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The Father-Daughter Bond
July 20, 2011 By
My mother tells me that the day I was born my father was a goner. He was a smitten kitten, and there was no changing that. Apparently we bonded as only a father and daughter can. At the time I had an older brother, but when my younger brother was born, my status was elevated to only girl.
As a child there is no doubt that I was the apple of my father’s eye. We had the special bond that people speak of, as far as a father-daughter goes. I remember packing my emergency bag in case I had to run away when I was 8 years old. I wrote a run away note that said, “nobody loves me but daddy.”
When I got to the teen years, and my mother became enemy number 1, the relationship flourished. I mean he did it all right, and she sucked. Teenage angst fueled this skewed view of my parents. Off to college I went, and that’s when my mom and I became the mother-daughter team. I called her daily, and she filled my father in on the goings on in my life. We may not have spoken often, but I knew where I stood.
When I was young my maternal grandfather was just as ga-ga over me as my father. In the end he had 5 grandsons and me, thereby making me an only daughter and only granddaughter. Knowing my daughter would have a grandfather who was elated just to be around her, is something I love to see. My dad takes her everywhere, and everywhere he goes people know A by name. I used to go with my dad everywhere as a kid too, it makes me smile thinking of all of the fun places I got to go to with my dad. Now she gets to do those things.
Once we found out that A was a girl I told R that he was in for it. Once he held his daughter for the first time his heart would never be the same. He denied it. He told me that he could never be like my dad. Everyone laughed at him. Everyone told him the same thing I did, he adamantly denied his ability to fall in love with a little girl like that. My standing answer to that was ”just wait.”
2 hours after she was born the family all met in my hospital room, I asked him if he was in love. He smiled blushed and shook his head yes. He was done for, she was officially daddy’s girl. When R lost his job 9 months ago and became a full time stay-at-home-dad, his bond with A only increased.
Some would ask if it bothers me she gravitates toward him, but it doesn’t at all. I revel in watching them together. I’m so happy that A has that bond with her daddy. It’s forever a special one she will never be able to duplicate. She’s currently an only daughter and granddaughter just like me, it doesn’t get better then that. I just hope she won’t be upset if my younger brother has a little girl someday, she may have to share her beloved granddaughter status. At least I can remind her she’s daddy’s girl.
If you’d like to see more of Candice’s writing, please go here.
The Debt Ceiling – Seriously?
July 18, 2011 By
Seriously….seriously…..I can’t believe this can not get resolved. That a compromise can not be found. Really? Are our politicians so one sided that they can’t see the other party’s point of view? And are they all so prideful that they can’t find some middle ground? Sure, not all of the Republican wants will be met but not all of the Democrats wishes will be fulfilled either. That’s called a compromise people. Letting some things go in order to do what needs to be done – -like avoid an economic crisis like defaulting on our loans!
Another alarming fact about this whole debate is that raising the debt ceiling has never been a huge problem for either side in years, decades. Every year the debt ceiling is raised and most people are none the wiser. Sure there is grumbling here and there, usually from the Republican side, but it’s never been made out into this huge issue. Why has it become such a big deal this time you may ask? Well for starters it’s a big election season and I think everyone on capital hill is more interested in sticking to their ideological agendas and platforms than actually helping our country and the American people. Also, there has been an alarming trend over the last 8+ years of none bi-partisan cooperation. My three year old son knows how to share and compromise better than our politicians.
I freely admit that I am not a politically driven person. Most days I feel like a Republican with Democrat sympathies and other days I am a Democrat with an underlining Republican wishes. But I think that this loose description would apply to a lot of Americans – dare I say the majority of us?? We can understand both sides in a lot of issues…not every issue but many. So why does that not work for our politicians? If someone can please tell me their thoughts or opinions on this I would greatly appreciate it. Let’s hear what you think. Correct me if you think I am wrong. Let’s see if we can find a compromise.
No regrets
July 1, 2011 By
Fourteen years later, while jogging, I spot a mustard-colored Toyota Corolla Hatchback on the side of the road. The driver is just getting out, and as I go by I holler, “I used to own one of those!”
“Perhaps this is the one you owned,” he hollers back.
I laugh, but stop, catch my breath and walk toward the guy, “What do you mean?”
“Well, it could be, couldn’t it?”
Strange guy, I think. I should get going. “Nah,” I say, starting to jog again, “mine was missing the passenger seat and only started with a screwdriver.”
