The First Day in a New School

On August 30th of 2012 my son started high school. He is a freshman. This reminded me of a funny story that I've often told, but never written.  It was my first day at a new middle school in Westport, CT. Here goes.

When I was in the 7th grade, we moved mid-year from San Marino, California to Westport, Connecticut. I suppose in some ways the two towns are similar, but geographically they couldn't be further apart. One is in sunny Southern Cal, the other in frosty New England. The fact that we moved to Connecticut during what is now known as "the Blizzard of 78" only exacerbated the situation.

My mom is an adventurous sort so she decided to take the train cross-country. The trip took her about 3 days as I recall. Then it took another day or two to get from the City to Connecticut because of the blizzard conditions. Normally my mom would get us ready for our fist day of school. In this instance, my dad had to stand in.

We did not have appropriate clothing for the East Coast. I had some cool Vans and OP shorts, but those shorts weren't going to help me now. My dad decided to take us to the Army/Navy store in downtown Westport to buy us clothes for the first day of school.  Interesting choice. I would say Guy Choice. He also cut my brother's hair. My poor brother.  At least he was still in elementary school.

I remember wearing my new camouflage painter pants and a dark brown jacket to my first day of 7th grade. I could have gone hunting later and passed stealthily through the woods without detection. 

Thank god we were moving from California with our camo clothes. There was a certain mystique about California girls that I vaguely recall being associated with episodes of James at 16. When I walked past the office in my new school, a fellow student winked at me. Marlon Acuna you know who you are.Thankfully the Connecticut kids were able to look past my camo suit. Or maybe they just couldn't see me?

Some of the kids did pick up on my fading Texas accent. Born in Arlington, TX. That's right. I grew up surrounded by cowboys like my Uncle David.

"What's a pin," they teased. A pen is a writing implement. A pin is something with a sharp point. Thank you for that insight. I really appreciate it. I learned to say ten not tin, and you guys not y'all. And a new one the kids in Connecticut were using - coming with? Meaning will you be joining us? Even Texans know you don't end a sentence with a preposition, y'all.

As I was wandering around the Internet looking for the perfect image for this blog, I stumbled upon Camoformal.com. That's right people. You can get hitched wearing a camouflage wedding dress. This is the most awesomest website in the WORLD. Makes me want to get married again so I can wear these...

PS. I think this foot model has mosquito bites from sleeping in the woods all night.

Death Becomes Me

I'm exaggerating. I'm not dying. I mean I am technically -- but not right now. So this is just my high-larious death blog, sure to win over readers and the other 99.99999% who have absolutely no idea who I am.

Today my doctor told me I have high blood pressure. Now I have a couple of theories about that. One is that I don't like my doctor and going to see her makes my stress level go up. The other is my stress level is already pretty high, so it could be that she's right. I'm not on medication or anything. Yet. 

I have to start regularly exercising again and drinking water (blech). I don't like water. I'm sorry. I think it's because in the South, water comes in glasses filled with shaved ice like a snow cone. Now that's a water.  

For a youngish person, I am sort of obsessed with aging. When I was in high school, I had a job working at a nursing home for retired Jesuit Priests. The Campion Center in Weston, MA. According to their website, they are now a Renewal Center. I guess the priests have to go elsewhere when they retire. It's funny to me that all these places are now called some BS name like assisted living or skilled nursing center. 

Here's a good BS name for a retirement home. Putnam Ridge Rehabilitation Center. Tagline: A Refreshing Alternative. Or the Country House in Westchester. Website copy: Our beautifully appointed and spacious common areas provide an elegant backdrop for a vibrant and refined lifestyle. Really?

When I worked at the Campion Center, I figured out that older people are exactly the same as younger people. Some are grouchy, some are letchy, some are kind. Some are forgetful, some remember everything. Some hide whiskey in a pickle jar in their closet. "Oh Father Hegerty," I would say, "I think I can tell the difference between vinegar and whiskey." 

But the body fails us all, eventually.

This week I received the first email from our high school reunion committee. Get psyched for our 30th it said. Mmmm. That really doesn't seem possible. I don't think it could be 30 years since I graduated from high school.  Next year my son will start high school. A frightening proposition. Other friends have kids starting college. Even more frightening. It appears I am getting older in spite of my absolute conviction that I cannot be 30 years past high school days. 

