A Child's Gift

I prefer the signs of affection my family shows throughout the year to Hallmark holidays like Valentine's and Mother's Day.  The sentiments are given freely and more meaningful than cards.  This Mother's Day, though, was different.

My third son woke me up Saturday morning to give me his gift.  Whether he didn't know the holiday was Sunday or couldn't wait that long, it didn't matter.  He was ready to share his hand painted tile.  It came wrapped in tissue paper with the inscription, 'You're the best mommy ever'.

"I used every color available," he said proudly.  It was a nice way to wake up.

When Sunday came it didn't seem like a holiday.  It was business as usual - Sunday school, a birthday party and a baseball game.  I was exhausted and limped along, barely functioning.  So it was Monday when I returned to my desk and saw the pile of unopened affection the boys had given to me after school on Friday with the admonition I had to wait until Mother's Day.

I opened the cards one by one.  When I came to my second son's I stopped.  He had written a poem:

Untitled

My mom is like a highlighter

Who highlights all the good things on a bad day

Her marker never runs out of ink

And she listens to every thing I say!

My mom is like a bird

Who soars above the clouds

She lets me stay outside 'til six

Then go back inside the house.

My mom is like a flower

Whose petals never drop

Then another flower blooms

Now her love for me won't stop!

I was moved by the genuine expression of love, impressed by his use of metaphor and proud of a propensity for writing I didn't know he had.  He had given me the best gift of all - the recognition that children and their affection are gifts in their own right. 

A Chuck E Cheesey Mother's Day

Just last week I told a friend how fortunate I'd been to have attended only two birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese these past 11 years.  I jinxed myself.


The envelope was sitting in my son's cubby at preschool.  Pleased that one of his classmates thought to invite him, I opened the envelope containing a one-two punch.  A party.  On Mother's Day.  At Chuck E. Cheese.  


Tinkerbell looked up at me from her glittery purple flower perch.  "You wouldn't decline, would you?"  Ugh.  Fairies are supposed to make wishes come true not deliver guilt trips. 
  
My son will be thrilled to go, I thought.  Arcade games, pizza, cake and neon colored candy are a kid's dream.  In a moment of insanity, or because I had recently read stories about kids birthday parties where no one showed up, I replied "yes."  I got punked by Tinkerbell.


Chuck E. Cheese parties are as much fun as going to the dentist.  They even offer the same cheap plastic toy prizes.  While I can't stand the place, I conceded the mom was smart to host the party outside of her home.  Who wants fossilized cheesestick nubs under their couch or to sweep up pulverized goldfish?  That soda spill?  The syrup will make the carpet fibers more durable because it's not your carpet.  The noise? With any luck your ears will ring long enough to mute the sounds of the guaranteed overstimulation-and-too-much-sugar meltdown.


After 45 minutes of Skee-ball and basketball I was ready to go but the pizza and cake had yet to be served.  Cursing myself for being punctual, I meandered over to the table where a couple parents sat.  Conversation, which normally comes easily for me, was stilted because I was tired and irritated.  They were lovely people, and meeting them was the best part of the afternoon.  I wish I could have been fully present.


At last the program began.  Our teenaged party hostess tried, but was unable, to look cool while leading a "Happy Birthday!" cheer competition between tables.  We were then greeted by the life-sized mouse, waving, high-fiving and thumbs-upping his way around wary four year olds. Videos of saccharine preteen actors riffing guitars blinked on the screen behind him.  Had Dante lived in the 21st century, this forced cheer would have been one of his seven levels of hell.


Two hours and cake later, we were sprung.  I am glad that my son had a good time with his friends but I will never again sacrifice Mother's Day.  And the next time the kids are invited to Chuck E. Cheese their father will have to take them because I'm now lactose intolerant.

End-of-School-o-Coaster

The end of the school year is a roller coaster.  In April I step into a car that cranks to the top of a steep hill.  I am overwhelmed by what lies ahead.

May starts the plunge.  I hurtle through field trips, final projects, volunteer duties, teacher appreciation week, school carnival, international night, choral concert, field day and thank you gifts.

As I accelerate, I grip the bar, plant my feet, and close my eyes.  The bottom of each drop is a chance to regroup, a few second respite to focus on the next hill.  Enjoy this, I think.  I do, a little, but the activities, scheduled so close together, have a concussive effect.  Oops, I missed the deadline for [insert sale/event here] and did I already write a check for that?  The coaster zips along, the wheels threatening derailment as they undulate on the track.

