Wildflower Seed in the Sand and Wind

My eyes-Help them to Look as well as to See

Name:
Location: The Triangle, North Carolina, United States

I try to keep an open heart & open mind.

Friday, June 30, 2006

Little Red Corvette

My Dad's dream car was the Corvette. And you know, the Corvette really suited my Dad. It's curvy and sleek with a body like a work of art. It's powerful and flashy without the pretension of other sports cars. My Dad always did have fine taste without having to be snooty. He was down to earth like that and it's a big reason why he was so well liked by those who met him.

My Dad realized his dream car after he left the steel mining suburb of Pittsburgh and joined the Navy. A red 1967 Convertible. I can only imagine the pride he must have felt when he sat in the driver's seat, the rush when he stepped on that gas pedal, the freedom of driving with the top down and the wind blowing through his curly locks. My Dad loved that car.

After my Dad met my Mom he most likely bragged about his car- as most guys are prone to do. And I can only imagine that my Mom was attracted to that man with a cool car- as most women are prone to do. She was so smitten with him she took a trip from Washington DC to Miami where my Dad was stationed at the time. My Mom led a fairly sheltered life, so the thought of this Catholic school girl in 1967 taking a trip down I-95 to see a man she just met, a stranger really, was unusual. But love is strong and it pulled her there.

They spent the nights driving around in that Corvette with the sounds of "Light My Fire" blaring through the speakers. I can't hear that song without picturing my Mom and Dad in a red Corvette skirting the coastline of Florida. Young and free. The whole road ahead of them. Not knowing what was around the next bend, but taking it there anyway. I never tire of listening to their love story.

Like most romantic love stories, though, reality sets in and with that the demands of maintaining a relationship that is deeper than a car ride with the top down and the Doors urging you on. Marriage, work, children. New priorities.

My Dad sold his red Corvette shortly before I was born. Only room for two in a Corvette. His family was expanding and thus seating arrangements in their mode of transportation needed to be adjusted. I can only imagine that my Dad must have saw his youth and freedom slipping away as the new owner of the red Corvette drove away. But he never once demonstrated any resentment or bitterness about having to make that sacrifice. He lived his life like that. Sure, he was human and made his share of mistakes along the way. Nonetheless my Mom stood by him during that rough beginning. My Dad didn't really have a strong example for fatherhood from his own father. He was an alcoholic and was abusive to my Grandmother, so my Dad didn't have a relationship with him after he left my Grandmother. We know that is why he undertook fatherhood with such dedication and commitment to his family. My Dad has always been a shining example to me.

Parenting requires a lot of sacrifice. You work hard so your kids can have the best. You give up the things you want so your kid can have the things he needs. You make decisions based on how it will affect your kid. Good parents do put their kids first. I learned this from my Dad, which is why I still miss him 4 years after his passing. But his legacy is the example he set forth to his own children and I can only hope we can rise to the occasion.

My Dad was able to realize his dream car again after the kids were grown and out of college. He actually got two Corvettes to play with. My Mom and him joined the Corvette Club and took trips up to Canada driving the Corvette. I'm glad that he finally got his dream back. But I know in my heart that his real dream was building a family and caring for them with all that he had. Although his children had grown and were living their own lives, he would now have grandchildren to play with. And that was always enough for my Dad.

There are many reasons why his passing still is so hard for me. I miss telling him things that I know he would enjoy. I miss his fatherly advice and support when I face life's struggle. I feel sad that my daughter doesn't remember a lot about him, except for the Hat Game they would play. I feel sad that my Dad didn't get to enjoy his grandchildren like he enjoyed his children. I hate that he didn't get to take the Civil War trip he was planning during the summer he died or to finish his degree he was one class away from achieving.

But I feel proud that I knew him and that he was my Dad. I feel fortunate that we had him all the years we did. I'm thankful that there were no unsaid feelings or unresolved issues between myself and my Dad. It doesn't make it any easier, but it at least gives my heart something to hold onto.