I have decided to remain calm about this high blood pressure diagnosis.  I  took my blood pressure this morning on a home machine. It was actually low - like 100 over 70 (my original theory about hating my doctor may be accurate). I've been drinking plain,  non-snow cone water per my doctor's instructions. And before work, I took my dog Daisy for a walk. I was feeling pretty smug about the whole getting old thing. What am I thinking? I'm not getting old.

Then I called my dog Nancy. "Hey Nancy," I said to her. She looked up at me like, "Who the hell is Nancy? I'm Daisy, old lady."

Afterbirth

When I was a kid, we moved a lot. My dad worked for IBM and we definitely lived the I Been Moved life.

The second-to-last place we moved while I was still at home, was a small town called Westport, Connecticut. Today, Westport is one of the wealthiest communities in the country. In 1978, it was still a place where a middle-class American IBM family could live and prosper. Sure there were the occasional Paul Newman sightings -- but he was just out grocery shopping at Hay Day or grabbing a beer at Ship's.

Moving to Westport was a tough transition from sunny Southern California. We didn't have the right clothes. We didn't talk the same way. It was fricking freezing during the famed Blizzard of '78. It's a long story that I tell in detail in my blog Middle School Blues.

My first day of school I was sitting in the office and a boy walked by and winked at me. I thought to myself, "I am not in Kansas anymore." Or Cali. These kids were going to be tough. And they were tough.

There was a kid on the bus named Jeb. He was older and popular and cool. And I was none of those things. Jeb started calling me "afterbirth". To this day I don't know why. Worse, I didn't know what it meant. And we didn't have the Google back in those days so I just sat there wondering. Now I know what it means. I have firsthand knowledge since becoming a parent.

Yesterday I was on Facebook where my now Facebook friend Jeb posted the sweetest picture of himself comforting his son who had a rough at-bat in a baseball game. I couldn't stop thinking about that picture and how much we've all changed as a result of growing up, getting married, having kids, getting divorced, losing a parent, losing a friend.

Good for you Jeb. Way to grow up and become a good man.

The Starfish Story

A funny thing happened over Easter weekend. First I did something my mother asked me to do - that is go to church. Second, I heard during the sermon the Starfish story that I'd heard a few weeks before in Ethiopia.

I sometimes think I have a bit of the shine, like Scatman in the Shining. It's just a touch. Sometimes I think things right before they happen. Sometimes I stop fighting and something really weird or coincidental happens.

Back to Easter. My mom sent me this email because we'd been through a rough patch. My son was bitten by a dog that animal control was then planning to put down and all was a big mess. Some other stuff too but I don't want to invade everyone's privacy. Just a weird rough patch.

So my mother sent me an email with subject line: a radical idea. She suggested we go to church on Palm Sunday. She said it seemed like things were so much easier for us when we lived in Raleigh, NC and that might have been the result of regularly attending church at The Good Shepherd on Hillsborough Street.

One thing I will say is that in many ways I am very proud to be a (lapsed) Episcopalian. Because for many of us that means an accepting, even liberal church. That's not always the case, witness the Anglican bishops who want to make homosexuality a crime. But my church in Raleigh and my church in Westport, Christ and Holy Trinity, these churches welcome everyone. Even me. Now that's saying something.

We did not attend Palm Sunday mass and in fact I was kind of steamed at my mom because the truth is I live by the golden rule, for the most part, even though I no longer regularly attend church. My brother often says surfing is his church. Fly fishing is his church. You don't need incense and putting on your best duds to be in church. That's what I believe too.

But, at the last minute, on a whim, we decided to attend church on Easter Sunday. Frankly, I think that's also bollocks just going to church on Easter and Christmas. But there I was racing around my room trying to remember what church clothes I had.

We decided to go early, get in and out. Episcopalians are famous for that. We're not a very touchy feely group. We do our Nicene Creed, our Communion then it's a quick coffee hour and we're off to play golf. But that's really the essence of what I love about my church. To me it's private. Not private like you don't show kindness or you hide it even. But it's a way of life you choose to live by and all the rest are trappings.

We made it to the 7:30 service. That's am people. It's usually what I call the old lady service - old prayer book, no music, no muss no fuss. But it was a bit more crowded it being Easter and all. A little music and a guest speaker, a bishop who gave the sermon that day.

Bishop Laura Ahrens I think her name is. She looked a little sunburned. Friendly. Kind of quirky even. The sermon she chose to give was the sermon about the Starfish Story. I don't know why but I've never heard the starfish story before. The first time I heard it was in Ethiopia in February.

