"We Don't Keep Secrets in Our Family"

I was driving to the post office while listening to Def Leopard, as one does.

In my rear-view mirror, I saw the all-too-familiar blinking of flashing lights, and realized that I was going to get my annual speeding ticket from my friendly deputy.

A year ago, almost to the day, I received a ticket for going 40 in a 30 MPH zone. And yes, it was in the exact same location. I'm nothing if not consistent.

I spent the subsequent Saint Patrick's Day in traffic court. Dressed in my festive green, I waited next to a man wearing dirty overalls and no shirt. I also reconnected with at least four former students. Good times.

I did not want to repeat those good times. I sat and answered the deputy's questions softly, attempting to summon a tone of great remorse and utter shame. I think my hands trembled a bit when I handed him my license and registration, and he went to his car to check my record.

As I whispered expletives to myself, my older son had a series of helpful comments:


Mommy, why are you such a bad driver? 


Mommy, why do we always get pulled over? 


Mommy, why aren't we going to the post office? 


Mommy, are you going to jail?

Because I was presently in the presence of a lawman, Owen got lucky and was allowed to live. The deputy returned with a warning, so I genuflected before his benevolent presence, and crept off to the post office.

I'll have you know, 30 mph feels very slow.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I cleared my throat and said,  "Owen, can you please not tell your father about this?"

His voice sliced the air, sharp like steel. "Mommy. We don't keep secrets in our family."

Right. Ugh. Busted.

I recently read a book called Off Limits by Wurtele and Berkower, which discusses ways to prevent childhood sexual abuse. It's an awesome book, and I highly recommend it.

One of the tactics abusers use is secrecy. Therefore, a phrase that we now use in our home is "We don't keep secrets in our family."

We can have surprises, because a surprise means that we will tell somebody something soon that will make him or her very happy. For example, presents are surprises. Folding Daddy's clothing is a surprise. But we don't keep secrets.

This phrase has worked beautifully, and it has stuck. While Owen was preparing for his Christmas pageant, his teacher often told the kids that there were secrets---harmless things, like the songs for the little play, or the ornaments they made. Each time, Owen's voice boomed from his carpet square, "We don't keep secrets in our family."

He badgered his teacher so much that she eventually changed her language to the proper word---surprise.

I didn't have to say a word, because my son was empowered with words of his own.

Because warnings from the deputy don't really qualify as "surprises," I took my medicine and told my husband. He was concerned, mildly annoyed, and it was over. 

Not keeping secrets means that there is another layer of honesty and mutual dependence in our family. Yes, sometimes it's a pain. Sometimes it's harder. But I promise you---we would have it no other way.

Red Writing Hood: Closer to Away

Thanks, all for the spot-on feedback last week. That's the stuff I need, so please, continue to bring it.

This week's Red Writing Hood prompt is a doozy:

For this week's prompt, grab something out of your pantry and write a short piece - using all the words in the ingredients. It can be fiction or non-fiction, poetry or prose.

I decided that Fridays will be dedicated to my emerging story about Walter and his family. You can read previous stories here and here.

For feedback this week, could you look closely at my sentence variety and specifically the flow and meter of my prose? Thanks in advance.


Closer to Away


Lydia gave her running shoes a final, satisfying tug and stepped out her door. The first moment outside, as always stung, like an icy whip. But that was the point. Isn't running about feeling something?

Running toward County Line road, she inwardly rolled her eyes. County Line Road. Could the cowpokes have less imagination? She had told Walter that if he insisted on taking that job at CU, they would live in Boulder proper. Yes, people build multi-million dollar nursing homes for dogs there, and never fail to find yet more heinous ways to adorn their feet, but at least the schools are decent.

Not like here. Dreary Erie. "We can get so much more house for so much less money," Walter had explained, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. "And we don't have to live in the PRB. The People's Republic of Boulder." He laughed, as if he had come up with this line himself, instead of reading it on one of his conservative Internet forums.

God, she hated him sometimes.

She glanced at her watch, noted her solid 8:00 minute pace. Good. Today was an easy day---a six miler, no repeats or hills. The Ft.Collins marathon was in May, and if she didn't qualify for Boston this time, then she had officially Not Worked Hard Enough.

Shuddering at the thought, she pumped her arms harder, her shoes leaving perfect tread marks in the newly-fallen snow. Her pregnant belly bounced slightly, papoosed in the belly band specifically purchased to keep Baby Girl safe. She liked the idea of her---Zoe, I guess they were calling her--resting in her womb, each pounding step lulling her into a deep, meditative sleep.