“I put in a new seat, look, and a new starter…” And there it sits, right before my unbelieving eyes: Little Turd! After exchanging a few poignant car stories, I wave goodbye to the guy who wasn’t so strange after all…a silly grin plastered on my face during the remaining miles. This had been my first car, my favorite car, THE most sentimental car ever. Just seeing it again made me inordinately happy.
What are the chances? All those years, different city, different plates (I had given the originals to my sister when I relinquished it to the scrapyard)…and then:
My van likes to occasionally drive me to garage sales. Having become overwhelmed by the chaos of “too much stuff,” I had disciplined my vehicle to avoid those pesky Saturday morning signs. We were doing well–until I got a newer vehicle and I forgot to tell it the rules. Thankfully, said car had been too busy learning its way to all our new haunts due to a recent move, so garage sales had not yet reared their ugly heads. Until. Fateful. Saturday. Morning. Quick right turn. Quick left turn. A familiar face–well, a familiar back of the head, actually. Seeing this person reminded me, with a pang, that I had gotten rid of my daughter’s bicycle too soon–that I should have kept it for my granddaughter, who was now ready for it. I had sold it to this head-um, this grandmother-friend who had needed it for her grandson.
Oh well, I thought, trying to console myself. I’m sure they got good use out of our bike. Still pouting, I approached the garage sale with caution (don’t buy, don’t buy don’t buy) and guilt (there isn’t a thing I need, except a blasted bicycle for my granddaughter!). My friend turned her head, we exclaimed, we hugged. What on earth was I doing there, she wanted to know? What was she doing so far from home? Turns out her daughter (whose garage sale it is) lives just around the bend from our new place. Ah, coincidences. And they weren’t finished yet. There it sat–the perfect little paw-printed cornflower blue bicycle. I called over to my friend, hardly able to speak, “Is this the SAME bike I sold you?”
Forty dollars later…
The rest, as they say, is serendipitous history. Good mini-van, good, good, mini-van. There’s high-priced oil in your future…
63 Years
June 27, 2011 By
See that handsome couple to the left there? That stately, experienced one? They are my Oma and Opa (Grandma and Grandpa for those of you who don’t speak dutch.) They celebrated their 63rd wedding anniversary just the other day. Let me rephrase, they have been married for more than two thirds of their almost 90 years. This is amazing and shocking, especially these days; these days of the drive through marriage. They are an example to me and my marriage, because of the example they set, I know that my wife and I will be married for many, many, years, and enjoy every minute of it.
Let me explain, this is not just a relationship of convenience, they truly love each other. Probably more then when they were first married. The fact that they were married shortly after world war II, meeting after my Opa fought the Nazi’s in Austria, and my Oma hid from them to save her life, only add to the mystique of this more then half century marriage. 63 years later, this celebration was a little tougher on everyone, you see, Opa was having a rough time while visiting my parents in Texas and had to be brought to the hospital, where he has been for nearly a week and is just coming out of the ICU. The first day he was awake? He refused to let go of Oma’s hand the entire time they were together. That’s love.
This is a couple that have been through thick and thin, up and down, left and right, Together. What they have, no man has torn asunder. That is what I strive for, what I believe marriage is supposed to be. Thank you Oma and Opa.
A good book comes back to haunt me
June 24, 2011 By
When I met my husband nearly 15 years ago, he had baggage. I don’t mean quirky relatives, odd habits, a child, style issues or an ex-wife (all of which he has).
My husband had books… thousands of them.
I didn’t see them at first. We dated. I visited his home. There was no indication or outward sign of what was to come when we married.
But marry we did and along came Mary, Sally, Harry, Tom, Dick and Jane. And they entered quietly, unnoticed until every closet, shelf and corner of the garage was lined like wallpaper.
Over the years household needs grew; two fondue pots, three sets of dishes, linens for all seasons, drums, legos, office equipment. But with each of these came a price; the need for storage. Something had to give. Dutifully and lovingly, the husband caved and one by one his books would have to find a new home.
Religious books were donated to family members and to the temple. Literature books were boxed up and given to the friends of the library bookstore. There was even a garage sale. Slowly, painfully, stuff filled the spaces where memories, words, knowledge and history diminished.
In time, references to a learned past would surface and “the one that got away” would haunt me.
And now, there are just of few of these treasures around. Out of Amazon, the faces are appearing again, creeping in like dust in the night. While I chide my husband, I don’t protest too much.
