When life gives you lemons

Many years ago, my daughter wanted to open a lemonade stand. Without a lot of thought, I assented. We made a quick pitcher of lemonade, I handed her some cups to go with it, and she scurried outside to set up shop.

About an hour later, my aunt and uncle arrived for dinner. They came in the house four dollars poorer, carrying cups of suspiciously light swill. It didn’t look like the drink we had made, so when my daughter came inside, I gave her the third degree on her business operations.

That little stinker had taken matters into her own hands. Rather than charging $0.25 per cup as agreed, she had increased the price to $2.00. She pressed her brother and the neighbor girl into service, with one flagging down cars and the other selling the drink door to door. When they ran out of lemonade, Miss Industrious simply inserted the hose into the empty pitcher and filled it with water–and continued to make sales. $2.00 for a cup of lemony-scented spigot water, and she was raking it in. While I secretly admired her industriousness, I questioned her business ethics.

The next time my daughter told me she wanted to open a lemonade stand, I was determined to make it a learning experience.

I agreed to let Miss Industrious restart her business, but on my terms. Rather than simply raiding my pantry, we went to the grocery store to buy cups and lemonade mix, as well as posterboard for her signs. Eight-ish dollars later, we trotted home with her supplies and an understanding that she had to repay me for the $8 business loan from her revenue. (She also knew that if she ran out of drink, she had to use the mix we bought to make more–no bait-and-switch tactics this time!)

The next morning with her signs lettered and her lemonade mixed, she was ready to sell. I gave her babysitter the rundown of my expectations, with instructions to keep Miss Industrious adherent to the rules. I went to work and left them to it.

When I returned, I asked how the day had gone. Miss Industrious proudly told me she had made twenty-something dollars. (I don’t remember the exact number.) Rather than congratulating her immediately, I reminded her that she owed me eight–she hadn’t “made” 20something, but rather 20something minus eight. The most important lesson, I thought, was the economic principle.

As usual, I was wrong.

Instead of handing me eight dollars, Miss Industrious handed me all her money. You see, I was preparing to participate in a charity bike ride to benefit cancer research.* The event requires several thousand dollars per rider in fundraising, and her plan all along had been to help me raise money. Here, Mom, she said. It’s all for you. It’s for the PMC.

If she learned a lesson that day, I learned a bigger one.

I may have taught her economics, but she taught me heart.

*If you haven’t heard of the Pan-Mass Challenge, check it out at pmc.org. I don’t ride anymore–192 miles in two days are too much for my knees–but the event remains no less worthy. In fact, it’s pretty amazing.

Do the right thing

I’ve been vaccinated against COVID-19. Statistically, my risk of becoming seriously ill with the disease is very low, even with the Delta variant that has become so pervasive. I also live in a state that has not been very forceful about pandemic restrictions. If you look around, you probably wouldn’t realize we are *still* navigating a pandemic. All this translates to minimal (personal) risk and no real restrictions.

Nonetheless, I wear a mask in most indoor situations.

I’ve been thinking about how I would answer the question of why. The short answer is simply that I think it’s important. If that’s all you want to know, feel free to move along now. If you want the long answer, buckle up and read on.

When my grandmother was 27 years old with three children under age four, she contracted polio. In an instant, her duties as a wife and mother gave way to survival. Friends, family, and neighbors fed her family, cared for her children, and did her chores. She fought like h*ll against being put into an iron lung because she firmly believed she wouldn’t survive the disease if that happened. Nonetheless, she spent several weeks in the hospital while her kids (my mom and two siblings) were shuttled from place to place. My uncle remembers a time when he stood outside the hospital while he watched his mom be rolled out to a fire escape platform in a wheelchair. All she could muster was a weak wave.

Eventually Grandma won her fight, but she wrestled with the lingering effects of the disease for years.

After polio, Grandma gave birth to three more children, served as a US postmaster, ran a farm with my grandpa, and traveled the world. She lived a full life, but she never forgot the fear that polio brought. After she recovered, she still carried that fear for her children.

