Driving Through Life

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about driving. I recently spent many hours "watching the world go by" at the Massachusetts RMV to get my license renewed, and while waiting for the "next available agent" I realized I've been driving for 30 years! Meanwhile, I recently posted an article on the Boston Examiner about "Why parents are scared to death when their teenagers drive." Simultaneously, I've had many conversations recently with my siblings about my 86 year-old father retiring his car keys for good, before someone is seriously injured on the road.

No matter how you look at it, driving is a rite of passage, either into adulthood or out of the mainstream and into old age. I vividly remember the freedom I felt when I first became a driver. I loved the responsibility of driving to my job in High School, or not needing a ride to choir rehearsal. Currently, as a parent of two teenagers, driving can certainly be a chore (especially when Lil'J and I are combing every craft store on Boston's north shore for Styrofoam balls for his science project!) But, I still get a thrill when I set out on a road trip, that sense of freedom is still burning under the surface.

This history of driving, the practicality of getting from point A to point B, as well as the freedom driving represents, makes it all the more difficult to deal with the challenges we face as our parents age and their driving capabilities diminish.

And yet there is a parallel in life. I imagine I will be incredibly worried when my teens take the road, especially given the statistics on teen driving reported in my article. At this point in life, I also spend time worrying about my father's driving. And I realize that my parents, thirty years ago, were in this exact position -- worrying about their children as well as their own parents. Furthermore, my children, in the distant future, will have to ask me to stop driving at some point in my old age, probably just when their own children take to the road.

Yes, we all know that life is cyclical. But sometimes, you find yourself at the RMV, waiting to do the eye exam and have your picture taken, watching teenagers line up for the drivers test, and giving your seat to an elderly person who's about to renew their license, and it all becomes really clear -- where you've been, where you are, and where you're going.

Who Dunnit at the Ski House?

We rented a beautiful ski house in Maine for February break, which we shared with another family. One night we invited a few families over for après ski featuring burgers and dogs on the grill. It was an ideal evening, with parents chatting around the fireplace (even a token injured skier on crutches - ouch!) and the kids playing down in the finished basement.

The next day, C came running upstairs to breathlessly report, “Someone carved my name into the foosball table! And,” she added, “it wasn’t me!” We called together the 4 kids who were staying at the house and checked out the damage. Sure enough, plain as day, someone had taken a dart and carved C’s name into what we would later discover was a $600 foosball table. “I don’t even make my A’s like that,” C complained.

And so the speculation began…For the rest of the week, whether as a group or individually, we all spent way too much time trying to get inside the head of the kid who had blatantly defaced property and tried to frame my daughter. “Was it someone from the group of older boys? Why would they write C’s name? Was it a boy C’s age? There were 4 of them there. Was it one of the girls?”

Before long, we were all playing detective and presenting different scenarios. And, because we had contacted all the families who were over that evening, it seemed the topic was almost impossible to escape. The “Foosball Table Caper” became the subject of chair lift rides, hot cocoa breaks, and cross-mountain cell phone conversations. “What will it solve if we find out who did it?” one of us would say. And we’d all agree not to talk about it anymore, at least until the next time the topic came up.

And, by the end of the week, what we all discovered – adults and kids alike—was that we really weren’t liking ourselves very much. We had all become suspicious of kids that we were normally fond of. We had all been focusing on the negative aspects of these ‘tween’s and teen’s personalities, and making assumptions about what character flaws would motivate such a sneaky and disrespectful act. And, thinking about each other this way seemed to diminish the good qualities in all of us.

In the end, the “Foosball Table Caper” stands as an important example to me of how one person’s act can lower behavioral standards for a whole community. Suspicion is insidious and made me, at least, doubt some of the kids I know, as well as human nature in general. We never did discover our culprit. But, one thing is certain; I will never become a detective. I don't like second guessing people and questioning their honesty. In the future, I’ll just stick to the game “Clue” and focus on Mrs. Peacock in the Billiard Room with a candlestick. It’s much easier to be suspicious of fictional characters.

Holiday Memories

I pulled a big box of Christmas decorations up from the basement and the kids were all over it. They wanted to hang stockings and set up the nativity scene. Seizing upon their enthusiasm, I played The Nutcracker on the stereo. Suddenly, in my mind I was transferred to my old kitchen, watching my two little ballet dancers twirl and leap over cracked linoleum with unbridled joy. At age 4, Lil’J would try to jump and spin higher and higher, and 2-year-old C would be daintily walking on tiptoes and then gracefully hopping from foot to foot. We would turn the lights off in the kitchen and dance by the filtered light from the dining room. “Spin me,” one of them would inevitably request, and I would lift my baby into the air and spin around like the Sugar Plum Fairy. We often danced through the whole CD.

They don’t remember their grand performances, but they do remember the music from the Nutcracker, and I catch them humming or whistling the tunes during the holiday season. I miss my children. I mean, I still have them and I love each phase of their childhood, but I miss the littler versions of them. I miss their openness and playful spontaneity. While still fun and enthusiastic, my teen and ‘tween are just that much more self-conscious. Gone are the days of ballet dancing in the kitchen to the Nutcracker.