We'd spent a day in Addis at the boys orphanage at Kolfe without accomplishing much of anything. We spent hours at the Addis Home Depot choosing paints only to find out our choices were white, orange or black. They had paint rollers, but they didn't have the roller handles. We'd carefully chosen cleaning supplies that would last the longest only to find out there was no water that day and therefore no way to dilute them.

No water day. That's what they told us. What does that mean? How can 135 boys have a "no water" day?

So I sat there glumly thinking what the hell am I doing here and my friend Eileen came up to say hi. I don't really have a poker face so I guess she picked up on my frustration. And she said to me, "Well you know the starfish story, right?"

"What," I asked.

"The starfish story. You know. A boy is standing on the beach throwing starfish back into the ocean before they get trapped on land. A man walks by and says why bother when there are so many and you can't save them all. It won't make a difference. And the boy says it makes a difference to that one. And to that one."

Eileen told me that story and my thinking began to change. The more obstacles we encountered the more I began to think maybe the most these kids can hope for is to spend some time with someone who cares.

And "no water" day will be just a fact of life.

I couldn't believe the bishop repeated the starfish story. I'd even worn a scarf I bought in Ethiopia for the first time that day. I must have the shine right? It's a sign that I need to stay focused on the important things in life. Like making sure my son is safe. Like not forgetting the boys at Kolfe. And not taking for granted the fact that making an effort, even if that effort ends in epic failure, matters.

I was leafing through our handout for the service and in the back was this message from Donald Coggan, former Archbishop of Canterbury:

One of the most important errors about Christianity is that it is a recipe for being good, that its primary purpose it to tell people how to improve themselves as life goes on. That is a great fallacy. Christianity is essentially a story - a story of what God has done about our great enemies of sin and death."

I love a good story.

Nudie Pictures

This weekend I was thinking about my friend Peggy and this little girl she used to babysit when we were in high school in the 06880. The girl's name was Shannon but we called her Shamu (not a whale reference, just a nickname). She was adorable. Her tongue stuck out just a little. I don't remember why.

One day we took Shamu to Compo Beach. At the end of the day we brought her into the changing room to get cleaned up. Even with two of us watching one small child, Shamu managed to get away. She made it out of the changing rooms and started running down the beach. I actually heard someone yell, "Naked running baby. Naked running baby." Sorry Shamu's mother if you ever find this post.

We caught up with her before she made it to Norwalk and brought Shannon home safely later that day.

I was thinking about how cute a naked baby is and how comfortable pretty much all kids are with nudity while they're still young. My son was literally a nudist until a few years ago. Suddenly. I have to close my eyes, turn my head, close the door. I understand. He's growing up and he certainly doesn't want his mother to see his prized possession.

My husband wants a nude photo of me. This is pretty much the most terrifying request my husband has ever made. I'm pretty sure I was a nudie just like my son, but now I don't even own a full-length mirror. I think my body is holding its own but things are rearranging themselves without my permission.

On Saturday morning I was getting dressed and my husband snuck up behind me with his tricky iPhone camera / spy gear. I managed to grab a pair of jeans to hide behind but he took a photo just the same. I threatened to mess with his stuff if he didn't delete the photo but he wasn't having it. He didn't even fall for it hours later when I asked if I could borrow his phone.

Later he showed me the photo and the thing is, I was sort of shocked that I looked pretty good. Granted the parts I managed to cover up would've been the worst of it.

I was wondering how we go from gleefully running naked toward a crowd of beachgoers to my cowering in the corner of the bedroom shielding myself with a pair of jeans. "Naked running baby. Naked running baby."

NB My husband and I exchanged the following messages as he was riding the train into the City:

I'm looking at your nudie pic . . .
Don't show anyone!
Too late, my 2 seat mates love your hair! JK! LOL!
Lol

Ebb and Flow

Friday was 9/11, always a sad day particularly the closer you live to the City. I ran into my neighbor who was going camping with his little girl. I remarked that the rainy weather was not ideal for camping. He explained that a group of guys and their kids go every year to commemorate friends and loved ones lost on that terrible day.

My son had some homework to do on Friday afternoon. I came in the room and heard him chatting on the phone with one of my friends. He had her on speakerphone and she asked that I take the phone from him. She wanted to speak in private. She was having a miscarriage and wanted my advice.

Her doctor advised going to the ER but she felt that was extreme. Under any circumstances, the ER is a place to avoid. Particularly during something as emotionally difficult as a miscarriage, hanging out in the ER for hours is not ideal.

