Take Two

As it turns out, I wasn't a blogger.

2014 me: not a blogger

Bloggers write and publish on a regular basis. To do that you have to believe in your own writing enough to hit the publish button after writing something. Like in academia, blogging is a publish or perish life.

Which means you have to own your own imperfections, accept that not everyone will like everything you do, and be willing to learn in public. These are three things I could not yet do ~10 years ago, and the result was that my blog's behind-the-scenes dashboard holds 

15 published posts and 

20 unpublished drafts

In other words, the odds of my being unready / unwilling / unable to publish were 4:3.

So why come back here to this space? What's changed since then? 

In June 2018, nine months after I wrote my farewell post on this page, I started a new job. I had been a freelancer for six years and went in-house with one of my clients. We knew this would be a huge transition -- going from a local firm of one to a global firm of 30,000 -- and Nick agreed that it made sense for him to "coast" for a while at work while I onboarded and accelerated. 

Then, while I was in Chicago at my orientation training, a headhunter called him about a fantastic opportunity. The kind that you can't not explore for fear of asking "What if...?" for the rest of your life. I was 100% supportive, of course, and so proud. I think my exact words were "Dude, WHAT THE F*<% happened to the coasting plan?!"

He started his new role (and commuting to a new city) six months later.

In 2020, my daughter graduated from high school, and we learned that car parade graduations are so much more fun than traditional graduations. Seriously, they should make that permanent. Later that summer, our family moved from Denver to St. Louis so Nick could stop commuting and, in my son's words, "we would only ruin one kid's life." 

I don't recommend relocating cross-country in the midst of a global pandemic.

Mad props to my son, who transitioned like a champ. In 2023, he also graduated from high school. While his ceremony had fewer neighbors ringing cowbells and holding up posters in their front yards, the Superintendent did pass out 200 cups of ice cream from Clementines, a local creamery, during her speech, which is about as good as it gets when you're stuck in a robe made from shower curtain material and a weird hat sitting on folding chairs in an auditorium on a hot and humid late-May afternoon.

Both my kids took gap years between high school and college. I've become a convert and sometimes wonder about the potential Sliding Doors storylines of my own life had I spent a year at age 18 recovering from Type-A burnout and giving myself the grace and space to ask who I am outside of others' expectations for me and my path. The good news is that I eventually got there. Or am getting there. Or will get there.

In April, I asked for a demotion at work, effectively undoing the 2½ promotions I had received since 2018. (See burnout, supra). This decision was made far easier once I found out that I was still being paid within the range of my original role and that, while my title would revert, my paycheck would remain the same. Again, I found myself asking, "Dude, WHAT THE F*<%?!"

2024 me: still not a blogger

That particular question has become more of a recurring theme in my life as of late.

Now the kids are barely grown and barely flown. I just moved the Thespian (who still loves but is no longer consumed by theatre) into his dorm for his first year of college, and the Equestrian (who still loves but is no longer consumed by riding) just moved herself into an apartment for her senior year. 

There's a lot to process. A lot to confront. And I find myself called back here. 

So should this page still be The Baloney Sandwich? Indubitably, as I still find myself sandwiched between

• parenting kids and coaching/befriending young adults
• navigating my own life and that of my aging parents
• what Richard Rohr would call the outer task (building the vessel) and the inner task (filling the vessel with purpose)
• mid-life and whatever's next

Not to mention that most days I feel like Oscar Mayer processed luncheon meat as I battle through perimenopause. (The prefix peri deriving from the Greek meaning "enclosing" or "surrounding." Because we are in it, my friends.)

It's all still baloney.

But this time I am willing to own my imperfections, risk your not liking what I write, and learn in public. This time, odds are better that I'll publish.

Saying goodbye... for now

I began this blog -- if we can even call it that anymore -- because sometimes, over the past five years, as I was in the throes of multi-generational caregiving, there were moments just too absurd to keep to myself.

And then there were moments just too sad or painful to capture in irreverent short-form writing.

The last few years, since my father-in-law moved from independent to assisted living, there have been more of the latter and fewer of the former. If you had administrative access to this blog, you would see 14 unfinished drafts. I couldn't seem to get it right, which perhaps offers a bit of psychological insight into how all caregivers of aging parents feel. We start something we hope will work -- a prescription, a therapy, a regimen, an approach -- and then, for some reason or another, have to change course and try again.

Hence the lack of logging in my blogging.

In May of this year, we said our final goodbyes to Renzo. And today I am saying goodbye to this phase of The Baloney Sandwich. It may come back again in another form -- goodness knows my life is never devoid of The B.S. -- but there are other aspects of life and love about which I feel more compelled to write at this point.

For my final post, I thought I'd share the eulogy I wrote for Renzo's funeral. Perhaps that way, anyone who comes across these sparse pages will know the fullness of his life rather than just the fraction of himself he was at the very end. We miss you, Grandpa. Every day.

*   *   *

Renzo Barto, 1932-2017

I recently finished reading a memoir entitled The Other Wes Moore. In it, the author recalls one of his commanding officers at Valley Forge Military School addressing the cadets. Colonel Murphy was a “no excuses” kind of guy. When he was diagnosed with late-stage cancer and had to leave the school to seek medical treatment, this is what he told the students on his last day:

“When it’s time for you to leave this school, leave your job, or even leave this earth, you make sure that you’ve worked hard to make sure it mattered that you were ever here.”

