Election Glasses, A Quest
My mom’s glass is on the left; one of the ones I just bought, on the right.
Long- and short-stemmed versions.
When my mom was a newlywed, she worked the election polls. I never really asked her what she did there, probably sign voters in, etc. As a result, she got paid in…glasswear! She was given a set of fragile-looking long- and short-stemmed etched glasses, and she was very proud of them. She’d pull them out for special occasions, like Christmas Eve and Easter, or for occasions (babies, engagements) which required a celebratory toast. My mom’s parents hailed from Poland, so our toast was Nosdrovia. (Actually, it’s really spelled na zdrowie, which means Cheers! Bless you!)
I grew up thinking of that set of crystalware as the election glasses. Which I now own, since my mom’s been gone awhile.
I didn’t hail from money. In fact, my parents were a generation older than my friends’ parents and both of them had lived through the Depression. They knew how to stretch a dollar. My mom’s good china and silver were in sets of eight, not twelve. That may be why I’m a dish fanatic, always searching antique stores for more place settings to complete the set…
For years I kept an eye out for more of these glasses.Maybe I thought that if I had some extras, I wouldn’t feel these were so fragile, and I would use them more often. Not very logical, but ways to feel close to a parent that’s long gone are never rational, are they?
A few weeks ago, while visiting another part of the country, I went for a walk near where we were staying and happened on an antique store. I cruised through the dishes sections as I always do and suddenly, there they were. Five short little election glasses, twinkling at me like a hello. Maybe from the 1940’s, the owner thought. $35 for five.
Of course I bought them They’re a little different–bigger, less fragile looking–they might even be called stemmed dessert glasses or something like that. But they are darned close to my mom’s.
I carefully washed them and compared them to my mother’s. Then I poured some wine that was leftover from the night before’s Bachelor-watching party and gave my own little toast. Na zdrowie, Mom.
Son’s Home, Laundry, Beard, and All
I picked my 19-year-old son up from college recently, only to discover that my sweet, clean-shaven boy had grown a big, bushy beard. “Who are you, the Unabomber?” I asked when he got into the car.
I’m exaggerating a little, I suppose, but I kid you not when I say his beard was growing halfway down his neck. “Why didn’t you trim it up?” I asked. “Girls don’t like neck hair.” (I thought that might make him rethink his non-beard-grooming policy, noting also that he hadn’t had a haircut in the two months since he’d been home.)
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t have a trimmer. I was waiting for (insert name of the barber from the shop back at home) to do it.” Then he added, “And for you to pay for it.” I think, personally, the wild, untamed look is a reflection of how he’s been living the past few months–sort of like John the Baptist going into the desert, wearing his haircloth and all. Living on bugs, (i.e., college food), roughing it. Enduring the hard classes, the stress, the ups and downs of dorm life.
The transition to college isn’t an easy one, is it? He’s in a difficult program. He’s made friends and gotten stellar grades. He’s managed to keep his clothes clean and get along with his roomie. He even got a job on campus. So I suppose I shouldn’t complain if he hasn’t found a place to get his hair cut yet.
Then I got to thinking, maybe he’s become too independent. Maybe he doesn’t even need home anymore. Maybe he doesn’t need me. After all, he’s nineteen now. A man. And he sure looks like one.
As soon as we got home, he unloaded his giant basket of dirty laundry. “I saved my laundry for you,” he said. He laughed, aware of the many lectures I’ve given him over the years to ensure he won’t grow up a misogynist, but rather a contributing partner in an egalitarian relationship. Believe me, I’ve given many, many soliloquies on the benefits of doing your own laundry.
“Oh, goody. How did you know I was holding my breath waiting for that?” I said sarcastically. Then he gave me a big hug. “It’s great to be home, Mom.”
That made my heart melt. It’s great to have him. Shaved or unshaved. And you know what? I probably will cave and do that laundry. Because he’s not quite all grown up yet.
Ice Cream Cures All Ills
When my daughter was small, she used to adore chocolate ice cream. We have countless pictures of her as a toddler licking chocolate ice cream cones, the chocolate dripping down her chin and onto her cute little dress or shirt and shorts. She, however, is oblivious of the mess. She isn’t caring about getting the clothes into the washer before the stains set, or searching for the nearest hose to water her down. The reason we took so many pictures is because she has this look of bliss on her face from the pure pleasure of being in the moment, enjoying it to the fullest. The experience of that cold, delicious treat sliding down her throat on those hot summer days–it was fully lived. 
As adults, we often lose this ability to live in the moment. I just spent a week with my two beautiful daughters, one on spring break from college and the other from grad school. They were worried about the typical things young women of their ages worry about–summer internships, getting accepted into grad school, navigating their way through relationship with coworkers, roommates, and men. As their mother, I worry with them. But several times during the week, we took time to visit our favorite ice cream shop in the world, the very same one from their childhood. 
Sure enough, my daughter ordered the flavor she’s been ordering since she was old enough to say “chocolate fudge brownie.” I couldn’t help covertly watching her, remembering, wondering if after all these years, it would have the same effect. And yep, her eyes closed in ecstasy, and a huge smile crossed her face.
