The more things change … or what does this song mean?

This past weekend, I attended my 15th high school class reunion.

15.

As in, 5 more years and it will be 20.

As in, we actually sat and made plans for 20, because (like most adults) we recognize that 5 years really is not that long of a time and in fact seems to be a shorter and shorter time as we all become increasingly busy, busy, busy.

I didn’t attend my 10th reunion, so I actually hadn’t seen many of my former classmates since Graduation Day 1993. Okay, maybe there have been a few rogue sightings here and there, but for the most part – my adult life has been fairly high school friend free. This wasn’t by design or anything. I liked my peers. But my life sort of went a different route when I headed out for Nebraska the August after graduation, and I haven’t had the time to really “look back” since.

We had a very small class, attending Lutheran High in its heyday like we did. 17 classmates get to know one another extremely well over a four year time period. By the time we left the hallowed halls of LHS we knew precisely what made each other tick, and what made each other explode, laugh, cry and, you name it.

The entire experience was thought-provoking. What I have mulled over most is, why do people attend reunions?

Well. I can tell you what was not motivating me ...

I didn’t attend my reunion out of some odd sense of curiosity, although I admit that I was somewhat curious to see where life had taken my old chums. And I didn’t attend with some bizarre and juvenile agenda to prove my worth (isn’t it in Romey and Michelle’s High School Reunion where Mira Sorvino’s character claims to have invented the PostIt?), although I was bestowed with the 1992 Homecoming Superlative for “Most Likely to Succeed”, which is an awfully intimidating title to carry with you into your reunion.

I went … well, why DID I go? I hardly go out at all anymore, so to take the time to get all gussied up, arrange with Papa to Syd-wrangle and head out to Winghaven for J.Bucks on a Saturday night suggests that I was fairly motivated to attend! …

I went because I am sort of weird when it comes to “old times.” You know the tune, Auld Lang Syne … well, the words always make me sort of weepy. That idea of remembering people who meant a great deal to us “way back when” … Of keeping a sense of one's past and the relationships of that past as a vibrant and important treasure in one's future ... or how is it that Harry talks about the song in the movie, When Harry Met Sally, “What does this song mean? My whole life, I don't know what this song means. I mean, 'Should old acquaintance be forgot'? Does that mean that we should forget old acquaintances, or does it mean if we happened to forget them, we should remember them, which is not possible because we already forgot?”

Yes. Something like that.

Actually Baz Luhrmann says it really well in his well know “Sunscreen Song”:

"Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.”

I think that’s why I went to my high school class reunion. These were people who knew me before. Before what? Well. Before absolutely everything! It was the “me in the rough”, the awkward me, the uncertain me, the me who kinda-sorta-maybe-thought she had the world by the tail, but was scared to death to shake it and find out she wasn’t really all that much to yell about.

For some people, returning to those who knew you before you “were” is probably cause for loads of insecurity because they worry that – maybe – they STILL aren’t. I’m not trying to say I am something – but I’m on the way. (And I hope, dear reader, that you are, too!) And reconnecting with people who walked along the road with me way-back-when adds depth to my still reaching roots. And I like that.

All in all, it was a fun evening. Nothing spectacular, nothing tremendously “significant”, but I won’t forget it. Looking around the table I was truly struck by how we all retain pieces of our younger selves. Yes, we all were different. Older. Grayer. Less hair. More weight. Lots of kids. Career oriented. But I also saw flashes of who we were. Certain group dynamics returned after just a short while. Mannerisms and tones of voice and senses of humor were pretty much intact. It was like this odd out of body experience – with our younger selves hanging back on the fringe of the room watching the older models enjoy a meal together.

And I think we liked what we saw.

The Class of 1993: (from left) Matt Peters, Amy Edinger, Brenda Barbieri, Christine Walsh, Matt Kramer, Erin Trinklein, Jon Frecks, Amy Linnenman, and Gretchen Staude

“Safety Clown Says” … or, today was just a great day!

A few years ago, as the ice cream truck circled our neighborhood, Leon and I had a conversation about how slightly creepy and sort of Hameln-esque we found ice cream trucks.

Sure, back when we were kids the ice cream truck was exciting enough. Deep in the heat of summer, you would hear that alluring bell; run to your room to scrounge your pocket change together and then indulge in a syrupy sweet bomb pop, or an orange dreamsicle, or those really tasty strawberry shortcake bars and – if you were like most kids – you enjoyed every sticky faced moment of sugary bliss; but then you grew up and moved on to more sophisticated ice cream treats. And the neighborhood ice cream truck with its clanging bell and music-box soundtrack was forgotten.

Well, like so many other things these days, Leon and I have reevaluated our “oh-so-grown-up” attitudes toward the neighborhood ice cream truck.