Out of guilt I encouraged him to add a wall sized bookcase to the living room and I even purchased a Kindle for him for Chanukah.
His books carried memories and much more. They offered friendship and solace. I never knew how much they meant to him.
Today, regrettably, I’d trade all the baggage for his books.
On Holiday
June 22, 2011 By
It seems as though all my muses have gone on vacation. Just gathered up their things, with no prior notice, and took off on a nice little summer holiday.
Swell. This is not the first time they’ve run off like this. There was that lull in creativity back in the summer of ’99, the brief hiatus during spring of ’02 and most recently; the great abandonment of 2011.
Of course I despise when this happens. I am a writer! A creative being! I need my inspirations. But no amount of wishing, hoping or begging will bring them back . It has to be on their own accord.
This particularly stings as I currently have a multitude of thoughts and ideas whirling through my head ranging from home decor & D.I.Y projects, to poetry, prose, kid crafts and a host of other things, only to be left staring at a blank page/canvas when prodded to articulate those thoughts and ideas. I am struggling. Searching my extensive vocabulary for the words to bring imagery to my ideas, evoke feelings for my concepts and move people with my words.
Not too long ago, I used to feel like I had to be going through something in order to create. There had to be some kind of struggle in order for it to be good, and definitely required some drama in order to be considered great. And for awhile it worked quite nicely. The creativity was flowing at all hours of the day and night. I never quite knew when inspiration would strike. And I dug that.
But then- something happened. There was a lull. Nothing good was happening. I couldn’t finish a poem to save my life. No journal entry was ever quite “complete”, no story ever quite finished.
I. couldn’t. create!! It drove me up a wall. Who was I if I couldn’t articulate my thoughts and feelings in the written word? How would I be able to process LIFE without the ability to transform the mundane into the spectacular? I was a little stressed about it.
And then a funny thing happened. I kind of forgot about it. Then late one night – I was inspired by something on the radio and the words began to flow again all at once. It akin to giving birth. The re-birth of my creative spirit. I felt refreshed and renewed! I was back!
Right now though, it’s been a bit trickier. I have so much that I want to express and am finding myself inadequate and falling short in all areas. It’s incredibly frustrating but I figure it’s just another hiatus. Similar to the likes of which my favorite shows have gone on until the Fall season, when they return re-charged and full of fresh content.
I fancy they’re off frolicking in the surf on some exotic beach, enjoying fabulous cocktails, basking in the warmth of the sun……all while I’m stuck in front of a blank computer screen. It’s maddening.
So while you’re out and about enjoying your summer, if you come across some “creative looking” types with a ton of luggage. Send them back my way? Or at least encourage them to send a postcard? I can only hope muses enjoy their time off.
Present
June 20, 2011 By
Sometimes my heart breaks, and I don’t know why. It’s a smog-like billow in my chest that burns to escape my choking throat. Dense like a fog and just as hollow. I think thoughts I think I shouldn’t think. But I reckon they’re the same phantasmic ruminations that go through all parents’ minds; they’re just not the type we readily share.
I’ve seen some of my baseball heroes cry when they retire; The lack of stoicism is off-putting. It’s mortalizing to see a grown man weep, but when you have to leave something you love that much, I guess it’s inevitable.
I get it now.
I never used to be like this. It’s this kid. He’s filled me with all this fragility. If something ever happened to him, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d go sideways, downward or grave-ward. It’s such a perverse thought, but I think it and wish against it will all my might.
But sometimes, I try to feel it. I don’t know if I think the pro-tem emptiness will inspire me to be a better dad, to hold on to the moments I do have, or I’m just a melancholy man. It’s not self-pity. There’s a piece of me that is truly terrified.
I see his smiling face and try to picture my life without it. It’s the one thing that can make me feel, and maybe I just like to feel now and again? These will, no doubt, be the images that flash through my mind in my last moments.
And sometimes, when I’m thinking those thoughts, he’ll come up to me and with his blustering enthusiasm and his “daddy” preamble, and I’ll smile a wistful smile because I know he’s mine and present… but, somehow, I know he won’t always be.
Mommy Bird
June 17, 2011 By
The chirping by the front door was defeaning. It sounded like there were 100 baby birds tucked inside the tiny birdhouse hanging from the eaves of Mom’s house. I laughed at the sheer noise of it, and with arms weighed down by bags and babies, continued inside to cook brunch.
