Fire Alarm

Today we had a dress rehearsal for my daughter's upcoming dance concert. This is her seventh event like this; it is old hat for our entire family. Even my son, who tags along for dress rehearsal and performances, knows exactly what to expect. 

The routine may be old hat, but my daughter's group got their own tent backstage for costume changes. All this time, she has had to change with her groups in adjacent rooms, but now she is backstage with all the big girls. Everyone was excited. 

I made sure my son had his school backpack full of books so he would be entertained during dress rehearsal. Because we were in a new place, he had a hard time figuring out where to settle down and read, especially since the tent was rather small for all the moms and dancers to be in at once...and a stray little boy. 

The dancers lined up in front of the tent to go onstage, and we were even more displaced. My son was pushed all the way to the door on the cinder block wall. 

I looked towards my daughter, who was warming up in line, and glanced down just as I saw little five-year-old fingers perfectly follow the instructions on the fire alarm pull. Push in, pull down. 

Too late. The alarm blared.

He didn't realize it was him. "Buddy, that was you!" I said. "I didn't know! I didn't know," he cried. I didn't believe him at first. And then I remembered that my little boy doesn't lie. 

We had to evacuate. I told a stage person that my son tripped he alarm. Dancers shivered in the January outdoors. My son and I went around the corner and sat on a curb, away from the anxious crowd. I felt sick, but my son was simply devastated and bawling. 

"Did you know that was a fire alarm?" 

"No! I didn't know!"

"Remember when we were in church once, and the same thing happened when a kid pulled the alarm, and everyone had to go outside?"

"Yeah."

"That's what you just did. It called the firemen. They have to make sure everything is safe before anyone can go back in."

He broke down with a new wave of understanding. Though interested in the real firemen who came to check out the building, he wasn't happy. 

I wasn't either, but I didn't say so. 

But then I heard a group of moms talking just around the corner. 

"Is this for real?"

"I hope not!"

"This is ridiculous. They're going to get so far behind."

"I hear a little boy pulled the alarm."

"What was he thinking? I hope this blew his ears out!"

I was shocked. I was mad. I wished I could see who said that so I could stomp on her foot. 

We apologized to the owner via email. I offered to pay for the firemen or whatever I could do to fix it. But I couldn't look at the other moms, not with my boy in tow. 

A girl of about nine or ten came up to us, a conspicuous mom-boy couple on the curb. "Do you know who pulled the fire alarm?" she jeered between an awkward mix of permanent and baby teeth. 

"What?" I blinked. 

"Do you know who it was?" she repeated, eying my boy. 

I stared meaningfully at her with widened eyes. "Do you need to know?" I asked. 

This time she blinked. "No," she said, and walked away. I didn't see her again. 

Amidst the jabber and jumping jacks, someone finally made an announcement that I couldn't hear. There was general murmuring. A man near us said, "Ha! They're going to want to have that kid's fingerprints after this." Again, if I'd know who it was, he might have gotten an elbow to the solar plexus. 

It was either a good thing or a bad thing that I kept my eyes down. I don't think my son heard anything.

We fetched my son's backpack and went to the car to wait. My daughter tried to suppress tears so her makeup wouldn't run since I am always there to help her set up a costume change routine. 

She went on stage only nine minutes late, and miraculously they made up the entire delay by the time she was done. She did well setting up her own routine. Thank goodness this is all old hat. 

Meanwhile, my son and I snuggled in the front seat of the car. We texted my husband for awhile. My favorite thing my son texted was the title of a children's book we own: "It's okay to make mistakes."

Then I praise his little broken heart into confidence. 

"You know what I think is cool, buddy? You followed the directions on that fire alarm EXACTLY. Now if there is ever a real fire in a building, you will have already practiced! You'll start seeing them everywhere you go--at church, school, stores--every building except houses. And I noticed they put it right on your eye level, and you could read every single big word on it. The only words you didn't see were the little ones at the top: 'in case or fire.' That's pretty awesome that you can read words so well. If there's ever a fire, I hope you're with me so you can pull the fire alarm, because you're one of the only people I know who has ever done it before!" I went on and on. The tears dried up, leaving salty stains beneath his eyes. The pink blotches that characterize his sad face faded away. He was still shaken up, but I think he felt a little better. 

The person I appreciated the most was this mom with purple hair who stopped me as we evacuated the building. She must have stolen a glance when my son reacted to the initial blare. "Hey, just so you know," she said with a toss of purple over her shoulder, "my son did the same thing a few years ago." Then leaning towards my son, she said, "It makes for a great story later!"

It wasn't reassuring at the time. But I thought of how kind her relatable confession had been as my son and I walked toward our curbside seclusion. 

I vow that if the fire alarm is ever accidentally pulled somewhere and we are evacuated, I will dull the blades of sharp words before they can leave me. I will be the woman who stomps on insensitive jeers. I will elbow petty jokes. I will confess my own experience being the mortified mom of the bawling boy. I will look the mom in the eye and smile. 

