I dropped of a trunk load of toxic chemicals at the Haz-Bin site today. Colleen and I have been s-l-o-w-l-y cleaning out Dad's garage, and I went out yesterday and got all of the jars, bottles, and cans of poisonous crap off the back shelves in the garage. No kidding, I could have easily knocked off a small village with the stuff I hauled away from there.
My favorite aerosol can of the bunch was one called "Cabinet Magic." It had a "wood" label on it featuring Mrs. Happy Homemaker in her dress and apron, holding a dusting rag in one hand, sporting a mean beehive updo, and smiling like she was just so darn happy to be polishing cabinets today. I promise you in all of my 41 years, I have never, ever cleaned kitchen cabinets in a dress and apron, and even if I had, I would not have been smiling about it!
I also liked the can of "* Shine Brite *" glass polish in the powder blue label. I wish I could show the kind of font the text was in. It was so typically 1968 Bewitched. That can was probably loaded with enough CFCs to add another couple hundred miles to the hole in the ozone.
There was a plastic bottle full of something. Dad and I had no idea what it was, but Mom had written, "POISON XXX" all over it, so we touched it very gingerly and put it in the corner of the box so it wouldn't fall over and kill us with fumes.
I hauled away several bottles of transmission fluid, power steering fluid, grub killer, rose dust, paint thinner, spray paint, varnish, Liquid Gold, and lighter fluid from when Dad smoked, oh 35 years ago, and would refill his lighters when they got low.
I took about 15 odd cans of paint to the back yard and filled them up with the old sand from the sandbox. Some of that paint hadn't been on the walls for 2 or 3 layers. There was a full can of black latex paint that I have no idea about, and a red that I think was on the basement floor. (The basement was finished and carpeted in 1983.) Toxic chemicals and paint being what they are, they were all still mostly liquid. The only way to dispose of them, according to MetroCall, was to take off the lids, fill them with sand, and let them dry out. I guess the fumes are okay to release into the air, but I wouldn't want to hang out in Dad's garage for any length of time for the next couple of weeks. We'll keep checking on them and put them in the garbage once they are dried out. It could be awhile.
So as much as I'm ragging on all of this poisonous stuff in the garage, it was really pretty sad. I would hold up each item and tell Dad what it was, and he'd say yea or nay to keeping it. When we got to the automotive stuff, I thought about how long it had been since Dad even checked the fluid levels in his vehicles, much less topped them off. I could see the wheels turning in his head, "Do I think I'll ever be needing this again in my lifetime? No, probably not..." We did that with a lot of things: paint, lawn chemicals, WD-40, mineral spirits. We kept a few cans of spray paint, some fertilizer for the yard, and a car cleaner that had "GM" (General Motors) written on the can that Dad got as a gimme from when he worked for GM. Remember, Dad retired in the late 80s.
I stood there holding up cans, and it was like watching him shut door after door while he analyzed his future possible use for each item. There wasn't much need for a number of things.
He helped me take the paint cans back to the garage before I left for home. He is so slow. His steps are very short, about the length of his foot, and he shuffles pretty badly. He'd take a couple of cans at a time and then have to stop and sit down every trip or two. Watching Dad is like watching a wind-up toy winding down or a clock ticking ever more slowly. Only there is no key on his back with which to rewind him, and I know that sooner than later the last tick is gonna come, and he will stop.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Vinegar and Baking Soda
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.
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.
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.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Sons and Guns
My son loves guns. He always has ever since he was a little bitty guy. His dad, who is an officer in the United States military, and me...not so much. My husband had enough gun time in the army. Me...they just scare the hell out of me. I don't want one, never fired one, never really even held one. Minus a toy rifle I had when I was a kid that shot dirt clods out the end, guns have never held any fascination for me.
But my son...that's another story. Squirt guns, Lego guns, cowboy guns, death ray guns, pretzel guns, peanut butter and jelly sandwich guns...You name it. If it even resembled something with a barrel and a trigger, it had his name all over it.
We tried. My lord, we tried. We removed any realistic guns from the Batman action figure package. Swords? No problem. Ninja stars? Let's get two. Compound bows? You betcha. Guns? No way! Didn't matter. He made them out of whatever he could find. Finally we gave up and let the guns stay in the package thinking they were 1/2 inch big. They'd get lost, get frustrating, get forgotten. Wrong. We should have learned then, but we didn't.
When he was about 4, he developed a love for all things army. I know this will sound ridiculous, but for Christmas that year, we got him his own little camouflage army uniform exactly like his dad's. We even sewed rank on and a name tape and U.S.Army across the pocket. Still didn't get him a gun.