So in memoriam this year I just want to thank my Daddy for all the sacrifices he made. I sure hope he's riding that Corvette in the sky and I'm almost certain that Ray Manzarek's keyboards can be heard.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Maternal Trainwreck

I have been up front before about my propensity towards crying at the drop of a hat. I am very sensitive and feel emotion strongly. My body's way of dealing with that is the produce big wet salty tears that flow like drops from a leaky faucet-no matter how hard you screw the faucet the water keeps dripping. I would have to say it's one of things about myself I most hate (gee only one, huh?).

Anyway, today this quality that I so hate about myself made me feel like the world's worst mother.*

*Editorial note: Yes, that previous statement was hyperbole. I know I'm not the world's worst-that title is held by Miss Spears (just kidding Brit! I know you live under a microscope and what mother hasn't dropped their baby, stumbled while holding their baby, improperly restrained their child while driving, or married some creep.)**

**Editorial note #2: for those of you who are unfamiliar to sarcasm just ignore that last jab. And yes I agree, there should be a moratorium on scrutinizing Britney Spears. But how else can I make myself feel better as a mother than to drag down other mothers, especially ones that are rich and famous. ***

***Editorial note #4: sarcasm remember?

So why pray tell you might be saying, should I be considered a bad mommy? Well, as mentioned previously my daughter spent the last week with her grandparents in North Georgia. We drove over there this past weekend to pick her up and to attend my husband's sisters wedding-or more appropriately the exchange of vows. That will be another post this week so stay tuned....

But back to the subject of the world's worst mother, well my daughter was to start a new summer camp this week. We had never attended this particular camp sponsored by the county parks and recreation department. But the price was right and as they say "you get what you pay for" -which might explain why my first impression of this summer camp was not all that positive and cheery.

It started with a lively discussion with the lady checking campers in. My daughter's name was not on The List. So she asked me if I had paid. I told her that I had paid in May when I signed her up. She then asked if I had indicated what week the payment was going to be for-since they offer multiple weeks. I told her that I couldn't remember if I had indicated on the check, but I had assumed that the payment would have been applied to the first week that we had signed up. So she said I must have indicated week one, which was last week. I told her that my daughter was not signed up for last week and did not attend, so why would I have paid for a week that I had not signed up for? At this point I was starting to catch a subtle attitude from this woman that was saying that she was right and I was wrong about this whole thing. I told her again that it didn't make sense if the payment was applied to a week I had not signed up, to which she finally said to go ahead and drop her off and that they would check into it and work it out.

Keep in mind that while this exchange between me and check in lady is going on, there is about 500 kids**** crammed into this small gymnasium room.

****Editorial note #3: Hyperbole again, it only sounded like 500 kids.

So I then ask Check in Lady what my daughter was supposed to do. She said she could join the other kids. So we enter the room and they have a few activities set up. A four square game, shooting basketballs, a foosball table, and some art activites and quieter games in a corner. But, we are not greeted by any of the camp counselors. Some of them are engaged in activities with the kids so okay I didn't expect a royal trumpet greeting, but others are kind of just standing around. Now I have worked in the child care business before and one of the cardinal rules is to ALWAYS greet the kid and the parents to make them feel welcome and to ease the transition, especially on a first day. At this point I feel the tears starting to well inside my heart and threatening to surface and burst out of my tear ducts. I, of course, can't let my daughter know that this is starting to happen. I tried to help her decide what activity she wanted to participate in, since I was getting no help with the actual employees of this camp. Mind you this is morning drop off time and I know that eventually they will organize the kids and follow a schedule of planned activities, but I still felt sick to my stomach.

Fortunately as we move over to the quiet corner a little girl was sitting on the ground playing with some game and she looked up and gave my daughter such a nice smile. So my daughter smiled back and I sensed that it was probably going to be okay for her. That didn't mean that it was going to be okay for me, though. So I gave her a goodbye hug and rushed out of there before she could see the tears start to fall. I have to pass by Check in Lady and try not to make eye contact because I certainly don't want her to see my crying either. She calls after me to have a nice day and I brusquely respond. I sit in my car for a few moments with tears literally streaming down my face. I feel foolish. Why can't I pull myself together? Why am I such a crybaby? Why am I leaving my kid at this god awful place? All these thoughts are racing through my mind.

