Posted on by jsmith

Flunking summer.

What are your kids doing right now, on this beautiful August morning with the sun high, the sky blue, the day ripe with possibility?  What are your kids doing with this golden orb of time—summer time—that spills like sunshine through a window only three months each year, calling on their free spirits to come…run…play with me?  What are you kids doing right now, with the air light and the breeze low and their young life’s potential stretched out before them, poised for the greatness your summertime mothering will bring?

Yeah, mine are watching tv too.

In fairness, after I punched out that last paragraph, I closed my laptop and asked (forced) my ten-year old son to take the dog for a walk with me.  He didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to.  The dog didn’t want to.  But I had finally written something pathetic enough to make myself feel guilty enough to lift tush from chair, and the three of us opened the front door and stepped into the sunlit world of a child’s summer morning with all of the hazy magic it brings.

The magic lasted about nine minutes.  Then I got tired and asked (forced) boy and dog to turn around and go back home.

Now before you rush to judgment, be aware that

  1. It was getting really hot out (77 degrees, thank you), and
  2. We were approaching a big, scary hill.  (Scary because it was so big.  I’ll save my calf muscles for our daily hot dog runs to Costco, thank you.)

Boy and dog walked/trotted home much happier than they left it, thanks to the sweet promise of Fresca/water upon return.  (Have your kids discovered Fresca yet?  Ethan thinks he’s drinking a martini every time he has one, so sultry and cool.  I dread the day he discovers it’s sugar free.)  We slogged back through the front door and I flopped on the couch, parched and sweating, thankful that I’d provided enough summer fun for one whole day.  With everything we’d packed in—the sun, the dog, the front door—it was surely almost bedtime.  I glanced at my watch.  It was 8:44.

a.m.

The truth is:  I’ve had it.  I can’t do summertime anymore, I just can’t.  And lest you think I’m a lousy mother, let me tell you, my frustration is not about the kids—except for when it’s all about the kids.  Which it always is, all of the time.  All of the summer ding-dong-day long.

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They’re driving me crazy.  And not in a sweet funny way, like, “Look, little Teddy ate a crayon again, isn’t that crazy?!”  Young mothers, enjoy that plush craziness while it lasts, because little Teddy is still cute and can barely speak, two virtues of childhood that that fade too fast and too permanently.  When Teddy turns ten, he’ll drive you crazy by begging to play Minecraft for the twelfth hour in a row (you’ll let him) and demanding a cold Fresca for the twelfth day in a row (you’ll give it to him.)  Why?  Because he’s driving you crazy.

And don’t get me started on my teenage girls.  Friends often tell me how “nice” my teenage girls seem, but that’s just because they’re smart and can put on a good front.  You know what they’re doing behind that sunlit door of summertime?  Their nails.  And their hair.  And their makeup.  What they’re NOT doing are the dishes or the laundry.  Those are my jobs, see?  I mean, what if the dish soap botched up their mani; what if the fabric softener spilled on their pedi?  What mother wants that thrown on her Pile ‘o Guilt?

Another thing they’re not doing is earning money to pay for the things they are doing while they’re not doing their chores.  It’s a vicious cycle, but one that I can’t seem to end.  I keep giving them more money to buy more nail polish to give them something to do while they’re not doing dishes or laundry.  Why?  Because they’re driving me crazy.  (Just look at the photo—do you see what summer is doing to my wattle?)

And, as if the summertime gods weren’t laughing hard enough, guess what else they threw on the Pile?  The fact that we just moved.  To a new house, a new town, a whole new side of the state.  So imagine your summer-at-home-with-the-kids (wretched as it is—I know, sister, I know) and subtract any and all friends from the equation—yours and theirs. Imagine the dog days of summer flopping out, one after another, with no play dates, no phone calls, no school chums hopping in and out of the house to occupy (i.e., babysit) your restless young charges.  Imagine no fellow moms with whom to re-gift your kids; You, Yourself, and You are your children’s only companion, entertainer, and BFF  (but not in a good way.) (Is there a good way?)  Add to that infinite trips to IKEA—Satan’s bachelor pad, I’m telling you—to get “just one more thing” for your daughter’s new bedroom (you’ll buy it; she’s driving you crazy), and you’ve now imagined my summer.  Go on, enjoy a slice of my homegrown hell.

