Emptying the dishwasher…with tongs?

I told my son that if he helped me clean and took a shower (his response, “What?!!!  A shower?!?!?”) I would take him to work with me.  It’s Sunday.  I don’t work on the weekends.  We just go to “work” for the internet (and multiple computers to use it).  I find that if I get caught up on personal internet-based stuff on Sunday, I can get more computer-based work stuff done during the week, which after all, is what I get paid the big bucks for.

Big bucks for the non-profit world, anyway.  Everything is relative.

As I’m getting out of the shower this morning, I hear a bunch of repetitive clinking noises coming from the kitchen.  Repetitive noises drive me crazy.  And guess what?  My son loves to make repetitive noises.  It’s one of the subtle signs of his very mild autism.  I tell him, “Stop!  That’s annoying”…a few times.

By the time I make it out to the kitchen, I’m wondering why it’s taking him so long to empty the dishwasher.  My eyes almost popped out of my head when I saw that he was using a pair of tongs to empty the dishwasher.

“What are you doing?!!”

“I forgot to wash my hands.”

“Wash your hands!.”

“Okay.”

Kids are weird.

Grandma Bernadine

Yesterday, I wrote about my dad’s mother, Grandma Vera.  Today I am about to write about my mom’s mother.  I don’t even know her name, partly because I never actually knew her. 

The content of this post is depressing, but it’s the truth.  I will move on to happier topics ASAP, I promise!

My Grandmother Bernadine (I just found her name through a strategic Google search) was not a happy person.  Her family had emigrated to the US from France, via Canada.  Her most noteworthy recollection from her own childhood was of her own mother attempting to sell her to strangers.  I suspect that’s not exactly what happened, but I’ll get into that another time.  She married my grandfather, who had been abandoned by his own parents and raised by his grandparents.

My grandfather was an alcoholic.  So was Bernadine.  Bernadine spent a lot of time drunk, passed out on the couch.  She also spent a lot of time standing in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and repeatedly banging her fist against her thigh.  Other times she was prone to various types of drama, although I’m sure I never heard about most of it.  What I did hear is that she once drowned a cat in the toilet in a drunken rage.  I am sorry to even include that, but it’s the sad truth.  Bernadine and her husband fought…a lot.  A gun was fired in the house on at least one occasion.  Some of the fights managed to spill out into the front yard.

At one point Bernadine managed to get into the car that was parked in the driveway and locked the doors.  My grandfather climbed on top of the car and banged on it with his fists.  This is the kind of chaos, humiliation, and fear my mother grew up with.

After many years of marriage, raising four children, and witnessing the arrival of a number of grandchildren, Bernadine killed herself.  I have no idea what finally sent her over the edge.  I’ve always been too afraid to ask many questions about her.  Apparently she died the year I was born.  What I do know is that I grew up with her ghost, so to speak.  I was born to a woman whose own mother had just killed (or was just about to kill) herself.  She, in subtle and indirect ways, has been a huge part of my life.

Crazy Women in my Family…or Were They Just Feminists?

I can’t write about life without writing about mental health…and I can’t write about mental health without writing about my parents…and their parents…

Although I had three grandmothers, the two crazy ones (of course!) were blood-related.  I’ll talk about my step-grandma last because she was normal and by the time I get to her, the mood will need some lightening up.

I’ll start by telling you what little I know about my paternal grandmother, “Grandma Vera.”  By the time I was old enough to develop any memories of her, she was a small, feeble woman and her boobs hung down past her waist (sorry, I’m just sharing what I remember!).  Since she had trouble getting around, my brother and I would stay with her on the weekends to help out.  I was in elementary school at the time.  She didn’t like us sleeping in the same room, but we did anyway.

The way it was explained to us was that she used to be a teacher in a juvenile detention home and suspected only the worst from children.  At some point, I asked my parents what Grandma Vera was like when she was younger.  Apparently, when she was younger she weighed somewhere between 300 and 400 lbs.  I was later quite relieved to realize that’s why her boobs were so long (she shrunk, but her skin didn’t).  For years, I had been afraid that’s what my boobs would like like when I got old.

Grandma Vera drove around in a flashy pink convertible and didn’t allow her children to call her “mom”; instead, they had to address her by her first name.  She was not known for being nurturing.  She didn’t seem to care for children, although she had 6 of them.  Life must have sucked before birth control…and career options.  God knows she didn’t go into teaching because she loved children.  It must have been her only option.

My dad recalls, with some resentment, how Vera pampered his sisters, but not the boys in the family.  The boys barely had enough clothes between them to get dressed in the morning.  My father went through high school with a single pair of jeans and a missing front tooth while his sisters wore dresses and took piano lessons.  This hurt my father, but he never seemed to hold it against her.  He was always there for her in her final years.

One cool thing I remember about my grandma…she taught me to read before I learned in school.  I remember how exciting it was to learn to read.

