Pop Pop’s Song

October 7, 2011

In 2004 Andy and I were at the Blind Lemon listening to a guy with a guitar sing. We liked him but then he invited his friend, Griffin House, to sing a few songs. Andy and I loved him. As we were leaving the Blind Lemon we ran into Griffin House. I told him I liked his music. He said he wasn’t the one who was playing that night. A friend of his cut in and said he was just being humble and that he had, indeed, played a few songs. At the time, Andy and I still didn’t know his name—he was just a guy with a guitar who played a few songs at the Blind Lemon, and we liked them. If you also have a good song you would like to release, you may need to hire an expert in sound mastering and mixing. How much does mixing cost? Look into Distrokid pricing if you need help facilitating the release and distribution of your music.

Either that Sunday or a few Sundays later, Andy and I were watching one of our favorite shows, CBS Sunday Morning. Bill Flanagan did a short series on the best emerging songwriters in the U.S. Griffin House was on that list—he played a song from House’s album, Lost and Found. “Wasn’t that the guy from the Blind Lemon?” I asked Andy.

It was. From then on, we were hooked.

We’ve been to many of his concerts throughout the years. One was with my parents, at an outdoor amphitheater, in Springfield, OH. My dad particularly liked House’s song “The Guy Who Says Goodbye to You is Out of His Mind.”

A few years later Sophie was born. We’d often dance with her, while listening to House’s various albums. And my dad always danced with her to “The Guy Who Says Goodbye to You is Out of His Mind.” In our family, it became known as Pop Pop’s song.

Sophie doesn’t remember much from when she was very young. But she knows this song. And still, to this day, out of the blue she’ll ask us, “Can I hear Pop Pop’s Song?” And when we play it in the car for her, she now sings along, softly—she knows the entire chorus by heart.

I thought for sure I had a video of my dad dancing with Sophie to this song. But last night, after much searching, Andy and I couldn’t find it. We did, however, find this, which was recorded about 1-1/2 years ago, right around her 2nd birthday:

I love her “dancing.” I love how, even at 2, she’s already singing some of the words. And call me sentimental but if she chooses to marry someday, I like to think of her dancing to this song with my dad years from now, at her wedding.

Tomorrow night Griffin House is giving a free show at 6pm at Veteran’s Park Amphitheater in Springfield, OH. Sophie and I will be in North Carolina, with my parents, visiting my sister and her family. But you should go. Next year, we’ll take Sophie—so she can hear Pop Pop’s song in person.

“Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” —Berthold Auerbach

“That Doesn’t Go In There”

October 4, 2011

I have to say that nearly every day, and then employ a long list of items (tweezers, kitchen tongs, Sophie’s tiny hands) to retrieve the myriad of items the boys decide to put in this toy. My favorite part of the afternoon is when they become furious with it for no longer working—because instead of balls, they’ve filled it with plastic cups, a clothespin and a wooden train piece.

“It’s not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them.” —T. S. Eliot

This I Believe

October 3, 2011

Last week a brown truck stopped in front of my house. The driver of the truck acknowledged our “please knock” sticker over our doorbell (16-month-old boys woken early from their nap because of a ringing doorbell does not make for a fun afternoon). He knocked softly and left. I opened the door and found a small cardboard box—the above book was inside.

For a brief moment I felt butterflies in my stomach, a feeling that becomes increasingly less common the older I get. For my name is listed in the Contents of this book—my essay is on page 95. This is a first for me.

I wrote the essay several years ago and submitted it to This I Believe. It was chosen to air on NPR, locally. In November 2006, I recorded it for 91.7 WVXU. It aired early on a weekend morning, probably before most people were awake. I thought that was the end of it.

The butterflies I felt upon seeing the book, however, quickly gave way to guilt. I hate that this essay exists. Because I hate what happened. And while I know a personal essayist’s calling is to write about tragedy as much as triumph, it is difficult to celebrate publication when an essay stems from something so tragic, from such loss.

