Aselin

Due to the aforementioned plague, I lost my voice. Not the kind of ‘lost my voice’ I’ve endured before where my voice merely sounded like I was Peter Brady going through puberty. No, this time it was completely gone. If I took unbearably large breaths I could make a few audible squeaks, but this required the lung capacity of a professional tubaist, which I am not. So mostly I fell silent.

The kids loved it. Suddenly they had a valid excuse for not hearing me. Their dreams had come true. Fortunately, I have seen the Sound of Music a few times and quickly adopted the communication style of Captain Von Trapp. Whistling for each of the kids with numerical blasts representative of their birth order. This new summons also brought soldier-like efficiency. After a few short blasts one of the kids would immediately appear. It was like magic.

I’ve got a few friends who struggle with their voices. One gets botox injections in the vocal cords to alleviate her malady. All I can say is after going through a day not being able to make a sound, I can see why someone would endure such treatment. Though it would take a bit of bravery to sit still for the injection.

I’m pretty sure my symptom is merely the celestial suggestion that I just shut up for a while. Normally my brain operates like a humming bird on speed. My mouth is often close behind. Nothing useful unfortunately. If I had put my mental energy to use, I might have a few patents right now, cured a disease or at least cleaned up my office. All I’ve got to show for it are bags under my eyes and a a notebook of Seussical diagrams.

But this recent quiet has caused me to reflect a little. One of my favorite (albeit ignored) scriptures is “Be still, and know that I am God.” Ps 46:10 There is something powerful in stillness. Yet I rarely engage in it unless I’m in yoga class or church. I always enjoy it and then blather on with my day.

This disease imposed stillness has left me isolated, frustrated, resigned and ultimately peaceful. I’ve found this cycle is the way I deal with most of my life, and if I would voluntarily be a little more still I am confident I would get to ‘peaceful’ a lot faster.

I was recently hit by a virulent plague. Likely my exposure to this uber toxin came while volunteering at my kids school. It’s a cesspool of bacteria. I honestly don’t know how the brave teachers survive day in and day out in the trenches.

I help kids with concepts they are struggling with. Obviously we need to work on basic hygiene along with telling time. Last week a parade of begrimed urchins sat one by one at my table. One mucus encrusted kid wanted to borrow my pencil. Another one hacked at me hard enough I think part of his spleen came up. One kid had a mysterious rash that he insisted “didn’t itch anymore.” I have long held the opinion that all kids are gross, especially my own, but this episode pushed me to my limit.

After departing the campus I doused my entire body in hand sanitizer, scrubbing with clorox wipes. I used a bottle brush swathed in dishwashing detergent to clean my throat. All to no avail. The scourge had already defiled me. There was no antidote.

Within days I was displaying symptoms. Unfortunately I can’t get anyone to pay attention to me. On the verge of death, while I was moaning at the dinner table my youngest says to everyone, mom sounds like she really likes her dinner. While I was coughing incessantly my husband asks me to turn up the TV so he can hear. It didn’t matter that I was driving the carpool looking like a zombie. While the teenage passengers notice every detail of each other’s outfits they look beyond my uncharacteristic mumu and toilet paper hanging out of my nose. Only the parking lot attendant gave me a second look.

This is why I have a dog, he notices me. He brings me little get-well gifts like half chewed stuffed animals, soggy rawhide treats and dirty socks. Gets nose to nose with me as I lay passed out in bed and belches in my face to confirm I’m alive. When I lay on the bathroom floor puking my guts out...who was there? The dog. Granted, he didn’t hold my hair back but there is something to be said for a soul who can’t be grossed out.

Fear not! I will survive. Soon to re-enter the land of the living, or at least the land of the recently showered. And my family might even notice...

Thank you to my readers who have been following my little blog. I got a few e-mails yesterday sharing that some of you have been reading daily (wow) but unable to post your comments. I wish I were technologically savvy enough to help because I absolutely love the feedback. Unfortunately, I can barely operate my cell phone and only recently got a microwave so I'm of no help to you.

Scott "encouraged" me to set this up and I have enjoyed it immensely. Thank you so much for reading my musings, and for taking the time to e-mail me your feedback. This process makes my world a more wonderful place.

In 1989 I had the opportunity to travel to the Soviet Union. It was a powerful experience that opened my eyes so many of the blessings of America. Blessings I was too nineteen to notice.

While strolling the Moscow streets I met another teen named Andrei. Andrei offered to be a tour guide of sorts and took me around his beleaguered city showing me a kaleidoscope of empty stores with no goods, gilded subways you could ride for a kopek - the equivalent of 1/4 of a penny, delapedated churches, and the stores open only to foreign currency brimming with wares.

Being a teenager, Andrei was fascinated with these stores he was not allowed to enter. I had a golden ticket; I could flash dollars to gain admittance. Like some sort of VIP I was able to get my newfound friend into this exclusive shop. With some of my souvenir money I purchased some food for his family and a roll of tape. It was an awkward exchange for which he was profoundly grateful.

Later I shared lunch with his generous family. There were three generations living in a one room apartment. We enjoyed a lovely afternoon communicating in broken Russian, English and proficient Charades - the universal language. There is something fantastically bonding seeing Babushka Irina, around 90 years old, gesticulating wildly at me to ask if I wanted more sausage.

Andrei and his brother regaled us all with their teen rendition of the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” I’m expert at getting the lyrics wrong but couldn’t contain my giggles when they sincerely began “Yesterday, all my bubbles seemed to fly away!” I don’t know the word for ‘bubbles’ in Russian and couldn’t translate their mondegreen. To this day, I still vividly picture two teens intently strumming as their bubbles flew away wherever I hear the song.

