Happy Birthday

November 28, 2009 at 3:39 pm (michelle yauger)

Today is my daughter’s 18th birthday. I’m a little baffled by this milestone, since I can remember so vividly the day Tessa was born, yet cannot tell you what I had for lunch yesterday. We’re making a big deal about her birthday because turning 18 doesn’t have that many perks. She can now buy cigarettes but doesn’t smoke. She can vote — okay, that one is a big deal. She doesn’t need parental permission for the tattoo she’s getting right this minute. (For those who have been following along, she finally did concede to get it in a rarely-visible location.) And there’s a family dinner and cake, but it all falls short somehow.

I feel this birthday of hers a little more intensely than the ones that have come before. I’m not wistful about her growing up because she’s been more grown up than most of us since the day she was born. Most of her life I’ve done little more than keep her fed and watered, like you would a philodendron. The rest she did by herself. Rather than wistful, I feel a completely undeserved pride in having witnessed her life over the past 18 years.

Since she was little, Tessa’s been the bravest girl I’ve ever met. If a situation is difficult, she doesn’t avoid it — she stares it down. Before she could swim, she was pushing me away in the deep water so she could do it herself. Tall slides didn’t scare her. Neither did big dogs or big brothers or being the only 13-year old in her community college classes. A few years ago, she travelled without us to see her Uncle Jeff, where she rode a Harley and learned to shoot a gun. Jeff said the only time she ever got pouty during that visit was when she ran out of ammo.

And if she decides to do a thing, it gets done. Tessa raised a Guide Dog puppy for a year when she was only 11 years old, taking responsibility for all the requirements for the dog’s socialization and training. When she went to college at such a young age, she kept track of what assignments needed to be done and when her tests were scheduled with no reminders from me. A few months ago, when I offered her an opportunity to try living in an apartment with her brother before she leaves for school next fall, she did the research, made the phone calls, and had a place picked out in three days.

She’s also incredibly level-headed for a person so young. We’ve given Tessa freedoms over the years that would horrify most parents — no curfew, for instance — and she’s generally set limits for herself that were more conservative than what we’d have given her. In her entire adolescence, we’ve told her “no” twice. Maybe. The rest of the time, we’ve trusted her judgment and she’s never disappointed us.

She’s articulate, funny and beautiful, open-minded, adventuresome, and one of my favorite travel companions. She’s affectionate and loves her friends and family intensely.

After Thanksgiving dinner last year, which was my mother’s last holiday with us, Tessa offered to drive Mom home. Before Tessa had returned from dropping her off, my phone rang. It was Mom.

“I want you to know you’ve got some girl there,” she said. “She insisted on walking me to my apartment even though I told her I could do it, and she held the umbrella for me so my hair didn’t get wet. I just wanted to let you know how wonderful she is before I forgot.”

Tessa rolled her eyes when I conveyed the compliment. She didn’t think it was a big deal. But those of us who love her know how lucky we are to have her. Mom knew too.

Happy birthday, sweetie.

2 Comments

Lest We Forget Those Who Served

November 11, 2009 at 1:49 pm (michelle yauger, veterans, world war II)

Paris, France - March 29 1945

In honor of my father, Milford Allen Yauger, who served in the United States Army with the 60th Engineer Combat Battalion, 35th Infantry Division, from 1942 – 1945.

There are approximately 2 million surviving WWII service men and women, but we’re losing them at a rate of nearly 1000 per day.

************************************************

Headquarters, 60th Engineer Combat Battalion

APO 35                            US Army

7 May 1945

To: The Officers and Men of the 60th Engineer Combat Battalion

We have travelled a long way since our landing on the Normandy beach head. Like a spoke in a great wheel, we have been a vital part of the “Santa Fe” Division. Our battles and our accomplishments have made history. Those of you who have been with the battalion since we landed on the continent will never forget Hill 122 at St. Lo; the motor park incident at Mortain; the breakthrough and the motor marches of eighty to one hundred miles which took us from Mortain to Le Mans and on east toward Chateaudum and Oleans; the three hundred foot, tremendously mined and booby-trapped abatis at Montargis; the assault of the Moselle and Meurthe Rivers; Nancy and Sarreguimines; our bitter fight eastward and the subsequent assault of the Sauze River.

