A "Perfect" Holiday

Years ago I found myself reading a holiday edition of "Martha Stewart Living" magazine about the "Perfect" Christmas.   Page after page of the magazine showed photographs of color-coordinated rooms with Christmas trees that matched the room's decor flawlessly.    Clearly, every ribbon, bow and wreath had been selected with great scrutiny to ensure that all the reds were "blue reds" and not the dreaded "orange red" that would just completely ruin the look.   The pictures usually included a holiday plate, by the fireplace for Santa, with two or three cookies placed in an aesthetically pleasing manner, and a glass a milk that was neither too empty or too full.  Just right.   The cookies were symmetrical and decorated with incredible attention to detail.  The gingerbread men's buttons were all lined up in a straight line and the round sugar cookies were, well, round and unburnt.  If there happened to be any children at all in the pages of that magazine, they were sitting by the fire or on the couch in perfectly matched flannel pajamas (that, btw, matched the rest of the decor in the room), nicely playing together with big smiles on their squeaky clean faces.

Sigh.  The whole magazine made me feel like a failure.

At the time, I was probably sitting in a room with my kids who would have been about three and five, covered head to toe in powdered sugar and who I imagine were using "adult" scissors to make strangely-shaped paper snowflakes, unsupervised, while I read my magazine and sipped my coffee.   There would have been little pieces of white paper all over the living room floor.   The Christmas tree would have been tilted and held to the ceiling with a piece of fishing line.   Most likely there were no cookies for Santa because any and all cookies made had either been eaten or burnt and deemed inedible.   The gingerbread men would not have even existed long enough to be decorated with buttons.   I'm sure there would have been crumbs all over my kitchen where cookies used to be.   There was probably a gingerbread house in the room with way too much icing on the roof, which was most likely caving in.   And there would have been little dimples in the icing where candy used to be but little fingers had stealthily removed every sugary stick-of-gum shingle and every candy cane light post.    My kids were probably singing some off key version of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and all it's silly versions.   When my kids were done cutting out their snowflakes, I would have given them tape and they would have taped them to the big picture window in our living room for everyone driving by to see.    They would have chosen where to tape them and there was probably no symmetry, or any rhyme or reason for that matter, as to where they placed them.  It was just wherever their little hearts desired and felt they should be placed.

Yet, all these years later, it still brings a smile to my face when I think of driving up to my house in the month of December and seeing those haphazard snowflakes, and lots of fingerprints in that big picture window.   And, do you know why?

Because, it was "perfect".
It was my perfect.

In that very moment, sitting on that couch, probably fifteen years ago, I had an "perfect" epiphany.

"Perfect" is subjective.   "Perfect" is whatever you want it to be.

Martha Stewart has her version of perfect, I have mine, and you have yours.

Fifteen years later my Christmas looks a lot different.    We have all learned a thing or two over the years.   We've learned to cut the Christmas tree in a way that it doesn't tilt when we put it in the stand.   We can now make unburnt cookies and restrain ourselves long enough to decorate them and actually keep a few on the side to give to "Santa".   We have learned to make a gingerbread house and NOT pour the entire bowl of frosting on the roof.   But, there are no snowflakes in the window, as little fingers have turned into big fingers and now busy themselves typing term papers at college instead of making holiday crafts.

You might even say our "perfect" has evolved.

Or has it?

My "perfect" this year has nothing to do with any of the decor, or the music, or the cookies.  Although, I do love cookies.
My "perfect" this year is just having everyone home, under one roof.
My "perfect" is them.
But perhaps that's what it's always been.
So maybe it hasn't evolved at all.

But, oh, what I wouldn't give to drive up to the house and see those misshapen, asymmetric snowflakes in the window, surrounded by those tiny "perfect" fingerprint smudges.

Wishing Everyone a "Perfect" Holiday season, whatever that looks like to you!

What Do You Say, Dear?

When I was a kid I had a book called "What Do You Say, Dear?" which was a children's book that posed a bunch of sort of silly ethical dilemmas with even sillier resolutions.   I don't remember them all but I do remember one where the ethical dilemma was about "What do you do when someone crashes a plane through your roof during tea time?" and I think the answer was "Well, you invite them to tea of course!"   I may be remembering this all wrong but I loved the book and the preposterous scenarios it presented along with humorous illustrations (done by none other than Maurice Sendak).

