Archive for the 'Wivian' Category

Otherwise Occupied

November 7, 2007 | Antique Junk Drawer, Silliness, Wivian

In case you were wondering who my company was yesterday, it’s my mommy.  She’s still here.  Sometimes I like to be coy. 

The upside to that is that she is occupying my child which means I can do other things, like go get my teeth cleaned – just a little hobby of mine, something I like to do in my spare time.

The downside to that is she can’t vote for me which means I’ll probably win this prize. So, maybe you could get your mother to vote for me? (That’s once every 24-hours through November 8th! Operators are standing by! Call now and get a set of Ginzu knives with every vote!)

I leave you with this “that’s my boy” moment.   The other day Sean came home from school and told me that the teacher asked the class to name a fruit for the each letter of the alphabet.  As expected, he said “A” was for apple, “B” was for banana and I think he said “C” was for canna-wope.  I asked what fruit started with “D” and he said doughnut. 

Yep. That’s my boy!

Oops! How’d that get there??

The Pinwheel

June 14, 2007 | Memaw, Sometimes Sweet, Wivian

Last week, we drove to Illinois to visit my parents and let Sean OD on popsicles and Wivian.

Knowing that in the coming week, that Wivian would be indulging Sean’s every whim and thereby be promoted to most favored grandmother status, Cleo, my mother-in-law, made a pre-emptive strike in the Grandma Wars and loaded Sean up with seven or eight presents to open along the way.

When we were about a mile away from MeMaw’s house, Sean demanded to open his first present and being the spineless jelly fish of a parent bent on instant gratification that I am, I let him.

From a beautiful gift bag laden with festive ribbon and colorful tissue paper he pulled a twenty-five cent pinwheel.

“Oh my!” he exlaimed. “I can’t believe my eyes! I’ve never seen such a thing!”

And then he spent the next 50 miles holding the pinwheel up to the air conditioning vent and cackling with joy.

If only his thrills would always be so cheap.

My Cylinders Are Dirty And My Mother Told Me So. For Free.

March 27, 2007 | Mildly Amusing, Wivian

For several weeks, I’ve been pretending that I haven’t noticed that our six-year-old freezer is not really freezing. Having recently replaced a 5-year-old washing machine, the thought of our reasonably young major appliances dying off one by one was more than I could bear, so I scampered off to my happy place where appliances never break, my thighs are thin and chin whiskers are only for cats. La-luh-la-luh-lah!

But then the other day I noticed that the veggie burger that I pulled from the freezer felt more like a sponge than a frozen burger. Although a veggie burger usually tastes like a sponge, it normally doesn’t feel like one until after it’s been nuked. Nonetheless, I convinced myself that Sean had been in the freezer and that he probably hadn’t shut the freezer door all the way. Denial with a twist of logic.

However. It was hard to persist in my denial when my mother reported that she got an ice cream bar out of the freezer — and drank it.

“Have you cleaned your cylinders?” she asked. “Your cylinders are probably just dirty.” I tried to not take that personally.

I just looked at her because I couldn’t think of one thing to say other than “What are cylinders?”

“About once a year, your father brings in the leaf blower and cleans out our cylinders,” she persisted.

The image of my father in the kitchen wearing protective goggles, wrangling the leaf blower and giving the refrigerator a hot air enema while my mom, also wearing protective goggles looked on and supervised made me laugh. There’s got to be a Far Side cartoon in there somewhere.

I seriously doubted that our non-freezing freezer’s problem could be attributed to something as simple as dirt because my theory is that dirt is what’s holding this place together. So I found my owners manual and called the service number and scheduled a repairman out for this morning.

Mr. Cheerful pulled a panel off the front of the fridge and reported with a little too much satisfaction that my cylinders were dirty. I thought my mom was going to high-five him.

So then. Recap. I paid $75 plus tax for a strange man to come into my home and tell me what my mother already told me so that she could say she told me so.

Edited to add: Maybe they’re not cylinders. Maybe their coils. I don’t know. Because I wasn’t paying attention. I’m pretty sure they start with “c”. I only know that this c-word thing is dirty and I paid some guy $80 to tell me so. As if I needed something else to clean. Someone needs to invent self-cleaning cylinders and coils.

Final Edit: I’ve just been informed by experts who are standing by that it’s a compressor. So I was right. It starts with “c”.

