Where the Wild Things Are

Like most people, I grew up hearing stories about my parents’ childhoods. There was plenty of ‘I walked ten miles to school every day, through four feet of snow, up hill, BOTH WAYS,’ and ‘We used to get REAL spankings, with a BELT.’ Though sometimes bored, I was offered a picture of a wholesome, simpler time, a place where you could call home with just a dime, men were men, and women weren’t allowed personal bank accounts.

My mother’s stories were of the ‘I had one pair of socks, which were hand-washed and hung to dry every night’ variety. She shared tales of the family’s worn furniture, the shame of their raggedy, holy clothes, and of ‘playing’ in their backyard, which was simply a cement plot. They didn’t enjoy exotic foods like oranges.

These conversations inevitably led to her gesturing around wildly. We were expected to pause and take in the splendor of our middle class home, stocked to the brim with multiple pairs of socks, fancy foods like canned chop suey and Jiffy muffin mix, and stockings filled with oranges at Christmas. We were royalty compared to the squalor from whence she came. “I mean, look at all of these television sets!” she’d proclaim.

My dad’s stories were also riddled with poverty. No holiday was complete without the heartbreaking retelling of the year he received just one tiny gift, and how the kids at school painfully ridiculed him for treasuring the trinket. He would mist up a little, dab at his eyes, and make a quiet remark about how lucky we all were. We were always left feeling spoiled and undeserving, but also angry. How dare these playground twats we’d never met ruin our nice day? I would stew angrily, daydreaming that the bullies lived out their days pumping gas in impoverished mining towns, developing meth addictions that rendered them toothless and unable to feel joy.

I digress. My dad’s stories were also littered with what every hungry kid really wants: adventure. His family moved often, including one family caravan to the desert of Arizona, a place filled with snakes and scorpions. While we moved as much if not more than a military family, it was always just around Michigan. They had five kids, whereas we only had two. He spoke of driving motorcycles, hitchhiking across the country, learning how to play guitar, sleeping on beaches, and almost dying lost in the desert AND Lake Michigan.

Upon seeing the film ‘Stand By Me,’ I suspected I was getting a fictional taste of my father’s adventurous youth. As the four boys set off down the tracks to find that body, I was reminiscent for a youth I’d never experienced. How I longed to stumble upon a body, or even just a hand or a leg.

And while I still haven’t come across any body parts (a simple finger or toe was really too much to ask for, Universe?) I’ve come to realize my childhood was more adventurous than anything my own kids could ever hope for.

The essential list of ‘items to keep in one’s pockets’ in ‘The Dangerous Book for Boys‘ includes such essentials as a flashlight, a compass, and a pencil and paper, all of which are rendered obsolete by the ever-present cellphone. Which really isn’t even a consideration, when you take into account that we no longer let our kids out of our sight. Even at the age of ten, we only let K go to the end of the block, and that’s with friends and supplies and a very stern talking to before leaving the house. I say things like ‘IF EVEN ONE ADULT IS AT THE PARK COME HOME IMMEDIATELY,’ ‘DON’T FORGET YOUR HAND SANITIZER,’ and ‘YOU DON’T HAVE TO TALK TO ANYONE – IF SOMEONE SAYS HELLO YOU CAN SCREAM AND RUN BACK TO THE HOUSE.’

I distinctly remember walking to and from school in the second grade, easily a mile one way, and I was responsible for my younger brother. When the older, scary kids were behind us, we’d find a reason to jump into the bushes and ‘explore’ until they were gone. Sometimes a weary mom from the apartment complex would take pity and let us climb onto the pile of nine children in the back of her sedan. More than once a door didn’t get latched before takeoff, and we’d all scream, pulling an errant child back into the car before a corner was rounded and a foot was clipped off by the door’s swift closure. The mom would flick her cigarette out the window and shout back at us, “Jesus Christ, quit fooling around!’

‘Window seats’ were reserved for the stalwartly, like myself. I longed to get tossed out of a car, or forgotten at a market, or attacked by a loose animal at the zoo. The unaccompanied traversing of suburbia was ok, but I wanted more.