Joe was a beautiful, kind, fiercely loving person. He left our world much too soon.

Here’s my essay:

A Lesson I Hold Dear

I believe I can be both honest and kind, even when the two seem to contradict.

Honesty often throws kindness for a loop. From telling someone there’s food in their teeth all the way to telling someone you don’t love them even though you know they love you—honest statements, although said with kind intentions, can often seem cruel.

I was sixteen years old, working at an amusement park, when I met Joe. He was older, had long, blond hair, and drove a motorcycle. The first time he called I smiled so hard my cheeks ached by the end of the conversation. He soon became my first boyfriend.

We dated the entire summer. By early fall he had said, “I love you.” I said nothing. In the battle between kindness and honesty, honesty won.

In the months following our breakup, Joe left love notes on my bedroom windowsill. In college, he called twice. The first time we talked. The second time, he left a distraught voice mail. I returned his call and left a short message. I never heard from him again.

Several years later his sister called with news: Joe had committed suicide, months ago. Shortly before his death, his sister said, he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Joe had written a few lines about me in his suicide note, but only now had she gathered the strength to call.

I thought about the first time Joe called, how my cheeks ached. The ache had returned—but this time, it was something much deeper. Not wanting to cry at work, I ran to my car and sobbed, both the finality of what he had done—and the fact that he had thought of me, even briefly, before he did it—sinking in. Once home, I reread his love letters to me. It was then I wanted so desperately to take back my silence, to tell him I loved him—not in a romantic sense, but in a you-deserve-to-live-a-long-life sense.

A few days later I went to a party on what would have been Joe’s twenty-seventh birthday to celebrate his life. I met his family. I looked at old photos. I was intrigued to hear about the man he had become; we could have been great friends.

I hated myself for choosing honesty over kindness, for not writing more, for not calling more, for not doing more. I wasn’t so bold as to think I could have fixed him. Rather, I was sad that I had to be unkind and tell him I didn’t love him.

Several days later, worried I would never find peace, I reread what Joe wrote to me in his note: “How people should be … wonderful and I’m glad I had the time with her—still I have a wonderful feeling inside.”

It was then I realized that Joe thought my honesty was kind. His words to me were his way of telling me so, his way of being honest—and kind—to me.

A year later, on what would have been Joe’s twenty-eight birthday, my husband and I put flowers by his grave. I thanked him for a lesson I’ll always hold hear: I can be honest and still be kind.

Just as I believe in being both honest and kind, I believe in writing honestly, even when it’s hard. Still, I wish what happened hadn’t happened. I wish my topic had been something else.

But it did happen. And it’s now a part of me. It’s a part of my life. And I have a difficult time leaving life unwritten.

Late October you will be able to purchase this book at Joseph-Beth Booksellers, Amazon or your favorite local bookstore. Writers were chosen by This I Believe; we were not paid. All proceeds go directly to the not-for-profit organization, This I Believe, Inc., an organization I feel strongly about. Check it out. Thinking—really thinking—about what you believe in is a good exercise, no matter if the belief stems from triumph or tragedy, gain or loss. For those elements weave in and out of all our lives. I just hope future publications reveal more triumph over tragedy, reveal less loss.

“Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen

Not Caring (For Just a Little Bit)

September 28, 2011

I responded to a friend’s comment on Facebook today with a story: Late this afternoon, close to dinner time, I just stopped. I pulled out my ipod and scrolled through e-mails at the worst possible time to take a break. Sophie was at her play kitchen stirring and mixing and transferring and patting real food (dry rice and pasta), which I had collected for her from the pantry while the boys napped—and never put away once the boys were up.

The boys, intrigued with what Sophie was doing, joined her. And promptly started throwing dry rice—everywhere. And breaking the angel hair pasta and throwing it—everywhere. Of course this was amid serious cooking, too, with Sophie barking orders and setting timers and pulling out wooden spoons and whisks and oven mitts. It was quite chaotic. Tucker joined in, eating more dry pasta than is probably healthy.

