It's interesting how using up the last of the vinegar and throwing the bottle away could hurt so much, but it does.
I was cleaning up Dad's kitchen today, and the sinks were smelly. I poured an old box of baking soda down the drain and then looked in the cabinet for some vinegar to flush it with. There was a new bottle of cider vinegar in the front of the cabinet that had not yet been opened, and a partially used bottle farther back. I thought I'd just use up the bottle already opened, so I took it out. It was a bit murky, much more that I expected. I wondered with a chuckle how long it had been in there and looked for an expiration date. I found one.
It said, "Use before September 2005." That stopped me cold because in all probability, my mom had purchased this bottle of vinegar.
I stood in front of the sink for awhile debating what to do. Do I use this up and throw it in the recycling? MOM bought this. MOM used this. MOM held this very bottle in her hands. Was I going to keep a fermenting bottle of vinegar at my house? Probably not. If I did, where would I keep it? For how long? Somebody has to throw it away. If I don't get rid of it, Dad might use it on accident. It could make him sick. Mom bought this vinegar. Mom at Melton's, pushing the cart down the aisle, took this bottle off the shelf and paid for it and brought it home. Mom.
After a few minutes, sanity prevailed, and I poured the remaining vinegar down the drain and took the bottle out to the recycling. I had to do it fast though so I couldn't change my mind.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Snapshot: Emily
I saw her standing in the backyard under the maple tree looking up, intently scanning for something I couldn't see. She was wearing the National Guard ball cap her dad had given her on Saturday at Thunder. It's too big, so it doesn't sit well on her head, and her short blond hair was sticking out willy-nilly from under it. Her shorts and tee shirt were dirty, and her feet were asphalt black from going around with no shoes on.
I watched her through the kitchen window for a bit. She stood still, poised to spring, gazing intently at the sky.
Curious, I went to the back door and asked, "Emily, honey, what are you doing out there?"
She looked over at me with a big grin on her face and replied with the joy of a seven year old in spring, "I'm catching helicopters!"
My beautiful girl.
I watched her through the kitchen window for a bit. She stood still, poised to spring, gazing intently at the sky.
Curious, I went to the back door and asked, "Emily, honey, what are you doing out there?"
She looked over at me with a big grin on her face and replied with the joy of a seven year old in spring, "I'm catching helicopters!"
My beautiful girl.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friends and Clean Houses
I worry about what my kids' friends think of our house. Keeping it clean is not on the top of my priority list most days, and so I am not as good as I should be when it comes to letting them have friends over. What will they think about Mrs. Hilbrecht? What will their parents think after they have dropped off/picked up their kids?
"That Sharron Hilbrecht...she's nice enough, but man, she keeps a lousy house!"
I know I shouldn't obsess about it, but I do. I didn't care what my friends' houses looked like when I was a kid. Everybody's families had different standards, and we all just accepted what was what.
My two best friends, Susan and Jill, for example, had wildly different houses, and it didn't matter a single bit to our friendships. Susan's house was built in the 50s during the baby boom. It was your typical 3 bedroom ranch with a living room, kitchen, and while I only remember one bathroom, there must have been more, because she was one of 5 girls, and I can't imagine 5 girls and one bathroom.
Susan's dad had died when she was little. She and I became best friends by the time we were five, and he does not exist in my memory, so he must have passed away before then. Her mom worked in the cafeteria in our school, and her four older sisters mostly told us what to do. Her house was always busy with sisters and friends. I remember the kitchen table piled high with homework, laundry, groceries, whatever. The counter may or may not have had dishes on it depending on the time of day, but they didn't have a dishwasher (her mom said she had five built-in dishwashers already, so why did she need to buy one?), so there were usually dishes in the sink either waiting to be washed or waiting to be put away.
The one car garage was detatched, and sometimes held their station wagon, and sometimes not depending on the amount of stuff being stored in it. There was a deck off the back, and we used to hang out on it with her sisters, if they were in a tolerant mood. Otherwise, we'd head to the basement to watch tv.
