Memorial Day: Postmortem

My father was a proud Marine who served in Vietnam from 1967-1969. I know that Memorial Day was important to him, as it is to many veterans. I imagine that recognition for service is important to those who have served. For someone who was (literally) spat upon when returning home from two tours of duty, perhaps Memorial Day provided a source of solace. To finally be thanked by the public must’ve provided some consolation. Perhaps not for the reasons that people said out loud—”for your service,” “for your bravery,” “to protect our country”—but for doing something that wasn’t entirely his choice, something that no one could prepare a young man or woman for. The public Memorial Day displays for veterans border on pandering these days. It is important for the general public to participate, but I believe the power of the day is between veterans. We have no idea.

Undoubtedly, the day provides a sense of community. “You are like me,” he must’ve thought, “you have seen what my eyes can’t unsee.” No words. Just knowing that others have made it through to the other side, doing the best they can to live in this world. Many continue to serve, no longer under duress or otherwise forced or drafted. But they still enter into that service covenant much like those drafted, without the slightest clue of what war can do to them.

The details that lie between my father’s service and his death are not what matter about Memorial Day. But that is what I remember on Memorial Day. There’s nothing easy about how the war affected him and how that pain manifested itself post-war all the way up until his death. Certainly it was not something that deserves much remembrance.

Although my father’s name is not on The Wall in Washington, D.C., I often think that it should be. Not just his name–but so many others who were eventual casualties of the war, after lifetimes of emotional and physical suffering. Those men and women who “came home,” but never really did.

Peace.

Shopping list: glitter that can kill you.

Winding down our Sunday, the kids decided to take a break from basement roller hockey and made a little science project. If you’ve never seen it, there’s a neat little trick you can do to create a whirlpool using two empty two-liter bottles.

DIY whirlpool; lots of whirling going on in there.

It’s a fairly simple experiment and not horribly complicated to create–or get to work. The kids were pretty intrigued by the cyclone effect. I honestly didn’t see the big deal with the whole execution since it’s basically just what you see every time you flush a toilet. But being that my kids seldom (to never) flush, I guess I see the potential novelty with the “experiment.” There are even kits you can buy to make the assembly a little easier. We just used old faithful for our tool: duct tape.

Apparently, you can also do fancy things with your cyclone’s water. Today, we used some orange food coloring for that nice (inadvertent) “whiskey” effect. But the boys wanted more, they wanted to step it up a notch. They wanted to make the experiment their own. They wanted…to put glitter in the water. (Yes, my boys.)

So, I began pulling out craft supplies in the quest for glitter. Boxes and boxes of googly eyes, pipe cleaners, embroidery floss, candy molds, felt. Wait, I found it–glitter!

But, oh no! The only glitter I had was edible. Edible glitter! But the boys were still ecstatic. I explained that this type of glitter would most likely dissolve in the water and not look very cool. They would need *real* glitter for their trick–not the easily broken-down edible type. They were apprehensive of my warnings. So, I handed over my coveted cookie-making supply and let them have at it. It looked like glitter to them; they were one step closer to their dream: a real live glitter suspension whirlpool. (basically, children’s Goldschlager.)

So, of course it didn’t work. The edible glitter almost immediately dissolved in the cyclone. There was slight disappointment. They still played with it for a while. Then they used the assembled experiment as some sort of eastern martial art weapon. And then, finally, they went back to playing basement roller hockey. Abandoning the cyclone.

Getting ready for bed tonight, one of my 8-year-olds looked at me, point blank, and said, “Mummy, tomorrow on your way home from work, can you stop at the store and buy real glitter–the kind of glitter that can kill you? For our whirlpool?”

So, tomorrow, to make a young boy’s dream come true, I am going to buy a big canister of glitter. Non-edible glitter. Beautiful, non-disintegrating, deadly glitter.

Edible glitter. Note: NOT available at specialty stores catering to gay assassins.

Gold, frankincense, and…soup.

Originally posted: Saturday, December 18, 2010 at 1:58am, but you’ll enjoy it more this year. I promise…

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My favorite holiday decoration is a hand-carved wooden Christmas pyramid, a gift from my father bought during his trip to Germany. It is such a neat little piece, bought shortly before he died…a wonderful reminder of him around the holidays.  It has a sweet little nativity scene at the bottom, angels armed with their trumpets looking out from on high, and then the shepherds and wise men rotate around JC and the fam when the heat from the candles hit the top propellers just right. We love watching it go around and around, it’s a magical little toy. Whimsical, really.

