Tag Archives: love

In Praise of Newsprint

I love newspapers. Books and magazines, too. I like the way they smell, the way they feel in my hands, the sound of pages turning and the delicious moment of folding a book’s cover back upon itself—making it forever mine. There is a special joy in creasing newspapers and glossies, too, enabling me the freedom to frame articles worthy of my time and attention. If I tried such foolishness with an iPad, the moon would likely fall from the sky in protest. Well, maybe not, but you get the idea; don’t tamper with technology as it may anger the gods.

Quite frankly, I cannot imagine a world without the aforementioned entities, despite what proponents of the digital age may opine. Computer screens and e-readers are a far cry from that which is tangible and real. In my mind, curling up with an electronic device is an offense to the sensibilities, akin to hugging a slab of flagstone or something equally devoid of life. Of course, I’d be lying if I said I never read virtual newspapers or occasionally partake of something Kindle-ish, but on the whole I find that those experiences pale in comparison to my preferred method of absorbing content (i.e. reading words—not on some manifestation of paper, but on actual paper). Call me crazy.

But beyond the obvious bit of wonderfulness that print offers the world at large, I can think of almost a dozen reasons for keeping newspapers around long after the day’s headlines have been devoured.

  • How will any decent criminal effectively craft a ransom note—one that is cleverly cobbled together using a host of unique fonts that now live on the pages of our dear dailies? Using one’s printer seems so completely uninspired.
  • How will scenes in whodunit movies involving the stowage of loot and/or weapons within the folds of one’s newspaper (or in the box itself) ever hope to be carried out? I shudder to think.
  • Horror of horrors, how will anyone carve a pumpkin or decorate an Easter egg without first blanketing the kitchen table with an embarrassment of newspaper?
  • In a similar vein, school or art projects involving a profusion of glitter, glue, paint and/or modeling clay necessitate the absorptive qualities of newsprint. There is no substitute, quite frankly. And what better way to get kids to peruse headlines? Somehow the errant drips and blots add a dimension of charm, drawing even the most reluctant of readers to the page.
  • How on earth could anyone utter the phrase, “You’ll eat those words!” with a modicum of believability unless one could actually wad up a scrap of paper containing said words and literally consume them? I fear such a phrase will be lost forever from the annals of speech.
  • No matter how hard I try, I cannot wrap my mind around a world without paper mache. Such a tragedy would likely produce generations of children compelled to mummify ripened fruit and unsuspecting pets with lasagna noodles dipped in a vat of paste. And could anyone blame them? I think not.
  • Perhaps even more dreadful, would be to endure childhood without the joy derived from pressing a fistful of Silly Putty upon the inky genius of fresh newsprint culled from the comics. It pains me to even entertain such a notion.
  • Furthermore, what about the legions of children who have yet to experience the thrill of crafting a pointy hat or a seaworthy vessel from the sports section?
  • Need I even mention the sense of panic I feel when I consider the impossibility of enshrouding my Christmas ornaments (and virtually every other fragile thing I own) within newsprint’s protective embrace? And how will I be able to reminisce without the yellowed pages before me? Tissue paper is so entirely pedestrian by comparison.
  • And lastly, what kind of sorry place would this be without witnessing our cats shredding newspapers and/or climbing into our laps while we’re trying desperately to read? A sorry place, indeed.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (probably reading something printed on paper). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2013 Melinda L. Wentzel

Advertisements

Comments Off on In Praise of Newsprint

Filed under Bookish Stuff, Gratitude, The Write Stuff

Happy Camper

The kids are away at camp this week, which might explain the glorious silence in our home. The week BEFORE camp, however, qualified as pandemonium. There were monumental outbursts over the issue of procrastination and epic battles over the sovereignty of the laundry room. We argued about what to pack and when we should leave, about the practicality of making a detailed list of what to bring and about the fruitless nature of stressing about the weather. At one point, bug spray was the subject of heated debate. I wish I were kidding.

