Tuesday, November 30, 2010

All in all you're just another brick in the wall

Our unoffical school song. The chorus had been spray-painted on the side of the building for forever. They didn't even bother to try and remove it. They knew it didn't matter.

I grew up in Boston and went to school during forced busing. A brutal and ugly chapter in Boston's history. Neighborhood schools were devastated and many of my friends either left the city or went to catholic school. I understand the rationale behind busing and I support it; I'm just sorry that I had to live through it.

I hated school. All school. Every school. But especially English. Don't get me wrong, I loved being a teenager. I had fun - a little too much at times! I had my dark moments, but for the most part I dated, and danced, and had great friends. They just weren't associated with school. They were from the neighborhood. Jamaica Plain.

I went to school, like I did everything else, with my sister Tracey. We went to English High. It's wind-swept plaza and broken escalators, its ten stories of disgusting lockers and bathrooms that were never open. Hate. I would wake-up every morning and wish, as my first thought for the day, that during the night the school had burned to the ground. It never happened. Never.

But school wasn't the first hurdle most mornings. No. That was reserved for actually getting to school. We would get up and get ready knowing that a ginormous exercise in suck, courtesy of the MBTA, awaited. The trolleys. The lame, crappy trolleys that would be so crowded by the time they arrived at our stop that they just drove on by, the sign changed to "Express".  After the first 6 or 7 fully-loaded trolley cars had passed, someone at Forest Hills had a semi-coherent thought and sent an empty one to pick up all the people left on the side of the road. So squeezed into a rundown old trolley that squealed its way down Huntington Ave, getting felt-up by creeps and freaks, we would still then make the couple of block walk to school.  Thankfully, homeroom was after second period and we were seldom marked tardy.

Not that it mattered. Education was secondary. Herding kids up and down 10 stories between every class change - making sure that fighting and drug-selling were minimized  - that was the goal. A warehouse. For kids. I'm sure some walked out with a decent education but I don't know any. It certainly wasn't me. I educated myself, later, after I graduated.

I give you that lovely backstory to contrast it to my experience as a parent.

I love school! Plymouth Schools are great. From Oak Street, a charming, turn-of-the-century 2 room school house that both kids were lucky to attend for kindergarten. To Cold Spring and everything they did for both kids but especially for all the special effort (a whole other story) that was showered on Emma. To PCIS and now to Plymouth North. The staff and the parents go above and beyond. Sure, I've run into a couple of people that don't but they're few and far between.

I love seeing the kids when they're in school. Walking around, proud of their surroundings and their achievements. I'm thrilled with the people they are becoming. Most of that is from us of course but part is also from their community and their schools. We chose Plymouth rather randomly; it had homes we could afford, it was seaside, and it was on the South Shore. I'm glad we landed here. I (all of us really) have made some tremendous friends that continue to enrich our lives. Even if I don't see them as often as I'd like!

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Wrestling With My Thoughts (And Losing)

Brain is winning the battle this morning; it is being uncommunicative and petulant. Ideas are in there. I can see them, peeking out, but I can't seem to grab hold of them in any coherent way.

     Thinking of Christmas: past, present and future.

     Thinking of old friends who are sick and those who are rallying around.

     Thinking of Dylan and his upcoming knee surgery.

     Thinking of Emma and wondering where the quiet went.

     Thinking of youth and exhuberance vs. age and experience.

     Thinking of everything I need to finish before the end of today...

I sometimes think, I think too much.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Decorating the Tree - My Favorite Part of Christmas

Today is a "busy" day. I have lots of busy to do: house stuff; Christmas stuff; work stuff; volunteer stuff. Stuff. All of it necessary and all of it demanding my attention today. I like doing stuff. Keeps me busy and out of trouble (mostly).

Looking forward to the Christmas stuff the most. I love this time of year, moreso now that I have kids. It was Dad's favorite holiday - favorite! I think that's where it starts for me.

Decorating the tree is what I enjoy most. Every year the kids get ornaments. Some from their grandparents, some from aunts, but mostly from Pat and me. In the ornaments we give, we try to reflect an event or interest they had that year, a chronicle of their lives. They love this day as well. I have saved every box. Each is labelled with their name, who gave it to them, and the date. I love their questions and comments. I love seeing their faces as they uncover a memory, see it grow in them, and watch with joy as they re-live a happy time or a effort well done.

With Christmas music playing in the background, the sparkling cider or cocoa, the laughter and the reminiscing, it's really my favorite day of the season. It reinforces the family and traditions we are trying to teach the kids. Family is the basis of everything; of brotherhood; of tradition; of good will; family is the basis of Christmas. At least in this family.

It's why I don't understand the "War on Christmas" drama. At all. Not one single bit of it. 

