Postcards from Suburbia

Parent of the year award

2010-02-11T18:33:00.002-05:00

Tonight's dinner: serve-yourself tortellini. Martha Stewart would be proud of the presentation.

Pull up a chair

2010-01-31T19:37:00.003-05:00

People keep asking me if I'm going to start blogging again. My standard answer: "No, I don't want to write another grief blog." That's what happened after my dad died. The blog became a place to express my grief. I know that's helpful and therapeutic and blah, blah, blah, but the association makes me sad.

And I haven't needed anything else to make me sad. I've got that covered, thank you very much.

Plus, there's the fact that my thoughts are scattered, bordering on incoherent - not really ideal for writing. For instance, I've spent the last five minutes - since I typed the word "sad" - reflecting on the word "sad", turning it around, thinking about why it's three letters and wondering how it measures up against the word "blue" (a word my sister Karen offered up one day recently). "Blue" works pretty well, too. I like to use that one when I'm talking to my brothers or sister. It sums it up nicely. "I've just been feeling blue."

But anyway, enough on the semantics of grief. The fact is that I'm sitting here at the computer - Barb's computer, at that - and I'm writing a blog. It's all because of one simple sentence, because that's the way I always conceive of my blog posts - I think of a phrase or a title and that's all I need. I sit down and the computer and the rest comes.

Tonight, though, all I've got is the one thought. No elaboration, no funny little story. Just one persistent thought.

I thought of writing about it because it actually doesn't make me sad or blue. It makes me smile, even chuckle. The thought is this: I feel like Death has pulled up a chair and taken a seat right next to me.

Death is just hanging out, sitting in his chair. Wherever I am, there he is. Sometimes on my left, sometimes on my right. And somehow, as I see Death sitting next to me, I think that he's actually a pretty cheerful dude. He's witty, with a dry, sarcastic sense of humor. He cuts right to the heart of matters, no pretense, no bullshit. Cut and dry. Real. The kind of company I pretty much prefer.

I think I'm starting to take comfort in his presence. It kind of feels like he gets it.

Me and Death. Just hanging out.

Déjà vu

2009-10-14T18:06:00.006-04:00

In the words of the venerable Tom Waits, "You know the story. Here it comes again."

Today

6:15 - Wake up.

6:30 - Make Wolfgang's lunch because he forgot to do it last night.

6:30 - Help Gunther pack his football gear.

6:40 - Get ready for work.

6:40 - Say goodbye to Wolfgang, remind him of today's afterschool schedule.

6:45 - Supervise the walking & feeding of the dogs.

7:00 - Wake up Otto, help him choose picture day clothes, fix his hair.

7:15 - Say goodbye to Gunther, remind him of today's afterschool schedule.

7:45 - Remember that I need the minivan today. Switch David's briefcase to my car.

7:50 - Pack the minivan with football gear, the saxophone, my lunch.

8:00 - Get Otto on the bus, remind him of today's afterschool schedule.

8:02 - Call Gramps to remind him that I'm bringing over Gunther's football gear.

8:10 - Drop off saxophone at Gunther's school.

8:15 - Drop off the football gear at Grammy and Gramps'.

8:20 - Call a friend on the way to work - it's been forever since I called.

8:35 - Feel good. Feel real good. The family is dispatched. Everyone has everything they need and knows everything they need to know to keep our world running smoothly. And who made it all happen? Who got everything done? Yes, that'd be me.

8:35 - Arrive at work. Realize that I left my laptop at home. I am useless without it.

And there you have it.

With a little help from my neighbors ... please ...

2009-10-13T08:55:00.010-04:00

My kids must really stink. They must smell so bad that if they were to get in your car, you'd be hard pressed to ever remove the stench.

Or maybe it's our minivan that stinks. Maybe it smells so bad that if your child was to ride in it to school, he'd have his own personal PigPen cloud and have to be sent to the nurse to be disinfected.

Or maybe it's not the smell of the vehicle but the speed at which it is driven. Maybe I drive so fast and so recklessly that if you were to let your child get into the car with me, you'd wish you'd called that phone number on the TV for some of that Gerber baby life insurance.

It's got to be one of these three things. Why else would parents be so damned resistant to carpooling?

They'd rather make 4 trips back and forth to the school in the span of an hour to accommodate all their kids' events than share a ride with the Wallachs.

They'd rather wake up at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning to drive their kid to a football game across the state - just to get there and have nothing to do for an hour in the rain before the game starts and the rest of the family arrives - than share a ride with the Wallachs.

They'd rather have 3 cars leave our street at the same time every morning to go to the same place to drop kids off - only to turn right around and come back home - than share a ride with the Wallachs.

I don't get it. We waste time and gas. We get frazzled and rush from one thing to the other. It really could be much easier if parents would only let it.

But, no. Maybe they feel that they must always be present and involved in their kids' lives. Maybe they are so kidcentric that they think they owe it to their kids to shuttle them around. Or maybe they don't want to look like they can't manage this life they've created.

Either that, or we really do stink.

Thank goodness I'm not a nail biter

2009-09-19T09:29:00.003-04:00

It's taken two rounds of steroids, two tubes of Cortizone 10, two tubes of Zanfel, one bottle of Caladryl and 1/2 a package of Benadryl, but I think I'm finally over the hump with this poison ivy.

For a while, I was good about the scratching, and I resisted. Toward the end here, though, I gave in, especially to those late night, in bed, self-satisfying indulges.

A highlight was last Sunday, when I sat on the front stoop with my friend Claudia and David. While we sipped our Chianti, I discovered that the edge of the concrete stair was the perfect thing for scratching the back of my knees. Ahhh, heaven.

But now I'm done. And, except for the scabs, the bruising and the screwed up menstrual cycle (the last two I attribute to the steriods), I'm as good as new.

I can't help but wonder what's next.

No good deed

2009-09-09T16:39:00.004-04:00

Okay, so this is bittersweet:

This is not:

I just called the doctor asking for a prescription of oral steroids. I'm itching in places I don't think I can treat topically.

I ain't no stinkin' horse

2009-09-06T21:59:00.008-04:00

So, I've started running again. After two months of an absolutely sedentary existence, I put on my running shoes and all my running gear (which, btw, fits a bit tighter than I remember) and hit the road.

Friday I ran 2 miles at a pathetically slow pace. Today, I ran those same two miles at an only slightly less pathetic pace. But, pathetic or not, both runs felt pretty good. I've found that all the long-distance running I did for the 1/2 marathon this past spring has paid off. My body now seems to have some muscle memory for running, and it just goes. Not very fast, but at least without much drama.

Tomorrow morning, Wolfgang is going to run the 5k portion of the New Haven Road Race. At one point - before the pneumonia knocked me on my ass - I was planning to run the 20k, or 13 miles. It was going to be part of my training for the November 1 NYC marathon. Alas, the two-month battle with pneumonia caused me to abandon my plans to run the marathon. At this point, it would be a virtual impossibility for me to do the necessary training to survive 26.2 miles.

Still, Wolfgang was encouraging me to run the 5k tomorrow. Not really with him, since he'd finish in half the time, but just to enjoy the running experience.

I was all in. I could run 3 miles and not have a pneumonia relapse. I'd just go slow. It'd all be good.

Until I looked at the racing brochure and realized that, as a woman of over 150 pounds, I'd fall into the category of a "Clydesdale."

There's only so much that one woman can take.

I will NOT be racing tomorrow.

(I googled "woman running" to find a picture for this post, and here's what I found. They're easily over 150 pounds, and they don't look like clydesdales. So there.)

Out of house and home

2009-08-31T20:45:00.006-04:00

Here's what our three sons brought to lunch and consumed today:

2 peanut butter sandwiches
2 ham sandwiches
1 salami sandwich
5 oreo cookies
2 containers of mandarin oranges
1 bowl of yogurt & honey
2 containers of sliced cucumbers
2 fiber one bars
3 thick slices of banana bread

It's disgusting and it's exhausting, because, despite a trip to Costco, an afternoon baking, trips to the local produce stand, the local Italian market and the grocery store, they'll be out of options by mid-week.

And they'll be hungry.

The Rubber Duck Legacy

2009-08-29T09:45:00.011-04:00

It almost seems exploitive to write about it. More mileage out of the rubber duck? Yes, it's true.

For those of you who don't know the story, here's the initial confession.

Here's the evidence:

Here's today's collection:

Here's what Wolfgang wrote THREE YEARS LATER on his first-day-of-high school get-to-know-you questionaire:

Q: What would your parents say about you?
A: Don't decapitate my rubber ducks.

On a mission from God

2009-07-28T21:50:00.004-04:00

What does every nine-year-old want for his birthday?

That's right. His own personal Blues Brothers DVD.

We're so proud.

