Bubbles out the Window

As our children age, we watch some dreams of our  happy family float out the window.  Like ducks waddling on the playground, or riding bikes together.   A young girl grabbing your legs so you don’t leave her side.

Now, she glares at you from across the room.  She rolls her eyes at you.  You remember when you did the exact same thing to your own mother.  You were told this would happen.  You told yourself even.  You were ready for it.  You remind yourself what a bitchy little teen you were.  You know it’s coming, but dammit, when your little girl tells you to leave her alone, either in words or with a flip of her hair, you realize that you are in no way ready for it.

You hurry to keep up with her as she stalks off a soccer field or up a different aisle in the store, and you remind yourself that this is normal.  She’s supposed to rebel.  You are doing your job right if your children try to get away from you.  She’s just growing up.

I remember when you used to hang onto my legs, you whisper, more to comfort yourself, than to her. We used to blow bubbles together.  You used to cling to me when we waded into rough surf.  You screamed at me when I diverted my eyes from you.

Now if I stare at you too long in your skimpy bikini, you tell me to quit watching you.    

I remember the endless afternoons with my children orbiting me like happy planets, spinning on the grass or playing on the swings.   I remember cooking as they played with dolls or trucks, always within earshot, often squarely in my view.

Now, I’m on a field with only one child.  I can’t see the other.  I tried to convince her to watch baseball with us.  But she’s adamant. She doesn’t like baseball.  It’s boring.  Well, if you watch it long enough you may like it.  Just come with us.

No.

I remember being a family seated together at the bleachers, she tugging at me as I tried to watch the game.  Now, the seat beside me is empty.  The tug is from across town, a different galaxy it seems. 

My friend and I mourn our aging family as we walk our dogs.  She offered to bring her daughter dinner while she waited at high school in between activities.  I cooked some fish the way you like it.  Mom, I’m getting burgers with my friends.  You don’t even like burgers.  Yes I do.  When the hell did that happen?

As you struggle with your sense of what used to be and how your family constellation is changing, you pretend you are ready.   You remember what you were like at her age. 

You were told this would happen.    You told yourself even.

But as those dreams float out the window, all you see are the bubbles you used to blow with your little girl.

 

Prepare for Take-off

I could not be any less suited for travel.  I fret the moment the flight is booked, tracking weather patterns, terrorist threats, even glacial shifts that may somehow affect travel.  I begin saying goodbye to people in sad, inappropriate ways.

My daughter finally said “Mom, why do you keep acting like the plane is going down?”   I don’t!  You just said “Since I’m convinced our plane is going down…”  Oh that.  I was talking about something else.

I asked my sister if she had realized yet that if our plane goes down, it’s the end of our family line.  No, she hadn’t quite thought of that yet, but thanks for the warning!    

I began organizing my office as if I were leaving Earth, converting it into a mausoleum.     Once the 10-day forecasts were released, I started tracking all upcoming weather- and precipitation-related events, like snow storms.

For the ten days leading up to our departure, the weather was predicted to be perfect, albeit frigid.  I researched de-icing practices and felt pretty confident, based on airline policy and interviews with various travelers, that iced wings would not be the thing to take us down.  I was feeling confident.

On day seven of the 10-day forecast, though, suddenly things shifted.  The day that had promised to be sunny, crisp and safe held the tail-end of a major snowstorm.  I went into calamity preparation mode.   And my version of calamity preparation mode would not prepare me for much.  It involved me telling everyone I saw about my fear of flying, hoping that someone would reassure me enough to drop it.   I never met that person.

I began praying in earnest and making little deals with God and myself.  I denied being worried, hoping it would convince my brain that I was not worried.  My brain had gotten really good at knowing when I was lying.  I started a computer file for my husband “If I don’t make it back.”  I began to worry about my dog.  How would he manage without me?  I eventually became obsessed with this thought, treating him like a terminal patient.  “Oh buddy, you’re gonna be fine.  Everything’s ok.”  He definitely picked up on my angst and began limping around, sagging his head, watching me cautiously from his half-sleeping state.  He never fully closed his eyes around me.  Great.  Now I’ve ruined my final days with him.

That’s when I stopped myself, remembering that I had done this before my last trip, and the one before that.  There’s always a flight or a storm or an illness.  Isn’t that just life? We do not control of any of this, and my efforts to wrestle it are wasted.   The only moment I have is happening right now.  Why can’t I seem to get that?  So I let myself accept that the flight is probably not going to take me down.

