When I was growing up, before the creation of diaper division soccer and 12-hour workdays, families had this strange tradition: We sat down and ate dinner together. At home. At the same table. With home-cooked food. Nearly every single night of the week.
At our house, dinner wasn't just an occasion for shoveling in spaghetti (sauce not made by Chef Boyardee but by BoyarDenny or Gloria). It was also a time for each of us to share the highs and lows of our day. In addition, it was our daily opportunity to try to one-up each other in witty repartee. (In the Stanfa household, we usually referred to the dinner hour as Sarcasm Hour. My dad ruled. Still does, I'm sure, at those heavenly feasts he now enjoys.)
When my kids were younger, however, a typical weekday schedule went something more like this:
8 a.m. to 4 p.m.:
Kids off to school; Mom off to work.
4 p.m. to 8 p.m.:
Left work early, using skipped lunch hour to pick up kids from school for appointment with pediatrician/dentist/orthodontist/optometrist/voodoo doctor (these were often desperate times). Waited an hour for ten-minute appointment with doctor. Dropped off one kid at baseball/basketball/sporting practice du jour. Dropped off other kid at guitar/piano/maraca lessons. Picked up both kids from their individual timesucking--make that enriching--activities. Dashed into carryout for several convenience sized boxes of Chewy Chips Ahoy, to arrange nicely on a paper plate for the next day's school bake sale. Assisted kids, as needed, with homework, except for post-sixth grade math which left me clueless. Packed lunches, rewashed mildewing clothes in the washer, failed to locate iron so stapled on merit badges for the next day's Boy Scout ceremony.
9 p.m.:
Tried to concentrate on work project I promised to finish that evening. Argued with kids about getting ready for bed.
10 p.m.:
Gave up on work project. Argued with kids about going to bed.
10:30 p.m.:
Went to bed. Told the kids to lock up.
Anything I've forgotten? Oh, dinner. Yes, not to worry, no children went to bed on empty stomachs in this household. Somewhere between the school parking lot and the I-475 exit ramp, we managed to fit in a delightful dinner. Courtesy of whichever squawking box had the shortest drive-through line.
One the rare Sunday afternoon when we had nothing preempting the 4-7 timeslot, I would try to fit in a Family Dinner. Contrary to my kids' beliefs, I still had the ability, if not the opportunity, to cook. Getting everyone to sit down at the dining room table was a bigger feat though. "Nobody sits together at the table to eat dinner," Son #1 once complained, rolling his eyes. (And when I mentioned this to a group of friends later that week, everyone fell silent before one of them finally nodded and said, "We haven't all sat down to eat together in weeks.")
Now, with neither son at home, one at college six hours away, family dinners have become even more infrequent.
As we sit down for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners this year, I will give thanks that we made it through those chaotic years unscathed and unscurvied. And thankful that now, even if only a few times a year, we can sit together and enjoy the kind of family dinners I once knew. We'll share a bounty of home-cooked food and, I'm certain, share some heartfelt words and some witty banter besides.
And we don't want any fries with that, thank you.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Top Ten Things Squanto Would Have Told the Pilgrims If He'd Known Better
10) These corn mazes are a blast! And we promise to come find you if you get lost.
9) Trust me, turkey is best cooked really rare.
8) Sure you all get along great here now, but just wait until someone mentions healthcare reform.
7) Oh, a little peace pipe won't hurt you. Here, smoke some more.
6) Freedom of religion? You should really check out Northern Ireland or the Middle East. Boy howdy, is that big over in those places!
5) But the growing season's year-round here! No need to stockpile all that squash and shit.
4) If I were you, I'd write that king of yours and tell him exactly what I think of him.
3) If you think this part of the New World is beautiful, you should go see Canada, eh?
2) Who's up for a game of lawn darts?
1) The tribe has spoken.
9) Trust me, turkey is best cooked really rare.
8) Sure you all get along great here now, but just wait until someone mentions healthcare reform.
7) Oh, a little peace pipe won't hurt you. Here, smoke some more.
6) Freedom of religion? You should really check out Northern Ireland or the Middle East. Boy howdy, is that big over in those places!
5) But the growing season's year-round here! No need to stockpile all that squash and shit.