Pomp and Circumstances I forgot to anticipate

2009-06-25T20:58:00.003-04:00

I just didn't know that it was going to be such a big deal. It's eighth grade, for God's sake, not high school.

The story goes like this:

A week ago my mother-in-law informed me that her grandson's graduation ceremony would be today. Her grandson. My son. I told her I didn't think so. It was a "step up" something or other, when the kids prepare to go from middle school to high school. Step up, not graduation.

No, she said. I called the school. It's graduation. 9:30 at the high school.

Good enough. Middle school graduation. No big deal.

David couldn't make it to the "graduation," but Wolfgang said he didn't care. It's not a big deal, he said.

Grandma asked me what she should wear. I told her that if I wasn't going to work immediately afterward, I'd be wearing shorts and a t-shirt. It's casual - not a big deal.

But I forgot that this is the trophy generation, and EVERYTHING is a big deal.

We arrived at the high school to find custodians directing lines of traffic of parents and grandparents, dressed up and carrying arms full of flowers for their grads.

Whoops.

The 90 minute ceremony was actually quite nice, and quite full - speeches, awards, music, diplomas. Add caps and gowns and you'd have the exact same ceremony that's going to take place on the exact same stage tomorrow night when the seniors graduate high school.

Don't get me wrong. The whole thing was all very nice, and I'm proud of my kid and his friends and all they've accomplished. I'm only grateful that there wasn't a standing ovation at the end of it all. That would have been more than I could handle.

They like me, they really like me!

2009-06-18T08:36:00.004-04:00

I was interviewed yesterday by a freelance writer for Trinity's alumni magazine, The Reporter. The quarterly publication is just like every other alumni magazine out there - it focuses on two different types of alums -

Now clearly, I am not rich, obsessed with Trinity or curing cancer. So why would they want to talk to someone like me?

Because in celebration of 40 years of coeducation at Trinity, they wanted to write an article focusing on "real" women, women who face the daily stresses of work and family - not killer viruses and high altitude.

Alright, that's worth something. I might not be important, but "real" isn't a bad alternative. An article that celebrates the rest of us is a noble idea, right?

And so we spent an hour and a half together, this freelancer and I. In that time, I'm quite sure I confused her with my philosophies on parenting (benign neglect is easily misunderstood) and feminism (remember my rally against the whole 'time for yourself' notion?).

Still, confused or not, she did a good job of trying to make me feel special, even arguing with my long-held notion that I'm essentially unremarkable, in the most literal sense of the word. By the end, I even started to feel just a little bit ... important.

Like I said, she did a good job. And I almost bought it.

But, apparently, my remarkable real life experience is only worth 300 words.

I should just send her this blog.

"Doing too much"

2009-04-01T18:34:00.003-04:00

I crashed at work today. Got dizzy, queasy and couldn't focus. Dry mouth, pale, the whole thing. There's been some stupid stomach bug going around and I think it managed to sneak up on me in a moment of low resistance.

So, I came home (not really remembering the drive too well) and crashed on the couch. The kids and David eventually trickled in (David, mercifully, with pizza - I don't know how I was going to manage tonight's planned chicken dinner. Queasiness and raw chicken just don't mix).

As evening approaches, I feel slightly more lucid, though my stomach is swirling with flat Coke and my brain is swirling with today's proclamation from the older generation: "Carolyn, you've been doing too much lately."

The thing with being a working mom is that you have to do a lot. The thing with being a mom is that you have to do a lot. The thing with being a human being who wants to stay sane is that you have to do a lot.

And so I do it.

It's only a problem when some nasty virus finds its way around my defenses. Then the work, the family, the kids, the house, the running, the coaching - the living - are suddenly quantifiable. And, inevitable, the quantity is "too much."

I don't have it in me to accept the notion that my life makes me sick. Were that the case, I'd have to either start medicating or just close up shop altogether.

It's a stomach bug, and I hope it doesn't last a lot longer. I've got too much to do.

Drunk posting

2009-03-24T19:24:00.004-04:00

I took a facebook-imposed furlough and ignored my blog for a month. I made friends and uploaded photos and commented on status reports. For a while, I thought that facebook would be the death of this blog. Why would I take the time to compose a 1000+ character blog when I could distill everything in my brain down to a couple measly lines?

Those measly lines were all I needed to convey my general attitude about life:

Carolyn Wallach is bribing the kids to get what she wants. Parenting 101.
Carolyn Wallach is The Road. Wow.
Carolyn Wallach thinks her toxic assets might be shovel-ready.

Now, you see, I thought that last one was brilliant - a witty commentary on the overuse of certain phrases in the media. Bleh. No one had anything to say. No one wanted to comment on my toxic assets or even seemed to know what "shovel-ready" meant.

And so, slowly but surely, as my facebook friends failed to give me the stroking necessary to keep this delicate ego aloft, I have started to feel that I need more than short third-person status reports to keep me sane. I can't sort out or unravel what's in my head in one sentence.

There's so much I want to write. Spring is here and, in classic Carolyn fashion, I'm dropping balls left and right.

I'd like to tell you about it - about the social engagements and niceties that I've totally fucked up, but my glass, the same one that brought me back to this blog, is empty.

Damn you, red wine. And thank you.

Boys are gross

2009-02-19T20:28:00.006-05:00

As I write this, the male members of this family are involved in an in depth conversation about their different bathroom techniques. Folding toilet paper, positioning, etc. This "poop conversation," as they have deemed it, has been going on for at least 10 minutes.

Fortunately, they waited until we had actually finished consuming our food before diving into the food's eventual condition. I had to leave.

They sit there at the dinner table, the boys enraptured, worrying only that their father (or mother) might sometime put an end to the discussion.

Oh wait, now the conversation has moved on to "bear poo" and the latest episode of Man vs. Wild.

I am surrounded by boys and men and boys wanting to be men and men wanting to be boys.

No wonder I get such severe PMS. It's my female hormones trying to assert themselves in this testosterone filled world.

When he's not memorizing Pi,

2009-02-17T08:31:00.002-05:00

this is how Wolfgang spends his time...

Spring Training

2009-02-15T19:30:00.006-05:00

At our house, this is how we know that spring is coming:

Note the handles reinforced with black electrical tape to make the bats stronger and more light saber-like.

Sign me up!

2009-02-09T09:00:00.000-05:00

The following message arrived in my inbox this week:

Hey all,

Just wondering if anyone is interested in pigs again this year. I need to reserve them now. Hope you all liked how the pork turned out!

The beef isn't bad either! I contacted Tim Rodriguez, the guy we bought beef from last year, and he says there are cows available this year for slaughter in Nov, so let me know if you are interested.

Steve

I am now into it for another 1/2 pig

and 1/8 of a cow.

Blasphemy

2009-02-07T08:59:00.005-05:00

I can multitask with the best of them. I can make dinner while helping with homework while cleaning the kitchen while taking phone calls from work while updating my facebook status while making the next day's lunches.

I'm good, very good, but I know when I'm beaten.

Flipping through the channels last night before falling asleep, I came across the most impressive multitasker I've ever seen.

Celeste Zepponi sang her songs to Jesus while, at the very same time, painting wispy angels on canvas. Thank you EWTN for sharing.

If only I had a youtube video to show you what a real multitasker looks like. But alas, you'll have to take my word for it: I've been outclassed by the religious right.

Perhaps I need some divine intervention.

Alert: potential downer

2009-02-02T16:32:00.004-05:00

Don't take this the wrong way. I'm not slipping into another spiral of despair. The sun is higher in the sky, the days are longer, and, perhaps most importantly, I'm back at the gym. The outlook is generally good and I'm doing just fine.

Then again, the email I just sent to a friend begs the question - exactly what the hell is fine? This is what poured out of me:

Sometimes I feel like this is what it's going to be like for the rest of my life - just more and more death. It's like somewhere a valve was opened and it won't ever shut off.

It feels like now that I've tasted the grief of death, it's to be a regular part of my diet.

Where does it all come from and why now?

As I ask the question, I know the answer. In part it comes from working in a newsroom - I find out about death, the manner of death and the pain of death. I guess it also comes from just working at all - interacting and developing relationships with a diverse group of people. And, then, of course, there's the fact of my own loss, which just makes me more sensitive to loss in general.

There. Analysis by Carolyn.

I'm sure that this must be an official grief stage, so that's progress, isn't it?

Creamy goodness

2009-01-26T21:07:00.008-05:00

Does it mean that I'm old if the highlight of my 41st birthday weekend was having David make me grits for breakfast?

There was lots of other good stuff - a fair amount of doting, presents, time with friends. Oh and cake, yummy cake that I made myself because I felt like baking.

I kicked butt in a Scrabble game, I finished The Shipping News, I took a long bath.

But none of it compared to David serving me a hot, salty, buttery bowl of this stuff:

Mmm...I like being old.

