mom, interrupted

Still smiling, 50 years later 

The big day in 1960

Some events are so big, so noteworthy that they deserve not only a blog post but a column to commemorate the occasion.  I am speaking, of course, of the major milestone reached by my parents this month - 50 years of marriage.

So here's the column I wrote in honor of their Golden Anniversary:

It’s June and that means brides everywhere are recovering from herniated discs from schlepping around bridal magazines that have the same gross weight as a Ford Fusion.  They offer advice on every facet of your special day, even if it requires selling a kidney or two and channeling your inner-bridezilla to get it.  While they do guide you through every detail to design the perfect setting for exchanging your I Dos, these publications noticeably lack information on that Happily Ever After part, which is infinitely more challenging than deciding between Amazon Roses or Calla Lilies.

I’m curious about what it takes to make it to that Till Death Do Us Part finish line.  After marking twenty-two years of wedded bliss this month, I can offer this pearl of matrimonial wisdom: moving up the death part is not a good option even though some nights at 3 a.m. I’ve entertained the thought.  While it’s true that 99.9% of the time, The Husband is an all-round great guy and my true soulmate. But when he snores, I want to kill him. 

So for guidance I looked to my very own parents who will reach a major milestone this week – 50 years of marriage.  But since less than 5% of couples will reach this landmark, I thought my folks might be the best source of information on the subject. 

I decided to take this on as a little research project, to observe just what it takes to be able to spend a half-century together.  Would the answer be eHarmony-like personality traits, shared interests or a sense of humor? Would it boil down to never forgetting a birthday or anniversary?  Was it the liberal use of those two little words, “I’m sorry,” that are often so very hard to say?

On their most recent visit; I observed my parents with the objective detachment of a laboratory scientist.  I watched how they interacted.  I listened to their conversations.  In one week of surreptitious surveillance, I determined the key to their lifetime together could indeed be boiled down to two words: hearing loss.

My dad’s been partially deaf since his Army days. Although he’s always had hearing aids, he found them annoying and turned them off most of the time.  And now, as the parent of a teenager, I completely understand why Dad abandoned them altogether when I entered adolescence.  So in fifty years, he’s been blissfully unaware of most of what Mom has ever said.

But now that Mom is a little hard of hearing too, their exchanges have gone to a bizarre new level.  And it’s pretty clear to even the most casual observer that the conversations they think they are having are substantially more interesting than the ones that are taking place in reality. 

They discussed food and sports: Mom: Can you believe that call by those referees?  Dad: Yes, I’d love some cheese.  They spoke of movies and the drive home.  Dad: What did you think of that documentary on the Alamo?  Mom: You’re right, that traffic was really stop-and-go.  And then I heard the conversation that really put everything into perspective for me:  Dad (laughing): What would you think if I got a tattoo?  Mom (getting up to give him a peck on the cheek): Oh honey, I love you too. 

Which, of course, really says it all.

Mom and Dad have helped me understand their secret to marital longevity.  And thanks to them, I think I’ve discovered the two words that will help me make it to the fifty year mark with The Husband:  ear plugs. 

*On my recent visit home, Mom shared yet another one of their bizarre conversations with me.  My dad said, "I can't believe Denise will be 50 this year."  Mom apparently yelled, arguably so he could hear her, "It wasn't a shotgun wedding, Ronnie!" (and I didn't observe any firearms - or baby bump for that matter - in the wedding pictures).  And Mom is correct, I'll be 49.

I am learning that reconstructing your computer life after a serious crash is a lot more work than I imagined. 

Moral of the story, kids, back up your computer.  Really.

Now that my computer is back, I can return to all manner of er, um research.  Today I stumbled across this on CNN.com and honestly didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  It might be one of THE most bizarre things I've ever read or seen (as is evidenced in the video).  And if it wasn't on CNN, I would have assumed it was just some CG created film.  But I really don't think so.

This is a story from Indonesia about a smoking toddler.  You read that right.  This is a story about a toddler who smokes around 40 cigarettes per day.

No, I'm not kidding.  See for yourself.

I couldn't embed the CNN video, but be sure to watch the video on that link too.  The exasperated mother, through a translator, says she just doesn't know how she's going to help him quit.

I'm no child rearing expert but I've got a little suggestion.  Considering the average 2-year-old is about 34 inches tall, putting his cigs on the top shelf should solve the problem.  While it might piss him off, I'm just guessing he'll be down to the few he finds on the floor in no time. 

This has been an extremely crappy week regarding all things technology.

Logging into my computer, I noticed my background was different.  Then a pop-up announces - "Welcome to your new Dell!"

Beg pardon?

My computer thinks it is new.  I'm confused.  Apparently, so was my computer.

I ignore all this and head straight into my documents to get started on a draft column I've been writing.  Except my computer says This Folder Is Empty.

Excuse me?  This is not possible, I was working on it yesterday.  I have hundreds of documents.