And began worrying that the crazy cab ride might.

Megan Davis Collins hates to fly, but loves the Gulf of Mexico. megdavcol@gmail.com

The Cable Guy

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January 24. 2014 12:01PM

VIEW FROM 129: A lot of work to get the internet up and running

Megan Davis Collins

If I could do it all over again, I would have pursued a trade. Maybe become a hair stylist, but only if I could sit down while I cut. A plumber might be good, but not if I had to put my hand in a toilet. And I think I’m too afraid of getting shocked to become an electrician.
But a computer technician would be a smart career. They’re in high demand, likely employed for life.
When our internet service went down, I made the dreaded call to Verizon. I should know by now that that’s not my best move. Actually I do know that by now. But it was my day off and my husband kind of dared me to do it, by implying that I would get eaten alive by Customer Service. Remember, it’s not our computer. Keep putting it back on them. If only I knew exactly what I was putting back.
I’m pretty good in a tense situation. I maintain my cool and don’t usually get too pissy. But the flip side is that I can’t always scare people into giving me what I want. I don’t always have what it takes to get all up in anyone’s grill, especially when it involves a computer.
So I can’t get swept up in their good manners and exotic accents. They are seated at desks, far away from my frozen DSL cable. That alone should get me worked up, but it doesn’t. They are so polite, talking to them feels very removed from my frustration at Verizon. I know I need to stay focused on the problem, but I’m just not a good angry consumer.
The really pleasant Anita doesn’t help matters. She never interrupted, and in fact waited at least 12 seconds before responding, saying things like "Ok now kindly go to your tools bar," "OK, now please, if you will, click the Advanced Controls." Soon I was carried away by her unending patience, feeling privileged to have met her.
Before I knew it, I was dripping with sweat, hooking and unhooking wires, listening to Anita’s polite voice from the speaker phone, directing me what to do. While I fumbled with the tangle of cables, afraid to get a shock, I wondered how I had become a computer technician on my day off. I also wondered why the computer technician was the only one not being paid for this call. I think that’s what it took to finally get me angry.
Folded over a file cabinet, my head hanging upside-down in back of the "tower", I was searching for some wire that was supposed to plug into the router. I was also searching for a filter on the phone and a reset button on the modem.
I had stopped searching for the day off that had somehow slipped into cyberspace. Actually, I think it had found the lovely Anita who was sitting at her desk calmly ordering me around, probably playing Solitaire.
Megan Davis Collins successfully cleared a browser history and reset a modem, but that’s it.

http://www.enterprisenews.com/article/20140124/NEWS/140127751

What on Earth to Eat?

No wonder I’m confused about diet plans.  The tried-and-true low-fat/high-grain model has been challenged by the low-carb/high-fat model.  But only the right fat.   Three meals a day with no snacks. Wait, make that five little meals with constant snacking.  Hunger burns fat.  Don’t eat three hours before bed.  Oops, too much hunger converts everything to fat.  Avoid sugar.  No, have sugar- everything in moderation!  Unless you have allergies or addictions.  Avoid white flour, dairy, legumes, red meats, salt, sugar, preservatives, alcohol, gluten, wheat, corn, potatoes, rice, nuts, and cheese, except for blue cheese.   Wait! Avoiding things leads to bingeing. Don’t avoid anything.  Except preservatives.   Eat dairy, no don’t.  Eat yogurt, but only low fat, no high fat, Greek, and unsweetened.  Use light cream, use heavy cream, use almond milk.  Eat organic. Nope, not necessary.  Eat lots of veggies and fruit.  Limit veggies and fruit.  Well, eat veggies, just no fruit.  Except berries and kiwis.  No bananas. Eat apples, but not cooked ones, just yellow ones, and only organic. Women shouldn’t eat fruit, men shouldn’t drink beer.  Should women drink beer?   No, just wine.   Only red, only organic, only two glasses, only before 5pm.   So should I start drinking at noon?  Drinking causes cancer in women, but it’s good for your heart.   It causes you to eat more.   Eat cookies sweetened with fruit.  No, you’ll end up bingeing on the real ones later.  Try low-fat ice cream.  No make it full fat, so you’ll know when you’re full. Have a banana instead.  I thought   bananas were bad.   Eat butter, no don’t.  Eat margarine.  Margarine is poison.  Sugar is poison.  Fat is the enemy. Fat is flavor.  Fat makes you fat, not eating fat makes you fat, fat makes you  full, fat clogs your arteries.  Fat makes you gain weight, fat helps you lose weight.  We’re too fat. We eat too much fat.  Eat fat, but only unsaturated, vegetable oil.  Canola oil? No!  Olive oil, but not in cooking. What? The smoke point is too high.  Smoke point?   Grapeseed is better for cooking but not in salads.  Flax seed is good.  Flax seed is BAD.  You need medium-chain triglycerides to improve absorption and digestion, like palm kernel oil.  I thought palm kernel oil clogged arteries?  Coconut oil is the best!  Won’t coconut and oil make me fat?  They might, but coconut oil helps you lose weight! Does Splenda cause cancer now? Should I use honey, maple syrup or agave nectar? Only if you want to get fat. They’re sweeter than sugar. Try rice malt.  I thought rice was a bad carb.  It is.  Fructose is the real culprit.      What about Sucrose and Glucose? No. Dextrin? You’re thinking of Dexter, he’s a serial killer. What happened to Maltose? Well, at least we all know that High Fructose Corn Syrup is bad, right? Not according to a recent ad campaign…

