Month: March 2013

Standing Down

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About a month ago, our twelve-year-old  (lovingly nicknamed ‘Thing1’ on this blog) brought home an abysmal grade on his report card and promptly lost access to his computer.   After some bargaining and tears, he accepted his fate, at least, for the night.  Over the last month, however, what we thought of as a decisive tactical strike has devolved into a cold war, and I’ve had to reconsider how I define victory.

Thing1’s computer expertise long ago progressed to the point where he could evade parental controls.  Between school work and an earned half-hour of time, he has defiantly managed to squeeze in some leisure activity.  We were fast reaching a stalemate.  Much of his schoolwork requires a computer, but his prowess (combined with preteen rebelliousness) can make policing his activity a full-time occupation.  Our only defense against this has been that most medieval parental control – taking the thing away.

A couple of days ago, the battle lines began to shift.

A friend from work posted a video and link to an online programming tutorial on her Facebook page.  I followed it, played with the tutorial for a few minutes, and instantly thought of Thing1.  This I could allow.  It was fun, and it wasn’t another mindless video game.  Best of all, it was educational.

The only hitch would be piquing his interest in a website his mother was recommending (Mom-recommended activities are automatically hamstrung with an uncool factor of -12 points).  I hoped, however, he would jump at the chance for any extra time, no matter how educational it was.  Wednesday was a half-day at school, and knowing both kids would need to be occupied while I worked, I made my move.  Thing1 gave me my opening almost as soon as we got in the door.

“Mom, can I please earn more time on the computer if I do my chores and another job or two?” he moaned.

“Is all your homework done?” I asked casually.

“Yes.”  Knowing I would need to get back to work quickly, he decided to press harder, apparently hoping I would accidentally give permission in the rush of things. “I’ll walk the dog. I’ll fill the woodbin.”

“You’re supposed to do that anyway,” I reminded him.

“Isn’t there anything else I can do?”  He put on his best desperate face for this last question.

“Let me think about it,” I said as I checked to make sure six-year-old Thing2 was occupied before heading back to my office for the rest of my work day.  I sat down at my desk before calling to him through the open door.  “You know,” I said, “I might be willing to extend your time for a few minutes if you wanted to take a look at this page.  It’s all about programming.”  Thing1 came in to look at the link.  For a few minutes skepticism reigned, but his computer addiction ultimately triumphed.

“I guess I’ll try it,” he muttered almost reluctantly.

“Hey, it’s 20 extra minutes.”

“I’ll try it.”  And he went to his desk.

Following the mantra ‘Trust but Verify’, I gave him 10 minutes before quietly peeking around the corner to monitor his activity.  He was hunched over the screen, index finger over a line of code he had typed into the site’s tutorial.  I recognized that pose.  It’s the one I assume when I’m looking at a page of code, hunting for a missing semi-colon or forward slash.  I had to suppress a crow of victory, as I watched my firstborn getting sucked into this world.   I went in and put my hand on his shoulder.

“How’s it going?” I asked.  “Are you liking the site?”

“I guess,”  Thing1 responded with the perfunctory preteen indifference.  He silently stared at the code.  “I can’t figure out why this won’t run,” he said.  The indifference disappeared.  I leaned over to look at the code with him.

“I think you’re missing a bracket there,” I said, pointing to a line.  He let out an exasperated snort, corrected his mistake and ran the program.  When he leaned back in his chair he was grinning, flushed with success.  “Do you want to do another ten minutes,” I asked, or would you rather find something else to do?”

The nonchalance returned, and he said, “I guess I could do this for another ten minutes.”

“I’ll set my timer,” I said, almost waltzing as I headed back to my office.  At the ten minute mark, I hit the pause button on the timer and took another peek.  Thing1 was thoroughly engrossed in the next assignment, and I decided to let the timer stay paused.  I knew our battle lines had been redrawn, and I wasn’t sure who had gained the most ground.  I was pretty sure, though, that it didn’t really matter.

The Thin Grey Line

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Using the word silver to describe the thin line extending from my crown is probably more symbolic of, as Monty Python would say, my struggle against reality than my descriptive powers.   It’s really more of a shiny grey.  And, while it has been mostly solitary for the last few years, it manages to drive me to distraction.

It won’t be plucked – I’ve tried.  It doesn’t break off with the mass of brown hair that ends up in the trap after every shower.  Every effort to rout this symbol of my impending maturity only seems to make it stronger.  

For most of my adult life I had to struggle to remember what my real hair color was.  In a span of a decade it was literally every color of the rainbow, so having thin grey line reflect a color in nature shouldn’t cause this much consternation.  The irony is, that for someone who’s never been shy with the dye, for some reason I can’t bring myself to color it now.  

Lately, it seems to be recruiting new members to its team, but I’m starting, not just to get used to the invaders but also to recognize that they are weaving a tale of my life.  There’s one for the firstborn’s first visit to the emergency room.  There’s another for the Big Guy’s week in intensive care. There were more than a few for the years we were choosing between bills and groceries, but they didn’t take a strong enough hold to stay.  

The thin grey lines that survive, however, are determined to grow with me.  They are not friends.  But they are reminders that the years and events that spawn them might actually be making me stronger, not older.

