August 20, 2008
No, you say. You seem reasonably conscientious, not a taker of illegal drugs at this late date in middle age. (34- that’s middle aged now, right? Maybe early 2/3, with a little luck and some cardio. Note to self: drink more pomegranate juice.)
But yeah, I did. And not like day camp, “Oh shoot it’s 5:30 and I ought to have been there at 5:15…” No, this was forgetting on a grander scale.
I actually didn’t really forget him so much as I didn’t pick him up on the right day. I had grand plans for the Sunday pick-up. His bio-dad and I were going to meet there, so his dad could see the camp for the first time, then all go back to my parent’s house for J’s delayed 12th birthday celebration. That would have made sense, right? Drop a kid off on a Sunday, pick him up two weeks later on a Sunday. But no. Whoops.
So on Friday, I take Dan to Dulles so he can go do his European tour thing with his band. After we dropped him, around 4, the little kids are asleep in their carseats, we’re almost out of gas, and I had a little too much Red Bull after lunch, making me really want to find a gas station pronto. But I was resisting getting off the highway, trying to avoid the infamous DC rush hour.
Just as my fun game of “When Will I Run Out of Gas/Pee My Pants in the Car” was getting really interesting, my cell phone rang.
“Mrs. Maines, this is so and so, from Camp (Insert fictitious Name of Your Choice here).” My heart, of course, stopped. “It’s not an emergency,” he hastened to assure me. “We just wanted to know when you’d be picking J up.”
I relax. “About 2 on Sunday.”
Loooooooooooooong silence. Then, “Um. Yes. Well, Today’s actually pick-up day. Can you get here by 6?”
Let’s see. It’s 5 o’clock in DC rush hour, and I have to get off the highway to get gas and pee before I spontaneously combust, then magically float over the beach traffic to get to Annapolis by 6. Man.
“Of course!” I reply, then hang up to cry and berate myself.
After a quick pit stop, we were on a mission. It quickly became apparent that there was no way in heck I would make it before the day camp closed at 6. Then, inspiration struck: my birth Grandmother lives 15 minutes or so from the camp. I called information, dialed her number, and explained the situation…you know, that I forgot my kid.
Luckily, she’s not judgey. “I’ll get him, but I’m not sure they’re just going to hand him over,” she said dubiously. But they did. Despite the papers I had to sign, carefully detailing who was allowed to claim him, turns out three hours late on pick up day they’re not too picky. After I called to explain the situation, another problem occurred to me. If they told J a grandma would be picking him up, he’d expect my mom or MIL, not his more unfamiliar Great-grandma whom he rarely sees.
So I call the camp back. “If it seems like he doesn’t really recognize her, don’t be alarmed…it really is the right person…” I explained, sounding highly unconvincing and possibly criminal to my own ears.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” the counselor replied, anxious to go home after a summer of other’s progeny.
When I finally got to her house at 7, (Of course I got lost, what with having no directions) he was in a tree reading a book. He’s so my kid.
“Sorry I forgot you,” I said.
“Oh, it’s OK. Grandmother sent me a letter saying she’d see me after you picked me up on Sunday, so I knew that you would.”
I pause to consider, then shrug. Someone needs to teach that child how to use the phone.
Posted in ADD, Growing Up, Rock and Roll Mama 
3 Comments »
August 19, 2008
When I was a whippersnapper, I’d always spend some time in August at my grandparent’s blueberry farm in Hammonton, NJ. In the heart of the Pine Barrens, as you drive into town, a sign proclaims “Hammonton! Blueberry Capital of the World.” Not sure what the standards were for that statement, but whatever. It was very impressive as a child.
The farm was one of the many pies my Grandpop kept his finger in. He was an electrical engineer for the railroad, a taxidermist (now THAT’s some blog fodder), and an astute investor who saw some potential in a little outfit called Microsoft. He was also a child of the depression, and valued money and the security it could bring. He was very practical in that respect.
But he had a wanderlust. He loved Alaska, and would drive there in first, a red VW bug, and later, a VW camper. He mounted movie cameras on the side-view mirror, and would make my cousins and I watch his Alaska movies if we were bickering or being obnoxious. I’m naturally prone to carsickness, so usually displayed model behavior when visiting the farm.