A healthy disregard for authority

2009-01-19T16:42:00.003-05:00

Through most of my high school career, I was a fine, upstanding young woman. I was one of those kids the principal or guidance counselors would call on if they needed a model student. I'm not proud, but it's the truth.

Early in my senior year, I wised up. A healthy, cliche case of senioritis. I quit anything and everything, I started questioning teachers and especially administrators. No, actually, I didn't start questioning - I just became downright rude.

Fast forward 15 years. I was a reporter for the local paper, covering the schools and the Board of Ed. I had learned enough not to be rude, but I still didn't trust the authorities. Or, shall we say, I had developed enough savvy to not to take them at face value. I questioned, I probed, I pissed them off. I think they didn't trust me - because I refused to eat up what they were serving.

Fast forward another 9 years, to last week. There I was, in the high school auditorium listening to the principal and the guidance counselors tell me what to expect from next year, when Wolfgang enters high school.

I was totally confused. On the one hand, I felt like it was 1986, and I found myself looking around for someone to make offhand comments to about the questionable intelligence of the speakers. On the other hand, I felt like a reporter and wanted to take out my notebook, write down the administrative spin and then ask the revealing question.

But I knew that I could do neither. I was not an obnoxious high schooler or an investigative reporter.

I was a parent. Of an almost freshman.

And it killed me to admit that those administrators did a good job. I bought what they had to say, hook, line and sinker. Damn them.

CTRL-ALT-DEL

2008-11-13T08:45:00.003-05:00

I feel like I have been reset. Like someone went into my Task Manager, shut down the non-responsive programs and restarted my whole system (yes, I spend much of my day on the computer).

I attribute my improved disposition to two things:

1) Last week, when I was stressed at work and having trouble getting over a couple things that really pissed me off, my loving husband gave me these extremely effective words of advice: "Just fucking get over it." The man knows me well.

2) Last weekend I visited two of my college roommates. In spending time with them - one frustrated in her thus-far-failed attempts to have a baby and the other coping with a newborn and a willful toddler - I discovered that I still have the capacity to care about others.

It feels good to feel better. I'll take it for as long as it lasts.

So this is the anger phase.

2008-10-18T19:37:00.004-04:00

It appears that I have reached a new phase in the grief continuum, the anger phase. Actually, it's more appropriately titled the "anger and resentment" phase.

Inexplicably, I find myself resenting people I know who are happy, doing well and feeling good about themselves.

Now, if this resentment was targeted toward strangers - you know, people on TV who'd won the lottery, the scientist who won the Nobel Prize - that would seem reasonable. It'd even be reasonable if it was directed at people I know who haven't suffered any kind of loss in their lives. I have loss and grief and general dismay, they don't. Makes sense. Textbook, really.

But no, I get the good fortune of directing this toward people who I know, people who I care about and who care about me. Friends who have had their own losses but who seem happy at the moment.

Life feels hard. Happiness is fleeting, untenable. I want no part of those people who feel good about themselves.

How's that for healthy?

The only solace is that I know that it was my father who shared with me the following Gore Vidal quote: "When a friend succeeds, a little part of me dies."

I always thought it was kind of funny in its subtle truth. Right now, though, it just feels ugly.

Grief post #10,463

2008-10-10T08:20:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I find that I use my grief as a way to let me off the hook. When I'm beating myself up about not getting to the gym, having a bad attitude, being so tired or just feeling useless, I try to inject what I've come to refer to as "grief perspective."

It goes like this:

"Someday, Carolyn, you'll look back on this time and realize that the reason you were the way you were and did the things you did is that you were grieving."

Sometimes it helps and I stop the negative inner dialogue. Then, of course, I usually pour a glass of Bushmills. Sometimes it doesn't help though, and I figure that I'm just using it as an excuse.

That's when the self-talk gets really healthy.

Epiphany

2008-10-09T20:52:00.001-04:00

This one might seem a little late in coming, but I had an epiphany this week. I realized that three children is enough.

You might think that I realized that before, say, back in 2001, when I had that little burning procedure done on my fallopian tubes.

No. Back then, what I - or, should I say, what WE - realized - was that three should be enough. We also realized that we could not be trusted to be responsible enough to stop at three. Given enough distance from newborn hell, we definitely would have given into the temptation to make just one more. And then maybe just one more.

So, we took matters into our own hands and put a stop to all that conception nonsense.

Since then, while I have felt that our family is complete, I have always felt that there is room for one more.

Always, until this week.

When I consider what it takes to coordinate the life of this family - of three children at different schools with different homework and different interests and different activities - I just can't imagine giving time and energy to one more person.

I'm all full up.

Upheaval

2008-10-06T21:42:00.003-04:00

In the last two weeks, we yanked Wolfgang out of his inner-city magnet school and moved him to the white bread suburban middle school right here in town. (And, yes, btw, I'm fully aware of the implied meanings of the phrase "inner city.")

You know, you try to do the right thing for your kid, try to expose him to different ideas, experiences, people. We sent him to the school because of its science and technology focus, but I also hoped that being in a racially and economically diverse environment would be a good life experience. After all, life isn't all upper middle class white suburbia.

Well, when I went to the parents' open house at his old school a couple weeks ago, it became clear to me that eighth grade was not going to offer Wolfgang the academic experience we were looking for. I believe that if we left him in the inner city magnet school he wasn't going to be adequately prepared for high school here in white suburbia. So, we pulled him.

After the first day at our local middle school, I asked Wolfgang how it is different from his old school.

His response: "This school is way less ghetto." Or maybe it was, "There are way less ghetto kids here." Either way, you get the idea.

Yeah, I don't what the hell I'm doing when it comes to this parenting thing. About the only thing I can say with any certainty is that whatever I do, I do it deliberately. For whatever that's worth.

My stress remedy

2008-09-30T22:04:00.004-04:00

This, my friends, is how I combat stress:

Grief post #8654

2008-09-29T07:41:00.002-04:00

The cuckoo clock just cuckooed.

If my father was here he would have looked at his watch and announced that the cuckoo is 4 minutes late.

Yesterday he would have pointed out that it was 3 minutes late.

The day before - 2 minutes.

The day before that - 1 minute.

I guess I need to adjust it.

----------

Really, I'll eventually slow down on these grief posts. I'll eventually not feel like I'm all tied in knots.

In the meantime, I'm considering therapy.

The little, or not so little, things

2008-09-28T13:51:00.006-04:00

One of my father's prize possessions was his baby grand Steinway. He bought it sometime when I was a kid - sometime in the 1970s, I think. We must have had another piano before that, but I don't remember.

I think I can speak for my siblings, in this case, to say that we will always think of that piano as one of the things that symbolizes our father - his love of music, his ability to play any jazz standard by ear.

We won't be able to think of the piano without thinking of Christmas Eve parties, when we shouted out requests and my dad played his renditions of Blue Christmas, Route 66 and Paper Moon.

One of the things I love about the Steinway was that my dad was so proud of it. He definitely believed that owning the Steinway established him as a member of the musical elite. It wasn't referred to as a piano or even a baby grand, it was always "the Steinway."

The fate of the piano is now up in the air. Any of the five of us would like to have it, but it ultimately belongs to my mom, who will probably sell it. My dad had been talking about unloading it - he didn't play it anymore and I think seeing it made him sad.

Of course, he never did take the steps to sell it, recently using the excuse that the Steinway market was in a downturn. In truth, I don't think he could ever have parted with it.

On Tuesday, September 16, Henry Z. Steinway, the last Steinway to run the piano-making company, died.

When I heard the news, all I could think of was how my father would have responded to the news. It would have been the first thing we talked about when I got home from work. He would have said something about how most people aren't well-informed enough to know or to care about the death of a Steinway. An elitist to the last.

But I wouldn't have pointed out his snobbery. I would have been proud that I was "well-informed enough" to know what was going on in the world of elite piano-making.

I didn't realize it, but I guess that 40 isn't too old to still want to be Daddy's little girl.

Oh well.

I did it

2008-09-18T21:16:00.002-04:00

Stupid profile over there on the right of the page. Okay, you win world. I finally updated it. One parent.

I'd like to tell each of you who pressured me into updating it to fuck off.

But that would be rude and I'm not sure how long I get to use the grieving excuse.

Show your support

2008-09-17T18:22:00.002-04:00

If Sarah Palin is elected to be the next almost-President of the United States, I'm going to have an elective hysterectomy and send her my uterus. I'll enclose the following note:

Dear Ms. Vice President,

Congratulations on your new job. As a working mother, I know that it can be demanding to hold down a job and raise a family. It's important that we build in efficiencies that allow us to make our lives more manageable.

With that in mind, I'm sending you this gift. I figure that it'll be easier for you to control my body and reproductive decisions if you have my uterus close at hand.

Take care and good luck with that whole glass ceiling thing.

