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Parts of Speech

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Ready or not, the torch is passed

Dec. 12, 2007

“Sing out loud in the car even, or especially, if it embarrasses your children.” —Marilyn Penland

The torch was passed. It happened in a stadium full of thousands of hyperventilating tweens wearing thousands of dollars of concert tour T-shirts. Subconsciously I knew it was coming. But even though it was unapparent to the average observer, I felt it like a punch in the gut.

I am undeniably “the mother.” There are two full generations growing and thriving beneath my own.

And I’m closer to 40 than 30. There, I said it.

Sigh.

It’s not that I don’t have experience being the mom. I’ve been at it a few years and am comfortable with the title. If nature follows its usual course, I have a couple of good years of being referred to as “Mommy” and some quiet time until playground social issues and like-like situations become life or death issues.

But I do sense the universe is preparing me with increasing subtle hints.

For instance, I thought it was all right to dance around the living room to “Beer in Mexico” with Kenny Chesney in the CD player. Or serenade my kids with a head-banging tune from the front seat on our way home after work.

My 2-year-old was OK with it, but the pleading and looks of shame on my oldest daughter’s face told me otherwise.

I took my unappreciated enthusiasm along with us to a Hannah Montana-Miley Cyrus concert in Kansas City—an early surprise for her upcoming birthday.

Off we went, on a true GNO—or Girls Night Out, which Hannah-Miley fans and/or parents of fans already know—and sat in the cheap seats with our hot dogs, cotton candy and T-shirt in hand.

The chance to make this dream of hers come true and create a memory that she would one day tell her own kids about was a dream come true for me, too.

I felt like the cool mom. We should all get to feel like the cool mom once in a awhile.

I think she felt it, too. Or maybe she was just feeling the jumbo cotton candy. But we, along with 10,000 frenzied girls, a boy sprinkled in here and there, and their parents, sat under shooting spotlights, fireworks and strobe flashes that lit us up from every angle.

The opening band, The Jonas Brothers, took the stage setting off a unified shrill that was probably beyond a dog’s auditory range.

We were clapping and stamping our feet, moving as much as possible in our packed rows. Then the band gave us our que: “We want everybody on their feet!”

All right, I thought, ready to rock it out. (That statement is enough to make my daughter drop her head in shame.) Looking directly at me, she said, “That doesn’t mean you.”

Ouch.

There’s that gut punch.

Apparently, I was crossing over into forbidden territory. And while she may have saved me from embarrassing myself, considering this was a Disney concert with performers in their early teens, she sure took me by surprise.

I had two thoughts. One, I’m not that old. And two, is she that old?

My sweet little firstborn? Capable of being embarrassed by her own mom? That’s quite a milestone.

After thinking it over, I’ve since decided this could work out. It’s like a new superpower I can pull out when I need to—or just feel like it.

“Children who can be embarrassed by their parents are children who have not lived long enough” is a line from “For One More Day” by Mitch Albom. If this is the case—and I believe it is—and my daughter hasn’t even reached the double digits yet, my fun has just begun.

She has no idea how many hair band cassette tapes are stashed in my closet.

And I’m not afraid to use them.

Picking colors
is a matter of
taste

June 2006

“To marry someone for their looks is like buying a house for its paint.” ~ thinkexist.com

18,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000. This is the estimated number of colors in the world, according to the Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT) website. Psychophysicists (people who study human responses to stimuli) estimate that a person has the ability to view 10 million colors. But as lighting conditions and sources vary, so do the shades – along with the idea that one person’s perception of a color is going be slightly different than another person’s.

This is important to me because finally, after seven years, we are officially thinking about planning to paint our house. But where do we go from dirty yellow? (This is the most appropriate name we’ve come up with. We do have others, but they’re not suitable for print.)

Our current house color is one that nature never intended. The paint store surely must have spilled some brown into a yellow paint can and created the sale color of the week. The previous unsuspecting owner walked into the store and was told they could save a bundle by using this “one-of-a-kind” creation. They smiled at the price, shrugged, and said, sure, why not?

I’ll tell you why not. Because it’s dirty yellow.

I think the psychophysicists would agree. Not to mention Feng Shui experts, who believe in organizing your surroundings in a way that will bring serenity and balance to your life. Whether or not you buy into that, color plays a part in their philosophy and I have a feeling our unfortunate shade didn’t make it onto their color wheel.

But many others did. Starting with the color estimation of 10 million, then factoring in lighting types, lighting levels, surrounding colors and the varying eyesight of the billions of people in the world, the color-science researchers at RIT ended up with that big number with the 33 zeroes, also known as 18 decillion.

In other words, the fact that my house ended up this color is a miracle.

