Catching Up

Hi everyone! Sorry for the long wait for my next post, but work and three kids make for a busy lifestyle.

Yeah, the economy is crashing. Life goes on in our household, as it must in every other across America. Despite the fears for the future, moms continue to visit the grocery store every week and nag our children to do homework and practice their lessons.

Want to hear our cat yowl? Ask my 8-year-old to start playing his violin. He's darned good for his age, but the occasional sour note leaks out before he adjusts his fingering. We've succeeded in convincing Freddy that the cat LIKES his music. Otherwise she'd just go and hide, right? The fact that she yowls and jumps on his pantleg when he's playing is her way of wanting to join in. I'm not sure he believes it, but he laughs at the cat with the rest of us. Ya gotta love that about him.

I'll challenge the girls to videotape the cat some time and post it on YouTube. If they do it, I'll be sure to let you know.

My uncle Glen died this past month. I didn't go to his funeral since I couldn't afford the flight ticket at the time. Instead, I had a mini-eulogy with my family around the kitchen table one night. Glen was an incredible man, and I truly loved him. He was a natural-born story teller, and he also had the foresight to record the more amazing of his life stories.

My great-uncle Hugh was a different sort of guy. I suspect he was autistic, although it was never diagnosed. Glen sat down with him 40 years ago at a piano, started a tape recorder, and asked Hugh to start playing. The tape is amazing. Hugh couldn't read a note, but he could play almost any song that Glen requested. Sometimes Hugh tried to sing along, but he seldom remembered the words. So he'd fill in with "dum de dum" or make up his own words. You can hear him sing the names of his friends and family and then mumble unintelligbly, all while banging away confidently and accurately on that old piano. Hugh died when I was only five, but he was legend in my family. I'm so glad Glen recorded a piece of Hugh for our generation.

There's so much more to Glen's stories. He was a guard at the Nuremburg trials in Germany after World War II. He asked some of the Germans to sign an autograph book for him. I remember holding that book and although I knew it was a piece of history, I wasn't nearly as impressed by their signatures as I was by his words. Glen kept a diary in which he jotted down his impressions of each of the Germans that he guarded. He watched their actions closely, speculating on what drove these men to participate in such atrocities. His untrained assessments sound dead on, when compared to later psychological studies done by experts.

One of my favorite stories involves a time preceding the trials when Glen was a soldier overseas and was hospitalized with jaundice. I don't remember all the details of the story, but once he was released from the hospital, he and another man set out alone to rejoin their unit. There was a delay or some mix-up and by nightfall, they still hadn't caught up with their unit.

Imagine these two young boys, just released from hospital, all alone walking down a dusty road as the day fades away. They were exhausted, with no food or water or place to sleep. Oh yeah, they were in a foreign country during a WAR. Glen never said it outright, but I know it was one of the lowest points in his life.

In the fading light, Glen saw the outline of an old abandoned barn up ahead. At least they'd have a place to sleep for the night! And once they got in the barn, they noticed an old jar of cherries sitting on the windowsill. The two men speculated on how the jar had ended up in this barn and how long they'd been sitting on that ledge. Glen suddenly said, "I'm going to eat those cherries."

His companion let Glen take the first bite, but he eventually joined in. Once their stomachs were full, they went to sleep. The next morning they woke up and began walking again. They eventually caught up with their unit and life went on.

I think my Uncle Glen went into that barn on that night as a boy, and came out a man. No one was there to tell him whether those cherries were good to eat, or if a barn is a safe place to sleep for a night. Glen had to make those decisions on his own, and he survived.

Years later, someone gave Glen a book of photos from World War II. He found a shot of his old unit, encamped along a familiar road, with a familiar barn in the background. And there, faintly, in the window of the barn, you could see glass reflecting and a bit of red...a jar of cherries.

Annoying Pets

I work from home, and the cat that the kids brought home from the shelter last year really annoys me.

I'll be having a conversation with a customer when she strolls in, yowling for attention. If I ignore her, she'll use my chair as a scratching post. I had to move my InBasket up on a shelf because she'd climb in the top basket and use it as a sleeping station. (Yes, she DID break the basket and she now sleeps in the spot on my desk where the basket used to sit.)

Imagine yourself on a stressful business day when you have loads to do, then imagine a cat snoozing right in front of you, waking up only to lick, stretch, and dump a load of cat hair on your computer. Anyone would want to punt the kitty out the door, right?

