I am the mother of seven--though, at the moment, one of them wishes I weren't.
Because each child has come to me with her or his own mind and soul, it has been my opportunity to learn (and laugh) much. My children are some of the best people I know.
One of the ways I have learned from my children is by listening to their prayers.
My older daughter is humble, sweet, helpful, and forgiving. She got none of those traits from me. I learned a lesson about gratitude from her when she was barely three years old. We had just bought our house and gained much needed square footage, but--as in all exchanges--lost some things. One thing we lost in moving was a clothes chute. So, we bought our daughter a clothes hamper for her room. Thanking Heavenly Father for her new hamper became part of her bedtime prayer. For a year.
Another daughter, while learning to pray, got her phrasing backward. Instead of asking Heavenly Father for what she needed or wanted, she thanked Him as if it had already happened. ("Thank thee we can be safe tonight. Thank thee that Grandma will get better.") I took it as a lesson on faith. Our favorite was, right after one brother went on a mission and another brother moved out, her turning our usual plea that they would be safe and provided for into, "Thank thee they can live without us."
Currently, we have a youngster in that learning-to-pray stage who provides us with great amusement as well as simple, sweet lessons. Almost always, something funny is thrown in. "Help me to get a brownie," "Help me stay out of the street," or "Help us not to go to jail." One time he prayed, for no discernable reason, that one sister (by name) would think that one brother (by name) was "a guy."
One night, weary from my four-tens work schedule and eager to get a crowd of children, quickly followed by myself, tucked into bed, I hesitated when he asked for toast. Whenever I give one of my children a snack, four others come up to me, one by one, asking for the same thing. I could spend all my time playing waitress. Because of this, I've almost implemented a no-snack policy. Bedtime snacks are especially discouraged. Put simply, it's crowd control.
So, I said, "You're hungry because you didn't eat much of your dinner. You need to eat your dinner when it's dinner time. Now, it's bedtime. Say your prayers."
He turned around at the edge of his bed and prayed, "Heavenly Father, please help me get toast."
Zing! I should have seen that one coming.
But I could feel God smiling right alongside me. So, I put aside my fatigue to answer my child's prayer, which is, after all, a large part of the role I was called to play in his life.
Which led me to reflect on the interconnectedness among my children and me and God and our efforts to live gospel teachings. On the reflections of each other and of God that we can see in each other. The standing in as agents of God for each other. The teaching of one another, the humbling of each other, the loving and serving of each other that are the point of earth life. The fact that I am as infantile and unpolished to God as my child is to me. And just as cherished.
My child's prayer for toast reminded me that sometimes our kids could use some help when they are up against our authority. It can't be easy to have a large person controlling everything and making all your decisions. Children are at our total mercy. We buckle them into the car and take them they have no idea where. We put them in clothes they didn't choose, decide what and when they eat and how warm or cold the house is, whom they see. We allow them to have injections when they cannot possibly understand why.
Of course we have to do these things. But when we say no, are we balancing our child's needs with our own? Or just thinking of our own?
Maybe if I could remember that a plea to God could be a perfectly natural response to my authority, I could more often use it generously and fairly--and avoid the you're-not-my-mom wish.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Big Birthday Time
Yesterday was my husband's fiftieth birthday. (I am much younger, of course.)
I have watched enough TV to know that I was supposed to do something about it. Something big. But what? I already knew from prior conversations that he didn't want a party. And we're just coming out of some lean times, so a trip back to our honeymoon hotel or something else really grand just wasn't going to be possible.
A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned to him while we were out running errands that I had a problem--someone very close to me was about to have a big birthday, and I was coming up short on ideas. He smiled and drove to one of those fancy-shmancy kitchen stores to show me some gadgets that--unbelievable as it is--he didn't already have. Most of the things he showed me cost about twelve bucks. Not very romantic.
Due to money and time limits, Paul and I have developed a standard birthday party for those in our family: the birthday honoree has the dinner, cake, and ice cream of their choice, followed by the receipt of some modest presents.
So, that was really all I had to go on. Until the next day. A man and his son played a cello/violin duet at church. Paul mouthed to me over the heads of four of our kids, "I'm so jealous." I shrugged back. He had mentioned several times over the years that he wished he could play the cello. Back when it had been time for him to sign up for a musical instrument, his family had owned a flute, so that was what he'd gotten stuck with. He'd told me he'd thought it was feminine, and that he'd even been teased.
So I wondered. What would it take to get Paul into a cello?
I looked into it the next day. A local retail store quoted me $1500 for new, $1200 for used. It was immediately clear that this was no violin! Our little bit of savings are already tagged for Christmas, and eventually a furnace replacement, a van replacement, etc., etc., etc. I really couldn't blow it all like that.
I searched online and found a cello at a much better price, though still quite a bit of money compared with our usual birthday presents. I wondered if I should really do it. Did he really want it? Would he really practice it? Would he stick with it? Then I realized: he's not a child. If he would enjoy it, that was all that mattered. He didn't have to become Yo-Yo Ma.
And there was a catch: if I was going to do it, i had to do it THAT DAY. This company had a "4-7 business days" delivery schedule and was in another state.
The more I thought about it, the more my mind settled on the likelihood that he really would like it and really did want it. This could be my big, romantic solution. Paul is hard to buy for, almost impossible to surprise correctly. If he wants something, he just goes and gets it. If he didn't think about something before you did, he doesn't want it. But Paul is also the man who cooks my dinner most nights, who tends my babies while I work, who made sure I quickly reobtained both the newspaper subscription and gym membership I'd given up in the darkest of times. Et cetera. He's at the point in life where he has to think about letting go of some of his dreams forever. If there was any way I could make one small dream of his come true, I should.
But there were problems to solve, too. How to pay for it, for one. I had access to enough money which I could try to replace before Christmas. I had to use a credit card for a same-day purchase, and I didn't want to use Paul's. I called my adult son and asked if we could use his, and I would write him a check. I offered to let him go in on it, too, for just as much as he would normally spend. He ended up putting in a whole lot more. I was pretty sure Paul would be okay getting just this one thing.
Where to hide it, and how to get it up to the living room? I would find a place downstairs that he wasn't likely to go to, then have my oldest son bring it up between dinner and dessert and set it up. He often left the table while waiting for dessert--his leaving wouldn't even be noticeable.