Two Makes Chrysalis

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Lately, the company I work for has had the lucky misfortune of having too much business.  For the Tech Support staff, this has meant confining ourselves to our computers almost from dawn till dusk.  Our computers are all at our homes, but the long days, coupled with winter weather and roads have helped spin a thick cocoon around our earth-sheltered house.  I am not naturally extroverted, so retreating behind a protective shell of snow and work has been quite comfortable.  It was only when I responded to an invitation from another confined friend that I realized that my insular shell was missing something.  

I am ashamed to say, that in the months since knee surgery has confined my friend, I have only been to visit at the beginning to bring flowers picked by our youngest son.  When the phone rang last week, I answered with a mix of happiness and guilt.  By the time I hung up, guilt was mostly gone and I was looking forward to a date on Friday afternoon after work.

Friday morning was another grey winter work day, and I was really excited to go have talk and tea at the end of it.  A light snow had just begun to form a blanket over the roads and mountains when I headed down the road to my friend’s house.  For a brief moment, I had to quell my natural instinct to return to my cocoon.  A flare of guilt kept my car moving forward, however, and I would be glad it did.

My friend and I were once in a writing group together, and grew quite close at the time.  We may not see each other for months except passing on the road or at the country store, but there is rarely any uncomfortable silence when we get back together.  Friday was no exception.  

I let myself in through the mudroom door and, after hugs, we remarked on the changes in each other’s hair and physiques before retreating back to my friend’s cozy bedroom behind the kitchen for a huddle.  I took a quick look at my clock – 4ish it was – knowing I had to leave by 5 to get to the grocery store before dark and settled into a comfy chair.

The kettle on the wood stove hummed every now, serenading us as we talked of doctors and cats and neighbors’s recent departures and returns.  Through the window, I could see the now-heavier snow that only seemed to insulate us more as we talked of writing and iPads and husbands.  

I had not written a word all day – a late Thursday night and early start at work had put the kibosh on creative expression for 48 hours.  I knew the weekend schedule would not allow for much writing or drawing, but by the time I stood up from my chair and made a plan to visit again next week, I felt my soul had been fed.  And the feeding of it guaranteed that when the time permitted, the work I want to do will happen and happily.

It was mostly dark and well after 6pm when I stepped out into the wet snow.  There was a snowy trip to the grocery store ahead before I returned to my cave.  Dark, snowy drives usually fill me with trepidation.  This one, however, was a few minutes more of quiet, and I used it to relish the enlightenment I had found in the fellowship my friend and I had reformed.  

Now, back in my cocoon, it’s warm and safe, as always.  But I will not wait months again before I return to the chrysalis where ideas and friendship grow.  

The Momcave

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About six months ago, inspired by Virginia Woolf’s missive that a room of one’s own was as important to a woman’s writing career as a pad and paper, I decided to clear out our laundry room and create a studio/office.  At the time, I was drawing and even painting as well as writing, and, after a weekend of intense re-arranging, managed to carve out a bit of space among the drying racks and guest beds that get used 3 times a year.  I think I used the room for the purpose of writing and drawing exactly 3 times.

It should have been a hum dinger of a studio/office – the sliding glass doors look out on to our yard which is surrounded by mountains and forests – but for some reason I still felt the pull of our inherited round kitchen table.  I spend most of my workday there – it’s sunny and, when warmed by the wood cookstove, cozy.  However, while the kitchen table makes for a fantastic office, letting me stir dinner while I type, it was not so great for writing or drawing.  The activity around our kitchen table inspires most of what I write, but working at it requires finding an hour when it is not in use as an office or family community center.

Then, on my quest for more time (a key creativity ingredient Virginia, being single and childless, failed to mention), I stumbled into a room I had dismissed and forgotten.  Windowless and situated at the back of our house just behind the wood stove, sits a tiny room that was originally designed to be a photography studio.  Still used occasionally by the Big Guy when he’s at the computer, it’s been mostly a receptacle for crap being moved from the living room when we have guests.  It gets cleaned exactly when we have overnight guests who might actually see it with the door open.  Fortunately, one of those cleanings coincided with my pre-New Year’s resolution to try a morning writing regimen, and I was able to find my way from the door to my old-fashioned pull-down desk.  I’ve been using it almost every morning since.

Over the weekend I decided to pull the trigger and finish making it my own.  Knowing that the Big Guy will be moving his desk to his workshop soon, I planted my flag by doing the unthinkable – I cleaned on a weekend with no company (just this room, mind you.  I haven’t gone completely nuts).   Papers were filed, cords were coiled and organized.  Pictures of the boys were tacked up, along with a poster I did for a production of ‘You Can’t Take it With You’ at Hubbard Hall, a local community theatre in Cambridge, NY.  Then, with the help of the big guy, I brought down a tacky blue arm chair for Katy, my canine companion and took a picture (it won’t be this clean again for quite some time).

I think most parents will understand the sentiment that, in a family, there are very few things that belong solely to oneself.  Your time is definitely not your own.  For your kids, your possessions are curiosities.  If you’re a mom, even your body is often not your own.  Even long after they’ve been weaned, kids seem to have an innate sense that Mom and Dad belong to them – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

It’s almost dawn now, and I’m tapping away in the new and improved Momcave with Katy sitting behind me in her new chair.  I am keenly aware of irony that someone who’s carried a mental cave around for years has carved out a physical one.  But, while the silence and solitude and even the dark are luxurious, I am equally aware that, against the backdrop privacy and time, the people who inspire most of my life – on and off the page – are truly illuminated.