@ Home in the World

Yeah, I'm cool

A local radio station is advertising a New Kids on the Block reunion concert as a Mother's Day treat.

I'm flabbergasted.

Do you mean to tell me that the annoying teeny boppers who were so crazy about NKOTB are old enough to be mothers?  What does that make me? Jeez. I've always been an old fogey in my head. Now I really am one.

There are some lucky people in this world who saw bands at a small club or other venue before the band got big on the national stage. Bands like U2, REM, Talking Heads, cool stuff. Of course, for me, that band was New Kids on the Block.

I went to the first ever Boston Music Awards at the Wang Center and the New Kids were introduced there. They were really really young, in matching track suits doing their little synchronous dances. I had been hoping to see Aerosmith, which had been featured in the ads for the event. The Wang Center is a theatre where the Boston Ballet performed for years and many of the honorees came out into the lobby during the intermission. I was hoping the Steven Tyler would be among them, but sadly, Aerosmith was off on an island somewhere filming a video for "Rag Doll."

Instead I got Donnie Wahlberg in a track suit.

But I got to hear "The Right Stuff" before you did.

Nyah!

My Russia

"Mama, will you draw my Russia?" asks the Pumpkin.

He and his father are the real artists in the family, but he insists and so I take the crayon and do my best attempt at something resembling St. Basil's or St. Petersburg's Church of the Spilled Blood. My attempts are always too asymmetrical, the onion domes too disturbingly phallic. But Pumpkin doesn't really know this, and is pleased.

His teacher told me a story of an international chamber music quartet that came to visit the school and play for the students. The musicians were from everywhere from Wyoming to Japan and they played music of all different cultures. When they announced a piece from Russia, Pumpkin once again said "My Russia!" and sat up with a smile. A boy from another classroom turned and said to him "I'm from Russia too." The two boys listened to the piece with rapt attention, happy to have connected with their heritage, and each other, in some small way.

It's hard to know what he remembers. He will often repeat the phrase "I was a baby in Russia," but the truth is that he didn't come to us until he was three years old. I think he knows more than he can really communicate.

Russia remains important to him, but he has crossed a threshhold. He no longer wants to be addressed by his Russian nickname. "I'm not __________, " he will say. "I'm __________!" The songs he sings now are all in English.

For both boys, Russia is a place of fancy buildings and stories. Most of their memories are wrapped up in the photos they've seen a million times. But a place you have lived in inevitably touches you and lives on inside of you ever after. Russia is a multi-dimensional study in contrasts; opulence and dilapidation; opportunity and struggle;  democracy and dictatorship. It is the coldness of the climate, and the gruffness of the people, broken open by the warm smile the director gives you when you say "Da. Yes, I will take this child, about whom I know so little, and make him my own. He will have a home with us."

Like their birthplace, the boys have struggled with transitions, clinging to the old, while trying to find their places in the new. Their challenges have brought me to the breaking point more than a few times. But more and more these days I can look at their little heads bent over their "work," or talk with their teachers about the difficulty they are having and the support they are getting, or watch the sheer joy they express when visiting with their grandparents, and I can think  --

Thank God they're here.

__________________________________

This week we mark five years with Tigger and three years with Pumpkin as part of our family. We celebrate the growth of both the children and the adults in the family.

Sticky Notes 5

I guess it's a boy:

So I thought perhaps the funniest automotive-related thing I would ever see was that Jaguar (that's Jahg -U- are). Up on blocks.

Not so. A couple of weeks ago I spotted something so odd that I had to start tailgating the van in front of me to be sure of what I was seeing. Sure enough, hanging from beneath the rear bumper was a set of chrome-plated cojones. Part of its, er, towing package.

Update:

Look! I'm not nuts.

Pour Some Sugar on Me

I think one of the boys has been eating plain old sugar. I buy the REALLY BIG SUGAR POUCH from BJ's Wholesale Club when I go, and this morning I went to grab it from the pantry shelf to refill the regular sugar bowl. It has one those zipper closures that turned out to be wide open. And the whole bag spilled right on my head. It's like having sand in your hair. Bleah.

I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS!

We never had the full debate about allowance vs. giving kids money for doing chores. I think Piper made the decision for us. He offered Tigger $1 to straighten out the mudroom. He did it, and I wound up giving him another dollar for all the work he did last weekend while we were preparing for the arrival of his grandparents. Tigger was thrilled. He spent the rest of the night murmuring "I love my two dollars, I love my two dollars." After he went to bed, I spent a half an hour watching Better Off Dead clips on You Tube. That Japanese Howard Cosell guy...Bwahahaha. I'd forgotten about that. It's so hard to believe that John Cusack is a grown-up now. Wait, he's my age.

Sigh.

Walking it off.

This was supposed to be Monday's post, but because I was seeing red over gas station radio and felt that something must be done, I'm posting it today instead.

