Hockey Hockey Hockey

To the left is a tee shirt belonging to my son James -- I love this tee shirt, and I aways smile when folding it. (He is, at 14, too old to wear it now, I think, but occaisionally he sleeps in it.) This little stick figure is saying something that every hockey player says at least a few times a week, when friends ask if they are free for a movie, a walk downtown, or to just hang out. Hockey kids always have hockey. It is a sport that takes over your life (player and family).

With this season almost over, I thought I'd share a funny essay I found on the web about hockey. Parents...you get it!! (courtesy of www.hockeysource.com).


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You Know You're An Avid Hockey Fan If.......

• Your idea of serving breakfast is giving each of your kids a fork and dropping an Eggo in the middle of the table.
• You reprimand your children with "minors," "majors" and "misconducts."
• When you come to a traffic signal and the light turns green, you stop.
• When you come to a traffic signal and the light turns red, you get really excited and chant, "He shoots! He scores!"
• Instead of duct tape, you use hockey tape to fix everything.
• You call a trip to the Hockey Hall of Fame a "pilgrimage."
• You went into a bank because it advertised "Free Checking"....and walked out disappointed.
• You can pronounce anything in French, yet you have no idea what it means.
• Every time you hear a siren you wonder who scored.
• You're not allowed to play chess simply because the first time you played, you misunderstood the meaning of the word "Check."
• Everything in your wardrobe is your team's colors.
• Your closet is divided into 2 sections: HOME and AWAY
• You make biscuits in dimensions of 3" by 1."
• You burn the biscuits black.
• You play a game with one of the biscuits.
• You deck the guy who says, "Check, please."
• You own a Zamboni.
• You keep your Zamboni in the garage while your main car stays in the driveway.
• Your calendar only runs from October to June.
• You wonder how you will get through July, August, and September.
• When someone says, "two minutes" you respond, "What for!?!"

NASCAR Family

 There are two sentences that I say all of the time these days, to the point where I can see them etched on my tombstone. These two sentences are, "Can you get me your keys?" and "Can you move your car?"  I say these phrases so often because we have four drivers living under one roof (a roof that only two of the drivers currently pay for). Our oldest sons are both living at home right now, and although we rarely see them, they do have cars, which they park here when they are unconscious at night in their beds. We also co-habitate with our fourteen year old, who for now only has a bike. For now.

Each evening we show the logistical and strategic acumen of a Nascar pit crew. If you put a headset on my husband and slapped a few logos on his sweatpants and tee shirt, he could pass for the real thing. Our conversations go like this:

Fred (holding clipboard): "Okay, I'm glad we're all here in the family room. Please enjoy the pizzas I paid for. Now. Let's discuss tomorrow's driveway strategy. I have to be out at 8:30, so I need for my car to be in Slot 1. Anyone leaving earlier?"

Me: "I am going to the barn at 7:30 to see the horse, so I need Slot 1. But, I have not been able to locate my keys since about 4:45 this afternoon. Everyone keep an eye out, could you? Last known location was my purse, but I can't seem to find that, either..."

Matt: "I can take Slot 2 because I can go in late to the office - I'll be leaving about 9. If anyone moves my car - the keys will be under the driver's seat - can you not move the bath towel hanging from the passenger-side window? My window just fizzled out on that side."

Young Fred: "Has everyone forgotten I'm a landscaper? I need to be moving by 6 AM! Slot 1 is mine, and I am recommending Slot 2 for Dad, 3 for Matt, and 4 for Mom. Did I get that right? Oh, and my friend Bob is coming over tonight to watch a video, so if he parks in Slot 1, is anyone leaving?"

James (14 year old): "I will probably want a Shamrock Shake around 9 PM tonight. Can Mom have Slot 1now if she parks curbside when we get back? Then Bob will still be Slot 1 when we get back. And Mom can stay curbside and take me to school on the way to the barn. Right?"

Needless to say, you only want Slot 4 (closest to house, in or near garage) if you are suffering from the flu, are under house arrest, or have lost your keys and have little hope of finding them, therefore depending on rides from your family. I am very familiar with Slot 4.

Gentlemen and Lady...start your engines!

