Maximum Ride

This is a blog review for Mother Talk. I asked to review a copy of James Patterson's new book Maximum Ride 3: Saving The World And Other Extreme Sports.

I'm prejudiced 'cause I'm a big James Patterson fan. I love, love, love his Alex Cross and Woman's Murder Club series. For the past few years he's put out a number of books about bird children--genetic experiments by mad scientists. The bird children are mostly normal but can fly and have a lot of bird DNA in their bones/wings.

This is the 3rd book in a series, and I have read the other books also.

The book is narrated by the Head Bird Chick, Max. Max is delightfully sarcastic and teenagers ought to be able to relate to that.

Good points: Well, it certainly is filled with action. Not a dull moment. Max and her cohorts are constantly escaping the evil scientists out to destroy them, devising many ingenious ways to fly the coop, so to speak. I liked the way that Patterson put a blogspot.com in the book. One of the birds starts his own blog to alert the kids of the world of this evil.

Bad points: It lacks the subtle plotlines and gradual character development I'd like to see. It's just chase scene, escape, chase scene, escape, etc. etc. etc.

I think that teens would enjoy it, for what that's worth. One could compare Harry Potter to a long, engrossing train ride and this book to a quick whirl on a roller coaster. Both enjoyable, depending on what mood you are in.

Why Yes, It IS All About Me

Hi, I'm sorry that this is such a spectacularly bad picture, but I don't have any decent shots of me with my new short haircut. Y'see, the only picture I have was shot after I asked Roger to do so (WHY do I ALWAYS have to ASK him to take a picture? We could speculate about that ad infinitim, I suppose. Is it because I seize the camera and groan audibly after each shot that I look "just horrible?" Or is he just a bad person? I vote for the latter).

He did shoot a picture of me last week but it was before my dental visit. See, I have to take iron pills, and they are hard on my stomach, so I got the bright idea of taking them sublingually (under the tongue) and then one day I noticed that my teeth were a most unattractive shade of black which required an hour's worth of cleaning from the dental hygienist and now I take my iron pills by swallowing them. Anyway, attractive short hair pictures to follow soon.

Now back to me, me, me. It's my blog, after all, dammit.

I've always been perfectly up front with my girls. I've clearly informed them that they are supposed to do all the things I never got to do. Dance en pointe. Date a cute boy (or girl, if Meredith turns out to be gay--whatever) for the prom. Get into medical school. I mean, I would have written it into the adoption contract and pressed their little thumbs in ink if the authorities would have let me.

So they are studying ballet as I made it clear that was mandatory. So two things are now coming up.

Madeleine and Meredith are starting to develop preferences of their own.

Madeleine has decided that she wants to play the violin. Now from my point of view this is a ridiculous waste of time and a cliche. An Asian girl on the violin? I mean, who ever heard of that, right? If she's going to do something, I want it to be, well, different. Like basketball. But she truly wants to take it. She got a chance to test drive a violin at school and came home, clasped her hands in reverential awe, and said in a hushed voice,

"It's like I had played one before."

"Perhaps you did in a past life," I suggested. Roger shot me a Don't Confuse Them With Your Whacked Out Hippie Stuff Look but I make no bones about it--I believe in reincarnation and don't mind talking about it. So what if the Catholic Church disagrees? That's my opinion and they can decide for themselves when they get older.

So--violin lessons it is! Two days a week.

Then Roger decides that if Madeleine gets to do three things (violin & ballet, plus she's auditioning for the district wide chorus)--well, then Meredith ought to do at least two things.

But she doesn't want to.

"Look," I argued. " I had braces, was a Brownie/Junior/Cadette Girl Scout, took ballet, took piano, played the flute in the band. My sister did nothing except horse stuff. Because she didn't want to. Every child is different."

"What do you want to do, Meredith?" he inquired. "Golf, flag football, tennis, piano, violin, cello, macrame, guitar, flamenco dancing?"

"Nothing!" she replied cheerfully. And I reminded him that it isn't all about us, it's about the children, and that each child is different.

I'm both totally wise and totally schizophrenic.

