...Is me. I’m pretty sure of it, especially the Hot Topic in Bloomington, Illinois. I was there with my friend Elizabeth, who is over a year younger, and we were thumbing through racks of Justin Bieber half-shirts, lace-up fingerless gloves, and Hello Kitty lingerie when I spied, across the way, the store where women our age were supposed to be shopping. It was like Chico’s, without the southwest feel, with knit vests and muted pantsuits. The color scheme was a milky pastel and the clothes were boxy and shapeless, designed to make the wearer as unobjectionable as possible. In contrast, Hot Topic looked pretty good, even with all of the Twilight merchandise on full display.
Now, to be fair, I grew up in the 70s and 80s, and going to high school in the early to mid 1980s I witnessed (and wore) the most matronly hairstyles and clothing I have ever seen marketed to young women. The short feathered hair, frosted and permed. The high collars, brooches, and scarves. The granny boots. Prairie dresses. Pantyhose. Big pants and blazers (thank you, David Byrne). Neon. No one looked good in any of this, not even the prettiest, most petite women. That the 1980s was a bad time for youth fashion was confirmed by a recent watching of the original Prom Night: all of the women playing high school girls dressed like high school principals, leaving for school in the morning as though driving to the office. All the scenes between couples looked like incestuous mother/son pairings, because the boys looked about 25 years younger than the girls did. “Is that a mother of the bride dress?” Elizabeth asked of Jamie Lee Curtis’ prom dress, a pink jacket and dress combination that looked something like an outfit Queen Elizabeth wore on her recent US tour.
On the one hand, we have the Sex and the City women, who brought into fashion the enormous flower brooch and spiky heels—tacky and uncomfortable. The cougar concept is equally unhelpful. It just seems desperate and kind of sad, and I wonder if it’s even a real thing; I don’t know any woman over 40, personally, who wants anything to do with younger men. It’s not that I want to wear predatory or revealing clothing—I just want the option of stylish clothes without having to shop at the junior department (which adults can now do, thanks to the childhood obesity epidemic.) Also, I want the experience to be fun, the way Hot Topic is fun for the kids who shop there. Yes, Hot Topic has its detractors, but is it really that bad? Although the outfits sold there will not stand the test of time, clothes adolescents wear are not supposed to.
One store name that intrigues me is Forever 21. The implication is that older women can shop there—the clothes can help you stop time, just at the age when you can drink legally. But they have a maternity line now, too, which makes me think they want older women--at least women in their thirties--as customers. When I was 21, I wore, to a college winter dance, a velvet bow in my hair, a red plaid skirt, a corset belt, and high-heeled shoes with a rhinestone bow. I would just as well have time move forward, with something more interesting on the path between Forever 21 and Coldwater Creek.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Fashion Plate
My daughter Betty is only three months old and she has an entire closet and dresser full of clothes. She has a pink corduroy mod dress with a brown flower on it, a pair of pink and gray striped bellbottoms, a gray shirt with robots on it and a gray Jackie Kennedy coat for fall. Many of these items are gifts and/or hand-me-downs, and she has grown so fast already that it's hard to predict what size she'll be next week, let alone next month.
One of her favorite games to play is "put away laundry" or "put on a new outfit." In both of these games, I hold up a piece of clothing and tell her what color it is and what it is. She always seems entertained by it, though it might be because I enjoy it and it's contagious. Sometimes I even use a little bit of spit up on the neckline of a onesie as an excuse to pick out something new for her to wear. My love of dressing her has far exceeded my love of shopping for myself wearing nice things; most days I wear yoga pants and sweatshirts. I'm not working right now and I rarely go anywhere that merits a nice dress or even clean hair.
When I was small, I loved going clothes shopping with my mother. I was a "girly girl" from the start--my mother, who rarely wore skirts or dresses and still owned, in the 1980s, a clumpy, separated bottle of foundation from 1969, did not make me this way. I always wanted a complete outfit: hat, dress, purse, patent leather shoes, and every Easter I got just that. My mother, a great bargain shopper, would take me to Capitol department store in Lowell, with the clown on the sign, which was more like a warehouse full of off-priced merchandise: Izod shirts with the tags ripped off, books with the covers ripped off. I realize now that these items might have been procured illegally, but it was thrifty to shop at Capitol, and they had everything from Barbies to lawn mowers.