And I’m sure my children long for adventure also. I see how they push each other down flights of stairs, watch scary movies, and jump off of the back deck, an act which will certainly be put to a stop when someone finally breaks an ankle. But let’s be honest: they’re sheltered from actual danger. Do they realize it? I’m not sure. But part of me pities the adventurer surely living within them all. Without knowing the terror of being lost in a busy shopping mall and having to find security to page your furious parent, what even IS childhood?

I brought this up to the teens, using the lack of actual adventure and danger, the resourcefulness it calls for, as an explanation for the anxiety and depression currently so prevalent. But their eyes glaze over. Conversations about my exciting childhood earn me that look generally reserved for Christmas dinners when Grandma starts asking after aunts and uncles no longer with us. ‘Poor Mom,’ that look says. ‘Sometimes she has moments of clarity. Other times she waxes philosophical about the joy of hunting for edible berries in the woods when you’re seven and locked out of the house.’ Tongue click.

But this is raising kids today. No bike riding without helmets, no lawn darts, no merry-go-rounds. The most dangerous thing my kids do is eat fruit snacks that aren’t certified organic. And I feel bad for them. The same way I felt bad for myself growing up, never having the opportunity to hitchhike, because by the early 90’s there were one too many Datelines about how that could turn out.

To take risks is sublime. I want to give my kids the gift of embracing fear and uncertainty, of recognizing the joy in stepping outside of a comfort zone and into unknown territory. Get IN that scary cab! Drink that milk two days past expiration! Drive after the gas light comes on! (Sorry, honey. I know you hate that one.)

Though I was always fed, and kept (mostly) safe, I’m glad I was able to taste a bit of the wild life. I’d like to think that lawn dart to the chest those few times made me stronger, and that processed chicken patties and orange sodas opened my palate to the struggle food that got me through my early twenties. Maybe I’ll take the net around the trampoline down, just to give my poor kids at least a taste of danger.

Learning to Love the Madness

While my children are filled with all sorts of wisdom, like ‘I’m not eating this, it’s gross,’ ‘I’m never brushing my teeth again until we have the PINK toothpaste,’ and ‘Will you please wake up, we’re hungry and out of bouillon cubes,’ one of my favorite tidbits was from Alex several years back. We were going through my remaining box of youthful memorabilia, because it seemed very important that he knew I used to be painfully cool, in a had-my-own-darkroom-and-wore-fishnet-stockings-with-combat-boots kind of way. This mom bob wasn’t always a MOM bob, kid. It was EDGY.

At one point he sighed, fingering sexy postcards from France and letters forged with calligraphy and exotic paper, all written by people who rivaled my personal coolness, and spoke these immortal words: ‘Mom, your life used to be like an inspired French movie. Now it’s like an ABC sitcom,’

It was funny at the time, but it’s since become an explanation.

Because while it doesn’t make sense that a jar of pickles is the only thing keeping the back room door from swinging shut on its own, and the resulting conundrum of craving pickles because they’re ever in sight but then having to find a temporary prop to keep the door open in the tiny walkway so you can *have* a pickle might render frustration, it actually makes perfect sense. If you’re living a sitcom.

Or after the family’s one wild child tosses a chair across the room during dinner is spared punishment because your chickens’ screams at being chased by squirrels in the tree right outside the window requires more attention, because they are the last three chickens after another one got eaten by a possum in the rain only days before, one might be tempted to get overwhelmed. UNLESS! It’s all for comedic affect.

What about running gags? Take your pick!

• Minivan doors that bleat and grind if practiced mom-hip pressure is not applied at the *exact* moment of latching (about four seconds after pushing the ‘close’ button – can’t be too soon, and oh God not too late)
• An entire summer of rooster crows at inopportune moments, roughly half of which sounded like an infant being slaughtered
• Constantly barefoot children – no one makes it a whole week without losing at least one shoe
• The full-sized mattress that nightly houses two adults (one of whom is literally TOO TALL to fit completely) and 2-3 children under the age of ten in a rotating saga of ‘Duck Duck Bed’
• The patriarch’s search for the rare and elusive ‘Quiet Moment,’ driving him to a daily 3 a.m. alarm (I found him once at 4 a.m. at the dining room table just… staring. In the silence. Hands on the table. The struggle is real.)
• The three-year-old who drinks black coffee and will steal yours from right under your nose and guzzle it, wide-legged, like a frat party newbie with a mug of Bud Light that rivals her body weight
• Mochi and Cookie, the rats, in their rat paradise: a five foot tall cage with hand-crafted hammocks and beds

I could go on. But doesn’t every home have a stove with one broken knob, requiring a swapping out on busy dinner nights? And you can’t tell me that you don’t have two TV remotes because one of them is perpetually lost, or a ceiling that leaks mysteriously 2-3 times a year so only waterproof things go in that ‘spot.’