Renzo wasn’t a public figure. He had a quiet spirit. He was an introvert. But in everything he did, he made sure that he worked hard to make sure it mattered that he was there.

He worked hard at stickball as a boy in the Bronx. Maybe he wasn’t as natural a player as his brother, who had pro ball aspirations, but he still played hard. And my guess is that to his teammates and friends in the neighborhood, it mattered that he was there.

Renzo worked hard in school. Many traditional subjects didn’t come easy to him, but you better believe that each of his book reports had an original piece of artwork on the cover that was worthy of an A. To his classmates at the School of Industrial Arts in Manhattan and all who enjoyed his art for the rest of his life, it mattered that he was there.

He worked hard in the Army, whether peeling enough potatoes to fill up a beer keg while on KP (the one kitchen task he refused to do ever again after his discharge) or running maneuvers in the field with the 7^th Infantry. OK… maybe he chose not to work so hard when he volunteered to spend his final weeks in the army on board a ship home from Korea rather than flying back and still having 2 months left on base in NJ, but can you blame him? He returned from Korea with a United Nations Service Medal, a National Defense Service Medal, a Presidential Unit Citation, a Bronze Service Star, and a Purple Heart. Years later, when the Bergen Record ran a feature story on Renzo and his carvings, one of his old army buddies, Frank Rocco, found him and rebooted their friendship after 45 years. It mattered to our nation and to Renzo’s fellow soldiers that he was there.

Renzo worked hard at Norcross Greeting Cards… even when others in the office would gather for their cigarette break around his desk – the only non-smoker in the department – and exhale all over his drawing board. I guess that is what happens when you work in the humor department. He certainly worked hard wooing Bobbi Lewan once he met her, and thank goodness he did. It mattered so much that he was there.

He worked hard on 291 Midland Avenue, whether building the brick fireplace in the den or constructing the backyard deck. Everywhere you looked there were children’s books, comics, original artwork, wooden carvings – all details that made that house their home. To anyone who walked through the front door and was served, within seconds, a cup of coffee or tea from the Sunbeam Hot Shot hot water dispenser, it mattered that he was there.

Renzo worked hard as father. The obituary originally read, “Renzo and Bobbi had one son, Nicholas, who was the pride of their lives,” but one member of my family who shall remain nameless thought that might be over the top. It wasn’t. Renzo and Bobbi waited years for God to send just the right child and then took turns trying to keep a toddler boy contained and entertained while they worked from home. Renzo coached Little League baseball and drew the covers for the game day programs, taught his son how to use every tool in the toolbox – not to mention the wonder that is brown packing tape, accompanied Nick on football recruiting trips all over the northeast (where Renzo said a little prayer for Nick’s safety every time they encountered other recruits six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than his son), and even put up with all the completely ridiculous girls Nick dated until that boy finally wised up and brought home the right one. In his college yearbook, Nick quoted Mark Twain: “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.” Every time Renzo was there for his son, it mattered.

He worked hard as a husband and caretaker, doing everything he possibly could for Bobbi during her life and her battle with cancer. He was an example of selfless love to us all. It mattered that he was there.

Renzo worked hard to make sure his grandchildren knew how much he loved them. He flew to North Carolina within weeks of both births – remember, this is the man who flew to Korea (not back) and then not again until our wedding. For these kids, he jumped on a plane as often as possible. When Barrie was 15 months old, and I was required to take a week-long course at Columbia, he took care of her, overseeing meals, diapers, naptime, and daily trips to the park. He sold his home of almost forty years to be closer to his granddaughters in North Carolina, and then, at age 80, this Italian-born, Bronx-raised guy once again packed up… this time to board a covered wagon and move across the country to Colorado. 

Do you know how great it is as a parent when one of your kids says, “Mommy, draw a hippopotamus in a tutu,” to be able to respond, “Go ask your Grandpa.”? Renzo surprised his grandchildren with chocolate bunnies on Easter, became our official jack-o-lantern designer on Halloween, always had Werther’s hard caramels on hand for treats, attended Grandparents’ Day festivities, and – when Mason had to do a report and presentation on his favorite artist – even spent a morning in 3^rd grade being interviewed in front of the entire class. It mattered so much that he was there.

He worked hard – in his own unique ways – to be a good, generous brother, uncle, friend, and human being. One friend said he could light up a room with his smile. He walked his niece down the aisle at her wedding. He made baked clams for special occasions. He drew caricatures and sent them to their subjects. He gave away countless of his incredible wood carvings, usually for no other reason than he sensed that the recipient would get joy out of having an RB original. If you needed a custom box built or a ride to a doctor appointment in the city, he was your guy. He gave presentations in the community on his life’s work. He put up with my dad’s phone calls every time the Red Sox pulled ahead in the Division… and then resisted saying “I told you so” when the Yankees would inevitably retake the lead in September. He always had the perfect Yogi Berra quote for any occasion. I guess today’s would be this: “You should always go to other people’s funerals. Otherwise they won’t come to yours.” Even when his physical and mental health were declining, he always managed a smile and usually a joke for nurses, pharmacists, and caretakers.