The one thing I wanted the most was a long dress, the kind that Cinderella or Laura from Little House on the Prairie might wear. It was the 1970s, we weren't Amish, and most stores didn't carry long dresses for little girls. I begged my mother to let me wear my butterfly nightgown to school in the hope that I could pass it off as a long dress, but she said no. My young, hip aunt who wore a leather visor and aviator shades tried to get me to be more with it by buying me a pair of jeans, which I refused to wear. That Christmas, my babysitter Jeannie, who was from Taiwan and had a new baby of her own, made me my own long dress--it was red and white, with a flower design, complete with white apron and Holly Hobbie-style bonnet. My parents have pictures of me in it that Christmas--I was quite a sight in my giant red bonnet with my missing front teeth. Although my mother judged it too "fancy" for school, I wore the ensemble every day after school until it ripped and finally ended up as a doll blanket, eventually landing in the rag pile.
My favorite outfit in junior high was a dark blue Nike t-shirt and shorts. My husband saw a picture of me back then and thought it was my brother. I don't remember when I stopped liking dresses, but I started dressing up for school again in college. I am not sure what Betty will wear when she can choose her clothes, but I am pretty sure I won't approve of it. I can keep my mouth shut, though, especially if I think of my mother putting up with the red prairie dress and bonnet every day.
One of her favorite games to play is "put away laundry" or "put on a new outfit." In both of these games, I hold up a piece of clothing and tell her what color it is and what it is. She always seems entertained by it, though it might be because I enjoy it and it's contagious. Sometimes I even use a little bit of spit up on the neckline of a onesie as an excuse to pick out something new for her to wear. My love of dressing her has far exceeded my love of shopping for myself wearing nice things; most days I wear yoga pants and sweatshirts. I'm not working right now and I rarely go anywhere that merits a nice dress or even clean hair.
When I was small, I loved going clothes shopping with my mother. I was a "girly girl" from the start--my mother, who rarely wore skirts or dresses and still owned, in the 1980s, a clumpy, separated bottle of foundation from 1969, did not make me this way. I always wanted a complete outfit: hat, dress, purse, patent leather shoes, and every Easter I got just that. My mother, a great bargain shopper, would take me to Capitol department store in Lowell, with the clown on the sign, which was more like a warehouse full of off-priced merchandise: Izod shirts with the tags ripped off, books with the covers ripped off. I realize now that these items might have been procured illegally, but it was thrifty to shop at Capitol, and they had everything from Barbies to lawn mowers.
The one thing I wanted the most was a long dress, the kind that Cinderella or Laura from Little House on the Prairie might wear. It was the 1970s, we weren't Amish, and most stores didn't carry long dresses for little girls. I begged my mother to let me wear my butterfly nightgown to school in the hope that I could pass it off as a long dress, but she said no. My young, hip aunt who wore a leather visor and aviator shades tried to get me to be more with it by buying me a pair of jeans, which I refused to wear. That Christmas, my babysitter Jeannie, who was from Taiwan and had a new baby of her own, made me my own long dress--it was red and white, with a flower design, complete with white apron and Holly Hobbie-style bonnet. My parents have pictures of me in it that Christmas--I was quite a sight in my giant red bonnet with my missing front teeth. Although my mother judged it too "fancy" for school, I wore the ensemble every day after school until it ripped and finally ended up as a doll blanket, eventually landing in the rag pile.
My favorite outfit in junior high was a dark blue Nike t-shirt and shorts. My husband saw a picture of me back then and thought it was my brother. I don't remember when I stopped liking dresses, but I started dressing up for school again in college. I am not sure what Betty will wear when she can choose her clothes, but I am pretty sure I won't approve of it. I can keep my mouth shut, though, especially if I think of my mother putting up with the red prairie dress and bonnet every day.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Lactation Education, part II
I saw a Law and Order SVU episode a few years ago about a young couple who were advised not to supplement with formula because it would supress lactation, and their baby starved to death. The lactation consultants on the episode were horrible--preachy, rigid, and bullying--and the message of the episode was that the whole "breast is best" thing can be taken too far. Now, when I watched this I was truly skeptical; I did not believe anyone would advocate against supplementation when a baby was truly hungry for nourishment. However, my own experiences with lactation have made me wonder.