So we laugh. Clearly, we have cultivated a household symphony of chaos and activity, a place filled with lives not static or stifling. A place where you’re welcome to stop by for dinner, and long as you will hold the hamster while I clean its bedding, can catch an errant chicken, and don’t mind running your hands through a child’s hair even if it’s sticky with whatever they had for breakfast. (Or dinner yesterday.)

The Coronapocolypse

It’s been over a month since Whitmer issued the ‘Stay Home, Stay Safe’ order, rolling out the weirdest month on record, at least for me. Soon after closing the schools, a close friend messaged me, saying that she knew I loved apocalyptic stuff, so how did I feel about pandemics so far? It’s hard not to sound like a twat saying so, I’m enjoying this shake up.

Maybe that makes me deserved of catching the damn virus myself, and maybe I will, and maybe that’s what I get. But have you ever driven through a construction zone on I-75 at rush hour on a Friday? With angry, hungry children who have been at school all day and are tired and frustrated and screaming at you to stop at McDonalds? Know what it’s like now, with everyone quarantined at home? It’s amazing. Like wind in your hair, singing your favorite song, going to be ON TIME to your next event amazing. And that next event? It’s nothing, because you’re doing nothing, and you’re going to be early to do it, and then if you stay up too late doing it, that’s ok, because you don’t have to get up the next morning.

It might sound like being cooped up with your kids all day and night would be exhausting, especially now that home schooling is mandatory through the rest of the year. But it’s kind of great. There was a learning curve, but we have access to the best technology and resources available, and these kids have naturally curious, growing minds. We have two ‘sister families’ so the little ones still get a small change of scenery and a couple of extra playmates. The parks are closed, but we have a big backyard and the swing set and trampoline. And I’m actually getting to see the teenagers. Alex is eager for a quick outing of any type, and a drive is always a nice time to talk. Ed has been here with America quite a bit, baking and watching movies. They’ve made pretzels and heart-shaped cupcakes and angel food cakes. Alex & Ed are literally making pretzels behind me as I type.

Nick built us a couple of extra shelves and we stock up on extras whenever we can, as the stores are often low on or out of certain staples. We ordered groceries online until that became nearly impossible due to demand. We’re using bamboo toilet paper. Everyone in the universe decided to learn to bake bread, so yeast is hard to come by, but I used one of my last packets to make a sourdough starter that is in the fridge now.

Mail delivery is spotty and slow, packages arriving before you even get a shipping notification, or arriving two weeks late.

Going out to the store is surreal, not only because of so many empty shelves, but everyone is tense, wearing masks and gloves, keeping ‘social distancing’ up in a way that is so weirdly isolating. I’m sure the introverts are rejoicing, but I miss making six friends every time I stroll through a Target.

The most odd part of all of this, by far, is how well Nick and I are getting along. I could feel the entire neighborhood steel itself for our close confinement, but an odd thing happened: we stopped bickering. (Well, mostly.) I’ve tried to explain it: I get enough sleep now, he can work in sweatpants, we don’t have the stress of driving through terrible traffic 3-4 hours a day, there’s nothing to do publicly so we don’t argue about what to go do… but I really can’t put my finger on it. I’m sure it’s just a combination of the above along with the slower pace of life.

That’s the most notable, and wonderful, change I’ve noticed. The pace of life has slowed. Everyone is out walking all the time, and people actually stop to chat. People are reading books, sharing recipes, chatting online… and not in that frantic, I-have-to-fit-this-in-between-work-and-dinner-and-cleaning-and-yoga-class-and-hair-appointment-and-bedtime way.

I’m dreading going back to the grind. I’m glad school is out for the rest of the year. I love our webinars with the teachers as much as I hated struggling to get the kids dropped off to a room full of strangers by 7:30 every morning. I love Nick coming up out of his ‘office’ in the basement to scrounge for lunch as much as I hated the 1.5 hour round trip drive to pick him up with miserable children. I love sharing dinners with Melissa and Kyra every night, I love watching the kids learn to cook, I love the surprise of meeting new neighbors.