Departure Day

February 22, 2007 | Papa Ed, Wivian

Nothing has been more healing to me this past week than to see Sean interact with my parents. He simply adores them. And the feeling, of course, is mutual. Whereas I shaved about 20 years off their lives back in the 70s, he has added that many years and more back, just in the past week. He makes them laugh, and to hear the three of them giggling together, all caught up in some private joke, is a joyful noise.

I did not grow up with grandparents. Regrettably. And I guess we all want for our children that which we did not have ourselves. To see his eyes light up when my dad walks into the room or to watch him maneuver to sit next to my mother or hold her hand has blessed me and filled me beyond what I could describe here.

Yesterday morning at breakfast, my mother mentioned something about when they would be leaving, and no kidding, in mid-bite Sean dropped his fork to his plate. He could not believe his ears. He was incredulous. “You can’t leave!” he gasped in disbelief. “You can’t go!” He searched all the faces at the table for someone who would tell him it wasn’t so. It had not occurred to him that they would ever leave.

Last night after Antique Daddy had bathed and dressed him for bed, he scampered up the stairs to jump into bed between them to tell them goodnight. Papa Ed tells it that Wivian suggested to him that she might just take him home in her suitcase. “Okay!” he exclaimed. And then he sprang out of bed, dumped all of Papa Ed’s clothes out of his suitcase and onto the floor, tucked himself inside and pulled the lid shut. Then he popped open the lid like a jack-in-the-box and announced victoriously, “See!? I fit!” As if that sealed the deal.

Then, in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of teeny tiny jingle bells - the familiar sound of Mr. Monkey accompanied by Sean, both stealing up the stairs to the room where my parents sleep.

“Sean!” I whispered in my stern mommy voice from the bottom of the stairs, “Get down here! What are you doing? It’s 4am.” He whispered back in a little boy way that is not really a whisper, “Oh, I was just going upstairs to look at Wivian.”

The image of him kneeling beside the bed, gazing upon the form of my sleeping mother made my heart stop. And in that split second of frozen eternity I allowed myself to wonder what he will remember of her. Maybe nothing more than looking upon the shadow and line of her face in the transparent moonlight as she slept. Maybe only that she adored him. And that would be enough.

Departure day is upon us and it is going to be a sad, sad day all around.

And let me tell you, there’s going to be an airport-style baggage check too.

What You Get For 52 Years

February 20, 2007 | Papa Ed, Sometimes Sweet, Wivian

Photo Temporarily Unavailable

It is earlier in the week. We are sitting around the breakfast table. I am not actually sitting, I’m kind of slouched over in my chair with my head on the table because I’m still feeling like last night’s piñata from my adventures in organ removal. But I’m pretending. I’m trying real hard. My parents are reading the newspaper. Sean is being Sean.

My dad looks up from the newspaper and over his eggs and toast, he says, “Hmmph!” as though he’s just discovered something. And he has. He just noticed the day’s date and that today is their 52nd wedding anniversary. In the chaos and the crazy of the past week, everyone had forgotten.

Dad scans the heartwarming Norman Rockwell scene around the table: his doped up middle-aged daughter with her face in her plate, his grandson spooning yogurt down his pajamas and his bride of 52 years obliviously working a Sudoku puzzle.

From the look on my dad’s face, I was guessing that maybe he was imagining himself as a young man standing at the altar of St. Al’s 52-years ago, full of youth and hope, kissing my pretty mom with his hands around her tiny waist. Or maybe he was thinking he just didn’t see this coming.

Nonetheless.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. We’ll celebrate next year, except without the morphine.

Photo: Wivian and Papa Ed, 1955

Guest Post - My Baby Is 47

February 1, 2007 | Antique Childhood, Wivian

by Wivian

1960 ~ I remember it well, as though it were just 47 years ago.

I was 27-years-old and ripe as a plum with my third child. I hadn’t seen my toes since Christmas. We already had two children, two little boys, who would turn 4 and 2 in March, but my husband wanted a little girl and so I had agreed to try one last time. It was extremely cold and windy that day, even by Illinois standards. Everyone was complaining about the weather and kept telling me, “You’re probably going to have that baby tonight ~ the weather always brings babies early.” Did I listen? Of course not. Was I wrong? Absolutely!

When my water broke, a neighbor came and stayed with my two boys. The night air was frigid and the wind battered our jalopy of a car as we made our way to the hospital. There are two sets of railroad tracks between our home and the nearest hospital, both of which almost always have a train sitting on them, and I believe it was only the power of prayer that kept the roads clear until we got to the hospital.