Today I was presented with a "What Do You Say, Dear?" situation that was NOT so fun and even though I am not thrilled with my response to the dilemma in question, I ultimately dealt with it in the best way I saw fit.

My refrigerator hasn't been running (so I don't have to catch it ;P).   So, I called the refrigerator repair man from a local store that we have been happily purchasing all our major appliances from for years.
The repairman shows up and he's an older gentleman (and by older I mean older than me), and he loves my dog and he makes a few bad jokes that I would put in the category of "Dad jokes".   He was an affable fellow and I felt comfortable with him in my home.  Not only that but he immediately came to the conclusion that the problem with our refrigerator was not nearly as dire as we had previously thought.   And, the fix he suggested was really quite simple, and considerably less expensive than the original estimate.  I was pleased.   He was even explaining to me, in that Dad kind of way, how fridges work, and helping me become a more educated consumer.   It was all good.

And then he asked me why I had decided to buy this particular, Korean brand of refrigerator.   Other than the fact that it was on sale at the time I didn't really have a good answer.

Then this man, this gentle, Dad-like person, started making comments that were not very kind about the Korean people or their ability to make quality products.    At one point he called the motherboard of the fridge the "Flied Lice board" and he referred to the Korean people as "those bomb droppers".   This is when my jaw dropped.

I would like to add that while he was in my house both of my daughters, who are clearly at least part Asian, walked through the kitchen and he clearly saw them.   Still the comments continued.  And, in case anyone is wondering, my daughters were not privy to his comments, if they had been, my reaction would have been much more immediate and confrontational.

But, here was my dilemma.   He was fixing my fridge, and doing a mighty fine job.   He had the capability to charge me as much as he wanted to fix it.   He also could have easily made things worse for me.   So, what is a white girl listening to his racial slurs to do?

I was a coward and did nothing.  

I let him finish his work and then said goodbye and showed him out the door.   I did not offer him any tea.

I felt sick to my stomach after he left and couldn't stop thinking of all the things I could have, should have said.    I truly believe that it is the responsibility of white people to not let this kind of elbow nudging,"we're in this together"(wink, wink) kind of behavior to go on.

After an hour or two of stewing I finally came up with a solution to my dilemma.   I called customer service at the appliance store and explained to the manager what had transpired and made it clear that kind of talk is "Not okay" in my home or anywhere for that matter.   He was nice, and said all the right things, of course, but I still feel kind of icky.   I still wish I had said something to the man who was spewing hateful words in the kitchen of my loving, interracial home.

I called my husband after the incident and asked him if I did the right thing.   He agreed that confronting him at the time could have ended badly (mostly for us).   So, he thought I did the best I could have given the circumstances.    I wondered if I wasn't married to an Asian man, and I didn't have half Asian children, if I would have done anything at all, if I would have let it go?  It sure would have been easier.

I'm really curious to hear other people's opinions about what they would have done in this situation and I hope you will share with me.   I am interested to hear the opinions of people from all different races, from families of all one race or mixed race.   Please be candid and honest.

Which brings me back to my original question "What Do You Say, Dear?"

16 hours until what?!?!?!

Once upon a time I had a different blog.   It was called Live Lees (get it?).   I wrote in that blog from 2004-2009.   The blog was mostly for geographically scattered family members to read stories about our growing girls, and it was a place I could post pictures so family could watch them grow from a far.   Then in 2009, I abruptly stopped.   Can anyone guess what happened in 2009?  Why I might have stopped using a blog to update people about our lives and post pictures?  Any guesses at all?

In any case, as luck would have it, I was perusing this blog recently and I discovered that the very first post I made was the night before Sophie started kindergarten.    I was musing about what it meant to me to have both my kids in school.  Here is the link to that blog: 16 hours to go and the pictures that go with it.   It was called "16 hours to go" because I had 16 hours until both of them boarded the big yellow school bus.

And now, quite suddenly it seems, I am on the other side and in 16 hours (more or less) I will no longer have a kid in the school system.

Except I'm not sure what that means.