His little buddies in the neighborhood would play soldier and cops and robbers in the back yard, and they all had "cowboy" pistols. My sister had that kind when we were little. You know what I'm talking about: silver with white "ivory" handles, and you could shoot caps off with them. My son's best friend had that kind of gun. He would come down and give Kyle a roll of caps. TJ would shoot the caps with his gun, and Kyle would pop his with a rock. Not quite the same thing, but I tried to talk it up. Then the boys would go into the back yard, Kyle would wear his uniform, and they would play army or something similar. TJ would use the cap gun, and Kyle would find a stick that acceptably resembled a gun, and they'd proceed to shoot each other in an all out war.
It got to be pretty pathetic. My mom gave me a lot of grief about the gun ban in my house, reminding me that I played with guns as a kid and turned out just fine. So I gave in and got Kyle a neon green plastic squirt gun. He was thrilled...until it cracked. I learned to keep a stock pile of squirt guns in the house for emergencies. It worked for awhile.
Then Kyle began to love anything and everything about the American Revolution. He worshiped the movie "The Crossing" about Washington crossing the Delaware. We read every book about George Washington and Sam the Minuteman, and Kyle learned to love history. I was THRILLED because I love history, and I found it charming that he was into the past at his young age. We went to reenactments and learned about the Colonial period and spent time at historic homes and met the soldiers who brought the past to life. I took up sewing so I could make him costumes. We took a trip to Williamsburg early that fall. I had made him brown breeches, a green wesket, a white shirt and found some buckle shoes. He wore them every day. He drilled with the militia every day. They got to know him so well, that when they'd see him coming, they'd say, "Everyone, line up behind Private Kyle. He'll show you what to do." By the end of the week, he'd been promoted to Corporal. It was at Williamsburg that we finally broke down and got Kyle his first gun. He was 4 1/2. He carried it with him for the entire week. I rationalized it by telling myself it was an "historic" gun. Whatever.
I remember one day at an event, we were wandering through an encampment. Kyle was about 5. There were several men in period costume sitting around a fire, and one of them was making musket balls out of lead. Kyle wandered up to them, invited himself into their circle, pulled up a log and sat down. I tried to shew him away, but the men were getting a kick out of him and engaged him in conversation. The bullet maker showed Kyle what he was doing and how the lead melted and called him over to watch it pour into the mold. After they had cooled, he handed one to Kyle to put in his own bullet pouch, which until then held rock bullets, and Kyle was in history heaven. Another guy gave him a carved horn powder measure, and they all filled his head with visions of guns to come.
In second grade, he met a boy who had an imitation long rifle. I had to admit, it was really cool, and it added a huge amount of authenticity to his costume. Breeches, vest, tricorn hat, long rifle...He looked just like a colonial boy. Kyle wanted that gun. He begged for it. I'm sure he prayed for it. I said no way, but in my heart, I thought it would be pretty cool to have to take to reenactments. I got a catalog on reproduction weapons. Kyle found it. Like a dog with a bone, that boy would not let go of the idea of owning his own long rifle. Finally, and I know this will sound sick, I told him that if he could save up enough money, he could buy it for himself. It cost $75. Where, I wondered, would an 8 year old come up with $75? I forgot about First Communion. Yes, after his party, Kyle had finally saved the $75 plus shipping and handling to buy his long rifle. My son used his First Communion money to buy a gun. Sick, I know.
It's been all downhill from there. In the past couple of years, the new thing is "Air Soft" guns. They are heavy plastic guns that shoot plastic b.b.'s. The thing is, they LOOK real. Except for the orange tips on the end of the barrels, you could mistake them for real guns. Of course, Kyle wanted one. Of course, I said, "Are you out of your mind?" Of course, he now has three.
Tonight, he is at an "Air Soft" birthday party in which all the boys bring their guns, ammo, camo, eye protection, you name it, and choose teams and have a war. It will last all night. He had the same kind of party last week for his own birthday. The boys were one motley collection of racquet ball goggles, ski goggles, Air Soft masks, sun glasses, and swimming goggles, with all kinds of guns and outfits too. They set off across my yard for the woods, good buddies all, and started playing. They stayed outside until dark then went to Kirk's work for more indoor fun (Air Soft guns stayed home.)
And I know this will sound sick too, but it was really rather heart-warming to see my son and his friends playing like 12 and 13 year old boys should instead of texting girls and acting cool. There was still some texting going on to be sure, but there was absolutely no cool to be found. Just don't tell them that because in their get-ups, they thought they were da bomb!
I am happy that Kyle wants to P-L-A-Y, even if it is Air Soft war. Who knows how long this phase will last. Probably not long. Life is short, and kids grow up so fast now. If he's holding an Air Soft gun, that means his hands are too busy to be texting girls, and I am just so fine with that!
