There is Sodium in Sweat

We picked up this souvenir in Venice, Italy almost exactly 13 years ago. It was May 2003 and our lives were changing. Just over a year and a half earlier, terrorists had forever altered our level of security, of safety, and air travel as we knew it. After jumping through new and countless hoops in various airports, we enjoyed touring the country, with Venice being our last stop. Our plan was to start a family upon our return, to settle down, to get serious, to think about something and someone other than ourselves. 

We possibly brought back more than this salt cellar from Italy, though we didn’t claim anything else on the customs forms. Over the couple of months following our return to the U.S., we would experience the high of learning we were pregnant and the low of discovering the meaning of the word “not viable.”

Eventually we were blessed with another pregnancy, this time quite viable, and that product is a happy fifth grader now.

The salt cellar has sat on our kitchen counter now for 13 years. It’s endured one move, several trips in the dishwasher, and countless close calls of being knocked off the counter or having something dropped on it. You’d think when I look at it, I would immediately be taken back to those cobble-stoned streets, the smell of fresh produce from the marketplace, the sound of a group of old ladies laughing in an alley, the smell of an unfiltered cigarette. You’d think my palate would conjure the tastes of homemade pasta, the freshest tomato sauce, the most delicate pastries, and the depth of wine made and consumed all within a ten-mile radius.

But instead, when I see this salt cellar, I usually want to strangle my husband. You see, he uses it 95% of the time and I always know when he’s been in it because there’s salt everywhere. Everywhere. He’s a great cook. Ask anyone who’s had his food. It comes naturally and easy for him and he actually seems to enjoy it. In the kitchen, he’s Hendrix with a guitar, Shakespeare with a pen (sorry, Bill, a quill), and Edison with a light bulb all rolled into one. But when he gets salt from this salt cellar, he reaches in, obtains a healthy pinch, carries it to an awaiting vessel and then sprinkles the salt from some distance above the dish. The result is, you guessed it, salt.  Everywhere.

And I can deal with the salt on the countertops and the floor. I clean often enough that I can usually stay on top of that part. What I will describe on our divorce papers is the residual salt left behind on the lid of the cellar. I know, it’s a first world problem for sure, yet it still drives me nuts (a reward for you finishing this article awaits at the end). It makes me crazy because, during the 5% of the time that I use this device, never once have I left behind a grain of salt. I know to carry the food to the cellar or the cellar to the food to avoid the countertop and floor distribution. And I learned pretty quickly that a quick brushing of the fingers over the sink or a rinse will prevent salt from being left on the lid when you replace it. My sunshine has not yet worked this out.

But let me tell you what will, at least temporarily, allow me to overlook this transgression:

That’s a dear friend of our family up there in that urn. We attended the memorial service yesterday afternoon. And this morning, when I looked over at the salt cellar and saw it covered in salt, I just smiled. Because I have another day with my sunshine and the good Lord has given me another day walking around this marble, so, at least today, I will choose to not sweat the small stuff.

The reward:  a joke. Enjoy.

A pirate walks into a bar with a ship's steering wheel attached to the front of his pants. The bartender asks, "what's going on there, pal?" The pirate replies, "I don't know but it's drivin' me nuts." 

The Shadow You Cast

Traveling by plane, as I recently did, is always fun for me. If you keep your head up and take in the sights, oh, it’s a smorgasbord of visual candy.

You see things like this guy, dressed like peanut butter fudge:

And this woman, 

wearing the same sweater I have at home:

There’s always this guy:

who can plop down and fall asleep, anywhere, in front of anyone.

And then there’s this guy, the loud talker:

Sometimes you’re seated next to him on the plane or in a restaurant. Other times, as was the case for me, you’re just seated within a close enough proximity that you hear every single word he says while you’re just trying to relax and read your book. 

First, he made a phone call and screamed into the phone for a few minutes. It wasn’t an angry scream. Just an elevated volume. The call ended and I thought, “OK, now I can read.” but he had other plans. Then he started talking to the lady, who I assume is his wife. Despite my best efforts, I could not block him out. Seeking alternative seating proved futile, so I just sat there and took it in. Since there was no tuning him out, I decided to at least concentrate on his words. After just a few seconds, I realized he was just talking to be talking and wasn’t really talking to his wife, or anyone for that matter, about anything. He was simply talking. It was stream of consciousness, saying whatever came into his mind. And the interesting thing was his wife never responded, never bat an eye, never really even looked up. He had an entire conversation all by himself.

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."Psalm 91:1

National Only Child Day

Just as I blame greeting card companies for holidays such as “Grandparents Day” and “Administrative Professionals Day,” I think we can blame Facebook for yesterday’s “National Sibling Day” and the response to that, today’s “National Only Child Day.” But in recognition of today, enjoy this post from an only child whose mother and daughter are onlies, as well. That’s right…my daughter is a proud, third-generation only.

Growing up an only was, simply put, fantastic. You know that saying “friends are the family you choose?” I’ve seen it on a plaque somewhere. Well, as I watched my friends and classmates struggle with their siblings, this concept was foreign to me. Friends and neighbors and cousins drifted in and out of my home and my life like people you share a plane ride with. We were thrown together for a little bit, but just when I thought “I could stab you in the neck with this ballpoint pen,” the ride was over and they went back to their own homes and I could get on with my life.