I crossed a threshold with my project, and though it was not perfect, I passed it along to be reviewed by other members of my department end-of-day Friday and although there is much work still to be done, I feel as if a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders and that the remaining work will be much more manageable hereafter.

Although the winter weather has finally, finally broken and we are now actually having a spring, I was cooped up so much of last week, I didn't get to enjoy it. But Saturday morning, I got in the car and drove to the beach to do the walks I used to do. And Sunday morning before church, I got up and did the same thing. I have not done this walk for six months. I am so happy to be able to start again. The muscles in my legs are screaming at me, but I know that I have done good. 

And lost a pound.

Not that I'm counting.

On Saturday, I went straight from the beach to the office of a guy who has worked on my laptop and bought a new computer from him. We've need to replace our family desktop for a while now. It's been almost 10 years that we have used it and our Quicken no longer works on it.  Yes, I bought a generic no-name computer from a guy who builds them. I didn't hem and haw and deliberate and research for months. I just did it.  I've heard so many rotten things about Dell's service and Windows Vista that I really wanted the security of having a repairman close-by. Of course, I'm really hoping I won't need him much.

We also bought planters and flowers for our new patio. Tigger jumped right into the whole planting thing. I did one planter, he did the other, and then he took a whole flat of dianthus and planted them, well spaced, around the patio, all by himself. I think he's found a hobby.

The daffodils are blooming, many of the tulips are opening up, I see peonies pushing up out of the ground. It's going to rain for the next two days. Maybe we'll see more flowers after this.

Radio Silence. Please.

This was going to be a part of my next sticky-notes post, but I'm riled up enough about it to put up a separate post.

Let's call it Mobil's other pollution problem.

My newest pet peeve is the faux radio stations that "broadcast" over those cheap, tinny speakers at the GAS PUMP. They are set way too loud for the transistor-quality they put out and they go back and forth between the overly cheery advertising bits for their crappy coffee and two-for-a-dollar hot dogs, and really bad pop music. This morning it was "We Built This City on Rock and Roll" which was terrible when it first came out, was thoroughly overplayed, and now is the stuff of brain-invading nightmares. Who needs that? Nobody. I'd much rather listen to the segment of NPR that was running when I pulled into the place. But even though I turned up the volume on my radio and opened my windows before moving to the gas pump, I still could not hear what I wanted to hear. Frankly, I'd rather listen to the traffic going by. No matter if it's my morning or evening commute, I'm likely tired, stressed, and I'm pulling into the gas station at the last possible moment.  For what I'm paying for gas these days, I don't want to also feel like I'm paying to be assaulted with this noise pollution.

I wonder if the advertising industry still considers something successful when it is annoying as hell to consumers. 

I'm afraid of what the answer to that might be so I am now on a mission to avoid these gas stations whenever possible and ask you to do the same.

Steam Pipe

As I've mentioned, I've been heads down in a project at work. A couple of times in the last week or so, my manager has asked me "how's your stress level?"  The first time I heard it, I think my jaw dropped because no one has ever, ever asked me such a thing before.

Long, long ago, just after I had taken a job as the assistant to a woman who then went on early maternity leave and never came back (so I was doing my job and large parts of hers' for the better part of a year), someone commented on how calm I seemed. This was during conference season when many of my colleagues were running around in small circles trying to have everything just right for the major annual conference of our industry. I chalked this up to not quite having as much at stake as the rest of my co-workers (after all my manager's job was not really mine, nor would it ever be), but it also gave me a bit of insight into how I came off to people.  Did people really not know that I was a raging drama queen?

My husband surely did. I would come home and rant and rave about work stuff that, in the grand scheme of the universe, was really pretty meaningless. At home, I fluctuated between relishing the victimhood of the position I was in and despairing of ever doing "great things" in my career. At work I approached the whole thing philosophically - "when this is over, it will have been a valuable experience."

There's a scene in the movie Broadcast News, several actually, where Holly Hunter's character is sitting by herself crying inconsolably and inexplicably. The way the movie is edited, the scenes seem to come out of nowhere and aren't connected to anything. Finished with her crying jag, she picks herself up each time and moves into the next scene like nothing is bothering her. My boyfriend at the time was confounded enough by those scenes to actually ask about it, but I got it right away. I've been there. It's taking pressure off a steam pipe. I'm there now.

This is the biggest project I've ever worked on. This is the biggest project that my department has ever worked on. I've never seen so many pieces and parts of a thing and so many chefs in the kitchen. And, as often happens toward the end of a project, I am not entirely happy about the finished product. I start kicking myself that it would have been so much better if I had only done _________________(fill in the blank), but it's too late now.

On top of that, some of the volunteer work I have been doing around town has gotten unnecessarily contentious. Normally, I love a good fight, but the timing here couldn't be worse.

And it's school vacation week. Never schedule a deadline for week of your school vacation. Even with babysitters lined up, something is bound to go wrong.

