The Morning After

Yesterday was Bar Mitzvah Day. The sun came up this morning anyway.
Trey went to the ceremony. He said Hale did a very good job. He said Hardy came over to say hello, just as though he hadn't screamed at Trey last week, told him he hated him, he never wanted to see him again, all in front of the school principal, all because Trey had come to school to pick him up at the start of what was supposed to be their weekend together.
It has been almost two years since Narcissa forced Trey out of the house. In the interval, she has devoted herself to destroying any vestige of feeling the boys might have for their father. Why she is doing this is her secret, but it is known that the boys think the breakup is their father's fault. All his fault. By now, Narcissa has described herself to counselors and mediators as begging Trey to stay rather than insisting that he leave. Needless to add, perhaps, she was on the scene at the school when Trey showed up to collect Hardy.
Trey did, after all, get invited to the Bar Mitzvah but not to the party afterward. No member of Trey's family was acknowledged by Hale during the ceremony, even though Trey's father and stepmother flew 3000 miles to attend.
Is there anything left to do about the boys? Other than wait until they grow up and see if their perspectives change? Should Trey keep trying to be a presence in their lives? I think Narcissa wants him to keep trying, keep going to court, keep actively pursuing a fatherly place. She wants him to do that so tshe can keep thwarting him. She is devoting a lot of creative ability to making him suffer, while taking as her due most of the money he earns. In a fair world, she couldn't have it both ways. Alienate the children if you will but they are then your responsibility. Share the children and share the expense.
At the end of the day is still a time of reckoning.

How Low Can You Go

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse. . . Narcissa has laid siege to child number two, made him worry about whether she can/will love him if he relates positively to someone he likes: his dad's girlfriend. She's got child number one so tied up in knots that he can't concentrate in middle school. She's refusing to look for a job: her children need her at home. Plus, she's got most of the money Trey earns coming right into her greedy little hands so why the hell should she get off her tush and try to find work? I mean, get real!
Yeah, so how did it get worse? Well, Narcissa, lovely mom, who will never force her children to do anything they don't want to do - like spending time with their father - is forcing Hale (child #1) to have a bar mitzvah. Which he has repeatedly said he didn't want to do. And, Trey, the father, is not invited. Nor am I. Nor is Trey's sister or my sister.
Who is invited is my sister's daughter, Caprice, and Trey's father and stepmother. Caprice is invited because, in the mists of history, she used to babysit for Hale and Hardy while Narcissa had some of her migraines. Trey's father and stepmother are invited because they have insisted that they wanted to make the trip from the East Coast.
Maybe they'll dance the Limbo at the after party.

Moose Pies

La Palin reminds me of those girls in high school who always got there first. First body hair, first boobs, first menses, first tampons, first zits - maybe not first in anything academic but WHO CARED? As in, borrrring!

And of course, first to Do It. First base, second base, third base, pregnant. Bummer. By the time us homely, academic types were sending out college applications, the proud beauties were off visiting relatives in a neighboring state for a longish spell and seldom returned to school, with or without a small person in tow.

So, lord have mercy, just when we thought we were safe, here she comes again. Beehive firmly skewered to head, safety glasses hooked behind her ears (keeps flying objects out of the eyes) years older, not a bit wiser, and she still stamps her foot and demands to have it all her own way. And what will she withhold if she isn't pleased? Funding for schools and health? Tax breaks? Civil rights?

Baby Steps

Tomorrow starts a new chapter. Instead of a leisurely walk with the dogs and the Mate, stopping frequently for dog exploration of the familiar but alluring terrain, dog desultoriness in order for message reading and marking to occur, people indolence as we run into the other dog walkers on our schedule and trade whatever information we humans have gleaned in the 12 hours since we saw each other, I'll be showering, dressing, putting on Real Shoes and heading for Public Transportation, to sweep me away to Downtown and My New Job!

I'm jazzed and terrified, in about equal measure. The components of the job are various. I'll be working part time, resisting scurrilous attempts to turn the job into a full timer. The people I'll be working with are smart, good-hearted and pleasant. The work is useful, maybe even essential: making sure kids get a voice in their futures. I'll have a desk, a chair, a phone with a number that connects right to me, a computer I can use, a nice kitchen area for breaks, a boss who is delightful.

So, what's the hesitation? Giving up my unstructured time, when I watch BBC serials on my tiny screen DVD player? Or read terrible chicklit books, written by people in thong underwear and nine inch nails? Sitting out in the garden, listening to the mockingbird while an owl (!) flies over, in the middle of the day? Eating handfuls of cashews and drinking tap water? Surely I could do that at the office, if it was that important. Change, that's what it is. Important to have a little, pry those brain cells out of their comatose state.

