Just Wondering

There are so many important topics being discussed these days it's hard to know what really deserves my attention.  What's this about a debt ceiling and how does it affect my back-to-school shopping?  If there really is such a thing as global warming, how come it's only gotten above 80 twice this entire summer?  And most importantly, what happened between J-Lo and Marc Anthony?  All timely topics to be sure, but there are several other things that I can't help wondering about.

What is it with Canadians and outlet malls?  They flock there by the busload (literally), whole multi-generational families browsing through the Nike store.  Perhaps Seattle Premium Outlets (which isn't in Seattle at all) should open a location a little further north (further north than Tulalip, I mean).  And why do they drive so fast?  Perhaps they are in a hurry to get a great deal on a Coach bag, or maybe they have trouble converting kilometers.  Well here's a little friendly tip for my northerly neighbors:  km/h=mph x 1.609344  (don't be afraid to show your work).

Why do people insist on displaying all sorts of inappropriate things on their cars?  I once saw a woman who was waiting to pick up her kindergartner from school with a bumper sticker that made me blush.  Kindergarten is when kids learn to read--what do you suppose she told her child when he asked what it meant?  "Well, Tommy, that means Mommy has the morals of a drug addicted prostitute, but she knows how to read."  And ditto for the decals with the boy peeing on various logos and brand names.  Why does a grown man want the world at large to think of him as a naughty little boy?

Why does my dog eat his own poop?  The vet says I can get a special additive to put in his food to "make it taste bad."  But really, what could you possibly do to it that would make it taste worse than dog poop?

With all the scientific advancements and electronic gadgets available, why is it that the only way to unplug a backed up toilet is a rubber suction cup on a stick?  I'm sure my great grandmother thought the same thing as she plunged away at her Thomas Crapper original.

While these may not be the greatest mysteries of life, I'm afraid they will remain unanswered (by me anyway).  I am not a great philosopher; I prefer to consider myself  a creative thinker.

Happy Father's Day/ Happy Birthday/ Wish You Were Here

I meant to write this post in honor of Father's Day.  I'd been thinking about it for awhile-- I wanted to do something clever and funny (Dad always got my sense of humor).  Now my father's birthday has come and gone and I still haven't finished it.  Dad has Parkinson's, a disease that has robbed him of his mobility and personality, and it's hard to find the humor. But my dad is still my dad, just a little harder to reach.  And he could use a laugh about now.

So here goes.

Roy "Bud" Alvick was an only child who went on to sire five children.  Either he thought Mom was a real hot number, or he was making up for his lack of siblings.  Or that whole Catholic thing.  As I was number five I'm just glad he didn't stop trying till he got it right. 

Dad was always the Fun Dad, much to my mother's chagrin.  He was the piggy-back-ride, sure-I'll-buy-you-a-candy-bar, yes-I-see-why-you-need-those-over-priced-shoes-because-every-other-girl-in-school-is-wearing-them Dad.  Which is not to say there were no limits at our house (with five kids you need limits).  I know for a fact that Dad handed out a spanking or two, just not to me.  I was the youngest and, as my siblings will tell you, may have gotten away with more than my fair share.   

When I was still living at home Dad had a phone installed in his bathroom.  Not something every family can boast of, we were probably the first (or only) on our block. Dad claimed it  never failed that whenever he went in there for some "reading time" the phone would ring and it would be for him.  Could be that it was the quietest room in the house--there were five children living there after all--but I'm not sure that I want to know if he ever talked to me on that phone while taking care of business.

Dad started his career as a math teacher, worked for years as a school administrator, and eventually became a elementary school principal.  Funny thing is, Dad had gotten himself got kicked out of parochial school as a kid.  I'm not sure what exactly got him kicked out, but any number of the stories I heard about his adventurous childhood probably would have been enough.

Dad like to tease and taunt me during mass, trying to get me in trouble with Mom.  It usually worked--I'd get the evil eye even though he started it-- but it made time go by quicker.  Again, Dad had been kicked out of parochial school...

When I was in second grade our teacher tried to show me how to do long subtraction, but I just couldn't get it.  When I went home my mom tried to explain it to me but it still didn't make sense.  I was devastated--2 years in school and I'd already hit a road block.  I had a total meltdown (in a way only a frustrated 8-year-old can).  My dad came home from work that night and sat down with me and the math.  Two minutes later it made perfect sense and my dad was my hero.  Any man who can explain math to me must have super powers.

When I go visit my dad these days he's often confused about where he is or what he's doing, but he always knows who I am.  He doesn't joke around as often as he used to, but that's okay--I've already heard all his jokes anyway.  He doesn't need to remember them, I know them all by heart.

