Don't Drop The Fruit Fly Jar

I was a sophomore in high school and my Chemistry teacher introduced us to an experiment. A huge glass jar, a few eager fruit flies and... the multiplication thereof.
How many would propagate as the experiment went on?
More importantly... who would get to carry the jar from the closet to his desk each day?
Every day, I threw my hand high in the air and wiggled to the edge of my seat to go and get the jar.
Every day, Mr. Stanek smirked, shook his head "no" at me, and chose someone else.
"But, whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"  I moaned.  "I wanna do ittttt!".
Mr. Stanek's smile broadened.  "I'm sorry, Rhonda.  You will drop the jar, I just know it".
Silly!  Preposterous!   Was he basing this theory on my scientific past in our high school?
Yes.  True.  I was the girl who left her milk-based 7th grade science experiment in her locker over Winter Break.  It was I who led the janitorial staff on a fruitless mission to discover "that smell".  On the day back from break... I found it!
Indeed, it was I who inadvertently dropped a test tube filled with sulphate and it crashed against an air duct, spreading the smell of rotten eggs throughout the ninth grade wing.  For that honor, the secretary announced over the speaker system, "anyone choking on the smell in the ninth grade wing, be sure to thank Rhonda Foote".  I received many, many "thanks" that week.
It is also possible that, just that very Fall, I had decided to find out if I could make my frog (which I was supposed to be dissecting) jump out the second story window on to the head of my FrienEmy playing tennis on the courts below.  The answer, I found, was YES.  The result?  Detention.  (PS, it was well worth it).
All of these events, and my somewhat over eager and scatter brained nature, led Mr. Stanek to his deduction that I would NOT be the best candidate to carry the fruit flies from the closet to his desk.
Days and weeks went by.  Every day, my hand flew in the air.  Every day, he smirked and said "No".
The final day of the experiment, the jar was bursting with fruit flies.  I was almost desperate in my quest to carry that damn jar.  Mr. Stanek looked at me.  He paused.  "Okay, Rhonda.  You can go get the jar.  Do NOT drop it".
"I won't", I sang out, leaping from my chair and skipping to the closet.
I am quite sure you see this coming.
I raised the jar triumphantly above my head.  I marched in to the classroom and.... I tripped.
The jar fell in slow motion before my eyes.
SMASH.
Seemingly millions of fruit flies quickly filled the classroom.  Windows were flung open.  Someone opened the door in to the hall way before they could be stopped.
Guess what?  Fruit flies travel fast.  They were EVERYWHERE in our school in very rapid succession.
Mr. Stanek slowly turned and made eye contact with me.  I waited.  He never yelled.  He pulled out his desk chair, sat down, and shook his head.  "See," he said, "I knew you would drop it".

Fate?  Perhaps.  I have always been the girl to drop the jar, the ball, the secret.  I am always excited and hurried and on a bigger mission.  It isn't that I do not have focus, it is that my focus is so large scaled that I am always ready to take the next step, instead of focusing on the step I am on.

This means I have had five concussions, many relationships, and am extremely creative.  I believe in the joy of making a mistake and the obligatory apology.  I know that I am trustworthy, but not always trusted.

As I have aged, the fruit fly jar episode has stayed with me.  I want to thank Mr. Stanek.  He gave me the opportunity to carry that jar.  Even when I dropped it, he never yelled at me.   It is a teacher and parenting tool I often refer back to.

Go ahead, let your kid carry the good china, or do the laundry filled with your best clothes.  They might drop a plate.  They may ruin a sweater.  But, the life lesson of trust you give them and the need to make their own mistake is beyond measure.

Dare to drop the fruit fly jar.

Lack of appreciation

I am not clear if I am growing old and grouchy, or if I am really hitting the mark on this one.
People no longer appreciate each other or what others do for them.
There is a general lack of appreciation in today's society.

