All posts in category child rearing

It’s Only Cardboard…

Yesterday at work, I took my soup to the microwave at the end of the hall to heat it.  While I stood waiting for the broth to bubble, I caught sight of several large sheets of cardboard leaning against the wall.  They were marked as trash, and my immediate reaction was, “Oh no!  Don’t throw it away.  There’s so much you can do with cardboard!”

When I was growing up at the house at 30 Green Street, cardboard was saved and used for  myriad art projects.  The lightweight sheets of cardboard around which my father’s dress shirts were folded quickly were doled out for art projects.  I loved to draw my own paper dolls, carefully cutting them out, sketching faces with colored pencils and fashioning clothes out of bits of construction paper reserved for school projects and sick-in-bed days.  Some days I used the cardboard to create masks for my younger siblings, cutting holes for eyes and nose, and stretching an old elastic band to hold the masks to their little faces.  Cardboard became a flag to tape to a pencil and wave at the veterans who marched in the Memorial Day parade or a poster to paint with tempera and advertise a sidewalk lemonade stand.  It was the stuff made into swords and shields to play pirates in the back yard, or a lean-to for imaginary hobos.

Cardboard boxes were used to store summer clothes during the winter months, and winter clothes that my mother packed away in spring.  They stored tools in the garage, linens in the attic, and books that no longer fit on the shelves in the living room.

Cardboard boxes also made great summer sleds.  One sibling would sit inside the box, holding a jump rope or baton.  The designated puller would drag the rider all over the back yard, until the puller tired and the roles were reversed.

One hot summer afternoon, my sister Robin and I decided that dragging through the yard was not nearly exciting enough, and decided to try riding our cardboard box sled down the stairs.  My taste for adventure trumped my better judgement, and I volunteered to make the maiden voyage.  The stairs in our old New Englander were steep and covered with a green and brown print runner, worn thin at the edges.  At the top of the stairs, I sat in the box, and bracing my hands against the bannister and wall like a luger, pushed off.

I have never careened down a staircase faster.

I landed with a thud against the heavy front door and lay crumpled on the landing, wondering if there was blood was running from my aching head.  Robin quickly abandoned the idea of a second attempt, and went off in search of a popsicle and a bit of shade under the maple tree.

Perhaps the most common use of cardboard in our home was for patchwork.  Our house was  close to a hundred years old, with wall with holeplaster and horsehair walls that lifted from the lathing and crumbled when curious small fingers poked at them.  Small holes became big ones, and without the funds to do proper repairs, my mother resorted to patching the holes with sheets of cardboard and masking tape.  I saw nothing unusual in this, and actually liked the patches, pretending they were secret portals to unknown worlds.  It wasn’t until I was well into my teens that my parents had the funds to replace plaster and patches with sheet rock.

Looking back, I wonder if visitors thought the cardboard and masking tape patches were strange. They must have noticed- they were in plain sight, among the peeling wallpaper, threadbare rugs and chipped woodwork.  And yet, our house was always full.

What I know now is that people didn’t visit 30 Green Street for the décor of the walls.  It was the love that lived within the walls that lured the steady stream of children and adults who entered through the front door and exited through the back.  The sound of laughter from the kitchen table and the offer of coffee and conversation permeated the crumbling walls and blurred the cardboard patches that held them together.

Now, I live in an apartment with clean white walls.  I keep my out-of-season clothes in plastic bins that keep my garments clean and dry.  There are no patches in my life- at least none that can be seen. My use for cardboard is limited to times I need to donate items to the Salvation Army or Goodwill.

But still, when I see large sheets like those waiting for the cleaning crew to tidy my work hallway, I think of the possibilities and wonder…

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 10, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in child rearing, nostalgia, Uncategorized
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 10, 2013

http://gstoutimore.wordpress.com/2013/04/10/its-only-cardboard/

Did You Make Your Bed This Morning?

unmadeWhile waiting at the dentist’s office this week, I read an article called “Happy Habit: Make Your Bed” but Jackie Ashton. In the article, Ms Ashton admits to hating to make her bed and resolves to amend her ways, explaining how this daily chore sets the stage for a more orderly and productive day. Her catch phrase, “messy bed, messy head” spoke a resounding truth to me, for I am a bed Nazi.

I’m not sure where it began, but I think I can blame my mother for my obsession with a neat bed. It was my mother’s expectation that our beds be made before we left for school in the morning, and I, being one of the eldest of the clan, had to set an example for my six younger siblings.

Without fail, at 30 Green Street, every Saturday morning all beds were stripped and all sheets washed. My mother hung them on the clothes lines, where they would flap in the breezes of the backyard until they were dry, to be carefully returned to the beds before the youngest child’s bedtime. The ritual did not stop there, however. When Saturday evening came, all heads were shampooed and all nails trimmed, and by nightfall, every child was scrubbed and shiny, clad in clean pajamas and tucked between smooth percale sheets that smelled of fresh air and sunshine.

