Sigh…..



    Writing short stories as a kid (yes, I was writing even when I was a little kid), I vaguely remember the he-said-she-said dilemma of moving dialogue along in the context of a plot. I’m sure in that way-back-when scenario, I had difficulty coming up with a word to replace the ever-present “said” as character spoke to character.




    While it may sound a simple and easily removed roadblock to writing, the how-to-say-said conundrum is something with which amateur writers truly struggle. Not because there is no better way to say said; rather because there are literally hundreds of replacement words.




    He said.




    Or




    He shouted, stammered, screamed. She blurted, breathed, bellowed.




    She sighed.




    Once upon a time, I likely threw in that tiny little word at the close of a sentence with nary a thought.




    When I still had no concept of the word, or the potential of its weight.




    Driving in the car the other day, I sighed.




    I hadn’t realized that I had. Not exactly sure what had triggered it.




    But my daughter did not like it. Not one bit.




    “Don’t go doing that with me,” she said.




    Huh?




    Apparently, I do this sighing thing from time-to-time. It doesn’t really bother Alex much. That is, as long as there’s no chance that the sigh of the moment could in any way be connected to her. As long as her brother remains its reliable source, she remains pretty unfazed. 

    
Unfortunately, it was only she and I in the car that day. She came to her own conclusions.




    But when did I start to sigh??




    I don’t remember my mother sighing.




    Then, there’s little chance that Helen would a) take the time to breathe in and out and b) keep anything sigh-provoking to herself.




    I should have learned more from mom.




    Because there’s nothing particularly satisfying about sighing. It doesn’t compare to the let-out after a lung full capture of fresh air. It is far removed from the breath expelled in the wake of a satisfying cardio workout.




    It’s breathing, but barely.




    And in my case at least, it is heavily connected to kids.




    Who knew that the breathing exercises which served so little function through the horrible childbirth experience with my first baby would be of much more use so long after delivery? Who knew I’d actually need a reminder to breathe, just breathe?




    But I do remember, and sometimes audibly so.
 
    
What I need also to remember though, as my brain rumbles with its locomotive static of the sigh-inducing detritus of life, is the mantra that everyone with teenagers keeps offering me: this-too-shall-pass, this-too-shall-pass.




    Sigh……






The Other Phone Calls



    I was just settling into the notion that phone calls have the potential to bring more bad news than good. That even people off the radar for bearing unwelcome tidings can do just that.




    When the phone rang.




    Michael had gone on a school trip, had had a great time (he said) and he had returned safely.

    
But the phone conversation began with –“I just wanted to talk to you about Michael’s behavior on the trip.”

    
Aaargh.




    I knew what was coming, had been here before.




    I took a breath.




    Steadied myself against a range of emotions -frustration, anger, disappointment.




    So I may have missed the first few words.

    
And then I heard “…exemplary….”




    Huh?




    It could’ve been an April Fool’s joke, but it was Mother’s Day. The interesting thing, though, was that the woman wasn’t intentionally giving me a gift. At least, I don’t think she was.




    For one thing, although she knows Michael, she has no sense of his less-than-stellar behavior at home. She actually likes him.




    But still her accolades went well beyond telling me he was a good kid, a help to her and the other chaperones and students. 

    
She was effusive.




    I tried not to act incredulous.

    
And this is where my sister-in-law would counsel me well. She’d tell me to enjoy it, revel in it even. But beware –it won’t last.

    
This isn’t about her being negative. To the contrary, Dawna’s both an optimist and a realist. It’s the latter trait that’s in play here.

    
Under the been-there-done-that chapter of parenting, Dawna gets to shine a bright light at what might be up ahead in the all too dark teen tunnel.




    But it works both ways.







    When she was in the deepest depths of her own underground cavity with regard to my nephew, I’d often call with the simple phrase: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jonathon’s great with me.




    So when she called after hiring Michael to do yard work, it was easy to picture her, phone in hand, watching her happy nephew smiling as he raked twigs and piled brush into a wheelbarrow.




    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said to me. “He’s great.”




    But of course, she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

    
And faced with so many perfect parents and their perfect kids in tiny Toon Town, it’s kind of reassuring to know that at least among my own, I am not alone.




    The phone can ring and bring good news and they’ll be someone to benevolently remind me that it doesn’t change everything that came before it. I can still post to a blog titled: Kids Suck.