I need my mommy about right now, and it helps restore my faith that everything will be okay once I talk to her. I just hope when I pick up my daughter today she will still have that faith in her mommy.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

The Tail of the Short Shorts (Or Driving Up Miss Daisy's Buttcrack)

Alternate Title: Making A Mountain Out of Molehills

One of the most satisfying, and when I say satisfying I mean excruciatingly painful, parts of my job, is that I get the sheer pleasure of supervising people. Now some people work very hard early in their professional lives in order to finally get into a position of power and authority. Some people derive great joy from bossing people around. And some people are so adept at noticing the problems of others and truly relish pointing those problems out, usually in the most constructive, and when I say constructive I mean utterly destructive, ways.

I guess I don't really qualify as some people. Don't get me wrong, I am proud that I have finally worked my way into a position of leadership and I do love my work. It was a long time coming and I truly paid my dues and bided by time awaiting the day when my employer would eventually recognize the work I do by giving me the title and the moolah I deserved, because I was doing the job all along anyway. Also, I don't like bossing people around (unless you're my kid, my husband, or my dog). And I'm really not that good at pointing out the faults of others (again unless you're my kid, my husband, or my dog). And I most certainly don't like to criticize others-even when I know it's in the best interest of the person and/or the job.

One great perk with being a supervisor is that you get to deal with all the issues that arise. And it's amazing to me how many issues can arise on any given day. Issues that really don't need to be made into "capital I" issues, but hell, when there are issues to be made we might as well do it in grand dramatic fashion. It doesn't help when there are people who aren't responsible for supervising, but who really want to supervise, and altough technically don't supervise are privy to sensitive information and subtley gloat about all the information that is shared and who use that to create issues where issues weren't before. It also doesn't help when there are people who supervise, but don't do that great of a job at it, and when the shit hits the proverbial fan they make damn sure the shit sprays onto someone else and they're left looking clean and smelling like roses.

Oh yeah, there's supposed to be a tail (AKA tale) somewhere in the post. Thus, the storyteller spins his tale...

Once upon a time in Non-profit Agency Land there was a small village where people dwelled. These villagers, like all citizens of Non-profit Agency Land, were bound by some common laws of decency. Typically the village dwellers followed such rules, however occassionally the law was broken and consequences had to be dealt.

On one hot summer day a villager, Lady M, chose to wear inappropriate attire in the form of short shorts and proceeded to strut through the village. This inappropriate clothing was strictly forbidden after the Dress Code Policy of 2001 was instituted. Shorts and mini-skirts should be mid-thigh or even with your fingertips. (I know, it sounds a little Catholic school don't it?) But, you never know how many drooling and/or judgemental citizens, or worse visitors, may witness the bare thighs bandied about when such short shorts are donned.

One rather large and assuming villager, who shall be known as Miss Mungus, shared quarters with Lady M and immediately made her aware of the inappropriateness of attire (The reference to one who does not supervise, but wishes that she does, as well as the reference of pointing out others faults is quite appropriate for this busybody, by the way.)

Miss Mungus could not let the issue drop without crafting it into Issue #1,158 on her agenda of being a pain in the arse, so she let it be known to Queen J who was immersed in crisis of her own and could not immediately address the issue. Princess C who is directly responsble for Lady M, eventually noticed the violation-and if you recall the reference above that described shit and fan and the splattering of shit, you will know that I was referring to this princess. Princess C shares the information with Queen D who then immediatly addresses the violation.

The happily ever part should follow this, because molehills are just that-small and manageable.

