Eddie Spaghetti, Pin-Dodgeball, and Holding On to Home

I didn’t love grade school. But you never would have known that last night if you’d seen me sitting around a table at our local Chili’s with seven other people, reminiscing about the time Ed Lavoie crawled out the window and got detention.

We go back a long way, we members of the Sacred Heart class of 1977. Most of us met as first-graders in 1969; Nixon was in the White House and Neil Armstrong had just walked on the moon, but we were more worried about penmanship. When we graduated eighth grade, “Star Wars” was released, but we were champing at the bit to see “Saturday Night Fever.”

The times changed, and we changed. But last night, we all rushed headlong back to those days, and I never could have imagined what a soft, warm place the past would be.

Grade school, which morphed into junior high for us Catholic-school kids, was not a place for square pegs, and I was decidedly a square peg. First, I was the only child in my class who didn’t have a mom; second, I was tall. Very tall.  I’m not tall now, but when you reach your full height of 5’4” as a fifth-grader and everyone else comes up to your chest, your world is an odd place, and you spend all your time looking down.

I loved spelling and writing; I also loved microscopes and rock-polishers and read encyclopedias for fun. I had glasses; later on, I had braces. My hair was dark, short, and frizzy while the other girls sported silky, blond, feathered-back bangs. I wanted badly to be popular, instead, I was smart. But all the intelligence in the world didn’t matter to a girl who was different.

Last night, though, no one was different, or maybe we’re finally old enough to see those differences as good things. Or perhaps we learned a few things around the table that helped us understand that we all thought we were different in those days, and we all faced hardships that set us apart, even if we kept them to ourselves.

We learned, for example, that one of the guys, as a boy, had been picked on pretty mercilessly; we learned another had been tested for learning disabilities because our teachers were concerned about his behavior. (Nothing was amiss; he saw the world differently and was, and is, simply very entertaining.)

We learned we all were at least somewhat insecure in those days, but we also learned how our classmates had viewed us. And we were pleasantly surprised, I think, that we were remembered fondly despite all the pressure we had placed on ourselves to look and act a certain way. The junior-high years are cruel years, but we had not been cruel kids.

We had a bond, we Sacred Heart kids, even if we were unaware of that at the time. When you spend eight years with basically the same 40-odd kids, you form a pseudo-family; you may not like all your family members, but you’re connected, and you’re loyal.

Neither of the men I married shares my history; I met one at 22 and the other in my late 30s. While that's perfectly fine, that fact remains that neither of them remembers the time our seventh-grade science teacher had head lice, or the way the ceiling tiles looked in Mr. Pilgrim’s office, or the Mouse House or Minnie Pearl's or the Little Red Barn.

They don’t remember the tunnels in the church basement, and they know nothing about pin-dodgeball or Kill the Man (just a game; no real death) or the time Amy fell on something that went through her knee, or the time Polly got so sick. They didn’t know Tom Vial and his silky hair and his love of KISS, or that everyone either liked or "went with" Bobby.

They don’t remember Jeff Hoffman, our classmate who died at 14. We toasted him last night through tears, and cheered one another with a litany of “remember whens.”

A shared history isn’t critical, of course. But as we get older, it’s soothing. It validates the things that shaped us, and it reinforces that we weren’t alone, although we may have been quite sure, at the time, that we were.

All of us around that table last night are 51 now. Most of us have lost at least one parent; some have lost both. We don’t look the way we looked at 14, naturally, but as several of us pointed out, we all have the same faces, and the same eyes. And some of those eyes were a little watery last night, but they were smiling as they looked upon all the laughter.

As Faulkner said, “How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.” Those of us around the table last night are all lucky enough to feel at home with families who love us, but part of “home” will also be a once-little town called West Des Moines, which ended, in those days, at Valley High School.

When we’re all gone, that town and that place, as they existed then, will go with us, so I think it’s natural to want to hold on to them a little while longer. The next time Ed -- we don't call him "Eddie Spaghetti" anymore -- comes to town, then, we’re doing this again, and with any luck, even more of our classmates will join us around the table.

Moving a child to college: Tears, gift cards, and why the towels will always, always mildew

A friend of mine is moving his daughter to college this week, and his understandable anxieties about the task at hand are causing me to reflect.