The effort required to keep up with four kids' school lives is titanic.  The amount of paper to process - reading logs, permission slips, and flyers for special events - is daunting.  Our elementary school has a terrific community in which the kids want to participate and for that, I'm grateful.  If we're in the amusement park, we may as well ride all the rides.

At the end of the week I say TGIF knowing that weekends with soccer, baseball and birthday parties require more scheduling than weekdays.  Without Outlook Calendar and carpools I would be a vampire in daylight.  


So I hang on until the second week of June when the school year ends as gently as it began.  I'll get off the coaster, catch my breath, and think that wasn't so bad.  Released from schedules, the kids and I will welcome summer vacation and its unscripted adventures.  

Getting Out the Door

There must be a Law of Physics that states the larger the family, the harder it is to get out the door.  Its corollary is that, no matter how early the family wakes up, it'll still run late.

My son had to be to church by 9:30am to make his First Holy Communion.  No sweat, I thought, we leave earlier than that on school days.  Besides, I had prepared for Saturday a little bit every day that week.  I bought sandwiches and potato salad at Costco, ordered the cake, and assembled the boys' dress clothes.  Everything was under control.

The first sign that they weren't came Friday evening.  "When is the cake going to be ready?" my husband wondered aloud.  Cake?  Oh, the one I was supposed to have picked up earlier that morning? I raced to the the bakery five minutes before it closed.  Crisis averted.

On Saturday I was up before the alarm.  Relishing the productive quiet that comes with being the first one awake, I ground coffee beans to start the life support machine.  Dishes that had dried overnight on the counter found cabinets and then I arranged sandwiches and strawberries on trays for lunch.

Party prep complete, I set a plate of breakfast pastries on the table.  The icing glistened in the sun, each glimmer a message.  Eat almond claw.  Drink coffee.  Read paper.  I was Dorothy in a field of poppies.

When I looked up the wall clock said 8:30.  Yikes!  I ran upstair to shower.  As I put on makeup, the youngest boy barged into the bathroom.

"Mom, where are my dress clothes?"
"Hanging in your closet."

"But that's too high for me," he whined.

He was right.  Why hadn't I put them on his dresser?  

The second oldest barged in along with his other younger brother.
"Mom, where are my clothes?" they asked.

"In your closet!" Didn't anyone get the memo?

"Mom, this coat's too small!" the oldest called out from his bedroom.  

Please, no, I thought to myself, I can't do anything about it now.  I finished getting dressed and went to assess the situation.  The coat was a bit tight but he didn't look like a dork. 

"Why don't you try on your brother's?" I offered.
"No!  I like this one," his brother refused.
 The coat would have to do.

"Mom, I can't find my dress shoes," called the second child.
"In your closet!" I sang.
"Where's my suit?" my husband asked.
"In the other closet," I responded through clenched teeth.

The bedroom clock said 9:05.  My heart sank.  We had 15 minutes to get there and I had yet to dry my hair.  In my head I saw a flight attendant demonstrating how to use an oxygen mask.  I had to finish getting ready.

A few minutes later I checked on the youngest.  My husband was helping him with his pants.  "Did you see these have stains?" he said.
"Here, wear these," I handed him a pair of khakis from the closet and ran downstairs to see about the others.

In the living room the boys were putting on socks and belts.  One of them wasn't wearing a tie.
"Doesn't one of you have another tie in a drawer somewhere?"  I asked as I ran back upstairs, bedroom to bedroom, dresser to dresser, shifting socks and underwear hoping to get lucky.  Nope.

Back in the living room the oldest was sitting on the couch, ready to go, with his belt cinched around his sport coat.
"The belt goes through the loops on your pants!"

The second oldest complained how uncomfortable it was to have his shirt tucked into his pants.  I could see that his pants were so tight that the pockets gaped. 

"Tuck in your shirt, not your sport coat."

Wow, these kids need to dress up more often.

Before we loaded into the van, I took pictures of the boys.  None of them had combed their hair, one was wearing sneakers and another was minus a tie, but they looked handsome.  We arrived at the church ten minutes behind schedule but in time for the First Communicant to take pictures with friends.

The boys were well behaved during Mass and the party was lovely.  I couldn't have asked for better.  Getting out the door was the hardest part.

