Tag Archives: family

April 26, 2010 · 10:27 am

Creatures of Habit

I have a favorite pair of sweatpants that I’ve owned since the Precambrian period. They’re a tired shade of gray, with barely a suggestion of the navy lettering that once graced its cottony surface. American Eagle Athletic Department, I think, is stamped there—even still.

Of course, they’re shamefully dilapidated, torn and tattered beyond all repair. My mother-in-law, master seamstress and sock darner extraordinaire, dug deeply into her repertoire of needle-and-thread-ish miracles time and again to patch them up and to make them whole—or at least presentable. Sometimes she succeeded. Sometimes not. Mostly she just shook her head; dismayed by my stubbornness and astonished by my inability to recognize when something had long since passed its prime.

Then again, I have trouble in the produce aisle.

I must admit, most would be embarrassed to be seen with me, clad in such disgraceful toggery, kneecaps naked to the world. What am I saying? MY DOG is embarrassed to be seen with me. But the stupid things have charm. They have character. And they possess that deliciously intangible quality of familiarity. Slipping into said fleeciness in the dead of winter or even during a cool summer’s eve feels comfortable and oh-so-right—like the warmth of a lover’s arms, the refuge of a mother’s embrace, the company of an old friend. And on those rare occasions, when I entertain the notion of trading them in for something shiny and new, I feel nothing less than the shame of betrayal. The ignominy of sin.

Simply put, I cannot bear the thought of parting with my cherished garb; although my rational left-brained self knows better. The wretched things need to be ditched. Out with the old. In with the new.

I suppose I’m no better or worse than anyone else who has ever been mired in denial, inextricably attached to that-which-is-worn-and-weary. We all have issues of a similar sort. Some are just more debilitating than others. That being said, my husband refuses to chuck any of his shabby, old T-shirts, which are perhaps some of the most pathetic examples of apparel on the face of the earth (second only to my sweatpants). Indeed, he lovingly deems those prized entities as something far from archaic. “They’re seasoned,” he defends. “Broken-in like a good leather ball glove.” He won’t dispose of his stinking water shoes either, which now sport portholes through which his toes protrude freely—a hideous sight to behold. Oddly enough, the man owns another pair. Brand spanking new ones with nary a defect. He bought them because he knew it was time for a change, only he couldn’t follow through.

Needless to say, dysfunction doesn’t fall far from our family tree. Eccentricity flourishes under this roof and there is rarely a day without someone hoarding something that ought not to. Ratty toothbrushes, wadded-up Band-Aids (Oh, the horror!), rocks of all shapes and sizes, discarded scraps of paper, foolish tripe harvested from the floor of the school bus or from any number of classrooms. And the list goes on; but whenever I attempt to rid my world of such idiocy, my brood shrieks in protest, “Why do you want to take away our memories, Mom?! That stuff is special to us!”

And the stockpiling circus continues. But the most bizarre item yet to be

squirreled away and vehemently defended has been a brown paper sack for which a certain eight-year-old developed a crippling affinity. The bag itself was quite ordinary with regard to its form and function, however when its tour of duty surpassed the bounds of reasonableness (a month, maybe?), that’s when I hit the ENOUGH ALREADY button. “I can’t keep patching these damn holes with tape!” I muttered to no one. “I’m not running a fricking triage center!” (Read: I have taped tape on top of tape, AND IF I HAVE TO TAPE ANYMORE, I’m going to light myself on fire).

Of course, we own roughly a bazillion perfectly wonderful bags WITHOUT CAVERNOUS HOLES that have been at my daughter’s disposal since early September. Bags begging to be toted to school…eager to be personalized with her scribbles and scratches…hankering for the opportunity (tedious though it might be) to house THE EXACT SAME SNACK each and every day from now till eternity. Grok!

“But I like my bag. And my teacher likes my bag. She thinks the doggies I drew on it are pretty. I’m keeping it for-ever and EVER! And the little holes are cool, too, because they let me peek inside to see what I have for my snack.” Are you forgetting, my dear child, that you ask for the VERY SAME THING every damn day?! For the love of God, you already KNOW what’s inside!

Not surprisingly, she forbid me from applying duct tape to the massive and multiple tears (tempting though it might have been), because that would negate the whole peeking-at-the-stupid-snack dealie. She then insisted that I use see-through mailing tape to repair it.