I was a teenager before we had contour sheets for our beds. My father, who had been in the Navy, taught us to make square corners from flat sheets, showing us that sheets on a well-made bed would endure several nights of slumber before coming un-tucked. We often paired up in teams of two to make beds on Saturday afternoons, and my sister Robin and I devised ways to make the chore more enjoyable. Making beds for ten people could be a daunting task, but our games made the work less mundane. We bent back the mattresses and pretended they were horses while we jumped on the bed springs. We folded blankets like flags, creating tidy wool triangles that sat on the sheets until it was time to unfold them and tuck them under at the foot. We tried flipping coins on our freshly made beds, in hopes that they would be as taut as those in the military barracks my father had described. square corners

The real test of our bed-making skills came when my mother came to our beds to hear our prayers and tuck us in. A poorly made bed would result in a “tsk tsk” as my mother smoothed the sheets and refolded the square corners. She would unscrew the handle on the steaming radiator to turn off the heat, and prop the window open a few inches- even if the night skies were filled with snowflakes. She would sit on the side of the bed, stroke our heads and listen to our vespers, then with a kiss the cheek, she would tuck in the sides of our covers so tightly it was almost impossible to roll over. The ritual worked. It took me moments to enter dreamland, and I never woke until morning.

It is probably because of my childhood that I am so obsessive about my bed. Every morning, as soon as I have showered, I make my bed. I do not remember a time when I have left it rumpled from the last night’s sleep. I hate when people sit or lie on my bed during the day, but I tolerate it, knowing that having my kids flop on my mattress for a heart to heart talk is more important that how my bed looks.

But when it is time for bed, the rules must be followed. The bottom sheet has to be wrinkle free. The top sheet has to be neatly pulled up to my chin and carefully folded over the end of my comforter. My pillows must be plumped, smooth and cool. And truth be told, during the winter I am known to open the windows just a crack, even if the snow falls from the night skies.

bedI have thought about my bed making rituals many times. Perhaps it is to bring order to the chaos of the day. Perhaps it is to prove to myself that although I cannot control the entire world, I can control mine. At least a little bit. Perhaps it is just a way to pay homage to my parents, who gave me years of peaceful dreams in a little house with too many kids.

Ms Ashton, I am happy you have joined the ranks of the bed-making brigade. Now, let’s talk about the towels on the bathroom floor…

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on December 20, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in child rearing, home decorating, nostalgia, Uncategorized
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on December 20, 2012

http://gstoutimore.wordpress.com/2012/12/20/did-you-make-your-bed-this-morning/

Tinkerbell, NSYNC and other Magical Moments

A friend of mine returned to the office today after spending a week at Disney with her family.  Jodi has two beautiful daughters who are the perfect ages for a wonderland full of magical creatures.  She told me how they waited in line for an hour to see Tinkerbell and Periwinkle, the two fairies that appear in Disney’s latest movie.  I imagined standing in line with two antsy, excited little girls, surrounded by other antsy, excited children.  Somehow, the mental picture was rather unappealing. Indeed, just yesterday I was at the mall, doing some preliminary scouting for Christmas gifts.   There was a long line of families waiting to see Santa and I heard child after cranky child whining and crying because they were too tired, too impatient, too hungry or too indulged.  Standing in line for an hour for kid’s stuff does not in any way appeal to me.

Jodi broke my train of thought.  “The girls were really well behaved, and besides, seeing the looks on their faces when they finally caught a glimpse of Tinkerbell and Periwinkle made it all worth it,” she explained.

And then I remembered.

It was the late 90’s, and Abby was fifteen. She and her friends were huge fans of the boy band, NSYNC.  She  listened to NSYNC mix tapes.  She watched NSYNC videos.  She was glued to the TV set for NSYNC interviews and had NSYNC posters. There were times when I thought if I had to listen to “Tearin’ Up My Heart” one more time I would tear out my own heart.  But as every teen’s parent knows, if you share your kids’ music, they let you into their lives, so I listened to Justin, Chris, Lance, Joey and JC croon in perfectly choreographed harmony until they sang “Bye, Bye, Bye” and Abby moved on to more mature music.

In the midst of this musical obsession, Abby and her friend Elizabeth saved enough money to go to an NSYNC concert.  Abby asked her father to buy them tickets and after spending an hour on the phone and finding nothing available in New Hampshire or Massachusetts, he purchased two seats in Albany, New York- a three hour drive from our home.

The morning of the concert, snow fell so hard that school was canceled.  I considered canceling the trip to New York, but after taking one look at Abby’s crushed face, her dad insisted that we go.  We navigated the icy highway and arrived in Albany a couple of hours before the concert and found a parking spot directly across the street from the arena, in front of an Italian restaurant.  We ate a quick dinner and after instructions to stay together, with breathless goodbyes the girls sprinted across the street, while we sat in the car.

Our finances were limited and the night was cold, so we ran the car for short periods of time- just long enough to warm our fingers and toes.  Every hour we fed the parking meter a few quarters and once we took a short trip to the Italian restaurant for coffee and a bathroom break. We were cold.  We were tired.  We were bored.

But at eleven o’clock, the arena doors opened and the streets filled with teenage girls searching for their rides.  Amid the crowd were Abby and Elizabeth-faces flushed, feet barely skipping on the pavement, bubbling with excitement.  I had never seen my daughter so happy, and the look on her face warmed my soul and radiated to my frozen toes.

The three hour drive home passed quickly as Abby and Elizabeth chattered about the concert, and when we finally got home, I tucked my sleepy teenager into bed, knowing that sweet choruses of “God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You” would drift through her head and fill her dreams. I climbed into bed, cuddling my icy feet against my already sleeping husband, a feeling of utter satisfaction lulling me to sleep.

That was more than ten years ago, but as I listened to Jodi speak about her little girls and the thrill of meeting Tinkerbell and Periwinkle, it became yesterday.  This is the stuff of perfect memories- the frustrations of standing in line, waiting on hold, or sitting in a frigid car melt with the sparkle of your child’s eye.  They are worth the effort.  Because acts of love are truly magic. 

