Julie Asks – Am I an Adult Yet?

1972 has often popped into my head as a “go to” year.  When Rich has complained of “not feeling 100%” I have responded that “I haven’t felt 100% since 1972.”  It has been my pat response for as long as I can remember.   I never put much (or any) thought to why I chose 1972.  Until today.

I was having a discussion with a friend (okay, it was my therapist) about change.  About how I find it a challenge (that’s the new word.  The original word was “bad”) and she, being a therapist and all, asked what change I had endured that turned me against it forever.  It was at that moment that I suddenly understood the relevance of 1972.

My second grade teacher hated me.  She pulled my hair.  She made my life miserable.  She made my parents’ lives miserable.  (Funny how that happens — it is true that a parent is only able to be as happy as their least happy child.  Big time.)  Her name was Estelle Cassidy.  She was famous for her nastiness.  Her disdain for me was, I now know, not personal.  She didn’t like anyone.  In hindsight that is great.  At the time, however, it was awful.

When it became apparent that Miss (yes, Miss.  Not Ms. and most certainly not Mrs.) Cass-assidy (and she was not so affectionately known) was not going to either change, be fired or even disciplined, my parents decided the best option was to pull me out of the school and send me to a nearby private school.  Change.  Challenge.

The following September, I started third grade at a lovely private school in a neighboring town.  The administration building was a converted house painted in traditional New England  colors -white with black shutters.  It had an apple orchard abutting the field and smacked of the country life.  Wow.  Change.  Challenge.

I went on to complete the remainder of my elementary schooling there.  I was surrounded by Christines, Chrisotphers and Marys.  I was the only person at the school (literally) who didn’t know the words (let alone the story) of the annual “Christmas Pageant”.  Yes, Christmas.  Not Holiday Pageant, not even Winter Pageant and certainly not Hannukah Pageant.  Sure, I was no longer being abused by Miss Cass-assidy, but boy, was I a fish out of water.  It was a change, but…well, it was then that my fear of change was not born, but certainly honed.

1972.  The first big change (challenge) I can recall.  It is sort of remarkable how I’ve made that association.  Note to self: try to change that.

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p.s. Rich suggested I alter the ending of this piece.  I thought about it, typed and deleted a few times, then announced, “I’m gonna leave it, I don’t like changing it too much” to which he responded, “yeah, no kidding!”  ‘Nuf said.

My father lived for his children, his grandchildren and all their accomplishments, big and small.  But mostly small.  While fantastic job opportunities or impressive test results made him happy, it was the less glamorous, more benign things that truly thrilled him. 

As a child (and, well, a teenager and young adult) I never quite understood why his degree of pride was so enormous when he heard something nice about one of his children (of which, so there is no misunderstanding, I was his favorite).  He would never let it go unnoticed and, when he was feeling particularly impish, would call us into his office under the suggestion of our having done something wrong only to light up and tell us how proud he was that Joe Schmoe had told him he’d bumped into us and was so impressed with how we behaved or didn’t behave or spoke or didn’t speak or, well, you get the point.  This was the stuff that, he would tell us, let him know that he and my mother had done something right and how proud he was.

Every home has certain mantras which are so often repeated that they come to illicit eye rolls and “ya, ya, I knows”.  In mine, growing up, one of them was:

Don’t embarrass us and we won’t embarass you

I cannot speak for my brothers, but I can tell you that I, for one, took this very seriously.  The mere thought of my parents acting in any manner that would in any way embarrass my pubescent self was enough to bring me to my knees.  Granted, that which was considered embarrassing (like, oh, I don’t know – being seen together) was, in hindsight, completely benign yet wholly respected by my relatively hip and cool parents.  And, since they held up their end of the bargain, I always did, too.  At a certain age there is pretty much nothing more devastating than a parent who didn’t know how to be cool.  They didn’t embarrass me, I, in turn, did not embarass them. 

Fast forward to my own parenting.  Georgie often embarrasses me but is still given a bit of a pass given the fact he is only seven.  (Note to self: pass must expire before December when he turns eight.  Arbitrary, yes.  Negotiable, no.)  Harrison used to embarrass me with greater regularity than I care to remember.  Suffice to say, anytime we left him at a birthday party I worked it out so that Rich had to do pick up.  Need I say more?  Thankfully, he has long since abandoned the wreckless and obnoxious behavior and has become a true mensch.  If anyone had told me when he was younger what a gentle and wonderful man he would become, I’d have called them a crazy liar.  In fact, my father often assured me and I am quite sure that I did, in fact, suggest he was insane.  He wasn’t.  (Note to readers: this is one of the primary reasons I have allowed Georgie to live.  I am still holding out hope that he, too, will achieve menschdom.)

