Joan’s Jottings

As the nation prepares to honor the 10th anniversary of the events of September 11th, 2001, we, too, are acknowledging the passing of a decade in our own home.Today, Saturday, September 10th, 2011, marks one decade since the end of my husband’s (and son’s father) battle with a rare cancer. In some ways, so much time has passed, but yet I can still recall the events of that life-altering day as if it were yesterday. A. had been under the care of hospice the last twelve days of his life. On what was to be his final full day on earth, he was trapped in a state of what is referred to as “terminal restlessness.” He just couldn’t quite overcome that final “hump” and cross over. After adjusting his medications earlier in the evening of September 9th, he was eventually able to let go. His time of death was approximately 3:30 AM that fateful morning.

So much has transpired in the days, weeks and years since his rather untimely death, but none more so than the fact that his toddler son has morphed into a teenager, just beginning his final year of junior high school.  Back in early 1998, before cancer showed up as an uninvited guest in our home, I had A. complete a section in M.’s baby book. The page is titled “Dad’s Thoughts,” and he wrote the following:

“I want to watch you grow up, experience the ups and downs of life. To see you become a Mensch……My greatest joys have been watching you laugh and smile……And my wish for you is that you have health, happiness and live a long meaningful life! Learn to be compassionate and giving.”

Even though A. has not been with us in a physical sense, I do believe that he has watched his son grow and continue to laugh and smile. I would also like to think that our son has the beginnings of becoming a Mensch, a Yiddish word which figuratively means “a person of integrity and honor.”

And so, as this significant anniversary descends upon us, I would like to say to those we lost all those years ago, which includes loved ones, fellow Americans and members of our global community, “While you are no longer present in our daily lives, no disease or terrorist act can take away the memories and love we hold in our hearts each and everyday. You are missed!”

Today marks the Sunday that we honor dads. The greeting card aisles have been stocked for weeks, and radio and TV ads are full of great gift ideas, which always seem to include power tools and grills. It dawned on me recently that for the first time in my entire life, I have no one (living) to recognize this year. My own dad will be gone 15 years on July 1st, and my husband and son’s father passed nearly 10 years ago. The only remaining patriarch of recent history, my father-in-law and son’s grandfather, died on August 20th of last year.

There are no cards to buy, and no gifts to wrap. Today will be just another Sunday at our house. We miss the men in our lives, but I am personally grateful that my son does have positive male role models around him. M. is blessed to have a tennis coach who is patient and kind, and truly wants to see him improve his game to the best of his ability. M.’s private lesson teacher (for saxophone) is also a great influence, who once a week shares his gift of music. There have also been several male teachers who have had a lasting impact on M. as he makes his way through school. To these men and others everywhere, we wish you a great Father’s Day. Be sure to cherish the precious time you have with your children today and always.

I am a female raising a male human. Alone. With no help. I have only a sister, no brothers.  I did have a father who was very present in my life, but I did not meet him until 1960. He was 38 years old.  I have been married to a man, and dated a few others before him, but once again, they were adults. The point I am attempting to make is that I have no real life experience with a young boy. What makes them tick? What goes on inside their mind? Is there actually a “mind” located within their skull? Case in point. Last Spring, after the snow had melted, I was piddling out in the front yard, collecting various forms of debris that had landed on the lawn-leaves, sticks, pickles. Pickles you say? I did not initially realize that I was picking up pickles. The first one or two I came upon, near the front door, were green, shriveled, rubbery mystery items that I believed might have been deposited in the yard by birds. Then I came upon another, and another, and another, until I realized that they were pickles-little miniature gherkins-often used for snacking. Was someone in the neighborhood feeding the birds pickles? Had they run out of seed and peanut butter, or were they just trying to finish off the jar and thought, hey, I think I’ll put these in the feeder to get rid of them? (Birds will eat anything, like Mikey.) It did not dawn on me until later in the day, that most likely, my son (then 12 years old), had apparently gotten bored one winter’s day and decided that it would be fun to toss pickles out the front door like lawn darts. Really????

Fast forward to this winter, which has also included many housebound, relatively uneventful days for my son. He spends a lot of his free time on his XBox, but once in a while he tires of that, and will watch old reruns of I Dream of Jeanie and the Beverly Hillbillies. Apparently, one dull and dreary day he ran out of things to do, and decided to suck the coating off of several orange-flavored Tic Tacs and spit them around the house. (Yesterday, I found one behind a chair in the great room.  Weeks before, I had found a couple of others in more conspicuous places, but shrugged them off to something the dog had dragged in.) Once again, I was left scratching my head in wonder at the inner workings of the underdeveloped male brain. What could possibly make an individual decide to make a sport out of kosher dills and breath mints? What’s next? Waffles as frisbees, or Cheerios as ammunition? I may have to start locking up the frig and pantry when I leave. Apparently, a grocery toss has replaced a deck of cards and board games as indoor fun-at least at my house!

