Monday Morning Musings

 I haven't shared an excerpt from my humorous memoir,  A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, in quite a while, so I thought I would do that for today. I really can't do Monday Morning Musings because I am actually writing this on Sunday. Tomorrow I will be out of pocket all day.  Enjoy.....

Nothing is worse than having everyone in the family sick at the same time. At least when you take turns, passing a flu bug around like a hot potato, someone is always well enough to tend to the rest of the folks. But when everyone is sick, guess who has to grit her teeth and make chicken soup?

You guessed it. Mom.

One year was particularly bad at our house. I was on the losing side of a persistent flu bug that hung around for four or five weeks. And I used to think a 24-our bug was bad.

That particular run of the flu reached the point where the kids took numbers in the morning to see who would get to stay home from school that day.  I could only handle one or two sickies at a time, especially the sickies who didn’t act sick. Nothing was more wearing than a kid who threw up one minute and knocked his brother senseless the next.

Why couldn’t they take a cue from us adults and just stay on the couch in a semi-comatose position and just moan a lot?

And why did they have to eat. Imagine yourself with a stomach that feels like Mt. St. Helen's revisited, and the sweet aroma of chili dogs and nacho cheese chips comes drifting in from the kitchen. Have they never heard of chicken soup and weak tea?

Usually, when it came to the delicate art of juggling kids to see who got to stay home, my natural instincts served me well, but one day my judgment must have been clouded by my own raging fever. The kid I elected to keep home -- the kid who was at death's doorway with a terrible sore throat and a headache at eight in the morning -- spent half his day with his head out the door playing with the dog and the other half of the day fixing snacks. The kid who went to school with a vague complaint of a stomach ache was sent home right after the stomach ache voluntarily removed itself from the vague status.

And through it all, I spent a great deal of time on the sofa in a semi-comatose position, moaning a lot.

School Days, School Days

Since school has started for most kids across the United States, I thought I would share some of my memories of school days when my kids were young. This is another excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, which is still under consideration for publication at a small independent publisher.

I clearly remember the first year I had more kids in school than I had at home. It's hard to miss one or two when there's still three or four hanging around. But this particular year I was down to two at home.

That first Monday morning of school, I got up bright and early, and surprisingly, with a very cheerful outlook. l don't normally function too well in the mornings, smile or no smile, but that morning was very special.

This being only the first day, the kids were as excited about school as I was, and they were already dressed by seven o'clock. We had a nice leisurely breakfast. Then they collected their bags, their brand new supplies, and their lunches and were on the way by eight o'clock.

While the twins were engrossed in a television program, I sat down with a second cup of coffee and a book. (The quiet was almost deafening, but I loved every minute of it.)

I contemplated flaking the whole day away with my coffee and my book, but just the thought of that much caffeine gave me such a burst of energy, I couldn’t sit still.

By ten-thirty, I paused to take stock. In two and a half hours I’d done the dishes, two loads of wash, made beds, cleaned the bathrooms, and cleaned up my bedroom without a single interruption.

That reinforced my belief in the combined value of Sesame Street and the first day of school. But it was only the beginning. I had other special moments to savor throughout the day:
At lunch time, there were only two kids to make peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches for and to clean up spilled Kool-Aid after.

Later, I had two hours of solitude while they napped, and I didn't want to do anything but sit on the sofa and enjoy my good feelings. I could have gone to my office to get a little writing done. After all, I’d been waiting most of the summer for more than fifteen minutes of solitude to write, but there was something so nice about just sitting on the couch in absolute silence, totally alone, nothing I had to do.

The therapeutic value of that first day of school was indescribable, and by two-thirty when Michael was due home, I felt like I had spent a year in a rest home. I was actually delighted to see his smiley little face and listen to him describe his day in a voice ten octaves higher than conversation level.
He was our resident Jason.

“School was great.”

“Uh,huh.”

“The teacher said cause I can read so good, I can help the other kids.”

“That’s nice, Michael, but you might want to work on your grammar.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Considering how beautiful that first day of school was, you will understand why I was reluctant to let David come home early the next day when the school nurse called to say he was sick. He could have at least given me a full week of bliss before getting sick.   

A Bit of Humor

When I was writing my weekly column for a newspaper when my kids were young, it was always a challenge each year to come up with something to write about the summer break from school that wasn’t just a rehash of past columns. I thought maybe people were getting tired of my “I hate Summer” columns, but a friend assured me otherwise.

“No, Maryann,” she said. “You’ve got to keep writing this. If you suddenly started loving the summer break, that would leave the rest of us looking like the worst mothers on earth. So accept the gauntlet, carry the flag, give us a game plan.”