But I was done. The vision of the perfect mom—sitting on the couch reading a beloved story with three smiling children on her lap—a vision I hold dear, disappeared. I no longer cared. Owen, in particular, had been crying much of the afternoon. And for once, he was happy. They were all deliriously happy. And I was deliriously tired.

So I let them stir wildly, transfer poorly, spill and throw while I sat, hardly watching, catching up on non-important e-mail. If anyone walked into my house at this point, surely they would have thought I was crazy. For there was no lesson being taught. There was no scolding. There was no running after or picking up after. My dining room was being completely trashed and yet I was sitting, practically next to them, reading e-mail.

I simply let them go. And let myself go. They had fun. I had a small break. And you know what? Rice and pasta (if you position the hose just right) vacuums up quite nicely. So as long as they don’t think they can do that every time I pull real food out to play with, we’re good. I’m good, especially. And the longer I parent, the more I realize, sometimes letting go, stopping, taking a step back, not caring—even though the very definition of “mother” is “care”—is not only appropriate, but necessary.

“No matter how calmly you try to referee, parenting will eventually produce bizarre behavior, and I’m not talking about the kids.” —Bill Cosby

Sophie, on Beethoven

September 27, 2011

Each month the children at Sophie’s preschool are introduced to a different musician and artist. Yesterday, after telling me that she (again) rode the carousel (the horse, by the way, was red, pink, purple and yellow and had a pretend cake on its head that you could not eat) she listened to “Mr. Beethoven.” I asked if she liked Mr. Beethoven. Her response? “Yes. (Pause.) Mommy, he’s really, really good.”

I laughed.

“Yes, Sophie. Mr. Beethoven is pretty good.”

“Music is the wine which inspires one to new generative processes, and I am Bacchus who presses out this glorious wine for mankind and makes them spiritually drunken.” —Ludwig van Beethoven

Labor Day Trip to Baltimore

September 27, 2011

The week before Labor Day weekend Jill and Marty graciously flew to Cincinnati and then turned around and drove with me and the kids back to Baltimore so we could spend a long weekend at their house. Andy, who is low on vacation days, flew out after work Friday and joined us for the weekend, and then drove back with me and the kids Monday. We had our trials (including Jill slipping on a baking rack that James pulled out of a cupboard resulting in a trip to the E.R.). You can read Jill’s stories about them here and here. But all in all it was a wonderful visit. Following are pictures from our trip.

James entertaining Grandma

sweet Owen

Paw Paw teaching Sophie how to throw a Frisbee to Bonnie

sweet James (who still fits in 6-9 month clothes, which stresses me out to no end)

Sophie must give 20 hugs every day. I love that.

new puppy Jake

Grandma and Paw Paw’s snacks are so much better than the ones we have at home.

climbing on the chairs

Daily activity: Paw Paw threw a Frisbee or toy. Bonnie, Jake and Sophie chased it. Sophie always outlasted Bonnie and Jake.

As usual, James stood still, watching.

fun at the park

At one point Paw Paw took Grandma to a doctor’s appointment for her knee. So tired of constantly pulling the boys off of things, I put a bunch of stuff (lamps, books, frames, etc.) in Grandma and Paw Paw’s bedroom, and I just let the boys go. The above pictures are what happened next. (Sorry, Grandma and Paw Paw. The kids loved it, though!)

best indoor-tricycle-riding space ever

Owen rocking his tot collar

The kids loved playing hide-and-go-seek in the beautiful curtains Aunt Fran made.

Red Robin for lunch; The Moo for ice cream

a reluctant slip and slider

chalk drawings with Daddy

best buds (as long as Jake wasn’t licking, jumping on or biting Sophie)

Thanks, Jill and Marty, for all the help on the drive and at the house before Andy arrived, the delicious meals and simply being such a big part of our children’s lives.

