You can't pick up a newspaper or turn on the news without running into the latest on the H1N1 virus -- aka swine flu. For that matter, you can't go far without coming across an uber-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. They're everywhere, which is probably a good thing. But I wonder about the impact all this fear of the flu is having on basic human relations.
Have you noticed anyone holding back when you reach out to shake hands lately? Have you gotten any dirty looks from passersby when you sneeze in public (even if you sneeze into your elbow, which we're all supposed to do now)? Wondering if you should dodge Auntie Maude's hugs and kisses next time she comes to visit? Join the club.
A family member says fear invites trouble, that we'd all be better off if we adopted a more positive attitude about life in general and the swine flu in particular.
Probably.
Maybe.
When can I get my flu shots?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A heart for caring
The 50-something woman sitting with a young boy in the pediatrician's waiting room had struck up a conversation with another mother, and I was soon included. The boy had the same first name as the grandson I was waiting with -- a natural ice-breaker. Before long we three women were sharing "war" stories from our lives as parents.
The day hadn't been going all that well. I was, as I often am by midday, wishing I could close myself off from the rest of the world and take a nap. Raising a toddler is exhausting at any age, but as my mother likes to remind me, I'm pushing 60 -- as hard as I can, under the circumstances.
I assumed the boy who shared my grandson's name was, perhaps, the youngest of the woman's children. But no, she said. Her biological children are grown now. This boy was one of eight children who have found their way into her home, and her heart, through foster care and adoption. One of those who came to her was a pregnant teenager who decamped after delivering her baby. That was years ago, and the baby, now in school, is one of that houseful of children who call the woman Nanny.
What struck me, aside from the remarkable facts of her life as it is today, was the woman's cheerful attitude. She didn't look tired, didn't sound tired. What she looked like, what she sounded like, was happy.
The wee one at home was being difficult that night as I attempted to get him settled down for bed. My thoughts drifted back to the woman at the doctor's office. I wondered what bed time at her house must be like.
As I struggled to stay awake long enough to tell my grandchild one more story, I imagined her gliding from bed to bed, planting kisses on the foreheads of eight children who would soon fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that they were loved.
The day hadn't been going all that well. I was, as I often am by midday, wishing I could close myself off from the rest of the world and take a nap. Raising a toddler is exhausting at any age, but as my mother likes to remind me, I'm pushing 60 -- as hard as I can, under the circumstances.
I assumed the boy who shared my grandson's name was, perhaps, the youngest of the woman's children. But no, she said. Her biological children are grown now. This boy was one of eight children who have found their way into her home, and her heart, through foster care and adoption. One of those who came to her was a pregnant teenager who decamped after delivering her baby. That was years ago, and the baby, now in school, is one of that houseful of children who call the woman Nanny.
What struck me, aside from the remarkable facts of her life as it is today, was the woman's cheerful attitude. She didn't look tired, didn't sound tired. What she looked like, what she sounded like, was happy.
The wee one at home was being difficult that night as I attempted to get him settled down for bed. My thoughts drifted back to the woman at the doctor's office. I wondered what bed time at her house must be like.
As I struggled to stay awake long enough to tell my grandchild one more story, I imagined her gliding from bed to bed, planting kisses on the foreheads of eight children who would soon fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that they were loved.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Sign of the times
You know summer's over when ...
• The mornings are quieter than they were just a few weeks ago (because the songbirds that haven't left town yet can't think of anything to sing about).
• You have this overwhelming desire to bake something. Anything. Preferably chocolate.
• They start making announcements at church again (time to sign up for soccer, religious ed. classes, pee-wee cheerleading ...)
• The dominant colors of the flowers along the side of the road are yellow and purple (the asters are attractive; the goldenrod, not so much).
• You start to see commentaries like this one written by people who grow winsome at the thought of summer slipping away.
• The mornings are quieter than they were just a few weeks ago (because the songbirds that haven't left town yet can't think of anything to sing about).
• You have this overwhelming desire to bake something. Anything. Preferably chocolate.