My Summer Reading List--Really

I saw an article in Time magazine about books to read this summer, as recommended by famous author-type people.  I have come to believe that these famous author-type people are either REALLY boring, or full of shit.  Summer reading for these people contains a Russian metaphysical book, Dickens' Great Expectations, and the works of Dante.  Really?!?  Have they never heard of Janet Evanovich or Tom Clancy?  Now, granted, this is recommended reading from Time, not People magazine, but honestly, it's summer--lighten up!  (Or at least tell the truth.)

In the spirit of full disclosure, I, Kristin Alvick Graf, non-famous non-author type person, will share with you my summer reading.  I will divulge what is currently in my book bag, what is on my bedside table, and what I have on hold at the library. 

When I was in college I would read fluff fiction whenever I had a break.  I would stock up on Harlequin Romances and give my brain a rest from all my college text books. I should state for the record that I majored in English--I hope they don't revoke my degree when they read this.  In commemoration of this tradition I recently finished a racy little paperback titled Slightly Married by Mary Balogh.  It's set in Regency England and full of heaving bosoms and throbbing loins.  While this book was not bad, I will not be reading the other "Slightly" books in the series--one was plenty.

Last week I started reading The Girl Who Fell From the Sky by Heidi W. Durrow, partly because it was on sale at my local Target store and I desperately needed something to read.  (Buying books from Target?!  Now I know my bookseller's license will be revoked.)   The paperback edition I picked up is so covered with glowing praise there's no room to tell you what the book is about. But I will fill you in:  it's set in Portland, Oregon (near my home town) and tells the story of a mixed race girl who survived a family tragedy, but is left with more questions than she can answer.  I was liking it, but got distracted by another book.

Right now I'm reading The Foremost Good Fortune by Susan Conley and I'm loving it.  I usually don't read non fiction or books about cancer, but this memoir has so much going for it that I am positively swimming in it.  (But I am not taking it swimming because it is a library book and the librarian frowns on water logged books).

Next up, sitting on my bedside table are Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh, a book about I only know is set in colonial India during the Opium Wars, and Aunt Dimity's Death, a book (that I am re-reading) that is part of a mystery series by Nancy Atherton that I love.

And requested at the library and for which I am number one on the list after waiting many months--Voyager by Diana Gabaldon.  This is third in a series set in 18th century Scotland and has the unlikely combination of heaving bosoms and time travel, but it also covers a lot of Scotland's history.  And I like my history with a some throbbing loins on the side.

So there you have my Summer Reading List.  I may not reach September any smarter or with  greater enlightenment, but I will hopefully be well entertained.  And if not, I will go down to the local library and browse the stacks some more.

Life with a Teen

The weirdest thing happened today:  I asked my teenager to do something and he did it. 

I'd asked him to take care of the garbage cans and at first he'd come up with his standby "No, you can't make me." And it's true, I can't make him.  He's now 7 inches taller than me (though he only out weighs me by 6 pounds).  But once I walked out of the room, he went and brought in the garbage cans. 

It was like I was an authority figure or something.

But wait, it gets stranger:  I told him to turn off the Xbox and find something else to do.  He argued that he'd only actually been playing it for about 20 minutes, as it had been downloading updates before that.  I told him it didn't matter and walked away.

Then he turned off the Xbox and the TV!  AND THE HE CAME OUT AND TALKED TO ME.

I'm think he must want something.  It's been at least 6 hours since this double phenomena and still nothing.  No favors asked, no bad news broken.  The suspense is killing me.

Or maybe he's just growing up.

Nah.

Ten Things You Should Know About Abbie

Today is my daughter Abbie's birthday.  To most people she seems like a quiet, cheerful girl who plays the clarinet and talks endlessly about Twilight.  But there is another Abbie that only a few people know.  There are some secrets that only her mother can tell you.  So I will.

1.  My husband had wanted to name her Emily, which means "industrious", but I liked Abigail, which means "my father rejoices."  When I went into labor we realized we still hadn't agreed on a name, but since I was the one in pushing something the size of a football out of my body, I got to choose.  It turns out she is a hard worker who has her daddy wrapped around her little finger, so I guess we were both on the right track.

2.  Abbie was a girlie-girl when she was little.  All of her favorite clothes were pink and she often wore several different shades of pink together.  Princesses and magic fairies, castles and Prince Charming.  Now she wouldn't wear a ruffle to save her life, dresses are out of the question and boys are "weird.."

3.  She has long, crazy monkey toes.

4.  Abbie is smart, Smart, SMART.  She's not the child prodigy kind of smart, where she'd be graduating college at age 13 but have no friends.  She asks a lot of questions (and I mean a LOT of questions), is a voracious reader, and works really hard in school. And she asks a LOT of questions.

5.  She has the digestive system of a truck driver.  My sweet, fragile flower can belch louder than any one I know and you don't want to enter the bathroom after Abbie's been "reading" in there.

6.  Abbie loves all animals, especially dogs.  Jack, our yellow lab, was her first true love.  It was a difficult time when she decided she loved pigs, but she also loved bacon.