The hospital I chose has five lactation consultants--as many as some of the bigger city hospitals--and I took a breastfeeding class there and had a consultant with me in the hospital as I nursed Betty (I have a prior post about that class). I did not really have a birth plan or care what kind of birth I had as long as we both survived and were healthy, but the one thing I really wanted to do was breastfeed. Nothing at all indicated I wouldn't be able to do this, and so I purchased a breast pump, shells, ice packs, all the gear you need.
After Betty seemed to breastfeed fine the first two days in the hospital, taking to it really quickly, I thought we were on the right path. The nurses were so supportive and were impressed by her "latch" and vigor. Then we brought her home. She seemed to scream a lot at night, which can be normal for babies, but we saw other problem signs, including a lack of soiled or wet diapers. Two days after returning home she still had that red "brick dust" of urate crystals in her diaper, diapers that were still dry. Friday night was my breaking point--something seemed wrong. She was growing frustrated with feeding, so I tried to pump some breast milk. After 10 minutes, still nothing was coming out. I realized that my baby was not getting anything to eat or drink.
I called a lactation consulatant at the hospital, who suggested herbs and Guiness and said, "Don't give her a bottle."
We brought her into the emergency clinic the next day, and the pediatrician weighed her. Now, all babies lose some of their birthweight in the hospital, but she had lost at the hospital and then some--she was nearly a full pound smaller than the 6.3 pounds she weighed at birth, down to 5.4 pounds. So the doctor gave her some formula, which she drank up in one sitting.
I felt both guilty and relieved when we gave her the formula. Finally, she was eating. But it would compromise my efforts to breastfeed, efforts already compromised by some defect in me that was not allowing me to produce enough milk for her. So I stepped up my efforts at increasing milk production, and it has been a challenge. This has included renting a hospital-grade breast pump, taking herbs and tinctures, trying to force an increasingly resistant baby to breastfeed at each feeding, and reading everything I can about increasing milk production. I even called the lactation consultants again, who could offer me little apart from herbs and constant pumping.
So far, nothing is really working, but I am going to keep trying and hoping. Every time I mix a bottle of formula I feel as though I'm cheating my daughter out of a healthy life. One of the nurses at the hospital pointed out that her breast-fed child may have been valedictorian of his class because his competition was bottle-fed. I failed to point out to her (though I should have) that I was bottle-fed and I had a PhD. Still, it's little consolation; I know breast milk is better for babies.
On Betty's last pediatrician visit, she had gained very well and was looking healthy and robust. She's wetting every diaper and I know she's getting the nourishment she needs. All good news, but I get the feeling the lactation consultants see me as a quitter. I won't be calling them again.
The hospital I chose has five lactation consultants--as many as some of the bigger city hospitals--and I took a breastfeeding class there and had a consultant with me in the hospital as I nursed Betty (I have a prior post about that class). I did not really have a birth plan or care what kind of birth I had as long as we both survived and were healthy, but the one thing I really wanted to do was breastfeed. Nothing at all indicated I wouldn't be able to do this, and so I purchased a breast pump, shells, ice packs, all the gear you need.
After Betty seemed to breastfeed fine the first two days in the hospital, taking to it really quickly, I thought we were on the right path. The nurses were so supportive and were impressed by her "latch" and vigor. Then we brought her home. She seemed to scream a lot at night, which can be normal for babies, but we saw other problem signs, including a lack of soiled or wet diapers. Two days after returning home she still had that red "brick dust" of urate crystals in her diaper, diapers that were still dry. Friday night was my breaking point--something seemed wrong. She was growing frustrated with feeding, so I tried to pump some breast milk. After 10 minutes, still nothing was coming out. I realized that my baby was not getting anything to eat or drink.
I called a lactation consulatant at the hospital, who suggested herbs and Guiness and said, "Don't give her a bottle."
We brought her into the emergency clinic the next day, and the pediatrician weighed her. Now, all babies lose some of their birthweight in the hospital, but she had lost at the hospital and then some--she was nearly a full pound smaller than the 6.3 pounds she weighed at birth, down to 5.4 pounds. So the doctor gave her some formula, which she drank up in one sitting.
I felt both guilty and relieved when we gave her the formula. Finally, she was eating. But it would compromise my efforts to breastfeed, efforts already compromised by some defect in me that was not allowing me to produce enough milk for her. So I stepped up my efforts at increasing milk production, and it has been a challenge. This has included renting a hospital-grade breast pump, taking herbs and tinctures, trying to force an increasingly resistant baby to breastfeed at each feeding, and reading everything I can about increasing milk production. I even called the lactation consultants again, who could offer me little apart from herbs and constant pumping.
