~ Tales from the Pressure Cooker ~
No other time has as much impact on a person's life as the four years they spend in high school. And the pressure—to get good grades, make the team, fit in, stand out, blend in, and simply survive—will never be as intense.
I see my boys go through it every day. Hearing them talk, I'm transported back to my alma mater. I remember rushing through the halls, worried that I wouldn't make it to class in time and, if I did, I'd inevitably forget something I needed way back in my locker. The entire time, I'd avoid making eye contact with classmates who knew a dozen different ways to make me feel self-conscious.
Despite all of my rushing, time had an irritating way of feeling like it was standing completely still. On more than one occasion, it felt like high school would never end.
When I was in the thick of it, not happy with the way I looked, the clothes I wore, the minefield that was my complexion, and my pin-straight hair that, no matter how hard I tried, would never be as bouncy, curly, or cute as that of every popular girl in school, I would lament to my Mom.
Her first line of defense? She'd smile and tell me that things would get better.
That was a leap of faith I was never willing to make.
Next, she'd pull out the old standby "Just be yourself. The rest will follow." When that prompted me to wail even louder into my pillow, she'd dig deep and remind me of how proud she was of me no matter how I looked or how many friends I had. Eventually, that did the trick.
But even when I felt like all was right with my world, she never said, or led me to believe, that I was in the midst of the best years of my life. Maybe because she knew better. Or maybe because she wanted me to keep striving and growing into the person I was meant to be, learning to rise above any challenges I'd face not only then, but ever.
Man, she was good.
When I crossed the stage to accept my diploma, I felt the lid that had been on the pressure cooker of my life for the past four years blow clean off.
Whether you can't imagine life getting any better than it is right now or you can't wait to blaze your own trail on your terms, there is life after high school.
Like my Mom said, things will get better. You just have to keep the faith.
~ The Things We Do For Lent ~
When I was a kid, holidays were all about the candy. Halloween and candy corn, Christmas and candy canes, Valentine's Day and candy hearts. Now that I'm an adult, I tend to wonder whether the manufacturers of such confections are in league with the American Dental Association. It's hard enough to get my kids to see beyond the candy-coated exterior of any given holiday to understand its true meaning. But, all is not lost. With my busy schedule, early planning helps.
Luckily, most retailers are on board with this. The transition between holidays happens so quickly at some stores that, if you blink, you're likely to miss it. Take, for instance, Easter. As soon as the last sad boxes of rejected Valentine's Day cards are relegated to the discount bin, packages of neon-colored plastic eggs, baskets, and jelly beans take their place on the shelves.
In my house, things move at a snail's pace in comparison. Planning for Easter begins at the onset of Lent. Seated around the dinner table, I asked each child what they plan to give up for those forty days of preparation and deprivation. My youngest kicked off the discussion with one word.
"Broccoli."
Because of his tender age, I excused his naiveté and suggested that he do without something he really, really likes. I gently recommended chocolate milk, a staple in his diet.
Tender age notwithstanding, he sensed the hypocrisy in my suggestion, and countered with, "I will if you will."
I relented, bested by an eight year old. "Broccoli it is."
I moved on to one of my older boys. "Your turn. How about something electronic? How about Facebook?"
He winced. "Technically, Facebook isn't something electronic, is it?"
"Nice try."
Squirming, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his iPod and placed it on the table before me, careful not to make eye contact. Before I could say another word, the rest of the boys interrupted with their offerings.
"Chips."
"Soda."
"Gum."
My husband looked across the length of the table at me and asked, "And you?"
I admired his bravery.
Without hesitating, I smugly responded, "Coffee! Just like last year."
He held his head in his hands and mumbled, "Please, no. Not again."
I scoffed. "Well, what would you suggest?"
Again, perhaps because of the distance separating us from one end of the table to the other, he mustered the courage to suggest, "Chocolate."
Forty days is a very long time.
But, remembering that sacrifice is an integral part of this pre-Easter season, I agreed, determined to set an example for my boys.
I suppose I can make a point of avoiding the store aisles that are stocked with the C word, but it won't help. It will find me. I'm a chocolate magnet.
"I can still drink coffee?" I inquired, silently calculating the balance on my Starbuck's card.
"Sure."
Six pairs of eyes stared at me as I let out a sigh of relief big enough to fill a hot air balloon.
Technically, mocha isn't chocolate, is it?
CHAPTER TEN
It's Better to Feel Good Than to Spin Good
~ Squashing the Flu Bug ~
While few can argue that modern day plate spinners have near superhuman multitasking capabilities, I recently discovered that none of us are impervious to the microcosm commonly referred to as the "flu bug."
I knew it had infiltrated my home when our youngest crawled between my husband and I at two in the morning, mumbling something about "gonna be sick." Not hearing the "I think I'm" that preceded this, we were utterly unprepared for the sensory onslaught that followed—the dreadful sound of him retching, the not pleasant aroma of said retch, and the unfortunate feel of it underfoot as we followed him into the bathroom.
