Panic in the Pet Store

There is no feeling in the world like the fear and panic when you can't find your child. It's a breathless, trembling fear that makes you feel as if everything is happening too fast and in slow motion all at once. My then four-year-old daughter was good at causing that fear and panic. Megan loved to hide the minute I was distracted in a store. She would always find a spot where she could see me, but I couldn't see her. I remember one instance in a pet supply store. We were looking for sturdy chew toys for our new Labrador, Taffy. Aside from the teenage boy behind the checkout counter, using his elbows and hands as a tripod for his chin, Megan and I were the only ones in the store. We were chatty and silly; the boy looked like he had just lost a bet. I got completely engrossed in the large selection of chew toys, fetch balls, and stuffed animals - why on earth would you give a dog a stuffed animal? - that I didn't realize that my daughter was no longer in the aisle. The panic didn't start right away; after all, we were the only ones in the store. She was probably in the cat toy aisle, hoping in all the feathery cuteness of it all, I would realize how foolish I was to keep her cat-less.

I came around the corner with the words, "No way, Jose" at the ready. No Megan. I called out to her. No answer. I kept calling and looking, aisle after aisle, my steps getting quicker with each one. No answer.

Okay, now I'm panicking.

"Could you please help me find my little girl?" I demanded of the clerk. Why was he just sitting there watching me freak out?

Maybe she went outside. God, I hope she didn't leave the store! I raced outside and looked around. No Megan. I shouted. Silence. I looked up the sidewalk and saw people coming in and out of the other stores in the strip. Did that man take her? Is she in someone's car? Now I was trembling, sweating, fighting the urge to drop in a heap and cry. I went back into the store and forced my voice to stop shaking.

"Megan, if you can hear me, you better answer RIGHT NOW!"

There was no stopping the tears. Just as I was about to tell the clueless clerk to call the police, I heard a very small, faint, voice.

"I'm up here, Mama."

I froze. "Up where?"

"Up here."

I looked up. Where could "up" be in a pet supply store?

"Up," as it turned out, was at the top of a large scaffold, piled nearly to the ceiling with 40 pound bags of dog food.

"Get down here right now!" I thought better of it. "No! Don't move!"

I whipped around to the clerk. I'm sure my eyes said it all: "Get my daughter DOWN FROM THERE!" The young man shuffled over and pushed the stairs-on-wheels over to the stack of kibble bags. Without a word (smart boy), he grabbed my child and carried her down. I hugged her, crying, not knowing whether to kiss her or shake the crap out of her.

A Date with Schulers

Whenever my husband and I manage to find the time, money and a babysitter (the hardest part), we try to have a night out. We set a goal of once a month, but really it ends up being about once every three months. We always plan on dinner and a movie, but I can't tell you the last time we saw a movie together. In fact, I don't know why we bother looking in the paper at the movie listings. As we tally our bill at the restaurant, the conversation always goes like this:

"Ready to go to the movie?" Andy always asks.
"Oh, I don't know... I don't know if I feel like going to the movie anymore," I say, practically whining. Okay, I'm whining.
"Well, I'm not ready to go home yet," my husband says. Translated, this means, "The kids are probably still up."
"How about we go to Schulers for coffee?" Surprise, surprise. Why can't we just admit that this is what we were going to do all along?

Why Schulers, you ask? Anyone who has ever tried to browse for reading material at a bookstore or a library with young children understands. It is an impossible task. I end up chasing kids, dragging kids, reprimanding kids, holding kids, shushing kids, and pleading with kids, all while trying to look for something to read. The result is crabby kids, crabby mom, and a book I chose because the cover looked good. The only time browsing with preschoolers is fun is when you are looking for reading material for them.