Until the vaccine.

One of my aunts recalls when my grandma—her mom—took her to get vaccinated against polio. She remembers the vaccination site with tables full of cups that held sugar cubes carrying the oral vaccine. Mostly she remembers that my grandma cried as she experienced the emotional release of knowing her children would not have to suffer the way she had.

I got that vaccine, and so did my kids. They don’t even know what polio is, though. Why? Because there hasn’t been a case of polio that originated in the US since 1979. There has not been a case of polio in this country in their lifetimes. Heck, there hasn’t been one for most of mine.

So what does this have to do with me wearing a mask? As long as we let COVID-19 continue to spread by eschewing the vaccine AND basic precautions like masks, it will continue to mutate and elude our efforts to eradicate it. Mounting evidence shows that even if my vaccinated self doesn’t get sick, I can still carry enough viral load to spread it to others. The more it spreads, the more mutates. The more it mutates, the less effective the existing vaccine becomes. The less effective the vaccine, the more the virus spreads. And the cycle continues.

We will never get rid of COVID-19 the way we did polio and smallpox (yes! I have that telltale vaccination scar) unless we stop spreading it. I want this scourge out of my life, and I’m going to do everything I can NOT to be the person who passes it on.

I’m not living in fear. I’m not even worried that much anymore about getting sick. I want to see this thing disappear and I’m going to do my part. It’s not impossible. My grandma saw it with polio in her lifetime. Nobody is telling me to; it’s just the right thing to do.

Now you know why I wear a mask.

Flying blind

A couple of nights ago, something started thump-whumping on my back door. I didn’t think anything of it at first; my house often makes creepy noises that flare up and then disappear. This one kept happening, though.

It’s August, a little late for the giant Junebugs that don’t realize a giant pane of glass stands between them and the light. Anyway, the sound was lower-pitched than that, like something bigger and maybe furry.

I started having visions of a raccoon trying to nudge the door open, but when I turned on the light and looked outside, I saw nothing. No ringed eyes looking up at me, no tiny black paws scrabbling to grab hold, nothing. I turned off the light and went back to the sofa.

Thump-whump! Thump-whump!

The sound came again, and again I turned on the light and looked through the glass door. Again nothing. This time I convinced myself the sound had come from a bat launching its small, furry body toward my kitchen, stopped only by the glass door. That had to be why I couldn’t see anything, right? It had flown away. Definitely creepy.

Back to my seat I went, mentally preparing for how I would remove the creepy flying mammal when it finally sneaked into my kitchen. I don’t have a net, but I might be able to locate a tennis racquet somewhere in the house. Oh please, oh please, don’t let it come to that.

Thump-whump! Thump-whump!

When the noise started again, I grabbed a flashlight. Instead of going directly to the door and scaring off the critter by turning on the outside light, I went to a window where I could see the door from a different angle. I shined the flashlight across the door to try to catch a glimpse of the offender. Still nothing. What the heck?

My boyfriend came up behind me and peered over my shoulder. He scanned the area with his eyes and somehow landed on a tiny flicker of movement on the ground. “Shine your light there,” he said.

I did. I could see something moving, but I couldn’t get a good visual. I adjusted the flashlight’s beam to be less diffuse, and I finally saw it. A giant locust. Seriously? That was the thing that had been creeping me out all evening?

Subsequent thumps that evening no longer bothered me. In fact, I even gave a little chuckle when I heard the sound again, amused and a little sheepish at how I had fallen victim to my assumptions.

There was no bat trying to get into my house to terrorize me. All it took was a little investigation to disprove my theory. Once I got more information, even the continued thumping no longer set my mind racing.

What a good reminder to look for more information before drawing conclusions and to be open to what we learn, whether it proves or dispels.

Shine your light. Look from a different angle. Be ready to find something you don’t expect.

Silver linings

I’ve written about some heavy stuff lately, and I need a breather. The past few months have been rough for almost everyone. Still, I can find bright spots and I’m grateful for them.