The level of hand holding and spoon feeding of information is alarming.
Why?
Is it because we live with our device in our hand, our face in our device, and expect everything to magically pop up on  a screen?

Is it because we put ear plugs in and tune out the world around us?
Does this mean that when someone speaks to us, we simply no longer HEAR them?

Regardless of the possible reasons, we are raising a generation that lacks the ability for genuine communication.  But, let's be clear, it is a parenting issue.

Personally, in my business as a Dance Studio Owner, I have seen an alarming rate of decline on the parent's ability to communicate or follow basic information.  This is not an insult.  It is a fact.  I am diligent in my attempt to make instructions as simple as possible.  With over 200 students and close to 50 Outreach Company dancers, this is not an easy task.  I have two separate websites that I update weekly.  I have a studio Facebook page and a private company Facebook page where I post the links to said information on said websites.  I have monthly newsletters that are posted on the website AND offered as a hard copy at the desk.  I have a gigantic white board in our lobby that clearly states deadlines, due dates and information. I encourage everyone to email me if they still have questions or issues.   Lastly, I have a PERSON who sits at the desk and will answer all questions. 

Inevitably, the ball is dropped.  Rehearsals are missed.  Deadlines ignored.  Classes unattended. 
My frustration at all of this grows daily.  It leads me to be angry and non-communicative on MY end.  None of this helps, I know.... but, I, too, have and end to my rope.

It isn't just me.  School teachers, music directors, coaches.... I have heard this from all of them.  I have done "this job" for almost 30 years.  In the beginning, without all of the technology, I truly believe that there was less confusion.  People picked up the newsletter and READ it.  They WROTE dates in their calendars.  They SAW information when it was on a bulletin board or white board.  They had similar set ups at home ... I always had a huge white board in our house all color-coded with a different color for each child and activity.  At age 5, they were expected to SEE this board and KNOW what they had to do each day.  Accountability.  Appreciation for the opportunity to participate.  It worked.

My favorite memory is the Mom of four active kids who showed up at registration with a binder with her daughter's name emblazoned on the front and filled with plastic scrapbook pages.  She took every bit of information I gave her and filed it under "Dance".  She then added every date to a fold out calendar in the front of the binder.  She told me she had one for each child and, as of first grade, the binder was THEIR responsibility for tracking THEIR activities.  This child went on to be a "favorite".  She practiced, she grew, she thrived.  When she chose to discontinue dance, she came to me, as an 8th grader, and had a conversation to thank me for the years of dance and instruction and for helping her grow into a responsible teen.  Even though she no longer is my student, she remains a part of my life.  Seeing her perform at Area All State or Bi-County is a thrill for me.  She made responsible choices, and I APPRECIATE HER.

Perhaps, we need to rethink the direction we are taking as a society.  Perhaps, we need to encourage our children to be held responsible.  To not expect that they can do it all.  To hold ourselves and our children accountable for their activities, behavior, and responsibilities.

But, really, it begins with us.  Pause and reflect at how much of your anger and frustration stems from lack of organization.   Would it be a bad idea to make a binder?  To WRITE down dates and times and obligations?  I think not.

Let's also consider communicating.  If one is going to miss an activity or practice or rehearsal, please take the few moments needed to let someone know.
I tell my students time and time again to let me know if they will NOT be at class or rehearsal.  Aside from being common courtesy, I WORRY.  I am good at many things, but I am GREAT at worrying.  I immediately think that their car is in a snowbank, that someone side swiped them running a red light, that they fell off a cliff.  No. Really.  These thoughts all cross my mind.  The time and energy I spend tracking down "missing dancers" is unfair to myself and to the dancers who are present in the room.  I am pretty sure that other coaches and teachers feel the same way.

It is a tangled path we are heading down, folks.  A very tangled path, indeed.  Each of us is a string on this path.  Our knots and loop holes trip up others traveling on our path.  Keep your path clear, your string taught, and make the path less painful for others.  It would be appreciated.

