(written in the Spring of 2007)
As the parents of four past and present Holy Angels students, JY and I are hardened veterans of about 17 science projects. Some of the more memorable:
Phosphorescence in nature (Jonathon and Dean had some glow-in-the-dark pens they were dying to use. And use them they did. Ever seen a glow-in-the-dark Labrador? Trust me, you don't want to.)
The effects of various music genres on plants. (The plant survived five weeks of Rage Against the Machine, but mom was definitely feeling ill effects. And mom didn't care that the plant listening to Rage grew at the same rate as the one listening to Bach; not everything can be explained by the scientific method.)
How to slow down the rotting process in meat. (You can only imagine the cooking adventures during THAT couple of weeks. Sadly, I don't remember any special purchases made; I think we had everything on hand.)
Why do cats land on their feet? (Thankfully, no actual cats were used during this experiment, because I can almost guarantee they would have been harmed. As I remember, after weeks of research, the conclusion was that cats land on their feet because they have four feet and no hands.)
So, this year JY entered the Science Project arena with nerves of steel. On Saturday I was distracted by the demands of high school admission by one child and college admission by another and had no choice but to delegate to JY the supervision of Sam and his project: How To Get Electricity from a Citrus Fruit.
On a side note: Do any of us really care how to get electricity from a citrus fruit? My ideas for a project this year were: How do you get cash from a turnip? Why does the day from 8:00 am to 3:00 am last about 15 minutes? How do you cancel Internet service from a provider you haven't used in years? Why do two matching socks go in the hamper and only one come out of the dryer? Is there some ancient sock graveyard somewhere? If global warming is such a threat, why was my heating bill $250 last month? What kind of database does Blockbuster have that they can track me down when I am one hour late returning a movie?
So I abandoned the home to JY and Sam on Saturday with the specific instruction to KNOCK IT OUT. Sam doesn't lack many things; in fact, he has an abundance of most qualities. Focus, however, is usually in short supply.
They were left with a computer with enough RAM to put man on the moon, a high-speed Internet connection, a past-due library book, thousands of dollar's worth of colored pens, five oranges now worth about $10 each, copper wife, glue, tape and the most important item: three-fold board.
Hours later I returned to the home to find the entire family, including the dog, sprawled on the couch watching a past-due rented copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (the good one with Robert DeNiro and Kenneth Branagh).
There was an impressive amount of paper scraps and mess in the dining room and an almost-blank three-fold board with the word "citrus" misspelled.
Now, on one hand, since electricity was involved I was relieved the house was still standing. Still, I demanded an explanation on the lack of progress.
The only explanation given was that "one man's inspiration is another man's distraction". It seemed that JY thought that since Sam was lacking interest in citrus fruit and electricity, maybe the movie Frankenstein, with its theme of bringing the dead back to life using electricity would inspire him.
In reality, I think they are all more afraid of Blockbuster than they are of me. Oh, joy.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
ESSENTIALS FOR THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED
(This was written in March 2000 after a friend and I went on what turned out to be a 12-hour hike. I insist we were simply "late"; those involved in the search and rescue insist we were "lost" and eventually "rescued".)
1) The first essential must be addressed long before (possibly years) you strap on your shoes. Make sure you marry someone who is: a) so confident in your abilities that he refrains from panic; and b) has a creative vocabulary; ie substituting the word "adventuresome" for "stupid" and "determined" for "stubborn".
2) Also important before any endeavor: pick your neighborhood wisely. A neighbor willing to instruct police on trails and roads and strap on a water bag and flashlight on a moment's notice is beyond description in its value.
3) It is essential to one's peace of mind that another neighbor is willing to man phone calls, mind babies and send the appropriate prayer skyward. Knowing that you are cared for comes with the responsibility of not needlessly worrying said neighbor, so read your map carefully.
4) The importance of one's running mate is the most important issue when dealing with the quality of the experience. Try to run with someone who never reminds you that the harebrained "shortcut" that cost you two hours was your idea. Also make sure your partner has had either a very interesting life or has the ability to make the recounting of a boring life somewhat entertaining. Sure, the scenery is beautiful, but there is nothing like a fine partner to pass the time.
5) Try your adventures only in towns that have a low crime rate. That way when you apologize to the police for causing so much trouble, they thank you for breaking the monotony. They may very well have said that just to make us feel better, in which case I say "Thank you, you did, indeed, make us feel better."
6) Make sure that all items taken with you are treated as community property,. Such things as water, knee braces, aspirin and good cheer are to be shared without hesitation.
7) Do not choose the date for your adventure on the same day you have dinner plans with friends. And if you do have dinner plans, make sure it is not with: a) people you are planning to know for the rest of your life; and / or b) people that will take every opportunity for the rest of your life to remind you of dinner reservations missed, worry caused and the goofiness of some ideas.
8) If the end of the trail is in sight and you accept a ride from the police that were looking for you, you will be forever described as having been "rescued". Take my word for it: limp those last 100 yards if you have to.
1) The first essential must be addressed long before (possibly years) you strap on your shoes. Make sure you marry someone who is: a) so confident in your abilities that he refrains from panic; and b) has a creative vocabulary; ie substituting the word "adventuresome" for "stupid" and "determined" for "stubborn".
2) Also important before any endeavor: pick your neighborhood wisely. A neighbor willing to instruct police on trails and roads and strap on a water bag and flashlight on a moment's notice is beyond description in its value.
3) It is essential to one's peace of mind that another neighbor is willing to man phone calls, mind babies and send the appropriate prayer skyward. Knowing that you are cared for comes with the responsibility of not needlessly worrying said neighbor, so read your map carefully.
4) The importance of one's running mate is the most important issue when dealing with the quality of the experience. Try to run with someone who never reminds you that the harebrained "shortcut" that cost you two hours was your idea. Also make sure your partner has had either a very interesting life or has the ability to make the recounting of a boring life somewhat entertaining. Sure, the scenery is beautiful, but there is nothing like a fine partner to pass the time.
5) Try your adventures only in towns that have a low crime rate. That way when you apologize to the police for causing so much trouble, they thank you for breaking the monotony. They may very well have said that just to make us feel better, in which case I say "Thank you, you did, indeed, make us feel better."
6) Make sure that all items taken with you are treated as community property,. Such things as water, knee braces, aspirin and good cheer are to be shared without hesitation.
7) Do not choose the date for your adventure on the same day you have dinner plans with friends. And if you do have dinner plans, make sure it is not with: a) people you are planning to know for the rest of your life; and / or b) people that will take every opportunity for the rest of your life to remind you of dinner reservations missed, worry caused and the goofiness of some ideas.
8) If the end of the trail is in sight and you accept a ride from the police that were looking for you, you will be forever described as having been "rescued". Take my word for it: limp those last 100 yards if you have to.
A YENNY FOR PRESIDENT?
(written February 2008)
There was recently an email floating around claiming that everyone had one of the personalities from Gilligan's Island. For those of you too young to remember the TV show Gilligan's Island, trust me, you didn't miss much. It was kind of like "Survivor" without the good acting.
But it got me thinking of the distinct personalities of our presidential candidates and how each of them remind me of one of my kids. The more I thought about it, the creepier it got. Kind of depressing that my children reminding me of presidential candidates is "creepy" rather than inspiring, but oh well. It could be worse: my kids could remind me of someone from "Friends".
Jonathon is John McCain without the military skills or POW experience. However, John McCain did once smash his face with a stool to prevent a picture of him being used for propaganda purposes. Jonathon wouldn't hesitate to use the same technique to avoid being used as propaganda by his mother in the annual Christmas card. I am convinced that's why he plays rugby.*
Elle is not amused by any comparison to Hillary, but one can't help but notice their tenacity. Both share an uncanny ability to get what she wants regardless of reasons why she shouldn't get it. And the ability to spin a mistake into a reason why she should be trusted more, not less.
Barack and Nate share a certain joie de vivre. Both are likable and pleasant and are pretty good at saying the right thing at the right time. Each conversation ends with a warm, fuzzy feeling, but an inability to remember what the conversation was actually about.
When it comes to endearing quirkiness, it's hard to find better examples than Sam and Ron Paul. Both are absolutely certain that world domination is not only achievable, at some point it's inevitable. It's just a matter of waiting for everyone to reach the same conclusion.
And I'll end my comparisons here before someone notices that JY and Huckabee share a folksy charm. Because that will lead to the inevitable comparison of me to Dick "Darth Vader" Cheney.
*Jonathon has since corrected me. It was Vice Admiral James Stockdale that smashed his face with a stool; not John McCain. Oh well. 3 out of 4 ...
There was recently an email floating around claiming that everyone had one of the personalities from Gilligan's Island. For those of you too young to remember the TV show Gilligan's Island, trust me, you didn't miss much. It was kind of like "Survivor" without the good acting.
But it got me thinking of the distinct personalities of our presidential candidates and how each of them remind me of one of my kids. The more I thought about it, the creepier it got. Kind of depressing that my children reminding me of presidential candidates is "creepy" rather than inspiring, but oh well. It could be worse: my kids could remind me of someone from "Friends".
Jonathon is John McCain without the military skills or POW experience. However, John McCain did once smash his face with a stool to prevent a picture of him being used for propaganda purposes. Jonathon wouldn't hesitate to use the same technique to avoid being used as propaganda by his mother in the annual Christmas card. I am convinced that's why he plays rugby.*
Elle is not amused by any comparison to Hillary, but one can't help but notice their tenacity. Both share an uncanny ability to get what she wants regardless of reasons why she shouldn't get it. And the ability to spin a mistake into a reason why she should be trusted more, not less.
