Chapter 9 PART II: Killing the Chia Pet & College Shenanigans

     Good-hearted parents with the best intentions are often accused of awful things, such as being overprotective, eavesdropping, assigning chores and enforcing curfews. One of the most heinous acts my daughter charged me with was killing her Chia Pet. Now for those who have not seen the television ads, it is not a real pet, but a small plant in the shape of an animal onto which you place seeds so that ‘hair’ (grass) grows from it. Hers was very cute and in the shape of a smiling head, which bore a striking resemblance to the Dalai Lama. After she left for college we discovered that it required constant watering.

     My daughter placed it next to the kitchen sink the day before she left, “I’m leaving my Chia Head here where it will get enough sunlight. You guys have to remember to water it every day.”

“Sure,” I answered casually, flipping through a magazine. No problem. How hard could it be to water a little head once a day?

     When she came home for her first visit, it looked more like a shrunken head. We weren’t very diligent in keeping our end of the deal.  After she put her suitcases in her room, she went right to the kitchen. She was horrified, “Momm! It’s dry as a bone! You haven’t been watering it.” She tended to it and continued to scold me. 

I scrambled for a viable excuse. “Honey, I’m sorry. It needs so much water. I watered it just yesterday.”  Rob raised his eyebrows. 

I came clean, “Well, maybe it was two days ago.”

She turned to us and pointed to the shriveled thing, “It’s right next to the sink! How hard is it to remember to water?”

I apologized profusely and we promised to take better care of it.

When my daughter came home for Thanksgiving, our festive holiday mood was briefly ruined by another accusation of neglecting the Chia Head.

     I was in the middle of basting a turkey, preparing yams, mashing potatoes, boiling corn and stirring gravy. My daughter walked into the kitchen, having just woken up from a nap, and asked, “Have you watered my Chia head?”

I simply gave her a look.

     She was undaunted. She leaned towards the plant, which now resembled a prune, and gasped. Grass had been replaced by brown stringy stuff that lay limply across it. It looked like an old man with a comb-over.

“Momm! You did it again. You killed it.” 

“I kept your cat alive!” I snapped, while opening cans of cranberry sauce.

Rob piped in, “Yeah, don’t we get credit for taking care of the real pets?”

     She shook her head and doused the plant with water, “They can fend for themselves. This little guy can’t.  I just can’t trust you two to take care of it anymore.”

     So, we were demoted from our positions as caretakers. The alternative wasn’t so bad. No more pressure. Even my daughter gave up on it by summer. The Chia Head was eventually tossed it into the circular file…with my daughter’s permission, of course.

    

* * *

     My daughter was painfully honest about some of her activities at college. She announced that she had become friends with a senior who arranged weekly college parties in the city. These were no ordinary frat parties. These were house parties complete with DJ, dance floors, flashing lights, game rooms, bouncers, bartenders and three floors of jostling kids dressed to impress. For the price of a five-dollar plastic Solo cup, you were in!  

     I was concerned about such undertakings. She allayed my fears by assuring us that she knew the bouncers and if she had any trouble with a guy, the bouncers would use his head for a battering ram as they tossed the offender out the door. 

One weekend while she was safely in our kitchen, she went into more detail.

“Last weekend, I helped make the chug juice,” she bragged.

“The what?”

“The drinks.”

It was like hearing about a car wreck. I didn’t want to know but was compelled to ask, “How did you do that?”

“Well, we mixed fruit juice and vodka in a big bucket, and stirred it with the end of a broom.’’

We looked at her wide-eyed, “A broom? Then what?”

“We threw the broom on the floor until we needed to mix another batch.”

     Rob pulled me aside and said in a hushed voice, “Do you realize this is the girl who refuses to drink out of the same glass as you? Who inspects every utensil for dust before she’ll use it? She’s drinking something that was stirred with a broom off the floor?”

I was as perplexed as he.  It was one of those college transformations that we’d heard so much about.

When we sat down for breakfast the next morning, my daughter inspected her plate for dust.

 

* * *

Chapter Nine: You're Doing WHAT at College? PART I

Ch 9: You’re doing WHAT at college?

     My daughter leaving for college was something I tried to brace myself for. The experience was as traumatic, I am sure, as it is for most parents. We brought her to the city in a car packed like the family donkey at the end of “Fiddler on the Roof.” It was crammed full of stuff that she would make me take home on subsequent visits. For a while, we weren’t entirely sure she was in the backseat during that first drive down. Discarded McDonald’s wrappers indicated that she was.

