wine and cheese market

I was a little worried that my date with Mr. Secret Service would be compromised because of my tell-all journal confessionals. In fact, I thought he'd already read everything in my blog leaving him at an unfair advantage. In addition, the man is skilled in the art of interrogation and is excellent at keeping much to himself. I figured I was screwed.

I was pleasantly surprised when he told me he hadn't read most of the blog. He did add that I might want to rethink posting my inner most thoughts online in such a permanent way.

Hmmm...

However, I am glad that he's still in the same position that I am in with him - the extraction stage. The time when I pull out small nuggets of info trying to decide if this guy is going to take up some residence in my life or if we'll end up back to being strangers.

Dating is fun. Sorta. I think I know everything about everything so it is interesting to hear that some people would rather watch a movie at home than go to a show. Or that Halloween wasn't a big deal except when going as Hannible Lector. Or what sacking a quarterback means. Or that in the Book of Jobe, a lot of bad shit happened. Cool.

Still, it's hard getting to know somebody. It's not like when you're four and you show some other knock-knee'd kid your new Matchbox car. Just like that, you are BFFs for life... or at least thru kindergarten.

Newness is ok, but it's not what I look forward to. I'd much rather be in the comfortable silence stage of the game. My favorite part of being intimate is the private connection - like, when at the same moment, you look each other in the eye and realize it's time to pay the bar bill and go get naked.

I wish I could fast forward to knowing glances and inside jokes... the sighs, the stares and the stars.

a little clarification

Helping set boundaries for Gavin and reprimanding him if necessary is not a task that I believe is reserved for me alone. Everybody in his life can help claim some of the responsibility. Together, we can teach him right and wrong and punish him accordingly.

Coincidentally, I just read an article about a school secretary that restrained a student by duct-taping his mouth shut and tying his hands together. That is not at all what I was talking about. That is beyond discipline. That is abuse. If I found out anyone did that to my child, I would probably have to be restrained myself.

More on Discipline

Discipline: Not eating the entire bowl of Halloween candy requires it, going to yoga class when you really want to go home necessitates it, and writing something meaningful every day demands it.

I struggle with discipline all the time, which makes sense that I struggle disciplining my kid. I do it. I have to, otherwise he'd be kicking in his bedroom door and wearing three-day-old underwear to school. I do it, but I don't like it.

I don't like raising my voice during dinner and being all Patton about what he eats. I'd much rather have a quiet meal, in which Gavin actually sits at the table, uses a fork and discusses his day. Instead, I eat dinner with the little brother from A Christmas Story. I'm one bite away from allowing him to eat under the kitchen sink if it means he won't gag up his mashed potatoes anymore.

There's no joy in my heart when I have to put him in time out because he pretends he's Marlee Matlin and continues playing with his Matchbox cars. I've spanked his bottom and wanted to throw up. The truth is, I really love hanging out with the kid. When I have to put him in his room instead of dancing to Shakira, I'm probably more bummed than him.

Which is why I'm grateful when anyone jumps in and helps with the discipline. I prefer it. I need it. I welcome the break. I appreciate the acknowledgement that this kid is making me crazy. My step father thought I was upset with him for correcting Gavin. Pu-lease. And by please, I mean, please don't stop. The kid's got no dad and a mom that gets tired. Yell away.

It's like the dog that won't listen to the woman in the household. Then, the man comes in and says, SIT, all deep and authoritative sounding. You know what? The dog sits. Try as I might, I don't sound threatening. I sound like Fiona Apple. I've even tried saying, Gav, this is my serious voice. I mean it, knock it off. Sometimes it works. I'm averaging about a 75% success rate. I'm normally an A student so Cs suck for me.

I'm totally over bath time because I know it's going to be ugly. It starts by Gav burying himself between the couch cushions and me dragging him into the bathroom. As I try to take off his shirt, he scrambles to pull up his pants while screaming that I'm a mean mommy. When I finally get his butt in the bathtub(a butt that has probably gotten a little smack) and I'm dousing him with water and he's shrieking like he's being burned with scalding hot lava (when really the water is tepid at best), I'm sweating and slightly queasy. Why do I have to exert control over him like that? I don't want to break his little spirit but he needs boundaries. Man, it's a fine line.

My roommate is helping me correct Gavin and she's teaching me it's OK. There are moments when I'm arguing with my Polish Napoleonski and she will intervene. Gavin, don't talk to your mother like that. She's right. When the two of us get barking, I honestly forget he's four and I'm pushing 40. I forget that I'm the mother. It is nice to know someone else thinks he's being a turd. She reminds me that this behavior is not acceptable (for either one of us).