Have you ever wished anyone a Merry Christmas and had them snap at you? I haven't. But even if you have, it only means you have met one of the eleventy-billion assholes that inhabit Earth at any given second. I have slipped up and said Merry Christmas to my Jewish friends. Know what they said to me? Happy Holidays or Peace or they'll give me a blessing in Hebrew. Know what, I'm not offended and neither are they. We're grown-ups. With enough drama in our lives already that we don't need manufactured, Bill O'Reilly, hyped-up nonsense. Not today, not next week, not ever.

Anything that makes people stop, appreciate the world around them, focus on others instead of themselves, is a good thing, right? An ability to share our traditions and share the traditions of our neighbors; expanding the joy of the season to others is a positive, affirming action. A blessing. I spend the season counting mine, loving my family, and being good to my neighbors; I try to surprise myself.

Live your life your way. Open your heart to new and different ideas. Expand your idea of brotherhood. Plenty of things want to do you harm, don't mistake the real ones for the manufactured ones. That's when we all lose.

Me, I'm going to spend this season like I spend most of them, working and shopping and singing. I'm going to wish everyone I see a Happy Holiday, Merry Christmas, Peace, Shalom, or Happy Festivus. I never know what's coming out until it's already out. If I offend you, that's your problem, stop trying to make it mine.

Friday, November 26, 2010

The After



I love holidays. All of them. I have a few favorites like 4th of July, Thanksgiving and Christmas. The holidays with spectacle. I like the build-up (although Christmas seems to get more ridiculous each year). Seems to be the more work I have to do, the better I like the holiday. Hmmm, sounds like an issue.

The holidays of my youth are legendary. Thanksgiving and Christmas especially. They started early, we hosted legions of family, and they seemed to last for days. You never knew who was going to show, but whoever did was welcomed and fed.

As much as I like the planning and the executing. As much as I like the dining and the presents. My favorite part of holidays is The After. When everyone is fed, presents are opened, everything is cleaned, the last guest has gone. There is a peace and serenity that exists. Everyone is home and happy. There are no intrusions. There is only family. Content. The reason you make the extra effort.

I'm happiest then. I have a great sense of accomplishment. I have a great life. I have a husband who adores me (although he'll probably deny that), amazing children, sisters, nieces, nephews, friends, a crazy old mother, in-laws that I don't see enough, and cousins that are scattered to the wind.

Last night, for the first time, the kids noticed The After. As we settled into the living room for a movie, everyone was cozy and content. No one fought over seats, or bickered over the movie, it was just us - coming together as family. After.


Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Thanksgiving Kitty: Gizmo, the cat who hated everyone

Gizmo
Pat and I got Gizmo our first Thanksgiving together way back in 1992. Gizmo was never a happy cat, not even as a kitten. He lived his entire life as a grumpy-old-man-cat.

The only person he liked was me and he wanted to be with me constantly. Giz got less attention when I started having kids, Dylan first and then Emma. They took most of my time and poor old curmudgeony Giz got pushed aside. That's ok, I think he liked the abuse.

The kids wanted him to like them, especially Emma. She wanted the fluffy kitty to play with her and be her pal. Gizmo would look at her with a sneer, as if to say, nope. Never. Not gonna happen. To amuse ourselves we would make up songs about poor Gizmo. Our favorite was GIZMO (like BINGO) "There was a family had a kitten and Gizmo was his name-o, G-I-Z-M-O." Not terribly original but we liked it. What, we're easily amused.

Gizmo lasted a long-time. He outlasted Baby Kitten and Jake (our other cats). I knew his time was getting close. He was having trouble with the stairs and he was losing weight. One day he disappeared. It was the week before Thanksgiving, fitting really. I looked around for him but no luck. Life keeps its own schedule and we were getting ready for a trip to Baltimore for a family wedding (shout-out to Chris and Cora!) so I said very little about him to the kids and prepped for our trip.

My plan was to do laundry Wednesday, pack Thursday, and leave directly after school Friday for the 8 hour drive to Baltimore. I washed my first load and tossed it in the dryer. When I went to retrieve the laundry, it was still wet. I figured I forgot to press the start button - it had happened before.  Popped it on again and went to bed. Next morning, laundry is still wet. Great! Dryer's broken. I'll deal with it after work. I get home and run outside to check the vent for clogs. That's when I find Gizmo.

Dead. In his favorite spot, the window well. Hard up against the dryer vent, blocking it.

So now I have: a dead cat, dirty and wet laundry, and children I have to tell that their cat is dead. Joy to my world. I cover the cat, package up the laundry to take to the laudromat, and sit down to tell the kids Giz is dead. They react how I expect them to react. By then it's late, so Giz will have to wait until morning.

