A young writer in residence - or, the handwriting on the wall

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on February 24, 2012


Recently, I learned that we have a budding writer in our home.  You may think, generously, “Oh, it’s in the blood.”  Or perhaps you saw the article that mentioned my eldest son winning the annual speech contest held by the generous Rotary Club of Warrenton.  Maybe you remember my children’s poetry when this paper ran the Kids’ Page or that my eldest daughter won the “Why I Love Warrenton” contest in the student category years ago in The Warrenton Lifestyle Magazine. Perhaps you heard my daughters give their speeches at their respective graduation ceremonies from Fauquier High School in 2008 and in 2010, or my middle son’s speech before becoming President of Warrenton Middle School’s student council.

That traditional kind of writing is not what I’m talking about.  My new writer in residence has found a far more interesting medium.  You know how some things are revealed to you only when you see the handwriting on the wall?  That’s what I’m talking about.  Literally.

Last weekend, because we are a super fun loving and partying sort of family, my husband worked with me on assembling some electronics.  That’s to help me keep in touch with my “inner engineer.”

Last weekend also being an extra-long weekend, we decided to do some fun things, such as have the children remove wall marks with that amazing Mr. Clean Eraser.  This sort of household activity can be lots of fun, especially if you don’t frequently overdose your children on things popularly construed to be fun, like going to the movies or to parties.

Hopefully, you know I am writing tongue-in-cheek.  Of course, we enjoyed the glorious sunshine at Rady Park on Saturday.  We brought in lunch and considered driving to the movies, but chose to watch one at home, where everyone could snuggle or lounge as necessary.  My husband worked on projects with each of the children too.

That’s when the handwriting on the wall came to me as clearly as if it had been written on the wall.  It was, actually.  Naturally, everyone denied doing it.  No matter.  Lately, my mothering has degenerated to tyranny.  It’s not “innocent until proven guilty” around here.  They’re all guilty.  I know it.  I live with them, remember?

The writer at large had written in teeny, tiny letters.  One phrase, on a bathroom door said, “God bless America, my home sweet home.”  My discovery coincided with President’s Day Weekend.  I should be proud.  All of this was compressed to a size that could easily be hidden by an adult thumb.  Does this mean I keep my children under my thumb, or that I suppress patriotic writing?  Not at all.

This may surprise you, but we have loads of paper in the house.  We have whiteboards and computers too.  We even have grains of rice, if someone insists on specializing in tiny writing.  Any of these are acceptable places for writing, but apparently, they are just not as appealing as the walls and the doors. 

In another “inconspicuous” spot behind yet another bathroom door, there is a “Hello, is anybody home?” penciled there.  This one, I learned from the young writer, was inspired and done years ago after watching “Beauty and the Beast.”  At least for that one, I got a confession.

For the patriotic musing, I simply chose the most likely suspect – someone with a track record for wall-writing, someone with a similar handwriting, someone who had attended a school where this song was sung every morning just after the Pledge of Allegiance to our flag.  That’s the candidate who gets my vote. They can have a taste of democracy when they leave home.  Hopefully, their new home will have more accommodating walls.

It reminds me of a school day years ago, when only the two youngest were at home with me.  I heard alarms of, “Mom!  Mom!  The Baby is writing on the wall!”  I dashed upstairs.  (I weighed less then.)  I had a habit of referring to the youngest child as “The Baby” even when that child was toddling about and speaking.  Everybody’s had a turn at being The Baby.

I saw that, indeed, The Baby had made a huge swirling scribble, right on the bedroom wall.  I shouted at The Baby to arrest any further artistic impulses he might have.  I turned to thank the older child for alerting me.  There she stood, with pencil in guilty hand, and an entire mural on the wall ahead of her.  There was a little house, the straight line for the garden and a few flowers popping up.  The picture was complete with that charmingly childish sun shining its warm and loving rays straight down onto the scene.

I shouted that child’s name out, in full, as written on the birth certificate.  “You said The Baby was writing on the wall, but you were doing it too!” 

