Tag Archives: Byron

A partridge in a pear tree

Posted on by

My husband Byron travels quite a bit for his job. Some months he is gone almost all week, every week. Most of the time this doesn’t bother me too much. It’s been this way for ten years. The kids don’t know anything different. I’m used to it, and I manage on my own when he’s gone. Besides, I really like all those Marriott points and frequent flyer miles.

But sometimes I really wish I had a husband who didn’t go out of town so much. Last night, for example, I really needed him for a two-person job, and all I could do was call him (in California) and get hysterical over the phone.

Here’s what happened. A little after 10:00pm, I came downstairs to unplug my outdoor Christmas lights for the night. My kids were all asleep, and I was thinking maybe I would eat some ice cream, watch some 30 Rock, and get to sleep early. I opened the door, unplugged the lights, and was coming back through the door when I heard a woosh and felt something fly over my head. It only took me a moment to realize that a bird had flown – dive bombed really – into my house.

I spent the next hour and a half locked in a battle of wills with that bird. I wish I could say it was a wacky, sitcom-style romp. But it was awful. I was all alone, chasing this bird around the house with a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. I have two-story ceilings in several rooms, and the upstairs hallway is open to my family room. So he would fly upstairs and bump around in the upstairs hallway, while I threw stuffed Christmas toys at him from the family room. Then I would finally give up, and charge up the stairs, at which point he would dive directly down into my Christmas tree. I would shake the tree to get him out, and he would come screeching out past my head, on his way back upstairs.

Meanwhile, I had the front door, back door, garage door and several windows wide open, as the temperature dropped into the twenties.

A couple of times, I got the bird cornered in the area where our kitchen connects to our sun room. The sun room door was wide open. I would drive the bird into the sun room, waving my broom, and he would go over and sit on the open door. But he refused to fly out. Every time I would come closer to try to knock him out, he would fly back into the kitchen. This went on for about 20 minutes at one point.

Finally I woke Mack and got him out of bed, even though it was after 11:00. I explained that there was a bird loose in the house, and I needed him to stand in a doorway and wave a mop at it, while I stood in another doorway with the broom. He “helped” for about two minutes, then went to the closet and hung the mop back on his hook, and walked straight back up to bed. I think he thought it was the weirdest dream ever.

This bird just did not want to leave. More than once I caught him sitting in the wreath on my (open) front door. But when I waved the broom at him, he flew in, not out. I just didn’t know what to do. I was starting to think about how we always wanted an extra bedroom and maybe it was just time to look for a new house.

Several times I tried turning out all the lights, hoping that he would be attracted by the outdoor lights and fly out. But he wasn’t going for that old trick. Eventually, though, he must have gotten as disoriented and panicked as I was. I had all the lights out and I crept up the stairs, knowing he was sitting on the banister at the top. I drew the broom back and – wham – knocked him silly. Which has to be one of the most shocking moments of my life. I am often mocked because I can never kill flies with the fly swatter – I always hesitate that fraction of a second too long. I don’t have the killer instinct.

The injured bird managed to get downstairs one more time, and camped atop a family room window. I ran down and trapped him under my broom. Then I climbed on a table, opened the window with one hand, ripped down the curtain rod, kicked out the screen with my bare foot and…stopped. What now? I’ve got the bird trapped above the window, but I have to get him over the window ledge and out the window. While standing on a table. Without letting him fly away. And it is still pitch black in the house.

The phone started ringing. Obviously, I couldn’t move to go answer it. So the machine picked up, and it was Byron, leaving a message, but a short one because it was “really loud in this restaurant.”

My utter resentment gave me renewed strength. I managed to reach a blanket rack with my left foot, and grabbed a blanket with my toes. I used it to make a kind of chute from the broom to the open window, held the side down, and went for it. There was some movement and my enemy went out the window. I think. I’m only about 98% sure (it was dark, and there was a blanket in my face and I don’t know whether he could still fly). I’m still jumping at every noise. I didn’t sleep very well last night either, out of anxiety and guilt.

We all came down for breakfast this morning and the room was just how I left it: curtains and rod pooled on the floor, screen lying in the backyard, blankets and toys strewn around the carpet. Small feathers were scattered about. The boys asked what happened and I told them about my adventure the night before. I didn’t want them to worry about it happening again, so I stressed how I had run upstairs and shut their doors right away, to save them from the deranged bird. I thought maybe they would thank me.

