Shirley Goodness

My mom and I spent several weeks last October collecting stories and photos and putting together this Shutterfly album to celebrate my brother, Dan’s, 40th birthday. Every time I came up with another story from our childhood, my mom would ask, “What’s going to happen when YOU turn 40? You know you’re probably going to have to make your own album, right?” She was sort of kidding, but not really.

I’m the one who does this kind of thing, this scrapbooking kind of thing, that is... so if I want an album I will probably have to make it myself. Which is fine. But it’s so much easier getting motivated to surprise someone else. I just can’t see working myself into a frenzy to "surprise" myself. Luckily I do have a long, long time before I turn 40… well, unless I choose to live in reality and then I don't actually have that long… ACCCCCH… I hate reality.

Anyway, instead of putting it off until the last second, which is what I would normally do, I think I'll try to write about some random memories from my past every now and then right here on my blog. Lucky you! Lately, Amanda and I have talked a lot about what it was like when I was in Kindergarten so I’m starting with a Kindergarten memory.

I went to a private Christian school for elementary and junior high. I’m not sure if this happened on my very first day of school but it happened the first time we went to chapel, so it was some time in the first week. We sang a hymn about the 23rd Psalm and the chorus went like this:

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days, all the days of my life;
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days, all the days of my life.

Nobody ever explained and I was too embarrassed to ask, so my little five-year-old brain was left to wonder: Who IS Shirley Goodness and WHY is she following me?

She had her own song, so I knew she was really important. But why hadn't anyone ever mentioned her to me before? My mind ran rampant with the possibilities: Was she like Santa Claus and she would bring presents? Or like the Easter Bunny and she’d bring candy? And who was Mercy? Was he her sidekick? Were they superheroes like Batman and Robin or did they have their own variety show like Sonny & Cher?

The most disturbing part was that she was going to follow me every single day for the rest of my life. I spent a lot of time looking back over my shoulder that year. I assumed the whole "following" thing was along the same lines as the "you better watch out, you better not pout, better not cry I'm telling you why..." thing. But let's be realistic, Santa obviously wasn't watching that closely. I cried and pouted on a regular basis and still got Christmas gifts but what if Shirley was more of a stickler for the rules? And forever? This lady was hardcore. As far as I knew, Santa and the Easter Bunny only trailed children but this chick was gonna follow me FOREVER. That's an awfully long time to be good.

My niece, Courtney, transferred to my old school when she was in 3rd or 4th grade and I pulled her aside to warn her about Shirley Goodness. Because I only wish that someone had warned me. She thought it was pretty funny and for weeks afterwards I got phone calls in her little voice saying, “Hello, is this Dione? This is Shirley… and I’ve been following you…”

If you don't enjoy stories about puking you might want to skip this post

My kids are sick. AGAIN. There is just way too much throwing up going on around this place and I’m ready for it to be over. Yesterday it was Amanda. She was miserable, poor little thing. By bedtime she was feeling better and I thought life would be returning to normal. Then at about 4:30am Alyssa woke up crying inconsolably. I finally got her to sleep in my lap and breathed a huge sigh of relief when I felt a sudden warmth flood over me. Unfortunately it turned out not to be motherly love, but instead the contents of Alyssa’s stomach, which is not nearly as pleasant. All over her and me and my clean bed sheets. Ick.

Having a 2-year-old who’s throwing up us is an extra special kind of delightful because there’s that added element of surprise. You can sit within inches of her for hours fully prepared to capture the puke with a bowl or a wastebasket or your husband's golf hat, but just as you stand up to use the bathroom or attend to some other completely unnecessary task, say like feeding your other child, SURPRISE! Puke everywhere.

Until Amanda started school, she rarely got sick, but now she seems to catch every single bug and then brings them home to share. Our last round of sickness happened before Christmas, first Amanda and then on the first day of school vacation Alyssa came down with it. I’d recruited my niece Courtney to keep the girls entertained while I helped out Santa by building a Barbie House (which, in case you're wondering, was too big to fit through the chimney fully-assembled). I had these grand plans of sending them off to the park or Super Franks (which is like Chuck E. Cheese but less annoying) for several hours while I built the house and ran a few errands. Alyssa had shown no sign of illness when I made those plans though.