Now curious, and ever-so slightly panicked, I click on Pictures. The computer says this folder is equally empty.

This is not good.   

Music? Gone.  Videos? Gone.  iTunes? Kaput. QuickBooks? Vanished.

Time to reboot, the computer's gone crazy.

After rebooting, which usually makes everything alright, I get a "Welcome To Your New Dell!" screen again.

It may not have been the Blue Screen of Death that I experienced when my laptop died a slow and painful death, but it was pretty close. 

Restore point! I'll go back in time and create my restore point to yesterday when I knew it worked.

Fail.  It won't let me.

My computer is possessed. 

I am not a happy camper.

Fortunately, I have everything backed up on my external hard drive.  Or at least I think I do.  But now that's a little wiggy too. 

Damn.

I am not a computer savvy person.  Everything computer related is by the seat of my pants and if I hit enough buttons I can make it work.  So I click on the C drive and notice it has the same amount of memory space used as usual, even though so much appears to be missing.  After clicking on lots of folders within that, I locate documents, pictures, music - miraculously - in a strange User folder.  I have no idea how I found it.  But it's there.  So I painstakingly save each and every individual document and picture folder as well as music.  It takes me the better part of the day but have to at least try before the Blue Screen of Death really does show up.

My poor computer is at the doctor now, hopefully getting debugged from all manner of Ebola-like infections. 

This isn't going to be cheap, I fear.

Then there's the other techno issue that I'm really cheesed about:  Older Boy's iPod touch went missing in the school locker room after track practice where he left it sitting on the bench.  In the twelve minutes it took for him to realize he'd left it and for me to drive back to school, it had vanished. I assumed it was picked up by a coach or a friend to give back to him.

Didn't happen.

To whomever took it: I hope you get a very itchy, oozing, leprosy-like, dermatological condition that causes severe disfigurement.  I also hope is not covered by insurance and it will take you years, if ever, to get over.  Don't forget about the laws of karma while you are listening to my kid's iPod.  You have just set in motion some very, very bad juju for yourself.  I hope you get everything that's coming to you which I personally hope includes jail time.  I used to be a prosecutor, my friend, so I'm big on jail time for those who steal other people's stuff.  And like Tom Petty, I Won't Back Down.  Oh yeah, good luck with that leprosy. 

Today is that special day to honor women who are livin’ in the ‘hood.  Motherhood, that is.  And for those of you who plan to pay tribute to a special mother you should know this: if you haven’t been shopping yet all the good Mother’s Day cards are gone.  But if the founder of this holiday, Anna Jarvis, had her way, we’d all be sitting down with a quill, ink and parchment to pen our ode to mother because a pre-printed ditty means you’re just too lazy to show the love.

Lighten up Annie, it’s the thought that counts.

I found it odd that the first official Mother’s Day was celebrated in 1914.  This is true despite the fact that women have been having babies since, well, the beginning of time.  It took that long for someone to say “I really should do something to acknowledge the woman who carried me around for nine months, endured twenty-seven hours of labor, changed my stinky diapers, chauffeured me to soccer practice and raffled off a kidney to pay for my dream wedding. What can I possibly do to express my profound love to the woman who has given everything to me? I know, I’ll give her a three dollar card from Hallmark.”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

If you look at what a mom is really worth, you might reconsider that meager token of love.  According to salary.com, a stay-at-home mom would receive $122,732 a year for all the duties she performs which includes being the Domestic CEO, housekeeper, chef, van driver, and psychologist.  I don’t know about you, but in fourteen years I’ve never seen a dime.  Clearly we’re not in it for the money.  Because I’ve got a collection of hand prints with glitter, macaroni glued in the shape of hearts and crayon declarations of love that are worth more to me than any paycheck.  And that’s just fine because glued and glittered love tokens are priceless.

Until I became a mom, I had no idea what my mother went through.  The waiting started when she was pregnant and I was three weeks late. The waiting, as I’ve learned, never stops except you add worrying to the equation. She waited and worried when I got the Hong Kong Flu in 1968.  She waited (and waited) while I took piano lessons and went to softball practice. Once I started driving, she waited up (and worried) when I was out too late at a Fleetwood Mac concert.  She waited (and waited,  but did not worry) when I had to try on every Gunne Sax dress in the store.  Twice.  She did not sell her spleen to finance my nuptials.  But I pretty sure if I’d wanted a Cinderella-style gown, a horse drawn carriage and a pair of size nine glass slippers, she would have.  Because that’s just what mothers do.

Mom, I get it now.

So to all women in the sorority of motherhood, whether you had natural child birth, an epidural, a c-section or boarded a long-haul flight to bring your baby home, you totally rock.  You give it up unselfishly for those young ‘uns every day (don’t worry daddies, you do too, but your day’s in June).  Today is your day, moms.  Enjoy it.

And I’m not worried if all the good cards are gone when I go shopping for my mom. Because I’m pretty sure a Thank You card really says it all.