Metro tickets in my pocket, black cat, mashed potatoes

Metro tickets in my pocket

I finally drop my weary body onto the bed. It’s nearly 9 at night, and my son pops into my room and wants to go out. It’s Thanksgiving break. He’s 16. Of course he wants to go out. To a nearby pizza joint, about two miles away. Friends are waiting, and he has that open, earnest look on his face that is – well – irresistible. It had been a long day of baking. I was right where I wanted to be. But he wasn’t where he wanted to be.

“Can I drive? Please?”

You’ve never driven at night before, I say.

The fist in my stomach materializes in seconds. Remarkable. If I could package “Fear in a Flash” and sell it, I’d be rich. But who would want it?

“I need to learn to drive at night, Mom.”

I’m so tired, but he’s right, dammit. Each of these steps with him, in the car, has been much more difficult than with his brother. For me. I didn’t think giving him driving lessons would be so wrenching. He’s done well, but the problem is the accident almost three years ago, when my older son was driving and I was in the passenger seat. Only two blocks from home. Flashbacks, still. Again.

My right arm stiffens. I’m suddenly aware of pain.

You’re right.

He goes for the car keys on the kitchen table as I get out of bed, throw on my jeans, and feel in the pocket for a few bucks to give him. Metro tickets. Metro tickets from Paris, in my back pocket.

Paris is only a subway ride away

Did you know that you can get to Paris on the subway?

Let’s be clear – I can walk a half mile, take the subway, get out at the airport, board a plane, wake up in France, take another train, then subway, eh voilà – PARIS. See? Easy. All you need is a subway card, and metro tickets. The rest – well – those are just details.

I keep metro tickets in the back left pocket of my jeans. All my jeans. When I do wash, I’m very careful to remove them, and put them back when the jeans come out of the dryer. After all, Paris is only a subway ride away.

Black cat

We get in the car and I begin to talk about driving at night. How it’s different from driving by day. I don’t know where the words come from, but they do. I don’t know how I can articulate these distinctions until we are right there. In. The. Moment.

He listens attentively. It’s one of the reasons I love him, profoundly. There is no guile. No arrogance. He genuinely doesn’t think he knows it all.

He adjusts mirrors, we back out onto the dark street, and drive. He’s going slowly, as I asked him to. Suddenly, a black blur shoots in front of us and he brakes. It’s disappeared already. A black cat. I fix my eyes on my son; he has blanched, but he resumes driving.

“Wow,” he says.

Do you see how quickly something can happen? And it’s so much harder to react at night.

He nods. We continue without incident, and he parks behind the pizza place as he gets out of the car and I slide over to take the wheel. You did well, I say.

“That’s bad luck, you know. The cat.”

The thought had crossed my mind. Of course. But I will shape his impressions – and my own – into something positive. If I can.

No, I say. I’ll call it good luck. You didn’t hit him, and everyone’s fine. So I’m going with the theory that a black cat scooting across the road in front of us, who lives, promises good luck for 2010.

He shakes his head like I’m crazy, tells me he’ll get a ride home and won’t be late. I watch him walk into the restaurant. He moves like his dad. Gracefully.

Mashed potatoes

You can help me cook, I say.

“I was planning on it,” he answers.

It’s late now, but he’s home. Content. Something in him has changed this week, and I can’t put my finger on it. We argued last weekend, which is rare. I told him some things I shouldn’t have. Or should have. I’m still not sure.

Perhaps I told him things he needs to know, but not in the best way: our financial realities, his dad’s part in that. He was angry with me over a situation I did not create and cannot control. He had a right to be angry, and I was the recipient of his anger. I am the parent who is present, and who will love him unconditionally. His emotions are safe with me, but no less painful for either of us.

There were calmer words a few hours later. And then, the balloons on Monday. Something has changed, and I can’t put my finger on it.

“Mashed potatoes?” he asks.

Yes, I say.

“Did you get sweet potatoes, too? I love your sweet potatoes.”

Yes. And for a green vegetable – peas or spinach?”

“Peas. And stuffing, too?”

Yes.

This scrawny kid can eat, and eat, and eat. And loves to eat well.

“I’ll do all the mashing,” he says.

The future is in each moment

My arm throbs when I must lift, mix, mash, cut for any amount of time. Last year, I had to ask for help. This year, he offers. And a black cat taught a lesson in a way that my words could not. A lucky black cat demonstrated that lives can change in an instant.

I am grateful for the black cat. I am grateful for my son’s growing awareness of the world around him, for anticipating as well as reacting. We will cook together later this morning, and eat together this afternoon. Most likely, there will be a gathering of teenagers here tonight, and their laughter will fill the house.

