It’s New Year’s Day so that means taking down the Christmas tree and taking stock…of what candy is left in the house. Should I go with the healthier eating resolve and throw this leftover stuff away or should I finish it all…today…and have it over with?
I just hung up my new calendar. There’s something contemplative about a new calendar. All those blank clean squares…all those days. 366 days this year. A gift of 366 days. What will they bring? I think about tulip fields and birthday cakes, pumpkins and Easter baskets. Sunshine, sprinklers, the sound of lawn mowers. Likely there will be days and days and days of rain. There will be new books and movies to discover. Laughing over the same jokes and new ones. Swimming lessons and playing at the park. Hikes in the woods and walks along the beach. Pork chops with apple onion stuffing in the fall and hot dogs cooked on the grill in the summer. There will be camping trips and shopping trips and vacation trips. It’s all pretty wonderful to consider.
Then there are the things not so wonderful to think about. Dentist visits. Stubbed toes, arguments, weeds to pull, disobedient children and Adam gone on business trips. There will be broken glass and broken nails and a lot of laundry to wash. How many times will I load and unload the dishwasher? Depressing.
If I let it my mind can venture to other possibilities. Positive and negative. I don’t even want to think about some of the bad things that could happen. So I won’t. I will take heart by ascribing to the philosophy of Epicurus. Men are not disturbed by things, but by the view they take of things. I will face this year with courage. I will decide to take what is dealt me and try to take it with panache.
And I’ll go eat that candy.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Viruses, Brothers and Superheroes
To be a mother, you know this hard truth. Motherhood is not for the squeamish. And nothing tests your mettle like sick kids. I would a hundred times rather be sick myself. I don’t say that out of any sort of nobility. It’s very self interested. I’m terrified when my kids are sick. My mind first jumps to the epidemic that will ensue when they all get whatever the sickness is, then my mind takes another leap to the future worsening of their symptoms and the fact that they’ll eventually be in the hospital on IV. Of course this has never happened but you never know. This might be the time.
So Braeden got sick. He had a fever and was needy and miserable. He wanted to sleep in my bed and kneed me in the back then ran to the bathroom to throw up…and in very Braeden like fashion…didn’t make it in time. It’s not a good moment when that happens. I’m not the long-suffering mother I aspire to be. I’m just plain not happy. It’s not really lecture time though. It’s only time for clean up.
The next morning I consulted the Internet. I read the difference between a cold and the flu. I started wondering why it’s “a” cold but “the” flu. Articles interest me. Why in England, for example, do they say, “Going to hospital” when in America we always call it “the hospital”?
I’m masterful at getting lost on a tangent but I got back to matters at hand and the article I was reading indicated calling the doctor for flu symptoms. It seemed like we were there so I called. I told the receptionist all the symptoms. She wondered what exactly his temperature was and I admitted I don’t have a thermometer. It’s one of those dark inadequate mother facts about me that I’d like to keep quiet but it keeps coming up. I could of course buy a thermometer but it seems like either they have a fever or they don’t. Does the actual temperature really matter? I guess so because they always ask me.
I asked the nurse if there was anything the doctor could DO if he did have the flu. Why drag my sick boy to the doctor and pay the $25 co-pay for nothing, right? She said, “I can’t diagnose over the phone.” I understood that but I again asked, “IF he does have the flu, is there anything the doctor can do?” Her tone was getting a little icy by then and she said, “I can’t know that because I can’t diagnose over the phone.” Fine. Sign me up.
So I bundled poor Braeden up. The kid who argues that he doesn’t need a jacket because he’s never cold wore a long sleeve t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and his coat. He said, “I’m still cold.” We went to the doctor. He cracked a tiny smile when the nurse told him he was now 5 feet even but when she said, “So you don’t feel well?” he gave her a surly, “No.” The doctor poked and prodded and said that it was viral and there was nothing she could do. Braeden grumbled the whole way back to the van about what a “big fat waste of time” that was. It was but I was trying to be positive. “At least you don’t have pneumonia or strept throat or an ear infection.” Braeden usually leaves the scornfulness to Emma but he snarled, “Why would I even have any of those things anyway?” I didn’t know. But hey, he didn’t.
I got Braeden home and gave him some grape juice and Advil and he got more and more happy as the day progressed. He was chipper by dinnertime and ate his dinner and remarked about how much better he felt and I was happy.
Mark was a sneezing sniffling coughing mess. He felt a little warm. I didn’t feel disconsolate this time though. Braeden had recovered so quickly I had high hopes. I put Mark to bed early and he was almost instantly asleep. At 3:00 Braeden came in to wake me up to tell me Mark was coughing. I went in to comfort Mark and gave him some Dimetapp. (I’m a big believer in medicine.)