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on November 26, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in child rearing, food, vegetables, children, nostalgia, philosophy, Uncategorized
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on November 26, 2012

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Lunch to Go

Most work days, I carry my lunch to work.  It’s less expensive than eating out, and I am more apt to limit my meal to something more healthful and less calorie laden.  More often than not, I pack a salad and fruit into re-useable plastic containers and carry them to work in a fabric tote bag.  The bag was a gift from a coworker- a little calico sack that is just the right size, and can be washed when something leaks.

This morning while slicing cucumbers into my salad, I thought about how I used to pack lunches when my children were in school.  Much the same as when I was a child, my kids were not fond of the food from the school cafeteria, and it did not make sense to pay for lunches they would not eat.  Besides, one of the thrills of beginning each new school year was the rite of choosing a lunch box.

I recently read an article that lunchboxes are becoming a thing of the past.  This made me sad, since some of my fondest memories of school were examining my classmates’ lunchboxes. My best friend had one that was decorated to look like a barn. I coveted that lunchbox, with its matching thermos that looked like a silo and fit inside the domed lid.  Other children had boxes with Woody Woodpecker, Superman, and Mickey Mouse. One even had a box that looked (be still my heart) like a real T.V. set.  We who had “cold lunches” could begin eating immediately, instead of standing in line for our trays to be filled with the cafeteria fare that smelled the same every day, no matter what it was.

I carried a red plaid lunchbox made of aluminum that had been my older sister’s.  In those days, thermoses were made of glass, housed in aluminum.  The unlucky child who clumsily dropped his lunch box was sure when opening a thermos at lunch time, to find its contents riddled with shards of glass.  The matching thermos for my  lunchbox had broken long before it was handed down to me, but for less than a nickel, I would buy a glass bottle of milk, shake it to make sure the cream and milk were mixed and carefully pull the cardboard stopper.  Older boys in the cafeteria drank from the bottle, but I would insert a straw and sip, watching through the glass as the level of creamy white slowly declined.  I rarely finished before I was full.

My lunch usually consisted of a sandwich, cookie and fruit.  My mother made our bread and cookies from scratch and wrapped them in waxed paper.  I envied those kids who had sandwiches of Wonder Bread, that “built strong bodies 12 ways” and Hostess Twinkies with their lovely cream centers and came in packages of twos.  Now, when I think of how my mother baked every day to keep her growing brood in oatmeal raisin cookies, I wonder how I could have been so keen to trade for something from a store. 

My mother would make a grocery list on the back of a used envelope.  I would watch, hoping to see something like Drakes Cakes or Funny Bones on the list.  They never were.  “Couldn’t you at least buy those little wax paper bags instead of flat sheets of Cut-Rite?” I begged.  It would be years before I understood the economics of feeing a family of ten.  A generation later, my children begged me to buy sandwich size zip-lock bags instead of the less expensive bags that folded to close.  Some things never really change.

When my own children started school, I enthusiastically took them shopping for lunch boxes.  Aluminum had been replaced by plastic, but the decorations were still enticing.  They lingered before the display, carefully choosing what would carry their lunches- sandwiches on wheat bread, fruit, and homemade oatmeal cookies.  One year, her father naively let Abby choose a “90210” lunchbox- practically scandalous, since she was not allowed to watch the program on television.  I let her keep it, sure that she gained several popularity points in the fourth grade because of the coolness of that lunchbox.

At our house, old lunch boxes were used to house small toys, like crayons, doll shoes, and little green army men.  They lined the bottom shelf of the bookcase where we kept toys and the kids identified the contents by the character on the front; Barbie held crayons, Spider Man held Matchbox cars, and so on.  They made the perfect container-easy to identify and easy to carry. 

In my attic is a trunk filled with well-loved dolls, stuffed animals and small toys, and in it there are two old lunchboxes.  One contains a small brush, comb and assorted empty makeup containers, and the other, an empty travel sized shave cream, disposable razor (blade removed) and an empty bottle of after shave. I made these kits for the kids for Christmas gifts when they were little and our wallets were thin. They provided years of entertainment, and I saved them in hopes that someday I will have grandchildren who will enjoy them as well.

Look! They have red plaid!

By the time my kids reached junior high, they had transitioned from lunchboxes to  brown paper bags, and my days of shopping for lunchboxes ended.  If the article I read is correct, my yet-unheard-of grandchildren might never know the joy of walking store aisles the week before school starts in search of that perfect lunchbox.  Of  course, I could start a vintage collection…  

What was your favorite way to carry your lunch to school?

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on September 11, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in child rearing, food, vegetables, children, nostalgia, Uncategorized
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on September 11, 2012

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When You Say No Do You Mean Yes?

Have you ever met someone who cannot take no for an answer?  Recently this happened to me at work.  A gentleman made a request that I was unable to meet.  He had made this request a year ago and was given a polite “no.”  Last week, he called with the same request, and was again told no.  A day later, he called again, spoke to a different staff person, and was given the same answer.  Three days later, he spoke to yet another person, who inquired on his behalf.   My patience was wearing thin.  I wanted to ask him the proverbial, “What part of ‘no’ do you not understand?” 

I remembered an incident when my kids were young.  Their elementary school held an annual book fair, where the children displayed books they had written and illustrated.  For weeks Abby, who was in third grade, toiled over her book.  Her storyline was clear, her characters, all teenagers, drawn in colored pencil with intricate details like earrings and hair bows.