I was taught to share but the entire notion seemed utterly overrated. In social situations where sharing was the word of the day, I learned a life skill early on that has both saved and haunted me:  move on.  If there was a toy someone else wanted to play with, I’d just go play with another. If there was a project in school and someone else wanted to cover my chosen topic and the teacher suggested a group effort, I’d simply slide into another subject matter. As I transitioned to adult life and corporate America, I thought, naively, that sharing was behind me. Ha. That was until I was thrown, completely unsuspecting, into my first committee. There were bigger words being used and people were smiling weirdly and nodding but I saw what was happening here and I didn’t like it:  we were being forced to share something worse than a slinky. We were expected to share ideas and assignments and workload. Son of a biscuit.

The upsides of being an only are as countless as the stars in the sky. Christmas and Easter mornings were all about me. And Jesus, but He wasn’t getting any gifts. I had my own bathroom, but, of course, I shared my parents’ because, as I’ve found now that I’m a parent, that’s what kids do. There was no fighting over whose turn it was with the TV remote. When I was very young, I was the remote. When the clicker finally came around, Daddy got to hold the little, magic box, end of discussion. When staying in a hotel, the parents got one bed and I got the other. I don’t recall any “he’s touching me” or “it’s her turn to do the dishes” complaints.

The flip side of this, of course, is that there is very little room for error. If a lamp gets knocked off and broken, there aren’t many directions in which to point a finger. In fact, there’s little room for deflection at all. Being an only means you get the attention all of the time, good or bad.

People have asked me throughout my life, “weren’t you ever lonely?” Yes, of course I was, but the benefits a sibling would have offered wouldn’t have outweighed the cons. Having someone to see-saw with for five minutes wouldn’t have made up for a childhood of having the entire backseat to myself on car trips. Getting to play board games, most of which require a minimum of two players, wouldn’t have fostered my creative side and nurtured the part of me that wanted to write.

Now that I’m a parent, I’m fascinated by how many of my only child’s friends are onlies, too. It’s a good percentage. And among us parents, there’s a sense of camaraderie, of accomplishment, a feeling that we got it right, we hit the bullseye. We see other parents struggling to get their kids to different sports practices and to be at parent meetings and clothe and feed the masses and we smile to ourselves knowing we’ve got it pretty darn good. A couple of times I’ve been asked,”do you have just the one?” Just the one. As if I’m somehow not worthy of the title of “Mother” unless I look harried and utterly worn down. Trust me, with “just one” I sometimes feel like screaming and pulling my hair out and driving across the border never to be heard from again. I give props to Moms of multiples.The fact is, we have a tough job, whether we have one or seven.

I lucked out as far as parents. And I’m not just saying that. They did it well and made it look easy, even when it wasn’t. They did a terrific job of teaching me independence and giving me my space. They allowed me to make mistakes. I look at some of my child’s only child friends and I see them in some of the pitfalls of only-dom. They have a “glommy” or “smother” — a mother who just refuses to cut the apron strings. They’ve had so much sunshine pumped up their little bottoms that they can’t fathom when they don’t win the race, when they don’t get the blue ribbon, and when the world’s attention isn’t focused solely on them. It’s sad to watch the unraveling of a 10-year-old who’s been told their entire life “you’re the best” when they find out, as they eventually will, that they’re not. My husband and I have tried so hard to avoid this for our own only child, that I fear we’ve allowed the pendulum to swing too far in the other direction. We rarely miss an opportunity to tell her how she’s mired in mediocrity. “That’s a nice painting of a unicorn, sweetie, but that horn is terribly out of proportion.”

FAMOUS ONLY CHILDREN 

FDR - President Roosevelt apparently had a “glommy.” But, by golly, her baby boy became leader of the free world, even if it was a gloomy period of time.

Lance Armstrong - Mama was said to have said on more than one occasion, “Lance, honey, why don’t you go outside and ride your bike?” Unfortunately, she didn’t tell him to avoid performance-enhancing drugs while he did it.

Harry Potter (and Daniel Radcliffe) - You are a wizard, Harry. And an only child. Go play with your wand.

Drew Barrymore - Well, it’s difficult to compare celebrities to us mere mortals. Drew knew how to make a perfect martini and roll a joint by first grade. Over-achiever.

TOP 10 BEST THINGS ABOUT BEING AN ONLY CHILD

10. You have all the best qualities of being both an extrovert and an introvert.

  9.  You know how to share (because people insisted you learn) but you never have to.

  8.  Family vacations are awesome. The only downside is deciding which parent to ride the roller coaster with. Coin toss!

  7.  Responsibility is your middle name. Or “Ann,” because that seemed popular.

  6.  All of your clothes are yours and yours alone. And new. No hand-me-downs. (Downside: no one to point the finger at over a horrible outfit.)

