June 27, 2005

Anne Glamore Fails To Protect Her Young

Fonzie let me down.

In fact, it’s because of the Fonz that I fear that I will be pulling out the books I purchased months ago:Who Am I? Where Did I Come From? (for Drew and Porter) and It’s So Amazing! (for Finn).

I bought the books because I wanted to be ready with scientific answers as soon as any of the boys asked a challenging question that would require a response more detailed than, “When a mom and dad love each other, they pray and ask God to give them a baby, and he makes one or two grow in the mom’s tummy, and then when it’s time, the doctors cut open her stomach and pull the baby out! Yes, it really hurts a whole lot!”

Thanks to the Fonz, I took the books from the dark recesses of my closet and put them under my bed, because I am positive I’m going to be needing them soon.

I’m sure you’ve gathered that I’m a hard ass mom. One of the areas in which I am particularly militant is the television. I harbor an overwhelming prejudice against almost everything that’s on TV. I have gone to great lengths to shield my children from a lot of the crap that’s shown. I severely limit their consumption of even the Disney Channel and Nickelodeon, and I have outlawed the Rugrats altogether because they do not have good manners.

Under normal circumstances, the boys get no television during the week, and one hour each on Saturday and Sunday. We do make exceptions when there are major events, such as a Presidential speech, the Tour de France, or the World Series. We enforce the rules pretty consistently. The point of all of this is twofold: to encourage reading and playing outside, and to shield them from sex and violence.

Earlier this month, when it started raining and didn’t stop for over two weeks, my attitude towards the television softened somewhat, as I realized the necessity of getting the boys out of the mud, into the basement and away from me for an extended period of time.

I found myself roaming the aisles at the video store, looking for something that would keep the boys happy in the basement and out of my way without turning their brains to sawdust. That is how I happened to rent the first season of Mork & Mindy.

I chose it because I have double standards. Anything I watched as a child had to be fine for my children to watch, because I turned out to be such a highly productive adult. Every night my sisters and I got to pick one show to watch, so I grew up on a diet of
“Happy Days,” “Laverne and Shirley,” “Mork and Mindy,” “Hee-Haw,” “Lawrence Welk,” “The Love Boat,” and other gems from the 1970’s.

Despite all this viewing, my brain did not turn to mush. I learned to read, did well in school, and most would say I lead a normal life. I figured the boys could watch hours of “Mork and Mindy” without any ill effect.

I brought the DVD home, and the boys and I spent the next two hours on the sofa, howling with laughter at Mork’s crazy antics. We were like real couch potatoes, but without the soft drinks and Cheetos, because of course I do not let the boys eat in the den. I’m mean like that.

We watched as Mork fell in love with a mannequin, tried to register as an illegal alien, learned about Christmas, and narrowly escaped being put in a mental institution, all while wearing a striped T-shirt with suspenders decorated with novelty pins.

The boys immediately started imitating Mork: they greeted each other with “nanoo, nanoo” and Porter started saying “shazbot!” instead of “tartar sauce!” when he was mad. We watched the whole first season, and the rain showed no signs of letting up.

I returned to the video store and rented “Happy Days.” I brought it home and told the guys it was just as funny as “Mork and Mindy” and that they would really enjoy it. Bill was still in trial, so I went out for a night with the ladies and had my babysitter, Miss Amy, come. She’s a big, enthusiastic blond twenty-something who’s always up for a game of PIG, or building a fort, and the boys adore her.

The next morning, I asked Finn what he and Miss Amy had done while I was gone.

“Well, we decided to see what “Happy Days” was like and we watched some of that,” he said.

“How was it?” I asked, remembering Richie, Fonzie, Potsie and Mr. C with nostalgia.

“You were right, Mom. It was so funny,” Finn said. “But it was kinda inappropriate. Actually, it was the most inappropriate thing we’ve seen on TV except for kissing.”

My heart quickened.

“It was?” I asked.

“Yeah. See, Potsie and Richie were in the bathroom at Arnold’s, and Richie had a date. And they were talking about getting a girl’s bra off, because you know how sometimes guys want to do that for some reason? Anyway, Potsie pulls out this huge bra and they put it around this concrete thing and Richie practices trying to undo it, and he never can do it.”