She shrugged her helpless little shoulders and widened her innocent, four-year-old eyes.  “Well, The Baby was writing on the wall!  Then, I had to do it too.”

There is no longer a baby in this house.  The writer, however, apparently still lurks among us.

Could you help bring a little “magic” to the our area?

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on February 17, 2012

Kesem.  It means magic.  For the children who attend Camp Kesem, they need miracles more than magic.
 
This free, weeklong overnight camp is run by college student volunteers every summer and serves children ages six to thirteen.  It is a chance for children to share the joys of childhood and remember to laugh and celebrate youth.  And it is a chance for them to forget.

The children who attend Camp Kesem are identified by oncologists, hospice caregivers, and grief counselors.  They share more than youth and a week of fun. They all bear the devastating mark of cancer.  The one thing that unites the children of Camp Kesem is the thing that scars them: They each have a parent who is or who was diagnosed with cancer.

I don’t want to be ugly or dark in today’s column.  You may tell me that, genetically, this is unavoidable for me, regardless of my topic.  But I think you know what I mean.  Cancer pervades us.  Sometimes it invades us or those whom we love most dearly.

Nearly 12 million people in the United States were diagnosed with, or already living with, cancer in January of 2008.  The American Cancer Society’s website defines this as cancer prevalence, which is different from cancer incidence.  The “incidence” of cancer is the new diagnoses each year.   This year, statisticians expect 1,638,910 new cases of cancer in the US.

For the children whose world is unraveled by learning their parent, their pillar, has cancer, this is likely the only incidence that matters in their world.  Mom is sick, or maybe Dad is sick - very, very sick.  There is an upheaval of priorities.  Their childhoods, their homes, and their routines – everything changes.

I was in the ninth grade when we found out that my mom had cancer of the larynx.  When I reflect now, I marvel at my parents’ fortitude.  She was only forty years old when her persistent, inexplicable cough was finally given a name and a root cause.  She had never smoked.  I can still remember my Latin teacher whispering to another teacher that my mom had cancer.  That was the first time I comprehended the gravity of cancer.

My mom is now 72 years old.  That’s not to say she hasn’t had her challenges; I think her medical charts outweigh her.  But she has survived.  Her vocal cord was removed and left her with a raspy voice and a series of tracheostomies that required suction to keep her airway clear.  She cannot raise her voice, and often claps to get our attention.  But those are minor. 

The thing that saddens me is that she lost her ability to sing.  My mother loved to sing.  Don’t tell anyone, but so do I.  Like me, she was never particularly good at it, either.  But, oh, she loved to sing.  While cooking or doing housework, she would sing the plaintive love songs of the old Hindi black and white films.  That simple joy was taken with the vocal cord.

I have only heard her wistfully mention this once.  She has seen her children graduate, marry, and have children of their own.  She has seen grandchildren graduate too.  These joys she would not be denied.  She has lived and thrived and survived.

But all are not so fortunate.  And for some who linger, the pain is excruciating and overwhelming.  For those of us who are not oncologists or research scientists, the most we can do is to pray and hope and offer comfort and support.

Many choose to assist research efforts by fundraising, and we can take heart in the advances in earlier detection as well as new treatment methods. 

But those are for the patient.  Camp Kesem serves those children who stand on the periphery of cancer, watching their parents’ lives be overtaken and swallowed up by cancer.

Begun over a decade ago at Stanford University by four college students, Camp Kesem served 37 campers in the year 2000.  “Kesem” means magic in Hebrew.  In the last decade, Camp Kesem has spread to 37 chapters in 22 states.  In 2011, nearly 1,500 campers had a chance to forget their worries and just be children.  They were served by almost one thousand student leaders on campuses across the nation.  While these college students serve, they learn to lead.  The purpose of Camp Kesem is really two-fold.

In our area, the University of Virginia, the University of Richmond, and George Washington University already offer camps.  Last year, my eldest daughter at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore helped to bring one to their campus as well.  This August, JHU students will host their first Camp Kesem.  It will serve children in Maryland, greater DC, and Virginia. 