When she woke up that morning with an earache I got worried. But after some Tylenol and eardrops she was back to herself and I’d adjusted my plans to think Courtney would be sticking close to home and then just as we were heading out the front door to pick up Courtney from the BART station I heard this huge SPLASH at my feet. HUH? Sure enough Alyssa was throwing up. She was thoughtful enough to completely miss her clothing and everyone else’s. Bravo for that.

The fact that I was picking up Courtney kind of brought this puking moment full circle for me. My sister, Darin, had her two daughters when I was a teenager. Perfect timing since she’d wasted… err spent… almost every Friday night of her teen years babysitting my brother and I… and as the story went, I OWED HER BIG. So I babysat my nieces quite a bit.

One time I remember rather clearly was when Courtney was just a baby… under a year I’d guess…so I was 15 or 16 and though my sister had a wonderful babysitter they called “Nana” who watched Courtney on a regular basis while Darin worked, she wanted me to baby-sit Courtney when she was sick, because though she would have gotten wonderful care from Nana, my sister said she wouldn’t feel comfortable calling Nana every ten minutes to make sure Courtney was okay…wouldn’t want Nana to think she was one of those neurotic new mothers or anything… so it was on this particular day that I had my very first experience with projectile vomiting.

This moment is etched permanently in my memory, as it was both horrifying and wondrous at the same time. Please note that Courtney is now 23 years old so it is possible that in over 20 years of telling this story I have dramatized the memory just a bit but not much. We have this plastic Elmo toy that we plug into the sprinklers, and I promise you that Courtney was just like that toy. One second she was this adorable slightly feverish baby playing on the floor in her purple footy pajamas and the next, her head started spinning around like a top and vomit started shooting out in all directions and in random spectacular patterns all over the living room carpet. Never seen anything like it before or since. It was AMAZING. Seriously, I wish you could have seen it. I just sat there staring, frozen, and then as quickly as it started it was over. Her head stopped spinning and she crawled over to me and smiled this adorable smile and then laid her head down in my lap.

It was one of those days that I’ll always remember because I actually felt like I learned something about myself.

Most of the guys I dated for any length of time at some point told me that they thought I would make a wonderful mother someday. I have absolutely no idea why they would have said that about me but I heard it a lot. I truly don’t think I mothered my boyfriends. I’ve always been the kind who needed my space. Oh no! Is it possible that it might be the longer term equivalent of, “Well, she has a wonderful personality”? You know how if a guy said a girl had a wonderful personality it almost certainly meant he thought she was butt-ugly? Well perhaps the “she’ll make a wonderful mother someday,” meant something equally as awful?

Anyway, as I said, I never could figure out what they saw in me that made them think that I would make a good mother. But my point wasn’t why they said it about me, it was that I didn’t believe it about myself. For years I thought I was far too selfish, self-centered and flighty to ever make a decent mother. I loved being an aunt and I figured I’d make a fabulous grandmother. But the thought of motherhood scared me to death. What if I couldn’t handle it? What if I was one of those moms who couldn’t take the pressure?

Well after Courtney puked all over the place and then crawled over and covered me in puke, my first thought was not the expected EWW get this kid away from me, but instead it was that I absolutely adored her. That I quite possible loved her even more after witnessing the amazing spectacle of vomit than I had before, and that I wanted to do anything in my power to make her feel better. This gave me a bit of hope and I thought maybe I will be a good mother! And then I took her out in the backyard and hosed her down.

So fast-forward 20-some years to when I picked up Courtney at the BART station with my own little vomiting baby and had to say, "Sorry Courtney, I hate to do this to you but YOU OWE ME BIG…"

A few photos and some recent quotes from our house

Overheard, Amanda talking to Rilie:

"I didn’t get to go to my Mommy and Daddy’s wedding 'cause I wasn’t born yet. But at least I get to go to the funeral!"

(I have no idea if she knows what a funeral is but she said it with such enthusiasm that I’ve been too afraid to ask.)

Me: "Alyssa, let’s go change your diaper."

