By years, by inches

Euharlee, Georgia
January 7, 2013
4:44 p.m.

Dear Sophia,

So now you are fourteen. As you reminded me this morning, this time next year you will be pestering Daddy and me to take you to the Department of Motor Vehicles to apply for your learner's permit. But before we plunge into the future, please give me a minute to savor the past. Your past. My past as your mother.

When you were little - oh, three and four years old - I called you boots because you wore nothing but dresses and tights and cowgirl boots. I wasn 't working outside the home so we spent so much time together. You called them our Mommy/Sophie days.

I can still see you sitting at the dining room table in the tiny house in Illinois, eating chicken soup with rice. You insisted on it nearly every day because you loved the Maurice Sendak book. When  you finished, you jumped up and raced around the house singing "hoot hoot zoo pals" and laughing until you were ready for a nap. Or, more truthfully, when I was ready for you to nap.

Back then, we spent an extraordinary amount of time in our minivan where we listened to Jan Brett's The Owl and the Pussycat, rewinding over and over when the piggy says "I will" over and over because it made you laugh. And that made me laugh.

And then when I wasn't looking because I was distracted by cleaning or gardening or running away from home or working or, ahem, blogging, you grew up and up and up until you were taller than me.

And now you're this person who asks tough questions and who makes me think about what it means to be creative and how it feels to find your place in the world. You are witty and draining and manipulative and gentle. Emotionally, you are far more demanding than your siblings. Chloe has a much larger personal bubble and Nathan is a guy. I should neither oversimplify nor compare the three of you, but there is the truth unvarnished and impossible to ignore.

The older you get, the more I go back to my memories of you as a little girl so that I can hold on while you move away to become your own person, independent and confident, intelligent, creative and beautiful.

Recently, we were working together in the kitchen.

"Remember how I used to have to stand on a chair to reach the counter?" You asked.

I remember.

Happy birthday, Sophia.

Love,

Mom

All those heartfelt conversations

Thank you for all the wonderful comments. My father is amazed that people around the globe have wished him a happy birthday. He thinks I'm making you guys up. You're like my imaginary friend Cindy. She used to do mean things to my brother and color on closet walls and melt those fat crayons in my sister's Easy Bake Oven. That chick was a pill. Issues, you know.

But no, I tell him. These people are real. Just ask Denise or David. I think they read the blog sometimes. They'll tell you.

So what if he feels like that time I insisted he ask Cindy if she'd like a red popsicle or an orange one, the thing is that he says Thank You.  Too bad for him he never figured out that Cindy liked the purple best.

S our phone call went well. Better than expected. We talked about the birds that are visiting his feeders these days. I do identification for him because, you know, looking it up in a bird book just isn't as much fun as our semi-lucid conversations.

"I've got this bird, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe a finch?"
"Is it reddish? Brown stripey? Could be a female. Yellow?"
"I'd know a Goldfinch, I think."
"Right. Right. What color is it?"
"It likes thistle."
"Pointy beak?"
"It goes upside down."
"Oh! It's a nuthatch!"
"Whadjoo call me?"
"Pointy beak? Sharp?"
"Yes. It walks up and down the pole."
"Nuthatch. It's a nuthatch. What color is it?"
"Which one?"
"Nevermind. Any bluejays?"
"A few."
"That's nice."

We talked about the weather. They still have snow. We don't.

I even hollered at my mother. 

(That means said hello and a bunch of other stuff, but there wasn't really any shouting.)

And the subject of my very short commute didn't come up at all.

It's almost as if they'd read the blog. But of course that would be silly.

If my mom read this blog, I wouldn't be typing this.

I'd be tweeting frantically for someone to come bust me out of my room where I've been grounded.

At the end of the call, I told Dad about you guys and he made that funny noise he makes when he thinks I'm kidding around with him. And I was like No, really! They say happy birthday. And then he asked me to thank you and he whispered something to Mom that sounded like golf ball.

Seriously, thank you for the birthday wishes and all the comments - funny, warm, kind, interesting, intelligent. Thank you for coming around here so I can stand on my head and show you my panties.  Except that's not really me. That's Cindy.

It's Wednesday, right? What have you done with your week besides make an oldish man happy?

Adventures in Real Parenting: The Birthday Party

Micro Version: On Friday we finally had Sophie's twice postponed birthday party. If I ever mention that we're doing an overnight party that isn't Adults Only (safe words optional), please stop me. Whatever it takes, stop me.