I will call my first-born later, and we’ll talk for a bit. He is missed.

My job isn’t done yet, but both my sons will soon be men. Good men. And I have metro tickets in my back pocket. Because Paris is only a subway ride away.


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Now a word about QUALITY

Quality. We may not think about it consciously – but we live it. The issue is always there. Always.

Quality, luxury, objects, “names”

Some of us choose “more” over “better.” We jump on the 50% off sale, and purchase six inexpensive (poorly made) sweaters in place of one impeccably crafted staple that will last years. We hang with a crowd of buddies, rather than one or two true friends. We go for the buffet and stuff ourselves with as much as we can, less concerned about taste (or health) than (seemingly) filling up.

I’ve always been “quality over quantity.” I’ll save and scrounge for a few days at a luxurious setting (a “quality” vacation), for one beautiful bracelet to last forever, or for dinner out at a scrumptious restaurant with my sons.

For some of us, quality is as simple – and as complicated – as a weekend away with a spouse, the kids tucked happily with a sister or grandmother.

Quality customer service

Some of you know I’m trying to move to a dot com. I love using WordPress as my platform for writing, commenting, and maintaining community. But it’s time to expand my world a bit. I’m not a techie – this move (so far) has been a bumpy road, and I’m far from there.

I spent the better part of yesterday and last night dealing with customer service. Some fantastic, and some, let’s just say, of lesser quality.

Customer service is absolutely indispensable in a tough economy. Godaddy’s customer service yesterday was exceptional, as it was over the weekend. Quality, quality, quality. And smart business.

When you don’t pay for service

Every business has a different model, and every business needs to make money. Delivering a product or service involves creating new product, marketing and sales, retaining customers’ good will, and also paying shareholders, and employee salaries and benefits. When you’re on the receiving end of poor customer service, it’s important to consider the big picture. Is service and support part of the business model? Are you actually paying for it?

Remembering the big picture means less anger, which in turn helps you be more human, and calmer. And therefore more effective. WordPress offers exceptional blogging software, and I will continue to use it. It is free. With that in mind, I will spend whatever time is required to accomplish my task, and with a little help from my friends (you know who you are – and I thank you!) I’ll get there.

My point is this – when you purchase something, think carefully about your needs as well as your resources. Think about quality. Especially if money is tight. And that means considering longevity, adaptablity, and customer service and support.

Quality in relationships

When you fall in love, everything is rosy. But you don’t necessarily know what you’ve got – who you’ve got – for some time.

So go slowly. Savor. Determine if you’re keeping company with a man or a woman of quality, of character. One who is good for the tough times, not just the happy ones. Good for the long haul, with built-in features to provide quality support. You’re going to need it, and so will he or she. We all do.

Hold out for the kind of caring, compassionate, passionate, and understanding partner you deserve.

Quality parenting

Quality parenting is subjective. I believe that what our children want most from us is us. It sounds so easy, and in reality is not. We juggle, we run, we worry, we pull rabbits out of hats and are emotionally and physically weary. We try to stay present, and sometimes we’re lucky if we can stay awake!

Our children don’t always know (and can’t) what we’re doing for them, out of love. That comes with the job, along with listening, probing, and attentiveness to their needs. Sometimes it means rough patches, when we must stand firm with a “no” because it’s in their best interest.

Quality is never the easy path. But in parenting, it is essential.

Quality holiday

On that note, don’t forget at this giving time of year that it doesn’t take money to show caring. Thoughtfulness and words are powerful. Time is an extraordinary gift.

Quality.

That red balloon on my ceiling? It’s still there, and still making me smile. So is the card my older son sent, instructing me to breathe, and relax, and enjoy.

I’m going to think of both this week, even as I count on more quality customer service from Godaddy, and take advice from some new friends. So join me in considering

• what quality means to you
• how it relates to your values
• the quality of your choices
• quality giving to those you cherish.

I’ve been so fortunate. Angels have appeared in my life when I’ve needed them most. I am grateful for them. What I try to do in return is to be an angel for someone else, in ways that I can. That’s about quality of life.

May you all know the joy of a red balloon on the ceiling, of new community, of family. And grace. Happy Thanksgiving.

© D A Wolf

French Twist Mini Pecan Pies

I made a promise to Crazy Computer Dad out there in the blogosphere to provide a recipe for pecan pie – Big Little Wolf style, which means shortcuts and the UnBudget.

It’s not for everyone – but you may find it fun, especially because I believe in petite pies – and in particular, French Twist Mini Pecan Pies.