I  take a long time setting it up. I carefully unwrap all the pieces that I lovingly put away last year. I take the time to talk to the boys about all the little characters, from the angels to the sheep. Tonight, I was talking to the boys about the wise men and asked them if they knew what their gifts were. I pointed to wise man #1′s gift and said “gold,” then onto #2, “frankincense,” they seemed to be interested and said the names along with me with some prompting. But then I pointed to #3, there was a pause. Surely they had been talking through these in their Catholic CCD classes? This one wouldn’t be so hard, right? Larry, Moe, Curley…Barbara, Louise, and Irlene…bacon, lettuce, and tomato…gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Any third item of a pop culture triumvirate should come easy. So, after a second or two, my son looked at me, then looked at the last wise man’s gift, raised his eyebrows with excitement, then looked back at me and shouted… “SOUP!”

Sure, why not.

The poor king who had to lug the hot pot of delicious soup to Bethlehem.

 

 

So, in honor of my Dad, and the historical license that is afforded with such things, the gifts of the Magi (in my home) are now, and forever will be: gold, frankincense, and soup.

I like to think it was a nice lentil, or perhaps a corn chowder. Thanks again, Dad.

Santa is not a “first responder.”

Every year around this time, our local fire department (one of three in the township) drives a big fire truck around the streets; sirens blaring, lights flashing, and Christmas music playing. That would probably be cool enough for my kids, but, there’s something even more awesome to this scenario, something even better: Santa is standing up on that fire truck! Waving! Ho Ho Ho-ing! Big spotlight on him! BIG! When we hear the sirens within about a 3 mile radius we are like Navajo Wind Talkers trying to figure out how close or far off the engine is. When he (HE) finally arrives, the kids excitedly run up to the road, talk to Santa for a minute or two, and get a few candy canes. My husband and I usually duke the firemen a little to cover gas, or beers for later. Whatever, we don’t care. It’s awesome.

The only problem with this event, is that this fire department doesn’t come past our house with Santa on an engine every year. Our township is huge, and in many parts pretty sparsely populated. I understand it’s probably tough to get to every street every year, I understand. The worst thing, though, the absolute WORST, are the years when the bedazzled engine crosses over our road at the corner and just keeps going. They don’t turn on our street, nary a stop at the stop sign. The crossroads is about 200 yards away…so the kids could run for it, but they’re usually just too busy freaking out that the engine isn’t turning. For as fun as this happening is some years, other years it is just torturous.

Santa in front of our house, 2008.

So last night on our way to Cub Scouts, there, at the end of our street we saw *gasp* a fire truck with lights a blazing! This was it! The big guy was. On. Our. Street!

Finally. Our turn.

So, being mother of the year, I roll down EVERYONE’S windows. We’re gonna see him. We’re gonna talk to him. He’s *our* road’s Santa tonight!

Now, as we approach the engine, the boys are really having at it. Screaming: “SANTA!! IT’S SANTA!!!!! HE’S HEEEERREEEE! WHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” Loud. I mean, Santa’s not gonna miss us this time.

Then, as we get a little closer, I notice that the truck isn’t moving. Hmm, I figure Santa’s just inside the engine, doing some last minute primping. Getting candy canes in order. Texting the missus. Brushing his beard. You know, Santa stuff. But those lights are still going. He has to be in there!

Finally, we’re right in front of the engine, and–boy this is weird–it’s in MY lane? Facing me. Parked. Now, the kids are still screaming. And they’re still loud. They’re not letting Santa pass them by this year. I will also add that they are now unbuckled and halfway out of their respective windows. Whooooo! Throw caution to the wind, this is Santa!

At this point of the story, I would like to take this opportunity to extend my sincerest apologies to the family at the end of our street who may (or may not) have been dealing with a very serious emergency last night when *that* fire engine was parked right outside of their house. With the engine’s emergency lights on. Red and white lights spinning.

On an emergency call.

When we were screaming with joy out of the Blazer’s windows, we really, I mean really, didn’t know that someone inside might have, oh, say, just had a heart attack, or that maybe your basement was on fire. I swear. And I really hope everything’s OK today. I sincerely do. And please, I don’t want you to think that we were celebrating your hardship, and subsequently booing for any reason other than our disappointment that Santa was not on that engine.

I’m sure you understand, right? When I drove past you and your family members (slow motion movie scene style) and you were all glaring at us from your front porch, I could see a glimmer of understanding.

Hope you duked the drivers…

I sincerely hope to see you again in 2011, big guy.

Saint Nicholas Day: a parent’s guide on what *not* to do

Growing up, we didn’t celebrate Saint Nicholas Day. I remember certain kids coming into school talking about this cool and mysterious holiday. All I could gather was that they put their shoes out one night and got little gifts in them the next…and I did not. I’m not (that) bitter, but that’s about all I remember about the holiday.

