Back… And Forth

Well, this is awkward.

“What happened to your blog?”
“Why don’t you post anymore?”
“What’s wrong?”

I must admit that when I first created “One Bird At A Time” and made the decision to post every day I worried about running out of material to write about. Luckily, things just kept happening and I found plenty I wanted to turn over in my mind, making sense of as I filled the page.  Things are still happening, perhaps even more than before, but the effort of examination may have become too much.  Meeting my daily goal became a little obsessive, and I pre-planned posts for days I knew I’d be busy.  Sometimes I wrote when I needed to be doing other things.

I also found that writing so publicly is a balancing act. I chose to write about things as they affected me, yet I tried to avoid bruising others. Walking on familial eggshells put a bit of a damper on some of the things I could write comfortably about. The kicker about trying to be so diplomatic was that the entries that helped me most were the ones that were somewhat controversial. It’s hard to both please yourself and not embarrass those around you when you enter the blogging world.

I liked seeing my thoughts blossom and finding out what life meant to me. I appreciated friends commenting and sharing insights, whether it was a hearty “Yes! That’s how I feel too!” or pointing out another side to my story. Re-reading old posts reinforced lessons learned so I wouldn’t repeat mistakes and let me look back and see exactly when I turned a particular corner.

When I broke my daily streak at the same time that my life got busier with end of school year activities and plans, I did what was easiest. I quit writing. No one to worry or offend or embarrass, and writing takes time that I couldn’t find, at least the way I do it. I like to let it stew on the page for a while, eventually stirring the the ideas I start with into just the right dish with just the right flavor.

Will I get back to regularly posting? I hope so, with a little more kindness and understanding toward myself.  It’s less effort to let life flow past, largely untasted, unexamined.  After all, that’s what I seem to have been doing most of my adult life.  Lately, however, I find phrases and ideas popping into my head as I try to fall asleep; posts writing themselves in my subconscious.  I miss writing.

I took the path of least resistance, and that has made all the difference.

Alpha and Omega

This is it. My eldest daughter’s last day of public school.  How could that be? I remember so well her first day of kindergarten, and if I was organized enough I would be able to find one of the many pictures I took that morning.

I couldn’t understand the mothers who went to Tea and Tissues with the principal after teary goodbyes, reluctantly allowing their children to finally enter the classroom, some of the kids crying too.  This was a milestone!  School was what we had been preparing for and working toward for the past five years, ever since the little bundle met us.  She attended preschool for a couple of years, to gradually get her ready.  We happily helped her learn her letters and colors, so she wouldn’t go in at a disadvantage.  She was a social child, so no worries there.  The day arrived and she went to her new classroom with curiosity and a smile and I pushed her sister’s stroller home, a bounce in my step.

There have been a few rough patches between that day and this.  I have been disappointed in grades at times, but never in my child.  Teachers have been great and not so great.  Friendships have come and gone, hearts have been hurt, more lessons have been learned than were in the school curriculum.  Triumphs and tragedies; all were so important in the moment and forgotten in the blur now.

Today was a little different in tone than that day so long ago.  Instead of picking out her outfit and helping her dress, brushing her hair and assisting her as she loaded her new backpack, I stood in a quiet kitchen making the last school lunch that I ever would for her.  She breezed down the stairs and packed it up and was out the door and driving away before I could snap one picture.

Maybe my Tea and Tissues day was just delayed thirteen years.

Mea Culpa

Today would have been my mother’s ninety-first birthday.  You would think I would be reminiscing about old times, remembering how well she took care of me whenever I was sick, calling the doctor for a house call and hovering over his shoulder in my fevered memory.  The food she spent all day making for us, or how she was a do-er; how she could get “drunk” and giddy on just a Coca-Cola, or how she lost her first husband at the very end of World War II yet was strong enough to build a different life with my father and us.

Instead, I am spending the day wishing I could apologize.  As my daughter approaches her last day of high school this week, I find myself understanding more and more about my relationship with my mom during our contentious years, discovering what she was trying to do.  Time and experience wipe the bull-headedness of youth out of the picture, and I can see her more clearly.

I used to get so frustrated, so irritated that last year before I went away to college.  She seemed to be holding even tighter to me, and I only wanted to take flight.  As my girl does the same thing, I struggle to not want to hold her to my chest for as long as I possibly can.  My mother would tell me things I already knew, give me advice I thought I didn’t need, and treat me like a child.  I fought like a toddler wanting to be put down, trying to get away, only looking forward.

Mama, I understand.  And thank you.

What’s In A Name?

Four days should be long enough to name a little kitten, shouldn’t it?   After waiting patiently for the girls to shift toward a decision, I set an arbitrary deadline of nine o’clock last night, just to try to move the process along.  The time limit came and went, through heated discussions, hurt feelings, and a few shortlisted white-bread names that nobody was really ecstatic about. Even threatening to name him “Spitvalve” if they couldn’t settle on anything before then didn’t seem to light a fire under anybody.