Good Bye, Ol' Buddy

It was the summer of Madi's third birthday.
She was old enough to understand that the big trip to Texas from our little Northern New York home was not for pleasure.
At age one, she had become the youngest person in medical history to have a full spinal fusion.
Age age two, she had become Patient #98 in the VEPTR program.  We had traveled to San Antonio that summer for her first titanium rib installation on her left side.  An 8 hour surgery; 7 days in a post op induced coma; 3 weeks in hospital recovery; 8 weeks at home recovery... and now, we were headed back for installation on her right side.
So... I bribed her with A Puppy.  "When we get back from Texas, I will get you a puppy".
It seemed a small trade for a big ordeal.

One of my dance families at the time had just brought home a small Cairn Terrier from a local breeder.  He didn't shed.  He was cute and Toto loveable.  I spoke with them, got a phone number and made the call.

This is how our Buddy came to be "ours". We brought him home and began the name game.  Madi was determined he would be Bert (as in Ernie and Bert).  I argued that I was NOT standing in our front yard and yelling "BERT" for him to return to our yard.  "Ernie"?  I suggested.  No.  He didn't "look like and Ernie".  She was stuck on the letter "B".  I racked my brain.  "Buddy?"   I asked.  "Buddy!"  She exclaimed.  Buddy he was. 

He was a fluff of fun.  Energetic and a bit on the naughty side.  I had always had dogs, but never a terrier.  I quickly discovered that this terrier took mischief to an all new level.  Digging, biting and destroying were his top three activities.  Just when I thought I simply couldn't deal with him, he would answer Madi's little "Here, Buddy.  Here, Buddy Boy" and belly crawl to her side; oh-so-gently nuzzling her lap and placing his head under her little hand.  His adoring eyes would roll up to her sweet face and... I loved him.  So much.

We were living in our home in Croghan.  Behind our fence was farm field of cows.  Buddy's favorite activity was digging his way under our fence to chase the cows.  I would stand at the fence and futilely yell at him to "COME".  I was terrified that a cow would trample him.  He, however, ran blissfully in and out of their hooves.  I swear, he was smiling.

I would leave him in the yard for a hot minute while I toweled Madi up and took her inside.  When I returned, he would inevitably be paddling around in her little plastic pool, or digging in her sand box, or pulling up my flowers.  Young Buddy was a never ending bundle of energy.

When we moved in with my then-boyfriend, Buddy continued his adventures.  Hunting down woodchucks and engaging them in scary arguments in a new back yard,  hurling himself at the gate as very large dogs lunged back, and causing general mayhem.  Every time I was at my wits end, he would snuggle up to Madi and love on her.... and I would, in turn, love him more.

When we moved again, something in the new house or yard triggered allergies for Buddy.  He lost his hair and became "naked dog".  I tried everything.  Medicines, holistic treatments, baths and more.  He just never became his handsome self again.  Although he could have won Ugly Dog contests, to Madi and I he remained the young stud of a terrier.

Recently, my long term relationship ended and Madi and I moved once more.  In the new home, Buddy flourished.  He got a great deal of hair back.  He was just "happy".  He was 14 in dog years.  Ancient in people years.  He loved to cuddle in his bed and would bark (several times a day and night) for me or Madi to come and cover him up with his favorite flannel blanket.

Towards the end, he would  emit a high pitched whine up to 7 times each night for me to come in and cover him up.  I would run my fingers through his wayward tuft of hair on top of his old man head and pat his soft, silky ears.... often, I would get on my knees and eskimo kiss his wet little nose.  There is just nothing sweeter than an old dog who loves you unconditionally.

