My Real Life

Yesterday, we had to say goodbye to Gramps, our hermit crab.

Gramps’ buddy, Shelly, lost his (or her…we were never really sure) battle with life in the crabitat a few months after we purchased them in August 2017, and Gramps has been going it solo since then.

We don’t have pets.

Instead, we have four kids.

So we’ve never had to flush a goldfish or put a dog to sleep, etc.

Our children have never had a close relative die or even a close family friend, and so they haven’t really ever had to deal with death beyond when their character in a video game dies.

Which, of course, then respawns, so even that isn’t real experience with death and totally messes with a child’s expectations of what happens when a person dies.

So, yesterday, Real Man catches my eye in the kitchen and gestures toward the crabitat where I see Gramps’ shell turned upside down, his dry little legs extended over the edge, unmoving and completely dead.

My first thought was “Oh crap…I forgot to spray down the crabitat with moisture last weekend. I killed him,” because, (and this will come as no surprise to the moms in the group) despite the fact that he’s the kid’s pet, the responsibility for keeping him alive falls on MY shoulders.

But then I remembered that I certainly had taken care of Gramps last weekend, and that a year and a half is a pretty good life for a hermit crab living in a plastic cage in northern New Jersey.

Real Man and I took the shell out of the crabitat and put it on the counter. We touched the legs to make sure they were really not moving, and they weren’t. We talked about what to do and we decided we would flush the body and clean out the shell to either add to the shell collection in the bathroom or in case we ever got more hermit crabs.

Real Man had a paper towel and pulled on the legs and they separated from the shell and from the remainder of the body. The big claw and legs were now in the paper towel and the other big claw and legs were still in the shell. We’d have to dig it out.

But, right then is when Tiny came into the kitchen and asked what we were doing.

So, we told him Gramps had died and he cried and cried.

I took him to the living room where we sat on the couch and reminisced about the good times we had with Gramps.

“Remember when we made Gramps and obstacle course out of blocks?”

“Remember when Shelly used to try to climb out of the crabitat by standing on Gramps’ shell?”

“Remember when we used to make funny voices for Gramps and Shelly and make up fake conversations for them?”

(All of which happened about a year ago, because it’s a hermit crab, which is not a fun pet, and which the kids really never paid attention to after a few months)

I told Tiny that Gramps was probably happy to be reunited with Shelly in hermit crab heaven which he quickly refuted with “Shelly isn’t in heaven…she’s in the sewer…you flushed her!” which was a point I found myself unable to argue.

As I comforted Tiny, Real Man poked his head around the corner and gestured for me to come back in the kitchen with big eyes.

I left Tiny in the capable hands of his brother who was reminding him of other fun times with Gramps (“Remember when Mom was cleaning Gramps crabitat and put him on the counter and forgot about him and we found him in the laundry room the next day?”) and went to the kitchen.

“So,” Real Man began, “I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Excuse me?” I answered. “You just pulled half of his body out of the shell!”

“Yeah…but…” and he held up his phone and showed me an article he had Googled about how sometimes hermit crabs molt their old legs off and grow new legs underneath.

And he picked up the shell and showed me what we had thought were other legs but weren’t, in fact, fresh, new, pink legs.

Which were moving.

Are. You. Kidding. Me?

I immediately cleaned out the crabitat and refilled the water and the food and we set Gramps right in the water dish and he started to rock and roll.

And I was so excited, there were tears of joy in my eyes.

They definitely were not tears of I had already imagined the counter where the crabitat sat being clear, for once, and the freedom of not having to remember to feed and water that thing every weekend.

Definitely not those kind of tears.

And we went in the living room and said “So, guess what, Tiny? Gramps isn’t dead after all!” and we explained the whole thing and so now Tiny thinks life is like a video game where, if your legs get cut off, they’ll grow back and if you die, you might not really be dead…the doctor might have just made a mistake and so death isn’t really a permanent thing, despite our very thorough explanations that we just got it wrong the first time.

