. What did I know? And really, what did it matter? It was Paris. The sun did not set until almost ten o’clock that night and I ate dinner with some red-headed American college boy on the sidewalks of the Boulevard St. Michel.
The next morning I learned to drink coffee out of a bowl and then took some Madelines down to a quai along the Seine. The sun warmed the mossy gray steps as I ate the cookies and watched the flat boats slip along in the water. I smelled green dankness and diesel and yeasty baking bread. To this day, that is still the essence of Paris for me.
True to her word, Francoise returned before lunch and insisted I pack up and come stay with her and her boyfriend and his nephew. I explained about my sister—no matter! She would come, too! We went.
I have no idea what inspired her to take me in like that, but she took us everywhere. She led us to hidden churches, parked on sidewalks—engaging in constant heated dialectic with the police over her decision to do so, and taught us to swear in rapid-fire French. Our last night in Paris, my sister and I treated Francoise to dinner in Montmartre, and it involved a lot of wine and an in-depth discussion of whether or not she should leave her current boyfriend and go live in Martinique with another boyfriend. Well past midnight she decided we had to see the Moulin Rouge and so we drove up and down one way streets the wrong way because she couldn’t quite remember where it was. As she drove she taught us to sing “La Marseillaise” (I still know every word). We were inevitably pulled over by yet another cop. Francoise cued us to continue singing as she rolled down the window, and told the policeman that les Americaines could sing the Marseillaise, at which point we sang very loudly. He was impressed with our pronunciation and let us go.
The next day Francoise dropped us at the train station. My sister was headed to the airport and back to the States; I was headed to a school where I knew no one. I cried on the train, sitting on the scratchy, navy blue seat. The old woman next to me peeled an orange and placed a few sections at a time in the palm of my hand, patting my arm gently.
My first morning in Angers I woke early. There was a mist on the field outside my window and I got lost in the medieval streets trying to find my way toward the university. I stopped at a boulangerie for pain au chocolat, lost in admiration for a country that sold bread spread with dark chocolate as a legitimate food product. I crossed the street to walk on a narrow sidewalk in the sun and I could smell fall all around me. Every August now, when I smell the first hint of cool autumn in the air, I think of Angers and Paris and the lovely anticipation of the unknown.
This morning I woke up and smelled autumn in the air. I was running to catch a train but when a traffic light forced me to stand still, the scent rose up around me. After I boarded I found myself across the aisle from an old woman and she reminded me suddenly of the old woman on the train from Angers to Paris. By some odd chance and at that moment someone two rows forward peeled an orange. I leaned back into the scratchy blue Amtrak seats and laughed.
Sometimes even the well known can have elements of the unknown and if we’re lucky we can get lost there again, if only for a little while.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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