Month: October 2015 (Page 2 of 7)

I have always loved to read. As I kid, I spent hours with books, getting lost in the stories. I read and re-read my favorites–like 101 Dalmatians and The Black Stallion–making book covers for them when they started to get tattered. I longed for a book that would never end.

One of my most memorable summers was before my junior year in high school; I spent much of it folded into the big yellow chair in the living room of my childhood home, working through the summer reading list of American classics for my English class.

My husband is a reader too, and we spent sweet hours reading Tolkien and Lewis aloud to each other while we were dating. When children joined the family, reading was a mainstay of family time. All the kids loved to have books read to them until they could read for themselves. One of my girls would follow me around with books, asking me to “read it, read it.”

Sometimes I read to one child, snuggled up on my lap, other times I would sit in the middle of all of them for a group story, reading books like Dr. Seuss and The Bernstein Bears over and over. We went to the library weekly, coming home laden with new titles. We kept library books in a special basket so they wouldn’t be spread through the house. It helped a little, but I was always short a few, and had to search under beds, in cupboards and through the toy box to find the wayward volumes. We paid plenty of late fines and a few replacement fees; I considered it a good investment in the community library.

We have sweet memories of reading favorite chapter books aloud when the children were a little older. My husband read the Chronicles of Narnia to the four girls at bedtime, and they couldn’t wait to get their pajamas on, get in bed and hear about the next adventure in Aslan’s country. I read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series to the kids, loving the story as much as they did. I was often biting back tears as I read about Ma and Pa and the girls making their terrifying and amazing trek in a covered wagon, little Jack the dog running underneath. We still talk about the amazing feast Almanzo’s mother made in Farmer Boy.

My youngest son was a capable reader, but didn’t like reading on his own when he was in third grade. Concerned that he was missing out, his big brother picked books that they both enjoyed and spent hours reading aloud to him. Once the reluctant reader discovered the Harry Potter books, he took off,  reading independently as fast as he could to find out what would happen next at Hogwarts.  I cherish the memory of my two little boys, laying on their bunk bed, engrossed in a story together.

All the kids loved the JK Rowling books. When a new one came out, I bought a single hardback copy for the family. The oldest had first dibs, and would pass it down to the next in line when she finished, until everyone had their turn. They were so engrossed in the story that they would read day and night, often finishing the 800-page tomes within 24 hours. Not every kid was so motivated; one of my daughters just finished the beloved series a year or so ago–and we were so glad she could finally join us in discussing the finer points of the plot.

Reading aloud was replaced with books on CD when we took long car trips. I like to squeeze in a classic when I have a captive audience, so we enjoyed Hemingway, Twain, Dickens, Melville and the Bronte sisters, among others, together in the car. One summer, we listened to The Hobbit on the way to Wyoming. Most of the passengers enjoyed it, but one of my daughters would immediately fall asleep every time we started the book. She tried to listen, but could not stay awake.  I think the timeless words worked their way into her subconscious anyway.

We don’t read or listen to books together as much anymore, but we still love to share favorites. My oldest daughter and I have a joint Kindle account, and enjoy dipping into each other’s electronic reading lists. When someone in the family reads a novel they love, they share it with the rest of us, eagerly tracking progress so we can discuss it.

We may not live in the same house, but we can be–literally–on the same page.

Reading and sharing stories, discussing the events and ideas in books, and tracing the themes in our own lives has been a way for our family to stay connected through all the changes of growing up. My dream of a book that never ends may not come true, but our shared love of reading satisfies some of that longing for a story that goes on and on.

Dressing babies is fun. There are so many cute little outfits–cozy warm sleepers and hats, sundresses and seersucker for summer, tiny little suits and sports jerseys, and socks that look like ballet slippers or cowboy boots. I spent many happy hours picking out precious little overalls in the Carter’s store and pouring over the Gymboree sale rack. When my kids were babies, I dressed them in what I liked.

They got a little older, though, and started to have opinions about what they wanted to wear. One of my girls refused to wear pants because they were “boy clothes,” and insisted on dresses and tights with her running shoes everyday. My youngest son had a very strong fashion sense from the age of two, and would only wear certain favorites. When he was little, it usually involved a super-hero outfit, but as he got older, he went through phases, like a collared-shirts-only phase, a white undershirt phase, and a red-high-top-Chuck-Taylor phase.

As the kids grew, I sorted their clothes into storage boxes by size and gender. Twice a year, I hauled out all the bins, decided what could be worn, put it into piles for the kids to try on, and put away the items that didn’t fit anyone. An entire bedroom closet was stacked to the ceiling with plastic storage bins. It was a complicated organizational task to rotate the hand-me-downs through the children, and it took me a few days every season to sort through and re-organize the contents of all the boxes.

Some items were welcomed by the new owner; coveted outfits could finally belong to someone else. Others were rejected by the next in line, either because it was out of style or didn’t fit right.