Sadly, the contention didn’t end there. Once we arrived at camp, there were conflicts over whether or not I would be permitted to help make a certain someone’s bed. I was not. I was also chided about the helpful suggestions I offered regarding unpacking and the logical placement of a bath towel. What’s more, I mentioned there was no soap in the bathroom and hinted that that might be something to look into in the near future. And with that, I quickly realized I had made a grave error in judgment, overstepping my boundaries as a parent yet again.

However, that didn’t stop me from attempting to micromanage practically every move my kids made upon arrival at their respective camps. In that particular capacity, I’m an overachiever after all. So it nearly killed me to watch from afar as my daughter dumped the entirety of her bag into a single drawer, without so much as the veneer of order or reason. At one point, I had to physically restrain myself from intervening. I wanted so badly to put the socks and underwear in a drawer separate from the rest of her clothing. Of course, my husband coached me from the sidelines, reminding me to keep my head.

My mom probably did the same, cringing as I attempted to “adult” for weeks on end. However, it’s likely she delivered mountains of advice about packing rain gear, sunscreen and anything else that might be deemed practical hundreds of miles from home. It’s also likely that I dismissed said advice, preferring instead to own my decisions—both good and bad. Needless to say, I’m extraordinarily grateful that she refrained from saying I TOLD YOU SO with regard to packing Fels-Naptha soap after I ended up at the infirmary one summer with a horrible case of poison ivy. I’m guessing that life will teach my kids in a similar manner this week, although I hope none of the lessons involve insufferable rashes.

As for me, it’s already apparent that I’ve learned some lessons of my own. For starters, I’ve recognized that my progenies can get along quite well without my constant meddling. They even remember to breathe on their own and tie their shoes on occasion. I’ve also learned to trust that they’ll make good decisions in my absence, which is tough, but I’ve persevered. And despite being drunk with joy over the solitude I’ve enjoyed these past several days, I’ve discovered that I miss my kids terribly—almost incomprehensibly so. I know it sounds strange, but I long for the constant noise that is part and parcel of living with teenagers—especially teenagers immersed in music. For entirely too long, this space has been devoid of the sounds I had grown accustomed to hearing almost daily. More specifically, the ones that routinely emanate from their beloved instruments—the French horn and mellophone, the ukulele and piano. Even worse, no one here has been singing in the shower. I even miss the bickering and teen angst—a little.

Most of all, I miss our conversations and being included in their special brand of humor. I was reminded of that just the other night when I opened my drawer to find a life-sized, plastic lizard wedged in with my underwear—a hideous toy that was placed there specifically to scare the bejesus out of me. It worked. I suppose I deserved it since I had hidden the very same lizard in my daughter’s bedroom weeks ago—and before that, in the shower. It only made sense for her to retaliate.

Evidently, she wanted to be sure I wouldn’t forget her while she was away at camp.

Not a chance.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, missing my kids. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

Comments Off on Happy Camper

Filed under Endless Summer, Family Affair, Gratitude, Growing Pains, In the Trenches of Parentville

So Long, Farewell

I heard the trucks rumbling in the street this morning, groaning to a halt as I peeked through the blinds to see. The movers were here, preparing to load the wares of two families in my neighborhood who are off to faraway places—one to the Delaware shoreline and the other to the mountains of Colorado. To say that they will be missed is an understatement. They were the salt of the earth type of people, always there when we needed them, whether it was in the form of kind words or kind actions. And their kids, OH MY, their kids were absolute gems. They, too, will leave an impossible-to-fill void.

Now that these particular families are starting a new chapter in their lives after living here for decades, I’m reminded of the importance of not taking good neighbors for granted. And although we’re surrounded by other terrific neighbors and I’m sure we’ll welcome with open arms the new families who will move in, the neighborhood will never be the same without the people who forged such lasting relationships with us. Lord knows, the experiences we’ve shared cannot possibly be replicated—especially those we’ve had with the family whose back lawn merged seamlessly with ours.