I nodded, wondering how this had aired on prime time in the 70’s, and more importantly, how I had failed to remember it.

“Then the Fonz walks in,” Finn continued, “and he asks what they are doing, and they are like, ‘oh, nothing.’ And Potsie and Richie walk out and the Fonz looks at the bra and just reaches over and barely touches it and it comes open so easy. Then he looks at himself in the mirror and says, ‘ayyyy,’” Finn finished, laughing.

I wasn’t quite sure what to say next. I didn’t want to leave the topic unaddressed and have Finn roaming around the neighborhood seeking information about bra removal techniques, so I asked him, “So why do you think they wanted to learn how to take off a girl’s bra?”

Finn shrugged. “I don’t know, Mom,” he said. “It’s completely nuts! Who would want to do that?”

“I can’t imagine anyone who would want to do that,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh.

Finn peered at me closely. “Did Daddy try to do that to you when y’all were dating?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” I said firmly.

“Good. That would be really gross if he had,” Finn said, and he walked downstairs and started practicing his drums.

Based on his reaction to bra removal, I fear my oldest may have a coronary when he actually reads Isn’t It Amazing and finds out what Mom and Dad have really been up to.

June 22, 2005

The Virtual Book Club

If you have read many of my posts, you might have gathered that I am a big reader. So I’d be a natural for a book club, wouldn’t I?

It turns out that in theory a book club is a great idea, but in practice I can never seem to keep it up. It’s all my fault. I’m just no good at clubs.

Inevitably, I end up getting ticked off with one or members of the club, such as Light Reading Girl (the girl with the perfect manicure, whose children wear matching smocked clothes even at playtime. She suggests that the club devote a month reading and an entire evening discussing such challenging books as “Bergdorf Blondes.”) or Complaining Girl (She is quick to criticize other members’ book suggestions, but oddly, does not offer up any of her own. Her mere presence dampens the festivities, as all other members become afraid to suggest future reading material and become the target of her biting tongue.)

My idea of the perfect club would be one in which I was the queen. (I’m always happiest when I am the queen.) I could suggest good books for others to read, and listen to suggestions from others.

Then it occurred to me that I already have a kingdom, and plenty of visitors who do not fall into the above categories. So every now and then I’ll put out a few books I have loved, and you can do the same. On your own time!

If it makes you feel better, pour yourself a glass of wine and get some cheese and crackers while you join The Virtual Book Club. I have a couple of categories you may not use in your run-of-the-mill book groups.

1. Dusty Books I Should Read But Have Not

You know how there’s a book with a lot of buzz and you just can’t get fired up about it? This happened to me with The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Everyone I knew recommended it to me, and my sister gave me her copy and I put it on my bedside table. And there it sat. For months and months, until finally I packed only that book on a trip and was forced to read it. Guess what. I loved it. You should read it, too. I know– the cover is boring, and it’s about Afghanistan. Get over it. Just read the first chapter and you might love it, too.

Now, here are a couple of dusty books that are still staring at me, waiting for me to crack the cover. Are they worth it?

Memoirs of a Geisha : A Novel by Arthur Golden

A Soldier of the Great War by Mark Helprin

2. Some all time favorites:

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. I describe it as a cross between “Dead Poet’s Society” and “Lord of the Flies.” I hear her second book wasn’t nearly as good.

Two-Part Invention: The Story of a Marriage (The Crosswicks Journal, Book 4) by Madeleine L’Engle - yes, the “Wrinkle in Time” author. A beautiful story of her marriage.

Middlemarch by George Eliot. Long, but worth it.

Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year by Anne Lamott. A must for any new mother, so you know you’re not the only one who has considered throwing that crying baby out the window in the middle of the night.

Second Opinions: Stories of Intuition and Choice in the Changing World of Medicine by Jerome Groopman. I’ve had too much personal experience with doctors and hospitals, and this book drives home the importance of following your intuition, asking questions, and taking charge of your own health care, not simply relying on everything the doctor tells you. Each chapter is a separate patient story, so it is easy to read.

