I’ve been recovering my sea legs and trying to find time for a little more writing. I was asked to submit a blog post for the All Angels’ Easter season blog, Feasting 50.
Here it is! I hope that you, too, experience some surprises.
If Paul had known what was going to happen, he might not have brewed the coffee. First, let me tell you that Paul has taken to brewing me a special blend of part caf, part decaf in the mornings. He doesn’t just brew the coffee. He takes pains to make sure that it stays hot. He heats my thermos with boiling water before it holds the coffee. He heats the milk so that it won’t cool down the mix. He sets the thermos on my bedside table, and while 30-44 degree (Fahrenheit) water gets pumped around my left hip and leg, I enjoy the fact that I am drinking something hot.
Sounds loving and innocuous, right?
Last Sunday, after my usual coffee, I was ready to ditch the four walls of my bedroom. I wanted adventure, intrigue. . .well, not quite. I did want to go to church, and nine days after surgery seemed as good a time as any. Don’t laugh! It is amazing what a surgeon can accomplish with an inch-and-a-half incision for a camera and another for the robotic equipment. Ten years ago, mine would have been an open procedure with an eight-inch footprint and I would still be knocked down.
Instead, I was making strides, pun intended. But could I handle a building with more stairs? Did I have the stamina to be out and about? Church would provide a decent test case and give me some information about how quickly I might be able to return to work.
I’m not going to lie to you. I broke one of my rules. I wore sweatpants out of the house. They were nice straight leg black sweatpants, nothing but the best that Land’s End had to offer. Let’s face it: sometimes practicality trumps dignity. I needed a comfortable outfit, something that would not rub against my stitches.
“Don’t worry,” reassured Paul, “The most noticeable thing about your outfit is your crutches.”
On our way to church, it was smooth sailing into the Lincoln Tunnel. We slid through our favorite lane, the one where the black curly haired lady flashes us a smile of recognition and pushes the “carpool” button before we even ask for it.
We should have been suspicious at 43rd Street and 10th Avenue where we usually turn north. The street was blocked to traffic, but it looked like it we were being diverted to the Westside Highway. We crawled to 11th Avenue, only to find that we had to turn south and make a loop past the Javits Expo Center before finally arriving at what seemed like the home-free highway. We were still hopeful.
Finally, the reason for the delay was obvious: the New York half marathon. Runners in all kinds of garb pattered down the promenade. Some wore green tutus, other had corporate shirts. Some wore fancy running gear; others were dressed more or less like me, minus the crutches and the brace. At least there was something of interest to watch.
Traffic inched north toward 44th Street, and the NYPD was out in full force. They directed us to turn east on 44th. We were heading back toward where we had started 20 minutes before.
I began to regret the coffee. Minute by minute, I regretted it more. I shifted in my seat. I watched the runners, who from my vantage, were stopping at a water and Gatorade station. I wondered where they stopped on the route when nature called. Before long, I hated them for running. I hated them for blocking the way.
The traffic lights went green. We progressed a foot. They went red. We waited. Ahead, drivers pulled alongside policemen who shook their heads and pointed east. It wasn’t looking good.
“You seem a little out of sorts,” said Paul as he fiddled with the radio, trying to find the latest traffic report.
“I have to pee.”
“Oh. I think that we are at least a half an hour from that. Unless you want to stop at that diner on the next block?”
“I’m on crutches,” I replied, with not a hint of patience or kindness in my voice. “I can’t get out and navigate around the traffic.”
“Okay.”
Ten minutes passed. I began to eye the plastic bag on the tray next to me. Is it possible to pee into that bag without exposing myself to the boys or anyone who happens to drive next to us in an SUV?
Surely this was a puzzle that I could figure out. I loosened the brace around my waist.
“How are you doing?” asked Paul.
“I’m trying to figure out how to pee into that bag.”
As I ripped at the velcro, Paul grasped the severity of the situation. I could almost hear his heart rate picked up. His eyes scanned the streets.
“You know what? I think that we can turn south on 9th Avenue. Just take me home. I’m sure that there won’t be traffic leaving the city. Please just get me out of here,” I grumbled.
My rational self waved goodbye. Paul made suggestions. I barked at him. I’m not proud of it. Sometimes a full bladder can wreak havoc on a relationship.
As we came up upon 9th Ave, Paul turned south, put on his hazard lights, drove us a hard left into the bike lane, and parked. Right in front of an Empire Coffee and Tea shop. I couldn’t even laugh at the irony. I concentrated on making it through the next five minutes.
I don’t think that I’ve ever seen Paul move so fast. He flung open the driver-side door and left it open with the keys still in the ignition. He ran into the coffee shop, and cut to the front of the counter.
“Hey!” I yelled after him, “For crying out loud, someone could car jack us!”