So, what about that banana?

Or should I just go straight to happy hour?   

Megan Davis Collins, LICSW, loves obsessing about food and dietary trends. Email her at megdavcol@gmail.com

The Contest

 

 

I got lured into a magazine contest about love, laughing at first, because I felt inept to comment on the subject. Impatient, not very gushy, I wasn’t someone who wrote essays about love, I made jokes about it. Inexplicably, I found the challenge irresistible.

I listened to favorite musicians, hearing love letters in the lyrics of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Van Morrison, The Who and Percy Sledge; Love could give sight to the blind, and flowers with green grass so tall. When you shiver, love gives you a blanket, and if you swallow anything evil, love is right there at the ready to jam its fingers down your throat. 

 While Jeff was deployed, I splurged on a luxurious mattress pad to help me sleep, converting a king-sized bed into a bed fit for a king.  I loved it.  I knew he would too, when he got home.   

 After Jeff returned from Iraq, he confessed that the mattress topper was bothering his neck and back.  He wanted to get rid of it.  I reacted like he had asked me to remove my kidney, then gently suggested he quit whining and try sleeping on his back.

 As my husband rubbed his aching neck, and I concocted ways to keep the mattress pad, I questioned why love had to be so painful.  I also questioned his military training. What did you sleep on in Iraq, anyway?

Apparently, my heart was ice.  There I was, cursing my husband because the mattress was hurting his back.  (Yes, the same husband who had just returned from war)  What’s ‘a matter, Goldilocks, bed too soft?   

As I wondered how to solve this princess-in-a-pea problem, I yearned for wisdom.  Do I slice the mattress in half?  Maybe if I merely suggest it, as King Solomon once did, I can eliminate my competition.  And where the heck was Percy Sledge when I needed him?  Didn’t he say that…he’d give up all his comforts, sleep out in the rain, if she said that’s the way it ought to be…?

I was a witchy witch.  Not only did I have no chance of winning that contest, I would probably be disqualified.  I needed a miracle.  Or some Van Morrison to …take away my trouble, take away my grief, take away my heartache in the night like a thief…

And then something struck me unexpectedly, most likely an arrow from Cupid’s pouch, because there is no other explanation for what I did next. 

Without any discussion, I hoisted the behemoth pad onto my back and out of the room.  Then I remade the bed, on its sad amputated frame, not fit for a king or even a wicked queen.   

And I smiled. 

Because it was my turn to feel a pain in my neck and back, then my chest, ricocheting itself into my melting heart, which had grown three sizes that day. 

The Cable Guy

If I could do it all over again, I would have pursued a trade. Maybe become a hair stylist, but only if I could sit down while I cut.   A plumber might be good, but not if I had to put my hand in a toilet.  And I think I’m too afraid of getting shocked to become an electrician.  

But a computer technician would be a smart career.  They’re in high demand, likely employed for life.