Lydia hated to run with other people--always yammering on about split times and the best post-race recovery foods. But Zoe would be a different story. She already knew to respect her mother's need for quiet and privacy.

Warmth flooded through her body as she began her last mile. As always, she was right. She had worn shorts, a long sleeved shirt, and gloves, and was now perfectly comfortable.She ticked off her day---seven hours in the ER, followed by interviews for nannies. Wincing, she remembered the final task of the day---drinks with the head of  the Poly Sci department.

Maybe she would beg off. For the baby, of course.

Rounding the corner, she was home. Her neighborhood builders, attempting to emulate the real Victorians in downtown Boulder, had painted each house in different garish colors. She and Walter lived in the most sensible of the lot---a sky blue two-story, with dark blue trim and cream embellishments. She yearned to paint it a gentle beige, just to fuck with the HOA.

As she stretched out her calf, she peeked inside the window. Walter stood in the kitchen, still wearing his ratty blue bathrobe. Squinting at a Gatorade bottle, he moved his lips softly as he read.

She shifted her weight to the other leg. Already, she could hear it. "Honey, I was reading the ingredients on this. Water, sucrose, dextrose, citric acid, natural flavor, salt, sodium citrate, monopotassium phosphate, gum arabic, glycerol ester of rosin, and yellow 5. Do you think you should be drinking this? Is it good for the baby?"

Muscles still hot and ready, she turned around, and ran away from her house, each step another moment closer to away.

By the Numbers

Today is a glorious day. 1-11-11. The symmetry makes me squeal with delight. I thought it would be appropriate to re-post this oldie from the Nobody-Read-The-Blog-Archives. Please enjoy. 

Numbers

Numbers are not my thing. Every time I bake, I have to ask Paul if 1/3 plus 1/3 equals 2/3.

He'll shake his head and say, "Were you adding the denominators again?"

I'll pretend to be very interested in the counter top, and squeak out an embarrassed, "Uh-huh." In my head, it makes sense every time. 1/3 + 1/3 equals 2/6, which rounds down to 1/2!

This is my secret shame, so secret that I am posting it on the Internet for mocking purposes.

While my practical applications of numbers are...lacking, I enjoy numbers as a concept. Like my grandmother, I get very excited when the digital clock reads certain things, such as 3:33. Ah, the symmetry! I also enjoy 1:23, because it is chronological. Ditto 4:56.

I find Paul's birthday 1-7-74 troubling because that 4 ruins the whole thing, being the only even number in a sea of odds. Mine--3-5-75--is much better. My brother's is also okay: 10-20-76, for everything in his birth date is divisible by two.

Both of my sons have messes of birth dates: 2-21-06 for Owen and 7-29-08 for Joel.

The only redeemable aspect of Owen's birthday (besides the fact that it is his birthday and I love him, blah blah blah...) is that 21 has always been a very good number for me. Just typing it is very satisfying.

Joel's birthday was a missed opportunity. I was so tired of being pregnant that I was induced. Meaning: if I had allowed nature to take its course, I could have had a cooler date for my second born.

He was supposed to be born in early August, which was very exciting, because it was possible that his birthday would have been 8-8-08. The very idea! Think of all the times I could have written that blissful little number on medical forms! 

Alas, my aching back and surly temperament were stronger than my nerdy inclinations, and I jumped at the induction date. My only consolation is that 29 is a prime number.

However, I don't understand the whole concept of prime numbers, so this is an empty victory.

One more number story: we just bought new telephones, because our old phones were tools of the devil--cutting out, beeping loudly, going on mute for no logical reason. The other day, I was dialing a number to check my voice mail. Suddenly, the phone decided to beep loudly while the number 6 filled the entire screen. As in 666666666666666666666666. As in MARK OF THE BEAST. As in the film Maximum Overdrive, where all the household appliances become evil, slicing and dicing their hapless owners.

It didn't matter what I did. All I could do was stare at my demonic telephone, waiting for the sky to turn black and for the Four Horsemen to come tearing from the sky. It was quite chilling.

But then, I unplugged the phone and replugged it, thus performing a do-it-yourself exorcism. All was fine.

But, in the short moment, when my blood turned to ice water, and I was pondering my haunted phone, I couldn't help but note that 666 is divisible by both 2 and 3, and it is very pleasing, indeed.

So tell me...do any of you share my bizarre affinity for numbers?

A Love Letter to Tucson

I drove up Skyline Drive each morning, straight into the mouth of the foothills. The sky was washed purple-pink, like bold swipes of watercolor. These mountains listened to me. 

