Perspective

December 14, 2012 started out badly for me. I woke to take my younger kids to their respective schools and came home to clean the ever present pile of cat poop from the front hall. Then I proceeded to unload the dishwasher, wipe down counters, straighten throws and pillows, pick up isolated socks and hoodies, organize the pile of discarded shoes inside the front door and brush crumbs from the sofa while debating the whole vacuuming thing. While I did all of this, I was crying quietly yet uncontrollably. I knew why.

Christmas does not exist for us this year. Financially I can’t make it happen. I don’t know how to explain it to my kids and make it okay. Explaining that their dad is nearly $70k behind in child support won’t help them understand. He has been behind for years but I always managed to make Christmas happen. This year I have hit a wall. We have no tree and I have not had the heart to break out the rest of the decorations though I will eventually. Watching the endless stream of holiday movies depresses me this year. Their quandaries seem simplistic. Barring illness, if they can afford to meet a friend for lunch or Christmas shop for gifts – they have no real insurmountable problems. 

Walt Jedziniak Photography

I really have tried to focus on the what-we-haves versus what-we-don’ts. My 14 year old portrayed the Ghost of Christmas past in recent production of her high school drama club’s A Christmas Carol. They are trying to rejuvenate the program so I was happy to paint sets and my 12 year old and I finally worked on a stage crew together. It was a feel good time but then the kids ask to be driven to various activities then quickly realize that it would cost gas and whatever funds might be required and they quickly retract the request. Add to this the failing transmission in my eleven year old car that is going to require a multi-thousand dollar repair once it does go…ho, ho, ho… Planning the annual family party and gift exchange at my sister’s house forty five miles away, two days before Christmas, is an exercise in pure fiction on my part. Yes, I know I am pulling a total Scarlet O’Hara but really – I will think about it tomorrow.

Yet each morning, once I go through my morning routine, I sit down and hit the job boards. I apply for any position that I could possibly be considered for. I do this knowing that even if I were to find something, it wouldn't be in enough time to fix Christmas this year and if it is more than a few miles from where we live, my car might not get me there. But I do it anyway on this December morning. I remind myself that Christmas is only one day and I need to continue on and think about our post-Christmas existence so I turn on the Today Show and boot up my laptop. 

Breaking news alerts interrupt the regular Today Show. A possible school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut but information is limited. I am familiar with Sandy Hook and have a good friend in Newtown. It’s about 40 miles from where we live now. The scenes on the screen are bustling but not frantic. I cautiously hope that the reported shots were a high school prank. 

It becomes apparent that the report is not a prank. As I watch the local anchors admirably struggle contain their own emotions, the reality of what has happened within the elementary school is confirmed. At least twenty four are dead – mostly children. I am cold.

Part of me wants to drive to my kids schools and bring them home but the other part wants them to never have to know about this. My daily plans and worries stop. I watch previously filmed footage of parents speed walking to the scene and know that at some of them were not reunited with their children at the local firehouse.

It doesn't feel real. I dig for digital photos of my kids at that age to make it hurt just a fraction of the way it must be hurting those parents. I see a picture of my oldest son. He most probably has Asperger’s , a version of Autism that was not named until 1992 when he was four. I think about the shooter, mistakenly identified as a twenty four year old male. The age, the lack of empathy, the similarity to other, recent spree shootings and my unwished for knowledge of thought disorders make me feel colder. I know what may be revealed in the following days.

I think about my sister, a kindergarden teacher in nearby Waterbury. I don’t expect to hear from her as she is at her school. I wonder if she knows about what has happened and if she knew any of the adults. As the day moves on I answer Facebook posts and messages from mutual friends and relatives who are worried about her. I know instinctively that she is not hurt physically but when night falls and I haven’t yet heard from her, I know that her hurt is emotional. She was friends with the school’s slain principal. Her late night text confirms that it was a “rough” day.

Our Christmas still doesn't exist. That didn't change. What did change was my anguish over it. Nothing can compare to what these families will face over the remainder of this holiday season or what they will feel each time they look at photos of their lost ones … at any age. 

Tonight my kids and I will decorate the outside of the house.

The Inability to Say "No"

Yeah. This is me. I know why I can’t say “no” to my kids. Don’t get me wrong – I SAY it often but mostly I end up saying “yes” to avoid any prolonged ugliness. Some would call it “caving”. I call it “picking my battles”.