In Ecclesiastes, the wise Solomon tells us that “there’s an opportune time to do things, a right time for everything on the earth… A right time to cry and another to laugh, a right time to lament and another to cheer… a right time to embrace and another to part, a right time to search and another to count your losses, a right time to hold on and another to let go…” Two chapters later, he goes on to write that “we should make the most of what God gives, both the bounty and the capacity to enjoy it, accepting what’s given and delighting in the work.” He also tells us that “hard and honest work earns a good night’s sleep.”

We’re so sad that the time has come for us to let go of Renzo / Dad / Grandpa / Uncle Pretzel. But these two things I know for sure:

First, Renzo made the most of the job he had for as long as God gave him life. He earned his rest and the reunion that took place last Friday with his beloved Bobbi.

And second, I know that during the time he was with us, Renzo worked hard to make sure it mattered to all of us – and countless others whom we may never know – that he was here.

Don't Ask, Do Tell

I coach Girls on the Run. For those of you who know me, that may come as a surprise, as I am about the furthest thing there is from “a runner.” Especially compared to the crazy, fit people who populate my home state of Colorado. Case in point: I chose to play goalie for my high school field hockey team so that my area of coverage would be a semicircle 35 yards in diameter rather than a 100x60-yard rectangle. That’s about… [insert math here] fewer square yards of running.

For those of you who know Girls on the Run, however, you can see why I would haul my wheezing self through the paces with these remarkable 3^rd, 4^th, and 5^th graders.  It is a fantastic program that does so much to empower girls and help them see the best in their unique identities.

Last week the girls and I were talking about choices—specifically, choosing to respect others, our community, and ourselves. One of the affirmations I gave them to ponder while running was “I make my own choices.” My own daughter heard this, laughed, and responded, “Except when you make my choices for me, Mom.”

Mic. Drop.

As a parent, I’ve spent a good part of the past thirteen years pondering the idea of empowerment and autonomy, especially when it comes to how I teach the art of good choices.  When my kids were toddlers, I practiced presenting them with either/or questions: Do you want broccoli or peas with your dinner?

Voila! Suddenly your three-year-old is empowered to make a healthy decision. Don’t get me wrong. A strong-willed kiddo still can (and probably will) answer with a resounding “NO!” But at least you tried.

I realized that I had mastered (or perhaps overused) this technique when my parents came over one evening to watch my daughter—then still in preschool. My dad asked her what they should play together.  Without a moment’s pause, she looked him straight in the eye and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “OK, Baboo, here are your options…”

Now that I’m dealing with a tween and a teen, the questions have changed and become (perhaps unsurprisingly) more guilt-infused. “Well, you can go to the movies instead of finishing your project tonight, but is that really the best choice?”

The answer, 100% of the time, is yes. But you see my point. We let them fail.
We let them face the consequences. It’s all a part of self-determination and identity.

OK, here are your options...

What I find infinitely harder (yes! harder than toddlers or tweenagers!) is how to interact with my 83-year-old father-in-law, a man who served in the Korean War, raised a son who attended Princeton undergrad and Columbia Business School (despite having gone no further than high school himself), nursed his wife through eighteen months of Stage IV uterine cancer, and now resides in an assisted living unit where he spends a great majority of every day sitting alone in his room. He says that’s all he wants to do.

My father-in-law is a quiet man by nature. If he were someone who believed in self-help books, he might have benefited from all the current literature on introverts. But even keeping to himself as much as he does, he cannot avoid all interaction, nor can he avoid all questions.

Some questions are easy for him to answer. At the anticoagulation clinic, which we visit on a weekly basis, they go through a series of routine queries that we both have memorized. He answers easily: “Has your diet changed?” (No.) “Have you consumed any alcohol this week?” (No.) “Have you felt any numbness or tingling down one side of your body?” (No.)

But ask him an unexpected question—even the simplest yes/no—and answers prove far more difficult. Leaving the clinic, I might toss out something like “Dad, do you want to get some lunch before I take you home?”

I am met with an uncomfortable silence.

While I’m waiting, I contemplate the following:

1. He isn’t wearing his hearing aids. Perhaps he didn’t hear me.
2. Perhaps he heard me but cognitively cannot work through the question.
3.  Perhaps he heard me and understood the question, but the Parkinson’s is constricting his throat and preventing him from voicing an answer.
4. Perhaps he heard and understood the question but is too depressed to respond.
5. Perhaps he heard, understood the question, and came up with an answer, but that process took so long that he then forgot he hadn’t said it aloud (or that I asked in the first place).

After a few, very long minutes, I ask if he heard me and repeat the question, this time trying the either/or tactic: “Dad, do you want to get some lunch or would you rather go straight home and eat there?” Sometimes I get an answer.  And sometimes I don’t.

And I wonder if we have reached the point of “don’t ask, do tell.”

Autonomy and empowerment are wonderful concepts, but is there a line we all one day will cross—physical, neurological, or emotional—where we can no longer make good choices for ourselves? And when a loved one crosses that line, do we as caregivers attempt to replace autonomy with beneficence? Which is more important for “aging gracefully”?

This dilemma doesn’t only come into play with the big, scary healthcare decisions. It also matters for the day-to-day, quality-of-life ones. If it is time for me, as a caregiver, to eliminate questions altogether, then I need to practice an entirely new approach:

• “Do you want to attend exercise class?” becomes “I’m taking you to the common area for exercise class.”
• “Do you want to watch the Yankees?” becomes “I’m turning on the television. The Yankees are playing.”
• And “Do you feel up for some lunch after this appointment?” becomes “Let’s go get some lunch before I take you home.” 