I was a young teacher, full of fears. The mountains heard it all---the student who refused to write, the girl who lost her father,  and the boy who hid under his desk when it all became too much.  The mountains let me talk. I nestled in her dusty-beautiful arms. She held me close, and then set me free to do my work.

September 11, 2001. On the East Coast, children were already in school---teachers willed back tears and churning panic, as parents raced home to their children. But in Tucson, we woke up to the aftermath---there was nothing to do but drive to work.

The mountains heard me cry softly, as I shifted gears and stopped at lights. The sky was obscenely blue, inappropriate, like a peacock at a funeral. The cacti forest, each saguaro in a perpetual sun salutation, witnessed our coming and going with ancient wisdom.

As I watched the sun tip out behind the mountains, flooding the valley with light,  I said to myself, "We are so safe here."

A girl was born that beautiful Tucson morning. Lots of new lives were born under that desert sun, in a valley which smells of creosote and fresh starts.

I lived there, in a flat-roofed bungalow with wood paneling and a swamp cooler. I rode my bike to the University, where I learned that I could write. I became a runner in that valley, pounding out miles along the empty banks of the Rillito.

I married my love there, and danced with him under twinkly lights and a scarlet explosion of bougainvillea.

And through it all, the mountains bore witness. As they will, long after the camera crews pack up, and those dear families attempt to pick up the pieces.

Bear down, Arizona. Those mountains, and the world, hold you in their arms.

Red Writing Hood: A Fresh Face

For my New Year's resolution, I have been waking up early to write each morning. It's been such a gift. My partners in crime, Ashlei from Shades of Green and Blue and Erin from The Mother Load have been checking in with me as we embark on this challenge together.

Simply put, 2011 is the year I take my writing to the next level. The Red Writing Hood Friday Challenge is the first step in this process.

I ask you to please share your thoughtful critique so I can grow as a writer. For this piece, for example, help me see ways that I can enhance my character's "nonverbals" and body language. I feel that body language adds much to the character, but I fear that I often fall back on the same old descriptors.

The challenge this week is "to write a short piece - fiction, non-fiction, poetry, whatevs - in which each sentence starts with a the next letter of the alphabet. Starting with "A." So, yes, your finished product will consist of 26 sentences." (I cheated on the sentence part. A LOT. Um, sorry.)



(PS--This is revisiting Walter from my "Like a Songbird" post. You can catch up here.

A Fresh Face

"Angela," she said, her hand on her swelling belly.
"Blech," he grimaced. "My mother's name?"
"Could you at least consider it?" She shook her head back and forth. "I mean, it's a lovely name."
"Don't think I can," he replied. He cleared his throat. " I mean, why on earth did you think I would give our daughter her name?"
"Exactly! That's my point!" she said. She snapped her hands together for emphasis. "The name does not belong to her! There are good Angelas and bad ones."
"For Christ's sake, then," he said, cracking a smile, "Why don't we name her Cruella or Adolpha?"
"Great idea!" she smiled back. "I'm sure she'll be invited to all the parties that way."
"Help me understand," he said, setting his glasses on the coffee table. "Why are you stirring the pot?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied. She leaned back into her chair. "I just mentioned a name I liked,"
"Just mentioned a name I liked," he laughed softly. "That's pretty passive-aggressive"
"Knowing that you have issues with women, and knowing that you will have a daughter in seven weeks, I think I've been very patient with you." She shifted in her armchair, and placed a hand protectively on her belly.
"Lydia," he said, "I had a few bad girlfriends, and you know the issues with my mother. But I love women."
"Maybe you need to exorcise a few demons," she said. "That's all I'm saying."
"No!" he said. He stood up and paced back and forth. "That's not what you're saying at all."
"Oh, then, Mr. Insightful, what am I saying?" Her eyes were flinty and unrelenting.
"Please just drop it." he twisted his wedding band and studied the hardwood.
"Quit doing that!" she said, sighing deeply. "God! You're avoiding the issue again."
"Really?" he said, meeting her eyes, "I don't want to name our baby after my terrible mother. I really need to argue about this?"
"Some people would respect that you're making an effort to mend some fences, Walter." She blinked, and reached for his hand.
"The 'people' you are mentioning?" he said, untangling himself from her grasp, "Who would they be?"
"Underwood," she answered. "The man who could help us--her-- have an easier life. At least we'll start with him."
"Very nice to consider the holder of Mother's estate. The keeper of the cash." He chuckled slowly, then  stared at the floor once again. He breathed in and out, as he had been taught. 
"What is wrong with you?" she exploded. She exhaled loudly, then hissed, "Do you suggest we allow our daughter to live in rags among the great unwashed because you can't suck it up and get what you're entitled to?" 
"Xenophobic much? The great unwashed, really? Between the two of us, we pull in a decent sum. She will be just fine." He placed his hand on her pregnant belly, felt his daughter's fluttery kick.
"You know that she deserves the world," she said. She paused, as if considering her options, then placed her hand on top of his. "Why make it harder?"
"Zoe," he replied, as if speaking to himself.  "Zoe's a nice name. It means, 'life.' It means the future. It means a fresh face and no strings attached. Let's start there." They sat together in silence---Walter, Lydia, and the life they created.