     I didn’t want to leave her dorm the day we dropped her off. I cried before we exited the building. As a matter of fact, I cried for three months. Certain things triggered tears: passing a school bus, driving past her elementary school, walking into her bedroom or seeing an empty place at our table. Rob got used to nightly crying jags at dinner.

“Stop going into her room,” he said, gently taking me by the shoulders. “Besides, there’s nothing left to clean in there!”

     Indeed, the room was spotless, until she came home for a visit. Somehow in ten minutes, her bedroom became Dorothy’s farmhouse after the twister. I didn’t care. She was under our roof and all was right with the world again.

     We realized that life without a college student was very different from life with a college student. Something happens at college that changes a teen’s sleeping schedule completely. My daughter must have inherently known this because she avoided choosing any classes that began before noon.

When she was at school, I’d often call her in the afternoons.

“Hi honey, it’s me. What are you doing?”

“I just woke up.”

“It’s 2 o’clock!”

“I know. Class isn’t until 3. I wanted to get up early and grab some breakfast.”

Other times, I’d call her in the evening before we went to bed. 

“Hi honey, it’s me. What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a party. What are you doing?”

“I just changed into my pajamas.”

“Already? It’s 10:30!”

     When she came home to visit, our schedules really clashed. We tried to stay up with her to watch television, but by 1 am, my rear end fell asleep and my eyes were rolling back in my head.

She’d shake her head and say, “You guys are lame,” and pop a handful of Nerds into her mouth.

     There were late nights when she came home at curfew (which happened to be two hours past my bedtime). Her entrance would send our pets into a frenzy of running, barking and meowing in a raucous welcome. My daughter would rattle around the kitchen, frying herself some eggs and making a chocolate shake in the blender.

     She was responsible for doing her own laundry at college. But amazingly, when she was home, piles of dirty clothes grew exponentially.

“Your dirty laundry is going to walk downstairs by itself pretty soon. Can you please do some wash?” I asked.

“But Mom,” she whined, “I have to do it myself at college.”

     However, when she came home in the summer, she brought the same bottle of detergent we gave her in the beginning of the school year, and it was three-quarters full. I estimated she did two loads of laundry in nine months of college.

     Attending college in a big city is daunting for both parents and children. At orientation, the guides took the students on the subway, warned them to travel in groups, to stay within campus security lights, to clutch their backpacks and to ignore strangers even if they were bleeding on the street. The day we dropped my daughter off, the dormitory building was swarmed with carloads of parents and students unloading vehicles and moving boxes up to dorms. Campus security guards were everywhere, assisting people and directing traffic. We noticed a man across the street, lying on his back on the concrete steps of a church. He wasn’t moving and his body was twisted at an odd angle. We were alarmed and brought it to the attention of a security officer.

“Do you think that man is alright?” we asked and pointed.

     The security officer gave a quick glance across the street. With a wave of his hand he said, “Yeah, he’s alright. Just sleepin’ it off.”

     Sure enough, two hours later the prostrate man was gone. We’d succeeded in branding ourselves as a bunch of country bumpkins! 

* * *

Chapter Eight: You Want to Put That Where?

Chapter 8: You want to put that where?

     You can learn a lot about your significant other when you decorate a house together. Forget about hiring a professional. Why lose the opportunity to learn about your partner’s aesthetic vision and skill?

Rob and I painted every room of our house after we moved in. We were frequent visitors of the paint department at the home improvement stores. We knew the Home Depot employees by name. We had Lowes on speed dial. Like children in a candy store, we stood before a dizzying array of hundreds of colors aquiver with excitement!

“Ooh, look at this one!”

“Wow! Check out this one.”

We generally agreed on colors. Except for one I chose, one shade brighter than Ty-D Bowl blue. He cringed as I planned to paint our entire family room with it.

Ever diplomatic, he said, “Why don’t you paint one small area and see how you like it?”

Thank goodness for Rob's foresight. The color was hideous. I painted a single interior door, then stepped back and grimaced.

“Now what?” I whined.

“It’s not so bad. Leave it.”

     So, the can of Ty-D Bowl blue was banished to the basement. We hung blue drapes and accents to the room. We hung framed art with nautical themes on the door. It was known simply as the “blue door.” It caused quite a stir with friends and family who chuckled at my expense. My reputation for choosing colors was tarnished forever.

     In my defense, there have been a few odd items that Rob wanted to add to our decor, such as the huge paper balloon ribbed lamp. He was thrilled when he brought it home. It was long and white and reminded me of an insect in a cocoon.

