My husband complains that I will make friends with pretty much anyone who wanders across my path, often with less than desirable consequences. I am a slow learner on this front.
The most perfect example is Fred. I met “Fred” at church when we were living deep in the Bible/Rust Belt. Well, it was kind of a church, but not really—it was more of a support group for non-Evangelicals. There were a handful of Wiccans, several Secular Humanists, one Spiritual Naturalist, whatever that was; three pairs of swingers who had all gotten divorced and re-matched; a rabid blind lady football fan in a wheelchair, a family that (I am not making this up) dropped off several dwarf children and peeled away in their van every Sunday morning; and, there was Fred.
Yes, I did see all this the first time I walked into this church. Most visitors, after sitting through one of our services—which usually involved children reading prayers for dead hamsters and the football fan lady standing up (!) and yelling “GO STATE!” at inappropriate times—walked out afterwards and never came back. Not me! I said to myself, Don’t judge on appearances! Give them a chance!
The church was small and, not surprisingly!—somewhat desperate for new blood. In a matter of months I was the Sunday school teacher and serving on a number of committees.
(When I brought my mom to this church a few months later she said, “Jesus Christ, Jesseca, that was the oddest group of people I have ever seen in one place in my entire life!” )
Fred--one of the more normal people at the church!—was legally blind, had wild red hair, severe scars all over his face, and a terrible limp. ( I never asked how he got that way. Years later, when we watched Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire and Mad-Eye Moody stomped onto the screen, my husband and I clutched each other gasping, “It’s Fred!” )
Because he was legally blind, Fred could not drive a car. But he could ride a bike—and not just any bike!—an enormous, modified tricycle, painted purple and orange, with a giant bell, streamers attached to the handlebars, and a huge basket on the front. Best of all, it had two long poles attached to the back which he festooned with seasonal decorations. I thought it was awesome.
“I can’t see ‘em coming, so might as well make sure they see me,” he grunted. I could see his logic. (The fact that he rode around town barely able to see was a little disturbing.)
At the town holiday parade, Fred was in his glory, weaving the SuperTrike though the parade, narrowly missing Girl Scouts and baton twirlers, the bike flashing with colored lights, and a large plastic Santa head looming unsteadily six feet overhead.
“What the hell is that?” gasped my husband, his jaw dropping.
“Ah…you know my friend from church?” I said, “Fred? The one I’m on the Community Outreach Committee with?”
“Yeah?” said my husband, staring, spellbound, at Fred, who was now riding in figure eights and lobbing Twinkies at the crowd. He glanced at me. “Is he here? He better watch out so that freaking nut job doesn’t run him over.”
“Umm….actually, that’s Fred, “ I said, as Fred ran over one of his own Twinkies and swerved dangerously into the crowd.
“What’s Fred?” asked my husband, mesmerized, as people from the crowd gently righted the SuperTrike steered Fred back onto the parade route.
“On the bike. That’s Fred,” I said. “That’s my friend, Fred, on the bike!”
“What?” My husband whipped his head back to stare at me. “That’s Fred? The lunatic on the giant purple tricycle? Are you serious? What is wrong with you!”
“He’s funny,” I said defensively. “He’s a good guy!”
“Is he homeless?” my husband demanded, aghast. “Does he live on that bike?”
Fred was not, in fact, homeless. Despite popular belief, he was a professional accountant who held down a job in social services.
After I had known Fred several months, he asked me if I could drive him around to run errands for the church, since it was winter and hard to get around on the SuperTrike. I readily agreed—who wouldn’t help a blind guy with church errands!—but I said I had to bring the kids. (I did like Fred, but being alone in the car with him felt a little awkward. I mean he wasn’t exactly normal. ) He seemed a little put out at this, but grunted his assent.
I was thinking his errands would run an hour. First, we went to the party store. Fred spent 45 minutes picking out balloons and streamers for his bike—St Patrick’s Day this time!— and a couple of things for our next church event (“Pagan Garden Party”).
As we walked out, thinking we were finished, I said something about getting home and Fred said, “Do you mind if we stop by Wal-Mart?”
Of course not. I like shopping at Walmart —especially in the South—about as much as I like having a hypodermic in my eyeball, but whatever, it was right next door.
The boys groaned. (I am sorry to say I had conditioned them to hate Wal-Mart, too.)
“Just one more stop,” I hissed, dragging them back to the car.
We went into Wal-Mart. I knew it was a bad sign when Fred purchased a hot meal—a jumbo bucket of popcorn chicken—to sustain him during our visit. Luckily, the kids were pretty entertained by Wal-mart, and kept helpfully pointing things out, like, “That lady has no shoes,” and “That man’s belly is too big for his shirt,” or “That lady has eleven kids, and one of them doesn’t have any pants!”
Fred filled an entire cart. While we were in there, we ran into at least half a dozen of his friends, all of whom looked like they slept under overpasses.
After an hour, I said I really had to get the kids home.
“Okay, okay,” said Fred in irritation. Now I was getting annoyed—this was tuning into a major hassle! After loading up his nineteen shopping bags, I turned the car toward his apartment complex.
“Oh, just one more stop," he said. “I’m out of cigarettes. Pull in here.” He grunted at a gas station and hopped out when we pulled in.
I turned to look at the boys, who were both staring at me with huge eyes. For kids of their generation, cigarettes are like, a really, really bad thing, like Nazi propaganda, or goat porn, or meth, or something. Now I was really pissed at Fred. We had been out for nearly three hours, it was getting dark, and, now, I was taking him to buy cigarettes—in front of the kids! Church errands, my ass!
Fred seemed to know a lot of people at the gas station. After shooting the shit with all of them, he finally headed back to the car.
“You guys, start screaming as soon as he gets back in!” I hissed. My boys nodded. They totally got it. Fred was the type who barely acknowledged kids and had zero tolerance for their noise.
Fred got back in the car. The boys looked at each other gleefully and started screaming and smacking one another. Pretty soon they were trying to kill one another for real.
“I really better get them home,” I yelled over the noise. Fred grunted and mumbled something about really needing to go to the drugstore, but I ignored him. My kids were both under 8, it was dinner time, and we had been running around all afternoon.
We pulled up in front of Fred’s apartment. I offered to help bring in his 19 Wal-Mart shopping bags, three huge bags of St Patrick’s Day supplies including helium-filled, shamrock-shaped-Mylar balloons and an electric leprechaun, and two cartons of Marlboroughs, but he nimbly blocked me from getting anywhere near his front door (I realized later he was probably trying to spare me seeing the inside of his apartment, for which I should be probably be forever grateful. )
We got home 5 minutes after my husband, who had been a little alarmed to find the house dark and cold and no one home.
“Where were you guys?” he asked, as the kids, after 3 hours pent up in the car, made straight for the trampoline. He saw by the look on my face that I was seriously steamed about something.
I told him Fred has asked me to take him on some errands for the church but that it had turned into a three-hour odyssey, including a stop for cigarettes!
“We kept running into all of his friends,” I complained. “It took forever!” My husband sighed and closed his eyes.
“Oh, Jesseca,” he said. He patted my arm.
“Wha—“ I said blankly, suspicion slowly dawning on me. “You don’t think Fred has—a thing for me? He can’t. He knows I’m married, and anyway, he can’t even see me. ”
“Yeah, well, his friends can see you! Why do you think he dragged you around Wal-Mart for an hour?” My husband shook his head at my hopeless naiveté.
“Huh,” I said. Maybe he was right!
But I still felt bad for Fred. A month later, we were back at the party store, buying decorations for the SuperTrike to sport in the Easter parade.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Driver's Ed
Now that I have a kid old enough to start thinking about Driver's Ed, all my own Driver's Ed memories are flooding back to me. Anyone who grew up near my hometown when I did will remember our Driver's Ed teacher, who I will call "Bob" (not his real name.)
The first time I met Bob, we were hanging out at my friend "Amy's" (not her real name) house when her parents weren't home, definitely not inhaling anything or doing anything illegal. I'm sure we were getting a jump start on our homework for junior year! Anyway, while were sitting around getting high on life and talking about economic policy, we heard a honking from the driveway.
"Oh my God! Shit! " yelled Amy, jumping up. "I have to go driving with Bob!" We all thought this was the funniest thing we had ever heard in our lives and rolled around giggling while Amy shoved gum in her mouth and rooted around under the couch for her purse.
Bob kept honking insistently as Amy looked desperately for her shoes. None of us were in any state to help.
"God damn it, I'm coming, you f**ing ***hole!" yelled Amy, running down the steps and out the front door. We looked out the window. Two other kids from school were already in the car, looking anxiously toward the house. Bob leaned out the window and yelled something unintelligible at Amy, who got in the backseat with no shoes on. We heard her and Bob yelling at each other. The car made an agonizingly slow 67 point turn--we could hear Bob yelling at the unfortunate driver the whole time-- and headed back out the road.
After Amy left, Jill from next door walked home, and Helen left on her bike. I suddenly felt really hungry. Staying there alone and making a huge batch of mac n' cheese seemed completely logical! After I ate, suddenly occurred to us that I probably shouldn't be here, all alone in Amy's house, cooking, so I bolted down to my bike and headed for home. (I found out later that Amy got in big trouble when her mom came home and found the front door wide open and a huge mess in the kitchen. Amy got grounded for a week. )
The next day I asked Amy how the driving went.
"Oh my, f***ng GOD," she complained, "That m***f**** is completely disgusting! I don't even want to talk about it!"
My first time driving with Bob was a week later. Amy warned me to a) wear old clothes, b) bring wet wipes, c) bring money, and c) for god's sake, get some friends to observe at the same time. I followed her advice. I got in the driver's seat in sweatpants (it was the 80's!) and an old t-shirt. I had ten dollars cash in my pocket. My friends Heather and Josh were in the back seat. (I don't ever remember my twin sister and I ever driving with Bob at the same time for some reason.)
We pulled out of my driveway. Bob started to gesture frantically. I looked back at Heather and Josh, who shrugged.