A few times over the years, I dressed the girls in cute matching outfits; they were darling in their stair-step sizes. Once, I sewed coordinating jumpers for all of them in country stripes and denim, and another time I bought linen floral Easter dresses for the girls and me. By the time the youngest girl had gotten that jumper or dress in her pile four times, we were all sick of it.

Most seasons, I needed to supplement the hand-me-downs with new items, and I let each child pick out styles they liked. Fresh pieces were needed, especially by my youngest daughter; her share of the bin contents had been well used  by the time they fit her, and looked tired and boring.

One fall, I ordered her an outfit that I had been eyeing in the Hanna Anderson catalog. I thought she would love it–a sassy, striped top with coordinating leggings in bright colors. She hated them, but I talked her into wearing them once in a while, particularly on picture day. She wasn’t happy. (She now looks back on the picture and agrees that the outfit was indeed super cute.)

When the girls entered their teens, my bin system became obsolete. They didn’t want their sisters’ old stuff. Each one had her own clothes, and any trading or sharing was done without my help, except when voices were raised and I heard either threats or crying. Eventually,  I banned all clothes borrowing. It didn’t stop the stealing, though. They would get so mad at each other over clothes that I sometimes feared they would never speak to each another again. Once tempers cooled, though, they forgot about it.

Clothes shopping became an individual responsibility, and we started an allowance system that sort-of worked. Each child got a certain amount of money to spend on clothes the way they chose. Some bought several inexpensive things, others decided to invest in a few good quality items. All came to me for supplemental funds and a ride to the mall.

My older boy is still  easy to please, even at 19, so I can shop for him–but he’s the only one. I’ve learned from experience that unless I have a specific item number, color and size, or the intended recipient at my side, I dare not purchase clothing for them. It I weaken and pick something out myself, I must be prepared with a gift receipt for easy returns. I may think I understand the trend, but likely, I do not.

Clothes shopping has come full circle now that my children are almost all adults. They have become my fashion advisors. When they go shopping with me, they help me pick clothes that look good and are actually in fashion. When I find a great piece of clothing, they urge me to buy when I would otherwise be cheap and settle for that old thing hanging in my closet.

If I’m shopping alone, I often text one of them for advice before I buy, sending a picture or two to get their opinion. In a  brave moment, I may even let them go through my closet and get rid of the stuff they deem outdated or ugly.  My son adds his opinion as well; a couple of pairs of shoes in my closet wouldn’t be there without his encouragement.

To go from caring for my babies to being cared for by them is one of the joys of having adult children. My nest is almost empty, but my heart–and my closet–is full.

All week long, we wait for Friday night. Whether it’s a break from schoolwork or a job, it means freedom. The weekend stretches out long on Friday, two whole days ahead to have fun or just catch up–even if it’s just on sleep. It’s everybody’s favorite part of the week.

When our household was full of kids, Friday night meant homemade pizza and VHS movies. Every Friday afternoon, the kids and I would go to Blockbuster and pick out two videotapes, one for the family to watch together and another for my husband and I to watch after the kids went to bed. We walked through the rows of movie boxes in search of the right one, excited to find the perfect one.

Several Fridays, we were captivated by the story of some hardy gold seekers in the Australian outback in a series called Five Mile Creek; I would go to the video store early to make sure I could get the next episode. After dinner, we got bath time finished early, changed into footie pajamas and robes, and lined up on the couch in the family room for the movie, microwave popcorn or ice cream bowls in our laps. Fall and winter nights, Dad would make a fire in the fireplace, using wood we chopped and brought home from the cabin.

After the movie, it was bed time. The adults waited until it was quiet upstairs before starting the next video. Many nights, there was talking and giggling and footsteps in the hall, and if it went on too long, we would rattle the wooden spoons in the spoon holder in the kitchen, a warning that there would be consequences if Dad had to come up and check on someone who was out of bed. I don’t think anyone ever actually got in trouble, but when they heard the spoons rattle, the noisy offenders would leap back in bed and pretend to be sleeping.

The older kids longed to be a part of what the grown-ups were watching; they crept down the stairs to hide behind the couch and watch the grown-up movie. Sometimes we knew they were there, and let them stay, but I’m sure there were many times they were able to sneak in and out unnoticed.

Our tradition of pizza and family movies continued when we moved two times, and progressed from G ratings to PG, PG-13 and even to a few R movies as the kids got older and their tastes changed.

Gradually, less kids were around for pizza, and even less for movies, as they began to prefer going out with friends to staying in with the folks. Pizza became less frequent, with a higher likelihood of it coming from LaVal’s delivery or Zachary’s take out than from the oven.

When we had just our two boys home, we tried to keep the tradition of watching movies together alive by taking them out to the theater instead of staying home. It worked for a while–they had a harder time passing up a new release and theater popcorn than they did ditching the home version of family movie night.

A special variation of movie nights happened on Christmas Eve. After our usual Christmas Eve activities were over–supper, candle-light service at church, and everyone opening one gift–all six kids gathered to watch A Muppet Christmas Carol while my husband and I finished wrapping gifts.