Barack and Nate share a certain joie de vivre. Both are likable and pleasant and are pretty good at saying the right thing at the right time. Each conversation ends with a warm, fuzzy feeling, but an inability to remember what the conversation was actually about.
When it comes to endearing quirkiness, it's hard to find better examples than Sam and Ron Paul. Both are absolutely certain that world domination is not only achievable, at some point it's inevitable. It's just a matter of waiting for everyone to reach the same conclusion.
And I'll end my comparisons here before someone notices that JY and Huckabee share a folksy charm. Because that will lead to the inevitable comparison of me to Dick "Darth Vader" Cheney.
*Jonathon has since corrected me. It was Vice Admiral James Stockdale that smashed his face with a stool; not John McCain. Oh well. 3 out of 4 ...
HOW I SPENT MY CHRISTMAS VACATION
(written January 2008)
Mr. C was kind enough to give us an update on how he spent his Christmas vacation at his world-famous blog, http://holyangelasarcadia.blogspot.com/, so I thought I would do the same.
My oldest, Jonathon, on Christmas break from college, graced us with his presence for about three weeks. Upon arrival, he managed to double the food bill and the laundry load while spending most of his time on his cell phone or in the car.
My second-oldest, Elle, got her driver's license TWO days before he arrived home (can you spell passive-agressive???)
16 years ago, conversations (if you can call them that) in our house went like this:
It's my turn!
No, it's not
You have to share! Mom says you have to share!
Mom says it's my turn.
No she didn't. She says it's my turn.
I'm calling dad. Mom always takes your side.
She does not! She told me she doesn't even like me!
Conversations in our house over Christmas vacation this year went like this:
It's my turn for the car! I just got my license and it's my turn!
No way. I've been gone for six months; you can drive it when I'm back at school.
That is SO not fair. You've had your license for TWO YEARS! I get the car now!
Not a chance.
It's FINALLY MY TURN!
You can drive it later when I don't need it.
When is that?
I don't know. Whenever.
Where are you going?
I don't know, but I'm going somewhere. And when I go somewhere, I need the car.
I'm telling mom.
Good luck finding her. She took off in her car two hours ago.
I'm calling dad. Mom always takes your side.
She does not! She told me she doesn't even like me!
There's more laundry, the food bill is bigger, God knows the gas bill is bigger, but things around here haven't changed all that much.
Mr. C was kind enough to give us an update on how he spent his Christmas vacation at his world-famous blog, http://holyangelasarcadia.blogspot.com/, so I thought I would do the same.
My oldest, Jonathon, on Christmas break from college, graced us with his presence for about three weeks. Upon arrival, he managed to double the food bill and the laundry load while spending most of his time on his cell phone or in the car.
My second-oldest, Elle, got her driver's license TWO days before he arrived home (can you spell passive-agressive???)
16 years ago, conversations (if you can call them that) in our house went like this:
It's my turn!
No, it's not
You have to share! Mom says you have to share!
Mom says it's my turn.
No she didn't. She says it's my turn.
I'm calling dad. Mom always takes your side.
She does not! She told me she doesn't even like me!
Conversations in our house over Christmas vacation this year went like this:
It's my turn for the car! I just got my license and it's my turn!
No way. I've been gone for six months; you can drive it when I'm back at school.
That is SO not fair. You've had your license for TWO YEARS! I get the car now!
Not a chance.
It's FINALLY MY TURN!
You can drive it later when I don't need it.
When is that?
I don't know. Whenever.
Where are you going?
I don't know, but I'm going somewhere. And when I go somewhere, I need the car.
I'm telling mom.
Good luck finding her. She took off in her car two hours ago.
I'm calling dad. Mom always takes your side.
She does not! She told me she doesn't even like me!
There's more laundry, the food bill is bigger, God knows the gas bill is bigger, but things around here haven't changed all that much.
Monday, March 24, 2008
1999 CBI GOLF TOURNAMENT CHARGES & RESPONSE
(events of the 1999 Clark Brothers Tournament, following is an email addressed to JY)
To All:
The CBI Executive Subcommittee on Conduct, the same watchdog organization that issued the Holliganism warming at Poppy Ridge in 1998, has formally requested a review of the behavior of JY during the recently concluded tournament at Anaheim Hills. The Executive Subcommittee is recommending disciplinary action be levied against Mr. Y. The following are the list of charges brought against Mr. Y. All events occurred during or immediately after the event on August 21st.
1) Disparaging Remarks Against a Selected Tournament Venue
It was reported that while on the 15th tee box, the highest point on the course, Mr. Y walked to the front edge of the box, and with arms spread wide proclaimed loudly, "This course is my bitch!"
2) Disparaging Remarks Against a Tournament Participant
It was reported that after the round, while waiting for the other groups to finish, Mr. Y engaged in abusive and foul language against Mr. Wheelock, his partner during the round. While many close to Messrs. Y and W realize this type of discourse is common, other unknowing tournament participants were visibly offended by many of his comments to the degree that they were reported to the tournament executive subcommittee.
3) Excessive Loud Cursing
It was reported that after the round whilst waiting for the other groups to finish, Mr. Y engaged in repetitive, extremely loud cursing. While the tournament does not look down on cursing in the proper amount and fashion, Mr. Y went well beyond the appropriate level.
4) Vomiting During the Awards Ceremony
It was reported and the results later seen, that during the awards ceremony Mr. Y, with a total lack of regard to the visibility of his actions, regurgitated on the patio immediately outside the banquet room. This action was done in plain view and to the disgust of many tournament participants. This sudden retching spew was obviously the result of over four hours of abusive, heavy drinking. While the tournament does not discourage the consumption of alcoholic beverages, it is considered proper form to be able to control yourself and the amount you consume. Mr. Y obviously showed no regard to this, and showed a considerable amount of disrespect to the tournament as well as the facility by not removing himself to the appropriate area to relieve himself of his bodily toxins.
I would appreciate it if Mr. Y would care to respond to his version of these charges, after which the tournament Directors will vote on the necessary disciplinary action needed, if any. If Mr. Y elects to seek legal counsel, then he may designate another individual to submit his plea for him.
Mr. Y has 7 days to respond, after which time if no response is received he is determined to be guilty and the Directors will then place their votes. Disciplinary action can range from Tournament Censure in the mailer to suspension from future events.
Regretfully,
C Clark
Chairman
Clark Brothers Tournament Golf
And Mr. Y's response, dated 8-31-1999
To all:
I apologize for the delay in my response to the outrageous charges directed towards me, but I have been struggling with extreme depression and have had difficulty coping with the shock of your accusations. These charges are an egregious miscarriage of justice and have compelled me to seek both legal and psychological counseling.
At this time I feel it is appropriate to address each of your spurious charges point by point:
1) Disparaging Remarks Against a Selected Tournament Venue
Okay, so I said it. But I don't feel this was a particularly disparaging comment. It was a beautiful course, in great shape, but by this point in the tournament it was obvious that our team was having its way with Anaheim Hills. She wanted it bad and we gave it to her.
2) Disparaging Remarks Against a Tournament Participant
This is ridiculous. Anyone who has ever been associated with Perry W can certainly appreciate the fact that there are no remarks disparaging enough to reflect his complete lack of both moral character and personal hygiene. All remarks made by me regarding Mr. W were both accurate and insightful. The only participants that could have been offended by the start frankness of my observations could be those limp-wristed puffs from up north (near the GAY BAY).
3) Excessive Loud Cursing
At no point during this period of the tournament did anyone approach me with complaints regarding either my behavior or my vocabulary. I do admit that I may have been more enthusiastic in my commentary than other participants but this stems from the fact that I was a CHAMPION; they were all LOSERS.
4) Vomiting During the Awards Ceremony
I have been advised by my attorneys (Mr. M Young, esq and Mr. F Gleason, CHAMPION), that I must refrain from discussing the details relating to this charge as this is an area where we feel litigation is the only remedy.
I was obviously the victim of food poisoning.
Toxicological tests have conclusively determined that the sandwich I ate at the tournament was made with contaminated mayonnaise. It was ironically only by virtue of great intestinal fortitude that I was able to suppress my urge to spew until after the competition. The sight of whatever that was being served for dinner was more than my ravaged constitution could stand and I had to remove myself from the immediate dining area and evacuate my system. I admit that Emily Post no doubt frowns on such visible displays but it was an emergency born of necessity.
The most heinous and malicious of your charges are those that imply I may have been involved in excessive drinking. All alcohol that my teammates and I imbibed were administered strictly out of a sense of fair play. It was obvious from our first tee shots that we were about to completely outclass the field. Although I am by nature a tee-totaler, I felt that it was important to allow the rest of the champion-wanna-be's to feel that they were in the running.
It is incredibly painful to have my gallant effort to level the playing field described as "over four hours of abusive, heavy drinking". The spectacular display of golfmanship by teammates and I, even though impaired, is the stuff of legend.
So you can boot me out of your tournament, you can slander and defame me until the cows come home, but you will never break me.
Because I will always know that on that sunny, wind-swept day in August 1999, I and three of the game's finest stood together against all odds and emerged CHAMPIONS.