I grabbed the keys out of the ignition and watched him through the glass store window, both grateful and annoyed.
“Do you have a public restroom?” he pleaded.
“Sorry, sir, you’ll have to go down the street to. . .”
“No, you don’t understand,” Paul said, “My wife is on CRUTCHES. WE’VE BEEN STUCK IN TRAFFIC AND SHE REALLY NEEDS TO PEE.”
I imagine that he pronounced this reality with the same intensity as “SHE’S ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY.” I imagine that silence prevailed in the coffee shop.
Apparently, even the staff of Empire Coffee and Tea, hardened by the bathroom requests of tourists, felt Paul’s panic. They agreed to share their “Employees Only” with me.
I thunked my crutches up to the door, where a kind patron opened it for me. I could tell by her understanding smile that she had heard the whole thing unfold. In fact, as I looked around the room, I could see that everyone in the coffee-devoted Sunday crowd knew my plight.
Squeak. Step. Step. Squeak. Step. Step. Squeak. Step. Step. Squeak. Step. Step. I made my way to the back of the store to the holy of holies, the inner sanctum of the coffee store.
It was a great relief.
And that was how I came to buy two pounds of coffee and give the employees the biggest tip of the day.
We did make it to church, right about the time communion began, so I was able to make not one, but two conspicuous entrances. It had taken us more than hour and a half in total to go a few miles.
So I raise a crutch to my knight in the icy blue Honda Oddessey, now that my rational self has returned. Thank you for all of your kindnesses.
Now I’m in a quandary. I have two pounds of really great coffee. My knight is trying to make me promise that I will never drink coffee on a Sunday morning again. Maybe he’ll settle for me listening to the traffic before I take my first sip?
I like to ring in the decades with a bit of drama. And who better to help me really whoop it up than an orthopedic surgeon? Seriously folks, forget the fancy European vacay to ring in middle age or the weekend away with the your best girlfriends, Chilean wine, and a box of Jacques Torres. A trip to the Hospital for Special Surgery is MUCH more exclusive and comes with a shapeless purple paper party gown. (One size fits all.) You can get the same green socks with the rubberized bottoms that they hand out on transatlantic flights AND walk yourself into the OR carrying your IV bag. Check that off the bucket list!
Joking aside, my hip surgery last Friday was an answer to prayer. It was what I wanted for my birthday: a reason for the pain, a solution, and the hope of returning to a normal level of physical activity.
On Friday, my left leg was put into traction and a camera and surgical instruments were inserted into my joint. The surgeon filed down a bone spur on the head of my femur, repaired the large tear on my labrum (the seal around the ball and socket joint), and extended my tendon with a “z” cut.
A few hours later, gorked up on narcotics, I stood on crutches, “ready”to be discharged. A physical therapist showed me how to go up and down stairs. She wished me luck on the flight of stairs I would have to navigate to get into my apartment.
When I returned home, I swore the entire way up the stairs.
I’m not going to lie. I haven’t even so much as looked at those stairs again. But I have had other causes to swear. Fortunately, many of you responded to my Facebook plea for child-safe swears. And they have worked marvelously–at making me laugh!
You try keeping a straight face while getting into bed and yelling “Cheese Whiz!” at the pain. You can’t do it. I have been experimenting with your suggestions. So far, none of them have the same umph as the kind of expletives we’d rather not have our children repeat.
My view.
But all things considered, I’m doing very well. I can get around on crutches. Rumor has it that I’ll only need them for 10 days. Then I head to physical therapy for several months.
As I write this, I’m wearing a large cuff around my left hip and leg. It is attached to a machine that pumps 30-40 degree water through it, 30 minutes on 30 minutes off. The icing has helped and I feel like I’ve turned a corner.
For one thing, my brain seems to be blinking back into some level of function. Yesterday, I fought off foggy boredom with the offerings of Hulu and PBS documentaries. (Did you know that some birds fly toward a billowing volcano? They lay their eggs in the warm ash. Did you know that approximately 900 people live in Vatican City?)
Today, I’m writing this little masterpiece. So, you know, progress. I am thankful.
I get to do it all over again in 3-6 months on my right side. Talk about celebrating 40 with a bang!
The story goes that my mom sat in what amounted to a cubicle of a doctor’s office. Her pregnant belly took up most of the space. The doctor came in to give her the news. She started crying. Uncontrollably. A nurse ran to get my father. He walked in and she put up two fingers. He started crying, too.
One baby had not been part of the plan. Two, well, two was two too many.
By the time we arrived on the scene on March 1, our parents’ tears were long dried and they loved us fiercely. Jessica came first, then me, nine minutes later. We were each 4 lbs something. I had a collapsed lung. We spent some days getting to know the nurses in the NICU while my parents tried to figure out what to call “Baby A” and “Baby B.”