And made me promise not to trash her beloved bag. Ever.

And because I’m nothing but a pansy, that’s exactly what I did. I perished the thought of using duct tape and I vowed to never dispose of her ridiculous sack—so as not to hoist my Horrible Mommy flag any higher.

Likewise, I keep the wailing and gnashing of teeth at bay by letting said disturbingly-obsessed-with-sameness creature kiss her toenails “goodbye” before I trim them. Seriously. She does this. A la Scarlett O’Hara-inspired drama, this strange child of mine delivers a teary-eyed farewell to each and every nail as if sending them off to war or to the gallows or something equally horrible.

What a weirdo.

She’ll probably wind up darning socks for a living and sharing a shack with 37 cats, 12 dogs and an ill-mannered parakeet—imprisoned, of course, by the mounds of rubbish she could never bear to throw away.

It’s also likely I’ll be buried in my sweatpants.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with my infinitely eccentric brood).

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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April 11, 2010 · 7:37 pm

And the Deadline Looms…

It has become painfully apparent that someone didn’t want me to meet my writing deadlines last week, nor was I afforded ample time for the most basic of necessities: blog lurking. Oh, the horror!

Well, it certainly seemed that way—with every wretched creature or thing in this household serving as a colossal distraction. There were those with an unquenchable thirst for adult conversation, those who became obsessed with humming and singing some inane little jingle, those who crawled onto my lap to punch the keyboard with glee, those who needed help fishing nuggets of soggy cereal out of their orange juice and those who had fevers and sore throats and the urge to hurl into a big bucket every 10 minutes.

Further, whenever a window of peace and quiet happened upon me, the damn dog whimpered, demanding to be walked or fed. Worse yet, our newish hermit crabs felt compelled to seize each and every precious sliver of silence I witnessed, scuttling about like spiders, dragging their fiendish little bodies hither and yon and making my skin crawl with every scrape and scratch that emanated from that loathsome, stench-filled tank. Gak!

To top it off, I had to deal with a flooded bathroom one morning—which stemmed from owning a stupid pipe that decided to dissociate from its stupid tank—resulting in a stupid deluge that lapped at my heels until I wised up enough to throw down some stupid towels. Curious onlookers took impeccable notes of the tirade which ensued. Thankfully, no one could reach or operate the video camera.

Perhaps it’s just that I have issues with being distracted. Maybe it’s all in my silly head and I simply need to learn how to focus more effectively. Yeah. I’ll bet that’s it. Deadlines or no deadlines. Learn to focus.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (in a highly distracted state).

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April 9, 2010 · 10:43 am

Everyone is Beautiful

Dearest reader: I wrote this book review some time ago (as was the case with the Bright Side of Disaster), but this is a newish site and I thought it was only fair to Katherine Center to feature my ramblings in praise of her second novel once more. On a side note, Get Lucky, Center’s third novel, hit stores just last week!

As I type these very words, I am hopelessly mired in a grievous state of mourning. My head is hung, my drapes are drawn and the sad reality that comes with turning the last page of an engaging and truly palpable read has settled deep within my soul. I may as well drag my sorry self into a corner and sulk while I wait for Katherine Center’s third novel to be released.

That said, Everyone is Beautiful is utterly fabulous in an I-can’t-put-it-down-to-save-my-life sort of way. And as was the case with The Bright Side of Disaster, Center’s first novel, I devoured its pages multiple times, hoping to sink again and again into the tangible existence she so vividly painted.

Not surprisingly, Center’s cast of characters and the remarkable web of relationships she crafted are as colorful as they are complex. And the crux of the narrative she serves up provides a meaty and satisfying meal for those fortunate enough to partake. Her depictions of parenthood, involving poop and Play-Doh and the glorious sacrifices we make for our children each and every day, are spot-on, making the tale that much more believable. Further, she skillfully employs a series of heartwarming flashbacks, giving readers a glimpse into the past and helping us piece together the whys and wherefores of everyone’s actions—especially relevant to the logic of love, if there is such an animal.

