A conversation

Saturday afternoon. The family is sitting on the sofa watching football. Susan and Wendy are folding laundry.

Me: What should we do for dinner tomorrow night? We could order in or cook something.

Mom: We could do one of those things.

Me: Yes, we could. Why don't we cook something easy?

Mom: It's supposed to be chilly tomorrow. Maybe a stew?

Me: That could be good. I've got salad stuff. We could have salad to go with it.

Mom: Barry, you like stew, don't you?

Dad (incapable of not being a smart-aleck): Who's Stu?

Me (looking to the heavens and starting to chuckle): Good lord, it's fucking relentless.

Dad (also laughing): Which Stu?

Me (pulling a random last name out of my brain): Jones.

Dad: I like Stu Jones! He's a good guy!

Me: Maybe he likes stew.

Mom: Or something with chicken thighs? The New York Times cooking app has those sheet pan recipes where you cook everything on one pan. (Reading through recipe names) Chicken thighs stuffed with chard ... sheet-pan chicken with squash and dates.

Dad: That manages to combine two ingredients I hate. 

Me: Ew.

Dad: Susan, didn't we serve with Stu Jones somewhere? El Salvador, maybe?

Mom: Yes, that's sounds right. 

Me (confused): Wait, who are we talking about?

Dad: Stu Jones! We worked with him in an embassy somewhere. 

Me: He's a real person? I was just making that up.

Dad: No, he really exists!

Mom: Yeah, we know him.

Me: So random.

Mom: How about sheet-pan chicken with potatoes, scallions and capers?

Me: Ooh, that sounds yummy.

Mom: Let's do that. We can go grocery shopping in the morning. 

Me: Maybe we could add some vegetables to the pan to roast along with the other stuff? Maybe some broccoli or brussel sprouts?

Dad (making a face): Broccoli?

Me: What's wrong with broccoli?

Mom: We can see what looks good at the store.  Barry, does the chicken thigh recipe sound OK?

Dad: I thought we were having stew?

Me: I'm done.

I'm just spitballin' here

When we were in New Hampshire this past weekend, I was on driving duty. We had a bitchin' Chrysler minivan because the rental car company was out of SUVs. 

The lady at the counter said, "are you OK with a van?" 

Initially, we all thought she meant a utility van, like a big Ford Econoline or something like that. 

I was like, "umm, I guess?" 

I mean, I can drive a big van, but didn't exactly relish the thought of schlepping everyone around in one all weekend. 

Then I thought to ask, "do you mean a van like a plumber might drive, or a minivan?" 

"Oh, a minivan," she laughed.

I was relieved. 

Anyway. 

On Sunday my mom and I took a bunch of kiddos (mine, Josh's, their friends) to Exeter to walk around, go to the bookstore, get some ice cream, that sort of thing. Before heading back to Josh's house, I need to stop at Walgreens. 

As we were driving, I heard giggling from the back seat. 

"Mom! MOM! Look at the mirror!"

I looked in the rear-view and saw a spit-ball. Then another. And yet another. 

Earlier in the day, we had been telling funny family stories, and I told the kids about how Josh and I used to goof off in the car when we took road trips. Even after Sam was born, Josh and I were the perpetrators because Sam wasn't allowed to sit with us in the back seat.

This made him irate. "Why?" he wailed to our parents, who had him between them in the bench seat in the front. (This was in the early 80s, before people cared if their seat-belt-less children were launched through the windshield in the event of a crash.)

"Why do I have sit up here with you when Josh and Wendy get to be in the back seat having fun?"

"Because you always end up fighting with anyone you're sitting with," she replied.

When we were living in Israel, we were in the US during the summer of 1982 on home leave. I was 12, Josh was 10, and Sam was 5. We were heading to Cape Cod to spend time at the beach with family friends. To keep the peace, Josh and I were in the back, Sam was in the front. 

After we had a pit stop at a McDonald's, we took a stash of napkins and those big fat straws that McDonald's carries - perfect for launching spitballs. Soon they were flying around the car. Josh and I were laughing our asses off. My parents chucked. Sam complained because we were having fun in the back seat and he wasn't. 

After we tired of that, we had the bright idea to make ourselves sneeze by sticking the ends of our shoelaces in our nostrils. 

"Ah-CHOO!"

"God bless you!" my mother would exclaim.

"Ah-CHOO! Ah-CHOO!!" 

"Gesundheit! Bless you!"

Tittering from the back seat.

This went on for a while.

"Ah-CHOO!"

"Oh my goodness! Barry, I think the kids are sick! Should we take them to see a doctor?"

At this point we started laughing until we were crying. When she turned around to look, we showed her what we were doing. She rolled her eyes but seemed amused. Sam fumed that he wasn't in on the action.