Who else could tolerate our errant Frisbees…or help conduct important research on the mysterious appearance of a blue thong in one’s hot tub while away on vacation…or lend a hand by installing an ungodly number of outdoor lights on an unbearably hot summer day…or offer to clear the snow in our driveway because our snowblower was on the fritz…or loan us a hand truck/dolly so that we might spare ourselves the agony of lugging heavy furniture, etc. from Point A to Point B? What’s more, WHO WILL I LIST AS AN EMERGENCY CONTACT ON THE SCHOOL FORMS THAT WILL ARRIVE IN SEPTEMBER? Beth and Shaun have always been the ones I trust with my children—and my dog, for that matter. WHO WILL TAKE MY DOG OUT WHEN I’M STUCK IN TRAFFIC MILES AWAY FROM HOME? Better still, who will tolerate his quirky behavior (i.e. spinning around in circles roughly 47 times before he poops)?

And although I’ve tried, I can’t begin to quantify the number of memorable get-togethers we’ve had over the years. The clambakes, New Year’s Eve parties, fireworks, picnics, nights spent by the firepit, or just sitting around our kitchen tables sharing the remains of the day have been virtually incalculable, and more importantly, cathartic—particularly the gatherings that have included an embarrassment of wine or collectively hoisting a 24-foot ladder up to a rooftop during a raging thunderstorm in the middle of the night to discover why there was a leak. Those were good times I won’t soon forget.

Needless to say, our kids grew up together right before our eyes, spending quality time playing in sandboxes and on swing sets, dribbling on our basketball court and learning to swim in their pool, pitching tents in the backyard, together welcoming new pets and mourning the losses of old ones. And let us not forget the exciting sled rides down our icy driveway in the thick of winter or the holiday lawn-decorating contests for which Clark Griswold (i.e. Shaun) lived.

There was something comforting about seeing their windows all lit at night while I walked the dog, the yellow squares spilling their light onto the lawn and into the inky black woods. Occasionally, I’d catch a glimpse of the people inside clearing the dishes from the dinner table—people I cared about, never once imagining they wouldn’t be there, occupying that space. I can’t even estimate the number of times I admired the trumpeting angel they had on display above the landing of their staircase. It could easily be viewed through the gaping front window and seemed to welcome all who had come to call—suiting their family perfectly.

The moving trucks are gone now, and the windows dark. Of course, we wish them well in their new homes, grateful that fate allowed our lives to have intersected so meaningfully.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, lamenting our friends’ faraway moves… Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

Comments Off on So Long, Farewell

Filed under Gratitude, Love and Loss, Won't You Be My Neighbor

Ten Ways to Say Thank You, Dad

Remembering the first man I ever loved… Miss you, Dad…

Fathers come in all shapes and sizes, temperaments and talents. On the whole, I’d daresay they are a thankless lot—often underappreciated, largely misunderstood—an entire populace of men rarely acknowledged for the many and varied ways in which they contribute as parents. Mothers, deservedly or not, garner the lion’s share of recognition when it comes to the important business of raising a family. But Father’s Day, with its prominently marketed golf wares, grilling must-haves and sea of manly fragrances, forces us to shift our collective sentiment and pay homage to dear, old Dad.

And as I wander the aisles in search of the perfect greeting card for my father—one that I believe captures the essence of our relationship, keys on our shared allegiance to witticism and adequately gives thanks for the sacrifices he’s made and the wisdom he’s imparted, I find myself settling for that which falls disappointingly short. Hallmark, it seems, hasn’t stumbled upon the right assemblage of words just yet. Somehow their writers have missed the mark, along with all the other clever wordsmiths who’ve failed to deliver the sort of message my father needs to receive—the one that perhaps all fathers need to receive. So thank you, Dad, for so many things…

…for encouraging me to forge my own path instead of assuming that the paths of others would necessarily be right for me…for letting me climb to the tops of trees and to skateboard with wild abandon…for ferrying me to the ER when necessary.