I have no problem saying “no” to telemarketers, door-to-door lawn chemical companies and traveling missionaries. I crack-up when my kids think I’m being rude to solicitors. Just once I want to put it in perspective for them. “Okay. We will get the lawn care services being offered by the cool looking guy in the cowboy hat and you can spend your summer watching from inside because you can’t go play in the now chemical-laden lawn and all of the summer drama camp money went to pay for this new form of entertainment. By the way, you do realize that it won’t be the cool guy in the cowboy hat fixing the lawn – right?”

Saying “no” to certain other adults is harder though. I really enjoy volunteering my time to community or school endeavors. Promoting and maintaining the arts for our kids is especially close to my heart. It seems downright selfish to withhold my ability to paint a set or a face. (I am particularly skilled at vampires, zombies and frogs.) Only time constraints and physical inability inhibit my involvement. Well, there was that one time when I had a strong personality clash with a certain director but even then, I knew that my continued involvement would not be beneficial to the play. And even then I was riddled with guilt enough to help with make-up for every performance.

But there is always that one person that it is impossible to say “no” to. It is the person who gives so much of themselves that to say “no” to them would put you squarely in the ugly step-sister/Madoff/King John realm. I would like to claim that she is a master manipulator but no – I put myself squarely in the path of her do-gooding.

For the next two weeks we are into what I call the “hell weeks” prior to a middle school production set in the 1920’s. My friend, (and I think I can call her that now since we bonded over the brown vs. black painting of a speakeasy platform and the make-up & costume transitions of numerous costermongers to Ascot attendees back to costermongers), is energetically flitting from one rehearsal to another. It amazes me how she so graciously handles the mysterious vanishing parent pool that to came to the original parent play meeting then – poof – are gone. But those of us that remain, in a secondary way, share in this crunch time and the pressure can manifest itself in odd ways.

Last night I had a dream. Generally I don’t remember my dreams and if I do – their meaning is pretty transparent. In this dream, a group of us were on a school bus and my friend turns to me and asks me, in her “it’s-okay-to-say-no-to-this-but-you-will-feel-like-crap-about-yourself-if-you-do” tone, if I will just help her out with some music event. She just needs a few people to fill out a little number that is kinda weak and needs some rhythm guitar in the back ground. Of course I agree. I remind her that I don’t play guitar. S’okay. We’ll get there early and I can get together with so & so who can get me up to speed. The thing is we need to get off that bus, run to her house, change into formal wear and get to the venue as this event happens to be that night. The bus drops us at some house I’ve never been to before and I am escorted to a closet filled with all sorts of showy clothes where I spend an inordinate amount of time on footwear buckles then rush back to the school bus.

Along the way to the event, the bus stops to pick up an unusual array of people. We get the local supermarket cashiers, my high school boyfriend whom I haven’t seen in over 20 years and Hoda and Kathie Lee. Goody. Comic relief. I’m gonna need it because just then I look down and realize that I am wearing Ga Ga-esque black leather Daisy Dukes, over-the-knee boots and a billowy, transparent black poet shirt with a chartreuse green bra under it. I think my hair may match the bra but there is no mirror handy for me to confirm this – just a gut feeling.

As I de-bus, my kids are there waiting for me. My philosophical oldest son is kindly saying something about finding my “inner alter ego” being cool at my age. My oldest daughter is shrieking, “Mom?! What?! Mom!?” and laughing hysterically. Only a mortified college student can do these both – like - simultaneously. (Her alarm is genuine as she had previously dubbed me her “little monochromatic mom” in high school once she got taller than me.) My ‘tween daughter is nervously wringing her hands not knowing if she should join in the circus revelry as any normal kid would want to do or mimic her older sister’s sophisticated, yet affectionate, disdain. My 11 year old son is wandering around looking for his friends so they can partake of their own form of entertainment which will probably involve ping pong balls, aluminum foil and lighters. But I can’t focus on my children’s reactions. I am busy looking to follow Hoda and Kathie Lee because I don’t really care what day of the week it is; I’m going to want some of whatever they are having – or at the very least – a sympathy make-over.

