“Yes Mom, I’m wearing clean underwear.”
There is a flaw in this protective memory ability given to mankind. Take for example the capability to forget the pain of labor. That is not just to relieve the poor mother of the trauma of childbirth, but also to dim the memory of pain so you do not take it out on your children. Some women’s memories are better then others and this causes them to yell things like, “You know how getting into heaven is like taking a camel through the eye of a needle? Well, bringing you into this world was like taking an elephant through that same needle! You sooooo owe me!”
Memory failure is an affliction that has no gender prejudice. Males too begin to forget things, as they grow older. For instance the other day my daughter returned home late from high school. The school is located directly across the street from our house. Her father began lecturing her on staying late to talk when she had homework. I reminded him later that when he was seventeen He was in the Marines and had a tattoo, had been drunk, and made a few other unwise decisions. Seems like he had forgotten his youthful hyjinks.
I guess I have forgotten a little what it was like to be a teenager also. My daughter says that I embarrass her. “Honey” I pleaded just the other day. “I just asked you if you were wearing clean underwear before the tournament in case you were knocked out and had to be taken to the hospital. I was trying to save you from the embarrassment of dirty skivvies.”
“Mom,” she replied agitated. “You were the announcer and you didn’t turn off the microphone!”
I had to admit, I had used that protective memory loss to get past all the distress my parents had caused by their loving but humiliating interference in my budding teen independence.
The road goes both ways though because teenagers also suffer from recollection deficits.
They forget that not so long ago they crawled in under the covers with you when they swore the boogey man was under their bed. They forget that they embarrassed you when they laid on the floor of the store screaming at the top of their three year old lungs, “My mommy is mean.” They forget that giving you a kiss and hug in public does not cause the world to implode.
Right this minute I’m having a moment of clarity. I remember what it was like to be young, but I also remember that I am a mom, so honey, I love you and I hope your wearing clean underwear (just in case).
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
OH MY GOSH i MARRIED MY DAD!
Oh My Gosh I Married My Dad!
When I got married twenty six years ago people teased, “You know women marry their dads,” I could not even image that my new spouse was remotely like my dad. My father was in his sixties and my strapping young husband his twenties. I loved my dad but did not see any similarities.
I remember my dad’s sometimes irritating sense of humor. One Christmas eve my mom sent my dad to Walgreens (one of the few stores open on Christmas eve) to get some light bulbs and water softener. My dad returned home but took awhile to come in from the garage. When he came in he was laden with several Christmas presents. As he laid them under the tree my mom quizzed, “ Sy, where is the stuff I sent you to the store for?”
My dad replied, “oh, well you know I always do my Christmas shopping the day before Christmas, I guess I forgot the other stuff.”
My mom sighed and mumbled, “typical male never brings back what I ask for.” She was miffed at dad for the rest of the evening.
The nest morning we opened presents. My mom had the stash with her name on them in front of her. She opened the first and it was a nice bottle of perfume from dad. The next two pristinely wrapped presents contained the light bulbs and water softener my dad had purchased the day before. He was grinning ear to ear; she on the other hand, was not amused.
Flash forward 26 years.
Our daughter has moved back in with us to have her baby while her husband is serving in Iraq. My husband has been teasing her about how much toilet paper she goes through. My daughter countering that the baby is sitting on her bladder and she cannot help it if she has to urinate a zillion times a day. It was her Birthday yesterday and she opened the envelope from me, a gift card for a pedicure. She unwrapped the present from her sister, a six-pack of Snickers. She then unwraps the present from her father, yes; you guessed it, a roll of toilet paper! He was grinning ear to ear and our daughter was not amused. It was then that it hit me, oh my gosh, I did marry my dad!
My dad was also the king of trivia and constantly corrected our English. If I asked, “dad how do you spell cow?” He would say it was the Latin derivative of mesey, misey, mosey, and half an hour later I would find out how to spell the word. We would stand corrected on all sorts of subjects that we considered not life altering information.
Again this trait is dominant in my husband. He is the king of little known facts. At least He claims them as facts, but I’m not quite sure of his sources. His need to pass on this information is a compulsion. In falls in the realm of OCD. If you cut yourself and were bleeding profusely he would explain the circulatory system and the chances of infection before handing you the damn Band-Aid.
I must admit though, if he owns these similar irritating characteristics he also owns the ones that endeared me to my dad. My dad was fiercely loyal to my mom and us children. We always knew we were loved and respected, and it is true with William too. So in this world were fidelity seems to be a lost concept, marrying a man like my dad seems to have been a great choice.
When I got married twenty six years ago people teased, “You know women marry their dads,” I could not even image that my new spouse was remotely like my dad. My father was in his sixties and my strapping young husband his twenties. I loved my dad but did not see any similarities.
I remember my dad’s sometimes irritating sense of humor. One Christmas eve my mom sent my dad to Walgreens (one of the few stores open on Christmas eve) to get some light bulbs and water softener. My dad returned home but took awhile to come in from the garage. When he came in he was laden with several Christmas presents. As he laid them under the tree my mom quizzed, “ Sy, where is the stuff I sent you to the store for?”
My dad replied, “oh, well you know I always do my Christmas shopping the day before Christmas, I guess I forgot the other stuff.”
My mom sighed and mumbled, “typical male never brings back what I ask for.” She was miffed at dad for the rest of the evening.