Three records were set in our town that night. The wind had never blown so hard and it had never been that cold on that date. The other record was the birth of our little daughter. This was the first girl in my husband’s family for many many years! She topped the scales at just over five pounds and looked like a little doll.

AM’s brothers figured their lives were ruined the day we brought her home and likewise, she was always convinced that there was some mix up at the hospital – that those two hellions could not possibly be her brothers, and would we please return her to the rich family across town where she was certain she belonged. Alas, there had been no mix up and after 40-some years, I believe they have finally come to appreciate one another.

The first word most babies say is “Mama”. AM’s first words were, “Where’s my coat?” I didn’t know at the time how prophetic those words were. As soon as she could toddle, she was ready to leave home. Her favorite place to visit was her Godparent’s house, across the street. At two-years-old, she would pack her dolls and nightgown in a brown paper sack and go across the street where she was appreciated ~ and where there were no brothers to pester her. They loved her as if she were their own and the feeling was mutual. Then when she was 21, she packed what few things she had and moved to Texas – where she seldom needs a coat – and she has been there since.

It has been a joy to be her mother and it has been an even greater joy to see her be a mother. Except for the years between 1973 and 1978, I’d love to do it all over again.

Photo Temporarily Unavailable

Back To The Archives

November 17, 2006 | Reruns and Leftovers, Wivian

It’s a lovely day here in the Dallas metroplex, so Sean and I are going off to have a fun day together and leaving the computer behind. Which means that I’m going to schlufff off (I think I just made that word up) on you something from the archives. I find I do a lot of schluffing these days. But before that, there was this amusing exchange this morning:

Sean: Mommy, can I drink this? (my coffee)
Me: No, not until you are bigger, then yes, we will drink coffee together.
Sean: Daddy don’t drink coffee
Me: No (shaking head sadly) Daddy does not drink coffee.
Sean: Then he will have to drink alone.

* * *

Concrete or Cheerios, It’s All The Same

Haven’t we all, at one time or another said, “When I have a child, I’m going to do things differently than my parents.” And then of course, when you are actually entrusted with the responsibility of a pint-sized, uncivilized, miniature human being — you do all the things your parents did, and even make up some new stuff along the way. That way, when your kid grows up he can list all the things he would never do as a parent. It’s the glorious cycle of life.

Really and truly, there are not too many things my mom did growing up that I plan to avoid. What I am discovering — the longer I’m at this parenting-thing — is that I hope to be more like her and not less.

My mom was pretty laid back about most matters. It took quite a bit to push her buttons and even when you did reach that elastic limit, she would freely extend grace most of the time. This came to mind the other day when my son had dumped an entire economy-sized box of Cheerios into the sofa. I guess he thought if he stomped on them like grapes, I wouldn’t notice. As I was shoveling Cheerios out of the depths and bowels of the sofa, I really had to focus to keep my humor. My own mother would have laughed about it and then served a mixing bowl of Cheerios for lunch. I mean it wasn’t like he was free-form mixing concrete in the garage or anything like that…

When I was about 9-years-old, I decided the garage needed cleaned out. The Neat-Freak Gene exhibited itself early on. So I hauled everything out of the garage, including a 25-lb of concrete mix, but since it was 25-lbs and I was 9-years-old and weighed not much more than that, I dropped it and it broke open. That’s when I had the great idea that I would hose it out… And the funny thing is that when you combine concrete mix and water – you get concrete!! I kept working quickly and quietly with the hose and broom hoping to get the mess cleaned up before anyone noticed, but I just kept making more and more concrete until finally my spaghetti-sized arms could do no more. So I ran inside and tried to tell mom that there was a growing mass of concrete in the garage. I now recognize that expression she had on her face. It’s the one where you hear a heavy thud somewhere in the house and then silence. Never a good thing.

Anyway, I expected when Mom saw my handiwork that she would blow a gasket and blister my behind, but she just grabbed a shovel and made a nice little sidewalk beside the garage.

Calm and creative. That’s the kind of mom I want to be.

Always

October 9, 2006 | Makes Me Sigh, Papa Ed, Wivian

Photo Temporarily Unavailable

My parents left yesterday morning after a week-long visit.