I don’t know why, but it seems that it’s important to pick the right name for the little ball of fluff.  Something that shows some creativity, some character, something the kitten can grow into a cat with and still be dignified.  My daughters spent a little while discussing how a name is something that molds the animal.  If it’s a good name, it will be a good pet.  Personally, I think the name ends up fitting as they get older not because they grow into it or live up to it, but rather because we spend all this time picking something that will fit the personality or looks that we can perceive already.  The name doesn’t make the cat: the cat makes the name.   This pet belongs to them, though, not me.  Therefore it is their job to successfully name it, by whatever means necessary.

Everyone submitted some names for the list, then we all got to initial three of them.  Any names without initials beside got tossed on the first round.  On the second round, we only got two votes.  On the third, we each got one. Of course, by this time only the ordinary names had survived.  Anything with any character or personality had been vetoed by one or the other of them.  Compromise only gets so far before it becomes either defeat or victory for someone.  As long as only two of the three girls agree on any given name, there are winners and losers.

After waiting all evening for the white smoke to come up the Vatican chimney, I conceded defeat and sent the youngest to bed without a clear consensus.  We may have to start with fresh suggestions and see where we are tonight after another day of wrangling.

I’m getting tired of referring to him as “kitty” – Spitvalve is starting to sound quite good.

The Art Of Compromise

They had installed the litter of kittens in a large ferret cage, with shelves and ramps and hammocks swung between.  When the lady swung her garage door open, my daughters cautiously approached the shoulder tall crate and peered quietly in.  Apparently it was nap time at Feline Preschool.

“Here, they’re tired.  Let me stir them up a little,” she said, brushing past my girls and clanging the gate open.  A little head peered out of the upside down cardboard box on the bottom and just as quickly pulled back in.  With the cage open, we could see a couple of furry bodies nestled together in one of the slings, and a cocky kitty came sauntering out of the back corner to see what all the fuss was about.

Our hostess scooped kittens up and distributed them out, smooching each one loudly as she did, and soon my girls stood holding wriggling balls of fur, looking a little shell-shocked.  The kittens just wanted to find a warm place to snuggle and scrabbled up on shoulders as we tried to look at them, so they peered at each other’s kittens and tried to be judicious in their praise.  Eventually my youngest gravitated to the spotted little runt of the litter, the one who had swaggered out earlier.  My middle daughter decided she liked the one with the dramatic markings and unusual look, and my oldest was in love with the sweet, fluffy black one.  This was going to be their kitten, if we adopted one, so I hung back and tried to stay out of the way, assisting where I could, untangling tiny claws from shirts and making mild suggestions about what to look for and how to choose.  Each began to try to sway the others to her choice, because they all knew that they would be very lucky kids to leave there with even one of the kittens and asking for two was asking too much.  As the argument went on and became a little more heated, each compromised a little by saying “Well, if we can’t get mine, then I like this one…”, but they couldn’t agree on a compromise that worked for all of them.  It seemed as though each kitty was beginning to be thought of as so-and-so’s kitty, and if they chose that one, that person would have an advantage.  After the poor owners of the house had been kept on hold from their yard work for about half an hour, I urged the girls to either choose a kitten or go home and think about it, returning the next day.

At this point one of them noticed a sleepy little kitten who had climbed to the top shelf and was trying valiantly to sit upright and not let its eyes close, but kept nodding off. This was the fourth and last kit, not chosen as a favorite by any of the girls, and I listened quietly as, one by one, they decided that it would do very well, thank you.  It was hard to leave their favorites, but as we walked to the car with their choice held reverently, all eyes were on the new member of the family.

When we got home and got it settled, we found that it was sweet and curious, frenetic and sleepy, playful and cuddly – the best of all its brothers and sisters combined.  It turns out that the one that was no one’s favorite was the best choice of all.

No Leg To Stand On

Words parents are loath to hear: “Mom! The neighbors found a litter of kittens under their back porch… Can we have one?”

For years I have had to be the bad guy.  When we pass cute puppies and kittens at the pet store, I don’t have the luxury of oohing and ahhing over the little rascals.  Any softening of my demeanor would indicate weakness and the entreaties would start.  I appreciate baby animals as much, if not more,  than the next guy, but my role is that of The Denyer.

“We already have three cats.  There isn’t room for any more pets at our house,” has been my standard reply.  It was an easy one.  The reasoning couldn’t be disputed, and they came to expect it.  That argument was lost in January when our sweet cat died and three quietly became two.  His loss took more out of me than I really wanted to admit, and I was hoping they wouldn’t notice the hole in my logic for a while longer.  It’s a parent’s job to take the long view, to see past tiny paws and adorable whiskers.  When the little kitten that they want reaches the other end of its life my three chicks will be long out of the nest and it will be me left sitting beside the cat as it purrs its last.

When the litter was discovered I knew, deep down, that I was sunk.  All of the other cats we have rescued since my daughters were born have been ‘teenagers’; lanky and small, but not a ball of fluff with ears.  We have never had a tiny kitten to raise, and the girls began to remind me of that.  They chipped away at the chink in my defense and widened it, reminding me that it was now or never for my eldest daughter.  Soon she would be heading to college and getting a kitten in the Fall wouldn’t really be fair to her, in spite of the fact that we had joked that we would get one after she moved out and give it her name and room to live in.  They wheedled for days and I shut down the topic for as long as possible, but my hold on my objections began to loosen.  The girls knew I had relented even before I did and were at the car by the time I said “let’s just go and take a look”.