Your friend in state-sponsored feminism,

Carolyn Wallach

Now accepting donations

2008-09-07T21:38:00.004-04:00

Wolfgang wrote this story last week. It just came to him, he said, and so he wrote it down.

Bob's Bad Day

Bob's day started as normal. He woke up at 6:30 to his alarm clock, showered and went into the kitchen. He poured what was left after the rat infestation in his box of Frosted Flakes into his bowl. While Bob ate slowly with his solitary spoon, he regretted not having any milk. On his way out of the apartment, he brushed spiders off his suit and noted the frayed notice of foreclosure pinned to the door.

It took Bob 15 minutes to scavenge a taxi fair by way of digging through his pockets and begging. By the time he reached his office, it had started raining, and Bob had forgotten his key. It was another half hour until another of his co-employees arrived. Bob reached his cubicle and sat in his cold, hard chair. He opened his briefcase and its soaked contents poured out onto his desk.

Bob turned to start typing when he remembered his computer had broke and began to write all of his memos by hand. He was halfway done with the second memo when his pencil broke. He reached for another, only to find that that had been his last. Bob rose and walked all the way to the other side of the office to sharpen his pencil. It was almost time for lunch when Bob remembered the pen in his pocket.

Not being able to afford lunch, Bob continued to work. Slowly but surely, the out-basket filled and the in-basket emptied. Finally, at 8:00, Bob triumphantly placed the last memo in the out-basket. On his way out the door, Bob was stopped by an executive. The man told him that he had received Bob's note, and informed him that a promotion was in order and gave Bob enough money for a taxi fare and a McDonald's dinner.

Bob reached his apartment with the idea of just going directly to bed. He showered, brushed his teeth and got into bed. Bob was slowly drifting off to sleep when a man burst through the door and shot Bob. Bob was alive long enough to see the man take all his belongings and evacuate through the window. Then everything went dark.

And there you have it. Please send whatever you can for my son's future therapy and/or his defense lawyers.

Yeah, I don't know.

2008-09-01T23:23:00.005-04:00

A little effort

2008-09-01T22:54:00.007-04:00

School starts tomorrow.

Well, actually, school started for Wolfgang last week, but it was only one kid, and he's 13 so he's pretty much on his own, anyway. School starts for the younger two tomorrow.

And I'm ready. Yes, I am.

This year looks like this: three boys, three different schools.

Last year, I took the approach of winging it - which meant that I never got any forms in on time, never remembered to take vacation or conference days off from work and found out about field trips when the kids got home with souvenirs that other pitying parents bought for them.

In some ways, it was an experiment. How much do I really need to pay attention?

More than I did, it turned out.

So, this year, I'm ready. Yes, I am.

I bought a white board.

It will solve all my problems. I drew a calendar on it and started to organize September. It's already got vacation days, open houses, guitar lessons, cross country practice, time capsule deadlines - the whole kit and caboodle.

I'm on it, man.

At least for this, the last day of summer, the night before the first day of school.

Will it work? Who the hell knows. But at least I'm trying.

A deadly (pun intended) equation

2008-08-27T17:16:00.002-04:00

PMS + grief = Major personality challenge

PMS + grief = Really, really sleepy

PMS + grief + back-to-school prep = Personality challenged, sleepy, confused me.

Well, the PMS will lift soon, the grief will lessen, and school will start.

There is hope.

But I still have to write those thank you notes. My thanks and gratitude is heartfelt and sincere. But I'm tired. And grieving. And caught up in back-to-school mayhem.

Sigh.

Grief sucks

2008-08-22T01:47:00.002-04:00

The worst thing about the world without my father is not that I didn't see him today. It's that I won't see him tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week. Or next year. Or ever.

It feels wrong.

And I don't like wrong. When things are wrong in my world, I can usually fix them. Or, if worse comes to worse, I know that I can wait them out. I can endure knowing that whatever is wrong will pass. After all, everything passes.

I know that this is a problem I can't fix. I can't make my world right again if I define "right" as having my father here. And so I must endure. I must wait for time to pass.

And it will. Time will pass. Pain will lessen. Grief will fade. I'm told that someday I'll wake up and notice that I feel better. I will have redefined "right." It will happen in time.

In time.

But right now I hate time.

It's taking me further and further away from my father.

So it goes.

2008-08-13T14:26:00.005-04:00

My father showed me this quote several years ago. I had it framed for him and it hung on the wall of his office. I read it at the memorial service on Saturday.

Although the world about us looks threatening and is full of injustice, cruelty, and vulgarity, I cannot be pessimistic about it or cynical...But I have been lucky. I have enjoyed freedom and food enough and good health and I have done the work I enjoy. Life is still good in spite of its visitations and chances...to relish to the full the pleasure of the senses including good food, good wine, good music and beautiful surroundings. I find little in common with those people who tincture all their pleasure with guilt. They seldom bring much joy to the world of comfort to others. I doubt whether plain living is the necessary accompaniment of high thinking. Nor do I believe that virtue consists in leading an ascetic, solitary and unspotted life. A life without commitment to others, without dedication to a purpose beyond ourselves and without close partnership is only half a life.

Carl Binger, "The Way to Perfection"
The Two Faces of Medicine

Lest we be too serious about the whole thing, I shared another favorite. It's one that my father and I would say to each other upon hearing of someone's death.

Well, he wasn't going to write Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, anyway.

Kurt Vonnegut, "Galapagos"

August 3

2008-08-03T04:14:00.007-04:00

Burkhard Wolfgang Voelkening
March 27, 1927 - August 3, 2008.

Bacon anyone?

2008-07-14T22:36:00.006-04:00

You know, I was worried that these little piggies were going to be REALLY cute. Disney cute. Pixar cute. Nah. They're just little pigs. They're kind of cute, I suppose, but they're also kind of Lord of the Flies or Animal Farm creepy.

One of those little beauties is ours. Actually, half of one of those little beauties is ours. I'm hoping that our half of our pig is the bacon/sausage variety.

Here are a couple more pics of David and the boys trying to woo these little piggies to their slop. (Yes, we "slopped the pigs" with food from our "slop bucket" that we now keep in our garage.)

Of course, the pigs wanted nothing to do with us or the slop. I tell you, they know what's goin' on here.

If you knew Otto like I know Otto...

2008-07-07T13:23:00.003-04:00

Wherever the child goes, he makes an impression. Maybe it's his name. Maybe it's his inherent coolness. It never, ever fails to happen and it never, ever fails to amaze me.

Today he and his brother Gunther went to day camp for the very first time ever. Their get-it-done-at-the-last-minute-only-when-it-absolutely-has-to-get-done mother faxed over their health forms last night.

Just in case the fax didn't come through, I also sent each child with a copy of the form.

This morning, I got a call from the nurse, inquiring about said health forms. The fax was illegible so I directed her to the children's backpacks.

Her friendly response indicated that there are 400 children at the camp and that she only interacts with them when they're sick and the chances of her ever seeing the health forms from the backpacks was slim to none.

Oh, but then she remembered. She hasn't met any of the 400 children yet EXCEPT Otto. She happened to bump into his tribe this morning and was intrigued by his name (which is the same name as the camp doctor). So, she actually spoke with him and might be able to find him.

And, by the way, what a charming little boy that Otto is...

He'll have them eating out of his hand before the end of the day. Or, more realistically, by lunch.

On Bushmills I staggered

2008-06-24T21:25:00.007-04:00

from Seamus McCaffrey's Irish Pub

with David and my brother Steven

to the historic Orpheum Theater

to hear Tom Waits perform one of my favorites, "Make it Rain."

The YouTube videos from the concert suck, so, in case you're interested, here he is performing the song on Letterman a few years back. It was even better in Phoenix. For those of you who care and can't understand the man, the lyrics appear below (mostly for you, Wendy).

Song lyrics | Make It Rain lyrics

A new chapter

2008-06-13T09:32:00.004-04:00

Otto got in trouble tonight. He was breaking one of our pool rules, and we're not very flexible or forgiving about those. Basically, he was swimming under the solar cover. Yeah, somehow we just think that's a bad idea.

So after I yanked him out of the pool, screamed at him and sent him to bed, he decided it was a good time in his life to start a journal.

Since I will be the kind of parent that reads my kids' journals, I checked out his charter entry.

I was seven when my life got bad. It was the 12th of June.

That was as far as he got before falling asleep.

Yes, my kids will make their therapists very rich.

"Hulk Smash"

2008-06-10T09:43:00.004-04:00

The debate on the way home from the movie was whether The Incredible Hulk could take Superman's nemesis Solomon Grundy.

There's no way such important conversation would have taken place coming home from a band concert.

Oh, and Wolfgang's teacher kind of smirked when receiving the note and said, "On the day of? That shows a tremendous lack of responsibility."