How could I refuse?

I worked for two weeks on a plan I thought was perhaps the best summer vacation survival guide ever, but it only took two days for my kids to destroy it.

The shining glory of said game plan, which I considered definitive, succinct, and perhaps worthy of someday being etched in stone, were my edicts:

Thou shalt not wake up the household before eight o'clock in the morning.
“But you didn't say I couldn't sing."

Thou shalt not fight.
"This isn't a fight. It's a police action."

I guess I should have covered more bases. I amended that edict to read:  Thou shalt not fight or engage in any sort of skirmish, duel, war or uprising. That should be clear enough for them.

Thou shalt not bother me with trivial details when I'm working. 
"Grandma just called from Detroit. But I told her you were too busy to talk."

Thou shalt complete all chores before noon.
"Mom, your bed's not made and its twelve-o-one."

Thou shalt co-operate.
"We are co-operating. David's helping me get this Twinkie away from Michael."

Once the fun of breaking edicts was over, there was nothing left but this deep pit of boredom. We dipped so low, we were reduced to inane activities such as conducting a contest to see who had the most mosquito bites in unusual places.  (You do not want to know the details of who won.) Then we endured 14 hours of "Love Boat" reruns with a test afterward to see who could remember the most lines of dialogue.

And this was the shining example my friend thought I could be?

~~~~~~~~
Excerpted from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, which is still under consideration for publication.
For more fun, hop over to The Blood Red Pencil, where my friend, Tracy Farr is reviewing the reviewer.

Summertime Blues

Here is an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, which is now under consideration by a publisher. The book is a compilation of columns I wrote when my kids were young and I figured if I found a way to laugh at our foibles, maybe I would survive.

Once all the kids were in school full time, summer time took on a whole new dimension. When they were all little and underfoot, seasons streamed one into the other without much impact on family life. We continued doing what we always do, just changed clothes to suit the weather.

That all changed when the kids were all gone for most of the day during the school year, then suddenly, summertime came and there they all were, cluttering up the house. Every last one of them. Every day. All day.

Often, as the end of the school year drew near and I looked ahead to the days of summer vacation stretching endlessly before me, I had a feeling of impending doom. Maybe that was because we usually failed miserably on the first day of summer vacations. Sort of like time trials in car racing. If you make it through without a mishap, you've got a chance at the race.

I would barely make it through the first two hours of:

"I've been waiting all winter to watch this show. You can watch your dumb show tomorrow."

"That's not fair! You can't watch TV anyway. You didn't do your work."

"What are you? The resident policeman?"
"I'm just trying to help. Keep things running smoothly so Mom won't get upset."

Meanwhile I was in the other room suffering from terminal motherhood, expecting all the fuses to blow any second. I had visions of that kid walking through the entire summer in a black and white striped shirt with a whistle in his mouth.

Maybe I should have just let him have a go at it.

As the fight over the TV would increase in tempo and volume, I would have definite impulses to do violence of some sort. And just in case that went beyond the impulse state, I had a defense plan prepared.  By reasons of insanity:  "Your Honor, no one in their right mind would ever throw a toaster at their own television without provocation."

Things went steadily downhill from there, and I questioned whether I would make it another day. Already I had laryngitis and I think I ruptured something in my throat. God wouldn't do this to me, would He? He wouldn't expect me to stumble through the summer without a voice to yell with?

I might have made it through that first day by sheer force of determination, if it hadn't been for this little kid who kept following me around asking me when we were leaving on summer vacation.

"We are on summer vacation!"

"No we're not! Vacation is going somewhere, and we're not going anywhere."

I wonder if a one way ticket on the next space shuttle fits the criteria of "going somewhere?"

Where on Earth is Maryann Miller?

Today in real life I am in Memphis visiting family. But in cyberspace I am a guest on Joslyn Vaughn's blog. If you have a minute stop by her blog for a visit.

I should be back home over the weekend, and will recap my vacation and book tour over the next week. In the meantime, here is an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. Enjoy....

This is the beginning of a chapter on family pets:

THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY
No a Crocodile Does Not Make a Good Pet

No family would be complete without their pets. We have had a number of them through the years, and they all have a story.

When Anjanette and David were young and Michael was just a baby, we had a cat, Nicky, who wasn’t too crazy about living with little people who pulled her hair and chased her. She had been my cat before I married Carl, and she just barely tolerated him before and after we got married. She would often get on the bed and insinuate herself between us, then push on him with her paws.

"Is she doing that on purpose?” he’d ask.

“Oh, I hardly think so,” I said.

