November 1, 2007
The shoe still fits
After twenty years of living a fairy tale, complete with happy endings and evil witches, a house made of bricks and a house made of sticks, a prince in a white Rabbit (Volkswagen that is), and several fairy godmothers, I’m here to tell you that the shoe still fits.
When I was a little girl, I loved to play house. I dreamed of my knight in shining armor and I cradled my dolls lovingly. I treated my baby sister like a living doll and enjoyed the fact that people thought she was my child when we were in public. (A little weird it’s true. Consider however that this was in Texas where a young mother was/is not all that uncommon.)
During my teen years, my favorite pastime was flipping the pages of Brides Magazine and pretending I was the young, beautiful woman pictured in her flowing wedding dress.
Then the Seventies came along. I too was swept up in the I Am Woman movement. My dream of becoming wife and mother pushed to the back burner, I instead pursued a corporate career that lead me from Dallas to New York City to Los Angeles and finally Seattle. Guess you could say I was “looking for love in all the wrong places.” I definitely kissed more than my fair share of toads and frogs. (A toad is a frog with attitude.)
Then I met Scott Coplan and the rest is a fairy tale complete with happy endings and evil witches, a house made of bricks and house made of sticks….
To my husband of 20 years: Once and for all, I want to set the record straight. I did not marry you for your money or your body. I married you for your sense of humor (and the way you look in a suit and tie).
It seems like yesterday. It seems like always. It seems like forever!
ILYMADLY,
E
Posted by Elizabeth at 8:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)October 31, 2007
In Honor and In Memory
I’m making chili for dinner. (Don’t ask for the recipe. I’m from Texas. There is no recipe.) Why am I making chili you ask? Good question. Spencer, almost 18, won’t be here to eat it. He’s celebrating Halloween with his friends. Alexander, almost 13, won’t eat it. He’s vegetarian.
Truth is I’m making chili in honor of my 20th wedding anniversary tomorrow. Twenty years ago today, Scott and I held a chili party for our out-of-town guests. I made the chili a little too spicy (sorry Chuck), but the cornbread was warm and the beer cold.
As I look at the photographs taken that night, I smile and I cry. I smile in honor of all who gathered in our small condo (currently the Intergalactic Headquarters for Coplan and Company) and I cry for those who are now a memory.
In Honor
First I want to honor my parents-in-law Virginia and Robert Coplan for sharing their love. Eighty and eighty-one now and still going strong. This February they will celebrate 60 years of marriage. Scott and I want to be just like you when we grow up!
To my sister Mary: With our eight year age difference, you and I were not close growing up. But, through tragedy, our “sisterness” grew stronger and I consider you my best friend. Whether you like it or not. After all, I'm the bossy big sister.
To my sister-in-law Claudia: Thanks for becoming a friend-like-a-sister.
To my sister-in-law Wendie: Oh my gosh, you don’t look a day older than you did 20 years ago! Keep it up girl!
To my brother-in-law Arne: Thank you for your calming influence as a fellow “outlaw.”
To my cousin Myra: All these years and your personality is as bubbly and joyous as always. Glad you found another love to call you “sweetheart.”
To long-time good friends Chuck and Liz Knapp: Can’t believe I’ve known you for 40 years! Thanks for coming up to visit a couple of weeks ago. I enjoy sharing our lives and the lives of our children, the ups and the downs.
To my 30-year friends Julie Madonia and Jennifer Klein: What a treat to visit with both of you in the past year.
Julie: Thanks for spending Sunday with us in Beverly Hills last November. Brought back some good old memories of my younger years, dining on Rodeo Drive! Paris Hilton and her friends have nothing on the two of us! Or were we more like Lucy & Ethel?
Jennifer: What a stroke of luck for me when you “retired” to Spokane after 7 years of sailing the coast of Mexico. I feel so fortunate to visit you this past weekend in your new home town. And thanks for joining us at Alexander’s soccer game on that beautiful fall day in the Spokane Valley.
In Memory
Since the chili party:
Carl Iserman, my cousin Myra’s husband and official Coplan wedding photographer, died of lung cancer. A man of great integrity, loved by his family, friends and students. A man of class, culture, and humor.
Elizabeth Pohlmann died in 2001. Robert Pohlmann died in 1996. Mom and Dad, I enjoy looking at the photographs of your healthier days. Mom, that night at the chili party, you sat on the floor with the rest of us “young” folk, years before Parkinson’s took away that ability. Dad, I can’t find any pictures of you from that night. Is that because you were the party photographer? That’s so you. Oh, how I miss you two!
I think the tears just overwhelmed the smiles...at least for now.
Posted by Elizabeth at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)September 5, 2007
Senioritis -- Chronicling the Senior Year
Spencer drove off early this morning. One of the humanities teachers asked a few seniors to prepare an opening ceremony. This is a special day for Spence (and for me). Today is the first day of his high school senior year at West Sound Academy.
According to Wikipedia, “Senioritis is a term used colloquially in the United States and Canada to describe a decreased motivation toward studies….Many high school and college students find themselves in a type of lame duck situation: their plans are made and a new chapter in their life is about to begin, so finishing the current chapter becomes just a formality or holding pattern."
Funny, that’s how I feel as a parent, like a lame duck in a holding pattern. Not that my job is over. Far from it. But the day-to-day job of parenting, or better stated nagging, is winding down. I’ve turned my nag-o-meter off. My son has perfected the fine teenage art of ignoring 95% of what I say and blowing off the rest. So I save my breath and only nag when safety is at issue (at least that's my goal).
Last night I attended the Back to School meeting. I sat near the back of the Commons with a couple of other senior moms. During the question and answer period, a man in the front row asked if the homework Web site was available to parents for checking up on their child’s assignments. I quietly (and respectfully) chuckled. One of my fellow senior moms turned to me and whispered, “Must be a middle school parent.”