But my son...that's another story. Squirt guns, Lego guns, cowboy guns, death ray guns, pretzel guns, peanut butter and jelly sandwich guns...You name it. If it even resembled something with a barrel and a trigger, it had his name all over it.
We tried. My lord, we tried. We removed any realistic guns from the Batman action figure package. Swords? No problem. Ninja stars? Let's get two. Compound bows? You betcha. Guns? No way! Didn't matter. He made them out of whatever he could find. Finally we gave up and let the guns stay in the package thinking they were 1/2 inch big. They'd get lost, get frustrating, get forgotten. Wrong. We should have learned then, but we didn't.
When he was about 4, he developed a love for all things army. I know this will sound ridiculous, but for Christmas that year, we got him his own little camouflage army uniform exactly like his dad's. We even sewed rank on and a name tape and U.S.Army across the pocket. Still didn't get him a gun.
His little buddies in the neighborhood would play soldier and cops and robbers in the back yard, and they all had "cowboy" pistols. My sister had that kind when we were little. You know what I'm talking about: silver with white "ivory" handles, and you could shoot caps off with them. My son's best friend had that kind of gun. He would come down and give Kyle a roll of caps. TJ would shoot the caps with his gun, and Kyle would pop his with a rock. Not quite the same thing, but I tried to talk it up. Then the boys would go into the back yard, Kyle would wear his uniform, and they would play army or something similar. TJ would use the cap gun, and Kyle would find a stick that acceptably resembled a gun, and they'd proceed to shoot each other in an all out war.
It got to be pretty pathetic. My mom gave me a lot of grief about the gun ban in my house, reminding me that I played with guns as a kid and turned out just fine. So I gave in and got Kyle a neon green plastic squirt gun. He was thrilled...until it cracked. I learned to keep a stock pile of squirt guns in the house for emergencies. It worked for awhile.
Then Kyle began to love anything and everything about the American Revolution. He worshiped the movie "The Crossing" about Washington crossing the Delaware. We read every book about George Washington and Sam the Minuteman, and Kyle learned to love history. I was THRILLED because I love history, and I found it charming that he was into the past at his young age. We went to reenactments and learned about the Colonial period and spent time at historic homes and met the soldiers who brought the past to life. I took up sewing so I could make him costumes. We took a trip to Williamsburg early that fall. I had made him brown breeches, a green wesket, a white shirt and found some buckle shoes. He wore them every day. He drilled with the militia every day. They got to know him so well, that when they'd see him coming, they'd say, "Everyone, line up behind Private Kyle. He'll show you what to do." By the end of the week, he'd been promoted to Corporal. It was at Williamsburg that we finally broke down and got Kyle his first gun. He was 4 1/2. He carried it with him for the entire week. I rationalized it by telling myself it was an "historic" gun. Whatever.
I remember one day at an event, we were wandering through an encampment. Kyle was about 5. There were several men in period costume sitting around a fire, and one of them was making musket balls out of lead. Kyle wandered up to them, invited himself into their circle, pulled up a log and sat down. I tried to shew him away, but the men were getting a kick out of him and engaged him in conversation. The bullet maker showed Kyle what he was doing and how the lead melted and called him over to watch it pour into the mold. After they had cooled, he handed one to Kyle to put in his own bullet pouch, which until then held rock bullets, and Kyle was in history heaven. Another guy gave him a carved horn powder measure, and they all filled his head with visions of guns to come.
In second grade, he met a boy who had an imitation long rifle. I had to admit, it was really cool, and it added a huge amount of authenticity to his costume. Breeches, vest, tricorn hat, long rifle...He looked just like a colonial boy. Kyle wanted that gun. He begged for it. I'm sure he prayed for it. I said no way, but in my heart, I thought it would be pretty cool to have to take to reenactments. I got a catalog on reproduction weapons. Kyle found it. Like a dog with a bone, that boy would not let go of the idea of owning his own long rifle. Finally, and I know this will sound sick, I told him that if he could save up enough money, he could buy it for himself. It cost $75. Where, I wondered, would an 8 year old come up with $75? I forgot about First Communion. Yes, after his party, Kyle had finally saved the $75 plus shipping and handling to buy his long rifle. My son used his First Communion money to buy a gun. Sick, I know.
It's been all downhill from there. In the past couple of years, the new thing is "Air Soft" guns. They are heavy plastic guns that shoot plastic b.b.'s. The thing is, they LOOK real. Except for the orange tips on the end of the barrels, you could mistake them for real guns. Of course, Kyle wanted one. Of course, I said, "Are you out of your mind?" Of course, he now has three.
