WiredElvis

It happened one night in the back of a limo....

The moment when I am most exposed for what I truly am.  The scene is the drive home from a holiday party. I am with a group of about eight people who decided to rent a limo instead of take eight cars to the same party.  Aren't we the  eco warriors?  I think a few of the folks thought they might also have a few drinks, so the limo seemed like a good idea. 

A limo requires it's own set of party rules.  First, men must scoot in first.  It is very difficult to navigate to the back of the limo wearing a party dress.  That rule sets up a rather cavelike dynamic, though. The men are now grouped together for their set of approved conversation items, and the women are daintily perched together for theirs. Conversation must be maintained at an appropriate level- no awkward silences, not too loud, and worse, not too softly.  High spirits are to be emulated, because after all, it's a limo!

This party had been a real doozy.  It was like a Bar Mitzvah for adults.  Glow sticks, dj's with dancing girls.  Dancing girls dressed up like African animals... is that strange?  I don't know, it's LA....When the clock struck midnight or so, our group repaired to the limo.  Men in first, dainty women next.  So, dressed to the nines (yet comfortably, remember I drive a mini-van), and weary from a night of forced conversation and contrived frivolity, the moment arrives.    

"So, Amy, what do you do for exercise?"  Silence.  "You know your work-out?"  blink.  think.  fast...  "Well, I like to ...sit."  Silence.  From the other end.  "You know- sit.  think.  I'm a champion sitter.  I like to sit more than sleep.  If I go a day without sitting, I'm just off..."

There it is, in one chauffeured minute, I am exposed as the least active person in my town.  Perhaps shame should be the dominant emotion, but instead a certain pride takes form.  Yes, folks, I like to dream.  I like to ruminate  on the problems of the world, or at least my little corner of the world.  I like to read three newspapers in the morning.  I really love reading fiction and lately have gotten into non-fiction.  I stay up late thinking.  And sometimes that exhausts me.  Thinking requires muscles, too. BrainPOWER.  Sitting for hours at a stretch is not for the faint of head.  It takes practice to develop that kind of stamina.  And I can, at will, imagine possibilities.  I can lay on the on the postage stamp that doubles as my lawn and look at the infrequent clouds of the LA sky and find answers.  To questions I didn't even know I had.

Listen, I know that physical exercise is absolutely necessary.  And I am not suggesting that people stop it altogether.  I know that people overeat (often while sitting) and that as a result, their heart levels need to be elevated.   But our society is in constant  motion, like Newton's first law in overdrive.  And I cherish the moments of clarity and calm that come from sitting and thinking.

I read an article recently that bridged the gap for me. The article stated that everyone needs some sort of daily "practice,"  whether that be prayer, meditation, or a walk, so that they can be mindful and at peace. So, I try to walk for some sort of physical exercise, but I try to do it alone so that I can also find the mental space to sort my thoughts.  I don't need that much space by the way, it's not like I am sorting out the next theory of relativity...just trying to sort out why there were women dressed as African animals at that damn party....

I am sure this is good for my heart rate, good for my heart, and makes me a better person.  I am not  criticizing those that do mega exercising- we all have different needs.  But before you judge me as lazy, stop and think for a moment...

Mini- Van Mega-Fun!

I wish I had coined that phrase.  It was on a tee shirt that a friend gave me.  She thought of me, you see, because I stubbornly drive a  2004 Toyota Sienna.  And yet, I think of myself as cool.  By the way, anytime someone thinks of themselves as cool, they automatically aren't.  Just saying.  

My friends drive SUV's, some of them are hybrids and some of them aren't.  It really does break down along party lines.  That's not the point here.  The point is that I live in a beach community close enough to mountains that people drive there on the weekends.  It is almost rational that people have SUVs for the snow.  Of course, an SUV is also a sign that you are sporty and ski, or are rich enough to afford to ski.  My little town is also close enough to LA ( ok all you stalkers out there- stop) to be near the very heart of cool.  Isn't that an oxymoron?  Heart of cool?  A heart is warm and red and messy, and cool is cold, usually blue, and very crisp.  And here I am driving a mini-van that isn't even leased and new and shiny.