We got a new hamster. And I’m looking into chickens. I just need this lock down to last a few more months.

A Bit of Flight

It was obvious that the apartment was a shell he would shed, so unlike the rooms that had become she and Jeremy’s home, covered in rugs and blankets and handwritten notes and Jeremy’s oily fingerprints. Their apartment was not unlike a cocoon, a giant bed, every corner full and occupied, and they had to turn into sludge to transform. He was the apartment, as was she, and how she escaped the fire and he perished was beyond her sense of reality. The thought would not come clearly into focus. He was gone, as was the building, and she must also be. There was only a smudge of Olivia remaining, living here with Connor the unknowable. They were nothing, computer generated drug peddling shadows trying to escape Chicago, trying to escape nonexistence, just like everyone else.

Dates & Time

This pic was from a million years ago, at Heather & William’s house in GR.  I loved their house because all of their drinking glasses were mismatched.  Literally, Heather said her goal was to not have even one matching pair.  Also, they had a third floor that had once been a ‘ballroom’ level.  BALLER.  How fantastic.  It felt old and unfinished, unpolished, and ready for exploration.

Yesterday I had an epiphany: I should just pick one thing and DO it.  Something big, potentially life-changing.  And then hammer away at it.  I was, in that moment, vividly aware of myself as a capable human being, and also that for the first time in my life,  really feeling the ‘what could you possibly lose’ phenomenon.  I’ll turn 40 next year, and I’m probably not going to accidentally stumble into some fabulous career or travel lifestyle or interesting set of skills.  But I also won’t even intentionally be able to achieve every single thing I want to do.  But maybe if I picked one, the biggest, best one, and then just work on that shit every day, maybe there will be a chance?  After digging through old journals, ruminating on old words and choices, I’m a bit disappointed that I currently spend the majority of my days hiding in the bathroom to avoid whining and looking forward to Sunday mornings because I get to sleep until 10 a.m.

I think I’m ready to be single-minded.  Pick a goal.  If a situation contrasts with it, remove myself from it.  I’d like to look back at today’s pictures ten years from now and know that a series of positive decisions were made between the two dates.

Lists

• We all know I love lists. Pretend you’re reading all of this on a series on envelopes.

This week:

• Another thing died
• I thought another thing was dying but it spent two days in the hospital and was fine
• Another thing was badly injured but will hopefully live. Tomorrow will tell
• Everyone started school, except Ari, and he needs it the most
• If the cat dies I’m going to murder it

Things to do before winter hits:

• Kayak with the kids at Bald Mountain
• Walk Red Oaks with at least the babies
• Fix my hair
• Eat brunch with girlfriends
• Finish one full chapter about Charlie
• Pay for and design tattoo

Late in the Day

We spent most of today at the beach.  I didn’t really go in the water but the day was beautiful, and the kids had a good time.  Christina brought Evie to join us and that made for good conversation and kid activity.  She and Bill are getting married, sooner rather than later.  It was warm but a little cloudy, and we shared a grill and a picnic table with some strangers for a few minutes.

This last week was so busy that it flew by; I can’t believe tomorrow is Monday.  I decided that because of our excess of cucumbers I would make dill pickles for party guests this coming weekend.

First Batch:

Batch #1

I ordered custom labels for the top, and Cassondra gave me ribbon to embellish the jars.  I think they will be cute.

Eddie and Rosie are back in the house as of yesterday, which is always warm and grounding.  Eddie has been working a ton of hours at Kroger, taking an SAT Prep course at Sylvan over the summer, and is dating a new girl, a young Julianne Moore, a vegan, and a year older than him.  She going to Western in the fall.  ‘This one is going to be rough at the end,’ was the way he described  feeling at the beginning of the relationship.  (Obviously, he has his father’s unusual brand of fuck-it pessimism.)  I adore her, and she seems to adore him, and that makes me happy.  He is almost an adult.  It’s odd to watch someone who was born an old wise man nearing the responsibilities and freedoms of an actual grown man.