“There’s a rip in it. Is it going to leave the larval stage?” I asked.

“Where do you think we should put it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said with a frown. “In the basement?” Rob knew what that meant. I never saw the lamp again.

* * *

     Maybe couples should fill out a questionnaire at the beginning of their relationship. It would make living together a heck of a lot easier.

     If we had filled out such a questionnaire, we’d have realized that Rob says ‘foot stool’ and I say ‘ottoman,’ or that he refers to a ‘colander’ as a ‘strainer.’ That what he calls a ‘buggy’ is what I call a ‘shopping cart.’

     I’d have also known that Rob detests being hot and that, in the middle of the night, he’s given to thrashing against sheets if they gather around his neck, so that his bedmate is longing to take a seasickness pill. I would have known that Rob wouldn’t allow clean socks to touch the floor without a slipper or a shoe protecting them. And he leaves trails of candy wrappers and chocolate bits all over the house (I have found them melted onto his checkbook.)  

     He would have learned much too. It wouldn’t come as a surprise that I am always cold and only require a mild breeze when the temperature hits eighty-five. I constantly straighten bathroom towels and place mats. I don’t believe pets should lie on light-colored rugs. He would have found out well in advance that I am oblivious to tire tread until they are bald. If such a questionnaire existed, we could have prevented the following conversations:

Him:  “Could you fold my socks instead of rolling and tucking them in a ball?”

Her:  “What’s the difference?”

Him:  “It ruins the sock. You know, stretches it out. Also we shouldn’t use so much bleach. It’s bad for the elastic.”

Her:  “Where is all the Tupperware that was in the cabinet? Haven’t you been taking  

          leftovers to work?”

Him:  “Yeah. I throw them out when I’m done.”

Her:  “You throw out our Tupperware containers?!”

Him:  “It’s not real Tupperware. They’re Chinese take-out containers!”

Him:  “Where’s my glass of milk that was on the counter?”

Her:  “Oops, I just dumped it down the sink.”

Him:  “I just poured that!”

Her:  “Oh. I wondered why the glass was cold.”

     On second thought, maybe a questionnaire would prevent marriages and domestic unions. Maybe these discoveries should come slowly, over time. By the time you had it all figured out, it would be ten years down the road. And who wants to spend another decade learning a new partner’s quirks?

* * *

Chapter Seven: In-Laws

Chapter 7:  In-Laws

When you pair up a Jersey girl and a Pennsylvania boy, it’s bound to get interesting. The first time I prepared an authentic Italian meal for Rob, my delicious eggplant parmigiana, he tried to PUT HOT SAUCE ON IT. That was nearly a relationship-breaker. I was incensed. Rob didn’t understand. I said he was defiling the recipe, by adding an ingredient that didn’t belong. He shook his head. He thought that I was nuts. Perhaps. But you cook for those you love, and my show of affection was nearly ruined. We laugh about it now, but he’s never added hot sauce to my specialties since.  

The first time I went to one of Rob’s family functions, there was an array of scrumptious food. His mother truly had a knack in the kitchen. Her significant other was a skilled hunter, as was indicated by numerous deer heads on the wall. There was a jostling, friendly crowd in the house. I’d lost sight of Rob, so I made myself a heaping plate and ambled downstairs to join the party. I was thoroughly enjoying the hearty fare − red skin potatoes, pulled pork, pickled eggs, beef roast, homemade bread and coleslaw. Then I caught a snippet of conversation. Someone said “venison.” I stopped mid-chew and looked up. 

“Venison?”

“Yes, in the crockpot upstairs.”

“Which crockpot?”

“The one with the blue flowers.” GULP.

Rob was chuckling from across the room. So was his mother. 

“Deer meat? You didn’t tell me,” I whined.

“I told you that it was meat, I just didn’t tell you what kind,” he replied with a mischievous grin. “Welcome to Pennsylvania!”

We ended that evening reclining on plush stools at the fully stocked bar downstairs, which was elegantly decorated in mahogany. A bottle of good ole’ country moonshine was presented, for anyone who didn’t want to remember what they had for dinner.         

* * *

My adorable, beautiful nephew Nathan has the cherubic face of an angel coupled with a generous dose of intelligence, creativity and tenacity. While he was visiting us one Christmas, he was at that stage in childhood when the word “no” was not taken easily.

The door between our family room and the garage had a slide lock, which he could reach. This was an endless source of entertainment for Nathan, especially after someone had just gone into the garage.

