Take it With Me When I go

I'm feeling sentimental tonight...

Phone's off the hook
No one knows where we are
It's a long time since I
Drank champagne
The ocean is blue
As blue as your eyes
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Old long since gone
Now way back when
We lived in Coney Island
Ain't no good thing
Ever dies
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Far far away a train
Whistle blows
Wherever you're goin
Wherever you've been
Waving good bye at the end
Of the day
You're up and you're over
And you're far away

Always for you, and
Forever yours
It felt just like the old days
We fell asleep on Beaula's porch
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

All broken down by
The side of the road
I was never more alive or
Alone
I've worn the faces off
All the cards
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Children are playing
At the end of the day
Strangers are singing
On our lawn
It's got to be more
Than flesh and bone
All that you're loved
Is all you own

In a land there's a town
And in that town there's
A house
And in that house
There's a woman
And in that woman
There's a heart I love
I'm gonna take it
With me when I go
I'm gonna take it
With me when I go

-Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan

The Creaking Noise

Well, I'm not crazy. There was indeed a "creaking noise" coming from the front driver's side wheel base of my brand new Grand Caravan. I've never owned a new vehicle before and I was pretty sure it shouldn't be creaking and moaning with only 24 miles on the odometer.

I was sure I'd heard it, almost from the first time I'd made the 7-point turn I need to make at the top of my driveway in order to get out face first. I knew I'd heard it and I knew it was coming from that wheel. I finally made an appointment and brought it into the dealership. And here I am waiting for it. And here's the mechanic approaching me now.

"That creaking noise you heard was caused by a little tab left by the manufacturer in the wheel bed that was rubbing on the wheel. We took care of it."

Yay! Thank you. I'm not imagining things. I did hear it. And maybe the reason I heard it and my husband didn't is that I have more "sensitive" hearing. Maybe it's good to be very sensitive sometimes, eh?

I can't decide if I'm happier that it's fixed or that it was "broken" in the first place. Hmmm... That's kind of sad.

Oh well. I'd better call my husband.

Self Esteem

It’s occurred to me that the reason I have so much trouble blogging – I mean getting the stuff posted – is not that I have no ideas, or no time (although this does play into it). The reason is that I’m so unsure of myself. I read other people’s stuff and it always sounds so smart to me: Interesting, well thought out and clever. I put my own ideas together while I’m in the shower or out walking or driving in my car and it sounds kind of good in my head. But as soon as I start typing, and then re-reading, (this I do at the end of almost every paragraph!), I start to think of how it will sound from the reader’s perspective. And I start comparing it to what others have written.

Lately I’ve been downloading podcasts of This American Life, a wonderful radio show on NPR. The stories are compelling and narrated in such an intelligent way that I find myself longing to be the person who wrote this incredible stuff. Then, I try to do it the next time I write. But of course, if I sit here and try to sound like Ira Glass, I will fall flat on my face. He is a professional writer… or producer… or something. But he is a professional. I’m a professional mother. Not a professional writer. So how can my writing compare to this kind of writing. How can I compare? How can I indeed?

If Denise Civiletti can write a smart, informative column, so can I. If other North Fork Parents bloggers can write every other day, so can I. And if Ira Glass’s show can bring me to tears, well, shouldn’t I be able to do the same for my readers? I want to so badly, that I actually get in my own way.

I guess I’ve always been an insecure person. I realize that for as long as I can remember I have gauged myself and my accomplishments by what others think of me, and compared myself to what others were doing.

It started with Valerie from my kindergarten class. She had it all together for a 5-year-old: long brown hair in perfect, never-mussed pigtails. Always a new embroidered peasant shirt. But it was more of her attitude that I coveted. Valerie was aloof. She never seemed to care who her friends were or when she had a turn playing with the dress up clothes. And yet all the girls clambered to be by her side, and she seemed to get her turn anyway. I remember wishing I could be more like Valerie. Or at least be closer to her. Her sidekick was Nadine. (I can remember her name because she had the only other N-name in the class). Oh, how I came to envy Nadine. I’d try to talk to her and find out what it was like to play blocks with Valerie, how it felt to hold her hand while walking in line. My own piddling existence paled to either one of those girls’. My pattern of low self-esteem had begun.

In 6th grade, when my family moved from Queens to the preppy north shore suburbs, my self-esteem took a very hard hit. After Valerie, I’d had many happy years of feeling pretty good in comparison to my peers. I was an outgoing and smart child – a “leader” they’d write on my report card. And attending a parochial school afforded me the luxury of virtually no physical comparison: we wore uniforms.