Rosie is beautiful and moody and either creating art or engaging with it.  From what I can gather.  She is full and vast, an ocean of a person, and mostly unknowable, I think even to herself.  We will walk or lay in bed or be running errands and she won’t stop talking for the entire hour or two about all of her loves and interests, but she won’t once actually mention herself.  But it’s the closest you get to her, Rosie, Norah Rose, Alex Rose, all of the things she calls herself.  So you listen with drippy anticipation to dialogue about Detroit Becomes Human and Lin Manuel Miranda and her new Photoshop brushes and you look at her inking and sketches and offer advice on her plot lines and you accept every bit of reciprocal interest and smile and laugh and thank her.  Because it feels like a gift.

The littles are becoming people too, not just babies.  Even June.  She will fall and get hurt and when you offer her help she’ll slap your hand away and shout ‘WALK’ and get back up on her own, still crying and moaning, dusting off her chubby baby fingers as she rights herself.  It’s awe inspiring, really.  Ari is rowdy and impulsive as ever, but he will also double check with a hurt friend, ‘You OK?’ even after parental intervention and almost out of earshot.  He will spend five minutes trying to make sure June gets down from the trampoline safely, even if she’s refusing his help.  And Kaelen is at that age where he is SO filled with yearning for things beyond his years, and I think struggling with the tumult of living in two very different households.  His world as a newly independent reader is big.  He is filled with ideas and a want for things beyond his years, alongside a true extrovert’s desire to share his beloved life experiences with the people he loves.  He is always the one to suggest a day full of exciting activities.  And today he insisted he was ready to read The Hobbit.

Megan will be home from AZ in a few days.  I want to share my porch with her again.

I’m getting a dress tailored.  I finished The Handmaid’s Tale.  Nick is looking at buying houses.  We’ve lived here for four years.  I think that’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere.  I feel like moving a city away isn’t far enough.  Does it count as moving if you can still circle your old neighborhood between the grocery store and the car wash?  I don’t want to move and drive past here again.  Either stay, or leave it completely.

Without fresh starts, I don’t know if I am even myself.

Work in Progress

It’s always hard to write when not much has changed. Events occur, the future is slightly altered, faces and streets swim in and out of my mind’s eye, only chance dictates which things will be remembered in two, five, ten years.

It’s always surprising to consider what I do and do not remember, when looking back over the years.

This last couple of weeks we rode bikes with my new bike (thanks Dad!) and trailer for the kids, saw a movie in the park, lost my keys at said park (found them in a hidden pocket in my bag after searching in the dark with Eddie after picking him up from work at Kroger), put a new picture display on the wall, planned the boys’ August birthday party, drove Eddie back and forth to an SAT prep course at Sylvan, drove Rosie back and forth to meet Dave with Sarnia, fought with Nick about a million times, made up with Nick just over a million times, read Dragons Love Tacos with June until she shouted ‘TACOS!’ all the way to bed and then blew me kisses, bought Ari ice cream and a trip to McDonald’s to play because it was rainy and his friend Maxwell canceled a play date and he was crushed, gave the cats flea treatments, managed to not run off to my dad’s to swim at the lake because I have too much to do, billed Amy for $60 or so for two weeks worth of not-enough work, went to Sully’s birthday party up the street with the kids, went grocery shopping at Meijer, listened to a very impactful news story on an immigrant woman trying to reconnect with her young son after being separated at the border for a month, watered my plants every day, mowed the lawn, bought new porch lights…  Every day is busy from the moment someone pesters me (long before I open my eyes) until the moment I lay down at night. I think I need it to be more meaningful.  More purposeful.

It’s not a new thought.  It’s just constant.

My doctor told me a few days ago that his advice was that I ‘enjoy my life.’  I told him bluntly that I enjoy it too much, and that was the problem.  But he seemed to think I was ok.

I’ll post final pics of that wall when its done.  But here is the painting of the frames:

Work in Progress

Early Summer Grounding

It’s that raw time of year; the days are long and warm (last week hitting 90 most days without flinching), the teachers are putting on videos and handing out snacks instead of assignments, and we are all spent after nine months of worrying about grades and GPAs and making sure the alarm goes off at 6 a.m.

Rosie and Kaelen have been doing a daily countdown to the last day, varying total days between now and the 15th, to just school days, to whole class days only (not half days). Which sounds better? Which will make these last few hours go by most quickly?