While the camp is free and the student labor is too, there are real expenses involved with such an enterprise.  The students need to raise about $ 20,000 to run the camp.  If you are inclined to help in this endeavor, please visit www.campkesem.org/jhu to learn more or donate, and specify JHU on the form. 

Thank you so much.

Slave to superstition – the saga ends

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Feb. 10, 2012

Generally, I don’t consider myself to be a pushy person.  On occasion, I do insist on getting my way, but such occasions tend to be rapidly followed by regret.

For example, I wanted to attend the Piedmont Bloggers Meetup Group.  It’s headed by Jamie Gorman, Founder of SIGMA College of Small Business.  It’s a great group of people who meet monthly, and a nice way to connect with locals whose writing is swimming in the great Internet-ic Ocean.  Some members are published authors (not me) and others have been blogging for nearly a decade (again, not me).  There are several novices too.  It’s fun, educational, and of course, there are great snacks.

My husband advised against attending that day in October.  I ran right over his advice.  He offered me his car since mine had been acting up.

I hesitated.  Although his car is smaller, its visibility is poor.  I had “tapped” a car while attempting to parallel park the Suburban earlier that day.  What damage could I cause in a car with poor visibility?

I was picking up my friend Connie Chintall along the way to introduce her at her first meeting.  We got there just a couple of minutes late.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  I could do everything, after all!

Then, the weirdest thing happened.  I could not turn off the car.  Had I forgotten to put it into park?  Had I locked the steering wheel by turning in too sharply?  I tried everything to turn off the car.  The car kept running and the key refused to budge.

Jeez.  Was anything going to go right today?  I asked Connie to go in while I called my Auto Maintenance Hotline.  My husband guided me through some steps, but to no avail.

I popped into the meeting, car running in its parking spot, and explained why I wouldn’t be attending.  A few brave suggestions were ventured, but I decided to drive home to the rightful owner.  My husband exhausted his toolkit of tricks.  Alas, the car kept running.  We couldn’t get the darned key out.

I called our car insurance company’s roadside assistance.  “Ma’am, do you want us to send someone to give you a jumpstart?” the friendly associate asked.

"No,” I said, beleaguered, “what I need is a jump-stop.  Is there any way you can send someone to get my car to stop running?”  That fell under car maintenance, but he could definitely send a tow truck.  I laughed ruefully.  I didn’t need the car towed.  I could drive it anywhere; I just couldn’t turn the car off.

I made the short drive to Country Chevrolet.  It was just after six when all the service people had left.  I’m not complaining.  They have amazing hours and their service is great.  I laughed when Steve Chipman, a service advisor, had once joked that he works lots of half days - as in half of the 24 hours in a day.

The car had been running for nearly two hours. Would I have to wait until it ran out of gas?  Then I could technically get it towed somewhere.  But the key would still be a problem.

I stalked the dealership and latched on to the first uniformed person, Jason Brooks, an evening service attendant.  I pleaded for help, and he took pity.  He may have ventured into forbidden territory, but I was selfish – and thankful.  He disconnected the battery.  Funny.  I never realized that the battery of this car was in the trunk.  At least I know where things are in my Suburban.  This does not necessarily apply to its rear bumper when parallel parking, though.

Even I know that the battery is what you need to crank the car.  Once it’s running, the alternator, connected to the spinning engine, works to recharge the battery.  Jason then removed the ignition fuse.  Finally, the car stopped.  Relief.  Most likely, it was going to need a new lock cylinder.  It was now well past the ending time of the meeting, had I actually attended it.

Was I willing to have the repair done at Country Chevrolet?  Why not?  They’re always good to us.  I wouldn’t need to drop off the key, since it was still firmly rooted in the car.

The next day, $ 417.95 later, after the ignition lock cylinder and keys were replaced and the car was reprogrammed, I got the car back.  Ouch.  Was it something I had done to the car?  I was trying to clear my conscience.  No – it just happened.  Was it something I hadn’t done?  Like listen to my husband?

