Mom on Fire

Dolce far niente

2009-10-02T09:00:00-07:00

Lying there in the darkness, the night before Maddy and Suzy go back to school, I’m unable to sleep.

I’m thinking back over my summer—their summer. Was it a success? Over the past three months, I investigated scores of activities for my daughters. Of those, I more or less seriously pursued several dozen. But how many did I actually get them involved in? Let’s see. Trip to the beach. Art exhibit. Visit to friends’ house. Um . . . moth science . . . ?

I know, I know: their summer hasn’t exactly been packed. Frankly, you readers have given me far more ideas than I’ve given you. (It seems as though every one of my blog entries turns into a flurry of letters. From the very first, that tells you a lot about the author.) I heard from a dad whose kids spent the summer constructing an army of puppets out of cloth scraps and polystyrene balls. I heard from a couple whose kids built a miniature golf course for their anniversary using old cardboard tubes, plastic flowerpots, and roofing tiles. Someone sent me a recipe for a goop her teenager concocted by mixing cornstarch and water: it’s moldable like dough, but the instant you drop it on the sidewalk, it melts.

One correspondent’s little girls have never had a puppy, so to ease them into it she took them to a dog park. They spent a frustrating but enlightening hour trying to entice a roughhousing band of mutts into a game of Fetch the Muddy Slobbery Tennis Ball. And one mom has found salvation in her community newsletter (never mind the typos, esoteric gossip, and campy non-news). In June, knowing nobody, she and little eight-year-old Harper crashed their local high school’s end-of-the-year band concert. And why not? Rockin’ the free culture? Sure! It’s all good!

And us? We did exactly none of this. We’re the family who drove for miles to go letterboxing and then bailed without even getting out of the car. OK, so the summer wasn’t exactly a nonstop educational whirlwind, but I think they did learn a little. And—dare I say it?—occasionally it seemed to me they were actually enjoying themselves. (Which is only fair; after all, it was summer.)

How much of that can I take credit for? Long before the invention of the cell phone and video games, kids were finding ways to keep themselves busy during summer break. Maybe it’s just that we parents forget how easily they make their own entertainment, how much they long to explore. I think sometimes the kids themselves forget. They wake up griping about how boring today will be; by bedtime, they’re too excited to sleep.

All I know is what my heart tells me. Which is that after three months with me—a little fun, a little learning, a little disappointment, a little growing—my little angels are ready to go back to school. And that as long as they have each other, they won’t be bored.

At least, not with me as their mom.

At least, not for long.

Way not to go, Mom

2009-09-30T09:00:00-07:00

E-mail: my blessing, my curse. That spam/plea I bombarded all those other parents with weeks ago did yield fruit . . . but such sour fruit!

Final tally: 90% of the responses described things we can’t do (for financial, logistical, or legal reasons).

The other 10% listed things we can do—but (according to these parents) mustn’t:

Community summer program?

NO.

You’ll never get off that wait list unless you make a huge donation.  And not even then.

Youth group day trip?

NO.

They’ll fall asleep on the bus and the boys will tie their halter tops together.

Overnight camp?

NO.

They’ll come back exhausted and they’ll sing that ‘icky-exty-zambo-roscoe-rambo’ song 24/7 until your head explodes.

Sports day camp?

NO.

You waited too long to sign them up, and now they’ll get stuck with all the other last-minute losers.  Anyone who’s any good at sports will have come and gone by July.

That library program where kids read to dogs?

NO.

What if the dog hates the book and bites your daughter?  Even if he only dislikes it a little, dog bites can hurt.

The park?

NO.

Full of older kids doing nothing but smoking and making out.

The beach?

NO.

Riptides.  Tsunamis.  Sharks.  Plus that old Chinese guy in Malibu who sometimes forgets his bathing suit.

The pool?

NO.

Boys think it’s funny to tug on the string of a girl’s bikini top just as she’s jumping in.  And if she double-knots it for safety, it’ll cut into her chest.

A friend’s house?

NO.

