Author: mykitchentable2017

On this day, February 14th, a day I choose to call Love Day instead of the Hallmark tag of Valentine’s Day, I am reminded of my Grandmother, Eleanor Butz.  She was by far the strongest figure in our small family.  Eleanor was my Dad’s Mom and ran a tight and fiercely protected house.  We lived about 4 hours away from my Dad’s parents so visits had to be planned and required a lengthy car ride in our gold Buick Regal, which by the way came equipped with snappy gold vinyl seats.  Despite the sticky vinyl discomfort we never minded this trip to Grandma Eleanor.  Even on those cold snowy travel days when Dad would refuse to crack the windows while he smoked steadily on the Jersey Turnpike.

Eleanor Butz was a reserved woman but she could communicate an intense amount of emotion and love through her quiet presence.  Some might call her the strong silent type who said little, yet nonetheless conveyed with certainty that she was carefully watching everything and everyone.  Even when she seemed preoccupied with her knitting.  You might think that a kid would feel scared or apprehensive about the watchful eye of Grandma.  But to me, this was oddly comforting.  It made me feel safe and loved.  

I think about Grandma Eleanor on Love Day not only because of her unquestionable love for us but because of something she used to say to me every now and then.  I’m sure she said this in person but for some reason, my memory of it is much more vivid in our phone conversations.  At the end of every call, the last thing she would say to me was, “Don’t forget to love yourself.”  In my snarky teenage voice, I would say “okay” and we’d hang up.  In this moment, right now, I can still hear her voice clearly telling me to love myself.  These are two simple words but they are words that conveyed much and have resonated with me for many, many years.

Although I’ve thought about this forever, it wasn’t until recent years that I realized exactly what she meant and why it seemed so important to her to reiterate the message every time we spoke.  Now at this stage of my life, I really get it.  It seems trite and definitely overused to say simply that you can’t love anyone else until you love yourself.  We all have heard this a million times and we all likely understand it to be true.  More or less anyway.  But on this 2018 Love Day, I remember her telling me to love myself and I clearly understand that this truth is far bigger than simple advice on the importance of loving others.  Somehow I believe this small quiet woman from another generation, one born of the Great Depression, knew that loving yourself was essential for any of us to live an authentic and happy life.  I don’t know if she would put it quite that way, but that is how I see it and live it.  That is truly her gift to me.  Whether she knew it or not.

So, my thought today, for myself and anyone who cares to listen, is to be sure to love yourself first.  Getting and giving valentines is certainly fun and can be a sweet pick me up.  But the best valentine you can get is from you – to you.  It is the one that exemplifies self-love.  This is the one that matters because without that your “self” becomes distorted.  You lose sight of who you really are and what really makes you happy.  And let’s face it, we are a far better example to the world and to those around us when we show what a strong, confident, self-assured person looks like.  I’m fairly certain that those folks are the ones Grandma Eleanor would find rank pretty high on the Richter scale of giving yourself the gift of love.

So, don’t forget to show yourself a little extra kindness today……..

Happy Love Day!

 

What exactly does it mean to be selfish?  This is the question I am struggling with these days.  At a time when it is more important than ever to express kindness and gratitude to others, I sit and ponder whether the vision I am creating for my life is grounded in expressing kindness and love or is just simply selfish.

Is it possible that being selfish can actually be reconciled with kindness and love?  Or do they have to be mutually exclusive?  If you ask a dictionary, the answer is a resounding yes, they are most definitely mutually exclusive.  But I wonder if there is a way to be both.  Maybe there is a softer way to refer to ‘being selfish’.

The Merriam-Webster definition of ‘selfish’ is this,

1:  concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself: seeking or concentrating on one’s own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others.

