I Have to Laugh or I'll Cry - HeatherIjames's Blog - Raising Bakersfield

The Course of Family

Family pictures seemed the right thing to do considering our family is complete. We went out to Hart Park during the second weekend of November to do just that. There had been some blustery and wet weather the weekend prior; the grass was vibrantly green and it was poetically littered with fall leaves. It was the perfect backdrop for what I had envisioned as the perfect family photo.

When I got the chance to view the pictures, I cried. I've looked at them several times since and have wept a few more times as well. I couldn't quite understand why I was shedding tears until recently when I viewed the pictures in a different order than I had before.

The family photo first. Everyone looked so happy and so good next to one another. Then a shot of the boys. They are just so darn cute. How did we make such handsome little men? Then a picture of just the parents. Yes, I can see bits and pieces of how we made such handsome little men. Is it vain to say? Oh, I don't care...they're all ours and they're fabulous. Finally, the candid picture of the family. No poses, no frozen smiles, just a family walking together and holding hands while walking in a fall landscape and loving one another. The tears came back.

I was absolutely moved by the course of our little family. From the time when Charles and I were dating until the present, a family of four. Seeing that candid family picture reminded me of a picture of my husband and I so many years ago when we were dating. We were two young kids in love and without a breathable inch between ourselves as we posed for the picture. I mentally compared it to the family picture now with children in between us, linking the two of us together. The difference between the two pictures portrayed a process of evolution that made me feel waves of pride I had not considered before.

How does someone go from a love-struck young adult to a child-awing middle aged adult in what seems like a blink of an eye? Just time, I suppose. Or is it more? Might one consider it faith? Faith that you've found someone you will commit to for the rest of your life and faith that you can bring other people into this world through that commitment.

Sure, many people can see love and family as an accident. But I challenge you to see it as a matter of determined course...a matter of faith. Loving has never been easy but when we choose to love through thick or thin, when we see it as an un-chartered course similar to a merchant vessel on a voyage for the ultimate treasure, we see the joy in the journey. Sometimes the ride is boring, sometimes the ride makes us sick, sometimes we fear we won't survive the storm, sometimes we want to throw out extra baggage to conserve fuel and food before we hit the shore, and sometimes the ride is so sublime that we cannot deny God is amongst us.

When I go back in forth in my mind between the picture of Charles and me dating, and the picture of just the two of us at the family photo shoot, there are two differences I notice. One, there is much more trunk space in my post-baby baking body frame than the original model, and two, there's a subtlety in my eyes now that hasn't been there before. And yes, I can convince myself the latter is worth the expense (or expanse) of the former.

The subtlety now is a stark difference from that calf in the gate, wide-eyed expression in my eyes when I was younger; when I wanted to charge at life and take everything I thought was due me. Now, my eyes are saying: I'm not racing toward it, I'm living through it...I'm going to finish this journey, it' s a matter of course.

So, take a picture and prove you are living it and loving it. And wear a pair of flattering jeans. For your trunk of course!

Portraits by Melissa Bench at www.melissabenchphotography.com (She was fabulous! )

He's Won Half the Battle

Yes, I have another one about what comes out of my four year old's mouth. Words, I mean. Maybe it's because I don't have the radio on as much in the car, or perhaps it's because I ask him more questions these days, but whatever it is, he seems to be having more to say lately.

Today, we were driving home from school when he abruptly notified me that his three imaginary friends, Cody, Honcho, and Meije, have unfortunately passed away. (To refresh yourself, or educate yourself on the three friends, read here.)

I was disturbed at this news not only for the obvious reason I don't know how to breach the subject of death with a four year old, but also because I liked those three little invisible dudes and was worried this was a legitimate end to their occupation within Ethan's life.

"No, say it isn't so. I don't want them gone. Bring them back, Ethan." I played.

"Nope. I can't do that. I'm not God. I'm just a boy. A boy who is not God. God is in charge of things."

It was, most certainly, profound. I responded by saying, "Honey, if you remember that fact, even when you're an old man, you've won half the battle. Because most people can't figure that one out at all."

Grasping at Metaphors

Ethan has been opening his little mind to a world full of great big metaphors.

The other day we had a particularly taxing day in the disciplinary arena. When my husband finally got home, he asked Ethan if he had been a good boy for mommy. To which Ethan replied, "No. I was mean to her."

"How mean?" Daddy asked.