Defiantly, unrepently, yours,
JEY
CBI 1999 CHAMPION
p.s. Bite my a**!
To All:
The CBI Executive Subcommittee on Conduct, the same watchdog organization that issued the Holliganism warming at Poppy Ridge in 1998, has formally requested a review of the behavior of JY during the recently concluded tournament at Anaheim Hills. The Executive Subcommittee is recommending disciplinary action be levied against Mr. Y. The following are the list of charges brought against Mr. Y. All events occurred during or immediately after the event on August 21st.
1) Disparaging Remarks Against a Selected Tournament Venue
It was reported that while on the 15th tee box, the highest point on the course, Mr. Y walked to the front edge of the box, and with arms spread wide proclaimed loudly, "This course is my bitch!"
2) Disparaging Remarks Against a Tournament Participant
It was reported that after the round, while waiting for the other groups to finish, Mr. Y engaged in abusive and foul language against Mr. Wheelock, his partner during the round. While many close to Messrs. Y and W realize this type of discourse is common, other unknowing tournament participants were visibly offended by many of his comments to the degree that they were reported to the tournament executive subcommittee.
3) Excessive Loud Cursing
It was reported that after the round whilst waiting for the other groups to finish, Mr. Y engaged in repetitive, extremely loud cursing. While the tournament does not look down on cursing in the proper amount and fashion, Mr. Y went well beyond the appropriate level.
4) Vomiting During the Awards Ceremony
It was reported and the results later seen, that during the awards ceremony Mr. Y, with a total lack of regard to the visibility of his actions, regurgitated on the patio immediately outside the banquet room. This action was done in plain view and to the disgust of many tournament participants. This sudden retching spew was obviously the result of over four hours of abusive, heavy drinking. While the tournament does not discourage the consumption of alcoholic beverages, it is considered proper form to be able to control yourself and the amount you consume. Mr. Y obviously showed no regard to this, and showed a considerable amount of disrespect to the tournament as well as the facility by not removing himself to the appropriate area to relieve himself of his bodily toxins.
I would appreciate it if Mr. Y would care to respond to his version of these charges, after which the tournament Directors will vote on the necessary disciplinary action needed, if any. If Mr. Y elects to seek legal counsel, then he may designate another individual to submit his plea for him.
Mr. Y has 7 days to respond, after which time if no response is received he is determined to be guilty and the Directors will then place their votes. Disciplinary action can range from Tournament Censure in the mailer to suspension from future events.
Regretfully,
C Clark
Chairman
Clark Brothers Tournament Golf
And Mr. Y's response, dated 8-31-1999
To all:
I apologize for the delay in my response to the outrageous charges directed towards me, but I have been struggling with extreme depression and have had difficulty coping with the shock of your accusations. These charges are an egregious miscarriage of justice and have compelled me to seek both legal and psychological counseling.
At this time I feel it is appropriate to address each of your spurious charges point by point:
1) Disparaging Remarks Against a Selected Tournament Venue
Okay, so I said it. But I don't feel this was a particularly disparaging comment. It was a beautiful course, in great shape, but by this point in the tournament it was obvious that our team was having its way with Anaheim Hills. She wanted it bad and we gave it to her.
2) Disparaging Remarks Against a Tournament Participant
This is ridiculous. Anyone who has ever been associated with Perry W can certainly appreciate the fact that there are no remarks disparaging enough to reflect his complete lack of both moral character and personal hygiene. All remarks made by me regarding Mr. W were both accurate and insightful. The only participants that could have been offended by the start frankness of my observations could be those limp-wristed puffs from up north (near the GAY BAY).
3) Excessive Loud Cursing
At no point during this period of the tournament did anyone approach me with complaints regarding either my behavior or my vocabulary. I do admit that I may have been more enthusiastic in my commentary than other participants but this stems from the fact that I was a CHAMPION; they were all LOSERS.
4) Vomiting During the Awards Ceremony
I have been advised by my attorneys (Mr. M Young, esq and Mr. F Gleason, CHAMPION), that I must refrain from discussing the details relating to this charge as this is an area where we feel litigation is the only remedy.
I was obviously the victim of food poisoning.
Toxicological tests have conclusively determined that the sandwich I ate at the tournament was made with contaminated mayonnaise. It was ironically only by virtue of great intestinal fortitude that I was able to suppress my urge to spew until after the competition. The sight of whatever that was being served for dinner was more than my ravaged constitution could stand and I had to remove myself from the immediate dining area and evacuate my system. I admit that Emily Post no doubt frowns on such visible displays but it was an emergency born of necessity.
The most heinous and malicious of your charges are those that imply I may have been involved in excessive drinking. All alcohol that my teammates and I imbibed were administered strictly out of a sense of fair play. It was obvious from our first tee shots that we were about to completely outclass the field. Although I am by nature a tee-totaler, I felt that it was important to allow the rest of the champion-wanna-be's to feel that they were in the running.
It is incredibly painful to have my gallant effort to level the playing field described as "over four hours of abusive, heavy drinking". The spectacular display of golfmanship by teammates and I, even though impaired, is the stuff of legend.
So you can boot me out of your tournament, you can slander and defame me until the cows come home, but you will never break me.
Because I will always know that on that sunny, wind-swept day in August 1999, I and three of the game's finest stood together against all odds and emerged CHAMPIONS.
Defiantly, unrepently, yours,
JEY
CBI 1999 CHAMPION
p.s. Bite my a**!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
CONGRATULATIONS AND GOOD LUCK
(this was written in March of 2007 when the principal of my kids' school had a baby girl)
Dear Mr. C:
While I would never presume to give parenting advice to a new parent (especially since you know my children), I am amply qualified to give you some insights about what you've got to look forward to now that you have been blessed with a daughter.
It's been my experience that there is some sort of collective ignorance that occurs when males are together. For instance, two males of average intelligence, when together, have a combined IQ equal to that of a gnat. And a gnat that would go to school (if he went to school) on the short bus, if you get my drift. The more males in a group, the lower the collective IQ. This explains golf, Nascar and the Yenny house.
The reverse happens when women are together. So if you have two females of average intelligence together, they have an IQ of ... well, I don't know what. But trust me, it's WAY more than yours.
Put more simply, Mr. C, in your house it's now two against one. Check your ego at the nursery door and surrender now.
Next, accept a sort of constant state of looming bankruptcy. Everything is cuter in pink and its purchase will be hard to resist. But soon, it will be your daughter that will be impossible to resist when she wants something. It will start small, a Barbie here, a Barbie there. Then you realize you have more Barbies than relatives and they're EVERYWHERE. They are under the bed, floating in the bathtub, staring at you from across the room, lying on the floor when you are walking barefoot in the middle of the night.
Before you know it you're recharging the battery on a pink Powerwheel. And the Powerwheel is newer and more reliable than the car you are driving.
Your daughter will have the most fashionable wardrobe in the house, with accessories for every outfit. When she wants a Ford Mustang you will be nostalgic for the days when all she wanted was a pony.
The average man can give an accurate list of every shoe he has ever owned. The average woman can't list shoes that are currently in her closet. And guess what? She STILL doesn't have any to wear to the dance on Saturday night. And she has to go to the mall RIGHT NOW.
But it is all a small price to pay. You are now some one's hero and all you have to do is come home from work every day and provide occasional taxi service to the mall. You will be a genius for remembering 1st grade math. You'll be the go-to guy to put the training wheels on the bike and then again to take them off. She'll laugh at your jokes and insist to your wife you're a good driver.
(But save your energy because someday there will be science projects that your daughter will need help with and that will be your chance to be your wife's hero.)
And the good news is females are not the most scary creatures on earth. The bad news is the most scary creature on earth is the adolescent male that your daughter will someday insist she is old enough to go to the dance with.
Dear Mr. C:
While I would never presume to give parenting advice to a new parent (especially since you know my children), I am amply qualified to give you some insights about what you've got to look forward to now that you have been blessed with a daughter.
It's been my experience that there is some sort of collective ignorance that occurs when males are together. For instance, two males of average intelligence, when together, have a combined IQ equal to that of a gnat. And a gnat that would go to school (if he went to school) on the short bus, if you get my drift. The more males in a group, the lower the collective IQ. This explains golf, Nascar and the Yenny house.
The reverse happens when women are together. So if you have two females of average intelligence together, they have an IQ of ... well, I don't know what. But trust me, it's WAY more than yours.
Put more simply, Mr. C, in your house it's now two against one. Check your ego at the nursery door and surrender now.
Next, accept a sort of constant state of looming bankruptcy. Everything is cuter in pink and its purchase will be hard to resist. But soon, it will be your daughter that will be impossible to resist when she wants something. It will start small, a Barbie here, a Barbie there. Then you realize you have more Barbies than relatives and they're EVERYWHERE. They are under the bed, floating in the bathtub, staring at you from across the room, lying on the floor when you are walking barefoot in the middle of the night.
Before you know it you're recharging the battery on a pink Powerwheel. And the Powerwheel is newer and more reliable than the car you are driving.
Your daughter will have the most fashionable wardrobe in the house, with accessories for every outfit. When she wants a Ford Mustang you will be nostalgic for the days when all she wanted was a pony.
The average man can give an accurate list of every shoe he has ever owned. The average woman can't list shoes that are currently in her closet. And guess what? She STILL doesn't have any to wear to the dance on Saturday night. And she has to go to the mall RIGHT NOW.