I nodded in agreement.
It’s taken me 11 years to finally realize Spencer’s schoolwork is his own. I must trust him to know the importance of the senior year when applying for scholarships, the value of an on-time record at work, and the significance of following-through on his commitments.
I’ve also come to realize that what I say can do more harm than good. Stifle it is my self-directed motto for Spencer’s senior year.
Don’t get me wrong. Spence and I enjoy a wonderful mother-son relationship. I can’t wait to visit him in college. (He’s leaning toward colleges in the east. Great excuse for me to take a trip to New York or Boston. Visit family and friends I rarely see.)
And, once he leaves home, I promise to keep his room somewhat intact.
Photo of Spence in Nicaragua, December 2006.
August 6, 2007
Meet the Bloggers
Last Thursday night I attended the KOMO-TV/Blogger Meet Up in Seattle. My first clue that only the young and the restless attend such events was the Evite. The electronic invitation displayed an artistic interpretation of possible attendees -- two painfully thin women looking skeptically at a buff young man with dreamy eyes and a smirk. But I’m always looking for new ways to promote my other Blog and Web site A Wild Ride, and so I went.
The elevator escort at the television station led five of us (four men and me) to the fifth floor of the Fisher Plaza, the party already in full swing. (Bloggers are punctual. I like that.)
For strength, I grabbed a glass of red wine from the bar and quickly surveyed the room (ah, old marketing habits never die) where at least 70 people milled and mingled.
Whoa! I’m the oldest person in a room dominated by cool, glib, definitely with-it, 20-something men. Then my eyes landed on a table with two women I hoped were at least close to my age. But it must have been the dim lights. The first woman could have been by daughter. The other woman? Maybe 40.
And then I saw her across the room. She wore a t-shirt, Stay-at-home Blogger, a dead giveaway that she’s a MOM. Our eyes met.
“You’re a Mom,” I shouted over the cocktail party din.
Her name is Jen Zug and she writes a Blog: The Pile I’m Standing in. Sinking Deeper Every Day. She lives near Seattle with her husband, two kids, and a dog named Scout.
Jen writes: “Recently, within a year’s time I had lost a close family member to cancer, given birth to my second child, plunged into a depression, discovered I had a rage problem, nearly left my husband, and came THIS close to abandoning my children at Wal-Mart.
I also rediscovered my love for writing, which may have saved my sanity.” Read more of Jen's bio.
Jen’s site is crisp, clean and honest. Funny. A bit of dark humor. I personally relate to her sense of reality, desperation, and the need for self-care. I believe other mothers will too.
Her essay Dragonfly Green illustrates how even the most difficult child, the “one who must destroy,” can transcend her normal frenetic state and stop to exam the beauty of the dragonfly.
In another piece, Please-secure-your-own-mask-before assisting others , Jen writes:
“I find that when I’m not getting small pockets of time to recharge my energy, I start obsessing about being alone. I get grouchy with my kids just for standing in the room, I show disappointment that they are awake from their naps, I’m gruff as I rush them off to bed, and I find myself wishing Bryan was still in San Jose. I scratch and claw at anyone who asks something of me.
I’m not excusing my behavior, but I am becoming more aware of what triggers it."
Now this is someone I can relate to! Check out her site. ~ Elizabeth
Posted by Elizabeth at 5:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)August 1, 2007
My Other Day Job
My other Web site, A Wild Ride, occupies my "free" time these days.
I plan to return here soon with more musings from a mature mother. In the meantime, check out A Wild Ride and its related Blog.
Happy summer! ~ Elizabeth
May 22, 2007
BLOOM!
Photo by my sister, Mary Pohlmann
May 16, 2007
What’s Your Problem, Mom?
I searched the crowd for my son Spencer. First, I saw the signature baseball cap, and then I noticed the familiar walk, a proud, self-confident walk that reminds me of my father. Finally I saw Spencer’s face happily talking with a fellow traveler, and I felt a surge of excitement.
When Spencer saw me, he beamed with the look of a man glad to be home yet proud of his accomplishments. As one of twenty high school students and six chaperones, Spencer spent the last two weeks on Ometepe, a remote island in Nicaragua. At that moment I realized that I had indeed missed him and his always-smiling face. However, I did not feel the desperate longing reserved for those who had gone to war or moved away from home, greatly missed and rarely forgotten.
Tears trickled down my face as I gave my son a long hug. After a few moments, he pulled away, looked at my tear-stained face and said, “What’s your problem?”
Cut! Rewind the scene twenty minutes.
Just as the plane from Houston landed at Sea-Tac airport, we parents of the Ometepe delegates began collecting at the entrance to baggage claim. We discussed our excitement to see our children, and the improbable possibility of catching the next ferryboat back to our own island -- the end of Spring Break/Friday traffic already slowed to a crawl. I stood talking with one mom and then another dad. We shared stories of time alone and how quiet our homes were without at least one of our children. We described how that quiet felt both lonely and peaceful.
At the plane’s scheduled arrival time, the number of anxious parents swelled. The collective excitement created an infectious hum while off to the right I noticed another group forming. This group did not represent parents of children on a cultural exchange program. Here people of all ages carried red, white & blue balloons, and Mylar balloons shaped as American flags. Some carried roll-up banners. Their excitement reverberated throughout the waiting area, building to an even stronger crescendo than our parent group. These people exuded an energy of relief, mixed with giddiness and held-back tears. Unable to control their anticipation, the children in the group bounced up and down.
And then they saw them. Down the corridor and toward the waiting group, a young man walked, somber in expression, proud in his uniform. At his side another soldier, older more weary looking, walked, also somber, also proud. The frenzy of their welcoming party climaxed as the children shouted their names and the tears were held-back no longer. One boy opened his banner: Welcome Home Uncle Joe!