In my dream we all stream into an auditorium. There is my friend – decked out in an elegant evening gown. I am just starting to hate her but she rushes over to me saying; “It’s okay. It will all work out. It always comes together. Let’s go find so & so for your music. Did you bring any duct tape?” We find so & so and my friend flits off to be one of the other twenty places she needs to be right then. So & so looks at me with disdain and hands me a book of sheet music. Uh oh. Not having actually learned how to play an instrument, I really had no need to learn to read music.

Yes! I’m awake! Covered in sweat - but awake. Whew. Note to self: Make sure the electric blanket is not set at #6 in mid-May no matter how chilly and damp it is outside. I’d better get finishing the faux brick walls for the current set. I’ll let you know if they develop into head banging or wailing walls. Could go either way…

Budding artist?

Riley's lastest assemblage installation is...installed. Actually, it's on the fireplace mantle right now but that's only until the nutcracker collection displaces it - AFTER Thanksgiving - when all self-respecting Christmas decorations are displayed - not before. (But that issue is for another blog entry.)

The newest tool in Riley's creative bag of tricks is a hot glue gun. Thanks Mrs.P. Having constructed a popsicle stick and hot glue long house in the classroom - he is an expert hot gluer. (glueist?) As with many things with Riley; what is mine is his and that's the way of my hot glue gun. His former, frequent use of Christmas lights is still in play but to a lesser degree. I expect that might change when the holiday decoration totes are brought up from the basement and he is faced, once again, with a tangled ball of nirvana at his feet. But until then, please enjoy his latest table top creations.

Okay, I will admit that this next one scared me at first. So much so that I didn't ask it's title. But still - pretty cool. Note the artistic use of thumb tacks and paper clips.

Right now he is working on another that involves a strobe light and a stage curtain that he has rigged to draw open and closed. Photos to follow.

Eccentric Etsians

I have just recently posted my fourth Etsy shop. (It's the fifth one I've created if you count the now defunk Plunk Soap but that's a whole other entry.) With each shop it seemed like I spent more time researching than actually building B. Noel Bijoux.

(shameless plug: http://www.bnoelbijoux.etsy.com/bijoux.etsy.com/ )

I have not tried selling jewelry online before and I felt that it had it's own separate set of rules so I just had to pop into a few fellow Etsian's stores. Needless to say, I found good and bad photos, some over priced and some under priced, detailed descriptions and inadequate descriptions... I also found myself deviating from my jewelry retailing research to follow odd tangents that that were sparked by front page features, "favorite items" of those whose work I liked and the "recently listed" cubes that scroll, cycle and pop up continuously 2/3rds of the way down the front page. Whoever thought of THAT knows the inner mind of an ADD artist cruising Etsy...avoiding laundry...the dishwasher...the mailbox... So I decided to showcase a few of my more unique finds here - out loud - so my meandering was not completely wasted time.

Some of my friends and family thought that this piece was just "not right" when I shared it with them on Facebook. But I will state for the record - I think I want one. It's called a "Baby Limb Hooktastic". Honsestly - it's one of this Auckland artist's milder pieces. To see more go to http://www.luxfordst.etsy.com/ and the "Pony Butt Broach" may still be available.

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Who doesn't look at this image and think "Hey! I think I know those guys!" Okay, my family was really big on ancestral potraits and - swear to gosh - there is some resemblance to our Pennsylvania branch.

And then I saw this one. I am choosing to share it though I will refrain from sharing all of the Republican jokes I had prepared to go along with it. Don't let the shop name scare you. It's worth the trip to:http://www.grandolebestiary.etsy.com/

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Even my younger kids are getting a bit old for the Easter Bunny but if they weren't - I would show them this picture and tell them that this is what he really looks like. The artist of this item described it as "Baby Hare Fluffa". She refers to it as a "he" but after seeing it on my Facebook posting, my sister-in-law believes that it is too pretty so it must really be a girl. Either way, you probably shouldn't shoo it off your porch if it shows up there. Especially since, (if you're reading this in the US), it came all the way from Scotland. http://www.dragonhouseofyuen.etsy.com/

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I really like most kinds of soap but have never especially wanted to smell like chocolate or coffee or even bananas. But this soap - yes - it's soap - took it to a whole new level. So wrap it up and take it to Easter dinner with the fam and wait for the inevitable "Why are the deviled eggs in the john?" Like bacon soap? Go to: http://www.sunbasilgarden.etsy.com/

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I look at this tile and think "What is the artist trying to express? What is the backstory to this remarkable piece? Can we interpret the pain of the lizard losing it's tail as sybiotic to the artist's pain?". I think those things and so much, much more.

