The Elephant Tattoo.

I never tell my kids anything.  Ok, that's not strictly accurate - I tell them lots of stuff.  Like, how to do addition, how it's best to brush your teeth in little circles, not to pick their noses in public - that kind of thing.  I never tell them about social things - until the last minute.  They learn about birthday parties on the morning they are going.  They find out we are going to the zoo as we get in the car to go.  It just works out better for us that way.   Less crazy, excited build up.  Less opportunity for hurting the feelings of those not invited. Less disappointment when an event is cancelled.

This is working less and less with the nine year old who's compatriots parents are the tell all types.  I know it's healthy for a kid to experience disappointment.  I know that anticipation is fun but the opportunities for those experiences are myriad within her school schedule alone.  I don't need to add to it.

It is without doubt something I do for my benefit too.  Having sat with a heartbroken child when a fever hits and she knows she will miss the school field trip, I know the feeling of that special kind of pain reserved for parent's hearts.

Some of my parent peers question my judgement on this issue.  She's nine - she should know more about her life and plans.  I don't think so and I'll tell you why.  When I was about nine my aunt told me she would take me to the Tattoo.  The Tattoo is an outdoor festival like show that takes place in the grounds of Edinburgh Castle each year.  It features marching bands, military displays, world music and circus style performances and ends with a spectacular firework display.  The magical setting makes it an impressive, exciting event.   I was beside myself with glee.  I had always wanted to go.  Most of my classmates went every year - I was finally going to be able to join in the chatter.

My aunt told me two things in advance.  We would take sleeping bags to stay warm and that there would be an elephant in the performance.  The thought that I would snuggle into a sleeping bag and then sit in a chair tickled me pink.  I had attended many outdoor events in the Scottish Autumn ruined by feeling frozen solid.  Then there was the elephant - I am still unclear why this made me so giddy but it was all I cared about.  I had seen posters advertising the Tattoo and the elephant had a blue sparkly halter on - I was entranced.  I couldn't wait to see the elephant up close.

On the way there, I asked incessant questions about the timing of the elephants appearance.  What would it be doing and for how long?   I can still hear my aunt's increasingly less patient responses that, "we'll just have to wait and see."

You don't need me to tell you that the sleeping bags got replaced by lap rugs which still allowed our feet to get cold and drafts to sneak in and that the elephant didn't show.  Apparently, it got sick.
I don't remember anything else from that night.   I think it was a spectacular show but it was lost to me in a fog of cold feet and elephant longing.  

My aunt was appalled at my lack of gratitude and constant questioning and complaining and entirely frustrated by my disappointed tears.   Now, as a parent I can now see why my aunt thought I was an ungrateful wench that night.  Why not just enjoy it for what it was?

I  know that the Tattoo experience is what forms my decision to wait with information.  Children are single minded.  They latch onto their perception and it might not have a place in the real world.  They can't re-adjust as quickly as we adults do.  I'm really just reducing their therapy bill in advance....

The Same Yet Different.

As I've written before, deciding to write a 'sad' piece for Listen To Your Mother SF was a difficult decision.  I like to be funny.  Funny is just more, well, fun.  As I attended rehearsals my misgivings grew bigger.  I listened to the hilarious Margaret Garcia and Rhea St. Julien and watched the joy they spread.  Making an audience laugh is thrilling.  I felt a little jealous and full of self doubt over my choice.

I knew it was important for me to do something different, something uncomfortable, something vulnerable but what if I never got to do this again?  What if I'd missed my chance to make an auditorium laugh?

After the show people were so responsive to my piece I felt I had made the right choice.  So many people told me how it had helped them, moved them, healed them.  That's a lovely feeling - knowing you have helped someone.  The most notable example of this was the show's videographer.  He came backstage looking for me.  A middle aged man, with a quiet, gentle manner he asked if he could talk to me.  

My first thought was there had been a problem and my piece hadn't been video'd and I felt a stab of disappointment.  He surprised me by tearing up and proceeded to tell me that he too had lost his mother as a child.  He told me how much he still missed her.  He told me how much he had loved my piece and how it had resonated deeply for him.  I was so touched.  It was so unexpected.  We chatted about our mothers for several minutes. I thanked him for sharing his story with me - we hugged.  Then he said,

"Of course my mother left me over 18 hours of audio tapes, telling me her life story and giving me advice for my future, I love to listen to them."