But wait, there must be more because evidently the issue was not dealt with enough staggering speed. Queen J brunted most of the blame in this, but really only after Miss Mungus pushed the issue because she is friendly with the Supreme Leader of this village. And now the issue has become a mountain with a mass email sent to all villagers decreeing that the Dress Code Policy should be strictly adhered to. Likewise the leaders of this village were treated to a separate email informing them that swift action was necessary in this instance and how appalling the clothing was, despite the fact that the issue had already been adequately dealt with and rectified with a change of clothinig. And somehow Miss Mungus received a copy of this email-blind copied to her without the knowledge of the real leaders of the village. But Miss Mungus is not discrete and likes to gloat so she lets it be known that she has received the chastising email. Editorial comment: And is most likely feeling rather smug at this point.

So the mountain sits before the village where once there was just a molehill. This tale concludes with a rather creepy ending. Mr. G, and older village who wears shorts with black socks and Birkenstocks which should clearly be a violation of some dress code, wanted to know why the Dress Code Policy email was even sent in the first place. He was told it was because someone was dressed inappropriately. He wanted to know who and when he found out he was sorely disappointed. He had wanted the violator to be someone else who he would have much rather liked to catch a peek of their female body parts. He never revealed who he would have liked the violator to be, but the ladies of the village are now a little creeped out about this and have been seen pulling their shirts in so as not to expose too much cleavage.

The End-or is it?

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Like a Hurricane

Yeah, I'm gonna admit that I could care less (or is it I couldn't care less?) about hockey until several weeks ago when our hometown team kept advancing towards the Stanly Cup. But I'm most certainly gonna avoid the references to Redneck Hockey that abound with said hockey team's success.

And finally I am going to share my favorite quote from last night's game:

"And Pecka rams Adams...."

This is what sports is all about. Juvenile interpretations of color commentators comments.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Proof that Career Choices for Boys and Girls Have Improved Dramatically

This past weekend my in-laws were here to pick up my daughter and take her to their summer home in northern Georgia for the week. I admit that I feel rather conflicted about this. Part of me was so looking forward to reliving my pre-child days, however as they pulled out of the driveway this morning it felt like a little part of my heart was driving away too. My daughter is not a clingy child, so she was excited about the trip. However last night we had our little heart to heart talk to which she expressed her anxiety about leaving. She was so worried something would happen to her or to her Dad and me while she was away. I did my best to assure her that everything would be fine, and this is certainly proof that this girl has the worry wart gene from my side of the family. I gave her a crystal necklace I had made to protect over her and remind her of me, so that seemed to make her feel better.

But anyway, my mother in-law brought some sentimental stuff with her to give to my husband. His bronzed baby shoes, his high school yearbook, his grade school diploma, and another little book that is supposed to document grade school. Each page is a pocket where you could stick little notes or artwork from each grade. On each page there is also a place to record little rememberances, like friends, hobbies, etc. There is also a part that asks the child to indicate what they would like to be when they grow up for each grade. However, instead of leaving a space for open-ended answers, the makers of this book (from circa 1974) provided choices for the kid to check. These were the options:

Boy
Policeman
Fireman
Doctor
Cowboy
Astronaut

Girl
Mother
Teacher
Nurse
Airline Hostess
Model
Secretary

I'm not going even to comment any further. I guess it serves as proof that we have come a long way, baby!

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Women and Tools

This morning I has to stop at the little gas station/food market to put air in my tire. You see I have a very slow leak and I've been too lazy to take it in to get patched. So I've been content to fill it up every couple of weeks as needed. As I was inflating the tire and checking the tire pressure with the handy dandy tire gauge my husband purchased for me and put in my glove compartment, the Nature's Own bread delivery guy was getting into his bread truck that was parked next to me.

He exclaimed as he passed by: "Woo-ee! A woman who knows how to use tire gauge. You don't see that too often. I like it!"

I was feeling pretty good, but really it's just a tire gauge. Regardless of the level of skill needed to operate a tire gauge, I will take my compliments when I can get them. And these days, I will take one even if it sounds sexist. Perhaps the guy is used to seeing women in aprons with egg beaters and rolling pins. Certainly not accustomed to seeing women who can authoritatively use tools and fix things besides sandwiches.