Friday dawns, cold and rainy - pouring to be precise - and me with a cat to bury. Out in the garden, I dig a hole and place Gizmo in as gently as possible. Now before I can close the hole, the children need a service - a freaking graveside service, in the pouring rain, for a cat who hated everyone. And who gets to officiate this service. That's right, me. As I stand in the garden, wet and cold and not a little irritated, I'm thinking to myself that my kids are never watching TV again. Ever. Stupid cartoons. With their stupid pet burials and elaborate services. Hate.

We eventually make it to Baltimore; Chris and Cora's wedding was beautiful.

If you think that was the end of our Thanksgiving travails that year, well, you'd be wrong. But that's a story for another blog.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Enjoy your families and count your blessings.

The Apple Never Falls Far From the Tree, Part 2

This is Part 2. For Part 1, click here.
 
We lost Dad almost 20 years ago. This story is not about that but it recalls something that happened that day. A moment between a mother and her son, a legendary family story, and Dad maybe getting a little even in the end.

Mikey
Mikey was five and Tracey's youngest son. He spent that February day running around and playing with his brother and cousins. Not paying attention to all the tears and drama that consumed the adults.

Eveyone was at the house. All the sisters. Their kids. Spouses and significant others. Aunts, uncles, cousins and neighbors streamed in and out all day. Phone calls made and answered. At one point, Tracey and Mom went up to Mom's room for a little while. Eventually Mikey noticed his Mom was missing.

Where's my Mom? She's upstairs with Grammy, she'll be done soon. Do you need anything?

I don't feel good. My nose is stuffy; it hurts. He was looked over and told he was fine. The grown-ups around him figuring he was just trying to get his mom to come downstairs.

Off he goes to play. Not for long.

Again. My nose is stuffy. I don't feel good. I want my Mom. He was looked over, again, and told he was fine. That his Mom was busy with Grammy and would be down soon. Well Tracey and Grammy eventually came down and at some point he mentions to his Mom that he doesn't feel good.

And then, that's when it really gets going. After quizzing him about what was wrong, Tracey did what any mother would do, she looked up his nose. She thought she could see something but, to be certain, asked other people to look up her child's nose. All the other parents thought that this was a normal request; I however, not yet attuned to the idiotic things that parent do, passed. What, boogers are gross.

Everyone agreed - Mikey had something up his nose. The question was what and how to remove it. Speculation abounded and it was generally assumed to be a cocoa puff. Discussions are had regarding the best way to break up the cocoa puff. Ed, Laura's boyfriend, is trying to see if he can get Mikey to blow as hard as he can to dislodge it.

Mikey, by now regretting ever mentioning that something was wrong, kept looking around as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him. His mother, getting more annoyed as he refused to tell her what is lodged in his nose, is now threating him with a trip to the hospital where the doctors will give him all sorts of needles and worse.

Finally, Mikey gives a mighty blow. The object shoots from his nose. The offending projectile is found and an intense debate about what the hard oval mass is, ensues.

That's when we hear him. Mikey. Shaken and small. Five-year-old Mikey. Standing there, staring up at his mother. His mother, who is in no mood, and says:

"Maybe it's a pussywillow"

A pussywillow. Mikey, at school several days prior, had gotten a pussywillow bud lodged in his nose and was too afraid to tell anyone.

In those four little words, I saw my Dad reflected in my sister's face. I like to think that Dad, soaring high in the universe, paused briefly in the folly of his new adventure, and laughed. His deep, rumbling, belly laugh, the one without sound. The one that made his whole body shake. Yeah. His irish eyes shining with sheer delight. At his tiny little Tracey and her toilet-clogging-self.


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The Apple Never Falls Far From The Tree, Part 1

This is a story about my sister Tracey. Tracey, for the unitiated, was my closest sister growing up and our exploits could fill a book. Maybe two. She is quick to anger and can hold a grudge like only an Irishman. She is also the one person you want having your back. Seriously, she will cut a bitch. For real.
Tracey

This story, like so many, begins on Sheridan Street.

Tracey was probably about 5, making me 4. Our house had not yet devolved into a total circus. Mom was busy with 5 kids and a home to run. Dad worked 2 jobs, full-time as a mechanic for the city and part-time at the local gas station. He was, of course, responsible for any maintenace issues that would crop up in an older home.

On this particular day, Dad was trying to fix the toilet. The only toilet. In a house full of kids. Yeah, not fun. Dad had a great sense of humor, most of the time. When irritated and frustrated, not so much. So after many hours of trying to fix the problem, he was in no mood for children or their questions.

Picture a small bathroom. Just big enough to house a tub and toilet along one wall and a double vanity directly across. Now imagine, Jim. Big Jim. The giant of my youth. Cramming himself into the corner trying to figure out what was clogging up the works. Yeah, not a happy camper.