"I broke her straw." Ethan got close to his daddy and whispered, "She's really upset because she told me over and over again it was her last one."

I was sitting at my computer when I overheard the conversation and couldn't help but laugh. It was the first time I had used the metaphor with Ethan...You've broken the last straw.

A few days later Ethan was jumping from the couch to the coffee table and back to the couch again. I was doing the dishes and grinding my teeth when Ethan noticed me.

"Mommy, am I breaking your straw again?"

"Yes, Ethan, you are."

"Is it your last one?"

"No."

"Well, how many do you have left?"

I gaged my patience level and then assessed the intensity of a battle in direct correlation to the risk of a head injury and said, "I have four left."

"Oh, good!" And, he kept jumping. When he landed on the dog after the next jump he said, "I know, I know...three left."

Get Your Fangs Out, It's Fall Ball!

I had only imagined and had only speculated the joys and frustrations that make up organized youth sports. If I’m being honest, I really only saw the frustration up until recently when my eldest son started T-Ball. Before we had an opportunity to participate in youth sports, I only saw throngs of parents sitting in wobbly camping chairs either in the extreme heat or extreme cold, watching a practice or a game either too early or too late in the day but more often smack in the middle of a meal time. And, sometimes I saw tired and dirty boys and girls piling into a fast food restaurant at an hour nearing bedtime with cleats still on their feet and designated jersey numbers upon their backs.

“Is this our future?” I had asked my husband before we had our first child.

“Maybe.” He replied.

Well, two sons later it most certainly is our present. And after being at our eldest son’s first t-ball game, I see the joy of the game and only found frustration in the parking situation. For those of you who don’t see that there is a parking situation, perhaps a few rules will help you stop annoying the rest of us.

Rule Number One: Little cars should not be so bold when you have angry moms in SUV’s. If you drive a little car, think bumblebee and rhinoceros. Hope that helps.

Rule Number Two: Just because your car can fit there, it still doesn’t make it a parking spot.

Rule Number Three: I don’t think the architects of these parking lots have envisioned the lots, as clearly as some of you have, that there should only be one point of ingress and egress as you have clearly created by disregarding Rule #’s 1 and 2.

But, be that as it may, what I don’t do to offend as far as parking is concerned, I seemed to have more than made up for in the realm of being annoying and offensive on the field. I videotaped nearly the entire game and have watched it almost every day this week. And, I’ll be the first one to admit it’s hard to watch without curling my shoulders up to my ears at the sheer shrillness of my voice, screaming to my son to run, run, run and catch it, catch it, catch it!

Ah, yes. I’m quite embarrassed with myself. I used to make fun of crazy moms like me. Naturally, I assumed I would not be one of those psychotic sports moms. But there’s just something about MY kid that makes me think he’s so much better than everyone else’s and I feel an overwhelming need to let all of you know that. I kid, of course, but at the game I screamed and I screamed and I screamed. I interfered with the dugout, overstepped the natural boundaries between observer and wanna-be coach, and probably inserted my big butt in the frame of several different snapshots trying to be taken by demure and properly sitting parents when their own child was up at bat. Uh yeah, I got nothing except…I’m sorry.

All I can say is that I have evidence through my videotaping that I may have taken it a bit overboard. I’m going to try to tone it down a smidge before the next game and try my darndest to not get out of my seat. Of course, my seat might be up against the fence at home base, but I promise to attempt sitting.

So, some of you need to understand the rational of white painted, properly designated parking spaces, and I’ll take a muscle relaxer. Then, we’ll all be good and we can say in unison, “Play Ball!”

Mom's Night Out

Husbands have had a meal prepared for them, children have received a soft kiss good-bye, and mommas are rolling out of driveways in their SUV’s and minivan’s dressed like they just about lost their ninny minds. What’s going on, you ask? It’s Mom’s Night Out and the ladies are loose.

Destination: Christina’s house, Northwest Bakersfield. Event: Pajama Party and Fuzzy Slipper Game Night. Potluck style, of course! There’s a contest for best pajama and the trophy is a bottle of wine. It might be needed for those up and coming cold winter nights we know are right around the corner. When daddies don’t come home until it’s dark and the children have been up since before dawn.

I’m wearing a little number I like to call Before and After. I have my regular pajamas on underneath. Oversized T-shirt from my alma mater and baggy pants that fall to the floor. You know…the type I could fit two of myself in. Over that, I have my sexiest lingerie on. It’s black and see-through with red lace stitching on the bustier. Get it? Before and After? If you don’t get it, think it through some more. If you still don’t get it, you’re not a wife and mother.