Last Thursday, I realized that Buddy's breathing was becoming labored.  Friday morning, we were to be off bright and early for Madi's college auditions 7 hours away.  "No, Buddy" I thought... "not now.  not ever"...
Madi went to bed around 11 pm that night.  By midnight, I called her down to say her good-byes.  We spent the night sitting sentinel by our sweet boy's side.  We told him we loved him.  We told him it was okay to let go.  We told him we would never, ever forget him. 
In the morning, we faced the fact that his level of pain was unbearable for all three of us.  One more time, I swaddled him in his flannel blanket.  I carried him out for one last car ride.  Madi held him tenderly in her arms and we drove in silence to the Veterinarians.  Time and time again, Madi thanked Buddy for being her first Best Friend.  Her best Best Friend.  Every time, little shards of my heart exploded in pain.

He didn't go easy.  When he finally gave in, his ear was cocked to Madi's voice for one more "I love you, Buddy Boy" and his eyes were glued to her face... even though they had long ago lost sight. 

A part of our hearts died that day.  We returned home, packed the car, and headed on our journey to build Madi's future.  A future without her First Best Friend, but one filled with memories of the past and the joy that a tiny terrier named Buddy brought us. 

Lotions and Potions

I want to know who comes up with the names on lotions and potions...
Lotions and Potions...that is what Madi called her special lotions, medicines, bath products from a very young age.  It stuck.
But, take a gander at the labels, all.  "Sunglow Mountain", "Enchanted Destination", "Country Chic", "Peppermint Passion" are all currently housed on my very own bathtub shelf.
Think about shampoo commercials.  Use that product and have instantly beautiful locks.
Wow.
I want a life that works that way.
If I just use the right product, I will feel as if I am standing on a mountain, basking in sun glow.
Just smooth on some lotion, and BOOM, I have reached an Enchanted Destination!
Who needs real sex when you can have Peppermint Passion??

Personally, there I days I think I need anti-labels.  You know... A bath gel that says "Stuck in the sand".  A lotion that says "Too Tired To Think".  A shampoo labeled "Going Gray Today". 
I studied advertising and I understand the lure of labeling.
But, I wonder... would Anti-Labeling take off?
Are we ready for some honesty, for something that is so true it is laughable?
Part of me says, yes.  Yes, we are.
There are many days that I am.

But then, I walk in to my favorite bath product store.  I try the samples.  I see the enticing labels.  I look for coupons, and I buy in to the false promise of the glorious life these products offer.

Hey, why not?