After the dishes were licked clean, I remembered the baby birds and went back to check on them. At first, I heard nothing. A moment later, Mommy Bird peeked out from the hole at the front of the schoolhouse-themed bird hotel. She looked left and right, assessing any possible dangers, and hopped out onto the tiny front porch before taking off. I still hadn’t heard a peep from the Baby Birds, and moved closer to the birdhouse. Tufts of nest spilled out of the little hole, but I couldn’t see or hear anything inside.
Then Mother Bird returned, food poised in beak, and she landed on a nearby tree with her eyes locked on me. She let out a throaty warble and puffed her feathers, the kind of warning only a threatened mother can give. As I slowly backed away from the birdhouse, Mother Bird flitted around before deftly entering the birdhouse midflight.
The moment Baby Birds saw their mama, a chorus of chirping erupted. Who knows what they were saying in their little birdie voices? No one but Mother Bird, who stayed inside the warmth of the birdhouse for only a minute, and left to search again for more food.
Captivated, I watched the entire play three more times. Scene 1-Quieting of the Baby Birds, Scene 2- Flight of the Mother Bird, Scene 3- Return of the Mother Bird, Scene 4- Chirping of the Baby Birds. Simple and mesmerizing.
I think as moms there is a kindred spirit that runs below the surface, connecting us to one another. Its that spirit I feel when I smile at another mom in the store or at the park- the knowing smile that says, “Yes, I’ve been barfed on too.” I felt that spirit today watching Mother Bird. Didn’t she could have been inside the birdhouse, kicking up her little bird legs and watching a marathon of SVU? No, she didn’t. She knew her babies were hungry, and no matter how many trips it took to feed every last one of them she wasn’t going to rest until the chirping ended and the Baby Birds snuggled up for a little cat nap. 
Its a lesson I needed today, taught without words or pretense. Mother Bird taught me that one of the most important things a mother can be is selfless, and that the little monotonous tasks of changing and feeding and disciplining are necessities that, looked at from a different angle, are simplistic beauty.
POP
June 15, 2011 By
Like eager horses my students wait for turnout–for someone to open the gate and release them to their whims. Soon the school year will end, and they will race toward glorious freedom. While my colts and fillies yearn for unplanned exploration, I am craving the opposite: structure. My thoughts and actions are wrapped around next year and the improvements I will make. I’ve mucked the stalls and organized the tack. The paddock is ready. But there is so much to accomplish. Still, there is time before the big race–when my children will be turned out to a larger field and gallop barebacked into their untethered lives. It is my job to prepare them, and I take it seriously.
Fall 2011 will begin our fourth year of homeschooling. And while I have looked forward to each year, I am the most excited about this one. I have a dedicated school room, ample supplies, storage and curriculum. I also have a partner–my daughter, who is a credentialed teacher. The curriculum is nicely organized into subjects, and our books by topic–all easily accessible. This year’s planning will be the best yet. I even have an acronym for the kids–POP: Passion, Optimism, Practice. These are what it takes to learn something new. My own acronym is the same, but with a slightly different focus and an extra “P.” PPOP: Passion, Preparation, Organization, Patience.
People are mostly polite about our choice to homeschool our kids, but I can read the doubt on some of their faces. I can see the question they don’t say: “But what about their social life, making friends?” I answer it before they choke on the words, telling them that it is actually quite difficult to manage the plethora of activities available–the park outings, classes, plays, concerts, field trips and the like. Social interaction is definitely not a problem. In fact, it has been responsible for one of the unexpected joys of this adventure–my kids have friends of all ages, in addition to innumerable opportunities to develop healthy conversation skills with adults.
“I couldn’t possibly homeschool my kids,” is another common statement. This statement is not one I take lightly. Homeschooling is not for everyone. It is not for every parent, and not for every child. But for those families who choose to homeschool (for any one of many possible reasons), commit to the rigors of it, and take it seriously, homeschooling can be a phenomenal experience. To those who say, “Oh I wish I could,” I say, “Oh you can!” If you want to, you can do it. There are scads of resources, support, and organizations in which to find like-minded home-schoolers. If you’ve got the time and the inkling, you are just one suspension bridge away from the incredible.
I walked a suspension bridge recently at Disneyland and thought about how intimidating it was the first time–when I had never done it before. It’s less challenging now–still requires balance and focus, but the fear is gone. I’m not worried about falling off…just focused on getting to the other side with a smile on my face. And besides, just beyond the bridge I envision a lovely field where four horses frolic and graze, eventually riding off into the sunset well-prepared for whatever comes next.