However, the giant “M” emblazoned across my chest (and on my assortment of superwoman capes) not only stands for MOM, but for Murphy, as in Murphy’s Law. In other words, I lost yesterday as my baking day in a flurry of frustrations trying to move my blog content to a dot com and a new server. (I’m not there yet – so please just keep reading me here, as usual!)

But a promise is a promise. I’m working on another article for today, but meanwhile – Crazy Computer Dad – I’m sure you need to go grocery shopping!

More details forthcoming a little later

I’ll fill in the instructions and some pictures in stages, later today or early this evening. But for now, if you’re looking for an easy, short-cut recipe to mighty tasty pecan pie – this is my old stand-by. All you gourmet chefs out there – cover your ears! And your eyes! I’m sure this is blasphemy in the culinary world, but that’s us. Blasphemous and proud of it, creative in a pinch, and lovable, despite our foibles.

Ingredients now, instructions later, photos when I can!! (And another post – a “regular” post – shortly.)

Ingredients for French Twist Mini Pecan Pies

• 16oz (1 lb) bag of pecan halves
• (Georgia pecans are the best!)
• Keebler (or other) “Ready Crust” unbaked pre-made pie crust
• Either 1 9″ pie crust (if you want one pie) or 3 packages of the MINI Graham Cracker Pie crusts – they come 6 to a package – that’s what makes the MINI pies!
• Corn Syrup (we use light – Karo’s, or other)
• Eggs (you only need 3)
• Sugar (you only need 1 cup)
• Margerine (only a tablespoon)
• Vanilla extract (optional)
• A small amount of french roast coffee (optional, but it’s the secret “french twist”)

You probably could go with a smaller package of pecans (they’re expensive – 1 pound is about $6.50 to $8) but we love pecans, and like our pies chock-full of them.

As for the French Roast – if you’re a coffee drinker, you’re going to be adding anywhere from 1/4 cup to 1/2 cup of strong French Roast to your nutty brew. If you don’t like even a hint of coffee flavor, then you can skip that (and go with the traditional vanilla extract). Any bold brew of coffee will do; I’m partial to French Roast or Italian Roast.

Notes from the underground (Elves-R-Us)

When you are elfen in stature (that’s moi) you tend to enjoy little surprises and minute details. I just wanted to share this one.

When I was looking for a picture of the ready crusts, I went to the Keebler site. It’s a hoot! You should stop by, enter the underground elfen world through their little door, and enjoy how cleverly they are displaying their products. It’s fun! And who doesn’t love an elf this time of year? (It brought back happy memories of my kids during their Legend of Zelda addiction phase, but with different music.)

One more detail: I am not receiving coupons or compensation of any sort for any product mentions. (Those of you who know me know – not my style.) There are many superb products available. I write about what we use, because it’s what I know, is affordable for us, and available in our region.

More later. Now go shopping before the grocery stores are jammed!

OKAY I’M BACK! More later is right now!

These are not fancy cookbook instructions. They are do-it-by-the-seat-of-your-pants (in good heels) instructions. A little trial and error. Lots of sniff and taste. AND HAVE FUN. Do it with your kids! Impossible to wreck this recipe.

Directions:

• Beat together 3 large eggs, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup light or dark corn syrup, in a medium bowl.
• Takes 5 minutes, max.
• Melt 1 tbsp of margerine, add that.
• If you like vanilla (and not coffee), add 1 tsp vanilla extract.
• If you want that “French Twist” (it’s subtle), skip the vanilla.
• Instead, brew a cup of fresh, strong French Roast. Add 1/4 cup to the bowl. (Drink the rest.)
• Because of the extra liquid, you may need to add a bit more sugar.
• So just throw in a little bit more! A tablespoon or two.
• (Smell and taste. If you want more coffee flavor, some of which disappears in the baking, add a bit more coffee and a bit more sugar. Note – this is not for diabetics!)
• Most recipes say to add 1 cup of pecans. I double that! Add as many pecans as you’d like!

Mix up everything. It should be goopy, not too runny. Spoon it into the little ready crust pie shells. (Take off the plastic! Keep the aluminum…) Don’t fill absolutely to the top or everything bubbles over and makes a mess! Set the little pies on a cookie sheet and bake in a 350 degree oven. (Put aluminum foil on the cookie sheet if you’re lazy about cleaning up, like I am.)

Mini pies cook more quickly than one large pie. Check after 10 minutes or so. Keep peeking. They may need to go about between 18 and 20 minutes. Don’t overcook; better to undercook a bit. You’ll know when they’re done! (The knife trick, mentioned below.)