The nest morning we opened presents. My mom had the stash with her name on them in front of her. She opened the first and it was a nice bottle of perfume from dad. The next two pristinely wrapped presents contained the light bulbs and water softener my dad had purchased the day before. He was grinning ear to ear; she on the other hand, was not amused.
Flash forward 26 years.
Our daughter has moved back in with us to have her baby while her husband is serving in Iraq. My husband has been teasing her about how much toilet paper she goes through. My daughter countering that the baby is sitting on her bladder and she cannot help it if she has to urinate a zillion times a day. It was her Birthday yesterday and she opened the envelope from me, a gift card for a pedicure. She unwrapped the present from her sister, a six-pack of Snickers. She then unwraps the present from her father, yes; you guessed it, a roll of toilet paper! He was grinning ear to ear and our daughter was not amused. It was then that it hit me, oh my gosh, I did marry my dad!
My dad was also the king of trivia and constantly corrected our English. If I asked, “dad how do you spell cow?” He would say it was the Latin derivative of mesey, misey, mosey, and half an hour later I would find out how to spell the word. We would stand corrected on all sorts of subjects that we considered not life altering information.
Again this trait is dominant in my husband. He is the king of little known facts. At least He claims them as facts, but I’m not quite sure of his sources. His need to pass on this information is a compulsion. In falls in the realm of OCD. If you cut yourself and were bleeding profusely he would explain the circulatory system and the chances of infection before handing you the damn Band-Aid.
I must admit though, if he owns these similar irritating characteristics he also owns the ones that endeared me to my dad. My dad was fiercely loyal to my mom and us children. We always knew we were loved and respected, and it is true with William too. So in this world were fidelity seems to be a lost concept, marrying a man like my dad seems to have been a great choice.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
A Little Cheese With That Whine?
A Little Cheese With That Whine?
“The grass may be greener on the other side,
but it still has to be mowed. “
It’s been one of those weeks, the kind where you question God as to the misdeeds that deserved your current state of affairs. You know, not enough money for all the monthly bills, the shower door breaks, the sewer drain backs up, and your last good fitting bra tears.
A friend calls to find a sympathetic ear. I’m not in the mood. As she pours out her woes, I interrupt, “I’m out of gas, I had to walk to work.”
“You started walking to lose that fat?” she replied
She did not get it. I tried again, “The washing machine is not ringing the clothes dry enough and it takes three hours to get our clothes dry.”
She countered, “My daughter ran up 700 minutes of text messages.”
The contest was off. “My In-laws banned us from their premises”
“My daughter’s principal called and we have a meeting!”
“My husband is deaf.”
“My dog died!”
“Okay, you win,” I concede. She decides to call back when I’m in a better mood.
It is not that I have it worse then anyone else, I know plenty right now that are suffering maladies worse then mine. It’s just that these are my problems, and damn it; I deserve a little pity party. That is what I tell myself anyway. I decide to wallow in it and find the perfect mood music. I get out my one country western CD by singer, “Terri Clark.” I skip to the song, Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me. I begin to sing along. My dog joins in the caterwauling. I look at the spoiled mutt and grumble, “ I should have your life.” The look in his eye’s say, “I’m not howling about my life, it’s your singing!” Everyone is a critic! This did nothing to lift my mood.
Later in the evening I try calling another friend. My friend teasingly asks me if I want a little cheese with my whine. Cheese and wine that sounds good. Eating is always my emotional fix and the wine would make me sleep. After the phone call I head to the refrigerator. Crap! Someone left the wrapper open on the cheese and it is all moldy. There is no wine, only grape juice. I pour myself a cup and head for bed. I decide a good nights sleep will help and I remember the last line in Gone With The Wind, “ Tomorrow is another day.”
“The grass may be greener on the other side,
but it still has to be mowed. “
It’s been one of those weeks, the kind where you question God as to the misdeeds that deserved your current state of affairs. You know, not enough money for all the monthly bills, the shower door breaks, the sewer drain backs up, and your last good fitting bra tears.
A friend calls to find a sympathetic ear. I’m not in the mood. As she pours out her woes, I interrupt, “I’m out of gas, I had to walk to work.”
“You started walking to lose that fat?” she replied
She did not get it. I tried again, “The washing machine is not ringing the clothes dry enough and it takes three hours to get our clothes dry.”
She countered, “My daughter ran up 700 minutes of text messages.”
The contest was off. “My In-laws banned us from their premises”
“My daughter’s principal called and we have a meeting!”
“My husband is deaf.”
“My dog died!”
“Okay, you win,” I concede. She decides to call back when I’m in a better mood.
It is not that I have it worse then anyone else, I know plenty right now that are suffering maladies worse then mine. It’s just that these are my problems, and damn it; I deserve a little pity party. That is what I tell myself anyway. I decide to wallow in it and find the perfect mood music. I get out my one country western CD by singer, “Terri Clark.” I skip to the song, Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me. I begin to sing along. My dog joins in the caterwauling. I look at the spoiled mutt and grumble, “ I should have your life.” The look in his eye’s say, “I’m not howling about my life, it’s your singing!” Everyone is a critic! This did nothing to lift my mood.
Later in the evening I try calling another friend. My friend teasingly asks me if I want a little cheese with my whine. Cheese and wine that sounds good. Eating is always my emotional fix and the wine would make me sleep. After the phone call I head to the refrigerator. Crap! Someone left the wrapper open on the cheese and it is all moldy. There is no wine, only grape juice. I pour myself a cup and head for bed. I decide a good nights sleep will help and I remember the last line in Gone With The Wind, “ Tomorrow is another day.”
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