I knew what it meant to have kids IN school.  It gave the day, my life, structure.  It meant getting up at a certain time, making breakfast and lunches, getting everyone outside, waving them off on the bus, going outside at the appointed hour to get them off the bus and then spending the afternoon shuttling everyone to activities.   The next day was just a repeat.

I have no idea what it means to NOT have kids in school.
Summer will start tomorrow.   In mid-May.  That is just crazy.
My college kid is done.
And now, my high school kid is done too?

And what does this mean for me?
They both drive.  They both have jobs.  They have one car to share.
That means a lot of fights over the car.  And, I'm guessing on some days, one of them will manage to convince me to give them my car, leaving me stranded.   Alone.   And, I'll be left to write silly blog posts like this one.   But, with no kids in school, whatever will I write about?

I am really not sure what my life will look like in 16 hours.  But here are some thoughts on some things I know will be true.

16 things in 16 hours,

1.  I will no longer care AT ALL about whether kindergarten is half day or full day.
2.  I will never have to pay for a bus pass, or parking pass again (but in retrospect it really is a lot cheaper than college tuition)
3.  This household will never, ever again have to get up and have breakfast and lunch ready before 6 a.m.!!!!  Can I hear a Hallelujah?
4.  This household will never have have to get sleep deprived teenagers out the door before the clock strikes 7 ever again.  Unless of course, we are catching a flight to some exotic locale and then I don't think getting them up will be a problem.
5.  I will never have to leave a store to beat the school bus home again.  Not that I've had to do that for a while.  Although, I have on occasion raced back to the house to beat my daughter and her boyfriend home.
6.  I will never make an after school snack again.  Wait.  Was that a thing?  Was I supposed to do that?
7.  I will never, ever EVER again have to rush a school project, paper or permission slip to the school across town ASAP!  Phew!
8.  I will never get a call from the school nurse again telling me my child is "sick".  I will never have to decide if it's real or if she's faking.   I will never have to go pick up that kid at school and try to assess as she walks from the school to the car if she is actually sick.  Some of the finest acting I have seen over the years, has been watching this short walk.  A special Brava! to my youngest child.   She really gave this walk her all and at times it was an Oscar worthy performance!  Note to my kids: we are paying about a bazillion dollars for every single college class you attend.  So, please go to class and don't pretend to be sick.
9.  Snow days will be meaningless to me.
10.  High school drama will be a thing of the past.
11.  High school theater will be a thing of the past.
12. I can finally forget everything I ever learned about high school math.   Not that I was ever very good at it.
13. I will never have to worry on a Sunday night if the kids got their homework done.  The answer was always "yes" anyway, usually followed by a "oh S*@t!" on Monday morning as they realized that it was not actually done.
14. SATs, ACTs, MCAS are all just meaningless letters now.
15. I will never have to write a check before 6 a.m. again for something that has to be paid TODAY!
16. In 16 hours, I will immediately become one of those curmudgeons who doesn't want to see their taxes raised to help pay for school improvements (Just kidding, I am a strong believer in good public schools and will always be willing to pay for them to be improved.)

Now, I am challenging myself to not make this blog post mushy, or profound, so I'm not going to delve into all the other things that will happen in 16 hours, and what that will mean for me and my family.  Nope.  Not going to do it.

The truth is, in 16 hours, I will have to start giving some long, hard thought to what I want to do when I grow up!  Yikes!

Why We Are Proud

In a couple of days I will no longer be a parent with a child in the public school system.
In a couple of days my youngest child will have her last day of school, then she will graduate, and then we, as a family, will be off the grid.   Sure, our kids are still in school but not down the street, not even in the same town.   The familiar hum that has buzzed in the background of our lives for the last fifteen years will quiet.   It will be strange.   Tonight will be our last school concert. I can't even count how many concerts we have been to over the years.    The strong music program in our school system was a major factor in why we stayed in here and it has been "instrumental" in shaping our kids into who they are, and for that we are eternally grateful.   I am sure, and I apologize in advance, that for the next few weeks my social media sites will be full of "end of year" "end of an era" pictures.   Most likely they will feature a clean, happy, well-coiffed girl and her proud parents.   And, we are quite proud.  