Rosie cut all of her hair off and dyed it blue as part of her new and improved Ferndale High School version of herself. Her wardrobe is also suddenly very black and full of jagged edges. Eddie asked out a new girl last week and we have seen almost none of him. He will be a senior next year and is talking about SAT scores and an apartment and his hourly wages at Kroger and collwge applications. We are taking his final driving test next weekend and then he will finally have his license.

Kaelen blossomed as a reader this year and hunts down and devours every YA paperbook he finds around the house. He will be a third grader next year. Ari did so much better in preschool than I could have imagined. I am forever thankful for his teachers this year. He will be disappointed when he understands that school is over for the year. He has learned colors and numbers and how to quietly listen in a group and the shape of his name. He knows ‘A’ and ‘X’.

And June, baby June. She is already strong and silly and curious beyond her 20 months. We all dote on her and enjoy her little own language and affections. She finally says water instead of calling it ‘ice’, but she still calls outside ‘cold’ most of the time. You can watch her brain work to formulate language enough to communicate her desires through the windows of those wide, wanting eyes. I think she is very smart. Today she asked for a popsicle and pizza, unprovoked. So despite the questionable diet, her brain seems to be rapidly developing.  Life isn’t all organic avacados and wheatgrass juice, kid. I’m glad you can thrive in a weedy patch. I promise to throw you some berries and filtered water along with the nachos.

Beyond the kids, what is life right now? Slow things, tedious things. Keeping up with the never-ending streams of dishes and laundry and driving while also watching closely how the vibrant, juicy green grape vine grows over the window above the sink… Smashing ants when they march across the dining room, looking for bits of toast and egg I missed at breakfast clean-up, sorting clothes into piles grown out of or not yet grown into. Sitting in the yard with Melissa in cheap platic lawn chairs, listening to the secret made up world of the kids playing with the hose, threatening them not to tattle.

I am working, but only a little bit. My world feels slow and stunted. Was it always this way? Am I failing?

Nick and I talk but mostly argue. I want to not be around him most days because the arguments disable me further. He doesn’t seem to allow for pleasant, meditative observation. He paces, shouts, picks. Even the slightest prying or rushing is, I think, exaggerated for me right now.

I want more than five hours of sleep a night… I want to listen to the wind move through the pregnant trees in the dark, I want to feel feeezing groundwater from the hose run over my toes until they are numb. I want to center myself.  My greatest delight right now is watching the cottonwood seeds fill up the golden hued sky. I love it every year. When they are thick as snow, I first remember Bernie and his disdain for their habit of clogging up the pool filter (Goddamn Cottonwood!!), and then I remember the dream of the boy under the tree in the field, his conversation, his brief kiss on the lips. And both things make me happy.

Spring Break Book Break

It’s a snowy spring break day here, with a cold wind and intermittent sunlight that isn’t doing any kind of job warming things up. The house was full of kids this morning, all of ours and Sarnia too. The girls were on a futon mattress on the living room floor and on the couch. I had to make two pans of scrambles eggs along with raisin toast and blueberry muffins to make everyone happy.

I just dropped the littles off with Christina and the older girls at the movies and Eddie is visiting with Adam, and so I snuck off to the used book store that is across the street from our old place in Clawson for a little alone time. Honestly, I was surprised to see the open sign lit up. Back in the day we always assumed it MUST be on the verge of failing. If Barnes & Noble couldn’t hack it, how did this dark little shop lined with dusty paperback (mostly romance) novels stay in business??

Not only is it open, but it has changed owners and ‘rebranded’ and is now called The Grey Wolfe Scriptorium. They accept credit cards (that was always a hurdle before) and there was music playing, and the whole vibe was friendly and open and youthful. Call me sentimental, but I almost started crying. To smell a good book store was FABULOUS.

They host all kinds of writing and reading events, book signings, writing contests and the like. I had assumed that this great little place was just going to disappear like so many CD shops and video stores. Instead, it has evolved into something more modern but just as wonderful and filled with hidden treasure.

They even still had my trade-in card, in the same old wooden drawer. But they put me ‘in the system’ so no one has to dig through the old notecards when Rosie and I bring in a batch of books we no longer want, and they honored the trade-in discount price. And they gave me a punch card where I can work my way up to a free paperback.

I’m making this place a regular stop now, just to stay a part of the community and to support the biz. Maybe I will even try one of their hosted writing nights.