So far, nothing is really working, but I am going to keep trying and hoping. Every time I mix a bottle of formula I feel as though I'm cheating my daughter out of a healthy life. One of the nurses at the hospital pointed out that her breast-fed child may have been valedictorian of his class because his competition was bottle-fed. I failed to point out to her (though I should have) that I was bottle-fed and I had a PhD. Still, it's little consolation; I know breast milk is better for babies.
On Betty's last pediatrician visit, she had gained very well and was looking healthy and robust. She's wetting every diaper and I know she's getting the nourishment she needs. All good news, but I get the feeling the lactation consultants see me as a quitter. I won't be calling them again.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
"You Have a Daughter!"
Those are the best words I have ever heard or will ever hear in my life!
I am finding that it is hard to write at this point, even with Betty sleeping, and everything quiet, because it's so strange to have your life change completely but be living in the same house, with the same things around you, and the same shows on the tivo and unfinished books on the night table. This is true for any major life change, good or bad, though. Everything looks the same, but there's been a fundamental shift that makes it feel as though what you are living in is a clever copy of your old life.
Still, two things stick out to me: one, even when planning for Betty's arrival for nine months and, in some ways, the many years before, nothing could have prepared me for what it was really like, and it's something I can't even describe or explain quite yet. Two, labor is so, so bad. It's bad. There are not words for pain like that. I wanted to kill every single health care professional who uttered "just breathe through it" when I had a contraction. I remember wondering how any woman could go through that twice voluntarily, or even more than twice. But, even though I swore I would never forget that pain, not even a week later is is already receding into the hazy distance of that 27 or so hours leading to Betty's birth.
My hair stylist told me this fall that when she had her baby she was sad not to be pregnant anymore. I thought that was crazy, but I do miss being able to protect Betty completely from hunger and cold and upset. Does she understand when I change her diaper that I have to do it, that I'm not trying to make her miserable? Or that when I was making every effort to feed her, I didn't know I wasn't producing enough food for her (will she not trust me now?) How do other people do this?
I am finding that it is hard to write at this point, even with Betty sleeping, and everything quiet, because it's so strange to have your life change completely but be living in the same house, with the same things around you, and the same shows on the tivo and unfinished books on the night table. This is true for any major life change, good or bad, though. Everything looks the same, but there's been a fundamental shift that makes it feel as though what you are living in is a clever copy of your old life.
Still, two things stick out to me: one, even when planning for Betty's arrival for nine months and, in some ways, the many years before, nothing could have prepared me for what it was really like, and it's something I can't even describe or explain quite yet. Two, labor is so, so bad. It's bad. There are not words for pain like that. I wanted to kill every single health care professional who uttered "just breathe through it" when I had a contraction. I remember wondering how any woman could go through that twice voluntarily, or even more than twice. But, even though I swore I would never forget that pain, not even a week later is is already receding into the hazy distance of that 27 or so hours leading to Betty's birth.
My hair stylist told me this fall that when she had her baby she was sad not to be pregnant anymore. I thought that was crazy, but I do miss being able to protect Betty completely from hunger and cold and upset. Does she understand when I change her diaper that I have to do it, that I'm not trying to make her miserable? Or that when I was making every effort to feed her, I didn't know I wasn't producing enough food for her (will she not trust me now?) How do other people do this?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Last Child-Free Days
I am going in to be induced tomorrow at 8:30 AM. It's only one and a half weeks before my due date, and there are concerns that make it necessary: my blood pressure, the fact that the placenta is calcifying and the amount of amniotic fluid is borderline. It's going to be a long haul, though, because the baby has not dropped yet and my body is not yet ready to give birth, so modern medicine will make it ready. However, I feel mentally ready--I woke up this morning feeling better than I have in weeks. I really hate bed rest, and while I fully realize that the demands of taking care of a newborn may make bed rest seem like a vacation, I am looking forward to really simple things: driving my car, walking up and down the stairs when I want, not taking my blood pressure all the time. I feel as though doing something is bettter than nothing--even if the something keeps you busy all of the time.