4) If I were you, I'd write that king of yours and tell him exactly what I think of him.
3) If you think this part of the New World is beautiful, you should go see Canada, eh?
2) Who's up for a game of lawn darts?
1) The tribe has spoken.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
From Hopelessness to Helplessness
Some of them enjoyed the evening by watching college football. Some hung out with friends at a party or at the movies. Some stayed back in their dorm rooms, working feverishly to write the two papers due Monday morning.
None of them anticipated how their seemingly typical Saturday night at the close-knit college, a midwestern Jesuit university, might end.
Because a college freshman isn't supposed to end his own life.
In the midnight moments in which the sirens neared and feet pounded down the dorm's hallways, the unusually warm and beautiful fall night turned to a stark and cold Sunday morning. As the sheet-wrapped body that was their friend was carried from the room, boys who were almost men watched silently. In the wee hours of the morning, almost-men who were yet still boys called home to their mothers.
And mixed in with the continuing deluge of disbelief and grief and horror will be the guilt.
One of the young men will wonder if there wasn't, perhaps, a clue he might have missed in his classmate's words that day. Another will regret not stopping on his way out that night to invite his friend along. A former girlfriend will struggle with the possibility that their recent breakup was ultimately devastating.
What truly drives an 18-year-old, or anyone for that matter, to suicide? Surely it's seldom one incident, or singular discussion, or specific experience. It's likely a culmination that leads to such a vast and overwhelming sense of hopelessness.
But it is that person's momentary and final decision to end their hopelessness which leaves others--many for a lifetime--with a sense of helplessness. It will continue to gnaw at the R.A. who discovered the body of a young man whom he didn't find in time. It will overcome the two people who, in the middle of the night, received the call every parent fears most.
If we can maintain anything in life, it should be hope. No matter the inner-turmoil we might feel, or the anguish we might be experiencing, the reality is that life, eventually, will get better. We will always rebound and we will always recover. If we only give it time.
Hopelessness is only temporary. Always.
Helplessness, sadly, lingers much longer, for those who are left behind.
None of them anticipated how their seemingly typical Saturday night at the close-knit college, a midwestern Jesuit university, might end.
Because a college freshman isn't supposed to end his own life.
In the midnight moments in which the sirens neared and feet pounded down the dorm's hallways, the unusually warm and beautiful fall night turned to a stark and cold Sunday morning. As the sheet-wrapped body that was their friend was carried from the room, boys who were almost men watched silently. In the wee hours of the morning, almost-men who were yet still boys called home to their mothers.
And mixed in with the continuing deluge of disbelief and grief and horror will be the guilt.
One of the young men will wonder if there wasn't, perhaps, a clue he might have missed in his classmate's words that day. Another will regret not stopping on his way out that night to invite his friend along. A former girlfriend will struggle with the possibility that their recent breakup was ultimately devastating.
What truly drives an 18-year-old, or anyone for that matter, to suicide? Surely it's seldom one incident, or singular discussion, or specific experience. It's likely a culmination that leads to such a vast and overwhelming sense of hopelessness.
But it is that person's momentary and final decision to end their hopelessness which leaves others--many for a lifetime--with a sense of helplessness. It will continue to gnaw at the R.A. who discovered the body of a young man whom he didn't find in time. It will overcome the two people who, in the middle of the night, received the call every parent fears most.
If we can maintain anything in life, it should be hope. No matter the inner-turmoil we might feel, or the anguish we might be experiencing, the reality is that life, eventually, will get better. We will always rebound and we will always recover. If we only give it time.
Hopelessness is only temporary. Always.
Helplessness, sadly, lingers much longer, for those who are left behind.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Escape from Reality
I'm confused.
Didn't people used to watch TV to escape from reality?
So why are we suddenly a nation of voyeurs, spying on the not-so-appealing aspects of total strangers' lives?
Apparently, according to Nielsen Ratings, I'm in the minority of uninterested non-viewers. But the reality is, I don't want to know if some Real Housewife is cheating on her husband. If I cared about such things, I could glean better gossip at my hometown Kroger store.
I'm not interested in hearing who the Don's decided to fire. Plenty of controversial layoffs at my own place of employment, thank you.