I put makeup on but smudged it up a bit to look like I slept on it. My hair is tossed and teased in several different directions yet, I still show up with a chocolate glazed hazelnut mousse cake and it looks like a million dollars.

I didn’t win the contest but defeat was accepted willingly after seeing my friend Peejay’s outfit. The best way to describe it was Mimi from Drew Carey with rollers in her hair. It was priceless and pleasantly shocking. More shocking was how interested we all were when Peejay told us we could buy muumuus at Wal-Mart.

We ate, we talked, we laughed, someone spilled a red beverage on the carpet, and I told everyone about my salt on the stain trick as we put the party on hold to spot treat. We played board games, talked, and laughed some more then lit candles on my cake and sang Happy Birthday to one of our own. After I threw a teensy fit wanting the term “Weight Watcher Points” banned from the evening, a few women and I partook of the cake.

We quieted in the dimming glimmer of the night, knowing that our evening was coming to an end. Only one husband called during the adventure and my friend’s comment and tone pretty much summed up the joint female reaction to being bothered. “Is that it? Is that why you called me? Yes, the dishwasher is clean.”

Christina’s husband and children returned home and we knew it was time to leave. We all drove home hoping for two things. One, fire trucks weren’t parked with their lights spinning in front of our houses, and two, not a child was still awake.

I used to find total and complete pleasure in spending every weekend moment with my family and would often shun the thought of leaving them for some girl time. That is until I learned one very important lesson: girls need girl time, especially when they’re women.

First Day Funny

Ethan started another year of pre-school today. But it was big boy's pre-school this time around. The final heave-ho for my December-just-missed-the-cut-off-baby before he makes the final ascent into kindergarten.

I tried to make it abundantly clear to him that behavior was going to be big emphasis this year. The kid can already read (are you paying attention Mr. Superintendent of schools who decides the cut-off is a hard and fast rule???) so, there's not much left to perfect except...um...behavior, I guess.

At any rate, he's got a great teacher and she has some great rules on behavior. She communicated them so perfectly to my son, that when I picked him up today he repeated them verbatim from the sheet she handed me in the morning. He listed all the consequences of bad behavior up and until the final consequence of being sent to the Principal's office.

To which he than adds, "And I think I have to stay there all day and night because the teacher made it sound like a horrible place. Right Mommy?"

"That's right, honey. All day and all night without any food or water." What? I thought it'd be funny. My boy usually knows when I'm joking so I left it at that and we moved on.

A couple of hours later, Daddy called and asked Ethan how his first day went. Ethan proceeded to tell Daddy (on speakerphone) all about the rules and then ended, very dramatically, "And I'll be sent to the Principal's office to sit and suffer all day long without any food or water."

"Wh-wh-what?" His Daddy asked. "Um, honey (talking to me now), are his teachers allowed to do that?"

Well, I have to get my entertainment somewhere.

It's Not a Dare

Here's a piece of newly found wisdom: The manufacturer's recommend age for fun stuff like Lego's, Lincoln Logs, and Transformers (and I'm sure the same will go for girly toys) is not a dare for you to prove to the toy company that your child is smart enough to play with older kid toys.

No, it's a stern warning that if you are naive enough to buy it for your younger one, then you must be patient enough to put the toy together over and over and over and over again. On account of the younger one reveling in habitually taking it apart and not being sophisticated enough to read the thirty page instructions that accompany the toy.

I've just discovered this today as I look at the 600+ pieces of Lego's on my living room floor (which used to consist of four separate sets) while my four year old waves phone book sized manuals in my face, asking me to build up the models again which were originally recommended for eleven year olds.

When I told him he needs to follow the manuals himself, he just laughed at me and said, "Yeah right. That's what you're for. Mommy's are for reading and I'm for playing."

Okay toy companies...lesson learned.

The Barcelona Chronicles - Part III

Park Guell

There is nothing like a park bench to contemplate life upon. It has seen, felt, and heard the plans of men and women, old and young. Everything from a first kiss to a lonely tear drop of a widow feeding pigeons, life occurs on a park bench. I suppose that is why I am so fond of them. Of all the tourist spots in Barcelona, none did I visit as frequently as Park Guell.

