'Tis the Season of Sickness

My husband loves to eat, so when he told me Thursday night that he didn't really feel like any dinner, warning bells started ringing in my head.  Sure enough, when I walked in the door after choir rehearsal he was stretched out on the reclining sofa, shivering like a leaf, despite being wrapped from head to toe in blankets and running the space heater full blast. "I'm really sick," he mumbled.

He really was.

He still is, actually, three days later. We've always called it "stomach flu", but now there's a fancier name for it - norovirus.  Whatever you name it, it's one nasty piece of work.  So I've been home playing nurse all weekend,  and washing my hands like a mad woman in hopes of staving off this very contagious ailment.

Oddly enough, Sickness and Christmas actually go hand in hand in my memories. When I was a child, I was nearly always sick at Christmas time.  Outwardly, I was the picture of health, but a combination of upper respiratory allergy and asthma invariably flared up around the holidays - whether it was the first damp chill of winter, the dry heat of our furnace, or the excitement and increased activity surrounding the season, I was usually coughing and wheezing by Christmas day, often spending Christmas Eve night sitting up with the vaporizer running, and slathered in Vicks VapoRub, the remedy of choice in those days for opening up my clogged airways.

I didn't mind it so much - everyone made a fuss over me and I was pampered even more than usual.  My grandmother would buy me lots of new books, because reading seemed to comfort me while I sat up at night, unable to catch my breath.  My mother hovered over me, keeping her eagle eye trained for the slightest paleness in my complexion or the tiniest glimmer of fever in my eyes, listening intently to the sound of each breath, alert for the garbled rattle that indicated my bronchial tubes were clogged with mucous.

What I did mind was missing the big family Christmas party, and I missed it on more than one occasion.  On my father's side of the family, I had four uncles and one aunt, who between them had produced over a dozen cousins to play with.  There were big family gatherings each year at Christmas, and I looked forward to these occasions with a combination of eager anticipation and horror that was particular, I think, to the only child.

My father would go to the party anyway, leaving me home in the more than capable care of my mother and grandparents.  One year he was headed out the door, and I overheard an angry exchange of words between he and my mother, a rare occurrence in our house.

"I think you're just using her as an excuse not to go, because you don't want to be around my family," he said.

"That's not true, and you know it," my mother replied.  "She cannot be around all those people, half of them smoking, and most of the kids sick with colds.  Do you want her to get pneumonia?"

"Of course not," my father sighed.  "I just want her to have some fun for a change."

Although I was no more than 8 years old, I was troubled by this exchange.  Obviously, I was concerned about being a point of contention between my parents.  I was also surprised at the insinuation that my mother didn't care for my dad's big family - how could you not like them?  Not like Uncle Bill, always smiling and joking, carrying around a neat square shaped glass that always clinked with ice cubes and contained a silvery looking drink with a slice of lime stuck in it? Then there was Aunt Marge, so beautiful and stylish in her designer clothes, her thick black hair perfectly styled, her makeup astutely applied.  Then there were my cousins Lynn and Karen, girls my own age who had amazing adventures as majorettes and actresses in school plays - what wasn't to like?

But even more disturbing was my father's concern that I have some fun.  I was deeply puzzled by this - what was I doing (or not doing) that should bring more fun to my life?  Staying home and reading my books, or curling up with my grandparents and watching Gunsmoke or Bonanza on television - that was fun, wasn't it?  I didn't mind putting on my pajamas early and getting into bed surrounded  by a menagerie of stuffed animals while my mother lay beside me and read aloud - that was fun too.

Looking back, I think what my father was wishing for me was a more normal life, one where I was less a rarefied flower and more of a playful little girl.  I suspect he sensed that somewhere in my nature was a person who liked other people, who enjoyed a bit of excitement and gaiety, who could joke and laugh and tease her younger cousins, maybe even run around the basement or roughouse on the floor.

My somewhat sickly childhood prevented me from doing those things, and I admit that my mother encouraged me to languish rather than push myself toward recovery.  With the perspective of years, I also believe there was some truth in my dad's original assertion -  she didn't enjoy the party atmosphere, the big family, the noise and confusion.  A quiet only child like me, she preferred being home in the quiet and safety of her familiar surroundings.

