Dear Aidan (Can you hear me?)

Dear Aidan,

Can you hear me?

On your birthday tomorrow we will be grieving the loss of yet another milestone that we don’t get to experience with you. You would be seventeen. You would have begged us to let you get your driving permit soon after you turned sixteen, and would probably be ready to take the test to get your license if you didn’t have it already. You’d been looking forward to driving since you were twelve or thirteen and trouncing everyone in Mario Kart.

Your friends are juniors in high school. They’re starting to write college essays, go on college visits, and narrow down their post-high school plans. It’s wrong that you don’t get to have those experiences, too—although your dad and I always said that you’d probably end up living in our basement until you were 30. What I wouldn't give.

I recently opened the birthday present that Grandmom and Granddad sent for you for your 15th birthday. You never got to open it. We stashed it behind the chair in our bedroom, ready to pull it out on your birthday. It was a sweater. You would have politely thanked them for the sweater--and you would have probably enjoyed wearing it, too. You were often cold, and you liked wearing layers to keep your skinny self warm.

They had also sent a Beatles souvenir book from the Beatles store in London, which they had recently visited. You would have pored over it, reciting facts about the Fab Four to anyone within earshot, and jotting down catalog numbers for your Christmas wish list: an All You Need is Love watch, a 
collection of plush band members, or maybe 
the complete book of sheet music for guitar including all 203 Beatles songs.

Ah, darling. I miss you. I hate that I can't know what you would be becoming, and see what new interests you would be developing, and how you would be changing as you grew closer to becoming a man. I want to make new memories with you, finish watching K-Pax with you, plan your new session of home school classes.

I miss talking to you, seeing you, touching you. You would hug me, hug all of us, SO OFTEN, like you could not get enough physical contact from the people you loved. 

Often I stand next to the table that holds your pictures, your poem, cards, and mementos. I re-read your poem, I look at the photographs of you and C. Peevie and M. Peevie, and I shake my head because it's not right that you are not here. It’s not right that we’re celebrating our own birthdays and watching each holiday come and go and taking family vacations without you.

M. Peevie just turned fourteen. You were fourteen when you left us--not quite fifteen, really. It's weird and impossible to get my mind around the fact that she has reached the same age as you, and in a short year will surpass your chronological age. This aspect of losing you, 
like many others, is confusing and surreal.

I did not know the work of mourning

Is like carrying a bag of cement

Up a mountain at night

The mountaintop is not in sight

Because there is no mountaintop

Poor Sisyphus grief

I did not know I would struggle

Through a ragged underbrush

Without an upward path

...

Look closely and you will see

Almost everyone carrying bags

Of cement on their shoulders

That’s why it takes courage

To get out of bed in the morning

And climb into the day.

― Edward Hirsch, Gabriel: A Poem

You used to talk about death and dying fairly often. "I'm afraid to go to sleep in case I don't wake up," you'd tell me in the middle of the night, and my heart would hurt. "Would you still talk about me if I died?"

The answer is yes. Some days, still, you're all I can think about, talk about, care about. Until we meet in eternity, darling boy, I hold you in my heart.

Happy birthday.

Love,
Mom

I will NOT be there for you, nor do I want you to be there for me.

I swear.  There is one trite, annoying, meaningless, banal, cliche, hackneyed phrase that English speakers and writers rely upon to express the concept of emotional support that I believe has lost all meaning, if it ever had any to begin with.  It is "is there for [personal pronoun]," as in "he is always there for me," or "my mother was never there for me," or "What the hell do you want from me? I just want you to be there for me."

Maybe the long-lasting sit-com Friends started it 16 years ago, giving U.S. popularity to the catchy but lyrically lame song by The Rembrandts, "I'll Be There for You."

I'll be there for you
When the rain starts to pour
I'll be there for you
Like I've been there before
I'll be there for you
'Cuz you're there for me too...

But it's not just a sitcom theme song.  It's all over pop music:

Wyclef Jean, in Class Reunion:  

Baby girl, the world is yours, just look through
That open door, I'll be there for you
If you ever feeling blue (oh), it's a beautiful world

And Prince, in Adore:

Until the end of time
I'll be there for you.
You own my heart and mind
I truly adore you.

