Clutch Cargo Lips

Another reminder that the kids are getting older

Empty Swing by aka Kath on Flickr

I once heard someone say that one of the loneliest things they could think of was an empty swing. I can see their point, but perhaps all the kids are at home eating toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup with their parents in a warm cozy kitchen.

I’ve decided that a lonelier sight is the spot where a swing set once sat. The swing set your offspring played on as children. The swing set that replaced the rickety one that came with the house. The swing set that you bought with your teacher-bonus money the year the school district changed their mind and didn’t give out teacher bonuses. The swing set that made you finally understand the adage “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.” The swing set that Dean put together one weekend.

I knew the day was coming that the swing set would be gone. Dean and I talked about giving the swing set to someone who had young children who would use it instead of it sitting, unused, in our backyard. Of course we asked or kids first, if they minded us getting rid of their old swing set — they didn’t. Last fall Dean offered it to a woman at work who just moved into a larger home and who has two young boys. She said yes and her husband came and dismantled and removed the swing part of the swing set, but it took until this week for them to get the last part of swing set — the tower with the red roof that led to a small plastic slide. The kids used to climb the ladder to the tower and then slide down the slide. Sometimes they would play in the tower for a while. I think Clare even slept in the tower one year — she certainly used to sit there and read or draw. Under the tower was a sandbox, that more recently, has become the neighborhood litter box for outdoor cats, but used to occupy Clare and Andrew for hours. Dean talked about buying a Danish flag for the roof because the roof was red and my ancestors are from Denmark. We never did buy that flag.

Now, the place that held our swing set is an empty, muddy void. In a few seasons the grass will cover the place where the swingset once sat and only our memories and a few photos will remind us that it once stood there.

This is the most recent in a long list of reminders that my kids are getting older — that I am getting older. The first might have been when I finally gave away my maternity clothes and then parted with most of the kids’ baby clothes and the crib — no more babies for me. Then tricycles made way for bicycles. And so on — up until taking our daughter to college. I used to hate it when people reminded me how fast childhood goes because at the time it didn’t seem to go fast at all. Sometimes it positively dragged. But those people were right. Childhood — and life itself — goes fast.

That said, I’m not exactly going to miss the swing set — I miss the kids that used to play on the swing set. Now, who wants a trampoline?

[Show as slideshow]

An Un Post

I find it kind of amusing and a little upsetting that the tiny prefix “un” has become a common threat or even a weapon these days in social media venues.

On Twitter, when someone “follows” you it is usually a good thing. It usually means that they find what you have to say of interest. Sometimes people unfollow you too — most of the time you don’t notice it. Sometimes you notice it and wonder why they did unfollow you, but it really isn’t usually a big deal. Some people, however, think that they are so important that they can threaten to unfollow others in order to change the followee’s behavior. (Please note that neither of the people below follow me nor do I follow either of them. I searched for “unfollow” on twitter.)

Bitchh I will unfollow the shit out of u, keep dickin !

Twitter unfollow threat

Who the fuck cares about a damn justin beiber birthday. If people keep posting that shit ima unfollow you.

Twitter unfollow threat

Then there is Facebook. On Facebook people “friend” you. Often it is because they actually know you in real life or online. Sometimes it is because they admire you. Occasionally they might even be stalking you. I’ve not seen “unfollow” used as a threat much on Facebook, but the threat is sometimes implied. Here’s one that is more of a stern warning than a threat.

Facebook unfriend warning

Finally, the last and possibly meanest “un” threat is “uninstall”. I’ve only seen this in the comments of my phone’s “market”. I have an android based cell phone and the android market is full of useful and not so useful applications — most of them free of charge. Anyone can create an app for an android phone and upload it to the market. People download it via their phone and sometimes rate and/or comment on their experience with the app. Sometimes people say things like, “Great app!”. Sometimes they say, “Useful app, but it needs such-and-such.”. And sometimes they say, “This app is a waste. Uninstall!”. Sometimes it is probably a waste or doesn’t work properly, but tossing in the word uninstall is like salt on a wound. It is not only unnecessary it is there to hurt someone who gave them something for free in the first place.

I don’t like this trend at all. Our language and our society need more positives and fewer negatives. It seems that the more avenues that are opening for people to communicate with each other, the more ways some people are finding to hurt each other.

My First Blog Post via email

Whilst waiting for her hair to dry, Dona sent an email to Posterous which then sent it to Clutch Cargo Lips which was read by millions five and embarrassed her children all-the-more…

Modern Day Letters from 3 Women

I get a lot of email. Yesterday I got over 80 messages in my gmail box (which is actually 5 accounts that come into one “box”). I have not checked other email accounts, but I imagine that yesterday I received well over 100 emails in all of my accounts together — closer to 200 if you include the account that houses emails from freecycle and DC Web Women lists.

In a typical week I receive maybe one personal email (not counting work emails or the emails that alert me to comments on my blog or emails from the email lists I manage asking how to do this or that). Sometimes I get a little annoyed that of all those emails none is directed personally to me. None ask how I am or what I’ve been up to. But then how many of those emails do I send out myself? Um… None?