At one point, late in the day, Tracey and her constant companion (that's me) sauntered, oops, walked into the bathroom to check on Dad and give encouragement. There she stood, tiny little Tracey with her auburn and brown hair, looking at her father - her sweaty and tired and frustrated father.

What does this, his middle child say to him, what words of love and encouragement does this child seek to impart to her father.

"Maybe it's an apple." An Apple. Tracey had flushed her apple down the toilet!

At four I don't remember his immediate reaction but I'm pretty sure it wasn't the version he used later in his multiple retellings -  his irish eyes shining with delight, as he polished and embellished this story into family lore.

Stay tuned for Part 2, wherein Jim exacts his revenge.

A Sassy, Foul-Mouthed Brunette: The Girl That Slayed The Giant

WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD
(If you're new to the blog, I suggest you first read How 5 Little Girls Briefly Slayed the Giant.)

Andrea. I think about her often. I hope she's happy; she deserves it more than any person I have known.

Andrea lived at the New England Home for Little Wanderers. Aunt Maryanne (one of the 13 permanent residents of Sheridan Street) worked there, cleaning up after the residents and staff. I always assumed it was an orphanage but all of the Little Wanderer residents went home on the weekends. 

All except Andrea.

Andrea was a ward of the state. She had been in and out of foster care and, finally, had been permanently removed from her parent's care after their umpteenth time of causing her actual, physical harm. I think the last straw was when her mother tried to drown her in the bathtub. Apparently beating and burning a child with cigarettes are not sufficiently cruel enough acts to warrant being removed from parental care.

Andrea, having no where to go on weekends bounced between the professional staff until she found a home on Sheridan Street. She spent every weekend and holiday with us, a fragile patch in our quilt of crazy. When she was introduced into our lives she was broken, in body and spirit. She was practically feral. She didn't know how to use utensils, or clean herself, or anything really.

She was 6 years old, looked 10, and swore like a sailor.

It seemed to take no time for her to acclimate to the rhythm of life on Sheridan Street. She was wanted and she was loved and after a time she seemed to realize that and she relaxed. A little. With Andrea you had one simple thing to remember or you would set off a firestorm of cussing that would curl your ears.

Never, ever, try to take her food. Ever. Seriously. NEV-ER. Especially if that food was pizza.

Andrea loved Maryanne (her primary caretaker at home), Aunt Barbara (my mom), all the various kids and guests. But her special, all consuming love was reserved for one person: Uncle Jimmy. Or Papa Smurf as she would call him, laughingly. A completely appropriate nickname coined for him by Deb's friend Robin, for at that time in his life, he looked, well, like Papa Smurf.

Dad treated everyone equal. Prince or pauper, you were good people until your actions proved otherwise. He treated Andrea like all the other kids, to him she was a kid no matter what lie in her past, and he treated her like he treated the rest -- and tough luck if she didn't like it. When she didn't, she let him know in the most vocal, invective-filled way imaginable.

An Andrea rant was a thing of stunning simplicity. It consisted mainly of saying "fuck you" as loudly and creatively as possible. For example: fuck you, Uncle Jimmy, fuck, fuck, fuck, you. Uncle Jimmy. You fuck, fuck, fuck you. From a six year old. They're legendary in our family and all it takes is one FU Uncle Jimmy to make all the sisters dissolve into laughter.

She would stand there red and angry; immovable; sputtering and growling (really, she would growl, grrr; low in her throat). There she was, not crying, chin up, shaking with rage, staring the giant in the face and telling him to go fuck himself. And Uncle Jimmy, the original red-faced sputterer, what did he do? Well, he looked right at her and laughed. A deep, rumbling, silent laugh that would have his whole body shaking. And that, THAT, would infuriate her and spur her to ever greater heights of fuck youing.

I was 17 when Andrea left us. She was adopted by a family that had experience dealing with children like her. Experience, the state decided, our crazy home did not possess. The family that taught her about love and family and fun and Christmas. Yeah Us. We weren't a suitable family for Andrea. Us, the ones who taught her to share, and be social, and laugh, and be patient. Why? We didn't meet state guidelines. We were also told that for her transition to be successful all ties would have to be cut; we never saw her again.

I remember the day she left. She was wearing Dad's ridiculously large cowboy hat and carrying her favorite stuffed animal. I remember her waving from the car and the car pulling away.

In the action of her leaving, it was in that moment, that I thought Dad had finally met his match. A sassy, foul-mouthed brunette with an appetite for pizza and Papa Smurf. The battered and broken little girl who looked him in his eye and gave him hell, Her. She left him standing in his front yard, smaller than I had ever seen him.

Trying hard to hide his tears.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Why don't you go sit on the couch, next to Mom




My mom has changed very little over the years. Sure she is losing the battle with age. Her hair now sits, white, upon her head. She has trouble walking so spends her time outside the house in a wheelchair. She has survived more than a few brushes with the Reaper. She is a testament to medical science.