But it is all a small price to pay. You are now some one's hero and all you have to do is come home from work every day and provide occasional taxi service to the mall. You will be a genius for remembering 1st grade math. You'll be the go-to guy to put the training wheels on the bike and then again to take them off. She'll laugh at your jokes and insist to your wife you're a good driver.
(But save your energy because someday there will be science projects that your daughter will need help with and that will be your chance to be your wife's hero.)
And the good news is females are not the most scary creatures on earth. The bad news is the most scary creature on earth is the adolescent male that your daughter will someday insist she is old enough to go to the dance with.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
ELECTION 2004
(this was written right after the Presidential election in November 2004)
Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that my opinions are many and passionate with little or no sense of proportion. While not shy about voicing my thoughts, I hesitate to abuse my position as editor of The Trumpet to put them in writing (plus, modern politics have taught me that it is never wise to leave a paper trail).
That having been said, Election 2004 was so historic that I simply can't withhold comment.
Election 2004 is the last time my husband and I will travel to the polls alone. My oldest son, who is 16 and until very recently had Batman sheets on his bed, will be old enough to vote in the 2008 election. He has never been able to find the milk in the fridge, has a very loose concept of how money actually gets in the ATM machine and has never voiced an opinion that does not involve football.
My 14-year old daughter, who think the Bill of Rights includes an amendment regarding cell phones for all and considers my 15-passenger van a personal taxi (albeit an embarrassing one), will also be joining us.
By 2008, there will be to more Yennys assisting in the election of leader of the free world.
And my 12-year old will be old enough to drive us all to the polling booth.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that my opinions are many and passionate with little or no sense of proportion. While not shy about voicing my thoughts, I hesitate to abuse my position as editor of The Trumpet to put them in writing (plus, modern politics have taught me that it is never wise to leave a paper trail).
That having been said, Election 2004 was so historic that I simply can't withhold comment.
Election 2004 is the last time my husband and I will travel to the polls alone. My oldest son, who is 16 and until very recently had Batman sheets on his bed, will be old enough to vote in the 2008 election. He has never been able to find the milk in the fridge, has a very loose concept of how money actually gets in the ATM machine and has never voiced an opinion that does not involve football.
My 14-year old daughter, who think the Bill of Rights includes an amendment regarding cell phones for all and considers my 15-passenger van a personal taxi (albeit an embarrassing one), will also be joining us.
By 2008, there will be to more Yennys assisting in the election of leader of the free world.
And my 12-year old will be old enough to drive us all to the polling booth.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
REAL LIFE VOTING
(this was written in November 2004 in response to an article published in the LA Times, which I found patronizing, about the importance of taking your children with you to the polling booth)
I grew up in a large family: two brothers, two sisters. I don't often admit it, certainly not while they are around, but I am the oldest.
We are the children of immigrants from Scotland via Canada. My parents arrived in the States in 1955, became citizens and to my knowledge, have never missed a vote.
My father never took any of us to the polling booth. Unusual since he took us everywhere - or almost everywhere. In hindsight, I realize he only took us to places where little lost children could be turned in and held safely until their distracted father had finished rounding up the other four kids. I believe at one point the manager at K-Mart was invited for Thanksgiving dinner.
The polling booth is no place for children. As the mother of four I think the Florida debacle in 2000 was probably caused by stressed-out mothers who mistakenly thought they were doing their civic duty by bringing along their children. Phrases like "pregnant chad" do not spring up in the vernacular without a reason. Letting a child pull the handle certainly sheds some light on all those Buchanan votes in South Florida.
But the Flanagan children did not need to see their father in action at the polling booth to know he was voting. He has argued passionately about politics his whole life. In my family "debate" is considered performance art and making someone cry is considered a victory.
The problem with my father is that while he thoroughly enjoys a good debate, he long ago realized that the more outrageous the comment, the more fun the debate. I spent a good part of the early 70's arguing that Nixon would not, in fact, make a good dictator. After Nixon's resignation things got a little quiet around the Flanagan dinner table (or did I finally get a date - I don't remember); say what you want about Gerald Ford, but it's hard to get passionate either way.
But with current events being what they are, Flanagan gatherings are definitely getting more lively. There are some members of the family who believe that California's three-strikes law is unconstitutional; others believe the appropriate sentence for toilet papering a house would be 25 years.
My children are learning from the master that there is no point which cannot be belabored indefinitely; that an accomplished debater can switch sides with no notice if things are getting too agreeable, and that if you're going to hold an opinion, you had better be prepared to be the last man standing (the only true way to win) and whatever you do: don't cry. It's the only thing everyone will remember.
See you at the polling both (sans children) and don't forget to check your chads.
I grew up in a large family: two brothers, two sisters. I don't often admit it, certainly not while they are around, but I am the oldest.
We are the children of immigrants from Scotland via Canada. My parents arrived in the States in 1955, became citizens and to my knowledge, have never missed a vote.
My father never took any of us to the polling booth. Unusual since he took us everywhere - or almost everywhere. In hindsight, I realize he only took us to places where little lost children could be turned in and held safely until their distracted father had finished rounding up the other four kids. I believe at one point the manager at K-Mart was invited for Thanksgiving dinner.
The polling booth is no place for children. As the mother of four I think the Florida debacle in 2000 was probably caused by stressed-out mothers who mistakenly thought they were doing their civic duty by bringing along their children. Phrases like "pregnant chad" do not spring up in the vernacular without a reason. Letting a child pull the handle certainly sheds some light on all those Buchanan votes in South Florida.
But the Flanagan children did not need to see their father in action at the polling booth to know he was voting. He has argued passionately about politics his whole life. In my family "debate" is considered performance art and making someone cry is considered a victory.
The problem with my father is that while he thoroughly enjoys a good debate, he long ago realized that the more outrageous the comment, the more fun the debate. I spent a good part of the early 70's arguing that Nixon would not, in fact, make a good dictator. After Nixon's resignation things got a little quiet around the Flanagan dinner table (or did I finally get a date - I don't remember); say what you want about Gerald Ford, but it's hard to get passionate either way.
But with current events being what they are, Flanagan gatherings are definitely getting more lively. There are some members of the family who believe that California's three-strikes law is unconstitutional; others believe the appropriate sentence for toilet papering a house would be 25 years.
My children are learning from the master that there is no point which cannot be belabored indefinitely; that an accomplished debater can switch sides with no notice if things are getting too agreeable, and that if you're going to hold an opinion, you had better be prepared to be the last man standing (the only true way to win) and whatever you do: don't cry. It's the only thing everyone will remember.
See you at the polling both (sans children) and don't forget to check your chads.
CHRISTMAS MEMORIES
(written Christmas 2006)
A dreaded tradition in the Yenny home is the annual Christmas picture. When the kids were little, a picture in the Christmas card was necessary just to keep far-away friends up to date on arrivals which at one point seemed to be occurring annually.
When the kids were younger, getting one good picture required three rolls of film and three adults. My sister Theresa was behind the camera, JY was dancing around behind Theresa acting like a fool trying to get the kids to smile or laugh and I stood on the sidelines yelling: get your fingers out of your mouth, get your fingers out of your brother's mouth, take the rabbit ears from behind your brother's head, stand up straight, put your tongue BACK in your mouth, uncross your eyes, etc.
This was all done under the threat of someone either falling in the mud or puking on their Christmas shirt.
Amazingly enough, we pulled it off. Every year we took anywhere from 100 to 200 pictures and got one that didn't make us look like bad parents with no help from Photoshop.
But then the kids got older; they can cooperate. Or so I thought.
So this year I went at it alone. On Thanksgiving Day I forced the boys into shirts with actual collars (torture) and Jonathon into his uniform (he actually complained about the poor quality or our iron!). Digital camera in hand, I lined up the kids, yelled at them to smile and took a dozen or so pictures.
I never realized how hard it is to monitor the expressions on everyone's face while taking a picture. And I didn't realize what a poor job of monitoring I had done until the next day. A dozen pictures and not one that didn't have at least one of the boys looking goofy. And all three managed to look goofy AT THE SAME TIME in some them. Elle, on the other hand, understands the power of the camera and looked perfect in every picture.
Well, I had Plan B. Over 1,000 pictures were taken by my sisters and me in Glacier National Park in July. I spent a day going through all 1,000 pictures and there was NOT ONE with all four Yenny kids. Sam and Nate were in hardly any pictures at all and I am beginning to wonder if they were even on vacation with us. Elle, on the other hand, is in about 900 of the 1,000 pictures.
I finally managed to get some Christmas cards ordered, all four kids are featured.
Thank you, Photoshop.
A dreaded tradition in the Yenny home is the annual Christmas picture. When the kids were little, a picture in the Christmas card was necessary just to keep far-away friends up to date on arrivals which at one point seemed to be occurring annually.
When the kids were younger, getting one good picture required three rolls of film and three adults. My sister Theresa was behind the camera, JY was dancing around behind Theresa acting like a fool trying to get the kids to smile or laugh and I stood on the sidelines yelling: get your fingers out of your mouth, get your fingers out of your brother's mouth, take the rabbit ears from behind your brother's head, stand up straight, put your tongue BACK in your mouth, uncross your eyes, etc.
This was all done under the threat of someone either falling in the mud or puking on their Christmas shirt.