Sixth grade was different, though. The moment I walked into my 6th grade school in that lovely suburb I noticed that all the girls were carrying little pocket books on their shoulders – Le Sport Sacs. Stupid little colored nylon bags with thick cloth seams. Absolutely everyone had them. All girls had at least one, some had many – different colors to match their outfits! This girl had none. Zero. I could hardly even imagine what an 11-year-old girl would need a pocket book for. Certainly not lip gloss. Or a hair brush. Very soon I realized that compared to all these pretty and well put-together girls, I was a bit sloppy and I didn’t have any of the right clothes or accessories. I craved my own Le Sport Sac and yoke neck sweaters.

Throughout adolescence and high school I compared myself to others. I tried to be like other kids, to fit in. Honors classes were dropped in order to fit into a certain clique I longed to be part of. I felt peer pressure to an extreme. I could hardly make a decision without first checking with my beloved girlfriends. For years I swung between being lonely and outcast to idolizing the girls in my circle. It was a crazy pattern and I was determined to break out of it.

Finally I left for college. Real college. Lecture halls and dorm rooms and unsupervised free time. I did a lot of experimenting in college. And a lot of learning. I was able to focus on my learning when I wanted to, and party when I didn’t. I figured I was pretty much my own person at that point, but the truth was that a lot of my decisions were informed by what my friends thought: “You’re almost 19! You can’t turn 19 and still be a virgin!!” My friends had to sing the lyrics from Billy Joel’s Only the Good Die Young, “…the Catholic girls start much too late” just once and I made my decision. It was going to be before my birthday.

My twenties yielded my most confident and self-assured time. I didn’t care what people thought and spoke my mind. I picked my own clothes and made my own choices. Later, though, after becoming a mother, I realized that my self-esteem was fragile. I quickly compared myself to what my mother had done when we were little, how my mother-in-law kept her home, and what it seemed all other mothers on the planet could do better than me: be calm, comfortable parents. I was sure that what I was doing was not right, if only because it seemed that everyone else was doing it better.

I had an epiphany this past weekend. I realized that the self-esteem issue still impacts my parenting. I’ve been a grown woman since just before my 19th birthday, remember, and a mother for the past 11 years. But somewhere deep inside me, I am still comparing myself to others, and still wondering what others are thinking about my parenting.

We were invited to celebrate the birthday party of a 100-year-old relative. He’s not a blood relative, but he is a sweet Irish man we call “paw” and has been in my family my whole life. I was really hoping my children would be respectful and maybe even want to celebrate this significant event. But to them it was a very long drive in dressy clothes to church and then a restaurant where they had to be quiet and have manners. As my middle child put it, “This is an old person party. I hate old person parties. They are so boring.!”

As soon as we arrived, this same child was upset by her brother and began to pout. She wrapped herself in one of the long window curtains and hid. I spent almost an hour trying to get her out of it – talking to her in private, having her brother and cousins apologize, offering food and soda (she doesn’t often drink soda). But none of this worked. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. She told me she was hungry and then when I fixed her a plate, she said the food was “horrible” and that she didn’t like anything. She stomped away and began to kick the wall. Everyone was looking now, and that was when I lost my temper.

After grabbing her hand and “leading” my child outside, I completely let loose, verbally. And as the words were spewing from my mouth “Who do you think you are? You were disrespectful to me and to everyone! How dare you?!!” this is what I realized: The reason I was mad, the reason I was losing my temper was that I felt like a failure in the eyes of all the folks at this party. All my cousins and aunts and uncles, all the older folks, friends of the guest of honor, even this wizened 100-year old man, were watching me lose control of my young daughter. This was humiliating to me. I wasn’t at all thinking of her. I was thinking of me! Of what people would think of me and of how someone who was better at this mothering thing would have handled this situation!

I quickly realized that my family was not judging me at all. After my daughter and I had both calmed down a lot, and we were back inside the party, many people came to me to offer comfort and support – sometimes advice and jokes too, which were not well-received. But what I realized was that nobody “out there” had been watching me and thinking negative things. This was my family. They loved and supported me. And, they understood.

