Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

More than sixteen years ago, my husband and I became parents when I gave birth to our son. Our daughter arrived on the scene a couple of years after that. Suddenly, they are both in high school, both on the fast track to leaving us for college. It occurred to me recently that we just might survive this parenting gig.

When they were babies, veteran parents offered sage advice, from pacifiers to toilet training to teaching them their A, B, C’s. With all the do’s and don’ts proffered, we had to find our own way. Mainly, we had to realize that to raise kids, you have to be a little bit crazy because no truly sane person could stomach this job.

Doctors will tell you that as you age, your body changes and so does your ability to do things you’ve always done with ease. I’m not so sure about that. I’m thinking that it could be this parenting endeavor that has short-circuited my brain function to that of a house plant. When my back aches and my muscles throb, I feel certain it has more to do with the fact that the last time I truly relaxed was 1991.

My son started driving. This singular event has altered the nature of my psyche to the point that I’m fairly certain the person I used to be was abducted by aliens and supplanted by a large lump of anxiety fashioned into some trembling semblance of the former me, but with lots more gray hair. Every time the car leaves the driveway, so do half my nerves.

I shared my concerns with my husband one evening when our son’s expected time of arrival came and went.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this,” I told him stiffly. “Ever.”

“I see what you mean,” he said with a smirk. “I’m sure my mom still worries every day that I’m driving out there all on my own. It’s been what, only three decades?”

Where logic is his forte’, mine is listening for the garage door to open.

“It’s just that so many things can happen on the road. And we’re just allowing him to go, free as a bird. What kind of parent does that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Normal ones, maybe?”

That’s when I remembered that to be a parent, you have to be insane.

One afternoon, my son tromped across the front yard to check the mail. I watched him from the front porch as this small flutter of panic rose in my chest. He is grown! Years ago, he would walk to the mailbox as I peered from the window, making sure he remembered to look for cars that could flatten him. Now he drives off and I’m not there to remind him, “Look both ways, mister!”

In no time, this girl of ours will be getting her driver’s permit and testing the highways herself. It is more than I can fathom. Every wreck I see, every patrol car in hot pursuit, every ambulance with siren wailing makes me want to pull over and lose my lunch. And this is normal?

Through every stage of their development, I have admired their abilities and strengths. Our children have good hearts, good heads on their shoulders, and recognize what a tremendous gift a life of purpose can be. They amaze me daily. Worry me constantly. But they totally make this parenting thing worthwhile.

What I hope they realize is that the term “driving me crazy” must have been coined by a parent, most likely while pounding an imaginary brake and muttering prayers of deliverance through gritted teeth. I also hope they understand that this white-knuckled ride we share with them is one we wouldn’t trade for anything, in spite of that requisite loss of sanity. Parenting proves to be the ultimate, most rewarding job, followed closely by backseat driving.

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Mrs. Harmon turned to me during the “meet and greet” part of church service a few weeks ago.

“I want you to write about front porches,” she said. “I was sitting on mine the other day and decided to tell you that you should write about front porches.”

As we returned to our seats, I thought about my assignment. Within seconds, I was a kid again, lounging like a lovesick lizard on my Grandma Long’s front porch swing.

Grandma’s house on Mulberry Hill in Ellisville faced a deep pasture of sprawling hills dotted with maples and black walnut trees, oaks and sweet gum. Blackberry bushes clotted the low areas and sometimes a few cows would graze and ruminate in the shade of the trees. It was pretty country, and you could soak it all in from her porch.

The swing, painted white with a slatted back, dangled at one end of the porch from two lengths of chain that creaked musically with the slightest nudge. During the sticky heat of summer with no air conditioning, it was one of the few spots you could sit and hope to feel the air move.

Most always, my cousin Dwelia and I would perch together, our bare toes just touching the smooth, cool concrete, and we’d sing:

“Bimbo, Bimbo, where ya’ gonna go-ee-oh. Bimbo, Bimbo, whatcha gonna do-ee-oh?”

Her mama, my Aunt Bobbie, taught us that song, and we belted it out with opera lungs.

“Bimbo, Bimbo, does your mama know? That you’re goin’ down the road, to see a little girlie-o!”

We pushed back and forth in rhythm with our jubilant, if not harmonized, voices.

One time when our cousin Scott was visiting from Ohio, we had a chinquapin war headquartered at the front porch. He plucked dozens of berries from the tree just behind the porch and popped us so hard with those green bullets they left red hot spots on our freckled skin. We did our best to nail him from our fortress, but he was too quick and we were laughing too hard.