Take them out, let them cool, and enjoy. If they bubble and spill over – fine! They’re still delish!

If you want to do one large pie, use a ready crust and pour the entire mix into the pie shell. Baking time (also 350 degrees) is 45 minutes to 55 minutes. Poke a knife in the middle. If it comes out clean (nothing stuck to it)  – you’re done!

(Peek at the finished pecan pies and the turkey dinner here.)

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

What makes you cry?

Weepy. That was me, yesterday. Tears of joy, and yes – sentimentality. Remembering poignant moments when my sons were younger, and realizing that my second little bird will fly the nest before I know it. Tears, and more tears. All good.

What makes you cry?

Men and tears

Boys don’t cry.

How many times have we heard that uttered as an instruction, or said it ourselves? We teach boys to display a more restrictive set of emotions than girls.

My own sons (raised by me) were encouraged to feel and express a breadth of emotions – and certainly saw their share from me. I also taught them that what is fine in private is not necessarily fine in public. Tears were allowed. Still, they stopped crying in the tween years. I’ve seen them cry since, but it is rare. Because of that, when it happens, I know the pain is extreme.

Women and tears

I won’t say that girls and women cry all the time, but we aren’t judged for crying. So we do so, more often and more easily. Perhaps because we do so more often and more easily, we aren’t judged for crying?

Crying is one of the few ways in which women have greater freedom than men. In fact, it is often expected that we cry at weddings, films, memories, or over stress. Some of us do. Some of us don’t. Do our tears help?

I have known men who cry

As babies and children, crying is as natural as laughing. What happens as we grow up, especially to our men?

In my recent years of dating and relationships, I have encountered men who cry. It’s not an everyday experience, but I find the honesty of the emotion reassuring, along with the willingness to express it. To me, vulnerability is a plus, not a weakness.

Emotions make us uncomfortable

We live in a culture where emotions make us uncomfortable. Happiness? Fine. Anger? Ironically, also acceptable. My observation: when a woman might cry (appropriately), a man will display anger. Perhaps because what’s acceptable in a woman is less so in a man? A cultural shortcoming?

We know how to respond to smiles. They’re infectious – and who doesn’t want to feel good and be happy? We’re less equipped to deal with someone’s grief, sadness, or confusion. We’re less able to listen, to embrace, to console. Tears make us uncomfortable.

Do we need more skills in expressing and responding to a broader set of natural human behaviors and emotions?

When is it appropriate and acceptable to cry?

A breakup, an injury, a death, or the jubilation of a long-awaited event are all appropriate reasons to shed a tear. We are allowed to cry when someone dies, or abandons us. We are allowed to celebrate life with tears, and we may do so (in moderation) in public, and in private.

Where do we stow our emotions when they are disallowed? The extreme  frustrations and pressures that we face daily – in jobs, with kids, with spouses and partners when things are on a rocky path? Especially if we’re tired or in physical discomfort, which adds more stress to the mix?

Wouldn’t it be easier to shed a tear of joy, or pain, and experience the release that comes afterward?

In your experience -

• What do you think of men who cry, or who never cry?
• What do you think of women who cry too much?
• Do you cry more since you’ve had children?
• Do you cry in front of your children?
• Did you ever see your father cry?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Joy Part 3: Phone, mail, doorbell, all teens accounted for

Season of joy? Any time, any place. Peek at Joy Part 1, and Joy Part 2, if you haven’t. This is (for now) the last of today’s trilogy of tiny moments filled with the best sort of joy.

Phone call

About an hour ago I received an unexpected phone call from a West Coast friend who took the day off. He was in a chipper mood, chatty, and was headed to a real French boulangerie for pain au chocolat.

I asked him to pretend he was a tourist in his own city, use his cell to snap a photo, and send it to me. I want to enjoy that pastry vicariously! And see him enjoying it. Even now, I’m closing my eyes and imagining those flaky layers, that drizzle of dark chocolate… of course my jeans are tightening around my hips as I begin to salivate. But that’s okay. I love when a friend calls in a happy mood. Besides, I’ve got a red balloon on my ceiling. It’s a good day.

Mail

I received an email from a very old friend (no, he’s not old; we’ve known each other many years). His family has had some challenges of late (health), and all is well. A brand new life, that struggled to make its way into the world, is thriving.

Joy.

Doorbell

No one ever rings my doorbell! In fact, it makes me jump!

“Who’s there?” I ask.

(To quote Julia Roberts, I’m a safety girl. Granted, she was talking about condoms and this is a doorbell, but you can never be too safe, right?)