As I tended to our now-sobbing child, cleaning him off and changing him into clean jammies, my husband pulled the linens off of our bed and began the first of many loads of laundry. Declaring the room uninhabitable, he took to the couch as I squeezed into bed next to my ailing child, thanking my lucky stars that it was the weekend and I could maybe sleep in a few extra minutes.
Despite copious hand washing and consumption of over-the-counter flu prevention products, the bug infiltrated me like so many ants at a summer picnic. Yet, while it knocked me off my feet, I rested easy knowing that my plates were still being spun, or so my family assured me.
Should the plate spinner in your family become incapacitated by this virus, rendering even their best laid plans useless, here is a survival guide to see you through.
First and foremost, before the first sniffle has you rifling through your pockets for a crumpled Kleenex, know who you can call for back up—the neighbor who takes her kids to the same school you do, the grocery store that offers home delivery, and the take-out place that can deliver something vaguely resembling a square meal.
Next, before that first wave of nausea has you checking the headlines to see if anything you've eaten in the past twenty-four hours is being recalled by the FDA, become well-versed in your company's sick leave policy. Most require you to call your immediate supervisor by the time you normally begin your workday. If you wait until he or she is busy calling the authorities to determine the cause of your otherwise unexplained absence, your motives for sparing your peers from the same fate will likely fall on deaf ears.
Finally, in the event that you find yourself lying in your bed with a cold washcloth pressed to your forehead and a thermometer dangling precariously from the side of your mouth, know that your children, future plate-spinning aficionados, can take over on your behalf. If you hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, know that they're preparing their own well-balanced meals. If the sound of laughter em
anates from their rooms, feel confident that they're beside themselves with delight over their homework assignments.
And, if you notice the night-light in your room flicker off, don't worry. It's either a faulty light bulb or a blown fuse. And really, what are the chances that your kids tried running the washing machine, a videogame system, and the microwave all from the same outlet?
Come to think of it, maybe the better idea is to just get the shot…
~ Flu Me Once ~
Temperatures are dropping, winds are blowing, leaves are falling, and noses are beginning to drip. With another seasonal shift upon us, threats to plate spinners' meticulously choreographed schedules are just an uncontained sneeze away.
Nothing tests a plate-spinner's mettle more than having a sick child. Despite school districts' valiant attempts to disinfect, at this time of year, classrooms transform into full-scale petri dishes. While precaution is key, even if you hose your child down with hand sanitizer, they still risk catching something that will cause their temperature to creep upward, thus prompting a call to you, busy at work, from the school nurse or daycare provider, ordering an immediate pickup.
Before my husband took the plunge and became a stay-at-home dad, these phone calls triggered intense negotiations between us as we bartered our rapidly dwindling vacation time against our managers' level of tolerance for another request to leave early so we could pick up a sick child with whom we'd have to stay until they were fever-free for twenty-four hours. After exhausting favors with family and friends, a typical phone-based arm wrestling match—uh, conversation would go as follows:
Her: "Hi, hon. Daycare called."
Him: "In a meeting."
Her: "At your desk?"
Him: "It's your turn."
Her: "Can't. Big deadline."
Him: "Reporting. Quarterly results."
Her: "Boss. Not happy."
Him: "Call coming through."
Her: (Fingernails tapping on desk.)
Him: "Daycare. Both boys sick."
Her: "Better hurry."
Him: "Right! Wait…"
Her: "Bye." (Click.)
When our boys were older, they quickly learned that staying home from school did not necessarily translate into a day spent in front of a video game console. One of our boys actually tried feigning the flu while in sixth grade. After sticking the thermometer in his mouth, my husband left the room to tend to the others.
When he returned, he spied the allegedly sick child holding the thermometer against a hot light bulb. Faced with a day spent in bed where he would remain for the duration, resting and drinking plenty of fluids, he made it to the bus stop in record time.
I have heard stories of calculating parents who, on hearing of a viral outbreak at their child's school, actually gauge the incubation period of the illness, match it up with their calendar and arrange play dates to expose their children to the virus, thereby minimizing any disruption to their schedules. Convenient, perhaps, but some consider this type of malady manipulation extreme. While some inoculations are mandated, the decision to get a flu shot is still a personal decision.
While some contend that they have never received the shot and have never gotten the flu, others assert that after getting the shot, they got the flu. Me? I have never been a fan of having my skin punctured by a pointy, sharp object, but the memory of missing Christmas morning at my Grandma's house when I was seven years old because I was covered with itchy chicken pox still smarts more.
~ Circle of Life ~
The late arrival of the flu season this year brought with it a reminder that life has a funny way of coming full circle—even while we're still spinning in the midst of it.
When the virus infiltrated a member of my family, I made a doctor's appointment. Once there, I had to fill in some forms, describe symptoms to the doctor, get the prescriptions, listen to the nurse rattle off instructions, and ask about things to watch for.
Oh, and by the way, the patient was not one of my boys or even my husband. It was my mom.
My plate spinning has taken on a whole new generation.