“Nathan, please don’t lock Uncle Rob in the garage.”

“But I have to,” he replied.

I couldn’t argue with that logic. With a shrug I thought, ah well, Rob can open the garage to get out.

While Nathan was with us, we were privy to other examples of the mind of a three-year old. We found him climbing the shelves of our refrigerator, reaching for chocolate we’d hidden on the top shelf.

“Nathan, get down from there.”

“But I have to.”

“You’ve had too much chocolate. It’s not good for you.”

He replied, “Chocolate IS good for me!”

I wondered how many dieters had uttered those same words.

Another day, my teen daughter was asleep and Nathan had the run of the house. She found the dog locked in his metal crate, looking miserable.

My daughter was puzzled, “Nathan, did Aunt Camille put the dog in the crate?”

“No. I did!” He was beaming with pride.

“How?”

“I pushed him in.”

We then realized the power of a three-year old. Shnoop our dog outweighed Nathan by forty pounds, yet he was somehow made to go into his cage, in his own house, by a forceful little person with the face of an angel.

The bathroom was another source of fun for my nephew. One night, I realized that he’d been in there too long. I knocked at the door.

“Nathan?”

“Can I have privacy please?” he said.

“What are doing in there?”

“Nothing.” PLOP. I heard something fall into the toilet. I guessed it was either toothpaste or my hairbrush.

“Nathan, what was that?”

“Can I have privacy?”

I applauded my sister for raising such a polite child and was, thus, momentarily swayed from my mission.

“Don’t put anything in the toilet, Nathan. Just pee and poop.”

A small voice replied, “But I have to.”

To which my sister swooped in and took charge. Whew! I’d never want to be known as the aunt who doesn’t give someone their privacy.

  

* * *

My daughter’s father lives in Las Vegas. He has an exciting, and often high-pressure, job as a chef in a famous casino. Two or three times a year, my daughter goes to Las Vegas to visit him.

Anyone who has put his or her child alone on a plane knows the angst that the parent experiences for the entire duration of the flight. Until you hear their voice on the other end of the line, “I’m here! Daddy picked me up at the gate,” you don’t relax or even sleep, even if that call comes at 3 am.

Perhaps, once in your life, there’s the ‘airplane trouble’ call. That’s the call that comes much too early to be good news. 

When my daughter was eleven years old, she called two hours after her flight took off.

“Hi Mom!”

“Where are you?”

“On the plane. The people sitting next to me let me use their phone.”

“Oh my god. Is everything alright?” Mild panic began.

“Oh yeah. We just ran out of fuel. We landed in Nebraska and they’re getting more now.”

Mild panic gave way to debilitating fear.

“You’re in Nebraska?!” I struggled to picture exactly where that state was. Darned Catholic school! I was taking penmanship when I should have been taking geography.

“Didn’t the pilots make sure there was enough fuel before they left?”

“I dunno. Mom, this lady needs her phone back. I gotta go.”

“Don’t get off the plane until you get to Nevada, honey!”

She sighed. “I won’t. Bye, Mom.”

“I love you! And be sure to thank those people!” There is never a wrong time to remind your child to be polite.

My mind raced with awful thoughts. Those people who lent their phone may be the ones who shoved my daughter under a seat as the plane went down. They may be the people who remembered how polite she’d been and that she had a loving mother and they’d share their floatation device as they bobbed in icy waters.

I took a deep breath and silently cursed parenting across the miles.

These cross country trips also went hand-in-hand with more commonplace problems, such as overcrowded airports, weather delays, suitcase dilemmas, jet lag, days missed from school and the inevitable stories about how daddy did things. Our lives paled somewhat in comparison.

Nonetheless, I always enjoyed getting calls from my daughter when she was on those trips.

“Hi Mom.”

“Hi baby! What are you doing today?”

“Grandpa took me on the roller coaster at the top of the Stratosphere casino! Yesterday we went skiing in Mt. Charleston. Today we’re going water-skiing on Lake Havasu and I saw a rap star in the lobby of the Bellagio Hotel!”

“Wow, that’s great!”

“What’s going on there?”

“We’re making egg salad… and we installed a new faucet, with a sprayer! You should see it.”

I knew our suburban life back East couldn’t compete with the excitement of Las Vegas. And that was all right with me. My daughter had the best of both worlds. Thrills with one parent and, with the other, a place to read in a hammock, to color Easter eggs and carve pumpkins. It all balanced out.

* * *