Parent Power! by John Rosemond. He can be hardcore at times, so modify as needed. I have worn out this book with my three boys. And when I watch them break a glass and immediately go get the broom, or sort the laundry into lights and darks, I feel good for myself and my future daughters-in-law. Give yourself permission to make your kids vacuum!

3. The Book That Will Not Die

Many years ago, I read and enjoyed The Alienist by Caleb Carr. It’s a murder mystery set in New York City in the late 1800s. I really thought Bill would like it. He took it on our honeymoon and read two chapters. The next year, he took it to the beach and read the same two chapters. He took it on golf trips (back when he golfed) beach trips, and trips to see his family every holiday. He threw it in the suitcase when we went on out tenth anniversary trip, and did not open it at all.

He still takes it on every vacation we go on, and I am optimistic that he will conquer The Alienist before Finn goes to college.

4. Mindless Beach Read

Daughter of God by Lewis Perdue was a good read. It’s a thriller along the lines of The Rule of Four or The Da Vinci Code, but I thought it was better.

Okay, book club members. I have shared about 1% of my book recommendations with you, so stay tuned for more. In the meantime, help me out!

Anne Glamore, Book Club Queen

June 13, 2005

I’m Drowning…..

I haven’t written lately. The rain has gotten in the way.

Lots and lots and lots of rain. Everyday. And just when we thought the rain was over, the remnants of Hurricane Arlene came over, bringing still more rain. Worse, Bill has been scarce, getting ready for trial. It’s been me and the boys and the rain.

Summer can be stressful with three boys around even when the sun is shining. But in good weather, I can command a boy to go run ten laps around the house as punishment. I can send the duo outside to collect 78 roly-polys. That takes at least an hour. I can encourage races to release unbearable energy.

If I’m having a bad mothering moment, I can set a timer for two hours, and tell all three boys to stay outside until the timer goes off.

I really can’t do any of those things when it rains. At least, not where I live. I would if I lived in the country, far from prying eyes, but our street gets just enough traffic that some nosy person would see the boys running laps in the rain and call Child Protective Services, or my mom.

So I have spent the last two weeks cooped up inside with three boys following me around, asking questions, and stirring up trouble. We have read books, colored, journaled, made Lego creations, cooked, seen “Madagascar,” napped, and driven each other berserk.

Even Porter, ever faithful, started to lose a little faith, as he prayed for sunshine every night and was greeted by a fresh deluge each morning. He was solid enough, however, not to be fooled when the Weather Channel warned of the possibility of flash floods accompanying Arlene.

“That man is wrong,” Porter declared. “God promised he would never ever flood the earth again,” he said with a certainty that no one else in the Tiny Kingdom was feeling.

Arlene swept through last weekend with wind and more rain, and it rained so hard that people just stayed home. At that point, I decided that it was safe to command the boys to go run around the house and stay outside until I called them to come in. I figured if I was lucky they’d get wet enough that I would not have to bathe them that night.

Meanwhile, I cleaned closets. After an hour or so, I came out of my room and was surprised to see Finn standing outside the front door of the house, in the middle of the lawn, completely naked, with a stopwatch in his hand.

The twins were standing on the front porch, out of the rain, clothed, laughing hysterically.

Upon investigation, I discovered that Porter had bet Finn $6 that he would not stand in the rain naked for five minutes. Finn won that bet.

Later Porter won back a portion of his money by parading around the house with a pair of my panties on his head.

Drew kept both his money and his dignity.

I’d post the pictures of the bare-assed shenanigans, but I’m afraid that we’d receive an unwelcome invitation to Neverland Ranch as a result.

June 7, 2005

Anne Glamore Commits Le Fashion Faux Pas

There’s been a trend towards dressing down in the past few
years. Casual Fridays are the norm at many offices. Jeans are now
considered dressy if you wear them with a flirty top and heels. But
while fancy restaurants and corporations have been relaxing their dress
codes, I recently discovered an unlikely place that has suddenly
imposed a dress code where there was none before, catching many of us
by surprise.