Christmas brings out a montage of memories, and when we decorate the tree my favorites are the photo ornaments that feature the kids during different stages of their childhood. These used to be photos that pre-school or kindergarten teachers took, and then turned into ornaments. Now they’re school photos in frames from the Christmas Tree Shop. I got two new photo-holding ornaments this year, and I eagerly await the kid’s school photos (they both did re-takes this year…go figure.) One special ornament that probably started this whole tradition is a white heart that holds a picture of Big J and I kissing on our wedding day. What a great gift from a good friend. Our tree, I’ve decided, is even more beautiful because it tells the story of our family.

As my solace in this fast-moving motherhood blur, I remind myself constantly that we’re still making memories. C and I made cookies this past week, she made the batter all on her own. Lil’J and I will take our annual Christmas shopping trip together next week, and we’ll crack up over the stupid present ideas and imagine Big J’s response when we buy him a “soap on a rope.” Yes, I miss my little son and daughter, but they’re still little, aren’t they? Maybe, to me, they always will be.

Fantasies Disrupted

NOTE: I wrote this ten years ago and just found it on my computer. Here's the answer to the question you will ask at the end: Yes, I still do that in my car.

It’s happening more and more. Reality keeps interrupting my fantasies. It’s like that pre-recorded message from the Emergency Broadcast System that interrupts TV shows, but this show is in my mind: WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE A THIRTY-FIVE YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH A HUSBAND AND TWO CHILDREN, AND THIS COULD NEVER, EVER HAPPEN TO YOU!
I’ll never, for example, be a rock star. This is the fantasy I usually have in the car. I’ll drop the kids off at pre-school, take their “Raffi” tape out, and pop-in my own selection.
“Ahhh, my own music!”
I sing my heart-out to Paula Cole, Alanis Morissette, Madonna, Annie Lenox, or better yet, Cheryl Crow. “Jump in let’s go...lay back, enjoy the show...” The music transforms me into a leather-clad, slouchy, cool-chick baring a sleek and toned midriff. On stage, I pour my heart into the microphone. Oh, did I mention I’m really thin, too?
In the audience are old friends and some old enemies, cheering, and dancing wildly: college roommates, ex-bosses and co-workers, my old boyfriend, and the woman he dumped me for. They’re next to Mr. Bugle, the singing teacher who didn't pick me for the select choir. They’re all there, and I think, Ha! I showed you! My voice sounds great. “Everybody gets high, everybody gets low. These are the days when anything goes...” I turn around to smile at the guys in the band -- they’re so talented.
I savor this moment, but I know it’s coming...that high-pitched beeping that precedes the recorded announcement. WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY, it says, BECAUSE IT’S TOO LATE IN YOUR LIFE TO BECOME A LEAD SINGER IN A ROCK BAND. FACE IT, the announcement intones, IT AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN.
“Oh yea,” I say to myself, remembering that I just dropped the kids off and need to buy Wisk at the grocery store. Back in scruffy jeans and a sweatshirt, I try to hum, at least to the end of the song, “Everyday is a winding road...”
I really don’t have a problem with aging. I’ve greeted each of my thirty-plus birthdays with enthusiasm. I’m happy to be healthy and alive. I don’t worry about wrinkles, and I’ve always colored my hair, so I don’t care about gray. But leaving my youthful dreams behind is tough. In fact, I’m getting a little obsessed.
My son announced he wants me to be a ballerina.
“Maybe I’ll be one for Halloween,” I told him.
“No,” he said, “I want you to be a real one!”
Well, why aren’t I a dancer now? I ask myself. I took dance for fifteen years of my life. Why did I stop?
Now, I realize that many adventures will just have to stay in my dreams. I’ll never: 1. live in New York City, 2. date a guy who drives a jeep and plays the guitar, 3. go skydiving, 4. hitchhike across Ireland -- just to name a few. And even if I do any of these things, it won’t be the same as in my dreams, because I won’t be doing them young.
I could say that I’m better-off. After all, I’ve done a lot so far. I’ve traveled a fair bit (never enough) and had a complete, successful career before I became a mom. I must emphatically proclaim that I am happy with the choices I’ve made, choices that have led me to a wonderful husband and incredible kids. No, I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could... But the question is, how do I let go of my fantasies?
Should I modify them to fit my responsible position in life? I guess I can still travel, although maybe not hitchhike, when the kids get older. We could move to New York City after we retire, but it wouldn’t be the same. Skydiving and the Jeep-guy are out of the question. Then there’s always Karaoke... Pathetic!
Maybe I just need new fantasies. I’ve been toying with “Great American Novel” fantasies -- a wise author at her cluttered desk. Myself on-stage, in a nice suit, receiving an award. That would be a good one, although not exactly rock-star material.
Or, there’s always the danger of becoming one of those weird parents who never achieved their personal dreams, so they try to re-live their life through their children. My daughter will become a rock star! Or the dancer! Maybe my son will drive a jeep and play guitar! How strange would that be?
Maybe some fantasies are meant to stay exactly that...fantasies. Or, as Webster’s puts it, “the free play of creative imagination.” (Rather poetic for a dictionary, don’t you think?)
I read somewhere that very depressed people have “too realistic” a view of themselves. Perhaps their lives are so based on the mundane tasks -- driving kids around, buying Wisk -- that they lose hope. Maybe the opposite is true. Maybe people who imagine themselves in grandiose terms -- a rock star or Pulitzer Prize winner -- can better survive daily drudgeries. Maybe an active fantasy life actually makes me a better and happier person. After all, standing in line at the grocery store isn’t quite so bad when you’ve just given a concert in your car.

