Pertinent to my Interests

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My youngest kid turned nine recently and requested a sleepover with his favorite cousin to celebrate. He also requested that I buy Mountain Dew for them, telling me that they needed the caffeine because they were going to “pull an all-nighter.”

So I guess that’s the stage we’re in now?

The nine-year-old was a little crazed after drinking two Mountain Dews in a row, so we had to take the rest away. My husband and I went to bed at 10:00 PM, leaving the kids in the basement with orders to not wake us up.

When I got up at about 7 AM the next morning I could hear–all the way from the top floor of our house–the sound of Godzilla destroying San Francisco in my basement. On the dining table were the remnants of a late-night attack on the chocolate lasagna dessert. All the lights in the basement were on, but nobody made a peep when I turned down the television volume from my phone.

Almost three hours later the partiers started to stir. Although they had not succeeded in their quest to pull an all-nighter, they sure acted like they had.

“I’m pretty sure I fell asleep on the couch,” my oldest mumbled at breakfast. “But somehow I woke up on the air mattress.”

Everyone was a little dazed all day. Emotions were difficult. Frustration levels were high, and somehow everyone was completely silent on the ride back from dropping off their cousin.

It was a very successful birthday sleepover, but I’m not sure what to do with the four leftover Mountain Dews that are currently hidden in my closet.

A few weeks ago, a friend referred to me in a group chat as the “Queen of Winter” and I swelled with pride. I am the queen of winter. I love winter.

Or at least I used to.

We’ve had a weird winter here in Minnesota this year. The weather has been warm (above freezing) and rainy. It’s January and we still don’t have enough snow to even cover the grass on the front lawn. It was still fleece weather in early December.

It’s kind of terrible, and I am wondering if it’s my fault.

See, I love fall, but part of the reason I love fall is because it leads into winter. So after we had that great October and Halloween season I expected to turn the page on my calendar and get a little burst of joy at seeing the words NOVEMBER displayed.

But I didn’t.

I did not get that cozy feeling I usually get as the days get shorter and colder. I got out the Advent candles and lit them every night. I turned the heat way down. I piled fuzzy blankets and cats on my lap. I put out the bird feeder and watched the cardinals come collect my offering of sunflower seeds. Usually these things give me great satisfaction and comfort knowing that I have several months of hibernation and shoveling snow ahead of me.

Nothing.

I thought maybe after Christmas things would be different, after we settled in from all the excitement and travel. I traded the Advent candles for my winter mason jar candles. I put away the nativity set and got out the humidifier. I have completed at least two puzzles already in January. I love puzzles. But I’m not loving winter.

So I have to wonder when I consider my apathy toward winter, and then I look outside and note Minnesota’s pathetic winter show this year. Is Minnesota winter usually so great because it is inspired by my enthusiasm? Is winter’s performance lackluster because her greatest fan isn’t very excited about wool socks this year? Or am I feeling meh because this winter is meh? Did winter do this to me or did I do this to winter?!?

More disturbing possibilities. Am I depressed but don’t know it? Is this just part of the aging process? Am I taking the first, inevitable step toward snow birding in Phoenix?

Both of my kids went to school this morning, the first time in three weeks that this has happened.

I had expected to feel relief, but now I have to turn my attention to righting the chaos in my house. I need to clean the bathroom. I need to get back to the gym. Worst of all, I have to meal plan and grocery shop today.

My mom always said the key to life was to marry rich. I think the real lifehack is to marry someone who likes to cook.

Before I had kids I would have told you that I had no interest in cooking. Now that I do have kids–and I have to provide meals for them every day–I would say my feelings about cooking have been upgraded to passionate hatred. I am looking forward to when both my kids are away at college and I can revert to my natural eating habits:

Breakfast: peanut butter toast, or toast with two fried eggs
Lunch: Cheese and crackers & an apple
Dinner: Cheese and crackers & a salad kit

Note too that this requires a shopping list of only seven items. Well, nine because I also need coffee and milk in the morning. And probably a box of granola bars for snacks too.

Ten items. Done.

I mentioned a few posts back that I had a college friend on hospice due to cancer. He died yesterday, on his oldest son’s seventh birthday.

My friend’s son woke up on his birthday yesterday morning having had a living father for 7 out of his 7 years on this planet, 100% of his life. But today when he wakes up that percentage will begin its slow, sad descent. The flip book of missed milestones begins writing itself today, page after page.

See I’m trying to make sense of a loss like this by assigning numbers, but of course numbers don’t correlate to the depth of human emotion or richness of experience. My friend knew–for years–that his diagnosis was terminal, and he made an effort to be present in his kids’ lives as much as his illness allowed him to be. I hope when my friend’s oldest son wakes up on the day he turns eighty he has some bittersweet thoughts about quality and quantity, and he finds the number 8.75% to hardly be meaningful at all.