2:  arising from concern with one’s own welfare or advantage in disregard of others.  merriam-webster.com, 23 Jan 18

At first read, these definitions seem pretty accurate.  Basically, selfishness resides in the feeling of being concerned only with yourself and doing what pleases you to the exclusion of others.  Simple enough.  I imagine we are all selfish in this way at one time or another – certainly during some stages of life more than others.  I have always believed that youth tends to breed selfishness.  After all, when you are young you believe that nothing can possibly go wrong so why not do as you please.  The horrible things that can happen to people will never happen to you.  As you get older you begin to see that, “oh yes those awful things can happen to anyone so let’s not take unnecessary risks”, and so long as we are even a little bit evolved we begin to think of others.  The impact on others of what we do for ourselves becomes a real consideration.

And that brings me to the other part of the definition of selfish.  “The complete disregard for others” part.  With this in mind, I realize that my real question is this:  is wanting to live your best happy life a selfish act?  Particularly when your actions impact other people.  Or is it tempered in its selfishness because your intent is not evil or harmful but rather is simply to live your truth?  Having the foresight to know that you are about to act mainly in your own self-interest, and to understand the potential impact on those around you, must take away from the characterization of the act as being selfish.  At least a little bit?  And maybe this knowledge allows you to reduce any potential impact on those around you.  And so you are not really being selfish at all.

As I write this I guess I am answering my own question.  Everything we do impacts those around us in one way or another.  Perhaps the key is the word “disregard”.  To act in “disregard” of others.  A consideration of those around you may lighten the selfish load a bit.

Then again maybe being selfish isn’t bad at all.  Maybe thinking of yourself first is how we are meant to live.  Maybe acting in your own best interest can actually benefit the people around you so long as they are not disregarded.  Maybe living an authentic life is the best example anyone can give to those around them.

I guess at the end of the day I just can’t buy into the idea that making a conscious choice to be happy is really a selfish act.  Even when other people are impacted, so long as you act in a way that respects and minimizes that impact.  Isn’t the point of life to be happy?  To live truthfully?  I suppose the other side of this is the question of whether it is better to live an inauthentic life for the sake of others.  This would certainly be seen as selfless but is it better?  More acceptable?  Less offensive?  These notions certainly do cause a lot of angst.  It’s no wonder life decisions can be so excruciating.

Dear Dylan:

I know you have read the posts I’ve written to and about your brother and sister.  And I also know that you’ve been waiting for this one.  The one about YOU.  Well, here it is my love.

For some reason, this letter to you is the hardest one to write.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe because it makes me think about how you are almost 13, a teenager, and I just can’t believe it.  It seems like just yesterday when I watched you smile at me with your first tooth peeking through.  Or maybe it’s because I have so much to say about the amazing young man you are becoming that I just don’t know where to start.  Or maybe it’s because you are my baby, my youngest child and whether you like it or not, you always will be that to me.  It’s part of my right as a mom to keep you in my heart stuck in time at a certain age.  This is true for all of you.  Nell will always be 2 with a small round face and curly red hair.  Jacob will always be about 5 and not want to go to kindergarten without me.  And you, Dylan, you will be about 10 months old, always smiling and always happy.

You are the littlest of my three miracles – my three biggest accomplishments.  When I was young I never thought I would have any children.  And now here I am with three beautiful children, each different in their own way and each one the absolute love of my life.  Remember the bear book, You’re All My Favorites, we would read at bedtime?  It explains exactly how I could possibly love you all so much and exactly the same – I love Jacob best as my first baby and I love Nell best as my second baby and I love you best as my third and last baby.  You are all my favorites.  That book will always be the truest thing I could ever say to each of you.  But this isn’t about all three of you it’s about YOU!

Having more than two children can be a challenge to parents.  After all, now you outnumber us and we can no longer divide and conquer.  I’ll admit when you decided to show up, this worried me a bit.  But you immediately quelled that apprehension.  You were the easiest of my babies.  You didn’t cry much – only when you really needed something.  You were a really happy baby, smiling all the time and carefully watching what was going on around you.  You slept well, you were a hearty eater.  And now all of a sudden, you are almost 13 and becoming a young man.  I just can’t believe it.  What I can believe is that I couldn’t be more proud of who you are becoming.  I am watching it happen in real time, day by day and it is stunning.