“Delivery,” he says.

I flash to Landshark!

I peek through the blinds. Indeed. A delivery truck, and it’s local. Gourmet goodies of some sort. I open the door.

“Are you Ms. Big?” (Just go with me here… let’s pretend that’s my name.)

“Yes,” I say.

“This is for you.”

He hands me a small box, tied with a neat brown ribbon that is lettered in gold with the name of the shop. There’s a card. I open it. The package is from my son, who is 900 miles away. My son who cannot come home for Thanksgiving, and he knows it’s as hard on me as it is on him.

The card reads: Breathe. Relax. Enjoy. I love you Mom.

And I weep. Again. 

All teens accounted for

As of noon today, my 16-year old has filled me with joy at his thoughtfulness. He is safely at school, by this time past the torture of a calculus exam and on to the pleasure of selecting works from his portfolio for an art show. My older son (who called as well) is far away, but as usual, is telepathic and remarkably so. This is how it has always been between us; he is tucked inside the lining of my heart, reading my rhythms before I am aware of them myself. Inexplicably. And when he tells me to slow down, I listen.

So I will breathe, relax, and enjoy the holiday this week, even though he won’t be here at the table with his brother and me.

What was in the box? It hardly matters. The card alone was gift enough. But inside are chocolate dipped strawberries and orange wedges for our holiday dessert.

And last evening’s gathering of ten teens in the living room for a so-called study group? Despite the hovel I call a home, no adolescents were irretrievably lost, or injured.

All accounted for. And for a parent, that is irrepressible joy.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Joy Part 2: You’re a wall. Here’s a can of Krylon. Now what?

What if you were a wall, a blank canvas, a work of art yet to be created?

If you haven’t already, peek at Joy Part 1, and then…

Imagine… You are a broad expanse of wall – indoors or outside – material of your choice, and located anywhere in the world you’d like. Your surface is ideal for absorbing images and words, and showing them off as your own personal masterpiece. Showing off yourself as your own masterpiece. Now what?

Create yourself! Feel the joy!

Here’s a can of Krylon spray paint. Go!

What? One won’t do?

Okay then, select five, and enjoy your afternoon. Decorate yourself! Some of you have done it already – in smaller spaces – with tattoos. Some of you dream of having the courage to do it with tattoos. (And some of us would rather be a wall, and skip the tattoos, thanks.)

Well this is your chance to get wild! Cover yourself entirely, or leave areas untouched. You are the blank canvas: pure graffiti, figures, markings, quotes, formulas, diagrams, masses of color, quotations, T-accounts, HTML if you like!

So tell me -

• Are you an outdoor wall or an indoor wall?
• Where are you located, and how are you lit?
• What colors have you chosen?
• Have you asked for help in creating yourself?
• Who do you want helping you?
• If you were a painting, which painting would you be?

Do drop in to visit later this afternoon (I’ll have coffee waiting), and then describe what you’ve become. Tell me what adventures have taken place in your afternoon of painting. Declare yourself – visually, texturally. See what happens.

For fun:

This is a TOTALLY fun site where you can experience Jackson Pollock and the pleasure of splattering and dripping. It’s a blast! Give it a shot.

As for me…

I’m going to think about this, too. I may be in a very hot ruby red mood, masses of brilliant, clashing color. Yes. That’s what I’d like today, with a gentle, smooth surface, and light line scrawled through me. You need to approach to read me, to decipher the cursive that I will wear draped, dribbled, laced and luxuriant.

More than that? I don’t know yet. But I’ll ponder it, slowly, and otherwise, spend this day in the moment. Picturing paintings by Vlaminck, Matisse, Jorn, de Kooning, Guston, and the wrenching masterpieces of Michel Macréau. Color and emotion. Glorious, exuberant, mysterious, rambunctious, sprawling, enigmatic, mystical, mythical moments. I’m feeling fauve. Joyfully.

Just because.

• Your artistic self?
• Your unspoken, truest portrait for all to see?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Joy Part 1: Red balloon on the ceiling

Always look up

First there were balloons. All over the kitchen. I wept. Then I looked up, and laughed. There was a red balloon on the ceiling. How did he do that? Then I cried again, got the coffee going, and went to take a shower. My sweet son.

Then there was the shower. Oh. So. Good.

Skinny jeans

What is it with women and their skinny jeans?