So I was surprised and delighted when I received three personal emails yesterday all from women who have been important parts of my life.

The first email arrived around 8:30 am and was from a woman who was the principal at a school where I taught when we first moved to the DC area. She left the area, but we kept in touch for a few years. We lost touch for a while but Linked-In got us back in touch. The years I worked at her school were the best years in my teaching career. She was a wonderful principal and I’m glad she is working as a principal again. I’m envious of the teachers who work with her.

The second email was even more of a surprise, but should not have been since I’d sent an email to this person a few days ago. It was a surprise because more than half of me thought I would not get a response and as the days went by I expected a response less and less.

The email was from a woman who was my roommate when I first moved out of my parent’s house. I was a late bloomer, so that was when I was 23 or so. Maybe 24. She and I met in 1974 — she was a Jeremy’s schoolmate and friend. We were pen pals during the time Jeremy and I were a “couple” and after we broke up this woman came to the US for a visit. She liked it so much she came back as soon as she could and moved into an apartment with me on Mosley Street in Elgin. We had a bit of a rough time — I wasn’t used to roommates. I was envious of her blond hair, beautiful face and ease with other people. We parted on bad terms sometime early in 1980 and never spoke again.

Well, through a series of fortunate events (and my superior stalking research skills) I was able to obtain her email address (from her brother) and wrote her a brief and apologetic email on February 12.

She wrote me that she’d also been thinking about me and that she was happy that I found her and would like to keep in touch. She also mentioned she was in the hospital and had come close to not making it a few days ago. I pray for her speedy recovery. I still can’t believe we’re in touch again.

The third email was not really a surprise at all, because I’d emailed the sender yesterday morning. She was a neighbor when we lived in Alexandria and one of the few people I feel completely at ease with. I wish we’d see each other more often, but it just doesn’t happen.

Keeping in touch is something I used to be much better at. I used to have at least 3 pen pals at a time. Writing letters was a high point in my day. I rarely write letters anymore — finding addresses, putting stamps on them and sending them just seems too much bother. I’m better with emails but I don’t always remember to follow through. I’m going to try to remember my joy at receiving the 3 emails yesterday and be more conscientious about emailing people I care about more often. I might even write a real letter now and then.

[Update: The English friend is out of the hospital and at home. The clot was dissolved.]

My Mother, My Boss [Part 2 of My Mother Series]

It wasn’t until I had kids of my own that I was able to understand my relationship with my mom. I’m still not sure I understand it fully — and it might not be until my kids have kids that I do, but it is getting a little clearer as the years go by.

One of the hardest aspects of the relationship is that of authority figure. I’m pretty sure that, from a very young age, I rebelled against authority figures — except I was too shy to rebel in front of anyone other than my family, so most of that rebellion manifested itself into rage at home when I was not given my way or disciplined in anyway. I had temper tantrums and screaming fits. I once picked up a pile of newspapers and as I went to fling them on top of a brand new dining room table realized that something very heavy was among the papers. I flung them anyway and put a dent in that table that is there to this day.

My mom wasn’t all that strict. In fact she was pretty lenient. I was a “good” kid for the most part, except for the tantrums at home. There were times, however that she put her foot down — or at least made suggestions that made me uncomfortable. Like the time she thought I should talk to the popular kids that were in the same store as we were. Or the time that she suggested I stop by the office at school to see if anyone turned in my lost purse that held my retainer because I’d lost so many retainers we were going to have to pay for the next one. I remember the feeling I had about those experiences. My chest felt tight, my throat closed up. I clenched my teeth and fists. My breathing quickened. I was mad. I didn’t want to talk to Laura Holtz. I’d already asked at the office about my lost purse. I didn’t need suggestions. I just needed to be left alone.

I don’t have temper tantrums much anymore. I still occasionally “lose it”, but not like the old days. I still have trouble with authority figures though. Basically, I don’t like being told what to do — especially if I was already planning on doing it or if I had reasons for not doing it. I also have trouble when I’m questioned about an action. I guess in that case I get defensive.

I don’t usually have trouble taking orders from someone who employs me. I try to do the job I’m given. I never had much trouble with teachers or professors — I expected assignments and did them. The authority figures I have the most trouble with are the ones that one day are my friend or associate and the next day are president of the PTA or a neighborhood or not-for profit-board member for whom I do some odd (volunteer) jobs. I have trouble when they give me assignments — or micromanage whatever tasks I’ve taken upon myself — especially if I’ve been doing it alone for years and they come in and want to change things. Sometimes, even, my anger can rise when a friend (or my husband) seems to be taking over something I’ve planned.

The anger is the same as what I felt when my mom would make suggestions. And I find myself thinking in a rebellious teenage voice, You Can’t Tell Me What To Do. You’re Not My Mother!

I never do say that aloud, but I don’t always handle it well either. Sometimes I explain my reasoning. Sometimes I reply angrily. Mostly I say nothing, take a deep breath and move on although occasionally I tweet about it or make it my Facebook status.