The Tiger in My Basement

Meeting the Washington Capitals players reminded me of the first time I asked a professional athlete for an autograph.  My dad tended bar at Porter Street Station during the late '70s and early '80s, a club known for Disco Night Fridays.  Located a few blocks from Tiger Stadium in downtown Detroit, Porter Street was popular with Tiger players, who would sneak in the back door to avoid the crowds.


One afternoon while running errands, Dad and I stopped in.  "Come with me," he beckoned and we approached a table where two men were eating lunch.  "This is my daughter, Heather."  I sucked the room's oxygen into my lungs with a gasp.  It was pitcher Dave Rozema and right fielder Kirk Gibson!  "Can I have your autograph?" I squeaked, unable to exhale.  Amused by my embarrassment, Gibson and Rozema signed drink coasters.  I felt both victorious and idiotic.


I had been playing softball for close to 10 years.  Other than pitcher and first base, I could play any position, but my favorite was catcher because I had an enormous crush on Lance Parrish. 

Autographed poster of
Detroit Tigers Catcher Lance Parrish

I came close to pummeling a teammate when she grabbed the #13 jersey before I could.  Head and shoulders sagging over the loss of an intangible source of strength, I reached for the next shirt on the pile, #9.  My coach leaned in and remarked, "You know, that was Al Kaline's number."  Ha!  Did you hear that, Number Stealer?  I got a Hall-of-Famer!  I wore nine the remainder of my softball days.  Lance would understand.


In the end I got my man.  For my 13th birthday Dad gave me a framed autographed poster of Lance standing next to a Bengal Tiger, the words "Tigerrr Catcher" along the bottom.  My heart fluttered when I read the inscription.   He signed it To Heather, My very best wishes!


Decades later Lance resides in my basement laundry room because I don't know where to hang him.  And because my husband hates it.  Whenever I considered moving him along (the poster, not my husband) I would remember why I loved baseball.  Ernie Harwell on the radio.  George Kell drawling to Al Kaline on TV, "Eeewwww, look out, Al!" when a ball would sail foul.  The Boys of Summer.  Sparky Anderson.  The 1984 World Series.


Those were good years with great memories.  Lance, will you please pass the detergent?

Hooky for the Home Team

For some it's the college bowl games in January or the Superbowl in February.  For others, it's March Madness.   I look forward to late April, the end of hockey's regular season and the start of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

Playoff hockey is intense.  The play is so fast that I don't dare look away from the TV because I could miss a critical play.  The split-second shifts in momentum leave my heart racing long after the last siren sounds.  It's a rush.


This time of year my husband resigns himself to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ramen noodles for dinner.  Our bathrooms may be dirtier than a truck stop's, but I do fold the laundry, and then only because I can do it in front of the TV.  He learned the game to watch it with me otherwise he'd be a lonely man.

So, there we were last night, the entire family watching the Capitals play the NY Rangers.  Bedtime had come and gone.  The youngest child lie on the floor, fighting to stay awake.  When the Caps won in regulation, everyone cheered, and I hatched a plan I called the Red Surprise.

The next morning I said, "Wear red today."
"Why?" they asked in unison.
"If I told you it wouldn't be a surprise."

Later that morning I collected the kids from school and we drove to Kettler Capitals Iceplex to watch the Washington Capitals practice skate.

There was a respectable fan turnout but the rink was not as crowded as I had feared.  Having never purposely sought autographs, I spoke with several veteran "stalkers" who offered tips on where to approach players.  We found our post and waited.  Our patience was rewarded.

When the first player, Nick Backstrom, left the iceplex, the kids hung back.  Feeling their eyes on me, I approached him and asked if he would sign their Capitals hats.  He politely obliged.  They watched a tired Michael Neuvirth and John Erskine sign and became excited.  Then came Karl Alzner.  

It's difficult to recognize players without their uniforms, even more so when they sport traditional playoff beards and don't look like official photos.  After three trial runs the boys approached Karl on their own.  When one of them asked if he was John Carlson, he laughed and said, "No, I'm not that Carl," and then graciously posed for a photo.

The boys talked about it all the way back to school, where they shared their spontaneous adventure and autographs with classmates.  When we watch Game 3 tonight they'll look for their new heroes and cheer loudly.  Skipping school for a few hours was worth the memories made.