A bad cough had laid her flat for a week. When she asked me to get a second bottle of over-the-counter cough medicine, specifically requesting "the big one," I paused. What she needed was to be seen by a doctor.
Considering my workload and the fact that it's tax season and I'm in single-parent mode, the thought crossed my mind to ask one of my siblings to take her. But I knew it was my turn.
Snagging a time slot that could be parlayed into an early lunch break, I picked her up with just moments to spare. After getting her situated in the front seat of my car, she nudged her walker toward me, suggesting that it might fit in the trunk.
I waved her off. With the sleek moves of a suburban mom who's collapsed her fair share of strollers, double buggies, and portable playpens, I had that walker flattened and tucked into the backseat in seconds flat.
On the way to the clinic, she assured me that she was feeling much better. I waited until her coughing fit passed before changing the subject, reminiscing about the time when I was so embarrassed that she took me to the doctor's in my flannel nightgown and slippers.
That she brought me there in my pajamas should've tipped me off to the fact that she thought I was pretty sick. Instead, that she came home from work to take me convinced me that I must be on death's door. Worried, I snuggled next to her and made her promise that if I had to get a shot, she'd get me a lollipop.
Turns out, I did get a shot and she made good on her promise.
I also recalled the times she'd take my siblings to the doctor. On their return, the rest of us would inevitably find the crumpled remains of a bag from Burney Bros. Bakery on the table. I could only assume it was part and parcel of a behavior-based bribe.
And so it goes that after the doctor examined her, I escorted Mom down the hall to the lab for some blood work. After reminding me that she hates needles, I promised her that if she was brave I'd get her Chinese food.
She was and I did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Spinning Stress-less
~ Don't Leave Home Without It ~
When I'm busy at work, the last thing I want to see pop up on my caller ID is the number of one of my kids' schools. It invariably means one of two things—either I have to pick up a child who is sick or, worse, one of my perfectly healthy children has forgotten something and they need me to bring it to them.
Right. Now.
Because my mother smirks each time I complain to her about my boys' absentmindedness, I suspect that these phone calls must be the result of a curse that she no doubt laid on me each time I tearfully called her from the principle's office because I had forgotten to bring my regular shoes to school. There I'd be, slogging around in my white, buckled-up galoshes that, by the way, clashed horribly with my green plaid parochial school jumper, until she arrived with my Mary Janes or, years later, platform shoes.
Yes, I was a repeat offender.
Before we were blessed with children, each time I headed out the door on my way to work, my husband (aka, "The Enabler"), would run me through our official household departure checklist: Keys? Check. Purse? Check. Lunch? Check. It's not that I was an especially forgetful person. As a novice plate spinner, I just had a lot on my mind.
Then we had kids.
After enrolling our first child in daycare, we quickly adapted our checklist to include the ever-vital diaper bag and said baby. Piece of cake. Adding another baby shortly thereafter did little to alter the efficiency with which we left our house as we each balanced a baby, a briefcase, and a diaper bag. Welcoming our third son, however, we bid adieu to efficiency. At that point, I was happy to make it out the door wearing shoes that were the same color, let alone a matched pair.
When our boys started school, we resurrected our checklist. Our high-schoolers head out the door first, still groggy in the dark of the early winter morning. We gently ask so as not to wake them: Homework? Check. Books? Chec
k. Lunch? Check. Gym uniforms? Check. Library books? Check. Off they go. Later in the morning, we repeat the exercise with our younger boys.
On a recent morning, when the boys were gone and the house once again quiet, my husband headed to the kitchen, offering to get me some coffee.
Eager to escape into my home office, I tripped on something in the foyer. Just as I looked down at a rather large running shoe, the phone rang and I heard my husband answer it, asking, "What did you forget?"
As he hung up, I heard him mumble, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Handing him the shoe, I gasped. "You don't mean me, do you?"
With a wink, he replied, "Check."
~ Pass the Hat ~
According to the calendar, it's spring—a turbulent, stress-inducing season. One day it's warm and sunny, the next it's windy and threatening snow. All the while, our calendars are filling up with Easter celebrations, spring sporting events, and graduations.
At this time of year, it's no wonder that even the most self-assured spinner is at risk for the dreadful condition known as over-spinning. Symptoms include feeling very busy, but not especially productive and in complete control, but entirely overwhelmed.
Unfortunately, most plate spinners don't even realize they're afflicted until they are well within its clutches. Remedies, some healthier than others, vary. Harried plate spinners can turn to counseling or meditation, while others simply scrap their responsibilities in exchange for a spot on a remote beach.
When over-spinning threatens to unnerve me, my thoughts turn to imported chocolate. My mother, on the other hand, turned to hats. I came to this conclusion when I was quite young.
After spending a frenzied morning preparing us for a trip to the beach, packing sandwiches, flip-flops, suntan lotion, beach balls, and pails and shovels, my parents braved traffic congested with hundreds of other families who had the same idea. When we finally arrived, I sat digging my toes in the sand and watched as my mom pulled on the most ridiculous-looking swim cap, festooned with a rainbow of floppy bows.
The Plate Spinner Chronicles Page 10