Just wait until they see my prowess with the chain saw my husband is getting for father's day. I may have to beat them away with that rolling pin.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Fear Itself

Most typical children have a special ability that enables them to temporarily forget those things they are most fearful of. The monster under the bed, the boogey man, ghosts and goblins will all evaporate once mom or dad's protective arms are snug around them assuring them everything is going to be okay. They trust their parents and will eventually let go of the fear, if only for the time being.

I recall being a kid like that. I do remember having fears-primarily the dancing gloved hands that lived in the laundry chute in my closet. They were kind of like the Hamburger Helper Hand, however they were not the smiling and cheerful product icon that makes dinner a snap, but rather much darker and much more sinister entities that had evil intentions. I imagined those gloved hands creeping around at night unattached to a body and slipping themselves under my bed awaiting my feet as I stepped out of bed so they could grab me and pull me under to the depths of hell. I would literally jump out my bed in the morning, fearful that the hands would grab my ankles. But those were silly childhood fears and as I grew older I realized the irrationality of that fear. Hands could not exist unattached to a body and they certainly didn't live in my laundry chute.

But childhood fears are replaced by real fears, and it literally happens overnight it seems. One day you're a laughing happy child with very little care in the world and the next day you are changed. You have realized the evil that lurks in the hearts of men. You witness the horror and pain that people can inflict on one another. You know now that there are some things your parents can no longer protect your from.

I always thought my Dad was the wisest and bravest man in the world. I felt so safe when he was around. When he would go on the rare business trip, I always felt a little unsettled. Not that I didn't trust and have faith in my mother. But there was something about having Dad around that would always put me at ease and instill the feeling that it was going to be alright.

However, that feeling of safety and security was shattered one April day in 1986. I was a junior in high school and at the time our washer and dryer wasn't working so my family had to do our laundry at a laudromat in a strip mall. That evening we had just finished up with our laundry and had headed back home. Later that evening our small sleepy coastal Florida town was never going to be the same.

Neither was the world.

Things were going to be different because a man decided to shoot up a bunch of people in the parking lots and grocery stores of two strip malls. One of the strip malls was where we had just finished our laundry. We often sat outside on the benches are visited the grocery store next door while killing time and waiting for the clothes to dry. It was a family affair with everyone sharing the load. Any one of my family members could have been this guy's victim. One of my friend's fathers was killed in the shooting. The boy I got in my first and only fist fight with was shot, but survived. This incident had profoundly touched me.

The man who did this was surely unstable and mentally ill. And he robbed our town of its innocence. He robbed me of feeling okay with the world. I know now that if it wasn't him that did this, it surely would have been someone else. And eerily I have had other encounters that hit close to home. Another mentally unstable individual shot a bunch of people on a busy street in the dreamy college town I had come to call my home in 1994. Again the safety that was once felt walking down the street as we went to the movies or to our favorite pizza parlour was shattered.

And then September 11 occurred and the world became a much different place on a much grander scale. The innocence of a nation was altered on the fateful day and I couldn't help feeling that sinking pit in my stomach again, that uneasiness - fear itself. These tragedies almost became a pattern that seemed to hover over my shoulder. I couldn't touch it or see, but I knew it was there. Watching, waiting, ready to pounce when you'd least expect it.

Franklin Roosevelt once said that "We have nothing to fear but fear itself." I understand what he meant, that we have more to fear when we let our fear control us than the things that we are actually afraid of. I have to believe this, but I can't help but fear the things that make me fearful. Although I try not to let them control me and I certainly won't allow them to deter me from doing the things I want. But fear will still be there, rearing its ugly head.