• They start making announcements at church again (time to sign up for soccer, religious ed. classes, pee-wee cheerleading ...)
• The dominant colors of the flowers along the side of the road are yellow and purple (the asters are attractive; the goldenrod, not so much).
• You start to see commentaries like this one written by people who grow winsome at the thought of summer slipping away.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Gee thanks, Mom
Moms are the people who tell you things you need to hear, even things no one else would dare tell you.
Like the time a college friend decided to go "au naturel" and stopped using deodorant -- until his mom sat him down one day and said, "Mike, you stink."
I made the mistake of complaining to my own mother recently that my knees felt a bit stiff and sore.
"Well," she replied, "you ARE almost 60."
"Geez, Mom," I said, "I have a whole year and a month before I reach that milestone."
She wasn't impressed.
I suppose I could have reminded her that in a couple of years she'll be "almost 100." But some things you just don't say to your mom.
You only think them.
Like the time a college friend decided to go "au naturel" and stopped using deodorant -- until his mom sat him down one day and said, "Mike, you stink."
I made the mistake of complaining to my own mother recently that my knees felt a bit stiff and sore.
"Well," she replied, "you ARE almost 60."
"Geez, Mom," I said, "I have a whole year and a month before I reach that milestone."
She wasn't impressed.
I suppose I could have reminded her that in a couple of years she'll be "almost 100." But some things you just don't say to your mom.
You only think them.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Move over, Pooh
I once heard a relative announce, in a shrill voice, that his wife was to buy NO MORE STUFFED ANIMALS for their children. I thought he was being unduly harsh.
Yesterday, as I sorted through the mountain of stuffed animals that has taken over roughly half the floor of my grandson's room, I saw the wisdom in my relative's outburst. It isn't so much that we've bought our grandson lots of stuffed animals, it's that we -- correction, I -- kept too many of the critters our own kids collected so we'd have them to share with our future grandchildren.
My grandson has no fewer than four Winnie the Poohs (or would the plural be Winnies the Pooh?), including an all-white collector's edition purchased by a well-meaning family member. His stuffed rabbit collection threatens to edge out his one and only stuffed whale, stuffed caterpillar and stuffed armadillo (yes, they really do make stuffed armadillos).
The solution might seem simple: Give away (or toss) a bunch of these adorable bits of fabric and fluff. Uh-huh. Ever tried pitching a Pooh bear? Or flinging one of those floppy-eared bunnies your babies took to bed with them every night into the "giveaway" bag? It takes the kind of detachment I clearly lack.
Maybe we could rent a storage area ...
Yesterday, as I sorted through the mountain of stuffed animals that has taken over roughly half the floor of my grandson's room, I saw the wisdom in my relative's outburst. It isn't so much that we've bought our grandson lots of stuffed animals, it's that we -- correction, I -- kept too many of the critters our own kids collected so we'd have them to share with our future grandchildren.
My grandson has no fewer than four Winnie the Poohs (or would the plural be Winnies the Pooh?), including an all-white collector's edition purchased by a well-meaning family member. His stuffed rabbit collection threatens to edge out his one and only stuffed whale, stuffed caterpillar and stuffed armadillo (yes, they really do make stuffed armadillos).
The solution might seem simple: Give away (or toss) a bunch of these adorable bits of fabric and fluff. Uh-huh. Ever tried pitching a Pooh bear? Or flinging one of those floppy-eared bunnies your babies took to bed with them every night into the "giveaway" bag? It takes the kind of detachment I clearly lack.
Maybe we could rent a storage area ...
Sunday, September 6, 2009
'Slow down, you move too fast ...'
Driving home today, I spotted a maple tree that had turned almost completely red. Already.
I know summer is winding down, but this tree is clearly an overachiever trying to get the jump on all the other maples. Showoff.
September is when those of us who call upstate New York home get to savor the changing colors of the leaves (followed by six months of bare branches). And savoring those changes is what I intend to do.
So please, trees, take your time. Autumn will find us soon enough.
I know summer is winding down, but this tree is clearly an overachiever trying to get the jump on all the other maples. Showoff.