Still, there are so few memories to hold onto at the age of seven. Such grief to be experienced and for so long. So many empty chairs in auditoriums, so many Father’s Day cards unpurchased. So many mixed emotions when his friends don’t begin losing their own fathers until they are well into middle age.

I want to be able to reinterpret this story–my friend’s story, his son’s story–rewrite it as a bittersweet, triumphant arc that makes the heart soar even as it breaks at the same time. But I cannot do this. Tragedy has arrived for the family and it is here to stay, sitting in all those empty chairs along the way.

Every year my friend gently bullies me into setting a “reading challenge” goal on Goodreads. This year I did not achieve my goal of 50 books, landing hard at 47 (prime number!) instead.

The shortest book (144 pages) I read this year was All Systems Red by Martha Wells, the first book in the Murderbot series. Many people have not-so-gently encouraged me to read this book and it only took me six years to get to it! I enjoyed it, but not enough to continue the series. Sorry.

The longest book (868 pages) I read this year was The Patriarch by David Nasaw. This is about Joseph P. Kennedy, the father of JFK and RFK and Teddy and pretty much everyone. This is the book that kicked off my Kennedy era in reading and it’s very good.

Other notable books from 2023:

• Kaiju Preservation Society by John Scalzi. Just a fun one all around, and short!
• The Melody Lingers On by Mary Higgins Clark. Guys, I just can’t anymore with Mary Higgins Clark. I was enjoying her as a fun cabin read but her books are so vapid and formulaic it turns out five is my limit. Never again!
• Darius the Great is Not Okay by Adib Khorram. Fascinating walk through a teenage boy’s brain and bonus introduction to Iran.
• Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver. Addresses our life and our times and I just keep thinking about this one even months later.
• Greenglass House by Kate Milford. My kid brought this one home from the elementary school library; I stole it and read it in two days. The setting alone is worth the read.
• Pageboy by Elliot Page. Elliot, you seem great, but I did not enjoy your memoir.
• Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing by Matthew Perry. Matthew, you seem great, and we all had no idea how much you were suffering this whole time. One of the most devastating memoirs I’ve ever read.
• We’ll Be the Last Ones to Let You Down: Memoir of a Gravedigger’s Daughter by Rachel Hanel. I really loved this memoir. It’s not about graveyards so much as it is about time and family and heirlooms.
• All the Beauty in the World: The Metropolitan Museum of Art and Me by Patrick Bringley. Struggling to find meaning in his life and his work after his brother’s early death from cancer, Patrick Bringley takes a job as a guard at the Met in NYC. This book is beautiful, meditative, and hopeful. And it made me miss the Met even more.
• Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel. I adore Emily St. John Mandel, but this one sat on my bedside table for over a year before I finally picked it up and read it. I am sorry it took me so long, Emily. You’re a motherfucking genius and I love you. Please come to Minnesota so I can get my book signed. K thx.

I didn’t start actively reading as an adult until my second kid was born in 2015. I was desperate for the baby and the toddler to nap at the same time; I really needed the mental break! The toddler would go down and stay down just fine for 90 minutes, but the baby was a baby and wouldn’t stay asleep unless I was laying right there next to him. So I got in the habit of laying in the bed with the baby during naptime. I couldn’t wake him up with television, so I started reading instead. The habit has stuck, and although I did not make my reading challenge goal this year, I’m still pleased with my reading accomplishments.

I always feel frazzled this time of year. I need to find homes for the piles of new stuff sitting around the house. The kids are out of school and will be for another week. This year I have a job I’m trying to apply for that closes in a day. I need to go grocery shopping. The nativity set still needs to come down. One of my kids has a birthday in less than two weeks and I need to prepare for that. I think I need to start going to the gym again tomorrow if I want to meet my 2024 exercise goals. Oh and with all four of us at home the house is in a constant state of disaster.

I can’t even focus long enough to write out a real to do list!

I am stressing out a little about my job search. I have had several people tell me recently that “places are desperate for employees; you’ll get hired soon!” but 1) that doesn’t make me feel better about all the applications I’ve submitted that haven’t even resulted in an interview and 2) yes, they are desperate for workers at Dairy Queen but that doesn’t mean I want to work at Dairy Queen.

On the other hand, the longer I’m funemployed the more time I can spend on this blog and bring joy to the six people who read it.

Despite serial sickness (cursed Christmas), most of us made it to church on Christmas Eve.