But no, six-year-old Aidan starts telling a whole story about how that bird probably just turned 18. And he “wanted to go out on a trip by himself, but his parents didn’t want him to go. He said, ‘I’m 18. I will be fine.’ So they let him go. And then he never came back.” They all agree how sad it was that mean Mommy hurt the bird and how much the bird’s parents will miss him.

Nobody thought it was sad that Mommy had to chase a crazy bird around for 90 minutes, by herself in the freezing cold, in her nightgown. Oh no.

I say the bird was asking for it.

But I did already go to Target this morning and buy a remote-controlled outlet, so from now on I can turn my Christmas lights off without opening the door. Best $6.98 I ever spent.


Can we just vote, already?

Posted on by

In Virginia we seem to have a major election every year, not just biennially. This year we’ll elect all of our state House of Delegates as well as a new governor. (All signs point to our getting a real winner there, a guy for whom 1952 is not just the “good old days,” it’s where he thinks we actually are now. Look for Virginia to resegregate our schools and outlaw the Pill completely in coming months.)

So every October and early November we suffer a deluge of automated phone calls and political junk mail. Amongst today’s seven (7) pieces of political mail was a “letter” to me “from” the wife of Bob Marshall, our seven-term state delegate.

Against my better judgement, I opened the letter, wondering what language a wife would use to defend her husband’s 30 years of actively working against a woman’s right to have any authority over her own body.

Funnily enough, she didn’t mention all the times her husband has fought to outlaw women’s access to contraception and abortion. But she did brag, “I am proud that my husband authored the Virginia One Man – One Woman Marriage Amendment”.

Aw. But, really, what woman wouldn’t be proud of her husband for framing the words with which his commonwealth moved from discriminating de facto to discriminating de jure?

This woman, for one. So Byron, I apologize. I have been too hard on you. You aren’t perfect, but you would never ask me to beam proudly as you trampled on people’s civil rights. Tell you what – mess up all you want this weekend. I’m giving you a freebie.


I owe someone a really big apology

Posted on by

Last night, our elementary school held its Back to School Night for parents of kindergarteners and first graders. As the proud parents of one of those kindergarteners, Byron and I abandoned our boys in the care of their Grammy and headed over to the school.

I should mention that Byron has severe, chronic back problems. He has had two surgeries on his back and neck, but still has to deal with recurring pain in various levels of intensity. He is currently in the throes of a terrible flare up and has hardly been able to walk for the past week. In fact, he even had to cancel a business trip this week – and if he actually cancels a work trip, you know it is serious. But he managed to make it over to the school and through the principal’s welcome.

Once we moved down to Aidan’s classroom, though, I could tell Byron was in a lot of pain. I looked around and realized that we were all, of course, supposed to sit in those tiny little kindergartener chairs the size of toadstools. Some people chose to stand for the hour, instead. But I knew neither option would work for Byron. So I scurried about, looking for a solution. The teacher was nice enough to pull out her desk chair for Byron to use. (You could see some of the other daddies looking on with envy and wondering if they should have pretended to have back issues.) Byron made it through most of the presentation, and we only had to cut out a few minutes early.

Okay, a successful outcome, right? Not so fast. This morning my sister Emily, who teaches at our school, called me. She said, “Did you write a note for Aidan last night?” Huh? It seems that at some point during those first few minutes in the classroom, the teacher said that each parent should write a little note for his or her child and leave it on the desk. I think I was so busy running around looking for a chair that I missed this entirely. And then Byron and I didn’t sit at Aidan’s desk – we sat up by the teacher’s desk so Byron could use her human-sized chair. So I didn’t notice other parents writing these notes, and get clued in. Finally, we left a couple minutes early, so I didn’t notice notes laid out at each place.

Maybe I should have thought, on my own, to leave Aidan a little note. But the dude can’t really read, so it just didn’t occur to me.

Well, I guess everyone in class got to school today, walked to their seats, and found notes from mommy or daddy. Well, 26 kids did. One kid had nothing.

Aidan’s teacher did her best to control the situation. She explained to Aidan that his mommy and daddy didn’t sit at his desk, so maybe the note was somewhere else. And she even walked him down the hall to my sister’s room, to ask her whether she knew anything about the note. My sister scrambled, called me, and wrote a little note to take down to him. She assured me that Aidan seemed to be handling it well.