I’ve been in my fat jeans for three months. Black ones (to make me look skinnier). Come on, you know the drill. They are a size 6, but they’re my fat jeans, and don’t forget, I’m teeny tiny. Happily, they have been looser these past weeks. Stress. This morning I grabbed my skinnier jeans – real jeans – and put them on. They’re not the skinny jeans, but these are my skinnier jeans. Size four.

And they button, zip, and I can breathe. Even. Sitting. Down.

Joy.

Slow rush. Slow rush. Slow rush.

I sipped my Italian roast while drying my hair. I put on makeup (haven’t done that in a few days). Not too bad, I said to myself. (Rare, that I think I’m “not too bad.” Rarer still, that I have the audacity to say it to myself.)

I made my son’s lunch hurriedly, he threw it into his backpack, grabbed his portfolio, and we drove to school in the rain. Yes, rain, again. But this morning, there were no frightening left turns (like this weekend). No new gray hairs.

Parental Pride Points

Last week I told my son I wanted to take him out this week, to an exceptional and entertaining restaurant he has been dying to try (it’s heavenly). But the prices correspond to “exceptional and entertaining.” In other words, not in the UnBudget. He’s been achieving so much, so fast, and working so hard – I want to do this for him. For us. And I cannot, should not. Even as I struggle to find a way for him to redeem all those Parental Pride Points he’s been racking up lately.

“I know I told you we might go out tonight or tomorrow,” I said. “But I’m worried about the money. I have steak in the freezer. I could make that for dinner.”

“No, Mom,” he replied, navigating the last turn on the way to school. “Let me make dinner tonight. For you. We’ll have omelettes.”  And he makes the best omelettes on the planet.  My sweet son.

Slow poke

Driving home, I usually have to navigate scurrying squirrels and dog walkers. I frequently stop while a confused furry rascal darts around and eventually gets to the curb. This morning, I had to stop for a bird!

Apparently, he was in no hurry, and was simply walking across the street. I swear – he strolled. And I waited. Story of my life.

Joy.

Sleep

Last night, remarkably, I slept seven uninterrupted hours. I have no idea why.

Bliss.

More to come…

It is going to be a good day. I never dare think that way. Conditioning. I worry about angering “the universe” with such impudence. But despite the rain, and all the things to get done today, I can feel it. There is more to come. Check back. Soon. We’ll have coffee, and visit. And be joyful.

What brings you joy?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Is humor genetic?

Take one smidge of Kathy Griffin, add a dollop of Robin Williams, then a sprinkling of George Carlin. What do you get? A personal mix of madness, and a loopy laugh track based on… what?

I find each of these comedians to be funny, or have, at different points in time. But my sons’ humor? One loves quirky parables and wordplay. The other finds cartoons and mimicry hilarious. How did that happen? What do kids find funny and why?

The arm bone’s connected to the… funny bone…

How to explain the differences in my sons’ humor – that one loves comic strips and physical comedy, while the other goes for more intellectual fare – brain teasers and smart sarcasm? It’s been that way since they were little, yet they were raised in the same household, are close in age, and the same gender. 

I used to think humor was purely learned and cultural, but having my own kids has shown me otherwise. Is humor genetic? Is it nature or nurture? Or utterly inexplicable?

Icons of sixties and seventies sitcoms

Thinking back to my childhood, I recall my dad listening to Mel Brooks and Bill Cosby on LPs (yes, vinyl) and I remember a great deal of affectionate teasing at family gatherings. Humor was part of the household, with heavy emphasis on puns and double-entendres, with more than a bit of bawdier fare by adolescence.

While some of my friends enjoyed the Stooges, I couldn’t stomach them and still can’t. But Mary Tyler Moore, Dick Van Dyke, a curmudgeonly Carl Reiner or Ed Asner – for me, irresistible. I also remember George Carlin, and the late 70s antics of John Belushi, Gilda Radner,  Dan Akroyd and other talents with lines ingrained in my memory. (Landshark!) Then there are a handful of deadpan (word-oriented) French comics who leave me laughing breathlessly.

Where does humor come from?

But I still wonder, where does sense of humor come from?

Cultural influences – family, friends, books, films, schooling – all contribute to our perspectives in everything. And knocking them, mocking them, turning them inside out and highlighting their peculiarities – those form our humor hot spots, and become our humor heritage.

But how do you explain siblings from the same household with dramatically different styles of humor? One who likes slapstick and another who manipulates words? The prankster and the mimic? Is the proverbial funny bone as individual and mysterious as one child’s talent for math and another’s gift for art? Are we  in some way predisposed to find certain things amusing?

Laugh until you cry

In tough times, humor keeps us afloat. All hands on deck, all bodies on board, and there are plenty of styles to choose from. For some of us, our romantic choices are more influenced by funny than money; shared laughter is essential.