I wish that I could protect my daughter from the real fears of the world that she will eventually come to realize. It's difficult, in this global village that we live in, not to be significantly touched by the stories of terror that we are exposed to every day. I guess it's just a part of growing up that we all have to traverse. So for right now I will keep checking the closet and under the bed just to make sure those hands of fear don't steal all that I hold dear.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Let's Get Outta Here

When my best friend and I were in 7th grade we had this game we would play where we would take popular songs of the day and write new words to describe a situation we were encountering at that time. Sadly, or maybe fortunately depending on your point of view, I can only partially remember one of those ditties we reworked. Olivia Newton-John had just released her "Physical" album and MTV was only too happy to show the video ad naseum that alternated images of hot sweaty hard bodies with not-so-hot sweaty flab bodies in work out attire at the gym, with an impish Olivia complete in sweatband and leg warmers devilishly goading the men into getting physical.

At around the same time our beloved science teacher had to take a leave of absence and a substitute was put in her place. Now, in hindsight, there really wasn't anything about the substitute, Miss Russell, that was terribly offensive or obnoxious. In fact I recall her being a patient and fair teacher. And I certainly was never one to give teachers a lot of grief. But for some reason we had it out for Miss Russell-(or was it we had it IN for her?).

One advantage of the substitute teacher is that you can usually get away with a lot of stuff that you normally wouldn't get away with. One of those things being the seating arrangement in class. My best friend and I got to sit right next to each other, which was trouble because the two top desk we sat in was positioned in a little alcove in the class that was partially obscured from the teacher's sight.

One stunt we would pull would have made Harry Houdini proud. We would take turns escaping into the next door classroom. You see, the alcove that our desk was placed in had an unlocked door that attached to the classroom next door, which was not actually being used as a classroom, but instead as a storage room. So we would bravely enter the room for no reason whatsoever while the other would stay seated at the desk. Miss Russell would continue on with the lesson none the wiser. Then whichever one of us had entered the room next door would return, we couldn't help but break out into the giggles. Miss Russell never knew, or at least never let on that she knew.

When we weren't escaping class for the solely for the sake of escape we would play the lyric game in class. We would take turns reworking lyrics to popular songs in an effort to express our frustration and dismay with being forced to accept this substitute teacher. We decided that Miss Russell was so heinous that we would rework "Let's Get Physical" to "Let's Get Outta Here". We were so clever and poignant in that reworking and we carefully wrote the new lyrics down. Here's a small sample that I could muster up through memory:

I've been patient I've been good
Tried to keep my punches back
you've been treating me so bad
You know what I mean

Let's get outta here, outta here
I wanna get outta here
Let's get outta here

You get the picture, I suppose. Now it certainly wasn't on the level of Weird Al who could succintly make a social statement with his satirization of popular music. But we were only in 7th grade.

That was only one of the mischieveous things we became involved in during science class. The next year in 8th grade my friend was a science aide for our beloved teacher who had returned that year. Occassionally she would need additional aides to assist with projects and on one of those occassions she wrote a note for my PE teacher to allow me to be excused from PE class so I could assist with science labs.

Now, my PE teacher was as clueless as they come and don't you know I used the exact same note almost each and every day to be excused from PE to hang out with my friend and another friend in the science lab-unattended and unchaperoned. We got into as much mischief as you could with a bunson burner, beakers, and saltine crackers. However the most exciting science experiment we undertook involved cigarettes we had found in the teacher's desk. We lit up right there in the science lab which was gutsy and uncharacteristic for myself and my friends. We really were Goody Two-Shoes-which incidentally is what prompted me to even write this post. I heard Adam Ant's Goody Two Shoes song earlier. My friend and I loooooved Adam Ant and we probably reworked a song of two of his.

But anyway, when I wasn't skipping PE class to smoke cigarettes in science class, I had other friends who would fill small empty purse size bottle of Mink hairspray with liquor from their parents liquor cabinents. When we didn't dress out for PE we had to sit on the bleachers and watch while the rest of the class played soccer, or baseball or whatever other althletic event was being covered in PE.

Now that lure was enough to get me out of science class and back into PE class.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Graduations

It's that time of year when students celebrate their accomplishments and get prepared to move into the next phase of their lives. Typically when we think of graduation we think of graduating from high school or college, although these days you can have graduation ceremonies for pre-school, kindergarten, elementary, and middle school. Obviously, the transition from one phase to the next can be exciting as new possibilities abound. But it also is a time for fear and trepidation, as you move from the comfort of what you've become accustomed to towards a changing and uncertain future.