Susan shared a room with her sister, and I don't remember it being especially decorated or clean. We'd go in and plop on her bed and listen to records, do homework, or both. Her house was a second home to me, and I loved going there.
Jill's house, on the other hand, was built in the late 70s. Her parents had moved out of a teeny tiny slab house when we were early in our grade school years, and into this brand new tri-level, three bedroom, two bath, beauty. It had a living room, dining room, kitchen, family room, and two baths. It was always spotless. Jill's dad worked at Ford, and her mom was a nurse. They had eloped, eloped, when they were eighteen, and then had her brother and her. They were so young in my mind, maybe in their late 20s, maybe 30, and so hip compared to my other friends' parents. Their truck and her mom's car were always parked in the two car garage along with bikes, tools, and sports equipment all organized neatly to create enough room for everything.
We had to take our shoes off when we went into Jill's house, and mostly had to try and walk on the plastic carpet runners throughout her house. Her living room was free of furniture for the first few years, and we liked to do gymnastics in there whenever we could. The family room had the coolest phone. It was one of those from the bicentennial that was like the old fashioned kind where you speak into the base and hold the ear piece to your head to hear. It was red, white, and blue, and just so magnificent. I wanted a phone like that and tried to call home every time I went to Jill's just so I could use it.
It was at Jill's house that I met my first microwave. We heated water in it to make hot chocolate. To make it go, you had to turn the dial past "2 minutes" and then back to whatever time you needed. It was loud, and I remember being afraid that it would do something to the water that would cause cancer or something later. We put popcorn in a paper bag and popped it in the microwave, being careful to turn down the opening just right so the popcorn wouldn't spill out into the microwave. It wasn't great, but it was novel and new, and made me think Jill's mom and dad just had it going on.
Jill had her own bedroom with a brass bed and pretty furniture. We couldn't play in it, but we could sit quietly on the bed, and sometimes we were allowed a game of Connect 4. There was wall-to-wall carpet on the floor and those plastic runners. At the time, I shared a room with my sister, and I was so jealous of Jill's room that I could spit.
Susan and Jill were my best friends for the entire 8 years of grade school. We did everything together. We had different rules, different family situations, different houses, and that was never a problem. It just was. I loved going to both of their houses and hanging out with them and making excellent memories wherever we were.
I am going to try to keep that in mind the next time one of the kids wants a friend over and the house is trashed. They are really not coming over to check out my housekeeping skills. They are coming to play with my children and make their own memories.
p.s. Jill and Susan, I love you both! We need a Charlie's Angels reunion real soon...
"That Sharron Hilbrecht...she's nice enough, but man, she keeps a lousy house!"
I know I shouldn't obsess about it, but I do. I didn't care what my friends' houses looked like when I was a kid. Everybody's families had different standards, and we all just accepted what was what.
My two best friends, Susan and Jill, for example, had wildly different houses, and it didn't matter a single bit to our friendships. Susan's house was built in the 50s during the baby boom. It was your typical 3 bedroom ranch with a living room, kitchen, and while I only remember one bathroom, there must have been more, because she was one of 5 girls, and I can't imagine 5 girls and one bathroom.
Susan's dad had died when she was little. She and I became best friends by the time we were five, and he does not exist in my memory, so he must have passed away before then. Her mom worked in the cafeteria in our school, and her four older sisters mostly told us what to do. Her house was always busy with sisters and friends. I remember the kitchen table piled high with homework, laundry, groceries, whatever. The counter may or may not have had dishes on it depending on the time of day, but they didn't have a dishwasher (her mom said she had five built-in dishwashers already, so why did she need to buy one?), so there were usually dishes in the sink either waiting to be washed or waiting to be put away.
The one car garage was detatched, and sometimes held their station wagon, and sometimes not depending on the amount of stuff being stored in it. There was a deck off the back, and we used to hang out on it with her sisters, if they were in a tolerant mood. Otherwise, we'd head to the basement to watch tv.
Susan shared a room with her sister, and I don't remember it being especially decorated or clean. We'd go in and plop on her bed and listen to records, do homework, or both. Her house was a second home to me, and I loved going there.