We narrowly escaped being named “Valerie” and “Debbie.”
Grandma Rocque, of hearty Vermont stock and the mother of six, took one look at us and said, “Humph. Neither one of them are even large enough to make a decent roast.”
We are now big enough to make more than a decent roast! I’ve been thinking about Jessica stories to share with you. I had plans to reveal only the things that a sister would know.
But when I thought about my relationship with Jessica, it wasn’t the funny stories that rose to the surface. I thought about the stories—and there are so many—of when we worked as a team.
My mom told us that we started out in separate cribs. Eventually, we figured out how to rock our cribs until they were next to each other. Then one of us would flip over the top and we would sleep next to each other all night long. It only took a few nights of my parents listening to us rattling our cribs and creaking the floor before they figured that they would just put us in the same crib at the start of the night.
When we were in second and third grade, Jessica and I walked a mile down our mountain to the main road where we picked up the school bus. At the end of the day, we reversed the route, walked straight to the top, to the last house on the dirt road.
We experienced the sort of winters my children only dream of, with an abundance of tunnel and fort-building snow for months on end.
One morning, after it had snowed all night, we trudged our way down the hill in full snow gear, trying to keep to the white tire tracks that a neighbor’s truck had made. The plow had not yet come through. It was slow going. When we made it two-thirds of the way down the hill, we could hear the plow turn from the main road, heading our way. The driver down-shifted to get more power. The plow scraped along and the snow pfffffted out.
Now, around here in NJ, they retrofit plows onto garbage trucks and call it snow preparedness. In Vermont, they have serious, dedicated vehicles, fitted with gargantuan, fancy, angled plows. These are the pride of the town and everyone knows the names of the guys who drive the plow. You offer him coffee. You want him to like you. You need him.
But to a child, the snowplow driver is a tiny face and hat peaking over the windshield of the largest, most terrifying machine you have ever known. You prefer him at a distance.
That morning, when we heard the plow, we looked at each other. I don’t know about Jessica, but I thought that we would die buried under a pile of snow, only to be found during the spring thaw. Surely the small face and hat in that killing machine would not be able to see us as he powered up the hill! And the road was too narrow to move to the side.
We both leapt into the snow bank and started climbing on to the mountain of a snow. We don’t have these kinds of snow banks in New Jersey. It was a snow bank erected over many visits by the snowplow over the course of the winter. In fact, to some, it might even be considered a small sledding hill.
To us, the snow bank was Mount Everest. Our legs sunk in up to our knees with every step. Our hearts pounded, our mittens balled with snow like Velcro sticking together from climbing with our hands. We helped each other to the summit. Then we jumped down to safety on the other side. We sat next to each other in silence at the bottom, our legs buried up to our knees. We waited an eternity for the plow to pass.
Of course we missed the bus.
Instead of turning around and walking straight up the hill, facing the plow as it came back down, we agreed on a plan. We would walk to school. There seemed no other choice in our eight-year-old minds. We began to walk the 3-4 miles on the already plowed roads.
Meanwhile, my mom’s instinct told her to call the school and make sure that we were there. When she heard that we weren’t, she fired up George, our rusty old Dodge Ram Charger. She engaged the four-wheel drive and set off to find us. Her drive became an increasingly panicked one, as she came closer and closer to school without a sign of us.
Finally, she found us. We had made it to the driveway of the school! She opened the door with relief, and wanted to drive us the 100 yards to the front door. We refused. We wanted to be able to say that we had walked the entire way to school. Together, we had triumphed.
That snowplow can be a metaphor for many of the experiences that hurtled toward us in our childhood. Because our mom had Multiple Sclerosis and because we were poor, we learned many life lessons at a young age.
But we faced them as a team, often so unified in thought and deed that there was no need to speak or negotiate. We just did what needed to be done.
And by high school, we took each other for granted. We were tired of alphabetical by last name seating. We were furious at being housed together for All New England and All State choir festivals. (Housing was assigned by last name.)
We made it a point not to apply to the same colleges.
So I did not expect that of all of the experiences of growing up, one of the hardest moments would be saying goodbye when dropping Jessica off at college. It was a good thing that I didn’t know at the time that 16 years would go by before we would live in the same state again. College was the first time that I had to face my life without my partner in crime. I cried my way through freshmen year. I tried to transfer to Ithaca.
The only other time that I have felt such heartache was after Isaiah was born. Jessica spent her Christmas break with us and was in the room when Isaiah came into the world. In those first days of motherhood, she often knew what I needed even before I did.
When the time came to send her back to Texas, back to her doctoral program, I cried the same tears of loss that I did when I went to college. I was going to go through a major life experience—motherhood—without her close by. I wept for Isaiah. I wept for myself.
