New Years, Resolved

At this point in human development, it seems trite to make New Years Resolutions.  Most people make them and break them; they feel guilty for a moment, but then they move on.  For the past few years my resolutions have been fairly easy to keep:  don’t drink to the point of illness; pay my bills on time; compliment someone if I see something about them that I really like (you never know who needs a kind word at just that moment); look for something every day that makes me say, “Wow!”  whether it’s a sunrise, sunset, a bird in flight or just the act of breathing in clean air.  Appreciate everything.

Maybe it’s because it’s the time of year when we look back and wonder what we’ve done with the year gone by, and we start wading into the melancholy pool.  Or maybe it’s just me.  I felt lost for the better part of the day and I couldn’t put a finger on why.  Maybe it’s knowing I don’t have to go to work today (Monday) that I feel unanchored.  Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t written in weeks (and thank God, I fixed that problem tonight), and I’ve put so much energy into knitting that I’m afraid it’s distracted me away from writing entirely.  Sure, knitting is fantastic; it’s relaxing and exciting and it draws deeply from my creative side.  It’s play that results in something tangible and useful.  Hell, I’ve been writing  for years and all that’s done is create a bunch of stories no one’s bought yet.  I can’t say they’re all that useful, but socks?  Good Lord, are those useful!   

Anyway, I sat at the computer tonight, taking advantage of a little quiet time because John went to bed early, and I wrote away on my little love story, wondering if I had any concept of getting the emotions right or had I lost touch with that too. 

The other day I found out that the first person who really meant anything to me, romantically, has a page on Facebook.  It stole my breath to see that face hasn’t changed after all these years.  I don’t like going back there; it’s like feeling all those emotions again, fresh and raw.  Everything I felt that can never be anything.  It’s like standing in a yarn store with $100 in my hand, and I can’t buy anything.  Not won’t, not shouldn’t; just plain can’t.  It hurts, but it’s part of my past and I know how to deal with it.  Just file it away under Memories and move on, but tonight as I was writing about two people falling in love, I went back for a reminder of how it felt. 

Afterward, while I wrote, iTunes played on in my headphones.  I think a tiny part of me asked for a hint, a sign, anything that would tell me I was on the right track in this world.  I’ve done that before and sometimes it amazes me, the messages I get.  I mean, 1100 songs, and to get two in the exactly right order that show me something I didn’t see before?  What’re the chances of that?  I may have lousy luck at slot machines, but my iPod almost never fails me.  So tonight, after I closed Facebook, I heard Van Halen and the lyrics, “How will I know when it’s love?”  (Say what you want; I still prefer the Sammy Hagar Van Halen to David Lee Roth.)  Perfect question.  What I felt before wasn’t love; it was infatuation.  At the time it felt like love, but I know now, knowing John, having the boys, what I felt before was hormones, inexperience, and longing.  It was not love.

But then the next song gave me a sense of resolution, Martina McBride’s “God’s Will”.  See, in the scene I’d been working on at the time the song came on, the hero is talking to his sister about his niece with autism and what he can do to help her.  He’s a social clod most of the time and he’s not sure how to deal with his growing feelings for the story’s heroine, but his emotions for this little 6 year old girl are right there on the surface.  He doesn’t hold them back.  Through a little girl who can’t speak, he’ll learn how to express himself.  Being close to autism myself, I’ve always wanted to write it into a story.  I didn’t think it would be this one, but my CP reminded me that whatever’s going on in the story, it has to get worse before it gets better.  A writer who can’t communicate has a real problem, and that’s Gabe’s problem, but it’s not a problem when he’s with his niece Angela. 

Anyway, between “How do I know when it’s love?” and “God’s Will”, I think I know where my path is now. I can’t quite see it but I can feel it.  That’s what faith is all about, right?  So I resolve to keep following this path and see where it takes me.  I still wonder what might have been, but it isn’t what I have, and I appreciate everything I have.  I just needed a reminder of how fortunate I am to have what I have, to be where I am, and to love who I love. 

Bring on 2010!  It’s all good.

A Lasting Impression

I had a neat surprise this morning.  I was working on something generally mundane and routine when an email poppped up from a client I worked with 3 years ago in my old department.  He wished me a Merry Christmas and sent a lovely clip art picture of a Navitity scene.  I enjoyed working with him, “back in the day” (am I too young to use that phrase?  I sure hope so), so I told him so and wished him and his family a lovely Christmas and healthy New Year. 

What took me aback about his email was that we haven’t worked together in 3 years.  Did I make that much of an impression on him that he remembered me and felt I was worthy of good wishes at this time of year?  Okay, so these days, everyone and the mailman gets a Christmast card–note to self:  GOTTA get those done!–but still, it’s been 3 years.  Why would he think of me? 