So, as it turns out, maybe my insecurity is self-perpetuated. At least in this one instance, no one was disparaging me. I wasn’t failing in anyone’s eyes. The lesson I’ve taken from this occasion is this: I need to accept myself for who I am. I am not flawless. I do not mother perfectly nor do I mother like anyone else. I also do not write faultlessly. I am not like any other writer, or blogger, no matter how much I think I want to be. I write the way I mother: Honestly. Imperfectly. And exactly like no-one but me.

That’s OK with me.

Eat your heart out, Valerie.

Check out This American Life:

Moody

I want so badly to post to my blog. Aside from the garlic festival post, I haven’t written anything new and fresh in weeks. I want to – really I do. It knew it would be a good outlet for me and I realize now that I like when people read my stuff.

Sometimes I write and no one comments and I wonder if anyone has read what I’ve written. If you write a post to your blog, but no one reads it, is it really writing? I mean, a blog is not exactly the same thing as a book, or an essay or even a column in the newspaper. It originated as a “web log” and a log is more of an accounting or a record of something. So the question is, is the blog an outlet for my personal feelings or daily occurrences? Or is it a written commentary, created for others’ eyes?

Either way, my desire is to be creative and funny in my writing and I guess that is what motivates me to write. I definitely like to observe and describe and this is the creative outlet part for me. I also like to fancy myself a kind of humorous chap (is there a female version of “chap”? I really like to use Britishisms whenever I can). My best friends and family members agree with this. They crack up when they read my emails on their blackberries while in court. (OK - one of them did this. Once). They think I’ve missed my calling even. (I’m not sure that northfork parents readers agree).

But today, there is a problem with observing and describing. The thing is, I’m extremely grouchy today. My patience is minimal. And everyone is so annoying to me. When I get like this, people are ignorant and misinformed. Or arrogant and self-serving. No one seems interested in helping me. In fact, they are all obstacles to my getting anywhere in my day. Even people’s voices are harsh – their accents exaggeragted and speech defects intolerable. I can barely stomach my own three children and I love them more than I love my own limbs!

This kind of mood can usually be attributed to hormones and in this case,it is a big factor. Another factor is that I have had a cold for nearly 2 weeks and I CANT STAND IT ANY MORE!! (Sorry for screaming. See what I mean?) My head is so stuffed I feel like it is inside a glass jar. Or immersed in a fish bowl. That’s it. I feel like my head is under water and my nose, ears and throat are full of water. Enough to put anyone in a bad mood, right?

So I’ve decided to blog anyway. Regardless of my incredibly ghastly mood, I’ve decide to write and post and let it all hang out.

I wonder if anyone will comment? I dare ya.

The Garlic Festival

Yesterday, my children, my parents and I spent the day at the 4th Annual Long Island Garlic Festival at The Garden of Eve Organic Farm. What a great way to spend the day and what a wonderful event.

There are myriad fall festivals around the east end at this time of year. Hallockville, Wildwood State Park, and just about every restaurant and farm stand along both the main and north roads have them this weekend. The long line of traffic crawling through Wading River today, at 12 noon, is a testament to how popular and well-attended these events are.

But the Garlic Festival was different.

As the name implies, the day was about Garlic. Harvesting garlic. Planting garlic. The medicinal properties of garlic (placing a clove between the toes to fight foot fungus was my personal favorite). And most wonderfully, cooking with garlic. There were delicious new pickles served “on a stick” beautifully seasoned with garlic. There was braised scallops with garlic served over salad. And mashed potatoes served with garlic herb butter..mmmm. There were roasted garlic spreads and garlic bread. Every food vendor, it seemed, was required to offer something served with garlic. Even garlic ice cream!

But way more than a celebration of garlic, this festival was the real thing. As Terri Winchell, one of the great musicians who played at the festival, said, This gathering was like the old days of long island. Local people harvesting local vegetables and having a great time. It felt authentic – real people selling their own goods. Real, fresh and organic food. Sweet baby goats and a pen full of beautiful turkeys. Plus, it was a fall festival, so there were pumpkins to pick, Indian Corn to buy, gourds and squash everywhere.


The weather was beautiful: clear and sunny and breezy. The atmosphere was warm – Eve and Chris, the farm’s owners, made everyone feel as welcome as family members. In fact, I think the highlight of the day for me was getting to hold baby Shira for a while. (What a delightful spirit that little one has)! Although we’d set out to “hit” a few more festivals later, we were so content and peaceful we decided to spend our day at the Garden of Eve, eating, listening to music and feeling quite merry.

It was the perfect fall day.