Now, it is one thing for a parent to sense that their child is a good kid, it is quite another, as my father before me knew so well, to have someone else make a point of telling you.  It is the proudest time in a parent’s life.  Better than when your kid wins a race, or hits a ball out of the park, or brings home an A in science (something I don’t think my parents ever had the pleasure of experiencing).  Given my pre-wired metric of pride, you can only imagine my reaction when I read this, written by our Cantor, in our Temple Bulletin:

I drove to Camp Kingswood in Bridgton, Maine, to visit Harrison Ross, a former student and communications vice-president of our USY chapter.  I was moved by Harrison’s benevolence and maturity.  He treated all campers and staff, regardless of age or popularity, with derekh eretz (respect) and this was reflected in the many friendly smiles and inquiries we received during the day.  It has truly been an honor to interact with this young man, who acts decisively and with reverence for human beings.

“It doesn’t” as my father would always say, “get any better than that.”  So, thank you for allowing me this indulgence and kvelling moment.  Anyone who has ever parented anyone can, I am sure, appreciate the thrill Rich and I got in reading this.  I only wish my father were here to be a part of it.

• My entire life I have been surrounded by guys.  I had one father, two brothers, three cousins (all of which were – still are – male), one husband (so far ) and two sons.  With the notable exception of my mother, when it comes to chromosomal makeup, I have been outnumbered.   I have to believe that has somehow played a role in making me who I am.  I choose not to delve deeper into that one.
• I also have an inappropriately emotional relationship with my hair.  It is thick, curly (not the tight, kinky icky curl, but the soft, flowy-ish kind) and there is a lot of it.  Sounds good, but, trust me, it is a curse.  No matter how many products I spend any amount of money on, none have been the perfect antidote to the weather.  Sure, some have rallied for a while, duped me into thinking they were the “one” but then, ultimately failed me.  And just when I think I have let go of it and just gone with the natural look I see a picture of myself and wonder why no one bothered to tell me…
• And speaking of pictures of myself…there’s another sensitive issue.  I firmly believe I am one of those people who are incapable of photographing well.  Either that, or I look way worse than I think I do.  That does great things for my sense of self.  That said, I have become such a whore for a good picture of myself that this week alone I have cropped three people (some more than once) out of photos in a vain effort to make myself look good. 
• Over the course of the past week, Georgie has addressed me by a variety of titles, none of which is Mom.  They include, but are not limited to: Maestro, Fraulein, Cupcake and SugarPlum.  He also took offense to the pattern on a small Vera Bradley wristlet I have.  He examined it and inquired as to whether I had bought it or had it given to me.  I told him it had been a gift to which he responded: “ah, that makes sense…have you seen your sense of fashion?”  I am going with the theory that he thought it wasn’t as cool as I am.  I am ignoring the possibility that he found it hipper and cooler than I usually am. 
• In a recent evening of Bananagrams, I boldly announced to my gamemates (aged 13 and 14) that I was playing to win…not gonna throw the game in deference to their age and assumed inferior speed and vocabulary.  They proceeded to kick my ass.  Repeatedly.  (Between you and me, I let them win…)
• I swear like a sailor.  Always have.  That said, I have never dropped the F bomb in front of my kids.  That, dear friends, is a miracle.  Even more of a miracle given my kids.
• Harrison is 5″10″ and weighs 120 pounds.  I think that makes him a supermodel.
• I have an eagle eye.  On a nearly daily basis I spot typos on menus, signs, advertisements and in texts.  One time after looking at the awning of store I felt compelled to go in to tell them that “jewelry” is not spelled “jewlry”.  Pathetic considering it was a, yup, jewelry store.  I’m guessing someone got an ass kicking for that one.
• I am off to escort Georgie to see “Ponyo” which I fear is going to be another insufferable animated film, but given the fact we had to leave the pool after 30 minutes today when the sky filled with thunder I guess I kinda owe him. (Not that I can control the weather, but, damn, there’s that mother’s guilt again!)  Fortunately, it is playing at a theater that actually pops their own popcorn.  That’s worth the price of admission right there.

Here it is, early August and I am struck by the following:

1. Today, if memory serves me correctly, is the first really freakin’ hot day all summer.  I am not including the ridiculous heatwave we had in May (which was arguably the linchpin for finally getting central air).  Is it just me, or haven’t we usually been suffering through the three H’s repeatedly by this time of year.
2. Georgie is done with camp at the end of this week.  And, to add insult to injury, they had the audacity to make Friday a half day.   A half summer is more like it!  To be clear, camp is no longer available after 1:00 o’clock on Friday.  Game over.  End of season.  Wrong.
3. Today would have been my parent’s 52nd wedding anniversary.  That’s insane.
4. Harrison, having opted to only attend camp for the first session, has been home for two weeks.  I cannot even recall his having been away.
5. Not only have we not been to the beach even once this whole season, but no one in my house has even suggested or requested that we do so.  We have, however, logged many, many, many hours at the pool.