Without slowing his pace, the younger soldier moved to his wife, gave her a quick kiss then fell into a long embrace, a desperate, I’ll-never-leave-you-again-if-I-can-help-it embrace.
Minutes ticked by, but the clock had stopped. The not-to-be-forgotten baby in the stroller began to cry. The soldier scooped up the child and held him close in one arm, his other arm around his wife’s waist as she put her head on his chest. Not a word was said. The baby choked back the sobs while he studied the face of this unknown man.
I turned away feeling the moment was too private. My gaze turned momentarily to the older soldier who held a man and a woman close to him. A brother and his wife? His parents? No one spoke. Clearly no words came easily at a homecoming such as this. What do you say to someone who has seen too much? Has experienced unimaginable traumatic events?
Now the frenzied anticipation gave way to measured interaction. Other family members holding back came forward for their turn to show their love of the returning soldiers. What lay before them only time would tell. For now, everyone was glad the soldiers were home.
When I saw my son walking towards me, I still felt the combination of love and sadness from the soldiers and their families. To them, I wanted to add my “thank you.” I wanted to surround them with white light, a protective light that would keep them from harm. They had come so far.
My own son did not look particularly excited to see me. I am sure I represented the end of an amazing journey. He had a new family now, one in a tiny village on Ometepe in Nicaragua. During the past two weeks, he witnessed a birth and dug fence pole holes with sticks that only remotely resembled shovels. He built piñatas and entertained the village children. He climbed a volcano, fought off colonies of ants, ate rice and beans at every meal. He lived in a shack without water or electricity. He saw the smiling faces of children with so little and yet so much. Indeed, it was the happiest place on earth. Spencer, glad to be home, could not wait to go back.
What’s my problem? Sorry Spencer. These tears are not for you. I predict you will travel to other amazing places, winning friends wherever you go. Today “my problem” lies in the feeling that my motherhood does not begin and end with raising my own two sons. It continues indefinitely as other mothers’ children go off to war, experience debilitating disease or illness, starve, remain uneducated, die. My heart feels full with love. I close my eyes and send this love to these children of the world.
What’s my problem? I appreciate now that I have no problems. In fact, as you chat amongst your friends, unwilling to let the trip end just yet, I realize that I’m the one standing at “the happiest place on earth.”
May 11, 2007
Grace Pohlmann Lammert (1908-2007)
Photo of Aunt Grace with Alexander in June 2006
Last week, as Aunt Grace lay in her hospital bed, I had an opportunity to talk with her one last time -- to tell her I loved her. She told me she loved me too, and I choked back the tears because I knew I was losing someone very important in my life. I also knew that this was the opportunity to say good-bye that I never had with my own father. I felt as if Grace spoke for him too.
As the week went on, I imagined my dad, with that deep-dimpled grin of his, smiling down on his oldest sister. In my mind, I saw him motioning Grace to join him in a place where there was no pain, where they could enjoy the view and eternal peace. Now the eight brothers and sisters are together again. And we are left with our memories.
My first memory of Aunt Grace was when I was a child of seven or eight. Grace rescued me from my cousins who excluded me from whatever game they were playing. I hold no grudge Mary and Kathy, for you see, Aunt Grace took me into the kitchen and together we made chocolate chip cookies. And I got to lick the bowl!
My most recent memory is of my last visit to St. Charles less than a year ago. How lucid Grace was as she re-told tales of life in the city at Aunt Mame’s and on the farm in Millwood. I never tired of hearing the story of how she and Ralph would take my dad, just a toddler at the time, wherever they went. Hearing the details of her life, I realized that she held a moral strength that few ever know.
In years to come, I’ll remember Grace’s sweet nature, soft skin, and gentle voice. I’ll remember the special bond she shared with Alexander. Aunt Grace was like a grandma to him, the type of grandma who never got mad, even when he spilled lemonade all over the clean kitchen floor.
I am sure that other family members have different memories than I do. But to me, Aunt Grace demonstrated an elegance of manner and motion. She truly lived up to her name.
May 8, 2007
Mamasaysom Writing Assignment: My Child
The assignment this week on Mamasaysom is to “watch your kid(s) for a day or two, pay attention to little details and habits that you find particularly endearing or humorous” then write about those observations. At first, I misunderstood the assignment and wrote about a recent experience with my oldest son Spencer when he returned from a cultural exchange program in Nicaragua. This misunderstanding seemed particularly humorous to me. How many times do I say to my children “Read the instructions carefully.” OR “What do the instructions say?”
Now that I understand the assignment, I realize I still can’t follow-the directions to the letter.
My twelve-year-old son left yesterday for a five-day bicycling trip on Lopez Island in the San Juans. But if he were here, I would probably tell you that he has an adorable dimple that he inherited from his grandfather and his aunt, that he plays classical piano extraordinarily well though he’s the last to admit it. I’d also tell you that he sports the most beautiful smile when he feels good about himself, or he might just as easily say “Mommy, I feel sad and I don’t know why.”
So observe your other son, you might say. Well, he’s seventeen (need I say more). He’s not home long enough for me to observe anything other than the trail of dirty laundry.
If he were home today, I might watch him in awe as he created a gourmet meal from whatever was left in the refrigerator. If he were home, I’d enjoy the hugs he still loves to give me. If he were home, I’d get a charge out of the ease in which he socializes with both young children and the elderly.
But he’s not home. He drove the carpool to school today. Later he’ll do homework, teach a saxophone lesson, then watch his girlfriend play softball. Tomorrow he’ll play ultimate Frisbee after school with his best friends. Friday and Saturday, he works at the finest restaurant on Bainbridge Island, a job he adores. At three a.m. Sunday morning, he leaves for a ten day white water river rafting trip.