Tonight, he is at an "Air Soft" birthday party in which all the boys bring their guns, ammo, camo, eye protection, you name it, and choose teams and have a war. It will last all night. He had the same kind of party last week for his own birthday. The boys were one motley collection of racquet ball goggles, ski goggles, Air Soft masks, sun glasses, and swimming goggles, with all kinds of guns and outfits too. They set off across my yard for the woods, good buddies all, and started playing. They stayed outside until dark then went to Kirk's work for more indoor fun (Air Soft guns stayed home.)
And I know this will sound sick too, but it was really rather heart-warming to see my son and his friends playing like 12 and 13 year old boys should instead of texting girls and acting cool. There was still some texting going on to be sure, but there was absolutely no cool to be found. Just don't tell them that because in their get-ups, they thought they were da bomb!
I am happy that Kyle wants to P-L-A-Y, even if it is Air Soft war. Who knows how long this phase will last. Probably not long. Life is short, and kids grow up so fast now. If he's holding an Air Soft gun, that means his hands are too busy to be texting girls, and I am just so fine with that!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Letting Go
I'm letting Kyle go skiing today without me or Kirk being there. Scary.
There is an annual, unofficial ski trip to Paoli Peaks today. The kids were supposed to be off but had to go to school until 1 for a make-up day from the ice storm. We went last year on this same trip. Loads of people from school are there, and it is really fun. This year, Kirk couldn't take off, and I didn't want to go with all 3 kids alone. By the time we'd get to Paoli, get skis, and get on the slopes, it would be about 3 o'clock. Then we'd only have a couple of hours of daylight, and I didn't want to be there in the dark with the 3 kids, especially the girls. Last year about 5, the teens and snow boarders began showing up and it started to get icy and fast, and I just couldn't do it, so I initially said no to any of us going.
Then all of Kyle's friends were going, and he really wanted to go, so we found a ride with a friend of mine who is taking 4 other boys. She skis and is staying the whole time. I know he will be fine, but it's scary to let him go into a potentially dangerous situation without a parent nearby. I know it's good to trust him and he needs to know that I have confidence in his decision making, but he's my boy and I'm a worry wort!
He will be 13 tomorrow. I can't believe it. This time 13 years ago, Kirk and I were at the beach. It was windy and chilly, and the sand was stinging my legs because it was blowing so hard. The ocean at Sandy Beach Park was rough that day. Kirk went body-surfing, and I sat watching, getting my toes wet because I was so awkward that I didn't trust myself in the water. Early the next morning, we headed to the hospital (for the second time), and Kyle was born 16 hours later. Seems like yesterday...
So I'm letting him go bit by bit. I began to panic last night thinking that next year he will be 14! Thirteen still seems young by comparison. He has one more year of grade school, then it's off to St. X, and he's not mine anymore after that. I think being a mother is the saddest, most joyful job in the world, often at the same time.
There is an annual, unofficial ski trip to Paoli Peaks today. The kids were supposed to be off but had to go to school until 1 for a make-up day from the ice storm. We went last year on this same trip. Loads of people from school are there, and it is really fun. This year, Kirk couldn't take off, and I didn't want to go with all 3 kids alone. By the time we'd get to Paoli, get skis, and get on the slopes, it would be about 3 o'clock. Then we'd only have a couple of hours of daylight, and I didn't want to be there in the dark with the 3 kids, especially the girls. Last year about 5, the teens and snow boarders began showing up and it started to get icy and fast, and I just couldn't do it, so I initially said no to any of us going.
Then all of Kyle's friends were going, and he really wanted to go, so we found a ride with a friend of mine who is taking 4 other boys. She skis and is staying the whole time. I know he will be fine, but it's scary to let him go into a potentially dangerous situation without a parent nearby. I know it's good to trust him and he needs to know that I have confidence in his decision making, but he's my boy and I'm a worry wort!
He will be 13 tomorrow. I can't believe it. This time 13 years ago, Kirk and I were at the beach. It was windy and chilly, and the sand was stinging my legs because it was blowing so hard. The ocean at Sandy Beach Park was rough that day. Kirk went body-surfing, and I sat watching, getting my toes wet because I was so awkward that I didn't trust myself in the water. Early the next morning, we headed to the hospital (for the second time), and Kyle was born 16 hours later. Seems like yesterday...
So I'm letting him go bit by bit. I began to panic last night thinking that next year he will be 14! Thirteen still seems young by comparison. He has one more year of grade school, then it's off to St. X, and he's not mine anymore after that. I think being a mother is the saddest, most joyful job in the world, often at the same time.
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