A Summer's Theme

I'm starting to think that the sign of an aging yearbook adviser is the constant craving for a theme.  Not even a good one.  Just a handful of words, tossed together like spinach and arugula, in the hopes that I won't have to remember too much to frame the moment.

Maybe that's why, halfway around Holmes Lake this morning, I found myself face to face with a summer's theme.  I guess I needed half a lake and all those fishing poles, taut and hopeful, to nudge out a few words to identify this brand-new summer of mine.

"Make time," whispered the wind as it wended its way through my hair.

And so, I let myself get lost in the moment, swept away by the sight of vultures taking flight from the treetops across the dam.  And I delighted as I realized a small stick figure was moving below them.  What sounds that man must have heard, the flapping of great, black wings!  What fear his heart must have felt, as the flock dipped and dived around him.

"Make time," sniffed the Saluki as it stopped to check out Finn.

And so, we lollygagged at the bridge, Finn and me, watching a sleepy bullfrog puncture the mossy surface.

"Make time," smiled the young family as--twice--we crossed each others' paths.

And I did, pulling to the side of the path, crouching to get a good look at a half dozen flowering plants--purple and blue and white--few of which I knew by name.

"Make time," said the waddling Mallard mom, stepping off her nest of eggs for a breather.

That's when Finn looked up at me, sharing some unspoken moment and letting me know how glad he was to be there, with me, breathing good air and smelling great smells, even as the low hum of distant traffic spoke of life in a faster lane.

"Make Time" .  .  .  yes, it has a nice ring to it.

Don't Get Too Attached

For someone who's taught high schoolers for nearly 25 years, you'd think I'd be pretty shock proof.  How to explain, then,  my dropped jaw when I saw Time Magazine's cover last week?  You know the one where the preschooler parked his Cozy Coupe so he could fill up at the mommy pump.

Maybe it's because I've taught high school for so long that I had the reaction I did.  When I pulled out the magazine from our mailbox, I immediately pitied the boy, seeing--with crystal-clear vision--what his future would hold for him.  All the name calling.  The teasing.  The friends begging to come over after school for a little snack. . . .

I spent the next three nights reading the article about attachment parenting, something I had never heard of before then.  I would have gotten through the article a lot faster had it not been for my annoying children and their ridiculous "needs."

"MOM!  We're out of toilet paper!"
"MOM!  The milk's turned!"
"MOM!  Are we having dinner over the sink again?!"

My God.  Had I known how taxing parenthood would be, I would have found myself another hobby.  Like horseback riding or something.

Anyway, back to the whole "attachment parenting" thingy. . . .

Frankly, I can't imagine anything worse than the idea of me as the "be all end all" to my children.  No.  When it comes to Eric and Allison, I much prefer a little benevolent neglect.  How else, pray tell, will I get them out of the house by age 20 unless I keep screwing things up or ignoring them?  Seriously, the last thing I want to be is one of those all-inclusive resorts that white people love so much.

No, I want my children to live among the natives.  And, frankly, the sooner the better.

...in fact, it looks like there's an opening late next week.

Mother May I

My mom looked beautiful the other night.  Her skin was smooth,--surprisingly so, considering she'll be 85 next Sunday--her clothes were impeccable, and even her glasses uttered "classy" behind the fashionable frames. 

What made me pause as I took it all in, though, was the fact that she was laying on a hospital bed in the emergency room.  She'd spent much of the afternoon there with my stepdad, Dick, whose heart gave him a fright (he's now home and well).  Because my mom has had bum luck with her back and a series of procedure-disrupting infections, of late, I convinced her to let the doctors check her out, as well.

By the end of our three-hour stay, my mom was cleared to go ahead with her procedure, offering her the chance at real pain relief after weeks of agony.  

That alone made it worth the visit.

But what I most appreciated in spending that evening with her, there among whirring machines and antiseptic ointments, was the chance to just hold her hand and talk with her.  The conversation flowed easily, despite its occasional focus on realities that are neither fluffy nor fun.  Several times in the evening, her laugh--her throaty, easy laugh--punctuated the stale hospital air, eventually resting happily upon my shoulders. 

It has been strange, this past year, watching my mom grow older.  It has been hard, realizing that her edges have grown softer, her needs more pronounced, her presence less of a certainty.  I have rather enjoyed my first 50 years on this earth, framed by a mother who is at once both classy and good-humored. Like a smooth stone, I like how she feels in my hand.  I like all the things she represents to me.

There are days, though, when I realize that her youthfulness is like a clever fox, tricking me into believing that she is something she is not--young, for instance.  It is an odd Shepard burden, this youthful demeanor, because it catches the rest of us off guard.  Surely, Sally Shepard Raglin Marshall is not almost 85.  Surely, that is a master's typo.

Is it wrong to say that I enjoyed myself the other evening, tucked away in a back room in ER, my mother by my side?  No.  I rather think it was something else altogether.

Mother-daughter time, the loose skin of my mother's hand tucked safely into mine.

Stirring the Pol Pot

I consider myself a bit of an animal lover.  So you can imagine how embarrassed I am to admit that I killed seven or eight animals yesterday.  In a ten-minute span. 

First, there was the mouse family—the very NEW mouse family--that had taken up residence in my birdseed container. I saw the mama when I lifted the lid and I gently scooted her out.  But I kept hearing little peeps emerging from the safflower, so I picked up the container and swished it back and forth, back and forth.  Eventually, I saw six or seven pink things surface.  Yeah, I’d been rattling the life right out of them.

One or two managed to writhe for a minute or so, but then, the slate was pretty much wiped clean.  My soul, however, is another matter. 

Appalled at what I’d done, my nose was to the ground as we headed for a walk a few minutes later.   Hooded eyes focused on my feet, it was hard to ignore my earlier, as-yet unrealized brutality.  There, spread out in a pulpy pile were the remains of some baby birds I’d managed to run over as I pulled into the drive a few minutes earlier. 

Let’s just say the Pol Pot of Woods Avenue has had better afternoons.