"Shraba blagahgah," Bob snapped, gesturing straight ahead at the woods.
"Um...what?" I asked nervously.
"Shraga blagagahgah!" yelled Bob, jerking his hands in three different directions. I tried to turn in the direction he seemed to be indicating, but he slammed on his passenger side brakes as hard as he could.
"AAAAAAAHHHH!" screamed Josh and Heather, hurtling forward.
"FRAGGAH MURGA FLEP!" yelled Bob furiously, cranking the wheel the opposite direction. Dandruff and spittel flew around as he shook his head, muttering angrily.
"Okay, okay!' I yelled, glancing back at my friends, who were hastily putting on their seatbelts.
We drove slowly through town, me trying desperately to learn Bob's dialect and the meanings of his hand gestures. I felt like I was getting the hang of it. Josh and Heather translated when they thought they knew way saying.
We seemed to be heading for the army base in the next town over. About a mile from the gate, Heather poked me--I was concentrating hard on the road to avoid getting yelled at--and I glanced over at Bob. He was sound alseep! Drool was running down his chin onto the seatbelt. Now I understood about the wet wipes. Bless Amy!
"Oh my god, I think I'm going to puke," hissed Josh, gazing at the river drool dripping off the seatbelt onto the seat, "Can you just take me home?"
"No way--it hasn't even been an hour yet!" I hissed back. "And we have to pick someone else up!"
"Can we at least get something to eat?" whispered Josh as we neared the McDonald's on the rotary. (Again, this was the 80's. We thought McDonald's was awesome!) Now I knew why Amy had told us to bring cash (no one had credit cards in high school then!).
Fortified with fries and McNuggets (which we all thought was delicious), we kept driving around and around the rotary until Bob woke up.
"Mava drava guh," he muttered, shaking his head. He pointed at the exit for the army base.
"We're going on base?" I asked, pointing at the exit sign as we went by it for the 12th time. Bob nodded and pointed anxiously, looking at his watch. I got on the base entrance road. I could not wait to get out and let the base kid drive.
We went through the gate--the sentry on duty seemed to be familiar with Bob, as he just waved him through--and pulled up in front of an apartment building. Bob leaned on the horn, making us all jump. A young man with a buzz cut waved from the window and then came out with a young Asian woman, whom he introduced as he wife, Lin. We all said hello. Lin looked really nervous. The young man gave her a kiss and said, "Good luck, honey!" Then he hopped on a motorcycle and took off.
"Mrrrthp," said Bob, indicating the driver's seat. I immediately jumped out and squeezed in the back seat with Josh and Heather. Lin looked petrified. She pointed to herself and then the driver's seat and shook her head. Bob shook his head back and pointed at the driver's seat again. Lin made blocking motions with her hands like, No way am I driving that car, pal! She spoke rapidly in a foreign language, shaking her head.
"Ah graaaabaada!" Bob yelled, stamping his foot. Lin looked at us in terror. We looked back in perhaps more terror, seeing what was about to happen.
"Ah, Bob," said Heather, leaning out the window, "I don't think Lin wants to drive. Why don't we let her observe today and I'll-"
"Glabagondabagaga!!" yelled Bob. He picked up his clipboard, pointed to the list of drivers, and waved it at Lin. He took her arm and steered her into the drivers seat.
"This is a really bad idea," muttered Josh, closing his eyes.
"Um, Lin?" said Heather politely, leaning over the seat, "Can you--ah-- understand what he's saying?" Lin nodded and smiled again, looking petrified.
"Okay, yes," she said nervously.
"Ah--do you speak any English at all?" asked Josh."Have you ever driven a car before?"
Lin smiled and said, "Okay, yes."
"Oh, my god," said Josh.
Bob got in the passenger's side and slammed to door. He began to point out the parts of the car to Lin, who just nodded and smiled.
"Okay, yes," she said. Bob reached over and started the car. Then he pointed at the gas pedal.
Lin slammed her foot down on the gas pedal as hard as she could. We roared out of the parking lot. Heather, Josh and I all grabbed on to one another. Bob leaned over and grabbed the wheel, shouting angrily. He was so mad we could even make out a few words, like "brake" and "signal!"
Lin then stomped the brake pedal with both feet and we all slammed forward, nearly winded by the seatbelts. Bob was alternately screaming and gagging on his on saliva. He made "slow down" motions with his hands, and Lin seemed to understand. She pushed the pedal down more gently. We rolled toward the front gate, were waved out, and approached the rotary. Bob made fast motions with his hand, indicating that Lin should speed up to merge into the rotary. Lin slammed the gas again and we flew forward into the rotary, all of us screaming in terror. We came inches from sideswiping a guy in a pickup who swerved out of the way, waving his middle finger at us. Lin then slammed the brake again, causing the car behind us to drive right off the road into the grass.
"Oh my god we're going to die," Heather whispered. Josh was trying to hide on the floor in case we saw someone we knew in the rotary, which wasn't unlikely.
"Ga! GAH!" screamed Bob. "NO STOP!"
"Okay, okay!" gasped poor Lin. She hit the gas again and we shot toward McDonalds. Now people were leaning out their windows and screaming at us to get the F out of the road.
"Okay, yes!" Lin yelled back.
Bob grabbed the wheel and we screeched around the rotary again--cutting off a large truck in the process --finally exiting onto the road back to town. Heather and I had our arms wrapped around one another and Josh had his eyes closed again and looked like he was going to be sick. We all gasped a huge sigh of relief to be out of the rotary Bob pointed straight ahead, staring at his clip board. Lin slowed down to twenty miles an hour.
Five minutes later we head a snore. Bob was out cold again, probably exhausted from ten minutes of sheer terror.
Heather leaned over the seat motioned for Lin to pull over at a farmstand. We held our fingers to our lips and pointed at Bob. She nodded and, very carefully, got out of the car. Josh got in and slowly parked under a large tree. Then he and Heather quietly got out. Heather turned the radio up a little to keep Bob from waking up. We all carefully closed our car doors. Then we all looked at each other and all high-fived.
Josh went in the farmstand and called his mom. She said she could drive Lin home. We started walking to his house, which was less than a mile away, so we wouldn't be in sight when Bob woke up.
We never heard what happened when he did wake up. As far as Bob knew, it had all been a bad dream.
The first time I met Bob, we were hanging out at my friend "Amy's" (not her real name) house when her parents weren't home, definitely not inhaling anything or doing anything illegal. I'm sure we were getting a jump start on our homework for junior year! Anyway, while were sitting around getting high on life and talking about economic policy, we heard a honking from the driveway.
"Oh my God! Shit! " yelled Amy, jumping up. "I have to go driving with Bob!" We all thought this was the funniest thing we had ever heard in our lives and rolled around giggling while Amy shoved gum in her mouth and rooted around under the couch for her purse.
Bob kept honking insistently as Amy looked desperately for her shoes. None of us were in any state to help.
"God damn it, I'm coming, you f**ing ***hole!" yelled Amy, running down the steps and out the front door. We looked out the window. Two other kids from school were already in the car, looking anxiously toward the house. Bob leaned out the window and yelled something unintelligible at Amy, who got in the backseat with no shoes on. We heard her and Bob yelling at each other. The car made an agonizingly slow 67 point turn--we could hear Bob yelling at the unfortunate driver the whole time-- and headed back out the road.
After Amy left, Jill from next door walked home, and Helen left on her bike. I suddenly felt really hungry. Staying there alone and making a huge batch of mac n' cheese seemed completely logical! After I ate, suddenly occurred to us that I probably shouldn't be here, all alone in Amy's house, cooking, so I bolted down to my bike and headed for home. (I found out later that Amy got in big trouble when her mom came home and found the front door wide open and a huge mess in the kitchen. Amy got grounded for a week. )
The next day I asked Amy how the driving went.
"Oh my, f***ng GOD," she complained, "That m***f**** is completely disgusting! I don't even want to talk about it!"
My first time driving with Bob was a week later. Amy warned me to a) wear old clothes, b) bring wet wipes, c) bring money, and c) for god's sake, get some friends to observe at the same time. I followed her advice. I got in the driver's seat in sweatpants (it was the 80's!) and an old t-shirt. I had ten dollars cash in my pocket. My friends Heather and Josh were in the back seat. (I don't ever remember my twin sister and I ever driving with Bob at the same time for some reason.)
We pulled out of my driveway. Bob started to gesture frantically. I looked back at Heather and Josh, who shrugged.
"Shraba blagahgah," Bob snapped, gesturing straight ahead at the woods.
"Um...what?" I asked nervously.
"Shraga blagagahgah!" yelled Bob, jerking his hands in three different directions. I tried to turn in the direction he seemed to be indicating, but he slammed on his passenger side brakes as hard as he could.
"AAAAAAAHHHH!" screamed Josh and Heather, hurtling forward.
"FRAGGAH MURGA FLEP!" yelled Bob furiously, cranking the wheel the opposite direction. Dandruff and spittel flew around as he shook his head, muttering angrily.
"Okay, okay!' I yelled, glancing back at my friends, who were hastily putting on their seatbelts.
We drove slowly through town, me trying desperately to learn Bob's dialect and the meanings of his hand gestures. I felt like I was getting the hang of it. Josh and Heather translated when they thought they knew way saying.
We seemed to be heading for the army base in the next town over. About a mile from the gate, Heather poked me--I was concentrating hard on the road to avoid getting yelled at--and I glanced over at Bob. He was sound alseep! Drool was running down his chin onto the seatbelt. Now I understood about the wet wipes. Bless Amy!
"Oh my god, I think I'm going to puke," hissed Josh, gazing at the river drool dripping off the seatbelt onto the seat, "Can you just take me home?"
"No way--it hasn't even been an hour yet!" I hissed back. "And we have to pick someone else up!"
"Can we at least get something to eat?" whispered Josh as we neared the McDonald's on the rotary. (Again, this was the 80's. We thought McDonald's was awesome!) Now I knew why Amy had told us to bring cash (no one had credit cards in high school then!).
Fortified with fries and McNuggets (which we all thought was delicious), we kept driving around and around the rotary until Bob woke up.