I was so rattled by these changes that I guess you could say I behaved oddly, but I don’t know what else someone in my situation would have done.

Apparently the new millennium has wrought some changes in the
skating world, and not for the better, in my opinion. Yesterday I went straight from the ballpark,
where Finn had a game, to the skating rink to pick up Drew and Porter from a skating party. It’s hot at the ballpark, and I was wearing a colorful skirt, brown sandals, and a ruffly top with thick straps over each shoulder.

When I walked in, I checked with the woman at the front door
to see which room the party was in. The woman was wearing teeny tiny
denim shorts and a tight T-shirt dedicated to Jeff Gordon. Her
fingernails were salmon with flowers painted on the tips.

I could see my blond headed boys skating behind her, so I pushed on the glass door to enter the rink.

“Hold it right there, missy,” Mrs. Fingernails said to me. “You can’t go in there like that.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“You’re indecent. We have a dress code. You need to go back home and put on a T-shirt,” she said, gesturing to a new sign above her head.

It said: “Dress Code: No spaghetti straps. All straps must be at least two inches wide.”

I looked at Mrs. Fingernails in her too tight T-shirt, and down at my Gap camisole. It wasn’t held up by spaghetti straps, but they certainly were not two inches wide. I was at least twenty miles from home.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “I’ve been to Publix, the ballpark, and the church to decorate for Bible School in this shirt. Suddenly the skating rink thinks I’m indecent?”

The lady shrugged and said in her smoker’s voice, “Sorry hon. I don’t make the rules.”

I looked through the glass door and considered my options. I tried to catch Drew’s eye as he skated past, but he did not see me. Porter had wandered off somewhere and it was evident I was going to have to go inside to round them up.

When Mrs. Fingernails bent under the counter to get a phonebook for another customer, I quietly slipped through the glass door. I was immediately accosted by a skinny boy with a bad case of acne. He was wearing a shirt with the skating rink logo on it and a badge that identified him as an employee.

He stopped in front of me and mumbled something. It was hard to hear him, but I did catch the words “shirt” and “dress code” and “change.” I stared vacantly at him, and in a burst of brilliance, performed the sign language movements to “The Rose” as I mouthed silently, “I must retrieve small blonde boys.” Then I walked on by. (I did learn something useful from “Napoleon Dynamite”.)

I found Drew quickly, pulled him out of his skates, plopped him into his shoes, and dragged him around as we searched for Porter. Unsurprisingly, Porter was at the food table eating the remnants of the birthday cake. As I told him we had to leave, I saw the acne faced kid out of the corner of my eye, so I punctuated my conversation with a few hand rolls and taps on my chest and head in the manner of Marlee Matlin.

“Why are you making those funny things with your hands?” Porter asked.

“Because the people at the skating rink don’t want me to be in here in this shirt,” I said, wiping icing from his face and pulling him off the chair.

“When people don’t want me to be somewhere, I don’t do funny things with my hands,” he said. “So why are you, Mom? Why Mom? Why are you doing funny things with your hands?”

“Shh,” I said.

Drew tapped me on the hip. He was trying to ask me something in his regular voice, which is very quiet. I bent down to hear him. “What’s wrong with your shirt?” Drew asked

We were getting close to the exit so I bent down to whisper to him.

“I’ll tell you when we get to the van,” I said.

As I straightened up, the acne faced kid was right in front of me. This time I could hear exactly what he said. “You are not deaf,” he said accusingly.

I stopped.

“What does deaf mean, Mom?” Porter asked. “What does it? What does deaf mean?”

My cover was blown.

I had already resolved that I was not going to return to a skating rink with such an outlandish dress code, so I figured I had nothing to lose.

I looked at him haughtily. “Je ne sais pas la tour de france et la croissant avec fromage,” I frenchified. “Je dois a la maison maintenant et tout de suite a la pas de deux de corps de ballet chassee!”

He stared at me.

I grabbed each twin and hurried toward the exit, still spouting the rest of my high school french vocabulary.

“Mon Dieu, le chat est noir et ma tete est tres mal,” I exclaimed as we hustled back through the glass door.