Delivery was another problem. On a typical day, Paul is at home with the children while I work. It would not be cool for a cello to just show up. I called my sister-in-law to see if it could be delivered there. She agreed, and we talked through some of the details. She works some days, but on the days in the 4-7-day window, it seemed she would be home.
Not normally an online shopper, I was a little worried about trusting this company I had never heard of with such a large percent of our savings. Exchanging them for a cello was not a tenth of the problem that losing them altogether would be. Their website looked pretty nice, but a voice in my head told me that a bogus company could have a nice website, too. I searched for clues. A coworker came over to my desk and said, "Click on the customer service policy." I did. It simply showed a picture of a young woman wearing a headset. No words, no phone numbers, nothing about a guarantee or path of recourse. We looked at each other and laughed. She suggested I forget it.
Emotionally, I was already too into this dream to just give up, though. I wanted that moment when Paul would walk into the living room after dinner and see the cello sitting there with a big bow on it. I checked the online Yellow Pages and learned that the company appeared to have been in business for decades. I found a picture of the building that was apparently at its street address. Another friend pointed out that using a credit card is a safety net of its own kind.
Seriously, I drove home from work that evening in tears. Partly in terror of the risk I was about to take, but mostly because I sensed how happy this gift would make my husband.
So, I plunged. Then tried not to sweat it. And kept planning. I decided not to tell any of my other kids. I didn't want any threat to that moment of surprise.
I went to the store to get a birthday card and found the perfect one. It was elegant in all black with a number 50 on the front. It said, "You're getting better all the time." Inside, it just said, "Happy Birthday." I brought it home and added, "Here's one dream you can have," and had all the kids sign it below my name.
The next morning, I woke up in a panic. What had I done with the card? Had I left it out in the kitchen where Paul could see it when he came home from work in the night? I searched but couldn't find it for about five minutes. Finally, I discovered it tucked safely away in my top drawer.
A day-and-half later, I tried to track the delivery and couldn't find any information. I called the customer service line (there really was one), and was told that they hadn't sent it yet! Instead, they had been trying to verify my address with the bank. "Now that you've called, we can go ahead and send it, I guess," the woman said.
"I should be more afraid of you than you are of me," I countered. "Why would I give you a bogus address?" I tried to make sure there would still be time to have it delivered. Labor Day wouldn't count. When the day waned with still no email showing it was being shipped, I called again. The man who answered said, cheerfully, "There's a chance it could get there in time." It was still nine calendar days before the birthday. "A chance?" I said. "This is a birthday present, and I have to have it in time. It's the only thing he's getting. I can't very well say, 'Oh, was it your birthday?'" I told him I might as well cancel the order and go shopping if I couldn't have it by at least next Thursday. He offered to check with shipping, then told me it would be arriving THAT Friday--in two days.
I was so relieved and giddy that I didn't even think about my sister-in-law's schedule. When we talked that night, she reminded me she would be working that day. We speculated different potential outcomes. The next morning, I called the company again to see if I could get the delivery address changed. Had I known it would be coming on Friday, I wouldn't have bothered my sister-in-law. That was the one day I was going to be home while Paul was at work. "Yes, sure, you can change the address," someone told me. "But it delays it for a day." No good. I asked more questions. No, they couldn't give me an estimated time. No, they couldn't let me sign for it at my relative's house. No, they couldn't call me if no one answered the door. No, they couldn't leave it hidden there. I couldn't even pick it up if they'd missed her--SHE would have to. But there was a chance she would be home when they came, and they would make attempts on three different days.
I just had to accept my uneasiness. And keep my mouth shut. Normally, I tell my husband pretty much everything on my mind. If I read something disturbing or amusing in "Dear Abby," he gets to hear about it. Something this big, exciting, and stressful fairly oozed from my pores. But I had to hide it all.
I imagined every possible abortion to my plan. The truck could get in an accident or catch on fire. It could take the cello to the wrong city with no time to get it back. The box could be empty, or contain a viola. They could send a cello without the bow. Or the cello could break in transit. And I had darker thoughts, too. What if--God forbid--something happened to my husband in the intervening days and he never knew I did this for him?
There is a reason I'm so nutty. I've been traumatized before. One spring, Paul and I bought my parents beautiful little matching cherry wood tables to keep by their TV chairs. On Mother's Day, I saw Dad's look when Mom received hers--he was jealous. I would be so happy when, on Father's Day, he received his. But, before Father's Day, without any warning, he died of a massive heart attack.
Another time, I looked forward to telling my mother that I was naming my new daughter after her. Two grandsons in the family had already been named after Dad, but Mom's name was a little old-fashioned, and no one had used it. She totally deserved a namesake, and I could hardly wait to see the joy in her face when I told her after the birth. But, a week after I'd found out the baby was a girl, Mom suddenly died, too. I named the girl after her, but I didn't get that moment. And I don't know for sure if she knows I honored her.
Also, I once had a boyfriend who'd raved repeatedly about a certain kind of chocolates made by a certain company in a certain city. I ordered them and presented them to him on a holiday. He was the type who would always test my love. I had hoped that this act would prove it once and for all, but he reacted badly.
So, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night can keep my mind from going anywhere it wants. The days and nights were endless. When I thought about the cello too much, I had to remind myself to keep breathing. Always making sure to log out, I checked my email every ten minutes, I think, watching the cello's progress from city to city. Gosh, were they being careful with it?
Finally, Friday came. Paul went to work in the late morning, and I took our toddler to a music store to pick up some cello music he could practice on. My sister-in-law called me to tell me she was home from work and no yellow slip was in sight. Hope still reigned. Just before five, she contacted me again. "The Eagle has landed," she said, with a laugh.
I turned off the oven I was heating, told my oldest child at home that I would be right back, and drove over there. The box was taller than I had expected--about six feet. It was hard to fit my arms around, but not terribly heavy. We carried it to my van. It just fit on the middle seat. I thanked her profusely--I think--and drove it home, careful to not have an accident of my own that would spoil my plans. Your wife was lying bloody across a cello box, the police would tell Paul. I knew heat would be bad for it, but I left it locked in the van for just a minute while I ran inside to get the children out.