I will tell you that driving a mini-van instantly adds ten pounds and ten years to your appearance.  In LA, of course, that combo is deadly.  I try to compensate by wearing cool sunglasses.  I still don't look like Jennifer Aniston.  And why do I want to ?  Why do I want the cute guys to look my way at the stoplight? I'm married.  Happily.  But still, I want them to know that I am listening to something really cool on my Ipod. Ipod!  I was an early adopter, cool thirty something guy.  

I think maybe it is ok to still want to be attractive to strangers, just not attracted to them.  Because I am dangerously close to the age where I look at thirty something men and think "Aren't they darling?" Which is much more a sign of menopause than hot flashes.  When you are able to flirt safely because they look at you as their mother's friend only,  it's time for the hormone replacement therapy.

Back to the mini-van.  In  an attempt to distinguish my taupe mini-van from the other taupe mini-vans in the parking lot (do you think they are attracted to each other?  That I might one day come out from Macy's and little, baby  taupe mini-vans will be parked alongside?), I have installed a hula girl on the dashboard.  I have adorned my back window with a variety of stickers.  Most of them are totally non-cool.  I do want the town to know the my family gave to the local Education Foundation, but it doesn't make the car cool, just identifiable.  

At some point, cool has ceased to be the goal.  I just want to find my car.  I just want to be with my family.  I just want someone else to clean my house.  Really.  I know that about myself now.  I hate to clean.  That wisdom and acceptance has come after 44 years of trying too hard.  That's what they mean by "youth is wasted on the young."  You know you are old when you understand that phrase.  And I am ok with that.  I can't guarantee that I will cease trying too hard.  I am eager by nature. 

So, I will put on my tee shirt and my cool glasses which really don't look that good on me, drive my kids in the carpool  and observe silently while they try too hard.  I will smirk knowing that I can't make them wise. I will grit my teeth as they listen to the lastest Flo-Rida song  (I mean "Right 'round was a bad song in the eighties).  I will park my car in the Target lot, and later be able to find it amongst the sea of SUV's.  And I will have found my cool, after forty years of trying too hard.

The tooth fairy and the theory of relativity

My 12 year old still has some baby teeth to lose.  As a parent, I am reluctant to have those last bloody vestiges of childhood fall out, but I also am ready to be done with the whole tooth fairy thing.  the charade that goes something like this.  "Mom, my tooth is loose.  I think you should  alert the tooth fairy. It's akin to "My birthday is in two days and I really want Rock Band."   

Gone are the days of fear of the blood that spurts out when the old comes out and the new emerges. Gone are the days of carefully wrapping the tooth and putting it in the tooth pillow that we painstakenly stitched together from a kit.  Gone are the mornings when he came running down the stairs clutching the stuffed frog that the tooth fairy had somehow placed there.  How did she know that he loves frogs?  

Now, there is disappointment in the hastily placed trinket.  Listen, who has time at 9:00 pm at night, when the tooth comes out to run to Target and find the perfect memento?  I know I set up the wrong dynamic in the beginning.  Some thoughtful, perfect parents started writing their children heartfelt, perfect notes when they lost teeth.  Some bought a series of silver dollars (or whatever alloy the government uses now) so their children could grow a hedge fund when they were done growing teeth.  

But I thought back to my own childhood of lost teeth and imagined the glee I would have felt if there had been a new Barbie under my pillow in the morning, and like most parents my age, transferred that imagined loss into excess for my children.  And I say imagined, because  I had a fabulous childhood full of wonder.

So, I spend hours wondering how to handle the tooth fairy thing so as not to disappoint my son.  He knows it is me.  He knows I am tired of it, but he stills cherishes his last bit of childhood. And I want to give him that last bit of innocence, so I keep up the act. But, let's put it in perspective.

A good friend of mine has a grandson with cerebral palsy.  This beautiful boy ( and he is gorgeous) is about 8 years old and full into losing teeth mode.  When he loses a tooth- the drill (sorry for the pun)goes something like this-  They have to call an oral surgeon in to extract the tooth.  The child needs sedation for this procedure.  The timing is critical.  The surgeon extracts the tooth and holds it up for examination.  Everyone holds their breath until the surgeon says- " There is a lot of healthy stem cells still attached and thriving on the base of this baby tooth. Send it in."  You see, there are still stem cells attached to baby teeth.  Those stem cells are sent to a lab that does something scientific to them and they are put on hold for this boy to possibly be used to heal him in the future- hopefully near future.  

