Isn't it funny how with your family you operate constantly under the misconceptions that you created throughout your childhood. Your sister is the same as she was at 8 or 13 or whatever age you remember her the most in your head. Sort of the same concept as the age you think you are. You know, when someone asks how old are you, your gut answer is 28, and then you remember . . . no, I'm 39. Oh my god I'm 39, when did that happen. How can I be 39 with a 3 year old, am I crazy?
It's no different when you describe your brothers, sisters, mom, dad, grandparents. They are forever frozen in time somewhere in your head. Well, not always, I suppose it depends on your family dynamic. If you're one of those families who see each other or talk to each every single day, you have that running change going on. But if you don't see each other every day, or talk all that often, your family sort of becomes like your friends from high school that you are seeing again for the first time at a 5 year reunion. They are who they were then. And because you expect it, you get it.
That aside, it's all well and good to be operating under false impressions when you are the one operating. It's really much easier and less involved than having to actually work to build and grow a relationship. But, when you are on the receiving end, you often sit around thinking "why in the world would they think that." In fact, a sure sign that you or your family is suffering fromt his dilemma is the wierd birthday / christmas gift. "why thank you for the leapord print / gold lame shoes and matching handbag. I love them!" oooh oh oh -- or "Wow! a Clinique make-up kit with complete brush set, and hair rollers. I needed these!" And you sit back and mentally ask yourself what about you made someone think that those were gifts that you'd like. And true to form, they are stuck in that creating the you now from the you in the past. After my last post about anonymous responses, I went back and read a couple of my other responses. And my sister had written a couple that had a comment about -- huh, who would have thought we were alike -- or -- see you judge just like you say I do. Now, I must say that I don't really remember having said to Jodi that she was a judgemental person -- maybe when I was 19 -- but I can't be sure - it sounds like something I would have said when I was 19. But I worry that there are people that I care about who have a misconception about what I think about them - that I don't really like them, that they've done something for which I still hold a grudge (Terri - I do not hold a grudge, I swear, I swear, I swear - I remember but not with anger - it's just a good story).
And then it takes me to a place where I feel that perhaps such misconceptions are more a reflection on myself than I'd like to really admit. What sort of unforgiving vibe to I put out there -- I can't be intimidating because too many people give me a hard time. And I'm the first to admit that I'm aloof - really. I compartmentalize people - relatives, step-relatives, work friends, out of work friends. And seldom to people cross over -- and I don't like to mix my groups - makes me anxious. And I suppose, that ultimately, since I'm not really forthcoming with my thoughts and feelings (I see no reason to tell anyone when or how Jose and I had sex, when I last had my period, or what my last bowel movement felt like) nor do I want to hear that information from anyone else - that I may be a bit hard to take / understand / like.
It's a quandry and requires more thought -- ties into that reoccurring theme about never having had "best friends" like the Sex and the City girls -- but as I'm getting older I can honestly say that I really don't think I want that kind of relationship with anyone - I mean seriously, who has time or energy or interest in getting all caught up in someone else's life and problems. Sort of answers that why you dont' have those kinds of friendship questions on it's own doesn't it. Oh well, it could be worse. I could smell.
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Unknown Reader
Alright, it's true. I am obviously vain enough to have my own blog - hiding behind my aspirations to be discovered and have someone come to me willy nilly and say - wow I love what you write, please, please let us publish your work - oh and here's an advance for $250,000. Sigh, I get happy just thinking about it really.
The reality is that I create some random posting - hurl it into cyberspace - and then hope that someone will read it. And occassionally, I will get a response - and I feel validated somehow. Now, not all entries are really response worthy - I am aware of that - because this blog does double duty - it is my correspondence with friends and family as well as a sounding board. And I also realize that it can be a pain to respond - with the request to sign up and become a member of the google-cult. So many people choose to respond anonymously (sp).
And now we enter into the perverse aspect of my nature. The "oh my god, is nothing good enough for you" part of me -- which I shall whole heartedly blame on Jose as he is often stuck in the look only at the negative aspect of reality. My joy at receiving a response to a post is always - but always overshadowed by the intense mystery of the anonymous poster. What do you mean what's "what comes from the heart, touches the heart. " -- from a post that I think I wrote like 4 months ago -- how totally random is that? Is it someone that I know? Is it someone who stumbled across the blog on a random search - how does that happen - almost all of my random searches end up with foreign blogs (though I've gotten a reponse from a foreigner as well - which was kind of cool). But because it is against my nature to let a sleeping dog lie - I kind of view someone's response as an invitation to conversation. And just flinging a little comment out there isn't enough -- I want to know who you are - what you mean, what do you do for a living, where do you live (have I mentioned before that I tend to get obsessive).