I’ve spent most of my life trying to go unnoticed.  It probably stems from when I went to an elementary school in a rough neighborhood, and I got beaten up fairly regularly.  (Not necessarily with fists, but words can have much the same impact.)  It got to where I preferred not to draw attention to myself out of self-preservation.  Even now, at 42, I didn’t go to the VFRW Luncheon because, aside from the cost and that a 3 hour lunch would’ve left the boys home without supervision, I was nervous about the fact that I won the chapter’s Susan Wiggs award.  It’s given to a member who’s worked above and beyond for the chapter, and this year I was voted the winner.  Quite an exceptional honor, and I was thrilled to get the votes…and embarrassed, since I was on the election committee that counted the votes; after a while I started praying to see a vote for someone else.   

Anyway, I went to the Board meeting that Saturday morning but our chapter president had forgotten to bring the Wiggs award  with her (a signed copy of Susan Wiggs’ latest book).  I should’ve waited to meet her in the parking lot to collect the book from her, but I was nervous about the recognition so I waited a little while but then went home.  Even when someone says “Hey, good job!” I feel like I didn’t deserve it.  It just feels weird.  Plus, now I feel lousy for not waiting around to meet Judi after the meeting.  She put quite a bit of effort into making it into a nice gift, which she didn’t have to do–she’s got a life and career that keeps her quite busy–and I backed away.  So now I have a good reason to feel like I didn’t deserve it. 

Anyway, the email from an old client was a nice surprise.  For whatever reason, he remembers me as someone worth thinking about.  It’s nice to believe I really am somebody.

Video Inspiration

It was audio inspiration for me this morning.  (Deus ex iPod deja vu.)  I have a “first kiss” scene heating up in my head, and I’m crazy about the two characters involved. 

This morning,  as with most mornings, I cranked up the iPod on the way to work and this came on, and damn, did it make me smile because it fits the moment perfectly.  Gabe is a writer who has some issues with opening up to people, but Liz taps on a nerve he thought he’d hidden well, and he finds himself wanting to get close to her.  Liz is a people person who actually hides herself behind a persona, so while she knows everyone around her really well, no one really knows her.  And along comes Gabe.

Anyway, Bruce said it best.  Loving Liz is a man’s job. 

I can’t wait to see where they go from here!

The Good Old Days…

…weren’t always good, and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems.  (Gotta love Billy Joel.) 

Yes, I’ve been absent for a while.  Has anyone missed me?  (Is that crickets I hear?)    Things have been busy.  Knitting socks has turned into a borderline unhealthy addiction.  There are days I could keep knitting and skip eating, though right now that wouldn’t be a bad thing.  Mixed with this, I had a deadline to get my Golden Heart entry ready, and I got it in but just by the skin of my teeth.  Now to put a final polish on “Comfort Zone” before I submit to an agent I met in NJ.  I’m dying to work with her, but I want to make sure I put my absolutely best foot forward, and working on the GH entry, I found some areas of the plot I need to tweak further in.  I need to put the knitting down and plant BIC, HOK.  (Butt in chair, hands on keys.) 

So last night there was nothing on TV and John flipped the channels for a while, where we landed on “St. Elsewhere”.  I haven’t seen that show in years, and actually I wasn’t allowed to watch the early shows because it came on after my “bedtime”.  For a little while last night, I got to see what David Morse and Howie Mandel looked like with hair.  Honestly, they’re just as good-looking with hair as without, and hair or not, the talent is still there.  We also thought it was amusing that Denzel Washington hasn’t done TV since St. Elsewhere, but he didn’t have to.  Talk about a springboard to fame!   

We must’ve caught a show late in the series run, because Dr. Chandler (DW) was just leaving his career behind, and Boomer and Fiskus were also on their way out.  I’m dying to know if we’re close to the very last show, because I did see that one first-run.  At the time, I had no idea what autism was all about because nobody talked about it.  (Spoiler alert:  if you haven’t seen the last show, move on.  Otherwise, here’s a reminder:  the last episode showed that the entire series was all a product of the imagination of Dr. Westphall’s autistic son Tommy.) 

Tuesday was the 10th anniversary of Alex’s diagnosis, and as odd as it sounds, that was one of the proudest days of my life.  By November 1999, we’d gone through evaluations, exams, diagnostics, and even a quack neurologist; we knew he had a speech delay but there was also a possibility of autism.  All we needed was an official diagnosis to send Alex to specialized school and start working on reversing the problem.  It never occurred to me that this was a life sentence we were asking for, so I walked into December 1, 1999 blissfully unaware of what was ahead.

Now, one other thing.  Ryan had been diagnosed with hip dysplasia, so I was familiar with the ride from Staten Island to the orthopedist on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, and truth be told, I hated that trip.  HATED it.  I could not think of anything I liked worse than driving the Gowanus, and now that I live in the Philly area, I can honestly say I’d rather ride a bike down the Schuylkill Expressway at 5 p.m. than drive a car on the Gowanus ever.  It’s that bad.  There were nights I’d pray for a safe trip, forgetting that the orthopedist could very well ask for more surgery (and that actually did happen later on, but I’m going off-track here).