Bon Jovi succumbed to the allure of the cliche, with "I'll Be There for You"

I'll be there for you
These five words I swear to you
When you breathe I want to be the air for you
I'll be there for you
I'd live and I'd die for you
Steal the sun from the sky for you
Words can't say what a love can do
I'll be there for you

It's all over TV and movie dialogue, all over eavesdropped conversations on the El. It has become the catchphrase of a generation, and it makes me want to puke.  (Although I do kind of like the Bon Jovi song, in spite of the hated phrase.)

When I was teaching freshman composition, I gave my students the assignment of writing an essay on a person they admired.  The phrase "she was always there for me," or some variation, showed up more times than the word maverick in a Sarah Palin speech.  I made my students rewrite their essays without using that phrase even once--and they complained like I asked them to make their own ink out of mangos and Elmer's Glue.  But when those essays came back, the students instead discovered creative and thoughtful language, images and illustrations to convey the love and support they received from their admired one.

"She stayed up listening to me until 2 a.m. the night my boyfriend broke up with me," one girl wrote about her mother.  Another wrote about her best friend, "She's a great listener, and she lets me borrow her clothes, even after I got a stain on her sweater."  See what I mean?  Specific, meaningful illustrations that put a clear picture in your head of what the speakers/writers appreciate in their friends.

Here's my challenge to you, my readers, who are clearly smarter and more talented than all the rest:  Count how many times you hear or read this phrase in a week--on TV, in music, from your friends and colleagues.  I heard it six times the other day on TV and in the grocery store.  In one day! 

Each time you hear it, ask yourself if the phrase gives you a clear sense of what the person means when he uses it, or if he could use more specific and descriptive language to communicate more effectively.  And then take the pledge to rid the English-speaking world of this phrase which is the zucchini of language--it's all over the place, and virtually tasteless.

Random Things In My World

1. A guy walked across the intersection in front of me when I was stopped at a red light. He was young, probably in his 20s--but he was wearing a geriatric beige V-neck sweater; and--get this--he wore black rubbers over his brown dress shoes. Adorable.

And even more adorable? As he crossed the street, he gave a little skip. And then another one, clearly picking up his pace in order to not hold up traffic. He appeared to be totally un-self-conscious--which, how rare is that?!--and it made me want to give him a hug.

2. Toilets are getting smarter. Today I met a toilet that offered two flushing options: one for poop, and one for pee. Allegedly, sending pee-pee to the sewers takes less flushing power than sending poo-poo to the sewers. Who knew. So there were instructions next to the flushing lever: For liquid waste, push handle up. For solid waste, push handle down.

3. Here's an interesting psychological situation that my children and I have observed many times on the way to and from school. A woman takes her brushes and sponges and buckets and brooms outside and cleans the sidewalk and street in front of her three-flat. Yes, you read that right: she sweeps. The street.

If it has recently rained, she'll sweep water into a bucket, and then carry the bucket off and empty it somewhere. If it's dry, she sweeps leafs and sticks and even dirt into a neat pile, and then brushes the pile onto a dustpan, which she then empties into a bin. Sometimes she even crosses the street and sweeps the gutters on that side.

I think this must be some sort of OCD, because there is no practical purpose to her sweeping. She's not cleaning the drains to prevent flooding. She's just sweeping up tiny bits of lawn debris--sticks, leaves, even dirt. It's THE GROUND. There's SUPPOSED TO BE dirt.

It reminds me of my across-the-street neighbor, who used to spend hours on summer days lying on his stomach, plucking clover from his front lawn. Hours. I told my friend the therapist, Dr. Paradigm Shift, about him, and she said, "OCD. Off his meds."

I think there must be an OCD epidemic in my zip code. Hope it's not contagious.

4. We were driving home from church the other day, and Civil War by Guns N' Roses was playing on the radio. The kids recognize this song from the first note, which is not actually a note but the voice of Strother Martin as the prison warden in Cool Hand Luke famously saying, "What we have here is a failure to communicate."

We listened to the song for a minute or two, and then M. Peevie, who thinks deeper thoughts than most nine-year-olds, asked, "Mom, how can war be civil?"

And then we had a whole discussion about what "civil" means, and C. Peevie pointed out that many others in history have asked that same question, and I said, but not many nine-year-olds have asked it, and ultimately none of us really knew the answer.

And there you have it. Four random things from my world. Bet you're wishing you were me right now, aren't you?