I’ll admit it:  when we first moved here, knew no one, and had no commitments on the calendar, I rejoiced in our family’s newfound simplicity.  At last, I thought, it’s just us and the kids, five peas in a pod, a little glimpse of eternal bliss.  Our busy busy family was finally getting time to breathe and bond.  Relationships would be renewed, love would be lasting. It would be a rare and magical summer.  Oh yes it would.

The magic lasted about nine minutes.

And now?  I’m looking constantly at my calendar (three more weeks??), frantically out my window (is anybody out there?) and trying, unsuccessfully, to slip quietly out the back door (“Mom!  Where are you going?”  Shoot. “I’ll be right back, kids…I have to, um…shave my legs…”  “Outside?”)  Yes.  Outside.

What I’m not trying to slip through is that phony front door, smug with it’s promise of the sunlit world of summer.  I know what’s on the other side, you big fraud:  more Kirkland hot dogs and more trips to IKEA.  Let me know when Fall, and the first day of school, comes a knockin’.  Then maybe I’ll lift tush from chair to answer.  Until then, you’ll find me at the food court.  Turns out, our new Costco serves gelato.  Take that, summertime.  And you thought you’d won.

The magic of summer lasted about nine minutes.

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Posted on by jsmith

Where’d you go, Bernadette?

I have so much to tell you about our move to Camas:  our new house (love), new neighborhood (love), new town (love) and all the new people we’ve met (lovelovelove).  But before I get into all of that, I cannot put head to pillow one more night without telling you about the most fun book I’ve read this year:

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After a month-long reading famine triggered by The Move, I binge-read this in a day and savored every page.  It’s sharp, funny, tender and did I mention funny?  As in:  chuckling to myself while driving my kids around when I remembered a certain passage.  (My kids would say, “What’s so funny?”  and I would say, “Oh, just this book I read,” and they would say, “You always have this little smile on your face and move your lips while you’re driving, like your talking to someone who’s not there,” and I would say, “It’s between me and Bernadette, thank you very much” and then they wouldn’t say anything at all and just look out the window because I think they thought we were getting into a weird area.)

The writing is seamless.  Our heroine is a brilliant architect who moves from L.A. to Seattle with her husband and daughter and finds everything about the earthy northwest culture insufferable.  Example:  “Did you know there are only two hairstyles in Seattle:  short gray and long gray?”  And wait til she gets started on Canadians, recreational clothing, and Craftsman-style houses.  It’s too good.

 The narrative is fun, too, alternating between Bernadette’s voice and that of her daughter, husband, and several other characters to weave a punchy story about a family who’s on the brink of crisis but ultimately pulls together.  It’s refreshing in every way.

Start this book today, finish it by Sunday, then post here and thank me for rescuing your summer reading.  It’s mid-July, after all, and I’d say that’s the perfect time to put down those classics you’ve been gnawing on and gulp down a treat.  This one goes down smooth, sweet and cool—because nobody’s cooler than Bernadette.  Enjoy!

“Where’d You Go, Bernadette” goes down smooth, sweet, and cool.

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Posted on by jsmith

Bella Voce with Tracy Kidder.

Tracy Kidder–ever heard of him?  I bet you have, seeing as he’s written, among other things:

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about a man who escapes civil war and genocide in Brundi, arrives in America with $200, and eventually graduates from Columbia Medical school; and

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about a Harvard Med professor who turns his life and career over to treating the “poorest of the poor” in Haiti; and

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about his life as a writer and all that he’s learned from it.

This last book sounds a bit underwhelming after the first two, but Good Prose was actually my favorite, because in addition to a warm and engaging memoir, it’s packed with gold-standard writing advice.  I know this pales in comparison to the drama of his other works, but I guess sometimes (all of the time) I find what’s happening in our swirly heads more interesting than what’s happening in the real world.  I know that’s a weakness, but I can’t help myself.  Our swirly heads are just too yum.

My usual, geeky eagerness for all things Bella Voce was heightened this May for two reasons:

1)  Tracy Kidder has won the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, and the Robert F. Kennedy award (I don’t really know what that last one is but I threw it in to impress you.  Will somebody google it for me?)