Amazingly enough, we pulled it off. Every year we took anywhere from 100 to 200 pictures and got one that didn't make us look like bad parents with no help from Photoshop.
But then the kids got older; they can cooperate. Or so I thought.
So this year I went at it alone. On Thanksgiving Day I forced the boys into shirts with actual collars (torture) and Jonathon into his uniform (he actually complained about the poor quality or our iron!). Digital camera in hand, I lined up the kids, yelled at them to smile and took a dozen or so pictures.
I never realized how hard it is to monitor the expressions on everyone's face while taking a picture. And I didn't realize what a poor job of monitoring I had done until the next day. A dozen pictures and not one that didn't have at least one of the boys looking goofy. And all three managed to look goofy AT THE SAME TIME in some them. Elle, on the other hand, understands the power of the camera and looked perfect in every picture.
Well, I had Plan B. Over 1,000 pictures were taken by my sisters and me in Glacier National Park in July. I spent a day going through all 1,000 pictures and there was NOT ONE with all four Yenny kids. Sam and Nate were in hardly any pictures at all and I am beginning to wonder if they were even on vacation with us. Elle, on the other hand, is in about 900 of the 1,000 pictures.
I finally managed to get some Christmas cards ordered, all four kids are featured.
Thank you, Photoshop.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
TIME SAVER (?)
After 18 years of procrastination, the Yenny household has finally modernized our kitchen. Where once there was a "Little House on the Prairie" level of technology there is now a dishwasher and garbage disposal.
For any of you familiar with Yenny boys and frequency of trips to the emergency room, you'll be happy to hear the switch to turn the garbage disposal to "on" is safely out of reach to all but the tallest of Yennys. I can't even reach it.
Wish I could say the same for the dishwasher.
Can't tell you what a time saver that baby has turned out to be. After-dinner, pre-dishwasher conversations used to go something like this:
Mom: Whose turn is it to wash the dishes?
Son #1: I did them last night.
Son #2: No, you didn't. I did them, so it's your turn.
Son #1: Nuh-uh. It was your turn, but you had practice so I did them. Mom said you would take my turn tonight and tomorrow, so now it's your turn. And it's your turn tomorrow, too.
Son #2: Well, it was my turn last night. I can't do them if I'm not home. And I didn't ask you to take my turn, so it's not my turn tonight.
Daughter: Well, I'm not doing them. I did them EVERY night last week and there's no way it's my turn.
As this point everyone notices that Son #3 is hiding in the bathroom and it's decided by vote that it's DEFINITELY his turn.
Time of conversation: Approximately 20 minutes
Time to do dishes: Approximately 20 minutes
Now that we are blessed with the wonderful time-saving device called a dishwasher, after-dinner conversation now goes like this:
Mom: Whose turn is it to load the dishwasher?
Son #1: Not me. I unloaded last night, so it's his turn.
Son #3: Not me. I rinsed last night. Plus, I cleared the table yesterday and today.
Son #2: I had to do the dishes this morning because someone forgot to turn the dishwasher on, so it's not my turn.
Daughter: Well, I'm not doing them. I loaded the dishwasher EVERY night last week and there's no way it's my turn.
Son #1: I didn't eat here tonight. I just got home. So it's not my turn.
Son #2: Well, I might have eaten here, but I didn't like it. Plus, I had to put all the stuff away that you couldn't reach so it's not my turn; it must be your turn.
Son #3: No, you had practice last night when it was your turn, and mom said you would take my turn for the next week.
Everyone looks accusingly at mom, who makes a mental note to hide in the bathroom during future dishwasher discussions.
Time of conversation: Approximately 45 minutes
Time for JY to load dishwasher: Approximately 20 minutes
Time for everyone to deny it's their turn to unload dishwasher: Approximately 45 minutes
Discussion next morning about whether dishes are clean or dirty: Approximately 10 minutes
Time for me to set table directly from dishwasher to table: Approximately 5 minutes
Wow. Don't know what I'm going to do with all this extra time.
For any of you familiar with Yenny boys and frequency of trips to the emergency room, you'll be happy to hear the switch to turn the garbage disposal to "on" is safely out of reach to all but the tallest of Yennys. I can't even reach it.
Wish I could say the same for the dishwasher.
Can't tell you what a time saver that baby has turned out to be. After-dinner, pre-dishwasher conversations used to go something like this:
Mom: Whose turn is it to wash the dishes?
Son #1: I did them last night.
Son #2: No, you didn't. I did them, so it's your turn.
Son #1: Nuh-uh. It was your turn, but you had practice so I did them. Mom said you would take my turn tonight and tomorrow, so now it's your turn. And it's your turn tomorrow, too.
Son #2: Well, it was my turn last night. I can't do them if I'm not home. And I didn't ask you to take my turn, so it's not my turn tonight.
Daughter: Well, I'm not doing them. I did them EVERY night last week and there's no way it's my turn.
As this point everyone notices that Son #3 is hiding in the bathroom and it's decided by vote that it's DEFINITELY his turn.
Time of conversation: Approximately 20 minutes
Time to do dishes: Approximately 20 minutes
Now that we are blessed with the wonderful time-saving device called a dishwasher, after-dinner conversation now goes like this:
Mom: Whose turn is it to load the dishwasher?
Son #1: Not me. I unloaded last night, so it's his turn.
Son #3: Not me. I rinsed last night. Plus, I cleared the table yesterday and today.
Son #2: I had to do the dishes this morning because someone forgot to turn the dishwasher on, so it's not my turn.
Daughter: Well, I'm not doing them. I loaded the dishwasher EVERY night last week and there's no way it's my turn.
Son #1: I didn't eat here tonight. I just got home. So it's not my turn.
Son #2: Well, I might have eaten here, but I didn't like it. Plus, I had to put all the stuff away that you couldn't reach so it's not my turn; it must be your turn.
Son #3: No, you had practice last night when it was your turn, and mom said you would take my turn for the next week.
Everyone looks accusingly at mom, who makes a mental note to hide in the bathroom during future dishwasher discussions.
Time of conversation: Approximately 45 minutes
Time for JY to load dishwasher: Approximately 20 minutes
Time for everyone to deny it's their turn to unload dishwasher: Approximately 45 minutes
Discussion next morning about whether dishes are clean or dirty: Approximately 10 minutes
Time for me to set table directly from dishwasher to table: Approximately 5 minutes
Wow. Don't know what I'm going to do with all this extra time.
HEROES
(this article was written - I think - in 2002 or so)
In the world today it has become common to lament the lack of heroes.The fact that George Washington owned slaves is now common knowledge (and the ridiculous motivation for some schools to change their name); that he provided for his slaves in his will is rarely noted.
So today I tell the tale of a hero; a man born in 1925 in Scotland, the third of four children.
Little is known about the father of four except that he fought in WWI and died young, leaving his wife and four children.
My hero, raised by his widowed mother, remembers little about his childhood - just fragmented memories he has shared with his children and grandchildren - but a picture emerges.
He was raised in a slum outside of Glasgow, Scotland. His mother worked three jobs to keep food on the table, but was home in the morning when he left for school and home when he returned. From this we learn that no matter how great the financial need, it is always possible to be home with your children.
He remembers being caught stealing sugar off a horse-drawn cart and being punished by five adults before he even got home - where, I'm sure, he was punished again. From this he taught us accountability.
He remembers the only time he got near his older brother's bike was when he was "allowed" to wash it. What a wonderful example of being grateful for what you get and not bitter for what you don't.
His older brother was at some point caught in some minor crime. Because their resemblance was so strong and because the family could not afford the brother losing a day's pay, it was my hero who turned up on the dreaded morning before a judge to accept the punishment. From this we learned that the needs of the family are at times more important than the needs of the individual.
Like his older brother, he went to work full time in ship building at the age of 14. He was so young he wore short pants under his work clothes and played soccer with his workmates during his brief lunch break.
The boy grew to be a man, and at the age of 25 left Scotland alone and traveled to Canada. After many misadventures, he met a woman also from Scotland; showing some good sense and a flash of brilliance, they soon married and moved to Michigan.
He had three children in Michigan, moved to California, had three more and buried one.
My dad was a great father while it was still "raising your kids," as opposed to "parenting". I remember someone once asked him why he took his kids with him everywhere, to which he replied, "Whose kids am I supposed to bring with me?"
He was a man that wouldn't have dreamt of buying any of his five children a car, but spent untold hours doing questionable repairs on the ones we purchased on our own. Perhaps his greatest gift, he taught us that anything worth owning is worth working and saving for.
Thanks to the example he set, his two sons grew to be men, and when he walked his three daughters down the aisle, it was to marry men. And when I say "men", I don't mean tall boys. I mean men that take their responsibilities as husbands and fathers seriously and with unfailing good humor.
The stories of my dad's childhood would be worthy of any analyst's couch; instead, he has used them to greatly educate and entertain his children. We learned that life is seldom easy and not always fair; we learned that the story of our lives is not what happens to us but how we choose to deal with what we are dealt; we learned about responsibility and honor. When my dad is on a roll and talking, numerous pots of coffee are consumed and no one dreams of turning on the TV, regardless of what team is playing.
So, like me, I bet you don't have to look far to find a hero for your children. And let us be grateful everyday for being so blessed to have these people in our lives.
In the world today it has become common to lament the lack of heroes.The fact that George Washington owned slaves is now common knowledge (and the ridiculous motivation for some schools to change their name); that he provided for his slaves in his will is rarely noted.
