Wednesday, May 11, 2005


This year, Wednesday has been the restful sigh in the marathon jog of my life. The house is always silent, I always have my cup of coffee at my side, it's a day I can read blogs uninterrupted. On Wednesdays, I might even create an entry myself.

On my mind today...

Summer isn't looking quite as blissful as last summer. The children will be in summer school meaning we'll have to fight with them every morning to get up and ready and be on time and every night to get them in bed at a reasonable hour because at 8:00 p.m. the sky is still blue and blue doesn't signify, to them, sleep. I'm not thrilled about the prospect. The summer will be interminably long in that regard. On the other hand, it will fly by freakishly fast because in the fall I'll be teaching three classes which is, well, beginning to freak me out. It's not that I don't like to work (although there's some element of that there), rather it's that the children are so demanding that additional responsibility seems like a mountain's worth. What is that saying, don't make a mountain of a mole-hill? Well in this case, my mole-hill really does become a mountain. So today, at this moment, I'm suddenly dreading summer, fall, winter and spring.

God bless the Trader Joe's employee who called me, "Miss," yesterday. I'm not saying I passed for twenty, I'm saying that someone finally got wise and learned that it's best to hold "m'am" for a woman who's well into her seventies, at least.

The murder of the two girls in the midwest. I'm left once again wondering whether there's a seige against women and girls (or whether it's just the media's focus on such events), diving further into the question of why bad, senseless things happen, whether those bad things are just more proof of Godlessness. I end up sighing heavily, hiding my hide-a-key, locking the doors, watching my kids like the proverbial hawk today's modern parent must be. Funny how when I'm envisioning my own fears, I'm very alone in the picture. I see me, by myself, locking doors, putting extra keys away, closing drapes...but instead of my children and husband being with me, they are nowhere, it's just me.

A six-pack of Corona beer sits in our garage refrigerator. D is a teetotaler having been raised Baptist, having never developed a taste for any kind of alcohol. He buys this beer for me, going against all his instincts, his wishes, etc., so I can have a beer with dinner every two weeks or so. I see the beer in the refrigerator and I'm reminded of every little thing he does around the house just for me. Making coffee in the morning, doing the laundry. I'll be sure to do some little things in return. Just for him.

I really loved The Motorcycle Diaries which I rented the other day. A movie about a road trip which leaves me wanting to take my own road trip. Last week, as D and I were driving home from a dinner with the children, as they were alternating between fighting and laughing hysterically, he asked me if I'd like to drive across the country. Like that. With them. I say, yes. He reminds me this morning to cancel our reservations for a week long trip to San Diego due to summer school. I'm wondering what August will bring us.

Mother's Day was decidedly uneventful, but sweet. Cards in the morning, a special box for cards from everybody. A lovely box with a cream-colored velvety covering, with lots of space and ribbons. Late on Sunday, I noticed two orange fingerprints from Cheetos on the top cover of the box. My son A had been feeling it up. I thought those little marks couldn't be a more appropriate mark of Mother's Day.

Mexican Mother's Day took place on Tuesday and my sister and I celebrated that day by taking our grandmother to lunch at our local Japanese restaurant where the chefs cook in front of you. The kids had a great time. Afterwards, my sister went back home to put her baby, I, to bed and M and I took my grandmother to visit my mother's grave. I told her, "No llores, Mama." Of course, not crying isn't possible. She did. When we got to the spot, a serene spot marked by a boulder next to a pine tree, she laughed because the plant that had taken over the site was a Wandering Jew...she thought of my father.

Wednesday...another day, another week.


BarbaraFromCalifornia said...

Yes, being called 'miss' can just make one's day, I know.

As for the girls in summer school, I used to feel anxious about waking my children up when they were young. When they get into high school, an entire new set of worries set in, such as waiting for them to come home.

Each day is a new beginning, and so is each stage of a child's life. (and ours as well)

MatzahNacho said...

I agree about the "Miss" thing. I have no idea why anyone thinks it's a good idea to call every woman over 25? "Ma'am." Bad idea!

Related to this topic. When I was 12 a salesman came to our door and assumed I was the lady of the house. When I was 28 a salesman came to the door and asked if my parents were home. When I was 29 people started calling me "Ma'am." Bizarre.

To anyone reading this who doesn't know better, never call a woman "Ma'am." Even if she's 90 it'll make her day if you call her "Miss."

Tamar said...

Beautiful description of your grandmother visiting your mother's grave. I cannot imagine the pain of losing one's child.

As long as I am not called "lady" or "girl" I'll do fine. I just wonder why people can't just say nothing. Like: "Can I help you?" and then stop there.

MatzahNacho said...

"Can I help you?" would be just fine! Maybe the "Ma'am" or "Miss" thing is related to how some people say the name of the person they're talking to when they're talking to them, even when no one else is around. Like if hubby and I are in the kitchen together making sandwiches, and he's next to the silverware drawer, and I say, "Could you pass me a knife." And others might say, "Husband's name, could you pass me a knife." I never say his name if he's right there, and I don't say "Ma'am" or "Miss" either. The only time I can think that I might have said "Miss" is to get the waitress's attention when she hasn't noticed any of the hand signals.