…for teaching me how to throw a fastball, wield a mean golf club and sink a jump shot on command…for being my biggest advocate (even still) and for believing in me even before I believed in myself.

…for being oh-so-generous with your time…for listening intently to my wishes and worries…for considering me a worthy companion as we jogged over the back roads of town, watched doubleheaders into the wee hours and sat in scratchy lawn chairs together, completely mesmerized by the thunderstorms that rolled across the skies in the midst of July’s unbearable heat, summer after endless summer.

…for letting me date boys with mustaches and muscle cars…for traipsing around the kitchen in your underwear late at night, when said boys needed reminding that it was time to go home (an infinitely mortifying experience then, but absolutely hilarious now)…for walking me down the aisle—twice—and never once saying I told you so.

…for introducing me to the concept of balancing a checkbook, as well as finding balance in my life…for teaching me to accept failure when it comes to call and to learn from my missteps…to appreciate having grandparents, a roof overhead and acres of woods all around.

…for tolerating my teenage years (Oy!), for trusting me with your beloved cars even though the voices inside your head must have screamed, “Noooo!” and for resisting the overwhelming desire to share with my High School Yearbook Committee that hideous photo of me with the mumps. For that alone, I love you dearly.

…for navigating so many road trips—to distant airports, to a good number of college campuses I considered calling home, to my very first job interview in the city. Never mind that we got horribly lost in the process; but getting a glimpse of the White House at rush hour surely was grand.

…for inspiring me to be a responsible individual, to work hard and to strive to do good in this world…for illustrating the power of forgiveness, the refuge of one’s church and the necessary nature of grieving our losses…for reminding me that things usually work out in the end—even when they look entirely hopeless at the start.

…for underscoring the importance of finding time for one’s children, time for one’s marriage and time for oneself…for helping me recognize the inherent value of ice cream sundaes, the versatility of duct tape and the irreplaceable nature of a good friend.

…for loving your grandchildren with as much ferocity as you loved me, for implanting within me the seeds of faith and for showing me the beauty of marrying one’s best friend.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (giving thanks for my dad). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2011 Melinda L. Wentzel

Comments Off on Ten Ways to Say Thank You, Dad

Filed under Gratitude, Love and Loss

Big Brother

I have a confession to make. I stalk my children. I stalk my husband, too. I don’t know why I do it, actually. It’s a sickness, I guess—an unhealthy obsession with knowing exactly where my loved ones are at practically every moment of every day. Thanks to the fine people at Apple and my friend, Drew, some time ago I downloaded the Find My Friends app on my iPhone and immediately began tracking the whereabouts of the aforementioned people.

The trouble is, they’re not particularly fond of it. Translation: They despise it.

“Mom, quit stalking us. It’s creepy.”

Creepy or not, however, apparently I get some peace of mind out of knowing what my kids are up to 24/7. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it. The same goes for my husband, except that it’s more about convenience to know where he is at a given time. That way, for instance, I can “see” that he’s in the grocery store and know that it makes perfect sense to call him and tell him that we’re out of Cheetos. I don’t like to be out of Cheetos, ergo I feel compelled to inform him of such a dire situation.

The conversation goes something like this:

Me: “What aisle are you in? We need Cheetos.”

My husband: “What? How’d you know I’m in a store? Oh, that’s right; you have that blasted thing on your phone and you’re watching me like Big Brother. Remind me to SHUT IT OFF so you can’t monitor my every move.”

Me: “Wait. What? No. I like being able to see where you are, then I can call and give you helpful information that you might need—like the fact that WE’RE OUT OF CHEETOS. How would you know otherwise? You’re welcome.”

The conversations we have while he’s in the liquor store are strikingly similar except that they usually involve a dwindling supply of wine.

At any rate, I find the app to be remarkable in that I can even tell in which part of a particular building my kids happen to be situated at any given moment. Rest assured, if they’re supposed to be in chemistry class and they’re in chemistry class, my heart is happy.

