The Taoist Mother

Just when I think there's nothing new for my mom to teach me, she reinforces the fact that, although I'm in my 40s and a mother myself, there are still deceptively simple lessons to be learned and re-learned again.

I come from an all-news-all-the-time upbringing, which might explain the bomb shelter I designed and depicted in a diorama for my sixth grade art fair. (I still believe that the only reason I won is because the other entries were either stolen or pornographic.)  And not only was the news always on, it was on at ear-splitting levels, so that there was never any escaping the crime waves, the plane crashes, the floods, fighting, and financial crises that were sweeping the nation at any given moment.

From the day I moved out of my parents'  house, I decided never to watch the news again. And, as it turned out, I didn't need to. Because the second something big, bad, or baffling happened, my mom would be on the phone, making sure I was informed.  Of course, the Interwebz eventually complicated everything, with its urban myths and chain letters urging recipients to beware the new computer virus that would delete your recipes for potato salad, the killer that was hiding in your back seat, the cockroach that hatched inside a woman's tongue. Mom was calling me daily for several years with one form of bad news or another, until one day, I finally snapped.

"I just thought  you should know," she said on a spring day in 2008, "that there's a man at the hospital who says he has a bomb strapped to his body."

"Why would I need to know that?" I scolded.

"Well, in case you're driving that way, the road might be closed," she said in her defense.

When I asked her when she was going to ever call me with good news, she said she would try to come up with something more cheerful. A few hours later, called again.  "Good news!" she chirped. I could hear the pride in her voice, and so I asked her what she had for me.

"They shot the guy with the bomb."  Determined to turn things around, I said, "Then I guess it's a good thing he was already at the hospital."

It's no story of the Taoist Farmer, but it's true and it's mine, and it's a testament to my mother's wisdom, whether it's intentional, channeled, or accidental. I've been thinking a lot about my family lately, and how it's going to change and move and shift, as families do after the loss of one of its members, and I cling to this memory as proof that we're all going to be fine. Story at 11.

Resignation

I haven’t written anything, anything at all, in at least six months. In fact, I’m thinking about quitting writing altogether, but I have no idea who accepts these types of resignations. Perhaps this is the thing that keeps some writers going: There’s no one to quit to. When I retrace my steps to what brought me here, it doesn’t look so terrible on paper, and yet, I consider this last year an exercise in finding out what I’m made of. So far, whatever it is doesn’t smell anything like teen spirit.

Last September my daughter Sophie went to Kindergarten. The only thing I remember about her first day of school is trying not to hurl while watching her get on the bus. In December, I accepted an offer for a full-time job I didn’t know I was being considered for. I was happy to take the work, as I was eager to start meeting people who don’t have pink eye or strep. I did, however, make sure to get pneumonia just before starting. In March, I quit working out. I decided it would be easier to buy bigger clothes than make it to the gym. In April, I turned 41. In February, my dad became seriously ill, and in May he died after a 60-year battle with a disease he didn’t even know he had. June was a blur, and here we are in July. Pretty soon I’m going to need more new clothes.

This is how it happens, isn’t it? I had big dreams, big aspirations that have shrunk and decayed over time, and now even the smallest of those little goodies seems unattainable. Grad school, authorship, a real career, some kind of entrepreneurial pursuit: I’m losing sight of how any of these things are possible. So I’ll keep doing what I’m doing: the laundry, the dishes. I will keep coming to work in the morning, and leaving sometime later. I will take care of Sophie. I will wear a rubber mouthpiece to bed that keeps me from clenching my jaw hard enough to break my own teeth. Learning to knit has been fun. I’m due for a mammogram! And maybe I’ll just start writing something—something smaller than an essay but bigger than a tweet—every single day. Maybe it’ll be fun, and if it isn’t, I can always quit. I think.

