Street Smarts – Part III - Apology Accepted

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on Friday, March 4, 2011
This is the final part of a three-part series of columns.


My teenaged son, whom we shall call “Fred,” had offended a neighbor lady up the street while walking his dog. The neighbor had followed up with a visit to our home to complain of “Fred’s” behavior. We coaxed and reproved Fred and then, by the magic of online money transfers, subtracted $25 from Fred’s account. He was then, quite literally, driven out of the house (by car), to purchase and deliver flowers, candy, and a card for the neighbor. Rejoin this column as Fred is writing in the card.


We sat in our semi-darkened car as he filled the blank card with words. I was not going to allow this to be one of those situations where we have all the best intentions to “do it later” and then promptly forget to follow through. (Have I yet written to the ladies of the Christian Women’s Club of Warrenton and Zoar Baptist Church who sent us $200 at Thanksgiving, knowing that my husband, formerly the sole breadwinner – despite my recent contributions as a crumb-collector of sorts – was hospitalized? If my plans and actions would ever align, I might have less need to be ashamed of myself. Carrying this burden about mars one’s ability to lecture others, especially one’s children.)


Though it was cold, he sat and wrote. His words were neither contrived nor produced under duress. They were sincere, if a little stiff. You see, Fred is obstinate. He refuses to concede any point when he is convinced he is right. The problem with Fred, as with most of us, is that he always seems to be right about almost everything. (Or so he thinks.)


My son’s face stiffens when he believes you are talking some rubbish. He and his face don’t mind conveying this sentiment, either. That must have been the face that he gave our neighbor: impassive, but seething within. His lips are set and his eyes are squinted and hardened. You aren’t going to get past that steel façade easily.


If you do, though, he has an incredibly winning smile. When things go well, or he finally admits to mischief, he has the most handsome and infectious smile. He refuses to oblige you with a fake smile, so if you get one, it is genuine and rewarding.


So Fred wrote from his semi-steel heart. I don’t have his words verbatim. After our shopping and sitting together in the car – just the two of us, I felt I had truly won him over. He may not have written that he was sorry, but he said he was sorry for the way he had behaved. As we sat and talked, Fred finally understood our neighbor’s concern for the safety of the dogs, the younger children playing in the neighborhood, and for the owner of the two dogs who also happened to be in the final stages of pregnancy, and the danger that a dogfight might have imposed upon this woman. He might have written that he was grateful to have such a neighbor.


I, too, was grateful: grateful to have a caring neighbor and such a son, who despite his steely determination would allow chinks of oil to seep in and soften him once in a while.


We returned to our subdivision, and drove up the hill in the neighborhood. It was difficult to spot the house from which this neighbor might have emerged. We knew where the two dogs lived. From there it was an educated guess as to which of the houses it might be across the street.


“That one. The one with the brown door,” my son seemed to become more certain as we examined house after house of brick-front, shuttered constructions. We both went to the door.


A young woman breezily opened the door. She was perhaps wiping her hands from a meal. My son proffered the flowers and chocolates, but hesitated, suddenly mired in confusion. He did not recognize her being the woman who had yelled at him earlier. “Wait,” he said awkwardly. “Are you the one I had an argument with today?”


We described the events of the afternoon. “Oh,” she said, knowingly nodding her head. “That would be Kerri Pepin, next door.”


Kerri Pepin? Now it all made sense. I already knew her as another mom from Mrs. Stright’s kindergarten class at C.M. Bradley a few years ago. I knew and liked Kerri.


We went next door, but Kerri wasn’t available, so we spoke with Tom, her husband.


My son apologized to the husband of the woman he had offended. He handed over his portion of the peace treaty. Tom was very gracious and appreciative of the visit.


Kerri and I spoke afterward. She said the thing that had impressed her the most about my son’s apology was the card – that he had written a card.


You know what? Me too. I’m glad my son is still somewhat pliable (occasionally), and I’m glad we live in a time and place when neighbors can watch out for each other and their children.

A dogfight is averted - an apology attempted

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on February 25, 2011

This is the second in a three-part series of columns.

My teenaged son, whom we shall refer to by the mysterious name of “Fred,” and his canine companion whose name I have obscured to “Letty Boo” were walking up the neighborhood when two seemingly rabid Pekingese dogs bounded into their yard. My son relayed the events to me afterward, because something along his walk had prompted a neighbor to visit our home and complain about “Fred’s” behavior. I got home later to hear my teenager’s account of this same walk. In his version of the account, he was, of course, innocent of any wrongdoing.


The owner of the Pekingese happened to be in a state of gravidarum, which, in case you didn’t know it, is the medical term for pregnancy. By using obscure terms, it is my intention to either confuse or impress you. (Isn’t that an effective technique in many fields that use arcane terms? And shouldn’t I be getting paid more if I am impressively confusing?) The owner of the dogs had opened her front door, but she was then unable to coax her pets back indoors.


So, here is the Freddian version of events:


Letty Boo began snapping and lunging, Fred admitted. Regardless, Fred knew he had everything in consummate control. Or so he said.