Me: “So I noticed you went to Denny’s during the break between finals today. Was it fun? What did you order?”

Child: “Mom, that absolutely weirds me out. Why do you do that? It’s just not normal.”

Me: “I don’t know. I guess I like to see what you’re doing throughout your day and it gives me more stuff to talk about with you.”

Child: “Why not just ask me where I went and I’ll tell you?”

Me: “Yeah, but isn’t it more impressive that I already know where you went and we can skip ahead to other parts of the discussion?”

Child: “No. Not really. It’s just creepy and you should stop doing it.”

Unfortunately, I can’t stop doing it. At this late stage in the game, I have become hopelessly addicted to tracking my people and there is no turning back. There is something strangely comforting about looking at that tiny screen and seeing those familiar icons pop up, reassuring me that the people I care about are where they’re supposed to be—even if they’re worlds away for weeks at a time.

In an instant, I can gather a wealth of information—like which door to pick up someone at school and whether or not my progenies are still on the marching band bus, coming home from a late night competition or football game. Almost instantaneously, I can verify that all is right in my little corner of the world.

Strangely enough, looking at the map and those smiling faces within the teensy, tiny circles on my phone warms my heart—no matter how far apart they happen to be. It’s like holding my family in real time in the palm of my hand.

Of course, they would likely beg to differ, suggesting that they’re all under my thumb. Literally.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably poring over my Find My Friends app. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

Comments Off on Big Brother

Filed under Family Affair, Love and Other Drugs, Techno Tripe, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Motherhood Anew

When I first became a mother, it felt as though time stood still, my days and nights never-ending, woven together into an unfamiliar tapestry that defined my upended world. I remember thinking the infant stage would endure forever and that I would surely be driven mad in the process. Sleep was a commodity I craved with fervor beyond all imagining, as were hot showers without the constant worry of being responsible for a tiny human 24/7.

My mother, of course, assured me that the sleepless nights, inconsolable crying and umbilical cord awfulness would eventually abate. Things would get better and my life could be reclaimed to a degree. A new normal would emerge in due time, largely contingent upon my child developing some level of independence. Turns out, she was right.

Granted, as my oldest daughter grew, my days were still filled to capacity and mostly blurred at the edges, although at the core they were remarkable and good, making me grateful to be a mother. Again and again this happened as another child joined the fold and I reminded myself that the inaugural stages only felt like a train wreck. I would muddle through, somehow. Motherhood would not consume me.

Eventually there would be sand castles and building blocks, baby dolls and baking cookies, blanket forts and, of course, endless summers in pursuit of the yellow-green flashes of fireflies. Days would be spent creating entire villages with sidewalk chalk and devouring favorite books together nestled on the couch—hours of being present with my children, moments that I now struggle to remember in perfect detail. If I sift through old photos and squint hard, however, I can often return to what was—tethered to a time and place when I was a different kind of mother.

At the time, I never imagined longing for those things, assuming they’d always be there—the books, the sandbox, the fireflies and so on. I hadn’t considered that a day would come when my children no longer crawled into my lap for a story or begged me to build a teetering tower with blocks or allowed me to rock them to sleep. Back then it almost seemed a bit inconvenient, having to stop what I was doing and be present with my daughters, never mindful that eventually there would be “a last time” for engaging with them in that way.

I often wonder which book was the last to be read aloud. I have no way of knowing, but I suspect it happened at the bus stop, a place where we turned hundreds of pages together as we sat on the curb waiting for the school bus to groan to a halt. And when did we last chase fireflies, our bare feet skimming the cool grass at dusk, mayonnaise jars in hand? I can’t reliably recall, although it might have been the same year I helped them climb trees or build a snow fort in the backyard.

By design I suppose, childhood has a season—an indeterminate yet finite number of days we get to watch our progenies move through the stages of development. If we’re lucky, we remember to etch upon our minds the moments of pure perfection immersed within the tumult, when time is suspended and we can drink in the joy we happen to experience. So many ordinary moments as a parent wind up being extraordinary because we remembered to actually live them—to savor the goodness in the midst of madness.

