My boys have been going to summer camp since the age of four. They started off going to Camp Krislund, a camp run by our church Presbytery, where they swam, played games, crafted, learned songs and got their Jesus on for 3 days a year. Last year, Ryan was able to go to a full week-long camp but he was less than thrilled at the idea of Krislund because of his different religious beliefs (He's a Buddhist. Well, Atheist. Well, both, because technically Buddhism is non-diest or non-theistic according to my heretic son). "All we do is sit under a tree and read that Bible. I'll go this year, but if we don't do more nature stuff, I'm not going back." But he had to because, um, a week without kids. I drove the boys to camp, the whole way lecturing them about being appropriate, about not being rude, about keeping their hands out of their pants, about wearing pants. Ethan, going for the three-day mini camp was ready to go. He loves God, loves nature, loves life. When I picked Ethan up mid-week, he was dirty, tired, and happy, as expected. I saw Ryan from a distance in his cabin group; he looked happy! I was happy! This was going to work after all! At the end of the week, I drove back up to camp to pick Ryan up and he looked happy. His counselors were telling me how wonderful he was, what a great kid he was, and then...the whole was to the car he bitched about the hypocrisy of the kids and counselors. "Really Mom. You lectured us about being appropriate! Do you know I learned what a condom is? Do you know how I learned? Because I told a kid his craft was an epic fail and he he said 'Oh, well, your dad's condom was an epic fail'. I had to ask a counselor. And he told me! I also learned what 'purpling' is. I shouldn't know what that is! AND I learned what a boner is. A boner. Hypocrites!" This was the end of church camp for Ryan.
But I persevered. Because a week without kids is a week without kids. And I WISH I could have gone to camp as a kid. And, dammit, if I can't live vicariously through the boys with ballet lessons or cheerleading, they can go to camp. Friends of ours found an environmental conservation camp in Carbon County; a very small (25 kids), rustic camp with science experiments, tie-dying, camp fires, whitewater rafting and a talent show. I presented this opportunity to the boys and they were quite excited. And today was the day. We headed to Lehighton yesterday to stay at our friends' house (their son was also heading to camp with the boys) because it was relatively close to the camp and sign-in was at 9AM this morning. We were there on time, fully stocked with Deep Woods Off, bed rolls, sleeping bags, sunscreen (that won't get used), clean underwear (that won't get worn), and a little bit of nerves (from all of us except Ethan). We were able to drive the boys to their cabins, where they were greeted by camp pro Brian, who has been going to the camp since he was eight. He's twelve and mourning his last year at camp. The three boys picked Cabin 3 and in we went! And my envy faded. That shit is rustic. There aren't any mattresses on the wooden racks (hence the need for the egg crate bedrolls). There are nails for hooks. There are dead bugs. And the boys were in HEAVEN! Within a short time, beds were made, bags were unpacked, and Ethan and his buddy were pretty much over us parents being there. The shock was that Ryan was...emotional. He was teary. He was trying to wipe his tears away, but kept saying "I'm just really going to miss you. Five days? Just five days?" And he hugged he in front of other campers, which is huge. Monumental. It was really difficult for me, because he's not an emotional kid. He's my logical, black and white, no nonsense, tell it like it is kid. And there he was really needing me. It kind of sucked. But, soon (mercifully), a counselor came to take the kids to the Rec Hall for introductions and to kick off the week of hiking and games and unrequited crushes that they'll remember when they're my age. My friends and I got in our cars and left them to their own devices to create their own memories, to build a little confidence, to hone their independence and to, for God's sake, not sit under a tree and read that Bible. And there had better not be any purpling.
So, tonight, my husband and I had a delicious kid-free dinner. Tomorrow, we'll meet for a beer. I may go to dinner with friends Wednesday, maybe catch a Bikram class Thursday; but I'll be really happy to see my babies Friday. And soak them in the tub for a looooong time after thorough tick check.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Guilt, Shame and Cigars
I am not a smoker. I never have been. With the exception of a brief period of time in my early 20's when I went through my clove cigarette/Honey Brown Lager phase (Oh my GAWD, it tastes like sugar on my lips! Hack hack hack!), I've avoided smoking. I come from a long line of smokers as does my husband, who is a reformed chewing tobacco addict. I don't judge, but I was happy when most restaurants went "smoke-free". I have plenty of smoking friends and relatives and we socialize well, with the understanding that they sit downwind and don't throw their butts in my yard. We've voiced the evils of tobacco and cigarettes to our boys ("You'll die!", "You'll get cancer!", "Your lungs will fall out of your butts!"). We do this because everyone who smokes says "I wish I never started. It's so hard to stop." That and, well, it's just bad for you.