Short Version: On Friday we had Sophie's twice postponed birthday party. The girls were every bit twelve years old. One minute they were laughing and goofing around like kids. The next minute they were verbally cutting up someone who wasn't there.

Girls deal in whispers, careful glances over their shoulders, common bonds of insecurity and false confidence, loud bursts of laughter, increasing decibels to be heard, shrill calls to hold my place, I'm next to tell my story, Has anyone seen my phone?

Who's in, who's left? Sometimes labels fit. The Queen Bee, Her Second(s), Miss Bossy, The Observer, Troubled, The Fringe, The Independent, The Bookworm, The Freakshow.

I was outnumbered. Eleven to one. I don't recommend it. And for party planning purposes of this nature, don't try to blend girls from different social avenues unless you have a very tight timeframe. Two hours or less. And planned activities. If I ever host an event like this again, it will end by 10p.m. Six hours is plenty long for the arc of the party to climb, peak and descend. If you've shooed them from your home by ten, you may finish before tears flow. Yours or theirs. Does it matter? Perhaps the party should end at 8:30 just to be safe.

Other things I learned:
1. Precocious and quirky becomes annoying and weird in the span of two hours. Please, parents, encourage individuality, but balance it with some social skills. I'm not talking socially awkward (I see that in the mirror every day). I'm talking about the kid who touches everything in the kitchen, thinks every word she says is funny and clever and believes being a picky eater makes her interesting. It does not.
2. There is never enough soda to satisfy kids.
3. When one kid accidentally drops her cake and ice cream on the floor, someone else is likely to do the same while laughing at the first kid.
4. Whatever you say about black people, gay people, and/or hoping that the President of the United States won't live to see a second term in office will be repeated by your children.
5. No matter how hard one tries to ensure that upon departing, everyone has accounted for everything they brought with them, the host or hostess will still find a pair of some kid's balled up socks stuffed between the sofa cushions a day or two after the party.

The long version:  Is written. And ripening. And might never see the light of day. But holy cats, did it feel good to write it.

Unemployment Diary: Cum on Feel the Zen

Yesterday somewhere in Northwest Georgia

5:00 p.m:. Sophie's birthday cake is cooling on a wire rack in the kitchen.
5:20, 5:30, 5:45...you get the picture:  Sophie asks when we can frost the cake.
6:00:  I check the cake. It has a small crack in the center. Damn. I should have cut off the hump on top before turning it over.
6:43:  Email from Barnes and Noble that Chloe's text book order can't be processed because the bank won't approve the charge.  Wonderful.
6:44 Check bank account online to see what's going on.  In the a.m. rec'd an NSF notice via email, but bank website hadn't been updated. Assumed the rent check was cashed before the unemployment deposit went in a day later than usual because of holiday.  Crap.  Account still not updated online.  UI deposit still not showing.
6:45 Do online inquiry with Dept. of Labor to see when money went in.
6:46  Inquiry comes back saying payment wasn't processed. I must report to the local Dept. of Labor. Well, that's not very helpful. What could be wrong?  I got a letter saying that I'd been put on 2nd tier benefits.  They'd deposited the money last week, including retroactive payment.  I checked in with the office on the 28th and there was no indication that a problem existed.  When I did the online certification on Sunday everything appeared to be fine.  There were no messages about a problem.
6:47  Dirty words, dirty words, curses and an oath said to the computer screen.  Yes, I know I shouldn't write checks until the money is in the account, but the system has always worked before.  How did I get to be such a fucking failure?
6:48  Text to MathMan  "Unemp. money not in. Bounced rent check, other problems.  Fuck."
6:49 Text from MathMan.  "What happened?"
6:50  Text to MathMan "Don't know. Call me later."
6:55  Sophie reports crack in cake via text message to me.  "Can u cum here? Cake cracked."  I reply.
"I know.  It's fixable.  Give me a second."
6:57  Yelling across the house now.  Me:  Phia, when you text, don't spell come C-U-M; Her:  Why not?  Me: Because that's not how you spell it. That means something else.  Her: What are you talking about?  Me: C-U-M means something different!  Her:  What does it mean?  Me: I don't want to say!  Her:  Oh mom!  Me:  Fine! It means like when a person ejaculates.  Do you know what that means?  Her:  I don't know.  Me:  It means jizz!  Do you know that word?  Her:  Gross, Mom! I can't believe you said jizz to your daughter who is about to turn twelve.  Me:  Well, you obviously know what that means.
7:01  Go to kitchen.  Cake now looks like the plates of the earth's surface.  Africa has completely separated from Europe."It's fixable!" I chirp as I grab the frosting.
7:20  The cake, devils food with cream cheese frosting. It's what Sophie wanted. Me:  We'll do a second coat of frosting before we decorate it. Hopefully, it will cover up this mess.  Her:  Okay. It's fine.  It's just a cake. Can I write my name in frosting on it later?  Me:  Sure.