Pages 2 and 3 of Abby’s book. Yes. I still have it.

Gabriel was a first grader.  He had painstakingly scrawled the words and haphazardly colored everything in red, his favorite color.  Gabe hated to color- he thought it a waste of precious time that could be spent reading or doing arithmetic, or running around the playground.   The fact that his book was colored at all represented the importance of his work.

The book fair was to begin at seven o’clock in the evening.  I rushed home from work, changed from scrubs to a pair of jeans, and prepared a quick stir fry for dinner.  Stuffing rice and vegetables into his mouth, Gabe excitedly jabbered about his book and the surprise I would find when I read it.  Abby was equally cheery, finishing the food on her plate at record speed.  But Elizabeth ate little, pushing her food around her plate. 

At four years old, Elizabeth was chronically ill with a yet undiagnosed endocrine disorder.  Her cheeks, which had once been chubby and pink, were pale and drawn, and her clothes flapped around her skinny arms and legs like a little scarecrow.  Every day she was plagued with what she referred to as “a yucky belly,” and today was no exception.

Living with chronic illness takes its toll on all family members.  Parents weary of waiting on edge for another hospital visit, for more tests, for more medicine.  Siblings get tired of cancelling plans for a sister or brother who never seems to be better.   And for the sick child- for Elizabeth- it was the worst.  She tired easily.  She felt sick day after endless day.  She, whose nature cried out to be in constant motion and daredevil acts, was listless and fearful.

But part of living with chronic illness is trying to push forward and live life as usual as much as possible, and so we did.  Deciding that Elizabeth had eaten as much as her yucky belly could hold, I shoved her plate into the dishwasher and herded the kids into the car. 

We arrived at the school a little after seven.  My plan was to quickly visit Gabe’s and Abby’s classrooms, read their books, say hello to their teachers and rush home so I could get Elizabeth into bed.  We began in Gabe’s classroom and I searched for his book among the others.  Gabe and Abby asked if they could wander the halls with their friends.  I looked at Elizabeth, who was sitting on the floor by my feet, and knew we may have to make a quick exit.

“Sorry, you guys.  You need to stay with me tonight.  Lizza’s not feeling well.”

Abby and Gabe looked at their little sister, and solemnly nodded.

“You can walk around the room and look at the other books,” I offered.  “Just stay in here and don’t go into the hall.”

The pair grinned at me and amiably wandered from desk to desk, but the room was quickly filling with parents and children.  I hurriedly fanned through Gabe’s book and took Elizabeth by the hand to search for her siblings.  I found them standing with a girl from Abby’s class.  Her red curls bounced as she said to them,“ C’mon!  Let’s go see the sixth graders!”

Abby and Gabe turned to me, their big eyes silently begging for my consent.

“No- I need you to stay with me now.  The school’s getting crowded and I’m not sure how much longer Lizza’s going to last.  Gabriel, your book is wonderful!”  I added.

The red-headed girl interjected, “Please!  Can’t they come with me?”

“Sorry.”  I shook my head and we made our way to the second floor to find Abby’s classroom.

I quickly found Abby’s desk and thumbed through her book, complimenting her on how exciting her story was, and how wonderfully she illustrated it.

“Ask your mother if you can come now!”  It was the red-headed girl, hissing in Abby’s ear.

“No.”  I said firmly.  “They have to stay with me.”

By now I was practically dragging Elizabeth, who was getting paler by the minute, and was slumped against a nearby desk.  Sweat had gathered on my upper lip and I wondered if the older children would notice if I didn’t stop to chat to their teachers.

“Why not?  Can’t they come, pull-eeze?”  The red-headed girl begged again.  There were children running up and down the stairs, through the halls, and through the classrooms.  Teachers were helplessly watching their classrooms become shambles, and parents chatted among themselves, oblivious to the antics of their wild offspring.

Abby sighed and rolled her eyes.  She knew this would not go well.  I was hot.  I was worried about Elizabeth.  I was annoyed and I was..well, ready to blow my top.

I opened my mouth to answer, when Gabriel calmly piped up, “What you don’t know about my mother, is no means no.” 

It was as simple as that.  I smiled at my son, and he grinned back.  Gathering Elizabeth in my arms, I kissed her cheek, winked at Abby and said, “You’re right Gabe.  Thank you. And now, it’s time to go.”

Later that evening.

I have often remembered that night, how when we teach our kids that “no” means “maybe-if-you-tease-and-whine-enough-then-I’ll-change-my-mind” we do them a disservice. They need to understand that the world does not always revolve around them. They need to accept that not everything in life is meant to go their way.  They need to understand, that many times, no means no.

Now, if there was some way to teach this to the man from work, I’d be a happy woman.

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on September 5, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in child rearing, food, vegetables, children, philosophy, Uncategorized
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on September 5, 2012

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All the Same, or Different?

Are you an “all the same” or are you a “different?”   Confused?  Let me explain.

When I was a little girl, we rarely had matching dishes at the dinner table.  I think that somewhere in the beginning of their marriage, my parents had matching dinnerware, but as their family grew and their finances did not, our meals were served on a mishmash of different china and stoneware.  The same was true for glasses and cutlery, and on evenings when it was my turn to set the table, I would carefully choose my favorite plate and fork, and put them at my place at the table.  I never felt guilty about this- all of the children in my family did the same thing.  We all had favorite spoons, or cups or plates, usually the oddest shaped or most colorful, and the person setting the table had first dibs on the most coveted cupboard items.