But here's the thing, and I think most parents of new graduates would agree, these pictures, as lovely as they are, don't even come close to showing the world why we are proud of our kids.   And, even if you looked at every single picture I've ever posted, I doubt you would find that golden nugget of what makes us beam with pride.   We are ever so happy that our kids managed to complete thirteen years of school without failing or being kicked out.  That is indeed quite an accomplishment.  We are pleased that they can clean up so nicely, put on a lovely dress, and look confident and beautiful either alone or next to a handsome date for prom.   We are even more pleased when that pretty girl comes home safely at the end of the evening (pretty please!).  That is truly every parent's dream.   We are so happy when our kids enjoy the activities they are involved in, and if they happen to win awards, individual or group. that is just the icing on the cake.

But, none of this even begins to cover why we are proud parents.
The things that make us really proud, have never, will never, and should never make social media.
I think most parents would agree.
It's the stuff that happens off to the sidelines, off stage, and sometimes in the wee hours of the night when most of the world is asleep that is the truly good stuff.

Why We Are Proud
It's when we seeing you being kind to someone who desperately needs kindness.  Yes, even someone who has been mean to you.
It's when we see you working late into the night to make sure a paper, a musical piece, or a project is not just okay but something you are sure is your very best effort.
It's when you've had a hard day, but pick yourself up and keep going, even when you just want to crawl into bed.
It's when you show your true grit.
It's when you fight your demons.  We all have them.
It's when you help your friends fight their demons.  They all have them.
It's when you shed tears for not just yourself but also for the people you care about.
It's when you shed tears for people across the globe that you have never met
It's when you bake cookies for someone who is going through a hard time
It's when you want to bake cookies for people across the globe that you have never met
It's when you are so unbelievably happy because something wonderful happened.......to someone else
It's when you stop yourself when you realize unkind words are coming out of your mouth.
It's when you know you are wrong, and admit you are wrong.
It's when you know you are right, but you are humble.
It's when you apologize.
It's when you don't complain about giving up something fun to honor a previous commitment.
It's when you stop doing something fun to help someone who needs you "right now!"
It's when you stand up for what you believe in, even when that means arguing with us.  Sigh.
It's when you realize you cannot change some people and learn to walk away.
It's when you educate others, with respect, and show them a new perspective.
It's when you listen to someone who is teaching you, show respect, and keep an open mind.
It's when you put one foot in front of the other
  
It's when you show love.


I suppose the list could go on and on.

As I said before, in the next couple of weeks you will probably see lots of pictures on social media, of not just our kid, but lots of kids doing their rite of passage things.  They will look pretty and handsome.  Their hair will be done nicely or freshly cut.   Their lipstick will be perfect and their suits will be well tailored.  They will be social media ready.

But there is so much more to all of their stories that none of us will see.   And, that's how it should be. It may not be as pretty, and it cannot always be nicely filtered on Instagram.   But, I guarantee you it's there.

It's why we are proud.

On the Awesomeness of Women

Today is International Women's Day.

Last year I was going to write about how awesome the women I know are, and then they completely stepped it up a notch.

The women I know became even awesome-er.

It's true.   I'm in awe of them every day.

They fight battles that sometimes seem insurmountable.
They go into the trenches every day raising children with special needs, medical issues, and the toughest of all - teenagers.   They do it without blinking, without question, and without expectation of any kind of pat on the back.   Despite all the happy, smily faces we see on social media, parenting is a tough job and requires days and years of putting all your own needs on the back burner.   Most of the time the women I know just keep pushing forward, with no regrets, but maybe a few shots of vodka (or in my case - Fireball)

The women I know face health crises with grace, dignity, and a hell of a lot of fight.   I have a few close friends who have been handed some really shitty cards in the past year.   And, not a single one has given up.  The women I know move FORWARD.

The women I know take care of each other.   The women I know move FORWARD but sometimes it's with a friend at each side and one behind, ever so gently supporting each other, to go in the only direction that is an option.   Sometimes forward is messy, dirty and covered in thorny branches but you can't go over it, you can't go under it, you've got to go through it (name that children's song/story).