“I don’t know how we are going to care for this baby with less than three people!” I sobbed.
Jessica started sobbing, too. It would have been the perfect moment for reassurance. Instead, she said, “I don’t know how you are going to do it either.”
It is a precious gift to be a twin. We do get on each other’s nerves at time. There is nothing more annoying that having your twin bark at you to get your papers off the copier at work. Oh, I could tell you stories. Jessica could, too.
But I think back to our parents, crying in the little room at the thought of having two babies. And I can see how God had a clear plan for each of us, and for our family.
Sometimes perseverance looks an awful lot like standing still. Or rather, like doing drop knee bends and stretching, trudging to the PATH train, and heading into the city once a week to visit Deborah, my physical therapist. She sees progress. I’ll let her carry that torch for now. I trust her.
I woke up at 4:30 am the yesterday morning from the pain in my hip and was up for the day. Some days are like that.
When the boys are finally in bed, dinner is put away, and the kitchen is clean, I sit long ways on the couch. I put my legs out over Paul’s lap, cover myself with a hideous but warm, fluffy blanket, and play the next episode on Netflix. He rubs my left foot until I have to shift. And before I blink–one episode later– it is 10 PM. We’re mostly wise enough to pack it in. Sometimes we look at each other with that knowing look. One of us reaches out and selects the “next episode” arrow. And 5:45 AM comes way too soon.
So that’s why I’m not blogging. I have a very important tv life to maintain.
We’ve just streamed several seasons of Doc Martin, a British series about a big city surgeon who develops a fear of blood and becomes a GP for a small seaside town. We’re up to date on Downton Abbey. We’re waiting for the next disc of Homeland to arrive. I’ve surfed Hulu. I only lasted for 10 minutes on The Following. Way too creepy and gory for me.
I’m thinking about picking up knitting again, but I don’t know if I have the brain space to cast on and begin a project. When I do, it will be simple. Knit one row, perl one row. Keep the hands busy. Free up the mind.
I know that some seasons of life are like this. Goodness, how I know! How I punished myself when Isaiah was a baby and Paul’s parents lived with us. Even though his mother was dying in our home, even though I was learning how to care for an infant, even though my home was a culture shock, I thought that I should do more–be more.
It is tempting, on the worst days, to see only failure. I’m trying not to chastise myself for not DOING more–reading, writing, praying, accomplishing–for not being where I thought that I would be. For now, that is my act of bravery.
Meanwhile, my children keep a steady pace along the windy path of growing up. I ordered Crocs for Isaiah at Christmas and realized that we wear the same shoe size now. (Note to self: only order Croc colors that you want to inherit.) The new pants that I bought for Joshua in the fall are now almost two inches too short. I’m about to confiscate his favorite shirt because it reveals a strip of his belly.
But there are other signs, too. Isaiah’s reading Lord of the Rings. He’s learning double digit multiplication. He is full of industry and ideas. When I sing, he sings along and tries the harmony. He is willing to go to the basement by himself to fetch food from the freezer or transfer laundry from the washer to the dryer. He laughs hysterically with me when we watch a video of misheard lyrics of Carmina Burana, which he is playing on recorder at school. He gets the joke.
Isaiah wishes that Joshua could understand the game of Clue because we need three people to play.
And Josh, well Josh is taking off. He struggled all fall to write one sentence for homework each night, even when he was required to write two. This past week or so, the requirement went up to three to five sentences and I swallowed hard. Then the switch went off in his brain. He spouted off a stream of sentences to me in the middle of the week and wrote them all down. They were all part of one idea. Then he did it again. And again. “Joshua,” I told him, “You are a writer, like your momma.”
The SCARY THING is gone and so is his tooth! Both on the same day.
This morning Joshua woke up and announced that the SCARY THING was gone. “Really? How do you know that it is gone?” I asked.
“Did you see me hiding under my blanket when you came to wake me up?” he said.
“No.”
He shrugged. “It is just gone.”
“We should thank God,” I said, “He answered our prayer.”
He flopped backward on his bed. I kissed him on both cheeks and he smiled like he would be purring if he were a kitten.
“Prayers, Mom. We prayed lots of them.”
Sometimes you see the work of God unfold before you in others, even when you have a blind spot in your own life.
Did you get my Christmas card? I dare say that you didn’t, unless you are my Grandma or my Great Aunt Jeanne. I sent out exactly two cards this year with the following criteria: you have to be over 90 to receive a card from me.
It was a strip-it-down-to-the-basics Advent and Christmas season. Advent still had the character of waiting. Christmas still carried the joy of “Break forth of beauteous heavenly light!”
It just didn’t involve me baking Christmas cookies, hosting a caroling party, or otherwise running around. I wasn’t particularly virtuous, holy, or full of contemplation as befits Advent. You noticed all of those deep and meaningful blog posts that I wrote, right?
It was enough to parent a seven-year-old and ten year-old. It was enough to keep everyone fed. It was enough to adjust to Paul’s new job and keep going at mine. It was enough to make it to physical therapy and plug away at the bursitis in my hips.
It was enough to keep my Facebook jealousy in check. It seems like every almost 40 or 40 something I know is running marathons while I hobble a couple of blocks and hope that I can resume exercising before my 40th birthday.
Most nights I tucked the kids in and fell on the couch with the heating pad. I met Hulu with familiarity. I kept current on Season Three of The Voice. (Winner: Cassadee Pope–I called it!)
It was just that kind of an end to the year.
I’m steering clear of bold, measurable resolutions. I’m trying to be more thankful, to find joy in the small things. I’m trying to be right where I am and not comment on it.
I’m taking my kids to the new, fancy McDonald’s down the street for an end of break treat and letting go of pink slime, global warming, and mother guilt.
And yes, I’ll have fries with that!
Happy New Year!
Yesterday I walked down to Hoboken and through dry streets. It hardly seemed possible given that three days before, we wound our way down Mountain Road (on foot, of course!) to the edge of the flooding. This is what we saw:
The back of Hoboken on Wednesday, Oct. 31. Not the best place to drive–notice the SUV that had just tried to get through. The tower in the background is the Freedom Tower at the World Trade Center site.
You know a lot of the story–unprecedented flooding and damage all along the Eastern seaboard. 20,000 Hoboken residents were trapped in their homes, even as we stood at the edge of the water. We were unable to do anything for them. The water was filled with oil, gasoline, and sewage. It smelled sharp from the oil and painted rainbows on the asphalt near the water’s edge.
Yesterday the streets were mostly dry. I don’t know whether this was the work of the pumps or the tide pulling back its own. But there I was, walking toward Washington Street, heading to a physical therapy appointment. The office manager had called me the night before asking if I could go in. “Yes,” I said, “If I can get there.”
It may sound strange, but it felt like I was doing something. I was showing up to a small business that needed to get back up and running to stay alive. These next few days can make or break them.
As I walked, the streets were hushed except for the intermittent hum of generators. Usually, you can’t go 20 feet in Hoboken without bumping into a child, a pregnant woman, or someone pushing a stroller. The recovery work right now is not the kind of work that a child should be near and few were on the streets. Garage doors gaped open here and there. Residents and workers shuttled back and forth with couches, boxes, flooring–anything that soaked in the flood waters. It was the kind of work that music and light might have made more bearable. People worked mostly in silence, without electricity, tracking mud.
Church Square Park was a little more lively than the rest of the town. A young mother pushed a baby in a swing. A German family played soccer on the turf. A truck distributing free hot food had a line of people who shared their hurricane stories while they waited. And of course, there was our school, quietly overlooking what is usually a crowded park. The flood waters had licked the building up the school steps, flooded the boiler room, and left four inches of water in the gym. Overall, it was minimal damage.
We have heard that the power should be restored this weekend. The water has been pumped out of the gym.
It is hard to tell the extent of the long term devastation to the area. This was not the scene of the shore homes, flattened. Or of boats on their sides and in a pile like they are at the marina in Jersey City. With dry streets, Hoboken looked less dramatic but filled with trash.
In the dim light of the physical therapy place, I sat with a heat pack on my hip. The owners, two of the PTs, fussed with a generator outside. I cheered when they walked through with the red plastic containers of gasoline.
Jerry, the PT aide looked at me. “There is a gas shortage,” I said. “The newspapers are full of pictures of lines of people, spanning city blocks, holding those red containers. Fights are breaking out. In Montclair, they had to shut off the pumps and call the police to keep the peace!”
“Oh, I didn’t know. I haven’t seen much of the news,” he said. “Although I did go down to the relief tents by city hall to warm up and get a cup of coffee. I caught a glimpse of the paper.”
Then he told me part of his hurricane story. On Sunday, he went to the south end of town to stay with a friend who was scared. She had cats, so it seemed better to go to her than to have her come to his place, which was on higher ground. During the hurricane, they watched cars get lifted up and spun around in the flood waters. By Tuesday, they saw no movement. The waters didn’t seem to recede. Emergency workers did not appear. They were without electricity, heat, or hot water. Time stretched into long anxious moments. In the afternoon, they decided to plunge into the cold, filthy water and try to get to his place.
The water creeped up to Jerry’s armpits. He waded past a port-o-potty that bobbed beside him. He wasn’t grossed out by it. He figured he was already in water that was worse. They made it to his house on higher ground where they found hot water, if no electricity and heat. He had been charging his phone on Hudson Street. Residents with power had put out power strips on extention cords and opened them up to the public to use. Other than that, he was out of contact.
I know that I will hear many more first hand accounts like this, especially when we return to school. The school faculty and staff are thinking through the best ways to help children process the hurricane.
I’ve heard of a home where the waterline went from zero to seven feet in ten minutes. The owner had to crawl onto the roof and climb over on to a neighboring house to safety. I hope that this is a rare story.
Our story is almost embarrassing. A mile away from Hoboken, up above, we stayed snug during Hurricane Sandy. We lost power once for less than five minutes. We had heat, hot water, and plenty of snacks. We were in this little bubble. Most streets around us lost power and have only gotten it back today. Some still haven’t gotten it back.
We have had a steady stream of neighbors visit to share a meal and charge a phone. Our downstairs freezer has become an outpost to save the contents of a friend’s freezer. We had an impromptu party for Paul’s birthday on Tuesday and the crowd made quick work of the two cakes that we made. It seemed strange to throw a party in the midst of a disaster.
The kids have played with friends every day. They have gotten accustomed to waking up at 8 AM. Paul has had the first block of days off in a year and a half. His office was closed for the week with no possibility of accomplishing any work from home. It has been an odd kind of “staycation” with our entire neighborhood.
We can’t go anywhere that we can’t walk, but it is no hardship. It is better not to drive, since many of the traffic lights have been out. We want to conserve fuel, especially now that there is rationing. (How long will that last?) We have abided by the 7 PM to 7 AM curfew. We would be inside anyway. It is creepy to walk in the complete darkness in the city. Someone blew up an ATM in front of a store a few blocks away the other night to steal the cash.
In the streets and in the grocery store, the mood is simultaneously edgy and thankful. In the long line at Stop & Shop, you are likely to hear speculation of a grand conspiracy by the government to keep us without power. Or see someone blow up in anger at an employee because they cannot get more than $20 in cash back. But you will also see people charging their phones at the plugs in the produce aisle. You will hear people pour out gratitude. You will see relief.
And if we are in Stop & Shop, long lines and all, we should be grateful! Ours is one of three grocery stores in Jersey City that has been open. My friend in a neighboring town did not stock up for the hurricane. She walked to the grocery store on Wednesday only to find it locked up. The little bodegas on the way back to her house only had a random assortment of undesirable cereal and rejected canned goods. The next day, her husband went out with a grocery list and came back only with a green pepper.
It is a strange time. I’ve been glued to Facebook, keeping track of friends, following links to media coverage.
The extent of recovery work will become more evident in the days to come, and we will find a way to get involved.
I am feeling incredibly grateful. Thanks so much for reading and for checking in.
There is a lot of suffering in first grade. For one thing, you learn to read. For another, you have homework. Not just any kind of homework; a journal homework where you have to write a sentence and illustrate it. There is other homework, too, but I think that is the worst of it–at least if your name is Josh.
I take that back. It gets worse. First grade homework is “no help” homework. This means that parents or older brother cannot meddle. We can offer up a letter sound if asked or ask questions like “What did you do in the Shared Space today?”
First grade is about making visible mistakes. There are no erasers allowed. First grade is a place where the teacher needs to see what you need to learn.
First grade is a hard place to be if you expect perfection from yourself.
Tonight Joshua faced his journal and flopped into my office chair. He scowled, “I have nothing to write about.”
I calmly offered questions and ideas to guide him. He deemed them all unsuitable. I returned to the kitchen because dinner preparation couldn’t wait any longer. Josh followed and flopped on the floor.
“I wrote the same thing two days in a row. My teacher says that I can’t do that. I have nothing to write. I can’t spell.”
Here I must pause to tell you that the last two entries in Josh’s journal were identical. He wrote “Josh’s birthday” and drew stick figures with balloons. I did see this at the time and wisely left the “no repeats” discussion for his teacher.
“Josh, you don’t have to spell. You just have to practice writing. It isn’t supposed to be perfect.”
The simmering boy began to boil. “I’m going to write I hate homework!”
“That’s fine. I’m sure that your teacher will understand.”
“I’m not getting up tomorrow morning. You would have to carry me to school, which you can’t do. I’m staying home! I want you to home school me!”
Then he pulled out the worst thing he could think of. “I’M GOING TO USE AN ERASER! I’M GOING TO WRITE ON THE PAGE AND THEN ERASE THE WHOLE THING. I’M GOING TO ERASE!”
I started laughing. It was such bad form. Really bad. It didn’t matter that I recovered in a matter of seconds and even covered it up a bit. It all went down hill. He started punching holes in a granola bar box with his pencil.