Sincerely,
Jody A. Reale

Peaceful Cracker

From my forthcoming cookbook, How to Make Snacks Like a Dork, comes this little gem: Sugar Out the Yin Yang. Its origin is this...

As a follow up from the My Daughter's Starting Kindergarten and I'm Starting my Mid-Life Crisis blog post, which is probably a lot like the fanfare-heavy Red Book that's coming out, I've become adept at the school lunch. This basically means that I make a lunch and two snacks for Sophie each day, she ignores all of it, and I pretend not to care. The sad truth is: The full lunch box at the end of every day is making me crazy.

So, instead of letting her eat or not eat, I've decided to go the extra mile, think outside the box, and embody a lot of other lame sayings. These mental and epicurean gymnastics have finally lead to today's masterpiece. I told her in the car, "You can eat it now or zen." She didn't get it, which is good. In our family, you can get punched in the head for a stupid pun like that.

I'm not sure whether this is my greatest achievement to date, or my greatest shame. Here's what it is:
About a tablespoon marshmallow cream
About a tablespoon Nutella
1 plain rice cake
1 marshmallow
1 chocolate chip
Calories per serving: Who cares?

What I like about this little treat is that it's like ebony and ivory, living together in perfect harmony on a rice cake. What Sophie likes about it is that she can pick off the chocolate chip, lick the marshmallow cream off one side, and easily toss the rest in the bushes. Everybody wins.

Smart/Dumb Like a Fox (in Faux Fur)?

My friend Laura Benedict has lost her mind. Or has she? You may know Laura from her novels,
Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts and Isabella Moon, or the anthology she edited, Surreal South, or her blog, Notes From the Handbasket. How do I know her? From MySpace, of course.

As I learned today, however, she's got a brand new bag, so to speak. She's decided, as she explains, "to spend a year shopping exclusively at one of the world's most reviled but also most innovative retailers--Wal-Mart (including Wal-Mart.com and Sam's Club)--for all of my clothes, accessories, makeup, jewelry, lingerie and shoes. This is a personal challenge for me." Amen, sister.

She'll chronicle her experience at her new-new blog, Wardrobe by Sam, where she'll seek the answer to the question, "Can a Self-Confessed Clothing Snob Find a Year's Worth of Fashion Happiness at the World's Biggest Discount Store?" I don't know, Laura, can you? Let's all find out together. Personally, I can't wait for the post in which she's forced to ask for a bra fitting, but that's just the way I am.

Wine Saves Lives

Today I sent Sophie on her first day of kindergarten. The whole way there, I felt like hurling. "Are you OK, Soaf?" I kept asking her. "Are you OK, honey?" She was. When it came time for her to go, she got in line and left without even saying goodbye. She looked like she'd been going to elementary school her whole life. The pride! The relief! The exclamation points! Looking back on her short life and my slightly longer one, I felt the same way watching her roll over for the first time, or sing all the verses to "Clementine" for my dad. Thank goodness she's made it to the next milestone. She must be a genius! And all inflation, all pontification aside, we have so much to be grateful for, it's ridiculous.

This is Tessa Paprocki, her husband Adam, and their son Landon. I didn't know them, but my friend Andre worked with Tessa at Synergy Fine Wines, an independent wine distributor in Denver. It was probably right around the time this picture was taken, sometime in January, 2009, that Tessa learned she had stage four breast cancer that had spread to her lungs, spine, and liver. Tessa died, following a series of treatments, in July. Landon is now eight months old.

Tessa didn't see Landon walk or talk. His first day of school is a handful of his lifetimes away. Adam is a new, first-time parent who's probably scared to death, like I was, only he's got to figure out how to raise a baby as a single dad and the keeper of Mama's memory.

Breast cancer.