When you start your family as late in life as I did, thoughts of time and how precious little there is of it, are never far away. When I look at my parents, I have to remind myself that they are not in their mid-40s, but in their mid-70s. I still think of my dad as a lean and wiry young man able to hurdle a 4-ft. fence. And I suppose that when they look at me they have to remind themselves that I’m in my mid-40s and not seven. No matter how many years go by, they’ll always be my mommy and daddy and I’ll always be their baby. After a week like this past one - one that went entirely too fast — I’d drain my bank account in exchange for the promise that I could get more time for Sean, for me, for all of us, before it all comes to pass.

The day after his Bivian and Papa Ed leave are always hard for Sean. He misses them and it takes some time for him to get over the fact that he is stuck with just me. So this afternoon as I was putting Sean down for his nap, I took some extra time to read to him and for a time, he let me just cradle him. His head rested in the crook of my arm and his long legs draped over the edge of the arm of the rocker. For a long time, we just sat there in silence listening to the sounds of the day - the creaking of the rocker, a lawn mower in the distance, an airplane, a passing car. As I looked long into his face, without realizing it, I wondered out loud “Where did my baby go?” He reached up and touched my face and whispered, “Here I am.”

When I’m 89 and he’s 46, I’ll still be his mommy and he’ll still be my baby.

PHOTO: Sean with Bivian who showed him how to decorate a stick wasting using an entire bolt of Christmas ribbon. Liberal usage of ribbon, sissors and tape is just one reason why Bivian is way more fun than Mommy.

Things For Which I Need To Apologize #32

October 2, 2006 | Sometimes Tart, Wivian

Dear Mom,

I was wrong. It turns out that “because I said so” really is a good answer.

My sincerest apologies,

Antique Daughter

The Auction

August 4, 2006 | Mildly Amusing, Wivian

When I was home recently in central Illinois, a house down the street from my parent’s home was up for auction. The elderly owners had both passed away leaving everything in their home exactly as they had left it. Like my parents, they had lived in their home for 50 years. When you are in one place that long, you accumulate a lot of stuff.

In spite of having lived there for so long, few people had seen the inside of the home and there was a lot of curiosity.

On the day of the auction, my mom walked down the street to view the spectacle. Some people were there seeking a bargain, others were simply driven by the morbid curiosity of watching the accumulation of two lives being distributed among strangers.

My mom said she expected that the house, the car and the furniture would be sold off, but that she was surprised at the personal things that were being auctioned, particularly the shoes. She said that there is just something so very personal about someone’s shoes.

“I was a bit surprised that they sold their dad and mom’s shoes and a lot of other personal items,” she lamented. “That doesn’t seem right to sell them at auction.” Then she quickly added, “Will you please give our stuff to Goodwill rather than have someone hold up my panties for a bid!”

I promised her that I would spare her post-mortem humiliation in front of the entire neighborhood — even though she blew kisses to me from the car window embarrassing me in front of my entire 4th grade class.

Life is embarrassing and then you die. And then they auction off your panties.

Gammaw’s Kisses

July 7, 2006 | Makes Me Sigh, Wivian

Last week when we were at my parent’s house, my position in Sean’s universe slipped significantly. Anything Mommy could do, Grandma could do better.

I had heretofore been the chief boo boo kisser. I’m skilled in this particular area of medicine. I’m experienced, I’ve studied it, I’ve perfected it.

So when he bumped his knee and started crying, I reflexively called to him, “Come here Sweetie, Mommy will kiss it.” He stopped crying and looked at me. And then he looked at my mother and then back at me. “No thank you,” he said not able to look me in the eye, “Gammaw kiss it.”

“Um, well, okay,” I said trying not to sound hurt. “Grandma’s kisses are good too, I guess. I’ve got kisses over here too you know, if like, it doesn’t work out or whatever….”

He didn’t hear me saying that my kisses come with an extended warranty. He was already wrapped up in Gammaw’s arms. And it’s true. Gammaw’s kisses are superior. She can make a boo boo better no matter what’s hurting or how old you are. I know.

Beware of Wivian’s Mojo

July 4, 2006 | Wivian

We arrived back in Dallas Sunday evening from a week-long visit with my parents. The flights were what I always hope for - uneventful, no tipping over. Everyone enjoyed a good nights sleep, each in their own beds. The next day was to be one of reckoning, as I knew it would be.