One tip I have for future moms-to-be is not to watch the Discovery Health channel shows about childbirth--they are scary and don't help. Yesterday I watched one wherein a young, healthy woman (a nurse, even!) who was truly enthusiastic about a natural birth spent her labor screaming, puking, and pushing for (get this) 40 hours, only to almost hemorrage to death. What bothered me was the show's clear message that women who claim to want no drugs and no medical assistance are full of crap and can't handle the pain. They practically blamed her for the bleeding, because she "insisted on not having a C-section." However, that same show seems to have no problem with their own doctors, who are over 40, getting invasive infertility treatments and then routinely scanning themselves at work. This is the same network that brings us "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant" and another show that featured a 55-year old pregnant woman, whose husband was 64. The 55-year old wants to have another baby, too.
So, as of early this week, we will have a new person living with us, a person who will be our responsibility, and we know very little about him or her so far. Scott was a good, mellow baby, and I was a colicky monster, so here's hoping this baby takes after him.
One tip I have for future moms-to-be is not to watch the Discovery Health channel shows about childbirth--they are scary and don't help. Yesterday I watched one wherein a young, healthy woman (a nurse, even!) who was truly enthusiastic about a natural birth spent her labor screaming, puking, and pushing for (get this) 40 hours, only to almost hemorrage to death. What bothered me was the show's clear message that women who claim to want no drugs and no medical assistance are full of crap and can't handle the pain. They practically blamed her for the bleeding, because she "insisted on not having a C-section." However, that same show seems to have no problem with their own doctors, who are over 40, getting invasive infertility treatments and then routinely scanning themselves at work. This is the same network that brings us "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant" and another show that featured a 55-year old pregnant woman, whose husband was 64. The 55-year old wants to have another baby, too.
So, as of early this week, we will have a new person living with us, a person who will be our responsibility, and we know very little about him or her so far. Scott was a good, mellow baby, and I was a colicky monster, so here's hoping this baby takes after him.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Tales from Bed Rest
So I went to the Obstetrician's office on Thursday for a routine visit. My plan was to go there, come home, go register my car, get my new license at the DMV, go to work, and come home. The only problem was, nothing about that visit was going right. I dropped the cup of urine for the sample, and then found out my blood pressure soared from a normal 120/80 to 140/104 in not even a week. I could hear the doctor talking to the nurses in the hall, and suddenly everything seemed sort of frantic. I know about pre-eclampsia and what it is and can do, but I didn't think they'd make that determination on the face of one bad reading.
The upshot of it is that my doctor told me I wasn't going to work that day (and probably not again for the semester) and that I was to go immediately to the hospital for "evaluation." She gave me some papers in an envelope which read "Evaluate for PIH"...then some names of tests, then "bed rest." That's when I started to get scared, because I know some women who have been on hospital bed rest--and I'm not due for a month! Still, I was hoping they'd do the tests and released me.
When I got there they sent me right up to the birthing center, put me in a gown and in a hospital bed, hooked me up to monitors, took blood, and I didn't even get to call Scott until I'd been there an hour. A nurse told me that my doctor probably hadn't mentioned that I might be there for 24 hours. Fortunately, the fetal stress test, the blood tests, the urine tests, and every other test turned out fine, and I did get to see the baby's face on an ultrasound (very cute, chubby face) and I discovered that our so-called giant baby is actually 3 days udnerweight--5.5 pounds as of Thursday. Which definitely means that he or she needs some more time in there.
So I got to go home at 6:00 that evening, but my doctor is still putting me on bed rest indefinitely. I should not really even be at the computer right now, but my readings have been good so far today, so...
Now this Saturday night/Sunday morning was the worst. I had a headache that started at 5 PM Saturday night and got progressively worse, and I was throwing up by Sunday morning. Since that's a warning sign of pre-eclampsia, and the doctor had said to go to the hospital if this were to happen, Scott brought me in. Luckily (or not) it was just the worst migraine I had ever had and my blood pressure numbers were already much closer to normal. However, I could not stop throwing up until after 2:30 on Sunday afternoon and the pain would not cease..but then it was over by Sunday night. The worst part was that when I asked for something for the migraine, the nurses prescribed what I already had at home--regular strength Tylenol, which I couldn't keep down anyway. Anyone who has ever had a migraine knows what a joke that is!
So now Scott has to do everything--drive me to my appointments, cooking, dog care, shopping, everything--which sounds like quite a picnic for me, but I feel pretty guilty about it. And reclining all day is not too comfortable. However, it is a great motivator to have this baby and to recover quickly from the birth. Just walking around feels like a forbidden treat, and to be able to do that (albeit with losing sleep) is going to be great.