"Mava drava guh," he muttered, shaking his head. He pointed at the exit for the army base.
"We're going on base?" I asked, pointing at the exit sign as we went by it for the 12th time. Bob nodded and pointed anxiously, looking at his watch. I got on the base entrance road. I could not wait to get out and let the base kid drive.
We went through the gate--the sentry on duty seemed to be familiar with Bob, as he just waved him through--and pulled up in front of an apartment building. Bob leaned on the horn, making us all jump. A young man with a buzz cut waved from the window and then came out with a young Asian woman, whom he introduced as he wife, Lin. We all said hello. Lin looked really nervous. The young man gave her a kiss and said, "Good luck, honey!" Then he hopped on a motorcycle and took off.
"Mrrrthp," said Bob, indicating the driver's seat. I immediately jumped out and squeezed in the back seat with Josh and Heather. Lin looked petrified. She pointed to herself and then the driver's seat and shook her head. Bob shook his head back and pointed at the driver's seat again. Lin made blocking motions with her hands like, No way am I driving that car, pal! She spoke rapidly in a foreign language, shaking her head.
"Ah graaaabaada!" Bob yelled, stamping his foot. Lin looked at us in terror. We looked back in perhaps more terror, seeing what was about to happen.
"Ah, Bob," said Heather, leaning out the window, "I don't think Lin wants to drive. Why don't we let her observe today and I'll-"
"Glabagondabagaga!!" yelled Bob. He picked up his clipboard, pointed to the list of drivers, and waved it at Lin. He took her arm and steered her into the drivers seat.
"This is a really bad idea," muttered Josh, closing his eyes.
"Um, Lin?" said Heather politely, leaning over the seat, "Can you--ah-- understand what he's saying?" Lin nodded and smiled again, looking petrified.
"Okay, yes," she said nervously.
"Ah--do you speak any English at all?" asked Josh."Have you ever driven a car before?"
Lin smiled and said, "Okay, yes."
"Oh, my god," said Josh.
Bob got in the passenger's side and slammed to door. He began to point out the parts of the car to Lin, who just nodded and smiled.
"Okay, yes," she said. Bob reached over and started the car. Then he pointed at the gas pedal.
Lin slammed her foot down on the gas pedal as hard as she could. We roared out of the parking lot. Heather, Josh and I all grabbed on to one another. Bob leaned over and grabbed the wheel, shouting angrily. He was so mad we could even make out a few words, like "brake" and "signal!"
Lin then stomped the brake pedal with both feet and we all slammed forward, nearly winded by the seatbelts. Bob was alternately screaming and gagging on his on saliva. He made "slow down" motions with his hands, and Lin seemed to understand. She pushed the pedal down more gently. We rolled toward the front gate, were waved out, and approached the rotary. Bob made fast motions with his hand, indicating that Lin should speed up to merge into the rotary. Lin slammed the gas again and we flew forward into the rotary, all of us screaming in terror. We came inches from sideswiping a guy in a pickup who swerved out of the way, waving his middle finger at us. Lin then slammed the brake again, causing the car behind us to drive right off the road into the grass.
"Oh my god we're going to die," Heather whispered. Josh was trying to hide on the floor in case we saw someone we knew in the rotary, which wasn't unlikely.
"Ga! GAH!" screamed Bob. "NO STOP!"
"Okay, okay!" gasped poor Lin. She hit the gas again and we shot toward McDonalds. Now people were leaning out their windows and screaming at us to get the F out of the road.
"Okay, yes!" Lin yelled back.
Bob grabbed the wheel and we screeched around the rotary again--cutting off a large truck in the process --finally exiting onto the road back to town. Heather and I had our arms wrapped around one another and Josh had his eyes closed again and looked like he was going to be sick. We all gasped a huge sigh of relief to be out of the rotary Bob pointed straight ahead, staring at his clip board. Lin slowed down to twenty miles an hour.
Five minutes later we head a snore. Bob was out cold again, probably exhausted from ten minutes of sheer terror.
Heather leaned over the seat motioned for Lin to pull over at a farmstand. We held our fingers to our lips and pointed at Bob. She nodded and, very carefully, got out of the car. Josh got in and slowly parked under a large tree. Then he and Heather quietly got out. Heather turned the radio up a little to keep Bob from waking up. We all carefully closed our car doors. Then we all looked at each other and all high-fived.
Josh went in the farmstand and called his mom. She said she could drive Lin home. We started walking to his house, which was less than a mile away, so we wouldn't be in sight when Bob woke up.
We never heard what happened when he did wake up. As far as Bob knew, it had all been a bad dream.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Worst. Massage. Ever.
We were in Phoenix, AZ, visiting Grandma, and not only was a) my back acting up, I needed b) a break from the mother-son dynamic that always manifested itself when we were visiting my mother in law. (This consisted primarily of my mother in law making copious amounts of hot dish involving tater tots and mushroom soup, and my husband desperately trying to think of reasons not to eat at home.)
I found a spa online that sounded ok. It was in Scottsdale, which is the nicest part of Phoenix. I left my husband, the boys, and Grandma debating whether to eat lunch at Taco John's or stay home and open a can of soup (it always rains when we go to Phoenix.) I found the spa and was introduced to my masseuse,"Krysteyl." She seemed very bubbly and friendly. She led me into the totally spa-ed out New Age darkened, candle-lit, aroma-therapied massage room. I sighed with happiness --my back really hurt after the 6 hours flight from the East Coast--and was looking forward to an hour or relaxing bliss.
Two minutes into the massage Krysteyl got a phone call.
"Oh sorry, it's my son, I have to take this," she said, and answered the phone will poking ineffectually at my back with one hand. After a long conversation comprised mostly of Krysteyl assuring her son she would be home in two hours, I asked how old her kids were.
"Four and six," she replied. "They're alone so they're always calling me at work!"
Four and six! My heart seized with sadness for the little boys, home all alone in Phoenix (which, actually, is pretty sketchy--the headlines in the paper that week were all about local teenage girls being kidnapped out of malls into human trafficking.)
"Oh," I said finally, not having anything positive to say to that information. I shut my eyes and hoped for peace and quiet, thinking, why does this always happen to me? Complete strangers tell me their life stories on a regular basis-- I have no idea why. Usually, I find it very interesting, but today, I just wanted a quiet massage. And there I was, trapped in the dark, naked, and Krysteyl really needed someone to talk to.
"Yeah, well, my boyfriend, he's not too good at watching them, " Krystel confessed. "My PlayStation is broken, so the don't have anything to do."
"Right," I said, and thought about the walk we had taken at the foot of the Superstition Mountains the day before (which was free,) our trip to the Botanical Gardens, and the sheer joy of just running around in t-shirts in February.
"I really like this music," I added, desperately hoping Krysteyl would turn it up and stop talking.
"Course they don't know him very well," she continued as she started on my shoulders. "I mean I've only known him for a couple weeks now."
"Really," I said as disinterestedly as possible.
"Yeah, and my mom really doesn't like him. She thinks I just picked him up on the side of the road and started, you know, doing it with him that same day!" Krystel said indignantly. Her hands paused. I remained silent, with my eyes squeezed shut. Maybe if I pretended to be asleep, she would stop talking.
"Of course, that is basically what happened," she mused. Oh my god. "He was standing on the side of the 50 and I saw him, like, standing there, and I was all, he's so hot! So I asked him if he needed help, and he said he had no money or anything for a tow--he just got away from his crazy ex girlfriend over in Goodyear--she had a restraining order against him--and he had nowhere to go! He didn't even have ten bucks to his name"
"So you picked him up?" I said in disbelief. "From the side of the highway?"
"I know, right? So I brought him home and-" here she giggled--" we started doing it right that day, you know, like it was meant to be. We tell everyone- it is so romantic how we met! Like a fairytale!"
This rendered me speechless. She kept talking.
"So, that whole first week it was just like, we were so in love!" Krysteyl gushed. "And the week after. But he doesn't like to go out much, you know, so I always stop and get food on the way home to feed him a good dinner. He doesn't like to do stuff with the kids. Until he gets his PlayStation back, then he'll play with them. We're trying to get it back from his crazy ex girlfriend. But she lives all the way in Goodyear--and he doesn't have a car, so we can't get over there--we're thinking about taking her to small claims court to get it back!" Awesome! Burden the court system!
"So....." I ventured, "What, ah, what does he do for work?"
The hands paused again.
"He's looking for an appropriate opportunity to go into business right now," Krysteyl said solemnly. "I mean he's not going to do just anything, you know, he's not going to be a working stiff."
"Right," I said, thinking, this guy is a complete, full-on, bottom of the barrel loser.
"And we were both raised LDS, so you know, we have this work ethic we learned in our church."
What?! What kind of Mormons did they have down here in Arizona? Epic fail, Mormons! These people definitely did not get the same message at Sunday School as the Romneys!
"--so right now, you know, he's just working on getting his PlayStation back."
"That's what he does all day?" My brain was actually having trouble processing it all.
"Well, you know, he keeps calling her, and she doesn't want to give it back! So what's he supposed to do all day?"
"Maybe he could look for a job," I said. "Or could take your kids outside?"
Krysteyl's hands slowed a third time.
"Well, he doesn't like, you know, going outside. Actually...." she reflected,"He doesn't like to get off the couch too much. So sometimes, actually a lot of the time, I just tell the kids to go in their room so we can do it on the couch so he doesn't have to get up or nothing."
Right. At this point I was wondering if I should call DHS on the way home.
"But I don't know," she said seriously, "I'm starting to think we are having some relationship issues."
"What makes you think that?" I asked.
"Well, there are just some things, you know, that we need to have a serious talk about. Because now when I get home, you know, after working eight hours and picking the kids up and doing the shopping and cooking us all dinner, and he wants to do it on the couch, sometimes I don't want to." Krsyteyl was starting to sound sad. "I think we might need to talk to, you know, a relationship counselor."
"Maybe," I said, thinking, this the stupidest woman I have ever met in my entire life. What she really needs is a total head transplant.