Perhaps I can’t observe my children in person today, tomorrow or even the next day. But Mamasaysom’s writing assignment gave me opportunity to observe in my own mind just how wonderful my children are.
One last note: Today, May 8, is Childhood Depression Awareness Day. Please remember that not all children exhibit a cheerful personality or a willfulness that is endearing. Not every word they utter is “cute”, “sweet”, or “precocious.”
According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) “Clinical depression goes beyond sadness. It's more than having a bad day or coping with a major loss such as the death of a parent, grandparent, or even a favorite pet. It's also not a personal weakness or a character flaw. Youth suffering from clinical depression cannot simply snap out of it." For more information about Childhood Depression, visit NAMI.
Posted by Elizabeth at 12:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)May 7, 2007
Mamasaysom
One of my favorite literary sites for mothers is Mamasaysom. The design of the site is stunning with its white space and extraordinary photos. Each week they post a theme and great "mom" writers respond. Visit Mamasaysom often for the latest in a variety of mother musings.
Posted by Elizabeth at 6:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)April 27, 2007
Recap of Turn Off the TV Week in the Coplan Household
As we wind down from Turn Off the TV Week, I want to share my own “Turn Off” story. I am proud to say that I did not go to the airport this week and therefore I was not bombarded by the televisions throughout the concourse or on the planes. I also did not treat myself to a nice lunch in a fancy department store like Saks or Neiman’s where there are multiple screens to entertain diners. Nor did I go to the gym, which is unfortunate in a lot of ways, but I was spared visions of the Food Network while working off that dessert from the night before.
My children did not watch television because of their homework and after school activities. Saturday morning cartoons remain to be seen (pun intended).
We’ve listened on the radio as the Mariners won three games in a row! The sound of the announcer's voice brought back memories of my childhood listening to the Houston Astros on the family's transistor radio.
As for my own Internet use, I kept my promise and used the Internet sparingly, though I was tempted on many levels to just “check” a few of my favorite sites.
To my fellow mothers: Whether you honored Turn Off the TV week or not, you deserve a pat on back for simply making it through another week.
April 20, 2007
Don't Blame Autism Diagnosis
The word is out -- Autism. Labeled as autistic, Virginia Tech shooter Cho Seung-Hui murdered 32 people. In my work, I meet numerous mothers and autistic children. Not one would I describe as "murderous." I believe that Cho's feelings of rage came from something other Autism.
Dr. Louis Kraus, chief of child and adolescent psychiatry at Chicago´s Rush University Medical Center, describes Cho Seung-Hui as "someone who was bullied to the breaking point. ... Cho had a biological psychiatric disorder that may have worsened in recent years because of the pressures of college life and his leaving the support of his family. http://www.mymotherlode.com/News/article/id/D8OK31NO0
In addition to being mistreated and bullied (as if that isn't bad enough), Cho exhibited classic signs of depression. He felt isolated, and his writings showed a troubled mind.
As many people strive to point blame or isolate a cause, I worry about all the mothers of atypical children who must deal with a suspicious society.
Posted by Elizabeth at 8:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)April 18, 2007
Not One but Two Handguns!
According to CNN and the New York Times, two handguns were used “a 9-millimeter handgun and 22-caliber handgun were recovered from Norris Hall.” http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/17/us/17virginia.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin
If you are like me, you find the availability of handguns in this country nauseating. Want to do something? Support Sarah Brady’s Campaign to Support Gun Violence. http://www.bradycampaign.org/
Posted by Elizabeth at 1:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)April 17, 2007
My Boys Like Shootouts. What's Wrong With That? Plenty!
"My Boys Like Shootouts. What's Wrong With That?" by Jonathan Turley appeared in the Washington Post on Sunday, February 25, 2007. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/02/23/AR2007022301749.html.
I saved this article for my parenting Blog www.awildride.net/blog. I thought it provided some balance to the age old question: What’s wrong with toy guns? In the article, Turley quotes both Michael Thompson, a psychologist and coauthor of Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys and Nancy Carlsson-Paige, co-author of the book Who’s Calling the Shots?: How to Respond Effectively to Children’s Fascination with War Play and War Toys.
Thompson feels that parents overreact when children play with toy guns. "Play is play. Violence is violence." Turley suggests that the “key is making sure that kids distinguish between the two in their play.”
Carlsson-Paige argues that toy guns are not part of a normal childhood fantasy. They “really manifest the ideas of adults -- of marketing people who push toys that reflect an adult imagination more than a child's.”
Turley goes on to say “Carlsson-Paige, who has long studied the effect of violence in the media on the social development of children, says it is true that guns and war games are a way of helping some children process the plethora of violent images on television, in videos, in the news. When I asked her about my neighborhood toy gun issues, she told me: ‘If parents ban gun play, they run the risk of cutting off a valuable vehicle children need for processing the violence [because] kids use their play to make meaning of what they have experienced in life, and in this case, of the violence they have seen.’"
After yesterday’s horrible shooting spree at Virginia Tech (http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/16/us/16cnd-shooting.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin), I wonder if there will ever be any balance in this country when it comes to guns? Why do we need toy guns so that children can “process the violence they have experienced in life?” What violence do most children in America experience? Sure there are inner-city children who witness gang violence and toddlers who watch in horror as their parents physically battle.
And I’m going out on a limb here. Don't most children in America see violence on the nightly news (without parent discussion)? Or perhaps they watch television programming or go to movies that glamorize violence.
This week perhaps we can all take a moment to remember those who lost their lives yesterday at Virginia Tech. To honor these victims, let's turn off ‘24’ and refuse to pay money to see ‘300.’
Please take a moment to stop, close our eyes, and THINK about what we and our children are watching. What violence can we elminate from our daily media diet?