The one who loves my bed rest the most is Bubba. Every day is bed rest for him--he sits right next to me on the couch and is very content.
The upshot of it is that my doctor told me I wasn't going to work that day (and probably not again for the semester) and that I was to go immediately to the hospital for "evaluation." She gave me some papers in an envelope which read "Evaluate for PIH"...then some names of tests, then "bed rest." That's when I started to get scared, because I know some women who have been on hospital bed rest--and I'm not due for a month! Still, I was hoping they'd do the tests and released me.
When I got there they sent me right up to the birthing center, put me in a gown and in a hospital bed, hooked me up to monitors, took blood, and I didn't even get to call Scott until I'd been there an hour. A nurse told me that my doctor probably hadn't mentioned that I might be there for 24 hours. Fortunately, the fetal stress test, the blood tests, the urine tests, and every other test turned out fine, and I did get to see the baby's face on an ultrasound (very cute, chubby face) and I discovered that our so-called giant baby is actually 3 days udnerweight--5.5 pounds as of Thursday. Which definitely means that he or she needs some more time in there.
So I got to go home at 6:00 that evening, but my doctor is still putting me on bed rest indefinitely. I should not really even be at the computer right now, but my readings have been good so far today, so...
Now this Saturday night/Sunday morning was the worst. I had a headache that started at 5 PM Saturday night and got progressively worse, and I was throwing up by Sunday morning. Since that's a warning sign of pre-eclampsia, and the doctor had said to go to the hospital if this were to happen, Scott brought me in. Luckily (or not) it was just the worst migraine I had ever had and my blood pressure numbers were already much closer to normal. However, I could not stop throwing up until after 2:30 on Sunday afternoon and the pain would not cease..but then it was over by Sunday night. The worst part was that when I asked for something for the migraine, the nurses prescribed what I already had at home--regular strength Tylenol, which I couldn't keep down anyway. Anyone who has ever had a migraine knows what a joke that is!
So now Scott has to do everything--drive me to my appointments, cooking, dog care, shopping, everything--which sounds like quite a picnic for me, but I feel pretty guilty about it. And reclining all day is not too comfortable. However, it is a great motivator to have this baby and to recover quickly from the birth. Just walking around feels like a forbidden treat, and to be able to do that (albeit with losing sleep) is going to be great.
The one who loves my bed rest the most is Bubba. Every day is bed rest for him--he sits right next to me on the couch and is very content.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
"At Least I’m Not Poor!": A Story of Thanksgiving Revenge
My most vivid memory of childhood Thanksgiving is my mother getting up at 5 AM to put the turkey in and making a giant bowl of French Canadian stuffing to go with it. It’s kind of like the filling in Tourtieres, and my Nana used to make it. This was before my father was a vegetarian, obviously, and made us be vegetarians, too, as the stuffing was made of ground pork, onions , golden raisins, mashed potatoes, and, the staple of all stuffings in New England: Bell’s Seasoning. When I moved to Illinois I could not find Bell’s at the Jewel in Bloomington, so I had to settle for something generically called “Poultry Seasoning” which was a poor substitute. It has to be Bell’s. I make this stuffing now occasionally, with either ground turkey or “veggie crumbles,” and although I have no memory of what pork tasted like, I suspect that in this stuffing it was really good. I am the last one in the family to continue making this stuffing, since the other cousins in my generation don’t really like it (nor do most of my aunts) and this makes me more determined to keep the tradition alive, since it’s really the only remotely “ethnic” recipe we have.
Thanksgiving at my Nana’s house meant that the five cousins, me being the oldest and my cousin Jason the youngest (we are six years apart) would usually dress up, get our picture taken in front of Nana’s fireplace, and then we would all eat. Afterwards, when we were old enough, were several rounds of cards. We played for chips sometimes and sometimes money, or chips that stood for money (although I don’t think they were ever really cashed in.) My Nana was a big fan of cards and bingo, and would often get together with her “ladies” in her kitchen, where they shouted and cursed and ate ritz crackers with the cheese you squeeze from a can.