Today I’ve decided to share some of the silver linings I’ve discovered in my quarantine world. I don’t always see them unless I take the time to look for them, and today I feel the need to flesh them out. I’ll be honest; I have no idea how this list will look, but here goes.

  1. Writing letters. I went old school a few months ago and started writing real pen-and-paper letters to people with whom I’d lost touch or wanted to get to know better. And they’ve responded! I love finding these treats in my mailbox, and the process of organizing my thoughts without the benefit of the backspace key has been wildly helpful to my mental processing ability.
  2. Patience and kindness. Even though I’ve run into some short fuses, I’ve more often experienced people exercising more patience for others these days. I know I have, anyway (mostly). When I’m putting six feet of distance between me and the next person, I become less focused on getting ahead. I’m learning to wait, which doesn’t come naturally to me. I also see people volunteering to help others: offering to pick up groceries for an elderly neighbor, sharing books, running errands, providing a meal. One day a friend dropped off a big bag of cheesy popcorn on my front stoop. It was totally random, totally unnecessary, and totally appreciated.
  3. My dog! Those of you non-pet owners may not understand this, but I’ve been able to enjoy the benefits of his companionship 24/7. He’s a faithful friend who loves me unconditionally (and even more when I have treats), senses my moods, offers comfort when I need it, and always acts happy to see me. Who wouldn’t love that?
  4. Having a job. As I watch so many people around me struggle with not having enough, I become ever more grateful that I not only have a job in these trying times, but also one that is flexible enough to let me work from home. I am more conscious of what I have and try to share as much as I can.
  5. Bonus time with my adult-ish kids. Living together as adults hasn’t always been easy–and if you know me personally you know how fully I embrace empty nesting–but this has been a time of growth for us as a family. We’re not perfect, but I’m glad we have each other. They’ve now gone back to their academic domains, and I’m thankful for that, too.
  6. Slowing down. I’m learning a lot about myself and have a long way to go, but reducing the noise around me certainly helps my focus. I don’t always like what I see, but now I can recognize it and work on the things that need to change.
  7. Noticing the small stuff. Slowing down helps me notice the small stuff, too. Enough said.
  8. Going for walks. For a while, it seemed as if the whole world was out walking, and I loved it. I know I’ve strapped on my tennies to walk more times in the last week than I did all of last year, maybe even the last couple of years. I’ve loved exploring the neighborhoods around me and connecting in a much more sensory way than a drive-by offers.
  9. Watching the world get creative. This might be my very favorite thing. I love, Love, LOVE seeing people find creative ways to navigate this new normal. Some of my faves include a Facebook group to identify which restaurants offer delivery/are open/need help (2GoFW), cottage businesses popping up as people search for new sources of income and finally have time to pursue their passions (Tameka’s Cakes–so fun and delicious), and companies that shift their resources to help make PPE (e.g. Design Collaborative, a local architecture firm, used its 3D printer to make face shields). My kids have tackled some challenging recipes to hone their cooking skills (48-hour sous vide short ribs, turmeric cauliflower steaks, homemade hamburger buns? yes please!). Families who barely used smart phones now enjoy regular video visits. For a time, my brother and I even shared virtual cocktail hour each week. We’re all getting better at this.

Hey! That’s not a bad list. Sometimes I surprise myself.

Finding the silver linings helps me remember that obstacles can also be used as stepping stones. I’d love for you to share some of yours in the comments.

Altered reality

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again–mostly because it is a lesson I have to keep learning myself. Perception is reality.

A couple weeks ago I attended an event that included a panel discussion with people presenting differing viewpoints. One woman came from an under-served neighborhood and felt abandoned by the city. She offered impassioned pleas for more civic interaction, including police presence that involved more than responding to crime. She wanted active integration into the community that included patrols, meet-and-greets, and regular (positive) interactions.

The police representative on the panel responded with a litany of statistics, showering them like raindrops, hoping to fill the other woman’s vessel and quench her thirst.