My mom still goes to the church I grew up in. The pianist at Christmas Eve service this year was the same woman who played the organ in church when I was a kid. She moved away, they took out the organ, and now that she’s back she plays the piano instead. It felt like stepping back in time to have her up there again.

And Mr. S was there. Mr. S has been doing the reading from Isaiah at the Christmas Eve service every year since I was a small child. He always gets about two sentences in before his voice starts to crack, his eyes get wet, and he is overcome by emotion. Every year of my childhood I would smile awkwardly from the pews, perplexed at this show of emotion from a normally very steady man.

“Oh good,” I thought to myself when I walked into the sanctuary and saw Mr. S sitting in the front pew. “It’s not really Christmas Eve unless Mr. S cries during the reading.”

The service started, we all stood to sing the first hymn, and I was suddenly, painfully aware of missing my grandpa’s tenor which should at that very moment have been booming out from behind me. My mind searched for my grandma, who should be beside me, whose voice I should hear most clearly as we all recite the Lord’s Prayer.

And there I was, crying in church on Christmas Eve. I had not even made it through the first hymn, let alone the first line of Isaiah.

It wasn’t even the music, or Christmas Eve, or the fact that my grandparents are gone. It’s just the end-of-year accounting of all the tragedies and the accounting of all the joys and knowing that there is more of both to come. It’s the all the big things and all the mundane things that have happened and will happen. It’s just all too much to keep inside.

I understand now. One day you’re a carefree six-year-old just hoping the service will end quickly so you can go play with the organ pedals while all the adults talk, and thirty-four years later you and Mr. S are both crying in church on Christmas Eve.

How could you not?

It’s a week until Christmas. My youngest kid puked at school this morning and had to be picked up from the nurse’s office. I have an awful cold, and vertigo stacked on top of that. It’s great fun.

Have you ever had vertigo? It’s the stupidest thing you can have wrong with you. Tiny little stones inside my inner ear, the ones responsible for balance and feeling movement, migrate out of their proper spot. If I look up the world spins. If I look down the world spins. If I lay on my back the world spins. And when the vertigo is this bad I have a general sense of imbalance. I find myself hanging onto countertops and gripping the banister as I go slowly down the stairs. It feels like preparation for being elderly.

Anyway, as I noted in the first paragraph, it’s a week until Christmas. Three days until we get on an airplane. When you have children in school there really isn’t much you can do to prevent illness from impacting travel. My youngest will be better by Thursday morning, but maybe by then the rest of us will be vomiting. And if we are, I guess we’ll deal with it and reschedule. Traveling early gives us a little buffer.

And I am trying to remind myself about our trip to Disney earlier this year. A freak blizzard on April 1 cancelled our early flight to Florida; we managed to grab seats on the same flight out the next morning, squeezed into the very back of the plane. Instead of rope-dropping Magic Kingdom that next morning, we ended up arriving in the afternoon and heading into Magic Kingdom for dinner and what turned out to be an extremely magical and extremely late evening riding Haunted Mansion and Pirates of the Caribbean with the kids.

So. Even if we all wake up puking on Thursday morning it will be okay. And in the meantime, I’m digging out the Lysol wipes and hand sanitizer and not looking up.

I went on two field trips this week, one with each of my kids, because this is the sort of thing you feel compelled to do when you are an unemployed mother of two.

Actually, both field trips involved tromping around in the forest, and mid-December is, in my opinion, the perfect time to be tromping around in the forest, so I was happy to go.

Do you remember field trips in elementary school? I barely do. I actually hated field trips in elementary school because I never knew what to expect on them. I recall doing my best to get out of field trips several times, but I was always stymied by teachers and especially my mother who was aware of my desire to avoid new experiences. (I got better at field trips by late middle school.)

It was weird being back on a bus with a big group of kids, teachers, and chaperones. I forgot how being in school forces you to lose some individuality. The entire day is built around keeping this large herd of excited children under control. We had stupid rules that I, as chaperone, had to help enforce, like no picking up sticks. Who brings kids into the forest and then decrees that they can’t even pick up a stick?! I whispered to some of the fifth graders who were having trouble with this rule that I thought it was a stupid rule too, but we had to follow it or else we would all get in trouble.

Being part of a classroom of kids is like being part of an organism in some ways. We are all doing math right now. We are all lining up to get on the bus right now. We are all being reminded to use our quiet voices even though only two of us were actually being loud. The only place that adults are treated like this is in prison.

I am not saying school is prison. My kids’ school is great, and they like going every day. I don’t think they chafe under these controls because it feels completely normal to them. I liked school too, and I don’t remember feeling particularly oppressed by the crowd control mentality. But it was very weird to step back in time and experience it all over again. Twice in one week.