One of my kids spent five years as an undergrad, and the other spent four, so, all told, I moved kids into dorm rooms, apartments and/or sorority houses nine times. After a while, the job got to be somewhat old-hat, especially after each began spending summers living independently as well. But I vividly remember the first time the kids’ dad and stepparents and I moved them into their homes-away-from-home, and despite having read obsessively about best ways to handle such a thing, I was ill-prepared, emotionally or otherwise.

So I spent some time this week thinking back to those days, and remembering the all the feelings that made up each event. And I came up with a checklist of things I wish more-experienced parents had taught me – everything from the practical to the wholly emotionally driven. And while no one has all the answers, I’m hoping at least one thing on this list may serve as a practical takeaway for any first-time college mom or dad. 

• Make your child’s bed. Unless she threatens to physically throw you out of the dorm room, trust me on this:  There’s something about a bed made by Mom or Dad that will make an unfamiliar room feel like home. Yes, she’s 18 and can make her own bed – but she won’t. And if you don’t, come bedtime, she’ll end up sleeping on a bare mattress, covered with her bathrobe.
• If there’s a coin-operated washer and dryer in her dorm, get her a few rolls of quarters. For some reason, college-age students are incapable of remembering to keep change on hand, and there’s a real risk she’ll skip laundry for way too long and attend weeks of 8 o’clock classes in the same pair of Hello Kitty pajama pants.
• Frame a couple of small family photos – one of all of you, maybe, and one of the family pet--and leave them in her room. Be unobtrusive about this. Chances are she’ll love that you left something unexpected, and if she doesn’t want to display them, she can always hide them.
• Make plans to call her at a set time each week, or twice a week -- say, Sundays at 7, or Wednesdays at 7 and Sundays at 3. Chances are you’ll talk and text far more frequently than that, and let her know that you’re always available if she needs you. But let her know she can count on your bugging her only at certain times, and that if she wants to communicate more frequently, it’s up to her. She’ll revel in her freedom while also looking forward to talking to you.
• Buy, in advance, gift cards to some sort of nearby food establishment, such as a Subway. Give one to her and one to her roommate. When dorm food gets to be too much, they can have a little off-campus bonding time. And her roommate will think you’re awesome, which always helps.
• Consider a couple other gift cards as well – one to the nearest grocery store, and one to the nearest Target or similar department-type store. Small-amount ones are fine. She’ll be much more motivated to go out and replace Kleenex or a desk-lamp light bulb if she has quick, easy funds on hand to get it done.
• Leave her with a first-aid kit. Chances are the resident assistant on her floor will have a communal one, but get her her own, and stock it. She’ll need Band-Aids at some point, and she won’t know where to find them; ditto some sort of OTC pain reliever.  Benadryl is also good to have on hand; she’ll be exposed to all kinds of weird potential allergens at college, such as her roommate’s bacon-scented candle or cat-hair-laden favorite blanket. Other good first-aid staples: hydrocortisone cream and antiseptic wipes.
• Don't believe her when she tells you she needs only one towel. As has been noted, she won’t do laundry nearly as often as you’d like her to, and chances are she also won’t hang her towel up to dry properly. Leave her with at least two or three big towels, and the same number of washcloths.
• Leave a couple little notes for her, or write her a letter and place it where she’ll see it while she’s unpacking. Social media is the best thing ever, but nothing beats handwritten communication, especially when it’s from someone special about something special. Tell her whatever you want to tell her, but add that you love her and are proud of her. Thirty-some years later, she’ll still take out that letter and read it anytime she needs a little boost. (Along the same lines: Send cards or care packages once in a while. A funny card with a $10 bill tucked inside can be a huge day-brightener.)
• Prepare for tears, even if she’s not a crier. She WILL cry. Chances are she won’t tell you she’s cried, but if she happens to cry when you’re on the phone with her, it will tear your heart out. Some people will tell you to ignore the crying, to focus on cheering her up; others will tell you to acknowledge it and talk with her about how she’s feeling. Still others will tell you that if she’s not too far away and is really upset, make a plan to visit her, or to have her come home for the weekend. Here’s the right answer: Follow your instincts. Other people don’t know your child nearly as well as you know her. Obey the little voice in your head, the one that tells you what you need to do to be able to sleep well at night.
• Be prepared, also,for the fact that she will do stupid things. She’ll stay up way too late, then decide to sleep in and skip her early class. She’ll forget the sensible eating habits you taught her and fill her D-card (or M-card or U-card or whatever her school calls it) with charges for Doritos and Mountain Dew. By all means, get a handle on things when you feel you need to – but, if you can, cut her some slack. She’s trying to figure out a lot of complicated things, and chances are pretty good she’ll eventually begin to make better choices.
• Plan to open your home to her friends, especially if you live relatively close to her school. She’ll enjoy bringing them home to meet you, and you’ll likely learn more about her life at school through those individuals. Keep in mind the friends she makes at college are much more likely than high-school friends to stay in her life long-term, so you’ll enjoy getting to know them, too. 