From Petit-Tenquin in Lorraine to Habkirchen, Germany, we put the doughs [infantry] of the “Santa Fe” Division over three fiercely defended rivers in eights days and constructed vehicular bridges in the face of vicious enemy fire. In the Battle of the Bulge and the fight from the Roer to the Rhine, we supported the attack and assisted in the capture of numerous bridges on the attack routes.

Your constant display of aggressiveness was a manifestation of the spirit of this division which is expressed in its motto “ATTACK.” You have piloted the boats that carried assault troops of the 35th Division and built bridges across fifteen viciously defended water barriers from Normandy into Germany.

We heard the beginning of the death rattle of the German military machine in the Ruhr pocket and in our march to the banks of the Elbe — the last gateway to Berlin. But Berlin was destined to be a May Day gift for the Russians.

We have accomplished all our missions in a manner of which we may be justly proud.

But our accomplishments have not been made without losses. We have left behind us many comrades who fought for the hard-earned peace that has at last arrived. We shall continue their endeavors in order that THIS peace will be a lasting one and that “they may not have died in vain.”

Your noteworthy achievements are deserving of the highest praise. I am extremely proud of your magnificent performance. To those who remain and to those who have stepped up to carry on, I give my congratulations in the successful completion of a most difficult task.

A representative of the German High Command, at 0141 hours, 7 May 1945, signed a document surrendering to all three of the major powers effective 0001 hours, 9 May 1945. All offensive operations will cease at once. Troops will remain in place. Occupying forces will continue their present duties. As German troops may not be aware of this surrender, full defensive precautions will be taken. No press releases until announced by SHAEF.

/signed/

Philip Botchin

Lt. Colonel CE

Commanding

4 Comments

Marital Capital

November 9, 2009 at 4:51 pm (marital capital, marriage, michelle yauger, relationship)

I may have coined a new phrase this week, so if you see it sprouting up in the lexicon over the next few months, remember you saw it here first: marital capital. It arose in a Facebook exchange with my friend Judy when I told her that my husband had taken me to a concert on Saturday. She was impressed with his initiative.

“OK, when you say Mike took you, does that mean he asked you to go and he bought the tickets?” (Apparently this type of dating behavior is rarely demonstrated by men who have been married longer than five minutes.)

“Yes…he’ll be at work day and night again for a few days this week and is trying to build — what’s the phrase — marital capital.”

It seems an odd juxtaposition of words at first, and highly unromantic, but the more I explore the meanings of capital, the better I like it. Here are some other uses of the word.

There’s financial capital, which is “money available to build and grow a retail business. These liquid assets represent the amount of ownership and risk in a business.”

Political capital is “the opinion of another person, group of people, or nation about you, your organization, or your government.”

And we have social capital, a sociological term so fuzzy that it nearly defies definition. Here’s the best I could find: “connections between individuals and entities that can be…valuable. Social networks that include people who trust and assist each other can be a powerful asset.”

If you’re chafing against the analogy of marriage to a concept so grounded in economics, buck up for a minute because it’s about to get worse. Ratios.

Specifically the 5:1 rule, based on some research I heard about several years ago. According to a study by John Gottman, successful marriages aren’t dependent on the parties behaving nicely all the time. Even couples who argue frequently can still be content in their relationships if the number of pleasant events they experience together outweighs the unpleasant ones by a ratio of 5:1. So, difficult people can still have happy marriages — they just need to “bank” more good times to offset their bad moments.

This was excellent news, since I am one of those difficult people. I swear too much, hold impossibly high standards, and like to have my own way because my way is best. A lot of husbands complain that they never know what their wives are thinking, while mine probably wishes he didn’t know so much about what’s on my mind. I require lots of attention, except when I need to be left alone. I often trip over the line between being helpful and being critical. Under severe stress, I default to my crankiest, most selfish behaviors  – all at once. My dear departed mother used to refer to my husband as “poor Mike.”

Unfortunately there’s only so much malleability left in a personality once one has reached her Middle Ages. I can make small changes in my behavior but really, most of these dents in my paint job are here to stay. So I modify what I can, and the rest of the time, I work like crazy to build marital capital by doing things that make him happy, which I keep in the bank for the inevitable moments when we will need it.

Like today, for instance. The first thing I said to my husband this morning was, “That shirt is terrible. The neck is all frayed. You cannot wear that to work.” Poor Mike. But apparently the stores of marital capital were high enough that he didn’t take offense, changed the shirt, and actually thanked me for my observations. I’m not sure which positive things worked to negate the criticism, but I’m glad they were there.