And if Jon and Kate Plus Eight are now Minus One? Sorry for your loss, but... I have toilets that need scrubbing.
Not that I'm one to avoid reality. I read my share of non-fiction, and I watch the news. (Although my TV appears technologically incapable of broadcasting Fox.) (Oops. Was that a slip of political bias? Sorry. Won't happen again.)
But when it comes to entertainment, I can muster little interest in viewing some limelight-lover's personal debacles or disasters. If I wanted to watch a soap opera, I'd tune into General Hospital. (By the way, haven't seen that since the eighties. Did Luke and Laura ever get back together?)
Give me back Arrested Development. Give me back M*A*S*H. Give me back Bob Newhart. Give me back intriguing characters and settings and plots.
Reality is way over-rated. Although Nielsen clearly disagrees.
Which, I guess, just makes me The Biggest Loser.
Didn't people used to watch TV to escape from reality?
So why are we suddenly a nation of voyeurs, spying on the not-so-appealing aspects of total strangers' lives?
Apparently, according to Nielsen Ratings, I'm in the minority of uninterested non-viewers. But the reality is, I don't want to know if some Real Housewife is cheating on her husband. If I cared about such things, I could glean better gossip at my hometown Kroger store.
I'm not interested in hearing who the Don's decided to fire. Plenty of controversial layoffs at my own place of employment, thank you.
And if Jon and Kate Plus Eight are now Minus One? Sorry for your loss, but... I have toilets that need scrubbing.
Not that I'm one to avoid reality. I read my share of non-fiction, and I watch the news. (Although my TV appears technologically incapable of broadcasting Fox.) (Oops. Was that a slip of political bias? Sorry. Won't happen again.)
But when it comes to entertainment, I can muster little interest in viewing some limelight-lover's personal debacles or disasters. If I wanted to watch a soap opera, I'd tune into General Hospital. (By the way, haven't seen that since the eighties. Did Luke and Laura ever get back together?)
Give me back Arrested Development. Give me back M*A*S*H. Give me back Bob Newhart. Give me back intriguing characters and settings and plots.
Reality is way over-rated. Although Nielsen clearly disagrees.
Which, I guess, just makes me The Biggest Loser.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
My Mother, My Friend
She ignored the house when it could have used a good vacuuming, choosing to play Scrabble with me instead. She grasped, full-on, life's priorities.
She conspired with me to adopt the clumsy, brindle-furred puppy. She knew my dad's soft spot would eventually surface, just as she seemed to know what was within everyone's heart.
She grounded me when I was suspended from high school for smoking. She knew when wrong was wrong.
She understood the importance of a well-rounded dinner of meat, potatoes and a beverage. So she found a way to justify our mother-daughter Friday Night Dinner Parties of Slim Jims, Potato Chips and Pepsi.
She knew my dad meant well when we were young, but couldn't always be counted on. Amidst the fun times she preferred, she realized the discipline, too, was left to her hands.
She saw her husband, her parents, and several close friends through terminal illnesses. She was the caregiver and the support system. Time after time, she was the strong one, even when she was weak with grief herself.
She spent time with her grandchildren because she wanted to, not because she was obligated. And they knew it.
She was soft with me when I needed her to be, and tough with me when I needed that.
The theory is that one can't be a good parent and also be a friend. Yet somehow, she's managed both with love and skill and finesse.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
She conspired with me to adopt the clumsy, brindle-furred puppy. She knew my dad's soft spot would eventually surface, just as she seemed to know what was within everyone's heart.
She grounded me when I was suspended from high school for smoking. She knew when wrong was wrong.
She understood the importance of a well-rounded dinner of meat, potatoes and a beverage. So she found a way to justify our mother-daughter Friday Night Dinner Parties of Slim Jims, Potato Chips and Pepsi.
She knew my dad meant well when we were young, but couldn't always be counted on. Amidst the fun times she preferred, she realized the discipline, too, was left to her hands.
She saw her husband, her parents, and several close friends through terminal illnesses. She was the caregiver and the support system. Time after time, she was the strong one, even when she was weak with grief herself.
She spent time with her grandchildren because she wanted to, not because she was obligated. And they knew it.
She was soft with me when I needed her to be, and tough with me when I needed that.