That said, we have an annual tradition of "Cigar Night" at the beach house in Corolla. After the kids go to bed, the adults pour themselves their cocktail of choice and go out on the second floor deck, away from the kid-end of the house, and we each have a cigar. A good cigar. The kind you have once a year. We laugh and laugh and talk about really inappropriate things. We use seashells for ashtrays. I talk in a fake mobster voice and point with my cigar ("Yeah, see. Yeah."). We're adults. We can smoke cigars if we want to.
A few weeks ago, post Corolla, I drove past Cabella's on the way back from a meeting and noticed Cigars International. My husband has been there and he told me it's pretty amazing inside. I thought I'd take a quick detour and pick up a few cigars for us; I'm a grown woman. I can buy cigars. In I went in my Loft shift dress, nude pumps and cat's eye glasses. It was like Disneyland for cigar lovers, all cabin-like and manly. A very nice gentleman was happy to usher me into the Blend Lab and helped me pick out a selection of four ("But, ma'am, if you buy five you get the sixth one free!"), make that six, cigars that were certain to please our very selective palates. I was so excited to surprise my husband with my selection! But, wait until Corolla next year? I don't have a humidor. A wine fridge, yes, but a humidor? We're not that fancy.
So they sat, in a cabinet, until last night when I decided we'd try two of them out. One with essence of chocolate for me, some other thing for my husband (he doesn't really care, I don't think). It was still light out and the boys were still awake, but they were Xboxing and Minecrafting - surely they'd not come out. I grabbed my new cigar cutter and my mister grabbed the ashtray from India that I inherited from my Grandfather and we sat on the deck and enjoyed our cigars together. Delicious! Until... (sliding of glass door)
Ryan: "What are you doing? Are you two smoking cigars?"
Greg: "Yep."
Ryan: "I thought you only did that once a year. At the Outer Banks."
Me: "Well, we're doing it now, too."
Ryan circled the table, smirking at us. "Aren't you going to get cancer?"
Me: "No. We don't suck the smoke into our lungs. Just into our mouths."
Ryan: "Does it taste good?"
Greg: "No."
Ryan, smirking: "Then why would you do it?"
Me: "Because..." Shitshitshitshit! Hypocrite! Liar! Bad example!
Greg: "Because adults can do it every now and then. Mommy got these as a treat for us." So matter of fact.
Me: "Are you judging us?"
Ryan, heading back in the house: "Yep."
Me: "Don't tell Ethan. Seriously. Just go. I don't need his opinion, too."
Normally, the boys don't engage with each other unless there's a Pokemon card to trade, a new Epic Rap Battle Of History to watch on Youtube, or if one waves their naked butt at the other one post shower, requiring the other to throw an elbow. However, I knew tattling was about to take place. Ten minutes later, my mister says "Ethan's looking at us." Of course he was. The glass door slid open.
Ethan: "Hey! What's up?"
Me: "Nothin'. What's up with you?"
Ethan: "Nothin'. Soooo, what are you guys doing?"
Greg: "Smoking cigars. Your brother told you, I see."
Ethan: "Yeah."
Me: "Are you going to give us a hard time, too?"
Ethan: "Nope. I don't care." Looks away. "So, can I try it?"
Greg and me: "NO!"
Me: "Are you crazy?!"
Ethan: "Well, how old do I have to be?"
Greg: "18."
Me: "21."
Ethan: "Okayyyyyy. Well, I love you."
Both: "We love you, too."
He kissed me, no doubt to try to nab a little stogie essence, and then went back in the house.
So, there we were, busted by our boys: Preachy, hypocritical parents, smelling of expensive blended cigars and shame, hiding behind a cloud of smoke.
I guess it happens to the best of us. Do as I say, not as I do, right? But, realistically, a cigar every now and then is not the end of the world. I mean, Ryan already told a friend of his, while riding in my car, that I'm a drug addict ("Well, caffeine is a drug and you drink coffee." I still almost drove into a cow pasture). Cigars are probably the least of our worries. I'm sure they'll judge us many more times over the years. But, I think, as long as we work hard, treat others with kindness, and love them, they can forgive the occasional cigar :-)
That said, we have an annual tradition of "Cigar Night" at the beach house in Corolla. After the kids go to bed, the adults pour themselves their cocktail of choice and go out on the second floor deck, away from the kid-end of the house, and we each have a cigar. A good cigar. The kind you have once a year. We laugh and laugh and talk about really inappropriate things. We use seashells for ashtrays. I talk in a fake mobster voice and point with my cigar ("Yeah, see. Yeah."). We're adults. We can smoke cigars if we want to.