April 5, 2007
Bad Mommy Moment
Okay, so call me a Bad Mommy. One week ago my 17-year-old son Spencer left for Nicaragua. In another week, he’ll return home. Truthfully, I don’t miss him. Don’t get me wrong. Yes, I love him very much. But I know he’s enjoying his trip to Ometepe, sister island to Bainbridge.
In the past, when Spence travels away from home, I start to miss him after a week. Just a little. Usually he’s in some exotic or remote area and not reachable by phone. If I could call him, I would probably call just to hear his voice, hear what he’s been up to. I wouldn’t have a lot to say since there’s not much different around here, except that he’s not home.
Last night I experienced not one but two Bad Mommy Moments. The first moment occurred at a meeting of the parents whose children are participating in the Omepete project. Asked to introduce ourselves, give the name of our child, and the village in Nicaragua where our child was living, I froze. “Well,” I said. “Um, hi, I’m Elizabeth Coplan. My son is Spencer and I am having a bad mommy moment. You see, um, I have no idea where he is!”
The second opportunity to embarrass myself came later in that same meeting as other parents explained how much they missed their children. When it came my turn, I offered, “I must admit, I’m enjoying the peace and quiet, and I guess I miss him.”
You see, I know he’s having a great time. I know he loves working with the village children. Hell, he’s probably already organized a soccer tournament with whatever is easy to kick around, a bottle cap, a round rock, even a ball if one is available. By now, he’s probably demonstrated a new way with rice and beans given his culinary talents
Let’s be truthful. Do I miss him? Well, his music still blares on the stereo thanks to his brother. His bedroom is used for a staging area for the laundry. In fact, now that I think of it, the volume of laundry is down. Way down. And the dishwasher only runs once a day.
And tonight, when go to sleep around 10 p.m., I won’t need to leave my light because he’s not here to awaken me when he comes home from work at midnight.
Truthfully, I guess I would call him today, if I could. Just to hear his voice. And maybe he’ll tell me abut his day. And maybe he’ll ask me about mine. And maybe he’ll say he misses me. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll tell him I miss him too.
March 27, 2007
Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity
Do you know what I like best about the news media? I enjoy the fact that for every piece of new research, there are numerous interpretations, and I can decide whether I am guilty or not guilty, whether I made the right choice…or the wrong one.
For example, yesterday a study released by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development reported that “children who received higher quality child care before entering kindergarten had better vocabulary scores in the fifth grade than those who received lower quality care. The study authors also found that the more time children spent in center-based care before kindergarten, the more likely their sixth grade teachers were to report such problem behaviors as ‘gets in many ‘fights,’ ‘disobedient at school,’ and ‘argues a lot.’ ”
This study ran in the New York Times under the headline “Poor Behavior Is Linked to Time in Day Care.” Guilty – I placed my son in day care while I worked full-time.
This same study popped up on “Healthwatch” for CBS News as “Study: Good Child Care Pays Dividends (Finds Link Between Pre-Kindergarten Care And Vocabulary Scores In 5th Grade)” Great – now I’m Not Guilty of making a bad decision when I put my son in day care.
And the study itself goes on to say: “However, the researchers cautioned that the increase in vocabulary and problem behaviors was small, and that the parenting quality was a much more important predictor of child development than was type, quantity or quality of childcare.” In regard to my parenting, I believe there's a hung jury.
To read the study, visit the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development site http://www.nichd.nih.gov/The CBS article can be found here: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/03/26/health/main2607694.shtml
Go to http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/26/us/26center.html?em&ex=1175140800&en=44e7d2347df99b05&ei=5087%0A for the New York Times article.
Today I’m looking for a study that finds “Most mothers doing the best they can!”
March 12, 2007
Motherhood -- Sometimes the pressure is devastating. Sometimes the joys are overwhelming.
Lessons I Learned from My Own Mother
Happiness is not a place.
Be frugal – not cheap.
You can do anything you want to do. (Just do it with dignity and class.)
Enjoy life now – don’t wait until the kids are grown, or you retire, or you have enough money.
Believe in yourself (even if no one else, except your mother, will).
Give people the benefit of the doubt – most people do not set out to deliberately hurt you.
Don’t play the victim role (it’s very unbecoming).
Don’t wear blue eye shadow (you look like a “streetwalker”).
Focus on your good health while you have it – you may lose it without notice.
As a mother, do the best you can. But remember you will make mistakes and some of those mistakes will be huge.
Love your own mother now with all her faults because all too soon she’ll be gone.
If your own mother has already passed away, remember her, faults and all, with love and understanding and forgiveness.
February 28, 2007
First Love
I’m suffering from a broken heart. Not mine, my oldest son’s. He broke up with his girlfriend of seven months, though they have been friends for years. Actually, she ended the relationship. I can’t remember the last time I held my son while he cried. Perhaps when he was a toddler?
The pit in my stomach makes it hard for me to breathe. I want nothing more for my son than a life of love, good health, and happiness. But life is not static. Life is constantly changing. After all the tears, I hope he understands that one day we may experience nothing but love, good health and happiness, and the next day we don’t. Each day is a gift -- some come in prettier packages than others.
And I knew this day would come --the inevitable end of a first love. As I examine my own sadness, I realize that, as a mother, I don’t want my child to suffer. I naturally want him to go through life without bumps and bruises, physical or emotional.
I also realize that I personally learned the most from my mistakes and my losses, from pushing the boundaries and trying “one more time.”
My wish for my son today is: Feel the sadness. Understand the depth of your love. Emerge stronger – whenever you are ready.
February 27, 2007
Virtual Hugs
My son hates being touched. Kisses are the worst. Something about the light touch of lips and the possibility of moisture from saliva on his cheek is more than he can handle. I believe the only time I have given Alexander a good, sloppy, mother-to-son kiss was when he went under anesthesia just before adenoid surgery.