Life's Been Good To Me So Far

This is our routine last year:

Roger prepares two bag lunches and breakfast
Two kids dress in uniforms.
Two kids dropped off at two different places.
Tuition checks written.
Roger drives 20 miles in one direction to work
I drive 40 miles in another direction to work

The kids are picked up at one place and we all limp home, homework is done by grumpy tired children and supervised by grumpy tired parents.

This is our routine this year:

I lie slumbering sweetly in bed as the rosy mist of dawn um, dawns. Roger gets the kids up, they dress how they please, he drives them 4 blocks to the nearest FREE institution of learning, where the class sizes are tiny. Mere has 14 classmates, Mad has 18. They all eat breakfast together and the kids eat a hot lunch at noon.

Roger comes home, takes a long nap, then fixes coffee and surfs the net for porn. JK, honey! Then he picks the kids up right after school. No more afterschool bills.

I get up and drive to work singing gaily with little bluebirds and butterflies joining in the chorus as they twitter around my head.

I come home from work and take a long nap while Roger supervises the (minimal so far) homework. Roger cooks dinner wearing nothing but a frilly apron, pearls, and a G-string. JK, honey!

Like. OMG. Like, far out, man.

So far the kids are thrilled with the school except that they aren't allowed to talk during lunch and the 4th graders only have 2 recesses a week. Madeleine quipped gaily, "They shouldn't call it Shady Lane Elementary School, they should call it Shady Lane MILITARY School!" Ah, yes, my tiny Mini-Me Snarker. Meredith's only comment is "FAB-U-LOUS!" She already has several new friends.

Like, my legs still hurt, but I'm trying a couple of new things. Reverse T3 therapy starting next week. Believe me, the explanation is boring. Otherwise, life is good.

Ya Gotta Have Friends

We moved after I finished 2nd grade. No big deal, I made a bunch of new friends easily at age 8. Then we moved to South Carolina when I was 11 and it almost finished me off. That is the age when the girl cliques are already formed, and breaking into one took awhile, but I finally did (after 5 years of trying) , and yesterday a wedding invitation arrived from the daughter of one of the girls in the group. I believe in friends, fervently. Ya gotta have girlfriends. I will go to extreme lengths to keep a friendship going. I love being able to refer to the past in shorthand.

This year both girls are starting a new school--Mad will be in 4th grade and Mere will be in 1st grade. Mere--no problem. Madeleine--worry. I signed her up for ballet on Saturday mornings to keep up with two diaper buddies. I don't know anybody from my diaper days. If you knew what a SAC-RI-FICE it is to give up my Saturday mornings. Honestly, I should get some sort of trophy for that.

It means a lot to me, but it made me realize how silly I must seem to my mom. My mom would have never concerned herself with my social life. She was raised in the same farm town from diaper to diploma, and was one of the rich thin girls with blonde hair and green eyes, and the thought of being lonely never crossed her mind. She never started a new school with strange faces staring at you.

We used to race up to the school to see who was on the class roster. Roger, educated at private schools, never did that. There was only one class for each grade. Yesterday my sister and I raced together to the school to see the rosters for the kids.

And I let out a shriek of delight and extended my hands for a high five to Madeleine. One of the diaper buddies was in her class! Out of five classes! I did a little dance of delight that vaguely resembled a serious epileptic seizure.

Madeleine, crabby from hunger (she hadn't eaten in almost an hour) jumped and whined, "Mom, you scared me!" However, after being soothed with chicken nuggets and a vanilla Smoothie, she allowed as how having Syd back in her class after a three year absence while they attended different schools was a "miracle." I agreed, without irony.

Helicopter parenting. Wanting my daughter to have the treasure of extended friendships, or being overly involved in minute details of her life?

Replacing Mom

Q: What is heaven?
A: The soft purring of a $5700 air conditioner. I no longer feel the need to spray my sweating, irritable family with machine gun fire.

Now I turn to a question that has been perplexing me for a few days. A friend of mine, mom to a 5 and 9 year old, died in May and her husband is already engaged. He keeps talking about how his girls are anxious for a new mother.

I just don't know what to think about this. I know that one of my ancestors reportedly lost his wife and married her sister 6 weeks after the funeral.