"'Cause he's like, you know, 'I feel like I have to beg for my kisses,'" Krysteyl said tragically. "I think we need to talk to someone. Like they have on Dr. Phil."
What I would not give to see Dr. Phil talk to this couple: "Krysteyl, do you often pick up broke, unemployed losers on the side of the road and immediately bring back to your apartment and start sleeping with them while your children are present?
"Ok, hon, you're all done. Gosh, it was so nice talking to you and getting to know you!" Kysteyl gushed. The lights came on. We looked at one another. There was nothing to say.
"Well, good luck," I said finally. Krysteyl gave me a hug. I reeled out of the spa into the Arizona rain, thinking, sometimes, you meet people who make you lose all hope in humanity. But it was a pretty great massage.
I found a spa online that sounded ok. It was in Scottsdale, which is the nicest part of Phoenix. I left my husband, the boys, and Grandma debating whether to eat lunch at Taco John's or stay home and open a can of soup (it always rains when we go to Phoenix.) I found the spa and was introduced to my masseuse,"Krysteyl." She seemed very bubbly and friendly. She led me into the totally spa-ed out New Age darkened, candle-lit, aroma-therapied massage room. I sighed with happiness --my back really hurt after the 6 hours flight from the East Coast--and was looking forward to an hour or relaxing bliss.
Two minutes into the massage Krysteyl got a phone call.
"Oh sorry, it's my son, I have to take this," she said, and answered the phone will poking ineffectually at my back with one hand. After a long conversation comprised mostly of Krysteyl assuring her son she would be home in two hours, I asked how old her kids were.
"Four and six," she replied. "They're alone so they're always calling me at work!"
Four and six! My heart seized with sadness for the little boys, home all alone in Phoenix (which, actually, is pretty sketchy--the headlines in the paper that week were all about local teenage girls being kidnapped out of malls into human trafficking.)
"Oh," I said finally, not having anything positive to say to that information. I shut my eyes and hoped for peace and quiet, thinking, why does this always happen to me? Complete strangers tell me their life stories on a regular basis-- I have no idea why. Usually, I find it very interesting, but today, I just wanted a quiet massage. And there I was, trapped in the dark, naked, and Krysteyl really needed someone to talk to.
"Yeah, well, my boyfriend, he's not too good at watching them, " Krystel confessed. "My PlayStation is broken, so the don't have anything to do."
"Right," I said, and thought about the walk we had taken at the foot of the Superstition Mountains the day before (which was free,) our trip to the Botanical Gardens, and the sheer joy of just running around in t-shirts in February.
"I really like this music," I added, desperately hoping Krysteyl would turn it up and stop talking.
"Course they don't know him very well," she continued as she started on my shoulders. "I mean I've only known him for a couple weeks now."
"Really," I said as disinterestedly as possible.
"Yeah, and my mom really doesn't like him. She thinks I just picked him up on the side of the road and started, you know, doing it with him that same day!" Krystel said indignantly. Her hands paused. I remained silent, with my eyes squeezed shut. Maybe if I pretended to be asleep, she would stop talking.
"Of course, that is basically what happened," she mused. Oh my god. "He was standing on the side of the 50 and I saw him, like, standing there, and I was all, he's so hot! So I asked him if he needed help, and he said he had no money or anything for a tow--he just got away from his crazy ex girlfriend over in Goodyear--she had a restraining order against him--and he had nowhere to go! He didn't even have ten bucks to his name"
"So you picked him up?" I said in disbelief. "From the side of the highway?"
"I know, right? So I brought him home and-" here she giggled--" we started doing it right that day, you know, like it was meant to be. We tell everyone- it is so romantic how we met! Like a fairytale!"
This rendered me speechless. She kept talking.
"So, that whole first week it was just like, we were so in love!" Krysteyl gushed. "And the week after. But he doesn't like to go out much, you know, so I always stop and get food on the way home to feed him a good dinner. He doesn't like to do stuff with the kids. Until he gets his PlayStation back, then he'll play with them. We're trying to get it back from his crazy ex girlfriend. But she lives all the way in Goodyear--and he doesn't have a car, so we can't get over there--we're thinking about taking her to small claims court to get it back!" Awesome! Burden the court system!
"So....." I ventured, "What, ah, what does he do for work?"
The hands paused again.
"He's looking for an appropriate opportunity to go into business right now," Krysteyl said solemnly. "I mean he's not going to do just anything, you know, he's not going to be a working stiff."
"Right," I said, thinking, this guy is a complete, full-on, bottom of the barrel loser.
"And we were both raised LDS, so you know, we have this work ethic we learned in our church."
What?! What kind of Mormons did they have down here in Arizona? Epic fail, Mormons! These people definitely did not get the same message at Sunday School as the Romneys!
"--so right now, you know, he's just working on getting his PlayStation back."
"That's what he does all day?" My brain was actually having trouble processing it all.
"Well, you know, he keeps calling her, and she doesn't want to give it back! So what's he supposed to do all day?"
"Maybe he could look for a job," I said. "Or could take your kids outside?"
Krysteyl's hands slowed a third time.
"Well, he doesn't like, you know, going outside. Actually...." she reflected,"He doesn't like to get off the couch too much. So sometimes, actually a lot of the time, I just tell the kids to go in their room so we can do it on the couch so he doesn't have to get up or nothing."
Right. At this point I was wondering if I should call DHS on the way home.
"But I don't know," she said seriously, "I'm starting to think we are having some relationship issues."
"What makes you think that?" I asked.
"Well, there are just some things, you know, that we need to have a serious talk about. Because now when I get home, you know, after working eight hours and picking the kids up and doing the shopping and cooking us all dinner, and he wants to do it on the couch, sometimes I don't want to." Krsyteyl was starting to sound sad. "I think we might need to talk to, you know, a relationship counselor."
"Maybe," I said, thinking, this the stupidest woman I have ever met in my entire life. What she really needs is a total head transplant.
"'Cause he's like, you know, 'I feel like I have to beg for my kisses,'" Krysteyl said tragically. "I think we need to talk to someone. Like they have on Dr. Phil."
What I would not give to see Dr. Phil talk to this couple: "Krysteyl, do you often pick up broke, unemployed losers on the side of the road and immediately bring back to your apartment and start sleeping with them while your children are present?
"Ok, hon, you're all done. Gosh, it was so nice talking to you and getting to know you!" Kysteyl gushed. The lights came on. We looked at one another. There was nothing to say.
"Well, good luck," I said finally. Krysteyl gave me a hug. I reeled out of the spa into the Arizona rain, thinking, sometimes, you meet people who make you lose all hope in humanity. But it was a pretty great massage.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
The Prince and I
It was my very first day as a preschool ski instructor at Aspen Skiing Company. As the rookie, I was last on the totem pole for being assigned students, so that first day, I did not have a class. My boss told me to just hang around and help inside in case someone showed up late.
Soon after that, a group of what appeared to be Saudi Arabian men in sequined one-piece Bogner ski suits, furry Moon Boots, and radio head sets came into our lobby. My bosses' ears pricked up: major, big time serious client coming in!
This was the fall of 1993--eight years before 9/11. In Aspen at that time, everyone loved the Saudis, and they in turn adored Aspen. One time when I was working at the Aspen toy store, a teenage Saudi Arabian girl hopped out of a limo in front of the store and came in and spent $800 on plastic mood rings. My friend Jency got 3 carat diamond earrings as a tip for serving cocktails; one of the ski instructors got a Jeep. Everyone in Aspen knew they could ask Prince Bandar (later Saudi ambassador to the US) --who had a house in Starwood the size of a small shopping center --for money for their boy scout troops, senior class trips, or lost cat fund.
The man in the front of group inquired politely about getting a getting a lesson for a four year old girl--right now. My boss looked at the assignment board in a panic and saw that everyone was already out on the hill--except me. She eyeballed me is dismay. Not only was I brand new, I was not even from the West. I had learned to ski at Mt. Wachusett for God's sake. My boss said yes, absolutely, they had one of their finest instructors ready to give a lesson right now!
The man stepped away and spoke into his microphone; the rest of the entourage then began to speak rapidly into their own headsets. Some of them ran out onto the Snowmass Mall, others positioned themselves by the door. My boss, "Deb," hurried into the back. My other boss, "Jen," came running. They stood in front of me looking panicked, sizing me up, and probably wishing desperately there was someone else--anyone else!!-- around to take the lesson. They had never even seen me actually teach. For all they knew I was a complete incompetent! But, it was me or no one.
"Her father is Prince Farud*," Deb hissed, grabbing me by the arm and steering me toward the back door. "Don't worry, they're always very nice. The whole group will stay and watch--probably the whole time. Don't get rattled. Don't push the little girl too hard. And SMILE! You'll do fine. " Then she kind of gave me a pinch like or else!
I hustled outside to wait by our tiny little bunny hill--a slope of about 100 yards where the kids took their first steps on skis. From the bunny hill, first-time skiers could see the other kids gleefully riding the Magic Carpet further down the hill, which motivated them to learn to stop as soon as they could. Most kids stayed on the bunny hill for an hour or less until they learned to snowplow. Some kids managed it their first time--for others it took a few runs--but everyone made it to the Magic Carpet by the end of the morning. Or so I thought.
Ten minutes later, a bevy of sparkly-jumpsuited, fur-boot wearing Saudi Arabian women began wandering into the corral, accompanied by bodyguards, nannies, grandmas, and more guys with headsets and walkie talkies. The entourage lined the fence surrounding the bunny hill. There was my first client: an adorable four-year-old girl in her own brand new, bedazzled snowsuit and brand new, top of the line ski equipment. Accompanied by two women, she came laughing over to the red mats where kids put their skis on. The ladies all smiled and took pictures and then politely got out of the way, going to stand on the fence with the bodyguards. Another woman stayed nearby to translate.