Admittedly, I’m suggesting what feels right to—and for—me.

At the New York Deli News, the answer to
"Do you want a reuben?" is always yes.

Sometimes I wonder if I really know what’s best. It could be that he’s reached a point where the comfort of a dim, quiet room is enough. I don’t know. But I do know, from everything I’ve read and experienced, that preserving dignity and identity are just as important as—if not more so than—preserving autonomy. And perhaps dignity and identity may be achieved as much by compelled participation in the world outside one’s room as by the opportunity to voice opinion and/or answer questions.

And he still retains the right to refuse. I hope he will. I hope he still can.

One more thought on this. I have made the commitment never to use the dreaded SH- word with him.

No, no, no. I don’t mean that SH- word. I mean SHOULD. It’s never “You should go to exercise class.” These are my choices that I’m making for him, not his choices. The difference may be semantic, but I believe it is significant.

P.S. OK, OK, OK. If I’m being completely honest, I do sometimes use the other SH- word but only in my head. For example, “$#!+. I just don’t know what to do in this situation.” If only there were a preschooler around to give me my options.

Christmas 2014: An Inventory

Five things I have not done / not done well this Christmas season:

1) I thought I would get ahead by ordering my Christmas cards at the end of October. (For those who received one, that is why the reference to autumn is in the present tense.) Because I was so proud of myself when clicking "Confirm," I didn't double-check my account information. The cards shipped to my old address, which is 1,600 miles away from my new address. Luckily, the very kind family who now lives there accepted the box, took it back to the UPS Store, and shipped it to me ℅ the house where I actually live. The box arrived November 3, which was two days before I received an "early bird" 30% off coupon in the mail from Tinyprints.com.  I put the coupon on my desk and thought about calling to see if customer service would retroactively apply the discount. I am still thinking about it.  The cards sat in their unopened box on my office floor until December 14.

2) I never put a single treat in the Advent Calendar. The Equestrian is OK with that. "I think we can live," she says. (She's twelve.) The Thespian, on the other hand, claims I now owe him 21 pieces of candy… with interest.

That's enough, right?

3) I haven't decorated the Christmas tree. We hosted an office Christmas party at our house on December 6 (when your husband works for a Catholic hospital system, you're actually supposed to call it a Christmas party rather than a Holiday party), and Nick came up with the brilliant idea to save a few hours of prep time by just putting lights and a star on the tree that we bought at 9:00 p.m. on December 5. Did I mention that he is brilliant? The drawback, however, is that the tree remains lit and starred but not ornamented… with the exception of four handmade ornaments the Thespian received from a fourth grade Secret Santa. I am now wondering if anyone will notice. What if I just add more presents under the tree to draw the eye down?

4) I volunteered to be in charge of the school holiday decorations. OK, technically, this is something that I did not think through well last spring when I was cornered by two Parents' Association VPs who already do far more than I do for the school and also happen to be really nice people. (Funny how all December projects seem doable from eight months away.) In the end, it was actually really fun to spend a day decking the halls with a great group of parent volunteers who gave of their time and energy to make our kids' school festive for the season. But I think I may have gotten all the decorating out of my system a little too early. (See #3.)

5) I have not yet shipped gifts to my family. It is December 21. In my defense, my daughter hasn't finished her Christmas crafting / shopping, so the box is not yet complete. Yes, I could have shipped it incomplete last week and then brought the last few items with us in a suitcase. Could've, would've, should've. Now I may no longer be able to afford to ship the darn box. Has anyone already done the math on the price of buying and checking another suitcase dedicated to gift transport vs. the price of the surgery required to remove my left arm and leg, which is what UPS may now be charging to get a package across two time zones by the 26th? If so, you can email me via the links below.

Five things I have done / done well this Christmas season:

1) Every day I take a moment to sit down, open Christmas cards from friends and family, and appreciate all the love and laughter and memories the senders add to our lives. For those who may wonder whether it is worth it to keep sending, my vote is a definitive yes. We love you all.

Christmas magic

2) I made cookies with the Thespian. For the first time ever. I don't come from a Christmas-cookie-baking family. It just wasn't one of our traditions, and, as an uptight perfectionist (WHAT?!?), I am a very nervous baker. Please know that I am in awe of everyone who Facebooks and Pinterests multiple wire racks of cooling confections. I have one wire rack and usually cannot find it. However, I was again invited to a cookie swap and decided to be brave and attend with a tin (see what I did there? I may not bake, but I can create linguistic humor) rather than chickening out like I did last year. After all, these cookie swappers are people with whom I want to hang. And since the Thespian is always very excited to use the whisk Santa once gave him, I invited him to jump in and help. We totally botched the first batch, and it didn't even matter. He thought all the ugly ones were delicious. I have come to the conclusion that deliciousness is inevitable when you use two sticks of butter per batch.

3) And speaking of butter, I have exercised three days in a row. On the first three days of my kids' winter break. I don't think that is technically enough repetition to claim I've formed a habit, but it sure is a better start than I've made since… ever. Plus, it is one hour a day of focused, healthy, sweat-out-the-guilt-about-all-the-things-I-haven't-done-or-done-well time. Win, win, win.