That didn’t happen.

When the policewoman cited the number of patrols in that quadrant of the city, the woman responded that she had never, ever seen one in her neighborhood. When the PW talked about police interactions at the Boys and Girls Club, the woman reminded her that the Boys and Girls Club was miles from her home, too far for kids to walk. That was great, she said, but it didn’t help the kids around her.

As I watched and listened, I thought, Why can’t the PW see that statistics aren’t reaching this woman? Those facts and figures don’t seem to be affecting her actual life. Even though they might be true, this woman isn’t seeing the benefit of the work being done. The PW just isn’t hearing the NEED. She’s too focused on her response that she’s not hearing the woman.

I had it all figured out. I would never do such a thing, of course. I understand communication!

A few days later, I was talking to one of my kids. He was telling me something really important to him, and he kept saying I wasn’t listening. That I didn’t hear him. That THIS was the way he felt but I just didn’t get it.

I countered with a list of the things I had done and said to prove him wrong. Of course I get it. Didn’t I do this and this and this? Didn’t I tell you that? What about that one time?

Slowly (way too slowly), it dawned on me that throwing “statistics” at him to prove him wrong–did you catch that? TO PROVE HIM WRONG–only widened our gap. He was right; I didn’t get it.

Just like the PW, even if I was “right,” it didn’t matter. My kid still felt disenfranchised. All those things I did? They clearly hadn’t been effective. I needed to take a different tack so I thought I would try to…

Wait a minute.

What I actually needed to do was stop and listen, not figure out my next move. I needed to really listen, not just to his words, but to his feelings and experiences. I needed to try to understand his reality so I could meet him there. My solutions to the problem I thought he had would always miss the mark if our perceptions didn’t align.

Reality is fluid; it depends on through whose lenses it viewed. We need to understand that it differs with each person’s perception.

So let’s stop talking past each other. Let’s stop trying to prove each other wrong and ourselves right. Let’s stop forming a response before the other person is finished speaking.

Instead, let’s start listening. Let’s put on someone else’s glasses and try to see the world from his view. Let’s learn each other’s language so we can communicate better. Let’s put ourselves in uncomfortable situations to get out of our proverbial boxes. Instead of trying to “help,” let’s find ways to work together.

For me, it starts at home.

Same old song and dance

*1986 Junior Miss banquet. Not naming names.*

I heard a song on the radio the other day that took me back to high school when I participated in the Junior Miss Pageant (now known as Distinguished Young Women). Yes, believe it or not, I was once a pageant contestant. The how and why are less important to this story. Just know that it happened.

I had no expectation of winning—or coming close—but I did my best and had fun with the other girls through the process. It wasn’t too hard to follow all the choreographed moves, I thrived in the one-on-one interview, and really, how taxing is it to walk across the stage in a prom dress? Only one aspect of the pageant struck cold, hard fear in me: the talent competition.

It has been well documented that I can’t sing. I don’t play an instrument. I’ve never formally twirled a baton, taken dance lessons, or participated in any activity that could be considered “stage-worthy.” I had NO idea what I would do for this competition, and I felt horribly awkward.

At the time, a TV show called Puttin’ on the Hits had become popular. It featured people lip syncing to popular songs, and judges scored participants on how authentic their “singing” seemed. This, my friends, is where I drew my inspiration. (Insert eye roll here.) Indeed, I lip synced a song. On a stage. With a few made-up dance moves. In front of a few hundred people. It was not my best moment.

Anyway, hearing that song on the radio that reminded me of my pageant experience and got me thinking about how we define talent. We take such a narrow view of talent when we limit it to what translates to a stage performance. What about the person who is really good at cooking? Or knows how to fix anything mechanical with a single glance? Or can run fast or jump high or make three pointers all day long? What about the person who can write stories that make people laugh or cry or even transport them to another place? Or the empath who naturally knows how to make others feel special? There are so many kinds of talent that don’t translate well to a stage. How do we put those on display?