I suggested trying to find another OB center that had the sophisticated ultrasound equipment her smaller town doctor did not. She did find a smaller ER and was able to get in and out in a few hours versus the many that it usually takes.

My friend had arranged to come visit the next day. I assumed she'd want to cancel but she felt the distraction would be a good thing. So the trip here was still on for Saturday evening. On Saturday afternoon, I had a baby shower for another friend. This friend is having a baby by surrogate. I've never met anyone who's done this before so it was an interesting day.

When I arrived, I actually sat next to the surrogate mom. I was sort of wondering who the lady was in her Laura Ashley conservative dress versus New York hipster moms that made up the rest of the shower attendees. We spoke briefly and I found out that she has two children of her own and this is her second time acting as a surrogate.

Such a strange experience that must be to carry a child for someone else. In fact, the surrogate mom carried twins the first time and then gave them up to another family. The loss I felt after miscarriages and the loss my other friend was experiencing losing this pregnancy, it seems so vivid to me. I can't imagine how you mentally come to terms with bearing a child and then giving that child up for adoption.

At the end of the shower, the mom-to-be was opening all of her gifts. This is Westport so we're talking extravagant gifts--two Tiffany teething rings, endless onesies, toys and books. My friend said at one point, "What the expression? A cacophony of riches?" An embarrassment of riches. That's the saying she was looking for but couldn't find.

The gift that most touched her was a little quilt handmade by the surrogate mom. In one corner, she'd embroidered, "Carried with love, forever in my heart." The mom-to-be broke down in tears.

An embarrassment of riches, it's true. Another very fortunate baby will grow up in Westport, Connecticut. Maybe the surrogate mom feels an embarrassment of riches. Because she can have children, she's decided to carry children for women who can't.

She sat there amongst the glitter and glam in her simple dress, giving what is priceless to my friend. For one friend, a baby is coming. For another, a baby is lost. I remembered the poem Joe Biden read during Friday's 9/11 ceremony.

"Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on."
--Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

Middle School Blues

My son's first day of middle school. I didn't want him to go. Not in that, "Hey maybe home schooling is not that bad after all" kind of way. I just wasn't ready.

When my son was three, we enrolled him in a Montessori school. He was still little but my husband and I were both working full-time and couldn't take care of him during the day. Let's just say, he was not a willing participant.

Every morning I would drop him off and he would cry and cry. Then I would cry. There's really no worse feeling than walking away from school seeing your little boy crying in the window. Finally my husband started dropping him off because I couldn't take it. Of course, when he dropped him off, Will went happily on his way.

This morning I was starting to tear up thinking about Will going to middle school. My husband would have to take him to the bus stop. Plus I figured it would be totally uncool to have both parents at the bus stop. But I knew I would start crying and that would be way uncool.

I went to two middle schools. The first was Huntington Middle School in San Marino, California. I loved that school. Then mid-way through seventh grade we got the news we were moving again (thanks IBM). My second middle school was Bedford Junior High in Westport, Connecticut.

My friends know the story of my starting at Bedford. My mother decided to take the train cross-country. Unfortunately, she didn't anticipate the blizzard of '78 and getting stuck in New York. Unfortunately for us kids, my dad was in charge of getting us ready for school. Dad took us to the Army Navy store to buy new clothes. My OP shorts and Vans weren't cutting it in the frozen tundra. Granted there was no Gap back then, but the Army Navy store? Basically my brother and I could've posed for Bowhunter's Quarterly...that's how cool we looked.

So I showed up at Bedford Middle School in my camo pants and greenish-brownish down jacket. Thankfully, I had the Cali thing going for me - the mystique of the California girl. Then they found out I was really from Texas and said pin instead of pen and tin instead of ten. Teased unmercifully, I finally eliminated any trace of a Southern accent. Mostly what I remember about middle school was sort of this strange balance between utter happiness and naked fear. There was the whiff of sexuality, the stirrings of mischief and the occasional misdemeanor. As the perpetual new kid, I learned pretty quickly how to navigate the water. That's a useful skill for blending in but it's not really helpful when it comes to standing out. I'm learning that now in my forties.

My son Will called out to me, "We need to get going." Then he walked out the back door. Even in fifth grade I gave him a kiss every morning before he got on the bus. They'll be none of that in middle school, I'm sure. As I watched him walking off, I held back tears. Looking at him walking confidently toward his future, I felt sentimental for my little boy. But he's not a little boy anymore. And I have to let him go.