As I gathered to leave, Andrei and his family thanked me for the food. I had asked many naive questions about their economy that day. It was all summed up in the parting scene. Walking down the short hallway with the entire family in tow, Andrei opened up a small hall closet. Inside it was stuffed to the ceiling with boxes. He pulled out a box and opened it for me. Peering in I was surprised to find it was full of money. He motioned to all the the boxes and explained they were all full of money.

This modest family had plenty of money. Money coming out of their ears. Thanks to the government, the money had no value. After this week, I wonder how long until I’m showing someone my closet of money. Yesterday, all my bubbles seemed to fly away...

A few birthdays ago I received an odd gift from a friend I don’t see too often. When my friend realized she had missed my birthday she rummaged around her house and then presented this little peach colored book. She explained that she had recently received it from one of her friends, that she hadn’t read it, and didn’t know what it was about but wanted to give it to me for my birthday. Right in front of me she opened the cover, crossed out the sentiments from the original giver and re-dedicated it to me.

Needless to say, I was unimpressed with the “gift”.

When I brought it home, I tossed it aside completely unmotivated to peruse its pages. My husband picked it up because it looked like a quick read. I distinctly remember rolling over late one night, well morning actually, to see him still reading the little book. My husband doesn’t give up his sleep easily and as he closed the pages of the re-gift book he proclaimed it one of the best books he has ever read.

I perked up a little about the gift. Even though it was not originally intended for me, I certainly love a good book. I immediately delved in to its pages. The opening lines revealed the main character, a man who was in an unhappy marriage. Wait a second! Best book he’s ever read? What’s my husband trying to tell me??? I exude bliss so how could he possibly relate to this miserable man?

Continuing with the book I too related with the man. Not because of the bad marriage, but because of the humanity captured in the book. Sometimes talented people portray the human experience with such insight and inspiration it speaks to our souls. This little book certainly spoke to mine, and it’s not too much to say it changed my life. I reread it a couple of times each year.

There is a host of things I have learned from this seemingly insignificant interchange. One of the most influential is the realization that the “gift” was not found in the giving - but in the receiving. After this experience, I have tried to be a better receiver. It has made all the difference.

I can’t be a fan. Watching the Super Bowl I felt both exultation and wanted to vomit. Jumping around the room , throwing things at the television, the interceptions, the 101 yard returns, safeties, I just can’t take it. How can I love so deeply and hate so fiercely a bunch of men I’ll never meet. Stupid football.

This behavior is usually confined to the privacy of my own home. My real challenge comes in watching my kids play sports. My son is in a basketball league that has some cooky rules. In the name of skill development, players can’t steal, block shots, or play any defense except stand there with their hands straight in the air. If they bend forward even slightly the other team gets a point. It’s stupid.

So this weekend, in a tied, overtime, sudden death game our team gets stolen from, off the dribble. No call. Sitting in the stands surrounded by parents from the other team I go ballistic. My husband immediately reaches over with his his hand and palms my face, effectively muzzling me and causing me to flail my arms wildly. He’s had to do this before and has become quite adept with practice.

The final play was a penalty, called on my son, for using his hands to block a shot. The other team gets the penalty point and wins the game. My kid runs out of the gym shedding little man tears, bypassing the snack mom, believing he singlehandedly lost the game. I’m torn. Do I catch up with my son to comfort him or do I go “mama bear” on the inept, underpaid, probably volunteer ref. You know where this is going.

Scott sees it too... he palms me again, and with his other hand lifts me by my waistband and carries me from the gym. Arms and legs flailing, not being able to speak or walk, I have time for reflection and to cool off. Once in the car I return to normal mom mode and comfort my little superstar. As we drive from the parking lot, my husband yells out the window “Thanks ref. Good game!” He meant it. He really is that mature.

Stupid good sportsmanship.

I often feel bad for my children. While I believe in a pre-existent state prior to this earth life, I am not so sure we were agents in choosing the details of our current lives. I’m pretty confident if that were the case my kids would not have picked my family to come to.

They may have chosen my husband, but I suffer from a particularly deviant from of parenting style evolved from the recognition that while ‘love and respect’ are noble foundations for parental philosophies, fear really brings quicker results. I learned this from my own childhood. For example: when I was a preschooler I gave my mother fits about getting dressed in the mornings. Not an uncommon parent/child impasse, yet my mother’s solution has resonated through the generations.

Fed up with my stubbornness, she packed my clothing in a paper bag, drove to the curbside drop off where most parents lovingly kissed their children tenderly sending them off for the day. I was deposited in my underwear in the drop off line as my mother burned rubber as she sped away in the Pinto. I don’t care how young you are, having Todd Maruca see your underwear is a horror no child should have to endure.

The power in my mother’s solution is my children know that if my mom was brash enough to pull a parenting stunt like this, then of course their mom would do it too - and likely worse. My children are rarely dressed in clothes that match, but they are always dressed.

It has been tremendously effective to have my kids understand that my side of the family carries a special kind of crazy gene. They are always a little on edge when the punishment comes from me. My husband is fantastically rational. He’s steady, predictable and fair. They run to him for their consequences.

I on the other hand chase after them with things like: if my toddler won’t stay in her bed, then of course she should lose the privilege of having a bed. It went in the garage. She slept on the box springs with a doll blanket. Or... if a second grader is complaining that life isn’t “fair” then of course I would do everything in my power to make it fair. Removing every item from her possession she owned that her younger siblings didn’t own. Sad for her they were still in diapers and didn’t own any underwear.

Squabble in the car: I’ve pulled over on the side of the road and made them walk. Won't use your table manners? I’ve put their dishes on the floor and made them eat like dogs. As a consequence they are fantastically obedient. I really should get an award.

Miraculously, they still like to be with me, even like me. And as an added bonus, whenever we’re out in public they know better than to mess with me... they never know what I’ll do.