Still fixable!

7:30  Dish Network flashes the Pay or Else message on the screen.  Fabulous. I'm going to have a houseful of girls from 4pm Friday until noon the next day and no cable.
7:31  If there's no Dish, we have DVDs, I remind myself.
Me:  Sophie, you know how to work the DVD player, right?
Sophie:  (eye roll) Of course.  Why?
Me:  Just wondering.
8:00ish Call from MathMan.  We discuss the unemployment issue.
Him:  Do you need my car tomorrow to get to the Dept. of Labor?  There's a basketball game so you'll have to pick up Nate and me late.
Me:  Thanks, but I can't do that. I'm going to have about eight twelve year old girls at the house for Sophie's sleepover.  I can't leave them alone.  I'll just have to call the DoL and hope that it can be resolved over the phone.  Plus I've got one mom who doesn't know me who is planning on stopping by to make sure we're a safe place for her daughter to hang out. Dang it, I knew I should have driven Chloe back to school and kept her car. But then we'd have a gasoline issue. There's no money for gas.
Him:  Oh. Yikes.
Me:  I don't blame her - the mom I mean, I just hope she doesn't want to stay too long.  She might not want to watch me get drunk.  Plus I was planning on having my boyfriends over since you weren't going to be home. Lars got his new bondage kit, you know. And get this.  When the mom asked my name and I told her, she said it sounded familiar, but we couldn't come up with how she might know me.
Him:  Let's hope she doesn't read your blog.
Me:  No shit, funny man.

And even after all that, I didn't turn to drink (the wine was gone), I didn't break anything, I didn't kick a cat, grind my teeth, call my mom, cry, swear, consume twice my weight in sugar or clean anything.  Instead I read blogs, took photos of cats, committed acts of jackassery on Facebook and even did some writing/revising.

How did I do it? You ask.

I reminded myself that twelve years ago I was in labor, shoveling out from a blizzard and looked like this...

Perspective, my friends, my darlings, my comrades, is a very powerful tool.

The Day After

Dellinger Park Color Edit, originally uploaded by Lisa Golden.

Thank you all so much for the birthday wishes! The day was a blur of well wishes, laughs, UPS fantasies, calls and chats, cards and chocolate cake.

I realize that I'm a huge disappoint to some of you, but one of the highlights of my day was getting into bed between freshly ironed sheets. While I didn't do any work on the manuscript yesterday, I did some meditative ironing as I considered some changes I want to make to that work in progress. I had to bat away thoughts about the next book I want to write. Focus, focus...

I made up for my domestic indulgence by playing drinking games with the cats. Those felines can put away the whiskey when they're drinking competitively. We watched a rerun of Jersey Shores and every time someone got bleeped, you had to drink. I ended up wasted on a combination of what was left in the liquor cabinet, a quarter cup of Marsala wine and a shot or two of cooking sherry with an expiration date of 1997.

I'm probably on the Queen's shit list because I totally forgot to call her back to tell her I wouldn't be coming to tea. In my inebriated state, I did manage to drunk dial three old boyfriends and my Senators' offices. I think I'm supposed to be making a large donation to some conservative cause. Good thing I told them I was Rachel Maddow. They'll never call her office to follow up.

MathMan and Nate arrived home bringing with them a decadent chocolate cake. The annual fight over who would have the privilege of torturing me by scrawling my age in frosting across the top of the fudgey confection broke out, I screamed obscenities and threatened to run away from home, a plate was smashed in the ensuing melee, fire broke out when some whiskey reeking cat jumped up on the counter and yawned next to the 45 blazing candles and then Happy Birthday was sung in double time.