Indeed there was cheating, and it was not unheard of to reach for the favorite spoon after the food was blessed, only to find that a sibling had slipped a quick exchange while everyone else’s eyes were closed.  My parents would tolerate no fighting at mealtime, so the sin was dealt with by dirty looks and perhaps a swift kick under the table.  But by the time the meal was over, and the dishes piled into a sink full of soapy water, all was forgiven.  After all, another meal was right around the corner.

The eclectic décor of our dinner table was continued throughout the rest of the household.  The living room was furnished with an old couch and easy chair that were handed down from my grandparents, the dining room table from an auction held in the playground of South Main Street School, and the bedrooms filled with dressers and beds of different sizes, with blankets and comforters of myriad colors and patterns.  Nothing in our house matched.   But nobody seemed to mind.  Our home was always filled with people who didn’t seem to care about the broken furniture or the peeling wallpaper.  They crowded around the dinner table on mismatched chairs, their backgrounds and conversations as varied as the plates from which they ate.

By the time I was in elementary school, I became aware that my friends’ homes were far more harmoniously decorated.  They had matching sofas and chairs that coordinated with carpets and draperies.  They had table cloths that were not frayed and dishes that all looked the same.  Their rooms looked like pages in the Sears catalogue with chenille bedspreads and curtains of the same color.  I dreamed of the day when I would have my own home and everything would go together.  Everything would match.

As a newlywed, I was excited to decorate our first apartment.  We were given a set of beautiful blue and white china as a wedding gift, and during the first few years of our marriage, I would carefully set the table with matching plates, cups and saucers.  Although our home was filled with hand-me-down furniture and curtains I sewed from reams of bargain bin cotton, I worked hard to create an atmosphere of soothing sameness with color and texture.

Then children happened.  Kids barfed on the bedspread.  They chipped china. They took spoons from our wedding cutlery to school and lost them in the black hole that contains socks, hair ribbons and little green army men.  Our kitchen cabinets held plates and bowls of various sizes and shapes, as Tupperware replaced stoneware and sippy cups replaced coffee mugs, and for years, nothing matched.  And when my children set the table, they put their favorite fork or plate at their place, cherishing the moment of use, knowing that at the next meal someone else might be using it.

When the kids grew up and my marriage ended, I saw the move to my own apartment as an opportunity to create the harmonious living space about which I had always dreamed.  For my room I bought a comforter the color of the sea, with matching shams and bed skirt. I chose hues for the living room that blended and coordinated.  And I bought a set of clear glass dishes that would never clash with anything on the dining room table.  Every space had its own color combination.  The rooms flowed from one to the other in calm coordination.  It was spa like.  It was beautiful.  It was…boring. 

I slowly came to realize that dreaming about a perfectly decorated home is much more fun than living in one.  I missed the chaos of mismatched prints and texture.  I missed colors that clashed but somehow worked together.

This summer I will fill my home with the people I love. They will bring the people they love. They will have hair of brown and red and yellow and black.  Some of them will have white skin and freckles. Some will have accents from another country.   They will crowd around the table, sharing ideas as new as green leaves, laughing in bursts that make blue and brown eyes sparkle and dance.  They will not care if they drink from matching coffee cups, or eat from matching forks, or drink from matching tumblers.  They will add the spice and the color that has been missing from my life, and I will cherish spending time with them, like the special plate or spoon in my mother’s cupboard.

Apparently I am not an “all the same.”  I am a “different.”  Anyone in the market for a set of matching glass dinner plates?  They go with everything.

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on May 1, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in child rearing, home decorating, philosophy, Uncategorized
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on May 1, 2012

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School Pictures

I read on the internet about a Florida elementary school where a second grader’s class photo was altered.  The child, whose visage was replaced by a smiley face, had arrived at school without a signed permission slip, so the photographer covered his image with a cartoon smiley.

While I agree that this might have been a tasteless solution, it did remind me that all kids look a little goofy in their school pictures- especially second graders.  No matter how carefully they are dressed, how meticulously they are groomed, their pictures are bound to look as if they just rolled out of bed.

In my second year of school, Michelle Peck snuck scissors to the girls’ bathroom and chopped her bangs off, right before it was time for Miss Makepeace’s class to go to the auditorium for pictures.  I’m sure her parents were thrilled to see their little daughter with quarter-inch bangs sticking out straight from her forehead.

I was equally thrilled to see my children’s school pictures.  When Abby, my firstborn, started school, I had visions of her kindergarten photo to be a perfect study in pink and white.  The morning that the pictures were to be taken, I carefully braided her hair, making sure her part was straight and her ribbons matched her outfit.  She would be adorable! When the pictures arrived some weeks later, I hardly recognized my little cupcake.  Her braids were messy and her ribbons were missing.  Still, she did have that “I’m-so-excited-to-be-living” look in her eyes, and so I bought the pictures.

When Gabe was in second grade, half of his teeth were missing.  This is not unusual; the tooth fairy spends the majority of her life visiting seven-year-olds.  Either the photographer hated kids, or he hated teeth, because he certainly did nothing to minimize the jack-o-lantern effect.  But when I looked at the photograph, I heard the peal of my son’s laughter, and so I bought the pictures. 