Carnage Near the Couch

This is a story that had to begin with the picture. I had to make sure I was looking at this picture as I wrote, because this is Felix the Cat. And this story is about pets. And about the truth.

It was only the 3rd day of school, and the morning routines were fresh and adhered too. I was up pretty early, and I was waiting for my coffee to brew. The kids were all upstairs, the oldest getting ready, the two girls still snoozing in their beds.

I was puttering around downstairs, only barely awake, shuffling from kitchen to dining room to playroom back to kitchen, trying to get things put away, but only half aware of where I was putting what. I gathered a few magazines from the kitchen table and started the longer trek into the living room.

Now, if you know me, and have spent much time with me on the phone, you know where this story is leading. Throughout my adult life, I have encountered pests of every sort, some dead, some alive, and often when I was not fully awake or aware. There were the swarms of roaches that I discovered in my studio apartment after a night on the town with my sister. I'd shuffled into the kitchen in the dark to get a drink of water in my new place and there they were. There was the slug I stepped on in bare feet, early in the morning, IN my kitchen. (This was before the renovation). There was the large possum rummaging through my compost pile just feet from where I was lounging in my backyard, on the phone, drinking wine.

And there were the many many disemboweled rodents my cat left for me - right outside the back door. I don't mean to be graphic, really, but there is no other way to describe what this cat does to these rodents. I can remember so many early morning phone conversations where I interrupted the other person with , "Oh My God," and they'd say, "what did your cat get this time?"

Felix the Cat. The cat in the picture. I know he looks innocent - scholarly even. But let me tell you this cat is a natural born killer. My kids set up and took this picture one night with their favorite babysitter. I thought he looked like a professor. It showed the perfect dichotomy that was my cat. Sweet, quiet and loving one minute - savage another.

So, on this morning, as I shuffled, bleary-eyed, into my living room, I glanced at something on the floor near the couch. It only took a split second for me to know what it was. It took a couple more seconds to realize who it was. Felix couldn't bring his prey into the house any more, now that we'd sealed up the cat door. There was only one rodent this could be. And it was spotted white and gray. This was my dear middle daughter's pet hamster, Munk.

This realization came upon me like a jolt stronger than caffeine. I was wide awake now. Within seconds I figured out that she'd probably escaped from her tank during the night, Felix sensed her presence upstairs, and did what any decent mouser would do. Why he brought her down to the living room is a mystery, but what a relief that the girls wouldn't stumble (ew - bad word) upon her in their room.

I ran upstairs to dear hubby (thank GOD he hadn't gone to work yet), whispered, "I need to show you something downstairs. RIGHT AWAY." When I pointed, it took him a little longer to realize what he was looking at. But then his jaw dropped and he covered his mouth, a lot like I had done, and cursed. I asked him to "take care of" the hamster and went in to pour myself a cup.

What was I going to tell the kids? Who had let the rodent out? How long had she been scampering around upstairs? (this thought kind of unnerved me - as with all our small caged pets, I don't like to think much about them being out of their cages). When did the murder occur? What was I going to tell the kids???

I got them on the buses without anyone noticing the missing hamster. I spent the whole day thinking about it and discussed it with lots of people. (It seems everyone has a hamster or gerbil story, btw. As my friend said, we should write a book). I went from planning to purchase a new hamster, just like Munk, to telling them she'd died in her sleep, peacefully, to telling them the whole truth. "Honesty is the best policy," my dad said. And then my brother-in-law echoed the same thing when he stopped by in the afternoon. I really did not relish the thought of telling them anything. Couldn't I just go back to bed and start the day over?

The neatest thing happened, though. When my 11-year-old son arrived home, I decided to tell him first, alone. I waited until he had a snack, and we were sitting relaxed at the kitchen table. I have some bad news for you, honey. "Not Kermit, mom. Please don't tell me Kermit's dead." "Not Kermit, no. It's Munk." Right then, I remembered the talk we had about Santa last year. I'd told him the truth about Santa that day (he had asked, point blank, for "the truth") and I told him that the good thing was that I could promise never to lie to him again. I told him the whole truth about the hamster, slowly and tactfully, but fully.

You know what he told me? This incredible, wise 6th grader said, "You can't tell the girls it was Felix. Especially Middle Sister. She would get really mad at Felix and then dad might want to get rid of him. I feel sorry for Felix, mom. It isn't his fault. It's his nature to kill rodents." But, what should we tell her, my wise sage? Pause. "Tell her that Munk got out of her tank, fell down the stairs and died of a broken neck. This way, you won't have to show her the body." Good thinking. "But that 's a lie, buddy." Another pause. "We can tell her the truth at another time. Maybe when she's older. We just can't tell her now mom. She'll be too upset".