Those of you who have small children can probably attest to what happens to them after being in the company of their grandparents for an extended period of time. The grandparents, anxious to get back at their own children for depriving them of sleep and disposable income for twenty years, feed the child buckets of ice cream and boxes of cookies and anything else the child wants. They coax the child into some sort of sugar-induced trance and then act as a sherpa leading them to places far beyond the parental established boundaries. And that’s when they put the mojo on the kid.

After the mojo is firmly affixed to the kid, the grandparents say sly things to the unsuspecting parents like, “Why don’t you two go out for a nice quiet dinner? We’ll keep Sean (and convince him that the word no doesn’t really apply to him, it’s really just a suggestion!) Take your time (while we help him see you as two crazy people intent on ruining his life). He won’t even know you’re gone (because we’ll be letting him do whatever he wants!)

The rude awaking came early. At the light of dawn on Monday morning Sean stood in his crib, rattling the rails like an agitated ape and screaming “Mahhhhhmmeeee!” Without fully awakening, I managed to get him out of bed, change his diaper and carry him into the kitchen and set him on the island so that I might pour him some milk. But apparently at Grandma’s house, Sean is allowed to climb up into the refrigerator and get the milk himself. So as I reached into the refrigerator to get the milk, he started screaming “I DO IT I DO IT!!! I wanna do it!”

My first mistake which I will chalk up to not having had any coffee yet was to try to reason with him: a) I always get the milk out, b) it’s on a shelf you cannot reach, c) it’s my house and my fridge d) because I SAID SO. Toddlers coming off a week at Grandma’s are not reasonable people. Reasoning only caused him to scream louder and louder until the hunting dogs that live two doors down started barking, perhaps sensing an injured animal or an exhausted 46-year-old woman with an unreasonable toddler - either way, both dead meat.

He would not be consoled until he got the milk out of the refrigerator himself and I was not going to be bullied by a two year old at 6:30 in the morning. We were at a standoff.

Finally he collapsed into a heap and cried “I want to go back to Wivian’s!” Being the mature, responsible adult that I am, I snapped, “I want you to send you back to Wivian’s, so there!”

It’s going to be a reeeeeally long week of undoing all of Wivian’s doing. Or it may just be my undoing. Stand by.

Mud Muffins

June 14, 2006 | Snips And Snails, Sometimes Sweet, Wivian

Photo temporarily unavailable.

My mom’s parenting philosophy has always been this: Never miss an opportunity to have fun.  If it didn’t hurt anything (permanently) and it was fun (and free) she would make it happen.

Nothing was ever too messy or too much trouble for my mom if it meant her kids having fun. The list of crazy things she would let us do (or think up for us to do) is endless, but one of the things I especially remember is that when it was too cold to go outside, she would bring snow inside in her big mixing bowls so that we could make little snowmen in the house.

I think the thing mom enjoyed most about her kids was the license to be a kid herself.  I want to be that kind of mom.

So last week I took a page out of her parenting book and set up a mud muffin making factory for Sean in the backyard. He worked in the gentle morning sunshine mixing and stirring mud in his big metal washtub, perfecting his muffin recipie “in case a moose came by.”  It wasn’t long before the clothes came off and he was clad only in mud, but there is precious little time in life when one can a) fit in a washtub and b) enjoy being unabashedly naked.

I sat in a lawn chair near the muffin factory employed as the chief taste-tester and company photographer while enjoying the intoxicating combination of sunshine, mud and a carefree little boy.

Maybe when he’s a grown man, he’ll remember the day that his crazy mom set him up in business making mud muffins in the backyard.  Or maybe he’ll just remember that no matter the trouble or the mess, his mama never missed an opportunity to have fun.

Don’t Mess With Retired People

May 8, 2006 | Mildly Amusing, Wivian

If the government really wanted to find Osama Bin Laden, they would put my mother on the case.

Not too long ago, my parents were victims of identity theft. Someone had stolen a check my mom had sent to someone out of the mailbox. Somehow they managed to gain access to my parent’s bank account and went on a spending spree. Mom tracked down the thief and assembled a case for the police in about 48 hours. That gives me an idea. “Identity Theft, She Wrote” starring my mom - that would make a great television series.

The theft wasn’t discovered until mom opened her bank statement and saw that her account had been overdrawn. In the 51 years that she and my father have had a bank account together, it has never once been overdrawn. I can prove this because she has her bank statements and cancelled checks going back to 1955. She called the bank right away to make sure that they had received her recent deposits and in fact they had. However, her account had been debited several times. The bank gave her the phone numbers for the retailers who had debited her account and she was on the case.