But I am not handling it well. I am devastated. Man, you think you know the mistakes you are going to make as a parent. You give them the chocolate Pop-Tart for breakfast and you think, “I am a terrible mother.” You make them play in the soccer game when they are complaining that their stomach hurts and you think, “I am a mean mother.” But the ones like this, the mistakes you didn’t see coming, these are the ones that really break your heart.


Perspectives

Posted on by

Aidan turned six on Saturday. To celebrate his “birthday eve,” we invited his cousin, Kiley, to come spend the night on Friday night.

After pizza and the usual period of indiscriminately tearing around the house, everyone settled down for popcorn and a movie. The evening’s feature presentation was Earth, Disney’s recent nature documentary. It didn’t have any sarcastic superheroes or talking rodents, but it managed to keep the kids’ attention nonetheless.

As usual with nature documentaries, this one eventually showed a high-tension chase, with a speedy predator going after something slower and doomed. In this case it was a cheetah and a Thompson’s gazelle.

Everyone had a different reaction to the thrilling sequence. Each, I think, demonstrates well the way our brains work at different ages.

Thirty-somethings Byron and I wondered how they managed to get these shots. How long do these people have to sit still, in the jungle or on the tundra, waiting for the chase to happen? Can they bring a book or an iPod? Wow, think of the peace and quiet. And what kind of cameras do they use? The clarity is amazing. It’s crazy how technology keeps advancing.

Elementary-school-age Mack, Kiley and Aidan were yelling, “Is the cheetah going to catch him? The gazelle is pretty fast! Is the gazelle going to get away? What is the cheetah going to do to him? He’s going to eat him, isn’t he! Gross! Is there going to be blood? Will we see the blood? How much blood?”

Three-year-old Reid said nothing through the whole chase. He seemed riveted by the action, deep in thought. Then he turned to us and said, “I wish I had a tail.”


Reason 1,432 that I am not a doctor

Posted on by

Last night all three boys had soccer practice. So, when we came home, the first order of business was to throw the three of them in the shower to remove the Boy Stink. You know that smell, a pervasive mixture of sweat, grass, dirt and testosterone – if they were to bottle it as a cologne it would be called Recess (pour hommes).

I was sorting laundry, waiting for them to finish, when I heard Mack call out, “Mommy, I cut myself. There’s blood.” I walked into the bathroom, assuming it would be something like a nick on the toe, only to find that he had somehow sliced the side of his wrist open. The cut was about an inch long and there was indeed blood – a lot of blood.

I had the reaction I generally have when one of my boys is bleeding. Was it a quick rush to action, with exceptional first aid accompanied by calming words, you ask? No, I panicked and screamed, “Byron! Byron! Help!”

Believe me, I don’t report this because I think it is a charming quirk. I hate how I panic when the boys are hurt; I worry that someday it might hamper my ability to help them when they really need it. But when I see blood on one of the boys, my brain goes all wonky.

This effect is especially pronounced when the injured son is Mack. In his eight short years, Mack has cultivated a certain mystique of invulnerability. He almost never gets sick, even so much as a sniffle. He laughs off cuts and bruises, gets dental work without anesthesia, and has been known to run (and win) two distance races on the same day, with a soccer game and a swim practice sandwiched between.

So when Mack gets hurt, it’s kind of like that part in Superman II, where Superman gives up his powers so he can be with Lois Lane. (Which, can we all just stop to agree – big mistake. She wasn’t into you for your nerdy glasses and knowledge of AP style, Clark.) Anyway, they come down from the Fortress of Solitude and go into that diner. The local bully starts up with Clark and eventually socks him in the nose. When blood actually comes out, we all freak because it is just so shocking and incongruous.

Luckily, last night Byron was just down the hall and came to the rescue. It took about 50 tissues, several pieces of gauze, medical tape, Neosporin, butterfly bandages and sports strips, but he got the bleeding stopped and the wound bandaged. We decided it didn’t even require stitches. (Again, the Mack Mystique. If it had been Aidan, the cut would have been just that little bit deeper and we would have been headed to the ER, no question.)

Once we were both recovered, I asked Mack how he cut himself. Turns out he got himself on something as he reached up to put the soap back in its dish. We couldn’t figure out what it was; it may have just been the plastic edge of my shampoo tube. I told him I was so sorry that such a weird accident happened to him and he replied, “You told me the bathroom is the most dangerous room in the house.”