My kids found this story to be delightful.

So when I saw the spitball on the mirror (and discovered more on the windshield and the dash), I cracked up.

Beforehand, the kids had apparently been talking to my mom and asking her how she thought I would react. 

"Kids, your mom is the best, and she has a great sense of humor. She'll think it's hysterical."

And she was right. 

The daddy mac'll make you jump jump

"Mrs. J?"

My mother received a phone call at work.  It was the babysitter.

"Yes? Is everything OK with the kids?"

We had just moved to Israel.  I was 10, Josh was 8, and Sam was about to turn 3.  It was summer, so we hadn't started school yet, and we were living in temporary housing while our regular house was being readied for us.

"Um, the children are jumping off the roof of the house onto mattresses and pillows they pulled into the front yard."

It was a small, one-story house.  So the roof wasn't very high.  And though I don't have a specific recollection on this point, I'm assuming it was just Josh and me doing the jumping.  Sam was too little.

I don't remember getting in trouble, though it's possible we did.  But for whatever reason, we were drawn to that roof.  It was easy to climb onto, and like I said, it wasn't very high.

I've always been drawn to roofs and high spaces. (Maybe that's why, as grueling as it is, I like being on the summit of a 14er, standing right on the edge.) When I was 5 and 6 years old and we were living in Caracas,Venezuela, I could climb from one of the upstairs patios up onto the red-tiled roof of our house in Altamira.  I would sit with my legs on either side of the peak of the house (it wasn't a steep pitch at all) and play with the loose tiles.

I was fine.  We were fine.

So I wasn't remotely alarmed when I walked into the kids' room last night to see what all the noise and fuss was about and saw this:

I guess the apples don't fall far from the tree.

And frankly, I feel like they're aiming a little low.

Wendy from the block. But which block?

I often miss my family.

I had what felt to me like an idyllic childhood.  Many people I know give me a confused look at the idea of a life spent moving around the world - with the requisite changes of schools every three or four years - as idyllic, but it really was amazing.  I have an extremely close relationship with my parents and my brothers, and with so many of the friends I made growing up, including college and law school.

The problem is, most of them are on the East Coast, and I'm in Colorado.

I have soooo many close friends, from all of my various stages of life, who live in either the DC area, Charlottesville, Virginia, or Richmond, Virginia.  My parents are in northern Virginia, as are a number of my closest high school and college friends.  Plus my brothers are just up the coast, in New York and New Hampshire.  Easy train or plane rides.

I would love to live closer to my parents.  I would love for my children to live closer to my parents, who adore my kids and spoil them beyond all sense, in the wonderful way that grandparents do.  It would be amazing to have my close high school and college friends - people who are incredibly important to me and whom I really adore -- be a real presence in my life, instead of seeing them once a year when I go home for Thanksgiving, or at infrequent reunions, which leave me an emotional mess.

I think about moving back there.  I've thought about it for years.

But increasingly, I have a hard time with the idea of leaving Colorado.  I really, really love it here.

I love the climate, the intense beauty of the physical setting (and the ease with which we can take advantage of it), the proximity to the mountains and the abundance of activities like hiking, skiing, biking, and camping. The culture and the vibe of Denver.  My neighborhood.  My job.

This past weekend my neighbors arranged a block party.  There was amazing barbecue, kegs of beer, a bouncy house that the kids jumped in for seven hours, games of cornhole.  Music that takes me back to college and law school - the Grateful Dead, Widespread Panic, bluegrass, older stuff like The Band.

It kind of made me feel like I was back in Charlottesville.  We used to hang out like that during second semester of my 4th year - we'd go to Chris Greene Lake and sunbathe, listen to music, play music, toss a frisbee.  There was no bouncy house because there were no kids, but other than that, the vibe was remarkably similar.  People of different ages and backgrounds, all just happy to be together.

It felt so incredible, and incredibly familiar.

But do I keep that feeling by staying here, or by going back to what still feels like home?

The one negative byproduct of my upbringing, and one that I think a lot of "third culture kids" feel, is a difficulty with ever putting down roots anywhere.  We always feel the need to move on.  We're always looking forward to that new place, that new adventure.  Even places that we like -- there's a sense of, "yeah, this place is great, but there's new stuff to see and do!  Time to move on."

So is this my natural wanderlust talking, always seeking out change?

As well as I can usually read myself, I'm having a hell of a time figuring it out.

Family tradition

When my brother Joshua was little, I'm thinking maybe 4 years old or so -- in other words, close to Zeke's age now -- he and my mom were out together.  Grocery shopping, running errands.  Doing something out in public.

And my mother noticed a dwarf was standing near them.  (Or "little person," whatever.) 

Her stomach sank, because she knew that Josh would notice them too.  And would be incapable of not commenting on this person's short stature. 