The tradition of cramming onto the couch in jammies and watching a movie lives on at holiday time for other movies. Everyone has a favorite that must be watched at some point in the season–especially White Christmas, Elf, The Holiday and It’s a Wonderful Life.

If kids are home for a weekend, they still love to have pizza and movies, along with popcorn the way we make it now, popped on the stove and topped with nutritional yeast. These days, though, the kids stay up late and my husband and I often go to bed before the movie ends. No spoon-rattling is necessary to quiet us down.

Ordinary Friday nights usually find us here, just the two of us, back to the way it started. No kids home; even the one who still officially lives here is usually out on weekend nights. So, my husband and I will pop some corn, pick a movie on Netflix or OnDemand, and cozy up on the couch in our pajamas. It’s still a great way to spend Friday night together.

The other day, I saw a man who I have known for a few years who spends his days (and possibly nights) in the courtyard of the church where I pick up my CSA box. I have seen him around town, bought him a cup of coffee, and chatted with him a few times. I know that he is a little reality-challenged, but he’s a nice guy.

As I was leaving with my vegetables this week, he said, “Are you pregnant?” Or possibly, “Is your name Frank?”–but I think it was the former. “No,” I said breezily and walked away. When I got to my car, I played it over in my mind. “What?! Really?!” was the gist my response.

I’m laughing now, but at first I thought my absence at yoga class must have gone on much too long.

Another day has gone by and I still didn’t make it to that yoga class at the YMCA. I was in a good routine for a while, going two or three times a week. I tried swimming for a while, but that has slipped too. I did actually go to the Y yesterday, but just to use the bathroom. Restrooms are scarce downtown, so my membership comes in handy for that at least.

I feel a faint stirring, a desire to go and work out so I can get back to being more comfortable in my jeans, and so I can assume that homeless people are really asking me if my name is Frank.

I thought when all the kids were on their own and I had time, the quest for fitness would become easier. So far, it hasn’t automatically happened. In fact, it’s worse. I didn’t fully appreciate how much of my chasing the kids around was literal chasing, counting for at least some exercise. Now I don’t get that.

I have the time, and I actually enjoy going there. The atmosphere is great–so Berkeley, people of every shape, size and age–the classes are the right balance of challenging but not intimidating, and they are offered at times that work for me. So what’s holding me back?

I think it’s another area where my brain hasn’t quite caught up with my new almost-empty nest status. I have spent so many years being available to everybody else that I balk at taking time for myself. I may put my Y classes in my weekly schedule, but when the time comes, I let other priorities–and other people’s priorities–squeeze them out.

I have some new reasons now to keep the creaks and kinks at bay. I want to be able to enjoy the great trips we are starting to talk about now that we can see some larger windows of time and opportunity opening up. If I’m going to hike the Tour de Mont Blanc and walk the Camino de Santiago, I’ll need to start soon to get in shape. My suggestion of taking an all-terrain Segway has so far been scoffed at.

I’m beginning to anticipate chasing my grand babies around too, and I want to be the fun grandma who has not only the time but the energy to take my kids’ kids on adventures with me.

So, it’s in the schedule for next week: Yoga on at least 2 days, and I’ll work some swimming in over the next couple weeks. When motivation wanes, I’ll think about my homeless friend. Next time I’ll inform him that my name is not Frank.

“I am old, Gandalf. I don’t look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. Well-preserved indeed! Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can’t be right. I need a change, or something.”  –JRR Tolkien

Some days, I don’t need a mirror to tell me I’m not 32. Or 42. I feel all of 52 and 7 months, at least. Not old exactly, just older.

Some days, I don’t have the energy for all the things I want or need to do; my mind spins down instead of up, losing ideas faster than I can come up with them.

Some days, everything seems like too much.

Those days, I feel achy and saggy and slow. The dog bouncing around the house, so damn excited about everything, annoys me.

It’s hard, on those days, to come up with a happy, perky way to wrap up my tales of life and family with a platitude and a bow. Some days the only lesson my stories tell is that life is messy and hard and the grass isn’t green over the fence either.

Maybe those are the most honest days. Honest is good, but that honest makes me tired and sad. There is an honest that motivates and encourages;  happy bow-tied stories are true sometimes, too. I need the low honest to make the high honest real; one without the other has a hollow sound.

Those low-honest days are the days I think it’s best not to make big decisions, take on large new tasks or get into emotional discussions–the high honest is better for those activities.

What is this low honest good for?

It’s excellent for developing humility and a sense of one’s own mortality. It’s good for dog-walking, just to get him to stop bringing me his ball and barking at squirrels. Staring out the window with a  cup of tea suits this type of honest.

It’s good for making me listen, for quieting the barrage of words and for letting my mind rest. Stillness. Breathing. The turbulence stops and the thoughts settle down, like gust-twirled leaves heaped in a corner when the wind stops.