2020 Tammy would do things differently. I would have written this essay—or one like it—and delivered it on stage. The writing would have been my talent—not just stringing the words together, but speaking for others and hopefully bringing a different perspective to the audience.

I don’t know what I would have done if I couldn’t write. It’s pretty hard to make a cheesecake in two minutes in a high school auditorium.

Talent is so much more than song and dance. The next time someone tells you “Oh, I’m not talented,” don’t let it slide. Everyone does something well, in a way that comes naturally. Look for it.

And by the way, it’s not a competition.

Splitting hairs

MF2-2201I work in a building full of office suites, and everyone on the same floor shares a restroom. Frequently, I cross paths there with a woman from a neighboring company, and she almost always comments on my hair–its thickness, the cut, the color. This woman always makes me feel good about a feature that normally gives me a lot of headaches (yeah, I did that on purpose), especially when I’ve never seen her anything but perfectly coiffed.

Until today.

I walked into the restroom, where she stood in front of the mirror with her head bent down. She popped up like a shot when I said hello and immediately began apologizing. I didn’t understand what was going on. I thought she had just been brushing her hair, but she was super embarrassed and said as much.

It turns out that my office neighbor wears a wig. When I walked into the bathroom, she had just put it back on and was adjusting its fit. She told me how several years ago she had experienced a period of extreme stress and lost much of her hair. Of course, the hair loss added to her stress and contributed to this vicious cycle. Eventually she bought a wig to relieve herself of at least that worry.

We had a nice chat, in which I told her I had no idea her beautiful ‘do was actually a wig. (I really didn’t.) When I finally walked back to my office, I couldn’t help thinking that there was a lesson in this. I could never figure out why this lady seemed so fascinated with my hair when hers was always perfect. Now I know that the story ran much deeper.

What a great reminder that things aren’t always what they seem. Everyone has a story, and it’s probably not the one we imagine from the outside looking in.

Behavior modification

I’m actually kind of shocked that no one mentioned that the same lessons I want to teach my daughter, noted last week in my post Best behavior, would be just as valuable to my maba_pleasebemindful_signson. In fact, I was kicking myself for not acknowledging this in my post, because it’s 100% true. In any case, something had me thinking about my daughter that day and how girls need strong role models, and well, I won’t bore you with the rest. Just know that I desperately want my son to benefit equally from those lessons.

Which brings me to today’s musings. I had a conversation a couple of days ago with a friend, who shared with me her escalating frustration with her ex. The guy lives a couple of hours away, so they meet in the middle to pick up/drop off their son for visitation. It seems that lately, Mr. Ex has been getting quite handsy with my friend.

She told me that it started with Mr. Ex grabbing her backside while she was buckling her school-aged son into his car seat. She ignored it, but she noticed that her son was positioned to see everything.

The next time, Mr. Ex got bolder. He made the same grabbing move, but this time on the front side–if you know what I mean. My friend swatted his hand away and silently swallowed her indignation. Once again, she tried to ignore it.

I asked her why she didn’t tell him to keep his hands to himself (read: to get the he** away from her). She gave me an answer about not wanting her son to see his mom and dad fighting or to see his dad in a bad light or some such.

Back. The. Truck. Up.

I couldn’t stop myself from blurting, So you want your son to think that it’s okay to touch women inappropriately and without their permission? You want him to think it’s no big deal for a married man to grope a woman who is not his wife? You want him to grow up thinking this behavior is perfectly normal?

My friend stopped for a second and blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way at all. She hadn’t realized that her lack of response was also teaching him a lesson.

My friend is a contemplative woman; she been on a constant journey of self-examination for the past several years. I know she has been chewing on this since our conversation, and I’m pretty sure she’ll handle similar circumstances much differently from now on–for her son’s sake, if not her own.

As I thought about her situation, it just reinforced my conviction about sending messages with our behavior. What we don’t do can be just as powerful as what we do.

Be mindful, always.

