Don't Judge A (Face)Book By Its Cover

It seems to be trendy to express contempt for Facebook. “I would never waste my time with that,” or “why would I care that someone is buying a sandwich?” are a few common retorts I heard recently. It fascinates me that socially liberal people who gladly accept anyone based on their race, gender or age quickly dismiss others based on their technology.

When I tell them I love Facebook, I am immediately downgraded in their opinion as someone whose mental age hovers around puberty.

I love Facebook because it becomes what you make of it. When I open my Live Feed every morning for a few minutes, I immediately feel connected to my friends, family and community.  Some of my favorites from this morning are:

• A new photo on Mila’s Daydreams, where a photographer mom on maternity leave posts photos of her napping baby posed in imaginary tableaus – aaawww!


• The mention of a great Italian restaurant on Sonoma County, CA that looks like a must-try for our family


• An article posted by SFGate.com on Proposition 8 and how the federal trial will provide a discourse on the subject of same-sex marriages that never happened during the election


• A webinar offered by Writer’s Digest later this week on getting your memoir noticed by agents and editors – great timing for me so I will definitely listen to this.


• A great photo of my niece who lives far away in Georgetown.

• And finally, The Pie Palace on 4th Street has fresh brown butter nectarine pies – make note, stop by the Pie Palace today!

 

The connection goes both ways. When I post photos of Ethan at a baseball game or my latest piece of writing, I am giving my family and friends a look at our lives today even though they are in Minnesota, Iowa, Florida or Kansas. We quickly make contact and then move on with our day - a very good thing in a world that moves so quickly.

So to all of the Facebook haters out there, try it first before dismissing it, or better yet, practice a little tolerance for those who are technologically different from you.

The Family I Knew

Last month, my step-mother called from Kansas and made a simple request of me. In hushed tones, which said my dad was in the next room, she started, “Your father has all these old boxes – photos, files, documents – that have been in storage for years, and someone needs to clean them out. I would do it but George won’t let me throw out anything that was your mother’s.”



Dad at 83 is stubborn and thorny. This is nothing new, just aspects of his personality that expanded over the years. Cecilia, my step-mom, is a life saver. No, really, an honest-to-God life saver. A former RN, she saved Dad’s life when he had a heart attack in their living room two years ago. They married nine years ago when Mom died unexpectedly. Cecelia was my mother’s best friend in high school and married her cousin, who passed away the year before Mom, so my brothers and I had known her all our lives. Their marriage was a true blessing for everyone.


“Of course,” I said. “Ethan’s spring break is in two weeks and we will come out.” Terrible timing for my work, which I didn’t tell her, and Shannon my husband would not be coming due to his own work dramas. Ethan, our seven-year-old son, loved his grandparents and would be thrilled.  I would just make the trip work somehow.


As Ethan and I jumped in a rental car at the Denver airport and prepared for the five-hour drive, I thought of what we could expect to find in Kansas. Comfort food with lots of gravy cooked by Cecilia, glasses of wine poured by Dad, long games of Pinochle into the night, walks in the garden and around town, and Ethan getting too many toys to take home on the airplane. These things I know well and they never change.


The first morning after our arrival, Cecilia gave me a cup of coffee and took me to the basement. Fifteen boxes were stacked neatly in the corner. We pulled up two chairs and grabbed the first box. Slide trays – 17 trays with 40 slides each. A quick calculation in my head said 680 slides. I groaned. As a child, I loved these slides, sitting in the living room with the family, eating popcorn while Mom cringed at out-of-date hair and fashions, and the boys reminiscing about the Shetland pony my brother Eric won at a baseball game that proceeded to tear up our back lawn. As an adult, I saw only a huge project that would take many hours as I scanned these precious memories into digital files for the family. One more project on my list that would not be completed.


Next box we opened was old towels and sheet sets to beds long gone. With a Sharpie, I wrote “Goodwill” on the outside. Hopefully, the rest of the boxes would be this easy.