Yesterday Andre emailed her friends to let them know that Synergy Fine Wines is donating to Landon's trust 100% of the wholesale price of one of their wines: The 2008 Lucia Lucy Rosé from Pisoni Vineyards. No strangers to championing the cause of fighting breast cancer, the Pisoni family donates a portion of Lucy Rosé sales to the Susan B. Komen Foundation and local individuals fighting breast cancer--and they've done so since Lucy's inception. So it's fitting that you'll find a pink ribbon 'round every bottle of Lucy.

When the Pisonis heard about Landon, they offered to donate an additional 40 cases for the cause. The Synergy sales reps, warehouse and delivery teams offered their support at no charge, along with the freight company, Advantage Transportation. Now you can play along too. If you're in Boulder, you can support the Paprockis by buying Lucy Rosé in Boulder at three local retailers. I bought three bottles today to celebrate this startling transition to a new trend in our family's history--going to school without bitterly complaining the whole way.

Face it: You're going to buy wine this weekend anyway. And if you're like me, you walk into Boulder Liquor Mart with its six acres of shelves, choke, and end up with a bottle you picked because there was a hedgehog on the label. But now you know better. Wherever you are, buy Lucy, support women, and say "yes!" to life. And when you buy it at one of these local retailers, you help Landon. When you drink it, don't forget to thank your lucky stars and make a toast to someone you love. Spread the word.

Find Lucy at:
Liquor Mart 1750 15th St, Boulder (303) 449-3374
Boulder Wine Merchant 2690 Broadway St, Boulder (303) 443-6761
Superior Liquor 100 Superior Plaza Way # 100, Superior (303) 499-6600

Kindergarten Krisis

I am avoiding going to the store for school lunch fixin's. I am most decidedly dragging my feet on this, the day before the day before Sophie starts Kindergarten. I had no idea I would feel so much anxiety, such nostalgia, such terror. I've spent the better part of today feeling fragile and weepy, probably because it seems impossible that I'm going to commit my little girl to a big brick building with a flagpole outside, where she will stay all day with people she doesn't already know, and then come out, hopefully holding the same lunch bag she went in with. I know I will obsess over whether it's empty at the end of the day, or still packed with 2/3 of the food I sent with her. And so I will drag my feet through the grocery store, choosing the things that will become Sophie's first school lunches with the care that Indiana Jones chose the grail. Will I choose wisely?

I took Sophie to her last day of preschool this morning. She's been going there since the age of 20 months, with a brief hiatus while we served a winter-long sentence in Vail. On her first day there, she sat down for circle time and requested the song "Pistol Packin' Mama." When her teacher said she didn't know it, Sophie reminded her that it started with the lyrics, "Drinkin' beer in a cabaret..."

Our preschool was a small school where everyone knew each other, and where I felt super comfortable. I considered it an extension of our own home environment: A place where I wasn't afraid to be myself. I wrote the class newsletter (sometimes), and helped organize events. I went along on field trips, and made phone calls urging parents to attend the next meeting. Sometimes. I joined a school-sponsored exercise group and carped about Alex's carping about tuition. Lunches and snacks were provided; I never packed one meal. Now that all that's over, I don't know what I'm doing. How exciting.

And I don't know that her new school will know what it's doing, either. How will Sophie's teacher know that such subtle cues as wanting to sit down and rest mean that a trip to the school nurse--and then probably home--is in order? How will she know that the statement, "I have a forehead," means that she's feverish and headache-y? How will she know that Sophie spends as much time falling down as she does standing up? Who will be there to apply the bandage, and will it have princesses on it? I am tempted to write a how-to manual, staple it to Sophie's shirt, and then show up at school to read it aloud. I am tempted to tattoo her address and phone number to her belly, upside down, so that if she blanks, she can look down her shirt and read it to whomever needs to call me--stat.

Thankfully, Sophie is unable to come along for my midlife crisis-like hayride. Her excitement is palpable; she couldn't be happier about this next adventure in big-girl beginnings, which is why my behavior must baffle her right out of the pink Chuck Taylor's she's about to outgrow. While I was rooting around the fridge for the makings of yesterday's one-food-group dinner that we ate standing at the island in the kitchen instead of the table, Sophie mentioned her friend, Grace. "Mom, can you believe two of Gracie's teeth are loose?" I spun around, pointed my finger at her and said, "Don't even think about starting to lose your teeth yet!"