I do keep a list in my head. He likes my cooking, especially the baking. He prefers that I fold his underwear, even though I don’t see the point. He thrives on lots of hugging, kissing and sex, not necessarily in that order. He likes being able to talk to me about whatever’s on his mind, and he’s grateful that I grit my teeth and support his ongoing relationships with certain members of his family whose company I don’t enjoy.

While I’m earning credit for doing these things, Mike’s busy racking up points he’ll need later, too. He has been overworked and distracted for most of the past three months, and this week at work will be especially hectic for him. So last weekend, he took me to a concert, ignoring my cheapskate objections to the cost of the tickets. We went for a bike ride the next day and had an impromptu picnic in the park. He leaves me a note nearly every morning before he leaves, and he tells me he loves me every time he calls. This week may be rough, but at least I’m starting with a full tank.

So why call it marital capital? Look at those definitions again. Marital capital is what we use to build and grow a marriage, and demonstrates our ownership of it. It’s created by generating goodwill between partners who trust and assist each other. And, as with other kinds of capital, it’s important to keep a certain level in reserve even as you’re spending some of it on a daily basis.

5 Comments

The Value of Doing Stuff

November 5, 2009 at 6:01 pm (homemaking, michelle yauger, needlework, value of making things)

One of the gifts of having grandparents is that they provide us living examples of skills and values from another time. I nearly missed this experience since all my biological grandparents had died by the time I was 7 years old. But I was lucky. The grandmother I remember best was Ethel Connors, a woman not related to us who became family in all the ways that matter. She was born July 28, 1896, and our relationship was the strongest connection I had to women of her generation. They don’t make grandmas like her now, ones who know how to do stuff. Modern grandmas buy stuff.

Grandma Connors came of age in the early 1900s, an era when young women learned what now seems a mind-boggling array of domestic skills. She could sew by hand and machine. She crocheted and did tatting, a form of lace-making done with an impossibly small hook. She taught me how to knit, embroider and quilt by hand, always reminding me to make the stitches tiny and straight. When she was a young woman, Grandma Connors said, she’d have sewing contests with her friends to see whose stitches were the smallest. It was best if you couldn’t see them at all.

Table runner embroidered for Mother's Day, ca. 1970

Table runner I embroidered for Mother's Day, ca. 1970

She could also re-cane chairs; fix a pork roast and gravy that are still unequalled; and every Christmas, she made these cookies using something like a branding iron dipped in batter that was then deep-fried. Grandma Connors was a woman possessing such varied skills, she even knew how to cook the squirrels her husband occasionally brought home — although she never could make them smell like something I’d want to put in my mouth.

My friend Karole’s parents, Bill and Elaine Edwards, also knew how to do stuff. The year after Karole bought her first house, her parents, then in their 70s, spent several days helping her lay two different types of flooring in the kitchen and living areas, installed a dishwasher and new countertops, tiled the bathroom floor, hung wallpaper and put up ceiling fans. (They also painted, but this was one area where they did not shine, eschewing the usual taping and tarping for “we’ll scrape up those drips later.”) Elaine could sew, quilt, and her mashed potatoes were legendary. She’s probably fixing them in heaven these days — really, what kind of heaven would it be if her mashed potatoes weren’t there?

Grandma Connors stitched on the lace, but you can hardly see the stitches.

I’m reminiscing about these people because with each passing generation, fewer and fewer of us know how to make things. Doing is not what we care about anymore. Culturally, we measure ourselves not by what we know how to do, but by how much we can buy.

In fact, knowing how to make or fix things has fallen so low, it’s almost an embarrassment to be caught at it. Those of us who sew or cook are throwbacks. When people see us doing these things, they make remarks like, “Well, aren’t you the domestic one?” in a tone that doesn’t sound so complimentary. Why fix what you could replace, or bake what you could purchase ready-made? Why would you turn the collar on a shirt when a new button-down is so cheap at WalMart? Who in the world knows how to darn a woolen sock anymore?

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I do.

I can also knit a sweater, cut my husband’s hair, and do a passable job of refinishing a piece of furniture. I bake bread. I can make a rag rug and pull together a respectable vegetarian dinner from some rice, frozen spinach, seasonings, and a little yogurt. When a pair of pants is too “gappy” at the waist, or too long or wide in the legs, I can alter them. I bake my family’s birthday cakes every year, and the adults get one made from scratch, including the frosting.