I congratulated my husband on loaning me the car so he hadn’t had to deal with this fate the next day after his long commute to work.  One should always think positively.

So for the next meeting, should I go and show that I am not a slave to superstition?  Or should I listen to my husband, and show that I am capable of learning?

A drive to remember – or help me remember

Printed in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Feb. 3, 2012

 Just as we finished our Thai eggplant lunch in Charlottesville, I spotted the driver whose car I had bumped while attempting to parallel park. I had had a glimmer of hope when I had read the bumper stickers on that car. I believed that the driver was a loving and forgiving being whose single greatest concern was the sanctity of life, not a minor black smear from my rear bumper.


This is why I go bumper sticker-less. I would prefer that your impression of me come directly from me, not from signage on my clothing or my car. Sometimes, people with the saintliest bumper stickers drive like hounds of hell. I wonder whether the car has been stolen or if the fanatical driver has forgotten what he or she was hoping to advertise while cutting you off.


This is like the introduction some men believe to be flattering to their mates. “And here is my beautiful wife.” Gentlemen, if your wife is good looking, others will probably notice without your announcement, unless it is for the Society for the Visually Impaired. And if she is beautiful to you because she is a loving person, we will notice that too, eventually. But we will notice.


I told the man that I had “tapped” his car. He scrunched up his face and scrutinized the front of his car and the back of mine. Too bad I didn’t have any bumper stickers.


“Look!” I cheerfully pointed to the neon green sticky note I had left on his driver’s side window. I wanted to show that even though I was a clumsy driver, I wasn’t a criminal. I omitted to mention my mental debate over leaving any note and my “military escort” (as well as military witnesses) who had helped me maneuver into the space.


I held my guilty, eggplant-laden, breath and sighed with relief after passing this driver’s inspection.


In my daughter’s dorm room, I latched on to her laptop to get online and fire off “meaningful responses” to nine of my peers’ papers for my education class. Having defeated that deadline, I rushed back to Warrenton to meet my youngest children’s bus.


The brakes kept making odd sucking actions whenever I stopped. At the stoplight I tried the old trick of parking the car, reapplying and releasing the emergency brake. Later, I pulled off and tried reversing the car as well. My approach to car maintenance is entirely medieval. If a series of steps has worked in the past, I religiously perform the ritual. No matter that the emergency brake wasn’t “stuck” this time. The car was acting weird, so I could too.


Finally, a flash of brilliance: Why didn’t I call my husband? This is specialization at its best. He took a quick history. When had I first noticed a problem? Did anything remarkable occur on the drive down?


“Oh, yeah…” my brain released its brake and shifted into gear. “Come to think of it…” I had stopped short on the way down. The anti-lock brake system had pulsed into action. I had been distracted, but not, as you might think, by my phone. I was pointing out an adult-sized motorized tricycle on a side road and failed to keep my eyes on the bumper in front of me. Truthfully, I do some stupid things while driving. If I could restrict the stupidity to behind the wheel, life would be simpler. It might be shorter too, but definitely simpler.


We ruled out everything else. My husband reminded me that the car had occasionally behaved this way once the ABS had been engaged. (Not that this happens every day, okay? That’s why I couldn’t remember this behavior.) I am in danger of incriminating myself in writing and receiving a home visit by an officer with a citation.


I got home just in time to attend to the children. My teenaged boys had already met the two youngest off the bus. I only had a few minutes at home before I needed to get to the meeting that I really wanted to attend that evening.


Once again, my husband suggested that I forgo this voluntary meeting. (I had neglected to mention the parking lot incident to him, of course.) I had promised to take a friend, I reminded him, and that was important. The kids and he could scavenge something for supper, right? Was the sum and significance of my existence to provide timely meals?


“Well,” my husband, who is more gracious than I am when faced with defeat, suggested, “why don’t you drive my car since yours has been acting up?”


Had I known then that I was infected with the Modified Midas Touch for Vehicles, the one that says you will regret whatever steering wheel you touch, I would have listened to reason, my conscience, or possibly even my husband. I should have stayed home.