4) I let my twelve-year-old miss four days of school mid-December to travel through the midwest with her horseback riding instructor to look at horses for sale. I realize that this one isn't very self-evident in terms of "things I did well." On the surface, it seems much more like a "things I let happen because I overindulge my children." But the trip was an amazing experience for the Equestrian--imagine a combination educational adventure, road trip with your favorite aunt, and opportunity to see some of the best competitors in the sport about which you are most passionate. She came back more grown-up, more appreciative, and feeling completely satisfied that she had already had her Christmas. She didn't come back with a horse, which is not to say there isn't a new four-legged friend somewhere in the near future, but for now we're all content--the tweener included--to be patient and wait. That's about the best lesson she could have learned by driving across Kansas.

5) I had one of those parenting moments that reminded me I sometimes get it right. On the last Monday before Christmas break, when it was getting REALLY hard to get the kids out the door on time, I was hollering "Let's go!" as my ten-year-old stepped over the dog gate from the kitchen to the back hall. He was holding a raspberry-blueberry(-and kale--SHHHHHH!!!) breakfast smoothie in one hand and a school snack and water bottle in the other hand. His foot caught on the top of the barrier, and he fell chest-first to the floor, knocking the wind right out of his little body. He lay there, gasping for air, wide-eyed and on the verge of panic, in a puddle of purple slush. 

*Big confession moment* I had the briefest flicker of a thought about grabbing a few paper towels on my way to comfort him. Kind of like Elaine from Seinfeld grabbed a box of Jujyfruits before leaving the movies when she found out her date had landed in the hospital.  

*Big parenting moment* But I didn't. 

I suppressed my inner Elaine, ignored the clock, and went to give my baby exactly what he needed -- a mom who didn't care about whether we were late to school or how much smoothie was on the floor (or the ceiling… no, seriously, on the ceiling). A mom who, for a few moments at least, cared only about helping him feel better. I rubbed my little one's chest; in quiet tones I promised him that it would be OK and he would catch his breath again soon. I was 100% focused on how much I loved him and how thankful I was that his loss of breath was only temporary. It may have been the calmest and most present moment I've had since Thanksgiving.

Oh, there is one more thing I haven't done this Christmas season: Clean all the smoothie off the ceiling. I find the purple splatter a good reminder that it's not about my to-do list. Or even me. It's about the child. And the Child.

Thumbnail from http://www.worshiphousemedia.com

Double Standards: The Musical

My younger child is dramatic -- and I say that not only because he feels ALL THE FEELINGS so deeply all the time, but also because he loves to perform on the actual stage, preferably with an English accent. He recently turned 10, which is the birthday of the iPod Touch in our house. So on the big day, Nick and I brought him to the mall and into the Apple Store, where we were the only three people not there to try bending an iPhone 6+. Ten minutes later we were on our way home with a new favorite gadget.  Sorry Kindle.

Since then it's been all showtunes all the time.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

However, I did pause a moment when he came downstairs the other day singing, "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" from A Chorus Line. For those of you who aren't intimately familiar with the lyrics, "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" is more commonly known as "T!ts and A$$."

I looked around furtively and decided to hide my Mom of the Year tiara before someone from the committee could come take it away.

Nick says I have a terrible double standard when it comes to musical theatre. Mature themes that would give me pause on television, in popular music, or at the movies are all fair game when presented in musicals. Or movies based on musicals.  Case in point: On Christmas Day 2013 we sat with our then third and sixth graders and watched Fantine be molested in a coffin... and then sing about it.

It's amazing how clearly you can detect your spouse's raised eyebrows and pointed look in a darkened theater.

Of course, that was nothing compared to the discomfort that oozed from his pores when we all went to see the national tour of Pippin a few weeks ago and watched the protagonist learn the hard way that a whole lot of meaningless sex is not the answer to a fulfilling life. And when I say the hard way, I mean trapped in a cage with two women, a man, and a whip. Yep, this with two kids who still say "ICK!" aloud when they see kissing on TV.

In my defense, I find it much easier to have the hard conversations with kids when the subject of said conversation is set to a Tony-winning tune. For example:

• "Lovely Ladies" from Les Miz gave me the vehicle to explain sex work and the lack of options for countless women who are turned out on the street, not only in the 19th century but also present day.

• 

  IMHO, suitable for children

  "Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen" from A Chorus Line helped me explain wet dreams to my pre-pubescent kids. It's like the Judy Blume of musical numbers.
• "As Long as He Needs Me" from Oliver has come in handy lately with the subject of domestic violence and the NFL. I've used it as a cautionary tale to explain the difference between a man who says he loves you and a man who acts like he loves you. The dramatic one and I agree that this song, along with the final 4 lines of "It's a Fine Life," are some of the most tragic lyrics in all of theater. (For contrast, see "Suddenly, Seymour" from Little Shop of Horrors.)
• "Everything Else" from Next to Normal is a particular favorite of my daughter, because she loves catching me listening to music with profanity. But I love it for giving me the opportunity to talk to my type-A, horse-obsessed overachiever about what it means to find balance in life, to explain that pursuing a passion is good if it creates a healthy outlet for your emotions but not if you use it to ignore and suppress the pain and problems that come with adolescence. Where was Next to Normal when I was a teen?
  
• And the finale of Pippin is a great reminder that no matter what they try in life or where they go to find themselves, my kids can always come back to our family. We may not be glamorous or famous or even extraordinary, but we love them and will be there to hold their hands.