The third box was old photos and documents from my two grandmothers. Cecilia and I dusted this one off and took it upstairs to sort through at the dining room table, with fresh cups of coffee.


My dad wandered in the kitchen, walking slowly with his cane. His legs were beginning to betray him, not allowing him to stand for more than a few minutes unsupported. “What are you girls doing?” In addition to his legs betraying him, memory was also betraying him. “Remember, Dad, we are going through the old boxes this morning.”


I began to separate the photos into piles. My mother was in many of them. I miss her every day, and looking at these family pictures again made my heart hurt.

I laughed out loud when I saw a stack of old postcards, bundled neatly together with rubber bands. Grandma Lily, my father’s mother, kept every post card that my father and uncle sent her through the years. Our family trip to San Francisco when I was six was there, and our road trip through Utah was also represented by the colorful cards. Even more exotic were my cousins’ postcards from trips to Manchu Picchu and Brazil (they were always the more adventurous side.)


Toward the back of this pile was a small note card with a cute puppy on the front, colored bright yellow, circa 1974. It looked like something my mother would have bought for me to write thank you notes. As I opened it, the handwriting was definitely from a woman, with graceful loops and beautiful words, but it was not mine. “Dear Grandma,” it started. It had to be from my cousin Jodi, my only female cousin.


As I glanced at the bottom of the page, I was confused. “Love, Caroline.” Caroline? I flipped the note card and envelope over. It was addressed to Lily Brown, my grandmother. My stomach begin to feel nauseous, as it does when I start to do something I don’t want to do, like ride a roller coaster or get into an argument with my husband.


“Dad, who is Caroline?”


Cecilia turned heel and left the kitchen, informing Ethan that they were going for ice cream right now. He was thrilled, and I was still confused. After they left, I asked Dad again, “Who is Caroline?”


My dad always had an answer for everything, whether it was a quick joke or to wave you off when he thought something was unimportant. Instead he walked past me into the kitchen and slowly poured another cup of coffee.  He stared into the brown liquid for a few minutes, not looking at me. That nauseous feeling was getting worse in my stomach.

“I guess you need to know but there was never a good time to tell you kids,” he began. I sat with my mouth slightly open, want to say something but waiting. Something unexpected and perhaps unwanted was coming.


After a pause, I prompted again, “So… who is Caroline?”


“Well, she is… she is… let me think how to say this… well, she is… oh, what is the word?” he stumbled. Whether it was the Alzheimer’s which was beginning to show or simply a difficult conversation, his words were tearing me up. What seemed like ten minutes probably lasted ten seconds.

“She’s your half-sister.”


At 44, I thought I knew my family inside and out. I was finally comfortable with who I was, my relationships with my two brothers, my father’s distance and obstinance, losing my mother and dealing with a new step-mother at an advanced age. All the pieces were there, maybe they did not fit perfect but I knew where they went.


Four little words on a note card changed that. The family I thought I knew suddenly changed. My dad had another family before us, with two children. Now, I had a sister and another brother. Time to re-learn what I thought I knew.

Zombie Attack!

Over my first cup of coffee on Saturday morning, my seven-year-old son Ethan informed me that he is starting his own business. Normally he asks me for waffles, so I was curious.

Ethan planned to call it The Comic Company, and they will create custom comic books for kids at school. On the handwritten order form he created, ten kids signed up for comic books and indicated themes from Pokemon to Star Wars. Ethan said he already has too much work so he is recruiting friends to work as graphic artists at The Comic Company. Overnight, my son became a combination of Stan Lee and Donald Trump. I needed another cup of coffee for this.

Ethan pulled out his first custom comic book titled Zombie Attack! Bright red lettering on the cover was only the start of this miniature gore-fest. Subsequent panels showed the bloody battle between the zombies, created predictably when the army spilled toxic waste over a graveyard, and the townspeople who lived nearby with an unending supply of machetes and power tools to fight them. “But there is only one gun, Mom, because I know you don’t like guns,” he said.


