Requiem for a Ring

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend edition, July 22, 2011

For two days I wore what had to be the world’s ugliest engagement ring. Then, we cut it off. The ring, that is, not the engagement. I had been wearing that engagement ring for more than 25 years. In all those years it remained intact and beautiful, but this week I had to resign myself to fate and weight.

Fate: on Monday, the diamond fell out. Why? The prongs, the trusted backup singers and bodyguards of the precious gem, went on strike. Perhaps they became weak or disgruntled. Most likely, they grew jealous of the attention bestowed upon the glamorous girl in the center, the one that lived for the limelight, snatching up all the light and firing it back, winking and twinkling for all the world to see her wit and warmth, while the prongs were relegated to the subterranean world, doomed to a pedestrian life of functionality, their dim world filled with dullness and drudgery. Twenty-five years of this, and the upstart prongs had had enough. Sure, Miss Diamond could have been useful like her industrial cousins, the ones employed to cut glass and other lesser materials. But no, for 25 years she sat on her behind, pretending to be delicate, with never a word of thanks to the prongs who showcased her to the world. On Monday, the prongs simply refused to do their duty and effectively evicted Miss Diamond.  Fortunately, we (being my sixteen-year-old son) found the diamond. Thanks, Sergio.


Weight: when you augment your frame, which has not increased in height, with thirty pounds, some of that weight will choose to distribute itself on your finger. Fat is very democratic in that way. While it may have its favored spots where it tends to do the most campaigning, it does eventually reach the whole populace.


I noticed my ring when my hand brushed and scraped my face. I looked in horror at the prongs, pointing upward with beckoning arms. What did they want from me? Praise? There, where the diamond once sat, was a dark pit, a crater - an ugly pock.


The ring would have to come off. Not only was it now hideous, it had also become a hazard, scraping and snagging angrily at things. Whether the prongs were looking for revenge or attention, I could not be sure, but they were going about it the wrong way. (I’m so tempted to say, “the prong way,” but then I’m afraid that one of my children will read this and will groan at my stupid pun.)


I struggled to remove the ring, first with soap, then with oil, and finally with some specialty spray offered to me at our local jewelry store. I think I expended their whole bottle, desperately spraying at my finger and all around the ring, hoping that the wedged ring would miraculously slip off. Sure, I could get it to do a few pirouettes around the ring finger, and if I didn’t concentrate too much on it, or try too hard, I could get the ring to rise about a centimeter in the course of these revolutions. But then it always met with insurmountable odds: the Knuckle of Death. The knuckle was wide and engorged in angry colors. At this point, the ring and I always declared defeat.


Later that night, my husband convinced me that cutting was the only option. From there, it took just a few minutes. It’s a good thing this man has invested thousands of dollars in tools. That way, when he is ready to do a delicate task like snip off his wife’s rings, all he has to do is to ask to borrow the six-year-old’s tools. Could he go bring the diagonal cutters from his little birthday toolbox to his father?

The youngest was off in a flash, because by definition, young children must run in the house, no matter how mundane or urgent their business. Never mind the lessons they have learned when skating through the kitchen on an unwanted apple core or the time they whacked their heads on furniture or a sibling. The only time they will not run is when they feel the urge to throw up, in which case they will turn to you for moral support and a landing spot for their vomitus.

Snip and spread, and both rings went off. It will cost over $ 200 to repair the engagement ring, which is half of what it originally cost. My husband says forget the whole thing, and he will just get me another one. After all, isn’t our 25th anniversary coming up in a few months?


Hmm. Should I be greedy or sentimental? Either way, don’t tell the prongs what we decide. I’m a little afraid of those girls.

A Very Public Pet Peeve

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on July 15, 2011


This may not have happened to you, but it has happened to me recently. Twice. Consider yourself fortunate if this is news to you.


Twice in the past month, I have rushed into the stall of a public restroom. Let’s face it: a woman in her mid-forties who has borne six children does not have the luxury to saunter when met with the need to micturate. (Notice how much more distinguished I sound when I say “micturate” rather than “urinate?”) At this age, that need may come upon you with the urgency of a summer thunderstorm.


Some loftier individuals will disapprove of today’s column topic. They will not understand the concerns of the common man (or woman, in this case) because they probably do not engage in this sort of crass behavior. Doubtless, they have subcontracted out the periodic, mundane task of emptying their bladders. For those stuck in the biological DIY department, you may sympathize with me.


Both times that I stepped into the stall, and not a moment too soon, thank you, I realized that the person (let’s hope I can assume it’s a woman) in the adjacent stall is in the midst of an intense cell phone conversation.


I am in a slight dilemma here, because I’m not sure what exactly Lady-A has been in here to do while she is busy jabbering away, but I know exactly what I am in here to do, and I need to do it…NOW.