And while we think of graduation as limited to scholastic achievement, there are actually mini graduations that occur everyday in parenthood.

When my daughter was first born I never could have fathomed that I would be able to handle ever letting her out of my sight. When a baby, who is so helpless and dependent, enters your life you are forced to take on the primary responsibility of caring and teaching your baby. You want to be certain that job is being performed to the highest quality. However, that transition is almost like a barbaric swimming lesson where they toss you in and you either sink or swim. Parenthood can feel an awful lot like drowing in those first couple months. But, you eventually find your stride and slowly begin the gradual process of letting go. I had to go back to work 6 weeks after the birth of my daughter out of economic necessity. Fortunately, my husband's job offered flexibility and we were able to stagger our schedules so we didn't have to put her in child care. I certainly could never have thought I would be comfortable leaving my baby with anyone other than my family-at first. But slowly, you begin to gain that ability as your baby moves through certain stages-or graduations.

They go off to kindergarten, and most of the time the parent cries more than the kid. They go on play dates with friends as they get older that no longer require your supervison and chaperoning. They move up each year to another class and with each passing year as a parent you feel a little bit better about letting them go. They start going on dates and they start driving. Something changes interally that enables you as a parent to come to accept these changes. To have the courage and strength to let them go. And you, of course, are never going to stop worrying. That's why my Dad would wait up for us every time we went out as teenagers, even though he pretended that he wasn't. That's why my Mom still tells me to this day to be careful when I'm leaving for a trip. You certainly are always going to remain connected to your children in some way. Your job as a parent doesn't end, it just changes; it graduates.

The other day my daughter and me were outside playing with the dog. The curious beast found a big spider scurrying on our driveway. When she poked her nose into the spider, hundreds of small baby spiders scattered over the drive and the momma spider hightailed it into the grass. My daughter and I watched as the hundreds of tiny baby spiders flittered around, most likely trying to find the safety and security of their mom. It really made me think of how delicately all our lives hang in the balance. We hold onto our children and would protect them with our lives, but sometimes we cannot keep them from scattering helplessly just like those baby spiders.

Each day I find it harder to recognize the girl that was once my baby daughter. She has a boy writing her in school books that he loves her eyes and the way she makes him laugh and that she is his first true love. I see her play with her little friends and there are hints of "teenager-ness" in their behaviors. She wears a bra-not out of necessity mind you. She has discovered Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff (although that part makes me cringe). So all these things prepare me, because I know that one day I'm going to have to really let her go to live her life on her own. And if I did my job as a parent, hopefully she will be ready for that.

I'm just glad that I don't have to do that, now. I'm still the one she calls on when she wakes up in the middle of the night with a stomachache so I can rub her tummy and help her fall back asleep. She still needs hugs and kisses and calls me mommy. But one day hugs and kisses from "mom" will be embarrassing. And when she gets sick she may have to take care of herself when she grown and possibly has children of her own. But as my daughter graduates from one stage of life to another, I will be there for her in any way I can. And although I have started the gradual process of letting go, I will still always hold onto a small part of her. As I continue the process of letting go, I sure hope she can still always find her way back to me. I sure hope that those baby spiders can do the same-because then we all might stand a chance.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Rank Lists

I have never been a big fan of rank order lists. You know the kind I'm talking about. Just turn on VH-1, VH-1 Classic, E! TV, CMT and even the big networks who get into the game and you will find the latest countdown of the 100 Greatest This or That or the 100 Most Fill in the Blank Thingamajigs. There's just something so judgmental and pretentious about them. It almost reminds me of junior high school MASH games where you list the top 5 cute boys or top 5 nicest girls. No matter what happens someone is going to get their feelings hurt and someone is going to have their ego inflated.