A few weeks ago, post Corolla, I drove past Cabella's on the way back from a meeting and noticed Cigars International. My husband has been there and he told me it's pretty amazing inside. I thought I'd take a quick detour and pick up a few cigars for us; I'm a grown woman. I can buy cigars. In I went in my Loft shift dress, nude pumps and cat's eye glasses. It was like Disneyland for cigar lovers, all cabin-like and manly. A very nice gentleman was happy to usher me into the Blend Lab and helped me pick out a selection of four ("But, ma'am, if you buy five you get the sixth one free!"), make that six, cigars that were certain to please our very selective palates. I was so excited to surprise my husband with my selection! But, wait until Corolla next year? I don't have a humidor. A wine fridge, yes, but a humidor? We're not that fancy.
So they sat, in a cabinet, until last night when I decided we'd try two of them out. One with essence of chocolate for me, some other thing for my husband (he doesn't really care, I don't think). It was still light out and the boys were still awake, but they were Xboxing and Minecrafting - surely they'd not come out. I grabbed my new cigar cutter and my mister grabbed the ashtray from India that I inherited from my Grandfather and we sat on the deck and enjoyed our cigars together. Delicious! Until... (sliding of glass door)
Ryan: "What are you doing? Are you two smoking cigars?"
Greg: "Yep."
Ryan: "I thought you only did that once a year. At the Outer Banks."
Me: "Well, we're doing it now, too."
Ryan circled the table, smirking at us. "Aren't you going to get cancer?"
Me: "No. We don't suck the smoke into our lungs. Just into our mouths."
Ryan: "Does it taste good?"
Greg: "No."
Ryan, smirking: "Then why would you do it?"
Me: "Because..." Shitshitshitshit! Hypocrite! Liar! Bad example!
Greg: "Because adults can do it every now and then. Mommy got these as a treat for us." So matter of fact.
Me: "Are you judging us?"
Ryan, heading back in the house: "Yep."
Me: "Don't tell Ethan. Seriously. Just go. I don't need his opinion, too."
Normally, the boys don't engage with each other unless there's a Pokemon card to trade, a new Epic Rap Battle Of History to watch on Youtube, or if one waves their naked butt at the other one post shower, requiring the other to throw an elbow. However, I knew tattling was about to take place. Ten minutes later, my mister says "Ethan's looking at us." Of course he was. The glass door slid open.
Ethan: "Hey! What's up?"
Me: "Nothin'. What's up with you?"
Ethan: "Nothin'. Soooo, what are you guys doing?"
Greg: "Smoking cigars. Your brother told you, I see."
Ethan: "Yeah."
Me: "Are you going to give us a hard time, too?"
Ethan: "Nope. I don't care." Looks away. "So, can I try it?"
Greg and me: "NO!"
Me: "Are you crazy?!"
Ethan: "Well, how old do I have to be?"
Greg: "18."
Me: "21."
Ethan: "Okayyyyyy. Well, I love you."
Both: "We love you, too."
He kissed me, no doubt to try to nab a little stogie essence, and then went back in the house.
So, there we were, busted by our boys: Preachy, hypocritical parents, smelling of expensive blended cigars and shame, hiding behind a cloud of smoke.
I guess it happens to the best of us. Do as I say, not as I do, right? But, realistically, a cigar every now and then is not the end of the world. I mean, Ryan already told a friend of his, while riding in my car, that I'm a drug addict ("Well, caffeine is a drug and you drink coffee." I still almost drove into a cow pasture). Cigars are probably the least of our worries. I'm sure they'll judge us many more times over the years. But, I think, as long as we work hard, treat others with kindness, and love them, they can forgive the occasional cigar :-)
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
The Quickening Art
I ran across a video on Facebook recently, tucked in between political rants and cat videos, about an organization called Music & Memory. The video "Alive Inside" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FWn4JB2YLU) features a gentleman called Henry, who has been living in a nursing home for over ten years because of seizures and subsequent dementia. Henry is non-communicative, nearly unresponsive, depressed...until he's given his iPod. The video shows Henry dancing in his chair and singing to his beloved music (Cab Calloway, he says) - an entirely different man. The effects don't stop there; the "quickening" effect that the music has on Henry's neurologic response lasts for nearly 30 minutes after his iPod is taken. He's conversational, his faded memories tied to his favorite music return to the front of his mind. The non-profit Music & Memory donates iPods to nursing homes for residents like Henry because of the therapeutic effect that personal music has.