Then there's public transportation. I believe in it. I'll use it because otherwise I'd be spending most of what I'll be earning on leaving my car somewhere, like a parking garage (loathsome)that is semi-convenient. Parking garages always make me think of Law and Order. I'll take the BART but I don't have to like it.

How We Worship at the Feet of the Ancestors

Here's what I think I read in the paper this morning: Two Chinese women, in their eighties, living in China, were evicted from their home five or six years ago. They recently petitioned the local authorities for the right to demonstrate during the Olympics, to call attention to their homeless plight. They went to the police station five times. Rather than permission to protest, they have now been sentenced to serve time in a reeducation camp, along with other social maladroits, like prostitutes. One of the old women is almost blind. What do you suppose she will be reeducated to do?

Here's what else: There is one women-only homeless shelter in San Francisco. It costs slightly over a million dollars a year to run and houses up to 50 women, mostly elderly. It is being closed for lack of funds. An attempt is being made to rehouse the women. One of the preferred ways seems to be sending them out of county. This could very well mean putting them on a Greyhound with a one-way ticket to South Dakota. Instead of frail, elderly women, the facility will now house the medically frail when they get kicked out of the hospitals after their ultra-brief Medicare or MediCal authorized stays. Do you imagine there is no other walled and roofed structure in SF where medically frail poor people could be offered rehabilitative care? Do you think it's all about money and the relative juice of any helpless population? Bingo!

Does anyone else remember reading, as a kid, about how the Chinese venerated their ancestors? Is reeducation the new honor?

Show Me Your Palm

Does anybody have any idea what these characters - Thespia, Dweez, Pippa, Trey, BellaDonna, Hale and Hardy - should do next? Should somebody abandon the glitzy world of professional toil and begin farming squab for sale to restaurants in old chateaux? Dweez could maybe become a Survival participant in some benevolent climate like Antarctica and come back an also-ran with a couple of sea turtles to keep in his bathtub. Or, no, Dweez doesn't like pets unless they exist in virtual reality and never need to be fed or tended. Would he make an exception for turtles? Thespia could take up in-line skate dancing and relocate to Venice Beach, with a little sideline in crocheted, fingerless gloves. Or maybe she and Trey could trade jobs. Thes would be the doc and Trey would be the Teach. BD might take up skydiving in stripper garb, peeling off stockings and g-strings during her descents.

Pippa, Hale and Hardy will grow up, whether we want them to or not. Not so long ago, Hale was a teeny boy clutching his Dad's fingers as they stood at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Now he is big and morose and probably listens to misogynist music on his iPod. Hardy is good at mechanical stuff and jokes. Pippa is her sturdy, funny, delightful self and I hope it takes forever for her to turn into a teenager. Maybe she could skip it altogether. Or should she go to boarding school in the Alps and learn how to suffer fools gladly?

Would I want to know what lies ahead for the kids and grands? At this point, only if it was good. Sorrow has been hanging around like oil-based spray. If I could know that some generous measures of joy were heading the way of my family, then, yeah, I'd want to know. Otherwise, let it roll and we'll cope, just like always.

Hello Out There

Just to check whether I was really whacking the tips of my fingers on a ghost keyboard that never recorded what I was trying to write, I asked a friend of mine to go to My Blog and leave me a comment, should such a thing be possible. And she did! With relative ease, she left a small, question sort of comment and I was Able To Read It! At least I know that it is possible for my blog (My Blog) to be retrieved and read by other-than-me. And, yes, I do know that, just because it CAN be read doesn't mean anyone wants to read it. Or make a comment. Or, anyway, leave a comment. It was cool, seeing that a comment had been made, though. I had been feeling very much like I was standing on an empty stage in an empty theatre in an empty world, calling out to shades and spectres.

Meanwhile, Trey is alive and well and continuing to receive nothing but tsurrus from BD. Her latest ploy, since she had some extra weekend time with Hardy, while Trey went to an associate's wedding, is to try to keep Hardy from staying overnight with his father on school nights. "Why," says Trey? "Because I might not sleep well and it's a school night." "Have you had any trouble sleeping?" "No."
"Because I might be late to school." "I would drive you there, just like last year."
Can her tactic really be about raising the child support? She's already getting more in support than most District Attorneys and judges earn. Wanna make bets on whether she's stashing any money for the kids' post-secondary education? I wonder if getting a divorce and making sure to impoverish your ex-spouse was part of BD's life plan? I wonder if Hale and Hardy will ever be permitted to leave home? I wonder if the fact that they both largely exist on a diet of processed white bread and American chees slices has prevented them from forming brain cells?

Serpents' Teeth

Maybe it's not lack of gratitude, so much, that makes it hard to be an aging parent. What, after all, do kids have to be grateful for? At this stage, they are mostly feeding and housing and clothing themselves and they are probably not attending school on your remortgaged house. Not if they are 42 and 45, the way mine are.