So we head to Schulers and skip the movie. Again. But, this is the best part of the date. Even at dinner our conversations turn to the kids, bills, house repairs, and all the other stresses in our life. It is good that we have that quiet time at dinner to talk about these things, but we aren't relaxed. All that changes when we stroll the bookstore. I love going to Schulers. I love how I am surrounded by books before I even enter the store. As I walk through those first set of doors, tables of books envelope me, calling out to be touched, looked at, flipped through. This is my staging area -- a place where I can clear my head and get in the mood for books. It's a beautiful thing. I stay in this area until I feel my mind clearing of all problems, making room for words and pictures that lay ahead. When I am ready, sometimes with sale books tucked under my arm, sometimes not, I float through the second set of doors. This process is important. If I were to rush past this staging area, bursting through both sets of doors, I would be overwhelmed by all the choices. But, having cleared my mind, enjoying a book appetizer in the entryway, I am ready for this challenge.

Where should I begin? Should I browse the table covered with all the latest choices being read by area book clubs? I love to see what other people are reading and sharing. Ooh, maybe I will check out the new non-fiction. Or maybe I should start with the magazines. Oh, but I love browsing through all the cookbooks. The place is quiet, but not strict-quiet like a library. There is the sound of cups tapping saucers in the cafe', the buzz of people sharing book finds, mingling with the faintest sound of music coming from headphones as people listen to the latest offerings. I take a deep breath, taking in the smells of coffee, new books, and the perfume of readers.

At this point, I have no idea where Andy is. Not to worry, he doesn't need me. He is off in the reference section, looking for the latest marketing guru's advice. Then he will be somewhere in the mystery section. We have done this so many times; we know we will see each other again in the cafe', loaded down with our possibilities. We will share a dessert, some coffee, and our new book treasures. Then we will read silently together.

2:49 p.m., Saturday, February 4th, 2006

Right now Drew, my two-year-old son, is laying on Grandma Evelyn’s living room floor, pushing brightly colored plastic trains along a beige Berber train track. Inches from his nose, the rubber wheels squeak as my son creates the magical island that these trains travel on, carrying their passengers from seashore to inland village.
Right now Mr. Haver pulls his minibus into the square in St. George’s. He scans the shop fronts, looking for potential passengers. Bermuda doesn’t have many tourists wanting scenic tours this time of year. The elderly driver misses all the families that left when the Naval Air Station shut down. But there is Mrs. Jamison, hobbling out of the Black Horse, her usual lunch spot. Her lavender peasant skirt whips in front of her as the breezes off the channel push her towards the middle of the square. She should have tied her scarf on her head before she left the pub; it’s a useless endeavor now in this wind, Mr. Haver muses. She’s a welcome site on this blustery afternoon. She’ll want a ride home, and more importantly, some friendly conversation. Mr. Haver needs the work and the company.
Right now Helen Simmerman is sitting in a vinyl chair in her husband Harold’s intensive care room. The nurse scolds her for trying to sneak in a Wendy’s hamburger for him, but Helen doesn’t care. He isn’t eating the salt-free crap they’re giving him. “Why do they treat me like I’m crazy?” Harold asks. She shrugs. She doesn’t want to tell him it is because he said he’s in Cincinnati and it’s 1967. They’re in Dayton and it’s 2006. Was he even in Cincinnati in 1967? She can’t remember. They were already grandparents by then. “The train’s left the station,” she thinks.

Memorial

Memorial

We cannot enter the underground house
of the dead, so we visit the back porch,
the wall of names that, upon touching,
absorbs our grief.
We are lured into thinking that
by looking up a name,
We can somehow make contact,
like looking up an old friend in the phone book.
But the wall is just that –
a separation. They remain
in the underground house.
We are left to touch a name on the back porch.

A Poem I Wrote to My Daughter When She Was 10

Megan

This is a poem to my daughter, Megan,
who is growing up too fast,
growing taller, more beautiful each day.
Her lovely brown eyes, those impossibly long eyelashes,
speak of a stunningly gorgeous woman she will soon be.
Meanwhile, I worry about her safety.
Days of Pixel Chicks
Girl Scout trips
soon will give way to
boys and bras,
dances and dates.
I already miss you, Megan,
my ten-year-old,
double digits from now on.