So, yeah.

Thanks, Gramps.

The town we live in has an amazing community theater.

When I was a kid, it was this old run-down theater that showed old movies.

The owner had two Dalmatians that used to guard the doors and you always had the feeling like the ceiling was going to fall down on you at any minute, and so you wind up staring at the ceiling more than you would be looking at the screen.

But then someone got the idea to fix the place up and donors spent millions and the result is now a legit theater that attracts real celebrities, shows, and amazing events.

So, when the calendar of events comes out, each year, I always peruse it with great excitement. I don’t get to a lot of the shows, but there’s usually at least one that I really want to see.

My parents get tickets to a lot of the shows, but then one or both of them winds up being tired and so we wind up with the tickets, so I’ve seen quite a few things that I didn’t know I was going to enjoy and wound up loving.

This August, when the catalog came out, I saw that The Price is Right Live was coming to town.

And I almost passed out with excitement.

Let me give you a little background.

Growing up, The Price is Right was my jam.

My Mom loved the show and my Grandma loved the show, and so, if I wasn’t in school at 11 am, I was in front of the tv with Bob Barker.

By 7 years old, I could tell you the both exact price of Mop-n-Glo AND guess the price of a Chevy Chevette within a dollar.

I loved all the games they played. I dreamed of punching out paper circles and grabbing cash, of watching the mountain climber climb the steep incline, and spinning the big wheel.

However, the big draw…the game I loved more than anything else…was Plinko.

Those big, round chips.

I just wanted to hold them and climb the stairs to the top of the Plinko board and drop the chips down, watch them make their way through the maze, and drop into the $500 slot at the bottom.

Oh, how I longed to play Plinko.

One summer, I found a board and I nailed long nails in a maze pattern, drew dollar amounts on the wood, and spent hours with my friends dropping my self-made chips down the board. (I’m looking at you, Gail and Erin)

Anyway, we wound up with two tickets to the show and my parents had two tickets. But, my Dad wasn’t feeling well, so Monkey Girl and I took our tickets and my Mom and Baby Monkey (who is twelve and totally not a baby, but when you name someone on a blog when they are three, it sticks) went with my Mom.

What a show.

We watched people get called down, we saw clips of the show from the past 40 years with crazy antics as people got called on down. We cheered, we laughed. It was awesome.

Person after person was called on down. In between, people’s names were drawn and they won Amazon gift cards. I didn’t care that they weren’t calling my name. Monkey Girl and I were having a blast.

And then it was time for the last round of people to get called, and they called one name and then I heard it.

“Amy Bozza! Come on down!”

What?

I jumped up and screamed and yelled and ran down the aisle.

Along the way I saw one of my students and her mother and we waved and screamed at each other.

We had to sit and wait while the people who were before us made their bids, and then we were able to watch one guy win a trip to Hawaii.

And then it was our turn.

We got up to the stand, Mark Walberg said “hi” to all of us, (no, not that Mark Wahlberg…this is the one who is the host of Antique Roadshow, but still pretty darn cool), and rolled out the first item up for bid.

An electric guitar and amplifier.

The first thought in my head was $1,200, but then the people next to me started to bid.

They bid low and I started to second guess myself.

So, when my turn came, I said “$850.”

And then Fran, who stood to my left, said “851.”

And immediately, I knew she had won.

I said “Fran,” in a voice that my own children would have recognized immediately as my tone of exasperation and I slapped the podium in front of me.

Walberg laughed and told the audience that I was mad at Fran and then said “She didn’t come here to make friends, Amy,” which I knew to be true, but still…dammit Fran!

And, of course, the electric guitar and amplifier was $1,150, and would have been mine if not for Fran.

So, the producer gives me a t-shirt and I go back to my seat and I watch Fran and Mark banter on stage and then they open the curtain and Fran gets to play…

Yeah, you knew it.

Plinko.