Hungover From (Middle School) Speed Dating

Last night was “back to school night” at my son’s middle school.  There was another meeting beforehand that we attended, so we ended up spending more than 3 hours at the school.  I’ve been feeling unusually out of it all day today and it finally occurred to me that my brain is fried…because of last night!

After sitting through an hour-long meeting about an upcoming experiential learning program, we proceeded to go through our kid’s schedules, literally.  I’ve never tried speed dating, but that’s what I imagine it feels like, but 100 times worse.  At least with speed dating, there is mood lighting and alcohol involved.  To the contrary, back to school night didn’t so much as feature a single refreshment…of any kind.  Also, I needed to, um, use the bathroom, but didn’t know where they were, nor did I want to re-experience a middle school bathroom (do they still smell like cigarette smoke and hairspray…or was that high school?).  Plus, the night was so action-filled, there was no down time go to the bathroom.  I guess that’s why they didn’t offer us refreshments.

Anyway, we went through his 8 classes, spending just enough time in each class to relive the hellish experience we call the “US public school system.”  Except for two or three classes, the fluorescent lights were freaking blinding.  How many fluorescent light bulbs does one ceiling need?  Add sunglasses to the outstanding list of school supplies he needs.  Then there was “passing time,” where they gave us 4 minutes to get from one class to another.

It was a bloody obstacle course.  I wonder whose idea it was to stick various large “informational” tables in the hallways?  Each transition was stressful…it was like being caught on the Capitol Beltway during rush hour, except the traffic was stopping because of the tables that were in the way as well as people stopping to take in the scenery.  I had to laugh at one point when the people ahead of us stopped to greet someone they knew.  I’m not sure what country they were from, but it was a three-kiss culture.  Kiss one side of the cheek, then the other, then the first one again.  If they didn’t look so happy to see each other, I would have been irritated with them. 

I don’t know how kids make it through the day.  So much noise…time is going by too quickly…or worse, too slowly.  Trying to weave through unpredictable traffic in the hallways under time constraints.  And the worst part was the lights.  I am absolutely exhausted.  I feel kind of guilty for sending my son to school in that kind of environment.  I am lucky that I have an office…I never turn on the overhead fluorescent lights.  Instead, I have two lamps with fluorescent bulbs (at least they have shades so I don’t have to wear them) and a series of about 7 small halogen lights.  My office is very relaxing…and quiet!

Thank You: United Airlines Flight 93

On this 7th anniversary of September 11, 2001, I am so grateful to the people on board United Airlines Flight 93 that morning.  The anniversaries have gotten easier for me over the years, but this year is harder than last.  Probably because I visited the Newseum in Washington, DC earlier this summer, where there is a permanent exhibit dedicated to 9/11.  It’s a powerful multimedia exhibit.  And last weekend, I watched a program about 9/11 on the National Geographic channel.  Every time I hear the timeline of the events that morning, I try to remember exactly where I was.

That morning turned into a blur.  After the fact, I was able to piece together that I drove past the Pentagon roughly 20 minutes before the plane hit it.  I was eating breakfast with my son at Union Station when it hit…or maybe it hit while I was walking him to day care a few blocks away.  What I do remember is that when I got to work and asked my coworker/friend Sarah if she was ready to take me to the airport, she said, “You’re not going anywhere.  All of the airports in the country are closed.”  I had no idea what she was talking about.  I thought she was kidding, but she wasn’t the only person acting strangely.

Moments later, we were in the board room, watching live coverage on a TV screen.  I have no idea how long I stared at the screen.  I was watching footage of the twin towers…and then the pentagon…and then heard a mention of a fourth plane…I unconsciously did the math…I realized the fourth plane was likely headed for the US Capitol, 3 blocks away.  Sarah and I turned to eachother at the exact same time and said “We have to get Baby Bear.” 

Although I had walked Baby Bear to day care, my car was parked in the parking lot adjacent to the building.  I rushed to grab my keys, left my cell phone behind, and we rushed to my car.  I drove, in a complete state of panic, to pick my son up from day care.  I have never been so scared in my life.  I was shaking so badly that my right leg was bouncing up and down every time I took my foot off the gas.  I wondered if I should get out and run and let my Sarah drive, but the traffic wasn’t bad yet…people were just beginning to realize what was happening.  I picked him up from day care less than an hour after dropping him off.

We decided to head to Sarah’s apartment, which was a good 15 blocks east of the Capitol.  That seemed like a safe distance.  Unfortunately, we got stuck in gridlock traffic just north of the Capitol.  It was terrifying to be stuck in traffic next to the most likely target of the fourth plane.  By the time we reached her place, the media had kicked into full gear.  We discovered the fourth plane had crashed in Shanksville, PA.  The immediate threat was over. 

I am so grateful to the people on board that flight.  They gave their own lives to save others.  My heart goes out to their family and friends, who also made an unthinkable sacrifice that day.