When our internet service went down, I made the dreaded call to Verizon.  I should know by now that that’s not my best move.  Actually I do know that by now.  But it was my day off and my husband kind of dared me to do it, by implying that I would get eaten alive by Customer Service.  Remember, it’s not our computer.  Keep putting it back on them.  If only I knew exactly what I was putting back.

I’m pretty good in a tense situation.  I maintain my cool and don’t usually get too pissy.  But the flip side   is that I can’t always scare people into giving me what I want.  I don’t always have what it takes to get all up in anyone’s grill, especially when it involves a computer.

So I can’t get swept up in their good manners and exotic accents.  They are seated at desks, far away from my frozen DSL cable.  That alone should get me worked up, but it doesn’t.  They are so polite, talking to them feels very removed from my frustration at Verizon.  I know I need to stay focused on the problem, but I’m just not a good angry consumer. 

The really pleasant Anita doesn’t help matters. She never interrupted, and in fact waited at least 12 seconds before responding, saying things like “Ok now kindly go to your tools bar”  “OK, now please, if you will, click the Advanced Controls”   Soon I was carried away by her unending patience, feeling privileged to have met her.

Before I knew it, I was dripping with sweat, hooking and unhooking wires, listening to Anita’s polite voice from the speaker phone, directing me what to do.   While I fumbled with the tangle of cables, afraid to get a shock, I wondered how I had become a computer technician on my day off.  I also wondered why the computer technician was the only one not being paid for this call.  I think that’s what it took to finally get me angry. 

Folded over a file cabinet, my head hanging upside-down in back of the “tower”, I was searching for some wire that was supposed to plug into the router.  I was also searching for a filter on the phone and a reset button on the modem. 

I had stopped searching for the day off that had somehow slipped into cyberspace.  Actually, I think it had found the lovely Anita who was sitting at her desk calmly ordering me around, probably playing Solitaire.     

Megan Davis Collins successfully cleared a browser history and reset a modem, but that’s it.

Holiday Card Reflections

As I look at the end result, I wonder why I feel the need to drag my kids out into a dismal backyard scene of blowing snow and dilapidated fences to photograph them and then send it to our friends.

When they were really young, I couldn’t even think of getting organized enough to create a card.  I used to look at the ones sent to us: three smiling children in a row under a tree, hugging, laughing, frolicking, and wonder how they did it with such composure.  To create a holiday scene like theirs, I would have had to have hired a choreographer, stage manager and probably hair and make-up crew.

I became enticed by the images arriving in our mailbox.  How are these families so glowing and polished?  What do they feed their kids? We look like we’ve been camping for weeks.  When I finally convinced my kids to get their photos done professionally by a kind mom who volunteered for a local preschool (Thank you Denise Roberge and Little Learners) we became enchanted.  My daughter got in touch with her inner glamour girl, and my son just laughed.  That was the year I decided that we had what it takes to pull off a holiday card.

I obsessed for days over the color and design details.  My kids looked like they skipped right out of a Dickens novel and landed in a one-horse open sleigh.  We even added lightly falling snow.  It was a work of art.  And, it was the beginning of my love affair with the once-dreaded holiday card.  I went spastic, ordering about hundred and fifty of them.  I think we only had fourteen friends and twelve relatives.

So we sent them to unsuspecting businesses around town.  (Why would Rick from Chung King want our card? Or his comrades at Emerald Rose?)  

Over the years, I’ve toned down the preparation and staging. I like to capture my kids outside, organically and casually if possible.  (This year was neither)  Procrastinating made things feel rushed and forced.  And everyone had opinions about the holiday card.

After fretting needlessly that my son appeared forlorn, and my daughter’s hair didn’t look the way it usually does, I stood back and just took the snapshots…and then slowly lost control as the props in my holiday tableau came to life.  They didn’t want to wear a sweater, change a hairstyle, or even pose for some forced holiday scene.   They did, however, want to antagonize one another and compete for the dog’s affections with hidden meat-flavored bribes.   

The finished product–a compromise, not a masterpiece- reflects, not stellar choreography or gentle snowflakes,  but the essence of my children: an earnest young boy attempting to hide his dimples by not completely smiling, and his teenaged sister flashing a grin as she issues orders from her post beside the tree. 

And this is the year I decided that we may no longer have what it takes to pull off the holiday card.

Megan Davis Collins wishes you Happy New Year! megdavcol@gmail.com