Except the summer he taught me to drive. The Jersey Devil must have whispered in my ear (Oh, he could spin a good Jersey devil story…he had me convinced it had lived in the basement…I wouldn’t go down there for ANYTHING.)
But I digress. I’d had a few summers on the tractor, was learning my way around wheeled things. And I was eleven, making me ancient for driving by farm standards. So my Grandpop and I would sit in the Volkswagen bus, with him patiently explaining the intricacies of the mulish stick shift. For reverse, I had to jam it down with the flat of my hand, then yank it sharply to the right and back, keeping it depressed, all the while trying to maneuver the balky clutch and see over the steering wheel.
My Grandpop was not always known for his patience, but in this endeavor it knew no bounds. Never a raised voice, never flustered no matter how many times I choked and stalled the bus in the soft silt of the field road.
We had lessons every day for several weeks, and he played 8-tracks the whole time. It’s the first time I remember hearing Simon and Garfunkel. “Cecilia” was my favorite song…the funky percussion, the wailing chorus…”Wohohohoho…wohohohohohohoohouohoh…Jubilation…She loves me again…I fall on the floor and I like it…”
It was an odd choice for my Grandpop, who’d already celebrated his 50th Wedding anniversary with the most stalwart of mates. But he loved that one and “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille…” by Kenny Rogers.
One fine day, I mastered the art of the stick. I was feeling pretty good, as you can imagine. I was eleven, and I was ready for the open road. My younger brother, who was 9, had taken to riding along on our drives, pouting because my Grandpop pronounced him “too short” to drive. Often, my brother’s male status bought him some closeness to our patriarch, but in this matter, my age and height trumped his Y chromosone. To show his displeasure, he’d slide the side door open and yell, “GERONIMO!” and leap out of the van as we jutted through the fields. Or, maybe he just thought it was fun.
My Grandpop decided I was ready for a solo drive. There was only one rule…I mustn’t venture off the farm, onto the main road. Easy enough, right? There were acres and acres, three fields to drive. Why would I need to sally forth onto the pavement?
Why, indeed. Why do people climb Mt. Everest? Why do people sail boats. Seriously. We could all fly, it’d be faster. Because we can, that’s why.
Although that’s not why I drove on the road. The driveway was shaped like a horseshoe, with two entrances. I drove to the end of one…with no intention of disobeying orders, you understand…I just wanted to LOOK at it. Just see it from a driving perspective. Riiiiiiight.
But then, it seemed like so much trouble to make a three point turn and just go back the way I came. I mean, why? When I could just go on the luscious asphalt, just for thirty feet, and then BAM. Right back in the driveway. My Grandpop would never even have to know…
So the Jersey Devil took the wheel, and, with Simon and Garfunkel cheering me on, I made the left hand turn onto the road. For a glorious, nerve-wracking thirty feet, I cruised, envisioning all the places I could go if I just kept driving.
But my better nature, and the fact that I had no money and was, you know, eleven, took over. I made the immediate left back into the driveway. I cursed the crunch of the gravel, betraying my arrival.
When I parked, my Grandpop was waiting with his hand out, my little brother gleefully grinning beside him. Of course they’d been watching from the front room.
“Guess you’re not ready, Ingie,” was all he said as he took the keys. I sighed.
Relegated back to the tractor, the open road naught but a dream for years to come. Because if there was one thing my Grandpop did, it was live by a code. I’d broken it, so that was it. No second chances there. And I knew then, and I know now, that he was right.
But those thirty feet might have been worth it.
Posted in Agriculture, Dead Homies, Growing Up, Nostalgia, Rock and Roll Mama 4 Comments »
August 15, 2008
Pixie!
She will get brand spanking new copy of Stephanie Kuehnert’s “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone” as soon as I have her address in hand. Thanks so much to you all who entered, I learned much and remembered many bands I love that I forgot about. (Like Gogol Bordello! Thanks, Liviania!)
And yes, it is Pixie’s birthday, but no, there is no hanky panky- I used a cool random number generator at www.random.org, and here we are. Enjoy the book, P.
We’re just gearing up for the weekend here, and Dan’s European tour. He’s flying today, so I’m invading Dave and Sandy’s house to sit at their pool all day Saturday. Little do they know. (Evil laugh here.)