Listening to his enthusiastic narration and looking at the death and destruction on the pages, I could feel my lips pursing in disapproval. I imagined him delivering this comic to his client (another boy in his second grade class), and the subsequent call I would get from two angry parents. My own mother’s voice echoed in my head, saying, “Are you going to let him do this? Everyone will think that something is wrong with him!”


This was the same voice that chastised me for reading Stephen King novels. My favorite was Salem’s Lot, the story of a vampire moving into a small town and taking it over. When I was 12, we lived in a small town and had a creepy old man who lived down the street, so I was hooked. “What if Mr. Johnson was a vampire?” I asked my mom. “How would we protect ourselves - hiding in the house, driving out of town, or tracking down the vampire?”


My mom never enjoyed playing these “what if” games. She asked me not to read these books at all. But if I insisted on it, she said I couldn’t take them outside the house. The only “what if” my mom was concerned with was this: What if the neighbors saw me and wondered what kind of mom lets her daughter read these books?


Listening to my son’s excitement that morning, I took a big sip of my coffee and made a decision. He had created a comic book empire, after all. I took Zombie Attack! from him and asked, “What if the zombies were really space aliens…?”

Circle Time

You know you are a bad mother when your son’s second-grade teacher asks, “Now, whose mother are you?”, and it is two months into the school year.

When my son Ethan was in kindergarten, I volunteered every week in the classroom. Sorting paper and artwork, helping kids with projects or reading aloud were a few of the more glamorous tasks while often I simply made photocopies for the teachers. Whatever the work, it was reassuring to me to watch my son and his classmates and teachers interact, developing friendships or resolving conflicts.

The year he went into second grade my work became overwhelming and so I gave up classroom volunteering completely. After his teacher’s comment, working mother guilt ate away at me, and I decided to volunteer for Ethan’s class holiday party.

I arrived early that Friday afternoon in the classroom, latte in hand to fortify myself. Class was still in session, and the volunteers could not set up anything until the kids finished “Circle Time” and went out to recess.

Maybe the good moms in class knew what Circle Time was, but I didn’t. When I first walked in the classroom door, the kids were seated in a circle on the floor and looked as serious as if they were Barack Obama’s cabinet members discussing momentous changes to America’s health care system. Curious about what these seven-year-olds were discussing so intently, I grabbed a seat with another volunteer at the back of the room.

“Anyone else want to say thank you?” said Ethan’s teacher, a tanned and pretty woman who wears outfits like she just breezed in from a beach vacation in Santa Barbara, rather than overseeing 20 active children all day. “Okay, if we are done with thank you’s then let’s start with apologies. Anyone want to apologize to someone?”

The teacher then handed a small hand puppet of a frog to the first child to her left. The boy took it and put it on his hand for a moment, then passed it to the next child, a small girl who was equally mute on any apologies.

A blond smartly-dressed boy confidently took possession of the frog puppet and spoke up, “I want to apologize to Anthony.” He turned to another boy in the circle and looked him in the eye, unusually direct for a seven-year-old child. “Anthony, I am sorry that I said I am so much better at school than you are. I am a lot better at school, but I guess I shouldn’t have said that in front of everyone.”

I choked on my latte. That was his apology? I wonder what life was like at that little boy’s house. Is that the way arguments went between his parents? Anthony seems unfazed by this back-handed apology.

As my son took the puppet next, I held my breath. What wrong-doings had he committed in the school yard? No luck. Like most boys of any age, he had no interest in sharing feelings and couldn’t wait to pass the frog along to the next kid.
The puppet moved around the circle until it reached another boy. He was the kind of little boy you find in Marin County - self-assured, articulate, and speaks fluent Mandarin as a second language.

“I apologize to Martin. Martin, it wasn’t right that you cheated at handball today at recess. Everyone knows that you cheated, but still it wasn’t right for me to call you a jerk.”