What if your kid’s playing in the backyard and a squirrel bites her on the knee and the parents have a religious thing against antibiotics and they tell her just to pray over it and a week later she gets lockjaw?

Backyard sprinkler fun?

NO.

First they’ll slip and then they’ll slide and then they’ll break their necks.  And hello, there’s a water shortage.

TV?

NO.

Daytime TV is evil.  Summer TV is evil.  Summer daytime TV is ultra-evil.

Doing nothing?

NO.

What kind of mother are you?!

My conclusion: For this family . . . for every family . . . there are no educational summer activities. Too many risks. Too many gotchas.

Summer’s over?

Summer’s always been over.

And nowthe end is near

2009-09-28T09:00:00-07:00

“BACK 2 SCHOOL SALE"

The signs—they mock me!

“LAST-MINUTE SCHOOL SHOPPING?”

Last-minute? Uh-oh.

On the way home from Lily’s, instead of barreling down the interstate, I’ve decided to take a little “educational” detour along the good old Pacific Coast Highway. This brings us through scores of picturesque coastal towns, some with quite fascinating histories. There are only two disadvantages: it more than triples the drive, and we’re being blinded by signage.

“ALL U NEED 4 SCHOOL”

“GRRLZ FALL FASHUNS”

“READY SET BACKTOSKOOLSALESALESALE”

I really hate those deliberate misspellings. I know they’re trying to be coy and eye-catching, but we’re talking about school here. English, people! And what’s with all the last-minute sales? For girls, at least, the back-to-school sales needed to start weeks ago: all that clothing to buy! (And yet, at our friendly neighborhood middle school, the boys all seem to be swathed in eight or nine layers of material—T-shirt, shorts, baggy sweats, hoodie, beanie—while the girls prance around in spaghetti straps and thongs and precious little else.)

“Look, girls—a genuine California mission! Right here in the middle of Santa Barbara! I wonder which one it is?”

But there’s no response. In the back of the car, they’re sound asleep. I might as well have stayed on the interstate.

“WOW YOUR FRIENDS AND TEACHERS WITH OUR HOT HOT HOT STYLES”

OK, that’s just outright disturbing.

Whatever happened to having our children wow their friends and teachers with their newly acquired summer knowledge? Take my girls, for instance. Over the past three months they’ve learned an incredible amount: about moths, . . . about letterboxing, . . . about, um, how to make smell soup, . . . er, hailstorms. . . .

Sigh.

Did they learn anything worthwhile this summer?

I give myself an accusing stare in the mirror. You dropped the ball again, Mom, . . . didn’t you? Completely dropped it.

I’m a failure. And now the sun’s going down.

Another summer . . . wasted.

No! Wait! When Maddy came home from her friend Fillmore’s birthday party last month, she showed me what happens when you rub a balloon in your hair. Then Suzy showed both of us some funny noises you can make with the helium. Science . . . hah!

Wow your friends and teachers with that, my little sunshine angels!

Mom versus moth

2009-09-25T09:00:00-07:00

“OK, you two,” I begin slowly, “I bet if the three of us put our heads together,” gaining a little momentum, “we can get that moth to leave all by himself,” I’m thinking on my feet here, “just by using . . . science!”

No response.

Cut to the chase. “What are moths attracted to?”

Their bedroom is pitch black, but I picture Maddy scowling through the gloom at me, and the pile of blankets on Suzy’s bed heaving in a whimpering shrug.

“Well? Don’t you know?” The excitement is almost palpable. Well, to me, anyway. “Light! Wait here!”

I dart out to the living room, returning at once with my digital camera. Peering into the gloom, I’m almost relieved to find that I can still hear the moth. It would be so anticlimactic if he had left unbidden.

“OK, here we go. Hey, moth, you like light? C’mere!”

Flash.

“Mom-meee!”

“Oh, sorry, kids, I should have told you to cover your eyes.”

In the now very blue-and-green-spotty darkness, the moth continues fluttering around the far side of the room, oblivious.

“Maybe he didn’t see it. Let’s try again. Ready? One—two—three!”

Flash.