You are so comfortable in your skin, so easy with who you are.  I hope you know how rare that is, how special that quality is to us, humans.  It is one of the things about you of which I am most proud.   Most people take a lifetime to learn how to be comfortable with themselves.  In fact, I’m just learning this myself.  But you, Dylan, you are someone to emulate.  You are an example for all of us on how to be yourself in a world that tries to place most of us in a box that just doesn’t fit.  No one belongs in a standard size box.  We all have to take shape in whatever way suits us.  And I so love the shape you are taking.  It’s original, smart, proud, talented, funny, loving, sensitive – all wonderful things!  I hope that of all the things we have taught you, being proud of who you are and rocking it as you do now will stick forever.  It seems to have taken so far…..

This part of you, the proud, open and honest Dylan, is the one who stares out at me and is most evident when I look into your eyes.  Those giant, round, cool blue eyes staring at me from behind your cool boy glasses.  You have my brother’s eyes.  I tell you this all the time.  I don’t know where they come from because you two are the only ones in the family with giant orbs as eyeballs.  They are enormous and blue and gorgeous.  And they fit you in every way.  You are wide-eyed and curious, eager to learn new things and even better than that, eager to share what you learn.  There is nothing better than having you come home from school so excited to tell me what happened that day.  Your enthusiasm is absolutely contagious.  Don’t ever stop or inhibit that amazing part of you.

I always say that nerds rule the world and it is true.  Nerds are smart and are the ones in charge, everyone else works for them.  Believe me on this one.  Luckily, you come from a family of nerds.  None of us are really very cool and most of us are clumsy goofballs.  An example of this is how Jacob, Nell and I regularly trip going upstairs or how I, your devoted Mom, had a shiny gold bowling ball when she was in middle school.  Try not to smirk when you picture that one…..   And happily, you are one of us!  Somehow though you make it look easy and cool.  I know that you will be sought after by many, in so many different areas of life, so be sure to choose carefully.  Be sure to use your nerd radar and weed out all skeptics.

One of my most favorite things about you is your hilarious sense of humor.  This characteristic you share with your siblings.  And probably me and Uncle Stephen too. We can all thank Gaba for that trait.  And it is a good one.  Life can be so hard.  Having a sense of humor can get you through an awful lot.  Also, there is little else that is as joyful as making someone smile and laugh.  It is a happiness indicator and is priceless.  I know you understand this because I see your face when I’m cracking up at something you do or say. You have the sweetest most joyful expression – that look that says “I’m so happy to be making you happy.”

Trust me, my sweet boy, you make everyone who has the pleasure of being around you happy.  My littlest miracle, you are most definitely everything we could have ever wanted and so so much more. I am so lucky and proud to be your mom and cannot wait to see the fabulous man you will surely be.

Love you more, love you most,

Mom

I heard a sound the other day.  It was just a random bell, almost like an elevator ping.  Nothing special just something you might hear every day from one source or another, maybe even several times a day depending on the source.  But in this particular moment, this sound prompted me to think about how significant a simple sound can be – how one singular and often innocent sound can hold so much meaning.  And more importantly how a long forgotten bare and deep emotion can be elicited with just this innocent sound.

There is a church – the “North Church” – that sits smack in the middle of Market Square in downtown Portsmouth, where I live.  The “North Church” is a beautiful old structure originally built in 1657 and frequented by historical figures such as William Whipple, John Langdon, and Daniel Webster.  George Washington is said to have attended a service there, as well.   As with most churches, the bell tower of the North Church rings on the hour.  I don’t always hear it.  Sometimes I am out of range and other times I just don’t notice it.  I guess I’m used to it after living here for more than 20 years.