Resolutions 2010

It's hard for me to come up with a bunch of resolutions with a half-empty pitcher of white Russians sitting on the window sill next to me. But I realize that my loyal Green Room readers are waiting with bated breath for a New Year's post, so here goes.

My resolutions for 2010:

1. Listen to new music. One really great way to stay in touch with my kids is through music--but probably not through Dan Fogelberg and Boz Scaggs. I'm just sayin'. My kids have already introduced me to some enjoyable music that I would otherwise never have encountered, like Human, by The Killers.

2. Work out on Wii Fit two or three times per week. That might sound lame to you marathoners and extreme fitness freaks--but for those of use who enjoy the sedentary lifestyle, it's huge. I may alternate with a bit of drumming on Rock Band II, however. I'm sure that'll burn the calories just as much as a lunging lemur or whatever the heck the yoga pose is called.

I've already created my Mii, and the stupid game has informed me that I am obese. I prefer to think of myself as Rubenesque, or pulchritudinous, or zaftig. However, I do realize that my bones and muscles and internal organs could stand for me to be a wii bit more active. (See how I did that with the "wii"?)

3. Write my book. I don't know if I'm a writer--a real writer--or not. But I have to give it a shot. I'm heading up to Grand Rapids for a writers' conference (maybe I'll see you there?), at which I hope to find inspiration and a publisher.

Here's the thing. I'm terrified. I know I can tell a story with a modicum of appeal. I know I can sustain interest for 800 words or so. But 40,000 words? For a wanna-be-writer with undiagnosed ADD, mood swings, mild depression, and a teensy case of OCD (I swear this is true, even though my therapist insists that you can't actually have a "teensy case of OCD"), it's like a guy with no arms and no legs looking up at Mt. Everest with the summit in his heart.

4. Yesterday Reverend Moses Butcher reminded us that "Resolutions don't have the power to change you." This could be problematic in a post about resolutions -- except Rev. Moses Butcher was talking about sin, of course, not about things like using music to connect with your kids, using an insulting electronic toy to have a slightly healthier lifestyle, and putting words down on paper because some part of me believes that another part of me has something worthwhile to say.

Sin is something I know a little bit about. (If "sin" is not in your vocabulary, you can think of this as personal responsibility.) I often fall short, far short, of the person I want to be. I'm far too sarcastic with my children. I'm irritable, impatient, and self-centered, and self-righteous. I frequently put my own needs and desires ahead of the needs and desires of other people.

I don't want to be this way--but I see these behaviors in myself over and over again. So instead of resolving to behave better, to sin less, to be more Jesusy--which will only lead to failure and despair--I will instead resolve to take those sins and carry them, like Pilgrim in John Bunyan's beautiful allegory (a Christian classic, which, if you haven't read it, I recommend that you resolve to do so this year), to the cross, and dump them out there, over and over again.

This is the gospel; this is what has the power to change me.

What are your resolutions?

Awful Christmas Music

I confess: I love Christmas music. When WLIT switches over to their holiday music programming, I play that station all the time. The kids and I sing along. It's very corny and lame.

However, I am not so lame that I don't recognize truly awful Christmas songs when I hear them, and I've heard a few this season that provoke the same type of response as ipecac syrup.

One of them is Christmas Shoes, written and performed about 10 years ago by a group called NewSong. It's about a little boy whose mother is dying, and he wants to buy her shoes so she'll look great if she "meets Jesus tonight." It is awful for many reasons, but primarily because it is more manipulative than a tween with a joystick.

Hilariously, the guy in the video almost rolls his eyes at the little boy (at 2:20 in the vid) when the little boy looks up at him and asks him, "Sir, what am I gonna do?" If the song had gone dark at this point, it would have at least had entertainment value. But no. We're stuck with horrifying theology suggesting that God sends pathetic, poverty-stricken children and cancer as object lessons to teach a cynical, shopped-out guy "what Christmas is all about."

And what is Christmas all about, anyway? From this song, I gather it's about waiting until the last minute to buy a useless gift that the recipient will never use. Or sending your unwashed child out after curfew to do your Christmas shopping.

Another Christmas song I love to hate is My Grown Up Christmas List, made popular by Amy Grant and covered by dozens of artists hoping to cash in on its sappy manipulation. It's like the interview portion of the Miss America Pageant set to elevator music:

No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown up Christmas list

These are all good things to wish for. But there's nothing compelling, nothing personal, nothing challenging or new about saying, "I want all war to end." It's kind of a "duh" thing to say, even if you say it in a song.