But what I found utterly delicious about this literary gem was the fact that I could identify with much of what Lanie, the main character, felt about motherhood. About marriage. About choices. About body image. About longing to reclaim and reconnect with the self I once knew—before the onslaught of life and love and the wonderful mess said “fork-in-the-road” journey so inevitably engendered. Now and forever.

As a mother of young children, I, too, felt almost driven to throw myself into something—anything—that I alone could own and tap into as a source of sustenance and salvation. To consume that which promised to define me (in some sense) as something other than a mother, gulp after glorious gulp.

For some, the garden calls. For others, it’s the kitchen or the gym. Still others are drawn to journaling or scrapbooking or knitting. Nevertheless, all serve as nourishment for the soul. For me, it was pencil sketching, then pastels and finally, photography. Naturally, the irresistible desire to write struck at that time as well—a compulsion that is perhaps as fervent today as it was on Day One of motherhood. Looking back, I’d surmise that such diversions helped to shape me and perhaps strengthened my ability to handle all that was on my plate—which is a good thing, I think. All moms should have something that shouts, “This is me!”

Center, of course, gets that and reminds us throughout the novel of the inherent worth and meaning we possess as parents, the deluge of precious gifts we receive as a result and of the beauty contained within each and every human being.

In the end, she is right—everyone is beautiful—much like the lovely gentleman I met in the grocery store who asked if I might read aloud a Mother’s Day card for him. He wanted to be sure the words intended for his wife possessed that perfect blend of romance and undying gratitude for all that she is and has been in years past. He could have selected just any old card in that section and hoped for the best with regard to its message, but instead swallowed his pride and approached me, banking on my ability to manage fine print.

Of course, I was happy to oblige and after stumbling upon “the” card, he thanked me profusely, smiled and turned to walk away, content with the symphony of poetry and prose contained within. Indeed, a beautiful thing.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (anxious to lock myself in a closet with Center’s third and destined-for-fame novel, Get Lucky).

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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April 6, 2010 · 2:23 pm

The Bright Side of Disaster

Dearest reader: I wrote this book review some time ago…but hey, this is a relatively newish site and I thought it was only fair to Katherine Center to feature my ramblings in praise of her first novel once more. Plus, her latest, Get Lucky, hits stores today!

Confession: I am a despicable creature. Despicable in the sense that I failed to fulfill a promise to Random House—the folks who believed I could, at the very least, string a few coherent sentences together in support of Katherine Center’s first novel, The Bright Side of Disaster, within a timeframe that one would reasonably expect a one-armed Capuchin monkey to accomplish the same.

Let the flogging begin.

Needless to say, I’ve had said bookish wonder in my possession for 229 days (Gasp!) and until now have yet to utter so much as a syllable never mind an entire post regarding the worthiness of this extraordinary book.

Perhaps the monkey would have been a better bet.

Of course, I’ve been extremely busy harvesting all sorts of lame excuses to explain away my shameful behavior. The muse left me. Someone hid my thesaurus. The dog needed to be walked—some 700 times (a conservative estimate). I needed to buy some blue swirly stuff for the toilets (which I shall use one day soon). The children needed to be ferried to camp…to soccer…to dance…to swim lessons…to McDonald’s. Furthermore, 87 sidewalk chalk villages, 43 blanket forts and roughly a dozen worm cakes needed to be created.

You get the idea.

In any event, you need to buy this book. Immediately or sooner. Abandon your beloved computer this very instant, sprint to your local bookstore and demand that Center’s debut novel be placed within your hot little hands at once—lest you die not having savored this 225-page nugget of remarkableness. It is a positively scrumptious read, in every palpable, plausible and profoundly irresistible sense of the word. Indeed, I was smitten from Paragraph One till the bitter end and completely wooed for a host of reasons: I was charmed to death by its cast of characters, intrigued by the narrative’s wealth of unpredictability and awed by Center’s sheer brilliance as it relates to the telling of tales.

Perhaps more importantly, for a few delicious and utterly decadent moments solitude was mine. The harried pace and unrelenting hustle and bustle of my child-filled world faded to black as I sank deeper and deeper into the pages of this literary gem. There, in the glorious window of stillness just before my house began to stir, and in the quiet of night when day was done, I dissolved into the woodwork of life—having been transported beyond the realm of bickering matches and breakfast cereal dishes. I’d like to think I emerged as a better parent, or at least as one who is less likely to go ballistic upon discovering yet another unflushed toilet or yogurt surprise.