The first pediatric neurologist (whose name I’ve forgotten, or I probably just blocked it out of my memory for my own mental safety) asked for a CT scan of Alex’s brain, but to put a very active 2 year old under sedation would require a horseload of tranquilizers, and he wanted no part of it.  I tried several times to put him in 4-point wrestling holds to syringe the sedatives into his mouth, with no success.  Finally the quack—uh, the neurologist prescribed the tranqs in suppository form.  Six of them.  At one time.  I effing think NOT.  I went back to the insurance company and said, “Give me someone else.  I’ll go anywhere.”  And they said, “How about this guy in Brooklyn?”  So I took the name and number and called the neuro in Brooklyn. 

The new neurologist was booked up; the next available appointment was December 28th.  All well and good if we weren’t looking at “a day lost is an opportunity lost”, so I asked if there were any openings, could she call me.  She said, “As a matter of fact, we had a cancellation today.  Can you be here at 3?”  It was 1:00 and I was in my sweats and a ratty t-shirt (white with blue flowers; I’ve since thrown it out), the kids were a mess and we’d just finished lunch so the house was a mess too.  I drew a deep breath and said, “We’ll be there.”  I took the address and froze:  Atlantic Avenue.  Oh shit.  I didn’t even have time to pray for a safe trip; I had to get the boys and me ready, in full winter regalia (because it was about 30 degrees outside), to get in the car and drive to Brooklyn, over the Gowanus, to Atlantic Avenue.  Probably the last thing in the world I wanted to do, but if I was going to get Alex his diagnosis so he could start school and turn this progressive disaster around, it was what I had to do.

And I did it. 

Driving through afternoon traffic like a live-action game of “Frogger”, we got to the office with 10 minutes to spare.  I peeled the boys out of their winter coats and kept them on my lap so no one saw I was wearing sweat pants in public.  The doctor called us in, and in 10 minutes of talking to both me and Alex, he said, “Your son has autism.”  I still think it was the most absurd moment in my life that I was relieved.  Finally our enemy had a name; we knew what we were fighting against.  It was like coming out of the fog and seeing a Star-Wars-type monster facing us, but at least we knew where the rockets were coming from.

I drove home in rushhour traffic, proud of myself for going toe-to-toe with my fears so I could get help for my son.  We’d have lost 4 weeks of progress if we’d waited for the appointment on the 28th, and when you’re dealing with autism and your child is already 3 years old and not getting EI services, every minute counts.  Sadly, I was still blissfully unaware that this was just the first of the many, many demons we had to face, probably for the rest of our lives unless someone comes up with an actual, bona fide cure for autism.  (She says with hands clasped in prayer.)

By the way, when you see me say “we”, that’s actually me.  I won’t give my ex credit for any of this because he didn’t do ANY of the legwork involved.  He did go on one school visit before Alex enrolled, but only because he wanted a day off from work.  All the exams, evals, and appointments, that was all me.  Neener, neener.   

So here we are now.  Alex is 13 and over 6 feet tall; a far cry from the sweet, silent little green-eyed munchkin that walked into the doctor’s office ten years ago last Tuesday.  He talks, sings, writes, does math, fights me on homework and bickers with his brother.  Mostly all typical 13-year-old stuff unless you know that developmentally, he’s about 6.  I love him just as much now as I did then, but I worry about him more.  The future isn’t as far away as it was then.  I want to know what’s ahead for him.  I want to be sure he’ll be okay when I’m not here.  I doubt there’s a mother of an autistic child who doesn’t think she has to live forever to secure her child’s future.  It’s scary stuff.  I know some kids who’ll be okay; they have focus areas they enjoy where they can find gainful employment.  Given Alex’s love of movies, I’m sure he’ll have no problem working at Blockbuster (if they still exist in 10 years; “on demand” movies could phase them out).  The world will change so much, and I’m afraid he may not be able to change fast enough to keep up with it.  My greatest fear is that he will get left behind, and he’s such a sweet, kind, loving person, it wouldn’t be fair to the world to miss out on knowing someone like him. 

If Tommy Westphall can imagine all of St. Elsewhere, what kind of world does Alex imagine?  I may never know, but I bet it’s a wonderful place.

Jack & Diane

First, let me start off by saying, I’ve never gotten high in my life.  I have asthma so the idea of messing with my lungs makes me nervous.  I’ve seen people suck the whatever-it-is out of whipped cream cans, but I didn’t quite take that step myself.  I’m no goody-two-shoes, either; I’ve had my share of drinks.  Sometimes more than my share.  But I know where to draw the line.  I will never, EVER go into a casino and tap the ATM so I can keep playing.

