Whose Fault Is It?

A certain seven year old someone was slow to get up on this, his fifth day of second grade. When he finally managed to climb down from his bunk, he entered my room in just his underwear, whiny.

“Mommy… I want to wear my pants today but nobody did laundry.”

“That’s because we normally do laundry on the weekend. If you needed pants, you should have said something. You know that,” I said as I followed him to his closet.

“I don’t need laundry. I just wanted to wear pants but since I only have one pair…” He reluctantly reached for a pair of shorts.

“You only have one pair because you are growing so fast that Daddy didn’t want to buy you a bunch of pants that you’d grow out of before winter.”

“Well! You never told me that you only do laundry on the weekends.”

“There are lots of things that are true that I don’t specifically say to you. The fact is, if you wanted some laundry that wasn’t available you should have said something. We could have done something about it last night.”

You didn’t do laundry, you didn’t buy me enough pants, you never told me.

I (essentially) have two teenagers and a baby-of-the-family. The entire parental side of my being revolves around something not being right in one of my progeny’s life and it being someone else’s fault, no matter how convoluted the logic gets.

Regarding my Mother – Edith

My mother’s name is not Edith.She does not have a pension with Boilermaker-Blacksmith National Pension Trust. She is not dead.

I’d be OK if her name were Edith although since my middle name is her first name, maybe I wouldn’t. It doesn’t flow well between my first and last. I’d be OK if she had a Boilermaker-Blacksmith pension – especially if it meant she’d go ahead and retire. I’d NOT be OK if she were dead. Not at all.

Fortunately for me, she is not.

The same is apparently not true for another woman who shares my name.

In July, I received the following letter. I initially thought it was a scam, but as I read on, it seemed unduly complicated and put considerable burden on me to collect the money. It was a pretty stupid scam, if that’s what it was.

Suggesting that I hire Legal Counsel isn’t something the average scammer does. Such an act is counterproductive to their objectives. It also didn’t give me an “act now or lose it forever” ultimatum or instruct me how to wire administrative fees or create any sense of urgency in me at all. Not to mention calling my mother Edith, when her name is most certainly not Edith, is not very convincing.

Edith

So if not a scam, then what was it? I Googled the Trust and didn’t find any indications of it being dubious or untrustworthy. I Googled Edith’s name and didn’t find it linked to any scams. Finally I Googled Edith’s name and mine (first and last) together and came across an interesting find.

Edith and her husband, either Fritz or Harold (or maybe one was her husband and the other her son), had a place of residence in a town not too far from me. The website also showed that there was a resident with my exact name there. First, middle, last. Another me less than an hour away. Her husband was also a resident, although his name was not the same as my husband’s name. Thankfully. That would have been too much.

So it must be this other me that Boilermaker-Blacksmith National Pension Trust actually wanted to get in touch with. Not the me me, after all! Intrigued by this information, I resolved to call the other me.

A month went by without me getting around to it. We were gone for a portion of that time. I forgot about it another portion. I spent some time imagining how the conversation would go, though. Would the other me think the me me was attempting to scam her? Oh, the irony.

“Hello? Is this Jane Anne Doe? It is?! Hi, my name is Jane Anne Doe too!… No, really, it is… I’m serious…So I got this letter in the mail and I think it was supposed to go to you. I’d like to send it to you if you don’t mind giving me your address… No, really… no, wait! Don’t hang up!… Really, I’m not trying to scam you!… Wait… Is your mother’s name Edith?… It’s on the letter – that’s how I know. Has she passed away?… No, I haven’t been looking in your records… Really, it’s not a scam.”

Eventually, when resurrecting my to-do list notebook, I wrote down “Call the other me” on Sunday’s to-do list. Late Sunday, I transferred it to Monday’s to-do list. I got so little done on Monday that I just wrote Tuesday under Monday and kept the same list. Didn’t call her Tuesday either. What if after 8:00 was too late?