Truth be told, I was physically incapable of putting the silly thing down once I started, although I had to lock myself in a closet a few times in order to fend off the barrage of distractions (i.e. needy children and pets) that periodically rain down on me like a scourge. Hence, the delay in providing the blurbages here before you. Confession: I read Bright Side two sinfully indulgent times. Okay three. It was that good.

At the risk of sounding completely cliché, I felt as though I knew the fictional people that Center created. I could hear them saying whatever it was they said. I could imagine them doing the sorts of things she had them doing and by all accounts, the trip to Breastfeeding Hell she so vividly described made my toes curl. By the same token, her portrayal of the warm and wonderful kisses her knight-in-shining-armor so passionately planted made me melt. Okay, I was a puddle upon the floor. A veritable pile of mush incapable of rational thought.

Jenny, the central figure in Bright Side, was a wholesome and impossibly optimistic creature, yet at her very core a womanchild whose raw and perilous journey to the banks of motherhood made all who have ever ventured there both pity her plight and celebrate her triumphs and joys. I loved her unconditionally and wanted so desperately to whisper some advice into her ear. By contrast, Dean, that slothful, smarmy bit-of-slime that Center painted as her match-made-in-hell, made my blood boil. Like Jenny, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to light him on fire. Many times over. But of course, she made us peek through our fingers to see the good in him, the part that she fell in love with, the part that helped her picture the family unit they would ostensibly become. Later, I came to understand she had merely fallen in love with the idea of being in love. Dean was convenient, but a fucking train wreck nonetheless. Reading Chapter Five was like buying a first class ticket to that train wreck.

Then in Chapter Seven, she introduced us to Dean’s mother, that feculent and oh-so-haughty beast filled to the very brim with evil. I wanted so badly to choke her. To death. Or very near death, but perhaps not so close that she couldn’t crawl away to a far corner of the earth. Where she would rot.

And then there was Gardner. Earthy. Solid. Nurturing. Downright edible. If a movie is ever spun from this tale, Hugh Jackman must play his role—and he positively must wield a deck of playing cards and a beloved dog like Herman. Likewise, someone Mel Gibson-ish ought to be in the running for Jenny’s dad. In my less-than-professional opinion, it all makes perfect sense.

Needless to say, Center did a marvelous job letting us get to know all the colorful characters woven throughout her story. Jenny’s stylish yet sensible mother, her adoring and infinitely charming father, her thick-and-thin friend, Meredith, her sounding board, Claudia, her nemesis, Tara, the entire cast and crew of her Mommy Group, Dr. Hale, Herman, Dr. Blandon and, of course, Maxie.

Not surprisingly, I fantasize about being holed up in a forgotten corner of a bookstore, swallowed by a cozy chair and forced to read 200 pages of literary goodness like the aforementioned in one sitting. That being said, the notion of consuming something Wally Lamb-ish, curled up like a cat on my couch is unthinkable. Okay, intoxicating. I can now add Katherine Center’s material to my list of that which makes me drunk with joy. Then again, chocolate is equally redeeming.

In sum, books like Center’s are my refuge from the torrents of parenthood, an intimate retreat from my inundated-with-Legos sort of existence and a source of pure salvation not unlike becoming one with my iPod, bathing in the sweet silence of prayer and journeying to the far shores of slumber—where the din cannot follow, the day’s tensions are erased and the unruly beasts within are stilled.

Perhaps the bright side of disaster here (pun intended) is that I’ve redeemed myself somewhat in the eyes of Random House. There’s a modicum of hope anyway that they will be kind and compassionate enough to overlook my ineptitude as a blogger and zip me a copy of Center’s soon-to-be-released second novel, Everyone is Beautiful.

Hint. Hint.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (sometimes hiding from my children deep within the bowels of a closet, devouring books, of course).

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

P.S. Dear Random House Folks: For the record, you’ve already zipped me a copy of Everyone is Beautiful and I’ll likely re-post my review of that as well. Thanks again!

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March 25, 2010 · 7:00 am

Buzz, the Talented Fly

Remembering when…we were foolish enough to go house hunting with our wily brood in tow. Ugh.