My first quilt attempt, next the doll's afghan Grandma Connors crocheted

This can’t be called bragging since none of these skills is held in high regard anymore. It’s like announcing that I know how to repair a wagon wheel or mend the stays in your corset. Quaint, but not much in demand. In order to fit into this century, I should probably get a full-time job so I can earn some money to pay someone else to make, do, or fix stuff for us. But I probably won’t.

One reason is, there is no heart in the sweater you buy at Macy’s. Sorry, but no matter how nice a person you are, the woman who runs the knitting machine in China does not think about you as she works. But if your sister knits a scarf that you later discover is perfect for cold days when you’re riding your Harley, it’s a bonus gift: functional, with a little love added. The same is true for the bread made by the bakery versus the loaf your friend made for your party because she knows how much you like it. One fills your stomach — the other gives you that, plus something extra.

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Sometimes the extra comes in the form of a story about working on something together. My daughter knows how to paint like a pro because she has done every room in the house with me over the years. She has plenty of stories about it. If you ask her about the time we painted the TV room, then I hated the color so we re-painted it again the following year, you’ll really get an earful. Last year, daunted by the need to paint the entire house at one time, I had it done professionally. It looked great but left us with no Tahitian Tan in our hair and no tales to tell.

I find something deeply satisfying in being competent at these skills. It keeps me connected to the talented women who shared their knowledge about how to take care of a family and a home, even though they’re gone now. I never sew anything by hand without hearing Grandma Connors’ voice reminding me to make tiny stitches. Every time I bake brownies, I use my mother’s recipe and her wooden spoon and watch the sugar dissolve into the melted chocolate just the way it did when we made them together 40 years ago.

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And as I do these things, I hope I’m making some memories for my family as well. Perhaps my daughter will save the doll’s quilt I made for her because she can still feel the love in it, even though she’s all grown up now. My son might sew a button on his shirt and think of how I taught him to do it. And maybe one of these days, my mashed potatoes will be legendary.

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Facing Down the Fall Funk

October 26, 2009 at 6:41 pm (michelle yauger)

In the desert, the change of season from summer to fall is subtler than people experience in other climates. We’re still wearing shorts during the day but now have to put on a jacket in the mornings and evenings. When the high temp is in the low 80s, we’re thrilled at how nicely things are cooling off. These are the signs. We can sit outside on our patios again, the skies are dark by 6:30 PM, and I’ve been in a funk. This is how I know it’s fall.

The funk hits every year around the end of September and lasts for several weeks. It may have some connection to the anniversary of my father’s death, although the date came and went this year without my consciously noticing it. Perhaps the emotions have their own calendar.

And the funk seems to have its own agenda as well, regardless of circumstances. Last fall, I was overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for my mother while trying to meet my husband and kids’ needs at the same time. In that funk, I felt consumed and exhausted by my own sense of obligation. This year, with the kids moved out and Mom gone, most of last year’s “problems” no longer exist. Yet here I am facing down the funk again, so obviously it’s not the situation but my head that’s responsible.

Ah, the inside of my head…a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. The good thing about being an overthinker is that it often helps me make connections other people have trouble with. The bad part is that the mind’s terrain can also be treacherous, and some places are downright scary. This year’s funk has left me stranded in some rocky, inhospitable territory wishing somebody would throw me a rope. I’m the youngest child, you know — we like to be rescued.

But first, someone would have to know I’m down here and most of the time, only a couple people do. My acting skills are so well-developed that it can be difficult to discern when I’m in trouble, and really, I hate to bother you. And when I see friends, I want to be distracted from the junk in my head, not dwell on it, so the topic of my temporary emotional imbalance rarely arises. This is where I’ve been for weeks: hanging out in hostile territory and making jokes to keep anyone from noticing how precarious my footing is.

Like many annual events, funks have a theme. Last year, I slogged through My Life is Not My Own for several weeks. This year, it’s an uphill climb through No Guts/No Glory, during which I ponder questions about courage and accomplishment that cast me in a distinctly unfavorable light. This topic is so demanding that I have to stop to catch my breath every few steps, which makes the climb take way longer than I’d like. At times like this, I fucking hate introspection.

When problems originate from the outside, I’m all for facing them down directly and being done with them. But the relentlessness of a funk, where the struggle can replay itself thousands of times a day, demands distraction. A person can only listen to so many refrains of the same song.