Mom's heyday was the 70s. She was raising five girls and running a home. She babysat for everyone and anyone, she fed and housed any stray that Dad dragged home, and she did it without complaint or reward.

She did it because she has the same big heart that Dad had. She just didn't publicize it.

Mom had a few vices. She drank hot tea by the gallon and she chain smoked -- at first Pall Mall Menthols and later Salem 100s. Back in the 70s, when kids were allowed to buy cigarettes, one of us would be dispatched to F&M to get her more if she were running low. Imagine that happening today!

She loves sports and she is the quintessential homer. Her Red Sox. Her Celtics. Her Bruins. Especially her Bruins.

Back in the day, we had one TV. It sat in the bay window in the living room, with rabbit ears and human remote controls. Arrayed around the room was typical furniture - sofa, loveseat, chair, assorted tables. In the evening, the living room would fill up as we spread out to watch TV. Arguments about seating were legendary and alliances were forged and broken to make sure prime seating was kept by those with the foresight to get to the living room early.

On certain nights, the TV watching dynamic shifted - hard. Everyone scrambled to the floor. Fighting and shoving to get as far away from the furniture as possible. You had to be strategic, to close to the TV and you would be up and down - the official channel changer for the evening, but you needed to be far enough away from the couch to be safe.

The Bruins were on and Mom was going to sit and watch them. Terror stuck the sisters! Mom was not a quiet fan, she was not a passive fan. Our mother, the calm that ran our lives, became a raging, crazy lunatic whenever the Bruins played.

We always seemed to have company. Always. On this particular night the Powderly's were visiting, at least Dan and his daughter, Mary Jo. They lived just over the other side of Sheridan Street. Dad and Danny were childhood friends and Mary Jo was a constant presence in our house since she was best friends with Debbie, my oldest sister.

Dad and Dan settled in, each with a beer. Mom sat at the end of the couch, alone. While all of the sisters, plus Mary Jo, squirmed around on the floor. Mary Jo, puzzled, asked why she couldn't sit on the furniture.

One of the sisters, not sure which, said "Why don't you go sit on the couch, next to Mom".

So off she went. It was fine, at first.

Then the game started in earnest. Her focus firmly on the game, Mom would start by talking to the TV - get him, GET him, GET HIM! Son-of-a-bitch GET HIM!

As the game progressed, so did Mom. She quickly moved from talking to yelling to jumping to flailing. At one point the action was so savage and quick, that Mom literally lept from the couch - scaring poor Mary Jo; who looked at our mother as if she had lost her mind.

That's when it happened. Mom - sweet, lovable Mom -  worked into a frenzy by her big, bad, Bruins clenched her hands, raised them above her head, and - WHAM - punched, yep PUNCHED, a child. In the leg. Hard.

A child, by the way, that did not belong to her! The woman who wouldn't harm a fly, who never laid a finger on any of her children - yeah, that woman - became a crazy lunatic. Because of the Bruins. The Big, Bad Bruins. Baby.

Mary Jo recovered from her leg injury without any lasting physical damage. Although she kept her distance from Mom for a while after that incident.

Mom, she still loves her some Bruins (and all the other home teams) and watches as often as she can. She watches them alone. In her room. Perched on the edge of her bed. No longer chain smoking but still guzzling her tea - now iced. Intent on the action. Having the time of her life.

You don't have to watch the game to follow the action. You only need to listen to the sounds emanating from the bedroom. Her shouts of joy, frustration, irritation, and incredulity tell a story more compelling - to me, a non-sports fan - than any announcer ever could.

All I know is, if there's a heaven, God better be a Bruins fan! Or he's in for one hell of an eternity!



Joan of Arc, a re-enactment of an historic event by children

Behind the house was our backyard. Our yard was bordered by another yard, one that belonged to the Butler's on Forbes Street. I loved going to the Butler's. Not just because we had fun but because the house held another fascination for me. It was the house my father grew up in. Cool, right. I would try to image him as a little boy, running through the house, playing and raising hell.

Jim was one of ten kids, and the youngest boy. From all accounts, he was a handfull! He loved telling stories and was a very charming and engaging storyteller (loads of blarney in him, that's for sure). One of his favorite stories to tell was the story of Joan of Arc. Or, more precisely, how he and a few of his siblings decided to re-enact the story of Joan of Arc. Not the whole story, mind you. Only the part where Joan was burned at the stake.

He enlisted the youngest of the Mulvey clan - Chrissy (or Lovey as she was called) to play the part of Joan. With "Joan" secured to a post in the basement... Oh, did I not to tell you that they would be re-enacting the burning of Joan of Arc inside, my bad.

So we have "Joan", secured to the post, patiently waiting while they build the base for the fire. Before lighting the fire they post a sentry outside the basement door, in the hallway off the kitchen. I think it may have been Clare.