Parents, 1.
School system, 0.

The Letter

2008-06-09T13:33:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Band Instructor,

Because of a last-minute change in family plans, Wolfgang will not be able to attend the band concert this evening. I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

Please let Wolfgang know if there's anything he can do to make up for tonight's absence.

Thank you,
Carolyn Wallach

It was suggested that Wolfgang deliver the letter with Hulk hands, but we thought that might be just a tad bit obvious.

Put to the test

2008-06-05T22:12:00.004-04:00

Here's the problem:

We have free tickets to an early screening of The Incredible Hulk on Monday night.

but...

Wolfgang has his last band concert of the year Monday night.

Of course we can't blow off a band concert for a comic book movie. That would send ALL the wrong messages to our children. It's our job as parents to teach them about commitment, obligation, responsibility. If nothing else, that's our job, right? RIGHT?

But did you see that trailer? And do you know how much it costs to take a family of five to the movies these days? And do you know just how cool it is to see a big release like this four days before the rest of the world?

Besides, it's not like we've missed any other band event this year. And it's not like Wolfgang has a solo. And we do teach these children about commitment-we've made sure he practices. Plus, he's trading in the clarinet for the electric guitar and won't be in band next year anyway...

And then there's the fact that watching movies is one of our things. It's something we really enjoy as a family. We love our movies.

When you get right down to it, what are these kids going to remember - another band concert or the time that we skipped the band concert to see a free sneak preview of The Incredible Hulk?

As a parent, it's convenient to have a flexible value system.

You know it, baby.

2008-05-17T22:32:00.002-04:00

June 17. Phoenix. Orpheum Theater. 1300 seats. Me in one of them. David in another. It's a done deal.

When people ask me why I would go to Phoenix, AZ to see Tom Waits, it's hard to explain. Actually, it's not hard to explain at all. My answer is simple: because someday I'm going to be dead.

Music is pleasure. Good music is heaven. Good music enjoyed with David and a glass of Bushmills and my brothers is almost too much to imagine.

But we'll all be there. My Waits-loving brothers will come in from Vegas. David and I will come in from CT.

And we'll sit there in the historic Orpheum Theater in Phoenix, Arizona, and listen to a man who is considered one of the all time greats.

If he sings "The Piano has been Drinking" I'm going to cry.

Hope for the future

2008-05-15T13:53:00.006-04:00

California Supreme Court Overturns Gay Marriage Ban

In striking down the ban, the court said, "In contrast to earlier times, our state now recognizes that an individual's capacity to establish a loving and long-term committed relationship with another person and responsibly to care for and raise children does not depend upon the individual's sexual orientation, and, more generally, that an individual's sexual orientation -- like a person's race or gender -- does not constitute a legitimate basis upon which to deny or withhold legal rights."

Every time some court or politician upholds the rights of gay and lesbian couples to marry, I am given hope. Even if this thing is appealed for years, even if the conservative head-up-their-ass activists get some bogus marriage law passed, I accept today's news as proof that we are moving toward a time when discrimination based on sexual orientation is a thing of the past.

That's the kind of world I want for my children.

Mother's Day

2008-05-12T08:57:00.003-04:00

Yes it was lovely, fine and dandy, repeated expressions of love for all mothers within striking distance.

To quote another mother friend of mine: "These holidays should be outlawed." It's all about trying not to have expectations for Hallmark holidays but then having them and then feeling guilty and general dysfunction all around. Bleh.

But all that aside. Yesterday morning I did awake to one of my favorite things in the world: poppies. I have a garden full, and yesterday morning the first one burst open.

And it made me smile.

Please, please, please.

2008-05-08T23:05:00.001-04:00

My firstborn for tickets. Really.

Boys and their toys

2008-04-30T22:26:00.006-04:00

After a couple years of going without, David has his landscaping tractor back.

So how does he use it?

At his sons' request, he digs a crater in front of the swing set.

For them to jump over. Or rather, for them to attempt to jump over as they launch themselves off their swings.

Emergency room, anyone?

Maybe I should rename this blog ...

2008-04-22T19:04:00.003-04:00

Sometimes, my favorite thing to do is to drink a Heineken and surf the web. It's all very voyeuristic - googling people I know, blog surfing.

I'm repeatedly bothered by the number of people who have blogs about their children who put the damn blog in the first person - as if the child was writing the thing. God that irritates me. That and all the blogs of happy families who've found Christ.

But I digress.

The problem with this Heineken surfing is that I do it at the least opportune times. Like right now, when David is slaving away painting the basement, the boys are doing their homework and my sole purpose in the universe is to be making dinner for this family.

I drink my beer. I surf. I occasionally run out and flip the stuff on the grill.

In moments, dinner will be ready, and it will all be a mad dash. Why? Because instead of clearing and setting the table and getting things ready for a relaxing evening, I'm about to get another Heineken and see if there's a blog out there named "Bitches who don't buy bullshit."

Makes me happy. The resulting chaos is worth it.

Really?

2008-04-21T08:50:00.003-04:00

Is it possible I've got nothing to say if I don't have those damn chickens?

Wilbur

2008-04-14T14:26:00.005-04:00

Just got a call on a pig.

Half a pig, actually.

No, we're not keeping it here. But we are investing in 1/2 pig's worth of fresh meat.

At the local watering hole a few months ago, I ran into an old high school buddy of mine who has a farm and raises the occasional pig for slaughter. I expressed interest in 1/2 a pig.

I've kept his number around, waiting for May to make the call. He called me instead and we're now in the pig business.

I see you out there, just shaking your head, wondering what the hell goes on in my brain and whether I'll actually see this livestock experiment through.

Hey, as long as I don't have to take care of the pig every day and as long as I don't have to slaughter the thing, I think I'm good.

I'll keep you posted.

Addendum: Just remembered that David was going to start reading Charlotte's Web to Otto tonight. I think we're going to have to find a different book...

Vacation, again?!

2008-04-14T13:42:00.002-04:00

These kids are on vacation, again. It's just ridiculous. Didn't I just ~~complain~~ blog about them being on vacation?

At the moment, Gunther is in his room with two of his friends playing with his Star Wars Mighty Muggs. Wolfgang is in his room plotting my untimely demise because I told him he owes Otto a squirt gun.

Wolfgang: Really, Mom, I didn't throw Otto's squirt gun down on the ground and break it. I gently tossed it to him and it landed on the soft grass.

Me: I don't believe you.

And Otto is in his room crying because he feels left out.

(Parenting interlude)

Otto just came downstairs crying about not being allowed to participate in the Mighty Muggs extravaganza. Irony upon ironies. A few minutes ago, Otto's best buddy from across the street left because Otto was ignoring him in favor of Gunther's friends.

Yeah, well I know a "teachable moment" when I see one. So, I did the obvious. I pointed out that payback is a bitch.

Only I did it nicely, I think. And with a hug.

Alright, lunch hour is over. Back to telecommuting.

An easy out

2008-04-04T18:33:00.004-04:00

So I'm getting some flack about my quick turn around on the chicken subject.

Yes, I was excited. Yes, I was passionate. Yes, I loved the idea of having chickens.

And yes, I changed my mind.

A few people, when faced with the great depths of emotion and changes of mind that are Carolyn, are trying to rationalize my change of heart.

The best one I've heard has to do with David. My darling husband has been busting his ass installing radiant heat for our first floor. He's spent weeks in the basement, sawing off nails, drilling holes, installing aluminum plates, fighting with plastic tubing and drilling screws.

The poor guy just finished the installation. To expect him to turn around and build a chicken coop just to satisfy my whim would be inhumane.

So, me letting the chickens go was all about not working my husband into an early grave. That's the rationalization being handed to me.

Who am I to turn down such a logical, generous rationalization?

Look at me. I'm not fickle. I'm thoughtful and considerate.

Dolly Parton has Jesus. I've got CHEEZ-ITs.

2008-04-02T21:26:00.005-04:00

I wonder what my 40s will look like if I continue to spend my evenings watching reality tv and eating junk food.

I'm developing random opinions about shows I've never watched before. For instance, I think Micheal Johns kicks David Archuleta's butt, and I think Chef Ramsay was right to shut down the kitchen.

I'm also becoming increasingly possessive.

Get your own damn box.

Clearly, I don't have time for those chickens.

Complete 180

2008-03-31T16:41:00.003-04:00

As soon as I let the thought in, there was no shutting it out. Once I said it out loud, I was done for. Now, it's just a matter of saying it publicly.

I don't want the chickens.

There, I said it.

Actually, it's not so much that I don't want them, I just don't want to do the work associated with keeping them.

Here we have these six adorable little chicks, and instead of oo-ing and ah-ing over them, I'm already feeling hassled about having to change their water and clean their brooder box. Thinking about the work ahead of me - making the coop, designing the coop, maintaining the chickens - is stressing me out.