Bailey In Da House!

A few weeks ago, one of my close friends asked me to babysit someone very special when she went away for a yoga retreat in Mexico. This special someone is fourteen years old, weighs a little over two pounds, and is balding, almost toothless, and wears very cunning little winter sweaters, and tiny fleece hoodies. I immediately answered in the affirmative to my friend's question, because I happen to love this little heartbreaker as well. This is how Bailey, the most fabulous Yorkie who ever lived, came to hijack my life, my heart and my home for a week.

When my friend Christine dropped Bailey off, I marveled. This little dog came to party -- he arrived with much varied and discriminating accoutrement that any self-respecting baby would be proud of. In came his set of stairs (carpeted), to enable him to jump on my bed, a duffel bag full of sweaters, diapers, creams, ointments, medicines, and packages and packages of Pupperoni, and Himself, entering our house with a dismissive sneeze and a warning bark, aimed at my three dogs. This bark said, I am here, and woe unto you should you cross me. I am old, and I have earned your respect.

Bailey had a few issues. Firstly, he needs to be coaxed to eat. Bailey is in kidney failure, and is not very hungry anymore. So, he must be enticed, which includes placing tiny morsels of food in a row on your bed, or lining them up on your rug, or pretending to eat them youself, saying "yum-yum-yummy!" and then offering the delicacy to Bailey. If the mood strikes, he will eat it. If not, he will look the other way, as if your insult is too great to bear. He also needs to wear diapers occaisionally, which attach to his hind end with velcro. His velcro frequently gets caught on various and sundry things; many times during the week he was velcro-ed to me, I would find. Had I dropped my hands he would just hang from my sweater like a pom-pom.

Bailey also got IV fluids every other day during his stay, which  were administered by the vet. I would bring him in wrapped in a soft baby blanket, and he would be coo-ed over by the technician as they disappeared together behind the big medical door. Bailey would come back to the waiting room all wrapped up again, looking for me with his sparkling, still-clear eyes. Well, I like to think that, but Bailey is always looking for Christine, his real mommy.

Bailey has to sleep with people -- this is non-negotiable. It would be easier for Obama to wrangle out of his interest in health care. So, Bailey would snuggle between my husband's head and mine, on yet another blanket. Then, we would gently cover him, and then proceed to worry and fuss over him all night. "Is he breathing?" I mumbled at 2 a.m. one morning, to which my husband shot up in bed, blearily saying, "Oh, no, did I crush him?" I would wait to feel Bailey stir beside me, and then cover his tiny old legs with my hand, and try to sleep again. It reminded me of when the kids were young. ("Only, babies can't jump out of bed and run away!" my mother pointed out one morning on the phone. Good point. Bailey can.)

So, what are the pay-offs to watching Bailey? Well, he loves to snuggle, and will follow you anywhere on stiff little legs that seem permanently straightened. He loves to give kisses - his tongue hangs out of is mouth due to tooth loss, I think, so even when he's not giving a kiss, sometimes he is. And to see that little face when you walk through the door is to feel a ray of sunshine shining just for you.

Bailey won't be here much longer; his time here is almost over. He has been loved and treasured by my friend, so I am comforted to know he lived his days well. It was an honor to take care of him for a week, and I will mourn when he passes. My husband found a tiny, faded hoodie with the words "Rock Star" emblazoned on it in our laundry basket, and I got choked up. I will remember the special trip back to caring for dependent, defenseless little lives in the middle of the night - my own babies, long ago. I enjoyed Bailey's puffs of breath in my ear in the dark of night that said, again and again, in steady rhythm, I'm still here.

Oscars Wrap-Up

 The Oscars, held last night to celebrate the movies of 2012, started and ended as it usually does for me. I began the broadcast with such high hopes--dressed in my ball gown and tiara, holding a martini, my family full of males locked in the basement. I looked forward to taking in the gorgeous gowns, the upswept hairstyles, and the un-naturally beautiful, (sort-of waxy) people -- seriously, how do these people look so good -- Jane Fonda is how old? I looked forward to luxuriating in clips of high-minded movies and heartfelt speeches. Ahh, life can be so relaxing, so sweet...