Maybe they could be grateful for the good times. What good times? Thespia didn't want a ride home from school so she wasn't stuck with explaining the homemade camper on the elderly pickup truck, complete with stained glass windows. Trey has tried for years to make his boys' birthdays memorable. His memory of his own birthdays is that they were just days like any other.

The main thing I don't do is try to give my children child-raising tips. What could I know that would be useful, having brought them up in the Dark Ages? I used to let them ride buses all over San Francisco by themselves when they were 11 and 8 and their fares were a nickel each. I used to require them to cook one dinner each week, to the best of each of their abilities.

Recently, I suggested to a friend that her 25 year old son was old enough to take over some meal prep, if he was going to continue under her roof paying no rent. She patiently explained how busy he was - of course, I could see how much time he spent on computer games, which must be a latter day form of busy. Dweez didn't cook either, when he and Thespia were a family. Pippa says he makes cookies with her now.

I guess the main thing I did was bring my kids up to leave home. I thought that was a parent's mandate. While I was pregnant with Thespia, her father and I were reading "Summerhill". I was not totally committed to the child-centric world that A.S. Neill wrote about, but it was easy to understand that kids needed a real presence in a family and should have an arsenal of coping skills by the time they launch. Accordingly, Thes and Trey cooked, did laundry, sewed on buttons - didn't clean much but that wasn't one of my skills either. They are both much better at it now than I will ever be.

I guess I could carry on as though I had all the confidence of an air guitar contender. I could dispense attitude and advice in patronizing tones. I could ignore the storm clouds and insist that my age entitled me to complete respect. "I am the Matriarch!" was one of my wee mother's lines in later life. I don't think I could say that with her heartfelt conviction of rightness.

Tooth and Nails

That's Pippa: No front teeth this summer, so no corn on the cob. Gorgeous toes, impeccably trimmed and burnished a lovely cloudy blue-grey. Or maybe a flamingo pink with rose decals. Child is a fashonista, age 7 and 1/2.

Time for a recap. Who are these people? I am a crone, in post-retirement, currently partly working as a personal assistant to an art person/handyman. About to be working as something else, with pay and everything, which will make a nice change. I am the mother of two adults, Thespia and Trey.

In the early summer of 2007, while we were vacationing together at Cape Cod, Thespia's husband, The Weasel or Dweez, told her that, after 18 years of suffering through her stalwart esteem for him and efficient and entertaining organization of their lives so that everybody could win, he had had it and the marriage was over. Oh, sigh, alas, said Thespia, and hunkered down to wait for the dust to settle. Well, apparently what Dweez meant was that Thespia wasn't paying enough attention to him RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT THAT WEEK, what with various relatives swarming around. She was supposed to TRY EVEN HARDER to make him pacified if not happy. Too late. I believe you, sob sob, said Thespia, and gave him a month to get his stuff out of their house. In retaliation, he moved to the neighborhood where Thespia works and Pippa, their daughter, goes to school, so that he could share custody on an absolutely equal, 50/50 basis and b) loom up in Thespia's work space whenever the spirit moved him (far too often) and c) share his sad story of lost love with any number of Thespia's work friends. What a lovely boy is Dweez! So creative! So relentless! Why did he leave his velvet Elvis picture behind?

Trey married BellaDonna a year before Thespia married Dweez. They met in college, at age 19. BD had a life plan which included everything a girl is supposed to have: marriage, children, dogs, car, home, savings, time off to go spa-sampling with her BFFs. Trey had school, more school to prep for med school, med school, internship and work. And childcare, when BD developed migraines after Hale and Hardy were born and frequently called Trey to come home and take over. At the end of 2006, just before embarking on a Disney cruise with the boys, BD told Trey he would have to leave the house because she would not live in a loveless marriage. She had her parents' marriage as a reference point: they can't stand to be in the same room. So Trey looked for a place and, after awhile, found one. BD insisted he leave at once and has so far (a year and a half later) refused to give up any items of furniture or family memorabilia. She has also alienated Hale from Trey and foreclosed on contact between the boys and Trey's family.

These are the players. On with the show!

What Goes Around. . .

BellaDonna's latest ploy for holding up settlement of the property issues is to insist that she be reimbursed for payment of Trey's student loans, most of which were paid with his inheritance from my mother. BD has an interesting habit of not listening to (or maybe I mean hearing) anything she doesn't believe reflects her views. So, never mind that my mother, who hated the way BD talked to her and to children as if they were half-witted and feral, very specifically left money exclusively for Trey. Never mind that BD was so opposed to Trey going to med school that she dug in and stayed in her condo, a block from her parents, in California while he flew back and forth to New York State every third weekend. What she's trying to do is make so many diverse financial claims that it'll add up to what his share of the house is and she won't have to buy him out. The falling houaing market plays right into her plans. She's probably also counting on Trey's track record as a capitulator: anything rather than continual war.