I’ve decided I like my old fantasies. I’ve become attached to them. I know they’re just silly dreams, but don’t they still, in some way, make me who I am? Aren’t they as much a part of me as my real successes and failures? Letting go of my old fantasies would be like blanking out parts of my life, even though they are just parts of my imaginary life.
I think I’ll keep the old fantasies, and maybe make room for some new ones, too. Like a dvd collection, I’ll add new fantasies, but still watch the old ones. There’s nothing like a good classic for a really long drive.
Through thick lashes, I peer soulfully out to the audience. They are entranced. Disposable lighters flicker around the stadium. "If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad..." Then, when I hear that high-pitched beep, the start of the WE INTERRUPT message, I just tell the guys in the band, “Hey! Crank it up!”

A Happy Tail

On Saturday we dropped Oscar off with his “forever family.” What a happy ending for the little dog with a big spirit. At times I wondered if this doggie experiment was really going to work. I wondered if we were really fostering a dog, or if we had taken a dog who would eventually become ours by default.

The truth is, I think we all learned and grew from this experience. My family and I opened our home to a stranger, and made him feel loved and welcome. Yes, it was more work, especially for me. But I got creative, like figuring out how to tie two leashes together and actually get the pups to walk side-by-side so as not to get completely wound-up and tangled by them – sounds easier then it really was. Big J, in the end, may have learned to have a little faith in my crazy schemes. And, he had to be especially tender with Oscar, because the pup was the most afraid of him – we assume some man had been abusive in the past. The kids, in addition to spending afternoons training and playing with Oscar, learned to love and then let go. I was worried we’d all become too attached to Oscar, but as it turns out, I was the one welling up as we drove home without him. The kids had to remind me of how happy and excited we were the day Oscar came to our home, and how his new family was feeling the same. Bottom line is that we all knew Oscar was where he was meant to be.

Oscar was only in our lives for two months, but that’s two months he didn’t have to live in a crate at a kennel. And now, we definitely miss him. He was a wise little pup, with caramel colored eyes that could melt your heart. He was as cuddly as a cat, loved people of all ages and he kept our dog, Indy, entertained for hours. We were a nice transition family for Oscar, and I think we helped him learn how to trust humans again.

So do I recommend fostering a dog and would I do it again? Would I invite a strange dog to come live with us until he or she found a forever home? Without a doubt. We all do what we can to make the world a better place. At different times in our lives our gestures may be large or small. For us, we started with a little dog named Oscar. Welcome home, sweet Oscar.

If you want to foster a dog, contact Great Dog Rescue New England.

Fire in the Driveway

I heard Lil'J digging around in a pillow case filled with candy and I hollered from the next room, "Are you taking your sister's candy?" I knew he had hardly done any trick or treating the night before; he'd been too busy getting in shaving cream fights down the street.

"No, it's not her candy," he responded. "I haven't reached that stage yet." I had to giggle and silently agree. I hadn't reached the phase of Halloween aftermath when I eat C's candy either. We all eat C's candy because she really doesn't like candy that much. I've found that darn pillow case in her room in August, filled with crusty old candy bars and lollipops.

This year was the first Halloween I wasn't home alone handing out candy, while Big J went out with the kids. This year, both C and Lil'J were out on their own (though I did keep tabs on C by making her call me from her cell phone every time she and her girlfriends went on a new street.)

Beginning when they were babies, Big J would take the kids door to door. At first he popped them in a wagon and rolled them down the sidewalk, and later he trailed behind as they raced up and down the streets. Thinking about the old days made me a little sad. This year, each time the doorbell rang, Big J and I felt like an elderly couple answering the door and "ooing and ahhing" over all the little tykes' costumes.

Then I had the idea of pulling our little chiminea out to the driveway and lighting a fire. Soon, we had lawn chairs, the tiki torches, tunes and even a little wine. The night became much more festive! And, when our kids and their friends returned to our house to sort and trade their candy bootie, a crowd of parents gathered in the driveway. Not only did we recount the evening's events, we also reminisced about the Halloween's of recent years, and those of our youth. Somehow shaving cream fights don't sound so bad when I hear stories about my friends egging cars when they were kids.

So, our children are growing and now heading into the Halloween world without us. And while the times are changing, it's possible we started a new Halloween tradition this year. Mental note...next year get more candy and a few duraflames.