I loved having chickens. I loved being a family that had chickens. But I have to accept that our situation has changed. I'm now working full-time, we live in a different place, with different people, we've got different demands on our time.

I can see the writing on the wall, and it's not written in chicken scratch on the side of a chicken coop.

It's written in little digital characters in my Outlook calendar. It includes a full-time day job that spills over into the evenings, gym workouts, cross country practices, guitar lessons, teacher meetings, concerts, tutors, homework, etc., etc.

It doesn't include chickens. Not now, anyway.

But you know what? Now that I've admitted it, I'm okay with it.

Life is good. I'm just protecting against crazy.

Sleepover party revisited

2008-03-29T14:17:00.008-04:00

To tame the wild beasts

just get some baby chicks.

So tired. So very, very tired.

2008-03-28T14:46:00.005-04:00

It was a week of meetings at work, meetings which required me to be on and thinking and engaged and present. Meetings with sales reps and sister corporations. Meetings in which I was frequently the only woman (the record was yesterday's meeting, when I was alone in a crowd of 13 men).

So I'm tired.

On top of the meetings, it was a week of hitting it hard at the gym. The last three mornings I was up at 5:30 and in the gym by 6.

So I'm really tired.

That would all be fine if I could go home and rest.

But, I've got a 10-year-old sleepover birthday party at our house tonight and the boys have been planning out their Nerf gun attack formations for days.

Nerf wars happen outside. David just called to point out that he hasn't been able to do the poop patrol for a few days and the yard is full of dog shit. He won't be home until after the Nerf wars begin.

Which means, of course, that poop patrol falls squarely in the lap of yours truly.

And, I should probably clean out that cardboard box chicken coop that's hanging out in our kitchen before my house is swarming with Gunther's friends and their parents.

Tired. Very, very tired.

Welcome home

2008-03-25T21:57:00.003-04:00

We brought six chicks home today. It was supposed to be four, but they were just so damn cute. We'll get the rest of our brood next week.

Our plan is to keep the chicks in the house for a couple weeks and teach the dogs that they are not allowed to eat the baby birds.

We put the chicks in a cardboard box inside Maybee's crate. That way, the dogs can see them but not touch them.

Maybee is a little obsessed with the peeping, mouth-sized interlopers.

25 what????

2008-03-24T09:50:00.004-04:00

A chicken update:

It turns out that 3 of the chicks in Wolfgang's class did hatch, so his class is up to 28 chickens. Oh, and it also turns out that the chicks his teacher purchased are all roosters.

Roosters. 25 of them. That's insane. I don't even want one. We barely escaped the last Attack of the Killer Rooster.

But chicks, we get chicks. I'm so excited! (If I'm using punctuation with such wild abandon, I MUST be excited.)

Peep!

2008-03-24T09:36:00.003-04:00

Two different classes at Wolfgang's school were hatching chicks, and we provided the fertilized eggs to both. Wolfgang's class went 0-22, but the other class had 8 chicks hatch over the weekend!

Plus, Wolfgang's teacher was so bummed about not having any chicks that she ordered 25 newborn chicks for her class.

So, we're back in the chicken business, folks!

We're going to see if we can get 4 of the chicks tomorrow and bring them home because we want the dogs to get used to them. With our first brood of chicks, we had them in a box in the house and taught our two dogs (Abby and Shadow) that the chickens were not to be eaten.

After Abby and Shadow died, we added Blackie and Maybee, but at that point the chickens were fully grown. Maybee, a 120-pound black lab, spent every waking hour trying to figure out how to eat them. He never succeeded, but we did have to pry the occasional chicken from his mouth.

We're hoping we can train these two adopted doggies to live in harmony with free-ranging chickens. We'll begin the 10-step program with our mantra: "Chicks are friends, not food."

Easter Music

2008-03-23T11:16:00.004-04:00

In honor of Easter, it seems, I can't get this song out of my head. It's a favorite of mine by that old favorite of mine, Tom Waits.

To hear the song, click on my playlist on the right. If you want to watch a video of it (and hear Mr. Waits sing it through a bullhorn) check out Tom Waits on Letterman.

Chocolate Jesus

Don't go to church on Sunday
Don't get on my knees to pray
Don't memorize the books of the Bible
I got my own special way

But I know Jesus loves me
maybe just a little bit more
I fall down on my knees every Sunday
At Zerelda Lee's candy store

Well it's got to be a chocolate Jesus
Make me feel good inside
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
Keep me satisfied

Well I don't want no Abba Zabba
Don't want no Almond Joy
There ain't nothing better
suitable for this boy

Well it's the only thing
that can pick me up
Better than a cup of gold
See only a chocolate Jesus
can satisfy my soul

When the weather gets rough
and it's whiskey in the shade
Ii's best to wrap your savior
up in cellophane
He flows like the big muddy
but that's ok
Pour him over ice cream
for a nice parfait

Well it's got to be a chocolate Jesus
good enough for me
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
good enough for me

Well it's got to be a chocolate Jesus
make me feel so good inside
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
Keep me satisfied

You get what you need

2008-03-22T23:48:00.003-04:00

We got together with friends tonight, ate pizza, enjoyed several drinks and played many rousing hands of Asshole.

At one point in the evening, the Rolling Stone's "You Can't Always Get What You Want" came on the radio.

We barely got through seeing her at the reception when it was pointed out that we're now beyond the age of the characters in the Big Chill.

Ouch.

Oh, yeah. I guess age is on my mind. I pointed it out.

Eggs

2008-03-21T17:03:00.002-04:00

I can't help thinking about our poor peeps as I'm hard-boiling our Easter eggs...

: (

2008-03-21T13:48:00.003-04:00

No peeping, movement or cracking this morning, according to the teacher, which means the chicks didn't make it.

Great sadness.

Peep

2008-03-20T22:08:00.003-04:00

The eggs are peeping. They're jiggling. They're cracking.

BUT THERE ARE STILL NO CHICKENS!

Wolfgang's teacher took the incubator home over the holiday weekend so she can take care of the chicks if they hatch.

All the noise and movement is no guarantee. The chicks need to be strong enough to get themselves out of the shells. You're really not supposed to help.

Darwinism at work. And all I can do is wait.

Don't count your chickens

2008-03-20T12:37:00.004-04:00

when they haven't hatched yet.

I keep waiting to hear. But nothing. No chicks yet.

I'll keep you posted.

I'm pacing around the newsroom with a box of cigars, waiting for the call from Wolfgang.

A new brood

2008-03-19T11:18:00.004-04:00

If all went well, today and tomorrow a new brood of chicks will join the world. They've been incubating for the last 20 or so days in Wolfgang's classroom.

With incubators, you never know what you're going to get. Could be one, could be 44. We'd like more than one and less than 44.

The science class will keep the chicks for a couple of weeks and then they'll come live in a trailer in our garage until we can get a coop built.

Trailer chicks. There's a joke in there somewhere.

A glimpse into my brain

2008-03-18T14:46:00.003-04:00

I'm feeling bad for calling my kid a "shithead."

But, I write what I think and that's what I thought as I wrote that post.

I don't know what's more pathetic: that my reaction is to think my kid's a shithead or that I feel guilty about it or that I feel the need to acknowledge my guilt.

My brain is a scary place to be.

My brain on PMS is just downright dangerous.

Saving the drama for your mama ...

2008-03-17T21:42:00.006-04:00

Insomnia, again. Not me, but 12-year-old Wolfgang.

This morning, I went to wake him up and he didn't want to move. I gave him a few words of encouragement ("Get yourself out of bed! You have to go to school!") and went about my morning routine.

I returned five minutes later to find him easing his body down the stairs, slowly, painfully, on his butt. His long hair hung in his face as he hung his head, his eyes at half mast.

To my mystified demands of what the hell was going on, he grunted something about not falling asleep until 5:30 in the morning.

I felt bad for the kid, really I did. But, as an occasional insomniac, he's going to have to learn to deal with life on those days that he doesn't sleep. If we were to let him stay home from school because he's tired, he'd just sleep all day and be up all night tonight.

So, there was nothing to do but nudge him along, gently but firmly.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and started to drag himself on his knees into the kitchen, and that was when his father came down.

One quick, sharp yell from David and Wolfgang managed to get himself off the floor, ready for school and onto the school bus.

I worried about him all day and waited anxiously for our insomniac to get home.

Of course, he was fine. His day was fine. School was fine. Everything was fine.

Shithead.

Brilliant!

2008-03-13T10:47:00.002-04:00

Found!

To give you a sense of the chaos of my day yesterday: I found the phone under the desk.

Phew.

Not quite so brilliant

2008-03-12T20:52:00.003-04:00

When I left work this afternoon, tired, hungry and just generally beat up, I realized that I didn't know where my(Wolfgang's) phone was.