Finally: Pat yourself on the back. You, and she, survived 18 years together, and you’re sending her to college; that means you definitely did something right.

And even better news: The best is yet to come. I promise. 

Missing my former "partners in crime" on State Fair Eve

Some of my Principal friends at daughter Caroline's graduation party, 2009

When a person gets to be my age, chances are pretty good that she has worked at a number of different companies in a number of different capacities. Chances are also pretty good that each of those places has come equipped with equal parts good and bad, and that through the benefit of time's long lens, we can discard the negative and be pleased with what's left.

I spent some of the most important years of my life, about nine of them, working for the Principal Financial Group. I didn't always love my job -- as my dad used to say, it's called a job because it's work -- but I loved many of my co-workers. When I left PFG for another company, I spent my first month at the new place in tears because I missed my friends.

The memories of those days are many, and they're poignant; it's because of my former manager, Alane, and her manager, Dale, that I was able to leave the office on a particular Thursday in just enough time to be with my dad at the moment he passed away. They shooed a persistent client out of my office just in time; Dale, in fact, handed me my purse and coat and all but pushed me out the door. I'll never forget that day, and I'll never forget their kindness.

I was working there when I married Kevin, when my kids graduated from high school, and when I had two knees replaced. My friends at PFG were the ones who had to hear, ad nauseam, about hockey trips and baseball games and show-choir competitions.

My best friend there, Kim, and I organized a bake sale for another friend to help with expenses when the friend's baby was sick; Kim was also the one who gathered up my belongings after I had run from a meeting in searing pain the day my gallbladder had begun to rupture. (We also wanted to start our own radio show ... why did we never do that? We were funny. Just ask us.)

Of course I remember the dramatic times, but I also remember the just-plain-fun ones. And today, because of the date the calendar is showing me, I'm thinking about one in particular: our annual trips to the Iowa State Fair the day before opening day.

One year, Kim and I were charged with going to the fairgrounds on that day to pick up tickets for our annual state-fair team-building event. We went at lunchtime and were surprised to see that the fairgrounds were busy; although there was no admission cost, food stands and some attractions were open. We took a long lunch that day, munching on our corn dogs as we vowed to come back the same day the following year.

Come back we did -- the next year, and for the next few after that. We invited others, most memorably our onetime intern, Tyler, who had amazingly never been to the fair (as I recall, we peer-pressured him into eating a foot-long corndog). We tried new foods-on-a-stick, sampled red-velvet funnel cakes and mashed-potato sundaes, viewed the butter cow and the giant pig, and generally behaved like seventh-graders on a field trip. After all, we felt we were getting away with something: spending the day at the fair for free. (Never mind that when we looked around, it was clear hundreds of other people were in on the secret!)

We were joined by our shared experiences, naturally -- co-workers spend an awful lot of time in a relatively small space, doing the same things -- but many of us also were joined by our phases in life.

Most of us were about the same age, with similarly aged kids; we were able to speak the same language about aging parents and teenage angst and college tuition. We commiserated when someone's child got into legal trouble and laughed when someone else's teenager bypassed parental rules by letting girls into the house through the basement window. I don't think I experienced any kind of life event during that time that wasn't followed mentally with, "I can't wait to tell Kim," or "Kim won't believe this."

The job for which I left PFG was fine; I ended up with a couple of close friendships, but my teammates and I often worked from home, which creates a different dynamic. My new job has great potential for relationship-building, though.

But nothing will come close to resembling my time at Principal. Think, perhaps, of The Office -- a group of quirky people joined together in a certain place at a certain time, sitting back and allowing the strangeness and hilarity to meld together in a way that leaves you shaking your head and rolling your eyes, yet laughing hard.

As we grow older, we sadly come to realize that what's gone is gone; we can't recreate space and time. So I'll console myself with gratitude for all the memories of my friends, and during the next couple of weeks, I'll raise a glass of Iowa State Fair lemonade to each one of them.