With approximately twenty-five Saudi Arabians watching me, not to mention both my supervisors and the translator, I started to teach the little girl how to ski. She obligingly stepped into her skis like I showed her and practiced stepping down on the bindings so that she was buckled in. Then she practiced getting out of the skis, and getting back up from being on the ground. Next, she stepped out on the snow. She giggled with delight, slid her feet back and forth, and tumbled down. We practiced getting up. So far so good.
Maybe an hour into the lesson, all the walkie talkies began crackling and the bodyguards and guys with headsets all started freaking out. They shouted at each other across the corral, "He's coming! He's moving! He's on the move! The Prince is coming!" The bodyguards fanned out from the corral and up to the mall. The women all started chattering and rearranging themselves. Cell phones--so rare at the time that if someone whipped one out in the lift-line, everyone would actually hiss at them!--were produced, and rapid conversations undertaken. Everyone waited in tense anticipation for the arrival of the Prince.
I tried to focus on my little student (whom I'll call Salah, although I have no clue what her actual name was,) while all this was going on. The bodyguards started to shout out the Prince's location: "He's gotten out of the limo! He's passing the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory! He just passed the Stew Pot!" --as he made his was down the Snowmass Mall.
Meanwhile, to my dismay, Salah didn't appear to be making any progress whatsoever on learning to snowplow. She just giggled and coasted to the bottom of the slope, making absolutely zero attempt to point her toes together. I caught her every time before she crashed into the fence--where several of her aunties were taking videos--and asked the translator to point out that the other kids got to go on the Magic Carpet, because they had learned how to stop!--this usually did the trick. We even attached Edgie Wedgies to Salah's skis--these pretty much made it impossible not to snowplow--but no luck. On top of that, Salah had no inclination to walk back up the hill. The kids were supposed to walk back up the red plastic mats themselves--another motivator for getting off the bunny hill--but Salah just laughed at us and waited for us to tow her. It crossed my mind that this tiny child had probably never really had to do anything, and was probably not going to start now.
By now the prince was entering the corral, and I was sweating from chasing and catching Salah and towing her back up to to the top of the slope every 5 minutes. The prince came over and said hello --my supervisors nimbly jumped in between us and introduced themselves before I could say anything unfortunate!--and patted his daughter's head. With both Jen and Deb staring at me in grimacing agony, I explained the progress she was making and what we were working on. The prince just smiled and waved his hand as if to say, "It's all good!" After a few minutes he went to the fence to watch our progress with the rest of the family.
My supervisors had noticed by now that Salah was not even close to snowplowing. She seemed perfectly happy to coast down the hill, have me catch her, and then have me tow her back to the top. Jen gave me a look like, just let it go and keep smiling! So I kept at it--chasing, catching, and towing--for another stultifyingly dull hour and a half, at which point, thank God, Salah got hungry and opted to quit. I thought my back was going to give out. The Saudis and their entourage gave profuse thanks and meandered away from the ski school, walkie talkies crackling, body guards sprinting ahead, and no doubt, stretch Hummers warming up somewhere in the basement of the Ritz Carlton. I was completely exhausted and aware that her lesson had pretty much been an epic failure!
The next day, when the royal family came back, my bosses were ready. No more taking chances with a rookie who could not even teach a four year old to snowplow in two and a half hours! They had our best, most patient, most experienced and amazing male (by request) instructor, "Mike," ready to take Salah out. After a few days, "Mike" hit the jackpot: the royal family invited him to spend a month at their house in Chamonix, pay him like $10, 000 a day just to be on call for Salah, and let him bring his girlfriend. (You really can't exaggerate the stuff that happens in Aspen.)
When Mike got back from Chamonix we all asked him how it went. He said he only had to work an hour a day, the family was incredibly nice to him, and Chamonix was fabulous.
The only thing that made me feel better was that he said it took him two weeks to convince Salah to snowplow.
* Name has been changed!
Soon after that, a group of what appeared to be Saudi Arabian men in sequined one-piece Bogner ski suits, furry Moon Boots, and radio head sets came into our lobby. My bosses' ears pricked up: major, big time serious client coming in!
This was the fall of 1993--eight years before 9/11. In Aspen at that time, everyone loved the Saudis, and they in turn adored Aspen. One time when I was working at the Aspen toy store, a teenage Saudi Arabian girl hopped out of a limo in front of the store and came in and spent $800 on plastic mood rings. My friend Jency got 3 carat diamond earrings as a tip for serving cocktails; one of the ski instructors got a Jeep. Everyone in Aspen knew they could ask Prince Bandar (later Saudi ambassador to the US) --who had a house in Starwood the size of a small shopping center --for money for their boy scout troops, senior class trips, or lost cat fund.
The man in the front of group inquired politely about getting a getting a lesson for a four year old girl--right now. My boss looked at the assignment board in a panic and saw that everyone was already out on the hill--except me. She eyeballed me is dismay. Not only was I brand new, I was not even from the West. I had learned to ski at Mt. Wachusett for God's sake. My boss said yes, absolutely, they had one of their finest instructors ready to give a lesson right now!
The man stepped away and spoke into his microphone; the rest of the entourage then began to speak rapidly into their own headsets. Some of them ran out onto the Snowmass Mall, others positioned themselves by the door. My boss, "Deb," hurried into the back. My other boss, "Jen," came running. They stood in front of me looking panicked, sizing me up, and probably wishing desperately there was someone else--anyone else!!-- around to take the lesson. They had never even seen me actually teach. For all they knew I was a complete incompetent! But, it was me or no one.
"Her father is Prince Farud*," Deb hissed, grabbing me by the arm and steering me toward the back door. "Don't worry, they're always very nice. The whole group will stay and watch--probably the whole time. Don't get rattled. Don't push the little girl too hard. And SMILE! You'll do fine. " Then she kind of gave me a pinch like or else!
I hustled outside to wait by our tiny little bunny hill--a slope of about 100 yards where the kids took their first steps on skis. From the bunny hill, first-time skiers could see the other kids gleefully riding the Magic Carpet further down the hill, which motivated them to learn to stop as soon as they could. Most kids stayed on the bunny hill for an hour or less until they learned to snowplow. Some kids managed it their first time--for others it took a few runs--but everyone made it to the Magic Carpet by the end of the morning. Or so I thought.
Ten minutes later, a bevy of sparkly-jumpsuited, fur-boot wearing Saudi Arabian women began wandering into the corral, accompanied by bodyguards, nannies, grandmas, and more guys with headsets and walkie talkies. The entourage lined the fence surrounding the bunny hill. There was my first client: an adorable four-year-old girl in her own brand new, bedazzled snowsuit and brand new, top of the line ski equipment. Accompanied by two women, she came laughing over to the red mats where kids put their skis on. The ladies all smiled and took pictures and then politely got out of the way, going to stand on the fence with the bodyguards. Another woman stayed nearby to translate.
With approximately twenty-five Saudi Arabians watching me, not to mention both my supervisors and the translator, I started to teach the little girl how to ski. She obligingly stepped into her skis like I showed her and practiced stepping down on the bindings so that she was buckled in. Then she practiced getting out of the skis, and getting back up from being on the ground. Next, she stepped out on the snow. She giggled with delight, slid her feet back and forth, and tumbled down. We practiced getting up. So far so good.
Maybe an hour into the lesson, all the walkie talkies began crackling and the bodyguards and guys with headsets all started freaking out. They shouted at each other across the corral, "He's coming! He's moving! He's on the move! The Prince is coming!" The bodyguards fanned out from the corral and up to the mall. The women all started chattering and rearranging themselves. Cell phones--so rare at the time that if someone whipped one out in the lift-line, everyone would actually hiss at them!--were produced, and rapid conversations undertaken. Everyone waited in tense anticipation for the arrival of the Prince.
I tried to focus on my little student (whom I'll call Salah, although I have no clue what her actual name was,) while all this was going on. The bodyguards started to shout out the Prince's location: "He's gotten out of the limo! He's passing the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory! He just passed the Stew Pot!" --as he made his was down the Snowmass Mall.
Meanwhile, to my dismay, Salah didn't appear to be making any progress whatsoever on learning to snowplow. She just giggled and coasted to the bottom of the slope, making absolutely zero attempt to point her toes together. I caught her every time before she crashed into the fence--where several of her aunties were taking videos--and asked the translator to point out that the other kids got to go on the Magic Carpet, because they had learned how to stop!--this usually did the trick. We even attached Edgie Wedgies to Salah's skis--these pretty much made it impossible not to snowplow--but no luck. On top of that, Salah had no inclination to walk back up the hill. The kids were supposed to walk back up the red plastic mats themselves--another motivator for getting off the bunny hill--but Salah just laughed at us and waited for us to tow her. It crossed my mind that this tiny child had probably never really had to do anything, and was probably not going to start now.
By now the prince was entering the corral, and I was sweating from chasing and catching Salah and towing her back up to to the top of the slope every 5 minutes. The prince came over and said hello --my supervisors nimbly jumped in between us and introduced themselves before I could say anything unfortunate!--and patted his daughter's head. With both Jen and Deb staring at me in grimacing agony, I explained the progress she was making and what we were working on. The prince just smiled and waved his hand as if to say, "It's all good!" After a few minutes he went to the fence to watch our progress with the rest of the family.
My supervisors had noticed by now that Salah was not even close to snowplowing. She seemed perfectly happy to coast down the hill, have me catch her, and then have me tow her back to the top. Jen gave me a look like, just let it go and keep smiling! So I kept at it--chasing, catching, and towing--for another stultifyingly dull hour and a half, at which point, thank God, Salah got hungry and opted to quit. I thought my back was going to give out. The Saudis and their entourage gave profuse thanks and meandered away from the ski school, walkie talkies crackling, body guards sprinting ahead, and no doubt, stretch Hummers warming up somewhere in the basement of the Ritz Carlton. I was completely exhausted and aware that her lesson had pretty much been an epic failure!
The next day, when the royal family came back, my bosses were ready. No more taking chances with a rookie who could not even teach a four year old to snowplow in two and a half hours! They had our best, most patient, most experienced and amazing male (by request) instructor, "Mike," ready to take Salah out. After a few days, "Mike" hit the jackpot: the royal family invited him to spend a month at their house in Chamonix, pay him like $10, 000 a day just to be on call for Salah, and let him bring his girlfriend. (You really can't exaggerate the stuff that happens in Aspen.)