By the time Elizabeth entered elementary school, I was on to this school photography thing.  I was also wise to my “messy girl.”  No matter what I did, Elizabeth was always…well… messy.  Five minutes after I finished getting her ready for school, I would find her soaring down the hill on her bike, tresses flying from her braids, shoes untied, purple popsicle dripping down one arm.   I knew it was hopeless to dress her up for school pictures, so I sent her to school in her usual garb- jeans and tee-shirt.  She was chronically ill- her little face pinched and pale- and I briefly considered brushing a little makeup on her cheeks to give her some color.  I decided that a second grader didn’t need makeup and sent her to school just as she was.  Several weeks later I found her pictures stuffed in the bottom of her back pack. There was my little wild child- toothless, ashen, and disheveled, and looking…well…exactly like my Elizabeth.  Needless to say, I bought the pictures.

At one point I thought I might replace the school photographs with ones I took by myself.   One Easter Sunday the children were neatly dressed and combed for church. I ordered them sit on the couch while I shot photo after photo, trying to capture all three looking vaguely serene and well-behaved at the same time.  Each time I snapped, someone would act up.  Gabe would push Elizabeth.  Abby would shove Gabe.  Elizabeth would mug to the camera, and Gabe and Abby would fall off the couch, chortling with glee.  I begged.  I pleaded.  I threatened.  Finally, I gave up, resigned to the fact that every photograph in the house would look like my children were raised by wolves.  Guess the school photographer wasn’t so bad after all.

But here’s the funny thing.  Now that my children are grown, my favorite photographs are not of serene, well-behaved cherubs.  They aren’t the ones from a photography studio, with perfect lighting and perfect clothing. They aren’t the ones where the children sit demurely with Mona Lisa smiles.  My favorite pictures are my kids as they really were- wide-mouthed grins, rumpled clothes, messy hair.  Those photographs burst with an exuberance for life that only a child knows.  They are unabashed, uncensored, unbridled.  They are a silver moment in time, when the children I cherished were exactly who they were- no apology needed.

The school in Florida is arranging to have another photo shoot.  That’s a good thing, since that little boy will only be seven for one short year.  I hope his parents sign the permission slip this time, so he can be included.  But more than that, I hope his parents cherish his image with all the others of his class, no matter how toothless and messy they are.  There will never be another moment exactly like this one. There will never be another child like theirs.

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 9, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 9, 2012

http://gstoutimore.wordpress.com/2012/04/09/school-pictures/

Sick Daze

A friend of mine who has two small children was telling me about taking care of them when they were sick.

“I admit it.  I used the T.V. as a babysitter.”  He hung his head in embarrassment.

“Good grief,” I replied, “All good parents use T.V. as a babysitter. That’s how we survive sick kids.”

I thought about this later.  Although our conversation was somewhat tongue-in-cheek, the truth of the matter is, as parents, we feel obligated to respond to our children’s needs in text book perfection, and when we don’t, we feel guilty about it.  I should know- the Queen of Guilt is also a quasi-expert on sick kids.

My children were germ magnets.  No matter how healthful their foods, how consistent their bedtimes, how sanitary their dwellings, I could not keep them from getting sick.  Whatever caused pooping, puking or rashes, my children were sure to catch the bug and share it with the entire household.  Ear infections, strep throat, asthma, croup and G.I. bugs were frequent visitors, punctuated by the less-frequent-but-more-powerful Chicken Pox, Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease, Influenza, pneumonia, Scarlet Fever, Rotavirus and Mononucleosis.

Finally, realizing that my defensive actions were having little effect, I decided it was time to abandon the defense and work on the offense.  I devised the Momma G method of dealing with sick kids.

Please note- these are not doctor recommended or pediatrician approved.  I lay no claim to making your children get sick less or get better faster.  This is merely a survival toolkit designed to help mommies and daddies get through those long lonely nights when the only sound is their two-year-old retching on yet another set of sheets.

  1. If your child complains of a tummy ache, do not take her into your bed.  I made this mistake when Abby was eighteen months old and the pumpernickel bread she ate didn’t agree with her.  Use your imagination.
  2. Popsicles are the perfect food.  Pedialyte is doctor recommended, but it doesn’t help if your kid won’t drink it.  Sucking on a popsicle raises his blood sugar and allows him to replenish fluids a little at a time.  Besides, the other kids in the family can have one, so they feel a little more special and a little less neglected, since all your time is spent on the sick sibling.
  3. Make a nest.  When my kids were small and sick, I wanted them close to me so I could keep an eye on them.  I would build nests out of blankets and pillows in the living room and there they would reside until they were up and about.  Nests were only made on sick days, which made it special, and they were content to stay there while I did my household chores.  It also helped when there were more sick kids than there was space on the living room couch.
  4. How your child acts is more important than what his temperature is.  When we adults run a fever of 100, we huddle under the blankets and beg someone to put us out of our misery.  When kids run a fever of 100, they use their blankets as capes and jump off the couch, pretending to be Superman.  Conversely, when Gabe was three, he had his first bout with pneumonia.  He was fussy and clingy at breakfast, but had no fever.  By ten he was hanging onto me and crying, but still had no fever. By noon, he was having trouble breathing and wouldn’t let me put him down, but still had no fever.  At his two o’clock appointment with his pediatrician, we found that he had a severe pneumonia, but still had no fever.  I learned then that if your child acts really sick, he probably is really sick, no matter what the thermometer says.
  5. When your kid is sick, keep her home.  Because Elizabeth had underlying health issues, a simple twenty-four hour stomach bug would put her in the hospital for a few days, and on the couch for several more.  I found it infuriating to be at the church nursery and hear that the child she was playing with had been up barfing all night.
  6. The “getting better” period can be worse than the really sick time.  When kids are really sick, they lie around and rest.  When they are getting better, they whine. They whine because they want to go outside and play. They whine because there’s nothing good on T.V.  They whine because they don’t feel well enough to play and they’re bored with lying around.  The best cure for the whining is wine (not for them, for you.)
  7. Never underestimate the power of sticker books.  When I was a kid and sick, my mother stopped at Thorin’s Hardware Store and bought sticker books, Wolly Willy, and paper dolls.  They made a week in bed with the measles a lot more tolerable.  Although my kids never got measles, when they got sick, I made similar purchases- stickers, round tipped scissors and colored paper were a refreshing change from television when the children were confined to bed.  Besides, paper chains are much more entertaining than daytime dramas.
  8. Understand that hospitalizations impact the whole family.  When Elizabeth was a little girl, she was frequently hospitalized.  During those days when she was confined to bed, I was desperate to keep her entertained, so I allowed her to do things she ordinarily would not do, like paint in bed and dust herself, her teddy bear and me with baby powder.  Her siblings visited her and found their little sister languishing in a no-rules environment and decided that life was grossly unfair that she got to be sick and they did not.  When we returned home, there was always an adjustment period. Elizabeth whined when she no longer ruled the castle. The other kids accused me of favoring her and holding her to a different behavior standard than they were used to.   Let’s face it-hospitalizations create chaos.  Sleep deprived parents are torn between the kid on the ward and the kids at home.  Nobody feels special.  Sibling rivalry and jealousy abound.  Everyone’s tired of eating Cheerios for dinner.  You might as well recognize the elephant in the room, talk about it, and reassure yourself and everyone else that things will return to normal.  Eventually.