Then there's a version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas out there--maybe Mariah Carey sings it?--that's set to such a slow tempo that you can leave your house when the song starts, drive to St. Charles to chop down your Christmas tree, bring it home, and finish decorating it before the song ends. Or you can just switch the station, which is what I do.

This one might get some flack, but I absolutely hate The Soldiers' Night Before Christmas, a bastardization of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, set to sappy instrumentals. It's just simplistic, manipulative, clichéd rhyming. Here's a sample

His face so gentle, his room in such disorder,
Not how I pictured a United States soldier.
Was this the hero of whom I'd just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

I couldn´t help wonder how many lay alone
On a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home.
Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and started to cry.

I think those who serve deserve a far better tribute than this lametastic sentimentality. There are plenty of poems that honor the sacrifices that a soldier makes without resorting to maudlin clichés.

So, there you have it. I'm a giant Scrooge. Songs that are supposed to move me and touch my fossilized heart instead trigger cynicism and ridicule. But I suspect I'm not alone. What Christmas songs do you love to hate?

Misogynistic Music

I was listening to a popular radio station in Chicago last week, and the female DJ played a song that was so sexually explicit, misogynistic, and profane that I almost threw up my Target cafe nachos. I reached over to punch the knob to change the station after the first line of lyrics, and instead decided I would give the song a chance.

The whole thing was disgusting, gross, inappropriate, and offensive. I mentioned it to Mr. Peevie later, and he said, "Welcome to the world of popular contemporary music." Seriously? The same world that brings us Lucky and Delilah and Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf?

And what is a female DJ doing playing shit that disses her own stupid self? Don't these people use their brains? Does she really want people singing along with a song that glorifies getting turned on by sexual assault?

I talked to C. Peevie about the station and the song, and told him in no uncertain terms that I did not want him listening to that station or songs like that.

"You wouldn't want someone saying things like that about your sister or your mother," I said, "so you don't want to people to gain from you listening to their music." He agreed; or at least, he claimed to agree. I take him at his word, because he's always been straight with me.

Meanwhile, here are my music and parenting questions for you: Do you pay attention to lyrics? Do you boycott stations that play music that you find offensive, or do you figure, well, it's just one song? How do you monitor the music your kids listen to: intensively, moderately, minimally, or not at all?

Update, Plus South Dakota Tales

Mr. Peevie asked me to point you to the update at the bottom of this post.

And I thought I'd also take this opportunity to show you a few photos from my trip to South Dakota. Here are the five kids atop a smallish Badlands formation (l-r: A. Peevie, Samwise, C. Peevie, M. Peevie, and E-Dude):


And here is my beauteous angel, M. Peevie, totally owning the Badlands:


Here's how A. Peevie spent approximately 50 percent of his time in the car. I don't know if you can tell or not, but that's Manny the Manatee in his lap. It's probably the first time a manatee, stuffed or otherwise, has been within 1000 miles of the Badlands.


I wish I had a photo of the Wagon Wheel Bar, in Interior, South Dakota, population 67 according to the sign at the edge of "town." We went there for "dinner" on our first day in the Badlands. To get there, you drive into town on Highway 77, and turn right at the gas station/"mini-mart." You'll know you're headed in the right direction because the sign on the corner points toward the "Business District." Pass the town jail (photo credit: Murrax on Wikipedia), which Dr. Paradigm Shift insists is not currently used as such because "the ACLU would be all over it," but which I think is totally where they throw the obnoxious drunk guy on Saturday night.

Anyway, as we walked into the Wagon Wheel, our feet stuck to the tacky floor and the smell of cigarette smoke immediately saturated our hair and clothing. But we were starving, and the bartender/waitress was smiling and helpful, so we ordered burgers and chicken fingers and home-made pizza, and beer for the grown-ups, and sat down at two small, slightly sticky tables.

The kids asked for money for the jukebox and started playing Johnny Cash songs, plus a little U2, Bon Jovi, and Toby Keith. There were no Killers songs on the playlist, unfortunately, or I'm sure we would have heard Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf, which is absurdly inappropriate for an 8-year-old to sing along with, or perhaps Human.