And hugs are marginally tolerated. If I've used “smelly creams,” then a hug is out of the question. The definition of a “smelly cream” is any lotion, moisturizer, or lip gloss with even the slightest hint of fragrance. And I swear he can smell it through walls and up two flights of stairs!
Knowing that a tiny touch or whiff of perfrume can send my sensory sensitive child over the edge forced me to find alternatives to hugs and kisses. In our household, we now practice “virtual hugs” and “air kisses” which can be sent across the room, down the hall, or over the phone. Not as satisfying to me of course, but these practical attempts at affection are reasonable substitutes. They are all I am likely to experience at this time in my son's life, and occasionally I catch my son smiling when I yell “virtual hugs” at the end of a long day.
February 22, 2007
Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places
How many times have I thought: If only my son would pick up his room, get good grades, wash the car, empty the dishwasher, not procrastinate, wash his hair, wipe his feet, pick up the toys in the yard, come home on time, call if he is going to be late, get more exercise, play less computer, watch fewer television shows, chew with his mouth closed, use a napkin, nearly food his clean laundry, put his laundry away, get off the phone, call his grandmother, practice his saxophone/piano, write thank-you notes, stop biting his nails, scrub his face, move his shoes, watch his language?
Sometimes I feel as if the only way he can show his love for me is to do these things – all of them – daily – without being nagged. Sadly, it seems, I look for love in the completion of tasks.
In fact, what would be proved if he did complete all of the above? We’d have a cleaner house, car, and yard. He’d have cleaner hair, face, body – and mouth. His grandmother would think highly of him. His musical ability would improve. He’d earn scholarships to the college of his choice.
But is this love? Or even success? According to Dr. Mel Levine, “grades in school are not a predictor of success in life.” Then why do I attach such importance to them? Am I looking for love in all the wrong places?
Today I vow to look for love in all the RIGHT places – in the hugs (no matter how brief), in the laughter and smiles (no matter how fleeting) and I will appreciate my children – being themselves.
February 12, 2007
Expectations
“This has been a difficult letter to write,” my mother told her friends, “and I've started it many times. I wanted to be able to tell you some wild and exciting tales but there are none to tell.”
April 1950 – Fairbanks, Alaska. After spending years looking for adventure in pre- and post-war America, Mom settled in Fairbanks where she met Dad. She traveled across the country, worked in Las Vegas before The Strip, and piloted a plane over the Artic Circle. Always on the move, Elizabeth Jane Brown expected the next adventure to be close-at-hand.
February 1997 – Bainbridge Island, Washington. The therapist says I have a right to expect my mother dead by now. Of course, these feelings, and my Catholic guilt, drive me to the therapist’s office this cold day. The fact remains -- my mother is not dead. Let me make this clear. I love my mother. We’re best friends. I just never imagined taking care of her. This is not how my life is supposed to be. I want my own motherhood. Martha Stewart meets Mary Poppins meets June Cleaver. In this version of my life, I want my mom healthy and not dependent on me for her social and emotional life. Isn’t that what every child expects of her mother?
After Dad died unexpectedly, we thought Mom would move to Florida with Mary, my sister. But everyone expects to retire to Florida. Unfortunately, the assisted living homes worth residing in charge exorbitant rates. All the other homes are not worth getting out of the car. So Mom moves to Bainbridge Island and begins the next phase of her life -- the one she’s not supposed to be living.
June 2000. The effects of Parkinson’s take over. Confined to a wheelchair and unable to speak, this once wildly adventurous woman now lives in an adult family home where she patiently awaits my daily visits. Her eyes twinkle when her grandsons describe their soccer games and school activities, their Halloween plans and who’s coming for Thanksgiving dinner. By Christmas she stays awake for only an hour at time, has no control over he own body, and seems somewhere between living and dying.
“Go. Enjoy your vacation. We’ll take care of your mom. You know we love her.” Debbie, Mom’s favorite caregiver, hugs me and waves as we drive off to a ski resort five hours away.
I try to relax but I cannot stop thinking of Mom. Each time I enter our hotel room my eyes go to the message light on the phone. When it is lit, I fully expect it to mean a message from Debbie. “Elizabeth, I am so sorry. We tried to keep her going until you got home, but she passed away this morning.”
But each time the light flashes red, I hear the voice of Jim, our friend and fellow vacationer, “Hey, the kids want hamburgers for dinner. Meet us down at the Wolf Creek Grill at 5 p.m.”
When we return home, I expect Mom to be on her deathbed. Instead, she rallies. She has some color in her cheeks and is aware that I am with her. We watch old movies together. Hold hands. She hates to be touched by anyone other than me. It hurts her too much.
One Sunday shortly after our return, I arrange for a special bus to take the two of us to Mass. The church volunteers no longer bring my mother communion after 10 a.m. when she is alert. She dedicated her life to the Catholic Church and I am surprised at their inflexibility – not at all what I expected.
This Sunday we sit in the back of the church, my mother in her wheelchair. We both relax in the familiar surroundings and age-old traditions. I hold my mother’s hand that is now boney with arthritis, ghostly white, colored only by the purple bruising and the blue veins. I lean over to kiss her cheek. Even as she nears death, her olive complexion is smooth and delicious to the touch. Her white hair reminds me of silver silk. Her eyes twinkle as they always have and I sense that her life is complete with me by her side.
The following Sunday I arrange for the bus again. This time Mom falls asleep ten minutes into the ride and sleeps through the church-going adventure.
Monday night I sit through a tense school board meeting. The board is split on a difficult decision. Tension is high, tempers are only slightly controlled, and the office phone keeps ringing. Who calls a school at 9 o’clock at night? Wrong number we all assume as we continue our debate. Finally, we take a vote, the phone still rings, and I walk out of the school building to go home.
My husband Scott meets me at the door. “I have to tell you something.” We stand in the doorway. “Your mom died.” I expected to hear those words years ago but when they finally come, I feel my heart crushing and my stomach turns to lead.