I swear on my wool, I wasn’t drinking tonight, I wasn’t smoking anything funny (or anything period), and I’m not pregnant, but “Jack & Diane” came on the radio tonight and I started bawling.  That bridge section, “So let it rock, let it roll/Let the Bible belt come and save my soul/Hold on to sixteen as long as you can/Changes come around real soon, make us women and men.”  I lost it. 

I still have clear memories of being fifteen (since I was younger than most of my friends in high school), dancing at Sweet Sixteen parties, looking like frogs in a blender but having a wicked great time.  That song would come on, and we’d all get That Look.  You know the one.  You look at the other person and you each know what the other is thinking.  Yeah; this is It; this is The Meaning.  (We were all quite sure we’d found the meaning of life back in high school.)  I even remember a picture of my friend Mary Brouder, dancing beside Donna Mulcahy, and sorry to say, guys, but it was one awful picture.  You both looked like you were on the tail end of a 3-day bender.  I love that picture.  And I know you hated when I brought the camera around—I specialized in candid shots—but I’d like to believe you appreciated that someone was there to freeze that moment in time.

Unfortunately, I left my photo albums at my friend Stephan Ann Santoro’s house, when we were there for Shabeena’s going away party, and I never went to get them back.  But the pictures are still frozen in my mind, and hopefully, they’re dusty in Steph’s attic somewhere. 

Anyway, back then, hearing that bridge, it served as a regular reminder (because the song came on the radio at least 3 times a day) to grab onto the moment and appreciate our youth because it doesn’t last.

Flash forward to me now, 42 years old, married with 2 kids, a house, a mortgage, 2 cats, and more yarn than any human has a right to own.  Yeah, these are happy times.  I went to get the boys their Friday night special, McDonalds for dinner, and I thought about how Ryan’s high school is playing their arch rival tonight.  John said he heard there could be fights, it’s that tight a game.  They’ll be playing less than a mile from here; chances are good we’ll hear the band, the cheering, the whistles.  I’ve got to go one of these days.  I’ve never seen a high school football game, and I’ve grown fond of the Eagles.

Then “Jack & Diane” comes on the radio, and the bridge plays, and I think, “Holy hopping snot, I sang this song when I was 16 and being ‘women and men’ was MILES away.  Now I’m 42 and I’m buying dinner for my kids who’re teenagers, and one’s playing on the computer and the other is watching television.  I have bills and responsibilities.  I am women and men.  What the eff happened?” 

John Cougar Mellencamp (as he was known at the time) was dead on.  Hold on to sixteen as long as you can.  Changes DO come around real soon, and they make us women and men.  The funny thing is, at the time I was kind of scared of the idea.  42 is OLD to someone who’s 16.  But I’m 42 now, and…it’s not that bad.  I’m not scared of it.  I mourn for all the time I wasted, taking the wrong path here and there, but in the grand scheme, it’s not such a bad thing.  I learned a lot.  I’m still here, and at the moment, it’s more than a lot of people can say. 

“A little ditty about Jack and Diane,

Two American kids doing the best they can.”

Mr. Webster

Ever hear the joke, “What’s the Webster’s definition of mixed emotions?  Watching your mother-in-law go over a cliff in your new Mercedes.” 

That’s how I feel this morning after watching the World Series last night.  I grew up a Yankee fan but I couldn’t root for them in the Series this year because they played against the team from my adopted home town, the Phillies.  Call ‘em what you will:  the Frillies, the Sillies, the Fillies.  I don’t care.  They were the only game in town and I came to know and love these guys.  I still carried around my Yankee heritage like my maiden name, but when I came to Philly, I got to know the home team and I adopted them much the way they adopted me. 

I’ve seen the Yankees play the Phillies before.  They had a 3-game series in Philly in 2007, so I wore a Yankee cap and a Phillies t-shirt.  Someone in the parking lot yelled at me to “Make up your mind!” but at the time, there was just no way for me to divide my loyalties.  As I told someone else, I can’t lose, but I can’t win; either way, one of my teams is going to lose this game.   (The Phillies lost that series, 2 games to 1.)

As the last few years have gone on, I cheered my heart out for the Phillies and got to know more about the players as individuals.  I don’t know them personally but I feel like I know who they are as people.  They’re just like us:  guys with jobs.  Granted, no one will ever buy a ticket to watch me reconcile invoices or even write stories, and I sure don’t get paid what ballplayers do, but in the grand scheme of things, we’re not that far removed from each other.  We’re all just people, doing the best we can with the skills and talents God gave each of us.

