Post-Traumatic Hurricane Disorder

Hurricane Irene has rubbed our collective suburban nerves raw. The process began before she even blew into town as we anxiously awaited her entrance. Then came the actual storm and the flooding she unleashed. And now, her aftermath. It's hard to even surrender into the crystal-clear, humidity-free days she left in her wake because, around every corner, I see and hear what else she's left behind:

People shoveling mud and debris out of their front doors. Piles of ruined carpeting and furniture sitting on curbs. The whine of chainsaws and rumble of chippers eating away at fallen branches. An apoplectic contractor in his parked car, screaming into his cell phone, Your crew can handle it! I TRUST they can handle it! Now FUCKING handle it!!! 

The heartbreaking stories of the devastation my fellow townsfolk have suffered have left me on edge. I can't bear to hear anymore stories but I know they're out there. I'm waiting for the next limb to fall.

That's why on Tuesday afternoon, when I noticed the flashing lights of police cars blocking the entrance to Rye Playland, an amusement park right down the street from where I live, I braced myself for another Irene-related issue. But word spread quickly, as it does in a small town, that the cops were there because of a fight.

That day, 3,000 Muslims had come to Playland to celebrate the end of Ramadan. But for some, the celebration ground to a halt when women who were wearing religious head coverings --hijabs-- were asked, for safety reasons, to take them off before getting on certain rides. Tempers flared between the park-goers and the park rangers, a fight ensued and 15 people wound up being arrested.

Now, not being an eye-witness, I don't know the extent and intensity of the actual skirmish. But when I walked into the park two and half hours later to take Little Man to Playland Ice Casino for hockey practice, I was struck by the juxtaposition of what I saw.

There were scores of Westchester County cop cars and cops, some wearing riot gear. Milling peaceably about them were families waiting patiently for Playland to reopen. Many women in the crowd had their heads covered by hijabs. From where I stood, watching parents playing with their kids and the ferris wheel spinning in the background, the number of police officers dispatched to Playland definitely seemed like overkill.

Depending on the coverage, some say the police over-reacted. Others say they were just doing their job. I can't speak to how the fight was handled but I do wonder this. Is it possible that being on such high alert for the hurricane then dealing with the multitude of emergencies that came afterward spawned such a massive police presence at Playland on Tuesday? Maybe, like me, the police were waiting for that next big limb to fall?

My New Method For Getting Things To Sink In For My Kids

A few nights ago night as I’m washing dishes, I hear Little Man shouting at me from another room.  Over the sound of running water I shout back,  I can’t hear you! So he proceeds to shout again. Louder this time. I ignore him and eventually he comes into the kitchen to tell me what’s so important, after which, I deliver the speech about NOT shouting at me from another room. The same speech that I’ve been delivering to him since he was old enough to know it wasn't okay to shout at me from another room.

Little Man and Big Man are funny that way. No matter how many times I tell them things, it just doesn’t sink in. So I’m thinking a different approach is in order. I'm going to start giving them tests on appropriate behavior choices. 

Here are a few sample questions for them:

What do I do when I’m in another room and I need to tell Mom something but she can’t hear me?

a.  Shout louder

b.  Shout “Get your ass in here woman I have something to say!

c.  Convince myself that she said I could go long boarding even though I haven't finished my homework

d.  Go to the room she’s in and have a face-to-face conservation

When I get undressed at night to get ready for bed I…

a.  Leave my dirty clothes on the floor right where I took them off

b.  Roll them up in a ball and throw them next to the hamper

c.  Hide them in the closet to moulder for weeks on end

d.  Take the lid off the hamper, place the clothes inside, then put the lid back on 

When I’m having a snack while watching television I...

a.  Leave the half-eaten snack and sticky wrapper on the coffee table in case the ants are hungry

b.  Finish the snack but hide the wrapper behind the couch pillow along with my dirty socks

c.  Blame the mess on my brother so I don't have to clean it up

d.  After my show is over, drag my body off  the couch and throw the snack remains in the trash

What do I do when my parents are out for the evening and I smell something funny?

a.  Continue to watch TV and ignore the smell

b.  Wait for my parents to come home and clean up the pile of diarrhea the dog left in the dining room

c.  Stick my hand in a plastic bag and, no matter how many times I gag, clean up the mess

Please note, the circumstances described above are purely fictional and certainly not based on anyone's past actions or lack thereof. I mean, at least one of them isn't. 

I'll give this a try and if it doesn't work, I'll have to come up with another method for getting them to pay attention. What? Did I just hear someone say shock collar? No? 

I could have sworn I did.

The Hidden Treasures of Hiking

PB and I really like to hike while we're on vacation in Maine. Big Man and Little Man? Not so much. Actually, I take that back. It's not that they don't like hiking. It's just that they could do without it every day.