I pick up J from sleepaway camp on Sunday. It’s been completely weird to be cut off from him for two weeks When he goes to camp, he doesn’t call or write. Since we know this ahead of time now, it’s OK, but the first year was brutal. But I understand his logic, too…if you’re gonna go be independent, let’s DO IT, right? But seriously, kid, would a phone call kill ya?
So I’ll pick him up, and this is probably the sum total of the information I’ll glean.
“How was camp?”
“AWESOME.”
End of story. Luckily, he goes to the same camp I went to as a kid, so I can fill in the blanks…the sailing,the swimming, the cabin raids, the Led Zeppelin down by the boathouse, the smok…wait a minute. That kid is too old to go to camp. He needs parental supervision.
Oh well. At twelve, I guess he’s getting to the age I have to cut the apron strings a little bit. God knows he’s been trying to chew through them since birth.
Have a great weekend all!
L
Posted in Giveaways, Growing Up, Rock and Roll Mama 4 Comments »
August 13, 2008
Oh, I’m such a Leo. Did you really think I could just let it go and post this lovely Stephanie Interview and not sing the praises of my birthday ONE MORE TIME? At least I’m not like my kids, whose birthdays all seem to last at least 6 weeks, between their party plannings and the actual execution of said parties. Thank goodness their labors were more truncated.
I used to struggle with birthdays a little bit, as I’m the product of a closed adoption- it was hard, growing up, to be happy on the day that I knew meant both my birth and the separation from the mother I had known in the womb.
I got a great lifetime mom when I was three months old, and I know I was meant for her by the universe. But I still wrestled with the actual day I was born. It was the one day of the year I was reasonably sure my birthmother thought about me too, and I worried for her. I wanted her to know I was OK.
When I met her 8 years ago, she told me that she always slipped away on my birthday and had a piece of cake by herself. Her other children and husband knew about me, but not the day I entered the world. It made me happy to know I was a part of her life in some ritual way, especially one that involved sugar.
And now we’re all just one big crazy integrated family. I don’t worry about birthdays any more…I just call both my moms and get some love. I feel incredibly lucky to have these two great ladies in my life, so different but so essential.
So let’s segue into another mom…In Stephanie Kuehnert’s great debut novel, “I Wanna Be your Joey Ramone”, Emily fights to connect to her absentee mother through music. Here’s Stephanie’s thoughts on moms and musical identities…remember to leave a comment on this post, telling me your all time favorite band, to win a copy of “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone”…winner announced this Friday, 8/15.
Question: In your book, “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone”, the main character’s mom flees motherhood in order to pursue her punk rock dreams. Do you think it’s possible to be a mom and keep your own musical identity?
Stephanie: I certainly do. In IWBYJR Emily is told that her mother that her mother, Louisa, fled to pursue punk rock, but the truth of the matter is that she is running from a dark secret that makes her feel incapable of being a mom. Louisa thinks that music will heal her somehow. I hope that ultimately it will leave readers thinking about what happens when we run from our nightmares rather than pursue our dreams. What kind of kid would Emily have been if she grew up with her mother and could motherhood have helped Louisa? But back to the topic at hand, all of my friends who are moms have kept their musical identities. The only thing I hear them complain about is having less time to discover new bands and go to concerts.
Question: Do you think this generation of moms is keeping their musical identity more than in previous generations? How or why?
Stephanie: I think it’s more obvious than ever before that moms are keeping their musical identities. I mean, check out that series of lullaby versions of songs by bands like Nirvana, Radiohead, Tool, and Metallica. That is genius. There is clearly a market for sharing our favorites tunes with infants and toddlers. It’s really cool. And I remember the first time I saw a Ramones onesie. Even though I was still completely on the fence about having kids, I thought, I better buy this in case this is some sort of passing fad. But it’s not. You can get Misfits and Social D and Nirvana onesies at Hot Topic now. My friend’s baby has a Minor Threat shirt. It’s awesome! As this generation grows up, the stores are growing up with them and creating sections for their kids. Part of me, is like great you’re capitalizing on our love of music even more, but mostly, I think it’s cool because it is a way for parents’ to hold on to their musical identities and share them with their kids from birth on. It could produce some really cool kids… Or they could all rebel and become republicans, but let’s hope not.
Question: How did your parent’s tastes influence your love of music? (If they did.:) I know my mom loved her some Old Blue Eyes.