Meanwhile, we have these boychiks that BD birthed. At the ages of 12 and 10, Hale and Hardy have been repeatedly required, by their loving mama, to choose sides. Hale has done so, at the expense of his autonomy. We'll all be surprised if BD doesn't climb right on the schoolbus to middle school with Hale, just to make sure everybody knows Hale has a Mother. Hardy, who has had some sad moments regretting being born second to such a perfect older brother, does his best to keep his mother out of the loop of himself and his father. Ever watch Keeping Up Appearances? BD is Patricia Routledge - surprisingly un-funny, up close and personal.

What should be done about BD? If I was the judge, I'd take the kids out of her custody for her failure to support their relationship with their father. She's had a lot of input about what would work best for the boys (that hearing problem again) and a lot of time to correct her behavior and she just hasn't bothered. Told how important it is for her to support the boys' relationship with their father, she says "I would never make my child do what he didn't want to."

Oh yeah? Getting up in the morning? Turning off the TV? Going to school? What are we talking here, Rule Queen? Could Joe Spears straighten up this woman's act? Can we wait long enough, patiently enough, for what goes around to come around?

Without A Net

Thespia and Pippa are moving this weekend. They'll be in a neighborhood where everything is convenient, instead of in a neighborhood of old brownstones, falling ever farther into disrepair, too far from the subway on a winter morning, too far from grocery stores any old day. From their new place they can easily walk to work and to school and all the gourmet sandwiches and salumis a person could wish for are at hand. They will have half the living space at twice the price.

Thespia was, initially, determined to keep the house. Strengthened in her resolve, no doubt, by Dweez's insistence that she move the hell out of there so the place can be sold and he - who insisted on buying in the edgy neighborhood, the potential for vibrance (I may vomit) - now believes that his darling daughter should not be living around the corner from a crack house. Well, and then he can buy the edgy loft dwelling of his current dreams and install the appropriate arm candy. If he hadn't steadfastly ignored monthly obligations, in the process of leaving the marriage, thus wrecking their mutual and respective credits, somebody might even sell him a place to live. Just because I think he should be doomed to remain in the 60's concrete box with little light and no amenities, mighty lak a side road motel, where he moved when he Moved Out, doesn't mean it's gonna happen that way. I spill vitamin C powder all over my pajamas, on its way to the glass - I should think things might go my way? Ever?

Well, and then there's the new community where Thespia's moving, where the rumor is she's pursuing a romance. "Pippa says she'll be the flower girl when you marry" writes Dweez, Mr. Rains On Every Parade. "Where are you registered?" Strong temptation to say "IKEA" or "Trader Joe." Brave Thespia sails on into the what comes next.

Staggering on: Balancing Act

Staggering on: Balancing Act

Balancing Act

Circus training is probably a good way to prepare for life. What do you need to walk a tightrope? Bouyancy, balance, belief. Focus. How about clowning? An absolute understanding of the tiniest moves a body makes and what they communicate. Lion taming? Oh, right, we don't do that in circuses anymore, for good and sufficient reasons. Still. . .
Pippa and Thespia came to Cape Cod to hang out with us and be generally silly. Dweez went to Paris, himself, since he had two weeks without child presence and surely could learn some French in that time period. He called Pippa every day, to tell her how lonely he was.
"How's Daddy doing?"
"He hasn't found me a lapin yet."
We decided that they probably din't allow toy lapins to leave the country of France. Where the Coneheads were from, in the dear old SNL days. Or maybe Dweez was just not looking in the right places for toy lapins, but noone would say that to Pippa. Really.
Trey and his new squeeze came to hang out with us for a few days. Hale and Hardy were in Hawaii with BD. Would Trey ever see the boys again, once BD had two solid weeks to drip her poison in their ears? Remains to be seen.Hale sez he is no longer angry at his father, he just doesn't want to have a relationship with him. What does that mean to a 12 year old?
I started writing letters to Hale during the sultry, humid afternoons, while waiting for the tide to come in far enough for swimming. Since it's pretty clear that I'll never get to hang around in a beach house for a week or two with him, watching videos, piecing together crumbling jigsaw puzzles, eating lots of fried food and what have you - just existing, side by side - it seemed of interest to try to preserve some summer life for him. All too quickly, it fell into stories in which his mother starred as an evil witch or the mean queen of the world. Guess I'll never send those letters. No fear. He'd never get them if I did. BD has told him and the world that Trey's family has written Hale off.

