The Point of No Return

In every life, there are points of no return.  Some moments are imposing and some are so insignificant that you hardly remember them happening at all. 

We all have moments that shift us—unnoticeable at first, but sustainable enough to ripple the fabric of our own life as well as that of others. 

I oscillated through these thoughts while watching my two favorite Oberlin High School marching band kids perform on the field last Friday night.  In the moment, I quietly chastised myself for having thoughts any deeper than my usual contemplations of what’s for dinner or did I remember to put on deodorant under both arms.

My love for my kids chokes me up at the most random of times.  But it seems that the high school football field is the portal to the mushy mom I hardly know.

When Mayle was in high school, most halftime shows I would watch from the wrong side of the fence.  It was almost miraculous that she was even able to carry the oversized drum on her five-foot frame. I would swallow the lump in my throat by pushing my face deeper into the spaces of the chain link fence that separated us. Watching her little legs pump in excitement to keep up with the band was almost a metaphor for what our life together had been.  Watching her on the field her senior year was a kind of recompense for the senior year I forfeited when I got pregnant with her. 

She made me proud.

Now that I’ve graduated to the other side of the fence, I find I am still moved as I watch Stancey, toes pointed, and for this season, trombone swinging. 

Moved, maybe just a little bit more, is when I watch Madison as he dips and turns his tuba in moves not necessarily instinctive to his heavier build.  Band, for him, has not been as easy as it was for his sisters—socially, physically, or musically.  But like the Nike kid—he’s discovering his greatness.  For him, he’s on the cusp, and his ripple, I know, will have lasting impact.

I love that, so far, three of my children have found a place where peculiarities are accepted and their band director has the patience (or compromised sanity) to let them stumble, trip, and someday leap from the point of no return to greatness. Because in the end, perhaps more important than finding that safe place to land is finding that safe place from which to leap.  

We The People of Walmart

Sometimes it’s hard not to judge my family’s insides with another family’s outsides.  Maybe it’s just a “me” thing, but I’ve spent most of my life measuring my personal shortfalls against other people’s successes.

While comparisons can occur at any time, I find most of my comparisons happen while I'm shopping. 

At Walmart, we can hold our own.

I doubt you would find any of my family's pictures plastered on the “People of Walmart” website—though I haven’t checked lately. And while we do live in Oberlin, even I won’t shop there in my pajamas. 

However, when we shop Costco, we’re mostly out of our league. 

The average Costco family size is half the size of the Thompsons.

That alone makes us freakish. 

And while I may be a Walmart diva, I’ve noticed that many Costco mothers look like they’ve either just come from the gym or the hair salon.   I fade by comparison--just look at my grainy black and white membership card.  It looks like I’m missing an upper tooth.

And then, there are the children. 

This past weekend, Kenny wandered Costco in one red Croc and one blue sandal.  His random shoe apparel might be overlooked as long as there is nothing else screaming for attention; unfortunately, there is usually always something else screaming for attention. 

Look more closely, and you’ll notice his crowning plumber’s butt as he delicately hoists the backside of his shorts upward.  Underwear would help, but Kenny isn’t into accessorizing yet.

Max, with his big, doe eyes, is often a visual target.  As cute as he still is, his Kool-Aid stains and chocolate smudges are a lot to keep up with. 

After our most recent excursion, John and I took our abbreviated family of four and sat in the Costco dining area for lunch.  As Kenny inhaled his hotdog in a Nathan’s eating contest kind of way, I noticed a few tables down from us an impeccably dressed family of six.  They were absolutely beautiful.

Obviously they were fresh from a church service or a photo shoot.  Regardless, I envied that mother’s skill.  Never had my family ever looked quite that good.  And if they had, never had they ever appeared that natural.

As I watched Kenny wipe the oozing mustard from his face onto the back of his hand, I silently wondered if my boys would ever adorn themselves with anything else besides dirt.

“I just made a burp and it tasted like my hotdog!”  Kenny shared, perhaps a little too loud.