Fran had to guess the correct number in four different products to win four Plinko chips.

Fran got three right.

From my seat, I got all four right.

Fran climbed the stairs…my stairs.

Fran dropped the chips…my Plinko chips.

Fran won about $1,500…my $1,500.

So, yeah, I didn’t get on stage and I didn’t win the money, but I won a t-shirt and I had a great, great time.

And tonight, I’m setting the DVR to start recording The Price is Right while I’m at work, because I need to study.

Because next year…the Showcase Showdown is all mine.

I see a lot of movies. I can’t help myself. I just love them.

And, over the years, I’ve instilled that love of movies in my children.

While we are happy to curl up on the couch with a good movie we’ve borrowed from the library or paid a buck for at the Redbox, the truth is, we would all rather be in the theater, price be damned.

I’m a fan of the action, the horror, the drama, the romance, the comedy…heck…I’m a fan of it all. And I thoroughly enjoy them all. I have favorite scenes and characters and moments and I find myself thinking about the films I watch far after the closing credits have rolled and the lights have come up.

Most of the time, I am entertained. I rarely see a movie that I don’t enjoy on some level. Even when everyone around me is shaking their heads and muttering at the two hours they will never recover, I leave with a smile, because I’ve found something redeeming in the film.

Yet, every now and then, there’s more.

It’s the last day of summer, today, as I go back to school on Tuesday.

My big plan was to take a day trip to the beach and give a proper farewell to #summer2018, but when I awoke to the rain hitting the roof, I figured it was best to change the plan.

So, I bought tickets to see Christopher Robin.

I can’t pass up a movie about Winnie-the-Pooh, as I have a lifelong obsession with the little guy.

We honeymooned in Disney, and I came back with more jewelry and articles of clothing bearing his likeness than any adult should ever own.

I taught a class at a summer camp called “The World of Pooh” where we read stories, colored pictures, and sang songs, all from the realm of the Hundred Acre Wood.

And when the monkeys started coming along, the nursery was decorated, from top to bottom, in a classic Pooh theme.

(…and often, they decorated themselves, top to bottom, in a classic poo theme, but that’s another story)

So, when I hear Winnie-the-Pooh, my ears perk up and I give whatever it is my full attention.

And so, on this rainy August afternoon, Monkey Girl, Baby Monkey, Tiny and I headed to the theater to see what this film was all about.

As you might imagine, it was predictable. If you’ve seen the trailer, you realize it’s a story about a man who has forgotten how to play…how to live.

Much like Robin Williams grown up Peter Pan in “Hook,” (another favorite of mine), Ewan McGregor is an adult Christopher Robin. A very busy, distracted, business-oriented, family forgetting adult.

And through a certain set of circumstances, he comes to be reunited with his friends from the Hundred Acre Wood who help him save the day, save his family, and save his soul.

Tears flowed…hard…as Christopher Robin left behind his friends.

Every day…for years…Pooh returned to the door through which Christopher Robin used to crawl to visit the Hundred Acre Wood. And his shoulders would slump as he would realize his friend wasn’t coming, and I heard the sniffles throughout the theater and realized it was hitting all of us hard.

Exactly as the filmmakers knew it would.

Predictable in every way.

And yet…

I saw much of myself in the character of the adult Christopher Robin.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m playful, I’m youthful, and I love my monkeys.

But, I’m human, and at times, I’m very much an adult who is busy and doesn’t have time for the silly.

Who doesn’t make time.

I have lists upon lists of things that need to be done, and the truth is, they are things that actually do need to be done.

And as I complete one thing, I am already thinking about the next thing to be done.

But the result is that I am often distracted in the moments where I would truly rather be present.

One of my favorite lines is at the end of the film.

Winnie-the-Pooh asks Christopher Robin what day it is, to which he replies, “Today.”

Winnie-the-Pooh responds, “Oh good…today is my favorite day.”

I love it.