Train Wreck

When BellaDonna ordered my son Trey, her husband of 17+ interminable years, to leave the family residence, we were delighted. Even though our contact with her - and the grandboys, of course - had been minimal (2 and 1/2 days once a year at a campground on the Russian River) for several years, any encounter was too much time spent in proximity to BD. With Trey living separately, we envisioned long lazy visits, maybe some camping, maybe some travel,sharing books, sharing stories with the boys. Maybe we'd have a chance to go to their basketball and baseball games. Maybe we'd get to hang out some during school holidays. Well, guess again.
And, of course, in retrospect it should be no surprise that the name of BD's new game is "Parental Alienation". For those of you still living in the mid-twentieth century, it is not a board game. Yet. It's not even very hard to play, as long as you start first and never falter in your resolve to emotionally decimate your opponent.
BD has always been unflagging, whatever she determines she should do. Shortly before the marriage (very California, on a bluff above the ocean, nine tons of lace and seed pearls, a cousin who lugged her harp through the succulents)BD's mother held a roast for her and invited me.
Not disposed to watch TV, I was unsure what it meant to be roasted, in other than culinary terms. Some helpful friend provided a definition which included references to the Rat Pack, you know, when Peter Lawford and Dean Martin. . . Not very illuminating. I did get the impression that whoever was the target would probably get mortally embarrassed. After some indecision, I called BD to see if she was comfortable with the plan. It was supposed to be a surprise, she told me, dismissively. I went anyway.
We had punch made out of fizzy wine and orange sherbet. There were gifts - underwear and stuff. Her best friend and her matron of honor had made a video, which featured the two of them chugging margaritas and telling really nasty stories about BD, including things she'd said about/thought/done to Trey and how clueless he was about female connivance. I left, feeling distinctly humor-impaired.
Four years ago, Thespia and Pippa were visiting during the annual Russian River excursion. BD took Thespia off for a spa day and confided her deep dissatisfaction with Trey. She said the grandboys, Hale and Hardy, were afraid of their father and she was taking Hale, the older, to therapy to relieve his anxiety. No fear was evident in the couple of days we milled around each other. Neither boy had any hesitation about climbing up their father to dive off his shoulders or hopping into a canoe with him and rocking it until it capsized, or pulling him around on an inflatable raft or flopping down beside him to snooze on a warm towel. The only discordant notes occurred when BD wanted one of the boys to perform and he didn't hop to it.
Trey left the house a year and a half ago. He and BD counseled for six months, hashing out a parenting agreement. The plan was that the boys would spend alternate weekends with their father until the end of the summer. With the start of the school year, the time share would become almost equal. Throughout the summer, the boys moved back and forth between their parents' respective houses.
On the Tuesday when the new schedule was to commence, BD called Trey to say that the boys didn't want any changes in the time share. Trey asked to speak with the boys. Hale then told his father that he didn't want to spend any nights at Trey's house. He didn't really even want to come there for visits. He refused to discuss the matter and became practically catatonic when pressed to do so, hiding under his bed covers and clutching his mother's hand.
Since then, Hale has barely spoken to Trey. BD provides no information about Trey's school or friends or sports or development, even though there is a court order in effect that requires her to do so. Hale blames his father for the demise of the family and will not forgive him. Each time it looks like there might be some softening, BD stokes the boiler with more misinformation and rewritten history. It really is scarey, standing here on the rumbling tracks.

Raised Expectations

WooHoo! It's Fathers' Day! The Mate, father of two, has heard nothing from either the Montreal person or the younger, closer-at-hand person, who lives with his two moms. I suppose someone could have come over and popped an eggo in the toaster or taken him out to a ballgame but none of that has ever happened in the past so why break a perfect record?

I had a father once, a long time ago. He was an extremely handsome young man, a marathon dance competitor, in one incarnation. He grew into a portly, buzz cut drunk. Most of his drunkiness happened while I was away at school, so I only had to duck and dodge when I was home for vacations. My sister, younger, discovered the realm of sleep and was fully capable of logging twelve hours a day, if that's what it took to avoid him. Not that he ever laid a hand on us, except for spanking me once, one spank, when I was 11 or so and not inclined to regret whatever small sin I had committed. Only regretted being born the daughter of some jerk who spanked. Nope, dear old dad was only verbally abusive and, oh my, could he bear down on whatever personality flaw he'd selected for scrutiny! My bads were largely not being dutiful and not being beautiful.

The last time I saw dear old dad was right after the Manson family let loose on Sharon Tate and friends. We heard that news driving over the Bay Bridge, towards the SF airport, on our way to the midwest, where lurked my long-suffering mother and chain-smoking dad. A week was too long for a visit, but the kids and I were traveling on my parents' dimes, so we outstayed our desire to be there - scant at best. The last night, Dad and I closed some bar and wobbled home, second gear all the way, with the top down so the wind would keep us awake and we wouldn't drive off into the river running parallel to the road.

Dad poured himself another drink, sat down at the kitchen table, closed the pocket door to keep from disturbing Mom and the grandkids, and launched into his favorite topic: How I was wasting my life. Subtext: I owed it to him not to waste my life even though I'd already messed up to bad to recover, probably, by leaving my husband and attempting to live on air and junk vegetables from the farmers' market.