The theory is that one can't be a good parent and also be a friend. Yet somehow, she's managed both with love and skill and finesse.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The Moan in the Mirror
Mirror, mirror, on the wall: Who’s the fairest of them all?
Not you, oh Demon Glass of Gloom. No, you aren’t playing fair at all these days. In fact, you have some ‘splaining to do.
First off, what’s with the chins? Didn’t I used to have only one?
Though perhaps I’m lucky I can see the chins at all, what with this big honking nose in the way. Perhaps you thought I couldn’t smell adequately with the old one? I realize I may shrink some in years to come, but maybe you could take care that not every lost inch shifts to my nose?
The mushrooming nose might be tolerable if it weren’t for that bump on the end of it. And the bump on my chin. And the one on my other chin. Apparently, you’ve adopted a catchy new advertising slogan: “Pimples: Not just for teenagers anymore.”
And speaking of my teen years, remember when I used to stand before you and actually PLUCK my eyebrows? Oh great mirror, where did my eyebrows go? As you’ve been busy focusing on amplifying my pores, you seem to have misplaced my eyebrows altogether.
Ah, but fortunately, my tweezers have not been rendered useless by the mere disappearance of my eyebrows. Not with this stray hair you show sprouting from one of my chins. Thank you for that.
Not to despair. I am not saddened by the state of my eyebrows, my chins or my nose. No, I am happy as hell about it, if the crow’s feet and laugh lines you’re presenting are any indication. So, should I wear these fabulous new additions to my face like a badge of honor?
Yes, I will do so. And when these odd gray hairs, which are now promptly yanked from my head, start to multiply like loaves of bread and fish? I will wear them proudly, too. (Or perhaps I will consequently go bald.)
But don’t expect to see me smiling about it. An unlikely scenario, now that you’ve decided to do away with my lips.
Not you, oh Demon Glass of Gloom. No, you aren’t playing fair at all these days. In fact, you have some ‘splaining to do.
First off, what’s with the chins? Didn’t I used to have only one?
Though perhaps I’m lucky I can see the chins at all, what with this big honking nose in the way. Perhaps you thought I couldn’t smell adequately with the old one? I realize I may shrink some in years to come, but maybe you could take care that not every lost inch shifts to my nose?
The mushrooming nose might be tolerable if it weren’t for that bump on the end of it. And the bump on my chin. And the one on my other chin. Apparently, you’ve adopted a catchy new advertising slogan: “Pimples: Not just for teenagers anymore.”
And speaking of my teen years, remember when I used to stand before you and actually PLUCK my eyebrows? Oh great mirror, where did my eyebrows go? As you’ve been busy focusing on amplifying my pores, you seem to have misplaced my eyebrows altogether.
Ah, but fortunately, my tweezers have not been rendered useless by the mere disappearance of my eyebrows. Not with this stray hair you show sprouting from one of my chins. Thank you for that.
Not to despair. I am not saddened by the state of my eyebrows, my chins or my nose. No, I am happy as hell about it, if the crow’s feet and laugh lines you’re presenting are any indication. So, should I wear these fabulous new additions to my face like a badge of honor?
Yes, I will do so. And when these odd gray hairs, which are now promptly yanked from my head, start to multiply like loaves of bread and fish? I will wear them proudly, too. (Or perhaps I will consequently go bald.)
But don’t expect to see me smiling about it. An unlikely scenario, now that you’ve decided to do away with my lips.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Shot Down
I watched, camera poised, as my then four-year-old crossed the stage in his miniature cap and gown.
The preschool teacher handed him his diploma. "And what do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked.
"A doctor," my tow-headed son replied readily into the microphone.
The audience obligingly applauded, and my little boy grinned out at the crowd, seeking his parents' approving faces. I smiled back and nodded, though I was confused by his announcement.
"A doctor?" I questioned him later. "What happened to wanting to be a policeman?"
He shrugged. "Well, I told that to the girl who was behind me in line. She said policemen get shot. So I said doctor instead."
A young boy's dream crushed, just like that, by the insight of a fellow four-year-old.
