Smart Computers

Computers now days are supposed to be smart. They know everything about us: our social security numbers, where we shop online, what celebrities we might have secret crushes on. Right? Then why are there a few things they just can't get straight? I mean, if they were THAT smart, then I'd stop getting emails about breast enhancement surgery. Case in point?

Although I had a wonderful experience at the hospital where I recently gave birth, I was asked three times about my mother. Apparently the computer system was smart enough to know that I was her daughter and it linked us together. What the computer system was NOT smart enough to know is that she had died. I had to explain this three times, to three different people: once before my son was born, once after he was born, and the two days later when we were back for a bilirubin test. It was not something I wanted to be reminded of at any of those moments. And how do you explain it? She died? She passed away? She's deceased? Then the person who asked mumbles "Oh, I'm sorry" and then is embarrassed. Yeah, awkward.

When I told my father about it, he said, "Yeah, I got a call less than a year ago from the hospital asking how her cancer treatments were going. I had to tell them that she'd died--over five years ago." 

"Well, somehow that information is STILL not in their computer system," I told him. 

"Why does the computer make the connection anyway?" he asked me.

"Oh, probably in case I don't pay my bill, they want a way to find me," I said.

"Well then, that's where you made your mistake. You should've just said, yep, she's my Mom--send the bill to her."

Oops. That would have been funny, Dad. And smart. Very smart.

His Eyes

My pediatrician told me that by about six months my baby's eyes would stop changing and become the color they will always be. Right now, his eyes are brownish in the middle and blue/grey on the outside. To me, they look like the color of storm clouds--gathering. Will they stay this way and what does that mean?

Chivalry Alive

I was at the pool yesterday with my kids at swimming lessons. There was a Mom, dropping off her son. Since he was early for his lesson, he headed to the balcony to wait. I heard his Mom tell him that either she, or his Dad, would be back to pick him up. He nodded and climbed the stairs. I was behind him, carrying my sleeping baby in his car seat. At the top of the stairs, the boy saw me. He stopped and waited and held the door open for me. His Mom was long gone, out the door, but I wish she could have seen him. Surely, she'd be proud: it was so thoughtful and sweet. See, chivalry is not dead, not in that ten-year old boy. Perhaps, then, there is hope for all the world.

Empathy

My daughter has a friend at school. Her name is Rose Marie. She has long, bright carrot-colored hair. I met her once, at Albertsons. She's gorgeous. She smiled shyly and I instantly liked the girl. My daughter likes her too. She comes home with stories of Rose Marie and tells me how nice and how beautiful she is, both inside and out. 

One day my daughter told me that she feels so sad for Rose Marie for one reason. It seems that she goes to speech therapy. 

Lots of kids do. I tell her. Not to worry. She'll learn to say whatever sounds she's struggling with. Just give her time.

Oh, I know, Mom, my daughter tells me. It's just that the only sound she has a hard time with is the "R" sound. She makes it more like a "W." My daughter is disgusted when I look at her blankly. "Mom, her name STARTS with an R." Oh. Yes, it does. "Mom. I just want her to be able to say her own name, the way it's supposed to sound."

And that's my girl. Always waiting for the day when a good thing will happen. Even if it happens to someone else. 

Pass the paper doilies

On the eve of school Valentine's Day parties everywhere, both my daughters informed me that they needed Valentine boxes the next day. I smiled. I was cursing under my breath, though. 

Being a responsible parent, I knew this was coming. Every year there are Valentine's Day parties. I know this. I know they will need a shoe box, covered in red paper and doily hearts with a slot in the top for Hannah Montana and Scooby Doo cards. But I'd forgotten. And now I was tired, it was late, and I did not want to spend the evening making Valentine's Day boxes. 

I remember making my own boxes in Elementary school. My mother (a saint) had sat at the table with me for hours, cutting hearts, glueing paper, and sprinkling glitter. Hadn't she? Unlike me, she'd never cursed under her breath. No, she brought out the construction paper and old cards and stickers and smiled. She'd been patient. And loving. At least, I remember her being patient and loving. And smiling. 

I thought about it, though, as I measured fabric and cut it and had my girls glue it on their boxes. As I showed my daughters how to fold a piece of paper, cut, and open it to reveal a perfectly shaped heart, I realized that I have no idea if my mother had actually enjoyed making Valentine's boxes with me. I only know that every year, she did. 

And suddenly, I was very happy to be making boxes with my smiling, loving, girls. It's just that next year, let's start earlier. 

Chocolate + Love

When I was first married, I heard my father-in-law complain to his wife about the half eaten chocolates she’d left in their pleated wrappers in the box. He was very annoyed. Convinced that my new husband shared the same pet peeve, I vowed not to make the same mistake. So when we received a box of chocolates as a gift, I ate the entire piece. Well, pieces. Strawberry crème filled. Caramel pecan. Dark Chocolate truffle. I savored them, knowing that he would be glad I hadn’t bitten them in half, leaving my teeth marks in the chocolate and making the crème filled centers dry out. Yes, I was proud of myself—until he came home.

            “What have you done?” he asked me. “You’re supposed to just eat half a piece and leave the other half for me. That way, we can both try all the flavors in the box!” He was very annoyed. Sometimes in love and chocolate, you just can’t win.

The Fun Run

Our Junior High had an annual "Fun Run." I don't know if those two words belong in the same sentence. But I married into a family of runners. They have a family Turkey Trot before Thanksgiving. They are the kind of people who believe that running is fun. Really fun. So of course, they loved the Fun Run.

It was bound to come up. And one year it did: 

"How did you do in the Fun Run, DeAnn?" 

"Fun Run?" (This was a stall tactic). 

"The Junior High Fun Run, how did you do?"

Pause. More pause. Followed by a sheepish grin.

"You didn't run in the Fun Run?" This was said loudly as to attract the attention of the entire family, including my husband who might not have married me had he known this bit of information.

More sheepish grinning. Followed by, "I can't believe it: DeAnn didn't run in the Fun Run! Everybody ran in the Fun Run. Didn't you have to run in the Fun Run?"

The Fun Run, I explained, was optional. 

"You never ran in the Fun Run?" 

See, The Fun Run was an annual event. Three years of Jr. high, and not a single "Fun Run" for me. The sheepish grin had become more of wince.

My husband joined the questioning. "What did you do during the Fun Run, if you weren't running in it?"

"Well, it was simple," I explained. "Every year, there was an option. You could either run in the Fun Run or you could go to the library." (I think at this point my husband might have hit his hand against his forehead). "And not just the school library, either. You got to go to the public library. The city library that smelled of dusty books and glass cleaner. And it was the middle of the day, so it was empty. Even the big leather chairs next to the map collection. The chairs that had big metal rivets along the seams, the ones that were always taken. Even those chairs were empty during the Fun Run." I shrugged. "See, I loved the Fun Run, too. Every year. Oh, how I loved it."