However, yesterday I was running in town and heard it ring, loud and clear.  This simple sound stopped me in my tracks.  Ringing out in the early morning dark, the North Church bell sounded like it was coming from another world.  It was pure and seemed to echo over the nearby river.  I stood still and closed my eyes until the last ring.  When I started running again my mind felt clear and my heart felt full.  I know that the ring elicited a memory but I couldn’t for the life of me pinpoint exactly what it was.  And it really didn’t matter.  What mattered was the emotion that followed the sound.

I considered this moment later in the day, remembering the ping I had heard earlier.  We all know that music can remove you from wherever you might be and take you to another time.  But after hearing the random ping and the North Church bell I realized that any sound can do this.  Any sound has the power to not only elicit a memory but also bring back the exact emotion you may have felt when you heard it before.  Like this one.

When I was growing up my Dad was a volunteer firefighter.  He was incredibly proud of this and took every single alarm to be critical, whether it was a false alarm or a house fire.  His suspendered pants and giant boots sat at the foot of his bedroom chair every night – just in case.  And behind his kitchen chair on a shelf made exactly for it, sat a police and fire emergency scanner.  As a young girl, I never understood the importance of all this to him.  My brother and I only knew that the scanner was always on and we either heard the calls coming in or crazy random static all damn day.  It became standard background noise in our house.  Dad listened intently to every single call.  And of course, when it involved a fire, was either jumping up to join the Department or was glued to the scanner until the event was over – just in case he might be needed.  To this day, every time I hear a fire alarm or a police scanner, I think of my Dad and have an incredibly strong emotion – one of great love and pride.

Now that I am an adult and have had many years to contemplate my parents, who they were as humans and how significant their impact on my life has been, I know that being a member of the Fire Department was much more to my Dad than helping to put out fires.  It meant something much bigger to him.  It was part of his lifelong commitment to service, to his community, and to giving back.  I understand that about my Dad now and the simple sound of a police scanner or fire alarm immediately fills me with pride.

I also notice that these sounds bring me a solid sense of comfort and of being protected.  I see now that hearing these sounds revives a feeling I associate with the fierce protection and safety of having my Dad around.  The sound of a fire alarm doesn’t scare me, it fills me with this powerful emotion and sense of safety.  How amazing is that?!

I should say that some sounds elicit powerful emotions that are not so joyful.  For me, the sound of a certain song by Sinead O’Connor brings me right back to the most painful breakup I have ever had.   Although I have long since dealt with that sadness and certainly moved beyond it, the sound of even the first few notes of this song overwhelms me with a sense of loss.  Sounds have such timeless power.  #truth!

In this year of 2018, the magical year of coming alive and living your truth, even a painful emotion felt again in the presence of a mere sound means that you are alive, that you have a past with multifaceted experiences that are all yours to claim.  And this is most definitely something to celebrate.

So, I say listen carefully for all sounds and revel in the emotion that they induce.  Because these simple sounds represent the full life that you have already led.  Just imagine all the sounds you have yet to hear and the connected emotion that will follow you into the life you have yet to live.

 

 

It is about 11 days before the Christmas holiday, it is 24 degrees outside, and I am in the local shopping mall.  There are 3 obvious things wrong with this picture and about 50 more that are not so obvious.  All of which cause my unmistakable eye-roll to take over the structure of my face.        Here you can see that Tina Fey has a fantastic eye-roll.  You’ll see mine at the end of this piece and I like to think it’s worth waiting for.  So keep reading……

The holidays are a source of unimaginable stress for most of us.  The picture so often painted of holiday shoppers skipping gleefully down the Christmas decoration aisle at Walmart are completely false.  Anyone who has ventured out to shop for anything, even groceries, at this time of year knows quite well how horrible it can be.  People are impatient, crowds are dense, parking is a bitch.  I don’t know about you but I send a secret thank you to God at this time of year for creating Amazon.