September is when those of us who call upstate New York home get to savor the changing colors of the leaves (followed by six months of bare branches). And savoring those changes is what I intend to do.
So please, trees, take your time. Autumn will find us soon enough.
Eight years already?
This Friday marks the eighth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Here's what I wish Americans would do to honor those who were taken from us that day: Stop shouting at each other.
I can't recall a time -- at least in recent memory -- when the country seemed so ticked off. How can we expect our children to become responsible, open-minded adults if they grow up listening to their elders ranting and raving at those who don't see the world the same way they do?
In the immortal words of Rodney King, can't we all just get along -- at least a little better than we have been?
I can't recall a time -- at least in recent memory -- when the country seemed so ticked off. How can we expect our children to become responsible, open-minded adults if they grow up listening to their elders ranting and raving at those who don't see the world the same way they do?
In the immortal words of Rodney King, can't we all just get along -- at least a little better than we have been?
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Need something to make you smile?
Check out the wedding announcement "Knight-Mills" in the Saturday, Sept. 5, edition of the (Binghamton, N.Y.) Press & Sun-Bulletin (See "Celebrations," Page 10C).
The newlyweds, Ruth Mills and David Knight, were friends in their teens. They married other people but were both widowed when they ran into each other last summer at Wal-Mart, where the groom works as a greeter.
The happy couple tied the knot on Aug. 7 -- at ages 83 and 84.
God bless 'em for reminding the rest of us that love is ageless.
The newlyweds, Ruth Mills and David Knight, were friends in their teens. They married other people but were both widowed when they ran into each other last summer at Wal-Mart, where the groom works as a greeter.
The happy couple tied the knot on Aug. 7 -- at ages 83 and 84.
God bless 'em for reminding the rest of us that love is ageless.
Friday, September 4, 2009
You have to start somewhere ...
I've been putting off starting this blog for a few months now, ever since my part-time newspaper job went the way of the wind. I'd guessed for some time that my days at the paper were numbered, given the state of the industry, but it's still difficult to accept that my days as a newspaper columnist are likely behind me.
But that hasn't stopped me from thinking like a columnist, imagining how I might turn day-to-day experiences into commentaries others can relate to. Hearing from readers that something I've written has touched them, or that they've recognized themselves in my words -- well, that's what I miss most about writing a column.
So here I am, ready to start again, hoping you'll find something here that's worth your time -- and that this new venue will allow us to speak more directly to each other.
But that hasn't stopped me from thinking like a columnist, imagining how I might turn day-to-day experiences into commentaries others can relate to. Hearing from readers that something I've written has touched them, or that they've recognized themselves in my words -- well, that's what I miss most about writing a column.
So here I am, ready to start again, hoping you'll find something here that's worth your time -- and that this new venue will allow us to speak more directly to each other.
Writer, interrupted
8:30 p.m.
The resident toddler is watching a Disney movie.
I sense a window of opportunity to do a bit of writing.
I settle into my corner of the couch and log onto my brand new blog. A couple of ideas pop into my head, and ...
"I want chocolate milk."
"Not this late."
"Why?"
"Because."
I go back to my writing, confident the 3-year-old has accepted my explanation.
Wrong.
"I want chocolate milk."
"Not now," I say. "It's almost night-night time."
"I want it."
"Too bad."
I go back to my writing, confident that I've won this one.
Wrong.
"I WANT chocolate milk."
I reconsider my decision to start a blog.
"Can I have a cracker?"
The resident toddler is watching a Disney movie.
I sense a window of opportunity to do a bit of writing.
I settle into my corner of the couch and log onto my brand new blog. A couple of ideas pop into my head, and ...
"I want chocolate milk."
"Not this late."
"Why?"
"Because."
I go back to my writing, confident the 3-year-old has accepted my explanation.
Wrong.
"I want chocolate milk."
"Not now," I say. "It's almost night-night time."
"I want it."
"Too bad."
I go back to my writing, confident that I've won this one.
Wrong.
"I WANT chocolate milk."
I reconsider my decision to start a blog.
"Can I have a cracker?"
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