My quandary is this: when is it a good time to interject into the flow of their conversation with a flow of my own? Do I aim for the moment when there is maximum chatter or a burst of laughter and hope to be drowned out? Or do I wait for a lull? Oh, wait. The conversation sounds like it might be drawing to a close. If I can hold it just a little longer, I might be able to pee in peace.


But this is a foolish thought. Alas, the compulsive conversationalist who continues talking while poised on the pot (wasn’t that phase supposed to end in the toddler years?) is not planning to relinquish the phone any time soon.


It probably hasn’t been that long, really, but there is little hope of distracting the brain that has been hijacked by a bursting bladder. This is harder still when, there standing before you, is that polished beacon of hope. It promises you relief and to take your burdens (just the very pressing current one, at any rate) away.


My mind flits to the tragic cases of water intoxication: The 28-year-old mother of three who died after drinking vast quantities of water in the “Hold your Wee for a Wii” contest at a radio station in California in 2007. Surely, this sort of torture cannot be healthy for me. I can wait no longer.


The conversation continues next door, while I vacillate about when to flush, unless the decision is usurped from me by the automatic flush. There’s no being sneaky with those industrial toilets accompanied by the inimitable and terrifying whoosh that threatens to swoop away unsecured objects such as purses and small children.


I guess my flush gives “us” away on “our” end of the conversation. In one incident, my staller-caller neighbor finally feels the need to divulge the source of the embarrassing sounds, “Oh, yeah – I’m callin’ from the bathroom here.”


Having just peed and flushed through someone else’s conversation, I feel awkward and ridiculous. I’m no Miss Manners, but what is wrong with me? Why am I worried about public bathroom phone etiquette when every sound I just produced has just been broadcast? As greedy as I always am for a bigger audience, this is not the way in which I envisioned getting it.


I realize that public restrooms are just that: public. But most of us are there to attend to something that is relatively private. (The exception is parents with toddlers in tow, who, by contract, must follow you to continue their monologue, check what you are doing, or just make sure you won’t disappear.) The rest of us expect privacy, even though that is a modern concept.


In Ancient Rome, the toilets were public. The latrines were conveniently located so that you could engage in conversation with your neighbor and perhaps drum up a dinner invitation. Ah, the wisdom of the ancients. We seem to have come full circle.

The struggles of parenting stragglers

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on July 8, 2011

I think of my six children in pairs. The two eldest girls were born in Long Island, New York. Technically, at ages 21 and 18, they are women, but that sounds weird to say that I have adult children since they are both in college. There are the two teenaged boys born in Northern California, ages 16 and 13, who are in high school and middle school respectively. And finally, there are the last two, born in Ohio: a girl who just turned nine and a boy who is six.


One would think with this record of producing two children per state we might have been hesitant to move again, but after six years in Virginia, this is proving to be a fairly safe place to live.


I call the last two “The Stragglers” because they emerged on the scene twelve and fifteen years after the first child. With my Stragglers, I’ve gotten to experience parenting a second time around. I wouldn’t say it’s like parenting afresh; it’s more like pulling some leftovers out of the fridge just before they mold. They might look presentable because they were (perforce) popped into the microwave, but on the inside, this stuff knows that it is old and wilted. Also, as its parenting techniques are under constant surveillance by the older children (hereafter referred to as The Originals), not to receiving their unsolicited and expert advice on the care and rearing of youngsters, this leftover parenting material can sometimes suffer the effects of uneven heating. There may be pockets that are cold, but occasionally, the leftovers inexplicably explode.


The Stragglers have done things in much the same way as the older children, except that (according to The Originals) they get away with capital crimes, do not work as much or as hard as they did/do at this tender age, have poor eating habits, and have been given no standards to achieve.


Ah, the joys of parenting, again. It’s like bringing the boxer back into the center of the ring while he is yet reeling from the last blows he received. Still, it has its moments that make it all worthwhile. Children in the house are the best home entertainment systems invented.


I remember when my youngest daughter was three or four, she began to see me as some sort of superfluous artifact. If my husband were offering me a goodbye kiss, she would dart in between us, and give me a shove. With her arms wrapped around his neck, she would glance back at me and shout, “Get away from me, you crazy old woman!” This was uproariously funny. The first time.


Soon enough, that stage came to an end. Who knows? I may have hurried it along into obsolescence. We all know we’re a little crazy, and most of us realize that we are old. We just don’t need it to be trumpeted out by others, no matter how close the relationship.


By the time she was in kindergarten, she seemed to have outgrown her Daddy’s Girl Syndrome. She brought home the classic portrait: The stick figure family. Everyone had some distinguishing characteristic. For example, she had drawn her eldest sister with loads of curly hair and her eldest brother was wearing glasses. I don’t recall how I knew who I was in her picture. Perhaps I was wearing an apron, or perhaps, by this time, she had relinquished her claims and allowed me to be paired back with her dad, the lone towering figure in her drawing. He was the only one who had a facial expression. She had given him angry eyebrows.