Zoo Stories

I like the concept of the zoo, but reality never matches the picture in my mind. What could be better than a parent and child enjoying a day at the zoo together? Well, plenty of things are better, as I have found out. The last trip ended in disaster and a real fear of chickens. Someone (and apparently it was someone with some pull) thought it would be a great idea to have chickens running loose in the zoo. Loose, where they are free to swarm around me and my screaming children. I finally fed them my ice cream cone so they would stop terrorizing my three-year-old. Not exactly family fun at it’s finest.
Of course, this pales in comparison to my husband’s zoo experience. I would rather be terrorized by chickens than punched by a mountain lion. Luckily, the thing was declawed (or maybe feeling generous) and my husband lived to tell the tale. Not that he tells it. Getting drunk and breaking into a zoo at night seemed like a good idea at the time, but just makes him feel stupid now. No, when people hear the tale these days, it is because I am telling it. I usually pull that story out when I need a “you think that was wild, wait until you hear this!” kind of story.
Apparently after consuming large quantities of beer, my husband and his fraternity buddies decided to break into the local zoo and see what the animals were doing at night. I guess in their drunken stupor, these college students didn’t think that, with the exception of nocturnal animals, they would all probably be sleeping. And, like most sleeping creatures, wouldn’t be thrilled about being awakened by drunk college students. I suppose that I wouldn’t have this great, embarrassing story to tell if that thought had occurred to them.
After getting over an alarmingly-easy-to-climb fence, these future bankers, lawyers and advertising executives staggered around the dark quiet zoo. They visited all the animal exhibits only to discover, yes, the animals sleep at night. As they were getting ready to leave (this was boring even to a bunch of drunk frat boys) my husband decided that he had to stop by and see his favorite animal, the mountain lion. Perhaps he could get it to wake up and talk with him. Jumping over the waist-high railing that kept rational people at a safe distance, Andrew went right up to the cage bars.
“Here kitty, kitty.”
Pacing back and forth, the mountain lion growled at my husband. It growled. At my husband. My husband who was holding on to the bars of the cages (probably to keep from falling down) and calling out to this beast like it was a tabby under his front porch.
“You’re such a pretty kitty.”
Finally, the mountain lion had enough of this idiot. As the cat made a pass by the front of the cage, it quickly swiped a massive paw through the bars, hitting my husband square in the chest, knocking him to the ground. It was then that Andrew discovered two things: the mountain lion was declawed, and yes, it could get a paw between the bars. Quickly, and with the force of a small Fiat. A large ugly bruise right over his sternum was a reminder of this discovery for several weeks.
Now, twenty years later, my children are traumatized by chickens at the zoo. My husband understands their pain.

Lasagna Rolls

 

   “Are we cookin’ or what?”

    I look up from my computer to see my daughter’s tanned face peeking around the doorframe.

    “Jeez, is it 5 already?” I always lose track of time when I am staring at this computer screen. I rub my eyes and push myself away from the desk. “What did you decide?”

    “I think,” Megan says, tapping an index finger on her chin, “lasagna rolls would be good.” My daughter, the future chef.

    “I don’t know, sounds kind of complicated for a ten-year-old.” I like to tease her a bit. It's a mother’s prerogative.

    Megan rolls her eyes and disappears from the doorframe. Before I can get this stiff, tired body out of the chair, I can hear her bounding down the stairs, jumping past the last two and landing on the floor with a thump. Oh to have that kind of energy. I better not eat too many of those lasagna rolls.

    “So, did you print out the recipe?” I already know the answer. She has all the ingredients lined up on the butcher block end of the counter: lasagna noodles, proscuitto, parmesan cheese, ricotta cheese, spinach, and all the stuff needed to bind it all together.  I used to dread preparing dinner with Megan, back when all I wanted to do was get some food on the table without having to fuss and bother.  Back then, when Megan was only 7, I shooed her out of the kitchen. I saw her as an intrusion into my duties. I just wanted to get it done. After a lot of begging on her part, I started to allow her small jobs: spreading butter on bread, tossing the salad. Slowly, I started to look forward to her company while I cooked, and came to realize that it was beginning to be the only time we actually talked. Any other time, her little brothers surrounded us, or Megan was off with friends. There are things that she shares with me that perhaps go unsaid at the dinner table with her father and brothers staring at her. Today is no exception.