What?!
How do I encapsulate my thoughts in that moment without looking like a terrible person - let's face it, I can't.

Are you kidding me?  No fair!  Don't pull me in with you tear filled, adult man eyes then drop that on me.  EIGHTEEN hours!!  I was looking for ONE letter and you lulled me into a sense of camaraderie with your 'same here' story then tell me you have EIGHTEEN hours of her,  her voice, her thoughts and feelings.   Not the same.  Not even close to the same.  For a fleeting second I thought maybe he was still filming and I was being Punk'd but no, he was genuine.  I muttered something about how happy I was for him that, at least, he had that to hold onto, then bolted for the backstage champagne.

Men are from Mars indeed.

LTYM From Your Couch.

Watching yourself on video is a difficult experience for most. Hearing your own recorded voice - equally painful. That said, I am going to swallow my insecurities.

The LTYM SF show videos are now on YouTube.  Here's mine but PLEASE watch the rest of the cast too. I can promise you a much better evening of entertainment than you'll get on TV.

Little Joy

My children love to hear Little Joy stories. Little Joy stories are when I tell a real story from my childhood. This is one of their favorites:

When I was about eight I received a pad of writing paper with matching envelopes as a Christmas present. On the first telling this opening line caused a spill of questions. Mostly related to how it must have been a long time ago in ye olde world of letter writing. "Did you have a quill?" Etc.

It was one of my most treasured gifts ("what, a pad of paper?") because it had Paddington Bear printed at the top of each sheet and his paw was embossed on the envelopes. I treasured it. It came in a folding plastic sleeve with the paper on one side and the envelopes stacked two high on the other side. I loved it so much, I wouldn't use it. Not even to write to my beloved German pen pal. I kept it in my bedside cabinet, storage for all things sacred - including my Scott Baio poster. I would take the set out and flick through the pages then return it with reverence to it's folder.

It drove my sister crazy that I wouldn't use it. Whenever she saw me writing a letter she would question my use of plain or airmail paper. She requested sheets for her own letter writing - but I was immovable. It was for admiring only.

My next birthday fell on a Sunday. Sunday meant church and I can still picture my mum, sister and I all getting ready in various parts of our classic two up, two down home. I was downstairs brushing my hair in front of the hall mirror and my mom was near me putting on her shoes. My sister was cleaning her teeth in the only bathroom upstairs. We had a small radio in there and it was usually on in the morning hustle. Suddenly, my sister squealed and cranked the volume.

"This next song goes out to Joy on her ninth birthday, Happy Birthday from your mum, dad and sister. Cute Paddington paper by the way!"

I swirled to look at my mum - she had a look of delight on her face and was watching me expectantly. I heard her praising my sister for her quick thinking in turning up the radio. My sister came down and they both waited for my reaction.

"Thank you so much for writing in! That was brilliant. They only mention a few birthdays - can't believe one was mine. That was really sweet of you. Wow!"

Those would have been appropriate responses. Instead, I turned petulantly to my sister and yelled "I can't believe you used my Paddington paper!"

The silence hung heavily while my mum and my sister's mood turned from excitement to disappointment and anger. Despite all that followed I couldn't change my point of view. I just couldn't recover from the fact that one sheet of my beautiful paper was lost and gone from me forever. The whole incident was a cloud that hung gray and foreboding and colored the precious Paddington paper.

I explain to my girls how it took me a long time to see my sisters point of view. How she had tried to do something nice for me and how I had crushed all the fun out of it. I explain my over attachment to that paper and all that it stood for in my Little Joy mind.

I'm sure they like this story because they understand the struggle of ownership between two sisters and a shared room. I'm sure they like the idea of one sister being soundly in the wrong and one being victoriously right. I'm sure I like telling it because it brings the world of my childhood bedside cabinet into visceral memory for me. I can picture the treasures within. I can see that pad of paper vividly (sadly google images could not.) I can remember the joy it brought me and I can wonder about where it is now. I can remember the look of disappointment and disbelief on my sister's face and I can know that all these things contributed to the person that is Big Joy.