Good thing, too. On a bad day, a wacky blog post, great stand-up, or a clever commercial can be just what the doctor ordered, without having to file an insurance claim! As for the funny bone actually being a humor gene? Why not?

Currently unable to pursue this area of research (tipsy or otherwise), I’ll just settle for enjoying those times when my children and their friends fill the house with laughter, whatever the reason, even adult humor – precocious devils that they are. And, um… the fact that I allowed my kids to watch South Park when they were quite young surely has nothing to do with their advanced forays into humoristic realms. Hey – those spunky little characters are equal opportunity offenders… 

So where do kids get their sense of humor?

• Do you have funny kids?
• Do you have funny pets?
• Are they funny with you or with others?
• Can you tell where they get their humor from?
• What fills your home with laughter?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Why teenagers should have parties… in spite of their parents

Scared to death to let your teen have a party? Don’t be.

You could say it’s old hat around here (and I don’t mean my gorgeous $2 estate sale hat), but the thought of any teen gathering is enough to set the parental teeth on edge, the slivers of gray to pop out overnight, and the worry line between the brows to deepen. But it’s not that bad. A little planning before, clean-up after, and no need to double up on the therapy sessions as you hold your head in your hands and wonder how you ever agreed to such a thing!

The veteran’s viewpoint on single parenting teens

Around this homestead, teenage parties have been going on for a few years. They were (until recently) the exclusive domain of my elder son, who is now a freshman in college. Let’s just say, there was a blow-out party early in the year in which I was outnumbered (but survived), and then I lost my summer to round-the-clock teenage tête-à-têtes, that tended to last for days and nights and more days than I could count…

A single parent? Think it’s going to be harder? Not necessarily, but if you can get a few extra adult hands (ears, and eyes) to assist, it couldn’t hurt.

We’ve only just begun

Apparently, we’ve only just begun. It’s time for Round 2, with my 16-year old son, as he asked for his first party (with 48 hours notice) about 10 days ago. I was definitely the Teen Party Planner (the Mad Hatter?), but he took the initiative in offering to clean up before and after, which countered possible objections before they even tumbled out of my mouth. (Smart kid.)

I will admit that particular Saturday was a long day (he did most of the work, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t things I had to do). And, honestly, it was an even longer night. But it was a good night.

Teaching kids responsibility

Why was yet one more sleep-deprived night “good” in any respect?

Kids need to learn about responsibility – and not just relative to schoolwork and chores, but in the social realm as well. That includes playing host, and watching out for safe behaviors – their own – and that of friends.

My 16-year old wanted a party, committed to cleaning, keeping it to a specified number of pals, and maintaining control. And you know what? He kept his word. And  judging by the laughter that came from the backyard, all ten kids had a terrific time.

Why is the worry and expense worth the bother?

I admit that I sat up (what parent wouldn’t?) – peeking outside, and later, when they were inside as well. Come Sunday morning, I only climbed over the expected bodies my son forewarned me about, which allowed his friends to party late, with no one driving in the wee hours. I even had the unexpected pleasure of an hour’s conversation with one of my son’s new friends. He’s a great kid, and I had company over coffee and fresh-baked rolls while the others slept!

And this is why teenagers should have parties – in spite of their parents:

• Teens need a chance to exercise responsibility.
• That means giving their word and keeping it.
• Expenses can be shared, and kept to a minimum.
• They learn lessons in budgeting, and the importance of a dollar.
• When teens want something, they’ll earn it, and follow guidelines.
• Teenage reputations matter. That includes giving parties.

Now, for the latest update

My son just informed me (yesterday) that it’s “our turn” to host his study group. Sunday afternoon and evening. Ten kids. Uh-huh. Does he sound like a, um… wolf in sheep’s clothing?

So it goes. Only this time they’ll be bringing a few books, to make it all look legit.

Have you had your teenage parties yet?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

The restorative powers of sleep. (Not.)

Sleep, with all its remarkable restorative powers – to renew, to recharge, to dream. Then we wake refreshed, and begin a new day. 

No. There are no restorative powers of sleep for me, only restless legs, flailing about, waking repeatedly, disturbing dreams. The morning. Too soon.

A knock on my door. It is not yet dawn. “Yes, who is it?” I say. I sit up in bed. But there was no knock, and the alarm won’t buzz for more than an hour as I’ve been yanked from a place that is warm, though sorrowful. There was a child in my arms and now the child is gone. So I begin what is a mechanical routine: I shuffle to the kitchen, wash my hands, spoon coffee into the filter, add water from the tap, flick the switch.