A wonderland of mosaic tile and shapes from a dream sequence which can only be appropriately designated as the result of some form of excessive intake. Be it wine or clams, a dream sequence born of excessiveness. They say, though, that Gaudi was eccentric. In that, I found a certain amount of humor in the design of the park and yet, a certain amount of charm as well.

The park bench on the upper tier of the park seemed to run for at least two to three hundred yards. It weaved around the edge of the upper tier letting those who attempted to find respite in it, overlook Gaudi’s barrage of columns below and catch a bird’s eye view of everyone perusing the top tier.

You could always find several vendors up there. The ice cream vendors were a given, the woman in black selling silk scarves, a treat. Her lips wrinkled inward, her ankles pudgy and stuffed into uncomfortable, but practical, shoes. There was nothing spectacular about her except the way she displayed her scarves. I can not think of too many occasions were a scarf is necessary in the Mediterranean, even if it is silk. But she had a way of waving them just so, it was truly captivating. Held out with her right hand and then flicked upwards to catch the breeze. The breeze pulled it out and splayed it in the sun. The sun caught the gold and silver threads and flashed brilliance. The brilliance was such that an old and plain woman made her wares the most drop dead sexy and titillating accessory known to anyone with a pulse. I own a few of her scarves.

But, back to the bench. I always liked to consider Gaudi’s tiled bench the epitome of narcissistic art. It really is a beautiful bench and quite comfortable for being made out of cement and plaster. You feel overpowered to just sit for hours. And yet, as time ticks on, you really start to think that passersby’s are looking at you, not the bench. Hence, the narcissism.

Artists would paint from the bench, writers would write from the bench, and musicians would compose from the bench. All art forms were represented. I was attempting to write the great American novel from this bench. The writing was rubbish, the memories were fond.

I was stuck on a paragraph about love one afternoon when I heard a commotion below me on the bottom level. I leaned over and saw a wedding party. A sun kissed Spanish bride with soft brown hair. Both hair and skin accentuated by the high afternoon sun and a white woven and beaded silk gown. Princess style, of course. The browns of her eyes held a fervor only a perfectionist bride could know. Something had gone wrong. She was upset at her photographer. Her groom stood a foot away with his hands in his pockets.

She saw me staring down at her and smiled at me as if she was a goddess of light and beauty; she shouted to me in Spanish, “Take my picture!” I had not even realized I held my camera in my hand as it dangled over the terrace. I did. She then turned to the photographer, “See, that’s what I want. Go up there and take my picture.” She and her groom played peek-a-boo with the roman columns, racing between shadows and light, and the photographer took several pictures. She was happy and I finished my paragraph about love. How it was fleeting and imperfect, darting between shadows and light.

Even now, the memory makes me yearn for a park bench. To see life again from a bird’s eye. To sit down while the world goes by, contemplating the perfect moment to get back up and rejoin the masses. Or, I could just go play with my scarves.

The Barcelona Chronicles - Part II

Apartment in the Ghetto

I found the place online and the price was right. Too right. The pictures showed a clean and quaint little studio apartment. The price could mean only one of two things. Either the landlords, in a cooperative effort with some fair housing for poor students initiative, kept the rent at a below average rate or, it was a clean and quaint apartment in a crummy area. I decided to take it anyway. How bad could the area be? Surely Barcelona could not have its Compton comparable area. I was sure I had seen worse in a line at Magic Mountain than anything I could find in Barcelona.

My new landlord insisted he pick me up at the airport; and although my suitcase was bigger than his car, I was grateful for the ride. The first time I caught a glimpse that something was afoul was when my landlord had wild and darting eyes once he told me we were only a block away from the apartment. For a fifty-five year old man, I was plumb shocked at how quickly he managed to unload my bags and lock us inside the apartment for my tour.

He gave me the run down of the apartment. “Bed here, fresh sheets there, TV doesn’t work but you wouldn’t understand it anyway, bathroom, kitchen, and this is your washer/dryer/dishwasher.”

It was a small machine that only looked like a washing machine. “No!” I said in disbelief.

“Yes.” He reiterated.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nah….” Still in disbelief.

“Yes, okay.” He said firmly.

I still don’t know if it actually did all three. I was not going to try. I washed my clothes in it, hung them dry and did my dishes by hand.