By Wednesday, I was determined. I would call the other me. I informed the kids I was making a phone call and to keep it down. I went to my room and closed the door. I took a deep breath, excited and nervous to finally be calling Edith’s daughter – because I had absolutely convinced myself that it was her and that this was her number.

But when I finally hit the green button to place the call, I was told the number wasn’t in service. I sat there on my bed, staring at the letter, thinking Wow. That’s kinda a let-down. Now what?

That number had been other me and her husband’s number, so I tried the number that was listed for Edith and Fritz and Harold. That number was disconnected too. I Googled poor Edith again. I found her obituary on a tribute page. Here’s what it said:

Edith was born on July 16, 1927 and passed away on Thursday, February 17, 2011. Edith was a resident of xxxxxxx, Texas.

And that was it. Her middle name was included on the header at the top of the page but there was no other information. No survivors. No indication of where to make a memorial. Nothing at all.

She was 83, making her daughter definitely older than me. Interestingly enough, when I imagined talking to the other me, I imagined her about my age. But, no, other me was probably about my mom’s age or a bit younger. Had she died too? Or moved away?

I think I’m done playing detective although I’m still insanely curious about Edith and other me. The letter tells me to write to the Pension Department if I’m not going to pursue getting paid this money. If I could send an email, I would. But if I can’t even write to my own grandmother, put a stamp on the letter, and get it in the mail, what’s the likelihood of me writing to this trust? Besides, they told me to give contact information for another person and the only contact information I’ve got for other me isn’t any good.

Maybe Boilermaker-Blacksmith National Pension Trust sent the letter out to other possible descendants of Edith. Maybe there are lots of other me’s across the country. Or other Fritzes or Harolds. Or maybe they’ll just have to put the $3,121.10 back in their coffers. Either way, I wish them well.

Goodbye Mommy. I love you…

Summer is over and school has begun. Everyone in the house is now up early each morning instead of just me*. So our patterns will change again and I’ll lose one small endearing moment.

When I am leaving the house before my children, which really only happens when they aren’t in school, Hal has a very sweet ritual.

“Goodbye Mommy. I love you. Have a good day at work.”

I get this every morning, often multiple times. Always the same.

You might claim this is just perfunctory and he’s not even thinking about it, but you’d be wrong.

You see, every morning of the summer when I would leave for work while the children were still in bed, I’d walk in and say goodbye to each of them. Jane would typically not respond much and if she did, she was usually irritated that I was waking her up. Daryl, now entering the teenage stage of life himself, never stirred. He never acknowledged my presence, never said goodbye, never even woke up as far as I know. So much for the mamma’s boy.

But Hal? No matter how deep asleep my youngest child was, no matter whether I spoke or just delivered a soft kiss to the cheek, Hal always stirred and said his goodbye phrase and hugged me tightly. Even if he wasn’t ready to open his eyes.

One time, he got his phrase swapped with his bedtime phrase and said, “Goodnight Mommy. I love you. Have a good day at…{pause}… Goodbye Mommy. I love you. Have a good day at work.” We both smiled and hugged. It was sweet.

Ok, so you might look at that and say, “See? It’s perfunctory. He’s not even thinking as he says it.”

But remember when I said “often multiple times”? Yeah, it wasn’t multiple times while he lay in bed. The other times came as I opened the door to leave, as I got to the car, or if I walked back into the house.

That little boy, with no personal need to rise from bed, would climb out of his top bunk and run (run!) down the hall calling out, “WAIT MOMMY! I need another hug!” He’d embrace me by the door and then say, “Goodbye Mommy. I love you. Have a good day at work.” Sometimes he’d even get out of bed and lay on the couch waiting for that opportunity to get another hug and send me off properly. And I’d say I had a 50/50 shot at him opening the door and running down the sidewalk barefoot to do it all yet again.