There are a couple of competing voices in my head pointing the way out of this funk. One of them snaps, “Stop whining or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Good for keeping perspective about what constitutes genuine suffering, but otherwise not so helpful.

So I listen to my mother instead. Mom was an expert at living through difficult times and, like Scarlett O’Hara, she always believed tomorrow would be a better day. She was also a pro at faking a good mood until it became real. If she were here (and perhaps she is), she’d tell me to keep busy. She’d point out that it’s not good for anyone to spend all day alone, so I should get out of the house more. She’d tell me to put on some lipstick even if nobody sees me all day except the teller at the bank. She’d remind me to focus on helping someone else.

I do it. I let myself feel awful for awhile, then make a list of projects to complete, like write blog post and shower before noon. I spend a little more time in acute self-pity, then volunteer at the hospice office where they think I am absolutely fantastic because I can alphabetize. I hike with the dogs and take a part-time job to create more reasons to leave the house. I spend a few hours every Friday with a 94-year old hospice patient who God-blesses me all the way into next week. I fix my hair and iron my clothes so I’ll look good even if I don’t feel good. I plan a party I don’t want to attend and have a surprisingly great time.

I do what my mother would tell me to do until suddenly, as of this morning, I’m out of the funk. There’s still plenty of work to do on the questions that arose from it, but the process now seems manageable. Apparently faking it isn’t always a bad thing. Thanks, Mom.

We all carry other people’s words around with us, especially the ones we heard in childhood from those who mattered most to us. Some of those words are painful and can take a lifetime to unlearn. Other things we heard years ago can give us the strength to keep going when we’re at the end of our own resources. It’s a pleasant surprise to discover that Mom’s voice is now the strongest one I hear. Perhaps somebody threw me a rope after all.

6 Comments

Dear Dog Owner

October 16, 2009 at 10:59 am (dog attack, michelle yauger, responsible dog ownership)

Dear Dog Owner,

I hope your dog is okay and that the pepper spray I shot into his eye this morning won’t cause any lasting damage. But even if this event does demand a trip to the vet, better you than me.

Unfortunately, I’ve had plenty of experience with dogs attacking mine while we’re walking. A Doberman once crossed a major street in its determination to get to my spaniel. Another Dobie mix was loose in its front yard and felt threatened by my 30-pound Whippet. Then there was the pair of mutts whose owner left them out front while he went into the house, and the Pit Bull mix running loose in the neighborhood a few months ago.

Here are a few things I’ve learned through frightening experience. The first is avoidance. A loose dog may look friendly from a distance, but the dynamic can change as it feels threatened by my dog’s approach. Also, an angry canine cannot be deterred by blows from walking shoes. Most importantly, if the pepper spray isn’t in my hand, it might as well be on the moon. An attacking dog moves incredibly fast and will not give a time-out while I shift leashes, pull out the canister, and make sure it’s properly oriented so I don’t accidentally spray myself with it instead.

So when your 60-pound mixed breed launched himself out the window of your parked vehicle this morning, hackles up, I was scared but not helpless. I yelled no, but he wasn’t listening to you calling him back, so I didn’t stand a chance of getting his attention. Since I always carry the pepper spray in my hand with my finger on the trigger, I didn’t have to think or fumble in my pocket for it. I could just protect myself and my dogs. Even a short shot of that stuff is a powerful deterrent. He circled around us a couple times, but his eye was really bothering him so he backed off.

And there you stood, screaming at him while he continued to ignore you, as we turned around and went home a different route. And shaken as I was, I felt badly for him. So, Dear Owner, I want to share a little of what I know.

Your dog was doing his job. If he’s in his yard or house, that’s his territory. If he’s in the car, that’s likewise his territory. And since animals do not recognize public rights of way, the street in front of his house or car is also his territory. His job is to protect it. From your dog’s perspective, my leashed dogs were intruders on his street and needed to be stopped.

You, however, didn’t do your job at all. Your job is to understand that this is how dogs often react to a perceived threat. Your job is to make sure your animal is always under your physical control because even a well-behaved dog may lose his ability to listen to commands once he’s in fight mode. Do not let your dog loose in the front yard and assume he knows where your property line ends. Do not put a dog in a car with the windows rolled down far enough for him to fit through. Do not take for granted that he will come when you call if he’s trying to protect his turf.