Because of all this, it is fair to say that eye-rolling has become part of my daily December facial expression repertoire.  So much so that my family doesn’t even notice it anymore.  The other day I caught a glance of myself in a mirror as I walked through Nordstrom to get to the bathroom line.  It was astonishing, even to me.  If my eyes had gone any farther back into my head they would have disappeared into my sockets.

To be honest, although this time of year really brings out the extreme eye-roll in me it has always been one of my mainstays.  For me, the “eye-roll” is a little like the “resting bitch face” that I have written about before.       Ah yes, there it is….  (You can read about the beauty of a “resting bitch face” here).

Both of these expressions have been perfected by me over the many years of my unexceptional life and are used pretty much on a daily basis.  They are a unique source of protection for me.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that I consider these simple gifts to be some of my best superpowers.  Here’s how I mastered them and why.

Growing up it took me many years to understand that some people were just plain mean-spirited by nature.  As a little girl, I just felt hurt, sad and embarrassed when someone was mean to me or tried to make fun of me.  I certainly wasn’t alone.  There were always the quiet shy kids like me who made easy targets for those who were overbearing and needed to feel larger than life at the expense of others.  The classic bully.

At first, I didn’t fight back.   I tried to hide my disappointment or hurt when it happened to me.  And yes, sometimes I cried.  But usually, I would just hide under my hair and slink along back to my friends where I knew I was safe and loved.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that the best way to handle these people and the many other idiots, young and old, we are faced with every day is to ignore them and understand that whatever causes their action is their problem, not mine.  Most of the time anyway.  Admittedly, sometimes I’m the idiot.      But when it’s not me I had to figure out how to deal.

As I contemplated how to shake them off, I tried several tactics.  Wise-cracking back at them was never a good idea especially when the bully was bigger than you.  Visibly crying just gave them a success notch in their belt.  Running off to tell a teacher sometimes worked in the moment but these people always came back stronger.  Then one day I accidentally eye-rolled at a particularly obnoxious kid.  And lo and behold, he just stared at me, waiting for a bigger reaction as I walked away shrugging my shoulders.  That was when I realized that the eye-roll, with or without the shrug, shows your indifference to the person or the situation.  This is probably the best way to get to a bully since you are basically telling them that you could care less about them and whatever they happen to be doing or talking about.  At least that’s how it’s worked for me and what I tell my kids when they are facing our local idiots.

Without even trying, I had figured out a way to deal with these mean kids in a way that would not encourage them, would make them think I wasn’t worth the trouble and, at the same time, would somehow empower me.  And that is how my eye-roll was born and perfected.  These days I don’t have the opportunity to use it on bullies, but I sure do have the opportunity to show my exasperation with adult idiots, almost on a daily basis.  And this is what those lucky individuals who happen to be watching get to see……

 

I have always had a difficult time remembering what it was like to be 10 or younger.  It amazes me when someone can recall something from their young childhood.  An elementary teacher’s name, a family vacation or holiday, anything actually.  When my brother reminisces about something that happened to us as kids I usually just nod and say, “Right, I remember that”, while inside I’m thinking “Really?  Was I there for that?”.  Anyone who knows me might think that I chalk my lack of childhood memories up to early Alzheimer’s or some other deadly brain disease.  Admittedly, I do have that tendency but more often these days I think it is something else.  I think it is more about our internal, and probably unconscious, choice to remember certain things or not.  A choice that arises from some event or circumstance.  This is a little reminiscent of my “Time vs. Memories” post, which you can read here:  Time vs Memories.

As I have written before, I was four and a half when I was hospitalized in New York City for about a month.  You would think that there would be a lot of memories of this time.  Frightening memories of strange doctors and nurses, cold lonely rooms and beeping machines.  Or maybe just tiny snippets of scattered and faded moments that would give a brief peek into my world as it was then.   But try as I might I just cannot conjure anything up.  I speculate now that this is when everything changed, my memories became spotty and my kitchen table became a bit more crowded.  