My husband used to buy GAP jeans without ever trying them on. Lo and behold, they fit. His plan was simple. He’d walk up to a shelf, find his size, take them to the register and pay the lady. It’s incomprehensible, I know. Said foolishness occurred long before we were married—long before I entered the fray, insisting that he try the silly things on before he plunked down any green.

It’s not because I’m a mean and horrible troll, but because I’m a kind and caring individual who’d hate to see him potentially waste a moment of his valuable time traipsing all the way back to the store to return a perfectly good pair of pants for the express purpose of obtaining another perfectly good pair of pants—that most assuredly fit. Eventually—I argued time and again—his plan would fall apart and he’d end up having to make that trip. Ergo, it makes absolutely no sense to buy without trying. And after 11+ years of marriage, I’ve finally convinced him of the inherent wisdom of my ways. Never mind that he did just fine without me.

Not surprisingly, it’s been less difficult to get my kids to adopt a similar policy—whether we’re talking about buying britches or bunk beds. For whatever reason, they understand and have applied my logic. I think it’s because they have observed that rational people, by and large, test stuff out and make sure that it fits or that it is completely and unequivocally adored before a commitment is made. So it stands to reason that they’d view house hunting in much the same manner. Only just this once, I wish it weren’t so. I’ll bet our agent wishes so, too.

On one of many tours of properties recently, our two little tester-outers carried the try-before-you-buy theory to a level heretofore unimagined, humiliating me beyond all comprehension in the process. Granted, it’s what they do best. For a time, my husband and I were able to keep their conduct and boundless enthusiasm in check (which is all but impossible during that horrendous after-school-and-before-dinnertime decompression phase I’ve grown to know and loathe). Ultimately, however, they seized the opportunity laid before them, knowing full well we wouldn’t beat them senseless for their many and varied transgressions—at least not in front of the real estate agent.

So with wild abandon, Seek and Destroy climbed into and out of bathtubs and showers (ad infinitum!), analyzing every curve and nuance contained within. They carefully evaluated banisters and stairwells for slipperiness and sliding potential, actually putting that darling little feature to the test across glistening hardwood floors. Apparently, the allure was simply too great to resist. “Mom, why don’t WE have slippery-ific floors like these?! They’re so COOL!” Likewise, they examined cupboards and closets, pantries and porticos, poring over them for what seemed an eternity, sampling firsthand their hidey-hole worthiness. 

As if that wasn’t enough to make us completely berserk, at a few of the places we visited they went outside and actually dug in the dirt. They examined drainage pipes on all fours, poked sticks in bunny nests, swung like idiots from tree limbs, gathered an embarrassment of rocks and twigs and other assorted foolishness “…to take home because it’s special, Mom.” What’s more, they raced (ran laps actually) through pristine foyers and grand hallways as if completely possessed—appraising them throughout the process for echo potential.

Fuck yes, echo potential!

Garages were similarly assessed.

At long last, my dear progenies shifted their attention. No longer were they bent on completing their frenzied mission to devour all-things-glorious-and-impossibly-fascinating-about-this-or-that-property. Instead, they became fixated on a hapless fly. One that was half dead by the time they stumbled upon him minding his own business in an upstairs bedroom. Of course, his presence could not be ignored.

He was special, after all, and thought to possess amazing and wonderful abilities.

Carefully, they placed him inside a Kleenex and brought him to where we stood, smack in the middle of the gourmet kitchen we longed to ogle. “This is Buzz! The talented fly!” they crowed with delight, proud to introduce their winged friend to us all.

“What exactly does he do,” I had to inquire, consummate fool that I am.

“Well, he can hop and twirl and run into walls and stuff! Especially when we touch his wings!” they explained—all the while demonstrating the particularly impressive twirling motion, complete with sound effects, “Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!”

“Wanna hear him buzz?!” my heathens had the audacity to ask of our agent. “That’s why we named him, Buzz, you know!” I’m quite sure this is the point at which I became thoroughly mortified—at a total loss for words to express how sorry I was that she must tolerate the weirdness of my children. The poor woman had endured so much already and was now forced to LISTEN to a wretched fly beat his sorry wings against a tissue to amuse a couple of six-year-olds. She did just that, of course—to appease this strange, strange family on a mission to try-before-they-buy.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

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