He stood restraining his hound and fending off the two smaller dogs when suddenly, out of nowhere, a nosy and interfering neighbor came dashing across the street and told my poor, darling, child to get Letty Boo and himself to the other side of the street to minimize any potential, illegal, and as yet, un-betted upon, dogfights.


Fred, in his kindest and most civil manner, apparently told this nosy neighbor that he was in supreme control of the situation and that she could very kindly attend to her own affairs. Or something to that effect, but dripping with politeness and civility.


That’s not exactly the version of events that was relayed by the neighbor, who as a mother of four children herself, thought that the parents of Fred might be interested to know of his behavior in the great outdoors. She had come to our door, and since I was not home at the time, the matter had been deferred for Mommie Dearest to hear about.


I got to hear about this later that evening when I returned from the school in Reston where I was working last year. After some discussion with Fred, I insisted that he go up the hill to apologize. Fred balked. I want to warn you: Don’t balk with me. I am the Mother of Balkers, so if you try, you will be balking up the wrong tree. I described more and more elaborate reasons and ways in which the apology could or should be executed. Finally, I settled on the one below.


Many apologies are delivered with eyes rolling upwards, body and shoulders slouching downward, and a disgusted “sorry” muttered and mumbled to the offended party. The one who offers the apology conveys with everything except his words that the wounded one is probably some sort of oversensitive sissy, and most likely in error anyway. Such apologies are meaningless until any deeper feeling is attached. Often times, the best feeling to attach to apologies is pain. For Fred, pain usually involves lack of food and/or money.


This was going to have to cost him, I decided. Suddenly, I had one of those ideas that renews faith in my own abilities and intelligence, despite the children’s efforts to outwit me at every turn.


What would happen to you in the REAL WORLD if you were to mishandle matters? (Notice how we make our children feel they live in some alternate plane, as if the reality of their school and friends and daily pressures don’t amount to real life.) There might be legal and financial consequences. We had a joint little savings account, did we not? We had access to this savings account online and through the boy’s ATM card, did we not?


With dramatic flourish, I announced that such egregious behavior was going to have a price tag. It would cost Fred enough to hurt and to remember, but not so much as to maim and embitter him. The price tag for offending a “nosy and interfering neighbor” was going to be $ 25.


I called Designs by Teresa in Old Town because I’ve met the owner and SHE READS MY COLUMN. Whoa! It was too late in the evening at this point, and I wanted an immediate resolution and retribution.


We settled on making a transfer of cash from accounts online, handing Fred the cash, and whirling out to our local Safeway. The instructions were simple: take your $25. Spend it all on some tokens of your sincere gratitude and remorse. Flowers: $ 15. Two boxes of chocolates: $ 8. That left about a dollar on hand. Where best to spend a dollar but at the store with the eponymous name: Dollar Tree. One blank note card later, and it was a done deal. His money was spent, and so was his anger. Would it be tacky if I said, “Priceless” here?


Stay tuned for the final part of this series.

Microwave meltdowns, teenage trauma, and true love

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, December 29th, 2010


My microwave is on the fritz, or is it “on the blitz?” Whatever we call this abode of dying appliances, the Great Electric Elysian Fields of Junk, my microwave oven is headed there. In spirit, it’s there already, but in the physical, its carcass remains hulking over our stove, its electronic display forever taunting me to “Press Clock” to reset the time.


It’s a long story. Do you really want to hear it? I guess that depends on what my competition for your attention is: A crying baby? A pile of bills? The Washington Post?


Thank you for peeling yourself away from that engrossing nutrition information label on your jug of milk.


My microwave has been shutting itself down in stages. It started this summer. It wasn’t one of those dramatic events, like when a toddler or preschooler has a complete, and of course, public, meltdown. There was no sudden clunking sound, no shower of sparks, no disturbing smoke. It was nothing obvious like that. It was much more subtle and invidious, like carbon monoxide poisoning, or the creeping sarcasm of a teenaged child, which sometimes feels like the same thing. My microwave slowly and painfully dug its heels in and refused to cooperate in matters that it had once anticipated and gleefully participated in. It so happens that my microwave is about five years old. In my estimation, that equates to fifteen in microwave-years?


I first noticed that the “5” on the touch-pad wouldn’t work. Perhaps it would work; but it refused to do so for me. The more pressure I applied at the keypad, the more insistent it became. Nothing could make it produce a five. Was it a nuisance? Yes. Was it debilitating? No.


Microwaving and parenting are a lot alike. It’s not that you get wonderful and instant results with a warm and toasty feeling. It’s that you learn that there’s only so much pressure you can apply to any one point without the child balking altogether.


But fear not. It’s commonly believed that parents are smarter than their progeny, despite repeated attempts at the offspring to prove otherwise. Microwaves are the same way. We could work around this. If you needed to heat something for “1:45” we just avoided the situation by heating it for one second less or more, thereby avoiding the 5 altogether. This is the same way we avoid certain triggers for certain children. Mushrooms cause a meltdown? Never serve that child mushrooms. Housework causes a child to sulk and do a slovenly job? Toss all the yard-work and lifting chores at that one.