I had a bad feeling, when the ‘09 Series began, that the Phillies were going to get outplayed.  The Yankees are a tough team, even if it looked like they phoned in their appearance in game 1.  (I think they seriously underestimated Phillies talent, but they corrected that in game 2.)  As the game 5 sign read, “The Yankees have $ but the Phillies have <heart>.”  The guy holding it was standing in front of us, section 210, row 9.  And they still have heart.

So this morning I’m kinda happy for the Yankees—even if the rest of the world may hate them even more—but more than anything else, I’m proud of my Phillies for giving it everything they had.  They’re still World Champions in my book, and they’re officially the 2009 National League champions.  In baseball, just like in life, there’s always next time.  Go get ‘em, Fightins!!

Just to be a good sport about the whole thing:  my congrats to the Yankees.  They played a good game, but they better be prepared to defend that title in 2010. 

For those conspiracy theorists out there:  Did anyone else notice that all week long, Fox aired commercials saying “All new ‘Bones’ and ‘Fringe’ on Thursday night!”  If you do the math, had the series gone to 7 games, game 7 would’ve been played on Thursday night.  It’s as if Fox knew well in advance that there would only be 6 games played in this series.  Methinks something smells fishy…  (After last year’s World Series, I still don’t trust or have any love or respect for Bud Selig, so if this was all pre-planned, I’m not the slightest bit surprised.)

Still here

Two days later, and I’m still recovering from the weekend.  Going to the NJRW Conference every year reminds me how much fun slumber parties were when I was a kid except we didn’t knit then.  Laura and I stayed up way too late, knitting and BSing until all hours.  Even on Saturday night, when I felt myself drooping and dragged my butt off to bed, we stayed up late talking just because it was fun and we don’t get to do it that often.  It was a great time and I hope we get to do it again next year, but she’ll have a gorgeous little 8 month old baby girl at home by then, so who knows what the future holds.

The whole conference was just fantastic.  We got there on Thursday to be at the 3-hour Jennifer Crusie workshop on Friday morning.  I don’t remember having breakfast, other than an apple and a white mocha at the hotel’s Starbucks, and honestly, I didn’t even notice.  I still have the blister on my finger from writing page after page of notes but it was all great stuff.  As Robin said, “I worship at her altar.”  Ditto here. 

What I learned in the workshops whacked me upside the head that my manuscript needs serious revisions.  When I went into the agent pitch session on Saturday morning, I had to confess that I thought I was ready…until I learned what I learned in the workshops.  What I thought was finished is back to being a work-in-progress, but I have a deadline of November 16th (also the GH deadline) so I’m on it like white on rice. 

We passed up the dessert/dance party on Saturday night.  Laura’s expecting so she couldn’t drink and it’s been nearly 2 weeks since I gave up candy/sweets, which I’m finding must be similar to giving up alcohol.  Hi, I’m Carla and I’m a chocoholic; it’s been 2 weeks since my last Snickers bar.  (“Hi, Carla!”)  I know so well that I could slip and eat just one and I’ll be back to where I started so I don’t tempt myself.  At lunch on Saturday I ate the slice of strawberry off the chocolate cake and that was all.  When the waiter came around to clear the tables, I showed Laura the plate and said, “Tell John I did this,” and then I handed the waiter the still-full plate.  I can’t believe I did it, and every now and then I heard in my head, “If you get hit by a truck tomorrow, are you going to wish you’d eaten that?” but I’m already seeing results in the way my pants fit, and my ring is a little looser than it was, so no, I’m not sorry I passed up the sinfully rich chocolate cake.  I’m still surprised I did it, though; I really didn’t think I could. 

I think karma rewarded me on Sunday, because we went to AC Moore before we left NJ and they had 2 skeins of Magic Stripes in the clearance rack.  Before you yawn, Magic Stripes was discontinued a year or so ago; the only place to find it now is eBay (and maybe Etsy; I haven’t looked there).  I grabbed 2 $8 skeins of self-striping sock yarn for $2 apiece.  Yay me!  Just when I thought I’d socked out…

So now life is back to where it was.  Several people there were sick, and I’m starting to feel a head cold coming on.  I think I can dodge it, particularly since I’ve eaten a tree’s worth of apples these past 2 weeks.  (The only sweets I allow myself are fruits.) 

But man, that was a great weekend.  For 3 solid days I wasn’t Mom or Honey or “I need this done”.  I was me.  I dressed myself as I saw fit, I ate what I chose to eat, and I went where I wanted to go, not where I needed to be.  It doesn’t happen all that often.  Women don’t always get to be who they are, because they have to be who the people in their lives need them to be.  It’s nothing to whine about; it’s just a fact of life.  But once in a while we really need to get away from our responsibilities and rediscover our true selves.  Even if I hadn’t learned as much as I did about writing, that alone was worth the price of admission. 