Before I get to that, let me just say that today was an absolutely show-stopping day. I woke up with the birds at 5AM, but was content to dose with a sleepy smile on my face until I heard Miss Sydney at 6:45AM. (Actually, truth be told, I was waiting to hear her. Saturday mornings have become family snuggle time, and I honestly just could not wait for her to wake up. I know, I know – someday SHE will be the one waking us up at 6AM for cartoons and cereal, but now it’s my eagerness that wakes me up early!)

Finally, I heard it – just the hint of a nerfing around sound – and we were able to enjoy snuggle time, smile time , genuine happy, babbling, let’s-bother-daddy time.

And the day began.

The best part of the morning was packing up our gear and heading to our local nursery, Daniel’s Farm. We love Daniel’s. We buy all of our plants there: our herbs, our hanging baskets, and in the wintertime – our Christmas tree. It’s a family run farm with 15 greenhouses and we enjoy the owners, who always work the counter and are generous and willing to put up with me and the lists of odd plants that I bring with me, most usually discovered from garden plots I find in MidWest Living.

Sydney and I went to Daniel’s together. She “rode” in her snazzy front carrier. Sydney is very much into smells and colors these days – so the herb house was awesome fun, and she also proved a great help in selecting the pansies we took home. Hauling our treasures out to the truck, a kind older woman took pity on me with my pull-cart, infant, bag of soil, car seat, full-tray of herbs, diaper bag … etc. Her help put a smile on my face and convinced me yet again that people are often far kinder than we dare to imagine.

We headed home. Sydney napped. I gardened.

The day progressed, one content moment after another; nothing fancy or spectacular, just peaceful, calm and infinitely memorable.

Early evening found us enjoying a family walk at Laurel Park. We stopped and watched a family flying a kite and listened to the laughter of the man and his daughter. We caught up on our feelings, worries, concerns and joys … and when we heard the clang, clang of our younger years, Leon dashed for the truck to find his baggie of spare coins and we hailed the ice cream truck, picked out our familiar favorites (wow, prices have certainly gone up!) and our walk became this awesome combination of new family centeredness combined with yesteryear memories. It was pure bliss – those sticky fingers, I even managed (no surprise here) to drip orange dreamsicle all over my shorts! We laughed our heads off and discussed the finer merits of the modest offerings of the ice cream man (the menu hasn’t changed much in 20 years) and considered what a completely terrific Saturday evening we were having: ourselves, our baby, a beautiful park, our new stroller and the ice cream man.

Talk about enjoying the simple life.

Remembrances of Chet and Irene ...

When I was a girl, few things thrilled like a visit from our out-of-town relatives, especially a visit from Grandma and Grandpa Staude. Perhaps it was because it happened so rarely ~ they far preferred staying home on the farm in Saint Joe, MI, and we were more than happy to visit them there. But a few times, usually in the early fall after the grape harvest was complete, Grandma and Grandpa made the drive to Saint Louis to see us. We would be excited for days before their visit. When "the day" would finally arrive, my sister and I were overwhelmed with anticipation! The school day simply crawled by as we grew more and more excited (and pity our poor parents who had to answer again and again, "What time will they be here?!").

Finally, we would be home ~ waiting at the front window, watching ... watching ... and then! we would see them! Now that I am a grown-up, and recognize how strangely tiring it is drive across the country, I simply can't imagine how my grandparents managed to keep pace with us as we hurtled ourselves out of the front door and down the lawn to meet them before they had more than one foot out of the car!

Grandparents coming to visit were a very big deal, indeed!

This weekend, Sydney's Nanny Jameson is here to visit. Watching her tenderly love on and coo over her baby granddaughter, I am coming to understand how my Grandparents found the energy to love on us even after long hours of travel. Her gasp of joy, mingled with just a little wistfulness as she saw her little Sydney (who was taking a nap, of course!) for the first time in 2-months, touched my heart. And Sydney, even as young as she is, seems keenly aware that she has the undivided attention of our house guest. Nanny played and held and fed and rocked and bathed and snuggled with Sydney ~ and she's only been here since 2:30 this afternoon! She came bearing gifts in a suitcase bigger than the MINI and probably wants to stay forever! Sydney is blessed indeed, even only 15-weeks old, to have Nanny come to visit. (Grandad Jameson, we know you are reading this and are here in spirit! Next time!)

I feel thankful that my daughter has the blessing of something I did not have (and isn't that the sort of thing so many of us want for our children?). She has doting grandparents here in town, who are part of her "every day" moments, which is a relationship I never knew. And she also has the blessing of "far away" grandparents, whose special visits become a source of such excitement and "spoiling" and fun that you just can't wait and you never want them to end.