No matter how much life changes, some things don’t. This was strangely comforting. The lesson for me being, we all need to slow down a little more, stop stressing so much, and just enjoy the chocolate!
The Joys of Texting…With Your Kids
Life was a lot different before texting. If you are my age (cough cough, old enough to have kids in college), you remember when you were in college and you had to call your parents every Sunday night from the phone hanging on the wall in your dorm room. No privacy and you had to keep it short because, well…long distance cost money. Going a week without talking to your parents was supposed to encourage independence. And build character, right?
However, I can remember sneaking into the dorm room and using that phone at non-Sunday night times when I was overwhelmed or upset or just plain had a crappy day. Nothing sounded so good as my mother’s voice on the other end saying it’s going to be okay. Sometimes, you just need to hear that, you know?
Now, my kids, who are all in college or grad school, can find us twenty-four-seven. I’m not sure that’s good as far as cutting the old umbilical cord. On the other hand, we have a relationship with them that doesn’t entail both of us being stoic like our immigrant forebears and seeing how long we can go without talking to each other. (Except my eighteen-year-old son, who might possibly be fine with that and needs a reminder every Sunday, CALL YOUR PARENTS TODAY, WE LOVE YOU AND WANT TO TALK TO YOU.) Anything in caps, he gets.
The girls are much more chatty. Maybe, at times, too chatty. Sometimes, I get texted free-fall stuff that I can’t or shouldn’t respond to. Such as this from my daughter:
I can’t find someone to cover my shift.
Um, okay, well, what am I supposed to do about that? I can commiserate, maybe send her a crying-your-eyes-out emoji or something like that.
“Hello, is anyone else out there?”
Several hours later, I get another text:
I really can’t find someone to cover my shift.
At this point, it seems that advice is being requested. I think of these kinds of texts not really as needing advice but more as, is anyone out there listening to me? And well, we all need someone to listen to us, right? My response: Start begging. (I hope that was compassionate enough.)
With my other daughter, who is living on her own in another state going to grad school, we share recipes, advice, (Can I use the same bottle of Afrin for another cold?) My answer: (Yes, it’s your own boogies), and text each other during the Bachelor every week. On a first date one time, she even texted me, I’m having a great time on my date! which warmed my heart.
Sometimes—most of the time, I think—they don’t want advice at all, they just want someone to be on the other end when they’re sad or frustrated or upset—or happy. I think of this often in terms of my own mom, who passed away long ago. How many times do I still silently call out to her? A lot. I like to think she’s listening just like she did before countless times.
So yeah, they can text me all they want and I won’t complain. And as long as I’m able, I’ll answer back.
Change is Good…Right?
It’s called Metathesiophobia, fear of change.
Nick Vinetti, the tough-guy detective hero of one of my favorite Lori Wilde books, There Goes the Bride, had it as a kid. Although he really wanted to learn to surf, he was afraid of the water–of sharks, of drowning, of getting snatched up and taken away from his mom–a self-described ‘fraidy cat. That’s when his mother bought him a little plastic hula doll named Lalule. She told him to give Lalule a shake and it would remind him to shake things up, instead of playing it safe.
It’s one thing to make a conscious decision to change. More commonly, everyday life forces us to change. It often throws us curveballs that we must do our best to dodge.
Two mundane examples. I upgraded my Mac a few months ago (after delaying doing this for a LONG time out of sheer, cold terror), only to find that my computer hated its new upgrade, protesting by shutting down for good (well, okay, for a day), necessitating several hours on the phone with tech support and finally a trip to the Apple store.
Even our most entrenched habits often need changed—at the most unexpected times.
I experienced this recently at my grocery store has been under remodel for the past few months. Last weekend was The Big Change—where all the shelves got rearranged. The resting spot of every foodstuff that I’ve known for years was suddenly now…different. It was so bad that they had people (aka, the Sunday Sample Ladies, except they were handing out maps instead of tasty samples) standing in the aisles for help.
Pic I took at sunrise one day.
Thoroughly confused, I stopped for a minute to look up at the big hanging aisle signs to see if I could figure out just where the heck the bread got moved to…and I happened to notice everyone else doing the same thing, bumping their carts around haphazardly, looks of confusion and puzzlement on their faces. I caught the eye of one of the aisle helpers…she had the tiniest smile on her face.
If it wasn’t so frustrating, I would have laughed.
I guess the point of this is 1) everyone was confused and 2) you just never know when you’re going to wake up one day and find your bread in the wrong place.
I totally took that security for granted! Nothing is safe.
So change is good. It shakes us up. It reminds us there are situations where we don’t have to be the passive victims of change—we can be the ones to instigate it, to make brave choices, to make our lives happen.
Our hero Nick did that. He put Lalule on his dashboard, where he could see her shaking it up. And the heroine saw her, and she got the subtle message for her own life.
And really…maybe we should be more afraid of things always staying the same.