Dog bites are traumatic and nothing I ever want to experience. Years ago, I knew a mail carrier who was so badly mauled by a dog on her route that she never went back to her regular job. The physical injuries are often complicated, sometimes require surgery to repair, and the psychological upheaval can take a long time to heal, as well.

So I hope your dog’s eye is okay, but I’d do it again to keep myself or my own pets out of the emergency room. Please, be smarter than your animal.

Sincerely,

~MY

4 Comments

Why Bother?

October 15, 2009 at 5:10 pm (Blog Action Day, climate change, michelle yauger, reducing carbon emissions)

[Today's post is my contribution to Blog Action Day, an event that encourages bloggers to write about some aspect of the same subject each October 15. This year's topic is climate change.]

Laundry

When I thought about how to approach this post, I wrote down all the things our family does to reduce consumption of fossil fuels and the associated greenhouse gas emissions that have been linked to climate change. I’ve probably left some things out.

There are the big commitments, the ones that cost a sizable chunk of money and will take several years to net any return on the investment:

Installed an array of solar panels that generates about half the electricity we use. The utility company buys back any excess we produce.

Replaced our furnace, air conditioner and evaporative cooler with newer, more efficient models within the past two years.

Replaced all the single-pane windows in the house with double-panes.

And the everyday stuff:

We BYOB — bring our own bags when shopping.

Wash clothes in cold water and hang them to dry — except towels because line-dried towels feel crunchy and stiff.

Unplug phone and computer chargers when not in use.

Replaced most of the incandescent bulbs with compact fluorescents to reduce heat production and energy use.

Eat more plants than animals, and try to buy items that originate close to home in order to reduce transportation emissions. (My current favorite absurdity is Trader Joe’s lamb, imported from Australia. What, we don’t have sheep in the U.S.?)

Drive small vehicles, maintain them, and check tire pressure regularly.

Walk or bike to do short errands. Combine trips or carpool when driving.

Use the dishwasher! (I love this one.)

Recycle everything the local company will accept.

Given a choice, avoid purchasing items that come in lots of packaging, especially food.

Wash plastic ziploc bags so they can be reused. (No, I am not making this up.)

This is not some list I cut and pasted off the internet. This is our way of life. According to the EPA’s Household Emissions Calculator, Mike and I generate about half the greenhouse gas emissions of the typical American household of comparable size. Good, right? We must be making a difference.

Maybe. Maybe not.

On days when the rewashed plastic bag leaks its contents all over the inside of the fridge, or the laundry contains two dozen pairs of socks that will take so long to hang that I’d rather throw them in the dryer and move on with life, I think cynically that we are not likely to change the world with these practices. For every family like ours, there are far more people like our neighbors who drive their SUV to the convenience store two blocks away. And even at 50% of the typical CO2 production of the average American, Mike and I still leave a vastly larger carbon footprint than people in other parts of the world, even those living in developed nations.

So why bother? Why should we even try to cut back when we aren’t sure our efforts make a dent in this problem?

One reason has to do with synergy, the idea that the whole is greater than the sum of its individual parts. Mathematically, our turning off the lights when we leave a room is hardly noteworthy. But we can’t always predict the outcome of our efforts when they’re combined with the efforts of others, particularly if they number in the millions. So a little bit of trying is still more effective than none at all.

The other reason we persist is purely selfish: it feels better when our behavior matches our beliefs. I can’t sit at a laptop in our 4-bedroom house, surrounded by all the comforts a reasonable person could want, and convince anybody that my husband and I “live simply.” We do not. Compared to much of the world’s population, our lifestyle is extravagant. We don’t wash our clothes in the river, and we’re still on the grid. But within the context of modern life, we try to think about what we’re doing and measure those choices against our values. Some days are more successful than others, but there is considerable delight in the moments when what we care about and what we do actually match up.

Like most people, we’d like to see results right now, please. It’s hard to work toward a goal with no way to measure if you’re making progress or not. But we’re parents four times over, so we’ve had lots of practice learning to tolerate uncertainty. And we take some comfort in this thought:

“What you do may seem insignificant, but it is most important that you do it.”

– Mohandas K. Gandhi

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The Elusive White Cardigan

October 12, 2009 at 9:13 pm (death of a parent, grief, michelle yauger)

Although my mother never spent a lot of money on clothes, she was probably the fussiest shopper I have ever known. She knew which fabrics and colors she liked and had specific ideas about what styles flattered her petite figure. For instance, Mom never wore a blouse tucked in because she said it made her look like she’d been cut in half. Her swimsuit always had a skirt to cover her thighs because she thought they were too heavy (which they weren’t). She never wore black near her face, and she hated most earth tones, too.