” Voila, j’aime la voiture dans la cafe au lait et La Louvre,” I finished as we ran through the outside door and ran to the van.

“What were you saying, Mom?” Porter asked as I buckled them in. “What were you? What Mom?”

“I was just telling the nice man thank you for the party and that we are very sorry that the skating rink is closing down,” I said. Although my answer was a lie, it made me look polite, not indecent, and it made it clear that we would not be returning to that skating rink again.

I saw Mrs. Fingernails in her tight shirt glaring at me as we loaded up. Had I told her the truly uncharitable things I was really feeling about that skating rink, I bet she would have pretended to be deaf, too.

June 1, 2005

Baseball Diaries: Anne Glamore: Team Counselor

Being team mom has evolved into much more than I had originally anticipated. It seems that in order to perform the job correctly, you need a background in counseling. I am also considering setting up office hours in which to take all the phone calls I have been getting.

I can claim victory in one area: no one has even blinked at having the players bring their own snacks and drinks to practices. On the other hand, the season has barely started, I have put a lot of work into the team, and it is not running like the well-oiled machine I envisioned. I blame this mainly on God and Coach Rob.

The weather has been disastrous, so many practices have been cancelled at the last minute on account of weather. The most frustrating aspect of the year so far, however, is Coach Rob’s inability to stick to the schedule.

Coach Rob originally gave us a printed schedule with all the practices and practice locations listed on it, but it turns out that the sheet was a hoax. Some of our practices were to take place at the elementary school field, and I soon discovered that Coach Rob has a deep hatred for that particular field. He believes that it is fine for school kids to play kickball or run on, but it is not conducive to holding the best possible third grade baseball practice.

Therefore, on the days that we are scheduled to practice at the elementary school, Coach Rob apparently spends most of the day calling all the other coaches in town, trying to locate 70 free minutes of field time at the high school field. Coach Rob is remarkably persistent, so he almost always succeeds.

The first time this happened, I had Finn dressed and everyone in the van, ready to pick up two other players and head to the elementary school when the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Anne, it’s Coach Rob,” he said, breathing heavily. “This is great! I got us a practice time at the high school in thirty minutes, so we won’t have to waste our time on that dumpy little field at the elementary school. Can you let the moms know?”

I was stunned into silence.

“Anne?” Rob asked. “Are you there?”

“Yes, I am here,” I said, “but barely. All over town, women are loading their players into their cars and heading for the elementary school field, like the schedule says. The high school is on the other side of town, and frankly, I do not think we’re going to be able to get in touch with anyone this close to practice.”

Coach Rob was undaunted. “Well, I guess you’re right. Why don’t we go to the elementary school and meet everyone and have them take their kids to the high school?”

“I think you’re going to piss off a lot of moms if you suggest that,” I answered honestly. “Most of those mothers have other children they are taking other places after they drop off at the elementary school, and a quick dash across town to the high school is not in their plans.”

“But practicing at the elementary school is like not practicing at all,” Coach Rob whined. “I have big plans for these kids. We’ve got to get them off to a strong start.”

“Coach Rob,” I said firmly, “you have two choices. You can hold practice at the elementary school as planned, which I highly recommend. Or you can meet the players at the elementary school and see if you and the other coaches have enough room to drive everyone to the high school, have your practice, and get them back to the elementary school at the time the original practice was supposed to end.”

Coach Rob was silent a moment. “That means we’d only get to practice about thirty minutes, once you subtract all the driving time,” he said glumly.

“That’s right,” I answered.

“You really think the moms would get mad if I told them to drive their kids to the high school?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, I know so,” I said.

That day, Coach Rob ended up holding practice at the elementary school, but he wasn’t happy about it.

A couple of days later, he tried the same switcheroo again, this time two hours before practice. He called at 3 pm and asked me to send out an email announcing that the practice would take place at the same time, but at the high school, rather than the elementary school. I kept my mouth shut and did as he asked, using the same principle I use with my children: it is better to learn from experience than to have someone tell you something will not work.

My email was brief and absolved me of any responsibility for such a wacky last minute change:

To: Allstar Team
From: Anne
Re: Practice Today is Changed

Coach Rob has asked me to inform you that today’s practice will take place today at 5 pm at the high school instead of the elementary school.

