Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Pinatas Make the Party

Pinatas Make the Party

If you have ever been to a toddler's birthday party, you know that some parents take leave of their senses when it comes to reasonable and appropriate celebrations. It was a piñata at my son Sam's third birthday that made us lose our minds.

I planned for weeks, compiled a lengthy invitation list and offered up ideas for entertainment to my husband Steven, a man who subscribes to the idea that cake and ice cream constitute a wild party.

"What about a magician?" I asked from behind a tri-fold brochure.

"A magician?" he replied. "Won't that scare those little kids?"

"No, of course not," I squealed. "They'll love it. How about renting a ball pit? It comes with no fewer than 50,000 balls!"

But he wasn't listening anymore. The dollar signs were distracting him.

Finally, after perusing dozens of marketing packets on how to dazzle wee ones on their special day, I settled on the magician, a Tigger cake, a dozen games with fabulous prizes and the ultimate party energizer, a piñata.

"Do we really need a piñata?" Steven asked. "Isn't the magician with the fake rabbit enough?"

But I wasn't listening anymore. The carnival supply ad with dozens of high-strung papier mache' animals had me at "Kids JUST LOVE a piñata!"

The big day arrived and we nearly killed ourselves arranging balloons, crepe paper streamers and food for half of Harrison County. As the guests arrived, Sam led each one out to the tree house in the backyard. The weather was warm for November. The sky sparkled blue and crisp, and a gentle breeze nudged the remaining pecan tree leaves. Boys and girls raced around the yard, avoiding full frontal lick attacks from the dog and taking turns on the swing. Everything was as it should be for a birthday boy. But then his mom got involved.

"Hey, everyone, do you want to see some magic tricks? The magician is here!"

They stopped their outdoor revelry to look at me like I had announced liver and onions refreshments.

"No! We no go see magic!" declared Sam. "We wike it out heah!"

"But the magic is great! You'll love it! And I got him for $50 off!"

Reluctantly, the gang ventured indoors, smelling of baby sweat and fresh air. The magician greeted them with a booming voice and immediately sent half the audience to their mother's laps. From there, it was downhill all the way.

The music the magician played indicated he was still in Halloween mode. It was creepy and made the kids squirm. His tricks were lackluster at best, and one kid made it his duty to reveal the true nature of each one.

"Hey, that came from up your sleeve! And that's not a real rabbit! That came from Wal-Mart!"

Thankfully, we had the piñata.

"OK, kids, one at a time. Put on the blindfold and try to hit the donkey as hard as you can with this stick. You get three whacks!" Somehow, the violent nature of this activity didn't occur to me when I read the flashy ad.

"I can't see!" the first kid screamed. She turned 180 degrees and knocked her dad squarely in the shins.

Each child took his or her turn. No one hit the donkey.

"OK, let's try it without the blindfold, and you keep swinging until you hit the donkey!"

It was like striking a dangling tombstone. The donkey smiled, unaffected.

After countless rounds, the crowd on our sun porch dwindled to a bunch of frustrated parents who wanted their own shot at the donkey. The kids ran crazily around the yard, glad to be free of the torture chamber. Steven released the donkey from his tether and took it outside to the patio. He unleashed a furious assault that brought applause from the adults. The donkey, no longer smiling, lay ruptured and hemorrhaging lollipops and bubble gum on the bricks.

And strangely enough, he agreed with me.

"You know, Kris?" he said, grinning. "This piñata turned out to be a good idea, after all."

Friday, October 13, 2006

Lessons for My Son

Lessons for My Son

Sometimes, he escapes me, the boy who has grown taller than I, fourteen years old and full of his own ideas of how the world should turn. He asks hard questions, not just matters of math and literature, but confounding inquiries like, “Just what have you ever taught me?” I struggled with that one, tossed to me as we waited in line at the grocery.

What, indeed, have I taught him?

My first response was sarcasm, a lame and useless retort about how I had obviously taught him nothing. It felt raw and full of hurt, not what I really wanted to say. Having reflected on it, though, I think I have a better answer. I think that sharing it here might somehow remind all of us what moms do teach their children.

I taught you when you were very small to love and learn from the dog. Your first dog, Winnie, groomed you well in matters of loyalty, laughter and appreciating the great outdoors. She and I both taught you that dog food is just for dogs.

I taught you, as has your dad, to love willingly and fully, to show compassion for others and that kindness is, more often than not, reciprocated. I taught you that cartoons are worth every minute you spend laughing at them and that the philosophy of Calvin and Hobbes should rank right up there with Aristotle and the Dalai Lama. I taught you that a sense of humor, whether silly or dry, could be both your most effective weapon and your greatest defense.