I, of course, being the emotional rock that I am, was a weepy mess. I wanted to hug Henry, kiss the founders of the organization, and donate my salary to buy iPods for every nursing home resident in the country; partially because I was thrilled that the video wasn't one more group of people dancing to "Happy", but mostly because I see myself in Henry. Since I was a little girl, music has been a constant in the background of my life. I have a soundtrack. So many events, moments, and people in my life have their own track; they just lie buried in the back of my mind until I hear the first few notes of their song and, bam!, just like that, I'm right back in that moment, seeing, hearing, feeling all over again.
My mother and I woke up every morning to WKBO. When I hear "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" or "Disco Duck", I remember getting ready for school (and hating Rick Dees). She had a bright yellow Panasonic 8-track cassette player that I would sit with for hours listening to Elton John, Barry Manilow (my first concert, by the way), Janis Joplin. We would turn off the TV after Saturday morning cartoons and listen to the stereo while cleaning our house (before our weekly viewing of Creature Double Feature). I started piano lessons at age five, peppered in some viola (although very poorly), and listened to as much music as I could.
When I was nine, I, like every other female with a TV, fell in love with Rick Springfield via his role as Dr. Noah Drake on "General Hospital". At the same time, I traveled to Houston for my open heart surgery. My dad worked at an assisted living facility run by Carmelite nuns at the time. The sisters heard of my surgery and sent to me, at the hospital, a cassette tape of Rick's "Working Class Dog" and a sweet black and white ringer concert tee. I listened to that album over and over...and over. If I hear it now, I still know every word to every song. I can do this with any Wham! album, too. Suck it.
My tastes changed from Wham! to Bon Jovi to LL Cool J to U2 to The Cure to Nirvana to the Chili Peppers to Harry Connick Jr. to Metallica to the Foo Fighters and everything in between. I remember very specifically skipping school to drive to the PA Farm Show with a bunch of girls and singing "Brass in Pocket" at the top of our lungs. Crying my eyes out over a guy to "Nothing Compares 2 U" (which was so not true but, at the time, I thought I would just die). I ran down the beach at the Navy base on Coronado Island singing "One".
I got my infant son (and myself) through his nightly crying jags singing KC and the Sunshine Band and Parliament songs.
When I want to pump myself up for something I listen to "Where the Streets Have No Name".
I got to hear Elton John sing "Philadelphia Freedom" in Philadelphia.
I watched Frank Sinatra, Jack & water in hand, sing from a teleprompter and still bring down the house.
I married a musician who sings and plays bass.
Our living room houses a piano, a guitar, a cello, and a viola; soon to add a drum kit. My oldest son is a fantastic cellist who can play the piano by ear and writes his own music (string compositions and dubstep. Yes, dubstep). My youngest son is a sometimes-violist who loves to sing. He sings like me; this isn't good. The kid has a lot of heart and no stage fright, though, so more power to him. He'll be on SNL one day - you watch.
I have no musical talent - I just love to listen. I really hope my kids remember to bring me an iPod in the nursing home one day.
I, of course, being the emotional rock that I am, was a weepy mess. I wanted to hug Henry, kiss the founders of the organization, and donate my salary to buy iPods for every nursing home resident in the country; partially because I was thrilled that the video wasn't one more group of people dancing to "Happy", but mostly because I see myself in Henry. Since I was a little girl, music has been a constant in the background of my life. I have a soundtrack. So many events, moments, and people in my life have their own track; they just lie buried in the back of my mind until I hear the first few notes of their song and, bam!, just like that, I'm right back in that moment, seeing, hearing, feeling all over again.
My mother and I woke up every morning to WKBO. When I hear "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" or "Disco Duck", I remember getting ready for school (and hating Rick Dees). She had a bright yellow Panasonic 8-track cassette player that I would sit with for hours listening to Elton John, Barry Manilow (my first concert, by the way), Janis Joplin. We would turn off the TV after Saturday morning cartoons and listen to the stereo while cleaning our house (before our weekly viewing of Creature Double Feature). I started piano lessons at age five, peppered in some viola (although very poorly), and listened to as much music as I could.