So if you see us on the street(I'm the curvy brunette and he's the scrappy blond one), if you see us and it is apparent that I'm losing the battle (A good indicator? My tears.), please come to my aide. Go ahead, tell my kid what's what. I won't be offended. I may even kiss you on the cheek.

Fall Cleaning

I have a girlfriend that forces herself to remove one piece of clothing for every new item she buys. That is some awesome discipline. I sometimes wish I could do that with people. For every new friend I make, I get rid of an old one that's bringing me down.

Kevin died and left me... things like stuff, memories, questions, people, money and best of all, my beautiful boy. Some of it good, some of it bad. When I pitched his crap (VHS tapes of every episode of Cheers, cassettes, pins, papers, presentations, awards, a bunch of ties, etc,) it struck me as sad that objects he deemed important enough to haul around with him for years would simply be thrown away. I did keep a few things for Gav. The insight to his father equals about three boxes. Those boxes will be waiting for the day when Gavin decides what he wants to do with them.

I have documents with Kevin's scribbly-scrawl on them. I like looking at his printing captured on the paper. I trace the letters with my fingers.

Yet, I don’t keep cards from people. I’m not sentimental like that. Or maybe it’s because I’m very sentimental. I don’t like looking back at what was. I don’t want to be reminded that once I was the person that made your record skip. And now, I don't. You found another song or another tune to whistle to... Our moments are gone forever. Thinking about them makes me sad.

Still I have stuff that is hard for me to get rid of, like Gavin’s baby clothes. There are so many shirts, pants, socks, shoes and coats. They eat me up. I'm overwhelmed by booties and bibs. One day, my mom came over and we boxed a lot of things up. Their fate was sealed in a white USPS box sent across the country to my cousin in San Antonio. As I dropped the boxes off, I got one step closer to the realization that Gavin will be my only child.

At night, I snuggle closer to Gavin, knowing that this time with him is fleeting. He’s almost too heavy for me to carry. He wipes away my kisses more than he keeps them. One day we will be somewhat strangers, too.

I won’t know that his favorite colors are orange, yellow, blue, green and red because he can’t decide on only one. Or that his friend Nathan makes him cry when he steals his plastic bugs.

In fact, I won't know any of the things that make him cry. Or his secrets. He gives them up so easily now -- telling me his Bubba is smoking again or opening his mouth to show me a piece of contraband candy he stole from the kitchen before dinner.

Someday we won't have our private jokes. He won’t make his chipmunk face anymore or run around naked trying to wipe his butt on me (maybe this example isn't such a bad thing). It stinks that the things I want to save I don't get to keep.

I’m maudlin today. It must be Fall.

Trail Closed

I haven't ridden my bike in a while. In fact, this is the longest time I have gone without riding a bike... ever. My bike has remained in the garage all summer, hanging on the wall, abandoned. Actually, I take that back. I have had longer dry spells. When Kevin was alive and in treatment, he really didn't feel like riding bikes. I didn't either, but it was different. Then, at least, I had the possibility of bike riding ahead of me. I could visualize us resuming our outings, visiting some old trails or trying out some new ones.

It's a shame, too, because I'm a good bike rider. Excellent, really. I know a lot of tricks. I have some short, tight-fitting biking outfits that I like to wear for my excursions. I do insist on a helmet. And I like all kinds of rides - long, leisurely ones that take all afternoon. Or quick, fast trips that take my breath away. Sadly, I'm at my bike-riding prime with no one to ride tandem.

If I'd known that the last time I'd rode a bike may have been my last bike ride, I would have enjoyed it more. As it was, the scenery failed to inspire. I'd gone with a new guide and he sounded good on paper. He promised an ambitious trail. While he may have liked the path, I found it a bit forced, somewhat tedious, rocky in spots and sluggish in others. Half-way through I stopped paying attention and just peddled. I know I was way too concerned with how I looked in my bike shorts to really get into it. So for that to be my last time biking, well, that just sucks. It's not like I got to do the Tour de France and go out with a bang. I didn't even get to ring my bell.

I have gone on stationary bikes. Stationary bikes are good if you're craving a ride. They get the job done, but after awhile, all that peddling in place gives me a cramp. And, I miss the post-trail recap. You know, inquiring if your bike-riding pal was as thrilled with the sights, perhaps pointing out a few landmarks that may have been missed and then stopping for something to eat, that kind of stuff.

So now that it's mid-Fall, because I failed to make the proper preparations, I will probably not be bike riding all Winter. That's a bleak few months ahead of me. I really can't be sure when my next outing will be. Maybe I should take up skiing...

How the day sounded

Yesterday would have been my 9-year wedding anniversary. Or is it still? I'm not sure how that works if you are a widow. I mean, the date applies, I suppose. Every year at this time, I hold my breath and wait for it to pass. The last time Kevin was alive, we didn't celebrate. He was in his own apartment, pretending he wasn't going to die. I was at home, pissed at him, wishing he would. 