So as you can imagine, buying clothes for my mother was not an endeavor for the faint of heart. Over the years, I bought a lot of things for her to wear and, even knowing her tastes as intimately as I did, my success rate was abysmal. The first dress I bought her was shimmery turquoise and bright pink, colors she loved. While much appreciated, the dress never made it out of her closet. It was lovely, Mom assured me, but she didn’t have anywhere to wear it.

There was almost always something wrong with what I picked because — in clothing as in life — I wanted things for her that she didn’t want for herself. I chose fabrics she said were too dressy and styles that were too trendy. She wanted to stick to what she knew, and I kept pushing her to be adventuresome. It took years for me to give up trying to change my mother by changing her wardrobe.

When I finally did get the message, shopping devolved into an endurance test, since following all her rules was exhausting. One day a couple years ago, I entered the women’s section of a department store and vowed to stay until I had found the perfect thing to give Mom for Christmas. Rack by rack, I eliminated the unacceptable dark colors, shiny fabrics, and blouses without buttons or sleeves. I rejected pants without pockets, pants with zippers, everything that was too fancy or, conversely, made of denim. I ruled out apparel that had to be hand-washed or dry-cleaned. And then I tried to find the possibilities in her size. When all these factors had been considered, exactly one item in the entire store made the cut: a pale blue jacket, embroidered with darker blue flowers, made of a soft fabric that was warm and washable. I had been searching for at least two hours.

Then there was the white sweater.

Mom considered a white cardigan to be a crucial component of her wardrobe, and at one point in the last few years, she found herself without the essential sweater. By then, she’d given up her car so she relied on me to take her shopping. But where to go? The mall required too much walking, the stores were too big and overwhelming — and Jesus, Mary and Joseph, she couldn’t believe the prices. I looked for her perfect white cardigan every time I went shopping for myself, but since I truly hate to shop, the opportunities for success were limited.

One of my brothers came to visit Mom around this time and, being a guy who likes a project, he took her out to look for a sweater every day of his stay. No one remembers exactly how many stores she made him go to, only that not one of them carried the elusive cardigan.

But one day I was at a thrift, store and I found it. Not ta-da, it jumped off the rack in front of me. More like, after pawing through several dozen sweaters that were wrong based on their color, shape, style, length, size or fiber content, I found it. An acrylic white cardigan with raglan sleeves, in Mom’s size, missing two buttons. Whatever. Buttons I could get.

Cardigan: $5. Not having to search for that damn sweater anymore: priceless.

In case you think I’m a miserable cheapskate for shopping for my mother in a thrift store, let me assure you that in our family, frugality runs bone deep, and spending next-to-nothing for an item is an achievement. As it turned out, Mom loved the sweater — even more so because I hadn’t paid retail for it.

After she died and the four of us went to pack up her apartment, I stood in front of her closet and froze, weeping at the prospect of handling every blouse, every pair of pants, the nightgowns and robes, and the new shoes we’d just bought her two weeks earlier. So my brothers made me sit down while Fred took charge of the closet, grabbing big armloads of clothes on the hangers and stuffing them into trash bags to be picked up by charity. I only kept the white sweater.

It makes no sense, really. A second-hand synthetic cardigan is hardly a family heirloom, especially when it’s been through the dryer a few times and developed sort of a seersucker effect from the heat. Its bottom two buttons don’t match the others, and it doesn’t smell like Mom anymore. There’s plenty of useful wear left in it. I should really put it in our giveaway bag, pass it on so someone else’s mom can wear it for awhile.

And I will. Just not yet.

White Cardigan

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Three Little Words Follow-Up

October 9, 2009 at 5:32 pm (Arizona HB 2013, health insurance for young adults, michelle yauger)

Three more little words: oh, thank God.

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Update from the Arizona Department of Administration website:

“October 9, 2009 Implementation of HB 2013 – Benefits for Certain Classes of Dependents”

IMPORTANT NOTICE: HB 2013, particularly the portion adding a definition of “dependent” to statute, prompted a number of inquiries to this agency and raised concerns about potential changes to health benefits for certain dependents.
Based upon legal advice from the Office of the Attorney General, the definition of “dependent” for the State insurance plan year beginning October 1, 2009 is not affected by HB 2013 because any interpretation to the contrary would impair the lawful contract expectations of state employees in violation of the Arizona Constitution.
The definition of “dependent” currently in place will remain effective through September 30, 2010.
Please note the definition of dependent defined in HB 2013 will apply as of October 1, 2010.