"Everybody's going to play outside until dinner," I announced, quite unlike myself, and shooed them out the back door, ignoring my nine-year-old's attempts at negotiating playing quietly downstairs. Lock the door, I thought. I hesitated. I never lock my children out. But I did, just in case, then rushed back out and got the box out of the van. I sashayed it to the porch and got it in the door, shutting out my fear of dealing with the steps. Already, one of my children was knocking on the back door. I opened it a crack. "What do you want?"
"I need toys," he said. I told him, not very politely, that he would have to wait.
It's good that I was trained in social work, because self-talk came in handy as I nudged the box down the stairs. That actually went better than I would have thought, but by the time I was down them, another child was pounding on the door, saying she had to go to the bathroom.
Geez, I thought. I only need two minutes. Call me evil, but all I could think about was getting that box safely around the house and into the closet under the stairs before anyone saw it. I fast-walked it as best I could through three rooms. The closet under the stairs has a large, long space behind two rows of clothes. I shoved them aside. I hadn't remembered that the closet ceiling slopes down as the stairs do. But, no matter. There was still room for a box right behind the clothing rods. Making sure that the side of the box with the company logo did not face out, I struggled it into the closet over my daughter's dress-up clothes and shoes that had been left on the floor. I quickly arranged the two rows of clothes in front of the box and stepped back. The bottom of the box could still be seen, but, as there were other boxes in the back of the closet, I reasoned this should not be an issue. I shut the door and hurried back.
Two children were pounding frantically on the back door by now. I hurled myself up the stairs and opened it.
I had been sure that once the cello was actually in my house, I would feel much relieved. But now I worried about new things. What if we had a flood in the basement? Or a fire? What if my husband decided to look for something in that closet? Or what if my daughter decided to play dress-ups and asked her dad what the big box in her closet was about? What if a robber broke in and stole it? Yeah, right. I had to laugh at myself over that one. No burglar in his right mind would struggle with that box the way I'd had to. I looked down and noticed my white shirt was marked with dusty straight lines here and there. I quickly stain-sticked and washed it.
My son wanted to see the cello. I forbade him, knowing that, since he is never in that part of the house, his snooping around would get the other children--or worse, Paul--curious. He would lead them right to it.
Really, I was glad the cello had arrived. I realized that I should get into the box to make sure everything was okay while there was still time to make a change, but I didn't have a chance to do it. I am never home alone. And I didn't know how I was going to get through the whole long upcoming weekend side by side with my husband, mouth shut. And there were still nagging fears. What if Paul half-smiled when he saw it and said, "You shouldn't have," and meant it?
Saturday morning--first thing--we were seated at the barber's waiting for haircuts. Paul said, not intending, I am sure, any pun, "I have a wild hare." He looked at me to gauge how receptive I would be to this news, and continued carefully. "If my mom sends me a lot of money, I'm thinking about seeing about getting a cello. I really think I could figure it out." He hurried on, making his pitch.
I didn't hear the rest. What I was thinking was, "You don't need your mom to do this for you; you have me." Also, "I'm so glad you said that, but I really wish you hadn't." There were still five days until his birthday--was he going to believe I'd done it before he said that? And now I knew he thought it possible. I wanted him to think getting a cello was impossible, yet still get it.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" he asked.
"Do you know what they cost?"
"No, I'd have to look into it. Maybe I could do a rent-to-own."
This gave me a whole new set of problems to deal with. I would have to intercept his birthday card and not let him have it until his birthday. It was not at all unlikely that Paul would just go out and do something to get a cello on his own. I didn't want to spend another dime. I hoped his card would come that day, as it was the last day I would be home at mail time. When we got home, I checked. There wasn't a card from his mother, but there were two from his dad. I placed the one for our daughter on the mantle and hid his in my drawer, my heart banging against my ribs like I was committing some kind of major crime. His dad might have sent money, too, and, with the two combined, well, he might have enough to do some damage with.
I continued to go over and over my plan in my mind in order to make it seamless. My boss made the big bow for the cello's neck. I sneaked it home in a grocery bag. It wasn't at all unusual for me to get my daughter's church dress out of the closet for her on Saturday night, so nonchalantly doing so in front of her and Paul drew no attention. That way, no one would probably open that closet door except me.
To let just a bit of emotional steam out before it made me explode, I confessed to Paul, "I'm a little anxious. I have a bad feeling something might happen before your birthday." I didn't tell him why. He's used to my occasional PTSD act and brushed it off. Several times, I wanted to say, "I'm so excited for your birthday." But I didn't want him to wonder why and get his wheels turning. If I made him curious, he would be smart enough to figure it out.
Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. I was counting down hours in the triple digits.
Tuesday night, I went on a hunt for his mother's birthday card and found it on his side of the headboard. He hadn't waited--he'd opened it. I peeked inside. There was some cash but more in a gift card at a store that I was pretty sure would NOT carry cellos. There was no point in hiding it now. I put it back and just continued to hope he wouldn't act on his wild hare.
Wednesday. On the phone, Paul told me he "still hadn't looked into it," like he might as soon as we hung up. I wondered what to do. I REALLY didn't want to blow my cover. I still wanted to see his reaction. I wanted to be there. But I was horrified to think that he might sign a contract or something. "Wait and see what else happens," I said, hoping he wouldn't start to think I had done something about it. "Your dad might send some, too," I quickly added.
"He only sent one for. . ." our daughter, he complained.
"You never know what difference a day can make," I offered, lamely.
FINALLY, I had an intelligent thought and told him when I got home from work, "Let's go on the weekend and look into it together." I still had one more day of work--when he would be left to his own devices--before the party.
That night, I knew I had to get into the box to make sure there really was a cello in it. Not a broken one. And a bow. I had to tie the ribbon around its neck. I had to set it somewhere where it wouldn't be seen for twenty-four hours, but would be more accessible and still safe.
I was in the middle of making the birthday cake when I knew the moment had come. Two kids were watching a movie. Another child was in the bathtub. I had set up the daughter with the bedroom closet under the stairs at the computer playing games. Another child was sick, quarantined by her dad to the downstairs. I couldn't get her out of the way completely, but this was my best chance. I couldn't wait until the children were asleep, or I would surely wake the one daughter up. I started hyperventilating. If something were wrong, it would be too late to fix it. I grabbed a couple of cookies for my sick daughter, a knife, and the ribbon in the bag, and went downstairs, taking deep breaths. I handed her the cookies and said, "Why don't you turn that TV up louder so you can hear it?" She looked at me funny, but tried.