This is not to give the impression that my husband is a grouch and that I am Mrs. Cheery Sunshine. When my middle son was a couple of years old, he made an astute observation: whenever my eyebrows furrowed, many unpleasant side effects ensued. He figured if he could stop the expression, he could stop the chain reaction. Whenever he sensed displeasure or impending wrath, he would take his thumb and desperately apply it upwards at the center of my forehead, wailing, “Don’t get angry! Don’t get angry!” The Lord has designed children to be so cute that it’s hard to be angry with them for too long.


I first chuckled when I saw the drawing with my husband’s eyebrows, but I was a little disturbed too. (More so than usual, anyway.) You know how they say there is a kernel of truth in every hostile joke? It was late on a Friday night that I showed this revealing family portrait from the eyes of a five-year-old to my husband.


The next morning, without so much as a discussion, my husband located and popped the spare car seats into his commuter car. He had errands to run, but he decided to take The Stragglers with him. They had breakfast out and visited the pet store.


I guess what they say is true: “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Much was restored that morning – relationships and eyebrow placement.

Camp Ribeiro Rides Again

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on July 1st, 2011
Summer can be a difficult time for working parents, and even more so for those at home. Ten weeks of free time can be a little daunting unless it is well carved out. Often this includes camps, vacations, activities, and play dates.


People ask if I send my kids to camp. I don’t need to. Right here, at home, I have the amazing and thrilling “Camp Ribeiro” running once again. It doesn’t promise any life-changing experiences, just life skills, plain and simple.


Here’s how a day at Camp Ribeiro works: First thing in the morning, we study Place Values. That is, we empty the dishwasher and put everything away. There is great Value in having everything in Place. Some children can do this quickly while others manage to let time yawn before them, stretching any given task out. Adding a timer to routine domestic chores ensures focused task completion and efficient time management. Those unable to complete the task in the allotted time are given extra practice time with yet another chore, timed of course.


Right after the lesson on Place Values, there are concurrent seminars on Nourishment and the Declaration of Independence. That is, if a child can maneuver to and open the refrigerator, I Declare him/her to be Independent enough to get his/her own breakfast. Also, while the independent young learners are gathering their breakfast, can they make the younger ones and me something to eat too? Now we have even incorporated a lesson on service.


Immediately following is my workshop on “Cleaning the Environment,” also known as put your dishes in the sink and wipe up the table around you. Also, if you have spilled crumbs, go get the broom, gather your offerings in the dustpan, and place them in the trash. Like a game of musical chairs, if you are the one left with trash that just won’t fit into the liner, you get to empty it in the dumpster outside. One lucky child each morning will be chosen to do further studies on Purification by loading the dishwasher.


Soon after that come Horticulture and Early Child Development classes. For the younger ones, it translates to “time to play outside.” For others, it involves learning to identify weeds and carefully collecting these specimens by their roots. This could be mistaken for weeding, so you must be careful not to use that term. Those interested in younger children can monitor their activity and possibly engage their attention with sidewalk chalk or other outdoor toys. There will be a quick Place Values refresher before we come indoors.


Then follows Hygiene, mostly having to do with washing of hands after playing outside, before eating, and after flushing. (Yes, there will be Remedial Flushing for those with severe attention deficiencies.) As a bonus, there will be Technology Training, but this will be reserved for “gifted” children who possess special mechanical aptitude. They will be taught to replenish the toilet paper roll. For others, this skill will likely never be used, and is considered a futile effort, right along with capping toothpaste tubes. Therefore, to preserve my sanity, these are omitted from the curriculum of Camp Ribeiro.


If it is too hot outdoors, we progress to “Treasure Hunting” indoors. This might involve emptying out the kitchen/junk drawer, wiping it down and sorting items into piles. As a reward, loose change can be counted and divided amongst the hunters…(see that math lesson sneaking in there?). For older children, there will be “Exploration and the Value of Open Space.” Basically, this entails opening up mystery boxes that have been designated repositories of junk.


Then there is my Creative Cooking class – how can we use rice/pasta/potatoes to form the base of yet another quick but healthy lunch for a number of hungry children? We can’t figure out a new dish? This is where we combine Thankfulness with Nutrition. Whoever said, “Hunger is the best sauce” probably did not have access to a drive-through for fast food where there are at least five or six different sauces to choose from. A few children will be chosen for this task while others help set the table, straight out of the dutiful dishwasher, and so on and so forth.


After lunch, we rotate tasks so others have a chance to “Care for the Environment” while readers take small children along to read them a story. There might be a chance after that to just relax and play, color, or draw while we listen to a story on tape.


Who knows, if there is free time before starting supper, we might combine Apparel Care (known as folding laundry) while we (gasp) watch a TV show or movie. Just as the entertainment ends, we apply Place Values to Apparel – put away the hanging and folding.


Before you know it, the day is gone, but my brain cells are not. The children will have little time to complain about being bored. All that’s left for me to decide is the camp uniform. What do you think of orange jumpsuits?