But some mistakes you have to make for yourself. It’s just getting others to pay for them that is the tricky part.

Voodoo and eggplant and politics

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on January 27, 2012


Ever have that feeling of impending doom? I should have had it that day.

I should have been driving home and spending money cautiously, but instead I was wasting time and about to waste money on eating lunch at “Tara Thai” in Charlottesville. To accomplish this, I first needed to squeeze my massive vehicle into a tight parallel parking spot. With lunchtime and ongoing construction in the area, spaces were limited.


My maneuvers were ridiculous and complicated. I could barely see the car parked behind me. All this, just to have a “last lunch” together with my second daughter at UVA. Suddenly, there was tapping at my window. A uniformed soldier had walked into the street to offer verbal instructions for me to finish the parking job. I rolled down my window.


A godsend! Here was constructive assistance, far better than what I usually give. My bellowed advice usually contains helpful phrases like “Watch out!” or “Hey, hey, hey…be careful!”


I give the vague advice of politicians running for office. “I will drive this country better than my esteemed competitor, who is actually a vile worm, and I have the infomercials to prove it.” Response: cheers and thunderous applause. “This Nitwit Numbskull, whom I am too much of a statesman to call by name, will very likely drive us off this perilous cliff.” Response: jeers. “But I will steer our nation confidently back on the path that will please God and appease the restive souls of our Founding Fathers.” Response: climactic applause with a standing ovation. “To do this, my good people, I need your votes, and more importantly, your financial support.” Response: flashing smiles, flashing cameras, and flashing checkbooks.


Here, instead, was a member of the military, or perhaps a woman whose fashion sense incorporated khaki digital camouflage and the accompanying brown boots. She was going to guide me step by step.


I hoped my daughter would take note: Maternal sacrifice for the eggplant eating bliss of someone who had once been an egg inside of me. “Thank you!” I shouted in relief. “I’m glad I didn’t realize how close that car was behind me, or I might have hit it just out of nervousness.”


“Actually,” the female soldier said, “you just did. I figured you needed help.”


Great. This was just great. My cash and time expenditures were going to exceed all plans. I gave my daughter an accusing look. Hadn’t I said this lunch thing was a bad idea? Maybe I hadn’t said so, but I had thought it, hadn’t I?


This was when we were trying to reduce our expenses. I already felt guilty about splurging even ten dollars on lunch. Now I had hit a car in the effort to do so. I had stupidly not even felt the impact, but I had loads of witnesses seated outside the Panera right next to the tiny Thai restaurant. It had beckoned us, like a Siren, with its promise of spicy eggplant. Just like the ill-fated sailors of Greek legends or the recent cruise ship captain, I was oblivious to the treacherous “rocks.”


A better driver could have parked there. I should never have attempted it. Once or twice, I have braved a single parallel spot in Old Town Warrenton where the street seems wider and the spaces seem longer. After I have held up traffic for a couple of minutes, my right rear tire ends up trying on the feel of high heels while it is perched on the curb. Then, too late, I wonder whether it was really worth it. Why hadn’t I just parked behind the Post Office, in the area designated for daft drivers?


My daughter looked at me sympathetically, but quickly vindicated herself with, “I told you it was okay – I would have eaten at Runk.” Runk is the curious name of a dining hall that lends itself to jokes about being rank. Runk also rhymes with stunk, but at least it does not require parallel parking. Actually, I have eaten there, and the food is just fine. But then again, I’m no food critic. I like almost any food I haven’t had to prepare myself.

I rushed to inspect the car behind me. There was no damage except a black smear from my bumper. I left a note with my information on a neon-green sticky note on the driver’s side window.


I debated with myself. Was it really necessary? I had barely tapped that car. I decided to be a good role model for my driving daughter. Also, there were lots of witnesses, several being uniformed military personnel. Why take chances?


The Thai eggplant dish was as delicious as usual, but who could enjoy it? Guilt mars the taste of pleasure. I kept checking the street for the owner of that car. I fired up my Dell Mini to start homework, but got the faintest, feeblest Wi-Fi signal from Panera. It was like trying to detect signals from alien life forms.