So PB and I, astute in the ways of parenting that we are, know that in order to be able to hike as a semi-happy family, we need to limit our treks to a few times a week.

Even so,  Big Man and Little Man don't always go gently into that good hike. Inevitably they begin the walk with a barrage of questions. How long is this hike? Can we stop for a minute, my mosquito bites are killing me! Dad, could you unzip the backpack and hand me my water bottle? Wait, I have to take a whiz.

Then, once they're all settled in, they move on to wearing us down by reciting, ad nauseum, lines from  Family Guy, South Park and all the Will Ferrell and Adam Sandler movies they've ever seen.

For yesterday's hike PB and I struck a deal with Big Man and Little Man. First we'd do a short little trek up and down Day Mountain.  Then we'd continue on to Hunters Beach so the boys could begin geocaching.

Oh? What's geocaching you might ask? It's the high-tech equivalent of a good old-fashioned treasure hunt. The attraction to Hunters Beach was that somewhere hidden along the trail to the ocean was a geocache --a water-proof container filled with a log book, pen and an assortment of trinkets that a fellow geocacher had placed there. Our mission? To find the cache using coordinates that Big Man had downloaded into his handy-dandy GPS device.

Parents, please take note: there's nothing, I mean NOTHING like an infusion of high-tech gadgetry to get a tween and teenage boy to forget that they're actually hiking.

Here's proof: Big Man enjoying the view from the top of Day Mountain before geocaching. NOT!

Notice his transformation during geocaching (Yes, he's smiling folks! He's actually smiling!)

But I digress. Here's how our treasure hunt unfolded. Big Man was the one who zeroed in on the exact spot (with a little help from PB). Then we all scoured the area peering under bushes, up trees, amidst rocks. Having never geocached before, I have to admit, I was beginning to wonder if this was all a wild goose chase when all of a sudden Little Man shouted, I found it!

And there it lay, just as the geocache site described it! An old ammunition can wedged between slabs of stone, partially covered by a rock. 

Little Man pulled it out, opened it up and everybody took a look inside. Among other treasures, there was a toy car, a plastic turtle and dinosaur and a shell. One of the fun things about geocaching is, if you add something to the cache, you can take something from it.

Little Man dropped our offering into the can.

In return we chose a stuffed Snoopy with a travelbug dog tag around his neck. In geocache lingo, this means Snoopy is a "geo hitchhiker," traveling from cache to cache, state to state, even country to country.  

Big Man recorded our transaction in the log book...

...then put the cache right back where we found it.

As for Snoopy...

He's about to embark on a long trip, to Rye, New York. 

As for PB and me, we asked Big Man and Little Man if we could please, OH PLEASE, go geocaching tomorrow. They said we could. If we were good.

We're Not So Different, You And I

Little Man & Me, Maine 2010

We're on our annual summer vacation, PB, Big Man, Little Man and I. We've been coming to this same little island in Maine since before the boys were born so it's really become a part of our family's history.

Hiking is one of the many things we love to do here and our first climb is always Beech Mountain. When the boys were little it was a great way to bribe them into get them excited about hiking because not only can you reach the top in about 15 minutes, the payoff is big once you get there and I'm not just talking about the spectacular view. Upon Beech's granite head sits a 50-foot fire tower. Climb the rickety ladder to the lookout shed and you're no longer two little blond brothers with chubby cheeks. You're Optimus Prime and Megatron surveying your dominions before you rip each other apart in battle.

Little Man & Big Man Summer 2008, Post-Transformer Period

The trek up Beech is pretty easy except for the very beginning which is a steep incline for about ten minutes during which your heart pounds and you get all sweaty and think to yourself, jeez, I thought I was in shape. I put in my time on the Eliptical. Maybe I need to rachet it up a notch.

The upslope never fazes Big Man and Little Man. They inevitably take off up the rock face quick as jack rabbits. This particular first hike is bittersweet because we're missing our Yellow Lab, Daisy, who died this past January. More than all of us put together, Daisy loved hiking in Maine. The second we'd let her off her leash she'd sweep up the mountain like a flash of white lightening. Then she'd double-back to wait for us to catch up, only to take off again.

Daisy on Beech Mountain 2009

So yesterday as we're hiking it's dawning on me that, even though time passes and things change, this one thing has remained constant. We continue to begin our time in Maine with this traditional first hike, a welcome toast to the next two glorious weeks we'll spend on our idyllic coastal island. And even though it's tinged with sadness because I'm feeling the loss of Daisy, I'm filled with happiness that we've created this family tradition.

We finally get to the top and head over to "our spot" to rest for a bit and we spy a family with two Labs --a Yellow and a Black.  Of course the Yellow reminds us of our beloved Daisy so we strike up a conversation with them and, lo and behold, guess what this Yellow Lab's name is? Why Daisy, of course. As the conversation continues we learn that this family has been coming to Maine since before they had kids. And this hike is always their first hike.