The inevitable stared me in the eye, and it purred.

Comfort Zone

It’s supposed to be good to stretch and attempt things that are beyond what you think you can do.  Sometimes that involves noshing a bit of humble pie.

“Come on out and read the lead book.  The regular guy will be absent that night, but we’re just going to read through some stuff.  No worries.”  I used to play lead, many moons ago.  How hard could it be? I’ve been practicing lots, in pretty good shape, regularly playing with a different swing band, though lower parts – okay, I’ll do it.  It’ll be good for me.  I need more “face on horn” time.

After being welcomed graciously by the rest of the section last night, I was pointed at three huge binders of music and clued in to which book was which.  Off we went, calling numbers and plowing through music.  The first tune was a lead trumpet solo, of course, as were the next couple.  As the night went on, the lead parts got higher and higher.  I made it through, but I could tell I was just treading water and keeping my head up.  Granted, it was all sight-reading and stuff I hadn’t seen before, but I was hoping to have it go a little smoother, maybe make a good impression as well as advance my “being bold” campaign.

That’s where the humble pie comes in, of course.  Hubris.  Thinking I could step in and lead, where it turns out I am a better utility player.  The line between stretching past my present abilities and being able to deliver the goods that are needed for a job is a balancing act.  I maintained, and with practice, could probably contribute to the group, but I went home feeling pretty off kilter.  My faith in my abilities had been tested, and left wanting.

Back to the practice studio.

Reentry

The travelers will be home today, and the two bachelorettes will be back to everyday life in mere hours.  A few things picked up and put away, a spit and a polish, and we will be done and ready for the weary tourists to drop their bags in the entryway.  It’s been a relaxing, fun weekend, and though I enjoyed every moment of it, I look forward to hearing tales from the road and getting back to the whirlwind that is my full life.

The older girls are coming home from the last school trip they will take before college.  I wonder if they appreciated it in that light?  There will be other outings, with family and friends, colleagues, even jaunts for university groups if they are lucky, but this is the last band trip with friends that will so soon be scattered to the winds.  I hope it has been a fun, eventful journey that they will look back upon fondly.

A little deviation from the normal routine lets us all look at things from a different perspective and perhaps appreciate it all a bit more.  Number three and I got a sneak-peek at what life might be like in a few years, and numbers one and two got special time to spend with both their dad and high school friends – things that will be in a little shorter supply soon.

More lasts; then on to another round of firsts.

Notes From The Bachelorette Pad

So far, we’ve hit all our marks.

We made a quick swing through the mall and had dinner last night, followed by an orientation meeting at the school she will attend next year.  We sat through an hour of commentary and a PowerPoint presentation about what it’s going to be like in seventh grade, with the longest segment being how to drop off your child in the parking lot the most efficiently.  Curriculum?  Different academic targets for older kids? Changing classrooms (finally) hour by hour? New responsibilities? New opportunities?  Nope.  “Make sure you pull as far forward as you can before you let your student out of your car…” Hope they don’t talk to the kids in the same style, but I’m betting that they do.

Plan for tonight: out for Chinese food and a movie at the local, city-run movie theater.  It’s a gem of a little theater called the Civic and is a low price home to the last run of most movies.  We figure popcorn should be on our menu, because by then we will be hungry again.  We plan to wander in town a little bit too, just to poke around.

Tomorrow, martial arts meeting and softball practice, but the rest of the day is ours to spend.  We probably will review our options tonight over jasmine tea and fortune cookies; all suggestions cheerfully considered.

One On One

My youngest and I are bachelorettes for the next few days, if that’s applicable to a couple of bi-generational females who are foot-loose and fancy free while the rest of the family goes on a school trip.  We only have the two of us to think about and we have a nice, leisurely weekend stretching ahead of us.  What to do, what to do?

This might actually be a little preview of life in general in a few years, when it’s just daughter number three left in the house, but for these particular days my husband gets to have last chance out-of-the-ordinary time with our oldest girls while he chaperones their trip, and I get to have special time with our youngest, paying her a little extra attention and maybe sneaking in a little girl time for myself.  The only specific request I got from her was to make sure we had a little lazy time built-in to our weekend, but I think I can accommodate that.

Over breakfast this morning, we made a few loose plans.  Later tonight we have a meeting to attend at the school she’ll be enrolled in next year, so perhaps before that we’ll get a two-top at a restaurant and have a small dinner together.  Friday night? Hmmmmmm. Surprisingly, there is nothing on the calendar.  Go out to a movie and munch on some popcorn out of the same bucket?  Wander the mall, picking and poking at the stores new offerings? Paint our toenails? Rent movies and stay in, cuddling under a communal blanket?  Then there is Saturday, and Sunday….

The world is our oyster.