“Daddy?” he persisted, “Do you know how to do that too?”

And while I enjoy the finer things that Costco has to offer, I am thankful that I am at least aware that conversations such as ours are better left to the eating areas of Walmart.  Because, you can take the White Trash out of Walmart but you can't take the Thompsons out anywhere.

  

There's No Place Like Home

Sometimes it’s necessary to take a vacation after you’ve been on vacation.  I know, because our last one was a doozie. 

There were omens that indicated postponing our second annual trip to Gettysburg might have been best.  Aside from the usual pains of having to drive two cars to get us all there and the hassle of room accommodations that were going to cost more than our monthly mortgage payment, we also had the threat of illness clinging to us like the inevitable boogers that were to follow. 

Vacation day eve, Max woke up with a cough that I knew was the precursor to a nasty asthma flare-up.   

cough cough sniff. 

cough cough sniff. 

Catchy or not, this was not a chorus I wanted to hear on our family vacation.  In the darkest place of my mind (where the benefit of a flashlight and a gun is preferred), I thought if I could just envision the worst, then somehow I could prevent it from happening.

Packing Max’s nebulizer “just in case” was brilliant.  And even though his asthma had lay dormant since the first day of the older kids’ summer vacation, I had opted to remain safer rather than, well, sorry.   

More brilliant, perhaps, would have been the foresight to pack a hefty supply of albuterol, instead of the five puny vials I negligently chucked in the bag. 

With every passing mile marker, my grip on the steering wheel tightened as I watched Max serenade me from his car seat one row back. 

His wheezing and my neurosis collaborated for nearly three hours before I signaled for John to pull over.   Halfway to our destination, we gave Max the first of his rationed treatments.

“If he’s going to stress you out this entire vacation, let’s just turn around and do this another time.  No one is going to have fun if you’re freaking out.”

Knowing what kind of resistance the rest of the family would put up, I bit my lip and did what any other good mother would have done--I unhooked Max’s car seat and plunked it into John’s truck.

With only four kids left in the van, I began to notice the existence of the other children. 

Kenny questioned when we would stop for our next meal. 

Madison, head fully back and mouth wide open, snored over the crooning of the radio. 

And Stancey, ever dark and sullen, sat in an oversized Oberlin College hoodie in the 87-degree heat.  Four hours into our trip, I was just first noticing that she was sick too.

When we finally reached our motel, I was ready to put the bad part of our vacation behind us with a single dose of ibuprofen and a dip in the pool.  And by early evening, most illnesses were under control and my sanity was hanging tight. 

When I awoke early Monday morning and was able to sit on the deck alone with a cup of coffee and a Stephen King novel, I was blissfully in full vacation mode for a full three and a half pages.  As I watched the fog churn in our Pennsylvania valley, I convinced myself today was going to be the best day ever.

And mostly, it was chock full of “this doesn’t suck so bad!” moments.  Sure Max was still wheezing and Stancey still sullen, but Kenny’s enthusiasm for the children’s battlefield tour was priceless.  When he heard that Civil War soldiers sometimes ate bacon for breakfast too, he squealed in barefaced delight.

“Bacon!  I love bacon!  A LOT!”

That night, as John and I reflected on the comical moments of the day, we decided maybe two nights in Gettysburg was enough.  We’d do one final battlefield walk and head back to our Yankee flatlands of home.

But tomorrow morning came earlier for John.  As he staggered into my room the following morning looking less than rested and ultimately dehydrated, he revealed that the final funny of our vacation came in the form of food poisoning.

Driving a van full kids ranging from age three to seventeen, I made it back to Ohio in record time.  I’m sure there’s a ”Wife of the Year” award out there for me, even though John continues to assure me that leaving him in the service plaza two hours from home so he could rest was the right thing to do.

Some vacations are relaxing, while others remind you that coming home is really the best part of all.  Oz or Gettysburg, it’s all the same.  There’s no place like home.