“Grandma always made you feel she had been waiting to see just you all day and now the day was complete.” —Marcy DeMaree

Goodbye, Summer

September 23, 2011

To celebrate the first day of fall, I thought I’d wrap up summer. I, at times, get terribly behind—or too anxious to move on—and writing gets put off until I’m stuck with posting about Fourth of July on the first day of fall (which is exactly what I’m going to do now).

We met up with the Beets’ family and walked, in spitting rain, to Ft. Thomas’s 4th of July parade. I remember last year (oh how the boys have grown!) thinking that this year Sophie might be old enough to grab candy on the street. Might. It’s all she talked about for weeks after. She now thinks the definition of a parade is candy falling from the sky. That and her best friend Zoey, well, her day couldn’t have been better.

We also went to a great picnic at our friends’ Jessi and Link’s house—Jessi is a former colleague, former softball teammate, and she and her husband are good friends.

While there we hung out with Lauren and her beautiful family. Quick story: Harold (also known as the Mayor of Grant Street) told me all about Lauren and her triplets when he found out I was pregnant with twins. Apparently Lauren lived right down the street from me, when I lived on Grant. Even though I had never met her, while listening to Harold talk (and talk and talk and talk) I decided I would make her family dinner. I remembered how crazy things were when Sophie was a newborn—I couldn’t imagine three. Of course, like so many of my good thoughts, I never got around to it. A couple months later I saw her walking past my house, and I ran out to talk to her. She was so kind. We ran into each other several times while out walking and then, when I had my boys, she showed up at my house—with diapers, wipes and a delicious homemade chicken salad, made with organic, free-range chicken. I was in complete awe. I was barely holding it together, with Sophie and the newborn twins, and here she was, in my house, a mother of triplets, arms filled with gifts and homemade food. She really is amazing. And, turns out, Jessi’s cousin! Small world.

During summer’s hotter days, we spent a lot of time inside, camping in the teepee. And eating Life cereal from a plastic bowl while sitting on the living room carpet. And then knocking down the teepee on each other’s heads, resulting in screaming and laughing but mostly screaming.

I barely remember last summer, when the boys were newborns. I was so sleep-deprived that when I think back, everything’s just a haze. So in many ways, I felt like I missed that summer. This summer was wonderful although I was very sick. Early spring I took an antibiotic for a cough and ended up with c-diff. It’s awful. I hope you never get it. I’m still on antibiotics for the c-diff, but am finally beginning to feel better. (The exhaustion I felt was akin to when I was newly pregnant with the boys, but this time I was chasing the boys—and Sophie.)

My parents were a huge help to me these past summer months. My mom would help me with almost every single one of Owen’s physical therapy appointments (and my dad would take off work to help me, when my mom could not). My mom would come during the day and play with the kids and clean and insist I nap. And when Andy was out of town, my parents insisted I come to their house. Their house—the home I once lived in—is heavenly. Everything is clean and organized and homemade and delicious and while I was there my parents insisted I sleep or simply sit on the porch swing, and I would actually get yelled at—yelled at—if I tried to clean anything up.

The kids loved the sprinkler (which my uncle Skip made). I don’t even remember exactly what we had for lunch except that it was delicious. Still, I think about that day. I was feeling pretty bad and low then, and for the first time in a long time I felt good. And I really needed that. I hope I can recognize that in my own children when they’re older, like my parents somehow are still able to do with me. (Thanks, Mom and Dad.)

We also had visits from Grandma and Paw Paw. In addition to playing with toys, Grandma loves to play “Kings Island,” a game Sophie made up, which requires sitting on a quilt in the entry and pretending you’re on a roller coaster. There is a lot of arm waving and screaming involved. (You can generally count on screaming at our house, no matter the activity.)

There was a lot of ice cream eating, too.

We had a visit from my cousin Emilie (Sophie still has the picture you drew for her on her dresser, Emilie).