BTW, Laura taught a workshop on Building a Web Presence, and she pointed out that if you start a blog, a) it should be relevant (who wants to read a writing blog about knitting?) and b) if you post once a month, it’s not a blog, it’s a newsletter.  Oops; guilty on both counts.  I’ll try to keep this as relevant as possible, particularly since NaNoWriMo is coming up on Sunday and I’m really going to give it a shot, even though I’m (technically) halfway done with my now-WIP; I won’t be writing a book, I’ll be rewriting one.  But as long as the writing keeps going, life is good.

Remind me write tomorrow about the restaurant on Saturday night, and the waiter/bartender, Alejandro. 

Full Circle

When I was in third grade, I took an aptitude test to see if I’d do well in band.  I passed and chose to learn clarinet, but only because there were no flutes left.  Somewhere in the basement is the clarinet my parents bought for me for $100.  I still have it. 

I played in the school band from  fourth grade through eighth grade.  It doesn’t sound like much on paper but it was five very big years of my life.  The band was a clique all its own.  We even had special classes.  When everyone else took wood shop or home ec, we took typing.  Several times, because it was the only thing we could fit in around our band practice schedule.  It worked out because now I can type 100 words per minute, and for a while there I considered a career as a typing teacher.  We actually had one teacher at IS 61 dedicated just to teaching typing.  These days, that just doesn’t happen, and besides, modern-day kids are practically born knowing how to type.  RIP, Mavis Beacon.

Anyway, band was a big deal then.  We learned the basics with Miss Forsell in fourth grade and Mr. DeTaranto in fifth.  In middle school (aka Intermediate School) we had Mr. Laurenzano, a giant of a man with a booming voice that could span the Grand Canyon.  He scared the crap out of me.  There were actually two bands in middle school; there was concert band (us) and orchestra, which was for the kids who couldn’t cut concert band.  Think “Glee” with instruments.  And we were cool.  To this day I can see Willy Hakim on trumpet, Andrew Terjesen and Dawn Farley on trombone, Robert Powell and William Harding on drums.  There were some flute players too but I never quite got over getting shut out of that and I resented them with all my middle-school fury.  Heck, I had the fingers for it.  I could’ve been great at it. 

There were so many clarinets that we had 3 levels:  first row, second row, and third row.  I was third row, along with Rosemary Moser (my BFF) and Lisa Copeland.  I’ll confess right now, I wasn’t that good at it.  When I practiced at home–and trust me, my mother drilled it into me; I think it had something to do with the $100 they spent on the clarinet which, at the time, was a huge chunk of change–our dog, Shirley, would hide on the back porch and wail in pain for her poor ears.  Our poor neighbors couldn’t get away from it; they got misery in stereo.  I hit “clunkers” all the time in practice.  Play a woodwind instrument and you’ll know that ear-bleeding screech when the air doesn’t quite go in the right way.  I also hit clunkers in practice at school, but I tried my heart out.  

The best times were the concerts.  We’d all get dressed up, and we’d be scared out of our shoes that we’d screw up but we took our places anyway, read the sheet music, followed along when it was someone else’s turn, waited for our chance to play.  Man, we could wail.  We played some tough stuff, too.  Much as I love my son’s school, I’ve heard their middle school band; they struggle to play basic songs, and half the time the beat machine plays more than they do.  Us, we tackled the disco version of “Star Wars”.  We played pop music from our era, not our grandparents’.  But the best of all was Rocky. 

The movie came out in the middle 70’s, when we were in school.  I have no idea how Mr. L got the sheet music but he got it, and we played the sh*t out of it, let me tell you.  To this day, when the movie starts and that music cranks up, I get chills from my scalp to my toes, and my eyes well with tears because that, my friends, was one of the greatest moments in my life, when I belonged to something really, really good.  That was my Glory Days.  The staccato trumpets, the pounding drums, the fire and energy of putting everything we had into making that auditorium ROCK. 

And dammit, we did it. 

Eventually Mr. L realized I wasn’t cutting it and I got moved down to orchestra.  (There was that minor discipline incident where I put cork grease on Lisa Copeland’s chair.)  I hated every minute of orchestra.  We played lame classical music that meant nothing to me, and the teacher was as far opposite of Mr. L as any human being could be.  He was soft-spoken and low on discipline; he couldn’t get the orchestra organized if he used a bull whip, and it showed when we played.  I don’t even remember playing with them onstage.  I think I did, but if I could’ve played clarinet with a paper bag over my head, I would’ve done it.  At that point, I couldn’t get out of middle school fast enough.