Closing all the doors behind me, I went to the closet and opened the door. I pushed the clothing aside and took the knife to the box. Standing inside the narrow closet with clothes and hangers bumping my head and shoulders, I engaged in mortal battle with that six-foot mass of cardboard and finally triumphed. Having gotten past tape, layers of cardboard, and super-duper staples, I looked into the box. A cello was in it, packed tightly against the sides with some kind of foamy packing. I yanked on it until it finally came out. I carried it to the bed and unzipped the case. The cello was beautiful--reddish. I clumsily tied the ribbon on, made sure all parts were there, and shoved it back partway into the case. The box would be too much for my son to deal with quickly when he came down for it, but I couldn't leave it out in the house with the name of the company printed on it.
Carrying the cello like a large baby in my left arm, I struggled to get past the box in the closet doorway without dinging the cello on the woodwork. It was a tight space, and the toy box was in the way. Finally, after a whole second workout, I managed to get the cello back into the closet and leave the box in front of it. I closed the clothing over the box again, picked up all traces of evidence, and went back up to finish the birthday cake.
Strangely, I was more anxious now than ever. Surely, with the cello out of the packaging, there would be a fire, an earthquake, a flood, something! How could I leave it out like that for a whole night and day? How would it be possible for me to go to work tomorrow and leave it in the house with Paul? Gradually, my breathing slowed and sanity returned. Still, though, I worried. Tomorrow night, should I leave it out on someone's bed? I didn't want my son to have to deal with the box. Whose bed or room would be foolproof for non-discovery? Could I really make sure to keep my little girl with me every second while I made dinner so she wouldn't go into her own room? I couldn't figure it out.
The next night, I had to go down again. I picked a moment when no one would miss me--while the dinner was finishing cooking before it needed to be served up. Paul was on the phone with his sister. All the children were upstairs. One last time, I opened that closet door and faced the box. I pulled it out and into the downstairs kitchen we hardly ever use. I shut the door. No one would discover it in the next few minutes. When I went back to the closet, a miracle happened. I realized I didn't need to do anything risky with the cello. I didn't need to make sure to keep my daughter out of her bedroom or leave it on anyone's bed. All I needed to do was place the cello at the front of the closet, right by the door, and close the door.
There was only the one slim package of sheet music to set out as Paul's present. He politely didn't comment or ask where the rest of them were, but I knew he must be wondering. I stopped myself from sending a daughter down to the downstairs fridge for more milk, and went myself. Duh!
Only because it was his birthday, I'd noticed my husband's horoscope in the newspaper that day had said, "Your loved ones have a suggestion about spending your time this evening. Remember, it's for your own good."
I laughingly told him about that, then, as we sat down to his birthday dinner, got more bossy than usual. "It's your birthday," I said, "so if you need anything, don't get up. I'll get it for you." He looked unsure about that. Sure enough, within one minute, he'd decided he needed a different kind of salt than what I had placed on the table. I jumped up. According to our plan, my son got up from the table between dinner and dessert to get the cello and set it up in the living room. Paul thought nothing of that, but he said he was hot. I jumped up to bring the portable fan over and turned it on him. I cleared the table by myself. I realized I had forgotten to think about matches for lighting the candles before confining Paul to a chair, but managed to find them by myself.
After what seemed like a long time, my son came back up with the cello and placed it in the living room while Paul waited for dessert. The daughter on my side of the table could see him and started to react. I grabbed her arm and stopped her. Twice. We sang the birthday song, had cake and ice cream. When Paul was finished, I hurried the baby out of the high chair and asked Paul to come into the living room with me this way, please.
Yes, I got my moment. Yes, my son took a fabulous picture of Paul's face when he first saw the cello. Yes, he was surprised. Yes, he shed tears. Yes, he hugged and kissed me. Yes, he said it was the best birthday present he could ever remember receiving. Yes, he said he couldn't imagine being more pleased. Yes, it was romantic. Yes, he tried it out immediately. Yes, he asked, "How did you do this?" Yes, he listened to my story. The children, who had known nothing up until The Moment, were delighted to hear it, too. Yes!
I have watched enough TV to know that I was supposed to do something about it. Something big. But what? I already knew from prior conversations that he didn't want a party. And we're just coming out of some lean times, so a trip back to our honeymoon hotel or something else really grand just wasn't going to be possible.
A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned to him while we were out running errands that I had a problem--someone very close to me was about to have a big birthday, and I was coming up short on ideas. He smiled and drove to one of those fancy-shmancy kitchen stores to show me some gadgets that--unbelievable as it is--he didn't already have. Most of the things he showed me cost about twelve bucks. Not very romantic.
Due to money and time limits, Paul and I have developed a standard birthday party for those in our family: the birthday honoree has the dinner, cake, and ice cream of their choice, followed by the receipt of some modest presents.
So, that was really all I had to go on. Until the next day. A man and his son played a cello/violin duet at church. Paul mouthed to me over the heads of four of our kids, "I'm so jealous." I shrugged back. He had mentioned several times over the years that he wished he could play the cello. Back when it had been time for him to sign up for a musical instrument, his family had owned a flute, so that was what he'd gotten stuck with. He'd told me he'd thought it was feminine, and that he'd even been teased.
So I wondered. What would it take to get Paul into a cello?
I looked into it the next day. A local retail store quoted me $1500 for new, $1200 for used. It was immediately clear that this was no violin! Our little bit of savings are already tagged for Christmas, and eventually a furnace replacement, a van replacement, etc., etc., etc. I really couldn't blow it all like that.
I searched online and found a cello at a much better price, though still quite a bit of money compared with our usual birthday presents. I wondered if I should really do it. Did he really want it? Would he really practice it? Would he stick with it? Then I realized: he's not a child. If he would enjoy it, that was all that mattered. He didn't have to become Yo-Yo Ma.
And there was a catch: if I was going to do it, i had to do it THAT DAY. This company had a "4-7 business days" delivery schedule and was in another state.
The more I thought about it, the more my mind settled on the likelihood that he really would like it and really did want it. This could be my big, romantic solution. Paul is hard to buy for, almost impossible to surprise correctly. If he wants something, he just goes and gets it. If he didn't think about something before you did, he doesn't want it. But Paul is also the man who cooks my dinner most nights, who tends my babies while I work, who made sure I quickly reobtained both the newspaper subscription and gym membership I'd given up in the darkest of times. Et cetera. He's at the point in life where he has to think about letting go of some of his dreams forever. If there was any way I could make one small dream of his come true, I should.