At 4:00, Braeden was again by my bedside, telling me that Mark was throwing up. I said the first thing that comes to every mother’s mind when she’s told her child is throwing up at 4:00 a.m. “Where is he?” Braeden said he was in the bathroom. There was Mark, kneeling neatly in front of the toilet. Now why couldn’t Braeden do that? I sent Braeden to bed with my gratitude and comforted Mark and cleaned him up and held him on my lap for a while. Sweet Mark. There’s just the tiniest part of me that likes it when he’s sick. He’s so snuggly and calm. I told him that he did such a great job making it to the bathroom. Mark always talks in capital letters but he said in a small lowercase voice, “Braeden ran with me.” It’s a heart melting image for me to picture…bleary eyed Braeden, hustling his sick brother down the hall so he can make it in time.
So maybe that’s what Braeden needs, a big brother to run with him. I guess it’s something we all could use.
Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero. --Marc Brown
So Braeden got sick. He had a fever and was needy and miserable. He wanted to sleep in my bed and kneed me in the back then ran to the bathroom to throw up…and in very Braeden like fashion…didn’t make it in time. It’s not a good moment when that happens. I’m not the long-suffering mother I aspire to be. I’m just plain not happy. It’s not really lecture time though. It’s only time for clean up.
The next morning I consulted the Internet. I read the difference between a cold and the flu. I started wondering why it’s “a” cold but “the” flu. Articles interest me. Why in England, for example, do they say, “Going to hospital” when in America we always call it “the hospital”?
I’m masterful at getting lost on a tangent but I got back to matters at hand and the article I was reading indicated calling the doctor for flu symptoms. It seemed like we were there so I called. I told the receptionist all the symptoms. She wondered what exactly his temperature was and I admitted I don’t have a thermometer. It’s one of those dark inadequate mother facts about me that I’d like to keep quiet but it keeps coming up. I could of course buy a thermometer but it seems like either they have a fever or they don’t. Does the actual temperature really matter? I guess so because they always ask me.
I asked the nurse if there was anything the doctor could DO if he did have the flu. Why drag my sick boy to the doctor and pay the $25 co-pay for nothing, right? She said, “I can’t diagnose over the phone.” I understood that but I again asked, “IF he does have the flu, is there anything the doctor can do?” Her tone was getting a little icy by then and she said, “I can’t know that because I can’t diagnose over the phone.” Fine. Sign me up.
So I bundled poor Braeden up. The kid who argues that he doesn’t need a jacket because he’s never cold wore a long sleeve t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and his coat. He said, “I’m still cold.” We went to the doctor. He cracked a tiny smile when the nurse told him he was now 5 feet even but when she said, “So you don’t feel well?” he gave her a surly, “No.” The doctor poked and prodded and said that it was viral and there was nothing she could do. Braeden grumbled the whole way back to the van about what a “big fat waste of time” that was. It was but I was trying to be positive. “At least you don’t have pneumonia or strept throat or an ear infection.” Braeden usually leaves the scornfulness to Emma but he snarled, “Why would I even have any of those things anyway?” I didn’t know. But hey, he didn’t.
I got Braeden home and gave him some grape juice and Advil and he got more and more happy as the day progressed. He was chipper by dinnertime and ate his dinner and remarked about how much better he felt and I was happy.
Mark was a sneezing sniffling coughing mess. He felt a little warm. I didn’t feel disconsolate this time though. Braeden had recovered so quickly I had high hopes. I put Mark to bed early and he was almost instantly asleep. At 3:00 Braeden came in to wake me up to tell me Mark was coughing. I went in to comfort Mark and gave him some Dimetapp. (I’m a big believer in medicine.)
At 4:00, Braeden was again by my bedside, telling me that Mark was throwing up. I said the first thing that comes to every mother’s mind when she’s told her child is throwing up at 4:00 a.m. “Where is he?” Braeden said he was in the bathroom. There was Mark, kneeling neatly in front of the toilet. Now why couldn’t Braeden do that? I sent Braeden to bed with my gratitude and comforted Mark and cleaned him up and held him on my lap for a while. Sweet Mark. There’s just the tiniest part of me that likes it when he’s sick. He’s so snuggly and calm. I told him that he did such a great job making it to the bathroom. Mark always talks in capital letters but he said in a small lowercase voice, “Braeden ran with me.” It’s a heart melting image for me to picture…bleary eyed Braeden, hustling his sick brother down the hall so he can make it in time.
So maybe that’s what Braeden needs, a big brother to run with him. I guess it’s something we all could use.
Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero. --Marc BrownTuesday, December 11, 2007
Mark's Birthday!
My newly minted 5 year old.
Why we had the party at McDonald's
Jackson, Mark, Jacob, Gavin, Hunter, Holden, Payton and Emma
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
So what IS that?