Then a paw would hit a tickle spot and he’d go flying out of the bed. “That cat’s a menace,” he said. “She pushed me out of bed.”

“Honey, listen to yourself. You’re a grown man and she’s just a little cat. Besides, I’m sure she likes you.”

Well maybe,” he conceded, giving her a sideways glance.

“Of course she does. Aren’t you the one who plays with her every day with the crazy ball? She loves that.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I am. Now get back into bed.” I moved the cat and patted the bed.

“Okay.”

The problem was that Nicky was not as reasonable as Carl and this nightly routine repeated itself often.


NOTE: Now we share the bed with two cats and a small dog. No wonder I end up on the couch sometimes.

In Sickness and in Health

I have been in Michigan for almost a week and tomorrow I will be at Horizon Books in Cadillac from 1-3 in the afternoon. If you live near Cadillac, I'd love for you to stop by. 115 S. Mitchell Street
Cadillac, MI 49601 

The following is an excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. The book is still looking for a home, but a door has been opened. I have a publisher who has asked for the full proposal, so maybe, maybe....  Enjoy.

Have you ever noticed that when a kid is sick, he expects meals in bed, unlimited sympathy and continuous entertainment? Or when a husband is sick, he simply takes the day off work, stays in bed, and accepts juice, aspirin, and a kind word in four hour intervals? But heaven help a mother who has a cold or the 24-hour flu. Somehow she has to carry on as if all was well, and about the only way she can get any sympathy or understanding is to be approaching death's doorway. Even then, one of the kids might ask if she has the time to wash his soccer uniform before she passes from this earthly life.

I'd like to see some type of parent-child contract drawn up that would grant equal time, consideration, and cough medicine in the middle of the night to mothers.

I'd like to see a clause included in this contract stating emphatically that when a child comes home from school to find his mother still in her robe, it doesn't mean that she was just too lazy to get dressed that day.

If a mother has red watery eyes and a runny nose, it isn't from peeling onions or from watching a sad scene in an afternoon soap opera.

If a mother's face appears to be unusually flushed, it isn't from the exhilaration of an afternoon tryst. 

If a mother is making 25 trips to the bathroom in an hour, it isn't just from a need for some solitude and serenity.

If a mother doesn't have the strength to drag her body off the couch to cook dinner, it isn't because she wore herself out playing tennis all day.

I used to believe that if we could get our families to recognize the fact that we were indeed sick, then we could work on getting them to respond in a positive helpful manner. To accomplish that goal, I considered making a big sign and hanging it in the living room where everyone could see it as they come in the door:

"Attention! The mother in this house is sick and has gone to bed. Do not disturb unless extreme emergency arises. (Needing to go to volleyball practice does not qualify.) Somebody cook supper. Wash your own dishes and gym clothes. It would be nice if someone came to check on me in about four hours to see if I'm still alive and to bring me some orange juice. Love, Mom."

A Little Summertime Fun

Here is another excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. Since most of us are still sweltering in the summertime heat, I thought I'd continue from the chapter Summertime Blues. Enjoy....

Another fun part of summer vacations were the skirmishes. Not a kind word could be heard from the troops as they squared off for another major battle over territorial rights in the bedroom. (Loosely translated, that meant which corner did Michael get to fill up with dirty socks?)

At times, there was so much snarling and growling going on, I was tempted to call in a lion tamer to restore peace and quiet.

 The skirmishes were caused by boredom. At least that’s what they always said, even though they had enough toys and games to outfit a small school. The daily lament was always, “There’s nothing to do.” To remedy that, I whipped out my list of odd jobs, saved for just such an occasion. Then they suddenly remembered a million things they simply had to do.

They had to practice their multiplication tables because their teacher told them to.

They had to sort their rock collection.

They had to help their friend get his shoe off the roof, and it might be an all day job because another kid keeps throwing the shoe back on the roof. (It only cost them a quarter to get the kid to work on his throwing arm.)

They promised the lady down the street they'd stand guard over her flowerbeds and catch the culprits who keep smashing her petunias.

This was when I got hit with a summertime problem much worse than grubs in my lawn, army worms devouring my garden, or the challenge of how we would pay our latest electric bill.

Although the latter did have a direct impact on this problem I called The Summertime Blues, more commonly known as, Would I Ever Make It Through The Next Six Weeks Until The Kids Went Back To School?

Six more weeks of carting them all over town to different activities to ward off the wave of boredom that threatened to overcome us. And with their unerring instinct of gratefulness, they threw a fit when I asked them to take their dirty socks off the kitchen table.

Six more weeks of, "It's too hot to mow the lawn." But they were willing to risk a heat stroke to ride their bikes up to the local supermarket for candy, or go to the park to play a game of baseball.

And somehow I always got elected to serve refreshments to the whole team.