But there were problems to solve, too. How to pay for it, for one. I had access to enough money which I could try to replace before Christmas. I had to use a credit card for a same-day purchase, and I didn't want to use Paul's. I called my adult son and asked if we could use his, and I would write him a check. I offered to let him go in on it, too, for just as much as he would normally spend. He ended up putting in a whole lot more. I was pretty sure Paul would be okay getting just this one thing.
Where to hide it, and how to get it up to the living room? I would find a place downstairs that he wasn't likely to go to, then have my oldest son bring it up between dinner and dessert and set it up. He often left the table while waiting for dessert--his leaving wouldn't even be noticeable.
Delivery was another problem. On a typical day, Paul is at home with the children while I work. It would not be cool for a cello to just show up. I called my sister-in-law to see if it could be delivered there. She agreed, and we talked through some of the details. She works some days, but on the days in the 4-7-day window, it seemed she would be home.
Not normally an online shopper, I was a little worried about trusting this company I had never heard of with such a large percent of our savings. Exchanging them for a cello was not a tenth of the problem that losing them altogether would be. Their website looked pretty nice, but a voice in my head told me that a bogus company could have a nice website, too. I searched for clues. A coworker came over to my desk and said, "Click on the customer service policy." I did. It simply showed a picture of a young woman wearing a headset. No words, no phone numbers, nothing about a guarantee or path of recourse. We looked at each other and laughed. She suggested I forget it.
Emotionally, I was already too into this dream to just give up, though. I wanted that moment when Paul would walk into the living room after dinner and see the cello sitting there with a big bow on it. I checked the online Yellow Pages and learned that the company appeared to have been in business for decades. I found a picture of the building that was apparently at its street address. Another friend pointed out that using a credit card is a safety net of its own kind.
Seriously, I drove home from work that evening in tears. Partly in terror of the risk I was about to take, but mostly because I sensed how happy this gift would make my husband.
So, I plunged. Then tried not to sweat it. And kept planning. I decided not to tell any of my other kids. I didn't want any threat to that moment of surprise.
I went to the store to get a birthday card and found the perfect one. It was elegant in all black with a number 50 on the front. It said, "You're getting better all the time." Inside, it just said, "Happy Birthday." I brought it home and added, "Here's one dream you can have," and had all the kids sign it below my name.
The next morning, I woke up in a panic. What had I done with the card? Had I left it out in the kitchen where Paul could see it when he came home from work in the night? I searched but couldn't find it for about five minutes. Finally, I discovered it tucked safely away in my top drawer.
A day-and-half later, I tried to track the delivery and couldn't find any information. I called the customer service line (there really was one), and was told that they hadn't sent it yet! Instead, they had been trying to verify my address with the bank. "Now that you've called, we can go ahead and send it, I guess," the woman said.
"I should be more afraid of you than you are of me," I countered. "Why would I give you a bogus address?" I tried to make sure there would still be time to have it delivered. Labor Day wouldn't count. When the day waned with still no email showing it was being shipped, I called again. The man who answered said, cheerfully, "There's a chance it could get there in time." It was still nine calendar days before the birthday. "A chance?" I said. "This is a birthday present, and I have to have it in time. It's the only thing he's getting. I can't very well say, 'Oh, was it your birthday?'" I told him I might as well cancel the order and go shopping if I couldn't have it by at least next Thursday. He offered to check with shipping, then told me it would be arriving THAT Friday--in two days.
I was so relieved and giddy that I didn't even think about my sister-in-law's schedule. When we talked that night, she reminded me she would be working that day. We speculated different potential outcomes. The next morning, I called the company again to see if I could get the delivery address changed. Had I known it would be coming on Friday, I wouldn't have bothered my sister-in-law. That was the one day I was going to be home while Paul was at work. "Yes, sure, you can change the address," someone told me. "But it delays it for a day." No good. I asked more questions. No, they couldn't give me an estimated time. No, they couldn't let me sign for it at my relative's house. No, they couldn't call me if no one answered the door. No, they couldn't leave it hidden there. I couldn't even pick it up if they'd missed her--SHE would have to. But there was a chance she would be home when they came, and they would make attempts on three different days.
I just had to accept my uneasiness. And keep my mouth shut. Normally, I tell my husband pretty much everything on my mind. If I read something disturbing or amusing in "Dear Abby," he gets to hear about it. Something this big, exciting, and stressful fairly oozed from my pores. But I had to hide it all.
I imagined every possible abortion to my plan. The truck could get in an accident or catch on fire. It could take the cello to the wrong city with no time to get it back. The box could be empty, or contain a viola. They could send a cello without the bow. Or the cello could break in transit. And I had darker thoughts, too. What if--God forbid--something happened to my husband in the intervening days and he never knew I did this for him?
There is a reason I'm so nutty. I've been traumatized before. One spring, Paul and I bought my parents beautiful little matching cherry wood tables to keep by their TV chairs. On Mother's Day, I saw Dad's look when Mom received hers--he was jealous. I would be so happy when, on Father's Day, he received his. But, before Father's Day, without any warning, he died of a massive heart attack.
Another time, I looked forward to telling my mother that I was naming my new daughter after her. Two grandsons in the family had already been named after Dad, but Mom's name was a little old-fashioned, and no one had used it. She totally deserved a namesake, and I could hardly wait to see the joy in her face when I told her after the birth. But, a week after I'd found out the baby was a girl, Mom suddenly died, too. I named the girl after her, but I didn't get that moment. And I don't know for sure if she knows I honored her.
Also, I once had a boyfriend who'd raved repeatedly about a certain kind of chocolates made by a certain company in a certain city. I ordered them and presented them to him on a holiday. He was the type who would always test my love. I had hoped that this act would prove it once and for all, but he reacted badly.
So, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night can keep my mind from going anywhere it wants. The days and nights were endless. When I thought about the cello too much, I had to remind myself to keep breathing. Always making sure to log out, I checked my email every ten minutes, I think, watching the cello's progress from city to city. Gosh, were they being careful with it?