Jill's house, on the other hand, was built in the late 70s. Her parents had moved out of a teeny tiny slab house when we were early in our grade school years, and into this brand new tri-level, three bedroom, two bath, beauty. It had a living room, dining room, kitchen, family room, and two baths. It was always spotless. Jill's dad worked at Ford, and her mom was a nurse. They had eloped, eloped, when they were eighteen, and then had her brother and her. They were so young in my mind, maybe in their late 20s, maybe 30, and so hip compared to my other friends' parents. Their truck and her mom's car were always parked in the two car garage along with bikes, tools, and sports equipment all organized neatly to create enough room for everything.
We had to take our shoes off when we went into Jill's house, and mostly had to try and walk on the plastic carpet runners throughout her house. Her living room was free of furniture for the first few years, and we liked to do gymnastics in there whenever we could. The family room had the coolest phone. It was one of those from the bicentennial that was like the old fashioned kind where you speak into the base and hold the ear piece to your head to hear. It was red, white, and blue, and just so magnificent. I wanted a phone like that and tried to call home every time I went to Jill's just so I could use it.
It was at Jill's house that I met my first microwave. We heated water in it to make hot chocolate. To make it go, you had to turn the dial past "2 minutes" and then back to whatever time you needed. It was loud, and I remember being afraid that it would do something to the water that would cause cancer or something later. We put popcorn in a paper bag and popped it in the microwave, being careful to turn down the opening just right so the popcorn wouldn't spill out into the microwave. It wasn't great, but it was novel and new, and made me think Jill's mom and dad just had it going on.
Jill had her own bedroom with a brass bed and pretty furniture. We couldn't play in it, but we could sit quietly on the bed, and sometimes we were allowed a game of Connect 4. There was wall-to-wall carpet on the floor and those plastic runners. At the time, I shared a room with my sister, and I was so jealous of Jill's room that I could spit.
Susan and Jill were my best friends for the entire 8 years of grade school. We did everything together. We had different rules, different family situations, different houses, and that was never a problem. It just was. I loved going to both of their houses and hanging out with them and making excellent memories wherever we were.
I am going to try to keep that in mind the next time one of the kids wants a friend over and the house is trashed. They are really not coming over to check out my housekeeping skills. They are coming to play with my children and make their own memories.
p.s. Jill and Susan, I love you both! We need a Charlie's Angels reunion real soon...
Monday, April 13, 2009
Conversations on the Telephone
One of the hardest things I've had to learn to do since Mom died is how to talk to my dad. We had come to a place in our relationship where we didn't say much to one another. Nothing had happened, but Mom and I had so much to say, and Dad just didn't like to talk on the phone. However, I talked to Mom three or four times a day. Sometimes when I'd call, he'd answer.
"Hi Dad. What's up?"
"Not much. Do you want to talk to your mother?"
"Yeah, is she home?"
"Yes. Hold on. Wanda! Phone! Here she is."
"Bye, Dad. Love you."
"Love you too."
And that was about it. I loved Dad. He loved me. Not much else to say.
I tried a few times to ask about his childhood or early memories of me, but Dad's not a real reflective, sentimental type, and I don't think his childhood held very many happy memories. Those conversations would last a little longer than the ones over the phone, but not by much.
We would talk politics whenever something interesting would happen, but since we are both of the same liberal bent, it would end up with us agreeing with each other about whatever the issue was, and then the dialogue would dry up.
Dad just isn't a conversationalist.
I could call Mom to tell her something funny I saw or a cute thing one of my kids said. I'd call to ask how to boil eggs or what gets grass stain out of pink pants or how to make self-rising flour out of regular. She'd call me with the latest updates on her sisters and brothers or my cousins. She'd have stories about my nephews or the neighbors or friends from church. Mom was a wealth of information about everything, and once she got a cordless phone, she usually didn't mind chatting anytime of day except between 4 and 5 when her soap was on. If I had a quick question, I could catch her during the long 4:30 commercials but other than that, that hour was a dead zone, and God forbid you interrupt it.