Although I have trouble remembering many events of my childhood, there are some things that I can see vividly.  Like this one.  

The young family lived in a small two bedroom apartment in northern New Jersey until the girl was almost 5.  The apartment building was shaped like a cube with a courtyard in the middle.  The front door of the apartment led to the courtyard.  They really never used this door, mostly coming and going from the back door where the parking lot was.  Between the parking lot and the back door, there was a small yard complete with a swing set or maybe it was a metal clothesline.  The kind that you can raise and lower like an umbrella.  There is a black and white picture of the little girl wearing a ballerina outfit, crown and all, in this yard.  

   The apartment had two floors.  The kitchen was at the back door.  It was a small, bright room.  The little girl often played on the linoleum floor, next to the small refrigerator.   Next, there was a dining area.  You couldn’t really call it a room.  It was just that transitional in-between space that led to the living room, which was at the front of the apartment.  Next to the front door, was a large rectangular window from which you could see the courtyard.  The little girl thinks she remembers kneeling on the couch and looking out this window.  

Finally, across from the front door was the stairway that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom.  The girl can see all of this clearly but only in black and white and only until the stairway.  There the picture stops altogether.  She gazes up the stairs from the bottom step but everything above her is fuzzy.  The thing about the second floor is that, while she cannot picture it, she knows it is there.  That is where they slept.  

It’s funny.  She can’t remember anything beyond the bottom step but she can remember the scarce, modular furniture downstairs; the low lighting in the apartment; and the window.  

Besides this blueprint, she has no memories but one.  Every night before bed Mom read her a story, usually Sleeping Beauty, her favorite.  She didn’t like to go to sleep.  She was afraid of the dark and being alone with the door closed.  So every night once Mom was finished Dad would come up.  By then he had changed out of his suit.  With him would come a piece, sometimes two, of white American cheese.  Her favorite cheese.  A bedtime snack.  A treat from Dad, who had been gone all day.  This was her moment with him.  After tucking her in he would sit on the side of her bed offering the treat like a special secret they shared.  The girl always looked forward to this ritual.  Knowing that the day was really over and sleep was the only option once the cheese was finished.  In later years as she remembered this time, she thought that this must be why he called her “Mouse”.  

 

This is a draft of a little story about a couple of people who sit at my kitchen table.

Dear Rose:

Today is your birthday, November 20th.  Each year on this day I think about writing you a letter to reassure you that you are doing ok.  Maybe share some wisdom that might help clarify all the mud that you slog through each day.   To tell you to be confident that you are walking the path set before you and laid out from behind you.  Although I have written this letter in my head for many years, it’s only this year that I feel like my words might resonate with you.  

Slogging through mud is a perfect description of how you must feel.   I watch you move a few steps forward and then turn and run right back the other way.  I see you hesitate to let people in and then to let people go.   I see how you struggle to allow people to be there for you – to support you.  I can hear you say  “Why should they?  Be there for me, that is?  I don’t need them or anyone.”  I know that you believe that someone like you, who approaches life with their head down, hair in their face, eyes shifted away, is not worthy of much.  You think that there is nothing pretty about marching through life with the perfect resting bitch face, even while you remain fully in step, holding onto the rhythm of this march for dear life.

I see all this and understand it.  But there is something you should know . . . . it is calculated, all this slogging.  Your attempt to remain as anonymous as possible and to deflect attention away from you is deliberate, although it is done without forethought.   If this seems confusing maybe this story will help.  It is a story of something that happened once a long time ago to a very young child.  See if you recognize her.

Many years ago a young girl became very ill.  She was only 5 years old.  No doctor could figure out why she suddenly couldn’t walk and became weaker with every day.  As any good parent would, her mother and father listened to the doctors and admitted her to a hospital that was in a large city far from their home.  The hope was to determine what the illness was and, of course, cure it.  But this was not so easy.  Doctors struggled to understand her symptoms.  Medications were administered with the hope that they would work.  They did not.  