In the end, I did survive all the childhood illnesses my kids experienced.  Now that they are grown, they take care of themselves if they are sick.  My days of feverish babies and puking toddlers are behind me.  I have earned my retirement from the bedpan brigade.  And now I can rest in the realization that when I’m really old and feeble, payback’s going to be a … Well, let’s just say that sticker books aren’t going to do the trick.

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 5, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in child rearing, food, vegetables, children, Uncategorized
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 5, 2012

http://gstoutimore.wordpress.com/2012/04/05/sick-daze/

April Fool!

Sunday was  April first and I was reminded of a rainy April Fools’ Day at the end of Dye House Hill.  My sister Martha-Jean and I had run all the way to the bus stop in order to play a joke on our friends.

As we stood in the drizzle, Martha-Jean pulled a small plastic bag from her pocket. The bag contained whole cloves from our mother’s pantry.  Taking a clove from the bag, she told the other children at the bus stop that they were candy and instructed them to put them into their mouths and bite hard.  Ever the cohort in crime, I nodded in agreement, while the kids jostled to be the first to bite into a woody brown morsel.  Soon, the group of children were gagging and spitting as the oil from the cloves hit their tongues and stuck in their teeth.  Curiously, everyone laughed and thought it a fine prank.  Thinking back on it, I’m not sure why they weren’t angry, but to them it was harmless and humorous, and no one was the worse for it.

Children love practical jokes.   I don’t mean bullying, or picking on someone smaller, or weaker, or less intelligent. I mean the kind of fun where everyone involved has a hearty laugh.  When my children were small, April Fool’s Day was a hugely popular holiday.  I remember one year in particular, when they were quite young.  The kids had heard their father tell stories about growing up in the Midwest and knew he had experienced several close encounters with poisonous snakes.  Knowing how much their daddy detested reptiles, they drew and cut out paper snakes and placed them around the master bedroom while he showered.  Then they sat at the kitchen table, snickering over their Cheerios, awaiting their father’s reaction.

Their dad reentered the bedroom, saw their handiwork, and not wanting to disappoint them, ran through the house screaming“Snake!  Snake!” as if he were terrified. The children chortled with glee, and yelled, “April Fool!” delighted that they had tricked their daddy,  and he winked at me over his coffee, equally delighted that he had pleased his little ones.

I might be wrong, but I think teaching children to have good-natured fun with each other is an integral part of their development.  When Gabe was still only a baby, he found great pleasure in the absurd.  While dressing him, I would put a sock on his head instead of his foot and he would convulse with giggles, relishing the unexpected.  Ashe got older, he picked up on more subtle humor, noticing the asides and double entendres on Sesame Street.    Now grown, he is witty and a bit snarky, and although he would rather plan a harmless practical joke, he doesn’t mind being the brunt of one.

I’ve heard parents object to joking with children, fearful that they will injure their self-esteem, but I think that by teaching them fun and fair teasing, we can teach our kids that it is okay to laugh at themselves.  True- some areas are out-of-bounds. I never joked about our children’s physical characteristics, or did things to make them appear stupid, or humiliate them.  I never joked about things that the children felt were important. I never mocked them, or made fun of them.  A joke is only a joke if everyone laughs.

One of my favorite practical jokes was a long running gag that I played on  Paul  C., who was a close friend from college.  I was an RA in the dorms and Paul was my supervisor.  He was a huge Kung Fu fan who not only practiced the art but religiously watched the television show that starred David Carradine.  In the opener to the show, the Kung Fu master teases his young student, nicknamed “Grasshopper” and tells him to take the pebbles from his hand. The student makes an attempt, but the master quickly swipes them away before the boy is able to remove them.  The teacher explains to his protégé, “When you can take the pebbles from my hand, then you will know it is time for you to go.”