    And if it rings in answer to the fears we all silently share, they’ll be someone to help pick up the pieces of me after the news.







An Internship in Life



    Musing upon the what-ifs that lottery jackpots often spawn, someone recently asked me what I would do if money wasn’t a factor. I can’t remember who. That’s an issue lately, but I digress. I do that too -again, another issue.

    
Back to the windfall that grants dreams, though.




    My answer was too quick, too honest, too sappy. But it explains a lot.




    Like why I work with kids (okay, technically they’re adults) and love it even though it was never part of the plan.




    And why I can sit for hours tweaking writing for which I don’t get paid and spend much less time on the kind of writing that pays (little, tiny) bills.

    
If I could do anything at all for work, I’d do exactly what I’m doing right now. 

    
In different proportions, perhaps. Squeezed in-between travels around the world. But –I’d still work. I’d still write. I’d still hang around college kids.

    
Which brings me to the ill-titled blog which generates an unexpected number of monthly hits.




    This week marks Kidssuck’s one year anniversary.




    I didn’t know what it was going to be when I started it. Most days, I still don’t. But I’m still having fun with it. And you’re still reading it.

    
Thanks for that.




    Thanks also for allowing me to be less of a hypocrite when I advise my kids and my students to choose a job to do because they love it.




    With the certainty one might observe that the tide will rise, Kelley once told me that this is what I’m supposed to be doing –this writing thing. It took me decades to put my work out there, longer still to call myself “writer” when someone asked what I do. Odd, really. Because it’s as much a part of who I am as is my heritage, the color of my eyes. I can’t change it.

    
I tell everyone of the next generation who will listen: Do what you love. Don’t worry about the money.

    
It wasn’t the advice I received as a kid.




    Doesn’t matter. 




    I pretend I’m not as old as I am and I’m finally following my own advice. 

    
It’s like I’m on internship now, trying on pieces of a profession or two for size, adjusting their fit as I go. Every new job, new client, new story seems to produce another; they’re self-propagating. 

    
Instead of following a traditional path for someone my age, I’m forging one of my own. 

    
Maybe that’s why I get along so well with the college kids. On many days, I still feel like I’m just starting out. I make mistakes, ignore reality a lot, think about what-ifs far removed from lottery winnings.

    
And write.




    So, thank you. For being with me on the site’s anniversary. For joining me in these stream-of-consciousness jottings. And for giving me someone for whom to write -besides just me.






Welcome

kidssuckThere is only one of two reasons you’ve clicked here.

1 –You know me or know me personally or by some extension.

2 –In some parental fit of frustration you actually typed the words “Kids Suck” into your computer.

To those of you in category one, thanks.

As for the rest of you –don’t worry, no one is looking over your shoulder. This is one surf search that isn’t going to lead you to a debit or a courtroom drama denial. Your secret is safe with me.

And by the way, you’re not wrong -they do suck.

And I really am sorry about the blog title.

Really.

Back up. I call Boston home and as such have to also call myself a Red Sox fan. The logical line from there might take you to guess where my feelings lay on all things Yankees. Suffice it to say that I do jump on the bandwagon at pivotal moments, but I have never bought into the entirety of Steinbrenner’s club as the Evil Empire. More to the point, when I have been lucky enough to be at Fenway in a head-to-head bout, I cringe at the all-consuming chant that makes its way around the stadium with the frequency of the wave. Yankees Suck, Yankees Suck. It isn’t just that I shun profanity. I do –but that’s more a nod to vocabulary variety. A clever quip has always left more of an impression on me than a quick cuss. It’s more that other bit of moralism –good sportsmanship.

Save your groans for what’s coming next. I was also sucked in to the whole Jim-Joyce-bad-call-blown-perfect-game debacle. Sucked in whole. Yes, he made a bad call, but the lesson learned by all those who got to watch that other way sports figures can act was remarkable. Shouldn’t have been, but was.

All that to say –I hate the Yankee chant on a bunch of levels. Hate the chant, hate the sentiment, hate the word.

But.

Kinda felt that coming, didn’t you?

There are times when a swear, a profanity, an expletive, is exactly the right word choice, variety be damned.

Another but.

But I could never have imagined that I, and more specifically, I, when speaking about children, would have come to this. I mean c’mon. Look at the photo. They’re so fucking cute. What could they possibly do that would make you want to swear?

Welcome to the site.