Sydney has both and as hard as it is for Nanny and Grandad Jameson to live so far away, we want them to know that they have a special role in Sydney's life and we love it when they are here!

What a weekend lies ahead!

"Hey, Kid! Go play with sticks."

Recently, my parents, our good friends, Doug and Carol, and Leon and I had a conversation about today's overly parented child.

You know the type ~ the poor child whose parent obsesses over every tiny detail; calls the teacher with insane worries and requests; actually watches their high school student's class-by-class attendance online via Power School and calls the teacher immediately if Junior is late to class, demanding an explanation; the early childhood parent more worried about Sally being gently disciplined (because it will most likely damage her fragile sense of emerging self) than by the fact that Sally can't recognize her alphabet letters; Helicopter Parents.

That bane of childhood who have taken all the fun out of growing up: no more home-baked birthday treats (somebody might have a peanut allergy or somebody’s parent might use fatty oils and real sugar); no more bicycles without helmets (though we still have school buses without seatbelts, go figure); no more climbing trees and playing sword fight with sticks or eating dirt or exhausting oneself playing with the neighborhood kids till all hours; no more hopping fences. We want a well-packaged childhood; after all that’s what’s safest for the children (plus, they don’t ruin their baby UGG boots and Ralph Lauren, monogrammed backpacks).

When I look at the rules and regulations of today's pre-middle school set and the obsessive tendencies of parents even on the high school level, I wonder how my generation escaped childhood alive. I mean, for crying out loud, didn't my parents love me?! They let me carry a backpack loaded with books and didn't give me a wheeled suitcase to haul my things! I could be crippled or maimed! Are they going to pay my chiropractic bills? They didn't feed me organic everything ~ I actually ate Mac and Cheese made with (gulp) powdered cheese PRODUCT! I ate cookie dough batter made with (brace yourselves here) RAW EGGS! I could have high cholesterol or worse! Dangerous hoydens.

Lest you think we intend to raise Sydney with no rules or sense of safety ~ let me be clear to say that Leon and I fully own that the world is a "dangerous" place. We also appreciate the opportunity to make smart choices and protect our child in a world that largely feigns deep care for the young, but consistently creates systems that threaten them. (And I do love baby UGG boots … come on, seriously cute!) The point is not to be typically-American and pendulum swing 100% the other direction (I mean, after all we seem to live in a culture that absolutely refuses a moderate position on anything from politics to how I feed my baby) ... The point is, all this perfectionist parenting scares me just a little because I have a tendency to ... (I'm sure this will SHOCK most of you) people-please and push for perfection.

Seriously. The other day Leon and I got into a discussion about which language to introduce Syd to (in addition to English of course) from the start. I don't want a million toys, books and games with 15-different languages, so I want to pick just one. You know: Mandarin is all the rage but Spanish is so practical ... oh dear. Here we go ... Gen X parenting! STOP the madness.

I am slowly developing this theory about my generation as parents; we who graced TIME magazine as the apathetic generation; whose Boomer parents were criticized for leaving us to fend for ourselves as latchkey kids and ATARI addicts (and who, true to form really didn’t care all that much about the criticism). The result is … I think we are truly overcompensating.

You can almost hear the inner mantra: “WE won't raise our kids that way. WE will be involved parents. WE will make SURE people know how completely in tune we are with our child's every need. BE GONE peanut butter; BE GONE getting to know neighbor kids whose parents I don't know (and don't care to walk down the street to get to know ...); BE GONE childhood wildness!”

We'll see how Leon and I do once our little girl is here. Truth is; I was raised to be inventive and imaginative. Super-sized plastic Fischer Price kitchen that (as a friend recently wrote me) is larger than my living room? Who needs it! I loved building a clubhouse (and one very inventive time, a house boat!) out of large moving boxes. Crazy bike-like toy that attaches to my television so that my child can peddle like a mad gerbil in a cage and get some exercise? Go ride your bike outside! (Oh, wait … our neighborhood eschewed sidewalks for larger lawns … )

But maybe Sydney will want these things? Maybe she won't appreciate a mom and dad who tell her to play with sticks? Maybe she won’t want to lick the cake batter bowl because she learned about salmonella at school? Will we be able to provide our child with a sense of old-fashioned play and adventure and risk in a 2008 world of risk management, helmets and home-baking free classrooms?

I think we owe it to her to try ...

Then again ...

Maybe I am just inviting disaster. How does one say, "It's all fun and games ..." in Madarin anyway?

For more on this topic, check out Chris Mercogliano’s new book, In Defense of Childhood: Protecting Kids' Inner Wildness. [Click here] to read an interview.