Today, my one and only offspring, my “baby” turns thirteen. The “teen” after “thir” merely serves to reinforce that the snappy tongue and sassy attitude do indeed belong to my now official teenage son. A family member reminded me earlier this week that had my son’s father lived, he would have been raised Jewish, and this weekend would most likely have been his Bar Mitzvah. For those of you unfamiliar with this Jewish rite of passage, thirteen year-old males now bear the responsibility, once held by their parents, for Jewish ritual law, tradition and ethics. They are called to the Torah for the religious/spiritual aspect of this event, and then afterward, there is a HUGE party that rivals a wedding, both in cost and extravagance. M.’s first and only indoctrination into the Jewish religion was his Bris, which was held when he was approximately one month old. (This initial rite of passage usually takes place on the infant’s eighth day of life, but M. was four weeks premature, so it was postponed.) The Bris is the ritual circumcision of the Jewish male, which is a ceremony of sorts ALSO followed by a party. (I did not actually witness M.’s circumcision, as I politely excused myself, stepped outdoors and cried. Once the “act” was complete, I came back inside and whisked my whimpering baby into the bedroom while the family indulged in all foods Jewish-bagels, cream cheese, lox and egg salad. (How one sits down and eats after witnessing the cutting of a baby’s penis is beyond me!)

M. obviously turned thirteen without declaring a religious affiliation, though he is a card-carrying member of the Religion of Joan, a denomination not recognized outside the walls of our home. While he won’t be celebrating his own Bar Mitzvah, he did recently receive the Bar Mitzvah ring that once belonged to his paternal grandfather, who passed away in August 2010. (M. was the recipient of this coveted heirloom not so much because of his Jewish heritage, but primarily due to the fact that he is the only male grandchild.) Today, we honor and reflect on what might have been, and celebrate this important milestone in any child’s life-male or female, Jewish or not. Happy Birthday to my son, and may God help me get through the next few years!

I have known for the past two years or so that my son had officially become a tween. Some of the first signs included a tendency to become “mouthy” and argumentative at times, as well as the need to faithfully apply deodorant each morning.  Of course, he possess all of the “tools” required of  male tweens and teens today-iPOD, XBox 360, cell phone (just acquired in the last six weeks) and a vocabulary that includes verbage from the rap culture. (What?) In just a few short weeks, my almost-twelve-year-old-tween has become a teen, even though the “magic 13″ is over one year away.  Here are some of the clues that this morphism has occurred:

1. The bathroom of my son now includes products such as AXE shampoo and body wash (what happened to Johnson’s No More Tears?), Purpose Gentle Cleansing Face Wash, Clearasil Cleansing Pads and hair styling gel.

2. I have been informed by afore mentioned boy/man that the tags in his clothing must read Aeropostale, American Eagle and Under Armour. It is still okay to wear college and pro sports athletic shirts, so his Penn State and Pittsburgh Steelers apparel is safe-for now!

3. This past week it was necessary to replace his worn out Nike sneakers for a new pair.  Since the beginning of the school year, his once youth-sized feet have grown into a men’s size 8 1/2, along with a man-sized price of $50.00. Cha-ching!

4. My once always-pays-attention, never-forgets-books-or-papers child is forever forgetting to bring home the items necessary for homework completion.  In a flabbergasted moment, I asked, “What is going on with you?” His reply-”I am too busy talking!” This from a child once so shy that he spent his entire Kindergarten year (sans the last three weeks) standing by himself on the playground at recess. My sort of socially awkward child is now a social butterfly. Go figure!

5. Just this past week, Junior climbed in the car for a ride to the bus stop and informed me that if I got up close to him, I could REALLY smell his AXE bodyspray because he had doubled his usual amount. (I had to stifle my smile/giggle.) I am sure that some sort of expensive manly-man cologne is next……

These are just a few of the signs that times they are a-changin in our household, and there is no turning back now.  Junior’s once dormant hormones had been awakened and even Ambien won’t be able to lull them back to sleep.  Lord help me!

My son has been a vegetarian since birth. This somewhat unconventional diet has not been his choice, but rather was imposed upon him solely by birth right. He has never ingested a juicy burger from a fast food chain, nor has he been served bacon with his breakfast. At Thanksgiving, we show up strictly for the carbs-no turkey protein for us! Junior is comfortable and satisfied at mealtimes, where the staples include cheese, beans, tofu, yogurt and whole grains, including lots-o-pasta. Over the years, I have brainwashed informed him of the inhumane and often unsanitary conditions in which cattle and poultry are raised in the United States. We have also discussed that as a card-carrying member of the “Religion of Joan,” it is considered less than spiritual to eat animals.

I remain hopeful that nearly twelve years of education and abstinence from flesh-eating have guaranteed that my son will adhere to this diet, however, a certain curiosity with the forbidden fruit (or shall I say forbidden flank steak) has been brewing in Junior’s little veggie head. Recently, he expressed an interest in taste testing a real, all-beef burger. Is Junior’s new found inquisitiveness just that, or is it a form of teenage rebellion? If the latter is correct, I would much rather he rebel against his enforced diet than his Type 1 Diabetes. (I have been forewarned by his doctors and clinicians that adolescent diabetics often rebel against their condition as a means of  “fitting in.”) I must confess that my own curiosity has been peaked regarding Junior’s sudden interest in channeling his inner carnivore. I am just a teeny, weenie (pun intended) bit interested in learning if he likes it. (Kind of like Mikey in the LIFE cereal commercials.) He does, after all, possess the genes of a long line of butchers on his grandfathers side. Will his virgin patty-on-a-bun be passed through a window at the Golden Arches, or will it possess the title, “The Baconator,” where one can cross off two forms of livestock with just one bite? (Family and friends have discouraged him from choosing a burger-in-a-box as his first meat-inclusive meal, and are anxiously awaiting the call to assist him in his rite of passage.)