  5.  Your birthday is a national event. At least at your house.

  4.  Super close relationship with your parents.

  3.  There’s one baby book, it’s completely filled out, and it’s all about you.

  2.  Independence wasn’t a lifestyle choice, it was a matter of survival.

  1.  You learn early on all of the perks of solitude. Ahh, the sound of silence.

TOP 10 WORST THINGS ABOUT BEING AN ONLY CHILD

10.  See-saws suck.

  9.  Having no one to blame when you screw up.

  8.  You throw like a boss, but never learned to catch.

  7.  You think the dog is a good listener. (I debated which list this should go on.)

  6.  Playing “Hide & Seek” blows.

  5.  Imaginary friends aren’t a childhood phase. They’re real. Hold on for a minute. Stella, I’m writing a blog post right now. I’ll chat with you when I’m finished, OK?

  4.  The noise out there in the world! Oh my goodness. Noisy things in my house growing up included Daddy watching televised golf, Mom emptying the dishwasher, and the dog clicking across the linoleum when his nails were in need of a trim. I got my bottom (and my ear drums) handed to me when I went off to college and learned first-hand, from three roommates, what real noise was. 

  3.  There are times you daydream about being part of a larger family. If you haven’t watched the Steve Carrel movie “Dan in Real Life,” look it up on Netflix. It’s a great little movie and he’s at the top of his game. At the center of the movie is his large and larger-than-life family and seeing vignettes like this make me long, quite temporarily, for the opportunity to be a part of something bigger.

  2.  My definition and your definition of “personal space” are infinitely different. Infinitely. In fact, go ahead and take a couple steps back while you’re reading this.

  1.  Being an only makes you who you are. For better or worse. (I debated which list this should go on.)

Wouldn't trade it - or them - for the world.

Washington D.C. | Day 3

Oh, the places we went!


This final day of our adventure took us to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. I cannot adequately describe the number of fascinating specimens, all under one roof, and the joy of knowing I could take as long as I wanted to look at the interesting ones, skip the less interesting ones, and read every description along the way, all without judging eyes and sighs. If you give me enough time, I would bore you, but here are some highlights:

Greensboro Lunch Counter

Union Draft Wheel,1863. The description says this wheel would be filled with slips of paper in a state with names of eligible men. Officials would draw slips to create a list of draftees.

Civil War Battlefield Surgery Kit

Stubby, mascot of the 102nd Infantry, 26th Division.  Accompanied his unit in the trenches and was awarded a gold medal and made a life member of the Red Cross,Young Men's Christian Association, and American Legion.

Berlin Wall

Abraham Lincoln's top hat worn the night of his assassination

The original "teddy bear," named after Theodore Roosevelt

Ration coupons and books

Muhammad Ali's Boxing Gloves, 1974

The Bunkers' Living Room Chairs from "All in the Family"

Apple II Computer (early 1980s)

Julia Child's Kitchen. That's my friend, Alison, standing on the other side. They painstakingly catalogued and transferred every appliance and item in her kitchen to this display in the museum. This is pretty much exactly what her kitchen looked like at home and from where her show was taped for a period. I found it how remarkable it was just the amount of "stuff" she had -- not one square inch of counter or wall space went unused - but it was all so organized and methodical.

Anyone else remember this kitchen necessity? We had one.

After a full day at the museum, we headed out to take in more sights. Some beautiful sunshine and warm, Spring-like weather greeted us. We doffed our outerwear and began what would be an afternoon of people watching, memorial visits and soaking up the scene.

We walked the entire length of the National Mall. There were countless food trucks lined up. Although we didn't patronize any, this one caught my eye.

Washington Monument

This is as close as we ventured to 1600 Pennsylvania

Lincoln Memorial

Korean War Memorial

World War II Memorial

We have been so profoundly struck by this city's friendliness and charm. We've not met one person who wasn't effusive and leaping to help us find our way. This gentlemen overheard a portion of our conversation and stopped to inquire if we were lost. We weren't, but he was able to offer some helpful advice to get us to our next destination more quickly. In the subway stations, we need do nothing more than look longer than a glance at a map or schedule when a local will appear and inquire if we need assistance. It's been a wonderful experience. 

Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial

Our Finale Dinner - Superb start to finish!

We look tired, but let me tell you, we earned it!

Washington D.C. | Day 2

To say today was "fun" or a "good day" seems, in a way, inappropriate, but it was so good to experience it with a good friend and someone who didn't rush me or ask "are you going to read every single sign?" Today, we visited the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.Yes, the subject matter is heavy, but I'll tell you, we left with so many stories and examples of bravery and diligence and overcoming.

But then we left the museum and went for something lighter.This included more subway rides, which always provide lots of great people watching.

Dinner tonight was in the Old Town area of Alexandria again at a spot called Virtue Feed & Grain.Yummy.

We strolled the streets and shops in the Hoffman District and found a couple of really cute shops. First, one of us needed a scarf and the other gloves so we popped in a cute boutique.Check.

There are piles of snow here and there. I assume they're left from the huge storm a couple of weeks ago. Now that we've purchased a new scarf and gloves, I can assure you it will be in the 60s tomorrow.

Then, we found a Sur La Table. If you've not heard of this, it's like a French Williams-Sonoma and is just fun to walk the aisles. They even offer cooking classes.

Just because this day needed to end on a silly note.