When I was nine, I, like every other female with a TV, fell in love with Rick Springfield via his role as Dr. Noah Drake on "General Hospital". At the same time, I traveled to Houston for my open heart surgery. My dad worked at an assisted living facility run by Carmelite nuns at the time. The sisters heard of my surgery and sent to me, at the hospital, a cassette tape of Rick's "Working Class Dog" and a sweet black and white ringer concert tee. I listened to that album over and over...and over. If I hear it now, I still know every word to every song. I can do this with any Wham! album, too. Suck it.
My tastes changed from Wham! to Bon Jovi to LL Cool J to U2 to The Cure to Nirvana to the Chili Peppers to Harry Connick Jr. to Metallica to the Foo Fighters and everything in between. I remember very specifically skipping school to drive to the PA Farm Show with a bunch of girls and singing "Brass in Pocket" at the top of our lungs. Crying my eyes out over a guy to "Nothing Compares 2 U" (which was so not true but, at the time, I thought I would just die). I ran down the beach at the Navy base on Coronado Island singing "One".
I got my infant son (and myself) through his nightly crying jags singing KC and the Sunshine Band and Parliament songs.
When I want to pump myself up for something I listen to "Where the Streets Have No Name".
I got to hear Elton John sing "Philadelphia Freedom" in Philadelphia.
I watched Frank Sinatra, Jack & water in hand, sing from a teleprompter and still bring down the house.
I married a musician who sings and plays bass.
Our living room houses a piano, a guitar, a cello, and a viola; soon to add a drum kit. My oldest son is a fantastic cellist who can play the piano by ear and writes his own music (string compositions and dubstep. Yes, dubstep). My youngest son is a sometimes-violist who loves to sing. He sings like me; this isn't good. The kid has a lot of heart and no stage fright, though, so more power to him. He'll be on SNL one day - you watch.
I have no musical talent - I just love to listen. I really hope my kids remember to bring me an iPod in the nursing home one day.
Friday, April 4, 2014
My first official Blog post
So, I've been talking about blogging for a very, very long time. I've even created several on various blogging sites while drinking wine or Hendricks G&T's. Sadly, I can no longer remember the logins or passwords. Or the websites for that matter. Somewhere out there in Internet Land are several stalled out blogs that will never come to fruition because my husband is a fabulous bartender.
My desire to write comes from the continuous narrative that runs through my head, much like the news ticker on the side of the ABC building in Times Square. My head is so packed full of information, musings, details and anecdotes that I may pop soon. I'm hoping that if I write my thoughts down I can free up some space in there - like a virtual Pensieve (any hardcore Harry Potter fan will totally get that reference). I'm also hoping that I never have a stroke and lose my ability to censor myself Sophia Petrillo-style, because a vast majority of my internal ticker is PG-13 at the very least.
I initially wanted to start blogging because I had so many stories to share about my sons. Good stories. Hilarious stories. And, like any good mother, I wanted to tell everyone about them. Now I'm starting to realize that I may be fairly interesting myself - or a narcissist. Either way, I'm finally seeing this through and I'm excited about it.
If you've read this post, thank you SO MUCH! I'm excited to share my stories with you. Stay tuned...I'm taking The Boys to Washington, D.C. for our annual Mom & Boys trip this weekend. I'm sure I'll have more stories and one-liners than I can remember by Monday.
Until next time,
Jenn
My desire to write comes from the continuous narrative that runs through my head, much like the news ticker on the side of the ABC building in Times Square. My head is so packed full of information, musings, details and anecdotes that I may pop soon. I'm hoping that if I write my thoughts down I can free up some space in there - like a virtual Pensieve (any hardcore Harry Potter fan will totally get that reference). I'm also hoping that I never have a stroke and lose my ability to censor myself Sophia Petrillo-style, because a vast majority of my internal ticker is PG-13 at the very least.
I initially wanted to start blogging because I had so many stories to share about my sons. Good stories. Hilarious stories. And, like any good mother, I wanted to tell everyone about them. Now I'm starting to realize that I may be fairly interesting myself - or a narcissist. Either way, I'm finally seeing this through and I'm excited about it.
If you've read this post, thank you SO MUCH! I'm excited to share my stories with you. Stay tuned...I'm taking The Boys to Washington, D.C. for our annual Mom & Boys trip this weekend. I'm sure I'll have more stories and one-liners than I can remember by Monday.
Until next time,
Jenn
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)