Ever since Dad discovered the joys of hectoring, I'd known that crying only made it worse. Silence sometimes worked. Rudeness could disarm him but had to be used cautiously. This particular night I just got mad and started yelling right back. Mom stood it for about half an hour before she padded out in her little slippers and gently told us to knock it off. Four hours later, as we drove to the airport, Dad pulled off the highway and puked. He stayed alive for two more years but I never saw him again. Not quite true: he shows up in my dreams sometimes, for no apparent reason.

Fridays at Happy Donuts

I think I'm okay with never getting comments. I can just assume that no one is reading what I write, so I'm writing for myself, in my highly opinionated, don't-let-facts-get-in-your-way manner - just like journal writing - and thus can say any old thing that crosses my mind as unartfully as I please. Otherwise, I might have to pay attention to all those other mean little thoughts that nibble away at my precious small stash of self-confidence.
I'm not imagining this. I talked to my Friday coffee friends about declining confidence levels. My Coffee friends are women (well, coffee. Please.) It was one of their birthdays, though we forgot (or had the good taste not to) ask how old she is. She has recently started a new job where she is appreciated, consulted and included in decision making. She glows, these days.
Another friend is a brand new grandmother, just back from first sighting of her 10 day old grandson. As a veteran of this ongoing struggle to stay current (if not cutting edge), I warned her she should, at least, have a car at her disposal, so she could escape for a bit when the family togetherness began to pall. Of course her daughter knows everything about babies because she's not exactly a spring chicken and she has prepared by Reading Books. She is an educated woman and that's what we do: Read Books, probably since the Stone Age.
I was interested but not surprised to learn that the new right way to cope with babies is to feed them every two hours and waken them to feed if they are silly enough to have gone to sleep. In my parenting days (Dark Ages) we felt very smart for understanding that babies could regulate themselves if allowed to feed on demand. Sometimes this was exhausting, but much about parenting is. Needless to say, my Coffee Friend knew nothing about babies that was of the slightest use but was able to escape in the car periodically, if only for a Baby Wipes run. (We didn't have baby wipes and the disposable diapers gave both my babies horrible rashes so we gave up on them in favor of diaper service)
And my point is that whatever you think you know seems to become as obsolete as last year's Dell by the time your children need information. It doesn't just take a village to raise a kid, it takes Experts. Of which you, the aging parent, are not one. All of our grandchildren will survive childhood, no doubt, just as our own children did. All of our children will reluctantly relinquish control over their offspring, just as we did. Had to do. Well, tried to do. Continue to not do, due to worry and overactive imaginations.
And then there's the process of forgetting what you though you had thoroughly absorbed. Such as nutrition. My mother was a pretty good, no-frills cook. We had a summer garden that my grandfather tended, growing lots of beans, not enough corn, some tasy kinds of lettuce and a few berries. And tomatoes, of course, which Grandpa ate sliced, with sugar. Vegetables were part of each meal. I do remember sitting in front of a couple stalks of ice-cold broccoli once, long after the table had been cleared, trying (unsuccessfully) to supress my gag mechanism and eat the damn stuff. I also couldn't swallow canned asparagus.
Feeding children myself, after we got past the stage of yoghurt and scrambled eggs and pureed peaches, I got them to eat most vegetables (my son couldn't deal with potatoes unless they were French fried), usually by mixing them in something - salad, stew, chili. I gave my mother credit for her steadfastness in getting those family meals on the table and making sure they included the basic food groups.
Just before my mother decided - at 87 - that she should not drive anymore, which meant shouldn't live alone, we discovered that she often made dinner of crackers and peanut butter. And dessert, always something for dessert. As she settled into assisted living, her attention to food focussed more and more on whatever was sweet on the menu. Vegetables, even salad, were pushed to the side of her plate. Any meal with her, in the last few years of her life, was about waiting for dessert. She and my sister spent a lot of time at Ben & Jerry's.
Recently, I've started making sure there is ice cream in the freezer and chocolate in the fridge. Will I soon forget the name of that funny vegetable with the green florets? Slippage abounds.