At the ward Christmas party, they asked people to come up and share Christmas traditions. Emma and Braeden went up and Emma said, "Every year our family celebrates Pikku Joulu." The lady with the microphone said, "That sounds nice, what is it?" Emma said, "Pikku Joulu." The lady said, "So what IS that?" Emma said, "Pikku Joulu." I was sending telepathic messages to Braeden to bale out his artless sister and he received them. He grabbed the microphone and explained that Pikku Joulu meant "little Christmas" in Finnish and every year we had a special Christmas family home evening and invited our grandparents.Here are some Pikku Joulu pictures.
Emma's new ornament
Braeden and Emma singing and Mark providing a visual aid.
Emma talking to Grandma Geri
Emma, Grandpa Linn, Braeden, Grandma Geri and Mark
Mark and Grandpa Linn, discussing Christmas bears.
Not a Pikku Joulu picture, but Braeden putting the angel on the tree
Emma's new ornament
Braeden and Emma singing and Mark providing a visual aid.
Emma talking to Grandma Geri
Emma, Grandpa Linn, Braeden, Grandma Geri and Mark
Mark and Grandpa Linn, discussing Christmas bears.
Not a Pikku Joulu picture, but Braeden putting the angel on the tree
Saturday, December 1, 2007
The Last Real Christmas Tree
When I was growing up, my grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, parents and siblings and I drove into the hills and tramped around in the snow and cut down Christmas trees. We would have the requisite snowball fight and I remember my grandma bringing thermoses of hot chocolate and chili. THAT was something to get nostalgic about.
Getting a tree here means driving our minivan—in the rain—to one of the many Christmas tree lots. They’re everywhere. (It is the Evergreen State after all.) We walk around—in the rain—and find a tree. We pay an enormous sum, then tie it to the roof of the van—in the rain—and then drive home.
In the rain.
After Christmas we drag the tree to the curb—in the rain—and pay the boy scouts to come and take it away.
For the past several years I’ve been campaigning for an artificial tree. A tree we can pull out of the box. No rain included. We have one faux tree already. It goes in the living room and we’ve put the real one in the family room. Why not get two artificial trees? I’ll buy scented candles! This deeply offended the romantic sensibilities of our children and Adam.
Now, I’m as sentimental as anyone. I still have ornaments I made in elementary school. (Adam tries to strategically place them on the wall side of the tree each year.) I know they’re ugly but it just wouldn’t be Christmas without the red velvet clumsily wrapped around the Styrofoam ball with rusty pins and sequins holding it all together. I already gave up my Norman Rockwell getting the Christmas tree scenario though. Time to move on.
I campaigned pretty hard last year—we even looked around at different artificial trees. But I was unanimously outvoted.
We did the whole tie the tree to the top of the van in the rain.
About a week after we’d decorated the tree and were enjoying Christmas adorned bliss, I went to our Relief Society party and came home to an unhappy scene.
The tree had fallen over! The water in the tree stand had doused the presents. Adam had rushed the kids’ presents with the melting wrapping paper to the bathtub in our bathroom so the kids wouldn’t see them. Emma had rushed Adam’s presents to her room so he wouldn’t see them. Since there were no presents for me under the tree yet, that wasn’t an issue. (It’s no fun being the mom sometimes.)
Remember in the movie Babe, when the goose keeps saying “Christmas means carnage”? Ornaments and lights were smashed, including the glass Stitch ornament Mark got from Disneyland. He said we would have to go to Disneyland again. I thought we could probably find a replacement ornament here locally.
I felt really bad that I was gone for most of the clean up efforts. Then I remembered that I alone wanted a fake tree. With a fake tree, all of that wouldn't have happened. And then I realized that it would be me rewrapping all the gifts again anyway so I didn’t get out of much.
A few days later, we decided to try again with the tree. We figured we’d done a better job setting the tree up this time. It was more balanced. Less likely to fall. We were decorating it, recapturing the Christmas joy. Without warning, when it was almost decorated, it fell over again. Again we whisked presents away that needed to be re-wrapped (by this time it was mostly sticking them in a gift bag…who cares if it’s Christmas-y or not… stapling it shut, and writing the name on it with a black Sharpie). Again we picked up pieces of broken ornaments.
This time we moved the tree to the front porch. It was in time out for the rest of the season until the boy scouts came—in the rain—to pick it up. We huddled the refugee gifts under the living room tree and Emma left a note for Santa.
“Sorry we don’t have a tree. It fell over twice.”
He understood.
This year, we bought a fake tree. In October. No one argued.
And you’ll be happy to know. The velvet, sequin ornament I made in 5th grade fared very well.
Getting a tree here means driving our minivan—in the rain—to one of the many Christmas tree lots. They’re everywhere. (It is the Evergreen State after all.) We walk around—in the rain—and find a tree. We pay an enormous sum, then tie it to the roof of the van—in the rain—and then drive home.
In the rain.
After Christmas we drag the tree to the curb—in the rain—and pay the boy scouts to come and take it away.
For the past several years I’ve been campaigning for an artificial tree. A tree we can pull out of the box. No rain included. We have one faux tree already. It goes in the living room and we’ve put the real one in the family room. Why not get two artificial trees? I’ll buy scented candles! This deeply offended the romantic sensibilities of our children and Adam.