After spending some time talking with this nice family about all the similar things we like to do in Maine, PB, Big Man, Little Man and I head down the mountain and I have to laugh. We, and I use this term collectively, think we're so unique. That our family rituals are so special, somehow setting us apart from everybody else. Even making us a little superior. As if no one else could possibly love this mountain, this view, a dog as much as we ever could. We're really not so different, you and I.

My Girl & Me on Beech  2009

To Blog or Not to Blog?

Oh, hi.  It's me.

The one you haven't heard from in a while. Since, um, March 28th to be exact.

Yeah, I've been M.I.A.  But I think of you often. I do!  I wonder if you miss my posts. Or, if you even realize I've been gone. Sometimes I feel like a real loser for not keeping up on a regular basis. And sometimes I think, I don't have anything to say anyway so what does it matter? Not ONE blog-worthy thing popping out of me

You see, I came down with a case of blogger's block. 

Here's what precipitated my absence. I got it in my head that since I was spending a good amount of time doing this blogging thing, maybe I should figure out how to earn some money from it. Maybe, just maybe, in addition to the encouragement and adoration I receive from my followers  (I love you, all 17 of YOU!!!!) and the creative satisfaction I get from writing, there could also be a little economic payoff.

After all, I was approaching a certain age. The age when, despite the promises on the package of my wrinkle-reducing night cream, it was time to pull out the bigger, more expensive guns. The face I look at in the mirror each day needed a plan, and needed it fast.

Here's what I came up with. Instead of skimming off the family grocery budget to pay for Botox injections, I'd throw a few ads up on my blog and if they piqued the interest of enough readers, I could bring in a little cash for my impending cosmetic enhancements. Enough to freeze one forehead line, at least.

I quickly realized, however, it was going to take a shit-load more readers than I already had in order to make this work.

So, what's an aging blogger in need of readers to do? Consult a blog expert of course. Meet Chris Ming Ryan, blogger extraordinaire. To get more "traffic to my site," here's what Chris advised:  blog a minimum of three times a week, post comments on other people's blogs on a regular basis, Tweet updates and links to useful information and do face-time on Facebook. 

So, what did I do with all those invaluable tips? I did what I usually do when I feel overwhelmed and/or something scares the shit out of me. I shut down. Completely. No blogging. I wouldn't even let myself think about blogging. 

And for a while, I was totally okay with being a big fat baby. I'd justify not blogging by asking myself, do I really want to Tweet about how well (or not) my Metamucil is working? Force myself to come up with witty comments on other people's blogs so maybe, just maybe, that blogger and his or her readers would think I'm really cool and the voice of suburban reason and decide to follow me? Come up with something to say basically every other day. With the likelihood that the grand total of money I'd make wouldn't even freeze half a forehead wrinkle? That's fucking nuts!!!

I contemplated other ways I could earn money because, Botox aside, Big Man will be heading off to college in a few years and how the hell are we gonna pay for THAT? While out to dinner I'd watch our waitress balance her order-laden tray and think, I could do that. Or, while in my car being waved through road construction by a worker in a hard-hat wielding an orange flag I'd wonder, could I do that? I bet it pays well.

And then a funny thing happened in the midst of my blogger's block. Something that surprised me. I started to miss blogging. I'd have one of those epiphanies about one thing or another while standing in line at CVS and think, I should blog about that.

Which got me thinking about blogging in its purest sense. The word blog comes from the term web log, which is a kind of online diary. While I've never been able to write in an actual journal or diary, when I blogged, when I wrote about the dramas and little things about my life and put them out there for all the world to see, I realized that I liked doing it. Writing it down helped me process. It kept me connected to myself. It forced me to laugh at myself. And the best part? When a reader would say, I feel that way too! Not to get all "We Are The World," but it validated for me that we're really all the same on a very basic, human level. 

So, here's what I've decided: I'm not going to force myself to write a certain amount of posts per week.  If I make a few pennies from my Google and Amazon ads, well, that's just the icing on the cake (and possibly the difference between Big Man going to a state or private college but no pressure, folks!). And, oh yeah, I'm back!

How Little Man's Bout With A Stomach Bug Sapped The Life Out Of Me

Little Man spent the past seven days getting over a stomach bug. It steam-rollered in last Monday after a weekend-long hockey tournament in Staten Island.

Oh. I'm sorry. You didn't know there were ice rinks in Staten Island? Well, there most certainly are. Right past that huge landfill, beyond those rusted-out holding tanks and across from that there brick building. The one surrounded by spiraling whorls of glinting, jagged, barbed-wire fence. Yes, the prison. The rink's right after that.

I'm sure he picked up this god forsaken virus in Staten Island. Because what good could ever come out of that place? I'm KIDDING! I met some very nice people during my time there. Just having a little fun after a very trying week.

