Mother of the Year

It is official. I am mother of the year. And here is why.

Two weeks back, my dear Jack was given a language arts assignment. He was to pick a poet and then do a biographical research project on said person. Though Jack is an avid reader, he does not tend to love language arts assignments, particularly when they involve writing. I know. They all involve writing.

Overwhelm struck him over the head, and he declared that there were NO poets he could possibly study.

"Um, Jack, you have always loved Shel Silverstein."

"God, Mom, you are totally right. I'm doing Shel Silverstein."

I smiled peacefully. I imagined we had successfully hurdled all obstacles and that at some point I would read a nice piece about Shel.

Next day: "Mom, there are no books about Shel Silverstein in my school library."

"Doodle, you need to check the public library then."

"I did, Mom. Nothing there."

"Jack, when do you need the biography?"

"Tomorrow."

Mother of...WHY do kids inflict such pain on their parents?

"Jack, what do you suggest?"

"Well, Amazon."

Amazon had three biographies. One had three pages. Literally. I don't understand (but maybe now I do). Another received horrible reviews. The last scored a fairly mediocre 3.5 stars. But, it was our only choice.

"Jack, I guess we can order this but it will, obviously, not be here by tomorrow."

"Mom, we are not supposed to buy the book."

SWEET BABY JESUS IN THE SKIES. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? CONJURE A FREE, SUBSTANTIVE BIOGRAPHY FROM MY KITCHEN?

"Jack, please email your teacher and ask her advice."

Dear Jack, As you know, I was concerned about the lack of available information about Shel Silverstein. If your parents are comfortable buying the biography, you may go in that direction. You will need to have caught up by Monday. -Mrs. M

So, this was news to me, re: the conversation they had ALREADY HAD ABOUT THE SHEL INFO DEARTH. Mother of Mary! But now we're really behind and so after reading the reviews, Tom and I bought the dang book.

Saturday: the book arrives. "Jack, please start reading. You're a little behind."

"Ok, Mom."

This morning: "Jack, what have you learned about Shel?"

"Well, his real name is Sheldon, and he is from Chicago."

Excuse me people, is that $12 of information? Methinks not. But it was carpool time, and so we hurried to get ready. 

10:08am: I am wrapping presents, making cookies, and attempting to move at a slower-than-manic pace. I receive an email from Jack's teacher.

Hi Emily, I took a look at Jack’s bio on Shel Silverstein this morning. I was trying to help him determine which chapters would be most beneficial since he will not have enough time to read the entire book before the project is due. However, as I skimmed the chapters I realized that I would not be comfortable recommending any portion of the book. As it turns out, Shel Silverstein has a very interested past! He was quite involved with Playboy and there are a lot of references to sex and drugs throughout the book. There is also a lot of profanity. I do not have a problem with him reading the book as long as you are aware of this and feel comfortable answering some difficult questions. I explained my reservations to Jack in a very general sense and asked him to bring the book home to you to review. Let me know what you decide. Although Jack’s project will most likely be a bit skimpy, I think he can move forward without reading the biography. We will make it work. Thank you, Mrs. M

#PARENTINGFAIL

If y'all think that I did not simultaneously throw up a little for having sent a lengthy drug- and profanity-laced porn book into a Quaker fifth grade and laugh until I nearly peed and cringed because I really did read the reviews but clearly not well and it looks like I threw some money at my son's slight problem-o-laziness, well, I did. I did all of those things. At the same time. For a while.

I called my mother. We agreed this was the best of this sort of story since the children were returned by the FBI years ago for sneaking out to go find pinecones at 6am. I called two of my best friends. They wheezed and agreed it was a solid fail.

People, parenting is hard. It is always something. Who knew Shel was into such exciting things? Perhaps the school library as they have NO books on him which really should have been some sign to me.

In any case, this is pretty funny actually. And it's been lovely to guffaw like a lunatic. Hope this gives you a case of the shaking-chuckles too. It's good for us. Lordy knows most of us could use some lightness. 

Miscellany, mostly of the Christmas and feline persuasion

It is very cold suddenly. Winter! Things appear to be hardening all around. The ground, for one. Drivers are more aggressive. Fewer are smiling. Coats are zipped high and tight.

But I patently refuse because Christmas is nigh, and I am nothing if not a jolly g-damn Christmas reveler.

My entire dining room table is covered in holiday card- and gift-making supplies. Even Oliver, a serious crafting guy, is impressed. "Mama, you have a LOT of craft stuff." Tom, too, feels my Martha-parts are really living big these days. I think my use of his heat gun took him aback just a tad. But y'all, embossing powder is fun! Teachers, grandparents, friends, neighbors, "strangers" (those online friends you've not yet met in real life but intend to and so in the meantime, snail mail during the holidays!)...there is much love and gratitude to be shared. 

Lest you think my inner activist is quieting, she is not. There is much work to be done, and I have tried to do at least one action-item per day since the election. The orange yam continues to disgrace the office of the Presidency. It is shameful. I am ashamed of him. Stand strong everyone.