I'm been kicked into caregiver mode this weekend, and I see myself responding in familiar ways, eager to do anything I can to relieve the discomfort, trying to find ways to make it better, observing vigilantly for signs of improvement.  I'm still planning to  attend a concert tonight, although I can faintly hear a little voice nagging me to stay home and keep an eye on Jim.  But he's up and around now, eating small amounts of food - he assures me he'll be fine for a couple of hours.

It's been a long weekend - and I think it's all right if I have a little fun for a change.

Around the Table

As expected, Thanksgiving dinner was quiet and uneventful.  The three of us sat around my mom's kitchen table, decked out in our comfiest clothes, and enjoyed all the traditional goodies.  We found ourselves lingering over pie and coffee, reminiscing with smiles about holidays gone by. It was nice sitting around the table, and I realized once again how much I miss the opportunity to do that.  Since the beginning of our empty nest years, we've gotten into the habit of eating off trays in front of the television.  I don't like it really, don't like hauling the food out of the kitchen and into another room, don't like poking down my meal with my eyes affixed to the 47 inch screen, don't like the ban on conversation imposed by the need to concentrate on the program.

I'd really like us to be more present at mealtimes, even though it is just the two of us.  However, when I've broached the subject of eating at the table rather than in front of the TV, I usually get a horrified reaction from my husband.  "We can't watch our programs in there!" his expression says clearly without him even uttering a word.

Sigh.

Of course, my husband doesn't have good memories of dinner table conversation.  In his family, meals were usually an occasion for my father in law to read from his latest right wing political tracts, or share his opinions on all that was going wrong in the world.  If my mother in law got a word in edgewise (and she always managed quite a few), it was to complain about something that Jim or his dad was doing.  So he's never been really committed to the whole concept of sitting around the table at mealtimes.  (Especially since our table is located in the same kitchen where his childhood mealtimes occurred.)

When we were in Florida last week, our son came over for dinner on a couple of occasions, and we were able to eat outside on the lanai.  Whenever this happens, we tend to spend a good long while sitting around the table, talking and catching up on all kinds of things.  It's always pleasant, and lots of laughter goes on.  Usually, we learn some things about what's going on in Brian's head that we might not otherwise have known.    It's family meal time at its best, and I really crave more of that.

Apparently, I'm not the only one.  Laurie David, a documentary producer, has even written a book about it..The Family Dinner: Great Ways to Connect with Your Kids, One Meal at a Time. According to her research, children who eat with their families get better grades, form better relationships, and are less likely to abuse drugs.  "If we don't sit at the table together," she asks, "what else are we doing at the same time, other than sleeping?"

While I was shopping last week,  a small pub-style kitchen table and chairs caught my eye -the kind with a taller table and matching straight backed chairs.  This one even had a dark green marble inlay in the center, which would look rather nice in our kitchen.  I'm thinking about asking for this for Christmas, along with the promise to eat a meal at the table every so often.   It wouldn't have to be every day at first, even a couple of times a week might satisfy my craving.  Although it would be just the two of us, it could still be nice to sit around the table together and share what's happened during the day while we share our meal.

Mealtimes are important times ~ a chance to stop in the busy day and take a needed opportunity to fortify our bodies.  Perhaps even more important is the opportunity a family dinner affords to enrich our relationships and our souls with some meaningful time together.

A lot can be accomplished just sitting around the table.

How about you?  Do you sit around the table at mealtime?  or in front of the TV or computer screen?  Did you have family dinners growing up?  What was it like around your family dinner table?

Thanksgiving Memories

"I can't tell you how much I used to dread Thanksgiving," my mother said yesterday as we headed out to the grocery store to do our shopping for the big dinner.  "My mother used to invite everybody over and then bitch about it for days.  She made life miserable for me and Dad for weeks. " I looked at her aghast.  My childhood memories of Thanksgiving were pure happiness.  I never sensed any tension or angst...all I recall were the wonderful aromas and tastes of my southern grandmother's cuisine.  The huge turkey, slowly roasting all day long in the oven ("Oh yes," said my mother, "she woke us all up at the crack of dawn to get that turkey in the oven by 7:00 so it could cook all day long"), stuffed with the moist, savory dressing ("I had to search all over town for fresh sage to put in that stuffing"), and smothered in rich, brown gravy ("She wouldn't let anybody else stir that gravy for fear it would be lumpy!")