Cut to two hours later, about 10:30 pm. Somehow my thirteen year old and my husband have gotten into the family room, and are talking loudly about the upcoming state hockey tournament. The Oscar presenters are handing out awards I could care less about -- I'm sorry!-- like Sound Editing Underwater, and Eyelash Animation Techniques. Who cares? Bring on the stars and the statuettes! My dogs are crowding me out on the couch, and I have consumed two bowls of ice cream. My flannel bathrobe is waaay too hot, and my patience is waaay too short.

 Finally, it is the last half-hour. I am hanging half-off the couch, trying to escape my own hot flashes. Hold on...suddenly, the awards tumble in like dominoes! Jennifer Lawrence falls! Renee Zellweger seems "sleepy!" Anne Hathaway keeps it to a ten minute thank you speech!  My favorite film Argo wins Best Picture! Ben Affleck babbles about his wife and Iran! It's gettin' good, baby!

 As for the host, Seth MacFarlane, here is my review: believe it or not, I have never seen Family Guy. I never let my kids watch it, so why would I watch it? But the Academy hired him, and they know his material, obstensibly. Sooooo...what's the surprise? He came and did what he does, which is to put down everyone, particularly women, men, children, animals, and all inanimate objects. He can sing and dance though! I can't help but wish for the days I never knew, when Rita Hayworth and Elizabeth Taylor and Gregory Peck attended the Oscars. They must have been dazzing to behold, and did not have to endure songs about "boobs" while they waited to see if they won an Oscar.

Every year I vow never again. I will choose to read a good historical novel next time the Oscars are on, or practice the cello, (I'd better go buy one and begin lessons), or do some painting with watercolors. I will not be sucked in by the glitteratti, so far removed from my own life. They are just people, after all, and I am far too old to be swept up in the Oscars.

Yeah, right. If they bring Billy Crystal back... I'm in!

 

 

Portlandia - 'One Party At A Time'

Funny...these post-college kids cannot even write a protest song without inserting partying, no matter how hard they try. Portlandia almost always hits on the truth in their sketches!

Already?

Ahhh, after that post about how I was going to use my will to be observant this Lent, and how I would be looking heavenward....well, we didn't even make it to Mass last night. My husband came home tired, there was homework to be done, and I had thrown a roaster chicken in the oven that was done right at 7, the time of the Mass. Remember those lofty words about looking heavenward and stumbling? I didn't even last ten hours. This is life. Starting fresh again today with the same hopes.

Ash Wednesday

Before I became a Catholic, I was always somewhat awed by the ashes on the foreheads of the faithful. My thoughts went like this, as a younger woman: 1) what do the ashes signify? 2) wow, these people are brave to go around wearing these all day, just letting it all hang out, and 3) I feel left out.

I was not baptized until I was an adult, at age 27. It was on this day of baptism that I entered the Catholic church, despite several lingering doubts. My doubts were basically that a church as rich monetarily as the Catholic church couldn't be very evangelistic, and I also had a problem with the Adoration of Mary. It seemed that the veneration of Mary practiced by Catholics put her on a par with Christ, which I disagreed with. But, as a wise priest told me, as I sat in a chair in his office (very pregnant with my second son, squirming a lot), if I waited for a church to come along that suited all of my needs (and whims, and ever-changing ideas), I would be waiting a long time. So, I took a breath, and dove in to the life of a Catholic. Thanks, Father Kirwan!

I enjoy the tempo of the Mass. I like knowing what will happen next; it gives me a chance to focus my thoughts on worship and prayer, not on the activity before me. No, we are not as flashy as other denominations, usually - we don't use theatrics very often, and our music is often solemn, and old. (Boring, my 13 year old might say.)But in an ever-changing world, it suits me, to have the order of the Mass to count on. And, I like knowing that Catholics all around the world are hearing the same scriptures as I am, in a pew in a church in my small town in Massachusetts. It makes me feel like a microscopic part of a much larger effort at truth and understanding each week.

I have made my peace with Mary. She was, and is, an exceptional and blessed woman. Who but a mother completely devoted to God's will could watch her son being crucified in front of her? This alone is amazing, and not of this earth. And I do believe she continues her work of grace and healing today.