Why I felt it necessary to go to Mom’s at that late hour still escapes me. Something Scott said made me think they expected me. If she’s dead, what else should I do? Is there some formal identification that needs to take place?
I drive the eight-minute trip to the family home, careful yet oblivious. Too late to call Mary in Florida. There’s nothing to be done now.
Cell phone rings. “Ah, Elizabeth, I need to tell you something. Ah, your mother is not dead.”
“What!” I pull the car to the side of the road.
“There’s been a mistake. She’s not dead. Do you want to come back home?”
Though the lead in my stomach was short lived, I still feel the crushing of my heart and now a sense of relief. “No, I’m going over to the house. There’s still time to say good-bye.”
I expect to walk into my mother’s room, give her a hug and kiss, say my goodbye, and declare that she can go now. She feels clammy and looks as if she is sleeping rather than dying. The nurse takes me aside. “We’re so sorry about the mixed-up message. The end is very near though,” she tells me in the dark hallway, all the other residents asleep in their rooms. “Maybe you should call your sister to come out, but I don’t know if your mom will last the night.”
I wait until 4 a.m. to call. It’s 7 my sister’s time and her husband will be up for work. “It’s not a convenient time for Mom to die. I have other things I have to do this month. April would be a good time to come out West,” she informs me.
I concur. Scott and I plan to go on a short trip – just the two of us. “We both need the break,” I tell my sister, and we laugh at our thoughts of dying as an inconvenience. Our laughter mixes with our tears.
As my sister makes plans to fly to Seattle, I call the relatives. Hospice visits but is reluctant to begin the process. The nurse doubts that Mom will last long enough to fill out the paperwork. The priest comes. He doesn’t expect her to live through Last Rites.
My second cousin, Heather, arrives from Seattle to spend the day by Mom’s bedside; a close friend does the same. A couple of days pass and Mary appears. Hospice agrees to provide comfort to my mother’s caregivers who appear more grief stricken than I am. Both my sons sit with their grandmother. They say their good-byes.
My sister and I continue to sit at her side through a rainy Saturday and a cold Sunday, perfect for watching the NFL playoffs. How poetic for Mom to die during a football game, the game she taught us girls to love. We watch the game, make comments, and hoot and howl as if Mom is an active participant in our bedroom tailgate party. Mom offers me a stiff, somewhat painful smile when I kiss her cheek. I tell her I love her. I touch her hair and tell her it’s okay to go now. “We’ll miss you but we’ll be fine. Dad is waiting for you Mom.”
She shutters violently. The bed rattles and I revise my statement. “Okay, not Dad. Someone else. Aunt Elizabeth. Yes, Aunt Elizabeth is waiting for you.” Mary reminds me that Dad is probably on the other side waiting – impatiently.
Mom doesn’t die during the football game. Nor does she die the next day when I sit by her bedside, conducting business on the phone. Mary has no more time to stay. She expected mom to die during the week she spent here. We all did. Scott returns to his business and flies to Los Angeles. I return to my inbox and expect to resume my daily schedule. The boys go back to school.
“May I suggest a good night’s sleep in your own home tonight,” says Joyce, a caregiver and a Hospice volunteer. “I’ll stay with your mom.”
Like Dad before her, my mother dies peacefully without her family hovering. As I dress early the next morning, the phone rings. No more expectations. This time I know she is gone.
She lies peacefully on her bed. Death allows her a dignity that dying did not. There is no life in the body but there is presence, feeling, indescribable yet the essence of my mother. At first, this feeling surrounds only me. Then it begins to grow. I sit by the bed, my head resting on her still warm body, as her presence fills the room. I cry softly, talking to her all the time. “I know you believe in heaven Mom. I hope it is everything you expect it to be.”
“Alaska is so very much different from what I expected,” my mother wrote in a letter to her friends. Death is very much different from what I expected, I tell my friends.
January 2007 – Six years go, I expected to miss my mom when she died. I did not expect to miss her every moment of every day.
Posted by Elizabeth at 7:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)February 9, 2007
Posted by Elizabeth at 6:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)January 24, 2007
I Shall Not Judge Myself
Last night Dr. Mel Levine spoke to a crowd of 450 parents and teachers in Tacoma, Washington. I’ve heard Dr. Levine speak before. He liberally peppers his lecture on learning abilities with humorous anecdotes. The crowd laughs along as he explains why some children struggle in school and some succeed. As a Professor of Pediatrics and Director of the Clinical Center for the Study of Development and Learning at the University of North Carolina Medical School, Founder of All Kind Of Minds Institute and a best-selling author, Dr. Levine knows what he is talking about when it comes to describing how “to recognize learning challenges as learning differences.”
During last night’s talk, I was struck by the fact that the advice he offered for helping our challenging children could easily apply to us mothers. For instance, Dr. Levine suggested that an adolescent who struggles in school, never makes the sports team, is not quick-witted or popular take a long look at a student who is. “But don’t compare yourself to the high school Superstar,” Dr. Levine warned. “Seriously consider the possibility that this may well be his finest hour. There is a good chance he’ll be working for you someday.”
And so it goes for us mothers. How often have I measured my own parenting abilities against those of another mother on the playground who plays imaginative games with her child and his friends while I am lucky to get to the playground at all? And how often have I compared myself against the mother who bakes cookies with her daughter as an after school activity when I can barely prepare a decent evening meal. I don’t judge these women as being insufferable. I judge myself as being inadequate.
Today I resolve not to measure my own worth as a parent based on the perceived success of other mothers. I will go through my day dealing with mothering issues and dilemmas on my own terms. And if I see the mother whose son is an honor roll student, the captain of the football team, a volunteer firefighter, and the heartthrob of the high school, I will remember that this may be her finest hour and perhaps some day her son will work for mine.