So today I tell the tale of a hero; a man born in 1925 in Scotland, the third of four children.
Little is known about the father of four except that he fought in WWI and died young, leaving his wife and four children.
My hero, raised by his widowed mother, remembers little about his childhood - just fragmented memories he has shared with his children and grandchildren - but a picture emerges.
He was raised in a slum outside of Glasgow, Scotland. His mother worked three jobs to keep food on the table, but was home in the morning when he left for school and home when he returned. From this we learn that no matter how great the financial need, it is always possible to be home with your children.
He remembers being caught stealing sugar off a horse-drawn cart and being punished by five adults before he even got home - where, I'm sure, he was punished again. From this he taught us accountability.
He remembers the only time he got near his older brother's bike was when he was "allowed" to wash it. What a wonderful example of being grateful for what you get and not bitter for what you don't.
His older brother was at some point caught in some minor crime. Because their resemblance was so strong and because the family could not afford the brother losing a day's pay, it was my hero who turned up on the dreaded morning before a judge to accept the punishment. From this we learned that the needs of the family are at times more important than the needs of the individual.
Like his older brother, he went to work full time in ship building at the age of 14. He was so young he wore short pants under his work clothes and played soccer with his workmates during his brief lunch break.
The boy grew to be a man, and at the age of 25 left Scotland alone and traveled to Canada. After many misadventures, he met a woman also from Scotland; showing some good sense and a flash of brilliance, they soon married and moved to Michigan.
He had three children in Michigan, moved to California, had three more and buried one.
My dad was a great father while it was still "raising your kids," as opposed to "parenting". I remember someone once asked him why he took his kids with him everywhere, to which he replied, "Whose kids am I supposed to bring with me?"
He was a man that wouldn't have dreamt of buying any of his five children a car, but spent untold hours doing questionable repairs on the ones we purchased on our own. Perhaps his greatest gift, he taught us that anything worth owning is worth working and saving for.
Thanks to the example he set, his two sons grew to be men, and when he walked his three daughters down the aisle, it was to marry men. And when I say "men", I don't mean tall boys. I mean men that take their responsibilities as husbands and fathers seriously and with unfailing good humor.
The stories of my dad's childhood would be worthy of any analyst's couch; instead, he has used them to greatly educate and entertain his children. We learned that life is seldom easy and not always fair; we learned that the story of our lives is not what happens to us but how we choose to deal with what we are dealt; we learned about responsibility and honor. When my dad is on a roll and talking, numerous pots of coffee are consumed and no one dreams of turning on the TV, regardless of what team is playing.
So, like me, I bet you don't have to look far to find a hero for your children. And let us be grateful everyday for being so blessed to have these people in our lives.
WHAT I LEARNED ON MY SUMMER VACATION
(written September 2005)
For the first time in 20 years, this past summer I found myself vacationing in a time zone which was behind California. In other words, someone stole three hours sleep from me, and I want it back. This means that the somewhat reasonable hour of 8:00 am was, in fact, 5:00 in Hawaii. Now, if I have to be awake at 5:00 am I'm glad it was Hawaii, but regardless it was not a pleasant experience.
By the way: sunrise is highly overrated. I'll trade it for sunset any day of the week.
John Yenny is a natural-born morning person. I have only been grateful for this four times: Each of my children chose an early morning warning for arrival. Please don't misunderstand that their actual arrival occurred anywhere near the early morning warning; I may have mentioned previously the combined hours spent in labor of 297 hours.
Barring labor, experience and self-preservation has taught John Yenny that the best way to handle his early morning wake up is to quietly remove himself from the premises. According to him, his mornings in Hawaii were spent swimming in the ocean and catching "beach peaks". Since his early morning countenance is far too cheerful, I took his word for it and at no point attempted to join him.
My siblings, with whom I was traveling, can be made grumpy just by the knowledge that they are awake when it is 5:00 am in ANY time zone, let alone the one they find themselves in.
So I found myself awake every morning between 5:00 and 5:30 with zombie siblings and an absent husband and children who can reset their body clock within two hours of arrival and sleep until 10:00 am. There was nothing to do but go for a run on the beach, which sounds a lot more romantic than it was. It was, in fact, terrifying.
For the first time in my life I was rubbing elbows with a sector of society whose existence had been long rumored, but I had never witnessed: Those who get up early in the morning WHEN THEY DON'T HAVE TO. I am referring to the people who greeted me each morning with a sunny "aloha". Those who acknowledged my presence with a frown and barely perceptible nod were obviously in the same situation as myself and were victims of jet lag. Their presence on the beach was therefore excused.
To those of you who are a member of this early morning cabal (you know who you are) I have some advice:
If you wait until 6:00 am, the coffee shop will actually be open when you arrive and you don't have to loiter outside looking like a homeless person. Now, as a caffeine addict myself I sympathize, but appearances do matter. If you've still got mattress hair, find a drive-through.
The morning newspaper was printed hours ago. The newspaper you buy at 6:00 am will be the same at 8:00 am.
If you actually wait until 8:00 am you can start your car without waking everyone up and you don't have to walk to get your paper and coffee dressed in a strange combination of pajamas and bathing suit.
Fishing in the morning might be productive (or so you claim; I find it hard to believe that the fish know what time it is), but the "no overhead cast" rule still applies. It was tough enough to put one foot in front of the other without having to dodge fishing hooks. And please, if you catch something, be decent and cover it up. I don't even want to see my family that early; I certainly don't want to see a fish flopping around underfoot yelling "help me" in fish language.
And to the old lady I passed every morning with long, wet, gray hair, fins in one hand and snorkel and mask in the other: I want to be you when I grow up.
For the first time in 20 years, this past summer I found myself vacationing in a time zone which was behind California. In other words, someone stole three hours sleep from me, and I want it back. This means that the somewhat reasonable hour of 8:00 am was, in fact, 5:00 in Hawaii. Now, if I have to be awake at 5:00 am I'm glad it was Hawaii, but regardless it was not a pleasant experience.
By the way: sunrise is highly overrated. I'll trade it for sunset any day of the week.
John Yenny is a natural-born morning person. I have only been grateful for this four times: Each of my children chose an early morning warning for arrival. Please don't misunderstand that their actual arrival occurred anywhere near the early morning warning; I may have mentioned previously the combined hours spent in labor of 297 hours.
Barring labor, experience and self-preservation has taught John Yenny that the best way to handle his early morning wake up is to quietly remove himself from the premises. According to him, his mornings in Hawaii were spent swimming in the ocean and catching "beach peaks". Since his early morning countenance is far too cheerful, I took his word for it and at no point attempted to join him.
My siblings, with whom I was traveling, can be made grumpy just by the knowledge that they are awake when it is 5:00 am in ANY time zone, let alone the one they find themselves in.
So I found myself awake every morning between 5:00 and 5:30 with zombie siblings and an absent husband and children who can reset their body clock within two hours of arrival and sleep until 10:00 am. There was nothing to do but go for a run on the beach, which sounds a lot more romantic than it was. It was, in fact, terrifying.
For the first time in my life I was rubbing elbows with a sector of society whose existence had been long rumored, but I had never witnessed: Those who get up early in the morning WHEN THEY DON'T HAVE TO. I am referring to the people who greeted me each morning with a sunny "aloha". Those who acknowledged my presence with a frown and barely perceptible nod were obviously in the same situation as myself and were victims of jet lag. Their presence on the beach was therefore excused.
To those of you who are a member of this early morning cabal (you know who you are) I have some advice:
If you wait until 6:00 am, the coffee shop will actually be open when you arrive and you don't have to loiter outside looking like a homeless person. Now, as a caffeine addict myself I sympathize, but appearances do matter. If you've still got mattress hair, find a drive-through.
The morning newspaper was printed hours ago. The newspaper you buy at 6:00 am will be the same at 8:00 am.
If you actually wait until 8:00 am you can start your car without waking everyone up and you don't have to walk to get your paper and coffee dressed in a strange combination of pajamas and bathing suit.
Fishing in the morning might be productive (or so you claim; I find it hard to believe that the fish know what time it is), but the "no overhead cast" rule still applies. It was tough enough to put one foot in front of the other without having to dodge fishing hooks. And please, if you catch something, be decent and cover it up. I don't even want to see my family that early; I certainly don't want to see a fish flopping around underfoot yelling "help me" in fish language.
And to the old lady I passed every morning with long, wet, gray hair, fins in one hand and snorkel and mask in the other: I want to be you when I grow up.
Monday, March 17, 2008
'BYE JONATHON
(published September 2006)
My oldest child, Jonathon, started college in August. When I say "started" I mean in the same sense he "started" kindergarten: he was driven to his new school by his family and dropped off. This time, however, the school was in New Mexico. And while I didn't have the opportunity to lurk in the hallway after he had been marched into class, I did spend the day watching him march all over the school getting himself checked in. The cadets ordering Jonathon around didn't have quite the command of Mrs. C and the day was VERY long.
A couple of things happen when one of your children leave for college:
1) The dynamics of the family change drastically
2) The dynamics of your checkbook changes even more drastically.
I'll address the first issue since you, as a parent of a child attending Catholic school, are already getting the skills necessary to deal with the second.
Chores. Before Jonathon left we told him to sit down and make a complete list of all the things he was responsible for in the house so those duties could be reassigned. Several months later Jonathon informed us that the following had been his responsibility since birth:
He took out the trashcans every single Thursday, except when he didn't.