Loudly.

"Mom!!"

"Yes, Joshua.  Shhh."

His body was practically vibrating with excitement at this point.  "Mom!  MOM!!  Look!!  Look!"

"Yes, Joshua, I see, please don't point.  Shhh.  It's not polite."

"But Mom!  Mom!!  Look at that person!!  Look!  LOOOK!  MOM MOM MOOOOOOM!"

"Mmmhmmm, hey, we need to get out of here, pleasestoppointingI'llgiveyouanythingyouwantjustpleasestop ohmygodjustlettheflooropenupandswallowusboth.  Shhhh.  Please."

I know most parents go through a similar situation at least once. 

But it's hard to be prepared.

Yesterday Zeke and I went for a late afternoon swim at our community pool.  It's a short walk from our house so it's nice to go late and get the kids tired and hungry from swimming -- dinner and bedtime tend to be a breeze.  Josie didn't feel like going so she stayed with J and they went for a walk or something, and Zeke and I walked over for a swim, just the two of us. 

We were hanging out in a corner of the big swimming pool and Zeke was practicing swimming from the wall to where I was standing, about 10 feet away.  There were a couple of ladies sitting on the edge of the pool with their feet dangling in the water.  They were both a little on the heavy side.

At one point Zeke said, "look, Mama, that lady has a baby in her tummy."

I hadn't noticed any pregnant women in the vicinity, so I was looking around trying to find who he was talking about.

"Where, sweetie?"

"Right there!"  He pointed to one of the ladies sitting near us.  Who, to me, looked chubby rather than pregnant, though I couldn't say for sure. 

My chest tightened.  I threw a Hail Mary.  "Oh, do you mean that pregnant lady way waaay over there down by the fence, really far away from where we are now?  Is that the lady you were talking about?"  My efforts were so pitiful and obvious to me that I was practically rolling my eyes at myself.

Zeke started swimming again and appeared to lose interest in the maybe-chubby-maybe-pregnant lady.  I figured we were safe and concentrated on teaching him how to time his breathing and float on his back.  We meandered around the shallow end a little bit.

We drifted back to our old position.  Near the lady.  He glanced at her and her stomach a few times, obviously trying to work out what was going on, but then would go back to swimming.

Then at one point, Zeke swam from me to the wall, right next to where she was now standing in the water. 

And said to her, "hey!  You have a big tummy!"

I grabbed Zeke's arm and whisked him away to give him a talk about how people don't like to be told that they have big tummies.  I was uttering parento-babble-bullshit, hoping to distract and somehow persuade him at the same time. 

Thankfully, the lady was deep in conversation with her friend and either didn't hear Zeke or did a great job of acting as if she hadn't heard him. 

But still, I was mortified, and I keep thinking I could have handled it better or differently, though I'm not sure how.

Parents out there, what would you have done?  Any tips on dealing with a situation like this?

Road trip ideas, and why fighting with your siblings means you don't get to have any fun

This past weekend, we were talking with my mom about how we love that Josie and Zeke get along so well, and how important it is that they love each other and have strong relationships when they grow up.  I'm very close to my brothers, and J is tight with his brother and sister, and we want our children to look to each other and always have each others' backs.

My mom opined that the closeness between my brothers and me stems in part from the fact that we spent a lot of time together as kids and took lots of family vacations. 

Suddenly, Josie sneezed.  My mom said, "God bless you!" 

Josie grinned and giggled. 

My mom explained, "Josie, that was a sneeze.  Can you say 'sneeze'?" 

"Neees."

And it reminded Mom of a funny story about my brothers and me from when we were kids.

In the summer of 1982, when I was 12, Josh was 10 and Sam was 5, we were in the U.S. on home leave from Israel (where we lived from 1980 to 1984).  My aunt (mom's sister) lived in Boston and was about to give birth to her first baby (my cousin Aaron), so we went to visit her and also took a beach trip to Cape Cod.  The drive out to Cape Cod was in an old Rent-a-Wreck that was massive.  Josh and I sat in the back seat and Sam sat up front with my parents.

My mother became concerned when she started to hear sneezing from the back seat.  One after the other after the other.

"Bless you."

"God bless you!"

"Gesundheit!  Oh my goodness, are you two OK?"

It kept going on, non-stop sneezing.

She turned to my father.  "We're going to need to find a doctor.  We're flying back in a couple of days and I'm worried that the kids are getting sick."

Titters and giggles from the back seat.

She turned back and glared at us.  We acted natural, probably complete with fake whistling and glancing around nonchalantly.

Another sneeze.  More giggles.

She snapped her head back in time to see me with a shoe-lace up my nose.  Josh and I had been sticking shoe-laces up our noses to make ourselves sneeze.