And I will never be ashamed with my son. I will keep my eyes up and stay in plain sight, even if my outwardness belies how sick I feel. I'll deal out metaphorical stomps and elbows if I have to, even widening my eyes at rude glances, because my boy doesn't like trouble. He wants to be good and avoid reprimand. He didn't know. 

And I believe him. 

Book Reviews 2016: 1-5

This year, I have a goal to read 52 books (one per week). I am ahead of schedule, but I'm sure it will make up for a dry spell later on. The following are my brief reviews of the first five books I have read this year. 

1) Me Before You 

By Jojo Moyes

This was my first time reading a book by Jojo Moyes. Her wit is so fun. I wanted to put some beautifully-crafted sentences in my pocket for safekeeping. The first-person protagonist was hilarious and sarcastic. This story took place in an English village, and I am OBSESSED with England, so that worked well for me. 

This book deals with a high-power (single) financial prodigy in his mid-thirties who tries to adjust to life with quadriplegia after being struck by a vehicle in the street. A disenchanted underachiever of a young woman takes a job of being his companion during the daytime and, at the request of his mother, keeping the man's spirits up after his accident. Several moral questions follow, such as whether village life is good enough for a young person with massive potential; whether the safety of an unfulfilling, but predictable, relationship is more valuable than confident celibacy; and (SPOILER) the ethics of assisted suicide. Therein lies the struggle. 

Struggle isn't bad; it helped me evaluate my opinion. I feel more confident knowing my views, having read this book. 

I gave this book 3.5 stars, knocking off an entire star for the ten-ish f-bombs I scratched out of my copy of the book, and another half star just because. It's subjective, naturally. There was a lot of swearing and taking of the Lord's name in vain, which made me squirm (leave my Savior alone, please!). 

I'll wait for a glowing review of one of Moyes' books from a trusted friend before reading more of her works, unless I am in the mood for some controversial soul searching and have a scratching pen at the ready. Overall, I am glad I read this book. 

2) The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are 

By Brené Brown

This is my first Brené Brown book. Is it self help? Is it spiritual? I don't know. But I highlighted a lot of great one-liners in it. 

I learned a lot from this book. It's a playbook for lay psychology nerds like me, who like to know how we build our stories and process emotions and stuff. I'm making it sound technical, but it's not. There are plenty of anecdotes from the author, admissions of her own folly, and conversations she has had with her own therapist. In this way, I felt like the author, a researcher, did not always seem authoritative on her own subject. But I appreciate her candor in expressing her continuing work toward loving herself as she was made. 

There are ten "guideposts" for embracing one's imperfection. I found these interesting and wanted to study them more. Overall, I feel like the book gave me an extra nudge to heed the inner wisdom I was already sensing, but was afraid to act upon. 

Read other reviews to get a sense for this book because I am doing a rather poor job. But I decided that if I ever take a trip somewhere, this is the kind of book to take with me on the plane. I think I could make it a serious study for a few weeks, no problem. 

I gave this book four stars because I wanted to love it, but things like foul language and select juvenile diction and lack of authority kept it from wowing me. I would still recommend it. 

3) Out of My Mind by Sharon M. Draper

This novel is about a ten-year-old girl whose body prevents her from expressing her inner genius as she is unable to talk or walk. (It is later revealed that she has cerebral palsy, which is what I was sensing.) This girl expresses her frustration at being labeled and being unable to speak for herself. Her intelligence is later discovered, and we get to see what she is able to accomplish with her able-bodied peers. The adjustment is fraught with frustrating difficulties, which I feel is reflective of disabilities in general.  

I really appreciated this book as a look into a perfectly functioning brain within a handicapped body. It made me happy that I have worked with people using the same tone of voice, no matter how old or how intelligent. The girl in this book wanted to be included. Is that so hard to do with people we meet?

The author, a mother of a handicapped child, recommends that when we see someone who isn't, say, usual, that we should say hi and introduce ourselves instead of pretending not to see. This book drilled that thought into me. I hope to look at everyone with more love from now on. 

I gave this book four stars. I really liked it. 

4) The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis

This book is legend, right? This was my first read-through. It was fine.

This book is a collection of letters by Screwtape, a master demon, written to his nephew Wormwood, a newer demon engaged in trying to persuade a certain male, mortal "patient" to get on the road to hell through numerous, oldie-but-goodie-type demon tactics. Screwtape sometimes praises, sometimes chastises, but always closely appraises the patient's status and tells Wormwood how to use Christian strengths to turn the patient from "the Enemy" (Christ) and toward "Our Father Below" (Satan). 

It really was a fascinating two-hour read. If it had been my own copy of the book, it would have been dog-eared by the time I finished. You see easily that Satan, though tricky, is not very interesting with his tactics, though they are successful if one isn't careful. 

I was invested in the well-being of the patient, as war had just broken out after he become a Christian. Would it be too much? Was it all "a phase?" Would Wormwood succeed? I couldn't wait to find out. 