I look at this tile and ask myself "Where the hell is the rest of the fish?"

Bet we can find it at: http://www.gretchenkramp.etsy.com/

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This artist has either spent too much time alone - or works in an office cubicle. But can't you relate to this sculpture? I can. Since childhood, I have ALWAYS wanted to to this! (Or maybe I just dreamt that...) Check out this Etsy shop to see more from: http://www.kenjio.etsy.com/

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I chose to leave out the Wax Dipped Stuffed Animal Air Freshener. If I had included it, I might have mentioned something about it's likeness to a toilet dunked toy that would constantly cause you to say "No, honey. That one is NOT a toy. It just looks like a toy. Yes - it looks just like the ones YOU put in the potty." Apparently, to re-freshen it's room scenting ability, you just "hit" it with a blowdryer. All in all - too violent, painful and unsanitary to be included here.

To end this blog post on a somewhat Easter/Spring theme, I wanted to share one more sculpture from Kenjio. It's recycled too. The artist states very clearly that it is made from "clay and a thrown away toy bird".

Where does it come from?

Riley had another creative burst in the middle of his bedroom. I think I can let the pictures speak for themselves but what you need to remember it that each "installation" is musically accompanied. This one featured "Fireflies" by Owl City. There was also a band playing to an audience, a cat on a trapeze and a baseball player swinging a bat. Enjoy.

To answer the question posed by the title of this post - all over the house, garage, basement and the neighbors houses if they aren't careful.

October Sunshine

This time that I have spent self (un) employed – has been a time of healing, a time of self-evaluation and a time to ponder some of life’s deeper meanings. I currently “house-share” with my first ex-husband. Saying this situation is good would be an over statement. Saying it is awful would be wrong too. Like most things in life, it’s somewhere in between and complicated. (Let’s face it – how many of us have the chance to re-examine why we divorced someone – and feel justified more than 15 years later?) But today, the kids are off to their respective schools, the kitchen has been surface swept and the cat is sunning herself on the back steps. It’s my time to grab the laptop and attend to my email messages, update my websites, blogs and Facebook. Time to check the weather and mentally adjusted the laundry needs for tomorrow. It’s also time to turn on the television and catch up on the news and settle into… the daytime talk shows.

The daytime personality that has really resonated with me is Bonnie Hunt. There are some obvious reasons for this. We are of a similar generation, (She experienced Pong.), and her show is new so I found myself really rooting for her. (You go girl! 40ish is NOT the slow down time.) Her humorous self-deprecation is endearing. While she has no children of her own and I have four, her interaction with the children on her show will make me laugh out loud and has made Bonnie Hunt Show (BHS) summer devotees of my younger kids. My 11 year old, Claire, actually sent a video to the show about her Invention Convention entry and, in her absolute conviction that she WOULD be on the BHS, began planning our trip to Los Angeles over spring break. (Bonnie – she must have missed your call…but we’ll talk later.)

Whoever thought to have frequent video chats with Bonnie’s mom is either brilliant or sadistic. Not sure that I want my mom, at 68, addressing the nation with her thoughts on current events, my love life or whatever is crossing her frontal lobe that day. My mom once decided to have “the talk” with my sister, brother and me – en masse. Being a mom now, I can almost relate her get-it-over-with actions but I remember thinking, for years, that I missed the point of the story about "peanuts" and "China". (I didn’t connect those dots until WAY later in life.) Now it makes for a great sibling gathering laugh but Mom denies it to this day. Maybe if we had Skype or even video phones back then, I could have avoided a few years of therapy.

Anyway, Bonnie’s birthday was celebrated on her show a few weeks ago. That day, the video feed appeared with Bonnie’s mom wearing a flashing lighted, boa embellished sombrero holding a birthday cake complete with a lit candle that was perilously close to the boa aspect of the sombrero. It was too funny. But then she, Alice, did something that had the effect of a huge, emotional vacuum cleaner -pulling me back to my childhood. She began singing the song You Are My Sunshine. In my head – her voice was replaced by the rich baritone voice of my father.