Anne

Coach Rob was shocked when only six players showed up at the high school. The remainder had followed the schedule and were at the elementary school. (Of the six players who went to the high school, I drove three and Coach Rob drove two, which meant that only one other mother had independently received the email).

Several mothers called me that night to complain about the deviation from the schedule and to emphasize the fact that they did not have computers in their SUVs, where they lived, and thus were unable to get late messages changing practice times. I gave them a sympathetic ear.

Coach Rob also called me that night to grumble about the fact that he had given what he considered adequate notice yet only half the team had made it to practice.

The “Let’s Get Acquainted” team party is coming up, and I did not want angry moms to bully Coach Rob instead of having fun eating hamburgers and drinking beer.

I decided it was time for an intervention. I told Coach Rob what was on my mind, and the next day I emailed the team.

To: Allstar Team
From : Anne

Re: Practice, Phone Tree, Remarks on male/female differences

1. Practice has been cancelled for today because of rain.

2. Attached please find a phone tree. As you may have noticed, Coach Rob really loves the high school field and hates the elementary school field and feels that our boys practice better at the former.

His decisions on practices are often made without much notice and therefore I am instituting a phone tree to be used if he makes changes to our printed schedule that take place so quickly that notice must be given by phone rather than email. Coach Rob is in charge of starting the phone tree.

3. WHEN is the phone tree most likely to be used?

WHENEVER we have a practice scheduled for the elementary school.

4. Male/female differences and how they apply to us

This is a good time to point out that besides obvious physical differences between males and females, there are differences in the ways men and women think about a lot of things. For example, a long time ago, my wonderful husband Bill failed to mark our 5th wedding anniversary in an appropriate way (fine jewelry).

His thinking, which I am sure the men reading this will appreciate, was that the anniversary was somewhat overshadowed by the fact that we had unexpectedly given birth to premature twins who were in the NICU, and I had been readmitted to the hospital for a postop infection. He may also have been distracted by Clinton’s bombing of an al-Quaeda cell in Africa at the same time.

In contrast, I realized that the anniversary was a special one, (as are all ending in 0 or 5) and I spent a lot of time on the phone arranging for a spectacular present for him, even though the IV in my arm somewhat hampered my dialing.

Bill and I have worked through this issue, and I raise it not to rag on him (for he is perfect in many ways), but only to illustrate how radically different those with testosterone and those with estrogen can view the same circumstances.

How does this apply to the baseball team? Listen closely.

Some mothers have been undone by the frequent changes in the baseball schedule recently. You men should know that women view a schedule as a paper that sets forth the exact time and location an event will take place, and deviations occur only in drastic circumstances. This is because the women have children OTHER THAN THOSE PLAYING BASEBALL and often plan their afternoons in the SUV down to the nanosecond in order to have all ballet dancers, musical instrument players, campers, babysitters, etc in the right PLACE at the right TIME. Even a small change in the schedule can cause the entire carefully calibrated system to disintegrate into a mass of crying children and screaming mothers.

On the other hand, the males, (and Coach Rob in particular) are focused on baseball and baseball only, and are doing their best to ensure that our players have a fabulous experience with stellar coaching and the best facilities possible. On behalf of the moms, let me say that OF COURSE we want that for our players as well and we are THRILLED with the commitment our coaches have shown thus far.

Coach Rob and I have had a little Mars/Venus conversation, and he fully understands the unforgivable schedules under which the moms operate. He has agreed to give reasonable notice (which I have defined as 24 hours) of future changes in the schedule to me, and I will get them out in an email. If his changes are last minute, he will start the phone tree and hope for the best in terns of players showing up on time at the correct field.

If he arranges a game with another team at their field, we’ll do our best to ease the carpooling by having coaches drive the kids to the field so you do not have a surprise trip to Springville sandwiched between ballet drop off and gymnastics pickup.

I think this is a fair compromise and should alleviate further problems.

If anyone thinks the team needs further counseling, please let me know and I will give a lecture on boundaries.

Go team!

Anne