Now, I’m as sentimental as anyone. I still have ornaments I made in elementary school. (Adam tries to strategically place them on the wall side of the tree each year.) I know they’re ugly but it just wouldn’t be Christmas without the red velvet clumsily wrapped around the Styrofoam ball with rusty pins and sequins holding it all together. I already gave up my Norman Rockwell getting the Christmas tree scenario though. Time to move on.
I campaigned pretty hard last year—we even looked around at different artificial trees. But I was unanimously outvoted.
We did the whole tie the tree to the top of the van in the rain.
About a week after we’d decorated the tree and were enjoying Christmas adorned bliss, I went to our Relief Society party and came home to an unhappy scene.
The tree had fallen over! The water in the tree stand had doused the presents. Adam had rushed the kids’ presents with the melting wrapping paper to the bathtub in our bathroom so the kids wouldn’t see them. Emma had rushed Adam’s presents to her room so he wouldn’t see them. Since there were no presents for me under the tree yet, that wasn’t an issue. (It’s no fun being the mom sometimes.)
Remember in the movie Babe, when the goose keeps saying “Christmas means carnage”? Ornaments and lights were smashed, including the glass Stitch ornament Mark got from Disneyland. He said we would have to go to Disneyland again. I thought we could probably find a replacement ornament here locally.
I felt really bad that I was gone for most of the clean up efforts. Then I remembered that I alone wanted a fake tree. With a fake tree, all of that wouldn't have happened. And then I realized that it would be me rewrapping all the gifts again anyway so I didn’t get out of much.
A few days later, we decided to try again with the tree. We figured we’d done a better job setting the tree up this time. It was more balanced. Less likely to fall. We were decorating it, recapturing the Christmas joy. Without warning, when it was almost decorated, it fell over again. Again we whisked presents away that needed to be re-wrapped (by this time it was mostly sticking them in a gift bag…who cares if it’s Christmas-y or not… stapling it shut, and writing the name on it with a black Sharpie). Again we picked up pieces of broken ornaments.
This time we moved the tree to the front porch. It was in time out for the rest of the season until the boy scouts came—in the rain—to pick it up. We huddled the refugee gifts under the living room tree and Emma left a note for Santa.
“Sorry we don’t have a tree. It fell over twice.”
He understood.
This year, we bought a fake tree. In October. No one argued.
And you’ll be happy to know. The velvet, sequin ornament I made in 5th grade fared very well.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
I Don't Want to Cheer Up, I Want To Cheer Down
That's what Emma said when she was an indignant 2 year and I told her to cheer up. Tonight was a cheer down sort of night.
We dropped Adam off at the airport. He’s off to London and we needed cheering. We went to IKEA. I didn’t get lost on the way there (which almost never happens). That was the last thing that went well.
IKEA was very crowded. Maybe as crowded as I’ve seen it. I checked Emma and Mark into Smalland, the play place for kids 3-9. Braeden’s too old. That took some time and then Braeden and I picked our way through the crowded store. Braeden wanted to push the cart and he drives like, well, a 10-year-old boy. About the second or third time he ran into me I took away his car keys. Then Braeden started to complain. He’s as much fun to shop with as a 10-year-old boy too. It was Boring and Not Interesting and when were we going to eat? I kept reminding him that it was in the 3:00 hour and dinner was not soon. He said, “That’s OK. We can eat now and have dinner later too.” Not really the point I was getting at.
I was almost to the end of the clogged IKEA maze, to the place where they have the candles and vases and plants. My beeper went off. The beeper that means 1) you are a horrible mother and lost track of time and it’s been over an hour and you haven’t picked up your kids or 2) you are a horrible mother and your child is being kicked out of Smalland because he’s been hitting other children. I have found myself in both scenarios on previous IKEA visits. So I sheepishly swam upstream. We went back through the textiles and rugs, taking the shortcut to avoid the lamps. We pushed past annoyed people who wondered why we were going the wrong way through the store. We pushed past knowing mothers who knew the only two reasons why the beeper was going off. Some of them looked rueful. They’ve been there too. Some of them just stepped out of my way and I looked them in the face, daring them to sneer.
We’d been only gone 30 minutes so I thought Mark was probably hitting. Again. I thought we were past that. Turned out Mark was playing with some other boys and Emma was standing there looking mournful. She had been bored. I tried to explain the whole walking against traffic with the Here Goes The Bad Mother siren going off but she looked miserable enough and started to cry so I gave up. I put my arm around her.
“You can always call for me and I’ll come for you.” She’d seen the look on my face though. I’m not sure she believed me. She cheered up enough later to start acting goofy with her brothers. Kind of a good news/bad news sort of thing.