One hour later, my mom knew the name of the person who had accessed her account and gone shopping on-line. They had purchased several pairs of expensive men’s Nike basketball shoes, size 10. My dad wears Hushpuppies, size 8, so mom ruled him out. That and the fact that my dad is a little wary of technology and has refused to use the phone since they got a new-fangled touch tone. The “perp” had also signed up with a dating service with my dad’s name, but had used his own description. As if my dad couldn’t get the babes: At 5′8, I may be small in stature, but am big on having fun. I enjoy Wheel of Fortune, metal detecting and fine dining. Look for me at Ryan’s Family Steakhouse at 4:30pm. I’m a mid-70s former altar boy with a paid-for pacemaker that keeps me on the go. It wasn’t too long after that, that my dad started getting late night calls from gals named LaShonika and Yolanda, looking for a 6-foot-tall handsome young black man.

The next day Mom got a post card from a company that sells exclusive sportswear reporting that they were sorry they were unable to fill an order due to lack of information. So she called them and informed them that someone else had been using her checking account and gave them his name. As they were writing down her information, the thief happened to call in again to place another order.

In about 48 hours, Mom knew the thief’s name, age, address and the mailbox from which he had stolen the check. She had a case file assembled with photocopies and an Excel spreadsheet summary. She prepared documentation for the bank, the Post Office Inspector General and for the police - who couldn’t be bothered to come by the house and pick it up.

The authorities did not pursue a case that was handed to them on a silver platter because the boy was under 18 and so he got away with several pairs of expensive shoes (which you know, you and I paid for) but no consequences.

Mom says he’s probably out there messing with someone else’s accounts, but she says, “It won’t be mine!” And then adds, “It gives me one heck of a thrill to outsmart some young punk!”

As I said, don’t mess with retired people. They have nothing better to do all day than plot revenge.

Wivian

March 31, 2006 | Makes Me Sigh, Sometimes Sweet, Wivian

Soon after my mother arrived for a visit recently, Sean realized that by comparison, I was chopped liver, persona non grata, yesterday’s news, the other woman, what’s-her-name - not even good ole’ what’s-her-name. My feelings might have been hurt except that I was too busy taking advantage of my built-in babysitter and getting pedicures and going shopping to notice. Much. Ostensibly she was here to spend time with Sean, but I think she was here to spoil my child to pay me back for the years between 1972 and 1979 and the concrete mixing episode.

Most children call their grandmother some variation of Grandma — Granny, Gran, Gram, Nana, Memaw and even Mimi. Sean decided he would call my mother by her first name Vivian, or as he says it “Wivian”. Wivian was a really good mom, but she is a fantastic grandmother. In fact, I wish she were my grandmother. Then I could have had popsicles and animal crackers for every meal too.

The morning after she arrived, I went into Sean’s room to greet him for the day and immediately, I knew something had changed overnight. He didn’t give me one of his mega-watt smiles or joyfully call out “Mommy!” in his usual fashion. No siree. He craned his neck to look past me and waved me aside like yesterday’s Beanie Weenies. And then, as I tried to lift him from his bed and hug him as I have done every day for the past two years, he kicked his little feet and twisted and wrenched to be put down screaming “I only want Wivian to get me! I want Wivian!” It would have been less risky to reach into a nest of baby rattle snakes. So I set him down and backed out of the room with my hands in the air.

For the next ten days no one could do anything for Sean except for Wivian. Part of me was thrilled to get out of ten days of diaper changes yet selfishly, part of me wished he liked me that much. But beyond all that, I was happy that my child was getting to experience something that I never had - a doting grandparent.

I knew that when I had to return Wivian to the airport, it was going to break that little boy’s heart. And it did. She kissed us both goodbye and we watched the form of her being disappear into the mass of humanity moving in all directions. From his car seat he stretched his neck until it would absolutely go no further. His eyes darted in all directions hoping to catch a glimpse of that familiar head of silver hair. And when he realized she was gone, he cried, “I no see Wivian!” And then he began to sob. There was no anger or kicking or rage, just resigned sobs and trembling wet sadness. By the time we arrived home from the airport, he had cried himself to sleep. I carried his tiny body, heavy with sleep, into the house and placed him in his bed.