I've never done it, but it's tempting on the bad days. The only thing that holds me back is the knowledge that I'm the dumb cat's #1 person. The kids may fawn all over her, but I'm the one she shadows. I overheard my daughter telling a friend this weekend, "Don't pick the cat up. She only likes it when my mom does it."

I had a cat before this one. Mouser ignored everyone in the house but me. He was 8 years old when I got him, and we called him the "invisible cat" because he only appeared at night after the kids went to bed. As Mouser got older and slower, he became more visible, and even let our kids touch him from time to time. After 8-9 years, he developed a tumor on his side and I had to put him to sleep. I stroked and petted him as the doctor inserted the needle, and watched the light die from his eyes.

I'll never forget the love and trust in those eyes as he went. No human is worthy of that adoration, especially me. I try, though. Even though I can't remember this new cat's name half the time, I try to be patient with it for Mouser's sake.

There's a saying about how all men should strive to be half as good as their dog thinks they are. I guess that covers women and dead cats, too.

Retirement speech

I just finished my fifth year as the service unit manager for our local Girl Scout organization. I voluntarily oversaw about 30 GS troops in our city. Basically, that means I told the leaders when their treasury reports were due, nagged them to get training and follow standard safety precautions, spread the word about fun GS events, and so on.

Sounds pretty straight forward, right? Not so much.

I'd originally planned to share the job with another woman. We agreed in the spring that we'd take over the job come fall. This woman was a cancer survivor and during the summer, her illness came out of remission with a vengeance. She lasted a handful of weeks, and died the week before our first meeting. She'd been determined up until the end that she WAS going to do this job, and the value she placed on this organization was what got me through the first year.

I had to field other situations when leaders called, wondering what to do when a girl's parent or sibling died. I had one leader call with an "incident" after a meeting between a girl and a school janitor. Another leader (who I still stand by as being innocent) was accused of molesting a neighbor. Even though all charges were dropped, he will never again have full custody of his daughter and can never again be a Girl Scout volunteer.

What did I find out as a volunteer Service Unit Manager? Life isn't always fair.

I often laughed at the irony that I was a volunteer. I had no training in counseling, and wasn't paid to deal with these heartaches. In retrospect, I would have gone nuts trying to "fix" these situations if I'd been a paid counselor. After five years I know now that some family issues can't be fixed. It doesn't stop me from worrying about if I could have done more, but at least I did okay.

Here's one final irony... I'm going to miss this job. The service unit benefitted from my technical prowess and communication skills. I got to help people, meet some terrific people -- both adults AND girls, and watch them grow. I'm definitely ready to move on to other things, but I'll always look back on what I did as a Service Unit Manager with pride.

That's enough for me.

High School

It's almost the end of my daughter's first year in high school. She mentioned that she's read my blog on occasion, since I mention her by name and it comes up when she googles herself. So, Ms. Alta Alonzi, this blog's for you.

I'm proud of Alta's first year in high school. She took honors classes -- some of which were very tough -- but she also challenged herself in other areas. Alta is NOT an out-going kid, but she took a class on public speaking and got an A-.

It seems like it was just yesterday when she was struggling to prepare a book report to present orally in grade school. Oh, how far she's come.

I'm of the mindset that high school is a chance to develop new skills and learn more about who you are -- not a mere stepping stone on the path to the "right" college. In other words, you can choose your classes based on how high they'll raise your GPA and/or how they look on your resume, or you can experiment and have fun. You'll only be in high school once, so roll the dice, baby!

The class Alta took this year that made me the most uncomfortable was her creative writing class. One of her first stories was about two kids engaged in a war, trying to beat each other to asking their mom for the last piece of cake for dessert, while simultaneously sucking up so as to gain a positive response. At the very end, the mom says she ate the last piece for lunch.

I'm pretty sure my daughter based this short story on a real-life incident. Another of her stories was based on something I'd done in high school. She has to have a rough draft of her next story done by Thursday, and I get the feeling she's watching me...

I don't mind being someone's muse but when that person favors writing comedies, then providing their inspiration is a tad more awkward. My game plan is to introduce her to old SNL skits and The Muppet Show on You Tube. Plan B is to sic her on her Dad.

Kind Mothers

What's a "Kind Mother"?

Note the distinction between a Kind Mother and a Kind Person. A Kind Person is considerate to others, and doesn't take offense easily. If a Kind Person is cut off while driving, they don't slam on their horn, raise certain fingers or glare nastily. A Kind Person assumes we all have moments of inattention, and we all need to watch out for one another in those moments. A bungled phrase sounds wrong? A Kind Person responds to the intention behind the words, not the actual words themselves.