Finally, Friday came. Paul went to work in the late morning, and I took our toddler to a music store to pick up some cello music he could practice on. My sister-in-law called me to tell me she was home from work and no yellow slip was in sight. Hope still reigned. Just before five, she contacted me again. "The Eagle has landed," she said, with a laugh.
I turned off the oven I was heating, told my oldest child at home that I would be right back, and drove over there. The box was taller than I had expected--about six feet. It was hard to fit my arms around, but not terribly heavy. We carried it to my van. It just fit on the middle seat. I thanked her profusely--I think--and drove it home, careful to not have an accident of my own that would spoil my plans. Your wife was lying bloody across a cello box, the police would tell Paul. I knew heat would be bad for it, but I left it locked in the van for just a minute while I ran inside to get the children out.
"Everybody's going to play outside until dinner," I announced, quite unlike myself, and shooed them out the back door, ignoring my nine-year-old's attempts at negotiating playing quietly downstairs. Lock the door, I thought. I hesitated. I never lock my children out. But I did, just in case, then rushed back out and got the box out of the van. I sashayed it to the porch and got it in the door, shutting out my fear of dealing with the steps. Already, one of my children was knocking on the back door. I opened it a crack. "What do you want?"
"I need toys," he said. I told him, not very politely, that he would have to wait.
It's good that I was trained in social work, because self-talk came in handy as I nudged the box down the stairs. That actually went better than I would have thought, but by the time I was down them, another child was pounding on the door, saying she had to go to the bathroom.
Geez, I thought. I only need two minutes. Call me evil, but all I could think about was getting that box safely around the house and into the closet under the stairs before anyone saw it. I fast-walked it as best I could through three rooms. The closet under the stairs has a large, long space behind two rows of clothes. I shoved them aside. I hadn't remembered that the closet ceiling slopes down as the stairs do. But, no matter. There was still room for a box right behind the clothing rods. Making sure that the side of the box with the company logo did not face out, I struggled it into the closet over my daughter's dress-up clothes and shoes that had been left on the floor. I quickly arranged the two rows of clothes in front of the box and stepped back. The bottom of the box could still be seen, but, as there were other boxes in the back of the closet, I reasoned this should not be an issue. I shut the door and hurried back.
Two children were pounding frantically on the back door by now. I hurled myself up the stairs and opened it.
I had been sure that once the cello was actually in my house, I would feel much relieved. But now I worried about new things. What if we had a flood in the basement? Or a fire? What if my husband decided to look for something in that closet? Or what if my daughter decided to play dress-ups and asked her dad what the big box in her closet was about? What if a robber broke in and stole it? Yeah, right. I had to laugh at myself over that one. No burglar in his right mind would struggle with that box the way I'd had to. I looked down and noticed my white shirt was marked with dusty straight lines here and there. I quickly stain-sticked and washed it.
My son wanted to see the cello. I forbade him, knowing that, since he is never in that part of the house, his snooping around would get the other children--or worse, Paul--curious. He would lead them right to it.
Really, I was glad the cello had arrived. I realized that I should get into the box to make sure everything was okay while there was still time to make a change, but I didn't have a chance to do it. I am never home alone. And I didn't know how I was going to get through the whole long upcoming weekend side by side with my husband, mouth shut. And there were still nagging fears. What if Paul half-smiled when he saw it and said, "You shouldn't have," and meant it?
Saturday morning--first thing--we were seated at the barber's waiting for haircuts. Paul said, not intending, I am sure, any pun, "I have a wild hare." He looked at me to gauge how receptive I would be to this news, and continued carefully. "If my mom sends me a lot of money, I'm thinking about seeing about getting a cello. I really think I could figure it out." He hurried on, making his pitch.
I didn't hear the rest. What I was thinking was, "You don't need your mom to do this for you; you have me." Also, "I'm so glad you said that, but I really wish you hadn't." There were still five days until his birthday--was he going to believe I'd done it before he said that? And now I knew he thought it possible. I wanted him to think getting a cello was impossible, yet still get it.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" he asked.
"Do you know what they cost?"
"No, I'd have to look into it. Maybe I could do a rent-to-own."
This gave me a whole new set of problems to deal with. I would have to intercept his birthday card and not let him have it until his birthday. It was not at all unlikely that Paul would just go out and do something to get a cello on his own. I didn't want to spend another dime. I hoped his card would come that day, as it was the last day I would be home at mail time. When we got home, I checked. There wasn't a card from his mother, but there were two from his dad. I placed the one for our daughter on the mantle and hid his in my drawer, my heart banging against my ribs like I was committing some kind of major crime. His dad might have sent money, too, and, with the two combined, well, he might have enough to do some damage with.
I continued to go over and over my plan in my mind in order to make it seamless. My boss made the big bow for the cello's neck. I sneaked it home in a grocery bag. It wasn't at all unusual for me to get my daughter's church dress out of the closet for her on Saturday night, so nonchalantly doing so in front of her and Paul drew no attention. That way, no one would probably open that closet door except me.
To let just a bit of emotional steam out before it made me explode, I confessed to Paul, "I'm a little anxious. I have a bad feeling something might happen before your birthday." I didn't tell him why. He's used to my occasional PTSD act and brushed it off. Several times, I wanted to say, "I'm so excited for your birthday." But I didn't want him to wonder why and get his wheels turning. If I made him curious, he would be smart enough to figure it out.
Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. I was counting down hours in the triple digits.
Tuesday night, I went on a hunt for his mother's birthday card and found it on his side of the headboard. He hadn't waited--he'd opened it. I peeked inside. There was some cash but more in a gift card at a store that I was pretty sure would NOT carry cellos. There was no point in hiding it now. I put it back and just continued to hope he wouldn't act on his wild hare.
Wednesday. On the phone, Paul told me he "still hadn't looked into it," like he might as soon as we hung up. I wondered what to do. I REALLY didn't want to blow my cover. I still wanted to see his reaction. I wanted to be there. But I was horrified to think that he might sign a contract or something. "Wait and see what else happens," I said, hoping he wouldn't start to think I had done something about it. "Your dad might send some, too," I quickly added.
"He only sent one for. . ." our daughter, he complained.
"You never know what difference a day can make," I offered, lamely.
FINALLY, I had an intelligent thought and told him when I got home from work, "Let's go on the weekend and look into it together." I still had one more day of work--when he would be left to his own devices--before the party.