I love this picture. This is how I usually am, holding the boys. It’s just never captured on camera.

Great Grandma came for the visit, too (and Sophie got a story, walk and flower out of the deal, which she loved). Also, I should note that Sophie spent much of the summer in the above gorgeous dress, which her Great Aunt Susie made (I plan to post a video of Sophie twirling in this dress soon).

The boys laughed at our attempt to gate the stairs at my parents’ house …

climbing up them despite our efforts.

Steve visited and the kids loved when he pulled out his trumpet. Andy pulled out his trumpet, too, and there was much song and dance—a wonderful evening.

The boys spent a lot of time this summer standing on the back of the couch, waiting (patiently and impatiently) for Andy to come home from work.

They also spent a lot of time emptying the changing table’s shelves.

And I spent a lot of my time on the living room floor, a human jungle gym for my children.

Sophie spent a lot of time playing dress-up with the boys. (I’m sorry, Owen.)

We, along with all our friends, helped our good friend Marty surprise Angel for her birthday.

And, finally, my favorite part of summer—after-dinner wagon rides with the family.

Goodbye, long, warm days. And thank you.

Here’s to a happy, healthy fall.

“There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.” —Celia Thaxter

Tall Tales From Preschool 2

September 19, 2011

I did learn that Sophie had goldfish crackers and juice for a snack, and that she made a pinwheel and took it outside to watch it spin. These things, I believed. And then there was this:

Me: “Do you play with Arabella today?”

Sophie: “No. Another girl and a boy.”

Me: “Were they nice?”

Sophie: “Yes. But another boy was not. He was fighting.”

Me: “He was? What did the teachers do?”

Sophie: “They threw whipped cream pies in his face.”

Me: “They did?”

Sophie: “Yes, and it got all in his eyes. Then he had to go home to get baby wipes to clean his face.”

Me: “That wasn’t very nice of the teachers!”

Sophie: “He was fighting!”

Me: “Where did the teachers get whipped cream pie?”

Sophie: “They have a big cabinet full of them. They use them when you’re not listening.”

And later …

Andy: “What did you do at preschool today?”

Sophie: “We rode a carousel.”

Andy: “You did?”

Sophie: “Yes. The horses were so pretty. They went up and down, up and down, up and down.”

And later …

Andy: “So I heard a boy was fighting at preschool today.”

Sophie: “Yes.”

Andy: “What did the teachers do?”

Sophie: “They made him go outside and then they locked the door.”

Andy: “Really? They made him stand outside in the rain until his Mommy came to pick him up?”

Sophie: “Yes! He wasn’t listening.”

“It is always the best policy to tell the truth, unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar.” —Jerome K. Jerome

Sophie’s “Secret”

September 18, 2011

One evening my dad was over helping with the kids while Andy was out of town. Pop Pop and Sophie made a double-layer chocolate cake with pink icing. (There was a slight meltdown when my dad reached for the cocoa powder to make chocolate icing. “PINK, POP POP! PINK!” Sophie screamed. Because, of course, icing should always be pink. Of course.) Overall, though, she was thrilled with this baking adventure with Pop Pop—and the result.

A couple days later Sophie and I were in the living room. Out of nowhere she said, “Mama! You stay here. I have a secret.”

And she left. For about two minutes.

When she came back, I asked her what her secret was. “Nothing,” she said slowly, smiling shyly. Once she busied herself with a toy, I walked into the kitchen. And saw this:

I walked back to the living room.

“Sophie, can you come here, please?” I asked. She slowly walked with me to the kitchen. “If you’re going to snitch cake, you should at least be more secretive about it.” He eyes grew wide. She, honestly, had no idea how I knew what she had done. I pointed to the scene of the crime. “First of all, you should have recovered the cake,” I said. “Second of all, you should have moved the chair back to the kitchen table.” I looked at her. Her eyes were still wide. She had no idea if she was being scolded or taught. Or both. “And one last thing. Don’t snitch cake. If you want cake, ask me. And I’ll decide if you can have it or not. But don’t take sweets without asking. OK?”