A family meeting was called and the following rotating schedule was worked out: The 2nd son would be nagged to take out the cans starting Wednesday. Nagging of the 3rd son would start Thursday. Mom or dad would actually take the cans out to the curb on Friday as soon as they notice the cans are still in the backyard and the trucks are on the street.
So far so good.
Personality. We feared that Jonathon's absence would leave some large, gaping holes in the personality of the family, since many of his "quirks" were unique to him, baldness being a good example. The 2nd son, without nagging, has willingly taking on this role. The only daughter has been training for years in beginning all her sentences with "I need ...", so no worries there. The 3rd son has filled the "music guru" role, so Flogging Molly, Drop Kick Murphys, AC/DC and The Who continue to be played at decibel levels high enough to annoy parents, neighbors, the dog and passing motorists. We promise to do everything in our power to avoid any "punk" influences and the resulting style issues.
So ... we're in great shape! Jonathon's chores are being done and various family members are filling in the holes, we've got everything taken care of and everything's fine! Except when it's not.
He'll be home for 10 days at Thanksgiving and we can't wait.
My oldest child, Jonathon, started college in August. When I say "started" I mean in the same sense he "started" kindergarten: he was driven to his new school by his family and dropped off. This time, however, the school was in New Mexico. And while I didn't have the opportunity to lurk in the hallway after he had been marched into class, I did spend the day watching him march all over the school getting himself checked in. The cadets ordering Jonathon around didn't have quite the command of Mrs. C and the day was VERY long.
A couple of things happen when one of your children leave for college:
1) The dynamics of the family change drastically
2) The dynamics of your checkbook changes even more drastically.
I'll address the first issue since you, as a parent of a child attending Catholic school, are already getting the skills necessary to deal with the second.
Chores. Before Jonathon left we told him to sit down and make a complete list of all the things he was responsible for in the house so those duties could be reassigned. Several months later Jonathon informed us that the following had been his responsibility since birth:
He took out the trashcans every single Thursday, except when he didn't.
A family meeting was called and the following rotating schedule was worked out: The 2nd son would be nagged to take out the cans starting Wednesday. Nagging of the 3rd son would start Thursday. Mom or dad would actually take the cans out to the curb on Friday as soon as they notice the cans are still in the backyard and the trucks are on the street.
So far so good.
Personality. We feared that Jonathon's absence would leave some large, gaping holes in the personality of the family, since many of his "quirks" were unique to him, baldness being a good example. The 2nd son, without nagging, has willingly taking on this role. The only daughter has been training for years in beginning all her sentences with "I need ...", so no worries there. The 3rd son has filled the "music guru" role, so Flogging Molly, Drop Kick Murphys, AC/DC and The Who continue to be played at decibel levels high enough to annoy parents, neighbors, the dog and passing motorists. We promise to do everything in our power to avoid any "punk" influences and the resulting style issues.
So ... we're in great shape! Jonathon's chores are being done and various family members are filling in the holes, we've got everything taken care of and everything's fine! Except when it's not.
He'll be home for 10 days at Thanksgiving and we can't wait.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?
(written Fall 2006)
My relationship with the telephone has been long and troubled.
I grew up in a home with five children and - believe it or not, kids - not only one phone line, but only one phone. Weird, but when it rang you knew exactly where it was because it was connected to the wall. And it was so heavy a similar model was used as a murder weapon in the movie Dial M For Murder.
My sisters and I all arrived at dating age around the same. time. We had a mother who was ABSOLUTELY scrupulous about telling the truth. So, in other words, you didn't dare say:
If so and so calls, tell him I'm not home
If so and so calls, tell him I'm dead.
If John Yenny calls, I'M HERE!
So, it was not unusual for the phone to ring and all three girls run out the front door. From the front yard we would hear my mother say, "No, I'm sorry. She's not here." On a good day, she would tell you who the call was for, as in: Theresa, that was for you. No matter how good the day, you hardly ever heard who it was that called. If it was a guy on the other end of the phone, no message was taken, since we girls were not allowed to return the call.
So all my life, when the phone rang, I have either bolted out the front door or dived for the phone in the ridiculous hope that it was either John Yenny or Ed McMahon with news that I had won the Publishers' Clearinghouse.
But now I have reached a point in my live more memorable than turning 30, more life-changing than turning 40 and more depressing than the prospect of turning 50.
When the phone rings I completely ignore it.
I have gotten to the point where I have given up on EdMcMahon and anyone worthwhile leaves a message. Now that I think about it, even those of no worth leave a message. Does the DNC, RNC and the carpet cleaning company REALLY think I listen to those recordings.
The phone is never for either of my teenagers, so there is no need to answer the phone to find out who they are currently talking to. Both teenagers have cell phones and my only involvement with the telephone aspect of their lives is paying the bill. I had the illusion that I would actually study the bills and see who they were calling and vice verse. Doesn't happen. My perusal of the bills is limited to who stayed within their minutes and who downloaded the AC/DC ring tone.
I made a serious attempt to read their text messages, but apparently their second language studies are going well cuz I c-not understand a word.
The phone is occasionally for one of the little guys. I hear them on the phone grunting for several minutes. Then they hang up.
I ask: Who was it.
They answer: No one.
I ask: What did you talk about?
They answer: Nothing.
Short of getting out a harsh light and rubber hose, I'm not sure how much more involved the law allows me, as a parent, to be.
In the meantime, not answering the phone has become second nature; I just have to tell the little guys I am definitely home if Ed McMahon ever gets around to calling with news on the Publishers' Clearing House.
My relationship with the telephone has been long and troubled.
I grew up in a home with five children and - believe it or not, kids - not only one phone line, but only one phone. Weird, but when it rang you knew exactly where it was because it was connected to the wall. And it was so heavy a similar model was used as a murder weapon in the movie Dial M For Murder.
My sisters and I all arrived at dating age around the same. time. We had a mother who was ABSOLUTELY scrupulous about telling the truth. So, in other words, you didn't dare say:
If so and so calls, tell him I'm not home
If so and so calls, tell him I'm dead.
If John Yenny calls, I'M HERE!
So, it was not unusual for the phone to ring and all three girls run out the front door. From the front yard we would hear my mother say, "No, I'm sorry. She's not here." On a good day, she would tell you who the call was for, as in: Theresa, that was for you. No matter how good the day, you hardly ever heard who it was that called. If it was a guy on the other end of the phone, no message was taken, since we girls were not allowed to return the call.
So all my life, when the phone rang, I have either bolted out the front door or dived for the phone in the ridiculous hope that it was either John Yenny or Ed McMahon with news that I had won the Publishers' Clearinghouse.
But now I have reached a point in my live more memorable than turning 30, more life-changing than turning 40 and more depressing than the prospect of turning 50.
When the phone rings I completely ignore it.
I have gotten to the point where I have given up on EdMcMahon and anyone worthwhile leaves a message. Now that I think about it, even those of no worth leave a message. Does the DNC, RNC and the carpet cleaning company REALLY think I listen to those recordings.
The phone is never for either of my teenagers, so there is no need to answer the phone to find out who they are currently talking to. Both teenagers have cell phones and my only involvement with the telephone aspect of their lives is paying the bill. I had the illusion that I would actually study the bills and see who they were calling and vice verse. Doesn't happen. My perusal of the bills is limited to who stayed within their minutes and who downloaded the AC/DC ring tone.
I made a serious attempt to read their text messages, but apparently their second language studies are going well cuz I c-not understand a word.
The phone is occasionally for one of the little guys. I hear them on the phone grunting for several minutes. Then they hang up.
I ask: Who was it.
They answer: No one.
I ask: What did you talk about?
They answer: Nothing.
Short of getting out a harsh light and rubber hose, I'm not sure how much more involved the law allows me, as a parent, to be.
In the meantime, not answering the phone has become second nature; I just have to tell the little guys I am definitely home if Ed McMahon ever gets around to calling with news on the Publishers' Clearing House.
IN HOT WATER ... NOT
(written Spring 2007)
Like most of you, I made a long, long list of things that I would do different than my parents. Never sending my children to Catholic school was one vow (changed my mind on that one 27 seconds after my first was born), never buying any of them a car was another (changed my mind on that one after driving a son to Don Bosco Tech twice a day for three years while waiting in vain for him to become horrified to be seen with his mother).
But the one vow I have kept was ... hot water. My mother resented any money spent on utilities and treated the water heater like the tea kettle. You don't heat the water for tea until you are ready for it, so why would you keep the water in the water heater hot? Now, there were seven people in the house, which would lead any sane person to be conclusion that someone was ALWAYS about to take a shower. Instead, if you were lucky, you actually got the shampoo out of your hair before the water turned tepid. It was cold by the time you got out and heaven help the people behind you in line.
So, in a flashback to my youth, when my kids started yelling at each other for using all the hot water one night last week, I knew something was up.
"Something's wrong with the water heater," I said to JY.
"There's nothing wrong with it," he said. "Too many people took too many showers."
Now, he's right that there are too many people living in our home, but - thanks to my vow - we'd never run out of hot water before. And I have the high gas bills to prove it.
"Give me the flashlight," I said, "and I'll got down into the basement and check the pilot light." (As we married people know, this is code for: Get up, get dressed, find the flashlight, find the batteries for the flashlight and climbed down into the cold, dark scary basement and check the pilot light.)