That night, I knew I had to get into the box to make sure there really was a cello in it. Not a broken one. And a bow. I had to tie the ribbon around its neck. I had to set it somewhere where it wouldn't be seen for twenty-four hours, but would be more accessible and still safe.
I was in the middle of making the birthday cake when I knew the moment had come. Two kids were watching a movie. Another child was in the bathtub. I had set up the daughter with the bedroom closet under the stairs at the computer playing games. Another child was sick, quarantined by her dad to the downstairs. I couldn't get her out of the way completely, but this was my best chance. I couldn't wait until the children were asleep, or I would surely wake the one daughter up. I started hyperventilating. If something were wrong, it would be too late to fix it. I grabbed a couple of cookies for my sick daughter, a knife, and the ribbon in the bag, and went downstairs, taking deep breaths. I handed her the cookies and said, "Why don't you turn that TV up louder so you can hear it?" She looked at me funny, but tried.
Closing all the doors behind me, I went to the closet and opened the door. I pushed the clothing aside and took the knife to the box. Standing inside the narrow closet with clothes and hangers bumping my head and shoulders, I engaged in mortal battle with that six-foot mass of cardboard and finally triumphed. Having gotten past tape, layers of cardboard, and super-duper staples, I looked into the box. A cello was in it, packed tightly against the sides with some kind of foamy packing. I yanked on it until it finally came out. I carried it to the bed and unzipped the case. The cello was beautiful--reddish. I clumsily tied the ribbon on, made sure all parts were there, and shoved it back partway into the case. The box would be too much for my son to deal with quickly when he came down for it, but I couldn't leave it out in the house with the name of the company printed on it.
Carrying the cello like a large baby in my left arm, I struggled to get past the box in the closet doorway without dinging the cello on the woodwork. It was a tight space, and the toy box was in the way. Finally, after a whole second workout, I managed to get the cello back into the closet and leave the box in front of it. I closed the clothing over the box again, picked up all traces of evidence, and went back up to finish the birthday cake.
Strangely, I was more anxious now than ever. Surely, with the cello out of the packaging, there would be a fire, an earthquake, a flood, something! How could I leave it out like that for a whole night and day? How would it be possible for me to go to work tomorrow and leave it in the house with Paul? Gradually, my breathing slowed and sanity returned. Still, though, I worried. Tomorrow night, should I leave it out on someone's bed? I didn't want my son to have to deal with the box. Whose bed or room would be foolproof for non-discovery? Could I really make sure to keep my little girl with me every second while I made dinner so she wouldn't go into her own room? I couldn't figure it out.
The next night, I had to go down again. I picked a moment when no one would miss me--while the dinner was finishing cooking before it needed to be served up. Paul was on the phone with his sister. All the children were upstairs. One last time, I opened that closet door and faced the box. I pulled it out and into the downstairs kitchen we hardly ever use. I shut the door. No one would discover it in the next few minutes. When I went back to the closet, a miracle happened. I realized I didn't need to do anything risky with the cello. I didn't need to make sure to keep my daughter out of her bedroom or leave it on anyone's bed. All I needed to do was place the cello at the front of the closet, right by the door, and close the door.
There was only the one slim package of sheet music to set out as Paul's present. He politely didn't comment or ask where the rest of them were, but I knew he must be wondering. I stopped myself from sending a daughter down to the downstairs fridge for more milk, and went myself. Duh!
Only because it was his birthday, I'd noticed my husband's horoscope in the newspaper that day had said, "Your loved ones have a suggestion about spending your time this evening. Remember, it's for your own good."
I laughingly told him about that, then, as we sat down to his birthday dinner, got more bossy than usual. "It's your birthday," I said, "so if you need anything, don't get up. I'll get it for you." He looked unsure about that. Sure enough, within one minute, he'd decided he needed a different kind of salt than what I had placed on the table. I jumped up. According to our plan, my son got up from the table between dinner and dessert to get the cello and set it up in the living room. Paul thought nothing of that, but he said he was hot. I jumped up to bring the portable fan over and turned it on him. I cleared the table by myself. I realized I had forgotten to think about matches for lighting the candles before confining Paul to a chair, but managed to find them by myself.
After what seemed like a long time, my son came back up with the cello and placed it in the living room while Paul waited for dessert. The daughter on my side of the table could see him and started to react. I grabbed her arm and stopped her. Twice. We sang the birthday song, had cake and ice cream. When Paul was finished, I hurried the baby out of the high chair and asked Paul to come into the living room with me this way, please.
Yes, I got my moment. Yes, my son took a fabulous picture of Paul's face when he first saw the cello. Yes, he was surprised. Yes, he shed tears. Yes, he hugged and kissed me. Yes, he said it was the best birthday present he could ever remember receiving. Yes, he said he couldn't imagine being more pleased. Yes, it was romantic. Yes, he tried it out immediately. Yes, he asked, "How did you do this?" Yes, he listened to my story. The children, who had known nothing up until The Moment, were delighted to hear it, too. Yes!
Monday, September 7, 2009
That Was Their Life
Becoming a parent changed me. As I watched my first child's eyes, intent as a starving baby rabbit, on getting his first meals, I realized with a shudder that if anything happened to me, I'd be leaving him in the care of someone who thought it would be a good idea to give him an enema on his first night at home. I started buckling my seat belt. Every time.
I struggled to shoulder the grave responsibility. I'd always loved babies, so there was much to caring for him that I enjoyed, but the enormity of the situation settled on me like a mountain. And the love I had for him was like nothing else. Just the thought that something could happen to him left me without air in my lungs.
I remember the first time I read in the newspaper--as a mother--about a tragedy. A baby had strangled in his crib. The baby was only a month older than my baby. The crib had been too far from the wall, and the child had crawled out and gotten his head stuck between the crib and the wall. My whole body hurt when I read that. I thought, "Could that happen here?" I went into the nursery and looked at the placement of the crib near the windows. I shoved the crib up hard against the wall so that there was no room between the two, then made sure the drapery cords were out of reach.
After that, every tragic news article gave me pause. I asked myself, "Could that happen to us?" Most of the time, I was glad to realize, it wasn't likely. Much of the time, the parents had been more careless than I was, had done something that I could point a finger at as a cause, or at least a contributing factor. Sometimes, these true stories opened my eyes to the need for new rules and precautionary measures that I hadn't thought of before. Sometimes, though, things happened that I realized could happen to anyone. Even me, with all my rules.