"When a great ship is in harbor and moored, it is safe, there can be no doubt. But that is not what great ships are built for." -Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Indeed!

The Nut and I spent a great deal of quality time together today. He is so delightful! Also, Big Boggle. Fun game for the whole family. I was competitive but only quietly. ;) Oliver repeatedly found "Ol" and "SOS." I'm not sure what to make of that- hidden message?

He lives a charmed life.

I finished Hillbilly Elegy, quite good not amazing; more on it later, yesterday and am continuing now with H Is for Hawk, masterful. Does anyone else feel totally overwhelmed by content lately? God, it's like a world-sized snowball.

Do: cook your salmon with lemon, olives, grilled artichoke hearts, salt, and a pat of butter in a foil pack. Serve with asparagus, quickly roasted until just crisp-tender, generously dashed with olive oil, lemon juice, and salt. A healthy, easy, winner of a meal.

Crumbs, dear friends, loss, strength

That is mos def one of the vaguest post titles I have ever written and will ever write. It's ridiculous. But so was today.

After a very emotional weekend which included an enormously beautiful memorial service for a friend gone too soon, one of my dearest pals arrived into town last night. This was a balm. I was covered in cat hair and wore no make up. Jack was raising hell about going to cotillion's Holiday Dining Etiquette class which, let's be honest, is the reason I registered him for cotillion in the first place. Eating soup with one's hands? Not appealing anywhere, and yet he persists. Oliver had just split his pajama pants from knee to ankle and was slightly overtired-manic after a perfect day at a pal's house. Tom was goggle-eyed because he'd been to memorial part deux until 2 am. 

If a friend can saunter into that fray, you know she's a good one.

As such, Anne and I celebrated with cocktails, and a large skillet of pasta, and laughter and the realest sort of talk. And then Oliver went to sleep, and Jack came home with a large pamphlet from National Protocol, LTD (OMG, that is so intense! But he did learn so much! Amen!), and Tom went to bed because he was drained, and then we exhaled and clinked glasses and felt the same gratitude- for good friends and bedtimes.

She and I are taking yet another online writing class together. That's how we met, and today found us beginning the fourth or fifth one anew. We wrote together this morning, quietly, at my kitchen table, and then parted ways for several hours.

During that time I saw another friend who lost her mother two months ago and her husband on Thanksgiving. The pain of 2016 is unceasing it seems. Oh, and Ben Carson is heading HUD? What? I am struggling to ingest this news. It's like every day brings a new presidential appointment or expose which is rather like ripping a whole body scab off each and every morning; they are all that terrible. 

Anne walked back in as I was snarfing salad from the mixing bowl and attempting to roll out large amounts of butter cookie dough to stamp before the boys got home to decorate them. Teacher gifts. It's a good thing I wasn't mainlining Xanax, for christs sakes. I mean, shit, 2016.

We caught up from our days, and I was starting to feel centered again and then two hours later, there was a debacle with an over-frosted cookie and a brother and awful words were screamed from one brother to another, and one ended up with a swollen ear, and both were crying, and I just sat in the kitchen like someone who'd just dared look Medusa in the eyes. Frozen. Stunned. Immobile.

Tears coursed down my stone face, and rage through my icy veins, and I was surrounded by crumbs of the cookies I'd just spent hours rolling and baking and cooling, so thoughtfully and hopefully. And that's really the worst of it, I think. That hope and time all in smithereens on the floor around me with kids crying amidst it all and a friend watching on. As if anyone should see the inside of the sausage.

But of course we all see that, just not together. And we should, and Anne did. And she said, "Well, my goodness, I am right at home." Which is, of course, just perfect because she meant it so sincerely and with such love. Because she, too, has found herself crying and surrounded by crumbs and  fighting children and a complete shock at just what the fuck happened on a random Monday night for which you had planned and had such hopes.

It is an hour later now, and I have stopped shaking from rage. I have had some wine. One cleaned the smashed cookies, and I put the others are in Tupperware. Ben Carson is still head of HUD but everyone is standing up for Comet Pizza (as they should), and so many are brave in this fight for our country.

I think about the historical arcs which great countries summit and bend round. I think about how imperialism died and dynasties fell and greatness was vanquished, and I wonder if this is not our time to fall so deeply and so hard. I wonder if the cookie crumbs are the hopes of American progressives, who see the better whole we could be but aren't. Sometimes, hard landings are the only way to learn. 

I think about the resistance, the fight for better. Hell, the fight for good. The fight towards a better, more cohesive tomorrow. And I think about how I will always fight for that, even when I am covered in cat hair and my crow's feet are pronounced and my kids are melting down and I am ashamed of my country's leadership-to-be. This is precisely the time to fight, to resist, to march, to stand up and speak out. It is the time to "feel at home" and to find strength in that and to make the perpetrator sweep the crumbs and to all work hard tomorrow. Damned is the one who won't, for he will lose in the end.