PS. In case you were wondering, my friend gave me permission to share her story here. 

Best behavior

Mothering a daughter is hard, especially a strong-willed, independent-thinking, highly emotional daughter. And most especially the teenage variety of said daughter. She’s smart and funny and caring and I generally love being around her, but it’s still challenging.

I try to be conscious of my actions. After all, she’s been watching me for the past sixteen years and I’m her role model whether I like it or not. On my good days and bad days, she’s taking it all in.

She’s a big part of the reason I walked away from a long-term job with a fair amount of responsibility a few years ago. I wanted her to see how important it is to pursue fulfillment over a fat paycheck.

And I certainly thought about what she would learn if I didn’t end an unhealthy dating relationship not long ago. I wanted her to see how important it is to stand up for oneself and to walk away from situations that may steal one’s self-respect.

It’s also crazy important to me that she sees me interact amicably with her father and her stepmother. She needs to know–to see–the positive effects of releasing grudges and moving forward, that sometimes you can love someone (your kids!) so much that you work through things for their benefit, even when it’s hard.

I want my daughter to absorb my actions and not just hear my words.

Doesn’t that all sound great and honorable? Unfortunately, I’m only thinking consciously about this stuff about ten percent of the time. The other ninety percent, I forget to be intentional and I’m just…me. Whyohwhyohwhyohwhy is it so hard for me to remember that she’s watching everything, not just the lessons I’ve identified?

I can handle a full-blown crisis like a pro, but insult my intelligence, stomp on my pride, or hit me with a steady stream of attitude and all bets are off. Let’s just say my lackluster everyday frustration management skills might be a little more visible than I’d like. That’s not the best scenario for a mom with an already outspoken, highly emotional pair of teenage eyes on her.

I also tend to think out loud, so I go down a lot of rabbit holes before I end up on the right track. know I’m just working through an idea before I take (what I hope to be) rational action, but what does she think as she observes my process?

You’d get bored and I’d get embarrassed if I continued laying out my everyday faux pas. My point is that unfortunately, we don’t get to pick and choose which lessons our kids learn from us. While I’m happy with some of the big things, this light bulb moment has helped me realize that I need to be equally diligent about the little things, too.

The best I can hope now is that someday she’ll look back and realize that in addition to being a mom and a role model, I’m also human.

Land of the free

Scene_at_the_Signing_of_the_Constitution_of_the_United_States

The internet is blowing up with Colin Kaepernick’s recent decision to remain seated during the playing of the national anthem.

What a jerk, people say. If he doesn’t like it here, he should leave, they say.

Well, my friends, that same flag you’re protecting—and the Constitution it represents—gives him the right to show his displeasure. Just as it gives you the right to protest his behavior.

I’m not saying I agree with his decision. In fact, I was sad to see it. I’ve always stood for The Star Spangled Banner, even though there are many things going on in this country that break the heart my hand is covering. Still, if I would choose to sit in quiet protest, I have a right to do that.

Both my grandfathers and my father fought for this country. They didn’t just serve, they fought. With guns and grenades and bombs. They placed themselves in mortal danger and were even wounded doing so, and I love them all the more for it. And yes, I hope all our citizens respect that kind of service and honor their commitment to perpetuating the liberties we all enjoy.

Including the liberty to express one’s opinion.

Like Colin Kaepernick.

Think about it, folks. This country was founded on the right to speak out. In fact, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights (the first amendment of which is the one we’re discussing here) represent a fundamental protest against government. Our freedom of speech exists today because a bunch of powdered-haired (white) dudes went rogue and told their rulers they didn’t like what was going on.

It’s not important whether you agree with CK. It’s not important whether he’s right or wrong or whether you think he is. What IS important is that, like it or not, our founding fathers and every soldier who followed fought for this guy’s right to sit down during the national anthem.

If we tell this guy he can’t express himself, what are people going to be able to tell YOU you can’t do or say?

Which means you can continue to protest, just like he can continue to sit. The same First Amendment supports you both. Think about it.