Then, I tipped my glass and spilled some water in my lap. What? Did someone have a voodoo doll of me? I should have headed home and put myself down for a nap. But the weirdness of the day had only just begun. Stay tuned.

How indecision and eggplant conspired against me

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Jan. 20, 2012


My second daughter, who has been vegetarian for the past few years, is very fond of the spicy eggplant dish at a Thai restaurant near her campus. Sorry. She’s at UVA, so I’m not allowed to say “campus.” It’s called “The Grounds.” I have joked that her dorm room, as labeled on the GPS, should be renamed “Spicy Eggplant.”


I had just dropped her off from Fall Break and had a busy day planned: I was backlogged on homework, and had a meeting to attend later that evening.


We unloaded her things, and the clock and our stomachs announced lunchtime. The dining hall was open. She could have her lunch there, and I would head back on the ninety-minute drive back to Warrenton. The dining halls there have a few, well-rehearsed and often repeated, options for vegetarians. (Just like home, actually!)


I hesitated to abandon her to a solo lunch. Sensing my weakness, she immediately suggested we split a dish of spicy eggplant. With an extra bowl of rice, there would be plenty and it would cost no more than fast food.


I contemplated the eggplant. Should I spend extra time in Charlottesville and another ten dollars when neither was in the plan?


Indecision – it has been a lifelong struggle. Well, that and procrastination would be my two biggest struggles. And disorganization. Don’t forget that one. Don’t ask me to choose the one that is my flagrant flaw, because indecision will get in the way.


My husband is the opposite: He can make up his mind in two seconds, and then he swiftly falls into action to “execute the plan.” I waffle. I consider the options. What if this and what if that? I spend so much time trying to make a decision that there is little time left to carry it out. At that point, I feel more like executing myself than the plan. And then I’m still not sure I might have chosen the right path.


If I had been Roberta Frost, I might have made this into a lovely poem: “The Eggplant Not Eaten.” But alas, there I stood, unable to make a quick decision and say with enthusiasm, “What a great idea! Sure, let’s go get lunch, and then I’ll be on my way.” Nor could I make a clean and guiltless get-away, giving a quick hug and driving off. Whichever I did, I would be full of self-doubt. At least that comes easily to me.


She would be eating dining hall food all semester, could it be so awful that she couldn’t go ahead and have it for lunch today too? I had granola bars to crunch on the way home. This involved no extra time or expense.


On the other hand, she would be eating dining hall food all semester anyway. What was the harm in the spicy eggplant today? Wasn’t this yet another opportunity to “create a memory”? What sort of memory would I create by rushing off? “Mom is a cheapskate. Mom is too busy with this class and her meetings.” And didn’t the granola bars have enough preservatives that they could keep for this time next year, if needed?


I looked over at her hopeful eyes. Unfortunately, all of my children have these eyes that can make you do things against your better judgment. No matter what I did, I knew I would be making the wrong choice.


We drove to the nearby shopping area. I don’t know what it is about traveling to a college campus or college “grounds,” but they always seem to be under construction. I maneuvered into the packed parking lot. Cars darted into parking spaces that I was sure I had noticed first.


Driving under the influence of the clock can bring out the evil in most drivers. Sometimes it can also bring out epithets and oaths, as well as impatient hand gestures. For me, it just brought out that familiar feeling of self-doubt. If I were doing the “right thing,” wouldn’t I have been able to glide into a spot? We snaked our way through the busy lot for the second time. Should I just forget this idea and turn back? Or would that show my inability to persevere – another flaw?


I finally found the answer: a parallel parking spot, right in front of the restaurant!


You might think a short woman driving a Suburban would hesitate to parallel park this behemoth. Not me, but only when there are two contiguous spots, so I can just drive in. There was only one spot bounded by compact cars. Squeezing into this parking space should be no more difficult than squeezing into the jeans that used to fit. The only difference between getting these two bodies into their respective restricted spaces is that jeans are somewhat flexible. Parking spaces are not. Also, there is a 1.5-ton difference in our bodies.