The women I know help each other without question.   I am pretty sure, with a quick text or two, I could have a full dinner delivered to my house if need be.   The same goes for having a stranded kid (or dog) picked up within a half hour, or even having a full dinner delivered to said stranded kid.  Done.

The women I know work really, really hard.  I do not work outside of the home but many, if not most,  of the women I know do.  These women work full time jobs and then come home to another full time job.  They cook, clean and play the role of mother, wife and sometimes care-taking daughter of aging parents.   They feed busy, hungry families, help with homework, drive kids all over the place and then stay up late doing things like laundry and cleaning the kitchen, and they call the last two items "me time".  And yes, before the men I know get angry, I am well aware that men do these things as well.  Yay men!  (But, remember guys, today is International Women's Day)

The truth is the women I know are not only awesome but we are so very fortunate to be born where we were born.

There are many, many women in this world who are not so lucky.

They have children with special needs, medical issues, and, yes, teenagers.    But, they don't have the resources needed to help them.
They have disease with no medicine.
Some of them are alone, and have no support from friends or family.
They don't have a network of people at their fingertips and they might not have enough food to feed all the people in their household.
There is no such thing as "me" time.

I am so sorry.

 I didn't intend for the blog to end like this.   I selfishly started writing this thinking solely of all the awesome women I know. But then somehow, all these women I don't know, who are just as awesome, but not quite as lucky, came uninvited into my consciousness and asked to be remembered today.

They want to be remembered while we wear our red outfits and our adorable pink pussyhats and choose, yes CHOOSE, not to shop today.  Because we know we can shop tomorrow.

Today is International Women's Day and we should keep fighting for everything we are fighting for, but let's all keep the women we don't know, who aren't as lucky, and don't have the privilege of protesting anything,  in our collective consciousnesses too!

Because whether we know each other or not, we are ALL awesome!

Happy International Women's Day!

One Last Drive Around the Block

When we bought this car my kids were six and eight.   One of them was still in a car seat, well, a booster seat.   I distinctly remember on one of our first car rides when my then eight year old proclaimed to her friend that someday this would be her car and she would drive it.   I laughed thinking what a far fetched idea that was, it was hard for me to imagine my little eight year old driving.   The last laugh was on me though, because for the last six months this car has belonged to the kids.   Even the the six year old booster seat kid has been driving it!   And, we hoped and prayed she would drive it right through her senior year of high school but the car couldn't make it across the finish line.  The car started giving us signs about a month ago, and hobbled along for a while until it sputtered and coughed her way to a place where we could trade it in for something a little less clunky for the kids to drive.  Finally, it gave up the ghost right before our eyes.  It was tired.  It was done.

It was the first car that I was really excited to buy.   Before this car, we either inherited cars (ask my husband about my Grandmother's Caprice Classic) or we went with the absolute most affordable option (read:  boring).   This car was something I wanted and even though it didn't have a lot of bells and whistles, it fit our little family of four perfectly.  This car never had the pleasure of driving a new baby home from the hospital but it did bring our puppy home from the "farm".    In fact, since the kids were already potty trained when we purchased it, he was the first one to baptize it with urine, a scent that is impossible to ever totally get rid of, and on a hot, muggy, summer day the memory lingers heavily in the air.

The car had reclining seats which the kids LOVED.   Many naps were taken in the back seat of the car, and not just by small children.   Exhausted teenagers frequently crashed back there, sometimes falling asleep in the ten minute ride home from the high school!

Speaking of the high school, that car drove to and from the high school so often, she could do the route on her own.  If fact, as the kids will tell you, there were times when I would set out to do errands on a Saturday and I would find myself in the high school parking lot.  The car just kind of drove me there.
And, no that is definitely NOT a sign of a menopausal brain.

That car has many secrets too.   I'm guessing some will never be shared.    Well, I suppose it's safe to share one of those secrets now.   When the car was just about a month old, it was parked just below our front steps.   One day I decided to move an old couch out of the house by myself, even though it would have been smarter to wait for my husband to get home from work.   I was turning the couch head over heels through the front doorway when it started to slip from my grasp.   Did I mention I was the only one home?   I did manage to briefly catch it but realized that there was no way to keep it from falling down the front steps and right into our brand new car.   I stood in an awkward position for what seemed like an eternity before my strength gave out and I had to let go and watch the couch tumble into the car.   It did this:

My husband is just learning this story as he is reading this blog, but I'm pretty sure he noticed the dent.  It was never discussed.  Maybe he assumed it wasn't my fault and that someone hit my car in the parking lot.   Sometimes in a marriage, you just have to let things be.    The car is gone now, so what's he gonna do about it? :)   Love you honey!