We fought our way through the store and got to the end where there were displays of Christmas decorations. I know we’re not to Halloween yet but you can hardly expect me (or IKEA) to get excited about Halloween decorations. I was pushing along through the displays, trying to keep Mark’s arms and legs inside the ride until we came to a complete stop. A woman with a look in her eyes I’ve only seen at ward dinners when the serving line is open or at Costco when there’s a good sample, shoved a cart directly in my path so I couldn’t go further. She then cut around in front of that cart, darting to a shorter checkout line. I wasn’t even intending to go to the checkout line yet. By this time I’m sure all my frustration was evident on my (otherwise always pleasant and cheerful) face. Her daughter, who was following behind, looked ashamed and moved the obstacle out of my path. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. I smiled. Maybe the entire world wasn’t bad after all.
I eventually joined one of the long checkout lines. Mark, of course, had to go to the bathroom. Emma volunteered to take him. Why did I think that was going to end well? Soon I looked over and saw them fighting. (Actually coming to blows.) They were done with the bathroom and Mark had decided he was going to wait for me out in the old parking lot on one of the display couches (it’s hard to explain unless you’ve been to IKEA in Seattle maybe). Emma was trying to prevent this action. Without me even asking (and I appreciate that, Braeden!) Braeden ran over and separated the two and I tried to pretend like I was neither responsible nor related to the group. Emma came back as Braeden’s messenger to see if they could all go out and sit on the couches. It took me less than 2 seconds to agree. I finished my purchase and loaded the van and we were off. We were going to eat at IKEA but by the time we were done, I was done with IKEA. There was no way I was going to fight through any more crowds. We would go to the Old Spaghetti Factory. We would dine like kings on spaghetti with mizithra cheese. We would be happy.
Foolish, foolish Thelma. We got to the Old Spaghetti Factory about 5:00. That’s early for dinner. We’d be seated right away. Then we could go home. Relax.
HA!
The entire lobby was full. Incredible. Because I had been sure every single person in Washington and perhaps Oregon too was at IKEA today. So we waited outside. It was chilly but not too bad. As the minutes ticked by, it got increasingly chillier. I kept telling Mark and Braeden to stop climbing on the outside of the building. I kept settling fights between who got to hold the beeper to tell us when our table was ready.
I kept listening to the couple next to me. They seemed to be on a date. The man was telling the woman that the polar ice cap had decreased 85% this year. “Wow,” she said, impressively.
He said, “Yeah, and that’s the earth’s air conditioning so we’re in trouble.”
She looked really concerned. He added, “My mom wondered why I bought an SUV if I’m worried about Global Warming. Like one SUV is going to make a difference! It’s not about the cars individuals drive. It’s about all the cars. It’s about a major financial commitment.”
He started to say that he would be happy to buy a hybrid SUV if they could come up with one he could afford when their beeper went off and they got a table.
So then I was back to telling Braeden and Mark to stop climbing.
We finally gave up and went inside. It was freezing. We’d already committed 45 minutes to our dinner and I wasn’t about to leave. Braeden went up to ask how much longer. 15 minutes. We talked about cutting our losses and going to McDonald’s across the street but we were already in pretty deep. We decided to see it through. Mark got on the floor and curled up in a ball with another little boy under a couch. Braeden and Emma and I huddled together against the jostling crowd and finally! We got the call! After an hour we were being seated.
We sat unattended for a long time at our table. Hey! We weren’t standing in the crowded lobby! We’ll happily just sit here. Then we were hungry. A guy came with water. We drank it. Nothing else happened.
Then the single most entertaining waiter in America burst on the scene. He literally jogged to our table and was panting from the exertion. Between serious gasps for air he said, “My… name… is… Michael… I’m… so… so… sorry… that… I… have…made…you…wait.” I think we were all just staring at him with our mouths wide open. He was extremely winded…and sweaty. He went on to explain in his breathless way that they were having trouble keeping up in the kitchen and our order would take about 35 minutes and he was trying to help in the kitchen. He looked at me expectantly.
I said, “Well, OK. But keep the bread coming.” He assured me he would and he came darting out with some bread. He took our orders and occasionally came running over to bring us something. Braeden and Emma decided that there was no problem in the kitchen he was helping with but that he was watching a TV show and trying to be a waiter during the ads.
Whenever Mark gets bored he has to go to the bathroom so we were soon making a trip. I left Braeden and Emma at the helm. When I got back they had a new theory about Michael. He was running on a treadmill that was powering the ovens in the kitchen. That was why he was so tired. Emma said she was afraid he wasn’t going to make it. She pantomimed for us Michael running on a treadmill then collapsing with his tongue lolling to the side. On cue, Michael showed up and threw our salads and soups on the table. He said, “I’m… going… to… go… help… in… the… kitchen… to… see… if… I… can… get… your… orders… done… faster…” Then he dashed away. It was all we could do to keep from laughing until he was back into the kitchen.