Grandpa Long would sit in his aluminum chair right at the edge of the porch near the steps to spit and whittle. A rare August breeze would carry the sweet scent of cedar shavings across the porch and through the screened windows. The aroma always made me think of quilts and winter time. I would rock on that swing, close my eyes and dream of cool autumn air.

When Ms. Harmon asked that I write about front porches, I was ashamed at just how little time I spend on mine. Some of the best therapy in the world can be found atop a rocking chair in full view of the world just outside my door. Sitting outside at dusk, when squirrels scamper in the fading light and birds settle in the branches, I feel comforted. And much like a good hymn sung with sincere and earnest praise, time on a front porch revives your spirit with life’s very best tonic.

Few things are more wasteful than an empty front porch. So in the interest of enjoying a much needed respite, I sat on mine this evening and settled into the calm. I watched moonlit clouds sail slowly above the pines. I could taste that rain was on the way and savored the pleasant quiet as even the bugs seemed to soften their chirping and buzzing.

It was peaceful, beautiful and I wondered why I don’t venture out there more often. I do know that I fully agree with Ms. Harmon. Front porches are certainly worth writing about, and I thank her for the essential reminder.

Have Family, Will Travel

Have Family, Will Travel

We decided we should take a family vacation this summer. This is no small thing. Whenever all four of us travel, that leaves the five dogs, two cats, one guinea pig and a brood of saltwater fish in need of surrogate care. For what it costs us to accommodate the animals, we could stay an extra couple of nights at a five-star hotel. Perhaps anyone stupid enough to have so many pets doesn’t deserve to get away. But we hope to, if we can agree on a destination.

We talked about driving out west to Yellowstone or Yosemite National Park. This would require at least two weeks on the road. The kids predict that enduring that much family togetherness would cause a major rift in our familial bond to rival that of the Grand Canyon. As much as I’d like to see the real thing, I’m not sure it’s worth our children divorcing us.

While my daughter and I could see ourselves taking in the sights of the Big Apple, my son and husband insist that a river, ocean or lake be the primary focus of our adventure. The two of them drove to northern Minnesota last summer and fished from daylight to dark the better part of two weeks. As thrilling as that sounds, somehow I doubt it would work for certain family members who prefer the comfort and convenience of hotel hot tubs and sushi bars.

We’ve done Disney. We’ve camped at nearly every state park in Mississippi. We’ve been to the nation’s capital, stayed in the Rockies twice, done Jellystone Park in the Smokies and hit the beach a time or two. There are millions of places we haven’t been, but narrowing down the choices proves surprisingly difficult. It’s not a lack of places to visit that challenges us . It’s the potential for disaster on the road. That’s why I’m considering a most novel idea. What about a vacation at home?

I can’t help but think about the time our son got food poisoning and yorked his way across Texas. Then there was the seatbelt incident on a lonely stretch of road in Colorado when our then five-year-old daughter nearly strangled herself after attempting somersaults in her seat. Of course, the fastener wouldn’t release. We were seconds from cutting the seatbelt with a pocket knife when she turned upside-down and simply shimmied out.

There was the chewing gum incident where I unceremoniously spat a wad of bubblegum out the van window, only to have it boomerang back and land squarely on my laptop keyboard. While driving at a crawl up a perilous cliff in the Rocky Mountain tundra, my husband experienced full and immediate paralysis when my son suddenly screamed , “WOW! LOOK AT ALL THOSE ELK!” They say family vacations are all about the memories. I will never forget how his face froze in a state of sheer panic and his fingers formed a death grip on the steering wheel. When I consider these incidents, staying at home sounds like more than a good idea. It actually could be a lifesaver.

But then, if we stayed home, we wouldn’t experience the new perspective you get on this beautiful country of ours whenever you see the sun set on an unfamiliar but spectacular horizon. We would miss out on those unforgettable images that evoke some deep and primal longing, from the rush of magnificent views of rolling hills and wide open sky to the panoramic display of land and sea along some emerald stretch of coastal waters.

I’m not sure where we’ll end up this summer. We might not make it far. But what I do know is that every time we hit the road together, we never fail to return with a renewed appreciation for this great land of ours, and an even greater appreciation for that place we call home.

You Can Go Your Own Way

You Can Go Your Own Way

Early in our marriage, my husband would passively aggressively agree to go shopping with me. This means that while his mouth was saying, “Sure, I’d love to go to the mall with you,” his tone and pronounced facial tic were saying, “There has got to be a way out of this.”