Recently, my mother and sister took a trip to Holland for my beautiful cousin’s wedding. They brought us back these awesome wooden shoes. Now, I guess we found out the rule for fitting wooden shoes a little too late: take what your shoe “looks” like and then buy a pair of wooden shoes TWICE that size. The older boys (kind of THANK GOD) couldn’t wear theirs, but the youngest took full advantage of clogging around in a pair.

Since the shoes were just so beautiful (and let’s be honest: super annoying), we decided that the best use of these art pieces would be to set them out for Saint Nicholas Day.

So, like I explained earlier, I didn’t grow up with this tradition, so I rely on the internet for all the backup (i.e. country of origin, date to place out shoes, etc.). My kids don’t mind that I’m pretty vague about it, they just know that they’re getting some stuff in their shoes. However, one of my kids was very curious this year…

Carmen: “So, where does Saint Nicholas come from?”

Me: “Germany.”

Carmen” “Does he speak German?”

Me: “Yes.”

Carmen: “Well how does he sound?”

Me (in my best 11th grade German): “Ich bin blah, blah, blah, blah.”

Carmen (after a thoughtful pause): “I’m kind of…freaked out by Germans.”

Me: “Well, Germans aren’t scary. AND, Saint Nick has helpers. Maybe helpful and friendly ghosts will help deliver the gifts. Maybe Pap Pap!”

So, the kid is slightly appeased. But, let’s break this down: I basically just told him the ghost of HIS DEAD GRANDFATHER was coming into the house to deliver his goodies.

What is wrong with me?

I mean if GERMANS freak him out, what is the thought of a ghost in the house going to do?

I really did have good intentions, but fast forward about five minutes. He comes out crying. He doesn’t want a German OR a ghost bringing absolutely anything into the house. We talk. We compromise. We decide that the shoes can go outside. He was pleased with this idea, and he was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Happy Saint Nicholas Day!

One more punch in my kid’s future therapy card.

The Great Circle: 4 years, 9 months, and 2 days

My dad died unexpectedly on the coldest day I can ever remember, in January of 2007. After my mother called to tell me late that night, I dropped the phone. I then ran through the deep snow and into my back yard–barefooted–and lay there, looking up at the clear winter sky and wailing, making a snow angel. It was all I could do, just to feel something. Lying in that snow.

My father often joked that after he died, he was going to haunt us, scare the crap out of us, and generally just mess with us. He *really* would’ve liked this shirt. It was his nature, he loved to antagonize. And, really, haunting is about as good of a gig as you can get if you are a jokester. To this day, no one can make me laugh like he could.

Before he died, he was able to enjoy his three grandsons: my sister’s son, and my twin boys. Mine, conceived after many years of trying, finally born to my husband and me out of a successful IVF treatment. He loved them all, especially since he had no boys of his own, blessed with three daughters instead. My boys still have “Pap Pap” stories, and for that, I am happy. I am happy that they remember him and all of his antics, no matter how horrifying they might seem to someone who didn’t know him. But really, his complete disregard for any rules or social mores he didn’t like were part of what made him who he was, a true original. And–perhaps–a little insane to an outsider.

Several years ago, my mom gave me some of my dad’s books. The twins were looking to bring something in for show-and-tell and really wanted to take some of Pap Pap’s books, so they found the box and began their search. Below is the selection of my father’s books they were going to bring in for show-and-tell one day back in 1st grade. Thank God I checked their backpacks that morning.

My father was a prolific smoker. Lucky Strikes, unfiltered, 2-3 packs a day. As my mother later told me, one day the twins were at my parent’s house without me and they were very curious about my dad’s cigarettes. My mom said that one of them came running into the kitchen yelling “Pap Pap let me smoke, Nunni!! Pap Pap let me smoke!” My mom, not believing what this 3-year-old was saying, went to find out the real story.

“Bill, you didn’t *really* let the kids smoke?”

“Ann, it was one puff and they’ll never ask me to do it again.”

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So after he died, things were dark. Even more so, boring. Soulless.

And quiet.

So when I took that pregnancy test in March, two months after he died, I wasn’t expecting anything. I’d invested in about 20 pregnancy tests through the years and had never seen a positive. But, it was my birthday, and I wanted to go out and drink. Heavily. But, I felt funny. I couldn’t button my shirt because my chest was bigger than normal, and I just felt odd. Might as well take a test, not that I really thought that it would be positive, but just so I could go out and get drunk with a clear conscience.

There it was, two lines. I was pregnant. I cried. I cried out of fear, I didn’t really want another baby. I cried because I was such a horrible mess after my dad died that I didn’t think I could handle it. I cried because I was sad. Sad that my dad would never get to see this child. I cried because I was happy. A new life. I cried and cried and cried.

My sister, Sara, was also pregnant. She had found out about a month before me. We went to get our ultrasounds on the same day. There were our due dates, written on the back of the pictures, exactly the same: 9 months and 2 days to the day after my dad died.