Michael was either watching his show or running on the treadmill because another waiter delivered our dinners. He was calm and moved at a normal pace and it seemed like slow motion.
Michael came tearing out later and I asked him for a to go box, the check, and some spumoni ice cream all around. I really should have stuck to one direction at a time. He brought us the ice cream. HEAPING scoops of ice cream. He said he’d printed the wrong check so he’d have to come back with that and he’d forgotten the to go box and that seemed like the end of the world. I was worried about his blood pressure. I told him it was OK. After he left, Emma indicated the big scoop of ice cream and said, “Another good thing about Michael.”
He came back and threw down several to go boxes. Came again later with the check. I pulled out my credit card immediately and sent him on his way, not sure when I’d see him again. He came back, with my copy to sign. He had charged my credit card $55 when our dinner had only come to $20 something. Of course he had already darted away so I had to go after him. I felt bad. Michael was really growing on me and like I said, I was worried about him. He promised me he’d fix it and we never saw him again but the manager came out and told us she’d voided the bill and only charged the correct amount and gave me her card in case there was any further problem.
We left.
It was 7:20.
Two exasperating experiences at two of my favorite go to, sure-to-make-me-happy places. I’ll give them another chance. Maybe. But not on the same night again. And not on the night Adam goes to London and I need cheering up. I can’t take the disappointment.
I’d better stick to baths. Sylvia Plath said, “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.”
I agree Sylvia. And that’s where I’m headed now.
We dropped Adam off at the airport. He’s off to London and we needed cheering. We went to IKEA. I didn’t get lost on the way there (which almost never happens). That was the last thing that went well.
IKEA was very crowded. Maybe as crowded as I’ve seen it. I checked Emma and Mark into Smalland, the play place for kids 3-9. Braeden’s too old. That took some time and then Braeden and I picked our way through the crowded store. Braeden wanted to push the cart and he drives like, well, a 10-year-old boy. About the second or third time he ran into me I took away his car keys. Then Braeden started to complain. He’s as much fun to shop with as a 10-year-old boy too. It was Boring and Not Interesting and when were we going to eat? I kept reminding him that it was in the 3:00 hour and dinner was not soon. He said, “That’s OK. We can eat now and have dinner later too.” Not really the point I was getting at.
I was almost to the end of the clogged IKEA maze, to the place where they have the candles and vases and plants. My beeper went off. The beeper that means 1) you are a horrible mother and lost track of time and it’s been over an hour and you haven’t picked up your kids or 2) you are a horrible mother and your child is being kicked out of Smalland because he’s been hitting other children. I have found myself in both scenarios on previous IKEA visits. So I sheepishly swam upstream. We went back through the textiles and rugs, taking the shortcut to avoid the lamps. We pushed past annoyed people who wondered why we were going the wrong way through the store. We pushed past knowing mothers who knew the only two reasons why the beeper was going off. Some of them looked rueful. They’ve been there too. Some of them just stepped out of my way and I looked them in the face, daring them to sneer.
We’d been only gone 30 minutes so I thought Mark was probably hitting. Again. I thought we were past that. Turned out Mark was playing with some other boys and Emma was standing there looking mournful. She had been bored. I tried to explain the whole walking against traffic with the Here Goes The Bad Mother siren going off but she looked miserable enough and started to cry so I gave up. I put my arm around her.
“You can always call for me and I’ll come for you.” She’d seen the look on my face though. I’m not sure she believed me. She cheered up enough later to start acting goofy with her brothers. Kind of a good news/bad news sort of thing.
We fought our way through the store and got to the end where there were displays of Christmas decorations. I know we’re not to Halloween yet but you can hardly expect me (or IKEA) to get excited about Halloween decorations. I was pushing along through the displays, trying to keep Mark’s arms and legs inside the ride until we came to a complete stop. A woman with a look in her eyes I’ve only seen at ward dinners when the serving line is open or at Costco when there’s a good sample, shoved a cart directly in my path so I couldn’t go further. She then cut around in front of that cart, darting to a shorter checkout line. I wasn’t even intending to go to the checkout line yet. By this time I’m sure all my frustration was evident on my (otherwise always pleasant and cheerful) face. Her daughter, who was following behind, looked ashamed and moved the obstacle out of my path. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. I smiled. Maybe the entire world wasn’t bad after all.
I eventually joined one of the long checkout lines. Mark, of course, had to go to the bathroom. Emma volunteered to take him. Why did I think that was going to end well? Soon I looked over and saw them fighting. (Actually coming to blows.) They were done with the bathroom and Mark had decided he was going to wait for me out in the old parking lot on one of the display couches (it’s hard to explain unless you’ve been to IKEA in Seattle maybe). Emma was trying to prevent this action. Without me even asking (and I appreciate that, Braeden!) Braeden ran over and separated the two and I tried to pretend like I was neither responsible nor related to the group. Emma came back as Braeden’s messenger to see if they could all go out and sit on the couches. It took me less than 2 seconds to agree. I finished my purchase and loaded the van and we were off. We were going to eat at IKEA but by the time we were done, I was done with IKEA. There was no way I was going to fight through any more crowds. We would go to the Old Spaghetti Factory. We would dine like kings on spaghetti with mizithra cheese. We would be happy.