I would want Roger to remarry after I die, and I even have a secret list on my computer of potential candidates for the position. (I don't trust him to pick out a new wife, although he certainly hit the jackpot the first try around, now didn't he?)

But in 9 weeks?

Lord knows I wasn't any model of parental devotion. I used to fantasize about my parents dying (I'd be sad, of course) but going to live with my aunt and uncle who were rich, generous, and allowed their children unlimited freedom. My aunt is also a fabulous cook.

And Lord knows our kids are so attached to the named guardians in our will that I worry about them "accidentally" doing away with us. Madeleine, just remember this--your mother, who has never signed up for anything on Saturday mornings in her entire life, just signed you up for ballet class so you can keep up with your old friends. Just remember that when you're enjoying the fabulous homes and lifestyle of your new guardians. Just remember.

Some people vow to never remarry. My mom, a celebrated beauty and wit in her day, always said that she would never even consider remarriage. Her next door neighbor, a widower, has never even dated. "All the women are after my money," he says cynically. My mom complains that he spends thousands and thousands on his children.

I replied that after long and prayerful consideration I could see nothing wrong with elderly parents spending thousands and thousands of dollars on their children. My mom gave me $10.00 and treated us to dinner at Wendy's.

I just wonder about introducing a new woman to my kids before the flowers have wilted at the gravesite. What message is that sending about parents? Can you replace them as easily as we replaced our worn out air conditioner?

Nine weeks?

The mind, it boggles.

Requiem For An Air Conditioner

So, of course it's been like 195 degrees here in Columbia, South Carolina. Heat records were broken--on Wednesday it was 106 degrees, breaking the record set in 1902 I think. And we had a death in the family last night. A death of an old, dear friend, who has sustained and nurtured us through this trying week.

Won't you join me in a prayer for the dearly departed AIR CONDITIONER who gave up the ghost last night at 10:30 PM. Roger tinkered with the ol' girl for an hour or so but it was useless, so we took her off life support and let her go to her eternal reward.

At 10:31 PM I was on the phone to a bunch of crooks who claimed that they didn't charge no extra money for a weekend call and would respond promptly to our cry of distress. HA! We called them and was told that Jason Johnson would be out just as soon as he finished the job he was on and another job. Well, Jason never showed up. Reminded me of my dating days.

We called another company this morning and are now looking at $5700.00 for another unit. (shrug) We knew it was only a matter of time. Our old unit was over 20 years old, but it was working so well that we decided to ride her into the ground. Our new company has promised to bring over a window AC today to "tide us over" until our new one arrives. The thing that I'm kicking myself about is that we had two window units until a few years ago, when I cleaned out the garage.

We didn't have much a/c as a child, and happily, being hypothyroid means that I have a high tolerance to heat. I guess we'll have to go over to the inlaws tonight, which means that I have to give up a water bed, unlimited access to cigarettes on the back porch, the pool, our plasma tv, 4 computers, 12 Dunkin' Donuts in the fridge, swearing, insulting my children, lasciviously fondling my husband, reading in peace, and all semblance of sanity. Hmm, perhaps cold showers hourly at our house might be a better solution.

Would you do me a favor? Go hug your air conditioner for me. Tell her that you love her. For the shifting sands do poureth through the hourglass, and you never know how much more time you will have together.

My Dad's Dead And My Mom Has Alzheimers

This is an image of an angel that a friend of mine noticed after doing some workworking. He makes wooden bowls for a hobby. I hope that my Dad looks like this now.

On August 1, 1997, I was on vacation and my best friend drove 35 miles to our rented beach cabin to tell me that my Dad had dropped dead of a massive heart attack that day. We had been out of touch--imagine, only 10 years ago cell phones weren't that common. I think I had one, a big ol' clunky yellow thing, but I didn't carry it with me that day. We had traveled from Greenville, SC to Myrtle Beach, SC using country roads, just enjoying having a long day with nothing to do but wander around the state. The night before, we had attended a Little Richard concert in Greenville, and the next day, I was breathlessly anticipating attending a wedding of the only 2 people that I have EVER successfully hooked up together. (I'm still hoping for another hit).