The cake was delicious. Kroger, you done good. We just worked around the flecks of melted wax, cat hair and fire extinguisher foam.

Things eventually settled down. MathMan got to work writing some kind of math test, Nate and Sophie ridiculed the television program they were watching and I went back to thanking people for their birthday wishes while I secretly tried to reconstruct a couple of those drunk dialed phone convos. Had I really told that one guy about what my mother had said about him? I was going to have to send an apology for sure.  Maybe some flowers.  Wait.  No. That would seem like a dig.  A gift card to The Bass Pro Shop.  Yeah, that would sooth my conscience and reinforce his masculinity.  Damn my mother and her opinions anyway.

MathMan stood, stretched, said something about being tired and walked into the bathroom. "Honey?" He opened the door a smidge and stuck his head out.

"Yes?" I looked up from the laptop.

"Why is there a UPS uniform hanging on the back of the door?"

********
How is your Tuesday shaping up? Ever drunk dialed anyone?  And what happened to the UPS guy?

The Number of Candles Remains A Mystery

The day after my parents found me under a cabbage leaf.  Or so my sister said.

The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age. - Lucille Ball

I woke up this morning and checked my phone like I always do.  I do it mostly in case Chloe has sent some overnight angst-o-gram, a wish goodnight or photos of a mysterious rash she wants me to diagnose using my super special mom powers.  Instead, I was overwhelmed by a number of Facebook text messages from friends wishing me a happy birthday.

While MathMan burrowed deeper under the covers and gave me a good morning grope, I read the messages and wondered how I could be so lucky.  In a year that has had its ups and downs, the human connections have been the highlight.  There's no question about it.

MathMan and the kids presented me with cards before racing off to school, leaving me to thank the cats for not spelling out Happy Barfday in hairballs this year and to contemplate what to do with my day.  Write?  Read? Work out?  Accept that invitation from the Queen to come for tea? Don my tiara reserved for special occasions and strip the bed linens for laundry?

I'll probably do all of those things.  Except the Tea with the Queen thing.  She's so needy.  It's my day, you know?  I don't want to talk about her favorite Corgi's "nasty habit" or how one can't find a proper set of gloves at WalMart these days.

I looked for my tiara, but couldn't find it.  Instead, I put on Sophie's headband with the devil horns, some matching red lipstick and got busy vacuuming.  One of the nicest things someone like me can do for herself is fix it so that she doesn't think "Dear lord, why do I bother vacuuming on a Friday?" every time she strolls through the living room on her way to fill her coffee cup.  Self-care can too be practical.  It doesn't have to be all spa and chocolate, yo.

The doorbell rang and I went to answer it.  The UPS guy stood there smiling.

"Sign here."  He glanced at the top of my head.

"Okay."  I'd forgotten the horns.

He cleared his throat.  "So Halloween's coming early at your house?"

I blinked at him, then my hand shot up to my head. My fingertips rested on the satiny horns with feathers. I had a choice here, didn't I?

"Actually, it's my birthday," I said, bringing my hand down and resting it on his chest.  "And I couldn't find my tiara."

He looked down at my red nails drumming on his brown shirt and shifted the electronic signing thingy under his arm.  "Well, happy birthday." he smiled and swallowed hard.  I could see his Adam's Apple play up and down.

I patted his chest and then removed my hand.  "I suspect this package is the rest of the costume."  I held up the small package and smiled my sweetest Blanche Dubois smile.

"Are you going to try it on now?" he asked, suddenly eager. So I hadn't lost my touch.

I weighed the package in my hands.  I knew that it was really the book I'd ordered as my birthday gift.  "Well," I drawled.  "Maybe later.  Right now I have some vacuuming to do.  Unless, you'd like to come in and vacuum while I change...."

I shut off the vacuum and went to the door.  A package rested against the porch railing.  I looked up and waved to the UPS driver who was swinging up into his seat.  He gave me a wave and put the van in gear to drive away.  I reached up and patted the satin horns.

Live honestly, eat slowly, lie about your age.

I try to live honestly, but there's always room for improvement in that department.  I will dedicate myself to slower eating and savor the flavors of the birthday cake MathMan will pick up on his way home. And as for that last one, remember how I said I was half way to ninety?  A lie.

Thanks to all who've wished me a happy birthday already today.  It's a great day to turn 29!

Party games are over here at Black Magpie Theory.  No gifts, please.