I checked my pockets and all my bags and couldn't find it. So, I went back into the office to look for it on my desk. I didn't find it.

I'm hoping that in my tired, hungry and just generally beat up state, I put the phone somewhere it didn't belong - like in my desk.

I expect that I'll find it there when I get to work tomorrow.

If not, I'm screwed. I don't think I can just commandeer David's phone the way I took Wolfgang's.

It'll be there. Right?

Brilliant!

2008-03-11T10:41:00.004-04:00

I knew there was a good reason to get Wolfgang a cellphone. David pointed out that I could probably commandeer the kid's phone and reprogram it as my own.

He was right. After a frustrating 45 minutes on the phone with Sprint, I transferred my phone number to Wolfgang's phone.

I was most excited at the genius of it all and expected as much from Wolfgang.

Our conversation went as follows:

Me: Do you know how my phone was stuck in a car at the airport?

Wolfgang: Yeah.

Me (holding up Wolfgang's phone): Well, now your phone is stuck in a car at the airport and my phone is right here.

Wolfgang: You suck.

Yes, I do. But at least I suck with a phone.

Situation Normal, All Fucked Up

2008-03-10T18:00:00.004-04:00

We're on the mend. Gunther and Otto are recovered and back at school. Wolfgang has a cold, but he seems to be weathering it.

I managed to get away over the weekend - I went on a girlfriends' shopping trip, hitting the outlets in Freeport, Maine. I had a great time and got a few much-needed items (okay, maybe the $50 king-sized fitted sheet from LLBean wasn't really necessary).

The bed and breakfast was cozy, the company was exceptional and I got to eat lots of seafood (though the place we went to dinner on Saturday night was out of raw oysters and didn't serve Bushmills).

On the four-hour ride back home, I got to share my atheistic, existential philosophy on life, which I'm quite sure freaked out my friends.

But I digress.

The point of this whole story is that the getaway was great until this morning, when I couldn't find my cellphone. I'm pretty sure I left it in Alice's car.

And the thing is, Alice's car is really her husband Dave's car and, as of early this morning, that car is sitting in longterm parking at the airport. It'll be there until Friday.

With my phone in the backseat. I think. The only way to be certain is to take the 50-minute drive to the airport and check. Otherwise, I wait until Friday, and I'm not sure I can do that.

Anyone care to join me for another couple hours in the car? I promise not to talk about life, death and the two planes of existence if you come with me to the airport.

"There's a girl boy in the garden."

2008-03-07T13:32:00.005-05:00

Reset the "no one's thrown up since" clock to 2:30 this morning.

But they are getting better. Right now they're outside getting some fresh air, wandering around the yard like extras in Shaun of the Dead.

On the mend?

2008-03-06T16:41:00.006-05:00

No one has thrown up in over 24 hours and, at this moment, the kids are dancing to a song they made on Garageband.

No wait...now they're fighting...and now they're coughing...and now they're making their way to the couch, glossy eyes and all.

Glimmers of hope.

Perhaps this family will sleep through the night tonight.

Perhaps.

The flu sucks

2008-03-05T09:55:00.002-05:00

It's karma, I tell you. On Sunday I was thinking about how we had dodged the flu bullet that had decimated so many other families.

No, that's a lie. I wasn't thinking that we had "dodged a bullet." I was thinking that we hadn't gotten sick because we're just so damn healthy in our lifestyle choices.

I have been bitten in the ass. In a big way.

Twofer

2008-03-04T10:36:00.003-05:00

Simultaneous fevers and vomiting. That's what I call two for one. Here's to hoping the twofer doesn't become a threefer.

Because you're dying to know

2008-02-27T10:59:00.004-05:00

This is what we looked like 25 years ago, at the beginning of this adventure.

I think the photo to the left was taken on New Year's Eve, 1983. What's up with the whole seduction thing?

The picture below was probably taken sometime that same winter. Of course, it's hard to know, because we wore those same clothes and hairstyles for much of our high school career...

Happy Anniversary

2008-02-25T20:04:00.004-05:00

Today marks the anniversary of my first official date. He was a sophomore and I was a freshman, and, though I didn't really know him at all, I developed a pretty wicked crush on this tall, dark and handsome teenager.

My friend Michelle was dating his best friend Chris, which gave me the perfect opportunity to feel out the situation. Michelle got the word to Chris and Chris got the word to his best friend that he had a secret admirer. Well, he told Chris to tell Michelle that he'd like to know who it was. Then, Michelle told Chris to tell him that it was me. Then he told Chris to tell Michelle to tell me that he liked the fact that it was me. Then I told Michelle to tell Chris to tell him ... you get the idea.

Finally, after a month of this stuff, he called to ask me out.

And so, on Friday night, February 25, we had our first date, nervously sharing slow dances in the high school cafeteria. It was 1983. We were fifteen.

That was 25 years and three kids ago. Since then, our communication has become considerably more direct. We still enjoy the occasional slow dance and, I gotta admit, I'm still crushing on him pretty hard.

February Vacation, Day Five

2008-02-22T15:21:00.001-05:00

Oh, this blizzard.

February Vacation, Day Four

2008-02-21T14:47:00.005-05:00

For the last day of February Vacation, I decided that I want to "do something" with the kids. Go somewhere. Get out of the house. Do something "vacation-y." A trip to the Peabody Museum of Natural History in New Haven seemed perfect.

So, all week we've been planning our excursion. We'd leave around 10 a.m., make the 30-minute drive and spend the day at the museum, taking our time to study the dinosaurs, woolly mammoths and sabertooth tigers.

To add a little excitement to the vacation outing (and to continue my quest to have the children spend time with their friends), today I decided to let the older two each invite someone to come along.

It was shaping up to be a beautiful vacation-worthy outing ... until Gunther's nine-year-old buddy asked (with a fair amount of incredulity, I might add) how we planned to go to the museum during a blizzard.

What? Weather, tomorrow?

Maybe my kids don't spend more time with their friends because their friends' parents think I'm a complete idiot.

February Vacation, Day Three

2008-02-20T13:54:00.005-05:00

Well, I made it through Day Two without incident. The friends came, played, ate, went. My kids were good little hosts and I'm left feeling like we really need to have friends over more often.

Today, they're with my in-laws, hanging out, but it was touch and go this morning.

Gunther woke up with an extremely irritated right eye. It was very bloodshot, and he said that it hurt. I was worried about pink eye, but I was not excited about going to the pediatrician without being pretty damn sure. Since the eye lacked the tell-tale oozing and crusting, I opted for a cold compress.

Fortunately, that cleared up the itching and the inflammation and, without much further delay, we were on our way to Grammy's.

I gave her the heads up about the eye - which was looking much better but still, a warning seemed appropriate.

Grammy's response, looking at the nine-year-old: The kid needs a haircut. His hair is getting in his eyes and that's causing the irritation.

Yeah, maybe. Probably. You know, if it had just been conjunctivitis, it wouldn't have been my fault.

February Vacation, Day Two, 12:34 p.m.

2008-02-19T12:32:00.006-05:00

Why can't I be the kind of mom who lets her kids sit and play video games all day? Life sure would be easier.

It seems that my choices are Lego Star Wars on the computer, illegal immigrant hide & seek or full contact billiards. Since I am predisposed to believe that too much computer time is not healthy, I shut that down. They don't feel like going back outside so, for now, it's billiards in the basement.

Eventually they will need to eat. I'm hoping that the three guests are handy with bread and cold cuts, because I'm also not the kind of mom who makes lunch for able-bodied boys.

February Vacation, Day One

2008-02-18T20:21:00.010-05:00

Today the kids enjoyed their first day of vacation. By all accounts, it was a successful day. They stayed home with their dad and no one got irreparably damaged. Their big accomplishments: Nerf gun wars, showering and going to Home Depot.

The children no longer miss me when I'm not around during their vacation days. After all, I made sure everyone had underwear and socks before I left, and I returned home with a car full of groceries in time to make dinner. After I fed them, I did the dishes, and soon I will put them to bed.

I'm working from home tomorrow so I'll be here with the kids. They're all having friends over (because, I have to admit, I'm a little worried that they don't spend enough time with their friends), and I'm going to make sure everyone stays alive, entertained and well fed - all while putting in a full day of telecommuting.

Overly optimistic? Who, me?

Hide and Seek in 2008

2008-02-16T14:46:00.004-05:00

For the last two days, my kids and their friends have been running around the backyard playing "illegal immigrants." One kid is the border patrol official and the rest are Mexicans, trying to sneak into America.

The Mexicans hide, sometimes with their Nerf guns, and the patrol guard tries to find them. If he finds a Mexican, the Mexican must help him try to find the rest of the illegal immigrants.

When all the immigrants are found, they must pay an imaginary fee and fill out imaginary paperwork. Only then are they allowed to go free and proceed to America.