In our defense, this was before the days of personal DVD players and video games.  And reading in the car makes me carsick.

After being admonished by my mother ("what on earth is the matter with you two??"), we settled down for a little while. 

Zing -- splat!

The spit-balls had started.  We had stopped at a McDonald's for lunch.  McDonald's has big, wide straws.  So Josh and I grabbed a bunch of them and some paper napkins and entertained ourselves by trying to hit the rear-view mirror.  Or the windshield.  Or the side-view mirror.  Or the back of Sam's head.

More giggling.  Even my parents were amused.

Sam fumed from the front seat.  He was a whiny little thing at that age and was always bitching about something.

"It's not fair!  How come Josh and Wendy get to sit in the back and have fun while I have to sit up here with you??"

My mother responded sensibly, "because you can't sit with your brother or sister without getting into a fight."

Zing!

Josie and Zeke, let this be a lesson.  Together, you can rule the world.  Or at least dot it with soggy bits of chewed up paper napkins.

Why I love my family

My dad is in Baghdad right now on business.  I think he and my mom are engaged in some business travel one-upmanship, because she's leaving today for Haiti.  It's like they're on some kind of perverse game show where the goal is to visit the shittiest country imaginable.

My dad wrote an email to the family:

Being in the Green Zone is like being in a medium security prison. Very depressing.  We are staying in a private security compound that makes the Bates Motel seem luxurious by comparison.  My room comes complete with body armor and a combat helmet.

Because we are all incorrigible smart-asses, this was the immediate response from Brother Number 1:

From what I have seen on tv the key to surviving prison is the following:

1) Soap on a rope
2) Buddy up with the biggest person there
3) Cigarettes are like cash, if you can control the cigarette market you can control the prison
4) Keep your head down and be safe.

My dad appreciated the advice.  His only lament was that he wasn't sure his body armor matched the outfits he had packed.

My family: like living in the circus, only without the elephants and carnies running around

I thought about writing about my grandpa today, but I just don't have it in me right now.  I'm so tired of long, mawkish posts that are like an endless pity party.  So instead, I've got a funny family story that randomly popped into my head today.

I think it's safe to say that my parents never subscribed to the conventional wisdom about what was safe or not safe for children.  Some of it was the times -- my brothers and I grew up before car seats and worries about "stranger danger" and such, particularly overseas, where the standards were even more lax than in the U.S.  When we were little and I was maybe 4 years old and Josh was 2, my dad used to ride us around, sans helmets or any other safety features, on his motorcycle in the streets of Venezuela.  When we lived in Virginia and Josh was about 6 or 7, he had a friend over and my dad took them someplace and let them ride in the trunk of the car.  When the friend's mom found out, she went completely ballistic, but my dad never understood what the big deal was.  As kids, we used to roam around foreign cities by ourselves, build elaborate ramps for our Big Wheels that entailed careening down massive hills that ended on busy streets, pull all of the couch and bed cushions out into the yard and jump off the roof of the house, and on and on.  I'm not sure if we were lucky to make it to adulthood without serious injury, or if maybe today's hyper-safety-conscious standards for kids are overkill.  Probably a little of both.

Anyway, my brother Josh finished high school at a boarding school in small town in Massachusetts a little ways outside of Boston.  My parents were stationed in El Salvador at the time, and the American school there was really substandard, so it was decided that Josh would finish his secondary education in the States (I was already in college, so it wasn't an issue for me).  We all went up for his graduation -- me, my parents, my brother Sam, and all of our grandparents.  

My parents had rented a Lincoln Town Car for the weekend.  It was massive, and for the most part, getting around Ashburnham (where the school was) wasn't a big deal because it's not a big town and everything was close.  But one night, we all went out for a big celebratory dinner at a nice restaurant in Boston.  And notwithstanding the fact that the Town Car was basically an ocean liner on wheels, there was no way we could fit everyone in the car, even if some people sat on laps.

So Josh and I volunteered to ride in the trunk.

Imagine, if you will, that you are enjoying a leisurely dinner at a pleasant restaurant.  It's a beautiful night, so you've opted for a table outside on the sidewalk, where you can enjoy the starry skies and the fine cuisine and the people-watching.  

During your meal, a big Town Car pulls up to the sidewalk next to you.  Much to your amazement, the trunk pops open and out climb 2 nicely dressed young adults.  They're laughing and chatting, and they are then joined by another group of people (presumably their family -- they all look alike).  You and your fellow diners sit there, slack-jawed at the oddness of the scenario, but the people in question breeze into the restaurant as if it were the most normal thing in the world.  They don't even give you a second glance, or seem remotely fazed or embarrassed by the spectacle they've caused.

That was life growing up in my family.  A little reckless, a lot silly, but never conventional or boring.