All right! Enough with the whining (whinging, as the British say, sounds much better)! I will get through this. Of course I will. And when it is done it will have been a valuable experience. But right now, I just want to cry.

I need a day...

The major project I have been working on pretty much since I started my new job is coming to completion at the end of this month. I have been pretty much heads down on it for weeks. When it is done I feel like I need a serious day off to do as much of the following as possible.

Get a haircut - I'm getting to the point where I need a serious change.

Go to the eye doctor/replace my eyeglasses - My current glasses are five years old and are so scratched that it's like they have a film over the lenses.

Go to the chiropractor - What does it say that I can't find the time for what is essentially a 10 minute appointment?

Find a new massage therapist.

Make some changes to my blog and The Soccer Mom Vote.

But who am I kidding? I can't take a whole day off, any vacation time has to be spent with my kids. As it is, while my neighbors are heading off to Hawaii, I'm begging the boys' grandparents to spend part of the week with them next week so I don't have to take off their school vacation week while I finish this project. This kills me. I have three weeks to ration throughout the year. I'm trying to reserve some for the summer and the week between Christmas and New Year's. It's enough to make me consider supporting a longer school year. God knows we Americans won't be getting any more vacation time in my lifetime.

On a slightly more less serious note: I never thought I'd say this, but I'm considering a makeover. I had to be videotaped for a project I'm involved in around town and when I saw the playback, well.... Man, I'm old!

The last time I saw myself on camera I was 35, and all I can say is that motherhood has the intervening years have taken their toll. I've never been the most put-together looking soul, but now I look even more tired, pale, and puffy.

I'm sure the pale, pink, shirt I was wearing didn't help. I may have an affinity for that color, but it does not have one for me. Must. Resist. Pale. Pink.  Of course, it jumps out at me every time it's in style. Every spring I get sucked in by some variation of it.

The Fairy Blogtherapist speculates that my attraction to prim, ladylike, colors and styles is a subconscious attempt to camouflage the loud, forthright, and decidely tomboyish aspects of my personality. The bolder, deeper, colors are more representative of the true me and I should stop trying to pretend otherwise. 

Anyway, I'm thinking that when this project is done, I need to find a spa or a salon and get a full workup. A colleague of mine is recommending the Aveda salon she goes to in Harvard Square, which means I'd have to do this on a long lunch.

Hmmm. Am I going to have time for this?

Frustrating Sunday

My mother bought the boys new bicycles for which I am very grateful. Tigger's bike is a Mongoose, which is a fairly big name for older kids who handle their bikes well and want to do tricks on them. The bikes were fully assembled by the store where they were purchased, a chain store with an outlet not far from us.

As it happened, Tigger's bike needed the seat adjusted because it was too high for him. No one in our house who tried to adjust the seat could get the screw loose. So after my mother sent us the receipt, I took the bike back to my local version of the store. The plan was to zip down to the store, get the bike fixed or exchanged, go to the grocery store to pick up a roast chicken, and head home to put the roast in the oven so we could eat at a decent hour and have some reading time before the kids went to bed.

The store had a nifty little tool that allowed them to loosen the bolt, but even at its lowest point the seat was too high for TIgger. The seat sits on this pole-like thing that allows it to be adjusted, but the pole was too long to go low enough for Tigger's needs. I could either buy a new seat with a shorter pole, or have them cut the existing pole to a more usable length. They checked with their manager but they were not allowed to cut the pole for me.  Tigger and I left his bike at the store and went all over town looking for a store that had a different seat with a shorter pole. Turns out all the stores I went to (I couldn't find an actual bike store in all the mall madness, but I'm pretty sure they still exist), only had seats with no pole at all.

Finally, I wound up making another unplanned stop at the Home Depot looking for a pipecutter.  When I asked some guy if the thing I picked out was the right thing to have for the bike seat pole, he offered to cut the thing free of charge. OK, mission accomplished, but it took until nearly 5 PM to get what I needed. Don't worry, Home Depot, I bought nearly $100 worth of gardening stuff to make up for your guy not making me buy the pipecutter. After all, what am I going to do with a pipecutter after this? I guess I should have gone there first.

When I finally got to the grocery store, it was mobbed with lines of people with their carts overflowing. and it was nearly 6 PM by the time I got home.

So dinner was late, and by the time we got it too the table we had two tired and hungry and fussy kids who didn't enjoy one of their favorite meals.

Definitely a "harder than it had to be" day.

They say men don't like short hair on women

Apparently, it starts early.

Pumpkin (extricating himself from a hug): Uh, I can't breathe! Your hair is too long!

Me: Do you think I should get it cut?

Pumpkin (considering): Umm, no. I don't want you to be a daddy. I want you to be a momma.

But wait, one more thing...

Before we kiss March good bye and kick its dreary butt out the door  I just wanted to send a hug to the unusual number of friends who have birthdays this month. 

Because I'm too lazy to email.

Happy belated Birthday!