The Battle of the Beard

Over the holiday break, my dear husband grew himself a beard.

Lord help me.

As a former military man, Paul has always flirted with the idea of facial hair. He rarely packs a razor when we vacation and frequently attends weekend social functions with some scruff. On one memorable Halloween, he choose to dress as a pirate, simply for an excuse to grow a beard.

So yes, alas, we have been down this road many, many times.

Unlike my brother, who grows patchwork pockets of hair, all swimming in their own, non-connected universes, Paul actually grows a very nice beard. He keeps it neat. And it has that distinguished gray in it that men can get away with. You know, since the universe is completely unfair.

When it became evident that Paul was going to keep the thing, or was at least considering the idea, I devised my plan of attack.

Step the First: "It's itchy!"  Counterattack: "It'll grow in softer." 


Step the Second: "You know there's gray hair in there."  Counterattack: "You mean like Sean Connery?" 


Step the Third aka The Big Gun: "You know, it's like French kissing my dad." Counterattack: "Are you saying you French kiss your dad?"

Around the fourth day, something shifted in me. It's the same instinct that leads me to paint my fingernails bright blue and consider dying my hair Sharon Osborne pink---I'm going through the adolescence that I skipped during my actual adolescence. Back then, I was too busy reading Atlas Shrugged and being invisible.

So, what shifted? I suppose the idea that Paul could look kinda scruffy, and dare I say it...cool and sexy. I thought that he would grow into something like this...

 

Or the always classic....

 

This is for Ms. Moon...

And for all the Teeny-Boppers...

And for anybody with a pulse...

 

I found all of these delectable pictures here.

Rarely to my fantasies match my reality. But on the other hand, my reality is awfully nice and rarely engages in high colonics or calls people "Bro." So, unless he morphs into this...

I'll keep him, and keep my mouth shut. 

Anybody fought the battle of the beard out there?

The Smog

Right before Christmas, we got some really challenging news. Life-altering news. Like smog, it darkened the skies, made our eyes sting and caused our chests to periodically ache. This smog made it really hard to see the lights and the tinsel. It made us, for the first time, "get through" Christmas.

This news has nothing to do with our children, our marriage, or our health. Thank God for that.

However, this news cuts deep and hurts like hell. I will not be writing about the details of it here, because the person involved values his/her privacy almost above all else. This will probably be the most I will ever share.

But understand---it's always there, like a balloon filled with lead pellets, sitting right on my chest. This new reality has altered me, and made me rawer and kinder. A partial list of things that made me cry over the last week include:

1. Joel was eating vanilla ice cream. He turned to his father and cooed, "Daddy, I'm so, so happy!!" OH ,if it could always be that easy.

2. Any commercial made by Folger's ever.

3. Owen and Joel stood on either side of my fifteen-month old niece. The patted her dandelion-fluff hair, and cooed, "Love you, love you." She darted her eyes back and forth and laughed out loud. The tenderness of this nearly tore me in half.

The smog caused the uglification of my landscape, but it also illuminated the things in my life that contribute to the pollution.  I have been carrying around pettiness and jealousies in a battered old backpack for years. Each hurt feeling and inability to forgive pinched my shoulders and rubbed my back raw.

When I heard the news, I finally, finally put the fucking backpack down. I'm not suggesting that this terrible thing happened so I could get over myself. But I'll take it.

People, there's just no time for that.

I have discovered, already, that free of my backpack, I can use my strength instead to feed, putter, listen, and prepare. I can hold my babies as long as they let me, and recognize that there is nothing mundane about a child in your arms.

I now recognize that while there are days that I want to retort, "Fuck you," when the perfectly nice waitress at Olive Garden wishes us a Happy New Year, I still believe. I still hope. I still am convinced that there is nothing on Earth that will keep me from basking in God's love.

Do I want things to go back to how they were? Yes. Desperately. I don't like the fog. It hurts my eyes, my lungs, and my very spirit.

But the clarity I've gained---it is perhaps the greatest Christmas gift of all.

So tell me your stories, friends. Are you in the smog? Were you in the smog? What helped you see the light?