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Strawberry Fields…

June 30, 2013 15 comments

strawberryshortcake

“Let me take you down

‘Cause I’m going to

Strawberry Fields

Nothing is real

And nothing to get hung about

Strawberry Fields forever”

~ The Beatles

I love strawberries with fresh cream. I love my kids too. They do not necessarily love the same things I do.

It was the first weekend in June, last summer.

Even though I met with a fair amount of objections, I managed to persuade my kids that this outing would be fun. As we approached the annual Strawberry Festival at the waterfront by the train station in a neighboring town, we came upon a young police officer diverting traffic away from the train station parking area which was full. Ten minutes later we finally found a spot. This diversion along with a blazing, hot sun, hastened the regression of both of my kids to those early toddler-tantrum days. The sweltering heat which hovered in the mid-nineties that day didn’t help. It caused my kids to moan, groan, rebel and resist as we embarked on the half-mile decent from the very tippy-top of a winding hill. By the time we reached the entrance-way to the festival, my kids were toast; hot, sweaty and agitated to a point-of- no-return. That happens with teenagers sometimes and it was clear, no one was going to have a good time. I all but gave up trying to convince them they would. We decided to abort this mission and just leave.

Before making the steamy ascent back up to the car however, I needed to use one of the several port-a-potties lined up at the start of the festival.

Ugh! Gross! And Yuck!

I’ll be right out. I explained.

Three times in two minutes, someone attempted to enter the stall I was in, even though I’d made it clear that someone was inside. I left flummoxed and aggravated. When we were all finally back in the car my motherly instincts to try and salvage the afternoon kicked in and I declared that we would stop for ice-cream before heading home.

I can’t think of too many things that would be more embarrassing for an 11-year old girl and a 13-year old boy than for their mom to force bring them into a sit-down ice-cream parlor, chat-it-up with the new owner and then discover she had no money or credit card with her to pay for the three sundaes they just enjoyed when presented with the bill. That’s right, nothing. Not-one-penny did I have, despite the fact that I distinctly remembered putting cash, a credit card and my license into the back pocket of my jean shorts. ‘Gone’ I thought in a panic and Oh. My. God. there was only one place they could be.

We left with an I-OWE-YOU and headed back to the port-a-potty at the Strawberry Festival from hell.

This time when meeting up with the young officer directing traffic to the tippy-top of the hill half-a-mile away from the festival, I gave him that get-out-of-my-way-and-let-me-pass look that only a mother in distress, who means business can give. If you’pottyre a mom, you know the one. You know exactly what I am talking about. It’s the same kind of aura you emit when your child is in danger and the strength to lift a vehicle or move mountains automatically fills you.

With my son in the passenger seat and my daughter in the back, I rolled down my window smiling that no-nonsense-smile and before he could get a word in, I said,

I’m going down there with my car to get my wallet, drivers license and credit cards.

Without hesitation, he stepped aside and waved me through. 

Of course, there was no available parking in the lot by the entrance to the festival where the port-a-potties were, so I did what any other good, mortified mom in this desperate situation would do: I drove to the end of the lot and parked head-on at the wall, blocking in at least four parked cars, two on either side of me.  Then of course, I did what I’m sure every other mother in my sad and sorry situation would do: I left my car running with my two kids in it. The temperature after all was in the nineties.

Don’t move. I’ll be right back! I bellowed to the blank stares looking back at me.

Of course, I was not, right back.

How many embarrassing moments can happen in the span of one hour?

There was nothing to be found in the port-a-potty that three people walked in on me, in the span of 2-minutes nearly an hour earlier, so I did some inquiring and sprinted over to the “Lost & Found” booth at the far end of the park. In the middle of the park a stage had been setup for bands. One was getting ready to play. The pleasant woman at the Lost & Found table said nothing was brought over but,

We can make an announcement, she said. Come with me.

Unwittingly, I followed, passing all the luscious booths selling the strawberries and cream and shortcake in a variety of mouth-watering versions that I had come for but would not have that day. Instead, I found myself standing in the center of the stage where the band was setting up. The woman I followed stepped over to the microphone and in a very matter-of-fact motion removed it from its resting place and handed it to me. I stood bewildered until she snapped her head toward me in a, “go ahead” nod of affirmation. Startled and stunned, I stumbled over my words as feedback from the microphone penetrated the park and the hustle and bustle of the festival’s activities came to a screeching halt. All eyes curiously gazed upon me. I have no idea what I said. All I remember is that my mouth moved and words came out. When I was done, I bolted toward the parking lot where my kids were waiting in the running car.

Could there be any more embarrassment?

Of course there could. Indeed, there was a not-so-happy man trapped in his car as a result of where mine was.

Oh, my God, Mom! I heard as I jumped into the driver seat and proceeded to back my way out. That man is so frustrated. He kept coming up and asking us when you were coming back!

Uh-huh. That’s right. I left my kids in a running car where they were approached by a strange (aggravated) man more than once.

They were mortified. So was I.

The ride home was a quiet one. I kept trying to tell myself it could be worse, it was only money and a credit card and my license, all things that could be replaced. Once inside I retreated to my bedroom. Now, I was toast and needed to change into something more comfortable. When I opened up my closet door there was a pair of jean shorts laying on the floor, ‘right,’ I thought, the ones I had on first this morning and Oh. My. God.

…. the ones with the cash, credit card and license in the back pocket.

Life has a way of throwing a wrench in even the simplest of plans. As parents we try our best without a lot of training. For me, finding the humor is key. Thankfully, hindsight is a wonderful gift and today my kids and I laugh a lot and out loud about the calamities of that day.

 

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What-Chya-Ma-Call-It

July 29, 2012 5 comments

It’s official. I’m stumped!

Well, kind of. There’s actually a trillion things looming around in my head that are bursting to get out. The problem is, I just can’t seem to choose one thing. I guess you could say I have What-chya-ma-call-it; not quite writer’s-block but more like writer’s-overload; you know, What-chya-ma-call-it. Yep, that’s what I got. I’m not lacking in content as much as I’m lacking in focus and I can’t really tell if that’s on purpose or not. There are dozens of childhood stories still to be told but they require much more than an hour or two of writing. It would be an injustice to try to retell any one of them now, at the eleventh hour. There are those events and situations too, that I am trying to figure out how to put into words and there are the thoughts I am trying to come to terms with, those that teeter on the fence of whether to be put into words or not. There are things that are too personal for a post and things that are simply not interesting enough. So here I am. It’s well after my regular publishing hour. It’s late, late, late on a Saturday night and I’ve got What-chya-ma-call-it!

The fact that it’s after midnight and one of my smoke or carbon monoxide detectors (I’m not sure which it is) is consistently sounding off at 3-minute intervals, isn’t helping my concentration either. That’s right, since around 10pm this evening, a high-pitched chirping sound has been erupting from a small, round, white alarm affixed to the ceiling in my daughter’s bedroom, every-three-minutes. This unit is one of about a half-dozen attached to a home alarm system that I don’t understand. At all. It’s not as simple as swapping out a battery (I wish it was) and I can’t find the manual for it. At one point, after getting on a ladder and pushing a few buttons, the entire system begin to blare and the mono-toned voice of a mechanical woman came out of nowhere and began shouting the word, “FIRE!– FIRE! –FIRE!”, over and over again. Alarmed? Yes. I was.

How I managed to stop that, I have no idea. But I did and soon after the chirping began again.

It’s also summer time and my head is in enjoying the extra time I get to spend with my kids and not so much in formulating a composition with some kind of heart-felt meaning attached to it. That feels too heavy right now. Whatever it is, writer’s-block, writer’s-overload or What-chya-ma-call-it, I think I’m going to sit with the chaos in my head for a few days and wait for the stories to settle.

Besides, if I can’t figure out how to stop this chirping, I’m may end up either ripping this alarm-thing-y out of the ceiling, or pulling my hair out of my head, strand-by-strand, tonight.

There’s a black, a white and a red wire. No battery. Chirping.

Any thoughts?

What do you do when you get What-chya-ma-call-it?

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