Once Mom was gone, I still had the need to talk. I missed our several times a day chats more than I thought humanly possible. I can still hear her on the other end of the line when, if I hadn't called her by 10 a.m., she'd call me to make sure we were all okay. I can hear the edge in her voice when I'd maybe called one too many times that day. And if I ever, EVER went a day without calling, I caught heck. I just can't begin to describe how much I miss talking to my mom.
So once she died, I tried calling Dad. Both of my sisters did too. We'd call him each once a day to say hello and check on him. The conversations were much like always.
"Hi Dad. What's going on?"
"Not much. How are things your way?"
"Fine."
"That's good."
"Well, I'm just calling to check on you. You doing okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Okay, well, I'll let you go. Love you."
"Love you too."
He even "complained" to his sister that we were "always calling" to check up on him. She gently scolded him, saying, "John, at least you have three daughters who care enough to call you."
Mom had her killing surgery four years ago. She lived for five months after, and during that time, I only got to talk to her twice on the phone. She was too sick to talk, but she was still here. I think it was a good transition for me. I didn't lose her all at once.
But I miss talking to her on the phone. I need that connection to my parents. To that older generation who knows more than I do. To someone who loves me best.
I try to call Dad every day. Most days I do, but if I don't, he doesn't seem to mind. I still have a hard time just picking up the phone to chat. It's getting better, but it's just not the same.
"Hi Dad. What's up?"
"Not much. Do you want to talk to your mother?"
"Yeah, is she home?"
"Yes. Hold on. Wanda! Phone! Here she is."
"Bye, Dad. Love you."
"Love you too."
And that was about it. I loved Dad. He loved me. Not much else to say.
I tried a few times to ask about his childhood or early memories of me, but Dad's not a real reflective, sentimental type, and I don't think his childhood held very many happy memories. Those conversations would last a little longer than the ones over the phone, but not by much.
We would talk politics whenever something interesting would happen, but since we are both of the same liberal bent, it would end up with us agreeing with each other about whatever the issue was, and then the dialogue would dry up.
Dad just isn't a conversationalist.
I could call Mom to tell her something funny I saw or a cute thing one of my kids said. I'd call to ask how to boil eggs or what gets grass stain out of pink pants or how to make self-rising flour out of regular. She'd call me with the latest updates on her sisters and brothers or my cousins. She'd have stories about my nephews or the neighbors or friends from church. Mom was a wealth of information about everything, and once she got a cordless phone, she usually didn't mind chatting anytime of day except between 4 and 5 when her soap was on. If I had a quick question, I could catch her during the long 4:30 commercials but other than that, that hour was a dead zone, and God forbid you interrupt it.
Once Mom was gone, I still had the need to talk. I missed our several times a day chats more than I thought humanly possible. I can still hear her on the other end of the line when, if I hadn't called her by 10 a.m., she'd call me to make sure we were all okay. I can hear the edge in her voice when I'd maybe called one too many times that day. And if I ever, EVER went a day without calling, I caught heck. I just can't begin to describe how much I miss talking to my mom.
So once she died, I tried calling Dad. Both of my sisters did too. We'd call him each once a day to say hello and check on him. The conversations were much like always.
"Hi Dad. What's going on?"
"Not much. How are things your way?"
"Fine."
"That's good."
"Well, I'm just calling to check on you. You doing okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Okay, well, I'll let you go. Love you."
"Love you too."
He even "complained" to his sister that we were "always calling" to check up on him. She gently scolded him, saying, "John, at least you have three daughters who care enough to call you."
Mom had her killing surgery four years ago. She lived for five months after, and during that time, I only got to talk to her twice on the phone. She was too sick to talk, but she was still here. I think it was a good transition for me. I didn't lose her all at once.
But I miss talking to her on the phone. I need that connection to my parents. To that older generation who knows more than I do. To someone who loves me best.
I try to call Dad every day. Most days I do, but if I don't, he doesn't seem to mind. I still have a hard time just picking up the phone to chat. It's getting better, but it's just not the same.
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