I’m 42 and a mom of teenagers now, as you know.  Last night on the drive home from Variety, Alex and I fiddled with my iPod, and I remembered I have my “old” one.  It won’t update any more; it’s got corrupted software or something.  (Use the word “software” to me when I was a band geek and I would’ve given you the same blank look I gave most adults.)  But I figured maybe Alex would want to listen to it; there’s a playlist with songs I know he likes.  He was more than happy to take it, but what surprised me is that of the 900+ songs on it, he found a song on there that really caught his attention.  Last night, before I made him go to bed, he was playing “Gonna Fly Now” from the Rocky soundtrack.  The same song we played in band with the staccato trumpets and the thundering drums and the hard, sharp beats at the end that still raise the hairs on the back of my neck.  The song that still makes me remember how perfect life was when I was 12 and playing clarinet and belonging to something really, really good. 

The funny thing is that he’s playing that song all the time now.  He really likes it.  He even sings it.  I guess he gets that from me.

PS, I’m sitting in the dining room with the windows open as I type this.  It’s a gorgeous early fall evening, and the Eagles, our high school football team, are playing just a few blocks away.  The band is rocking on with “Rock & Roll Part 2″.  I guess they scored.  The Eagles’ band isn’t half bad. 

This sounds a little like us , but this was the one that still gives me chills.  (It was a Rocky Medley we played.)  We had French horns and everything.  We didn’t use violins; our clarinet section played instead of violins, and We.  Were. Good.

And then there were two

Teenagers in the house, that is.  Today is Alex’s 13th birthday.  I console myself at the thought that my youngest child is now 13 years old by remembering when Ryan graduated from elementary school and my mom put her arm around me and told everyone, “My baby’s going to be 40 next year.”  Yeah, that made me feel SO good when I was just 3 months past my 39th birthday. 

But now my baby is turning 13.  I remember where I was 13 years ago, pissed and upset that my OB called for another induction.  I wanted to go naturally, like all those cute movies and TV shows, but I never got the chance.  I also hadn’t found out if it was a boy or a girl.  I’d hoped for a girl but, well…at this point I guess it’s okay.  I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl anyway.  Our house is all Pokemon and Nerf and scooters.  Barbie?  Who’s Barbie?

Bringing Alex into the world was fun.  The anesthesiologist knew what he was doing and my epidural worked JUST fine, thank you.  (FYI to expectant moms out there:  they don’t give awards for delivering without drugs, so take the epidural; you can thank me later.)  Ryan’s didn’t, so I was pleasantly surprised this time.  You could’ve jammed a fork in my leg and I wouldn’t have noticed.  I sat on the phone, chatting with friends, like nothing else was going on.  At one point the OB came in and told me I was having a contraction.  That was a surprise to me. 

Midway through, the nurse told me the “baby is in distress”.  I had no idea what was going on, but I was told to lie on my left side and they gave me oxygen.  I’ll probably never know if that had any impact on Alex. 

Things settled out, and I turned the Yankee game on TV.  They were playing the Texas Rangers and my OB came in to watch with me.  They were behind by 3 runs, bottom of the 9th, two men on, two out, with Bernie Williams at the plate.  I told my OB, “If he hits a home run, I’m naming this kid Bernie.”  I don’t think of Alex as Bernie, but I ought to.  I owe Bernie for that homer that night.  (I took Alex to a Yankees/Phillies game one night, and Bernie patrolled right field, right in front of us.  I tried to tell Alex the story but he didn’t understand, nor did it make sense to him why I cried when all the Yankee fans around chanted, “Bernie!  Bernie!  Bernie!” 

The game went into extra innings but around 10:45 someone noticed that I was fully dilated.  Again, I had no idea.  My OB scrubbed up, telling me, “How long did you push the last time?”  “Two hours,” I told him.  “You know how long you’re going to push this time?” he asked.  “No,” I said.  “Five minutes.”

After the prep work was over, Alex arrived at exactly 11:00 p.m. on October 2nd, just one hour shy of his due date.  I’ll never forgot when Alex’s head arrived, and the OB told me, “Put your hands here,” and I did what he told me.  I felt warm, soft, slimy…something, I wasn’t quite sure, but he guided my hands under Alex’s arms, and I got to be the one to pull him the rest of the way out.  He landed on my chest and we met each other face to face for the first time.  He was so small…and so vocal.  The kid had lungs on him, even then.  The nurse wrapped him in towels and I asked what it was, and they told me, “It’s a boy!”  The nurse asked, “What’re you naming him?” and I proudly said, “Alexander!” 

He was such a good baby.  Compared to Ryan, who was very clingy and demanding, Alex just LOVED his morning bath and being wrapped up in his favorite blanket, which I still have today; a green and yellow afghan I crocheted in Coordinates yarn.  (Holy cow, that stuff is like silk after you wash it.)  I’d give him his breakfast, wrap him up, put him in the carriage we used for a crib, and go get myself something to eat.  By the time I came back to the living room, he was sound asleep.  I often wonder if I should’ve noticed his autism earlier, considering how he much preferred being clean to being dirty.  Probably even then, his sensory issues told him he didn’t like the feel of ick on his skin. 