Several hours later, I went in to check on him and he stood up to greet me, still without the smile, but this time with outstretched arms. I lifted him out of his crib and gave him a kiss and asked him if he was okay. He nestled his face into my neck and said, “I be sad. I no see Wivian.”

“Wivian will be back, just you wait and see,” I assured him. She still has to get even for the time I drove her car into the neighbor’s front lawn and took out their gas lamp.

Guest Post - By Sean

March 29, 2006 | Wivian

Grandma has been here visiting all week and boy has it been fun, but also I’ve learned a lot. Here are just a few things:

Things I Learned From Grandma This Week
By Sean

1) There IS a toy store in the mall - I didn’t know this until Grandma pointed it out. I can’t believe Mom didn’t know that - duh! And…
2) There IS a candy store in the mall too! Mom’s gotta get her eyes checked.
3) Grandma is just another name for Fairy Godmother.
4) Grandma is more fun than Mommy to sit next to at a restaurant.
5) Grandma is more fun period.
6) Grandma is crazy in a good way, whereas Mommy is just crazy.
7) Grandma will play on the floor longer than Mommy because she can’t get up.
8) Grandma understands that popsicles are a food group.
9) Grandma doesn’t use bad words like No or Stop.
10) Almost any occasion calls for Scotch Tape and a lot of it.
11) There is no such thing as “too messy”.
12) There is no such thing as too many toys.
13) Mommy could stand to relax the lower end of her digestive tract once in a while.
14) People with silver hair are nicer than those without.
15) What’s “pay back”?

I can’t wait for Grandma to come back and visit. I have so much more to learn.

The Silver Skates

February 23, 2006 | Antique Childhood, Wivian

As I mentioned in a previous post, I was first introduced to figure skating while watching Janet Lynn compete in the 1968 Olympics on television. It was love at first sight. Something about the way the skaters moved across the ice resonated deep within me.

I readily identified with Lynn. Like me, she was a small blonde girl from Illinois with a bad pixie haircut. I immediately began imitating the spirals and spins in front of the TV on the hardwood floors in my socks. I knew it was just something that I had to do. I intuitively knew it was something I could do. But what was an 8-year-old girl to do? I had no skates and I had no money. Ask Mom.

My mom was the master at making impossible things happen. I might have just as well asked for the moon as a pair of skates — there just wasn’t money for that kind of thing. With the powerful combination of prayer, resourcefulness and $2, Mom found a pair of skates for me at the local thrift store that fit me exactly. For some reason unknown, they had been spray painted silver, but I loved them. Then she drove me to the neighborhood park that had a makeshift ice rink (an asphalt rimmed basketball court that they flooded in the winter) to try out my “new” skates.

As I sat in the car lacing up the silver beauties for the first time, Mom gave some basic instructions: Hold your hands out for balance and try to fall on your butt and not your front teeth. And so I hobbled out of the car wearing my snowball hat and my silver skates and made my world debut as the next Janet Lynn to an audience of one. Skating was as natural to me as walking. By the end of the session I was confidently skating backwards and fearlessly trying the jumps and spins I had seen on television.

Figure skating is not a sport for the economically challenged. Over the years, Mom managed to cobble together enough money for some lessons and competitions and eventually some good skates, but it was always tough. Most of the girls I skated with had a wardrobe of expensive costumes and the finest gear. I didn’t know at the time the serious sacrifices my parents made so I could do this thing that I loved. I even got to compete once at Wagon Wheel in Rockton, Illinois, Janet Lynn’s home rink. I skated as much as money would allow until the middle of my high school years when other things, like boys, began to seem more important. But being a figure skater remains central to the core of who I am.

I still love the cold stale smell of an ice rink. I still love to skate, although I’m not as fearless or as flexible as I used to be. And while I did not become the next Janet Lynn, I did get to live out a dream to the best of my ability and resources - thanks to my resourceful mom and the silver skates.

Cheerios or Concrete, Same Issue

January 6, 2006 | Antique Childhood, Wivian

Haven’t we all, at one time or another said, “When I have a child, I’m going to do things differently than my parents.” And then of course, when you are actually entrusted with the responsibility of a pint-sized, uncivilized, miniature human being — you do all the things your parents did, and even make up some new stuff along the way. That way, when your kid grows up he can list all the things he would never do as a parent. It’s the glorious cycle of life.