Alyssa: "It’s not my job!"







And possibly my all-time favorite Amanda quote:

"If there's somebody that I really love, I take a picture of them with my mind and then I put it in my heart."

No writing allowed

So I've been hoping to get back in the routine of blogging and it's just not happening. I turn on the computer and get sucked into checking email, IMing, shopping for bunk beds and random other things and never get around to updating my blog. So I thought maybe writing in a notebook would be a better idea. Fewer distractions.

Every writing book I've ever read has hyped up the idea of writing on paper versus typing on a keyboard. Some say there's a connection between your brain and your hand and you shouldn't let a keyboard get in the way of it. Some say that it's far too easy to continually edit your thoughts on a computer which isn't nearly as simple on paper. Some say there's a certain flow or rhythm that happens when you're writing by hand that is harder to come by on a keyboard. There are various reasons but at the beginning of every writing book or class you're told to go out and buy a notebook.

Some suggest beautiful leather-bound ones, others push cheap spiral bound ones so you're not afraid to mess them up, but they all tout notebooks as being a very necessary tool if you want to write. So maybe that's why I’ve always had a mild obsession with notebooks especially empty ones. You can't be a real writer without notebooks.

I love new notebooks. I love flipping through the blank pages and I love the way they smell. Some people like the new car smell, I love the smell of new notebooks. (I’ve occasionally wondered if the first kid to sniff glue was just happily inhaling the scent of creative possibilities instead of trying to get high) For me, new notebooks have always represented a fresh start. Endless possibilities. Perhaps I would write something truly brilliant in this notebook. Yes maybe this would be the notebook that inspired me to greatness. Unfortunately I haven’t run across that notebook yet.

(1:38 pm Amanda attempts to take the pen out of my hand and asks, “Can I write something?” No.)

When I started working and was able to spend my money any way I wanted, I remember going completely nuts when I found a great sale on notebooks and I bought ten of them and then went back the next day and bought ten more. I felt like I’d scored the mother load. I could have a brand new notebook any time I wanted which was good because once I started writing in them, the shiny newness started to wear away. The thrill of a brand new notebook only lasted a short while before I began filling it with mindless drivel, the kind that I would be horrified to have anyone read.

It never occurred to me that having children meant that I would give up the option to freely write with pen and paper. For some reason, if my children see me writing they will do everything within their power to stop me. I still remember when Amanda was only a year old and I actually sat on top of my dining room table with all the chairs stacked on top of each other so she couldn't climb up with me while I handwrote a card for a baby shower gift.

Yes, my children have done their very best to cure me of my notebook addiction. Now the excitement I feel when I see a display full of fresh new notebooks for sale is tempered by frustration. Lessened by the knowledge that the newness of any one of those notebooks might last all of 3.2 minutes at our house. The newness, in fact might not even make it intact all the way to the check-out counter if Alyssa spies me attempting to place it into our shopping cart. “Me want book. Me daw Mommy?” NO! Once she gets a notebook in her hands it’s like setting her loose in a house built of cards. Certain destruction will follow.

In some ways I feel like on the day I gave birth to Amanda I gave up ownership to… well, pretty much everything… my body, my thoughts, my time, my energy, my love, my money, my food, my future plans, my devotion, my sleep, my home and everything in it, my privacy, even my dignity on occasion. I’m not complaining. I have to admit that it has been a good trade. Completely worth it considering what I’ve gotten in exchange. I willingly share most everything with my children, including chocolate. But when it comes to my notebooks I have all the maturity of a two-year-old. I want them to be mine-mine-MINE!

(1:46 pm Alyssa notices I’m writing. “Want pen! You done, Mommy?” No!)

I need to have at least this one thing all to myself. Each time I get a notebook I tell myself that this will be the one that the girls won’t touch. I will keep this one up high. I will only write in this one when they are asleep. Or tied to a tree.

But eventually – and it usually doesn’t take me too long – I slip up. I fall asleep after setting it on the nightstand or I set it on the table when I go to the bathroom. And then I forget about it. It never takes long before the Deserted Mommy Notebook sensor goes off causing my children to come skittering from wherever they may be to descend on my untainted notebook.