I believe wholeheartedly that these lessons can begin for the youngest of kids with the most innocent of musicals. In Enchanted, Amy Adams reminds us all that a long walk (or run or skip or dance) through Central Park is a great way to put things in perspective. (Of course, we children of the 70s already knew that from Godspell. I dare you to watch the "Prepare Ye" scene from the 1973 movie and not think of it every time you see Bethesda Fountain… or the "Friends" opening credits.)

And how many of today's kids will one day read about fractal theory in physics class and automatically hear Elsa sing "Let It Go" in their minds?

So, please forgive me when you hear my child burst out with a few NSFW/NSFS lyrics. I feel I must continue to embrace my inner Gleek, for she's got a lot to teach my children along the way. 

Of course, it doesn't always have to be be profound and pedagogic. Sometimes it's just fun to have a good old-fashioned sing-along, and musicals are also splendid for those improvised silly moments.  Our current favorite, also from A Chorus Line, is "Nothing." When else in life do you get to be an ice cream cone?

…frozen fractals all around!

O Captain, My Captain

Last month, Susan Schneider, wife of Robin Williams, released a brief statement about her husband's tragic death. In the statement, Schneider revealed that Williams was struggling against depression, anxiety, and the early stages of Parkinson's Disease when his life was cut short.

Many of us were moved to tears remembering truths revealed to us through the art of Williams's career.  For me, it was Dead Poets Society. A close friend recommended the movie to me in a letter she mailed two days before she was hit by a car and killed. We were fifteen. I will forever associate Williams's performance as a teacher attempting to wake his students from the haze of conformity and complacency with the legacy of her innocence preserved and mine lost. "Carpe Diem" became my reminder that not everyone has the luxury of procrastination when it comes to living.

Robin Williams, Dead Poets Society (1989)
www.thefancarpet.com

The news flow and social media torrent that followed Williams's death carried with it supportive messages for those held in the grip of the most insidious of diseases, depression and anxiety. But it was the Parkinson's revelation that most filled my heart with empathy for a man I never met but admired from afar. And for his family. Who knew we had so much in common?

Our family, too, is watching someone struggle against depression, anxiety, and the early stages of Parkinson's Disease. My father-in-law.  Before Parkinson's, he was an incredibly skilled wood carver (see samples of his work in a previous post), so let's call him Gepetto. And while I started this blog in the hopes that it would help me sort through the emotions his condition stirs up and perhaps even gain enough perspective to laugh about some of the resulting baloney, it hasn't really worked out that way. While laughter may be one of the best ways for members of the Sandwich Generation to keep perspective on a day-to-day basis, the jokes--when printed in black and white--seem cruel and self-serving. As a result, I'm not posting as much on this topic as I thought I would.

Sometimes, I'm not even tempted to try humor because there is too much at stake. Since Gepetto was diagnosed a little more than a year ago, I've thought about all the preceding physical diagnoses that, with the wisdom of hindsight, should have given us a clue about what was coming down the pipeline: peripheral neuropathy, chronic light-headedness and imbalance, constant dry mouth and hoarseness, and an increasing stiffness in his legs. All signs of PD. But it wasn't until Schneider's statement that I made the connection between Parkinson's and his preexisting depression and anxiety (to which we attributed the dry mouth). These conditions, which he had battled for years, could have also been precursors.

It turns out there are studies on the subject. One case-control study published in 2000 found a significant association with anxiety disorders 5, 10, or 20 years before the onset of Parkinson's motor symptoms. And a more recent article notes that these psychological disorders "occur at a high frequency" in Parkinson's patients. Accompanying factors, definitely. Causal factors, possibly. No matter which is the chicken and which is the egg, the correlation exists.

If we are all made of mind, body, and soul, it is only natural that an illness that ravages the first two would wreak havoc on the third as well.  It also follows that the soul, because it is sometimes ignored in both mental and physical health regimens, may even suffer more.

These days, Gepetto can no longer hold his hands steady enough to carve--or even draw--and struggles to remember how to play messages on the answering machine.  My husband and I feel somewhat helpless on these fronts.

The only thing left for us to do is to try and help soothe his soul.

I'm not gonna lie to you.  It's hard.  It's hard when Gepetto comes to my daughter's birthday dinner and doesn't speak for the entire meal.  It's hard when he calls in a panic at 7am on a Sunday because he's down to one box of raisin bran.  It's hard when I have to remind him what to write on which line of a check and then watch him struggle to hold the pen in place.

Thank goodness they have free coffee in the lobby of his building or I'd never bring myself to go. (See what I mean? The jokes just don't work.)

Jesus's apostle Paul wrote to the Ephesians that we are more easily taken down by darkness than anything of the flesh… right after reminding them to maintain honor, peace, goodwill, and sincerity in both familial and societal relationships. I don't believe it is coincidental that the instructions on bringing together parents and children are juxtaposed with those on battling spiritual gloom.

So my family and I focus on treating Gepetto honorably and with sincere goodwill, and we attempt to light small candles in the dark of his gloom -- by calling as often as possible to say we're thinking about him, dropping by with groceries before he calls to ask, encouraging him to attend events within his retirement community and with us in the greater community, and reminding him that he is still a priority in our lives.

Not because of who he used to be but because of who he is today.

It isn't a perfect solution. I'm sure Robin Williams's family and friends did the same. But it is the best we know how to do.

