(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.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
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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