I actually forgot until mid-morning when I wrote out the date: October 6, 2009.

October 6, 2000, we had an amazing wedding. There was so much promise ahead. I loved every moment of it and I know Kevin did, too. Over the years, he told me one of his favorite memories was watching me be photographed on the terrace, the wind blowing the train of my dress, the twinkle in my eyes and how easily my smile came. It is a picture I cherish, still.

I remember us holding hands, looking out at everybody and giggling that we pulled it off. We paid for almost the entire extravaganza ourselves - no easy feat for an account executive and a grad student/cocktail waitress.  

We got married at the Three Arts Club in Chicago -  once upon a time it was a private home and is now a private dormitory for woman studying in the arts. There is a old school study, a ballroom with distressed hard wood floors, a crumbling stone terrace and a tiny private chapel. It was perfect. 

We were going to get married outside. Alas, October in Chicago is never a sure bet. That week the weatherman's forecast went something like this: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday we will have unseasonably warm weather - a beautiful Indian Summer. Then Friday, the bottom drops out. Cold, windy, wet and rainy it was on our wedding day, but it didn't matter. The chapel proved to be more intimate.

In an inexplicable move, we played Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire during the ceremony. Our friends lit candles and formed a circle around us. This was my brainchild. Don't ask, I don't have an answer. 

Instead of Unity Candles, our mothers planted two separate Bonsai trees in one pot. This was to symbolize that, as two equal but separate trees, now we'd grow together. Again, all my idea so I take the blame when two months later my Bonsai died. A sign? Perhaps. Or maybe just lack of research on my part - two different species of Bonsai have two very different watering needs. 

Our minister was a kooky, ex-flower child who was a Universal Unitarian. We knew she'd be a little avant garde but neither Kevin nor I were prepared when she broke out into song, unrehearsed. We had to squeeze each other's hands from laughing. 

My poor, nervous little brother was the ring bearer. He had gas and spent the entire ceremony standing next to our best man, silently tooting.

We wrote our vows. I remember Kevin saying something like he'd buy me flowers to mark every season. I told him I'd work hard on being neater...

We walked out as Mr. and Mrs. Olchawa to the Beatles', When I'm Sixty-Four as our guests blew bubbles. Champagne was waiting at the door. 

After the first hour, we had run out of Vodka. We had to steal from another wedding's stash. 

Dinner was some kind of chicken and mushroom purses made out of phyllo dough. 

Our best man, who was my high-school boyfriend, wrote a speech that took my breath away. 

My maid of honor wrote a speech that was semi-insulting to Kevin.

We cut the cake. We thanked our friends. We danced. We drank. We took pictures. We danced. We danced. We danced. 

We did what was becoming a tradition (thanks to Kevin's fraternity brothers) at every wedding - to dance like the Peanuts. The theme to the shows came on and we all hopped around, feet together, heads bobbing to the left and then the right. 

My father got angry that my gay friends made out on the dance floor. Later, I saw my dad and step-mother making out in the corner. Personally, I think I was much more traumatized.

We went out afterwards to the bars on Clark street. I was still wearing my wedding dress. 

At the end of the evening, Kevin and I stopped by a convenient store  and the guy behind the counter was hitting on me.  We both thought it was the funniest thing ever. I mean, how much more unavailable could I have been at that moment, buying condoms and cigarettes in my wedding dress?

We went back to our hotel room. Our friends came down with a pizza. We laughed some more.

The next morning, Kevin's mother busted one of my bridesmaids, still wearing her dress, in the elevator with one of Kevin's fraternity brothers. 

We lost the top to the cake. We ate brunch with our family. We drove back to our apartment. We left for our honeymoon.

Gavin on the Block

We had a block party two weekends ago. Normally, I'm not a fan of this type of community outreach. I get shy. I don't relate. My kid usually snarls a lot, won't share and forces me to drag him home before I finish my first glass of wine.

Plus, there is this added pressure of what side-dish to bring. The damn, stay-at-home mommies are usually doing something fantastic with figs and cured meats. I am usually pulling the price tag off the smashed Jewel cupcakes I bought in a frenzy as I walk over from my house... late.

Everybody seems to know what's going on with each other. As one neighbor gets up, I get a fill in on somebody else. So and so's pool ruptured and flooded the other neighbor's basement. However, said basement owner is a complete tool that may or may not abuse his kids.

On and on it goes, all of them ratting the other out. Comical yes, but makes me wonder what they are saying about me. I try to avoid having long one-on-one convos with husbands so I'm not pegged the harlot, as well as the neglectful mother.