“Why don’t you go punch a pillow or something?” I offered. “It might make you feel better.”
He continued to punch holes in the box and fussed until some secret hand snapped him into action. He grabbed his journal and wrote in secret. “You can’t look. You can’t see my mistakes.”
“Josh, I can’t promise that I am not going to check your homework. I am not going to correct your homework, but it is my job to check that you have done it.”
I didn’t want to upset him further, but I also didn’t want to set the expectation that I was not going to look at his homework ever.
He stabbed at me, “I wish that I had a different parent than you!”
And then, of course, I had to send him to take a break. I understood his struggle. I knew that he was lashing out at me because I am safe. I still had to draw the line. This parenting gig takes a lot of patience, more than I have most days.
I found him in his room under a blanket. His red, puffy eyes still had tears. After he apologized to me, he said, “It’s just that I don’t want a big brother. I only want little brothers.”
“I can understand that.” I said carefully. “Right now, you see fourth grade Isaiah. He can read. He can write and he seems so good at the things that you are learning. But I remember him when he was your age. He struggled just like you do. He cried over homework, too. He made lots of mistakes. It took a lot of work for him to have the skills that he has today.”
Josh stayed in his room until well after Paul arrived home and dinner arrived at the table. By the grace of God, we had pasta and sauce for dinner. There was leftover bread from yesterday from the Antique Bakery. It was a perfect Josh meal. His spirits lifted with the application of thick slabs of butter on his bread and spoonfuls of pecorino romano on his pasta.
I can’t even imagine how the night would have gone if we had had chicken stir fry.
I did just sneak a peek at his journal. The entry took so much struggle. I was curious where he ended up. It read, “James’ birthday.” Same stick figures. Same balloons.
One thing is for sure, Josh is going to have to get comfortable with making mistakes. First grade is a great place to learn it. For now, I will have to be the one who sees what he cannot see. I will be the one who speaks the truth to him: he will learn to read. He will learn to write. It will all be okay.
Tell me that I”m not the only one who laughs at inappropriate moments. It seems to be happening to me a lot lately.
It happened again tonight when I was reading Josh his new Lego Ninjago book. In the Ninjago creation story, we learn that the first Spinjitzu Master (don’t ask) used the four weapons of Spinjitzu– one of which is the. . . wait for it. . . Nunchuks of Lightning. Even as I read “Nunchuks of Lightning” out loud, I knew that I was going to be in trouble. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. It didn’t help that Paul started laughing, too. Josh looked at us, baffled. Nunchuks of Lightning didn’t sound ridiculous to him. This is serious stuff. (Who wrote this?)
Please, please can’t we read Beverly Cleary?
So there I was, trying to gain control of myself and continue reading. I sputtered through the rest of the book with waves of laughter overtaking me. I have no idea what happened in the story after the nunchuks made their appearance. My eyes saw the words, my voice read them, but the story did not make it to my brain. I might have missed some thing else as ridiculous as Nunchuks of Lightning.
********
My friend and I have a tradition. About once a year, we go shopping and eat lunch at California Pizza Kitchen (CPK). My friends always orders a pear gorgonzola pizza. She always says, “Maybe I’ll get something different this time.”
Then she orders the pear gorgonzola pizza. A few weeks ago, we found ourselves at CPK. Soon after she started getting a migraine, of the sort that upsets your stomach, too. We made a quick exit and I drove her car.
Before we hit the highway, she said “PULL OVER” in an emphatic tone. I pulled into an empty Hudson Savings Bank parking lot. The poor woman threw up, over and over again.
Meanwhile, I laughed so hard that my sides ached. I laughed and could not stop laughing. It was terrible. “I’m so sorry,” I kept saying, “I know that this is so inappropriate. I know that you are suffering.”
I couldn’t stop thinking, “Well, I bet she’ll never order the pear gorgonzola pizza again.”
Then I imagined the guy who reviews the security camera seeing the two us and I laughed even more.
Terrible.
********
Lower School worship at school is beautiful. The children enter the worship space in silence; not a sulky silence, a peaceful silence, an expectant silence. It is one of my favorite times of the day.
Sometimes the stillness is broken by a quirky kid. It is gorgeous and embarrassing at the same time. Usually the students have no idea that the stillness has been breached by quirk, which makes it even more funny. One day, a student arrived late, during the opening songs, wearing his striped pajamas.
You have to picture him. He was the most adorable boy with a wide smile and a head two sizes too large for his body. Big head, gangly arms and legs–striped pjs. He was oblivious to just how wrong his clothes were. He joined his classmates and sang with gusto.
Then the Kindergarten teacher stifled a laugh. I looked around the room. All of the teachers looked away from each other, focused intently on some spot on the rug, and tried not to laugh, with varied success. This made me laugh all the harder. Tears came out of my eyes. My shoulders shook as I tried to conceal it.