Mouthful of Rue

Now, of course, I'm backpedaling (learned this trick on the exercycle at FitLite), trying to understand why I thought I liked Dweez. Why I sought his good opinion. I'm a mother-in-law, butt of jokes by misogynist "comedians" and real people, too. Name your type: clueless, overbearing, ditzy, fading belle, tennis shoe wearer (Yes!) and there'll be certain to be a mother-in-law of your unfortunate acquaintance who fits description. Never mind that she almost swallowed a bee at a Big Brother and the Holding Company concert at the San Jose fairgrounds, where Quicksilver and the Ace of Cups also performed. Or that she used to sing on the street corners. Or that she can play the harmonica. Or maybe that she holds title to the best damn chocolate chip cookie recipe in the whole world. Or has never owned a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes and wouldn't wear 'em if she owned them. Or that she's decided not to buy any new clothes or shoes for a year and Macys has stopeed sending her promotional solicitations and cards offering 15% off, storewide. You know, who cares?
But this is about Dweez, or anyway the shadow presence. I found myself excusing him (mentally) yesterday for prioritizing his French class over Pippa's need for someone's supervision. Even though I totally doubt that he will ever speak French and a French class is only a place to meet women (chicks, babes, whatever), he does have it scheduled on a day that he is not usually responsible for Pippa. And - this is key - he's not a mother, so it does not occur to him to sacrifice his plans in the interests of his child.
Now that I've imbued him with the slightest tinge of blamelessness, shall I like him for it? I guess I still do like him, viscerally. A little. I keep thinking he'll come to his senses and stop treating Thespia like the enemy. Or at least realize how much damage could be done if she wasn't still protecting his interests.

Mistakes Were Made

The thing is, I always thought I liked Dweez. Well, I thought he liked me, too, which made it easier to like him, even though he was from SoCal and mostly ate steak. Well done. At least he was preferable to the daughter-in-law who wouldn't eat things with faces. Or was it mothers? She would cheerfully have eaten her own mother, I think, given half an excuse, except she'd probably have had to cook her and that was never an option. Early in our acquaintance, I watched my son cut up her chicken for her. At that point, she would still ingest animal protein, as long as she didn't have to prepare or dissect it. But that's another chapter in the Bad Mother-in-law handbook.
I liked Dweez because. . . well, he could converse intelligently. He read. He watched reality shows and MTV and just about any movie ever released, especially if it had a downbeat, noir sort of twist to it. We all saw 'What Do Women Want?', while we waited impatiently for Pippa to get around to being born. We all felt ripped off by its superficiality. Stuff like that. Dweez would talk about moving us all into a duplex or triplex as we aged, so taking care of us in our dotage would be more tenable. I found that endearing.
I didn't want to do it, though. I didn't want to move all the way across the country, into some brownstone with endless staircases and do all my shopping by subway. Now that I think about it, I didn't want Dweez in charge of my financial or physical life. So, even though he almost always had his good face on and exhibited something resembling patience when a visit was occurring, I must have glimpsed the feral disdain under the surface.
You know how when someone seems to like you, seems interested, you kind of perk up and tell them things about yourself that you mostly don't talk about? Personal things, slightly embarassing things? Because you're opening a door inside yourself so the new friend can come in and visit. How many times is that really a good idea?
Thespia says that Dweez basically always found me and the mate kind of ho-hum. Having heard him savage several one-time friends (or did Thespia like them more than Dweez did?) I can only imagine what he had to say about us in our absence. Oh, yeah, I can - and do - imagine it, even though I don't much want to.

A crime scene

Saturday, noon. Thespia and Pippa are having a Mom and Daughter day - lazing around in their sleep togs, munching on strawberries and toast, reading and thinking about what videos they might want to see and whether Pippa just has to run Across the World one more time. And there's this sound from the street. Gunfire? Well, yeah. Drug house around the corner, disputes heat up since everybody's packing. Somebody's car takes multiple wounds. Cops and yellow tape all over the place, there being little else to do in the middle of a Spring Saturday.
"Daddy, we live in a crime scene!" Pippa says, as she makes the Sunday morning transfer. D'weez is electrified: must get daughter out of neighborhood, must sell house. Well, he's been wanting to sell the house ever since he moved out of it and here's a perfect reason. But then there's the history: he moved them to this edgy neighborhood, into a house that sucked money out of every available source, for some reason and against everyone's advice. "You have a kid," we said. "She could better live in a neighborhood where at least there's a corner store. Bed-Stuy? Maybe when you guys get older and richer and Pippa's not living at home anymore."

Turf war

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be," Pippa said, in reference to being a six and three-quarters year old person with two homes. After all, she is a Brooklyn person, albeit a small one, and lives in an atmosphere where having two homes is not uncommon. She didn't say how bad she had imagined it. She did say that it was nice not to be living with two people who either weren't talking at all or were fighting. As an only child, she learned early when to strategically disappear.
Now that The W, or Dweez, as he began to be known in Thespia's camp, lived right around the corner from PS Good and Plenty, he demanded that Pippa's days be divided exactly equally between himself and Thespia. Pippa does love him, even though he often causes her brow to wrinkle with his forgetful ways. She has to take good care of her Dad, as it has not been demonstrated to her satisfaction that he is capable of taking good care of himself.
Dweez's half of each custodial week begins either Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning, in alternating weeks. Pippa goes home to Thespia's on Wednesday, after school. Dweez finds a lot of pleasure in loitering around the school yard, gabbing with other parents. Mostly mothers. And what a lot of admiration he gets for being such a devoted Dad! And what a lot of sympathy he gets for his efforts to function as a single father! And what a lot of fun it has been for Thespia to field the questions of her students' parents, after they find out from The W that her marriage has gone south!
Dweez also cruised by Thespia's classroom, whenever the spirit moved him. Whether the students were present didn't concern him when he had a message of the utmost importance to deliver. Laying down Dweez's Law can not be done by phone, computer or text message, apparently. He only gets the bang for his buck out of face to face conflict: sure to occur when he disrespects his adversary's workplace. School security was not available to help Thespia deal with these invasions. There is only one security officer and she can't leave her post in the front hall during the morning influx. The teachers are discussing implementing a policy to bar the parents from the corridors outside the classrooms unless they have prior authorization to attend a conference or an event. They have been discussing this for the past six months, without resolution. What overworked staff member should be asked to assume the policing of the hallways?