We've been married too long for him to take such obvious bait so I was on my own. I ventured into the cold, dark, scary basement and found a foot of water, which I didn't need the flashlight to see since I could hear the waves lapping against the basement walls as soon as I opened the trap door.
The next week was spent in a blur of trips to The Home Depot, shop vacs, trips to The Home Depot, Internet research on plumbing, and trips to The Home Depot.
In the meantime, the shower in the garage was used by all. it has a 10-gallon tank and with luck you got the shampoo out of your hair before the water turned tepid. It was cold by the time you got out and heaven help the people waiting in line.
I may have finally made my mother proud.
Like most of you, I made a long, long list of things that I would do different than my parents. Never sending my children to Catholic school was one vow (changed my mind on that one 27 seconds after my first was born), never buying any of them a car was another (changed my mind on that one after driving a son to Don Bosco Tech twice a day for three years while waiting in vain for him to become horrified to be seen with his mother).
But the one vow I have kept was ... hot water. My mother resented any money spent on utilities and treated the water heater like the tea kettle. You don't heat the water for tea until you are ready for it, so why would you keep the water in the water heater hot? Now, there were seven people in the house, which would lead any sane person to be conclusion that someone was ALWAYS about to take a shower. Instead, if you were lucky, you actually got the shampoo out of your hair before the water turned tepid. It was cold by the time you got out and heaven help the people behind you in line.
So, in a flashback to my youth, when my kids started yelling at each other for using all the hot water one night last week, I knew something was up.
"Something's wrong with the water heater," I said to JY.
"There's nothing wrong with it," he said. "Too many people took too many showers."
Now, he's right that there are too many people living in our home, but - thanks to my vow - we'd never run out of hot water before. And I have the high gas bills to prove it.
"Give me the flashlight," I said, "and I'll got down into the basement and check the pilot light." (As we married people know, this is code for: Get up, get dressed, find the flashlight, find the batteries for the flashlight and climbed down into the cold, dark scary basement and check the pilot light.)
We've been married too long for him to take such obvious bait so I was on my own. I ventured into the cold, dark, scary basement and found a foot of water, which I didn't need the flashlight to see since I could hear the waves lapping against the basement walls as soon as I opened the trap door.
The next week was spent in a blur of trips to The Home Depot, shop vacs, trips to The Home Depot, Internet research on plumbing, and trips to The Home Depot.
In the meantime, the shower in the garage was used by all. it has a 10-gallon tank and with luck you got the shampoo out of your hair before the water turned tepid. It was cold by the time you got out and heaven help the people waiting in line.
I may have finally made my mother proud.
ELLE ... HIGH SCHOOL BOUND
(written September 2004)
As some of you may know, my daughter Elle graduated from Holy Angels this past Spring. For those of you who don't know who I am, I drive the 15-passenger almost-filled-to-capacity green Ford van (and NO, they are NOT all my children).
As I sat through retreats, award ceremonies and graduation, I reflected on Elle's Catholic education to date. Believe me, as we progressed through the awards, and I awaited the "most consecutive good hair days" honor (Elle was a shoe-in) there was more than ample time for such ponderings.
To date, I figure Elle's education has cost the Yenny family approximately $23,000 (being a product of Catholic education myself, I was able to calculate this number in my head). Once the shock of this calculation wore off, my mind naturally wandered to an accounting of what we have received in return for that sum:
I had the pleasure and honor of watching Elle actively participate in at least 20 school-morning masses. Needless to say, on her wedding day she will know her way around the alter much better than her mom did.
Elle sang and danced in nine Christmas shows that were actually about Christmas! They weren't "Winter Celebrations" or, God help us, "Sparkle Days". They were celebrations of the birth of Jesus and I heard her sing songs on key (she certainly didn't learn that at home) that varied from "Away in the Manger" to "Silent Night".
I drove Elle to school approximately 1,800 times, and she gets all the credit for the lack of tardies since she found my keys at least 1,795 times.
I attended more-than-I-can-count fundraisers. As I helped myself to seconds at the dessert table at each function, I reminded myself that my reward would be in Heaven (God willing); not in the petite section at The Gap.
I had the joy of attending parent-teacher conferences where each teacher knew Elle by name and personality. Unfortunately, they also knew me and her brothers by name and personality, but they never held it against her.
There were many trips to the emergency room, some when Elle was the injured party and some when it was one of her brothers, and each time she was treated with care and compassion at Holy Angels. Nothing says love like a bag of frozen peas being held to your split-open forehead by your PE teacher.
I signed hundreds of tests, quizzes and homework assignments. While irritated with the constant signing, I was gratified by the scores I saw and thank each and every one of her teachers.
Elle participated in four science fairs. Enough said. Have I mentioned my latest idea for a fundraiser? Tell the parents you are thinking about canceling all science projects. Then pass the hat.
Thanks to Holy Angels, Elle has begun her high years prepared and ready for a new challenge. If her next four years are as successful as her last nine, we have Holy Angels to thank. And if her high school years are less than successful ... well, we can always blame the media.
As some of you may know, my daughter Elle graduated from Holy Angels this past Spring. For those of you who don't know who I am, I drive the 15-passenger almost-filled-to-capacity green Ford van (and NO, they are NOT all my children).
As I sat through retreats, award ceremonies and graduation, I reflected on Elle's Catholic education to date. Believe me, as we progressed through the awards, and I awaited the "most consecutive good hair days" honor (Elle was a shoe-in) there was more than ample time for such ponderings.
To date, I figure Elle's education has cost the Yenny family approximately $23,000 (being a product of Catholic education myself, I was able to calculate this number in my head). Once the shock of this calculation wore off, my mind naturally wandered to an accounting of what we have received in return for that sum:
I had the pleasure and honor of watching Elle actively participate in at least 20 school-morning masses. Needless to say, on her wedding day she will know her way around the alter much better than her mom did.
Elle sang and danced in nine Christmas shows that were actually about Christmas! They weren't "Winter Celebrations" or, God help us, "Sparkle Days". They were celebrations of the birth of Jesus and I heard her sing songs on key (she certainly didn't learn that at home) that varied from "Away in the Manger" to "Silent Night".
I drove Elle to school approximately 1,800 times, and she gets all the credit for the lack of tardies since she found my keys at least 1,795 times.
I attended more-than-I-can-count fundraisers. As I helped myself to seconds at the dessert table at each function, I reminded myself that my reward would be in Heaven (God willing); not in the petite section at The Gap.
I had the joy of attending parent-teacher conferences where each teacher knew Elle by name and personality. Unfortunately, they also knew me and her brothers by name and personality, but they never held it against her.
There were many trips to the emergency room, some when Elle was the injured party and some when it was one of her brothers, and each time she was treated with care and compassion at Holy Angels. Nothing says love like a bag of frozen peas being held to your split-open forehead by your PE teacher.
I signed hundreds of tests, quizzes and homework assignments. While irritated with the constant signing, I was gratified by the scores I saw and thank each and every one of her teachers.
Elle participated in four science fairs. Enough said. Have I mentioned my latest idea for a fundraiser? Tell the parents you are thinking about canceling all science projects. Then pass the hat.
Thanks to Holy Angels, Elle has begun her high years prepared and ready for a new challenge. If her next four years are as successful as her last nine, we have Holy Angels to thank. And if her high school years are less than successful ... well, we can always blame the media.
THE SOCCER MOM BLUES
(written September 2000)
For many years, I have tetered on the edge of official "soccer mom" status. But no matter how many kids I had in school and no matter how many soccer uniforms were landing in the wrong drawers, no matter how many children were looking for school uniforms in the morning, no matter how many lunches I was making before I could think about breakfast with a good attitude, I always had at least one child left at home.
One who didn't really need to be anywhere any time. One who would leave a room with an earnest "I'll be right back, mom". One that would still believe me when I told him the sky was blue because it was God's favorite color. One that never tired of looking for my constantly-misplaced car keys. One who daily discusses "being in God's pocket" when referring to the many family events that took place before his blessed arrival.
When each of my babies were pre-verbal, I would say: If only he/she could tell me what he wants! Well, now they tell me constantly and I realize I don't really want to know. I wish desperately I had enjoyed the years of "not knowing" a little more.
So. Now he is off to Pre-K. After all these years of teetering, I'm going to have to make the leap with both feet into soccer-mom status ... as soon as I find my keys.
For many years, I have tetered on the edge of official "soccer mom" status. But no matter how many kids I had in school and no matter how many soccer uniforms were landing in the wrong drawers, no matter how many children were looking for school uniforms in the morning, no matter how many lunches I was making before I could think about breakfast with a good attitude, I always had at least one child left at home.
One who didn't really need to be anywhere any time. One who would leave a room with an earnest "I'll be right back, mom". One that would still believe me when I told him the sky was blue because it was God's favorite color. One that never tired of looking for my constantly-misplaced car keys. One who daily discusses "being in God's pocket" when referring to the many family events that took place before his blessed arrival.
When each of my babies were pre-verbal, I would say: If only he/she could tell me what he wants! Well, now they tell me constantly and I realize I don't really want to know. I wish desperately I had enjoyed the years of "not knowing" a little more.
So. Now he is off to Pre-K. After all these years of teetering, I'm going to have to make the leap with both feet into soccer-mom status ... as soon as I find my keys.
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