No, he’s not robotic. It’s just very important to him that I get sent off properly every single day. Of course, now school is back in session. Everyone rises early and struggles to get ready to leave the house. People get crosswise with each other. Hal gets frustrated and whiny and yells at everyone. And I try to calm him down and tell him to have a good day at school. I don’t get my sending off. I don’t get my “Goodbye Mommy. I love you. Have a good day at work.” I wonder if he’s even aware I’m going to work.

I’ll still get my “Goodnight Mommy. I love you.” every night. But all those “Goodbye Mommy”‘s from the summer will have to hold me over until the next summer. Maybe I’ll get a little recharge over Christmas break. We shall see.

Goodbye little buddy. I love you. Have a good day at school.

 

*Jane will point out that with band camp every day of August, I wasn’t the only one up early. I find that a superfluous detail to this tale. That’s just August and it still wasn’t the entire family, but she would be right. Her school year, in a way, started August 1st.

The Blanket Wars

We were staying at my mother’s house on a recent Saturday night. My husband and I in one room, Jane in another, and the boys in a small room off the living room with a curtain temporarily installed over the doorway to it.

I was sound asleep when 2:00 am rolled around. More than sound, I was dead asleep. Deep, deep into some sort of dream that left me disoriented and confused when I heard our door open with force and speed.

I jumped and tried to orient myself. Before I had fully managed to separate reality from the dream, an angry little voice said, “MOMMY. Bubba just ripped my blanket right off of me! And he won’t give it back!”

I tried to fathom my older child doing this in the middle of the night. A visual image of the younger wrapped tightly in his blanket and the older pulling it off of him with malice just didn’t seem to work.

I dropped the attempt to understand and just opened the closet in our room. I felt around blindly until I touched one of mom’s two million blankets she has tucked away. After pulling it out, I handed it to young Hal.

Hal looked at it and looked at me as I walked back toward my beckoning bed.

“Is this blanket for Bubba?” he asked.

“Well,” I responded carefully, “since Bubba already has the other one now, why don’t you just use this one.”

I winced as he exploded, “BUT THAT’S MY BLANKET! I was using it!”

All hope for returning quickly to sleep vanished as I headed down the hall to deal with the situation. I still didn’t understand why Daryl would have woken up and chosen to pick a fight with his sleeping brother, but I was going to get to the bottom of it.

The scene that greeted me wasn’t what I expected. The two mattresses lay about 5 feet apart. The blanket in question was on the floor between them. Daryl was sprawled on his bed with his arm on the floor and an intensely angry expression on his face.

“Take the blanket back, Hal,” he said in disgust. “You weren’t even using it.”

Suddenly, it all made sense. Hal had been wrapped up in his blanket and kicked it off of himself as the night went on. Daryl woke up cold and saw that Hal wasn’t using his blanket so decided to take it. But Hal was likely still on top of it such that when Daryl pulled it away, it woke up Hal and left him with the impression that the blanket had been ripped off of him.

The whole scenario was made all the more bemusing by the fact that it was hot in that room! No wonder Hal had kicked off the blanket. And I have no clue why Daryl felt he needed one.

Oh, well. I draped the new blanket over Daryl as Hal wrapped himself again in his blanket. Life returned to normal in that room, where everyone was likely already asleep by the time I crawled into my bed.

As always though, I was not as quick to regain slumber. Once again, I lay awake and composed blog posts in my head and tried not to hold a grudge against my little cherubs.

Not Pretty

My daughter’s boyfriend is Mexican American and his mother is a superb cook. I have pretty much lost my daughter to her.

“David’s mom made soup so I’m going to stay here for dinner. Her soup is the best!”

“We are over here at David’s house eating this great meat dish. I don’t know what it’s called.”

“She made tamales and… wow! They are so tasty! Is it ok if I stay?”

And even…

“O.M.G.! David’s mom is making hamburgers tonight and hers are the best! I’m not coming home.”