Somehow I don’t think this is the direction the teacher wanted from the apologies, however she didn‘t show it and calmly proceeded like a veteran family therapist. She held Martin back at this point, who continued to protest his honesty at handball play, telling him that the format of “Circle Time” didn’t allow him to respond and if he wanted the three of them could discuss the issue at recess. Who knew that there was arbitration in second grade?

I side with Martin on this issue. Even Robert’s Rules of Conduct allow some rebuttal. In this format, these kids were allowed to take potshots at each other without discussion or intercession. It was the kid’s version of a boardroom power play, saving your issues and conflicts until you have the right audience.

The teacher’s attempt at teaching empathy and responsibility to children is noble, but as a recent New York Times article asked, “Can you teach empathy to children?” Is it innate or can we as parents or teachers demonstrate it?

Ask me two years and I would have responded yes without hesitation. Now, after witnessing Circle Time, I wonder.

Wake-up Call

I have not used an alarm clock for seven years.

Every morning at 5:45 a.m., I lay in bed, snuggled under the comforter with my husband Shannon, and hear the sound of two small feet padding up the hallway. The routine is always the same, and the sounds familiar.

First, our little son Ethan turns on the lights in the bathroom, slinging his “Duckie” blanket over his shoulder and peeing into the toilet. The door is never shut but sometimes his hands are washed.

Second, he comes into our bedroom and walks to my side of the bed. He grabs my hand or shoulder, whatever is sticking out from under the comforter and gives me a little shake. “Mommy, wake up. I’m hungry. Can you make me breakfast? I would like waffles with syrup and turkey sausages, and I want to watch Pokemon out front.”

Still surfacing from sleep, I make a few non-committal grunts. If I don’t move fast enough, he shakes again and starts the breakfast monologue over. From day to day, only the details of the monologue change from eating waffles and sausages to cereal and milk to oatmeal and juice, from watching Pokemon to Spongebob to Bakugan.

This routine started the day after we put him in his first big boy bed at two years old. At first, I didn’t mind. An early riser myself, I was still high on the joys of new motherhood. After six months of this morning routine, I was less thrilled and more irritated. No matter what he did the night before or what time zone we were in, Ethan would wake up 15 minutes before dawn.

My irritation extended to my husband who never seemed to hear Mommy’s little wake-up call or have a desire to pitch in to fix toaster waffles. Finally, Shannon came to my rescue, or perhaps he was tired of hearing my complaints, when he dug out my old Sony digital alarm clock. He always hated the noise it made, a shrill ear-piercing bleating, but it was perfect for Ethan with its big green glow-in-the-dark numbers. Plugging it in, Shannon placed it on the dresser across from the big boy bed and as I listened at the door, my husband explained to Ethan the numbers and how he was not to wake up Mommy before the number turned to 6:30.

The next morning at 5:45 little footsteps came down the hall. I held my breath and kept my eyes closed. He opened our bedroom door and approached my side of the bed, leaned in and whispered, “Mommy, I’ll be back at 6:30.” A partial victory.

The next Christmas Ethan was excited to get a new Spongebob alarm clock, bright yellow with Spongebob and Patrick on the face and two bells and a hammer at the top. I am not sure where his great-grandma found such an old-fashioned style clock or more importantly, whether she knew who Spongebob and Patrick were.
“How do you set the alarm?” Ethan asked. “Uh oh,” I thought.

This year I discovered how to get my Sunday mornings back at least - sleepovers. Ethan’s first sleepover came up unexpectedly, after we threw a party at our house. As our friends were leaving, they offered to take Ethan with them and their five-year-old son. I hesitated at first until my friend reminded me that I could sleep in on Sunday. “Great, I’ll pick him up tomorrow at noon.”

After saying good-bye to our friends and doing a half-hearted job of cleaning the kitchen, my husband and I snuggled in under the comforter. At 6:30 the following morning, I felt someone shaking my shoulder.

“What is that noise?” my husband mumbled. I heard a soft ringing somewhere in the house. Thinking it was an alarm system malfunction, I wandered into the hallway while my husband fell back asleep. Now I realized the insistent ringing was actually a dinging, and that it got louder as I reached Ethan’s room. There was the Spongebob alarm clock sitting in the middle of his floor, the little hammer furiously hitting the bells, piercing my sleepy haze.