I taught you that humility rewards us with character and grace, and that our faith is what sustains us. I taught you that anger is a drain on your energy and depletes your desire to form truly spectacular and lasting relationships. I taught you that regrets are those things we wish we had done, but didn’t. I taught you to try to have no regrets.

When you were just starting school, I taught you about seeing the big picture, that it is not the end of the world to land a bad grade. Making mistakes is what life is really all about, but it is our duty to try not to repeat them. I taught you that mom and dad won’t, can’t and shouldn’t teach you everything. That is not our job. I taught you that everyone, even old mom, knows a few things that warrant your understanding. Along with your dad, I taught you that being a good listener is the first step to learning anything.

If you recall, I was the one who taught you to sing your first songs and write your first rhyme. Remember Bimbo? I taught you that not everyone is an artist, and that stick figures are woefully underrated. I taught you how to bake cookies and that women love a man who is comfortable in the kitchen, especially one who knows how to load the dishwasher and mop the floor.

What have I ever taught you, child of mine? I have taught you that you should never stop learning, no matter how tired or old or sick you get. I have taught you that even when you pour your heart into something, it doesn’t guarantee success or just rewards. It does help prevent those nasty regrets, though. I have taught you, or am trying to do so, that “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” can work better than WD-40 and duct tape at fixing things.

I know that when you and your sister have seen me for years as part of the furniture, a writer mom whose greatest joys arrived 12 and 14 years ago, it is difficult for a boy your age to remember that I graduated college and worked for many years at things that even you would find complicated and technical, challenging and important.

One day, your son or daughter will ask, “Just what did you ever teach me?” And if I have taught you as I think I have, in partnership with your dad, you will be able to answer as I have, with absolutely no regrets.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Insurance Customer Service Heads Due South

Insurance Customer Service Heads Due South

My mom and I were on the way to Houston when an 18-wheeler deposited the wiry remains of a shredded tire on the interstate, and I ran over it. Minutes later, a sickening moan issued from the front end of our van, and I hobbled across three lanes of traffic to the shoulder. My left front tire was in shreds. The right one was hissing. And so I called our insurance office.

"I am sitting on I-12 headed west toward Baton Rouge, (La.)" I said. "I hit tire debris from a truck. My left front tire is in shreds. Can you help us?"

The voice on the other end verified we in fact did have roadside service.

"What do you want me to do? "Do you want to be towed? Do you have a spare?" she said.

"Yes, I have a spare," I answered. "Can they just bring a tire and change it out?"

"Well, I have no idea if they can do that or not," she said. I waited for instructions, but the voice seemed a little bothered by my questions.

"If they can bring a tire and change it, I guess that's what I need," I surmised. She said she'd check, while my mom and I hunkered down beside three streams of high-speed surge, bobbing in the draft of countless 18-wheelers. Finally, she called with the news.

"The first guy I spoke with said he doesn't do that at all," she said.

"Do what?" I asked.

"He said he can come out and put on a spare, but he can't bring a tire. Besides, your roadside coverage doesn't pay for that," she said to idiot me. "We can have you towed. Do you want to be towed?"

I considered my options. It was 4 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. We needed to get to Houston - six more hours.

"Just call a wrecker," I said.

"Well, I will have to know exactly where you are," she said.

I am geographically and directionally challenged. It was only by the grace of God that I knew where we were.

"I saw a highway sign about five miles ago that said 'Baton Rouge, 11 miles,' " I said. "So, I'm just east of Baton Rouge."

She hung up, called back.

"The man I talked to said you must be west of Baton Rouge, not east," the gal said.

"No, I'm headed west," I said. "I'm headed to Houston. I haven't got to Baton Rouge yet. That has to mean I am east of Baton Rouge."

"Well, you don't have to yell at me," the woman yelled. "I'm trying to help you, but yelling at me won't help."

I looked at my mom. She checked our bearings, confirming we were headed due west. Neither she nor I had raised our voice.

"I am sitting on Interstate 12, about six miles east of Baton Rouge, headed west," I reiterated through clenched teeth. "If you can direct a wrecker here, that's what we need. If not, please just give me the number of one. I will call them myself." I knew where I was, knew I wasn't yelling, and I had Mom to back me up.

The wrecker had no difficulty finding us. From that point on, we spent an hour or so at the Firestone of Denham Springs, La., where manager Brad Smith demonstrated the true meaning of customer service. He and his team stayed well after hours, replacing all four tires on my van and reassuring two decidedly nerve-wracked women that the ride from there on out should be fine.

As for yelling at the insurance clerk, I did no such thing, although I feel I had a right. My husband and kids say they know that voice - the one that says I mean business. It is the one I will use to politely but firmly cancel our policy with this insurance company since their customer service has obviously headed due south.