Anyway, while we ate, a cowboy walked into the bar, followed by his large dog. The dog walked up to us, smelled us, and then strolled over to his water dish and got a drink. Apparently, he's a regular.

Then, a bunch of Native American pool players stopped by the bar for their evening sport. They were wearing blue jeans, cowboy boots, and flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off. They sat around the table talking and laughing and sipping chardonnay from long-stem wine glasses. No lie. It seemed a bit incongruous, but maybe that's just me.

King of Music

At the end of American Idol tonight, tiny little Seacrest was announcing the special guests that will appear tomorrow night.

"We'll have the World Famous Slash!" he said, and Mr. Peevie and I just looked at each other, all, huh? Slash? But my little Music Man A. Peevie is way hipper than either of us, and apparently way more on top of the contemporary music scene.

"Slash!" he said joyfully, "He's the lead singer for Guns and Roses!" He then went on to name three or four of his favorite Guns and Roses songs, which, wha? When did this pop culture knowledge flood his brain, and from whence? I'm certainly not a contemporary music maven. Until last week I though Pink was just a color.

We were watching another show a couple of weeks ago, and a tune started playing. After literally five or six notes, A. Peevie says, "Hey, it's The Immigrant Song!" Mr. Peevie cocked his head, listened for a moment, and agreed.

Again, I was a musical outsider, and I cogently inquired, "Huh?"

"Led Zeppelin!" A. Peevie and Mr. Peevie said in unison, and Mr. P reminded me, "It was even in School of Rock" which we watched last week for family movie night. Apparently The Immigrant Song has quite the backstory, and even got a shout-out in Shrek the Third.

That kid never ceases to amaze me--and he was so cheerful when Mr. P and I were amazed at his musical knowledge that I thought his cheeks were going to pop right off his face.

"You are the King of Music!" I told him, and then M. Peevie, not wanting to be left out of the royalty-making, announced, "And I'm the Queen!" Princess, maybe; but since she just fractured her wrist on Sunday, and didn't get it x-rayed and diagnosed until two days later, and has been such a non-complainer about it, I'll promote her to queen.

Like how I stuck that little anecdote of continuing family drama into a completely unrelated blog post? It's called segue, and the really great writers know how to make it so smooth you barely even realized it happened. Then there's writers like me who point it out and analyze it in the next paragraph, making the whole thing completely irritating and clunky.

I'll stop now.

My Latest Addiction

I have a new addiction: Pandora radio. OMG. This site is so fun and addictive. If you like music, and if you spend any time at all in front of your computer, check out Pandora. She will play the music you want, when you want it.

I spent two hours yesterday creating my very own personalized radio stations:

• Hymns Radio plays traditional church hymns, plus a few select contemporary hymns and worship songs. (I’m not really a fan of contemporary Christian music, so when one of those songs pops up, I click the “I don’t like this song” button, and Pandora apologizes and promises never to play it again. Pandora is very polite.)
• When I’m in the mood for some folksy rock tunes, I switch over to E. Peevie Radio. It’s generated from a Jack Johnson starting point, and includes songs like “Hey There, Delilah” by the Plain White T’s, classic tunes from Simon and Garfunkle and Fleetwood Mac, and of course "American Pie" and other favorites from Don McLean. Awesome.
• And then there’s Dee Dee Radio, in honor of my big brother who is a sentimental softie with a preference for the music of his lost youth. It plays classic popular tunes from the 50s, 60s, and a few 70s, featuring bands like The Dave Clark Five, The Spinners, and Franki Valli.
• I love musical theater, so one of my stations is Sound of Music Radio. I can sing along to "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story; "Seventy-Six Trombones" from Music Man; and "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" from Oklahoma.
• Most of my life I have despised and disparaged country music. But now I find myself creating Willie Nelson Radio, a station that plays classic country hits like "Folsom Prison Blues" by Merle Haggard, "Walk the Line" by Johnny Cash, and even some not-so-classic-and-a-tiny-bit-queer-but-I-like-it-so-there John Denver songs.
• Oh, and I almost forgot: Water Music Radio brings me compositions like Handel's "Water Music Suite No. 2", "Sonata in D Major" by Telemann, and of course, the ubiquitous Pachelbel's "Canon in D".

Just what I needed: another time sink. My life is one time-sink addiction after another.