If nothing else, this is the advice I’d like to impart to my children—especially to my oldest, who just became a mother. And although she struggles to get enough sleep and spends far too much time doubting herself, I know she feels a wealth of gratitude and has embraced the concept of unconditional love, as has everyone who has ever nurtured something.

Needless to say, I am beyond grateful that I’ll get to relive so many of the moments that make motherhood special—even if I’m called Grandma.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, revisiting motherhood as a newly minted grandmother. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

Comments Off on Motherhood Anew

Filed under "N" is for Nostalgia, Gratitude, Leaving the Nest, motherhood

Filling the Void with Remembrances

He had the softest ears of any dog I’ve ever known. That said, I almost never passed up an opportunity to caress them. Nor could I deny how I loved snuggling with him on the couch, his box-like body curled up and wedged next to mine—safe and warm. No matter what the day had thrown at me, I knew I could always count on him to erase the tension and to reconnect me with the here and now, almost the instant I stroked his fur and scratched behind his ears.

He had a penchant for chasing crows, for stovetop popcorn and for following me from room to room as if we were tethered together, a girl and her dog. I swear I can still hear his toenails clicking on the tile floor behind me, never mind the jangle of his collar every time he shook his head or sneezed—which he was inclined to do whenever he was happy. Of that, I am sure.

His name was Jasper and he was the most wonderful rescue pet anyone could ask for—the epitome of a “good dog.” But we lost him—three days after Christmas, no less, his aged body too tired to continue another day. Like so many dogs, he left us bit by bit as he declined over a period of months—his daily jaunts around the block becoming slower and shorter, eventually ending altogether when we had to carry him to the backyard. We tried hand feeding him to keep up his strength, to no avail. We covered him with a blanket and kept a vigil where he lay on the couch to give him some measure of comfort. We put him between us in our bed on his last night on this earth, to let him know he was loved—unconditionally.

Although it’s been almost five months now, I can’t seem to accept the fact that he’s gone. His ashes and plaster paw print came home from the vet’s shortly after his death. But I still listen for his rhythmic breathing in the quiet of night. I stare at his bed, now empty, yet lined with traces of black fur—an unwelcome reminder of what was. Against all logic and understanding, I can’t bear to remove his food dish from the kitchen. Not yet anyway. What’s more, there isn’t a room in the house where he didn’t have a favorite spot to lie, and that’s exactly where my eyes fall the minute I step through each doorway. I can’t help but visualize him in those places, his head resting comfortably on his paws, his caramel-colored eyes watching me with hopeful expectation, since there was always the possibility I’d suggest that we go for a walk and chase the godawful crows together. Heaven knows he wouldn’t want to miss a signal.

Strangely enough, I miss tripping over him. Well, maybe not so much, since that was beyond exasperating—especially in the kitchen when I cooked his meals—scrambled eggs, ground beef and rice. Truth be told, what I miss the most is kneeling down on the floor to hug him—gently wrapping my arms around his warm frame and placing my head against his, something the people at the SPCA taught me how to do appropriately. Who knew there was a proper way to hug a dog? At any rate, I followed their advice and it seemed to engender a remarkable sense of calm—in both of us. Sadly, hugging my tiny, yappy dog in a similar manner doesn’t produce the same result. Maybe it’s because he’s not as tolerant of my foolishness. Maybe it’s because he’s incredibly small. Maybe hugs just aren’t his thing.

One thing I know for sure is that he misses his forever friend, too. There are days he pads around the house in search of him, wondering why he’s no longer here to toss favorite toys in the air and growl at each other—just for fun. Other days he just seems sad—something with which I am all too familiar.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (missing my dog). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

Comments Off on Filling the Void with Remembrances

Filed under Doggie Diamonds, Gratitude, Love and Loss