It's not much different than when I was in school and I'd miss 3 points on a 50 point essay and the professor would write good job. Well if it was a good job whey did I lose 3 points - what was wrong with it, how can I fix it.
The other part is a bit of the Mike Rowe, Dirty Job request. In that a good comment could foster another inspiration. (this blog being case in point)
So anyway - let me beg, plead with those random few people in the world who accidentally read this thing - as well as my family (who will all now want to respond anonymously just for spite) and my friends (who will want to do the same - except for Jenny who will just laugh and sign her name anyway) -- please tell me who you are when you respond - even if I don't know who you are. It will make me feel better at least.
The reality is that I create some random posting - hurl it into cyberspace - and then hope that someone will read it. And occassionally, I will get a response - and I feel validated somehow. Now, not all entries are really response worthy - I am aware of that - because this blog does double duty - it is my correspondence with friends and family as well as a sounding board. And I also realize that it can be a pain to respond - with the request to sign up and become a member of the google-cult. So many people choose to respond anonymously (sp).
And now we enter into the perverse aspect of my nature. The "oh my god, is nothing good enough for you" part of me -- which I shall whole heartedly blame on Jose as he is often stuck in the look only at the negative aspect of reality. My joy at receiving a response to a post is always - but always overshadowed by the intense mystery of the anonymous poster. What do you mean what's "what comes from the heart, touches the heart. " -- from a post that I think I wrote like 4 months ago -- how totally random is that? Is it someone that I know? Is it someone who stumbled across the blog on a random search - how does that happen - almost all of my random searches end up with foreign blogs (though I've gotten a reponse from a foreigner as well - which was kind of cool). But because it is against my nature to let a sleeping dog lie - I kind of view someone's response as an invitation to conversation. And just flinging a little comment out there isn't enough -- I want to know who you are - what you mean, what do you do for a living, where do you live (have I mentioned before that I tend to get obsessive).
It's not much different than when I was in school and I'd miss 3 points on a 50 point essay and the professor would write good job. Well if it was a good job whey did I lose 3 points - what was wrong with it, how can I fix it.
The other part is a bit of the Mike Rowe, Dirty Job request. In that a good comment could foster another inspiration. (this blog being case in point)
So anyway - let me beg, plead with those random few people in the world who accidentally read this thing - as well as my family (who will all now want to respond anonymously just for spite) and my friends (who will want to do the same - except for Jenny who will just laugh and sign her name anyway) -- please tell me who you are when you respond - even if I don't know who you are. It will make me feel better at least.
Vacation Travel
By and large the worse part of any vacation is travelling. The drive down there isn't too bad, it just takes for ever. You are anxious to be there, to see the ocean, or the museum, or the park, or the whatever it is you are going to see. And travelling with parents and children, well it means that you are going to stretch your 9 hour trip into 13 hours. There is logistically no way for everyone to synchronize their poop chute - that's all there is to it. Stop for gasoline, everyone goes potty, except maybe two people. In 20 minutes, one of them will have to stop. Everyone goes again. except one person. And another 30 minutes that last person will have to stop. So in one hours time, you've traveled 30 miles and stopped 4 times. If you're lucky, you might get another 2 to 3 hours in before the process begins again, but usually not. Usually about one hour after the last stop, someone will need to stop again.
It's really no different on the way home, but in the long run the effect is much more devestating. Travelling down to florida, there's always the hope and anticipation of what is to come. Coming you, you know what's there, you just want to get into your comfortable clothes, and into bed and sleep for a while -- but you know you can't do that, because you're going to have to unpack (thank god the condo had a washing machine and all your clothes are already clean). But by the time you get home, the drive has washed away all of the joy of the vacation. You arrive back in town and it seems as if you've never been gone. There was no vacation, there was no laughter and sun and sand and surf. There was only this long drawn out time spent in the car, scouring away the vacation entirely. That's why you need to take pictures while you're there, because by the time you return, you will have forgotten everything.
Of course, I'm doing it all again in October. This time I'm going to Branson with Grandma Walker, my dad, and Elijah and Isaiah. I'm thinking Benadryl all around!
It's really no different on the way home, but in the long run the effect is much more devestating. Travelling down to florida, there's always the hope and anticipation of what is to come. Coming you, you know what's there, you just want to get into your comfortable clothes, and into bed and sleep for a while -- but you know you can't do that, because you're going to have to unpack (thank god the condo had a washing machine and all your clothes are already clean). But by the time you get home, the drive has washed away all of the joy of the vacation. You arrive back in town and it seems as if you've never been gone. There was no vacation, there was no laughter and sun and sand and surf. There was only this long drawn out time spent in the car, scouring away the vacation entirely. That's why you need to take pictures while you're there, because by the time you return, you will have forgotten everything.