2) My oldest and dearest was meeting me there!  I’ve been begging Rachel to come to Bella Voce with me for years, but she lives such a Glamorous Life doing Glamorous Things in Glamorous Salem that lunching with famous writers ain’t no big thang for her.  Of course, her reluctance may have something to do with the fact that I usually invite her by sending her a text an hour before it starts telling her to “MEET ME THERE!”  I’m always offended when she rejects this thoughtful inclusion, claiming responsibilities with carpools and cub scouts, but I keep on a-fishin’.  And this time, she bit.  Oh my stars, I was finally going to pull one of my ya-yas out of the drear world of Normal into the Neverland of Bella Voce—where I like to think of myself as something of a Tinkerbell.  (Just go with it.)

We met in the lobby of the Portland Hilton (loving this new venue, btw—shiny, pretty, sparkly) and sauntered into the ballroom where all manner of wonder and delights awaited us.  The tables, the flowers, the food; all were in glorious array at our glorious disposal.  We sat down with just minutes to gossip before the lovely Renee introduced the lovely Mr. Kidder to the stage.  And lovely he was.

Unlike most Bella Voce speakers, Mr. Kidder accompanied his talk with a slide show highlighting the people he’d written about and the communities he’d grown to love.  He spoke sparingly of his own writing, and then only in the context of the humanitarian work that his writing has tried to serve.  He was modest and self-deprecating, speaking quietly and passionately about Village Health Works and Partners in Health, the nonprofit organizations founded by the real-life heroes of his books.  (Click on those links, it’s pretty amazing stuff.)  Listening to this soft-spoken giant of his profession, it became clear that Tracy Kidder was as much a humanitarian as a writer—and a model of both.  What better way could he have employed his tremendous talent?  Mr. Kidder has received the highest honors of the literary world and he uses them to heighten and honor the real world around him.  He’s found the best and kindest way to serve in both.  Like I said:  lovely.

Tracy Kidder is as much a humanitarian as a writer, and a model of both.

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So lovely, in fact, that I made Rachel take a picture of me with him afterward.  And would you (and Tracy) forgive me if I admitted that it was among the most awkward moments of my life?  I’ve waxed embarrassing about stalking Rebecca Skloot and Jess Walter at past Bella Voces, but the sum dorkiness of those two encounters doesn’t equal the humiliation I suffered upon meeting Tracy Kidder.  Even now, I can’t quite explain why.  He was polite, I was polite, Rachel was polite (though silently smirking behind the camera, I could feel it.)  All went well when I asked him to sign my book, but when I asked if I could take a photo with him, he didn’t really say anything. (Though I thought I heard him mutter something under his breath, it kinda sounded like self-aggrandizing-opportunist something-or-other, I don’t know, it was loud in there.)  And though he acquiesced, he didn’t quite make eye contact, just smiled and stiffened.  So I smiled and stiffened.  Then we both smiled and stiffened, and then Rachel took the picture.  It.  Was.  Awful.

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Perhaps it was so awkward because of the author’s modest demeanor; he didn’t seem the type to entertain groupies.  Or maybe it was because not a SINGLE SOUL in the ballroom had asked for a SINGLE PICTURE with him—probably because he was so accomplished, and compassionate, and sincere, and therefore seizing a photo-op for personal gain may have been considered poor form to ladies of a certain class and breed.  But:  whatever.  Rache and I had fun.

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After such an uplifting dose of moral and intellectual stimulation we decided to keep things real by hitting the shops downtown.  (Tracy’s lessons of economic development weren’t lost on us; it was the least we could do.)  Our table hostess snapped this photo of us before we left, and Rachel had the nerve to hashtag it #wearesuchdorkswhenwemeetcelebrities.  Actually, we’re pretty darn dorky when we meet up anytime (as implied by the phrase “pretty darn dorky”), but isn’t that half the fun?  It was a great day, in spite of this photographic evidence that the bouncy, dewy look I’d attempted that morning had devolved to crusty and greasy.  Rachel, of course, looks like a glowing and gorgeous twenty-year old  But:  whatever.  Even among besties, one of you has to be hotter than the other.  I’ll take second to her anytime.