After nearly 19 years of marriage, we’ve developed a method that seems to work well. He goes his way, and I go mine. But we still run into problems, like the other night at Wal-Mart.

“I tell you what,” he suggested. “You go get the eye drops and I’ll go to tools. Meet me there.” And with that, and the shopping cart, he was gone.

On the way to the eye drops, I directed a woman in obvious distress to the closest bathroom. I grabbed the eye drops then realized I had lost the shopping list. I found the slip of paper and made my way to the tool section. My husband was not there. I was not surprised.

“This happens every single time,” I said out loud. A man scanning the plumbing supplies retreated cautiously. I couldn’t call my wayward husband. He had my purse and my cell phone in that blasted cart.

“I knew this would happen. It always does. ” I had the entire tool department to myself. I debated whether to stay or to go. I peered from each end of the aisle, in both directions, leering. I headed to the grocery section in full pursuit where I ran into a friend.

“Hey, girl,” said Suzanne. “How’s it going?”

“Have you seen my husband?” I asked, trying to smile through gritted teeth. “He was supposed to be in tools. He’s not there. I’ve covered the entire store. “

“Uh oh,” said Suzanne, nodding knowingly. “Been there, done that. Good luck.”

Somewhere within the confines of that superstore was a man stewing in his own juices while I simmered in mine. He couldn’t find me. I couldn’t find him. And I had checked the beer section twice.

Finally, I glimpsed his bright yellow polo, his back to me, heading in the direction of the jewelry counter.

I half yelled, half growled his name across fifty feet of open floor. I learned on a previous encounter with store security that running through a major retail outlet draws immediate and unwanted attention. I watched him. He turned the corner toward tools. Finally, I’d be able to wring his neck.

I rounded the corner among the hammers and nails. He wasn’t there. I stood, stunned. I careened through aisles of hardware, the paint department and automotive. He was gone. Again. I imagined the announcement from customer service I so badly wanted to deliver:

“Mr. Twedt, what’s left of your wife has spontaneously combusted at the customer service desk,” I’d have them say. “Please pick up her smoldering remains IN THE TOOL SECTION.”

At a complete loss, I waited. I tried to calm myself among the hardware and watched as the heat from my infuriated body melted stainless steel. And then, just like that, there he was.

“Where have you been?” I railed, choking on smoke. The look on his face essentially screamed the same.

“I went to tools, just like I told you,” he said. “I waited at least 30 minutes! I decided you must have gone for the groceries. I walked every aisle twice!”

“Well, I went to tools as soon as I found the grocery list and you weren’t here,” I accused. “I swear! I am never shopping with you ever, ever again.”

Admittedly, he did a pretty good job of camouflaging a victorious smile. He left to pick up our daughter from the mall, and I slung food into the cart. I was nearly finished when they returned.

“Wow, that was fast,” said my daughter when she arrived ten minutes later. “Dad said you hadn’t even started shopping for groceries.”

“I guess I spent too much time looking for an appropriate weapon,” I muttered. But, apologies were exchanged. Laughter prevailed. We vowed to never separate in a store without our cell phones. But just in case, I have customer service on speed dial.

She Doesn't Smell Well

She Doesn’t Smell Well

Looking back, I can’t believe we didn’t figure it out sooner. Whether it’s the soft scent of baby powder or the pungent pine of Christmas trees, the smell of popcorn erupting in buttery goodness or chocolate chip cookies emerging from the oven, our daughter has never experienced any of these olfactory sensations. Katie has anosmia. It took us 13 years to notice.

Anosmia simply means the absence of a sense of smell. Doctors at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, MD tested her olfactory abilities with a scratch and sniff book of familiar scents. She failed it, big time. While some people have nerve damage or injuries that cause them to lose their ability to smell, Katie’s is apparently a congenital problem, present since birth. Yet, her deficit only recently came to light.

I remember going to places like Bath and Body Works when she was much younger. We would spray the little cards to help us select our favorite fragrance. But while I was choosing from the enticing aromas of citrus or peach, Katie could never decide on one she liked. Once, we laughed ourselves silly when we misread the name on a bottle as “Brown Sugar and Pig” instead of “Brown Sugar and Fig.” I had asked her, “Does that smell like a pig to you?” In hindsight, I recognize what was complete indifference as she sniffed the unscented air and shrugged. Now I realize she couldn’t smell a thing.