Of course, I'm doing it all again in October. This time I'm going to Branson with Grandma Walker, my dad, and Elijah and Isaiah. I'm thinking Benadryl all around!
Summer Vacation
Most of my life summer vacation has been about going somewhere, staying only a few days, because that's all we could afford, and then cramming as much as possible into those few days. It wasn't really vacation, it was work. This year, bold and daring person that I am, I invited my mom, my dad and stepmother to go with Jose, Franklin, Elijah, Isaiah and I on vacation. I really want my kids to have some memories of doing stuff with their grandparents, like I did. But unlike my grandparents, my parents worked, or are now in poor-health, and not really the cookie making, bread baking kind of people. And that's o.k., because there are very few people out there who could match Grandma Walker anyway, what a high standard to have lay down for all to follow.
I'm pretty sure that every adult member of the party was approaching the vacation with trepidation. My parents because they were dreading having to spend a lot of time, 24 / 7 with small children who were bound to be cranky, and myself, for having to be caught in the middle between cranky old people and cranky young people and knowing that there would be no escape, unless I could trap Franklin into babysitting, cause God knows Jose wouldn't (he'd be too busy napping on the couch).
Suprisingly, the entire event went off very well. The place that we rented was large enough that everyone had a place to be quiet by themselves. And there was a pool just by the front door, so the kids were able to spend the afternoon in the water, thus giving the adults a quiet place to find. There were snakes, lizards, frogs, bugs of all sorts, and a turtle. Really, the boys paradise. And though we werne't on the beach, we were close enough to get the ocean breezes - yet far enough that I didn't have to go traipsing down with the kids at 2:00 in the afternoon to swim again - which would have been a nightmare. Port St. Joe, barefoot cottages, is the place - very rasonable in case you want to go yourself.
I'm pretty sure that every adult member of the party was approaching the vacation with trepidation. My parents because they were dreading having to spend a lot of time, 24 / 7 with small children who were bound to be cranky, and myself, for having to be caught in the middle between cranky old people and cranky young people and knowing that there would be no escape, unless I could trap Franklin into babysitting, cause God knows Jose wouldn't (he'd be too busy napping on the couch).
Suprisingly, the entire event went off very well. The place that we rented was large enough that everyone had a place to be quiet by themselves. And there was a pool just by the front door, so the kids were able to spend the afternoon in the water, thus giving the adults a quiet place to find. There were snakes, lizards, frogs, bugs of all sorts, and a turtle. Really, the boys paradise. And though we werne't on the beach, we were close enough to get the ocean breezes - yet far enough that I didn't have to go traipsing down with the kids at 2:00 in the afternoon to swim again - which would have been a nightmare. Port St. Joe, barefoot cottages, is the place - very rasonable in case you want to go yourself.
Fort Knox
Elijah has really been into World War 2. This is a direct result of Jason being stationed as a combat medic in Kirkuk, Iraq. And since there's really nothing to glorify about this particular military engagement, we're going backwards to a time when playing army wasn't really considered politically incorrect (you know when it was o.k. with kids to play with guns, and walmart actually still carried some).
And because Elijah is my child, when he becomes interested in something, he gets a bit obsessive. Or maybe I get obsessive for him and expressing interest usually leads to toys, books, games, movies and trips so he goes along. It's really too blurry a line.
Anyway, since Franklin had to go to Danville for soccer camp (armed with the knowledge that though he might visit said university there was no way, short of us winning a lottery or robbing a bank that he could ever actually attend) we stopped by Fort Knox. Now, in case you have a wild hair and decide to go for yourself, you need to know that the Patton museum is not on base. And if you drive up to base looking for the museum the guards at the gate will look at you like your an idiot and tell you that you aren't going on base to get there, thank you very much, just turn your little terroristic vehicle in disguise (minivan) around with your al-qida (sp) troops (children) and head on your merry way, Allah bless you. So we did.
And, in case you didn't know, Patton is largely responsible for creating and developing the armored tank division of the United States Armed forces. So visiting his musuem is code for looking at a lot of tanks, lots and lots of tanks. And if you're me, going to the Fort Knox museum is about like going to the National Corvette museum, after the first one, I'm good and ready go get back on the road. However, if you're a small boy, or even an old one, it is a magical place. Elijah would look at each tank and then tell me what that tank would do (from his Medal of Honor games, or Axis and Allies computer game). The only thing that could have made the entire day even more perfect for him was being able to get inside a tank, which wasn't an option.