Clare, when asked what she was doing, replied "nothing". Paul, recently back from the Army, didn't really believe Clare. He moves her aside, descends the basement stairs, and ascertains that he has a situation on his hands.

He finds: a small fire being fed by a crazy-eyed Joe, "Joan", still tied to the post, yelling to make the fire bigger, and Jimmy running around the basement yelling "insults" at "Joan".

Paul trying to douse the fire before it reaches "Joan", is being thwarted by a crazy-eyed Joe who keeps tossing scraps of paper and debris on the fire. Nearby "Joan", still tied to the post, continues to yell that the fire isn't big enough and that Paul should mind his business and leave them alone. Jimmy continues to run, screaming, around the basement, adding to the chaos. 

Paul finally succeeds in dousing the fire, unties "Joan", and cleans up the mess. He calmly walks up two flights of stairs to his room, packs his recently unpacked bags, and leaves. According to Dad, the family didn't hear from him for two years.

And that my friends, is the story of Joan of Arc, Mulvey Style. A story told expressively by Jim Mulvey, ringleader, and retold by me, his daughter. There was nothing historically accurate about the re-enactment, but you must admit, it's a hellava good story. As I'm typing this, I can hear his booming voice, I can see the laughter in his eyes, I can see the boy he must have been -- raising hell and having a great time.

It's times like now that I miss him most. I miss his wit and his charm but I think I miss his laugh most of all.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

How 5 Little Girls Briefly Slayed the Giant

Jim had girls. Five in all: Debbie, Patty, Tracey, Barbara (that's me), and Laura. The older four happened quickly -- only 3-1/2 years separate Debbie and me; Laura was born a couple of years later. It was a cruel trick played on him by the universe. He didn't know what to do with us, he didn't know how to discipline us, and he sure as hell didn't know how to relate to us.

He did his best to avoid having to discipline us when we were young. He wouldn't hit us because we were girls. Jim had only one rule, no crying - ever! If you did something, you took your punishment like a man. Even if you were a five-year-old girl.

I'm sure it was quite a sight. Jim was not a small man. Physically he wasn't incredibly tall but he was broad, and big, and damn, could he holler! Thunderous. His voice could peel paint. And when directed at you, you had to stand there and take it - like a man; a five-year-old-girl-man. There was no bending down to your level for a conversation and a gentle readjust. There was just Jim. Getting louder, and redder, and madder.

The four who weren't in trouble would close ranks on the condemned sister. She would be out in front. Alone. Chin up. Looking straight ahead. Taking it like a man; a five-year-old girl-man. The remaining four would stand directly behind, two on each side. Chin up, looking straight ahead, crying like only little girls can. Heaving, snotty, sobbing, silent crying. Four little girls, protecting one of their own.

It didn't take long for the crying to have the desired result. Jim giving up with a "Jesus Christ, Mul" (to my mom), you discipline them, I can't take all the damn crying.

There were instances when we all got in trouble at the same time. They didn't happen often but they did happen. The most memorable of these had five little girls lined up, shoulder-to-shoulder, chins up, looking straight ahead. Taking it like men; five little-girl-men. Luckily for us, just as Jim was really winding up his tirade - bellowing and sputtering - it happened! His top teeth shot out of his head and dropped - plop - on the floor between us. Much to his credit, he leaned over, picked his teeth up, and walked away. What little was left of his dignity preserved in that small action. And the sisters, well we had the grace to wait until he was out of ear shot to fall, laughing, to the floor.

I'd like to say that Jim met his match in those 5 little girls, but he hadn't. That would have to wait a few more years. I was a teenager then; Jim's bellowing didn't bother me. If he wanted my attention, he grounded me and took away my phone privledges. That's how you punish a teenage girl that likes to talk!

Sisters, you know who I'm talking about - a sassy, foul-mouthed brunette (no, not you Patrice).  So, shhh, don't spoil it for the others.

To read about the mystery brunette, click here.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

The Farmer in the Dell: A lesson in terror

The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho, the derry-o, the farmer in the dell. The farmer takes a wife, wife takes a child, child takes a nurse, and on and on it goes. If you haven't heard it before, I'm pretty sure you live in a cave.

I love this nursery rhyme. So I was excited to find it was something the preschool teachers used in the classroom as a group activity.

Imagine all the little boys and girls, standing in a giant circle, patiently waiting to see who the teacher picks to be the farmer -- every child wants to be the farmer. The farmer-child runs to the center of the circle. That child is now responsible for picking a wife (gender roles really have no purpose here and the kids, being kids, ignore them). Some kids immediately pick their best friend while others, turn slowly, surveying the entire circle before then selecting their best friend.  Slowly the middle of the circle fills up with children. Child, nurse, cow, dog, cat, rat. Until we arrive at the end with the selection of the cheese. As everyone knows, the cheese stands alone. The child who is selected to be the cheese gets the whole circle, alone. As the cheese. Standing alone. Pretty cool classroom activity. Or is it?