Flutterflutterflutter.

“OK, once more.”

Flash.

Flutterflutterflutter.

All right, this is a little disappointing. Is it possible he’s been blinded by our little experiment? Was the bright light just a little too brief for him? Gee, I wish I had a flashlight.

And now a different tactic suggests itself to me. Suppose I turn on the overhead light in the room, wait for the moth to move to it, then turn it off, turn on the hall light, wait for him to notice that, and gradually coax him down the hall, through the living room, into the foyer, and out the front door . . . ?

Seems like it ought to work, though the number of minutes it might take to complete such a project seems large. Still, it would vindicate my having invoked the Muse of Science in front of my girls.

But at that moment Djalili, roused by the noise, shuffles in and opens a window, and out the moth goes.

Yeah, we would have thought of that. At some point.

Stalking the wild moth

2009-09-23T09:00:00-07:00

Zzzz. Dozing peacefully on Lily’s hide-a-bed, the last night of our trip, I’m awakened by a sudden shriek. In two strides, I’m in the guest room.

Strange—I can still hear the zzzz.

“Mum-meee! What is that?”

The only light in the room comes from the standing lamp, which the girls have been using as a nightlight. Fluttering in and around it is what I take at first to be some sort of mutant fruit bat. Forcing my terror aside, I move closer for a better look.

“Oh, girls, it’s just a little moth!” Yes, OK, fine, I’m misrepresenting slightly. But I didn’t think “Oh, girls, it’s a three-pound moth” would go over well.

“Make it go away!” Maddy demands, sitting up in bed and scowling.

“Aw, I’m sure he’ll go away on his own.” Frankly, I’m just glad to discover he’s nothing that crawls, slithers, or bites. “Look at the way he keeps banging his head against the light bulb. He’ll give himself a case of itty-bitty mothy brain damage in no time.”

“Make it go away now!” Why’s Suzy’s voice so muffled? I look over at her bed. No little girl to be seen—just a heap of blankets, quivering.

“All right, all right.” I turn out the lamp, plunging the three—four—of us into darkness.

The frantic wingbeats go on. They sound like a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle.

“Mom-meee!”

But I’m out of ideas. “Go back to sleep, girls.”

“But I can’t sleep if he’s here!”

“I’m sure he’ll get bored eventually.”

“No, he won’t!”

“He must be pretty tired by now.”

“No, he’s not!”

In desperation, I haul out the ancient standby. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t you know that that little moth is just as terrified of you . . . as . . . as . . . ”

Ah, forget it, this is too much work. And anyway they’re not buying it.

Has it really all come down to this? “How I Spent My Summer Vacation: Hiding in Terror from a Large Winged Insect While Listening to My Mom’s Fatuous Comments”? Have I let down my children . . . and their teachers . . . yet again?

Their teachers—that’s it! What Would Mrs. Kitzman Do?

So many books, so little time

2009-09-21T09:00:00-07:00

“How far have the girls gotten on their summer reading lists?”

This is exactly what I dread about visiting this particular Northern California friend. Lily’s exactly my age, looks uncannily like me, has a daughter (Djalili) roughly my daughters’ age . . . but there the similarities end. Lily’s responsible, sensible, and practical. Samantha to my Serena. I can always trust her to point out, in the absolutely sweetest way possible, some basic element of motherhood in which I’ve fallen down.

“Uh . . . summer reading lists?”

It’s not like my children are strangers to the inside of a bookstore. For far too long, I’ve been paying retail for far too many Junie B. Jones books, which my girls read far too quickly, burning through them like flame through paper towels. “Read slower!” I’ll hiss. “Struggle a little, can’t you? You’re bankrupting me!”

We’re also well known at our local public library, where on a typical visit, my literarily greedy offspring will insist on checking out ten books each, most of which promptly wander off into the heart of darkness, never to be seen again. I once calculated that my family loses more money in library fines than if we were simply to buy our books retail and throw them out the same day.

