'hawks and Shiraz

     
        I'm swigging my Shiraz directly from the bottle this evening.
        Usually I have a wine glass, but they are upstairs. I am downstairs. 'nuff said.
        So, Bipolar: Discuss.

       I propose that all parents of teenagers are bipolar.
       Even those with perfect children. Perfect, pretty, sporty, A+ delights that make you proud at every turn and bring you joy when they wake every morning. They are still making you bipolar, because you don't want to disturb the perfect with reality and trying to achieve the balance will ultimately make you talk to yourself, question your life, lose sleep, flip channels compulsively and write or create maniacally at odd hours.
      And possibly swig your Shiraz directly from the bottle.
      I do not buy the perfect household/idyllic child model. This makes my household brutally honest, and some people don't dig that.  Whatever. I've seen the truth: I'm a teacher. Please. Even the smart ones, the talented ones, the quiet ones and the popular ones Have Issues. They may be cleverly masked or even sprinkled with delightful quirks, but they are there. And I talk to their parents, and I know that the traits I find charming are the ones that drive their parents battty. Or more appropriately, drive their  parents to Bipolar behavior.

      Some of us have children that are more challenging. Some of us have children who are Just Like We Were. But different. The difference being that I--we--never actually acted on these traits. As a bipolar child I just thought I was crazy so I kept the behavior hidden and joined theatre.
       And if you'd like to exacerbate the situation, have your child attend the same high school you teach at and be an active member of your theatre department.
       Right there you have a recipe for something atomic.
       I have no doubt  that other teachers with kids in their departments---band, social studies, math, science---have their own struggles. But theatre---dude, by nature a theatre kid is unhinged somehow some way.And in my department, I'm the one they come unhinged to when they hit the "Get out of my room mom you don't understand" days.
         They come to me when they think their parents don't understand.
          And my daughter, who is also my theatre student, is supposed to go...who?
          Insert Atomic Detonation At My House Here.
         AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaannnnnnnnnnnad welcome to bipolar, passive aggressive but angry Crazy Town! Hop on board! Spit in the wind!
  
        And the roller coaster takes off and sometimes we don't strap in, and sometimes I soccer arm them in and sometimes they hope I go flying out, and always Jim is standing by the off switch ready to throw it at any moment...and then the metaphor just gets boring.

       I was not raised in a house that hugged or kissed or said "I love you". We also were spanked, mom cleaned like a mad woman and my father was distant. So of course I chose the opposite--we are a hugging kissing I LOVE YOU house of clowns, and I'm a terrible housekeeper, which is apparently too much and annoying, mom. As a LIBRA I have balance issues, so when I try to do fix the balance I inevitably throw something off, somewhere else, because I'm also a control freak.
       I could just give up. Walk away. Put up the hawk (which is a metaphor now for a reality then) and fight to the death.
       Nahhh...LIBRA. Remember? 'hawk or not, the fight is about maintaining balance and fairness.
       It doesn't help that my oldest has a lawyer's gift for seeing around corners and picking apart any agreement and my youngest a gift for maniuplation.

      But you know what outweighs that crap? They are good people. Compassionate. They make stupid choices and fight and drive me to swigging from the yellow tail bottle, but I Love Them and the fire, the fight, the compassion, the intellect are what are going to make them stellar adults. Sure they're a mess now, who isn't in high school? They just aren't interested in hiding it. Ok. Their choice.

      They are going to be stellar human beings.

      While I remain bipolar, snuggling with a kangaroo bottle while watching Caddyshack and saying the lines along with Rodney Dangerfield.
      


    

Reservations

    Good Evening.
     Jim and I went out tonight for our anniversary dinner tonight. The last few years we have landed at the Capital Grille on Larimer downtown. For many years we'd pick and choose different restaurants, different hotels. But the last five years or so it's been Capital Grille. No Contest.
     Reflecting my current Crazy Pants state of mind, I took notice of the other diners around us. For Jim and I, this is a Very Big Deal. We drop $200.00 on dinner once a year, and this is it. We dress up, settle in, order a bottle of wine and enjoy. As I looked around the restaurant tonight, it seemed we were in the minority when it came to A Very Big Deal.
     There was a family with three children under the age of 12. Dad was dressed casually and kept his baseball cap on. I gotta say, that really bugged me. The kids were well behaved, but  not really dressed up. They were casual, everything in their posture suggested a casual night out. Because you are a good reader, you know from the previous paragraph that dinner for two is $200.00. Because you can do math, you can guess what dinner for five would run. I looked at Jim, who was also noting this family, and he said "They look like they do this every Saturday"and without pause we both said "Who has that kind of money?"
       Not us, clearly.
       This is not a post to whine about finances, settle down. The comment and the family led my mind to my own childhood. We never saw the inside of a place like Capital Grille. Mr. Steak was a night out for us; I'd wear a church dress. Largely because those were the only dresses I had and the only time I'd wear them was at church. I was still me, just shorter.
       I think my parents chose Mr. Steak largely because we did not need a reservation. See, my father is not a reservation guy. Reservations are a convention that he either ignores or is immune to. All I know is he never, ever made a reservation. We went to restaurants that you could just walk into. On our many road trips, we ate at Denny's and stayed at Motels that you could just show up at, unless mom was in charge and then we'd have a reservation.
        Whatever his aversion to the social custom of reservations was extended to other events that most people would plan ahead for. Things like putting gas in the car before driving to Arizona. Or stopping for fuel at the gas station that says "Last gas for 400 miles". Or choosing to wait an extra day to hit the road because they are predicting severe weather and white out conditions today. Reservations fall under the umbrella category "Planing Ahead" that my father does not subscribe to.
         So this is where my head is floating between dinner conversation topics, and I begin to have a panic attack.
         It took me a second to figure it out; I had been drinking so give me a break. But I am a compulsive reservation maker. I cannot go anywhere or do anything without calling ahead and checking to see if reservations are needed or recommended. My gas gauge rarely hits E and when it starts to creep down there I can't breathe. I have panic attacks if there is a snow storm after three p.m. and I am not safely home. My own memories were causing me to panic.
         So then these casual people, calmly dropping hundreds of dollars on dinner, knew they were going to do so because this is a reservation restaurant. For all of their baseball caps and denim, they did not just "stop in" while shuffling around downtown Denver. They made a reservation and deliberately chose to look like they had just dropped in because...because...? Because that looks cool? Because they want us to think they just dropped in and are cooler than us because they did not need a reservation? They were our age, so there is no "kids today got no respect" aspect to their attitude. I think...I think they're just rich.
         I wonder what that's like?
         And I wonder if adhering to the rules of reservations comes with your Wealthy Membership card? 'cause I don't honestly remember any member of my father's family ever making reservations,and none of them were wealthy. Of course I have few memories of any of them in a restaurant. Farm people tend to entertain on the farm, near the farm or at someone's house with frog eye salad as far as the eye can see. You do not need a reservation at family reunions. Just show up with your tupperware brimming with home made  delicious and start chatting.
        So clearly I've just figured out why my father never made reservations. See how writing is therapy?
        However identifying the root is not going to stop me from  making reservations. Understanding the origin of the issue does not indicate that the behavior will cease. However, maybe now I can have a nice dinner without my own wandering mind causing me a panic attack.
         That's all I have to say.