Last week I went to the 40th birthday party of a great friend.  At said party I was struck by the following:

1. The closer I get to 45 the younger 40 seems to me. 
2. Of the 11 women at the table, I was the only one with curly hair (not entirely true – just the only one who didn’t take the time to blow it straight) and the only one with glasses (again – this is not indicative of quality of vision, rather effort to put in my contacts).  This lead me to a contemplative phase regarding my laziness.
3. Great line of the evening to a fellow party go-er who was dressed in, well, a dress about which everyone was commenting: “hmmm…I guess I dress like a dyke every other day of the year, huh?” (not that there is anything wrong with that…)
4. The favor supplied by the guest of honor’s sister in law was what, at first blush, looked like a dose of Botox complete with a syringe ribboned to the top.  In reality, it was a chocolate bar, but I swear I heard a collective sigh of disappointment when it became clear we had not, indeed, been gifted Botox.  (See #1)
5. Girlfriends are the best.  Even the ones you just meet…

Somes Dos and Don’t

Do try Zazz Seltzer, Stop and Shop’s house brand…way better than my former fave, Polar.

Do drink it with a straw.  A straw makes everything better.

Don’t make the mistake I did and introduce your children to fine food and sushi.  It is a very expensive (and difficult to break) habit.

Do get regular manicures and pedicures.  I don’t know how much more I can espouse their vast benefits.

Do teach your sons to be good fathers and husbands – your daughters in law will thank you.

Do keep up with the goings on of Jon and Kate.  I can promise it will make you feel better about your situation.

Don’t throw away what looks likes a stupid piece of paper but is really the new Massachusetts car registration form.  It’ll cost ya.

Do have me in the car when you need to park.  I have exceptional parking karma.  Really.  All the time.  Like Saturday night when I got a spot directly in front of the restaurant in the South End.  Trust me on this one…that’s impressive.

Don’t bother yourself with trying to understand some of the idiosyncrasies of your children.  I might never know why Georgie strips down to his underwear upon entering the house.  I’m okay with that.

Do ask around if people are mandated reporters before threatening to kill your kids.  Just sayin’.

Don’t trust me at the market.  I am literally (and physically) incapable of running in for one item.  I’ve never done it.  I usually go in for one thing and wind up leaving with at least fifty fewer dollars in my wallet.  I am also known among the 14 year old set in my neighborhood  for having the most spanking pantry (both sweet and salty needs fulfilled) around.

1. Georgie is nothing if not keenly observant.  I have often thought of him as disarming and have come to realize that  is in part due to that which he notices (and comments on).  While his level of observation is acute, his sensor button is not.  Over the course of the past few weeks, he has made the following comments (all of which, I might add, are, while inappropriate to verbalize, dead on):

•  To a tall, dark haired and, by all accounts, beautiful teenaged girl:

Next time, lay off the blue eye shadow

•  To a somewhat awkward, mid-pubescent girl:

Don’t worry, you’ll grow into your nose

•  To a stunning, closer to finishing up puberty than is #2 girl:

You’d look better with less mascara

•  To his mother (better known as me):

Next time you ask me which shoe looks better, follow my advice

While his notations are indeed accurate, they also leave me in the unenviable position of having to back pedal for him in an effort to simultaneously unruffle feathers and chastise him for being rude.  This is, however, made all the more difficult because nine times out of ten, he is right.

2. In our typical fashion, Rich and I are just now, at the very end of July, trying to figure out our August vacation plans.  (We’ve been functioning like this for twenty years.  In fact, it wasn’t until the Wednesday before our wedding – as in the same week, not the previous week – that we decided upon and booked our honeymoon. )  Following are the three possibilities on the short list as well as the pros and cons associated with that choice:

•  Rent a place on the Cape for the week

PROS:

• Quick trip (provided we manage to avoid what can be horrible traffic)
• Lots of little towns, beautiful beaches, great ice cream, lots of lobster

CONS:

• Rain.  We’ve had nothing but it all summer, what’s to make me think we will get the one beautiful week we’ve all been waiting for?
• Same group dynamic, different house.  Still have to cook, clean, food shop and do laundry.
• Georgie hates the beach.

• Roadtrip

PROS:

• My sister in law and her family live in Charlotte.  We can pile into the SUV and make stops along the way in places like New York, Washington and Virginia.  Different day, different adventure. 
• No cooking, cleaning or laundry (until we get home)

CONS:

• Long stretches of interstate can equal bored kids.
• At $100 a tank of gas, well, you do the math.