A Kind Mother, seeing her children commit these same errors, nails them to the wall.

Kids are egocentric. It's not a selfish trait; it's an actual stage of biological development. By their early teens, kids literally think everything IS about them. That's why they're so hyper self-conscious about the clothes they wear, the state of their acne, how their hair curls that day, etc. They may look and act like young adults, but it's very difficult for them to view the world from any perspective but their own. That's why it's so hard for kids to be kind.

So what's a Kind Mother to do? The opposite of a Kind Person. You point out every slight -- especially the ones done unto others -- and you rake your child over the coals for them. A Kind Mom forces her kids to view their actions from other perspectives.

I got stood up for lunch one day by an acquaintance who was running late. No big deal. But that same week, my daughter neglected to tell me she already had a ride home from book club after school. By the time I was done listing the privileges she had lost with her thoughtless actions, she was in tears.

Yeah, she thought I was a big meanie. But I'm pretty certain she'll never allow anyone to make an unnecessary trip on her behalf ever again. (Otherwise I'm doubling the $40 fee I charged her for my chauffeur services.)

So... Happy Mother's Day to all those moms out there who nitpick and nag your children. May you have bright days when your children ask for your opinion or think of others before acting. I wish you the energy and the patience to continue playing your "mean mom" role. Someday, your children will recognize you as a "Kind Mother" who taught them well.

Family Names

I don’t talk about my Hubby much in my postings. A blog is an opportunity to rant and, quite frankly, Hubby just doesn’t drive me insane the way my kids do.

Another reason that I try to avoid referring to him by name is because his name is Fred, just like my son. It gets really confusing in a blog to keep track of which guy I'm referring to unless I refer to him as Hubby. Oh, and he hates that nickname. Even better.

Do Hubby and I still get on together well after 17 years of marriage? At the risk of jinxing us, I'd say yeah. It helps that we're both self-employed, working with the same customers. I'm the website lady and Fred does the IT stuff, which basically means I work remotely from home and he's out on-site for the most part. All of his customers absolutely ADORE me, and they frequently tell him so.

His former boss’ boss is now one of our clients. He’s sorta cool to Fred, but thinks I am the bomb. I don’t know how Fred feels about that, but I’m pretty down with it.

Getting back to the name thing, you know both Hubby and son are named Fred. My father-in-law's name? Fred. Cousin? Fred. It drives everyone nuts at family get-togethers.

When our first daughter was born, we were hoping to name her after my mom (Joyce Alta) who had passed away the year before. Once we saw the babe, we knew using that name exactly wasn't a good fit. So we switched the first and middle names around (Alta Joyce). Somehow, we both instinctively agreed this new moniker better suited this kid.

When we were expecting the second time, we had several female family names in mind. We decided to wait to pick the final name until we saw the babe. We waited for a full day after she was born to finally name her. Fred knew he wanted to name a future son after his dad and we hated to copy his niece's name as well, but this kid was clearly a Queen Elizabeth in the making. Fortunately, her cousin goes by Beth these days, and there's no way our middle child will ever be a "Beth". Her teachers call her "Liz" once in awhile, but most people still call her "Elizabeth" and bow down slightly in her presence.

During the one-day delay before we named our second kid, one person suggested that since our first daughter is named "Alta" we should call her "Snowbird". (If you're a skier, you'll get the reference.) Sometimes we call the girls "Alpha" and "elizaBeta". Fortunately for us nerdy parents, the kids think those are somewhat cool nicknames and don't ostracize us for sharing them with others.

Take that, Jefe/Teen #2/Trash Boy/Dumpster Diva!

The Mind of a 7-Year-Old Boy

The other night we took my mother-in-law to a party at my father-in-law’s nursing home. She sat in front with Hubby and I crawled in back with my 7-year-old son Freddy. I was the last to get out, and decided to leave my purse in the car rather than risk forgetting it at the nursing home. When we got back in the car, I realized my purse was missing. I freaked out to think someone would have stolen it from my car at the nursing home, but it was definitely gone.

When we got home, Hubby looked in the trunk area behind the back seat, and there it was. We figure Freddy got in the car first, saw the purse where he wanted to sit, and threw it in back without a second thought. He honestly didn’t remember pitching my purse when I started asking about it – he even crawled under seats to look for it. That incident sums up my seven-year-old son pretty nicely.