When Mike got back from Chamonix we all asked him how it went. He said he only had to work an hour a day, the family was incredibly nice to him, and Chamonix was fabulous.
The only thing that made me feel better was that he said it took him two weeks to convince Salah to snowplow.
* Name has been changed!
Thursday, December 11, 2014
The Orphanage
A few weeks ago, my kids were joking about goons from the psych hospital dragging someone off to a padded cell. This reminded me of something.
When we lived in Kansas City, MO—in the same unforgettable 6-month period in which I stole a cat from our brain-damaged squatter neighbors and I was mistaken for a streetwalker—I was a substitute teacher for four different school districts around Kansas City.
The only people who substitute teach are a) recent education graduates trying to get jobs, b) moms who need a little work or are kindly helping out their kids school, usually at the request of the principal; and c) the freaks, weirdos and losers who will work for like, $30 a day, and can’t find other employment. The first two groups target the nice schools--they avoid neighborhoods where they wouldn’t feel comfortable, say, parking their car. So for the assignments in the rough parts of town, that left, group C), and me, Miss Pollyanna Happy Pants, skipping into schools with bars on the windows and police officers stationed in the cafeteria, eager to figure out which learning styles the children had!
In retrospect, I should have just worked at Barnes and Noble, and had a relaxing six months shelving books and sipping lattes. Anyway. My son’s comment about the men in white coats reminded me of my three days at The Orphanage. Until I got this assignment, I had no idea there were still orphanages. I found the facility tucked away in the woods all the way on the outskirts of the city. When I walked in and introduced myself, the ladies at the desk positively fawned over me. I think one of them actually hugged me. They led me into the teacher’s room and showed me they had baked me a cake. It said, “Welcome substitute!”
This couldn’t be good.
“We’ve never had a substitute show up before!” the lady at the front desk explained.
“Oh,” I said. “Heh.” I had accepted the job for three days. I was wondering if I could cancel it before lunch.
But, I took some cake and was led to my classroom. It was a beautiful building—modern, clean, and bright. (It actually reminded me of my cousin’s classroom in their excellent private Quaker school in Philadelphia.) It was by far the nicest classroom I had been in thus far in Kansas City.
A sweet, older lady who was a classroom aide gave me a rundown on the kids. There were only twelve of them, all in elementary school. As the kids filed in, the aide whispered to me: this girl was here because both parents were in jail. This boy’s family was homeless. And this little boy here, with the big blue eyes and spiky blond hair, had been found alone in an abandoned building, in a room full of animal feces. I remember his face to this day.
It turned out to be the easiest substitute job I ever had. I stayed all three days. Every day they made me cake. The kids were quiet and well behaved. The food in the cafeteria was really good, and I noticed the facility had a pool outside, covered up until summer. I noticed at one point that several kids did not have shoes on--their living quarters were attached to the school--and asked the aide why.
“So they don’t run away,” she said , as if I was an idiot. (Which, in this situation, I was. For a fact, I knew less about harsh reality than anyone else in the entire building—brand new teaching degree or not!) I looked outside at the woods and thought about how long I had driven to get here. I thought of a twelve year old kid walking along that road. I couldn’t imagine past that.
At the end of the third day, the kids started to act up a teeny bit. I was nice to them, and obviously, had just stumbled off Rich White Lady Stupid Planet. I was not in the least alarmed when one of the kids talked back to me—in another school, I had seen kids throwing chairs at each other with the principal present!—so a little lip from these kids did not alarm me. My aide, on the other hand, was really alarmed.
“You got to press the button,” she said. “He can’t act like that.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, “No big deal. The day is almost over.”
The kid, hearing me defend him, threw a pencil across the room. The aide stood up.
“Press the button,” she said urgently. Mostly out respect for this lady who had been so kind to me for three days (not the typical substitute experience, I must say!), I pressed the big gray button on the wall behind my desk.
In less than ten seconds, two enormous men in white coats entered the room, looked to the aide, who pointed at the offender, gently lifted the kid off his feet, deftly removed his shoes, and took him away. He didn’t seem overly concerned—definitely not frightened—he had obviously been down this road before.
“But—“ I was so shocked I could not even speak before they had quietly closed the door behind them.
The aide shook her head and went back to her crossword. The other kids went back to their spelling. I hissed to the aide, “But where did they take him?”
“Oh, he’ll be in detention and talk to the counselor until he can calm down,” the aide said. “Don’t you worry. He’ll be fine.”
When I finished telling my own kids this story, fifteen years later, they too, were utterly speechless. I don’t know what shocked them more: that I actually did things before I had them, or that there were still orphanages, where kids were taken away by men in white coats if they talked back.
When we lived in Kansas City, MO—in the same unforgettable 6-month period in which I stole a cat from our brain-damaged squatter neighbors and I was mistaken for a streetwalker—I was a substitute teacher for four different school districts around Kansas City.
The only people who substitute teach are a) recent education graduates trying to get jobs, b) moms who need a little work or are kindly helping out their kids school, usually at the request of the principal; and c) the freaks, weirdos and losers who will work for like, $30 a day, and can’t find other employment. The first two groups target the nice schools--they avoid neighborhoods where they wouldn’t feel comfortable, say, parking their car. So for the assignments in the rough parts of town, that left, group C), and me, Miss Pollyanna Happy Pants, skipping into schools with bars on the windows and police officers stationed in the cafeteria, eager to figure out which learning styles the children had!
In retrospect, I should have just worked at Barnes and Noble, and had a relaxing six months shelving books and sipping lattes. Anyway. My son’s comment about the men in white coats reminded me of my three days at The Orphanage. Until I got this assignment, I had no idea there were still orphanages. I found the facility tucked away in the woods all the way on the outskirts of the city. When I walked in and introduced myself, the ladies at the desk positively fawned over me. I think one of them actually hugged me. They led me into the teacher’s room and showed me they had baked me a cake. It said, “Welcome substitute!”
This couldn’t be good.
“We’ve never had a substitute show up before!” the lady at the front desk explained.
“Oh,” I said. “Heh.” I had accepted the job for three days. I was wondering if I could cancel it before lunch.
But, I took some cake and was led to my classroom. It was a beautiful building—modern, clean, and bright. (It actually reminded me of my cousin’s classroom in their excellent private Quaker school in Philadelphia.) It was by far the nicest classroom I had been in thus far in Kansas City.
A sweet, older lady who was a classroom aide gave me a rundown on the kids. There were only twelve of them, all in elementary school. As the kids filed in, the aide whispered to me: this girl was here because both parents were in jail. This boy’s family was homeless. And this little boy here, with the big blue eyes and spiky blond hair, had been found alone in an abandoned building, in a room full of animal feces. I remember his face to this day.
It turned out to be the easiest substitute job I ever had. I stayed all three days. Every day they made me cake. The kids were quiet and well behaved. The food in the cafeteria was really good, and I noticed the facility had a pool outside, covered up until summer. I noticed at one point that several kids did not have shoes on--their living quarters were attached to the school--and asked the aide why.
“So they don’t run away,” she said , as if I was an idiot. (Which, in this situation, I was. For a fact, I knew less about harsh reality than anyone else in the entire building—brand new teaching degree or not!) I looked outside at the woods and thought about how long I had driven to get here. I thought of a twelve year old kid walking along that road. I couldn’t imagine past that.
At the end of the third day, the kids started to act up a teeny bit. I was nice to them, and obviously, had just stumbled off Rich White Lady Stupid Planet. I was not in the least alarmed when one of the kids talked back to me—in another school, I had seen kids throwing chairs at each other with the principal present!—so a little lip from these kids did not alarm me. My aide, on the other hand, was really alarmed.
“You got to press the button,” she said. “He can’t act like that.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, “No big deal. The day is almost over.”
The kid, hearing me defend him, threw a pencil across the room. The aide stood up.
“Press the button,” she said urgently. Mostly out respect for this lady who had been so kind to me for three days (not the typical substitute experience, I must say!), I pressed the big gray button on the wall behind my desk.
In less than ten seconds, two enormous men in white coats entered the room, looked to the aide, who pointed at the offender, gently lifted the kid off his feet, deftly removed his shoes, and took him away. He didn’t seem overly concerned—definitely not frightened—he had obviously been down this road before.
“But—“ I was so shocked I could not even speak before they had quietly closed the door behind them.
The aide shook her head and went back to her crossword. The other kids went back to their spelling. I hissed to the aide, “But where did they take him?”
“Oh, he’ll be in detention and talk to the counselor until he can calm down,” the aide said. “Don’t you worry. He’ll be fine.”
When I finished telling my own kids this story, fifteen years later, they too, were utterly speechless. I don’t know what shocked them more: that I actually did things before I had them, or that there were still orphanages, where kids were taken away by men in white coats if they talked back.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Indy, The Red Light District Cat
Before my husband and I got married, we spent six months living in Kansas City, Missouri. We lived in a neighborhood that was, ah, un-gentrified. Sometimes we would sit on the porch of our awesome 1930's Craftsman bungalow (the 1930's being the era when this neighborhood was up and coming) and watch the neighborhood moms get in a fist fight in the middle of the street. One time, helicopters hovered over the neighborhood for hours, looking for a missing kid who turned out to be under his own bed. When he was found, another fistfight ensued as neighbors blamed each other for the panic.
One night when we had some distant KC-area cousins visiting, we were all surprised to see an ice cream truck come trundling down the block. The cousins, who lived in the nice part of town, were too polite to say what everyone was thinking: "Huh. You would think this neighborhood was too sketchy for an ice cream truck!" The truck--close up, it was decidedly maintenance-challenged--rolled to a stop in front of the house where the kid had hidden from the police under his bed. Kids came running from up and down the street. Then the ice cream man appeared in the window: wild haired, unshaven, and not wearing a shirt, he grinned at the kids with perhaps four teeth, and started taking orders. Abe and I and the cousins were pretty much speechless. My cousin finally said, "You would think the ice cream man would have to wear a shirt. " We all nodded agreement. You would think!