And in a year where I continually find myself focusing on the future…

(Mourning a daughter who is leaving for college in a year, but is still here right now, is a perfect example)

…I want to embrace that philosophy.

So, this year, I’m adding a mantra to my life.

Number one is, and will always remain Be as Kind as Possible, as Often as Possible

But, mantra number two?

Today is my favorite day.

The thing I remember the most about Back to School shopping is the smell of my new shoes.

I’d open the boxes over and over again, and I’d just inhale the scent of the new leather.

I’ve never forgotten that smell, and when I catch a whiff of it again, it takes me right back to my childhood.

When I was a kid, back to school clothes shopping was done in Ohio with my Grandma.

Every summer, because my parents worked, I would spend about 2 weeks at sleepaway camp, and then I would be shipped off, from NJ to Ohio, to spend about a month with my grandparents.

They were four of my favorite weeks of the year.

I’m pretty sure I’ve talked about my Grandma Lawrence before. She was my world when I was a kid, but I didn’t get to see her often enough at all because of where we both lived. So, when I would go out there for that month in the summer, we spent every second together.

We played cards, badminton, sat with the Avon lady and bought little perfumes and lip glosses, read books, watched tv, played board games, drove the Bookmobile, and I’d sit on the basement stairs and watch her do the neighbor ladies’ hair in the remnants of the beauty salon she used to run out of her house.

And every year, she took me shopping for my back to school clothes.

As a kid, it never dawned on me that she was doing this to help my parents out, financially. That it eased a heavy burden that was on their shoulders, as my Dad was working full time, but was also pursuing a degree in the city, and my Mom was working two jobs.

It probably wouldn’t have mattered, even if I had known, because as far as I was concerned, Grandma buying my back to school clothes made them…magical.

She would take me to the only department store that Ashtabula, Ohio had, at the time. Carlisle’s.

I can still remember exactly where the children’s and juniors sections were in that store, and the thrill I would get when we would walk through the doors.

She never said anything about whether she liked what I was buying. She just smiled and said “Are you sure?” and I’d consider and sometimes I’d say “No” and put it back, and sometimes I’d say “Yep” and move on.

I was careful not to buy more than I thought that she could afford, but she always encouraged me to pick up “one more thing” and I would happily do so.

White jeans with rainbow pinstripes.

Legwarmers.

Any 80’s kid clothing you can imagine, if I had it, it’s because my Grandma bought it for me.

And then there were the shoes.

The kids shoes were upstairs in this weird little alcove.

As much time as we spent in the clothing department, we spent double that in the kids shoes.

I could get one pair of sneakers and one pair of dress shoes and one pair of “other” shoes.

One year, the “other” shoes were capezios.

Another year they were jellies.

Yet another year, they were saddle shoes.

And for a few years, the “other” shoes were bucks.

I’d never wear them out of the store.

In fact, I’d never wear them until school started.

I kept the boxes shut tight, as if by keeping them closed, I could preserve the memory of shopping with my Grandma, knowing once they were out and on my feet, I was home and too many miles away from her.

But once school started, I wore them all, and was grateful to have them.

Now, my Mom and I take my kids clothes shopping, and it’s different.

First of all, Grandma lives three minutes away and they see her all the time.

And the mall where we shop is a mall where we shop at least four or five times a year.

Just like when I was a kid, my Mom takes them shopping to help me out with the expenses, and because she just loves “doing” for these children.

Maybe because it’s four of them at once and no one wants to wait while someone else is browsing.

The boys sit and feed dollars into the massage chairs in the mall while Monkey Girl searches for just the right thing in a few stores.

Monkey Girl browses on her phone while the boys try on endless pairs of pants, because long legs and tiny waists are hard to buy for.

Inevitably, someone gets grumpy, someone cries, and someone (I’m looking at you, Tiny) is always hungry.

But, that’s life with four kids.

So, yeah, it’s different, but the experience that my kids are having with my Mom has it’s own type of magic.