But now he’s a teenager and I have to remind him to take a shower and brush his teeth and put his scooter away.  He’s taller than I am and he has a deep voice and before too long, I’m going to have to teach him about shaving.  Oy.

He’s SO excited about today.  October is his favorite month because on one end there’s his birthday, and on the other end there’s Halloween.  Christmas isn’t far away, either.  He still gets excited about this stuff, but hey, he’s still a kid.  I can’t even pretend anymore, though, that he’s my baby.  I can’t mentally see him as that tiny little gooey ball, squirming around on my chest 13 years ago today.  There are pictures to prove it, but he’s a teen now.  He’s very close to being a young man. 

He’s not getting married any time soon, but this song just says it all. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALEX!!!!

Honors

It’s that time of year again.  Kids have gone back to school, parents are back in the routine of “normal”, and schools hold their Open Houses so parents can see how their kid spends his/her day.  This is the first year in a while that I have two kids in two different school levels (high school and middle school), so I get to do two Open Houses in two weeks.  As compared with having to be in two different schools on the same night, this works for me.

I visited Ryan’s school on Wednesday night and it hit me on multiple levels.  It still feels like it was only a little while ago that I was the one in high school, navigating unfamiliar halls for the first time, dealing with kids whose priorities were different from my own (aka, bullies and cliques) and praying that in the sink-or-swim world of academics, I could at least keep my nose above water. 

Also, the hero in my latest project is a high school English teacher who writes fiction, so I drank every detail I could gather of the school layout.  Public high school in Pennsylvania is SO different from private high school in a converted mansion in Staten Island NY.  I can’t say I preferred one over the other; they just are what they are.  (Though I have to say, it surprised me to see that Ryan’s HS bore a little resemblance to the school in “Twilight”.)

And then there was the academics.  I have to say, I love all his teachers.  Well, all the ones I met.  I was a little disappointed that the English teacher wasn’t there.  Ryan had some issues with English in middle school, and I wanted to make sure the teacher and I were on the same wavelength.  Since my mother was a teacher (now retired), I know how vital it is for teachers to be present at these functions, so I can’t imagine what pulled Ryan’s English teacher away for the night.  Must’ve been something big. 

Each of the teachers I met gave a detailed explanation of what curriculum was covered and what their teaching philosophy was.  I didn’t know what to expect so all in all, I was pleasantly surprised. 

The real surprise was in finding out that Ryan’s in all honors-weighted courses.  If he can keep up with the curriculum level, he could make the National Honors Society.  I remember some of my friends belonged to NHS, and I was so jealous, but like I said, it was a struggle for me just to stay above C level.  Please don’t ask me about my Law grade in senior year.  I’m still so disappointed in myself because for one brief, shining moment, I thought I could be a lawyer.  Law is fascinating.  It’s like geometry, in that you have to put all the right pieces together to construct an accurate theorem.  One wrong piece and the whole thing falls apart.  But I digress.

NHS was unattainable for me, but Ryan’s on track for it.  I could not be prouder.  Somehow I managed to deliver unto this world someone who has the capability of exceeding me.  I still can’t figure out how I did that.  What did I do right?  And can I give it one more try to see if I can do better?  (Just kidding, God!)  He has the potential to do right, all the things I didn’t.  Color me delighted, surprised, and thrilled. 

Of course, I fully realize it might not happen.  When I started in high school, I was placed in advanced math but after the first semester, it became apparent to all involved that I couldn’t cut the mustard, and I went back to “regular” math.  I’m sorry, I’m just not a numbers person.  My checkbook looks like a natural disaster.  I can’t count to twenty without thinking, “Did I miss something?”  So if Ryan gets through this first marking period and we find that the honors course load he’s carrying is too much for him, I’ll still be proud as hell of him because he tried.  Yeah, sure, I know Yoda said something about, “Do or do not.  There is no try,” but in this case I think we can make an exception.  He’s still the best kid he can be, and that matters more than anything else. 

Yesterday he mentioned that he “still hasn’t figured out what I want to do”, but I reminded him that he’s a freshman; he doesn’t have to chart a career path yet.  I also mentioned that at the Open House, instead of just hanging a flag in the corner in the morning, each room has a television set and every morning, a broadcast team presents the news and annoucements.  (A far cry from that scratchy speaker stuff we strained to hear when we were in school!)  They’re looking for anchors and technicians, and knowing he loved working the camera in our in-house studio on Take Your Kid to Work Day, I told him he should apply.  He surprised me by saying he was thinking about applying to be an anchor.  I told him, “If you want some good examples, watch the news tonight.”  Can I see my kid being the next Walter Cronkite?

Hell yeah!  Go for it!  I love you, Ryan!

Addendum, 9 hours later:  watch this video by Billy Ray Cyrus.  I’m fine right up until the little voice says, “Dada,” and then I lose it every time.