Well.  Who knew?  I was so tickled at the prospect of a house full of people, all my my favorite aunts and uncles with their interesting conversations, laughing and telling stories about family members I'd never seen.   And all the while the day had been filled with aggravation for my mother.

Of course, 40 years later, I'm no stranger to the memory of aggravating holidays.  When Jim and I married, it somehow evolved in our little family that his mother would prepare the Thanksgiving day dinner at our house.  (The one they so graciously sold to us when we got married while they moved into a tiny apartment which was of course far too small to serve Thanksgiving dinner.)  So every year she'd appear (at the crack of dawn so she could get the turkey in the oven) and then be puttering around in my kitchen all day, muttering about the way I arranged things or cleaned things or didn't have the right kind of things.

However, if you were to ask my son, he might recall the times  he stood on a tiny step-stool and helped Grandma prepare the turkey, watching intently as she cleaned out the cavity and tied the drumsticks together with twine.  Or he might remember running into the kitchen each time the oven door opened, so he could hold the baster and squeeze  hot pan drippings over the bird's golden breast.  He might not have had any inkling that his mother was in her bedroom, silently screaming.

All that's left of those holidays are memories -for my son, who lives far away and is never home on Thanksgiving; for me, who has dinner with an ever diminishing number of people; and for my mother, who prepares the meal for the three of us in her own kitchen and in her own expert and individual way.

Thanksgiving is becoming more and more the forgotten holiday, crammed in between Halloween and Christmas which garner a lot more attention in this consumer driven society of ours.  We're even having our regular trash pickup on Thursday - as long as I've lived here, pickup was postponed until Friday on Thanksgiving week.  I'm not sure I approve of that.  I think the sanitation workers should have Thursday so they could enjoy dinner with their families and friends same as nearly everyone else.

Thanksgiving is a holiday built around emotions - of being grateful for family and friends, for health and happiness, and food on the table.   It's not about buying presents, or wearing costumes, or elaborate fireworks displays.  It's not even about concerts of beautiful music, or rooms of gorgeous decorations.

It's simply about making memories, good or bad.

I hope you make some lovely ones this year.

Variety~the Spice of Life?

When I was a child, one of my favorite scents (aside from the smell of a new book or magazine) was the smell of my mother's face cream.  I think she used plain old Pond's cold cream, and I recall her slathering it on her face each evening before bed.  Often, a smidgen of it would linger on my cheek when she kissed me goodnight, and I savored the aroma as I drifted off to sleep. This afternoon I spent about 15 minutes in the beauty aisle at Target, perusing hundreds of facial skin care products, trying to determine what in the world I should put on my face.

Too many choices.

Should it be Olay Regenerist, or Anti Aging, or Pro-X?

Maybe I should try L'Oreal Expertise, Revitalift, or Genesis?

Or Neutrogena Ageless Essentials, Restorative, or Anti-Oxidant?

By now my head is spinning, and I give up and start looking for Pond's Cold Cream.  (They actually DID have it!)

Seriously, for every product I go to purchase, I find myself standing longer and longer in front of the shelves, looking for the item I want, or trying to decide which one is appropriate.

The other day I was standing in the cereal aisle at the grocery, looking for Grape Nuts.  Of course, there are Grape Nuts Flakes, Grape Nuts, and Healthy Grape Nuts Trail Mix Crunch - not bad, really, only three varieties.  An elderly gentleman was standing beside me, looking rather dazed and confused.

"Can I help you find something?" I asked.

"I just want some Corn Flakes," he said, scratching his head in dismay.

I pointed out the Corn Flakes, and helped him choose between 12 ounce, 16 ounce, or the huge 48 ounce family size.

He put his small box in the cart and sighed.  "My goodness," he said.  "I remember when the only cereal they made was Corn Flakes."