Morning, and interrupted sleep

Morning arrives unrelenting, as it has since the years of babies waking and needing to be fed. My babies are young men now, yet the insomnia persists in cycles. I’ve grown accustomed to its rhythms; I work around them.

I watch the coffee as it drips, realizing how chilly it is. I return to the bedroom and I try to find a way back to my dreaming. I am always looking for a way back to something, to see more closely.  

Restless sleep, restless legs, active dreaming

Sleep is the unreliable lover. The oldest burden, since childhood, this waking frequently and much too soon. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I pace. Bits of dream may enliven me, so I let them roll around on my tongue and brighten my day in its infancy, even at three in the morning. Darker bits of nightmare are bothersome, like rough morsels of food caught between your teeth. They irritate. They are not nourishing. Then I rush to the bathroom to turn on lights and brush my teeth. To rinse away the foulness.

I open my laptop and try to channel these first thoughts waking, to make sense of them, to dance with them, poking, cajoling, now pulling at a fingertip to reveal the hand, coaxing the hand into the light. Now the arm, the shoulder, the torso, so I may have more, know more, surround myself with more images, comforting even in shadow.

The coffee is ready.  An old machine can still do its job.

Using dreams to understand ourselves

• What do we whisper to ourselves in sleep that we cannot articulate awake?
• What passages are we invited to enter, however dimly lit?
• Why can’t we hang on to the clarity, take those steps, our eyes newly opened?

In my dreams, there are rarely discernible features, though I know who inhabits each body. I know when I am inside an unfamiliar figure, another mind, another set of limbs, another sex. This is freedom: a kind of soaring while retaining the self, able to light inside an alien skin. In my dreams, only strangers have faces. They own their eyes, they own their noses, they own their lips that part when they utter a sound.

Sometimes, I travel to places I have lived. I travel through time and visit those who are gone. Sometimes I can speak to them as an adult. Sometimes I am still a child and mute, or an adult and mute. Sometimes, I try to claw my way out of the dream knowing that I am not awake, knowing that I have missed an opportunity. To demand respect, or explanations.

I wake at a loss. I wake remembering. But I am writing now. Perhaps this is the dream.

The power of dreams

Do you sleep well? Do you remember your dreams? Are your populations recognizable?

These are questions I’ve been known to ask near-strangers. At times they look at me oddly, but I genuinely want a response. To know a man, I want the retelling of his dreams. I want their imprint in his own words, a suggestion of their mysteries. I need to know if my lover will sleep coolly through my flailing, or lay his quiet hand against my skin, and will himself inside of me.

First dream, first waking

First dream in my first waking: I am clutching a small pillow. Not leaning on it as I usually do, because of my weak arm and shoulder. Clinging to it for dear life, holding it close to me like a child, my child, as though someone is trying to pry him away.

I had fallen asleep dressed, to the noise of the television; as I dragged myself out of the darkness I tell myself  “I am in  a dream. I am comfortable here. But I cannot straighten my arms or I will drop this tiny pillow. If I drop this pillow, then I can fly.”

Second dream, second waking

Second dream in my second waking: a butterfly, a flicker of lightning. Then nothing. I toss the covers aside, hot. I pull them over me again, cold. My legs bristle. The light is gone.

Third dream, morning rising

Third dream in my morning rising: I am somewhere in the countryside, rural America, as though in a photograph by Walker Evans or Dorothea Lange. I stand on a worn front porch, a house of silvery, splintering clapboard. Everything is black and white and gray. My skin is gray. I have a face that is not my own, hair that is not my own, a furrowed brow, creases along my down-turned mouth.

This is despair, the Great Depression, the time of my mother’s stories. Now I think: You may dismiss me, but at last you will see me, you will listen, you will not be fooled. This is the face of the poor. I know that it frightens you.

I hold a child, leaned on my hip to spare my arms. She is another woman’s child; I have a house full of sons and this is a daughter, a toddler, smiling and dressed in a bright pink pinafore with a little white collar. She has ruddy cheeks and a runny nose. She is the spot of color against the shades of gray, raising a tiny hand as I lift my free arm to wave. “I will take care of her,” I say, to a woman walking away. 

Why do we dream?

Are we powerful in our dreams? Or are we powerless to fight them? Is that their magnificence, that we must stay and participate, that we cannot run away without retaining something of their gift?

Outside it is 39 degrees. There will be frost on the windshield, red leaves flaming against a piercing, liquid sky. It is my autumn, and it is daylight.

© D A Wolf