But I'm still blaming Little Man's illness on Staten Island. Someone needs to pay for the days he spent moaning, shivering and sweating on the sofa. And for the round-the-clock nursing services provided by yours truly.

He went to bed on Sunday acting a little delirious. But I chalked it up to being beyond exhausted from all the skating and really didn't think much of it. So when I woke him up for school the next morning I was a little surprised to hear that he wanted to stay home. And even more surprised when he requested that I take his temperature.

I pulled out the thermometer mainly to humor him but guess what? He did indeed have a fever. A high one at that.

Which caused me to get all, wow, I'm really slipping in the mothering department. Used to be I was all over that shit. I could lay my palm on a burning forehead and practically tell you what the temperature would be.

Must be my friend Glynnis rubbing off on me. She once made her son go to school even though he was complaining of a hurt foot. Pulled some old brace from a previous injury out of the medicine cabinet, velcroed it on him and said toodle-loo. When she finally took him to the doctor she found out it was a hairline fracture.

But no matter. Glynnis is Scottish. Of the stiff-upper-lippish variety. Her kids have to be dying to stay home from school. Hairline fractures don't qualify. I, on the other hand, have been known to let them miss if they have a cold.

Here's the thing, though. That really hasn't happened in a while. Little Man and Big Man, tween and teenager that they are, have passed the stage of perpetual runny noses and bouts of strep throat or bronchitis every other week. All those bugs they caught when they were wee ones have paid off. In strong immune systems.

Behind us are the days when being home sick lasted a week and was measured in story time on the couch, group naps and endless viewings of Winnie the Pooh. When real time would stop and all appointments and errands cancelled except for a run to the doctor's office and then maybe one to the toy store for a "sick" present.

So it truly threw me when Little Man went down for the count of seven, count 'em seven, days. I was completely out of practice. And, I'm embarrassed to admit, not really interested in getting back into practice.

Don't misunderstand, Little Man got great TLC. Cold wash rags and glasses of icy ginger ale before he even asked for them.

But I noticed something about myself that made me feel kind of guilty. I couldn't quite surrender to the fact that both of us weren't going anywhere anytime soon --he to school and me from his sick bed. We could have actually checked into that Staten Island prison because I don't think we breathed the outside air all week except for a visit to the walk-in clinic.

Which got me thinking. How did I do it when they were babies, then toddlers, then nursery-schoolers, then grade-schoolers? That's a LONG time of doing it. And really, not so long ago. I don't remember being particularly bothered by it. It was just what I did. I'm sure being a little brain-dead helped.

But now. Now I had a LIFE god dammit! I had yoga classes to go to, and meetings to attend and blog posts to Tweet about and the next great American novel to write. Not that I didn't have some semblance of a life separate from them when they were younger. I guess I was just more apt to set it aside.

Until their maturing immune systems granted me a stay from childhood illnesses and I tasted a freedom I never thought possible!  A freedom that guaranteed they would go to school in the morning and not come home until 3 in the afternoon! And, if they were home for a week, it was because they were on vacation, not, god forbid, sick!

I'm happy to report that today, going on a full week later, Little Man has finally re-entered the land of the living. He's still a bit pale, doesn't have a whole lot of energy and is as skinny as a blade of grass but he's definitely turned a corner.

And me? I'm not really sure what to do with myself. Although I did get a hit of cool evening air when I took all the empty ginger ale and Advil bottles out to the curb to be recycled. It was my first time out of the house in a while. I have to admit, freedom never smelled so sweet.

Top O' The Morning to You, Internet!

Dear Internet,

It's 7:41 a.m. as I write this and there's a very big reason why I'm sitting here, tapping away at my computer, instead of sitting in my car driving Little Man to school.

That reason, dear Internet, is you!

You see, when Little Man asked me this morning to give him a ride, for one brief moment, I paused. He looked at me through sleepy eyes, hair askew from battling his pillow all night and said softly, "I'm just so tired."

And I thought what's the harm, really? I know I said they had to walk from now on but after all, he'd be walking by himself today because Big Man is home sick. It's just one ride, right? But that one ride to a middle-schooler could be like just one drink to an alcoholic. And we all know where that story goes.

I had an even bigger dilemma as I went back and forth over whether or not to give Little Man a ride this morning. What, exactly, would I tell the Internet if I did?

After my last blog resolution, where I wrote that I'd no longer be chauffeuring Big Man and Little Man to and from school each day? Where I admitted to monster-like morning behavior and committed to putting an end to the before-school insanity? You all wrote back and told me that you've been there too. And to stay strong. That I'm doing the right thing

So, I said no. Even after Little Man, his bed-head now plastered down with water, tried one last time to change my mind before he walked out the door. Walked.

And it's all because of your support and encouragement, Internet. I feel like I've been handed a big pot of gold. You are the 12-Step Program for Push-over Mothers.