One afternoon I was driving the kids (what a surprise, right) to some activity when I started singing it, Emma joined in immediately. Dylan did not; he said "I hate that song". So me, being the sensitive and loving mother that I am, say "How could you hate this song, it's awesome!" Dylan replied "It's a stupid song."

So now my spidey-sense is tingling and I'm going to get to the bottom of this. What, it's boring chauffering kids around. I need entertainment too! Don't judge me.

After a series of probing questions about wives, nurses and rats, Dylan finally blurts out, crying: "I hate being the cheese! Everyone leaves the cheese! The cheese has no friends!" I have, gentle reader, stumbled on a deep psychological trauma suffered by my eldest child that I, unwittingly, had made worse. Oops!

Now being from a large and crazy family, I envy the cheese and it's standing alone. But this story's not about me, is it?

After I talk him in off the ledge, I get to the bottom of it.  Two years before at preschool, Dylan had been selected as the cheese. He ran, triumphant, into the center of the circle to be embraced by those lucky enough to be selected, only to be abandoned by his peers and made to stand in the center of the circle, alone. As cheese. Standing alone. Hi, ho, the derry-o motherfucker...

He can laugh about it now, but the laughter doesn't reach his eyes.

I asked for, and received, his permission to relay his story in the hopes that he can save another child from senseless nursey-rhyme induced terror.  Listen, parents and caregivers, really listen to some of the songs we encourage our children to sing.

Friday, November 19, 2010

A study in psychosis or why I still have hair

I hate my hair! There I said it. Well I say it all the time. And every time I say it, Pat rolls his eyes and tries to get away. Ha, fat chance Pattycakes!  My hatred only boils over when I need a cut, a color, or for it to cooperate in some way. So, yeah just about everyday I have some sort of hair hissy fit!

I hate people who have easy hair.  You know who you are, it dries before you even get out of the shower. Yeah, you. HATE! If I put my hair in a pony while it's wet, leave it there all day, my hair will STILL BE WET when I take the pony out 17 freaking hours later. WET! Still, after 17 hours. Are you freaking kidding me!

Most days, I give in without a fight. Wash, brush and toss a headband on and out the door I go. After all, I'm only going to work. But there are days that I decide I'm going to tackle it. It's not a small job and not one for the easily intimidated. For I have lots and lots of hair and it is used to getting its own way.

It's an epic struggle. Most battles last between 30 and 45 minutes and I have instances where I have spent more than an hour doing my hair -- an hour, on.my.freaking.hair.

As I gel and dry and brush my hair into submission - I talk to myself; well, really mutter and swear but people already think I'm crazy so no more fuel for that fire! I'm generally happy with the result - at first. Doing my hair, really doing it, is not a once a day thing. It is a constant campaign to keep it from overwhelming my head and face. It takes enormous amounts of hairspray, product and precisely timed trips to the ladies room for maintenance. It does not like wind, rain, sun, humidity, crying babies, or hair that looks better than it. When confronted with any of these things, it immediately collapses into a snarl of jealousy and confusion. An irretrivable mess that ends with me tossing on a headband - or if I'm feeling particularly stylish - my sunglasses. Another battle fought; another battle lost.

By now, lonely reader, you must be wondering why I put up with such an unholy time suck. It's simple really -I'm vain. Oh, and for that brief moment when it's first done, my hair looks freaking awesome!

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Sheridan Street: Bats, Bikers, and BS




As I've said before, our house was a circus. Three-rings baby and all the crazy you could carry...

Every summer we had bats - not whiffle bats or half-ball bats, real freaky flying bats! A couple of these bat stories stand out vividly.

My parents separated briefly when I was in middle school. They gave some mashed up bs about why but to me the why was a grown-up problem and not of very much interest. It's only important to this story because of the guys next door. Their names (at least to my memory) are lost to history. I just know that a group of guys (some with motorcycles) rented out the house next door. They were young and tattooed and pretty funny. They kept a bathtub in the backyard for reasons that shall forever remain a mystery.

Anyway, it was early summer and we got a bat, AGAIN. Well our neighbors decided that they would help the house-full of young ladies out and kill that bat for them. Yeah, can you see where this is going?