Truly, I had a hard time listening to a demon talk for nearly 200 pages. Maybe it was a negative energy I assumed. Maybe it was a sudden vulnerability I felt. Maybe I was hormonal and tense. But I was relieved when I finished. I gave this book four stars. If I hadn't felt that shift in energy so acutely, perhaps it would have gotten a perfect score and gone in my private collection. 

5) The Dollmage by Martine Leavitt

I only discovered Martine Leavitt's works last fall, and I am forever altered. Every book I have ever read from her just rocks my world, and The Dollmage is no different. It got a perfect five stars and is going into my exclusive private collection of favorites. 

The Dollmage is the village's wise woman and storymaker. She creates people and things before they happen, using carefully selected materials and adding them carefully to her secret miniature model of the village. As she has now aged and childless and her powers wane, it is time to find a successor. On the day appointed for the successor to be born, two very different girls arrive, both with Dollmage power. But the village can only have one Dollmage. Who will it be? Through years of training, the question remains. 

Told by the aged Dollmage as a legal testimony to her people before a village member's execution, this story is told by a deeply flawed character in fascinating prose. I was sitting around the fire with everyone else. 

Leavitt is a gifted wordsmith, and her nuggets of timeless wisdom are poetry. She looks where others will not look and damning insecurities become merciful gifts in her carefully-crafted offering. She somehow turns weaknesses into strengths within her characters. It's really beautiful. 

As is The Dollmage. I don't think it is in print anymore; I had to buy a used copy from Amazon...but the one penny I spent almost represents how priceless this work really is. Highly recommend. 

Wanted: Birthday ATP

"Mommy, do you think you are going to feel good on my birthday?"

It's a hard question to answer. It teeters unreliably, on a pointy rock, in the wind. 

It is impossible to definitively plan for the future. I have to be honest about that. 

"I don't know, darling. But I'll probably be feeling a lot like how I've felt the last few weeks. Have you seen how slow I am until late afternoon comes?" I sheepishly ask. 

I apologize. I see her little chin fall a few degrees and the corners of her delicate doll lips dip. But that upper lip stays strong. 

She knows. 

She knows I can't be relied upon. My health is predictably unpredictable. Like on Saturday, when I finally had the get-up-and-go to hit the shower and get dressed in real clothes (the pants weren't even stretchy) so we could go to a museum. But then we didn't go because the shower made me crash and my husband came home late from work. I hated that I was wearing a belt while dozing off while I should be museum-ing with my kids, with or without my husband, because I committed to it. 

Disappointing Mom Award. 

For me, birthdays changed a few years ago, two days before my own birthday. I accidentally ate a salad dressed with vegetable oil (made of soybeans, if you didn't know). My intestines spasmed and cramped so badly that they felt as hard and big around as collarbones beneath my abs, zig zagging and imploding like nothing I have ever felt before. It was horrible. I'm allergic, but I didn't know how badly until then. I saw a GI doctor and had an emergency colonoscopy on my birthday. I admit it was a terrific nap (please pass the propofol?), but I was tired and under the influence the rest of the day. The indignity of bowel prep had kept me up the night before. Happy birthday, dork. 

As each of our birthdays circulated the following year, I noticed I lay through them, just getting up to serve cake in the evening. I was sick. It was so sad for me. I felt like the worst wife and mother ever. 

With subsequent years, the birthdays have lulled by at the speed of a snail, devoid of ATP energy because the matriarchal author of birthday celebrations around here has a deficient Krebs cycle and thus nothing to give on a mitochondrial level. 

When my babies were little, it didn't take much to make them feel like they owned the day from my pathetic prone-ness on the couch. Now, this little girl cares and has an impressionable memory. My worst fear is that she won't feel important, and that this feeling will stick with her. 

I keep trying to talk myself out of it. "You're doing your best," I say. "She knows you love her." "Snuggles fix everything." "Her presents will blow her mind." 

I find that hopeful voice being chastised my a more logical, injured complaint. "Listen, Self, the new bed set she's been asking for is not going to distract her from wanting to go to the indoor trampoline place. It's not going to change her mind about the seven-layer chocolate cake she wants (never mind that you've never seen one of these). You're deluded. Everyone needs to be at a party for her, or she won't feel important."

There, there Self. Wipe your tears. That's the way. 

(So mean.)

I remember the first form of discipline for babies: distraction. Maybe if I put shiny objects in noticeable places, they'll be more interesting than trampolines and a tower of cake. 

Like...a tower of crepes with Nutella between the as a cake, for example? Or a store-bought ice cream cake? (Note to self: price ice cream cakes tomorrow.)

Or...an afternoon outing to somewhere fun we've never been before?

It could be awesome. I just have to get creative. From the couch. And maybe ingest some "pep" (my code word for Dr. Pepper, which I keep on hand for dire emergencies like near-birthday-fails). 

Hopefully the rare, circumstantial joys she craves don't matter as much as the novelty of surprise and delight. Hopefully being spoiled with love feels more satisfying than being spoiled with stuff. Children are tough, resilient, and want to learn. Hopefully, even though I'm not good at birthdays, our daughter will get the birthday that holds the highest good for her. 

Wish me luck and plenty of natural ATP energy pep.