If Sr. Martha Was Right, My Kids Are a Real Snooze

I am the parent of two of the brightest candles on the cake, two of the sharpest knives in the drawer, and two of brightest bulbs in the marquis of motherhood. These future captains of industry, United States presidents, Nobel Prize winners, or better mousetrap builders are, in my humble opinion, destined to accomplish great things. Why, just look at their picture!

How is it then, that these two mothers of invention (Sydney, age 15 and Jon, age 13) can’t come up with one simple plan to alleviate their occasional run-ins with boredom? Why is it their mother, not nearly as clever as they, who is expected to come up with the solution?

Jon actually had the audacity to tell me one day that he was so bored, the only thing keeping him awake was the discomfort he felt from being bored.

“Read,” I suggest to them. They say. “Nah.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” I offer. They say, “We don’t feel like it.”

“Go do something together,” I urge. They gasp, “Yuck!”

One day, after an exchange very similar to those above, I shared with my offspring what Sr. Martha used to tell us back in high school: “When you’re bored, you’re boring,” she would say.

As I quoted Sr. Martha to the kids, I thought how cleverly I was throwing the ball back in their court. Throw a ball; no, they'd shoot that idea down. Skeet shooting; hey, how about that? “Too loud,” they’d complain.

Even Sr. Martha’s retort, enough of a verbal slap back in the day to straighten my friends and me right up, was met by my youth of today with sullen, unfazed silence. If Sr. Martha was right, and Sr. Martha was always right, then my kids can be a couple of real snoozers. 

Though their boredom is neither my responsibility nor my fault, I am endeavoring to come up with a list of activities guaranteed to blast out the bilge of boredom and restore the busy bee buzz that happily engaged kids generate. Following is the list I’ve come up with so far and I can be ready to implement it at a moment’s notice.

Mother Teece’s Boredom Busters:

• Make water balloons and use them to play dodge ball.
• Paint each other’s faces with washable markers.
• Groom the cat - a friendly and patient cat (or dog) is required for this activity since trips to the E.R. do not constitute good boredom busters. 
• Script and then shoot a movie using their phones, laptops or cameras.
• Make a house of cards.
• Visit an elderly neighbor and offer to help with errands or yard work.

Now . . . following is an alternate list that I often wish I could trot out. I call it:

Mother Teece’s House of Horrors Boredom Busters

• Force your children to sit through every Barney, Blues Clues, and Dora the Explorer episode you had to watch with them when they were toddlers.
• Make plans together for you to ride the bus with them to school, then coordinate your outfits just to make the trip more fun.
• Hold hands with them and skip past the basketball game the kids up the street are playing.

Granted, my real list isn't very lengthy, nor, you might argue, as inspired as my alternate list, but I plan to keep working on both until they're as long and as priceless as the Mayflower Madame's client register combined  with Heidi Fleiss' little black book. 

Other parents no doubt can come up with even better ideas than these, but if they're ever feeling stuck, they can borrow my list. EITHER ONE THEY WANT.

Juny, We Hardly Knew Ye

Juniper was a Christmas present from me to my daughter, Syd, who joyously picked her out from among all the other guinea pigs at the pet shop. She was still a baby guinea pig and quite small, even as guinea pigs go. She was a funny-looking, short-haired, furry piece of patchwork with white, black, and tan splotches and shiny, beady little eyes.

Juniper

As far as Syd was concerned, nothing was too good for Juny, and with her own money, she bought Juny a roomy cage with a ramp, plenty of toys, and nutritious little treats. Juny, who was no dope, quickly learned on which side her bread was buttered and whistled merrily whenever Syd walked in the room.

But I don't think Juny saw merely a meal ticket in Syd. She seemed to genuinely like Syd, who took a hands-on approach in caring for Juny, including plenty of time exploring the apartment, snuggling in Syd's lap, or nestled in Syd's gentle hands. 

The other day, I was at work and got the kind of call parents dread, the kind where you know it's one of your kids. All you hear is sobbing on the other end, and you can't understand what they're saying. It was Syd, who finally managed to tell me that Juny was dying. 

In the car, my mind flashed back three years to when Syd and her brother, Jon were in the park with their pet rabbit, and a dog snatched it off Syd's lap and killed it right there in front of both kids. It took all of us days to even begin to move past that, and even now it's upsetting to think about. I wondered if Syd was flashing back, too.

At a red light, I consulted my phone and got the address for the closest emergency animal hospital. I called Syd en route and told her to wrap Juny in a towel and get ready to come to the car. When I saw Syd, my heart broke. She was chalk white, her eyes were swollen, and she was holding a tiny bundle close to her heart.

