Category Archives: POB — Partner of blogger

The Downside of being POB

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POB has never really embraced this blog.

She has grown accustomed to it, as one does a dull pain in the neck.  Sometimes, she is afraid of what I will write; I seem to have a more inclusive sense of what is an appropriately bloggable moment.  It is a boundary thing: I have few (for better or for worse) and POB has a few more (for better or for worse).

SIDEBAR:  Even I have boundaries.  Some of the Soeurs were shocked to hear that there is such a thing as an unbloggable moment.  Yes, there are life moments too intimate, too painful, too sad, to share.  And there are moments that can’t be shared yet.

I think what really got to POB this week was that at each event she attended — lunch, coffee, gathering — she started to tell a story and someone would say, “Oh, yeah, I read about that on the blog!!”  She has her own way of telling a story and her own viewpoint.  “Why can’t I tell stories my own way, without worrying that you blogged about it first?!”

Why?  Well, dear POB, for the simple reason that I may not be there to correct you.

If you write it, it is real.

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The wonder years

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POB recounted this vignette to me after SOS was asleep.  It makes me realize that while being at home is harder work, it is also a lot more fun and challenging.  (The COB can take credit for this insight.)

POB picked up SOS at the bus stop after day camp. They amiably walked the few blocks to our apartment building.  When the elevator came, a skinny teenage boy with acne and long hair emerged.  [I never described boys like this until I was a mother of one.]

The elevator had a smell that SOS could not identify.  It was, however, immediately obvious to POB.  And I am not talking body odor.

“Mommy, what is that smell?”  A teachable moment arrives.

“Sweetie, that is the smell of pot.”

“Pot?”  No name recognition.

POB tried again.  “Dope? Weed?”  [Hell, this kid is growing up in New York City.]

“Huh?”  [Ok, this parenting thing is getting harder.]  “It smells awful.”  The elevator opened to our floor.

“Sweetie, it is the smell of drugs.  That boy was smoking marijuana, a type of which is commonly known as skunk weed.”  [I taught POB that.]

“Eeewwwww.  I was inhaling drugs?????” he asked in horror.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie, nothing bad is going to happen on that short elevator ride.”

Worry over.  Moment forgotten. Back to play and carefree late afternoons after camp.

A missed teachable moment about that urban legend, “contact high,” to keep our son even farther away from smoking dope.  I hope he reads this blog entry when he is 15 years old and using cheesy aftershave and chewing gum to try to cover his tracks as he squeaks in just under curfew while I am pacing in the foyer.

[Note to SOS at 15:  Just remember, dude, once you thought it was disgusting.  Love, E-Mom.]

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Things I Learned on My Son’s 10th birthday

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SOS climbed into our bed after breakfast.  I was the only one in pajamas, because POB and SOS had been up for a while doing all the usual morning routines for a day at camp.  I love this time in the morning.  My family lets me be lazy until 7:30am.  POB learned very early on — at Camp Wingate — that trying to make me a go-getter in the morning was a losing battle.

Today, SOS wanted to talk about his momentous birthday and think ahead about the next decade of his life.

“Will I change as much as I did in this last decade?” 

“Well,” I said, “physically, probably not — you were a scrawny newborn — but emotionally, intellectually and philosophically?  Absolutely!”

He was quiet.  I had to remember that he is only 10 years old.

“But I will always be your baby.  But not in public anymore.”

Oh, the dreaded “not in public anymore”.  I knew it happened after boys hit the “double-digits” (i.e., 10 and over), but on the day that he turned 10?  Was that soooooo necessary?

SOS had his birthday party before the school year ended, so all his friends could come.  His actual birthday is therefore more low-key.  He wanted a hamburger and fries and some Star Wars action figures.  Easy enough.

We went to the “burger joint” and while we were waiting for his order, he posted:

So, not a good parenting day as far as SOS’s nutritional intake.  But french fries are good for the soul.

On the way back, he took my hand and said,

“I know that I am pretty spoiled, but that is what parents are supposed to do.”

“Sweetie, a parent spoils best when she spoils a child with love.”

“Absolutely, that is number 1, but the toys do come in a really close second.”

I give him a look.  That awesome “Mom look” that immediately establishes control over your child’s life.

“Whaaat?” He whines.  “I’m just sayin’.”

Over dinner (we took the grease extravaganza to go), SOS asked, “E-Mom, remember when you said that Dubai was becoming more of a tourist attraction than an oil producer or distributor?”

“I don’t remember telling you that.  We did discuss that Dubai’s leadership has built the tallest building and various (sinking) islands just off its shore.”

“Oh, yes, I remember: I read it in the Economist.”

From deep thoughts to a child’s scrawling hand-writing to reading business porn, all in the span of one day.  Is he 5, or is he 10 or is he 35?  Depends on the moment.

Time to fasten my seat belt; it is going to be a bumpy decade.

And I don’t want to miss one minute of it.

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more scenes from my honeymoon

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SOB sent the last of the pictures of POB’s and my honeymoon.  (You remember, the one she and HOSOB took for us, because it was the least they could do to celebrate our wedding.)

Mais, revenons à notre voyage de noces en France.