Paul, who by then was a grad student, had been part of the resident life staff for several years.  We teased him about being a professional student, often telling him it was time for him to move on.  One day, when I picked up a message from the RA mail cubby, I had an idea.  Placing a few pebbles in Paul’s cubby, I left a note, “Grasshopper, it is time for you to go.”

When Paul found the pebbles and message, he had no idea who left them, or how to respond.  I waited several days and again left a few pebbles in his mailbox.  Again, it drove him crazy that he did not know who left the cryptic message.  For months, I snuck pebbles into his cubby, and he never guessed it was I.  To this day, I cannot look at little white pebbles without thinking of Paul and the fun I had.

In most instances I am indeed the mischievous perpetrator, but yesterday, I completely forgot it was April Fool’s Day.  I was in Nashville, visiting my daughter Abby and her husband Johnny, when my cell phone rang.  The caller was Gabe, who has a job as a resident director at a conservative university in Florida.  He sounded upset and asked if I was too busy to talk.

Although my children are grown, I am determined to be there for them, no matter what.  “Of course I‘m not too busy,” I answered.  “What’s going on?”

Haltingly, Gabe told me of a college prank gone wrong.  “Some kid left a bag at my door,” he explained.  “I won’t even tell you what was in it, but it was gross.”

I remembered what pranks were like when I was a college student.  They easily could be carried a few steps too far.

“The kid who left the bag showed up, laughing at me, and I lost it,” Gabe went on.  “I’ve just had it with their stupid juvenile stunts.  I got mad and threw the bag at the kid, and it hit him in the face.”

“Uh oh,” I thought.  Gabe usually has better control over his temper, but I  know he’s been working long hard hours.  “Maybe he’s been more stressed than I knew,” I mused.

“The Vice President of the college is on his way to see me.  I think I really messed up this time. I may lose my job.  I mean, I hit a student!”  His voice was flat, discouraged, worried.

My mind went into instant Mom mode.  In a nano-second I took stock of my finances, calculating how much it would cost to fly to Florida and help him move back to New Hampshire.  Before he finished his sentence, I had figured out how to rearrange the apartment to make room for his stuff.  He would need support now, not chastisement.  There would be time to talk out alternatives to violence later.

“You know what I’m going to say when he gets here?” Gabe asked.

“Gabe, don’t make things worse,” I thought.  “What?” I said aloud, dreading his hotheaded response.

“I’m going to say… ‘April Fool’!”  He burst into laughter.

Sometimes I think I should have raised puppies.

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 2, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on April 2, 2012

http://gstoutimore.wordpress.com/2012/04/02/april-fool/

Here’s to You! 10 Toasts from Momma G

Here’s to the winners of the human race           
Here’s to the losers in the game
Here’s to the soldiers of the bitter war
Here’s to the wall that bears their names

Here’s to you my little loves with blessings from above
Now let the day begin
Here’s to you my little loves with blessings from above
Let the day begin, let the day begin, let the day start

~Michael Kenneth Been- “The Call”

For as long as people have gathered together over a drink, we have saluted each other with a toast.  We toast to celebrate accomplishments.  We toast to remember those who have passed.  We toast to the newly born, we toast to love, we toast to live.  I thought about this as I listened to The Call sing “Let the Day Begin,” and wondered if I were given the opportunity to deliver several salutes, how would I toast?  Although I do admit to enjoying a Margarita now and then, my limited capacity for alcohol would allow me only ten toasts- and small sips at that.  Anyway,  here they are- in no particular order.  What are yours?

  1. To Mahatma Gandhi, for his unwavering commitment to nonviolent civil disobedience and determination to end poverty and liberate women.
  2. To Tom Harrington, Chick Martin and Anna Dalton- the high school English teachers who taught me that a grammatically correct sentence is the key to clear communication, and that the power of the written word should never be underestimated.
  3. To my siblings.  The quirkiest, oddest combination of adults gathered under one roof who know me well and love me just the same.
  4. To the Ratskeller; Southeastern Massachusetts University’s campus bar where I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed my harmonies set to Mary Gillen’s melodies. 
  5. To my father, Charles Madison, for teaching me to dream.  Never once did he discourage me from trying something new and different- even if it was a bit reckless and unsafe.  If not for him, I would not have had the courage to go to college, to join VISTA, to travel, or to celebrate my fifty-something year by experiencing a burning smoke house with a bunch of twenty-something recruits.  They may have been faster, more agile and had less muscle pain the next day, but I definitely had the most fun.
  6. To the Monson Library, whose granite walls held far away worlds I could visit whenever I wanted.
  7. To Mother Theresa, who raised the bar for putting faith into action, and showed the world that size and station have nothing to do with the capacity to love.
  8. To Philo T. Farnsworth and Vladimir Zworykin.  The jury’s still out as to which one of these men is really responsible for inventing television, but suffice to say, their combined efforts have filled my life with music, dance, adventure and drama with just the click of a remote control’s button.
  9. To my mother, whose endless nurturing and acceptance  taught me that love is an act rather than a feeling, and that freely given, its return has immeasurable bounty.
  10. To my children.   I thought I knew how to love before my children were born, but without them, I would only have scratched the surface.  They have brought out the worst and the best in me, tried my patience, pushed me to tears, made my heart swell and brought meaning to every moment of my life.  I will love them forever, even if they do leave dirty dishes in the sink. 

Cheers!

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by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on March 26, 2012  •  Permalink
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Posted by Garrie Madison Stoutimore on March 26, 2012

http://gstoutimore.wordpress.com/2012/03/26/heres-to-you-10-things-to-toast/

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