As soon as Syd was in the car and buckled in, I peeled out of there, and once I felt I could avert my eyes from traffic, I looked at Juny lying in the towel, face poking out, nose pale. I reached over and brushed my finger along her cheek.

"What is going on with you, Juny? What are you trying to prove?" As I spoke these words to this so sick guinea pig, I kept my voice very soft because I had this idiotic feeling that she could understand and would think I really was blaming her for putting us to all this trouble and making us feel so awful. And then, of course, I started to bawl.

"Mom, please don't cry," Syd said, her huge, teary, saucer eyes staring hard at me. "I'll lose it if you cry. Please stop." So, I focused on the road and tried to do as she asked. I didn't do it very well.

"I wonder what happened," I said, reaching over again to stroke the little face.

"Maybe I didn't clean her cage often enough," my daughter said, and shame at the very idea hung in her voice. "When I saw her, I took her out of the cage and held her and kept saying, 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.'"

"No, Syd. You took very good care of her. It wasn't anything like that."

And then, as it usually does when one comforts children with dead or dying pets, the question of an afterlife came up. But I was the one who needed reassurance.

"I think Juny's headed someplace nice, don't you?" I asked.

Syd's answer was emphatic. "The Rainbow Bridge." She said this as if God Himself consulted her before commissioning it.

"The what?"

"The Rainbow Bridge," she repeated. "It's a bridge where pets go when they die to wait for their owners. When their owners die, they meet at the bridge and cross over together into Heaven."

"Oh, Syd, that sounds like a really great place," I said. "I'm sure that's where Juny's headed."

We arrived at the hospital, rushed Juny in, and were immediately whisked to a room. I was handed a form to fill out while Syd sat, distraught in a chair and Juny lay motionless on the exam table, still wrapped in the towel.

The vet scooted into the room, bent over Juny, and laid a stethoscope against the tiny rib cage. "What happened?" she asked, and since she seemed to be asking Juny, neither Syd nor I answered. We didn't know what happened anyway, so we wouldn't have been much help. The vet straightened up and said, "I think she's gone."

"You don't need to fill out the rest of that form," the vet tech said, relieving me of the form and the clipboard. Suddenly, and more than anything, I, who hate forms, wanted to fill it out because filling out a form implied that Juny still had a chance.

"Would you like us to dispose of her?" asked the tech.

"I don't know. What do people usually do?" I asked.

"Well, some people take them home and bury them," she replied. "Or we can have her cremated and give you back the ashes."

"How much would that cost?" I asked the tech who went away to look up the price. While she was out of the room, I walked to Juny and gently pulled back the towel. 

'How could a newly dead guinea pig look so different from her living self?' I pondered. A spark was gone, some spark beyond motion and breath. Even her fur seemed duller and her body flatter.

I'm sure there are dozens of physiological reasons for all of that and that one would have to be a giant optimist or a pure idiot to find reassurance in Juny's new corporeal state. I'm hoping that it was optimism, but know that at times, I have been a pure idiot.

So, I'm not saying I took Juny's physical transformation as proof that a spirit once inhabited that little form, but I still felt reassured. I stroked the little face some more as if stroking it could give Juny comfort. But Juny was probably already hightailing it to the Rainbow Bridge and couldn't care less if I was stroking her face.

The tech came back, consulting a paper on her clipboard. She was searching for the price category covering Junies weighing less than 12 ounces.

"That would be $100," she said, glancing up at me.

One-hundred dollars? The sum rang in my head. One-hundred dollars to cremate one little guinea pig, a guinea pig that was small even as guinea pigs go? A guinea pig that only cost $40 when she was alive?

"Okay, that's what we'll do," I said, handing her my debit card. But really, one-hundred dollars?

"Mom," Syd whispered, "that's too expensive. I don't mind burying her." But I couldn't expect her to bury Juny, and I sure didn't want to do it. And we'd have to get permission from the apartment managers and then buy or borrow a shovel. I just didn't have it in me to do all that.

"It's okay, Syd. This way you'll always have her with you." The tech left the room then came back, loaded down with little boxes.

"These are your choices for storing the ashes," she said. 

With the exception of a little coffin-shaped box, each tiny container looked suspiciously like a cookie tin from our local dollar store. It crossed my mind to offer up my own cookie tin if it would cut down on the cost, but I chose the high ground and kept my mouth shut.

"Which one do you want, Syd?" I asked.