Katie readily admits that if she had to go missing one of the five senses, she would pick her sense of smell. The others work just fine, thankfully. Where she may lack the ability to enjoy a whiff of hot baked bread or smell the summer rain, she harbors an amazing talent for seeing the positive side of things.

“When we’re in science lab, I just love it when everybody else is gagging over horrendous odors and I’m just fine,” she told me. “I don’t smell farts, or dog mess or anything else that makes people want to hurl.” While this girl of ours could be bemoaning the fact that her sniffer doesn’t work, instead she finds reasons to be glad in it.

They say that when you lack one of the five senses, the others may be enhanced. We’ve decided the child has supersonic hearing. She can hear the flutter of moths’ wings and private conversations from a mile away. Of course, I worry over the fact that she can’t smell something burning or the stench of spoiled food. She uses deodorant profusely and squirts perfume in spite of the fact that she has no idea if it smells good or bad. I never gave my sense of smell much thought until I witnessed her challenges through a parent’s eyes.

The olfactory bulb in the brain is closely tied to the limbic system, which helps us process memories and emotions. As a result, odors and aromas play a large role in triggering recollections of the past. Cinnamon, vanilla, apple pie. Who doesn’t have warm and wonderful memories tied to these? Not once have I heard my daughter say “That smells so good!” when I cook her favorite foods.

While I am amazed we didn’t discover her anosmia sooner, she laughs at the fact that when the rest of us were extolling the exquisite aromas of steaks on the grill or jasmine in bloom, she always pretended to smell them. What she must have experienced sniffing the odorless air had to be something akin to eating food that, no matter what, tasted like rice cakes.

Katie exhibits an intense appreciation for color and design, for music and hugs. She sees life as full of opportunities as well as challenges. She hears the promise of a hopeful future. She tastes the spice of life easily and gratefully. In spite of puzzling health challenges the last couple of years, this girl of ours is feeling the welcome reward of finally being understood.

Sometimes we’ll exclaim, “What’s that smell?” The look she gives us speaks volumes. I tell her that when she marries, I hope it’s to a man who smells well. Or is that good? I suppose it would be great if it’s both.

Of Trucks and Men

Of Trucks and Men

Without fail, anywhere we went, we’d see one.

Short bed Chevy.

Ford Supercrew.

Tricked out truck with polished chrome, Yosemite Sam mud flaps and a six foot antenna threatening the belly of an interstate overpass.

He’d point out each one, his discriminating eye absorbing the pros and cons of every make and model.

“See, that one’s a short wheel base, regular cab, the last of that body style, about a 1997,” explained my husband. “See the hood on that one? Bad hinges on that model. Every last truck like that will have a crimp across the middle because the hinges are no good.” He talked like I understood, like I knew an overhead cam from a fuel injector.

“They came out with that model when I was in high school. Gets about five miles to the gallon. Oh, man, look at that one. Now THAT’s a truck.” At this point his eyes always glazed over, a boy’s Christmas face frozen in pure idolatry before the department store window.

Truck fever isn’t pretty. It basically permeates every waking moment, every conversation. We’d start out talking about the kids, work, the budget, but ultimately the discussion always turned to towing capacity and extended cabs. Then there’s the song and dance about how every man needs a truck.

It seems the need to haul things, to tow things, to administer horse power in such a way that your masculinity is essentially validated by traveling by truck is inexplicably tied to the Y chromosome. While we needed another vehicle about like we needed multiple sore toes, somehow we decided that a used truck was something of a necessity. Last weekend, we found ourselves at the Woolwine Ford dealership in Collins.

“Can I help you?” Ricky the salesman asked. My spouse salivated. He stood within a sea of new Fords, trade-ins and the palpable magnetism of four-wheel drive.

“We’re looking for a truck,” he stammered. “Not new. Very affordable. “ He looked, momentarily, as if his legs would give out from under him.

“I think I can help you out with that,” Ricky assured us. He retreated to his office and reemerged with a computer printout. Meanwhile, my better half locked headlamps with a ruby red Ford XLT, a 2000 model that I would swear winked at him. It had high miles, but higher appeal. Little flickering red hearts surfaced where his pupils used to be.

“ What about this one?” Ricky studied his papers and indicated the item met our criteria. We walked the perimeter of the specimen, examined the engine, sat behind the wheel. We mentioned the fact that we think the world of his boss, Richard Woolwine whose Aunt Tommie we claim as our own. We shared our story of buying one of our favorite cars, a Mercury Grand Marquis, from that very lot years before. Some might have accused us of brown-nosing. Truthfully, I felt certain that if we left that lot without a truck, my husband might spontaneously disintegrate on the spot.