Also in this interesting neighborhood (which was undoubtedly the most diverse I have ever lived in, with every ethnic group, and everyone from new immigrants to families that had lived there for generations), I was one time solicited while jogging. The guy who invited me into his truck for a good time had the grace to be really embarrassed when he saw the look on my face, which expressed plainly: "Holy sh*t dude, do you really think I am a hooker running around the park in these ugly sweatpants?" He was like, "Oh, hey, ah, sorry, sorry, man!"
One thing we liked about this neighborhood was that since hardly anyone appeared to have a job, they kept a good eye on our house while we were out during the day, and the neighbors were reasonably friendly, with mostly presentable homes and yards. One family, however, was in a class by themselves. Our landlord, Steve, who lived next door, cautioned us to never have contact with the family in the house two doors down.
"And I mean, never," he said. "They make their living by suing people! They'll accuse you of anything. Don't even set foot on their property, and don't ever let their grandson Anthony into your house."
This seemed odd advice, until we met Anthony. He appeared at the kitchen door one evening asking what we had to eat. Forewarned by Steve, I physically blocked Anthony from coming into the kitchen. (He was probably between 6 and 9 years old--it was hard to tell because this poor kid's growth seemed stunted, his hair grew in different colors, and his eyes didn't always look the same directions.) I gave him some fruit, as suggested by Steve. The next night, we were sitting on the porch and heard Anthony announce to a group of urchins--"Hey guys, I know where we can all get some FREE FRUIT!"
One day, an ambulance came to take Anthony's grandmother away (she was perhaps 42 years old, but looked about 112). We later learned from another neighbor that while Grandma was hospitalized (after receiving a beating from Anthony's grandfather) she "fell" out of the hospital bed, broke her arm, and was now suing the hospital. Another day, the dog catcher came and removed a pack of tied up dogs from the back yard. The dogs jumped delightedly into the van--possibly, death was preferable to staying tied up in that back yard. Steve told us that the family let chickens inside their house and often didn't have electricity or running water. He and his brother tried to buy the house--but found out that for $30,000, it would be a complete loss.
Thus, one day when returning from a walk after work, I was completely horrified, but not very shocked, to see Anthony out in front of his house, throwing a live kitten against the side of his garage. He lobbed the kitten into the crumbling stucco wall, watched it fall to the ground, and would catch it again when it tried to run away. It was absolutely pitiful. I stood and watched the kitten--it was a little gray tiger cat with no tail--as tried desperately to get away from Anthony, darting in a new direction each time. Each time, he would catch it, laughing, and whip it at the garage again.
From my place on the sidewalk--warnings from Steve ringing in my ears--I yelled at Anthony: "Anthony, stop it! Let that cat go!"
Anthony turned around and stared at me, the kitten dangling in his hand. He grinned right at me, turned, and threw the cat again.
"Tiger likes it!" he said. The kitten stared at me, frozen and terrified, its eyes begging get me out of here. I stared at Anthony. He smirked, raised his hand, and threw the cat again.
I realized Anthony would keep doing this for my benefit--all I could do was walk away and hope he would get tired of it. I went home, but I kept returning to the window to check on Anthony and the cat. In a little while, Anthony moved to the back yard, where he continued to toss the cat in the air. I went to the back steps once and yelled at him again across Steve's backyard. He turned toward me, gave me the finger, and proceeded to shake the cat as hard as he could.
I went in the house and called Steve in tears. He warned me once again to not go over to Anthony's house or make any contact with the grandparents and said he would call the SPCA. I agreed, and stayed inside where I couldn't see Anthony or the cat.
Many hours later, I was sitting on the couch while Abe studied--totally distraught about the kitten--when I heard a noise. A tiny mew--it was coming from the front porch. I ran to the door and opened it. There, on the wide stucco wall of Steve's porch, scarcely 5 feet from our own, was the little tail-less kitten. He faced me, squeaking, trying to make the leap from Steve's porch to our own.
Without a single thought as to the consequences, I ran down the steps in my pajamas, crossed the driveway, grabbed the kitten, and brought him inside. I looked at an astonished Abe and said, "We have a cat now."
We had him for sixteen years.
We named him Indy, after Independence Boulevard (my ill-chosen jogging route!), which was the red-light district in Kansas City, MO--so we would always remember that eventful six months.
A few days after I snatched Indy off Steve's porch, Anthony appeared at our front door. I hid Indy, who followed me everywhere, behind my back as I opened the door.
"Hi," said Anthony. He had a black cat in his hands.
"Hi, " I said, peering through the crack in the door.
"Have you seen Tiger?" he asked. "I can't find Tiger."
"Nope," I said, while the cat-formerly-known-as-Tiger squirmed behind my back, "Haven't seen him."
"Oh, " said Anthony, "Well, do you want this cat? He's Tiger's brother, Killer."
"Uh--" I said confusedly, as Anthony shoved the cat at me. I looked desperately at Abe, who then darted in behind me and grabbed Indy out of the way.
"Thanks." I took the black cat.
Anthony said, "Can I have some fruit?"
Epilogue
I have often wondered what happened to poor Anthony, and have reflected on the fact that the dogs and the cats all fared better than he did. I would place money on him being in jail, a serial killer, or dead. If he is alive, he would be nearly 30.
We kept the black cat, too, and named him Puck. As it turned out, Indy was a pure Manx cat--we assumed his tail had been sadistically cut off, and perhaps eaten, by Anthony's family, but this was not the case. Manx cats have short front legs, long back legs like rabbits, and personalities more like dogs. Last spring, eighteen months after Indy died, we got ourselves another Manx cat. He acts a lot like Indy.
One night when we had some distant KC-area cousins visiting, we were all surprised to see an ice cream truck come trundling down the block. The cousins, who lived in the nice part of town, were too polite to say what everyone was thinking: "Huh. You would think this neighborhood was too sketchy for an ice cream truck!" The truck--close up, it was decidedly maintenance-challenged--rolled to a stop in front of the house where the kid had hidden from the police under his bed. Kids came running from up and down the street. Then the ice cream man appeared in the window: wild haired, unshaven, and not wearing a shirt, he grinned at the kids with perhaps four teeth, and started taking orders. Abe and I and the cousins were pretty much speechless. My cousin finally said, "You would think the ice cream man would have to wear a shirt. " We all nodded agreement. You would think!
Also in this interesting neighborhood (which was undoubtedly the most diverse I have ever lived in, with every ethnic group, and everyone from new immigrants to families that had lived there for generations), I was one time solicited while jogging. The guy who invited me into his truck for a good time had the grace to be really embarrassed when he saw the look on my face, which expressed plainly: "Holy sh*t dude, do you really think I am a hooker running around the park in these ugly sweatpants?" He was like, "Oh, hey, ah, sorry, sorry, man!"
One thing we liked about this neighborhood was that since hardly anyone appeared to have a job, they kept a good eye on our house while we were out during the day, and the neighbors were reasonably friendly, with mostly presentable homes and yards. One family, however, was in a class by themselves. Our landlord, Steve, who lived next door, cautioned us to never have contact with the family in the house two doors down.
"And I mean, never," he said. "They make their living by suing people! They'll accuse you of anything. Don't even set foot on their property, and don't ever let their grandson Anthony into your house."
This seemed odd advice, until we met Anthony. He appeared at the kitchen door one evening asking what we had to eat. Forewarned by Steve, I physically blocked Anthony from coming into the kitchen. (He was probably between 6 and 9 years old--it was hard to tell because this poor kid's growth seemed stunted, his hair grew in different colors, and his eyes didn't always look the same directions.) I gave him some fruit, as suggested by Steve. The next night, we were sitting on the porch and heard Anthony announce to a group of urchins--"Hey guys, I know where we can all get some FREE FRUIT!"
One day, an ambulance came to take Anthony's grandmother away (she was perhaps 42 years old, but looked about 112). We later learned from another neighbor that while Grandma was hospitalized (after receiving a beating from Anthony's grandfather) she "fell" out of the hospital bed, broke her arm, and was now suing the hospital. Another day, the dog catcher came and removed a pack of tied up dogs from the back yard. The dogs jumped delightedly into the van--possibly, death was preferable to staying tied up in that back yard. Steve told us that the family let chickens inside their house and often didn't have electricity or running water. He and his brother tried to buy the house--but found out that for $30,000, it would be a complete loss.
Thus, one day when returning from a walk after work, I was completely horrified, but not very shocked, to see Anthony out in front of his house, throwing a live kitten against the side of his garage. He lobbed the kitten into the crumbling stucco wall, watched it fall to the ground, and would catch it again when it tried to run away. It was absolutely pitiful. I stood and watched the kitten--it was a little gray tiger cat with no tail--as tried desperately to get away from Anthony, darting in a new direction each time. Each time, he would catch it, laughing, and whip it at the garage again.
From my place on the sidewalk--warnings from Steve ringing in my ears--I yelled at Anthony: "Anthony, stop it! Let that cat go!"
Anthony turned around and stared at me, the kitten dangling in his hand. He grinned right at me, turned, and threw the cat again.
"Tiger likes it!" he said. The kitten stared at me, frozen and terrified, its eyes begging get me out of here. I stared at Anthony. He smirked, raised his hand, and threw the cat again.
I realized Anthony would keep doing this for my benefit--all I could do was walk away and hope he would get tired of it. I went home, but I kept returning to the window to check on Anthony and the cat. In a little while, Anthony moved to the back yard, where he continued to toss the cat in the air. I went to the back steps once and yelled at him again across Steve's backyard. He turned toward me, gave me the finger, and proceeded to shake the cat as hard as he could.
I went in the house and called Steve in tears. He warned me once again to not go over to Anthony's house or make any contact with the grandparents and said he would call the SPCA. I agreed, and stayed inside where I couldn't see Anthony or the cat.