It has been several weeks since Junior first mentioned his interest in meat consumption. So far, he has remained faithful to the family food chain. I’ll keep you posted in the event he crosses over, and I’ll keep my fingers crossed that he remains my vegetarian baby!

My son is three weeks into his sixth grade experience.  In his Language Arts class, he was instructed to write a poem entitled, “Where I’m From.” I always get excited when he has a writing assignment. I can’t wait to see how he reveals himself with words. I enjoyed reading his work of self-disclosure, and hope that you might, too.

Where I’m From

I’m from the warm, cozy one-story house on the street.

I’m from photographs, circa 1998 to 2009.

I’m from the dewy morning air, the wakening of the day, the smell of a new start.

I’m from Germans and Russians.

I’m from living with a dog, going on walks, and playing a game of fetch.

I’m from summer vacation and having fun, traveling from Florida to Canada.

I’m from the Streets of West Chester, PF Changs and Bravo, ordering the same meal every time I go.

I’m from television land, NCIS to Chuck.

I’m from music, genres like pop and rock.

I’m from guitar,classical to heavy metal.

I’m from football, Penn State to the Philadelphia Eagles.

I’m from pasta and bread, a vegetarian not a carnivore.

I’m from great novels, the adventures of Artemis Fowl, Luke, Peter and Harry Potter.

I’m from nonfiction, astronomy to history.

Most importantly, I’m from my family, Grandma and Grandpa and Mom and Dad.

The other night, my son mentioned that several classmates were planning to attend a local high school football game.  (This particular high school is the one my son will eventually attend, provided he passes grades six through nine.) I replied that I do not recall attending high school football games while still in elementary school. However, I do remember attending many Friday night events all through my secondary years, especially tenth through twelfth grades, when I was a member of the drill team. Junior then asked, “What is a drill team?” Big mistake! Grasping this opportunity to share a glimpse of my past, I began a twenty minute lecture on the definition of a drill team and its second class status to the “cheerleader.” I hauled out old photo albums and yearbooks, which provided the necessary proof and documentation that such a “team” actually existed, and that I was a full-fledged member.

When the lesson was complete, my son replied, “You are more like a drill sergeant than a drill team member!” Ouch! You gotta love kids. Their ability to tell it like they see it is remarkable. I better channel that “kinder, gentler Joan” more often.

A few years ago, my son mentioned that he wanted to visit all fifty states. Since then, we have been on a quest to begin ticking off states, one by one.  Junior was born in Texas and lived there for his first three-and-a-half years. Therefore, the Lone Star State was instantaneously crossed off the list. (My son has very few memories of life in Texas, so we may have to revisit his birth state at some point.) We can also check off the state we currently live in.Two down, forty-eight to go. We live near the border of two states-Kentucky and Indiana-and have been to both places often. Two more states with a big fat check mark! We have been to Florida twice, but will only count it once. We have also vacationed in North Carolina, New York, New Jersey (another two-time stop), Tennessee and Michigan. Just a few weeks ago, we traveled to Washington DC, not an actual state. We did however hunker down in Virginia, which was admitted to the union in 1788. Another one bites the dust! On the way to our nation’s capitol,we drove through West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Maryland.  (We did stop in Morgantown, WV twice for lunch.  Should that count as a visit? What about the drive-thrus?)

So, if my math skills are up to snuff, we have spent time in eleven states and the District of Columbia. We have passed through an additional four states, which includes a jaunt through Arkansas on our move north from Texas.  That is a grand total of 15 states, or 30% of Junior’s goal. Not too bad for an eleven year old!

I neglected to mention that we have spent time in Canada, and are planning a trip to Germany in the next year or two. I may not encourage Junior to add foreign countries to his list. He can travel to other continents as an adult, on his own dime. I do expect, however, that we will continue to chip away at the list over the next several years, or as long as he still wants to vacation with mom.

On ABC’s nightly news one evening this week, they profiled a story on diabetes. It seems that researches have developed an “artificial pancreas” that does it all-monitors blood sugar, determines the necessary amount of insulin required after a meal and then delivers the prescribed amount of insulin.  No finger sticks or needles. (Currently at mealtime, my son must first check his blood sugar. Then we calculate the amount of carbohydrates in his meal. We then inject enough insulin to “cover” the carbs.)

My son and I watched the piece together, and were amazed at this new technology that may become available within the next few years.  (Junior was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes almost four years ago. We live within the confines of this disease 24/7. ) My son had one comment at the end of the story-”I will just be able to eat again!” It is our hope that one day a cure will be found and my son will be able to open a refrigerator or pantry door and “just eat.”