But I have hope that by the time the leaves fall and it's dark enough in the mornings that an alarm is necessary to wake up on time, I'll have it together. I imagine we'll get busy making bake sale cookies and memorizing school plays. And it'll be like I'm getting to go to school all over again, only with wine and chocolate at the end of the day instead of milk and carrot sticks. I'll learn all over again what kind of mother I am, and what kind I'll become. And if I get stuck, I can always ask Sophie for help. She seems to have everything under control.

The Roughshod Guide to Being Five

Congratulations! Now that you're almost five years old, there are all sorts of things you can do and understand for yourself. Your motor skills are now sophisticated enough to hold you in place for a good five seconds after spinning yourself around for the entire length of your favorite song. This is a triumph, despite all the puking. Don't worry; that's a trait that's harder to kick, and just when you think you've got it, you discover frat parties and the associated hazards of bed spins (not to mention date rape.)

Now that you're almost five, it's time for you to grasp the concept of the movie sequel. When Beethoven's Second is on the Disney Channel, wonder if you should disqualify yourself from watching it because you never saw "Beethoven's One." (See The Roughshod Guide to Being Six, wherein you'll work on disqualifying it from your movie lineup because, let's face it, there really weren't that many unanswered questions from the original, except why John Hughes would dare write such a thing, even under a synonym. Yes, why, John Hughes? Why would you do this to us? After the pedestal my generation put you on for Sixteen Candles and Breakfast Club.)

Another thing, now that you're approaching the age of five: Whatever agreements may transpire between you and another person, get them in writing, even with family. Especially with family. Specifically, when your dad tells you you can visit him at work on Wednesday, seal the deal and avoid breach of contract by having him write it down, and include the words, "I really, really seriously mean it." Secure your own representation in the matter by having your mom read the writing loud, word for word, to prevent any misunderstandings. Just because you can't read very well yet doesn't make you a sucker.

When dealing with life's injustices, look inside yourself for the answers. When the sky falls, paint a new one. Look to the example of your neighborhood friends, the brother-sister duo who are tortured and subjected nightly, as are you, to the horrors of--gasp--Going to Bed at a Reasonable Hour. Separated by their respective bedroom doors, and the acres of hallway between them, the brother and sister called out to each other for comfort. After the young one, the sister, pressed her face to the bottom crack of the door and told her brother, "I'm so sad," her brother, as wise as only an almost-five-year-old can be, counseled her. "Do something you love!" he trumpeted through the solid core of his own door.

Begin to grasp the power of death. Realize it's permanent, which is, for your mother, about the length of an episode of The Wiggles. Realize that not only does it last forever, but that it's the one force in the universe powerful enough to make cat ownership possible. The next time you ask for a cat, and are reminded that you can never have one because of your father's allergies, ask about what would happen if Daddy happened to die. Could you have one then?

Finally, begin to recognize facial cues, however subtle they may be, and interpret their meanings. Be able to predict, simply by looking at your mother's face, when she's about to cry. While this skill comes in handy later, say, when you're able to leave the house by yourself (see The Roughshod Guide to Being Five and a Half) and get the hell out of Dodge the minute things get heavy, what's more important is learning to feel empathy and compassion for the other person. Because usually, when your mother makes the "I'm going to lose it" face, it's because she's realized there's no more gin in the house. (See also: Neilsen, Brigitte.)

Stay tuned and join us for future Roughshod Guides, coming soon, including The Roughshod Guide to Sneaking Out in the Middle of the Night to Meet Your Gay Boyfriend, and Running for Student Council on the "My Boobs are on Facebook" Platform: a Roughshod Guide Supplemental.