The cousins were divided into two neat groups: two girls (Erin and I, two years apart) and two boys (Christian and my brother, also two years apart) until Jason came along, upsetting the balance. Jason was the baby, almost four years younger than Erin, and although I must mention that he grew up to be a talented artist and a wonderful human being with a great sense of humor, we did not always treat him well. Especially Christian, who is so hard to describe I really can only do it through a list of facts: Christian was hit by a car on three separate occasions as a child, and each time he sustained practically no injuries. He was small and skinny but moved faster and had the loudest voice and most rapid-fire speech of any little kid I’ve ever met. Also, he was a blurter—he just said what he thought, always, and it was usually the thing everyone else was too polite to say (he pointed out to my father on many occasions that he was going bald, the irony being that by age 19, Chris himself had lost most of his hair. He also spent most of my eighth birthday party marching around our house announcing that our Nana was wearing a wig.)
On one Thanksgiving, Jason was playing cards with all of us for the first time. He was still little, so he was learning, but he was smart and getting the hang of it. However, he was far from winning, and his pile of chips was dwindling. Just starting to get a little tired and crabby, he pointed out something Chris had done that had seemed unfair (perhaps peeking at someone’s cards or something like that—Chris never could sit still for a minute.) Chris took one look at Jason’s small pile of poker chips and laughed: “At least I’m not poor.” Then the crying started.
Flash forward many years later, and Jason is grown up and has a Master’s Degree and a lucrative new job. Chris is a few years away from enlisting in the Iraq war, still working part time, and not sure what he wants to do with his life. We are playing cards again, and Jason is still losing. As Chris celebrates his victory, Jason has one last parting shot: “Maybe you won, but at least I’m not poor.”
Although I will see neither Chris nor Jason this Thanksgiving, as Chris is in Iraq, working in one of Sadam Hussein’s former palaces, and Jason is spending the holiday with his wife’s family, I will be thinking of them.
Another family tradition I hope endures along with the stuffing: well-timed revenge.
Thanksgiving at my Nana’s house meant that the five cousins, me being the oldest and my cousin Jason the youngest (we are six years apart) would usually dress up, get our picture taken in front of Nana’s fireplace, and then we would all eat. Afterwards, when we were old enough, were several rounds of cards. We played for chips sometimes and sometimes money, or chips that stood for money (although I don’t think they were ever really cashed in.) My Nana was a big fan of cards and bingo, and would often get together with her “ladies” in her kitchen, where they shouted and cursed and ate ritz crackers with the cheese you squeeze from a can.
The cousins were divided into two neat groups: two girls (Erin and I, two years apart) and two boys (Christian and my brother, also two years apart) until Jason came along, upsetting the balance. Jason was the baby, almost four years younger than Erin, and although I must mention that he grew up to be a talented artist and a wonderful human being with a great sense of humor, we did not always treat him well. Especially Christian, who is so hard to describe I really can only do it through a list of facts: Christian was hit by a car on three separate occasions as a child, and each time he sustained practically no injuries. He was small and skinny but moved faster and had the loudest voice and most rapid-fire speech of any little kid I’ve ever met. Also, he was a blurter—he just said what he thought, always, and it was usually the thing everyone else was too polite to say (he pointed out to my father on many occasions that he was going bald, the irony being that by age 19, Chris himself had lost most of his hair. He also spent most of my eighth birthday party marching around our house announcing that our Nana was wearing a wig.)
On one Thanksgiving, Jason was playing cards with all of us for the first time. He was still little, so he was learning, but he was smart and getting the hang of it. However, he was far from winning, and his pile of chips was dwindling. Just starting to get a little tired and crabby, he pointed out something Chris had done that had seemed unfair (perhaps peeking at someone’s cards or something like that—Chris never could sit still for a minute.) Chris took one look at Jason’s small pile of poker chips and laughed: “At least I’m not poor.” Then the crying started.
Flash forward many years later, and Jason is grown up and has a Master’s Degree and a lucrative new job. Chris is a few years away from enlisting in the Iraq war, still working part time, and not sure what he wants to do with his life. We are playing cards again, and Jason is still losing. As Chris celebrates his victory, Jason has one last parting shot: “Maybe you won, but at least I’m not poor.”
Although I will see neither Chris nor Jason this Thanksgiving, as Chris is in Iraq, working in one of Sadam Hussein’s former palaces, and Jason is spending the holiday with his wife’s family, I will be thinking of them.
Another family tradition I hope endures along with the stuffing: well-timed revenge.
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