And I'll be the first to admit I'm no saint.  Sometimes it drives me to sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. (That one was for you, Robin.) But sometimes it reminds me of the fleeting nature of life itself and the fact that in the end, we may no longer have use of talents, resumes, the minds we work so hard to fill, or the bodies we work so hard to maintain. But we will have our relationships. We will have our souls. And, if we're lucky, we will find truths and peace within both.

The wisdom of the Dead Poets

Sorry, Mom

There have been a number of times in my life when I felt compelled to pick up the phone, dial my mom, and just say, "I'm sorry." Not because I wronged her in some way (although there have been plenty of those instances as well), but because I had some sort of epiphanal experience that illuminated how remarkable my mom was during the most difficult -- or perhaps the most banal -- periods of parenthood and how I never properly appreciated it at the time.

This happened once after I spent a long, rainy weekend in Blowing Rock, NC, with my best friend, my 24-month-old godson (who called it Uh-Oh Rock), and my 23-month-old daughter.  In planning, we had envisioned a weekend of wandering around the lake, climbing on rocks, and enjoying the Main Street playground.  In reality, trapped indoors by a late-spring monsoon that turned the paths around our condo into raging rivers and mudslides, we exhausted our Duplo building possibilities, drove to nearby Boone and camped out in a used bookstore with a children's section just large enough to house a train table, and finally, in desperation, dashed into the local fire station and begged them to let us touch the trucks.  On the last evening, I remember turning around from plating dinner in the kitchen to find the two kids playing chase on top of the dining room table and telling my friend, who had until that point resisted introducing her son to television, that it was time to corrupt her first-born with a DVD.  The next day, during the two-hour drive home, I called my mom, who had survived not only my but also my boy-girl twin siblings' terrible twos.

"I'm sorry, Mom" I told her.  "I never realized…"

Thanks, Mom. No matter life's twists and turns,
you always hang in there.

It happened again when my daughter, now a middle schooler but sometimes still acting like a 23-month-old, decided to dedicate herself heart-and-soul to horseback riding.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I love that she has a passion and that her passion requires equal parts athleticism, humility, self-confidence, and manual labor. (Yep, she shovels her own $#!+.)  But her passion also requires a daily 50-mile round-trip and the planting of a new money tree in our backyard every spring.  Still waiting for those suckers to sprout.  My daughter would give up anything for riding, just like I would have given up anything for theater when I was her age. [Cue the aha moment music.] Just like I would have given up anything for theater, and the emotional ups-and-downs of auditions, and the daily practices, and the late-night tech rehearsals, and the performance schedule that conflicted with my 7th grade class trip to Williamsburg.

Ring, ring, ring.  "Hi, Mom. It's me. I just realized something..."

The latest in this series of events involves a book.  Now, when it comes to books, I'll be the first to admit that I tend to be somewhat pretentious.  It's obnoxious, I know, but when you major in comparative literature, they make you swear an oath on Jacques Derrida that you will never again crack the spine of a David Baldacci.  This pomposity manifests itself in a number of ways.  I avoid most tomes with the "Oprah recommends" sticker on the front (even though I would have given my eye teeth to get one of those stickers for one of my authors when I worked in publishing).  My book club groans when I recommend something on the esoteric side. ("Should we read Eugenides's The Marriage Plot in conjunction with a Victorian novel so we can compare and contrast?" was the comment that almost got me kicked out of the group.)  I voluntarily joined a Facebook group rereading Ulysses during the month of February.  Admittedly, I'm somewhat masochistic on this front, so if it's heavy--and particularly if it's Russian--well, then, I'm your girl.

Gift from my Mom

So when my mom, who is on the waiting list for every new Janet Evanovich and Dorothea Benton Frank novel, sends me something to read, I admit that I'm sometimes a bit cynical a total snob.  For instance, years ago when she sent me Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea (her go-to gift for anyone facing one of life's major turning points) with a lovely bookmark and handwritten note, I shelved the slender volume, unopened, in my guest bathroom.

Last month, however, when my book club finished The Aviator's Wife by Melanie Benjamin, I stood in the doorway of the guest bath and looked at the book I had exiled there. Was it true that Anne Morrow Lindbergh had run away from what the public thought was a charmed life in order to sort through and write down down her feelings about balancing the demands of marriage and motherhood with her own desires for intellectual stimulation, satisfying relationships, and self-fulfillment?  Was it true there were essays inside by a well-read, career-minded woman who, mid-life and mid-marriage, had trouble defining her place in the world?  How prescient.  How modern.  How… perfect for me.

My mom probably knew that all along.

I read chapter one and it knocked my socks off.  I read it again, barely able to digest all the lessons it contained, not sure if I had the capacity to absorb any additional truths recorded on the subsequent pages.  For someone whose daily spiral typically ends with has this prayer/mantra -- "Help me be satisfied with where I am, if I am where I'm supposed to be" -- this was indeed a gift.  For someone whose life in a landlocked state had become a little too metaphorical, Lindbergh's coastal reflections were both as penetrating and as stimulating as the salt air itself.

"Perhaps this is the most important thing
for me to take back from beach-living:
simply the memory that each cycle of the tide is valid; 
each cycle of the wave is valid;
each cycle of a relationship is valid."