Posted by Elizabeth at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)January 19, 2007
The Nose Knows But The Brain Forgot
As all mature mothers know, memory loss is an occupational hazard. We blame it on menopause, low estrogen levels and stress. Today I ran into a closed door in the dark. Why? Because I forgot I had shut the door moments before. You see, I did not want to awaken my sleeping husband by turning on the bathroom light, so I quietly shut the door. Once inside the bathroom, I found that I miraculously did not need the light thanks to 50+ years of toilet training. I washed my hands, and then proceed to walk into the door – nose first. And it wasn’t quiet. Oh no, I hit that door with a loud, hard thud. Swollen nose and black eyes proved the force with which I hit the door. “If you had put up your arms and walked slowly in the dark towards the door, you would not have hurt yourself,” my kind husband offered. But extending my arms and walking slowly toward the door would mean that I remembered that the door was shut in the first place!
Although I am the only one going through menopause in this household, I am not the only one with short-term memory loss. My Swiss-cheese-brain 17-year-old son paid $9.00 in late fees for three library books that he straightened, moved, and dusted for two months every time he was asked to clean his room. Yet he never once thought: Hey, these need to be returned. Last week my husband forgot one of the children in our carpool. Once home he made the 40 minute round trip back to the school to pick up the stranded child. “I totally spaced” he exclaimed.
According to Dr. Andrew Weil, blueberries are a good memory food. Apparently “a blueberry-rich diet actually reversed short-term memory loss in aging rats.” I plan to buy an entire case for my family. Blueberries, three meals a day. Blueberry pancakes, blueberry sandwiches, blueberry burgers. The trouble with eating all those blueberries is that even if I regain some of my memory, I'm still an aging rat, I mean, woman.
Posted by Elizabeth at 5:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)Check out my other website:
Check out my other website: http://www.awildride.net
Posted by Elizabeth at 5:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)January 18, 2007
Things I Learned Last Week
Okay, I missed it. Yesterday, January 17, was the poet William Stafford's birthday. Had he lived he would be 93-years-old. According to his biography, he "began publishing his poetry only later in life," at age 46. Whoa! Forty-six is NOT later in life. Forty-six is when you finally have something worth saying!
To honor William Stafford, and any other writer who finds her voice in her "later" years, I offer you my variation on Stafford's poem "Things I Learned Last Week."
No two snowflakes are ever alike. But if two identical snowflakes did fall, who would know?
Best advice ever given to me by a pediatrician: “You’re the mom. What do you think?”
Robert’s Jewelers on Bainbridge will close after 60 years. The first owner ran the shop for 29 years, the current owner 31.
Mozart, possibly the greatest composer in history, was buried with little ceremony in an unmarked grave, as was the custom at the time.
The UK boasts the largest gathering of people dressed as gorillas. 637 people participated in the Great Gorilla Fun Run to raise money for The Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund on September 25, 2005.
If ever I die, I’d like it to be a peaceful death on a warm summer day. That way, I’ll have light all around me, and everyone will see how beautiful a death can be.
A gift certificate says “we’re friends.” A gift says “we’re more than friends.” An e-mail says, “Hey, you’re on my to-do list.”
http://www.bainbridgebuzz.com/content/view/1659/70/
Posted by Elizabeth at 8:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)January 11, 2007
Forced to Lie About My Age
I don’t color my hair. Have never done Botox. I do tweeze the gray from my eyebrows and my chin, and, as the mother of two sons, I’ve earned every line on my face. When I remember where I last put them, I wear reading glasses. I hold the distinction of being the oldest member in my mothers' book club – by a lot. Most of the other women were children of the ‘70s. Truthfully I did more in the ‘70s than just grow up.
And there lies the problem. I have never lied about my age – until today – when I was coerced, forced, denied the ability to carry on unless I did in fact lie about the year of my birth.
Why should I say that I am younger than my 52 years? I’ve worked hard to create the woman I am today. I started my career in my twenties, developed professionally in my thirties even after having my first son when I was 35. Five years later, after my second pregnancy was confirmed, my obstetrician wrote in large black letters ATM (Advanced Maternal Age) on my medical chart. I was 40.
“Aging is not just decay, you know. It’s growth,” so says Morrie in Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom. So true. During my forties, I grew around my middle and my thighs. I also grew in wisdom and patience. I learned how to use technology – computers, cell phones, PDAs and the Internet. And that is where the lying occurred – on the Internet.
No, I did not lie about my age on MySpace. I logged on to a new and promising parenting web site called GotKidsNetwork.com. The site asked for my age in order to complete my registration. As directed, I entered my birth month, June, and my birth day, 24. The year – 195__. I tried adding the “4” but the field didn’t take the number. So I chose the earliest year listed – 1956. 1956! This begged the question: are mothers over 50 too old to grow, to learn from Internet resources?
Again I tried to enter a “4.” I only wanted to log on so that I could talk to other mothers -- women like me with little time to connect with other mothers during the day and only a few minutes at night to search the Web for parenting strategies and E-bay sales.
No go. Finally, forced to lie about my age, I entered my birth year as 1956 -- the year Lucille Ball won the Emmy for I Love Lucy, the cost of a postage stamp was 3 cents, the Yankees won the World Series (against the Brooklyn Dodgers) and life expectancy was 69.7 years – all according to the Internet.
Posted by Elizabeth at 9:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)January 10, 2007
Welcome!
I'm a retired marketing professional and the mother of two children. To help make it through the day, I occasionally stop to write about my experiences. In my younger years, I found life similar to a roller coaster ride. My days were colored by tremendous highs, unbelievable lows, and frequent urges to throw up. As a mature woman, wife, and mother, I appreciate the highs, understand the lows, and laugh out loud whenever possible.
Check out my other website: http://www.awildride.net
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