Supplies

Posted on by

Byron handled the school-supply shopping this evening. He thought he was doing me a big favor. But I’m kind of grumbly because I like doing it. It’s like the perfect type A activity – having to get everything in the right size, and the right color, and the right number, and “chisel tip,” and “alcohol free,” and “dries clear.” Plus, I never pass up a chance to go to Target for any reason.

I do wonder why Aidan needed 20 (twenty) glue sticks. There will be 25 or 26 kids in his class. What class needs more than 500 glue sticks for the year? What exactly will they be gluing? Is there some sort of black market in glue sticks, and the teachers plan to sell them off to supplement their salaries?

I’m also wondering why Mack needs, specifically, a ruler with three holes, a fabric pencil case with three holes, and paper with three holes…but no binders or folders with three rings.


School's out

Posted on by

We left right as school let out, on the last day, and drove to Hershey, Pennsylvania. Just as we got there, the skies opened up and it started to pour. We headed to Hersheypark anyway (they let you come free for the last two and a half hours of the day if you have a ticket for the next day).

It rained steadily, but never got too hard. Most things were open and we got to ride 35 rides in our two-and-a-half-hour preview (yes, Byron counted). At least we had jackets and ponchos.

Looks like more of the same to come tomorrow. I’m trying to stay positive. We lose the whole awesome water park, but gain that the park is EMPTY. Last night I rode the Farenheit, which normally has a two-hour wait. I walked on, and even walked on the front row. Then we came around and no one was waiting so I rode front row straight through again. It was crazy. Sometimes being a bit damp can be worth it.


It’s all fun and games until…

Posted on by

I flew off to Chicago last week, to meet Byron there for a few days of R and R. My mom kindly offered to watch the boys so I could get away. My plane landed and I called Byron’s cell. He said he was picking up our rental car and would be at the terminal momentarily. That was ALL he said.

As I waited, I noticed that I had a voice mail message, which is very rare for me. I figured it was Byron, from earlier in the day. But no, it was my mom, calling right as my plane must have been taking off. Let me paraphrase – but closely paraphrase – the message: “Mack hit Aidan with a baseball bat! In the face! Oh my god, the blood! The blood! He might lose his eye! Have you taken off yet? We’re going to the ER!”

Needless to say, I completely lost my mind right there at O’Hare. I called Byron back and found out that he already knew, and had been waiting to tell me in person. I couldn’t believe that this would happen to my darling Aidan, who I leave so rarely, when I wasn’t there. My first instinct was to hop right on the next plane back home.

Well, after getting an update (he didn’t lose his eye) and talking to my mom, and talking to my sister, and talking to Aidan, I decided to continue with my long weekend. Aidan’s Grammy and Auntie Emily did a wonderful job taking care of him, waiting for a plastic surgeon to give him 23 stitches, and making sure he didn’t agitate the wound after it was stitched.

I think the only thing worse than seeing your child hurt must be having him get hurt when you aren’t there.

Oh, and lest you think we should be sending Mack for serious counseling – the incident was an accident that happened when Aidan bent over behind Mack as he took a swing.

Aidan


Why coaching is so difficult

Posted on by

Emily and I are coaching a soccer team for three-to-five year-olds. Emily is the head coach, and so spends the game on the field prompting the kids — our goal is that end, don’t pick up the ball, that kind of thing. I am the assistant coach, so my job is to coordinate on the sidelines making certain there are four players on the field at any given time and that every one of the eight kids on the team gets to play.

When I said how difficult that was, and how I was worried about whether every kid got enough playing time, Byron reacted as most men would. He said I just needed a plan for substituting, “Write it down, put down the times, and then just stick right to the plan.”

But I wonder how one plans for some of the substitutions that became necessary during yesterday’s second half. One child came out twice because she was scared of the wind. Another was sent out of the game because she said the other team “stinks,” and a third was expelled for throwing punches. One child was happy to enter the game whenever asked, but then refused to move so much as a foot from her chosen spot, regardless of whether the ball was within fifty feet of her. And then there’s Aidan, who with a few minutes left in the game simply walked off the field, sat down, and removed his shoes. He was done.


All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten

Posted on by

Mack survived his first day of kindergarten. He didn’t have much to see, but he did tell us that the teacher employs a green-yellow-red behavior system where they get a color each day and it is sent home for review.

Mack told me he won’t get any reds but we should expect a few yellows.

He says it’s not that he might purposefully break a rule, it’s that you don’t always know the rules.

Byron told Mack that if he gets all the way through kindergarten with no yellows, he’ll get him a car.