He stood by the doorway and prepared himself to leave. “There is one more thing. Ah, first…thank you for paying in full up front. I really appreciate that. Ah, second, try not to go out after sunset. It’s a bad area and bad things could happen to you. So vulnerable, so young, so alone. I would feel horrible if something happened to you. Ah, so make sure you have lots of fun in Barcelona but make sure you are home before dusk. And if you are out after dark, then make sure you don’t walk home. Take a taxi. Most won’t come out here, but take one anyway. Thank you, good-bye.”

I spent my first evening double latching the front door, pushing the armoire in front of the porch door and curling up reconnecting my communication line with God. My landlord was right though, no taxi would come that way. For fear of being robbed. The few times I stayed out after dark, I was dropped off at the barrier of the ghetto by my taxi driver and was forced to make the one mile trek to my front door alone. One time, I even resorted to barking while walking. I was willing to try anything. But, for the most part, I did all my sightseeing in the daylight and rediscovered why it is important to be comfortable with oneself when all one has until dawn is…oneself.

The potential for a mugging in that neighborhood was no joke. I, luckily, survived unscathed. Although, as alluded to earlier, I could not even count on one hand the times I was walking home after dusk. A fellow student in my building, however, was not so lucky. Despite the fact I warned my building co-occupier we should forego the end of the Sangria party to arrive home in safety, he told me that I should lighten up and enjoy myself. The next morning when I came knocking on his door to walk to the subway together, he finally opened the door with a swollen and red face, wearing the same clothes he had on the night prior. His left back pocket was ripped off and dangled by a few threads from his pants. He had been jumped, mugged, and punched by seven men when he finally came home at three in the morning. They had taken his wallet and, regrettably, his sense of security. He moved out the next day.

The next chapter is Park Guell. A world famous park designed by Barcelona’s beloved artist, Antonio Gaudi. A place where I habitually watched the world go by.

The Barcelona Chronicles - Part I

The Barcelona Chronicles

Part I

I am at the point in my life where I neither feel young nor old. I know have opponents in the field who say I should still very much consider myself young. But enough whipper snappers have referred to me as ma’am, and thus, I have accepted my fate as being older than the young even if I’m not older than the old. At any rate, it recently occurred to me my mind feels quite like a rubber band. Sometimes it stretches to great lengths, and other times it contracts and I ask complete strangers what the date is several times over in the course of a single day. Today it is stretching. Stretching back to a time which seems so very long ago, yet it has not even been ten years. However, it was before marriage and before children. So as you can see, it was a very, very long time ago.

I was preparing to sign up for the summer semester following my second year of law school when I had come across a flyer in the library. It advertised a semester abroad in one of several countries over the summer break. My attention was truly peaked because I had already done a semester abroad in Florence, Italy during my sophomore year in college. Oh, to go to Europe again. I had to at least make an inquiry. It turned out that taking two summer classes at the University of San Diego during the summer would cost double the amount of taking three summer classes abroad. That cost included my tuition, renting an apartment, the flight over there, spending money, and still paying the rent on my apartment in La Jolla since I did not want to lose it for the next school year. Half the cost and an experience of a lifetime? It was a fortuitous thing I already had a passport.

I chose Barcelona, Spain for reasons I am still not sure of. I suppose I cannot escape the fact that the Mediterranean calls out for me…it is in my bloodline. I remember telling my father, both while I was there and once I arrived back home, I did not care for Barcelona. My reasons were juvenile. I suppose I wanted to see something quaint, a picture which had manifested itself from a young girl’s expectations. Barcelona was big, bustling, and dirty. That is what I told him.

But now I can see that those opinions were formed in the journey, not the destination. The journey from my apartment to the cathedral was dismal but I adored the cathedral. The journey from the university to the park was frightening but I adored the park. Maybe it is collective blocking, but I hardly remember the journeying anymore. I simply see the destinations. And oh, what destinations they were.

To feel the pulse of Barcelona is to taste it with your eyes. I can hardly envision standing on the gold and course sand of the Costa Brava without tasting the salty air of the Mediterranean in my mouth. I can’t remember an outdoor café without tasting olive oil and freshly crushed tomatoes making a natural symphony of flavor in my mouth. And sangria, sangria is the heart of the city. Every time I make it in the comfort of my own home I remember the dark pit of a tavern where my lips where first introduced to its amazing flavor; how I still taste the wet wood my hand carved goblet was made from as it held the dark and sweet substance I am still so fond of.

Humor me as I retell my experiences of Barcelona in these chronicles. Part one was my introduction. Part two will be my apartment in the ghetto.