F is for Football (American Football)

Razorback football was the Saturday soundtrack of my youth. Sometimes afternoons, sometimes evenings, Dad always listened, shushing us so he could hear the call on the radio broadcast. Most of the time he resorted to sending us from the room, but if I was inside, I'd turn it on in my room as the background to playing with my Fisher-price peoples and Breyer horses.

One magical New Year's Day I remember sitting on the porch in the giant box from the desk I got for Christmas and listened to the Sugar Bowl, Lou Holtz's Hogs against the legendary Bear Bryant's Crimson Tide while the rain fell around me. We lost, of course.

When Paul Eels died, and I realized I'd never hear him yell Touchdown Arkansas!!! again, a bit of my childhood went with him. The new guy says it, but it's not the same.

The Redneck Stepfather almost ruined all that. I swore I'd never marry a guy who watched football on Saturdays and Sundays. The Husband was a pretty good fit for that, despite turning into a WereHog on Saturdays. That was okay, for the most part. It is, after all, the accepted common religion in a state where evangelical factions rule the roost. No matter what church you attend on Sunday morning, you're listening to the radio wishing you were there the night before, following the ritual.

These days, most weekends the kitchen TV is tuned to football at Chez S, with college games on Saturday and Pro on Sunday while the Husband prepares the bread and meals for the week and tracks his fantasy team. I come and go between working on my computer in the living room, cleaning & laundry, taking kids to activities. Sometimes I sit on the window seat, and chat with him as I scan the newspapers & cut coupons. And it's largely good. Not exciting, but good.

I can imagine it always being like this, with lanky teenage boys hanging out on the window seat in a few years, discussing strategy, friendly ribbing as they cheer for opposing teams. I can see the Girl & her friends oscillating through as their interests, sporting and otherwise, ebb and flow.

E is for Elevator

The yellow bus moved away from the curb towards the stoplight, and I watched the water fall off the tire tread back onto the street in airborne rivers. I waved, as I always do. I didn't see anyone wave back. The Boy was fighting back tears as he mounted the steps, the Girl stone faced under the brow of her hood.

Another tough morning. Damn it, I knew this would happen last night, when the Boy kept ignoring my requests for him to stop reading and go to bed. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Finally, I bodily moved him off my bed and pushed him out the door towards his own room, a task that's grown difficult now that he's practically as big as my mother. I'm not putting up with any of your baloney tomorrow morning, Mister. Zero.

Yeah. Right. So explain it, Lisa. Explain why your son thinks it's okay to ignore you when you ask him to get dressed, to make his lunch. Why does he shout at you, flashing angry, hateful eyes over a Billy Idol sneer. Explain why you gave in and yelled back. Explain it, Lisa.

As I walked up the sidewalk , I could find no defense. I walked inside

The elevator was waiting. It hadn't come to the call earlier, and we had taken the stairs on our way out, my steps hitting every one, staccato; the children in their standard thump, thump, thump, THUMP rhythm of runs and jumps. But now the golden incandescent light poured through the rhomboid window, and I opened the door, got in, and pushed the 4 as the door slid back. The brass interior gate creaked to its side of the brass jamb, and the car started moving up.

And then stopped with a jerk halfway to the first floor. The brass gate accordioned back, as if I should get out`.

I pushed the stop button, then the 4 again. A clunk from above, but no motion. Stop again, 4 again. Clunk, the gate wiggles slightly, nothing. Push stop and 1, clunk, gate wiggles, nothing,r repeat.

I paused and looked hard at the Bell button at the top of the panel. Shook my head to myself. No, I'll call Lamar. He can get me out. No need to disturb everyone in the building.

Except that his phone doesn't even ring before going through to voice mail.

I'll call the property management company, then. Except I don't have their number and the first hit on Google is a fax machine. I call the second number, get the tri-tone and the "You have reached a number than has been disconnected. If you beleive you have reached this message in error, please try again" message. The rest of the hits on the page are for a company with the same name in New York.

Well then. Who can I call? I started scanning through the contacts list on my phone. I saw Joe walking for coffee, newspaper in hand. Trish is still asleep, and when her phone rings the Great Dane barks. My downstairs neighbor ... no. I try Lamar's number again, and this time I get hear his friendly voice saying Hello, Superintendent Lamar on the other end..

Hi. It's Lisa. I'm stuck in the elevator between floors.

Oh no, not that one too. I'm just getting off the bus, I'll be there in five minutes. Are you okay?

Yeah, I'm fine. No big deal.

I leaned against the metal back wall, slid down its face to sit on the floor.

I won't be stuck here forever, thank God.

Perhaps I needed these few minutes to think, to separate the day at hand from the morning.

Perhaps I needed to be stuck to become unstuck.

D is for Drinking Habits

I'm three hours behind schedule already. my officemate announced.

A glance at the clock in the far right corner of the right-hand screen read 10:47.

Heels on hardwood. The muted puh of the minibar fridge opening. The hiss of air releasing from the 2 liter bottle. The chugging of the Diet Coke into her Starbucks cup.

How about you? she asks.

I do not know. I am still lost in this moment, waiting for time to catch up.

C is for Calendar

On my Calendar today:

Children delivered to schoolyard gate, Carrying violin Cases.
Chris Came to Caulk Center seam of Condo windows.
Contracts to be Considered, Commented upon, Changed, and sent to the Client (whose name also starts with C).
CAD files to be emailed.
Call Code official.
Corporate Credit Card bills paid.
Checks in the mail maybe?
Continuing Education.
Coffee.
Color Concepts for Cool southtown store.
Chess Chaperone Conversations.
Children to be picked up and fed something Cheap.
Cub Scouts.
leftover Cake.

B is for Bicycle Ride

A is for Appointment

Homework hell has driven me to this: on Monday we're headed back to the psychologist to see if she can help us tame the monster that the Boy becomes when confronted with ... tasks. Deadlines. Stupid menial chores. Inevitable distractions, created both by himself and others.

We've been down this path before, when he was five. He was striking out at our nanny, and when he'd get angry with me he'd glare viciously and shout, You're FIRED! For a variety of reasons, I did not take this well.

Dr. S looked at the teacher and parent questionnaires on her desk and said Yeah, it looks borderline ADHD but what we seem to have here and now is an anger management problem. Let's work on that.

So we did. One of the prescribed solutions was a sticker chart: a grid of tasks that as the kid completes them the adult puts a sticker in the box. A sheet full of stickers warrants some larger reward.

This system is dependent on having an adult who can keep track of the chart, the stickers, and remember to take the time to do it amidst the whirl of getting out of the house in the morning, afternoon orchestration of homework and instrument practice and maybe a little bit of free time to play, and the evening rituals of dinner and bedtime.

There is no such person in our household.

Z is for Zoom Zoom

Rewind to 2001, when we were a family of three. Mostly we commuted in my small SUV every day--the Husband and I to our West County jobs, the Boy to the day care center between the two, within just a few moments from either of us.

Mostly. Except when one or the other of us took the Miata. And sometimes that was with the Boy in his car seat, the top down, his thin baby hair blowing in the 60 mph wind as he smiled.

The first time he saw this commercial, the Boy sat upright in his spot on the floor, the blocks temporarily forgotten.

And the next time we went out to the street to get in the car, he smiled, pointed at the Miata, & said, Zoom zoom.