What a gift to have to look forward to. What a way to make the pain a little easier. I was nearing two weeks late with the delivery, and the doctor told me that I could only go as far as November 10th. Holy crap, November 10th was the Marine Corps birthday. That was the most important day of my dad’s year. He was a proud Marine through and through, and served two tours of duty in Vietnam. If this baby could wait, that would’ve been the ultimate kismet. But, alas, Anthony Fabrizio was born in the late hours of November 7, 2007. Sorry Dad, I almost made it to the 10th, still wish I could’ve hung in there longer for you…

Today is Anthony’s birthday and he is four. If he were a Muppet, he would be Animal. He is energetic, funny, totally disruptive, loud, and frequently escapes our home to play outside. He would stay outside all day and night if I let him. He loves the woods and animals and he has a sparkle in his eye like my dad’s…a sparkle saying, “what can I get into next.” He hasn’t smoked yet, though.

So Dad, you weren’t lying, you have done some of your best work. Really, A+ stuff, here. I miss you every day, Bill Cubbage. And now I see that haunting isn’t necessarily a bad thing, nor is it just throwing around pots and pans or banging on the rafters late at night. Haunting is really just leaving a piece of your soul. So, Anthony is part of you, part of your soul, and that was a gift.

Left: Dad wearing a vintage Harley Davidson coat with Allison inside (c. 1973) Right: Allison wearing that same coat with Anthony inside (c. 2009)

And…he is driving me f**king crazy. Thanks you jagoff, you got me…

Finally, Happy Birthday to my sweet little Anthony. Don’t ever smoke. Oh, and Stay Gold.

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{why i can’t have nice things} industrial masking tape

“A weekly, or as close as I can get to weekly, ritual (who am I kidding that I think I can do this every week). Some photos – with or without tons of explanation – capturing a moment from the week.

A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. A moment that makes me remember why exactly it is that I can’t have nice things (but someday will).”

**A twisted step-cousin twice-removed of www.soulemama.com‘s {this moment}.

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I had a really great history professor one semester in college. He taught History of the American Revolution and he was so great, that he actually wore blazers with large, deliberate patches sewn over his elbows. And he was gloriously disheveled. This professor was a huge proponent of questioning history. Or rather, instead of reading an historian’s record of events, he advocated deliberating the significance of historical events using first person accounts and primary source materials. For example, instead of reading a recent narrative about how American Colonists were all riled up by British tyranny, he made us read The Stamp Act. This methodology really changed my way of thinking. Not just about history, but life in general. Namely, there are two sides to every story–and then, the truth.

Most recently, I believe using this primary source methodology would benefit anyone reading about parenting and childcare. Listen, parenting is difficult and completely lawless at times–no one’s going to tell you otherwise. But that’s like saying that the endocrine system is complicated. No shit. I’m not here to tell you how hard parenting is. I’m not going to tell you that it’s difficult. I’m not going to try to compare discipline to the pancreas. Or teaching proper aim into the toilet to the thyroid. I’m just going to give you pictures and first person accounts and you can form your own opinions.

Case in point: the “it’s too quiet what are they doing wrong?” scenario. There is an eerie quiet that overcomes a home some evenings, when a parent’s mind wanders and believes that a child has either a. escaped or b. is doing something very, very bad. I will tell you, the quiet is almost always due to the latter. Alright, one time Baby Anthony did escape–from his own 3rd birthday party, no less–but we found him very shortly after the jailbreak, safe and sound down by the swing set at around 9:00 p.m. in the pitch black night. Who ever thinks the BIRTHDAY BOY will run away from his party? Apparently, not us.

Last night, my husband and I were hypnotized by the evening quiet. A brief, beautiful, perfect moment of…nothing. No yelping. No hitting. No wrestling. No hollering. Nothing. And then…I tensed up. What were they doing? Oh sure, there have been textbook family nights when the quiet was actually because of a game played without biting of a participant or a partner Lego project (Sciullo & Sciullo Engineers, Inc) completed without a punch. Rare, but it has happened. One time, the twins worked together to build a Lego vessel model they designed to be used to remediate the oil spill in the Gulf. But, last night, I didn’t even hear the brrrrshh of sorting through a Lego bin. Nope, what broke the eerie quiet was the harsh, screaming sound of tape being ripped from it’s roll by the footful. And screams. And giggles. And various beating sounds.

Today’s {why i can’t have nice things} is brought to you by industrial masking tape. Oh sure, it can be used to trim out paint work, but why use it for good when it can be used for…taping your hands like boxers do and beating each other about the face.

Perhaps there will be a college course on the Sciullo boys someday, just print out this blog for some source material. Also, they asked me if I would tie them together like conjoined twins to see how those type of twins “fight.”

Help.