Snowbound Thoughts

I am ten again.  I am sitting atop a large mound of snow... as tall as the Mill it has been pushed next to, with my friend, Renee.
We nibble at the ice stuck to our old mittens and don't mind that our Sears snow pants have long since wet through.  We can't feel our toes or fingers and our cheeks are purple-red with cold.  I am pretty sure our noses are running like faucets, too.
We don't even notice.  We have ESP!  Yes!  We can sit atop our make shift igloo and guess what color the next car traveling down or up Bridge Street will be.  We are ALWAYS right.  Because we peek, of course.  But, in our ten year old hearts, we have special powers.  Not to mention the fact that it is Bridge Street in Croghan, New York on the day of a blizzard.  Maybe, maybe... ten cars top went by all day.
I don't remember what else we talked about or who we talked about.  I clearly recall it being a fabulous, childhood snow day. 
I am thirteen.  My ankles are sore, and again with those numb fingers.  No snow pants now!  I wear my tightest jeans and leg warmers and ear muffs and am, certainly, freezing.  I am skating around and around and around the ice rink behind the old firehall.  Boys are there. Boys I have suddenly decided are "cute".  They play hockey and intentionally hit all of the girls with the puck.  Carefully, of course (until someone loses an eye, hee hee).  When we gals can barely stand and our coldness equals pain, we change our skates for white boots that lace up with fur around the edges (all, without doubt, purchased from the Big N in Lowville), and cross the quiet road to Wishy's.  We order hot chocolates all around, heaped with whipped cream. We sip and gossip about The Boys as our extremities tingle and ache as they welcome the cold.  Without a doubt, The Boys soon follow us.  Eventually, we are playing pool or ping pong in someone's cellar and pizza is ordered from Stump's.
I am sixteen.  I have a new black and white ski suit that I got for Christmas.  Someone's parents have braved the roads and delivered a crew of us to Snow Ridge.  I ride the lift with a handsome strange boy.  On the last lift ride, he holds my hand.... and, my heart along with it.  We swish and swoosh down black diamond trails and I pretend I am not terrified.  But I am.  And not just of the trails.  I have reached a stage in my young adult life where challenge is thrill tinged with terror.  It is a sign of future me.  I never did heed it.
Flash forward to snow days today.  I shovel.  I snow blow.  Once, in a blue moon, I bundle up and take a walk in The White Stuff.  We do not have a friendly relationship anymore.  My daughter's snow existence never went beyond the Snowman building stage, for many reasons... all medical.  We have created a Nice Nest for snow days.  We cook and bake.  We watch Netflix.  She sings and plays piano or the ukelele.  I knit and scrap book and write.  And, I think.
I think about the love/hate relationship I have with the white stuff.  The stuff that keeps me from my dance studio and work.  The stuff that makes my back pain when shoveling.  The stuff that my doxie stands in and looks up at me with a What The F*** look on its little face while peeing.  The stuff that builds up.
But, I think, snow helps me with The Stuff That Builds Up.  It forces me to slow down, sit down, look around, and think.  It makes time for a certain perspective that lacks in my usual busy life. 
It brings back a realm of incredible memories... especially the one when, the first snow fall after my Mom's death, so many people reached out to me.  Mandee and Derek came the night of Christmas in Croghan.  They swaddled 4 year old Madi in her purple snow suit and shielded my heart from the bitter cold.  They held our hands and marched through knee deep snow so that we could behold a little town filled with Christmas love and magic.  That snow culminates in a memory I will always cherish when, the next day, my Dad and Brother and now Sister-in-law all came to my door bundled in their winter clothes.  Madi and I donned ours and, missing one, we all went out to build a snowman.  We rolled our grief in to tight snowman body parts.  We broke twigs and found a carrot.  We wrapped a colorful scarf around our snowman.  We came together to make something we could all touch and see in our most difficult time.
And Madi got to build a snowman.  At 4 years old, this is the stuff that matters.
That snowman melted, much like the noose of grief around my neck.
All these winters later, it is a dull ache... much like the memory of those numb fingers as I sat atop a mammoth snow hill with a child hood friend and practiced the rite of ESP. 
Snowstorms?  Maybe The Big Guy Upstairs knows what he's doing... whether you venture out or build your nest today, embrace the reality that Mother Nature wins... and you might as well, too.

Ch-ch-changes

I have made some quiet changes in a private way in the past four months. Not easy for someone with a very public existence.
"Why is your name changed on Facebook?"
"Why did you delete a universe of friends on social media?"
"Why did your relationship status change?"
Why should I answer?
Old Me would have felt obligated to explain.
New me just doesn't.
Here is the rub... Anyone who says that time passing doesn't signal little explosive bombs in your soul is either lying or secretly dead.
I have an extreme consciousness of time passage. I have expectations for growth and stimulation and hope and a beautiful swirl of color and unicorns and rainbows.
No, really. I do.
This may not make me a realist, but that is certainly not a title I have ever wished to wear.
At the end of each day, I believe we should let our head hit the pillow and ask one simple question-- Was I Happy Today?
Happiness is on its own daily scale. There's going to Disney happy. There's swimming with dolphins happy. There's getting the laundry folded happy. There's holding someone's hand happy.
There's no one died today happy.
There's I didn't kill someone today happy.
You get the idea.
When you start to avoid that pillow moment because you know that you will lie there, wide eyed and, often, teary eyed, because you know that not one of those ️happy descriptions fits your day, you owe it to yourself and to all those around you, to seek change.  This change will be far from easy. It will sting. It will bend, and almost break you. You will be questioned and will question yourself.
All of this is ok. To be expected.
Seeking happiness is not illegal or immoral. There will be many who will make you feel otherwise.
This, I know. I have learned and felt and avoided and absorbed all of The People Who Have Opinions.
Go ahead, have opinions. Share them. Believe the things you hear or make them the things you want to hear. I am done listening.
I know this. I go to bed, lay my head on this pillow, and feel the calm, seeping satisfaction of simplicity and happiness.
In the end, it is all I have ever wanted.