As for the money -- yes, the Catholic church in Rome has it; from pictures of the Vatican it seems that everything there is dripping with gold. But here in the U.S. churches are closing, and the Catholic church is paying for the priest abuse scandal that rocked several countries around the world. In my mind, they are not paying heavily enough in a very important way - all abusers should be jailed, no matter what their garments look like -  not "reassigned". But a cost is there, and it is a dear, sad cost -  they caused many to lose faith, and lose hope. That is an awesome sin and shame, making people lose faith, and heart.

The church is a human institution, and will fail us now and again. All churches will. But today, on Ash Wednesday, I celebrate my beliefs, and the freedom I have in America to exercise them. I will try to keep my thoughts on those Christians around the world persecuted for their beliefs. And I will focus the next forty days on being the best I can be, as I prepare for Easter. And the best I can be will be to disappear, to lose a sense of myself, and focus on God. I will fall short, yes, I will stumble and let human emotions and anxieties get the best of me sometimes. Bit I will try to remember the ashes I receive tonight, as my outward symbol of an interior love. I will use one of God's greatest gifts - the gift of will - to keep my eyes looking heavenward even if my feet are on the ground.

Life is short. Lead it as you feel led to.

Barn in Winter

A barn in winter is a starkly beautiful place. Wind whistles through the barn doors, and brings gusts of cold air into the sawdust aisle, and slips under the old wooden matching doors of the horses' stalls.Your fingers freeze, then go numb as you try to unbuckle buckles, fasten clasps, or straighten out your saddle blanket, anxious to start moving.You warm your horse's bit in your wool glove while you saddle him up, dreading making him hold a cold bar of metal in his mouth when you ride.You warm yourself on his large warm body as you work, giving extra hugs.You must be careful when you love him, however, static electricity will spark up from your gloved hands, causing him to jerk in fear. He is already cold, no need to add scared to the mix. Your horses's breath and yours mingles as you hurry to get up and get going.

Water buckets and water troughs freeze. and the ground freezes, too.You wish for a more spiked boot as you walk with your horse back to the snowy field after your ride, worried that you, or he, or both will suddenly fall on the slick, hidden ice, lurking under the snow on the dirt lane. Mud has frozen into ruts like the tines on a yard rake, fanning out and ending at the fenceline. The only color in sight is your lead line that connects you to your horse, the one you picked out to get you through winter. It is bulky, and bright pink, and as familiar as your purse handles in your hand. At the fence you say goodbye; he will go back to standing with the other horses in his blanket you saved up for, waiting to be let inside for grain and hay and four planked walls.You will return to your work, your worries, and your day. But for that minute you are alone in the cold, under stark trees and a lowered, gray-white sky. It's quiet, and he knows you love him. A tear freezes like a diamond in your eye before it can even fall -- it may be several days before you can return to the sweet, frozen silence he welcomes you into.

I Finally Flew from Montgomery

Nerve-wracking and awesome.  Thanks to Fred for inviting me on stage at his solo gig...quite a memory for us.  Merry Christmas!

The Nativity and Sandy Hook

Nativity of Christ

I have been struggling to come to grips with, much less write about, the Sandy Hook school tragedy. Tears stand at the ready at a mere mention of small children, and I send my own middle-schooler off with a twinge of trepidation.  He gets more hugging at the door, more texts after school, asking him to come home sooner, rather than later.

To the left is our family nativity display, which we have had for many years. I started collecting the pieces when my first two sons, now in their twenties, were small, and we had very little extra money. Each year I looked forward to the following Christmas, when I could add animals, or the wise men, or a few trees. But that first year it started with just Baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph. In the early years the Holy Family looked like us; just a roof over their heads, and  the three of them only -- mother, father, and child.