Ricky got the keys and we took it for a test drive. I witnessed pure pleasure that day. The clouds turned dark, the sky drizzled rain, but the mood in the cab of that F150 XLT reached something akin to unadulterated ecstasy. The odometer had close to a bazillion miles, but the ride was tight, the engine sound and the glistening exterior belied the age of eight years. If ever there was a taker, that truck was it.

I love car salesmen who get right to the point. Not long ago, Tony at Vardaman Honda sold us our minivan with the finesse of a retail wizard and the ease of a good friend. Ricky did the same with that truck. We appreciate that. In less than two hours, we became the proud owners of a pre-owned Ford that might as well have been a gilded chassis fit for a king. Who knew a truck could sprout wings and fly?

The man got his truck and all was well with chromosomes, machismo and trailer hitches. Only now, the 16-year-old son developed a sudden and irrepressible itch for a fishing boat.

Aluminum.

Sixteen foot.

25 horsepower.

Just the thing for that truck to pull.

The tackle box quivers in the toolbox with each mention of “Evinrude” and “Mercury.” What I soon discovered is that with truck ownership comes the mysterious need for men to bond on lakes and rivers, compelled to seek the satisfaction found in baiting bass from watercraft—watercraft that preferably includes trolling motor, live well and depth finder, of course.

Of trucks and men, there is no end to the male patterned boldness found riding the roads in the comfortable cab of their dreams.

On Writing Columns

On writing columns…

About eleven years ago, I submitted an article to my local newspaper about a cartoonist. The editor liked it, ran it on the front page of the features section, and that was how I first came to know the thrill of a byline.

At the time, this newspaper also ran a weekly column titled “Readers Write.” As a guest columnist, I submitted a story about my dog, Winnie. In the weeks following, I received letters and email from strangers. They shared their own dog tales. They told me they liked my column. And so, I wrote more.

My column ran on that same front page of the “Living” section for a few years until a local chef with a talent for running restaurants and writing humor took over. My column was delegated to an inner page. Still, people wrote. I joined writers groups. I started freelancing for magazines. It seemed my dream of writing for real was underway.

Then, last year, my parents died. First, Dad in June and then Mom in March. With them I lost a large part of why I always tried to find the time to write the column. God knows, it wasn’t the $25 paycheck. On some subliminal level, I always aspired to write something of significance, something that would make them proud. Writing their obituaries and the words I shared at their memorial services made me realize just how much I had wanted to secure a Pulitzer while they were still on this Earth.

A few days ago, some intriguing soul joined the subscription service to my blog. He or she went so far as to calling the newspaper to see if I were still writing. And, this guy or gal took the time to ask why I had neglected to post a column since December. The only answer that seemed honest was simply that I didn’t know.

One of the things that I believe about columnists is that they are born with an internal mechanism unlike most folks. They view the world through a lens that filters what they see much like a prism compartmentalizes the colors of the visible spectrum.

There are people, places and events of interest. There are seasons and holidays and celebrations. There are emotions and sensations and perceptions. There are births and deaths and miracles. There are dogs. These are the things that have you sitting at the computer at 2 a.m., writing like there’s no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be. These are the things that today’s newspapers lack so severely in their content. And it’s a shame. Because voices like those of Bombeck, Grizzard, and Buckley have already faded and those hell bent on hawking wares and taking pot shots appear to be taking over.

So tonight, as I stood on my back deck and waited for the dogs to pee, I thought about writing columns. I watched the full moon cast luminescent strands of light through the shimmering branches of pines. The clouds chased past winking stars and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and new grass. Spring enchanted me even in the darkness, the promise of renewal burgeoning on dogwood branches and azaleas bushes loaded with vibrant pink buds.

The dogs, all five of them, took care of business. They paraded across the back lot, digging and snorting after moles, their noses coated in freshly turned dirt. Daisy, the smallest one, took her place at my feet. And though we often accuse her of trying to talk, that’s exactly what she did.

“Look, I’ll tell you what to write, but just this one time. You don’t even have to give me credit."

But I know better. Who’s she kidding? We columnists live for the byline, even when our writing has gone to the dogs.

Thanks, Daisy. And thanks to those of you who keep reading and writing. Whether the column runs in newsprint or not, I will always count myself among those troubled minds who simply tell tales of the heart and pay homage to those who make the endeavor unfailingly worthwhile.