I’ve set them both loose with notebooks more than once hoping it would cure their fascination but apparently that only fed the monster. Now they think that ALL notebooks should be theirs to destroy in any way they see fit. Santa brought notebooks for each of them, which they loved but nothing is as good as MY notebooks. The fact that I don’t want them to touch them makes them just all the more intriguing. But I don’t want to share.

Alyssa can destroy an 80-page college-ruled notebook in less time than it takes her to sprinkle sand from one end of the house to the other after a particularly good session of playing in the sandbox. That’s under 48 seconds for those who haven’t been paying attention. She crumbles, she tears, she “washes” it with apple juice. She manages to leave a permanent mark of some kind on nearly every single page. It’s truly impressive.

Amanda’s method is slower, sneakier, and far more insidious.

“Mommy, can I draw in that book?”

"No Sweetie, this is Mommy’s. Use your own paper."

"How ‘bout just one page?”

“Amanda this is my notebook. Why don’t you go get one of YOUR notebooks? Do you want me to help you find one?”

“I want to write in THAT notebook.”

“I know Sweetie. I understand. But this is Mommy’s notebook. You know how you have some things that you don’t want Alyssa or anyone to touch? Well that’s how I feel about this notebook. I want it to be just for me.”

Unfortunately Amanda can spot a sucker from ten miles away.

“Okay Mommy, it’s just that I wanted to draw a picture for you. So when you look at it you remember how much I love you. But it’s okay if you don’t want me to.” (ding – ding – ding. We have a winner!)

“Okay, but only ONE page.”

“No, that’s okay Mommy. I don’t want to wreck your notebook.”

“Oh Amanda, I never said you were going to wreck it. It’s just a notebook. And I like your pictures. Here, draw one for me.”

Once she’s in all she has to do is wait 'til I’m distracted (and we all know I’m easily distracted), maybe on the phone or in the middle of doing laundry, trying to get Alyssa down for a nap or just smoking crack and all she has to do is flash me the page she’s already drawn on, “Mommy can I draw in this?” Sure!

And before I know it she has filled the entire book with drawings and stories (which are only somewhat legible at this point but getting better every week.) “Mommy, I wrote a book for you!” Great!

(1:53 pm I succumb to Alyssa's pressure and draw a picture of a baby in the margin of my notebook.)

The pen situation is even worse. There was a time in my life, pre-motherhood, when on any given day if I were to dump out my purse I would have found 10-15 pens. I was a pen hoarder to the worst degree. But now? I can never seem to find a single working pen.

Yesterday in an effort to fill out an extremely short permission slip and write yet another check to Amanda’s school, I hunted down, swore at and eventually threw away three non-working pens. More times than I care to admit I’ve been reduced to writing notes, grocery lists and phone messages with crayon stubs. The lack of pens in our house drives Scott crazy too.

Alyssa on the other hand, always seem to have a working pen in her hands leading Scott to announce, “She has another pen. Dione!!! She has another pen! Go give that to Mommy.”

Where does she get so many pens? I have No Idea. I seriously have wondered if she is squirreling them away somewhere and maybe one day I’ll stumble upon some hidden room where there is an intricate sculpture of the Taj Mahal built to scale entirely out of ballpoint pens and, well probably notebook paper.

Which leads me to another issue: creativity. I always thought I’d be the kind of parent to encourage and nurture creativity in my kids no matter what. I always pictured that my children would have round-the-clock access to all the art supplies their hearts could desire. Paint, play-doh, huge spools full of drawing paper, glitter, glue-sticks and crayons as far as the eye could see.

But then Real Life happened. Real Life with crayon on the walls, silly putty ground into the carpet, my grandma’s leather chair autographed with ball-point pen. And with Real Life came a Real Miserliness with the art supplies.

Of course Amanda can use the crayons. But she must first provide me with two forms of photo ID and some kind of highly valued collateral before I let her “check out” three colors of my choosing with the promise that she will return them before she gets three more. If Alyssa gets ahold of one of the crayons I get to keep the collateral, and Amanda, I’m sorry that you can’t sleep without your lullabye rabbit but next time you’ll be more careful, won't you?