"That one," said my daughter, pointing to one I had somehow overlooked. It was actually a lovely little metal box and Syd did well to have chosen it.

"Oh, that's a nice one," commented the tech. "That's the Rainbow Bridge design. I like that one, too." 

If the Rainbow Bridge was famous enough that there was even an "urn" named after it, maybe God really had commissioned it.

"The cremation people will come here for her on Monday and you can pick her up again on Thursday." 

Pick her up again on Thursday. The tech said it as though we were just sending Juny out to be groomed, and she'd be back on Thursday all spruced up.

"Syd, if it would help, I'll buy you another guinea pig tonight," I offered.

"I don't know, Mom," she said. "I think I need to wait a while; not just for myself but out of respect for Juny."

And so it was that we came to wait for . . . three . . . whole . . . days. When you're used to having something in your life that you can scoop up and love on a whim, there's a hole left when it's gone. Syd picked out a Netherland dwarf rabbit. So far, she has yet to name him officially, but his working moniker is Prince Charming. He is rather dashing, especially when we try to catch him and put him in his cage. So maybe that's the name she'll keep.

So, as Prince Charming settles in, we still remember Juny. If I'd thought she felt well enough to listen on the way to the vet, I'd have given her a heads up about our other "pals with paws" who'd gone before her, and some advice for when she met them at the Rainbow Bridge.

I'd have said, "Bill and Clawdia are good cats, but Bill will think himself too cool to show any interest in you at first, and Clawdia gets lost easily, so don't let her wander far from the bridge. Thumper is the rabbit who had that unfortunate run-in with a husky, so I doubt he'll be hanging out near the dogs. Then again, he probably has some kind of double jeopardy protection in the afterlife and can't get hurt again, but who could blame him if he steers clear? And please tell him we're sorry he got stuck with such an unoriginal name, but he already had that name when we adopted him."

Some might think it silly to take the death of a guinea pig so seriously, or to write about it with such gravity. To those people I say it's probably been too long since you last held such a tiny creature in your hands, or heard it whistle when you walked into the room.

Emile, Are You There? It's Me, Nellie!

When my marriage ended and the dust finally settled, my kids told me I should try online dating. Inwardly I groaned, but I have to admit, I was curious. It had been nearly 20 years since I'd last dated; my mind, face, body, my very psyche for that matter were different now - in some ways better and in some ways not. What kind of men would I attract? Would I attract any? Who might be out there who would make sense as the other half of a couple with me?

When I met my ex-husband, my weight was a healthy 140 pounds or so and I was in my late thirties. But during my second pregnancy at age 43, I developed gestational diabetes, a condition which resolved itself after the birth of the baby, but which had left my metabolism so wildly out of control, that my weight ballooned to over 250 pounds. Despite consulting an endocrinologist, and doing everything she told me to do, including exercise, the most weight I ever lost at any given time was six pounds - honest: six pounds. And every time I lost those six pounds, they would fly back and wrap themselves around me faster than you can say, "big mama."

I'm sure the life stressors we all cope with were part of the problem, too, and that I sought too much solace at the bottom of a bag of chips, but overall, I tried very hard to eat in a way which should have landed me at a healthy weight but just couldn't seem to succeed.

Eventually, I opted for bariatric surgery and my weight dropped to something somewhere in the chunky range. Then divorce stressors replaced family stressors and I lost about thirty pounds without even meaning to. So when my kids started nudging me towards online dating, I was thinner than I could ever remember being as an adult; about a size eight. But that weight fluctuation had led to a confused self-image, so I often stared in hard-blinking amazement at pictures of the handsome men approaching me on the dating sites I'd chosen. Why were they attracted to me, I wondered. I won't mention the sites by name, but they rhyme with Scratch.com and No Way, Stupid.

But it's funny (and not in the hah-hah way) that I could learn so much about the mysteries of physical attraction at such a late stage of life; sometimes more than I wanted to. Some men who reached out to me online seemed to think the heavens had opened up to deposit me in front of them. Then again, one man I dated struggled with his lack of physical attraction to me while feeling very connected to me "emotionally and intellectually."

Hearing this hurt, so when he finally managed to articulate this concern, I grappled for my dignity, sat up straight in my pen and demurely folded my hooves atop my udder. And it was a herculean effort to limit my weeping to only one set of my six eyes.

Then, one night he and I had dinner with his sister who was chatting me up as we waited for a table. "So you met my brother on Scratch.com?"

"That's right," I smiled.

"I never had any luck on Scratch," she mused.

"Neither did I," I said. 