I spent this past weekend actually viewing some of these television programming options. There was CMT's 10 Sexiest Southern Women and Men. Maxim's Top Ten Sexiest Women was also unveiled on television this weekend. VH-1 covered the 100 Most Influential Hard Rock Bands and VH-1's (red headed step-)sister station VH1 Classic broadcast the 100 Most Metal Moments. Another network station will be airing AFI's 100 Most Inspiring Movies that follow closely on the heels of their 100 Best Movie Quotes program. So you get the idea. One could sit for hours munching popcorn and sipping Mountain Dew through a licorice straw enjoying these programs that basically dictate, and to some extent re-write history and influence perceptions.

I understand that it is natural and there are theoretical views that espouse that humans crave order and organization. We learn by assimilating and accommodating when we encounter new experiences. We categorize animal and plant species. We classify eras and other time periods, We organize information so that we can make sense of it. I totally get that. But what I don't get is the ranking and ordering that goes on now with these "lists."

Shamless plug alert: My husband once published a great article on the demise of VH-1's programming. Upon further thought that last sentence was entirely inaccurate because in order for something to demise it actually has to be at some higher level in the first place, which I'm not so sure VH1 ever was there in the first place. And since I'm so inept, or rather clueless, at posting links you will just have to find it here (http://www.lonelygoat.com/lonelygoat/features/jd_void.htm) yourself-if interested. It was published years ago and this weekend I was once again reminded of the cultural void that is encouraged by these rank order lists.

In celebration of Metal Month May on VH-1, the 100 Most Influential Hard Rock Bands was particularly interesting. My beef with these lists is not with the content necesssarily. I really enjoyed seeing Bruce Dickinson, Rob Halford, and Angus Young kicking hard rock ass. I reminisced with the skin tight pants, hair spray, and make up of the boys of Poison, Cinderella, and Warrant. And I suddently realized just how ugly the Scorpians were-despite singing my all time favorite rock ballad "Still Loving You."

Instead, my complaint with these lists lies in their subjectivity, their competitiveness, and the utterly misguided inclusion of bands that really can't be characterized as hard rock per se. For example, number ninety-something (forgive me for not having the specific ranking but since I don't believe in it I didn't note the exact rank) was King Crimson. The Rolling Stones topped in at sixty-something. But Ministry was in the forties. It just didn't make sense.

Now in all fairness, these lists are probably determined by a statistical program. Ballots are sent out and the responses are collected and analyzed to come up with a ranking based on the number of responses one receives. The problem with this process is first, who are the ballots sent to? Most likely critics, musicians, and record industry executives-(i.e. the people in the business who yeah, have experience in the field, but can very likely provide responses that reflect and advance their own interests.) Also, I wonder if the Top 100 are already determined and then each balloteer must rank them in their own order, which does not promise to provide fresh insights.

Finally, these lists irritate me because they encourage competition and superiority. Some uninformed kid in Des Moines, Iowa will now perceive that Ministry must be more influential to hard rock than the Rolling Stones, and then might make the leap that they are somehow better because they fell much higher on the list. I guess I can't really fault the show for this and instead should criticize this hypothetical kid's critical thinking skills. It's just the ranking and countdown that occurs is what perpetuates the superiority complex. It makes for sensational television as we sit with bated breath on our couches to find out who number one is. But what does that really tell us, except more along the lines of popularity than on real influence or substance.

Anyway, I just wanted to vent about this topic. But I have to say the Metal Moments countdown provided some new tidbits of information. Lars from Metallica almost got his ass kicked by Nikki Sixx because he yelled at him on Sunset strip that Motley Crue sucked. Fortunately Lars was quick and Nikki was wearing platform boots or we might never had had Lars' help with shutting down Napster (don't get me started on that one- that's a completely different post for another time). Also Ted Nugent was cut off by someone in a van on the San Fransico Bay Bridge and proceeded to ram them and pull out his wanker-oops I mean proceeded to pull out his gun (which is just a representation of his wanker, I presume).

So my only hope is that viewers will consider these lists with a critical eye. They by no means reflect a true order or rank of importance. As long as people keep this in mind I won't make fun of you for watching. Just please, someone tell me whose the best.