And when a volume does finally resurface, it tends to go back to the library dogeared, marked up, spine cracked. “They’re only following my example!” I’ve protested time and again to the frowning ladies at the book return. “This is how we book reviewers work! If books weren’t meant to be written on, they wouldn’t be made of paper!”

But I have to confess that I haven’t thought about a summer reading list since—well, since this time last summer. I have no idea what the school expects my daughters to have been reading. How would I even find out?

I scowl across at Lily. Here’s a woman who’s always provided nothing but wholesome, challenging reading material for her daughter. Odds are that of any five books that child owns, at least two will be something my girls ought to have read as well.

I march the girls into Djalili’s bedroom, scoop an armload of books out of the bookcase. “We’re here for two days, girls,” I announce authoritatively. “Get cracking.”

Rear views

2009-09-18T09:00:00-07:00

DVDs, handheld video games, I Spy—bah. On a long car ride, nothing beats Polar Power.

Last week, I drove the girls up to visit friends in Northern California. We like road trips, we cherish our Interstate Highway System, but this particular route grinds for hours in a completely straight line past some of the dullest scenery ever constructed.

Monotony is a spirit-sapper. The most exciting visual was the California Aqueduct behind its concrete-and-barbed-wire fortifications, playing now-you-see-me-now-you-don't among the hills. (My daughters, romantics to the last, prefer to call it the California Canal, making this stretch of Interstate 5 the Canal Route—though to their mother it's more like the Root Canal.)

But there came a time when I realized that for an hour the only sound I'd heard from the backseat was giggling. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Nothing unusual. I turned my eyes back to the road.

Then two shrill squeals of delight rang out. Abruptly, I swiveled around to see what was going on.

Picture, if you will, a stuffed polar bear, sporting a vaguely disdainful expression over an oversized tank top appropriated from some hapless doll. Now picture him being held up to the window and, by the power of mysterious unseen hands beneath the tank top, waving to passing cars.

It really was a sight to behold. The polar bear gestured. He saluted. He high-fived. He craned his neck around to stare at truckers as we passed. He danced to radio music. At one point, when he spotted a driver babbling on her cell phone most illegally, he spun himself around, flipped up the tail of his tank top, and mooned her.

That five-dollar stuffed animal was a miracle worker. For the first time in uncountably many trips, I didn't need to interrupt any back-seat bickering with a hyper-enthusiastic: “Here comes that enormous cattle farm—the one that always smells like a giant outhouse!”

At one point, I did twist around to say that I thought maybe our Northern California friends could help us figure out this letterboxing business. But the girls only shrugged disinterestedly. So I faced forward again, casting only a brief glance in the rear-view mirror.

And . . . I can’t be sure . . . but I think the polar bear mooned me.

Thats about the sighs of it

2009-09-16T09:00:00-07:00

It’s a strangely quiet ride back.

Are the girls dozing? Are they sitting bolt upright, aghast, imagining themselves scrabbling for a muddy Rubbermaid box in a hailstorm? Are they wondering what mother would deliberately drive halfway across the state and back, scarcely leaving the car other than for biological necessity?

Actually, I’m wondering that too. This was supposed to be an All-in-One Field Trip Experience: educational, challenging, outdoors-y, fun. Instead, it’s been freeways and more freeways. Not too educational. Or fun.

Is it too late? Is this trip destined to be utterly pointless? Can’t we find something to do out here?

Probably . . . with a little hunting. Kind of like letterboxing, only on a different scale.

I swoop toward the off-ramp. “Detour!” I sing out over my shoulder.

The response from the backseat is an underwhelming sigh.

Cruising slowly down some tiny town’s main drag, I spot an adorable little restaurant. Awnings. Outdoor tables. African violets in pretty little glass vases. I can practically taste the watercress salad.

“Who’s for a healthful and delicious lunch?”

Another sigh.

Five minutes later, I’m handing Happy Meals into the backseat, which is still strangely quiet, and trying to look anywhere other than at that irresponsible mother in the mirror. There’s that tony little restaurant, right across the street. Lot of people milling about. Wonder why?

“Another detour, girls!”

Deep sigh.