Many hours later, I was sitting on the couch while Abe studied--totally distraught about the kitten--when I heard a noise. A tiny mew--it was coming from the front porch. I ran to the door and opened it. There, on the wide stucco wall of Steve's porch, scarcely 5 feet from our own, was the little tail-less kitten. He faced me, squeaking, trying to make the leap from Steve's porch to our own.
Without a single thought as to the consequences, I ran down the steps in my pajamas, crossed the driveway, grabbed the kitten, and brought him inside. I looked at an astonished Abe and said, "We have a cat now."
We had him for sixteen years.
We named him Indy, after Independence Boulevard (my ill-chosen jogging route!), which was the red-light district in Kansas City, MO--so we would always remember that eventful six months.
A few days after I snatched Indy off Steve's porch, Anthony appeared at our front door. I hid Indy, who followed me everywhere, behind my back as I opened the door.
"Hi," said Anthony. He had a black cat in his hands.
"Hi, " I said, peering through the crack in the door.
"Have you seen Tiger?" he asked. "I can't find Tiger."
"Nope," I said, while the cat-formerly-known-as-Tiger squirmed behind my back, "Haven't seen him."
"Oh, " said Anthony, "Well, do you want this cat? He's Tiger's brother, Killer."
"Uh--" I said confusedly, as Anthony shoved the cat at me. I looked desperately at Abe, who then darted in behind me and grabbed Indy out of the way.
"Thanks." I took the black cat.
Anthony said, "Can I have some fruit?"
Epilogue
I have often wondered what happened to poor Anthony, and have reflected on the fact that the dogs and the cats all fared better than he did. I would place money on him being in jail, a serial killer, or dead. If he is alive, he would be nearly 30.
We kept the black cat, too, and named him Puck. As it turned out, Indy was a pure Manx cat--we assumed his tail had been sadistically cut off, and perhaps eaten, by Anthony's family, but this was not the case. Manx cats have short front legs, long back legs like rabbits, and personalities more like dogs. Last spring, eighteen months after Indy died, we got ourselves another Manx cat. He acts a lot like Indy.
You'll Be Fine
When we were kids, my mom did not have a lot of patience for whining. A non-stop ball of energy, she, to this day, delights in digging large holes, tearing holes in things like walls and roofs (sometimes other people's roofs), fitting things in her car that don't actually fit, and getting more accomplished in a day at age 72 than most people do in a lifetime. She moves fast. She never had patience for my sister and I whining and complaining. Her stock answer to anything (collapsed tent, lost homework, concussion) was "For heaven's sake girls. You'll be fine!" And I have to say, she was usually right. After whatever crisis it was had passed, and maybe after some emotional upset --which is after all, part of life!--we were always fine.
This year, my older son started high school. I was a walking wreck. I couldn't sleep for three nights. My stomach was a mess. My son did not seem to be particularly worried- it was all me. Maybe it was because I can't believe he is old enough to be in high school, because he is only 4 years from "leaving home," or because my little pooky, who used to spend all day singing the "Dig Dig Diggy" song and calling Mr. FixIt on his plastic phone! is now shaving, saving up for a truck, and attending events where there is "twerking." (Yes, I have become a walking cliche--where did the time go? )
When my boys were little, they had to do a lot of things they weren't too excited about, like moving five times in elementary school, switching schools six times each, and going to endless camps and sports team in new neighborhoods where they didn't know a soul. Every time we arrived at a new school or camp, they would watch all the other kids hug their friends and form little groups, and then they would walk in alone, and wait until an adult took over.
"Don't worry," I would say every time, although sadness for them was liquefying my stomach-- "You'll be fine. I promise. It will be ok by the end of the day."
Every time we moved, the kids were excited for the cross-states trip (my husband was in the Air Force, which sent us all over the Midwest), the new house, their new bedrooms, and exploring our new town--that is, until the night before the first day of school. Then it hit them that none of their friends from last year would be there, and that once again, they wouldn't know a soul--and there was nothing anyone could do about it. I assured them again and again, "It's a whole new year, a new class, everyone will be making friends. By the end of the first day, you'll have a friend. You'll be fine. I promise."
We always moved in the summer and, despite my desperate attempts to meet somewhat normal looking people on the playground ("Hi! How old is he? Do you live near here? Wait, don't go!") -- we always completely failed to make any friends. It was the same every time--every single kid we met was either staying with a divorced parent and weren't near their own school, or they were visiting grandparents or cousins. Usually I gave up, totally depressed, not having made a single connection for the kids, and we went to visit their own grandparents for the rest of the summer.
At one camp where we parked the kids for a week so we could unpack the house, all the other boys in the bunk--all old friends from school-- made blanket forts at rest hour, walling out the two new kids who didn't have any friends. My kids said camp was great-- except for rest hour. My younger son dealt with it by reading a book or pretending to sleep, while the other one hung around the snack shop. They didn't love it. It wasn't great. But they knew it would be over in a week. They had learned the difference between something they just didn't like, and something that was actually bad. It wasn't bad. But it wasn't great. Unlike it Disney movies and sitcoms, real life is often like that.
I have watched in astonishment over the years as other moms (pretty much all moms--not any dads I can think of), have fretted, stressed, and completely freaked out over whether or not their kid will have their best friend in her class, on his soccer team, at camp, at Safety Town, on the bus--to the point where I have seen moms calling soccer coaches or gymnastics instructors or principals in hysterics--making threats, crying, and ranting to other moms about now it's not fair! My child can't be on that team or on that classroom all alone!
I always wanted to say, God almighty lady, you and your kid need a big dose of "You'll be fine!" So what if your kid has to walk in alone? Then what? Worst case scenario, no one will talk to her, she'll be a little bummed out for an hour, and the next time she's with her friends and there is a new kid all alone, maybe she'll reach out, because now she knows how it feels. Best case scenario--hey, she'll make a new friend. Both of these options are really not that bad! Especially if you remind yourself, these are we-don't-live-in-Liberia-or-Afghanistan-and-have-plenty-to-eat types of problems!
My older son got up at 5:30 am and took the bus to high school on the first day. Two hours later, I drove his younger brother to his school. I was freaking out the whole time, asking my younger son, did he think his brother would be ok? Would he find someone to sit with at lunch? Would he get stuffed in a locker? Would he get a whirlie? Would he get lost?
My younger son sighed and looked at me steadily with his big green eyes.
"Mom," he said calmly, "I promise. He'll be fine."
This year, my older son started high school. I was a walking wreck. I couldn't sleep for three nights. My stomach was a mess. My son did not seem to be particularly worried- it was all me. Maybe it was because I can't believe he is old enough to be in high school, because he is only 4 years from "leaving home," or because my little pooky, who used to spend all day singing the "Dig Dig Diggy" song and calling Mr. FixIt on his plastic phone! is now shaving, saving up for a truck, and attending events where there is "twerking." (Yes, I have become a walking cliche--where did the time go? )
When my boys were little, they had to do a lot of things they weren't too excited about, like moving five times in elementary school, switching schools six times each, and going to endless camps and sports team in new neighborhoods where they didn't know a soul. Every time we arrived at a new school or camp, they would watch all the other kids hug their friends and form little groups, and then they would walk in alone, and wait until an adult took over.
"Don't worry," I would say every time, although sadness for them was liquefying my stomach-- "You'll be fine. I promise. It will be ok by the end of the day."
Every time we moved, the kids were excited for the cross-states trip (my husband was in the Air Force, which sent us all over the Midwest), the new house, their new bedrooms, and exploring our new town--that is, until the night before the first day of school. Then it hit them that none of their friends from last year would be there, and that once again, they wouldn't know a soul--and there was nothing anyone could do about it. I assured them again and again, "It's a whole new year, a new class, everyone will be making friends. By the end of the first day, you'll have a friend. You'll be fine. I promise."
We always moved in the summer and, despite my desperate attempts to meet somewhat normal looking people on the playground ("Hi! How old is he? Do you live near here? Wait, don't go!") -- we always completely failed to make any friends. It was the same every time--every single kid we met was either staying with a divorced parent and weren't near their own school, or they were visiting grandparents or cousins. Usually I gave up, totally depressed, not having made a single connection for the kids, and we went to visit their own grandparents for the rest of the summer.
At one camp where we parked the kids for a week so we could unpack the house, all the other boys in the bunk--all old friends from school-- made blanket forts at rest hour, walling out the two new kids who didn't have any friends. My kids said camp was great-- except for rest hour. My younger son dealt with it by reading a book or pretending to sleep, while the other one hung around the snack shop. They didn't love it. It wasn't great. But they knew it would be over in a week. They had learned the difference between something they just didn't like, and something that was actually bad. It wasn't bad. But it wasn't great. Unlike it Disney movies and sitcoms, real life is often like that.
I have watched in astonishment over the years as other moms (pretty much all moms--not any dads I can think of), have fretted, stressed, and completely freaked out over whether or not their kid will have their best friend in her class, on his soccer team, at camp, at Safety Town, on the bus--to the point where I have seen moms calling soccer coaches or gymnastics instructors or principals in hysterics--making threats, crying, and ranting to other moms about now it's not fair! My child can't be on that team or on that classroom all alone!
I always wanted to say, God almighty lady, you and your kid need a big dose of "You'll be fine!" So what if your kid has to walk in alone? Then what? Worst case scenario, no one will talk to her, she'll be a little bummed out for an hour, and the next time she's with her friends and there is a new kid all alone, maybe she'll reach out, because now she knows how it feels. Best case scenario--hey, she'll make a new friend. Both of these options are really not that bad! Especially if you remind yourself, these are we-don't-live-in-Liberia-or-Afghanistan-and-have-plenty-to-eat types of problems!
My older son got up at 5:30 am and took the bus to high school on the first day. Two hours later, I drove his younger brother to his school. I was freaking out the whole time, asking my younger son, did he think his brother would be ok? Would he find someone to sit with at lunch? Would he get stuffed in a locker? Would he get a whirlie? Would he get lost?
My younger son sighed and looked at me steadily with his big green eyes.
"Mom," he said calmly, "I promise. He'll be fine."
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