• Rent an RV  (Disclaimer: Rich has always wanted to do this.  And while I appreciate (sort of) the romanticism of it, I think, in reality, it would be hell on earth.

PROs:

• Got me there.
• Oh, I guess one should see disclaimer above.

CONs:

• Have you met me?
• If we get stressed as a family in our four bedroom house, how are things going to be in a moving soup can?

So, I fear we will end up doing what we always do — nothing.  That said…

Over the course of the next year I have the following milestones:  in November I will mark the five year anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis, in April I will have a five in my birthday number and in October Rich and I will celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary.  Screw The Cape, a road trip or a (freakin’) RV…I wanna go to Italy!

3. I shouldn’t really admit this, and if you tell anyone I said so I will call you a liar, but now that I have the heat and humidity out and the central air in, it gets kinda cold in my house.

4. Someone (my gym rat buddy, actually, which is kind of antithetical to what one would think a diehard exerciser would be offering up) told me today about some “special edition” M&Ms that are available…instead of being filled with chocolate, they are filled with (get ready for this, because it is BIG)(are you ready?) (grab the car keys – you are gonna want to hit the road in search of them, trust me)…coconut!  Now really, can you think of anything more incredibly wonderful than coconut filled M&Ms?  (I personally think you can put coconut on a sock and it would taste good but I know everyone’s palate is different – my oldest brother, for example feels this way about anything fried while I could easily survive without ever eating another fried thing as long as I live.  Not including french fries, of course.)  So, with a mere 90 minutes before I am due to pick Georgie up from camp, I have to take my leave and go in search of said “special edition” before I miss out…

• For the second time in as many weeks, Rich and I endured such atrocious service at a restaurant that our meal was comped.  Today’s adventure included a forgotten appetizer (which, when eventually delivered, came in the veggie version and not, as ordered, the shrimp version) and an uncooked (like bleeding) piece of salmon.  The free lunch made up for the fact that we spent five hours shopping and did not manage to find that which we were looking for.
• This weekend we left Georgie with my brother for 24 hours to attend the lesbian wedding I’ve told y’all about.  We tried to weasle an additional twelve or so, but he was having none of it.  Drat.
• I bumped into Georgie’s kindergarten teacher who asked me to send her a picture of Georgie for her fridge.  See, I told you she wasn’t just telling me she loved him to make me feel good!
• Purex 3 in 1 Laundry Sheets are the bomb. 
• I’m such a fan of texting that I find myself irritated when someone calls me.
• With the addition of central air I am, for the first time in my life, looking forward to the hazy, hot and humid weather predicted for this week.
• Earlier this week I made an unplanned, unexpected and totally unnecessary visit to the Registry.  Upon realizing that July was coming to a close and the “7″ on my inspection sticker would, consequently, expire I dutifully went to the service station to honk my horn, flash my lights and have a hose stuck up my muffler.  When I looked at my car registration I noticed it had expired 6/30/09 but, and this is just between us, I brought it to the thug, er, gentleman, in the “office” hoping he wouldn’t notice.  No such luck.  It was curious to me, however, since I did indeed have the up to date sticker on my license plate and even recalled having put it on a few weeks back…so clearly I had renewed in due time. An hour long wait at the Registry gave me my answer.  Yes, it was indeed current but the damned state changed to forms that have proven registration for my entire life from a 4″ x 6″ cardstock to an 8.5″ x 11″ sheet of paper.  Sure, it said “Automobile Registration” in huge, bold, black type at the top but I somehow managed to throw it away.  That piece of ignorance set me back $25.  Arghghg.
• Yesterday after camp, Rich and I took Georgie to the pool (yes, Harrison is home from camp, but was feeling way too cool to join us).  During the course of the three or so hours we spent there, he was hanging out with a little girl about his size (I later learned she was 10 to his 7…but they were the same size so didn’t seem to notice or care)(yeah, he’s huge) – they were in the pool together, during adult swims they sat poolside, he bought two orders of french fries – one for him one for her (we paid) and were, by all accounts, flirting.  From all the way across the pool I snapped a picture of the two of them.  Despite the crack technology of the camera on my Blackberry, neither of their faces was discernible, but one got the idea.  As day turned into evening, Georgie (totally by mistake – for real, I saw it!) jumped into the pool right on top of her.  She, of course, freaked.  Once she pulled herself together I, in my best cheer her up fashion, showed her and her mother the picture I had taken.  I mentioned I had sent it to Facebook and then the mother freaked…”you sent a picture of my daughter to Facebook?!?”  I showed her the picture again, pointing out the fuzzy faces and assured her there were no names (I didn’t and still don’t know her daughter’s name) and she feigned being okay with it.  Then she left.  I’ll let y’all decide just how egregious my behavior was…