1. Police demonstration about safety and what a crashed car looks like. This was in front of the Opera. SOB noted that MOB would have enjoyed it and been proud of the public service message.  MOB would have taken a picture of it.  So if MOB had been alive, SOB would have taken a picture of MOB’s taking a picture of this scene.  And, thus, SOB needed to take this picture.  Genes, they cannot be denied their expression.  It is almost mathematical in that quod erat demonstrandum type of way.  The origins of whatever “osis” I have (as in neurosis, psychosis, etc.) is becoming clearer. . . .

2. French people waiting in line at what has a remarkable resemblance to anyone of those gross food trucks roaming New York City, except that they are chic people waiting to eat their croissants.  Chacun à son goût, mais: a roach coach is a roach coach is a roach coach (with apologies — maybe not — to Nazi collaborator Gertrude Stein)

What an awesome honeymoon.  Thanks, SOB and HOSOB.  We couldn’t have had it without you . . . .

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A Week in Paris

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SOB and HOSOB decided to have a honeymoon in Paris last week. 

Wait, you say, they have been married for 4 years.  Why did they wait so long?

In fact, they did go on a honeymoon after their were married. 

This time, they went on OUR honeymoon. 

SOB probably felt bad because POB and I were not immediately going away to celebrate our marriage (after 12 years, one child, and a mortgage).  SOS had to return to 4th grade the next day.

So, they had one for us.  The least they could do — for us that is.

But when SOB showed us the two photos they took — yes, TWO — I felt like I was there.

Here are all of the people crammed in like sardines around the Mona Lisa — an itty-bitty painting — flaunting the “no photos” rule:

And here is the picture of the sign to the left of the Mona Lisa:

(Beware of pickpockets.)

The rest of Paris?   Breath-taking pictures are Googlable.  This is why SOB can go on my honeymoon anytime.

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Life Imitating Art

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Life Alert.  Remember when the company roared onto the home health care scene with the commercial about an old woman on the ground and yelling in a very nasal grandma voice, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”?

That commercial went viral — as much as it could in the 1980s before YouTube.  The Company went so far as to copyright that line.  Today their commercials are more respectable and less kitschy.  Still, they are morbidly amusing until you have to send away for information on the product.

In order to keep Dad in his home on his own, we needed to get Dad the life alert system.   Because we absolutely want him to have a hands-free intercom into which he can yell if HE has fallen and can’t get up.

Life Alert still has its quirks.  One of the selling points for the product is that there is a total refund if the person dies within 3 years of signing-up for the service.  No questions asked. Other than maybe, “may we see the death certificate?”  So, actually, at least one question asked.

Sounds like a stupid business model, since people who get Life Alert are not in the best of shape when signing-up for the service.  What will that person need with the money?  The person is DEAD.  Maybe the company banks on the fact that no one will remember about the money-back guarantee.  I guess it is a shrewd calculation about the probability of dementia afflicting the survivors rather than the probability of an aged, infirm person surviving another three years.

I went to Dad’s house today to have lunch and to try to reintroduce him to the Internet.  About once a month, we try this.  He doesn’t type well, so he is unlikely to send an email.  He can’t get the hang of the left click/right click, one-click/two-click protocols even though he was previously able to navigate them.

We spent an hour practicing getting in and out of Google, getting in and out of email, etc.  He would set up the email and I would type for him.  Then he would click send a few extra times.  We sent (mostly unintentionally) multiple emails to SOB and BOB.  They responded.  Uh oh.  Now what?  “Dad, do you remember which is the reply icon?”  He nodded.  “Great, now click.”  “Dad, click once.  ONCE.  only ONCE.  Ok Ok ok ok ok ok ok. Let me get us back to the right screen.”  And so it went.

SOB emailed me, “I am plunking down a cool million that by tomorrow he will be blaming something about the computer that is not allowing him to send or pick up his emails.”  So, I called Dad and said, “remember to try again a few times tonight to make sure you have the email and Google thing down.”  Either he will declare defeat tonight (and then I win the bet) or he will make it work and not try again until Monday (in which case I win the bet).  Insider information.   SOB uses her powers for good.  Me, not so much.

Time for a nap.  Tomorrow, POB, SOS and I are taking Dad to the Met to look at the new American Wing.  More bloggable moments.

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A Way’s Away but Feels Almost like Tomorrow and Certainly Yesterday

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Yes, we are at 10 years old in this rendering of a picture.  Camp Wingate, Yarmouth, MA.  Summer of 1974.  You can tell the picture is partially a fake because I was wearing shorts and NOT a skirt.

It was just yesterday.  But by the time we are married, it will have been 38 years since we were best friends that summer.  In truth, we didn’t know each other from 18-32; and yet, we have always known each other and been inextricably tied one to the other.

Soon, it will be our wedding day.  Two little girls holding hands as adults who have been through so much, apart and then together.  And we will celebrate all that is us.  The good, the not-so-good, the sad, the joyous, and the things still evolving.

We have all we need (enough flatware to serve 24, for example).  So, when the invitation asks that in lieu of presents you make a charitable donation and we list a few that are important to us, please abide by our wishes.   We have enough and we are healthy and happy and truly there are no greater gifts.  Besides, if I have to store your gift in the limited space of a Manhattan apartment, I am going to regret having invited you.

Share our joy; spare our apartment.

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