Foolish, foolish Thelma. We got to the Old Spaghetti Factory about 5:00. That’s early for dinner. We’d be seated right away. Then we could go home. Relax.
HA!
The entire lobby was full. Incredible. Because I had been sure every single person in Washington and perhaps Oregon too was at IKEA today. So we waited outside. It was chilly but not too bad. As the minutes ticked by, it got increasingly chillier. I kept telling Mark and Braeden to stop climbing on the outside of the building. I kept settling fights between who got to hold the beeper to tell us when our table was ready.
I kept listening to the couple next to me. They seemed to be on a date. The man was telling the woman that the polar ice cap had decreased 85% this year. “Wow,” she said, impressively.
He said, “Yeah, and that’s the earth’s air conditioning so we’re in trouble.”
She looked really concerned. He added, “My mom wondered why I bought an SUV if I’m worried about Global Warming. Like one SUV is going to make a difference! It’s not about the cars individuals drive. It’s about all the cars. It’s about a major financial commitment.”
He started to say that he would be happy to buy a hybrid SUV if they could come up with one he could afford when their beeper went off and they got a table.
So then I was back to telling Braeden and Mark to stop climbing.
We finally gave up and went inside. It was freezing. We’d already committed 45 minutes to our dinner and I wasn’t about to leave. Braeden went up to ask how much longer. 15 minutes. We talked about cutting our losses and going to McDonald’s across the street but we were already in pretty deep. We decided to see it through. Mark got on the floor and curled up in a ball with another little boy under a couch. Braeden and Emma and I huddled together against the jostling crowd and finally! We got the call! After an hour we were being seated.
We sat unattended for a long time at our table. Hey! We weren’t standing in the crowded lobby! We’ll happily just sit here. Then we were hungry. A guy came with water. We drank it. Nothing else happened.
Then the single most entertaining waiter in America burst on the scene. He literally jogged to our table and was panting from the exertion. Between serious gasps for air he said, “My… name… is… Michael… I’m… so… so… sorry… that… I… have…made…you…wait.” I think we were all just staring at him with our mouths wide open. He was extremely winded…and sweaty. He went on to explain in his breathless way that they were having trouble keeping up in the kitchen and our order would take about 35 minutes and he was trying to help in the kitchen. He looked at me expectantly.
I said, “Well, OK. But keep the bread coming.” He assured me he would and he came darting out with some bread. He took our orders and occasionally came running over to bring us something. Braeden and Emma decided that there was no problem in the kitchen he was helping with but that he was watching a TV show and trying to be a waiter during the ads.
Whenever Mark gets bored he has to go to the bathroom so we were soon making a trip. I left Braeden and Emma at the helm. When I got back they had a new theory about Michael. He was running on a treadmill that was powering the ovens in the kitchen. That was why he was so tired. Emma said she was afraid he wasn’t going to make it. She pantomimed for us Michael running on a treadmill then collapsing with his tongue lolling to the side. On cue, Michael showed up and threw our salads and soups on the table. He said, “I’m… going… to… go… help… in… the… kitchen… to… see… if… I… can… get… your… orders… done… faster…” Then he dashed away. It was all we could do to keep from laughing until he was back into the kitchen.
Michael was either watching his show or running on the treadmill because another waiter delivered our dinners. He was calm and moved at a normal pace and it seemed like slow motion.
Michael came tearing out later and I asked him for a to go box, the check, and some spumoni ice cream all around. I really should have stuck to one direction at a time. He brought us the ice cream. HEAPING scoops of ice cream. He said he’d printed the wrong check so he’d have to come back with that and he’d forgotten the to go box and that seemed like the end of the world. I was worried about his blood pressure. I told him it was OK. After he left, Emma indicated the big scoop of ice cream and said, “Another good thing about Michael.”
He came back and threw down several to go boxes. Came again later with the check. I pulled out my credit card immediately and sent him on his way, not sure when I’d see him again. He came back, with my copy to sign. He had charged my credit card $55 when our dinner had only come to $20 something. Of course he had already darted away so I had to go after him. I felt bad. Michael was really growing on me and like I said, I was worried about him. He promised me he’d fix it and we never saw him again but the manager came out and told us she’d voided the bill and only charged the correct amount and gave me her card in case there was any further problem.
We left.
It was 7:20.
Two exasperating experiences at two of my favorite go to, sure-to-make-me-happy places. I’ll give them another chance. Maybe. But not on the same night again. And not on the night Adam goes to London and I need cheering up. I can’t take the disappointment.
I’d better stick to baths. Sylvia Plath said, “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.”