If he had arrived to school on time, it never would have happened. His teacher would have had him change into a pair of spare pants. I will forever be grateful that he was late for school that day.
On a bad day, I still picture that boy. I wish that you could have been there to see him.
********
And now I am in possession of very dangerous knowledge. In the Lower School and preschool, the teachers often use sign language during songs. The physical action of making the sign helps the students internalize the meaning of the song. Imagine a whole group of students making the sign for “peace” over and over again while singing.
Go now in peace. Go now in peace. May the love of God surround you, everywhere, everywhere you may go. (Repeat.)
It is deep and meaningful–except when you discover that we’ve been doing the wrong sign for “peace.” Instead of making the sign for peace, we’ve been making the sign for “burger.”
You can see the sign for “peace” (um, burger) in the video sign language dictionary. I crack up every time I watch it now.
I know that I am going to lose it in worship one day. I’d better start picking seats on the end.
********
And now that I’ve written this, I hope that you aren’t thinking, “Wow. Strange sense of humor. Guess that you had to be there.”
To you I say go now in burger. Beware of the Nunchuks of Lightning.
Josh came up with the term “fake birthday” and latched on to it. It started on Wednesday afternoon in the grocery store. He pleaded for Combos, you know, the pretzel cheese combination snack that came out in the 80′s? He made the case that since he and I were going out for a dinner date that night to celebrate his birthday a few days early, it was his fake birthday. Therefore, special treats were in order.
Isaiah was away on an overnight school trip. Paul was going to be out late. My principles on healthy snacks crumbled. Fake birthday snack won. “Nacho cheese or pizza flavored?” I asked.
Later that night I allowed him to order a scallion pancake and fried pork dumplings for dinner at his favorite restaurant. He wasn’t going to eat anything else anyway. Sometimes I have these moments of deep clarity.
“Mom,” he asked, “Since this is my fake birthday dinner, can I eat dinner without putting a napkin in my lap?”
Sure. Why not? I always wash the kids clothes separately anyway, to avoid grease transferring to my clothes. Easy win for a fake birthday present.
Then we went to Ben & Jerry’s. The cabbage from the night before was a distant memory.
Today was a bigger deal as far as fake birthday celebrations go. Today we celebrated Josh’s birthday in school. Birthdays are savored at school. During Lower School worship, the birthday child comes forward for a special song…
Josh, you are a child of God and our God delights in you. Josh, you are a gift to us and today we celebrate you!
…followed by Happy Birthday sung with gusto.
Then the teacher joins the birthday student and presents a choice: 7 hugs or 7 spins? (Spins.) To the right or the left. (Right.) Fast or slow? (Slow.) In front of a crowd of 100+ students and parents, Josh’s teacher spun him seven times to the right VERY SLOWLY while everyone counted along. Josh did not crack a smile. He faced said, “This is so dull.”
I am not fooled by his outward appearance. His heart felt loved. Next, his teacher presented him with a book for the school library, Jeepers Creepers, given in his honor.
The second grade gasped when Josh pulled the book out of the birthday bag. It had been a favorite of theirs when they were in first grade. The slightest smile broke through Josh’s face.
At lunchtime, he shared the brownies that we baked yesterday with his class. Friends, it has come to this.
Ordinarily Paul would bake the birthday treat. It would be enjoyed by the students and delight the staff. It would make a BIG mess in our kitchen and be baked late into the night. But this year Funfetti brownies were just fine for a fake birthday, especially when they are baked by mommy before daddy arrives home to object. I peeled the label off of our tupperware so that it would not be easily identifiable as Liu baked goods in the staff room.
And it was okay.
Fake birthday fun continued tonight when his friend came over for a play date. She turned seven earlier in the week. They sounded like a young couple in the back seat of the car on the way home.
“”I’m afraid to learn how to drive,” she admitted.
“You’ve got a few years before that happens. It’s okay,” assured Josh.
“Many years, actually,” she said.
“Yes, and by the time you are old enough, you’ll be excited. Best to do it right away. Except parallel parking is hard. It looks easy because it is just putting your car in between two other cars. But is hard. It took my dad a couple of tries the other day,” reflected Josh.
(Let me pause to say that Paul is a master at parallel parking. He squeezes the van into spots that you would never suspect could fit a vehicle of that size. Sometimes it takes a bit of doing, though.)
As I write this, the last hours of fake birthday tick away. The boys are next door at a birthday party for our neighbor who turned eight this week.
I have ditched my chores and celebrate in a quiet house. Seven years ago I had no idea that Josh would arrive the next day, three weeks early.
Fake birthdays are nice. Real birthdays are better.