As I listened, I tried to regroup and focus on the comedy happening on the television. I couldn’t. I was going back in time but finding that I didn’t really mind. I began to tear up and finally cry outright. Glad I was alone. There are not many times in the life of a single mother when you are “allowed” to cry. Any hint of tears on my part and my kids assume the worst. The person that keeps all of the balls in the air needs to drop a few of them - to get a tissue. Single moms must always be in control or at least give the appearance of being in control. You especially can’t cry about something as simplistic as a few lines of a song… nor a potentially flaming sombrero.

But why did this particular song cause me to cry? All of my kids were holding steady for the moment and I was not PMS-ing. Part of me attributes my reaction to the time of year. October was nearing. The song and the season brought me back to October of 1998.

One early 1998 July morning in Syracuse, NY I gave birth to my third child – a perfect little girl. My first call was to my dad. He and my stepmother lived a little over 2 hours away. My stepmom tells the story of Dad hanging up the phone, finishing up his morning cup of Lapsing Soochong tea with honey and putting his mug in the dishwasher. When she asked him of his plans for the day he said, “I think I’m going to Syracuse today.” He was holding Claire, his 7th grandchild, by noon.

And then it was October. Dad called and said he want to come see the baby. Perfect. We would have a nice afternoon – just the three of us. Claire was asleep when he got there but he gently scooped her out of her bassinet and cradled her on his lap, facing him, so he could “watch her sleep”. As she slept, my dad quietly told me about his recent surgery.

Dad had been diagnosed with lung cancer. A biopsy showed that it was in his lymph nodes. In plain language he told me of his treatment plan that included chemotherapy after the New Year. His agenda was to visit with my sister, brother and me, in each of our homes with our families, over the holidays. He did not want us involved in his chemotherapy. In retrospect, on that day in October, Dad seemed to want to impart some things to me. Not big things but odd little things like how he carefully washed his glasses, (I had recently had to wear glasses more routinely.), and how to make the perfect “Philadelphia hoagie” as we were assembling sandwiches for lunch. I have come to think of these as comfort things.

Before he left that day in October, we moved to sit on the front porch. Dad sat on a rocker holding the now wide awake Claire – facing him. We were talked out and were happy to have her hold center stage with her cooing and wide-eyed facial expressions. At some point she began to fade, rubbed her little face against Dad’s shirt front and “ginched”. (“Ginching” was squirming in Dad language.) Softly he began singing You Are My Sunshine. She rested her ear on his chest, comforted by the deep vibration, and dosed off. I knew how she felt.

Though it was a song from another generation, it was symbolic of every part of my childhood. Dad would launch into his boisterous version when we tromped through the woods on a camping trip, his soothing version while in the emergency room when I broke my collarbone, his mournful version he drove us back from an extended summer visit with him or, as he was doing now with Claire, his restful version that had sent my siblings and I off to sleep many times. When Dad sang that song, everything was okay.

I can still hear his voice in his pre-Christmas message on my answering machine, explaining that he was really worn out from his previous travels and promised to come to my home right after Christmas. Good. I wanted him to rest. I wanted him well. Sadly – he was not able to make it to my home for his holiday visit before succumbing to a fatal drug interaction on Christmas Eve. Dad died on December 28th in 1998. He was 59. He was surrounded by all of us. I like to think that one of us sang You Are My Sunshine to him at some point during those three days.

Today I had Bonnie Hunt’s mother singing You Are My Sunshine wearing a nearly flaming, birthday sombrero causing me to cry the cry of sadness and loss, of regret that my youngest children, (one born after Dad died), will not know my Dad and that my older kids will not benefit from his wisdom. But it is also the cry of release and of gratitude that a simple song can prove that I remember him so well. Today I have that October 1998 visit back to help comfort and steady me. Today, in the time it took for Bonnie’s mom to sing a few lines of You Are My Sunshine – everything was okay.

Wonder if Alice knows Skiddamarinkydinkidink? That was the song that always followed the Happy Birthday song in our family. Dad thoroughly enjoyed singing that song too – especially during the teenage cringe-and-dive-under-the-table years.

Fish