Through the years these porcelain figurines in their manger have weathered life with us at Christmas time.  They have hosted plastic army men when the boys were little; they have hidden crayons, or matchbox cars, or sticks of gum, standing frozen in their tableau. The boys, no matter where they are in their lives and in the world, gather in December to unwrap the figurines, placing them wherever they'd like. (When my youngest son was little, he proudly showed my that Baby Jesus could balance on the manger's roof.) We have added to the scene over the years, and their manger received an upgrade five or so years ago, so they are like us -- their world has gotten more crowded, busier, more full of stuff.  Each year after Christmas they are wrapped in newspaper -- sometimes the sports pages, sometimes the Metro section, and I feel that they are absorbing the sadnesses and tribulations of the year past, as they are carefully put away and stored back in the basement. If we had a fire, that basket would be my one thing to save.

This year, our hearts were heavy as we put the beloved figurines in their places. I started fighting back tears as I looked to my downcast husband to say a prayer with all of us there -- I knew the prayer would be heartbreaking. I looked at the little baby in his stone manger, so innocent, still far away from the violent ending he would face.  Ending is the wrong word, though; fulfillment is a better one.  He was going home, and he always knew it. His earthly life was just temporary, and those left mourning would be reunited with him in no time at all, when compared with eternity.

It would seem that the harder things get in life, the more irrelevant, even silly, a few pieces of mass-produced porcelain would be.  How can they help?  They don't reflect the reality of our stressful, busy lives, there in their old-fashioned manger.  And yet I know God is life's reality because the Nativity scene's meaning keeps increasing, keeps drawing us in, the sadder and harder things get.  Something in our souls is answering a call when we move closer -- our Home is not here.  We are passing by, raising children, helping others, looking for meaning.  And then we fly away, alone, for the home that has many open doors and no end to joy. 

You are home, little ones and brave adults. And the sadness of your loved ones is a precursor to the great joy of a coming reunion -- a reunion that never ends.

Elf on a Shelf

This is my son James' old elf-on-a-shelf, named Plaxo. One morning when James was eight years old Plaxo appeared at his bedside, the result of James' fervent prayers for an elf of his own. All his friends had an elf, James fretted over cereal and juice, before Plaxo came. Wasn't he good enough to be wanted by an elf , too? Before I knew it I was at the mall, desperately grabbing one of the last two elves on the shelf in the Hallmark store. (Superior marketing, elf people!)

My husband and I were initially determined not to participate in the elf-on-a-shelf fad. It was another duty at Christmas, another piece of commercial pageantry that, while magical for the kids, was work for mom and dad (mom).  The elf moves around the house when the child is not looking, and depending on the type of family he lands in, (read: how creative, rich or blessed with free time that family is) sometimes brings small treats, candy, or presents, even.  The child  must never touch him, though, or the magic is broken - James was afraid Plaxo would explode if touched. Our elf did not bring treats or gifts. He wrote notes.

Plaxo moved in, and was immediately the source of great fun. When James woke up in the morning, he would scurry to find out where Plaxo had hidden the night before. In the Christmas tree?  In a closet?  In the mailbox? Tucked under Plaxo's arm would be a scrolled up note, in which he described the elf-land that he came from.  He also wanted to know things about James: did he like school? Who was his favorite friend? What were his big brothers like? Where did he go every day? ("School, silly!" James wrote back gleefully, placing the note near Plaxo, careful not to touch him.)

At night, before I went to bed, I would write Plaxo's notes.  I used a swirly handwriting, and "Plaxo" had a very fancy signature. I must have written eighty or so notes, in the next few years. He also had his own lexicon: he called pets "beasts," he called hockey "stick games" he called candy "swizzles." He loved everything about James, and he told him so.  He watched him sleep, and saw what a kind boy he was. Plaxo went to Maryland one year with our family for Christmas, packed into a shoebox James had covered with sparkles and glitter.  His blanket was a washcloth, his pillow a cotton ball.

One year, James didn't go look for Plaxo in December.  I asked about him, feeling tentative, and sad.  After several years of friendship and mutual admiration, James was on to Plaxo. He smiled at me. "You are Plaxo, right?" he said. I smiled back, nodding. "I loved our letters," I sighed. James laughed. "I told you so many things you already knew!" Not at all, I thought.

I love Plaxo. I still take him out every year, and he has a place of honor this year on the mantel. He is so much more than a suit of red felt and a smiling face of molded pastic. He allowed me to experience what it was like not to be just that wonderful kid's mother -- but also, his friend.