7.  She wants to be a marine biologist.  Or a dog groomer.

8.  Abbie is a wonderful big sister (and a much picked upon little sister).  She is still not too grown up to play Barbies every once in a while and is so kind to her little sister sometimes it makes me want to cry.  And then she pulls out her preteen attitude and I have to give her the look.

9.  She's Team Jacob.

10.  Abbie is willing to try just about anything--food, sports, you name it.  And if she doesn't like it the first time, she'll usually try a second or third time.  She has no built in fear of failure, never assumes she can't do something until she tries.  I am continually amazed by her courage.

I would like to think I'm partly responsible for all the things that makes up Abbie (except for the crazy toes and digestive issues), but Abbie is just going to be Abbie, with or without my intervention.  I sometimes think she could do a fine job raising herself, but I'm glad she's letting me tag along.

Lessons I Learned From My Mother

It's Mother's Day and I've been trying to come up with a fitting tribute to my mom and motherhood in general.  They say God could not be everywhere so He created mothers. My mother had 5 children in eight years so she really didn't have time to be everywhere.  But she did teach me some very important lessons that I have taken with me in life (and occasionally imposed on my own children).

No singing at the dinner table.  This may seem like an arbitrary rule, but in a family of seven, who had very different personalities and routinely got on each other's nerves, this was a sacred rule at our house.  And it saved my mother from having to listen to "On Top of Spaghetti" for the 50th time while trying to eat.  I first imposed this rule when my second child entered preschool and could only remember one line of any given song.

Dress up whenever possible.  I often wondered why my mother put on her nice clothes whenever she got the chance to leave the house without us, but now I know: there were adults where she was going.  People who would (presumably) not grab her skirt with sticky fingers or spit up on her blouse.  That in itself was reason enough to celebrate with a nice pantsuit and a spritz of Emerude. 

Read, read, and read.  My mother was never without a book.  If ever there was a woman who needed an escape, even if it was only for the five minutes before someone broke out in screaming fit, it was my mother.  The one place she routinely took all of us kids together was the library.  Not only could she stock up on her one "drug", but it made her look like a good parent to boot.

Let them be bored.  I remember summers as a time of doing a lot of nothing.  No trips to Disneyland, no drives across the country to visit the Grand Canyon.  We had the swim lessons and camping trips (with all 5 kids in one tent and my parents in their own), but most of vacation was spent hanging out in the neighborhood or the backyard.  Televisions were turned off by 10 am and then we were on our own.  I've tried this with my own kids and they mope around complaining that they're bored.  That's when I give them two choices:  upstairs or outside.

If your brother is bothering you , stay away from him!  By the time I came into the picture, my mother had had enough of bickering siblings.  If I complained about my brother picking on me, I rarely received much sympathy.   The only time I remember her stepping in and mediating one of these conflicts is when my brother called me a name that had to do with some one's nether region.  It was a term I didn't know (though I suspected it wasn't good) so I asked my mom, who then asked me where I'd heard such a word.  Revenge is best served by a little sister.  And really, how much of world conflict could be prevented if one warring faction just stayed out of the living room?

So Happy Belated Mother's Day--now my mom knows I really was listening (once or twice).  Perhaps my kids will learn a lesson or two from me, but I hope it's something good and not "Never shove stuff under your bed when your mother-in-law comes to stay."

Happy Birthday, Sam I Am

Today my baby boy is fifteen.  Fifteen is the stage where they know everything, yet would still like you to make them lunch.  (And pay for everything, and "Hey, can you wash my shirt by tomorrow?")

His teenage-ness started when he was 11 and I was no longer allowed to talk to him in public.  Oh, how I miss those days.  Whenever I tell someone about what a difficult time we've been having with him, they ask his age and say "Oh, that's a tough age."   It's been  four years now and they're still saying it.

Sometimes I think it's going to have to be military school for Sam or AA for me in order for us both to survive his adolescence.

But then, every once in a while, there's a little glimmer of the sweet boy he used to be that makes me think I might not have failed utterly as a parent.  Sometimes he forgets he hates me and tells me something funny that happened at school or gives me a flash of the dimples when I joke around with him.  Then he slinks away and yells at his sister, but not before I recognize my son in there.

A couple of weeks ago I was waiting to pick Sam up from soccer practice (in the car of course--teenage handbook clearly states all parents must wait in the car) when I noticed one of the kids talking to the coach.  This boy was returning some borrowed gear, talking and smiling, all the while  looking the coach in the eye.  Wow, I thought, wouldn't it be great to have a son like that?  Friendly, responsible, and respectful of authority figures. Then I realized it was my son!  Apparently his mother did teach him some manners, he just chooses not to use them at home.

So Happy Birthday to my baby boy.  You taught me how to be a mother and a lot about patience.  I'm hoping one day we'll look back on this and it will all seem funny.  Sometimes it's even funny now, but only after a good glass of wine.