There are even intricate ways of tricking the microwave. Bribes work well with children, but they hold little appeal for appliances. For five exact minutes of heating, one could start the microwave with four minutes and then press the “Add 30 sec.” button twice, so Ha! The microwave was not quite as clever as it had thought itself to be. Another alternative was to punch in “4:60” as the cooking time. I wish all of life’s problems were this simple to solve. Ditto on parenting.


Did I still love my microwave? Don’t I love my children? Of course I did, and of course I do. We all have our flaws (although most of us spend a lifetime seeking ours and wondering, if perhaps, we might not be that rare exception to the rule). We cannot let minor aggravations steal our joy. So the five wouldn’t work, and we could live with that. Then, the Auto Defrost button decided that it had put in a full lifetime’s worth of service (in this case, five years), so it didn’t plan on working either. Not that big of a deal, because we could at least use the Quick Defrost button repeatedly. Sometimes I feel like our whole life is a series of work-arounds.


When news of the non-cooperating microwave made its way around the house, someone suggested we apply the Master Reset Philosophy, usually reserved for computers with blue screens, to the microwave. Just unplug it for a few minutes and then plug it back in. That should reset the circuits, and all would be well.


I decided to give it a try. What could it hurt? After restoring power to the microwave, not only did the 5 and the Auto/Defrost not work, now the 7 had defected to the enemy camp. It, too, refused to work.


By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I had to instruct my daughters as they came home from college that, “Oh, by the way, the 5,7, and the Auto Defrost” buttons don’t work. They gave me a look that seemed to say, “Is that the cause of, or the result of, our father being in the hospital at the moment?”


My husband is the sort of person who loves gadgets, which is supposed to define the stereotypical male. But his love extends beyond the lusting state, and also includes the maintenance aspect of love, which is a truer, and sadly, rarer, form of love.


To finish this love-story will require another week, and possibly another microwave.

Camp Ribeiro: Cure for "Those Lazy, Hazy, CrazyDays of Summer"

Nat King Cole, when he sang “Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy, days of summer…” must have meant us mothers with children out of school. My observations, made the first week of summer one year while shopping at the place that no one is supposed to admit to patronizing, but one that is mysteriously the largest retailer in the world – would concur, but in reverse order: Moms (like me) trying to get errands done – looking positively “crazy”; temperatures soaring outside (not to mention the tempers of associates besieged by numerous small shoppers inside) – definitely “hazy,” and sullen children, too old to be excited by “helping Mommy do the shopping” yet too young to be left home, listlessly dragging their feet, looking positively “lazy.”

By spring break, my kids really look forward to summer, but for some reason, when it gets here, they dread it. Summer can be a difficult time for working parents when school-aged kids are out of school. Okay, let’s admit it – it can be a difficult time for those of us who have the luxury of being at home too. When I homeschooled my children, I had little understanding of parents being overwhelmed by their own offspring in the absence of the school routine.


Suddenly, there is plenty of time opened up for kids and so many opportunities are available to them. Unfortunately, many of these “opportunities” require bussing your children about and having several loose Franklins around.

But I have a solution to your woes. It is “Camp Ribeiro” and will only cost you $50 a week per child. The class will run from whenever you would like to drop your child(ren) off and will last until you are ready to pick them up.

Here’s how it works: if you will entrust your children to me, I will help you train them to be helpful at home. But since they won’t be in your home, this learning will have to occur in mine. You won’t need to bring them anything: even their food will be included in the fee.

First thing in the morning, we start with Place Values by emptying the dishwasher. Then we walk about and pick up and put everything away. There is great Value in having everything put into Place. As mornings progress, your children will learn time management (because I myself have birthed a slackard or two who can drag this job out till midmorning), so I add a timer to ensure focused task completion and efficient use of time.

Right after the lesson on Place Values, there is a simultaneous seminar on Nourishment and the Declaration of Independence: that is, if your child can maneuver to and open the refrigerator, I Declare him/her to be Independent enough to get his/her own breakfast. Sorry, we are completely out of Pop-tarts and whatever Cookie-Candy-O’s cereal is being pushed on children’s television. Also, while your kid is at it, get something for the little ones who can’t fetch their own breakfast. That brings in our lesson on caring for others and serving one another.

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, 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. One lucky child each morning will be chosen to do further studies by loading the beloved (but tiny) dishwasher.

Soon after 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, also known as weeding. 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 only for the keenest and most observant child(ren), and only those genetically endowed with mechanical aptitude. They will learn to put on a new roll of toilet paper when the existing supply is gone.

If it is too hot outdoors, we will stay indoors and progress to “Treasure Hunting.” This might involve emptying out the kitchen/junk drawer, wiping it down and sorting items into correct 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 boxes that we still haven’t unpacked, eleven months after our move here.

Then there is my Creative Cooking class – how can we use rice/pasta/potatoes to form 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” was not only hungry, but also never had probably never had Sriracha Hot Sauce. No, you cannot have a cookie right before lunch, and yes that will help you to be thankful when you do get lunch. 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 play with toys, 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, and your children will be amazed at how little time they have had to be bored. Who knows? If this concept takes off, I might expand my services to adults. But I’m afraid that will have to wait till the end of summer. And, I might be wrong, but don’t they already have something like that…in state prison?