Although the girl was in a pediatric ward with other children, she felt alone in her curtained bay.  Her parents and grandparents came and went but didn’t stay with her as we might today.  The girl was frightened more and more as the days passed.  

One day she overheard the doctors tell her mother that her immune system would either fight the virus and she would be well or it would not and she would die.  It was at this moment that the girl bowed her head and began to withdraw.  She no longer looked forward to seeing visitors.  She did not want anyone to touch her or try to make her feel better.  Of course, she did whatever the doctors told her to do, took all her medication and allowed them to move her around.  But inside, she remained afraid and alone.

One late afternoon the girl fell asleep waiting for her grandfather to visit.  She had a special bond with this grandparent.  His presence was particularly comforting.  Through her hazy sleep this afternoon, she could hear him reading her favorite fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty.  She loved the soothing and strong sound of her grandfather’s voice.  But when her grandfather reached the part of the story where the princess pricks her finger and falls instantly into a deep sleep, the girl suddenly awoke and began to cry.   Her grandfather stopped reading and moved closer to her, murmuring that everything was okay – it was just a fairy tale.  He took her hand and held it tightly until the girl fell back to sleep.  Even while asleep she felt the warmth of protection and love radiating from his palm to hers.

Later when the girl awoke she asked the nurse where her grandfather had gone.  The nurse said that because of the blizzard reigning over the city, no one would make it to the hospital that day.  She said that the girl had been sleeping most of the afternoon.  She struggled to understand that her grandfather’s visit must have been a dream.  It was so real – his voice, his touch.  Confused and still sleepy, the girl remembered the warm pressure of her grandfather’s hand in hers.  As she became more awake, she looked down and saw that, in fact, she was clasping her own hand – tightly and with a fierce determination not to let go.   

After this, the girl would forever associate the safe feeling of her grandfather holding her hand with protecting herself.  She decided then, whether she knew it or not, that she would rely on no one.  She would remain safe holding her own hand.

Rose, do you see?  Do you understand why you downcast your eyes and try to hide from people, refusing help?  Some might mistake this for shyness or obstinance – but it is neither.  It is your announcement to the world that you are the only protector you will ever need.  No one else need step forward and provide safety – because you are firmly and with strength holding your own hand.

Though this may be a reassurance that you are in fact walking the path set before you and laid out from behind you, remember that there are other hands to hold and they might just one day hold a key you might be searching for.

 

 

It is late November and the weather has been unusually balmy in New Hampshire.  There have been a few cold days but generally speaking, we’ve been lucky this fall and have enjoyed the delay of true New England winter temps.  Still, a warm fall means that you really aren’t thinking about the Holidays and all that you have to do or, more accurately, buy.  Before we know it Thanksgiving is over and December 1st is at week’s end.  So, on a whim and while the kids are still in school, my buddies and I decide to go to Boston to start our holiday shopping on a Wednesday.  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that we also wanted to see if we could help Santa and the Hanukkah Angel out when it came to our own presents.                

As soon as the kids are out the door, we collect each other and take off.  The drive is long since we are hell-bent on going to the best shopping mall around – the one that is an hour away in Boston.  But we have our coffee, saltines for the one who gets car sick, gum and loud music. The drive is uneventful with little traffic.  This really jazzes us up since there is never a traffic free day in Boston.  This trip was totally meant to be.  We can already imagine our beautifully bagged loot.       

Naturally, we start in Nordstrom.  After all, how can you not?  It is one of the last beautiful pillars of elegant shopping.  During the holiday season, Nordstrom has a pianist serenading its customers while they shop and the store’s restaurant is warm and dark, providing bubbly and snacks as you ponder your purchases at the end of the day.   One friend, we’ll call her Diane, talks about how wonderful Harrods is in London, with its champagne and oyster bar.  Nordstrom is as close as we can get to that shopping experience in New England.  So, we are all in.