We drove up and Gayle was eating my Low Fat Doritos. She told me by just telling me. Roger hugged me and excused himself to use the bathroom after a long drive. I calmly turned to Gayle and said, "It should have been HIS dad, my dad is so much better in every way." I was very calm. I calmly packed the car and left the state park--haven't been back to a cabin since that day. Roger suggested that we get some supper and I agreed. After we ate, I rolled the window down and threw the entire bag of trash out the window. Never before or since.

"I think the universe owes me this!" I roared, lighting another cigarette from the one already smoldering.

I stayed calm as I embraced my mom and aunt, still stunned. Dad's presence was in the house. I knew he was still there, I could feel it. I did not feel much except numb.

Today we went out to eat with Mom. Her mind is slowly drifting into dementia as surely as cobwebs creep over an abandoned barn. I lifted my glass in a toast.

"To Dad," I announced. Roger clinked glasses with me. Mom sat, staring at her plate.

"It was ten years ago today," I said gently. I reached over, gesturing for her to pick up her glass.
She remained staring at her plate.

She can't remember what grades the kids are in, or that she told me something five minutes ago. I wish a kind stroke would take her, but I am bracing myself for a slow and torturous decline. Mom as I knew her is already gone forever.

And the beat goes on. The girls shop for school supplies. A new school, a new life, the 21st century is theirs. A 20th century gentleman and scholar's ashes are under the earth, and the kids only know him from fading pictures. Oh, how Dad would have crinkled his eyes in delight at them.

Here's to you, Dad. I hope you have your very own room up there filled with computers and Milky Way Bars. And for God's sake, if you really are up there, visit Mom tonight like you did a few years ago when you kissed her so hard that she woke up and felt the pillow to see if you were really there. (This was before Alzheimers).

And eight years ago today, we stepped off the plane in Charlotte with our first child in our arms.

A Few Random Thoughts

Hey, guys, how is everybody out there?

Here's what's going on Chez Clueless.

We took a quick trip to Asheville to meet up with another China family. Had a blast. I am definitely getting better from Thyroid Terror, but I'm still so tired and my laigs still hurt. Back to the doctor tomorrow.

I'm dreading going back to work on August 6, but I'm also kind of looking forward to it. I love my job. I don't think I'll ever fully retire. I like the action.

We've all been hanging out together 24/7 and we're all getting bored. The kids are playing "school".

Thanks for all the great reading suggestions--my you guys are creative! I'm already using them. I never thought about using the function on the tv where the words appear--Awesome idea.

Everybody has already read Chew, but if you haven't, I suggest it. Chew has an interesting topic up. Are all children adopted internationally special needs simply by definition? I have thought a lot about that. There is no question that my girls were different people on Adoption Day than they would have been if I'd raised them since birth, but there have been no serious problems. My definition of special needs is a child who needs professional help to overcome a physical or mental obstacle. Under that definition, no, my kids weren't SN. Lots of kids are, though.

I've finished Harry, and I bawled my head off, and btw, it isn't BALLING my head off. I see that all the time on blogs and it makes me want to disembowel myself. Ok, I've got that off my chest.

I chopped off all my hair since it was falling out anyway due to Thyroid disease, and I got to witness a hilarious redneck throwdown at my upscale, stylish beauty salon (Walmart). Complete with cops and all. "Get out of my salon, you white trash ho!" were some of the more gentle exchanges. "You ain't getting your money back for your flatiron and haircut, you bitch!"

I like my hair. It's SASSY.

cyaltr. (Madeleine's now talking like text messages) Madeleine has discovered chat rooms and registered as something like hottie3428 and has struck up a friendship with a 13 year old named Alex. Needless to say I'm delighted/putting Net Nanny on her computer/yanking it out of her room/sending her to convent school/sending Alex an email informing him that hottie3428 has a daddy with a gun, a large farm, and a shovel.

I don't think Madeleine has a clue as to what "hottie" implies. I suggested that when she's 30 and gets to go online unsupervised, she might consider sweetinnocentwithagunowningexcopfather3434 instead.