So I have just less than 18 decillion color left to choose from. I could go the feng shui way, where each color symbolizes something: Reds? Luck, wealth and happiness. Greens? Growth and peace. Pale blues? Harmony and communication. Yellow? Longevity (Yes, we know this - it’s the color that won’t die!) With these guidelines, it stands to reason that if I want a balanced life, I should mix the colors together and paint my house some kind of brown.

With interior painting, I associate my colors with food. My living and dining room walls are “Wendy’s frosty.” One accent wall is “Hershey bar”. The other is “spruce grove”. (Okay, that’s not a food, but I don’t know of a green decadent treat. Still, spruce trees are nice, so it works.) I don’t know if my color choices are emitting subconscious peace or joining my yin to my yang, but they’re good for my sweet tooth.

I could continue with this food method and plan the exterior around caramel apples, blueberry pie, or butter brickle ice cream. After thumbing through the color brochures, I’ve realized that it’s easier to assemble desserts on a plate, where they don’t have to color coordinate.

My seven-year old is pushing for pink. She loves to remind her dad that he is the only male in the house, including two cats, a dog, a turtle, and piles of stuffed animals, which she assures us, are all female. Painting the house a “girl” color would make her day. (Hmmm…that is a little like strawberry shortcake.)

The saving grace in all of this is that my husband and I have similar tastes. Or it may be that we’ve looked at too many colors and he just stopped caring. A couple of days ago I announced that I had found the perfect ones and he replied with “great, perfect…go buy them” before bothering to look at them. It’s nice when we can work so well together.

The 18 decillion color wheel has been narrowed down to three: a base color, a trim color, and an accent color. Planning a 2-story house from a 1x2 paint chip is tricky, but we feel alright about our final decision. I’m not sure what color choices say about people, but it must mean something when given so many color possibilities, two of the three that we choose are black and white. Not midnight and eggshell. Not black bean and snowfall. Just black and white.

At this point, I’m with my husband. Great, perfect, let’s go buy them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m craving a chocolate marshmallow brownie.

The finish line is sweet, no matter the course

November 2006

When we do the best we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another. – Helen Keller

A middle aged woman with caramel-colored pixie hair walked to the nurse’s desk and was greeted with hugs and exclamations of “You look so good!” She patted her spiky hair and smiled. “It’s growing back.”

I watched them from my seat across the chemotherapy room as a needle was inserted into my mother’s port-a-cath. The nurse hung the drug cocktail, studied it for a second or two, and then tapped the plastic tube with two fingers to encourage the intravenous drip.

If her chemo treatments were a marathon, my mother would have just passed the thirteen mile mark. Half way there.

Not long ago, my other mother (the in-law kind) passed her own thirteen mile mark. And then went on to cross miles fourteen through twenty-six in her first actual marathon.

Both of these women are running a course, while very different ones, with a purpose. They have a single result in mind. To beat something. Their odds, their doubt, their own bodies. They may not be exactly sure how to get there, or even why they have to, but this purpose keeps them going and inspires them. Along with those of us who are watching from the sidelines.

Believe me, twenty-six miles of a foot race and eight treatments of chemo go a lot quicker as a spectator.

Not more than a step behind the adults, the granddaughters these two women share watch them very closely.

One Sunday, they cheer while Grandma turns the final corner toward the finish line after three and a half hours of continuous running. Our caravan had caught up with her at several mile markers as she rounded another corner here and there, but most of the time, sat reclined in the car with a hot cappuccino and a book.

After she finished, I decided not to mention that I was able to put back two cups and eight chapters while she checked the road behind her for dropped body parts as she willed herself down that delusional final stretch. The next Sunday, the grandkids planted hugs on their other Grandma as she prepared for her twelfth week of continuous doctor’s visits. Spending time with this Grandma has been cut back, understandably so, as she deals with the unpredictable side effects of chemo. They see her less often, in between stretches of recovery time, but are learning new lessons during the void. Sometimes the big choices are made for us, and then we take it from there. Even a child can reason that sacrificing time now in exchange for more time later is worth it.

They’re showing us that finishing a race doesn’t depend on the circumstances. It depends on the one doing the racing. These are two women who don’t consider any option other than barreling over or directly through their obstacles, whichever route it quicker.

They both have a finish line to cross. And if things go as planned, they’ll cross it in one piece.

They probably don’t see their actions as inspiring. But if they could see how their granddaughters watch them running their respective courses, they would understand that every time they put another foot down and move forward one more step, little eyes follow them.

It’s safe to say there are no rocking chairs in their immediate futures. We’ll just step back and cheer them on. Grandma’s gotta go. We’ll catch up around the next turn.