I don't understand how it all works.  It is science but it seems like wondrous magic to me. So, this boy is the real tooth fairy to me.  He is the one who leaves a little gift under his pillow.  His is a childhood full of wonder. The wonder of science and a family so loving they are willing to go to great lengths to try new procedures that might help him someday.  His parents are probably not sitting around imagining loss from their own childhoods, but envisioning hope for his. 

And I think I know what I'll leave under my own son's pillow next time.  This note, and maybe a silver dollar.  I think, if I teach him perspective, he will understand.

Hi. My name is Amy Howorth and I'm a bad mother.

I fed my kids chicken sausage this morning that was. not. organic. I let them watch American Idol last night.    I told them they were wonderful just for existing.  They will clearly end up in prison some day because of their over inflated self esteem.  Or will they?  I mean, isn't Middle School about the worst time in your life?  Until you get laid off at the age of fifty?

Here's the thing. My mother loved me.  My father didn't abuse me or my mother.  He was cheap.  But that's not a sin.  They told me I was wonderful at a time in life when I felt I was just awful.  I thought they were nuts.  I was too skinny, had braces, a bad perm and really thick glasses. We bought my clothes at sales!  How, I ask you, can that possibly be wonderful?  My mother told me that what counted was on the inside.  Are you kidding?

Turns out she wasn't.  And she was right.  Mothers always are.  Like most of us,  I am filled with worry. Worries about the economy.  Worries about my kids.  Worries about the environment.  But, in moments of clarity, I realize that all that really matters is what is inside.   If my husband loses his job, is he really a different person?  Or just a person without a job?  Will he still love me and the kids?  Will he still be  Democrat?  Will he still love the Dodgers?  The fundamentals won't change, but the little stuff which seems like really big stuff might.  We could lose our house.  We may have to move.  We may have to eat non-organic food from a can and shop at sales once more.  Hey- shouldn't we do that now in the spirit of budgeting?  

Turns out there are a lot of similarities between middle school and middle age. Both are times when our bodies change drastically.  Middle School brings on vertical growth spurts, middle age brings on horizontal growth spurts.  Think about the changes to our skin- middle school equals zits, middle age equals wrinkles.  And the hair issues.  In middle school, hair starts sprouting out in all kinds of wacky places.  By middle age, it either starts to dwindle or sprout out of the ears. If there is any doubt about the similarities, just look at Facebook.  The two most avid users are middle schoolers gossiping about each other, and middle agers reminiscing about when they were middle schoolers gossiping about each other. Either way, being in the middle is always challenging.

So, as I am firmly in Middle Age ( god willing I should live to my eighties), I try to remember my mother's loving wisdom (and by the way, I wish I was still too skinny). As  the mother of two middle school aged boys, I try to use that wisdom to teach them that they are more than the sum of their Quicksilver parts...Sometimes, when they come running downstairs, hair greasy and zits a popping, I control that urge to wrinkle up my nose and say "pee you." I gently suggest that there is still time for a shower even though I know they weren't truly worried about the time. I remind them that I am really able to afford them a haircut.  I try not to judge when they tell me a horrific story about what they did at lunchtime- instead I feel gratitude that they are talking to me at all.I try not worry them about the economy too much, but gently point out the cost of things and remind them how rich in love we all are.

And last night, for dinner, we ate Cap'n Crunch out of the box while Tatiana got her second chance on Idol." Being a bad mother has its perks.

ps- this blog is my attempt to face my fears.  I know that others out there struggle with being a parent, a professional, an artist, whatever the issue, we all struggle.  I chose the name WiredElvis because I have always loved Elvis, and believe that if he were alive he would be struggling right now to make sense of our wired existence.  I am a politician (local school board member), photo editor (previously of Wired Magazine) and a mom, which is really a combination of the two.  I plan to post weekly. Hope you enjoy.