    “Mom, how old were you when you and dad met?” Megan asks, cracking an egg into a bowl of ricotta cheese.

    “I was 15, you know that. Hey, pass me that whisk.”

    “Right, I remember,” she says, slapping the whisk into my palm. “When will I be old enough for a boyfriend?”

    “Well, I guess you are old enough now, but you certainly aren’t old enough to date,” I say, whisking the flour into the saucepan of hot milk. “Why? Is there a boy that you like?”

    Blushing, Megan adds the spinach to the ricotta and stares at it. “This looks disgusting. Maybe lasagna rolls don’t sound good after all.”

    “Don’t worry – it will look better when we pour the sauce over it all. Sauce makes everything better,” I say, hoping to save her from the awkward moment.

    “Ben.”

    “Ben?”

    “Ben is the boy, Mom,” Megan says, rolling her eyes.

    “Oh, right…I see.” I really need to be quicker. “Does he know you like him?” I ask, stirring the parmesan into the saucepan.

     “God no! I couldn’t tell him!” Megan shrieks. “I would die!”

    “That’s ‘gosh’ and no, you wouldn’t die. He might like you too, but how would either of you know if you aren’t willing to say?” I say, pouring the lasagna noodles into the pot of boiling water.

“No way, Mom. What if he laughs at me? What if he and his friends make fun of me? Boys…are… so… im-ma-ture.” Megan announces each syllable with a chop of the knife. The proscuitto gets a good whacking.

“Well, you have a point. I mean, they are 10, after all. You may just have to wait until they are, say, 16 or 17. Do you have the mozzarella shredded yet?”

“No, here,” Megan hands me the round ball of rubbery cheese. “Is this proscuitto chopped up enough? Can I add it to the ricotta?”

“I think you’ve done sufficient damage,” I say, examining her pile of pulverized proscuitto.

    “Do you think I will have a boyfriend someday, Mom?” Megan asks, opening the jar of marinara sauce. “Am I pretty enough? Abby says boys like long hair, but I kind of like keeping my hair this short.” She pulls on her short, layered locks, getting a little ricotta cheese in her hair.

    I look at my daughter.  Up until this moment, I assumed she knew how beautiful she was. I cringe at the idea that she is now worried about what the world thinks of her hair, her body, her face. It is too soon, I think to myself. Yet, here she is, her chocolate brown eyes pleading for reassurance. “Your hair is perfect,” I assure her. And it is. There is no way to get that beautiful russet out of a bottle. Believe me, I’ve tried.

    “Honey, you are a beautiful girl.” I know that a mother’s opinion hasn’t got much of a chance against Abby and her kind, at least not for long. But for now, it seems to help.

    “You have one of those faces that can get away with long or short hair. Besides, you have to wear your hair, not some boy, so do what makes you happy. I think your pixie hairdo is cute. Here, help me get these noodles out of the pot.” We both grab clean oven mitts out of the drawer and slide them on like doctors about to perform surgery.

    As we extract the rubbery lasagna ribbons from their salt-water boil, laying them on paper towels, I see flashes of my daughter as the woman she will soon be. These moments are few and far between right now, but they will soon be coming faster than I can track. Moments when my daughter seems less of a child and more like a teenager; less of a girl and more like a woman. Moments when I see her childhood fading.  They are quiet and quick; like a whisper and then gone with a giggle.  I am so thankful that I let her into this kitchen to cook with me. I don’t know how much longer she will want to prepare meals like this. Pretty soon, we will only be doing this on holidays when she comes home to see me. But for now, I am happy that I turned a duty into cherished memories with Megan.