Inside the restaurant, three whole walls are covered with paintings: Plein-air landscapes. Unposed semi-portraits. Intricate cityscapes built up from razor-thin paper strips cut from old magazines. One great huge oil, to which scraps of vintage cloth have been carefully glued. And all of them simply, hauntingly signed: “Antrese.”

“Antrese,” whose solo art show the restaurant is hosting, turns out to be Antrese Wood, and charming. She nods brightly as I make uninformed commentary. She smiles warmly when I explain that I’m collecting ideas for educational summer activities. She happily agrees to let the girls take a photo.

The girls! They’ve been so strangely quiet, I’ve nearly forgotten about them.

It isn’t until I’m back home and actually looking at the photo that I see where the continuing strange quiet comes from. For someone of their stature, an art show hanging at an altitude of five feet is just about invisible.

Sigh.

Consensus

2009-09-14T09:00:00-07:00

Very softly, I call the girls over to the computer. “Help me,” I croak. “This website lists every letterbox in California. There must be thousands. Where’ll we go for our first one?”

“Sacramento!” declares Maddy, barely glancing at the screen.

“Needles! Needles! Needles!” chants Suzy, I think mostly because she likes the name.

“Please,” I whimper. “Something closer to home.”

“Bo-ring!”

I should have known: Three determined spirits trying to reach consensus, on a topic none of them knows anything about? Not likely!

In the end, we decide to let Fate make the choice for us. We stuff the computer’s mouse with catnip and bring the kitten in. Bat—bat—bat—click—and the decision’s made.

Two hours later, we’re tooling along the interstate toward Big Bear Lake, a four-hour round trip. Plus at least an hour or two of actual searching. Which we can’t start until we’ve worked out the cryptic clues provided by the crafty hider. I’ve scribbled them on a piece of paper, hoping we’d be able to decode them as we drove, but so far, they might as well be in Sanskrit.

And through it all, I’m haunted by the recurring suspicion that nowhere on our journey will we ever be more than two miles from some letterbox or other. If only we knew where.

Around mid-afternoon, I pull over to take stock. We’re almost seven thousand feet above sea level. We’re crabby. We’re stiff. We’re still at least an hour from our letterbox.

If only we knew where—!

And . . . we’ve driven right into a hailstorm.

We peer at one another. At our walking gear, our orienteering gear, our stamping gear. At the hailstones bouncing along the ground. At the glowering clouds. At the scribbled Sanskrit clues.

I hate this.

From somewhere deep within me comes a weary, dejected, depths-of-despair sigh. It rolls on and out, over and upward. I can’t stop it. Can’t hide it. Can’t take it back.

World’s. Worst. Mother.

Then, suddenly from the back seat, I hear that same sigh. In stereo.

We’re all hating this. Consensus at last!

I twist the wheel and point the car toward home. No one says a word.

Notes from the quartermaster

2009-09-11T09:00:00-07:00

Anyone who knows anything about letterboxing will tell you that it’s all about planning. Eric, for instance, knows all about letterboxing, and he told me that it was all about planning. “It’s all about planning,” he said. “When you go online to the letterboxing sites, don’t just pick a random letterbox to find. Pick one that’s near your home or in a place you plan to visit. And make sure working out its location from the clues won’t be too hard. Or too easy.”

He told me all that. At least, on reflection, I think that’s what he told me. But I guess at the time I was kind of wrapped up in the thrill of equipping Team Loh for the job. The girls and I devoted almost an entire afternoon to our shopping excursion. We outfitted ourselves as if our goal were to find the source of the Nile, not just a small Tupperware box wedged into a pile of rocks. All the way from the office supply store (rubber stamps) to the recreation and camping store (sturdy walking shoes) to the local Scout outfitters (compasses and maps) to the stationery store (multicolored ink pads) and back to the office supply store (little notebooks), I kept congratulating myself on what a great (practically-the-end-of-)summer activity this was going to be. It would get them outdoors, it would get them thinking, it would require teamwork, it would give them something to pride themselves on.

What a clever mother.

Now, what was it Eric had said?