I'm not sure I actually recognized how badly my pride desired validation -- for my choices, for the matters in which I feel I have no choice, and for the place I find myself as a result of the ebb and flow of those forces -- until that validation was proffered in a book that pride itself almost kept me from opening. As Alanis Morissette might write, "Isn't it ironic?"  Sometimes one has to be humble and patient and faithful in order to understand how remarkable the most difficult -- or perhaps the most banal -- moments of life can be.

"Hello, Mom?  It's me.  I just wanted to say I'm sorry… and thanks… again."

Size 10-12

After the email exchange that I posted on Friday, Nick and I decided that what we really wanted to accomplish on Saturday was a partial basement overhaul. This gave us each a task that was distinct (no bickering over how to progress or who does what!) yet in the same vicinity (togetherness!). So yesterday morning, we charged our eleven-year-old with making waffles, gave strict instructions on how to treat each other while we were out of earshot, granted permission for a little Wii U time, and then headed downstairs.

Nick tackled the boxes of tools (hand and power) that his father used to have in a basement workshop before moving out of their home of 40 years. This is a tough assignment, because every box has a memory within of something his dad no longer does -- either because he isn't physically capable or because he cannot find it within himself to try again.

As a professional artist, my father-in-law worked in two dimensions. He began his career at a greeting card company (where he met my mother-in-law) and finished it as a freelance illustrator working for Disney, Random House, Golden Books, and others. In his personal time, he worked in wood. He would see something he liked on paper and attempt to recreate it in 3D. Every year he carved at least one Santa Claus, a few of which were featured in woodcarving magazines. In the non-holiday seasons, he dabbled everything from folk figures to bookends to fancy boxes. Sometimes he would add a mechanical feature, like a magician's arm with a magnet that would reveal a different card when you moved it up than when you moved it down.



Eight years ago when we moved his dad from New Jersey to live with us, we set up a workshop in our walk-in attic, but he never once used it. Nick is still dealing with residual guilt.  (I've tried to tell him it's not his fault, but he was raised Catholic. I was raised Baptist. We're both very stingy about things like guilt.) Since then, his dad has moved to a retirement community, and all the wood shop stuff has moved into our basement. So Nick sorted countless chisels and saws and sanders and clamps and brushes and drill bits, as well as three boxes worth of interesting scraps of wood for our 9-year-old who loves to build toyscapes (including a skate park, complete with half-pipes, as a gift for our Elf-on-the-Shelf, Annie, whom I hadn't known was a skate rat.) 

Nick also stoically pieced together the carvings that had been battered and bruised over the course of three moves, each one a memory from the days when his dad was a younger version of the man he is today.

On the other side of the basement, I had my own project: dozens of buckets of clothes and shoes -- outgrown and to-be-grown-into -- that had been thrown into a back corner when the previous wearer changed sizes. Each needed to be gone through, sized, and sorted into piles for Goodwill, little brother, or younger niece. This is a permanent item on my to-do list.

Like the tools and carvings for Nick, so many of these items bring back very specific memories for me: outfits worn for school pictures (cute tops from when I remembered the day, t-shirts from when I didn't); an abundance of orange from B's second grade year because it was her teacher's favorite color; camp-logoed sweatpants she bought on day two because I didn't pack warm enough clothing for chilly mountain evenings; the last few sets of matching holiday outfits before they refused to wear them anymore.

I began to be overwhelmed with the transitions I could see, especially in the Size 10-12 stack that represents my daughter's 3rd-4th grade years. Although I cannot tell you the specific age or time of year that each of these transitions occurred (not only am I bad about keeping my basement organized, I'm also lousy at baby-book-esque recording), they were all there -- captured in the clothes I folded and stacked.

• The Girls on the Run t-shirts, which indicate not only the beginning of a wonderful team and character-building experience but also when she started developing what can now only be described as an obsessive love of running shorts. Seriously. She changes into them the moment she gets home, even when there's snow on the ground. Apparently running shorts and shearling boots are an acceptable combination.
• The end of soccer jerseys and the beginning of riding breeches. She now rides at least five times per week and competes in the spring and summer seasons. #barnmom
• The first pair of high heels, purchased for Halloween the year she decided to create her own costume and went as a "Sassy Witch."
• The evolution from pink as an acceptable color, to pink only being acceptable if there was a horse-themed graphic, to pink being in no way acceptable in any amount.
• An smattering of owls representing Athena and the year Annabeth from Percy Jackson replaced Hermione as her favorite literary heroine.
• A few dresses with the tags still on from when she declared herself no longer a dress-wearer. (Why would you when there are running shorts and shearling boots to be worn?)

The finished project

For the record, she's now eleven, in middle school, 5'3", and wears a women's size 4… and my shoes.

My younger kiddo is now in 3rd grade, and I anticipate that this will be the year his clothes begin to tell the story about the young man he will become. Will paint and glue splatters from countless art projects remain de rigueur? Will he continue to love lime green, his older sister's favorite color, or will he branch out on her own and declare another hue to represent her truest self? Will frogs and lizards continue to be acceptable graphics, or will they be replaced by a new favorite?

When the House Wren on my singing bird clock, a gift from my maternal grandmother, chirped 4:00, we came up for air and to locate our children. B, in her running shorts, was curled up and reading about Annabeth's adventures in the latest Rick Riordan novel. M was digging through the boxes of wood scraps and imagining what he could create.  A kennel for American Girl pets (speaking of hand-me-downs) seemed to be the frontrunner idea. For the time being, the younger versions of themselves seem like they'll stay for a while.