This block party was different, though. We got the agenda a couple of weeks in advance. The amount of activities planned were amazing and terrifying at the same time. Things were to start around 9am with coffee and donuts, followed by chalk drawings and side-walk painting.

Next would be a beading station and a bike decorating contest. A hot-dog cart was to be available for lunch. Practice for Karaoke would begin. Then more food, a surprise from the Forest Park Fire Department, a pinata, a sundae-making station, a tie-dye event and dinner. All this action would be followed by a bonfire for adults and a movie for the kids. Of course, ample amounts of alcohol would be available. I was exhausted just reading the list.

It turns out we did it all... and more. In addition, one family paid to have a moon jump delivered. As the grubby teen-age workers backed the truck down the street and parked it directly in front of our house, Gavin reacted like a Publishers Clearing House winner. He started yelling and jumping up and down, with his mouth open wide and his hands plastered to his sweaty cheeks.

Gavin also got the biggest kick out of being able to ride his bike in the middle of the street - not the sidewalk with his helmet - but the MIDDLE of the street. Glorious.

He quickly started crushing on two beautiful neighbors, sisters Claire and Katelin. Their mother is from Korea and their father is from Berwyn. The result is absolutely gorgeous. Gavin eventually settled for Claire, the older of the two. I can only assume he found Claire's tales of the first grade much more engaging than Kaitlin's discourse on the letter B.

Whatever the reason, my son is smitten. He didn't leave Claire's side for the entire party, even though he still can't remember her name. Oiy. All day long she was referred to as, that girl and has continued to be, even after a recent play date. I'm not sure why he's blocked out her name but the writer in me can't help but foreshadow.

I loved watching my son bust out of his shell. I loved how he was able to run around freely, playing games and being a kid. Now I sound like my parents, but it's true, times were different when I was little. We were always out until way past dark, playing Kick-the-Can and Ghosts in the Graveyard. I was only a year older than Gavin and running down the street to my best friend Dana's, who lived about four or five houses away. I can't imagine letting Gavin do this today.

The block party gave us a sense of freedom. At one point, when I was making a dip in the kitchen, Gavin ran out the door and disappeared. I didn't feel the least bit afraid. I calmly finished the dip before going out to look for him. He had jumped on his bike and was socializing with Claire. It was kinda cool.

The birds and the bees were working overtime. I was engrossed in how much stock the tween girls put into any little thing the tween boys did. Every move, from how long the boys stayed in the moon jump to where the boys ate their lunch to whether they were going to watch a movie in the dark, was analyzed and discussed. I can remember it well. Young love is fun to witness but wow, what a time suck. With age does come wisdom. Or maybe life becomes too busy to be able to worry about the details. In any case, I'm glad to be 36 rather than 13.

It wasn't all flutter and fluff, though. One strange thing was happening that gave me pause. It was this weird segregation on the part of my neighbor across the street. Most of the food and the adults were at the other end of the block, socializing. Everyone except for my neighbor, who is black. The only person who seemed to have a problem with this was him.

He was clearly staying away from the rest of us. He camped in front of his house, grilling something delicious and blasting Dusties from the boom box. It made me feel bad. I wanted him to join us, to feel a part of the block. I asked him how he was doing and offered to bring him back some beverages from the liquor store. When he said, "I'll drink whatever your drinking, baby," I decided to change tactics. I mean, I wanted him to feel welcome but I wasn't going to make out with him in order for that to happen.

Well, I didn't need to worry about my neighbor. By the end of the evening, he and his family joined the rest of us, passed out his signature ribs and laughed. Turns out moon jumps, alcohol and Karaoke can bridge a racial divide. Maybe, as an experiment, we should construct a giant jumpy in the Middle East, air drop microphones, the lyrics and background music to I Will Survive and serve everybody Mike's Hard Lemonade...

Later, Gavin and I snuggled up in our blankets, under the stars, with bags of buttery popcorn and watched Igor,the movie. Then, it was time to go home. Gavin cried and hugged his new friends. I smiled and hugged my old neighbors. I changed my sleepy boy into his PJ's and let him drift off with a face full of sticky, a belly full of popcorn and a head full of memories.

The next morning was drizzle-filled, cold and grey. The construction horses signifying the block party were gone. The moon jump had been hauled away. The chalked drawings disappeared from rain. Everyone was locked up tight inside their homes. Gavin asked if we were going to play in the street again. I told him no. Block parties are special and only happen once a year(thank goodness). He pouted for a bit.

To distract him, I asked what was his favorite part of the party. He paused. I could tell he replaying the day and mulling it over- his eyes were far away and he had a small smile on his lips. Then he shouted, "Everything!" and ran laughing from the room. I think his real answer may have been Claire... or the moonjump.