Really and truly, there are not too many things my mom did growing up that I plan to avoid. What I am discovering — the longer I’m at this parenting-thing — is that I hope to be more like her and not less.

My mom was pretty laid back about most matters. It took quite a bit to push her buttons and even when you did reach that elastic limit, she would freely extend grace most of the time. This came to mind the other day when my son had dumped an entire economy-sized box of Cheerios into the sofa. I guess he thought if he stomped on them like grapes, I wouldn’t notice. As I was shoveling Cheerios out of the depths and bowels of the sofa, I really had to focus to keep my humor. My own mother would have laughed about it and then served a mixing bowl of Cheerios for lunch. I mean it wasn’t like he was free-form mixing concrete in the garage or anything like that…

When I was about 9-years-old, I decided the garage needed cleaned out. The Neat-Freak Gene exhibited itself early on. So I hauled everything out of the garage, including a 25-lb of concrete mix, but since it was 25-lbs and I was 9-years-old and weighed not much more than that, I dropped it and it broke open. That’s when I had the great idea that I would hose it out… And the funny thing is that when you combine concrete mix and water – you get concrete!! I kept working quickly and quietly with the hose and broom hoping to get the mess cleaned up before anyone noticed, but I just kept making more and more concrete until finally my spaghetti-sized arms could do no more. So I ran inside and tried to tell mom that there was a growing mass of concrete in the garage. I now recognize that expression she had on her face. It’s the one where you hear a heavy thud somewhere in the house and then silence. Never a good thing.

Anyway, I expected when Mom saw my handiwork that she would blow a gasket and blister my behind, but she just grabbed a shovel and made a nice little sidewalk beside the garage.

Calm and creative. That’s the kind of mom I want to be.

A Week at Grandma’s

August 12, 2005 | Outsmarted, Wivian

Last week, we took our little boy on his first airplane ride to see Grandma and Grandpa. My parents are in their early 70s and in good health, but you don’t need a calculator to see that time is a precious and limited commodity for Sean in this regard. My hope was that in spending some lazy summer days with Grandma and Grandpa this past week, that he might plant some sweet and cherished memories that would last him a lifetime. What I didn’t anticipate was that it might take a lifetime to undo a week of “grand-parenting”.

Grandma went all out to see that Sean would remember his visit fondly. There was nothing that the wave of his little hand could not bring forth. Five little fingers flung in the general direction of the pantry could summon an array of cookies, cereals and snacks no matter the hour. It was like being on a cruise ship - there was always a buffet somewhere.

Grandma: “Can Sean have a cookie?”
Antique Mommy: “No. It’s only 8am and he hasn’t eaten breakfast.”
Grandma: “Ok…(pause) Sean would you like an iced animal cracker?”
Sean: Nods head vigorously and takes three in addition to the two he has already shoved in his mouth.
Antique Mommy: “Mom, I said no cookies.”
Grandma: “It’s not a cookie dear, it’s a cracker. Animal cracker. You said no cookies.”

One of the nice things about visiting my parents, was that Antique Daddy and I could go off and do some things, just the two of us, just like in the olden days, when we were dating, except without all the kissing and making out. Only this time we didn’t talk about current events and ideas or kiss and make out. We talked about what Grandma was probably letting Sean do and how long it would take to restore him to his proper position in the universe – not king and co-creator of said universe as Grandma has lead him to believe.

At Grandma’s house, it’s always time for ice cream, cartoons are always on, coffee tables are for standing on and beds are for jumping on - because who sleeps? I mean, ever? Every flower can and must be picked, every cabinet must be opened, inspected and emptied, and every lamp must be touched and deemed breakable or unbreakable. (Answer: breakable). No problem. Anything that gets broken at Grandma’s was something she was planning to get rid of anyway. It’s fun to go to Grandmas!

Grandpa was no better. Normally we don’t let our 21-month-old play in the street, unless it’s been a really hard day, but after a nice summer rain, Grandpa thought Sean might enjoy a lesson in “puddle-jumpin”. And he did. And being the over-achiever that my son is, he even perfected the “lay-down-and-roll-in-it with-your–new-outfit-on” technique. Good times.

So now we are back in Texas in our lampless, flowerless, empty-cabinet home, looking at our vacation photos. And in our sleepless sugar-induced ADHD haze, we are enjoying a familiar false sense of well-being and fondly reliving our week at Grandmas…. Ice cream anyone?