“OK,” she said.

There have been no signs of before-dinner dessert snitching since. Or maybe I just taught her too well.

“Once in a young lifetime one should be allowed to have as much sweetness as one can possibly want and hold.” —Judith Olney

A Confession

September 14, 2011

Although it’s rare, every once in awhile, when the boys don’t really nap and Sophie’s in a mood, when 6pm feels very far away, when our house seems extraordinarily small, when I start feeling myself getting frustrated over the littlest of things, when I start thinking about how long 18 years really is, I drive. I load everyone up in the van with no intention of going anywhere specific, or doing anything in particular, except to drive, with all three children strapped into their carseats, unable to climb up onto anything, get into anything and hopefully, maybe, fall asleep.

There are many things wrong about this.

(1) My role as mother is to read to my children, take them on walks, provide them with finger paints, play hide-and-go-seek, push them on swings, build forts with them, produce puppet shows for them, and to tackle them and tickle them until they beg me to stop. A (good) mother, I would guess, does not strap their kids in their carseats, thinking of them not as safety devices but rather ingenious containment devices, wondering how many other seats in her house could benefit from a five-point harness system. And then think of the nannies she could hire off of patenting couches, for example, with just such a thing.

(2) This is not something a sort-of-vegetarian, recycler, former (shame-faced) cloth diaper-user does. I have no idea what the exact environmental impact is of me driving around aimlessly for two hours simply because I need a break but Earth, I’m sorry. You deserve better inhabitants than me.

(3) Gas is not cheap. Nor is the no-whip, non-fat grande pumpkin latte and three petite vanilla bean scones I bought at the drive-thru Starbucks all the way up in Kenwood, a good 25 minutes from my house.

(4) Time is invaluable to me these days. Days are meant for playing with my kids, feeding my kids and (trying) to occasionally do some laundry and run the dishwasher. Evenings are meant for bedtime routines and freelance work. So leaving my house in the middle of the afternoon for the sole purpose of achieving quiet means coming back home to a completely trashed kitchen, a pile of unfolded clean clothes, activities not done, snacks missed and a lonely dog.

This was my afternoon. The boys, who have given up their morning naps, slept for about 30 minutes after lunch before waking up screaming. I changed both their diapers and they did not stop screaming. I tried to play with them, dance with them, give them snacks, give them more milk, give them kisses—still, screaming. When they were done screaming at me they turned to each other, bopped toys on each other’s heads and, again, screamed. So much screaming. I e-mailed Andy. His response? “Drugs. Drug them. Tranquilizer dart from a distance.”

I looked at the boys. They looked at me. And screamed some more. So I scooped them up, barefoot, and took them to the van, with Sophie following me saying, “Where are we going? Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” I said, promising her an unhealthy (a word that always prompts a smile from her) treat from a drive-thru (really, I should write a parenting book).

Two minutes into the car ride the boys were still wide awake, but calm. Happy, even. Sophie, on the other hand, dropped her princess doll and started begging, pleading me to pull over right now so I could get it for her. Two minutes later, she was asleep.

The boys stayed awake the entire time. And didn’t make a sound. Sophie got in a good nap, and I saved one of my petite scones for her, knowing the first thing she’d ask when she woke up was for her drive-thru treat. And I drove. And drove and drove and drove, sipping my latte, eating my scones, listening to NPR. And it was heavenly.

And now we’re home, and amazingly, everyone is pleasant. Even though we’re 20 minutes away from the dreaded witching hour.

I imagine many mothers handle afternoons like this differently. But if you had witnessed the screaming, the incessant screaming, you have to give me credit for something—at least when I left for the drive, I took them all with me.

“Parents are not interested in justice; they are interested in quiet.” —Bill Cosby