Debbie, Patty, Tracey and me (in blue)
Laura (not pictured) was just a wee baby
First let's set the scene. I grew up in a townhouse in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston. Our house was the end unit and in order to enter the front door you had to climb a full flight of stairs. Once in the door you were in what we generously called the front hall (TMI alert: had my first kiss in that front hall). Basically an area that offered 3 choices: upstairs to the bedrooms, straight down the hall, or to the right into the living room. In our front hall, right next to the door, was a green metal trash container not dissimilar to the ones that the City of Boston would mount on light poles to help cut down on littering (Dad worked for the DPW -- what, don't judge). In this repurposed trash container we kept whiffle ball bats, half-ball sticks, umbrellas - you get the picture.

The other item was a large antique hall tree with a bench for storage, hooks and a mirror. This being the late 70s it was covered in crocheted ponchos of various colors and sizes (let's see 5 girls x 870 ponchos each = a gazillion ponchos).  Anyway, I'm veering away from the point of this story - the bat!

Three or four of our burly, biker neighbors enter the house with swagga -- they had this. Well the first pass through the house, the bat must have swooped, cause one of those men screamed like a little girl. It wasn't long before they were back on the front porch strategizing.  Four big bikers 0; tiny flying bat 1.

They then decide they need protection and weapons. Utilizing the available tools at hand, four big bikers cover their heads with ponchos and arm themselves with whiffle bats, tennis rackets, and half-ball sticks. They also made the decision to split up since two went into the living room and two went down the hall to cut off it's retreat. Second verse, same as the first: four big bikers 0; tiny flying bat 2.

Hahaha, now they're getting mad! They are barrelling through the house yelling and swinging at anything that moves! And cussing up a storm (one of them in spanish).  It was at this point that Mom stepped in (before the house was completely destroyed) and thanked them. For those of you keeping score, the tiny flying bat won!

The sisters probably remember it differently and if so, chime in ladies.

Remind me to tell you about the time that Mom called the police to help with bat removal. The rookie cop's solution was to try to shoot it! Thankfully, calmer heads prevailed that evening...



Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Growing up me

I wasn't an easy teenager -- I've been told that enough times. My father would just look at me and shake his head. I was considered the "strange" one in the family -- and considering the circus I was raised in, that was quite an achievement!

Chaos reigned. When I was a teenager there were aunts and cousins and other people coming and going at all times. I think at one point we could make every family connection: mother, father, aunt, uncle, sister, brother, cousin, niece, and nephew.  13 people living full-time in an 8 room house with 1 bathroom. On the weekends and during the summer that number could swell to over 20 with the addition of random cousins, a weekend foster child, and various friends. Oh, and a dog and cat! Jim never turned anyone away; except for boyfriends, those he turned away.

Big Barbara (my mom) has an expression, "We didn't have much but boy did we have fun!" Every time she says it, I look at her as if she's lost her mind. Where was the fun in all that daily chaos?

Occasionally, I look back and wonder "what if?"  What if my family had been different? What if I had made better grades? What if I had said no instead of yes? What if I had said yes instead of no? What if I stayed in the neighborhood? What if I had married someone from the neighborhood? What if I decided not to go back to school? What if I had never met Pat?

These questions are not because I'm unhappy in my life; I'm not. I ask them because it's my nature. I seek answers and explanations for everything. You know, bring a bit of order to chaos. I love Pat and the kids more than anything in the world and I like the person I am and the life I have made. I am who I am because of who I was.

Looking back through the lens of time, we did have fun. It was a weird sort of fun but everyone loved being at Sheridan Street, so maybe Mom's not so crazy after all -- hahaha whom I kidding, that woman is certifiable!

My Facebook Fascination

I imagine this is a topic that I will revisit in future blogs.

I love Facebook; it fascinates me. For such a structured format, it has this amazing organicy flow that I find so incredibly compelling. I'm not a power-user (I have less than 200 friends) but I am an active-user. By that I mean, I post, a lot, and I can get some pretty interesting conversations going with a cross-section of my facebook "friends". I'm sure I annoy some, but the beauty of facebook is, I don't care. Block me or even, gasp, unfriend me. My wall is my kingdom and if you don't like it, leave.

Whenever I'm on the computer, which at work is almost all day, I have it in the background so I can jump over and check in when I have a ebb in work or need a break from all the bullshit. I'm lucky to be working where I have a lot of latitude but they're also lucky to have me and they know it. I work fast, I'm accurate and I'm smart. I not only make them money, I save them money. I can do just about anything that needs doing and, if I don't know how to do it, I'll figure it out. 

But this isn't about work, it's about facebook. Well, it's about me really. Isn't everything?

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Popping the cherry on this blog thing...

This is going to be short and sweet to get the pressure of the "first" blog out of the way.

I've been kicking the idea of a blog around for quite a while. I've never been much of a writer as I prefer the sound of my own voice. However, in my daily life, I interact with the same 10 people and they need a break... lol!

So there you have it -- my first blog post. I've set the bar pretty low. Content will vary with my moods and whims and my available time.

Feel free to chime in. If it annoys me, I'll delete it.