It would probably take me fifteen vehicular manipulations. I could barely see the car behind me, as it was low to the ground and very close. Much too close. Stay tuned for the rest of this eggplant excursion.

Slave to Superstition or Indecision

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Jan. 13, 2012

Are you superstitious? In theory, I’m not. But I don’t live in Theory. Just as with learning in the classroom, theory and practice can be cousins who are so far removed, that sometimes, they barely recognize each other. Of course, you might then argue that Theory and Practice could make for a perfect marriage, but we’re not going there. At least, not today. And not for the one dollar you shelled out.


I know better than to be superstitious, but I don’t DO better.


For example, there was a meeting this week I really wanted to attend, but the last time I tried to do so against my husband’s advice, all sorts of things went wrong. You know the kind of “advice” I’m talking about. The advisor throws his or her hands up, almost as high as the exasperated eyebrows arch, and says, “Fine, go ahead. Do what you want, but don’t say I didn’t warn you afterwards.”


Don’t pretend like you haven’t given out that kind of advice. If there are children in your household, you are probably doing it right now. “I would ADVISE you not to bother me now that I have my coffee and am reading this wonderful woman’s column. If you attempt to do so and get hurt in the process, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


It’s not that he has specifically, verbally, said, outright, that doing so is a waste of my time, and my time, as the mom, translates into our time, as in the family. It’s just the uncanny series of events that followed that were hard to ignore.


The last time this happened was a few months ago, so it is recent enough to be fresh in my feeble memory. Unfortunately, many of us spend our lives learning and relearning the same series of lessons. I know I have been given this lesson before, but life, like in the classroom, sometimes results in cramming enough to pass the impending exam, and not maintaining the knowledge to keep you out of future scrapes.


If I think hard enough, I think I can really blame everything on a dish of spicy Thai eggplant, as innocent as it may sound.


This was back when my family was in belt-tightening mode. (We are now officially out of belt-tightening. I feel I must announce that in case you have “caught” my family dining out to celebrate a special occasion, or carrying out, to lament at Mom’s time management issues.)


I had had to drop my second daughter off to UVA one weekday morning, right after her fall break. I had homework that had to be completed, and I also had that meeting I planned to attend when I returned home that evening.


My husband discouraged my going to the meeting, considering I was already behind on the homework, and the rest of the week threatened to be crazier than our normal-crazy. Did I listen? Of course, I didn’t. We all know that we are smarter than our spouses. It is just the humanitarian in us that prevents us from saying so outright. Instead, we simply smile and do not comply or we sweetly sabotage their silly ideas.


Skipping this meeting was not an option, I said. I had already promised to take a friend, and I didn’t want to let her down. It would, indeed, make for a busy day, but you need to remember that I am (almost) as American as you are, and therefore, I follow the rules of American Mathematics. Busy = productive = fulfilled = happy. We think it only works in that order. No has dared try to reverse the flow. We validate being busy and we dismiss the notion that anything good or contemplative could come out of “idleness.” We treat our time the way we treat our closet space: it doesn’t matter how much you have, you are sure to clutter it up anyway.


So I get down to UVA. I’ve got my reading to do for class, so that afterwards I can tackle the assignment. I have my tiny laptop with me, just in case I can get onto wi-fi somewhere and post peer review comments on other students’ papers, as required. We get there just in time, and I am ready to whip around and head home. But here comes the first hint that something stupid is about to happen. It is lunchtime. “So, Mom, do you want to split a spicy eggplant dish with me?”


This daughter can get you to spend money in nearly criminal amounts. Should I leave and get back to Warrenton, or should I hang out a bit, and try to get some work done out there? Ah, Indecision, you’ve come back to me again.


Maybe it’s Indecision, and not Superstition that is really at the root of my problems. Stay tuned to next week for me to actually get to the topic. What, did you really expect me to finish a WHOLE story in one little aliquot of 850 words? See you next week – you can decide whether that requires knocking on wood or not.