Six more weeks of stupid, senseless, sibling in-fighting:
"Get your stinky foot out of my face!"
"You threw my shorts on the floor so you can just go pick them up."
“You always throw my clothes on the floor so I don t have to pick your stupid shorts up."
"If you turn that channel, I'll break your arm!"
"I want to watch something else."
"You always get to watch what you want to."
"Nuh-uh ... cause you're always watching your stupid shows."
"If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to punch your face in.”
"Mom! He's going to punch my face in."
"Move over, you're bumping me."
"If you touch me again, I'll break your finger."
"You don't scare me."
"Quit looking at me."
"Mom make him quit looking at me!"

Sometimes they covered all that on the first morning, which left them five weeks and six and a half days to think of new things to fight about.

Serendipity

Those of you who have been following my blog know that my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck, is based on the weekly column I used to write for the Plano Star Courier, an upscale Dallas Suburban newspaper. My husband and I raised five children, and one of the things that helped us face the challenges of a large family was having a sense of humor. Being able to laugh can pretty well diffuse any situation, although the humor might not always be apparent right away. Some things have to age somewhat before they take on comic proportions.

Writing the column was actually the beginning of my professional career and the column became quite popular. I was known as the Erma Bombeck of Plano and it was fun to be famous and recognized at the grocery store - unless it was the day I ran to the store in my oldest shorts, my hair in a mess and with no make-up.

I say all that as a prelude to what happened yesterday. My husband and I, and our oldest son who was visiting from Austin, went to a community theatre production here in East Texas yesterday afternoon. The guys elected to sit in the row ahead of me. Don't ask me why.  I did shower. I promise.

Anyway, I sat down next to a lady and gave her a little nod in greeting. "Pardon me," she said to me. "Your name wouldn't happen to be Maryann would it?"

I was thinking maybe she recognized me from one of the plays I had been in at that theatre, so I smiled and said, "Yes."

 Then she said, "I thought that was you. I recognized you from when you used to write for the Plano paper. I loved your column. I looked forward to it every week."

She said some other nice things about my writing, but quite honestly, I was so stunned that she recognized me after all these years, I didn't quite hear it all.  She saw past the wrinkles and gray hair of today and saw that much younger me that used to smile next to my column every week.

Wow. Made my day.

What about you? Has anyone "made your day" lately?

The Good Old Summertime

Here is another excerpt from my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck. Enjoy....

Since our family didn’t take many formal vacations, a primary source of recreations for a lot of summers involved going to the neighborhood pool. I’d bargain with the kids to leave me alone in the mornings to work, then we’d go swimming almost every afternoon.

Quite often we’d head right back to the pool after dinner for a quick dip before bedtime. That was a tremendous boon to our water bill at home, as a quick rinse in the pool shower eliminated the need for a bath, especially when I remembered to bring the shampoo.

At the beginning of each pool season, we were like everyone else, not sure if we wanted to bare our pale white skin to the hot Texas sun. Extra t-shirts and sunscreen were in abundance. Plus, there was that adjustment period where regulars would start marking off territory that was pretty well respected back then. Certain families liked certain spots on the grass surrounding the pool and they staked their claim with blankets, towels, and an assortment of beach and pool toys.

Territory was marked off in the pool, too, and when the twins were little, I had my own little section of the kiddy pool reserved for the year. There I could keep an eye on the twins and cultivate a suntan, or a new acquaintance, or both. I’d look across the pool with envy, longing for the day I’d get to sit on the other side of the pool with the rest of the grownups.

In the evenings, there was a whole different set of people at the pool, mainly lots of teenagers. Carl would always cast an appreciative eye on the new crop of sweet young things who ought to be arrested for looking so good, while I tried my best to hide my varicose veins and the bulges that had fallen from all the right places to all the wrong placeson my body. I knew there was no hope for me to be considered a bathing beauty when I no longer got even a passing glance from some kid who was too young for the sweet young things, but too old for Tinker Toys.

Typically, my kids wasted a lot of time and energy testing to make sure I really was not going to bring money to the pool. Not ever. They also had to make absolutely sure that I was not going to referee their fights, or decide who would get to play with the ball next. “Settle all that yourselves,” I’d tell them. “I’ve come to the pool to relax.”

Indeed, going to the pool could be very relaxing. When the noise topside got to be too much, I could always go under the water and stay there as long as I could hold my breath. Sometimes I swear it was the only time I was completely alone in any given day, and it sure was quiet and restful down there.

That’s when I realized that if I ever have suicidal tendencies, I will definitely have to stay away from the pool.