After cruising Nordstrom we make our way to the mall to see what we can find in the other pretty stores.  Of course, this can all be done online these days but what fun would that be.  Plus let’s face it, it is a play date for us.

The first stop in the mall is the toy electronics kiosk.  Why there you might ask?   Well, about a week prior, my friend Allie bought herself a karaoke microphone in this same kiosk.  This is no surprise to us since she is our dancing and singing party buddy.   The microphone totally suits her.  But today she is getting the same microphone for a couple of her friends for Christmas.  After cruising this kiosk for a few minutes, I too decide that the mics are actually pretty fun and buy one for each of my two younger kids.  They are pretty musical and would love irritating each other and us with them.  I’m sure I’ll rethink this after Christmas but for now, it’s the perfect gift.

After this, it’s time for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory, which is on the other side of the mall.  It’s pretty empty on this midweek Wednesday so we get seated straight away.  As we peruse the menu, we start talking about what a great day it’s been and how amazed we are at the deals we’ve scored.

And then, just like that, everything changes.

All of a sudden the restaurant is filled with a loud siren type noise.  I don’t just mean a beeping sound like what you hear when you take a sensor out of a store.  I mean a piercing high-pitched siren.  I imagine that the siren from the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant sounds like this when there is a nuclear accident.  You can hear this sound for miles so that there is no doubt that it’s time to get the Hell out of town.

Besides recognizing this sound, another instinct flares up in us.  The “ohmigod it’s a terrorist attack” instinct.  Because now these seem to be a weekly occurrence in so many public settings, everyone starts freaking out.  Especially us – three super sensitive moms who constantly worry about the occurrence of random acts of violence.  At this point the entire restaurant has begun to frantically glance around, trying to look like they are not worried but obviously scoping out the closest door.  Managers are stalking the floor, circling the room and eventually hitting the roof to try to figure out what the Hell this noise is.

By now people are starting to leave.  Waiters are pissed.  We try to finish our drinks before getting out of dodge, all the while discussing how to escape if there is a bomb or other attack.  Although I immediately see that we are against a window and an exit to the parking lot, I say “Shit, we will get blown through the window if it’s a bomb.  There’s no getting out.”  This is the impetus we need to take one more quick sip and pay the bill.  The restaurant is now completely wigged out and the managers are racing around.

As we race to leave the restaurant Allie stops short, knocking Diane and me to our knees.  It is a wonder that we didn’t break a leg in our mad scramble to get out.  Then Allie says, “Holy shit you guys it was me!  It’s the microphones!  Listen.”  We are still stumbling our way to the door as she holds the pretty golden mic to our ears.           We can hear the siren clearly from the speaker on the microphone.  We look at each other trying to decide whether to laugh hysterically or panic because of the riot we’ve just unwittingly caused.  We fumble over each other getting to the door, all the while arguing about whether to tell the restaurant manager or not.

Allie wants to run right back and fess up.  “I have to it’s my fault!”  However, as Diane jumps up off the floor she pipes up in her “Ima in charge” voice and says, “No way, we are out of here. We’ll get sued by someone if we don’t run”.  Diane is a landlord and is always waiting for the next “your uneven kitchen floor has injured me, lawsuit”. Her voice cracks as she yells, “The law will come down hard on us for causing a scene and someone might claim a sudden hearing loss.  We could lose everything!”  At this, she wins and we drag Allie and the mics out.

As we are running away, now in the mall, we figure that the Bluetooth function of the microphones must have interfered with the speaker system in the restaurant causing the sound.   At this point, all four microphones we bought are buzzing and beeping.  It’s all we can do to keep our packages from tangling us up and bringing us down again as we run in shame to the next restaurant, where we will see if we can do it again.

Best.  Playdate.  Ever.