Ah yes, the good old days when life was simple and choices were few.  How ever did we survive without 240 television stations, 97 varieties of cereal, 14 different kinds of dental floss, and 33 different sizes of feminine protection?  Have our needs really changed that much, become so much more specialized and intensive?  Could we ever go back to the old days, when there were only one or two choices to be made?

Or would we be just as happy with one flavor cereal, one brand of moisturizer, and three of four television stations?

I finally brought home some skin care products, which cost me almost as much as my grocery bill for the week.  The night cream comes in sleek little tube, and I wonder if it will last even the rest of the month.  It contains something called Helioplex, and is supposed to neutralize 99% of the free radicals, as well as clarify my skin, take care of wrinkles, and "even out" my skin tone.

Whatever.   I'm pretty sure it won't smell as nice as my mom's Ponds.

Dancing, Divas, and Indigestion

Talked to my mom last night, and she was a little bit riled up (seems there's a bit of that going around in our family lately). "Can you believe what happened on Dancing With the Stars? I'm so mad I can't see straight!"  she said.

I'd been waiting for this tirade, because just Sunday she was talking about how much she hoped Brandy would win this year's coveted mirror ball trophy.

However, in a rather controversial results show, Brandy and her partner were "sent home" while Bristol Palin remained to dance in this year's finals.

If you're not a Dancing With the Stars Fan, you probably don't know or care who wins this ballroom dancing competition.   I happen to love this show - it's the only reality show I watch, but I have a secret dreamy desire to be a ballroom dancer and I'm fascinated with the whole process.  I also like the way it showcases a persons ability to learn a completely new skill and push themselves to the limit of their capabilities.

So in some ways the fact that young Bristol Palin, a socially awkward girl whose only claim to fame is her infamous mother and her own teen pregnancy, has been able to execute these complicated dance routines with some degree of aplomb, is exactly the reason I like watching the show.  After all, this is a girl who has never performed, never done a musical, theatrical, or athletic thing in her life, and she's produced a fairly adequate performance most weeks.

Kudos to her for all that.

BUT.

Bristol remains on the show due entirely to viewer votes.  Her judges scores, which account for 50% of the dancer's rating, have consistently been the lowest overall.  Yet each week, the viewers votes keep her "alive" while ever more competent dancers are sent packing.

And therein lies a much more insidious problem, one that far surpasses the momentary angst my mother (and poor Brandy!) are suffering.

The American people are completely hoodwinked, boondoggled, brainwashed, and enraptured, with the whole Sarah Palin phenomenon and Bristol is riding that coat-tail all the way to her ultimate prize - the Mirror Ball Trophy.

The really scary part is that I think this silly dance competition is an indicator that Bristol's mother actually has a chance to attain her ultimate prize - the Presidency of these United States.

God help us all.

My daughter in law (a naturalized American citizen) pooh-poohed this notion at dinner last night.  "The American people are too smart for that," she said.

I wish she were correct, but I'm afraid she isn't.  Too many American people have become like sheep, blindly following whoever and whatever seems the most interesting, entertaining, and popular.  Whatever Palin's appeal  (and I have no idea at all what it could be) it's widespread and pandemic.  I read this morning that the premier of her reality TV show garnered the highest ratings ever for its network.

That certainly qualifies her to be the leader of the free world.

"She's not smart enough to be President," my daughter in law continued, and this time I wholeheartedly agreed.  Palin's sartorial experience qualifies her for the highest office in the land about as much as my medical experience qualifies me to perform brain surgery. (I'm great at putting on band-aids and removing splinters.)

Part of Palin's appeal seems to be her "regular Jane-ness" - she's just like you and me, so she understands the problems of the common man.  Well, call me crazy, but I think I'd like the leader of the nation to be a little bit smarter, stronger, savvier, and well-respected than the average man on the street.  After all, this is a person who holds the future of the entire world (literally and physically) in their hands.

The big Finale of Dancing With the Stars occurs next Monday and Tuesday nights.  Will it be the preview of things to come in November 2012?

We'll see.

If so, I may find myself on the lookout for property in Outer Mongolia, because I think I'll want to get as far away from the devastation as possible.

Unfortunately, I'll probably have to go through the full body scanner in order to get there.