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The translation is that our sons will continue to have health coverage under their dad’s policy for one more year. I can just about hear the sighs of relief from all over the state, as domestic partners, their children, and adult children who can’t get their own insurance have been given a reprieve. This is the best news I’ve had in weeks.


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Permanent Alteration

October 8, 2009 at 5:10 pm (michelle yauger, parenting, transitions)

Our youngest child will turn 18 next month. I’ll skip the where-has-time-gone lament because I know exactly where it went and have the photos to prove it. Instead, we’ll proceed directly to the conversation Darling Daughter and I had last week about what she’d like for her birthday. Unlike a lot of girls her age, she’s not much for material goodies so she’s frequently hard-pressed to come up with gift suggestions. But not this year.

“I suppose you could help pay for my tattoo,” DD says.

Although some of you  just reached for the smelling salts, I do not freak out. I can’t —  I’ve had a tattoo since I was 25, a tiny swirl of stardust inked just below my right hipbone that can be seen only by close friends, family and observant people at the pool.

“What are you thinking about getting?” I ask, because I am just that cool.

“A paw print. Right…here.” She points to the outside of her left calf.

Now I’m having a problem. “Where it will show?“

DD feigns confusion. “What?” she asks. “What’s that look on your face for?”

She knows what the face is for. DD has seen my tattoo all her life, so it’s provided plenty of fodder for conversations about making permanent alterations to one’s body. My opinion, admittedly limited, is that ink on a woman can be sexy in some locations or just plain tacky in others, and it’s important to know the difference.

Tattoos in areas normally covered by clothing say something discreet to a select few viewers — at least I hope it’s only a few. On the other hand, visible ink on a young woman says to me something like, “I’m not really thinking about my options in life, so I’m going to make a statement this way instead.” Please note that most women in positions of power do not sport visible tattoos. (Celebrity athletes and actresses don’t count.)

I’m not suggesting that we should only express ourselves in ways that won’t ever offend — only that 18 may not be the right age to make choices that would be difficult to reverse. If you pierce your tongue (ick!), you can always take the stud out if you have a change of heart later on. Color your hair jet-black and it will grow out eventually if you don’t like it. But a tattoo on your arm, leg, neck, or face will be hard to conceal, as well as painful and expensive to remove, if you change your mind.

DD’s tastes are likely to evolve, but she doesn’t know that yet. At 25, she might decide that she no longer finds meaning in the paw print design. She might discover at 50 she’s not so enthusiastic about body art on her middle-aged body, but there it will be, right on her leg where she can’t ignore it. I wish DD could believe that she won’t always be the person she is now, liking the things she likes at 18. But this concept is hard to grasp when you’re young and longing to take control of your own life.

So I do not raise my voice, threaten, or bribe. I whine, just a little, that I should not have to see her in her wedding dress someday with a paw print tattooed on her calf. Then I explain my more serious concerns as if this is the first time she’s ever heard them. After that, I shut up and listen.

DD tells me the symbolism of the design and reminds me that this is no impulsive decision — she’s been talking about getting a tattoo for years. She explains the choice of location in a way that proves she’s thought through the process and outcome, albeit arriving at a different conclusion than mine. DD points out that wedding gowns, if it ever comes to that, typically go to the floor. She promises to think about what I’ve said, even though I know she’s only humoring me, and I appreciate the effort.

Because it’s a new era. I’ve spent the past 20 years of child-rearing wondering, “Am I doing this right?” and never being quite sure of the answer. Now the questions have changed: “Does my adult child’s decision affect me directly?” and “Is this behavior illegal, immoral, or life-threatening?”

For instance, if my son goes 8 months without changing the oil in the car he owns, will that choice affect me directly? Nope. It’s probably not good for the engine and it’s not how I would take care of a car, but the consequences will be his, not mine. If my daughter tattoos her leg where everyone can see it, is that illegal, immoral, or life-threatening? No. I may not love it, but I can cope.

And since the answer is usually no, we’re moving into a different relationship now. I am always and forever the mom, sometimes their consultant — but no longer the boss of everybody. No wonder I find myself with so much time on my hands these days.

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