I’ve been a little jealous, to be honest. Jealous of her time with my daughter. Jealous of my daughter getting to eat the food while I struggle at home deciding whether to serve up hummus and pretzels or hamburger meat with rice or just tell everyone it is (yet again) fend-for-yourself night.

She did bring a few of those tamales home one night and she was right – they were tasty indeed. And she promised me some soup once but it all got consumed by people actually present at the house, so I missed out.

Most recently, she brought home some salsa (flavorful but a bit too hot for me!), some of the best flavored Spanish rice I’ve ever had, and some fresh homemade tortillas. As I carefully unwrapped the tortillas from the moist paper towel wrapped around them, Jane passed on her new mom’s warning: “She said to tell you that they aren’t pretty.”

I glanced down at the goods. They were small, just a bit denser than what you’d get at a restaurant, and perfectly round with some slightly rough edges. I laughed.

You see, I tried making tortillas from scratch once. Once.

I even had instructions from a genuine Mexican American woman.

It didn’t help.

I told Jane to tell her that when I made tortillas, we were able to engage in quality geography lessons. Seriously. Despite my best efforts to make them round, I had one that had a striking resemblance to the state of Texas. Several other noticeably non-circular blobs. And one that incredibly enough, looked just like Florida.

Florida.

Not even one of the square states.

It was one of those moments that I thought I might lose my husband to a laughing fit. “Breathe, honey! Breathe!”

So, see, just like people, when it comes to tortillas, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Grumpy Girl, Grumpy Uterus

Last week, we returned to our annual inter-generational art conference. This put us essentially in a “hotel” room together for five days. We pulled the short straw on bathrooms in the lodge and got a tiny one where the bathroom door barely cleared the front of the toilet. This is challenging for a family our size, to say the least.

One morning, while I was in the shower, Jane came in and started rummaging through the myriad of items on the counter. “Where’s the Ibuprofen?” she asked with more than a tinge of grump in her voice. She found it just as I prepared to answer and swallowed them without water.

“What’s the Ibuprofen for?” I asked as she began to exit the room.

“My uterus” was the frank reply. Then with the same unhappy, grumpy tone, she added, “It’s not happy that I didn’t put a baby in it.”

Now, some mothers might have been startled and even concerned by the comment. But being a writer and Jane’s mother, I knew she wasn’t saying that she wished she had put a baby in it. She was speaking from the uterus’s point-of-view and it was definitely not happy at that moment. I found it a beautiful(?) description of a woman’s monthly cycle.

Later, when I shared the exchange with a friend who reacted in the more predictable manner, Jane chimed in with an expanded explanation.

“You know when your parents tell you you are going on a trip and you are really excited about it? You get everything all packed and ready to go. And then they tell you that you aren’t going anywhere after all and you need to unpack.Do you unpack nicely and gently? No! You are angry. You grab your clothes out of your suitcase and slam them back into your drawer. It’s like that.”

It’s like that. She’s right. And maybe that’s why it hurts so much more when you are younger. Your uterus hasn’t become jaded enough to expect the trip to be canceled. After years of unpacking every month though, it gets tired of slamming the clothes back in the drawer and instead does so tired and dejected and just a tad disappointed. But not surprised and not angry.

I love my daughter. I love that she’s a reader and thus a creative wordsmith. It’s so much more fun when the people around you can create unexpected pictures in your mind rather than conveying the basic, dull information you requested.

Good Friend, Rough Ride

Sometimes life sucks.

Sometimes life sucks for a friend but you are there for them so they are able to keep their head just above the water.

But sometimes life starts sucking for you before they are able to swim on their own.

And then what?

I guess you tumble down the roaring rapids of life clinging to each other, each taking a turn rolling over to pull the other out of the water.

Each holding on to the other and hoping, hoping the water will calm soon and you can both climb out onto the shore. And stand there holding hands instead of clinging for dear life. And enjoy the sun and the view and look back at the raging river and know that you survived because you had each other.

Yes, sometimes I think it might happen like that. If you are blessed with a good friend.