There was also that year, when my youngest was in 8th grade and was involved in the middle school musical.    The middle school my kids attended did not have a stage, but the other middle school in town did, so the kids had to rehearse at the other school.   It was just a couple blocks away but a bit of a dangerous walk so the kids needed to be driven.  There weren't a lot of Moms around to drive the kids, but I was available.    My car could fit four kids legally, other than the driver.   At the time there were about eight 8th graders that were absolutely inseparable.  Now, I would never admit to this in writing but it turns out it is quite possible to fit four 8th grades into the "way back" of my car.   In fact, it is quite possible to fit eight 8th graders in the "way back" of my car, because actual seats become completely boring when the "way back" is an option.  Not that I would do that.   I would absolutely not drive two blocks with eight unbuckled kids belting out show tunes in my car, that would be completely illegal and it would be wayyyyy too fun for this generation and it wouldn't make me laugh or smile at all to see the kids roll and bump around in the "way back" like pool balls, the way I did for much of my childhood.   I would NEVER have done that.  Ever.

The car has other secrets too.   As any parent will tell you, kids talk to you more in the car than anywhere else on earth.   This car has heard all about all-consuming crushes, heartaches, bullies, bad grades and friendships gone sour, and not just from my kids, but from any kid who happened to be riding in my car.  The cloth seats have absorbed many a tear, and have bounced the sound of laughter throughout the interior of the car.   The car has been driven exclusively by the kids for the last six months, so I'm sure it knows things that not even I know, and that I REALLY don't want to know.  In any case, I locked all the secrets in the glove compartment before we gave the car away so they will go to the grave with the car.

The car has seen many adventures.   It has taken us as far north as Prince Edward Island in Canada with it's red-sanded beaches (aka the island that smells like bread and jam) and as far south the majestic Smoky Mountains in North Carolina and Tennessee.   It has found it's way over the Tri-borough bridge into Manhattan many a time and heard many an argument about Yankees vs. Red Sox (Red Sox win btw).   And, it always had a pencil in the glove compartment, just waiting for that draw bridge sign.   It's gone over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's ( and Grandfather's) house many a time.    It's gone on numerous ferry rides, over some impressive bridges, and through some long tunnels.   It's safely delivered us to weddings and funerals.    It's waited patiently for us as we've climbed mountains or played at the beach.   It's sat in a tightly packed parking lot while we played at an amusement park or watched Taylor Swift.   It's plowed through swiftly falling snow and kept steady in wind and rain storms.    It got us home safely every single time.  Without fail.

In the end, it was a family car.    Most of it's time was spent going to dance, gymnastics, voice, and even martial art classes (surprised you with that one, didn't I).   It went to the grocery store thousands of times and picked up and dropped off kids at the elementary, middle and finally the high school.   In its final days, it waited in the high school parking lot all day like an old faithful dog waiting for the youngest member of the family to finish her day at school and drive home.  I shouldn't wax too poetic about it, since at the end of the day it is just a thing, but it is a thing that kept us safe and moving for 11 years.

I know many people associated me with my car and sometimes now I drive by friends and neighbors in my new-ish, unfamiliar car and they don't even know it's me, there is not a single flash of recognition as I drive by.   A car kind of becomes an extension of ourselves, like a favorite sweater or coat.   Except you wear it every day.  It throws people off when you change your look, or go for a complete makeover.

Will I miss it?  Hard to say.  Probably not.  It was making a lot of weird noises in the end (just like that old faithful dog)

However,  it does add to the "end of era" pile that is quickly accumulating in my heart and reminds me a bit of the eggshell that falls out of the nest once the chicks have flown, cracked and and utterly useless to anyone else.   But, like the egg she kept us safe, when safety was all that mattered.   For that we are forever grateful.

One last note and then we say goodbye: