Not Despicable, but Replaceable Me

When I heard my previous employer had hired someone to replace me, I had mixed feelings. On one hand I was glad they filled the position (especially since authors were starting to contact me on Facebook for help), but on the other hand, this hiring was proof that I am, in fact, replaceable. All I could hope for was that this person was already failing to perform, was completely unlikable, or passed gas during meetings. Apparently none of the above applies to the new Kim new marketing director whom everyone is speaking highly of. Well, goodie for them. I hope they'll be very happy together.

While I confess to having had this terribly immature response, you'll be glad to know I didn't dwell on it for long. I've chosen something else to fret over instead, namely, the superstar I hired to be the new Associate Director of Marketing and Communications. Kelly started last month and without question, she's terrific. She's smart, hard working, inquisitive and pleasant to be around. She has a passion for office supplies and to-do lists. I can tell from the tchotchkes on her desk that her family and boyfriend mean the world to her. She's showing signs of a compatible sense of humor. In other words, I think I hired a younger version of myself. Except that I realized after looking at all the photos on her desk that I don't have a single picture of family or friends on mine.

Aside from the photographic reminder of my shortcomings as a mom/wife/friend, things with Kelly look promising.Though I have to say that there have been a couple times I've found my ego crushed myself slightly hurt by faculty and staff who behave like we've hired the savior. One of the deans actually introduced her as "the future of the College." To which I replied with a not-in-the-least-bit bitter "Whoa! Hello? What about me?" That little episode was followed by a marketing-related meeting in which the director of one of our programs directed absolutely everything in the conversation to Kelly. At one point I blurted out, "I've been working on that and will continue to do so. I mean, Kelly and I will work together on these things." Geez. Talk about insecure. Afterward I immediately felt like a jerk for appearing to be desperate for control and power. I apologized to Kelly and a faculty member in attendance, both whom said they didn't see it as such. In fact, the faculty member said he could see I was being a mother hen in protecting Kelly from all the work that was being dumped on her. Yes, that's it. I was protective. Not petty and insecure. Let's go with that!

I have very little experience being someone's "boss" and I can't say I was looking forward to it when I was informed that I would be hiring someone to work with me. I'm kinda the lone ranger type. Not "kinda." I'm definitely a lone ranger. Tell me what needs to be done and I'll do it. Don't make me be part of team and don't tell me how to do my job and we'll get along just fine. Given this controlling personality of mine, my biggest concern with working with someone was that I wasn't going to be willing to give up any part of what I consider to be "my" job. That I'd want to hold on tight to everything, or at the very least, give very specific direction on how to get the work done. In other words, I foresaw myself as a micro-manager, the very thing I hate in a supervisor.

The good news is that I haven't found myself doing much of that micromanaging or even withholding of work (heck, there's so much of it and so much that's challenging, that I've been more than happy to hand it off). What I didn't expect, however, is that I'd feel threatened, bordering on jealous. During that meeting in which Kelly was the star of the show, and given her glowing introductions and interactions with faculty and staff, I suddenly realized that I had hired someone who could replace me in the not so distant future. My reaction during that meeting wasn't so much about control (and certainly not about mothering), but rather it was a direct reflection of the threat I felt when I realized if they gave her all the work, I would no longer be needed. Once again, in the span of a few weeks, I've been shown to be replaceable. This is does nothing to boost one's ego.

To add insult to injury, last week I had my first official "Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" at work. It started with a security violation citation for leaving the office door open and the lights on with valuable equipment in the room. On Saturday. When I wasn't here. Four people in my office and I'm the only one with a citation. I hope this doesn't go down on my permanent record (insert "Kiss Off" Violent Femmes music here). The week only improved when I discovered a mailing piece I sent out was half the size I thought it would be (I'd only seen the computer file), AND that there was a major mistake in the title I bestowed upon the professor whom the postcard was for. Totally not my fault, but guilty by association. Then there was the insider information I received that clued me in to another rouge department pursuing a printed publication without me. And did I mention the number of occasions on which I've said too much about certain issues (so unlike me)? Have I told you about the tension that's been building in my office space because no one has the quiet place they need to accomplish their work? The honeymoon is definitely over, but the good news is I've gotten that officially crappy day out of the way and I'm still employed.

Yes, getting older sucks. Learning you're replaceable is a bummer. Knowing someone you hired will eventually be doing your job is threatening. Envying your kids for the opportunities they have that have officially passed you by stinks, too. But on the flip side, getting older means I'm closer to living the dream. Hiring someone amazing means I have a colleague who doesn't frustrate, disappoint or require me to watch over her. And envying my kids means they have a life worth envying, and what more could a parent ask?

Wow. That was so weird. Me looking at the positive side of things. I better stop here before I revert back to my old self.

Finding Faith Despite My Failings

On Sunday my son Ian was confirmed in our church, Media Presbyterian. This special day was the culmination of about seven months of classes, which he did not attend willingly. Because I failed to make Sunday school a required part of our week - a "given" - as kids, Ian and Abby both gradually fell away from the church. For Abby, the inconsistency in her attendance resulted in feelings of being behind in her learning (not a state she's comfortable in). For Ian, not being there regularly meant he never formed the close relationships that many of the other kids share. Fortunately, Abby has found youth group to be a place to grow in her faith. Ian's faith, however, has been a strictly personal journey, one taken alone instead of with the church family, the same church family that has literally changed my life. Because getting Ian to church was always a battle, last year I made it a point to regularly remind him that confirmation class was not up for discussion. He would go, not just because it was an important part of his spiritual growth, but because as a church elder, usher and involved member, I'd look like an even worse mom if my son did not get confirmed. A lousy reason, but an honest one.

So Ian went. And while the fellowship aspect of the experience did not greatly improve, Ian did grow significantly in his understanding of the Christian faith. More importantly, he actually enjoyed learning, and in the end, he was one of five confirmands who willingly read his faith statement in front of the congregation on Sunday. More on that later.

When Rob and I arrived at church yesterday, I immediately had the sense that I'd blown it. The pews were packed with family and friends who turned out to support and applaud these young people. We didn't even have Abby with us because we allowed her to choose between her brother's confirmation and a soccer game. A no-brainer in her book. I had invited my parents who were unable to attend, and that was it. I had no gift for Ian and no grand party. (He suggested we should have sent invitations to a post-party with instructions to "treat this like a Bar Mitvah."). I couldn't even convince him to let his Dad and me take him out for a nice lunch. For someone who claims to be a person of faith and a committed member of MPC, I had definitely dropped the ball on what was my son's biggest day in the life of the church. And the more I think about it, the more I realize I dropped the ball when it comes to my children's faith in general.

Ian and John

In addition to failing to make Sundays at church a family tradition, I rarely talk faith with Ian and Abby. I'll share it with my Freakin' Angels. I'll talk with Rob. I'll even write the occasional blog post about it, but the two most important people I should be sharing it with are being overlooked. I guess it should have come as no surprise when Ian stood in front of the church to read his faith statement and gave most of the credit to our youth director (and confirmation class teacher) John Chaffee. I think Rob and I were recognized for dragging, um, I mean bringing him to church. Even Pastor Bill and the children's choir director got more props than mom and dad. I know, he's a 15-year-old boy and they tend to forget their parents exist, but as he spoke and I reflected on those 15 years, I had to admit that I don't deserve the credit for bringing him to where he is now, at least where faith is concerned. I'm thankful to John for helping Ian to grow.

If you're wondering about Ian's paper presentation, I'm happy to say he did a great job with regard to his composure, delivery and eye contact. (He gets his public speaking chops from his mom.) As for the paper itself, it was classic Ian.

Honest: "I don't know where I'm headed with this faith journey or how I'm going to get there."

Humorous: "Despite appearances to the contrary, I actually enjoyed the time I've spent at church over the years." 

Brief (to John, before Sunday): "That's all I want to say. Can I stop at two pages?"

It's obvious that despite our lack of pomp and circumstance, confirmation meant something to Ian. After the service, he asked Pastor Bill if he can be a church elder now (the youngest elder ever, I'm sure). Bill offered him the pastorate instead, and I think Ian can handle it.

Priceless Unplanned Moments

I'm not a fly by the seat of my pants kinda girl. While I admire those with a sense of adventure, personally I don't have a taste for "winging it." I greatly prefer having a plan. I think that's part of what made Italy such a great experience for me. The itinerary was set on paper, nearly down to the hour. We knew when we were eating, what time we needed to be on the bus, where we were going, what churches we'd be visiting, and when we could take a nap (a.k.a. free time). We had a 24-7 Italian guide who took care of everything except fluffing our pillows. Agendas were in place, schedules were adhered to, everything ran smoothly. And  naturally, the most special moments were those we hadn't planned for.

Silvertones with Maestro del Coro John Shankweiler

The first of several memorable moments took place after the Silvertones' first concert. We were in the beautiful seaside town of Gallipoli for an evening performance in Sacro Cuore di Gesu, one of the dozen-plus Baroque style churches we were to visit on this trip. The singing was lovely and audience appreciative. In fact, oddly appreciative. A few older women gave us standing ovations, repeatedly. A little over the top, I thought. Well, it turns out that unbeknownst to us, the Silvertones were performing a tribute concert of sorts. It seems a few years back, a young man named Andrea heard the Silvertones perform when they were in that same part of Italy. A young composer and musician himself, he embraced the group and was involved in arranging one of their performances during that visit. Sadly, Andrea died from hepatitis B at age 32, just a year before the Silvertones returned to the Puglia region for this tour. When his family learned the group would be performing, they invited friends and extended family and printed a special tribute book. After the concert and the repeat standing ovations, his mother presented Silvertones' director John Shankweiler with a piece of art, and the family surprised the kids with a pizza party (which was being followed by a pre-planned 7-course meal). The highlight of the evening, however, was when friends of Andrea's sang one of his songs for us. That magical moment moved me to tears, and when I looked across the room at my son, I saw his eyes were also welling up. Just one of the many reasons why I love that kid.

I'm happy to say that none of the other special, unplanned moments of our trip had that kind of sad note to them. However, another did involve singing by someone other than -- or I should say in addition to -- us. After a performance in a church in Martina Franca (I think it was the one that was cold enough that we could see our breath), a local gospel group suggested we get together to perform for one another. The next evening after dinner, the Wake Up Gospel project paid a visit to our hotel where the five of them blew us away with their performances of classic American gospel music. I thought the Silvertones were good, but these folks were amazing. Of course, to be fair, they'd been together for seven years while our group changes every nine months.

I was being sarcastic when I said it was impressive.

Number three on the list of pleasant surprises was an unexpected invitation into a woman's home while we were strolling the streets of one of the historic town centers. As we meandered through the narrow alleys admiring the architecture, an Italian woman, probably in her 50s, invited us into her home to see what these residences looked like inside. Yes, 40+ Americans made their way up her glorious marble staircase and found ourselves in the quintessential Italian lady's home. An older woman lived there with her three adult daughters, surrounded by furnishing and decor that hadn't been touched in 30+ years. Naturally there wasn't a speck of

Valentino. Word of lung cancer
still has not reached Italy

dust among the mismatched photographs, trinkets and tableware, but all I could think of was how amazing that space, with it's 12 foot ceilings and marble columns, could have looked with some updating. The Silvertones thanked the women for the impromptu visit by gathering around her dining room table to sing for them. That performance gave me an opportunity to admire the artwork, including the impressive painting above of a pope or bishop or some other Catholic holy guy. The most fascinating tidbit of info we learned during that visit was that the home previously belonged to Rudolph Valentino.

Finally, the most lighthearted unexpected moment of our tour came in Matera, the last "big" city we visited. As we walked along the city wall, high above a valley below, we witnessed wildlife of some sort racing along the ravine. That wildlife? Wild boars. Trailing a short distance behind them? Baby boars struggling to keep up. The country has no deer, squirrels, rabbits, etc., but wild boar? Absolutely.

Hog heaven

Prior to this trip I did very little traveling outside the U.S. (and not that much inside the U.S. either). I'd only been to Yorkshire, England 15 years ago, with a couple of trips to Mexico in between. Visiting Italy awakened in me a real desire to travel, to see more of this amazingly beautiful world we live in. If I can get the kids to go to Villanova, I will happily spend their college savings (and perhaps their inheritance) exploring places I've only seen in pictures. And I'll be sure to leave time in my well thought out itineraries for those memorable unplanned moments.

Random Musings: Italian Edition

I have returned from the Silvertones' singing tour of the southeastern region (Puglia) of Italy. It was an amazing experience and worth every penny of my children's college education money. Just seeing Ian's tremendous smile when singing or hanging with his friends was incredibly special. I told him I must go on the next tour in two years. And maybe I'll continue to go after he graduates. He told me the kids liked me best out of all the chaperones, but lest I think too highly of myself he added, "That really isn't saying much when you consider the competition."

As I prepare to return to the daily grind, time and my jet lagged brain do not permit a full post reflecting on the experience at this point.  But because I know you've missed me terribly (and Rob disappointed you by not taking advantage of a great opportunity to get even with me for a three years worth of somewhat questionable posts), I thought I'd quickly share:

20 Things I Learned in Italy

A frogfish face only a mother could love.

1. I do, in fact, like red wine!
2. I do not, however, like octopus, or squid, or veal, or sushi, or vegetables...(most of the adventurous multi-course meals were wasted on me; I think Ian actually ate more than I did).
3. Frogfish does not taste as bad as it looks.
4. America's bread, cheese, salami/prosciutto and pizza pale in comparison to Italy's. Just don't try to bring home the meat. Damn those customs agents! Damn me for including the salami on the declaration form! 
5. Italian men are instantly recognizable and live up to their reputation as Lotharios. Our girls were frequent objects of "affection."
6. Older Italian women look like my mother-in-law and her sisters. 
7. Italians, at least in the region we were in, don't often use garlic, and the country as a whole is not

   

   
   

   particularly wild about chicken.
8. Or, hair conditioner.
9. Hotels don't feel adequate hair dryers are important, but they're big on heated towel racks and bidets.
10. As a tourist, siesta time sucks. This is why I didn't buy you anything. All the stores were closed when I wanted to shop.
11. Buildings in Italy are considered modern if they were built after the 17th century. 
12. Italians don't dress up for church, even on Easter Sunday. It's perfectly okay to wear ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, as long as you don't expose your shoulders, elbows or knees.
13. The long-legged blondes in our group turned a lot of heads in Italy. Same as they do in America.
14. Italians sell pizza topped with hot dogs and French fries. 
15. In the piazzas, throngs of people stroll through the streets (and I do mean "stroll." No one ever seems to be in a hurry over there. Maddening for speed walkers like me). Vehicles also drive on these streets, causing us to frequently shout "CAR" during our walking tours.  
16. There's a trend toward rosé wines at the vineyards in Italy. Rob is terribly disappointed to hear this.
17. Depeche Mode sounds awesome when drinking tea in a bar (what we would call a cafe or coffee bar) next to a 15th century church in Martina Franca.
18. The window balconies you see on castles and fancy homes were shaped outward to fit women's big
    
    dresses back in the day.
19. There are more than 50 million olive trees in the Puglia region.
20. The best moments in life are generally those you didn't plan for. 

And those special unplanned moments are what I'll share in my next post. Until then, arrivederci!

The Maternal Guilt Factor

For the past fourteen years I believed that my husband possessed truer maternal instincts than me. He shows more affection, is more eager to spend time with the kiddies, and is definitely quicker to respond to any signs of illness or injury than I am. Over time, however, I sense that he has been slowly working on me, chipping away at the thick protective coating that has limited the functionality of my maternal wiring. (Hey, I'm starting to sound like an engineer!) As a result, I now feel a more appropriate level of guilt every time I think I may be missing a mothering moment. And guilt is where my husband and I differ.

Rob feels a greater need to heal and protect than I do. And because he feels it, guilt transfers it to me. Whether the result of having what he perceives to be a more important or at least higher paying career, or a simple matter of it being the woman's job (which isn't a characteristically Rob approach to marriage or family), there is some expectation that after he has unintendedly guilted me into feeling properly maternal, I will do the right thing. The "right thing" generally being sacrificing my personal and professional needs to do what he believes is best for the children. Somehow, despite feeling that greater level of concern at the onset, Rob doesn't appear to experience the miserable internal conflict that turns otherwise composed, confident and professional career women into multiple personalities incapable of making rational decisions.

Yesterday Abby was on her fifth sick day, which started on Thursday with me staying home with her in the morning, and then abandoning her to be at work for an 11 a.m. meeting. During said meeting, Abby called me weeping to report that she thought she was going to throw up. Does it ever occur to the children to call their father at such moments? I called Rob and told him he needed to head home to be with her, and he did, because he had nothing that conflicted with him doing so. He left the next day for Spring Training. On Friday, Abby stayed home with Jess, our abandoning exchange student who was flying home that afternoon. For which I had to leave work early to handle the drop off. Over the weekend I missed everything I had on my calendar and by Sunday it was clear Abby wasn't returning to school on Monday. And Rob wasn't returning home until Monday evening.

With my calendar filled with back-to-back meetings on Monday, I seriously considered asking my husband to abandon his clients and catch an earlier flight home. (Couldn't someone else take them to dinner and drinks and make sure they made it to the airport? Wouldn't going home to his sick child score major sympathy sales points?) When we spoke on Sunday, however, it was clear no such thought had crossed his mind and that I was correct in not suggesting it. At this point I went through the always delightful internal dialogue that we full-time career moms suffer through:

Dammit. What do I do here? I can't leave her home alone. Even I know that that's not an acceptable solution. Maybe I can find someone to watch her. My parents aren't available. I don't know of any college students who are home on break. She doesn't much like any of the adult sitters her friends sometimes have. I could try to call in from home for all my meetings, but geez, I've only been in this job for a few months and I've already had to work from home on a few occasions. And I've taken time off for some minor medical stuff. And I'm leaving for Italy for 12 days just three days from now. And I have a new assistant director who just started last week. What are they going to think of me if I keep needing special treatment? Burt was an understanding guy; I'm still pissed at him for dying on me. Okay, even though it will cost me in the running for mother of the year, I'm going to have to find someone to watch Abby tomorrow. I'll send out an FA APB and see who can rescue me. Amen! Theresa is free this week. I can take Abby there. But Abby doesn't really want to leave the house. She'd understandably prefer to be at home. It's 7 p.m. on Sunday, who can I find to come over? I'm freaking out. Abby feels bad. She says she'll be okay at T's house. Damn, the guilt. 

Monday I make it to work. My meetings go well. One of them goes so well it runs late. I didn't bring my phone along. Obviously I'm trying to avoid any possibility of parental responsibility from interfering in my career. When I finally check my phone I have two messages from my son. Who didn't bring his house key. Who has been sitting outside on the front steps in the rain and the cold. For 45 minutes. Without a coat because kids don't wear freakin' coats anymore. He's weepy and sounds like he's dying. He's going to catch pneumonia two days before he leaves for Italy. This trip's going to suck. I should just stay home.

I call Angel Karen A. to ask her to pick up my son. She arrives at our house and he's gone. Angel-in-training Dave M. has picked him up and taken him to his house. This is my life. How the hell do single moms do it?

Fast forward to Monday evening. Rob is home. Ian is home and warm and dry. Abby seemed fine earlier, but now is a weepy mess because she doesn't know what to do to prepare for her field trip tomorrow. I sense another sick day on Tuesday. Rob gives no indication he could possibly step in and guard the castle if that turns out to be the case. Which it is.

Tuesday morning, the internal struggle begins again.

Em said I could take Abby there if I need to. Theresa said she'll be home again if I need her. But I know Abby would rather be home. I don't have any meetings today, I could work from home. But then I'll have to let the dean and my assistant know I won't be in today. I'll be asking for special treatment again. Did I need this much special treatment when I worked at Judson? Why is it so hard for women to ask for what they need? Do men have these issues? Probably not. But then again they never need special treatment because they expect the woman to deal with every child-related problem that arises. And Wednesday morning I have a doctor appointment which means I won't be in until noon. And did I mention I leave for Italy on Thursday? I wasn't going to come in at all on Thursday, but I guess I could work in the office until noon since we're not leaving for the airport until 1:30 p.m. Perhaps that would give me some brownie points to apply to my deficit situation? Damn, the guilt. 

I stayed home. And I threw in laundry, and dropped off paperwork for Ian at the high school, and went to the pediatrician to pick up a doctor's note for Abby. That's what moms do.

This story is not intended to make my husband look like a selfish bastard, which he is most definitely not. I know that in reality I have it much better than some women. I'm just fascinated by what seems to be a natural tendency or societal expectation that regardless of whose needs are actually more important at the moment, moms will generally find themselves in position to put theirs behind their man's. I'm curious to know if all women, regardless of their salary and job title find they have this experience, because frankly, it's been eating at me for almost 15 years now and I'd like to do away with the bitterness before the kids head off to college. At which time I'll probably be expected to personally deliver vitamin C lozenges and Gatorade at the first sign of a cold. Rob will make sure to let me know when the need arises. He's really good at that.

This was a Job for the Sociable Spouse

You knew this was coming when you read on Facebook that my son had offered our home as last Friday's pre-Frosh (freshman/sophomore dance) gathering spot for picture taking. I believe my status update ended with *+%#@!%&!. I was at work on Thursday when he asked if it was okay, so I had nonchalantly said yes without asking for details. Important details like, "How many people are coming," and "What's required of me beyond snapping a picture?" At 9:00 p.m. that evening I learned he was estimating about 30 people. Oh, and could I maybe provide some food? Hence the *+%#@!%&!

Much like everything these days (from Sweet 16 parties to senior prom invites), the pre-dance gathering has become a bit excessive. I guess I shouldn't say "has become" because actually I have no idea what they were like "back in the day." I don't recall ever gathering at anyone's house before a prom. The guy just came over to pick me up, my parents took some pictures and we were on our way. But then again I wasn't one of the popular kids and didn't exactly have a "group" of friends. Maybe the cliques got together and maybe their parents came too, and maybe the hosts provided food and drink and turned it into a brief, but well prepared party. That's what it's like now, anyway.

Thankfully I had some idea of what I was in for needed to do after experiencing one of these little gatherings last year. Before the 8th grade dance, we all converged on the home of one of the young ladies in Ian's circle of friends. There, I was shocked to discover a whole spread of food and soft drinks for the kids, and beer and wine for the adults.It was a more impressive soiree than I put on when I'm having a "real" party.

In addition to the woefully inadequate amount of time I had to prepare (damn my full time job!), to add to the pressure was the painful realization my understanding that the kids coming to my house that evening were not any old upper middle class kids. These were Silvertones (members of a select singing group at our high school). And Silvertones is code for "Swarthmoreans." I believe Ian is the token Wallingford kid. The director must have had a quota to fill. If you're not familiar with Swarthmore, which is part of our school district, it's home to the brightest of bright, most artistically talented, and all around green-living, peace-loving and healthy-eating Democrats. Home to the #1 ranked liberal arts college in the country, the borough attracts brilliant Swarthmore College professors who often are married to equally brilliant professors who work at Penn. I'm not positive, but I believe each home in Swarthmore is required to have at least one professor, one medical doctor, or an artist, writer or musician. Basically, compared to people in Swarthmore, I'm a hillbilly with a 6th grade education.

Clean cut, albeit clumped together

Although Swarthmoreans are not exactly unfriendly, I sense they're more comfortable with their own kind. Therefore, I was not looking forward to entertaining these folks and dealing with my petty insecurities. And then there's the fact that I can't remember any of their names when I see them. Clearly this was a job for Rob. And he was in Clearwater, Florida, hard at work taking clients to Spring Training baseball games, expensive meals and golfing. Talk about shitty jobs. Anyway, the point is, Rob was not home.

Rob is a much better entertainer / socializer / networker than I am. (Hence, his job.) He knows which cheeses, crackers and dips to buy, and he always buys enough. (I'm getting better at that.) He knows which wine to pull out of the cellar (No, we don't have a wine cellar. Just a cellar). And somehow he seems to know twice as many people living in our school district as I do. Did I mention Rob wasn't home for this grand affair that I was blowing completely out of proportion?

The older woman...

I'm sure you're anxious to know how it went. The good news is that the kids were pretty decent. One of them in particular, I think they call him D.G., was just about the nicest, most genuinely friendly kid I've ever met. Maybe he's not from Swarthmore. Clearly his parents have done an excellent job raising him. Another good thing about Swarthmore kids is that they tend to not offend my delicate sensibilities, a.k.a. prudishness. No skanky tarts panty-high mini skirts, bared midriffs, or plunging necklines in the bunch. Ian's date was a perfectly dressed, pretty young lady.

The bad news is, as anticipated, I couldn't remember the names of any of them -- kids or parents. And the living room was crowded and clumped with no good setting for a group picture. Then there's the fact that no one ate. I spent $50 on food and I think the only thing that was touched was the watermelon on the fruit platter. By the way, I have to give a big shout out to Freakin' Angel Cathie who made a BJ's appetizer run for me while I was at work.

Now, lest I leave you on a sour note, I should mention that I will have an opportunity to learn the names of all the Silvertones when we spend ten days together in Italy, beginning next Thursday, March 21. I'm chaperoning the group's biennial singing tour of what I have heard is a beautiful country with wine that's less expensive than soda. While I've never been there, I believe all the Swarthmorean kids have already traveled the world. I should be in good hands.

Homeward Bound

Our Québécois exchange student Jess, also known as the beautiful, long-haired ice hockey player, has been living with us since mid-January. She arrived in Pennsylvania in August and spent the first half of the year with another family in our school district. She was supposed to be with us until after graduation in June. She's leaving next Friday.

I know I could have done better by Jess. I could have cooked her more meals. Or meals that tasted good. Or real meals with all four food groups. Meals that were healthy. She pretty much lived on cereal (the healthy kind) and celery which made her easy to shop for and quite self-sufficient.

Perhaps she's leaving because I mentioned her unmentionables in the only other blog post in which I referred to her.

I know Jess has been bored out of her mind. What chance did she have when she got stuck in the Philly suburbs with a traditional family with 2.5 kids and a cat? Which she was allergic to. The cat. Not the family. Her first choice for an exchange country was Australia. But hey, the U.S. is radically different from Canada, so she was bound to have a culturally enriching experience here. Not so much.

I should have taken her more places locally. And not gotten lost along the way as I seemed to do every time she needed a ride somewhere. Damn that Ice Works is hard to find. And don't get me started on finding my way in Berwyn.

The only thing Jess thinks she's gained by being here is weight. I see nothing but a head-turning young woman, but she sees fat. Despite only eating celery and cereal. I thought body issues were an American thing.

Maybe Jess wants to leave because my house is always cold. But I did buy her a space heater. And a scarf.

It could be she's had enough of us because we never let her win at board games. We only played games involving words. English words and their meaning. We knew she didn't have a prayer of competing thought that would help her learn the language. The tears should have been an indication that we were taking the competition lesson a bit too far.

Maybe Jess is leaving because she needs a drink. Living at my house does encourage drinking. For one thing it keeps you warm, and of course it also helps keep you sane. And Jess did turn 18 a few weeks ago, which is the legal drinking age in Canada.

Jess also mentioned that we're too strict. I think she meant Americans in general. And I don't think she meant strict so much as "uptight." In Canada it's perfectly acceptable to sleep at your boyfriend's house. As a teenager. In his bed. With your parents' knowledge. As she pointed out, in America kids are doing the same thing, but they're doing it in the backseat of cars instead. She mentioned that our issues could be a reflection of how religious we all are in this country. I assured her it was just a fluke that she ended up with two church-going Christian families. She could have lived with any number of hell-bound less uptight folks in our area.

Jess didn't enjoy school either. She graduated in Canada last year so none of what's she doing in our high school counts for anything at all. (Not only are Canadians less strict, but they require one year less schooling. We're hard asses in the States.) She's picked up enough of the language to converse comfortably in English. That was her goal.

She's outta here.

Abby, my 12-year-old, is sad. She enjoyed having a big sister (not something my sister would have ever said) and feels cheated out of the time we were supposed to spend with Jess. In fact, Abby is so disappointed that she, my stoic one, actually cried. And that may be the only good thing that's come from this. Not that Abby cried, exactly, but that she needed me when she did.

It was a nighttime cry. I was sleeping in Ian's bed because he was at a friend's house and Rob was snoring. Abby came into the bedroom with her tears and sadness and she laid down with me and cried until she fell asleep. I'm afraid that might be one of the last times I get to sleep with my baby, arms around her, close to me. It's funny how when they're infants and toddlers most of us want to leave home and get our own apartment are frustrated having them in our beds, but now, when she's 12, I want nothing more than to hold her like I did when she was three and to keep her safe forever and ever. Oh, but I suppose I'm wandering into a whole other blog topic here.

CLASSIFIEDS

ROOM for RENT: Nice size room painted a cheery yellow available for immediate occupancy. Lovely hard wood floors. Tenant must tolerate indecent exposure as there are no drapes on the windows. Furniture includes a lovely twin bed, nice-size corner unit desk, dresser, handcrafted wooden children's table built my dad, and a shredder. Plenty of closet space. Attached bathroom offers original pink 1950s tiles, though shower stall has been updated. Toilet works. Sink does not. Electrical outlet unsafe and use is not recommended unless a waiver is signed first. Must enjoy cold temperatures and cats.