Several people have told me to write a book. That’s very flattering (thank you, my friends). As I said recently, I actually have done exactly that, but mostly, people who tell me to write a book are suggesting that I take the blog and “turn it into” a book. Again, thank you; it’s kind to hear that sort of comment. Here’s the thing about publishing a non-fiction book. You actually have to have something to say and if you have some credentials to back up what you have to say, well, that helps a lot too. Publishers (and agents) don’t really want to hear that Deb has an idea for a book based on the natterings from her little blog. As brilliant as I think my … er, musings are (!), I have to agree with them.
I’m working from a Starbucks today, looking at a little girl, maybe 4, who is shopping for a snack. Her hand wanders above the options in the case, lighting for a moment on one item and then moving to another, like a dragonfly hovering over the hot grass on a summer day. She’s not sure what she wants and, I’d guess from her size and the way she’s interacting, that she’s not yet a reader, making the choosing even more complex. The pictures on the packages don’t really represent the contents, at least not at Starbucks. She continues to look. Then, suddenly, Mom has said no. She nods, sadly, and walks away, with one last look back. The longing on her face makes my heart ache a little, as I flash back to similar moments with my own children.
Last moments happen all the time. We don’t note them. How could we? They become last moments in our memories; or more accurately, we note that we don’t do “that thing” anymore and we wonder when we stopped. When did you stop tucking your child into bed at night? When did you last sit beside the tub while they splashed? What was the last book you read aloud while a child eagerly turned the pages or nudged you as you dozed over the words, exhausted from a long day at work but happy to snuggle them in the curve of your arm?
My son was sick earlier this week and I fussed over him, taking his temperature and insisting that he lay on the couch quietly. It made me realize that I don’t know when it all stopped, when he claimed his childhood independence, when his various “I can do it myself” moments stopped being moments and became the norm. It doesn’t make me long to be a grandmother or wish I had more kids. It makes me wish I had appreciated those moments more … as they were happening. It all seems so permanent, when you are in the middle of it, and then it’s all over and you can’t recapture it, except maybe as a flash of memory while you’re sitting in Starbucks.
I learned recently that … hmm, we’ll say “someone” for anonymity’s sake … that someone I know doesn’t eat dinner with their children. The kids eat together in front of the TV. The parents eat later because it’s more relaxing. First, I’m not judging or criticizing. I won’t be one of those people who has all the parenting answers. If anything, I think I could use a primer. But it did make me think back to our own family dinners. We almost always ate together. Sometimes, meal time caused indigestion — and not because of the food — but just as often, we joked or played games or had meaningful (or ridiculous) discussions.
Speech days were one of my favorites. Ken would pick a topic and the kids had to stand at the end of the table and present off-the-cuff remarks, sometimes changing the topic in the middle because kids can pivot better than politicians. And then they had to take questions. We did this a couple times a month for years. Ken was the master of ceremonies and I was the audience, sometimes misbehaving and getting called to order, sometimes asking questions to keep the speaker going. Ken started this activity to help the kids speak without anxiety but it became so much more than a subtle teaching tool. We still laugh about the ridiculous topics he’d pick. He’d say something like “I’d like to welcome Haley today. She has graciously agreed to discuss why toads are better than pill bugs. Take it away, Haley!”
Now, dinner is usually just me and my teenager. We sometimes sit at the table but just as often, we’ll re-watch an episode of something we like — Bones or Doctor Who or Criminal Minds or Boston Legal or …. It’s harder to connect and not just because he’s a teenager. A friend commented recently that he’s older than his years. It’s true and of course it’s no surprise. I remember the day I told my children that their dad had cancer. My not-yet-9-year-old son said “is he going to die?” It should have changed everything. It did change everything.
“And that’s about all I have to say about that,” as Forrest Gump would say.
Instead of buying a bunch of gifts at Christmas, the kids and I try to focus on doing activities together. This past weekend, we went to the zoo and created holiday wreaths. It’s a fundraiser for the zoo and we’ve been doing it together since they each aged into the activity (it’s an adult course and frankly too difficult for young children to enjoy). Every year, we walk through the classroom door together and Emmett, the zoo employee who runs the class, groans and says “I thought we banned you.” Sometimes the other participants are shocked but we all laugh and tell him we used pseudonyms when we signed up. It’s a tiny little community that we’ve formed and I think each year about the day when we’ll no longer attend. Will I be like that man who went to DQ with his boys until they each left for college? Will I go one last time and take a picture of the ritual ending? Will Emmett wonder what happened to those goofs who made wreaths together every year for more than 15 years?
The wreaths are beautiful, as they are every year. Three of them are hanging in front — two on the outside lights and one on the door. The fourth wreath usually goes on the back window for us and our backyard neighbors to enjoy. But it’s the ritual, not the outcome, that we look forward to every year. We are in the same room for about 3 hours, joking, teasing, always the last to leave, promising Emmett every year that we’ll be more efficient next year. He always says “stay as long as you want. I’m paid by the hour.” Everyone else hurries through the creation process but we’ll huddle around a wreath and discuss placement, then we’ll take a break when they bring one of the education animals in. We’ll take pictures and talk to the animal handler (Majyck the Macaw was the star this year. She’s 18 years old but she could easily live 100 years.). We eat cheese and crackers with sap-stained fingers and soak our glue-burned fingers in the bowl of ice they always provide. We’ll walk around the room admiring the other wreaths. (Want to make someone’s day? Tell them how pretty their handmade creation is.)
I’m not sure my kids even realize that they’re making lifelong memories but I do. Heck, I’m making them too.