He was absolutely right. I didn't chant "honesty is the best policy" to my boy, and I didn't regret letting him think that sometimes a white lie can be protective.

We made it through that day, bad news and all. Middle child was, as expected, very very upset. She begged to see "her little Munky" and I refused. She wept to her best friend and by bedtime was feeling much better.

We haven't had the funeral yet. And when we do, I won't be surprised if Felix the Cat stops by to pay his respects. After all, he didn't realize he'd hunted down a family friend. He was just doing his job.

Freedom at Last

Man, my words were misconstrued again! (Can words be construed, btw?) I'm wondering what kind of writer I really am - people don't seem to "get me" sometimes. Isn't that the core of writing - communicating well enough to be understood? Have I failed??

I wrote a post that was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, funny even. But it read quite differently and now I feel kind of weird trying to write again. But I figured I'd better get back up on that blog. The longer I wait, the harder it will be, right? (The post is gone, incidentally. I'm saving it for myself, though. I worked hours on it! If you missed it, well, let that be a lesson to you: You'd better check in with mamacole more frequently! <----- again, trying to be funny here.) So here's today's blog - much less controversial subject matter: Back to School. (Again, this blog is supposed to be funny -kind of pathetic if I have to say it, though).

Ahhhh.... That's the sound of me relaxing after the kids got on the bus. My son gets on at 7:50 and the girls not until 8:45. Kisses, hugs, "I love you's". Wave to the bus until you can't see it any more ("even if we can't see you, mommy," I was instructed). And then they were gone.

I AM FREE! Yippee - a whole 6 hours of day ahead of me! I was relieved and excited at once.

My back to school feeling didn't really start for me until today, though the kids started Wednesday. Dear Hubby had shoulder surgery last Friday. Though he'd expected to be up and around - back to work, in fact - on Tuesday, his surgeon said the tear was really bad and he didn't want him to move it for at least two weeks. That meant no driving. He's a contractor and he has 4 jobs underway- from Smithtown to Syosset and he needed to supervise them. That meant he needed a chauffeur. So my last three days have been spent doing that. Today, his brother picked him up - Thus my first free morning in months.

So here I am with all this free time. Wow. How should I spend it? First with a cup of coffee and the Times? Don't want to waste too much time on that. Taking a walk? I promised myself I'd fit one in every day once the kids were in school. Cleaning this very dirty, very neglected house? I walked around this morning, before the kids were up, mentally listing everything that needed cleaning: the floors, the refrigerator, the table tops (covered with papers), the stairs - yuck! cat hair in every corner! I pictured myself as the Tasmanian Devil, spinning through the house, picking up toys, dust rag in one hand, vacuum in the other.

Do I finish updating the civic association membership list? Update the PTA budget and meet with the new president? Pay bills? Take care of "paperwork"? Get my Sunday School classroom set up? Shop for new pillows? (I really do need to do this). There's so much I have to do! I'll never have the time! Six hours is not enough!!

OK, calm down. I need to make a list. Prioritize.

I've always been a list-writer. My dad taught me about lists - checklists, punch lists (are these the same?), pros and cons lists. And I often have two or three lists going at once - the daily list, what needs to get done TODAY, the long term projects list, which is usually an entire page long and can exist for months, sometimes years. Also there are the specific lists: "To Do for PTA", "To Do for Aaron", "To Do for Birthday Party." (Oh no, that reminds me - my little one turns 7 on Thursday and I haven't even sent out invitations! Another thing to do.)

Sometimes my priority for the day is to write the list. I know it sounds funny (weird funny and "ha-ha" funny, I hope), but it helps me to feel organized and settled and I can plan my day. I haven't even written my list yet, but I know blogging will be on it. My dad taught me this little trick: Put a few items on your list that you've already done. This way, you can write them down and cross them off all at once. Then, when you're looking at the list later, you can feel that you've already accomplished something. Pretty nifty self-psychology, no? My dad knows how it feels to be inundated with "chores" and "errands" and he knows how you can get stuck. This trick really does help to get you motivated!

So, I'm going to finish up this post, write my list and take my walk. Then I will try to do the things on my list, one by one, until the kids return home.

Sigh.... so much for Freedom.

: )