And then we all laughed and laughed and laughed. I was joking - mostly, but zinging him a little felt good. I have to say, though, that knowing him was very much worth the jab to my ego and he proved himself a wonderful friend. And one of my most honest, damn him.

But really . . . Who can explain it? Who can tell you why? Fools give you reasons; wise men never try. Oh, wait, that was Emile De Becque serenading Nellie Forbush in South Pacific. Some Enchanted Evening was the song. And that was physical attraction the way it should be.

Now, if I could just find my Emile De Becque, I might even be willing to change my name to Nellie Forbush. Then again, maybe just Nellie.

Me and Martha and Stan and Ollie

It once appeared that I was on a Martha Stewart-like career trajectory, the likes of which have not been seen since - well - since Martha Stewart. 

The birth of my daughter seemed to trigger a hormone-fueled artistic binge and I started painting, took up photography and, most amazing to me anyway, started designing my own hand-painted pillows. When I was making the first two or three, I didn’t even know what the sewing term, “right sides together” meant. I just happened to trip into an explanation of it while watching a craft show on HGTV, to which, now that I was both wife AND mother, I had become doubly addicted. 

In case you’re not a sewer, putting the right sides together means that, in effect, you’re sewing something together inside-out, then, just before you’ve stitched it all the way around, you stick your hand in, turn the item right-side-out and then sew up the last little bit. That way, your stitches don’t show. 

Hearing that explanation of right sides together came as a huge epiphany and explained why most sewn items look the way they do. Who knew? Most people, probably, but that was beside the point because now I knew, too. And now my pillows would be a lot more professional-looking and there would be no stopping me. After I'd made a few more pillows, I asked the opinion of an interior decorator who told me that they were worth over a hundred dollars apiece. Could she have been drunk, I asked myself later. No, I didn't think so. 

I am a great lover of the comedy team, Laurel and Hardy, and one day, I took a piece of cloth and painted onto it their likenesses as they had appeared in The Music Box, a short from 1932. In it, Stan and Ollie struggle to haul a clunky, crated, upright piano up a seemingly endless flight of steps. I never did perfect my Stan, but my Ollie looked just like him, even if I do say so myself. When I finished painting the cloth, I put it in the dryer to set the paint, then sewed it (right sides together) onto another piece of fabric and stuffed it. I really liked this pillow.

One day, I screwed up all my courage, tucked that pillow under my arm and walked into a shop that specialized in movie memorabilia. Timidly, I asked the owner if he would put it up for sale. He looked at the pillow dubiously – I mean, who could blame him. After all, people aren't exactly clamoring for Laurel and Hardy-themed pillows. If he put it in his shop window and a crowd gathered, it would have to be because the pillow had spontaneously combusted. So, he wouldn't buy it from me, but he would display the pillow in the store and give me most of the money if it sold. 

I left the shop feeling as victorious as Martha Stewart must have after her first bake sale because now a new Martha had been born! One day, I would be a guest on Martha's show where she would complement my pillows and I would gush over her edible gold-, silver- and copper-leaf hand-dipped Christmas cookies. Yes I would. Oh, my head was filled with visions of pillows and Martha, of Martha and pillows. 

It wasn't long after, that my then-husband, Michael and I celebrated our wedding anniversary and when Michael presented me with a wrapped bundle, he was apologizing.

“Teece, I hope you’re not insulted or upset. Believe me, I had all the best intentions.”

Now, Michael always said Teece-I-hope-you're-not-insulted-or-upset-Believe-me-I-had-all-the-best-intentions any time he'd just done something insulting or upsetting - or potentially divorce-worthy. But when I opened the gift, my heart filled with love. He had paid $90 for that pillow just so he could give it back to me for our anniversary. 

But wait a minute, that was sweet and touching and all, but if launching my Martha Stewart-style business empire meant my husband was going to be buying back the product line piece by piece, the future of my enterprise looked bleak. But I was fine with this thoughtful gesture. After all, it was a sign of a strong marriage when one spouse cared enough for the other to ruin that spouse's chances at a billion dollar hand-painted pillow empire. And I'd have done the same for Michael. So yes, I was okay with it. 

Anyway, I got the pillow in the divorce. And these days, like the artist who created it, that pillow, as you can see, is a little worse for wear.  The paint is worn and smeary-looking and the pillow itself is now flat and lumpy; again, a lot like the artist. But the pillow has become very special to my daughter who keeps it on her bed. So yes, I am still okay with it. 

And I guess it really is the thought that counts – in this case, all the way up to ninety bucks.