I agree Sylvia. And that’s where I’m headed now.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Let Me Tell You About Ann Cannon
I guess the story really begins with Louise Plummer. When I was a sophomore at BYU, I cautiously walked into a creative writing class that she taught, knowing I didn’t really belong. Yes, I had filled notebooks with incredibly silly stories but that didn’t make me a writer and I shouldn’t be in a writing class.
After that class I was still the college sophomore that looked so similar to everyone else on campus (my dad spent most of my graduation, without success, trying to figure out which girl with my exact shade of brown hair was me seated on the de Jong Concert Hall stage). Inside though, I was a different person. First, I loved Louise (she wanted to be called Louise and I loved that too). I felt exhilarated by the class and itching to get home and write my first assignment.
The elation continued through every class taught by Louise that I took. I was excited to write and excited to go to her class. I started viewing things through the eyes of how I would write about them. I wanted to take every class from Louise. I wanted to be her neighbor, her sister, her daughter. I wanted to BE Louise.
I married Adam and he knows me, and my obsessions, well so he suggested to my sister that I would like Louise’s new book for Christmas that first year we were married. Olivia had Louise sign it and she wrote “To Thelma, One of my favorite people.”
My heart still sings. In a fire, I would save that book after the family pictures but before the financial documents.
So years later, at BYU Women’s Conference, Louise Plummer was teaching a class. Along with Ann Cannon. I didn’t know who Ann Cannon was but that didn’t matter. Louise!
I went to the class before Louise’s class in the Smith Field House so I would be sure to have a good seat. I had Marianne with me and I clutched her knee when I saw Louise. My heart was still singing. I laughed and felt the similar elation of those college writing classes as I listened. And I loved Ann Cannon too. I learned that she writes a column for the Deseret News. I went home and read it on the internet. (Hooray for the internet!)
So that was two years ago and I’ve read the column every week. I love it. I email my favorite ones to Adam. I so admire good writing.
Then yesterday, I was looking at my blog and noticed a comment. It was by Ann Cannon! My first thought was that maybe Adam was playing a trick (ha,ha very funny Adam) and had impersonated Ann Cannon. Then I thought that’s ridiculous. Adam doesn’t do that kind of thing. I called Adam at work. “Did you email Ann Cannon?”
“Maybe…”
I could have died. Did he write it like it was from me? (No. Good thing because I really would have died.) He didn’t seem to really “remember” much of what he wrote which is troubling. I don’t want to be the pathetic untalented writer soliciting real writers to read what I’ve written. But still. Ann Cannon commented on what I wrote. And she liked it. I told Adam never to do anything like that again. But Ann Cannon!
I love that guy.
After that class I was still the college sophomore that looked so similar to everyone else on campus (my dad spent most of my graduation, without success, trying to figure out which girl with my exact shade of brown hair was me seated on the de Jong Concert Hall stage). Inside though, I was a different person. First, I loved Louise (she wanted to be called Louise and I loved that too). I felt exhilarated by the class and itching to get home and write my first assignment.
The elation continued through every class taught by Louise that I took. I was excited to write and excited to go to her class. I started viewing things through the eyes of how I would write about them. I wanted to take every class from Louise. I wanted to be her neighbor, her sister, her daughter. I wanted to BE Louise.
I married Adam and he knows me, and my obsessions, well so he suggested to my sister that I would like Louise’s new book for Christmas that first year we were married. Olivia had Louise sign it and she wrote “To Thelma, One of my favorite people.”
My heart still sings. In a fire, I would save that book after the family pictures but before the financial documents.
So years later, at BYU Women’s Conference, Louise Plummer was teaching a class. Along with Ann Cannon. I didn’t know who Ann Cannon was but that didn’t matter. Louise!
I went to the class before Louise’s class in the Smith Field House so I would be sure to have a good seat. I had Marianne with me and I clutched her knee when I saw Louise. My heart was still singing. I laughed and felt the similar elation of those college writing classes as I listened. And I loved Ann Cannon too. I learned that she writes a column for the Deseret News. I went home and read it on the internet. (Hooray for the internet!)
So that was two years ago and I’ve read the column every week. I love it. I email my favorite ones to Adam. I so admire good writing.
Then yesterday, I was looking at my blog and noticed a comment. It was by Ann Cannon! My first thought was that maybe Adam was playing a trick (ha,ha very funny Adam) and had impersonated Ann Cannon. Then I thought that’s ridiculous. Adam doesn’t do that kind of thing. I called Adam at work. “Did you email Ann Cannon?”
“Maybe…”
I could have died. Did he write it like it was from me? (No. Good thing because I really would have died.) He didn’t seem to really “remember” much of what he wrote which is troubling. I don’t want to be the pathetic untalented writer soliciting real writers to read what I’ve written. But still. Ann Cannon commented on what I wrote. And she liked it. I told Adam never to do anything like that again. But Ann Cannon!
I love that guy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)