Lasting Impressions

I don't know if others do it.
Or, if they do, if they do it as intently.
If they have been as conscious of the meaning.  The importance.
The lasting impression.

I remember needing to remember at a very young age.
My Great Grandmother and I shared a birth date.  I clearly recall sitting in a green strapped, slightly tarnished lawn chair on our door step and hearing her tell me.  Remember this, darling girl.
So, I did.
So, I do.

When we moved from our ranch style home on Bridge Street, I stayed up all night.  Peering, somewhat anxiously, out my bedroom window.  I was nine.  To this day, I can tell you the shadow the street lamp cast on the hedge outside my window.  I had memorized the number of steps it took from the side of our house to the small hole in that hedge that I used to transport myself to Bonnie's house several times each day.  I knew the slant of the mill roof across the road and memorized the way every piece of furniture fit in my first bedroom.

Before I left for college, I squeezed my eyes shut until the tears and colors of my room swirled together and cemented on the inside of my eyelids.  Surely, when I was homesick, I could squeeze those eyes shut again and be somehow transported to my attic room, where the roses on the curtains I made in 7th grade would dance in the small town breeze and my very large stuffed bear would beckon me for a hug.

Lasting impressions.  Perhaps not the kind you are used to or immediately think of.  Literally, the impressions I have worked so very hard to make last in my brain... my heart... my very being.

The night after my daughter was born, the nurses yelled at me to get some sleep.  How could I?  How could I miss one iota of time when I should be memorizing the curve of her nose, the swirl of her light brown baby curls, the incredible power of her minute fist?  I did not sleep that night.

It was great practice, I suppose, for the nights I sat by her hospital bed and gazed intently at her.  Chest rise and fall, check.  A very lasting impression.

I have a compulsion to remember every moment.  Every detail MUST be of importance, right?  This time is sacred, this day to be embraced.  I acknowledge that it seems extreme, even to me... but I also know that my ability to recall physical details of loved ones gone or relive the most precious times of my life in grand detail is of immense comfort to me.

This is 2015.  When Madi was in Kindergarten, and they would say "The Class of 2015", it was almost comical.  I mean, seriously, that was SO far away.
Now, here we are.
She, a High School Senior.  Me, a mother embedding every sweet second of her "lasts" into my hyper-aware Mama brain.
I find myself hoping for one more Netflix episode of Gilmore Girls with her by my side on the couch just so that I can shore up on the physical moments that make my memories clearer.  How her head rests on my shoulder as she gets tired; how her laugh melds with mine as we watch our favorite show together; how her breathing changes as she drifts to sleep.  I let her sleep on the couch, and lovingly cover her with my favorite blanket.

I wonder if, in a few months, she will find herself standing in her bedroom- bags packed and walls bare as she heads off to college-  squeezing her eyes shut oh so tight and letting the images of this little world embed in to the backs of her eyelids so that, when she needs to, she can bring to life her vision of home.

I hope that she will carry with her the lasting impression of my love.  That she can close her eyes and feel that love, wherever this crazy world may transport her.

Tomorrow, put down your cell phone.  Stop snap chatting or checking facebook.  Forget about YouTube or Vine.  Take part of the day you have been given and see someone.  See something.  Memorize the details and imprint them on your heart.  The lasting impression is a gift you may need someday, all too soon.  Don't throw away the possibility of the memory.