I picked it up and switched it off, realizing Ethan wanted to make sure that Mom still got her wake-up call even when he is gone.

Flower And The Apple Hole

“Flower.” That’s what my brother’s baby book said was his first word. Even when I was six years old, I thought that was strange. Most kids say mama or dada or doggie; no kid ever says flower. I knew it was a lie, but at six, I didn’t understand the reason for the lie.

My mother was methodical about filling in my brother’s baby book. On the page of “firsts” – first smile, first tooth, first steps – was that strange first word “flower”. She explained at length that it was from the movie Bambi which they were watching at the time. I didn’t buy it.

Finally 30 years later, after a few glasses of wine, my mother came clean. Like many first-time moms, she was young and easily frustrated, and when frustrated, her favorite word was “shit”. So it wasn’t surprising when her baby’s first word was “shit”, not a good “first” for the baby book.

“Shit!” When that word came out of my sweet two-year-old son’s mouth, I laughed. It sounded so cute, and he used it just like I use it, when frustrated or when he drops something, so it was like holding up a little mirror. Thinking it over later, I realized that it wouldn’t sound so cute when he does it in public. We didn’t have long to find out.

Dropping off Ethan Monday morning at his day-care center run by the local Lutheran church, my husband was turning off the highway when suddenly, a large speeding truck cut us off and forced our Acura onto the gravel shoulder.

“Jesus F***ing Christ!” my husband yelled as we bounced over the gravel and he fought to keep the car out of the drainage ditch. After a few harrowing seconds and a few deep breaths to calm ourselves, we turned to find Ethan unhurt in the back seat, quiet with eyes as big as dinner plates. Minutes later, we walked into the day-care center and were greeted by the two older ladies that run the place. Ethan hadn’t said a word since the near-accident and ran to the ladies, proudly exclaimed, “Jesus F***ing Christ!”

I wanted to crawl in a hole. There must be a special place in hell for parents that allow their two-year old to say that in a church.

The church wasn’t the worst, which came two years later. My niece was graduating from Harvard, and our entire family came out to Boston. We rented a van to shuttle us around the city. Packed into the van late one evening, Ethan enjoyed being the center of attention as the only small child in a group of adults. In the front seat were my brother and Father Leo, a Catholic priest and my sister-in-law’s brother. Suddenly, Ethan pointed his finger at the van’s driver, Father Leo. “Hey…,” he shouted. “Hey you… Hey asshole.” My heart stopped and the van went dead silent. Father Leo turned around in the driver’s seat, “Is he talking to me?” I was speechless.

Luckily, everyone burst out laughing. Even Leo laughed. Ethan laughed but didn’t really understand why. Thinking about it the next day, I realized that he was mimicking me and the way I talk back to drivers on the road. How mortifying to hear your exact words and cadence repeated back, and to a priest no less. My little mirror didn’t look so great at that moment.

Sitting in that van, I thought my dead mother must be rolling over in her grave at the idea that her only grandson curses like a sailor but then I smiled to myself and thought about my oldest brother’s baby book.

Today, my husband and I try to watch our language more but let’s face reality - sometimes the words shit or asshole just pop out. Driving to Costco recently, my husband let loose with asshole on the highway.

“Daddy, you can’t say that!” my son giggled at him. “You can’t say (dramatic pause and in a quiet voice) asshole.”

“Well, what can I say?” said my husband. Half-listening, I chimed in with the first thing to cross my mind. “How about apple?”

My husband tried it out as we pulled in the parking lot. “Hey you, apple hole! Why don’t you move your fat apple?” Ethan broke into belly laughs in the back seat.

Twenty minutes later as we walked through the store aisles, my son still giggled. “Apple hole… That… was… awesome!” My husband and I smiled at each other. We won’t go to hell for that one, right?