Today the game evolved to include patrol guards with tasers hunting a lone Mexican. The guards never found that sneaky Mexican, who was hiding in the back of a pickup truck. Really.

You'd think we lived in a border state. But no, all I did was let the kids watch the Democratic candidate debate between Clinton and Obama.

Superdelegates?

2008-02-13T17:08:00.002-05:00

This morning, driving to work, I listened to the umpteenth news story about superdelegates determining the Democratic presidential nomination.

It's all about power, and the more I listened, the more I wanted that power. I want to be a superdelegate. I want my vote to count WAY more than everyone else's. I want to hold the trump card, to make the decisions.

But then it dawned on me. I do make the decisions. My vote does count more than everyone else's. Yes, it's true, I AM a superdelegate - at least in my own household and at least as long as my children are children.

Being a mom is not easy. There's a huge amount of work and not a compensatory amount of appreciation. But, when all is said and done, with the management responsibility comes a certain amount of authority.

You want power? Have some kids.

Oh, wait

2008-02-12T20:30:00.000-05:00

Walking to the bus stop this afternoon, I remembered the trailer. The trailer that David bought at the livestock auction. The trailer that housed our last brood of chickens.

The trailer brooder will live again. It will come out from under the evergreens, out from under the blue tarp (the tarp that must make our neighbors so happy that we moved into the neighborhood) and into the garage.

I guess I'll have to put the convertible in the driveway for a couple months.

But it'll be worth it, I promise. Have you ever tasted a fresh egg?

Chickens, already? Really?

2008-02-11T19:53:00.001-05:00

When we moved to our new house, we had to find a new home for our chickens. We just didn't have time to set up another coop for the 18 hens.

I planned to restart my chicken adventure at some undetermined time in the future. I figured a year or two off would be a good thing.

But then, on the first day of school, chicken whisperer Wolfgang informed me that his class would be hatching chicks in the spring and he offered to give them a home. I agreed wholeheartedly that it was a good idea. Spring was a long way away. We could prepare for the brood by then.

Turns out, though, that in his teacher's mind, spring is now. We're to pick up the fertilized eggs this week. They'll incubate for three weeks and then, if all goes well - voila, chicks in the classroom. Then, two weeks after that, chicks at the Wallach house.

And we have no brooding pen, no hen house, no nothing.

Oh, shit.

The power of genetics

2008-02-08T10:33:00.000-05:00

I am married to what we affectionately refer to as an "alarm-tard." My dear husband David cannot work an alarm clock to save his life. If the alarm requires the slightest nuancing of the controls, he's lost. He can barely manage it when he's awake; when he's in his grumpy, 'I'm-not-ready-to-get-up' sleep state, it's near impossible.

You know, it's amazing that he's been able to hold down a respectable job for any length of time considering how hard it is for him to get his ass out of bed.

Well Wolgang, our twelve-year-old sometime insomniac, seems to have inherited the alarm-tard gene from his father.

Every morning, it's the same thing. When I finally manage to get him up, he groans something about "I didn't hear the alarm" or "The alarm must be broken" or "I swear that I set it."

This morning, when Wolfgang had to be woken up for the fifth time this week, I'd about had it. I put my frustration right out there for David to see, hoping he'd bite, that he'd be the bad guy and scare this kid into getting himself out of bed in the morning.

What did this man do? He blamed the problem on an inadequate alarm situation and announced that we need to buy this child a second alarm.

Alarm-tards. The both of them.

Too much testosterone

2008-02-07T20:54:00.001-05:00

Welcome to my world.

Today's lesson in communication

2008-02-06T19:51:00.001-05:00

Every Wednesday the younger two boys bring home their "Wednesday envelopes" from school. Contained within these envelopes are the week's all-important school notices. Things like field trip permission slips, event announcements, fund raising propaganda, newsletters from the parents' association and letters from the principal.

I choose to use the Wednesday envelope as a teaching tool. I use it to teach the kids how NOT to communicate with grownups.

A standard lesson: too many exclamation points make you look stupid!!!!

Today's lesson: Never start a letter or newsletter with, "I can't believe...!"

For instance:

"I can't believe the summer is almost over!"
"I can't believe the kids have only been in school for a few days!"
"I can't believe the semester is coming to a close!"
"I can't believe the semester is already well underway!"
"I can't believe it's almost summer!"

I can't believe I'm expected to read this crap, and I can't withhold my general disdain from my kids.

The elementary school principal, staff and pack of rabid parent volunteers who hang around the school would say that these weekly communication lessons teach my kids to disrespect education and authority.

To quote today's newsletter from the principal (complaining about parents taking their kids out of school for vacation): I'm sending a "dismissive message to my kids about the value of education."

re: the whole "dismissive" thing: It became today's second lesson: how not to condescend to your audience.

I can't believe these adults make it so easy for me!

Are they trying to tell me something?

2008-02-05T18:43:00.000-05:00

This weekend, I was the recipient of two birthday cards. Two different cards from two different friends from two different social circles. After receiving the cards, I wonder if it's time to tone down my language. Or maybe my attitude.

The first card:

Inside the card: "Happy Fucking Birthday"

The second card:

Inside the second card:

Should I be start looking for a support group?

Another school movie story

2008-01-30T14:23:00.000-05:00

Do I have my finger on the pulse of education or what?

Science Teacher Struggles To Justify Showing Total Recall

It happened again.

2008-01-30T10:41:00.000-05:00

I suppose you could say that it's a blessing, but I tend to think of it as a curse. Without fail, if I see someone I haven't seen in a while, that person will ask me, "Have you lost weight?"

If I had actually lost weight, I imagine that I'd be happy someone noticed. But the fact is that my weight has slowly but steadily increased over the last decade. I'm figuring a pound for each year, at least.

Here and there it will go down a pound or two, but substantial weight loss hasn't happened since I pushed out that last eight pound baby.

So, there's just no denying it: People remember me as being fatter than I am.

How nice for me.

You want my permission for what?

2008-01-29T16:27:00.000-05:00

I've long been amused at the notices sent home with my kids from school. My all-time favorite was a note from an elementary school principal a few years back. In a notice to parents, the principal announced that students would no longer be allowed to play "chasing games" at school.

The logic for this genius decision to outlaw tag, it was pointed out, was that chasing games have no redeeming value and, besides, kids who played tag ended up getting their feelings hurt.

Huh? All I can figure is that some parent complained and, rather than incur the litigious wrath of an entitled, misguided parent, the school decided to outlaw tag. Just plain stupid.

Wolfgang brought home a permission slip today that reminded me of that infamous notice. It too reeks of administrative fear.

The bottom line - the school wants permission to show my 12-year-old a PG13 movie.

This is how they asked:

I am notifying you that we will be watching a film/video in class with a rating above the PG rating on Friday, February 1.

Film Title: The Outsiders
Motion Picture Industry Rating: PG13

Topic under discussion to which movie is relevant: State of Connecticut Language Arts Frameworks - Standard 2: Exploring and responding to text: analyze how authors, illustrators and film makers express political and social issues.

Instructional objectives: All students are reading the book The Outsiders, and we will be analyzing the similarities and differences between the text and the film. In addition, we will be discussing how the social issue of prejudice is depicted in the film and the text. Essential Question: How do literature and film affect our views on social and economic differences?

Huh? How about just saying that it's a cool movie and relevant to what they're studying.

Hell in a handbasket, I tell you.

So this is what it means to be 40?

2008-01-28T20:17:00.000-05:00

Today I did something that I consider typical of a woman in her 40s: I bought a Better Homes and Gardens magazine.

I don't think I've even done such a thing before. Ever. I'm just not the type.

You see, I fancy myself a Bitch or Utne Reader kind of gal.

Better Homes and Gardens - and Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal - these are not magazines that I ever thought would grace my coffee table. No, no, no. No consumeristic, middle class housewife magazines for Carolyn.

But there I was today, in the checkout line at Stop & Shop, and I just couldn't resist.

Slow-cooker recipes. Bring 'em on.

Oh my God. I need a drink.

A bad omen?

2008-01-28T13:57:00.000-05:00

A couple of the guys I work with have been wanting to blow up a cake.

Why? One reason: testosterone.

As their direct supervisor, I've been a little leery of the whole pyrotechnics at work thing. But last week, I finally agreed to sanction (so much for plausible deniability) the cake explosion on the condition that the cake in question be my 40th birthday cake.

These young men were just happy to play with fireworks, they didn't care about the cake. But, to me, the 40th birthday cake was significant. Blowing it up seemed like an appropriately ceremonious way to ring in the next decade. After all, there's no reason that my 40s can't be exciting, spontaneous, even explosive. Right?

That's what I'm putting out to the universe.

This is the sad story that the universe is sending back:

Sigh.