Isaiah's favorite part was when they had mock battles created from toy tanks and toy soldiers behind plexiglass cases. He would sit and star and move around to see every angle. It was most likely one of the few times that he could play the giant to any scene. Franklin and I sort of drifted in and out, giving a little "hmm" every so often. And Jose was entranced with the mobile living quarters that Patton had - actually a converted amubulance unit. He'd have given a couple of quarters to be able to go up in there. As for me, the most interesting thing that I learned was that Patton died in 1945 in a car accident that broke his neck (though he didn't die for a month after the accident). I didn't know that . . . and it seems such a random act -- one of those survive the war to die from a staph infection received when you stubbed your toe kind of things.
So, Fort Knox has become a been there and done that sort of thing. And know we'll have to put the Fort Campbell equivalent on tap for this fall (after another trip to Dinsoaur World no doubt).
Fourth of July
This year, we decided that instead of hanging out in the Hardees parking lot and looking for fireworks across the trees from the National Corvette Museum, we'd actually go to an event like real people. So we attended WKU's celebration. Mostly because they have an band (couldn't get orchestra to look right today) and it was free (Mama LOVES free). It was really a nice time, even though it was raining, but that was kind of fun too. People don't do enough stuff in the rain, really. And, thank you Jason, I only got teary eyed once or twice and not at all when the fireworks were going off.
We also splurged with left over vacation money and bought some fireworks from one of those walmart tent places. Isaiah wasn't a big fan of the loud popping at first, but since most of what we got were fountains, he soon settled into the home made ooh and aah and joy of setting things on fire! We are all really little pyromaniacs at heart.
Hey, It's Franklin!
Franklin, my full grown, didn't have to change his diapers son is beginning to approach typical teenagerdom. He's shown some flashes of it in the past, but not really anything spectacular. He often hovers somewhere between 13 and 17. And he would be the first to say that he acts 13, by teasing and antagonizing his little brothers, because he doesn't have any teenager friends. He doesn't get to go the mall, or hang out with his friends, go to parties... what are we doing to him. Destroying any chance he might have a long term happiness that's what! Now, before you all sit back and shake your head at me, shouting out Heil Amy! Please know that he's not forbidden from said activities, but before I let him get into a car with another teenager (and they can be nasty, untruthful, deceitful, things teenagers) I want to at least have had the chance to meet the kid who's holding the life of this child in his hands. I owe it to his mother, at the very least. And Franklin, well, harboring a deep sense of teenager shame, doesn't want to invite any of his friends over. Not that I blame him, most of his friends come from the in ground pool set in the ritzy zip codes -- you don't get that kind of glamor with cheapzilla (me) and survivor of the the third world.
But it is his senior year. And as he's not allowed to get his driver's license until he can pay for his car insurance, I have finally gotten him to contemplate, though not too seriously the thought of maybe, possibly, looking for a job, kind of, after soccer season is over. I think the threat of going with him to prom with Elijah as my date was really the motivating factor - though not too motivating until he understood going with him didn't mean that I was going to sit in the car and wait for him, but sit right next to him and tell all sorts of stories about wierd habits he has at home (of which I'm actually unaware, he must complete strange rituals in his bedroom).
And finally, after almost 2 years, I know that Franklin has finally reached a true level of comfort here because last night, as we were looking at a way to find a class ring that didn't cost an arm and a leg, he passed gas. Yes, you all know about the fart level of comfort. It was a special moment for us all. And being me, I let everyone in the house know, and now I'm telling the 3 people who read this as well.
Ohe What a Difference a Year Makes
Isaiah is learning to swim this summer - at the tender age of 3. Of course, this isn't life saving swimming potential as he can only swim underwater. But he does seem to enjoy the water as much as Elijah and I do. And though Beech Bend still thinks Isaiah is 2, which means he gets in for free, he has come quite a distance this last year.
Last year, Isaiah wasn't speaking - not really. He didn't say Mama until Thanksgiving weekend last year. He said a lot of other things, just not mama. It's really amazing how quickly you can get tired of hearing Mama - even if you'd been desperately waiting almost 3 years to get it. I think that most likely he was trying to pay me back for refusing to give him his pacifer unless he verbally asked for it (he refused to even make the effort, and that's how he broke from the boppy). I'm thinking that this child may hold a grudge.
And now, my little package of boyness -- well he shouts "fire in the hole" before he gets out of the car. And when you push him high on the swing he looks at you and says "that's what I'm talking about" And because of his big brother, when he gets out his hotwheels to play, he says "Mama are you Japan or Germany or Russia" World War 2 reigns supreme at the Serrano household currently (a whole new blog). And making the English teacher in my happy, he hands me papers and asks "what's that say?" And likes to pretend to read books. Something neither of his older brothers or his father would bother doing -- books - who needs books! What vast growth we will see by next summer I wonder?
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