Stephanie: My parents loved the Beatles and they were my first musical love. My mom exposed me to the blues and my dad got me into Jimi Hendrix, but other than that and a brief hippie phase in junior high where I borrowed my dad’s Jefferson Airplane tapes and soundtrack from the original Woodstock, they weren’t really a huge influence. I kinda rebelled. The hippie folk stuff they liked was not hard enough for me. We argued over music on car trips all the time. My mom brings up a lot how miserable it made her to listen to Bikini Kill and even though, I respect his place in music history, I still can’t stand Bob Dylan because my dad forced us to listen to 3 straight hours of him and his voice just grated on me. My mom and I related musically better than my dad and I. She could get into some of my music, like Nirvana and more recently the White Stripes. My dad couldn’t tell the difference between Nirvana and Pearl Jam on the radio, *sigh,* and seemed shocked that I thought he’d like that White Stripes CD I got him. Um, they cover Bob Dylan???
Question: What are your Top 5 desert island records?
Stephanie: This is kind of hard. My top three is easy and hasn’t changed since I was 15. 1. Nirvana- In Utero 2. Hole- Live Through This 3. Rancid- And Out Come the Wolves. The other two change around a bit and part of me wants to be like, can’t I just bring my iPod??? I think if I had to choose I’d pick The Gits- Frenching the Bully and Social Distortion- Social Distortion. But depending on my mood when I was packing for the trip I might grab Screaming Trees- Sweet Oblivion, The Distillers- Coral Fang or Against Me!-Searching For a Former Clarity instead.
Thanks again Stephanie!
Posted in Birth, fangirl 6 Comments »
August 12, 2008
I think I’m all settled in after my solo adventure in the big city. Although, in typical fashion, I have yet to unpack. Once you’re home, everything just sort of starts back up…OK, there’s no excuse, I’m just a lazy non-unpacker.
My mission in going to NY was to attend the Backspace Writer’s Conference, get to know some writers and some publishing folk, and just generally recharge the batteries. It was a great experience.
I always find that I get more done on an Amtrak and in a hotel room then I can in a month at home, and this trip was no exception. Something about having all the ritual distractions removed (read: Children) lets my hyperfocus kick in a most welcome way.
Wednesday was my first night in town, and there was an informal gathering at the Algonquin Hotel, Dorothy Parker’s old haunt. I went, and was enjoying getting to know writers from all genres. I began talking to a man named John, and when I said my site is called Rock and Roll Mama, he visibly brightened.
“Are YOU a rock and roll mama?” he asked.
I thought for a moment, then replied. “I AM.”
(Disclaimer: John’s explanations are much more technically sound, these are reconstructed here to the best of my non-technical ability.)
He leaned in and said, with a quiet pride, “I created the devices that made the sound effects on many of the Pink Floyd albums in the 70s.”
“WHOA!” I said. But that wasn’t all…
“And I did the pyrotechnics that made Kiss’s guitars expode.”
The longer I talked to John Robison, the more fascinated I became. He’s had an illustrious career as a rock and roll technical guru, an electronic games designer, a restorer of Rolls Royces other exotic autos, and, most recently, a NYT bestselling author for his memoir, “Look Me in the Eye“, about his experiences growing up Aspergian.
But when, in a later conversation, I exclaimed my amazement over all the things he’s done, his response was to reply that really, anyone can do them, it’s just a matter of analyzing your own strengths and deciding to use them. And I was floored, and inspired.
I met alot of people, some published, some not, and it was really great to be sharing space with so many other people who love stories and words. I always feel energized by the city of New York itself, the aura of possibility and constant motion.
Now I’m home, mostly acclimated. Tomorrow’s my birthday…I’ll be 34. It’s cool, but I thought I was 34 all this year. Seriously. Every time I saw my Myspace profile and it said 33, I was like “Man! Myspace can’t count!” Then eventually, I became suspicious, and typed in my own birthdate to an age calculator…only to discover I had 6 weeks left to be 33. So little time!
On the upside, I get a do-over on the 34. On the downside, I only have six weeks of memories of 33. But what a six weeks they’ve been!
Tomorrow: Interview with Stephanie Kuehnert, author of “I Wanna be Your Joey Ramone”, on moms and musical identity. If you haven’t already, leave a comment on yesterday’s post to enter a drawing for a copy of the book.
xoxo, L
Posted in Vacations, Writing, fangirl 5 Comments »
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