After attending a writers conference this weekend in Myrtle Beach, I witnessed more than a few dreams dashed. Many attendees were newbies, with a limited realm of writing experience, let alone any knowledge of how to get published. Others had a full portfolio of manuscripts under their belt--or in a box under their bed. And they were just waiting for that lucky break.
A few of them got that break this weekend. Business cards were exchanged. Queries and proposals were requested. A handful of hopes and dreams were fueled by positive words and uplifted eyebrows.
But others went home rejected. And dejected. Perhaps they will give up writing altogether, after the honest yet subjective words of an agent or editor. Or perhaps they will simply walk away from the experience with a glimmer of insight that will help them hone their craft, and will push them toward success on their writing journey.
The strongest dreams--whether stoked with skill or merely sparked with the kindling of hope--will linger. The strongest dreams, ultimately, will persevere.
Yes, young boys' aspirations may end when they learn policemen get shot. Writers' dreams may end, too, when their story ideas are shot down. Any lifelong goals, for would-be doctors and astronauts and actors, may encounter multiple setbacks along the way.
Dreams may appear elusive, and dreamers may lose hope.
What each needs to understand, however, is that one shot, even if seemingly aimed at the heart, doesn't always prove fatal.
The preschool teacher handed him his diploma. "And what do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked.
"A doctor," my tow-headed son replied readily into the microphone.
The audience obligingly applauded, and my little boy grinned out at the crowd, seeking his parents' approving faces. I smiled back and nodded, though I was confused by his announcement.
"A doctor?" I questioned him later. "What happened to wanting to be a policeman?"
He shrugged. "Well, I told that to the girl who was behind me in line. She said policemen get shot. So I said doctor instead."
A young boy's dream crushed, just like that, by the insight of a fellow four-year-old.
After attending a writers conference this weekend in Myrtle Beach, I witnessed more than a few dreams dashed. Many attendees were newbies, with a limited realm of writing experience, let alone any knowledge of how to get published. Others had a full portfolio of manuscripts under their belt--or in a box under their bed. And they were just waiting for that lucky break.
A few of them got that break this weekend. Business cards were exchanged. Queries and proposals were requested. A handful of hopes and dreams were fueled by positive words and uplifted eyebrows.
But others went home rejected. And dejected. Perhaps they will give up writing altogether, after the honest yet subjective words of an agent or editor. Or perhaps they will simply walk away from the experience with a glimmer of insight that will help them hone their craft, and will push them toward success on their writing journey.
The strongest dreams--whether stoked with skill or merely sparked with the kindling of hope--will linger. The strongest dreams, ultimately, will persevere.
Yes, young boys' aspirations may end when they learn policemen get shot. Writers' dreams may end, too, when their story ideas are shot down. Any lifelong goals, for would-be doctors and astronauts and actors, may encounter multiple setbacks along the way.
Dreams may appear elusive, and dreamers may lose hope.
What each needs to understand, however, is that one shot, even if seemingly aimed at the heart, doesn't always prove fatal.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Top Ten Reasons I'm Going on Vacation
10) No current warrants for my arrest in South Carolina.
9) Getting nothing done at the office vs. getting nothing done at the beach is a no-brainer.
8) Word is the hotel's housekeeping staff is sadly underchallenged.
7) Alarm clocks are God's Gift only to the really anal.
6) Nothing justifies "Screw the diet" like room service.
5) So missing those airport random security checks.
4) Lifeguards probably tire of hot twentysomethings in bikinis.
3) I'm actually traveling through time, so next Sunday I'll be a year younger!
2) Four out of five doctors attribute psychosis to Ohio's bipolar weather.
1) Aiding the liquor industry is my own contribution to the troubled economy.
9) Getting nothing done at the office vs. getting nothing done at the beach is a no-brainer.
8) Word is the hotel's housekeeping staff is sadly underchallenged.
7) Alarm clocks are God's Gift only to the really anal.
6) Nothing justifies "Screw the diet" like room service.
5) So missing those airport random security checks.
4) Lifeguards probably tire of hot twentysomethings in bikinis.
3) I'm actually traveling through time, so next Sunday I'll be a year younger!
2) Four out of five doctors attribute psychosis to Ohio's bipolar weather.
1) Aiding the liquor industry is my own contribution to the troubled economy.
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