But it seems to hold true that being careful reduces the risk of a tragedy. Accidents are caused, after all, by mistakes or contributing factors. Common sense and good rules to live by can avert not all but many a tragedy.
Reading about toddlers run over by someone in their own driveway, for example, has made me very careful about getting my children into the house. It seems like we lose a child a week this way in our community, so I have lots of rules--children are first before groceries, and I hold their hands and make sure they get into the house. Then I keep them in the house, especially if someone is coming or going. Other people's tragedies have made me careful turning into the driveway. I only let small children play only in the back yard. We hold hands when we cross streets. Two-year-olds and one-year-olds are never outside even for a minute without me there to watch them. Stuff like that.
Yes, I know, it can be a pain to have to haul all of your kids--or a finally-asleep child--into every place you stop, but I never leave a child in the car. I am sometimes tempted, but then my mind fills with all the things that could happen, and I grit my teeth and do what I should. Proper parenting IS work--what else did I expect?
I won't say nothing could happen to me. News stories still haunt me. I have seven children to worry about now, and most all the things that could happen to them still occur to me. I view things like a knife left on a cutting board overhanging the counter top or a plastic bag left on the floor in a new light. I still involuntarily play the "Can it happen here?" game when I read the newspaper. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but it seems that being careful with your kids has got to reduce the chances of something happening to them. I realize this could be taken too far, and the child could be overprotected. It's a fine line. But a wise parent conscientiously walks it.
Of course, the flip side is learning to reverse this process as your children grow up. When my oldest son recently asked me if he should go sky-diving, I developed a new skill--talking while biting my tongue. I said, "You have to weigh the risks and make your own decision about whether they are worth it." He's a full-grown adult--years past majority.
Because of the rules I live by, sometimes the things I read about really never would happen to us in the same way--I would never be driving around with all of my children unbuckled, for instance, or with all of them down to the toddlers in the car at 1:00 a.m. I just know I would never let a fifteen-year-old daughter go alone to a concert halfway across the state with one friend her same age. I would never leave a two-year-old and a one-year-old playing outside together while I napped.
I actually get angry when parents waste a child by not only being careless but actually putting her or him in danger's way. They almost always say in the news story following the tragedy that flying, or bull-riding, or car racing "was their life." No, it was their death. A child under ten is too young to have had "a life."
I don't mean to pass judgment, just to use some. It's a necessary survival tactic, right? We use it to distinguish between things we should and shouldn't do--to make the rules we live by. The only sense I can make of a tragedy is to learn from it. To try to keep it from being repeated. What else can we do?
I struggled to shoulder the grave responsibility. I'd always loved babies, so there was much to caring for him that I enjoyed, but the enormity of the situation settled on me like a mountain. And the love I had for him was like nothing else. Just the thought that something could happen to him left me without air in my lungs.
I remember the first time I read in the newspaper--as a mother--about a tragedy. A baby had strangled in his crib. The baby was only a month older than my baby. The crib had been too far from the wall, and the child had crawled out and gotten his head stuck between the crib and the wall. My whole body hurt when I read that. I thought, "Could that happen here?" I went into the nursery and looked at the placement of the crib near the windows. I shoved the crib up hard against the wall so that there was no room between the two, then made sure the drapery cords were out of reach.
After that, every tragic news article gave me pause. I asked myself, "Could that happen to us?" Most of the time, I was glad to realize, it wasn't likely. Much of the time, the parents had been more careless than I was, had done something that I could point a finger at as a cause, or at least a contributing factor. Sometimes, these true stories opened my eyes to the need for new rules and precautionary measures that I hadn't thought of before. Sometimes, though, things happened that I realized could happen to anyone. Even me, with all my rules.
But it seems to hold true that being careful reduces the risk of a tragedy. Accidents are caused, after all, by mistakes or contributing factors. Common sense and good rules to live by can avert not all but many a tragedy.
Reading about toddlers run over by someone in their own driveway, for example, has made me very careful about getting my children into the house. It seems like we lose a child a week this way in our community, so I have lots of rules--children are first before groceries, and I hold their hands and make sure they get into the house. Then I keep them in the house, especially if someone is coming or going. Other people's tragedies have made me careful turning into the driveway. I only let small children play only in the back yard. We hold hands when we cross streets. Two-year-olds and one-year-olds are never outside even for a minute without me there to watch them. Stuff like that.
Yes, I know, it can be a pain to have to haul all of your kids--or a finally-asleep child--into every place you stop, but I never leave a child in the car. I am sometimes tempted, but then my mind fills with all the things that could happen, and I grit my teeth and do what I should. Proper parenting IS work--what else did I expect?
I won't say nothing could happen to me. News stories still haunt me. I have seven children to worry about now, and most all the things that could happen to them still occur to me. I view things like a knife left on a cutting board overhanging the counter top or a plastic bag left on the floor in a new light. I still involuntarily play the "Can it happen here?" game when I read the newspaper. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but it seems that being careful with your kids has got to reduce the chances of something happening to them. I realize this could be taken too far, and the child could be overprotected. It's a fine line. But a wise parent conscientiously walks it.
Of course, the flip side is learning to reverse this process as your children grow up. When my oldest son recently asked me if he should go sky-diving, I developed a new skill--talking while biting my tongue. I said, "You have to weigh the risks and make your own decision about whether they are worth it." He's a full-grown adult--years past majority.
Because of the rules I live by, sometimes the things I read about really never would happen to us in the same way--I would never be driving around with all of my children unbuckled, for instance, or with all of them down to the toddlers in the car at 1:00 a.m. I just know I would never let a fifteen-year-old daughter go alone to a concert halfway across the state with one friend her same age. I would never leave a two-year-old and a one-year-old playing outside together while I napped.
I actually get angry when parents waste a child by not only being careless but actually putting her or him in danger's way. They almost always say in the news story following the tragedy that flying, or bull-riding, or car racing "was their life." No, it was their death. A child under ten is too young to have had "a life."
I don't mean to pass judgment, just to use some. It's a necessary survival tactic, right? We use it to distinguish between things we should and shouldn't do--to make the rules we live by. The only sense I can make of a tragedy is to learn from it. To try to keep it from being repeated. What else can we do?
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