The Siege

In addition to being ornery and paranoid, weasels foul their environment. The W moved into the family living room, right next to the kitchen, when he, Pippa and Thespia returned to Brooklyn. After all, that's where the big screen TV and the games were located, as well as the DVD player, the audio equipment and all the CDs - pretty much anything a lad could want to keep happily busy and divert himself from the hell of a home search. He was moving out, under protest. As soon as he found a place. Not just any place: a place in the neighborhood of the elementary school where Thespia taught and Pippa attended. Pippa was about to become a two home child. Thespia was, of course, not consulted about whether The W's proximity to her work place was in any way distasteful.
Shortly, Thespia noticed an absence of dishes and eating utensils. Things that had vanished did not reappear. Pans piled up in the kitchen sink each day while she and Pippa were at school. Finally, out of forks, she cautiously ventured into the living room during one of The W's infrequent absences.
First there was the smell. Tired socks, wet carpet, something very, very pungent and stale, and a peculiar, alarming musk, close cousin to polecat odor. Then there was the mess: bedding heaped on the floor, CDs and DVDs spilling from the coffee table, crunching underfoot, clothing discarded on every surface, windows smudging. Everything she touched was sticky. Every cup and glass held the dregs of some murky, volatile liquid. She gathered up some forks and knives and shut the living room door firmly as she left it. She and Pippa began taking their meals in the master bedroom, washing their dishes in the tub and hiding their silverware in Pippa's sock drawer.
Miraculously, The W found a place to rent and rented it. He immediately gathered up the paltry few of their possessions (TV, CD player, computers, games) that he deemed worthy of making the move. Then he began to shop: beds for himself and Pippa, new area rugs, dishes, cookware, art. Not too much later, Thespia opened the mail to find that The W, always in charge of the checkbook, had paid no household bills - including the mortgage - for two months. She also discovered that he had raided their equity line, to the tune of $55,000 and there seemed to be nothing to show for it except his ever-mounting number of new household goods. Just before the neighbors called the health department, the W moved, taking the car.

The Weasel

Not so long ago, I would have said that I quite liked my son-in-law. A stand-up guy, I'd have said after he escorted Thespia to her younger brother's wedding, flying clear across country on his own dime to do so. A husband of substance, I determined as he worked his way through the mazes and tunnels of computer game design into a job with Microsoft. A land-on-his-feet kinda dude as he manipulated his gaming projects to reflect his interest in WW2 fighter planes. All this and he continued to write plays and movie scripts. He liked a madly eclectic bunch of music: everything from chanting monks to Ella and Louis, with a good sprinkling of soundtracks and Chopin. He could argue, with good humor, about almost anything.
True, there were indications he wasn't perfect. As they fed each other wedding cake, he bit Thespia's finger hard enough to draw blood. His attention span was brief. He was less than no help with household chores, especially noticeable when we all spent time in rental houses on Cape Cod. His considerable personal charm and wish to act in such a manner as to be thought well of continued to tip the balance in his favor.
Then came the summer of '07. The Weasel took the gloves off and gave us a long, clear look at his bloody claws. While Thespia cringed around the edges of the Truro aerie we were renting, trying for oneness with dust motes, Weasel strutted and posed and, in every way possible, negated her existence. Brought morning coffee and croissants for everyone but her. Disappeared with Pippa, their daughter, for chunks of the day without revealing a schedule or a destination. Seemed unable to hear simple questions when she asked them. Got up and left a room when Thespia entered.
Just before we all met on the Cape, Weasel had been to writers' camp at Bennington. For his edgy, bold self and good looks, Weasel had been lionized, or so we were given to understand. After ten days of unmitigated adulation and firming up his friendship with a misogynist he'd met the previous summer in Provincetown, Weasel was in no mood to tolerate eternal days and nights of family togetherness. Because, really, we just couldn't appreciate him enough to make us worth bothering with. After ten days of this, Weasel kicked Thespia to the curb.