Every trip ends with cookies as we exit the mall, which is a part of the experience they ask about before we even get in the car to start the trip.

There are smiles and jokes and memories that are made, and reminisced about, every year.

“Remember when that guy tried to sell Monkey Girl a hair straightener and Grandma said ‘I’m the Grandma!’ in that crazy voice to the guy?”

Different memories than I had with my back to school shopping experiences, but cherished memories for my kids, nonetheless.

So, while the experience may be different, because times are different, and they are different, when they get home, these kids who normally don’t seem to know where their closets or dressers are, suddenly are hanging their new clothes, reverently, to preserve them for Day One.

And their new shoes?

They sit, preserved in their boxes, until that first day of school; I like to think, preserving the memory of the time spent with Grandma and Mom that one day, will be far in the past.

1. Tiny needed to be told that it was a person in a suit, and not a real raptor in the cage, in order for him to stand for that picture
2. My hair was going in that raptor’s mouth

1. There must be free breakfast
2. There must be an indoor pool (if we are traveling north) or an outdoor pool (if we are traveling south)
3. The WiFi must be free

Every time I visit my parent’s house, whether it’s a long visit or just popping in to say “hi,” my Mom sends me home with crap.

Now, granted, it’s all my crap, but it is crap, nonetheless.

I’m not sure how it’s taking up much space in her house, and I definitely don’t have space for it in my house, but I can foresee the day when I’m trying to shovel my grown children’s crap out of this house so I take it with a smile.

A few weeks ago, my Mom asked Monkey in the Middle (who will be 14 in not so many days from now) to grab a large cardboard box out of her basement and put it in the back of my car. He’s a good boy and does what Grandma asks, so before I could protest, it was on the way home with me. I haven’t, however, had the time to look through it, and so it has stayed closed and in the car for weeks.

A few days ago, we had a snow day, and so I took it as my opportunity to open the box and see what treasures awaited.

As it turned out, it was full of books from college. There were books that I read for pleasure and there were the kids books that I read as part of my Teaching Reading class. I’ve been selling everything around here that isn’t nailed down, so when I looked at the pile of books, I saw dollar signs.

Once I had removed the books, I found the real treasure in the box.

My high school and college journals.

Jack – freaking – pot.

I spent the next three hours reading my daily thoughts and actions from ages 15-22, and taking pictures of certain passages and texting them to Kim, which resulted in a lot of laughter and a lot of cringing.

In examining these journals, cover to cover, I came to some conclusions.

—–

First

I say it all the time and I’ll say it again…

I am so very, very, very grateful that I did not grow up in the age of social media and cell phones.

I was a good kid. I really was.

I wasn’t perfect, and I made a few wrong turns along the way, but compared to what a lot of kids at the time were doing, I was a good kid.

But, I when I imagine the mistakes I made magnified by a Snapchat story or an Instagram post, it makes me shudder. Yes, they live on in those journals and in my memory (although, if I’m honest, I had forgotten quite a bit of it along the way) but I could burn the journals and never speak of what is in my memory and the world would never know.

Not the case for kids today.

—–

Second

My Mom read my journals.

So, to anyone with whom I interacted in any way, shape or form from 15-22…

My Mom totally knows what you did.

Quite frankly, I had completely forgotten that I had even written these journals, so, over the years, when my mother has made small, insightful comments, I’ve always thought to myself “Wow…she is SO perceptive. How did she pick up on that?”

Because I KNOW I never told her any of the things I wrote about.

So, the conversations that went like this…

Mom: “I always thought X was interested in you,” or “Didn’t you tell me this happened at X’s house?”

Me: “What? No. Why would you say that?”

Mom: “Just a feeling that I had.”

…suddenly make a lot more sense to me.

—–

Third

High school is hard for everyone

Even the kids who seem to have it all together

At our most recent high school reunion (25th, if you have to know) there were people who said to me “You always seemed to have it so together, Amy.”

And I laughed and laughed and laughed, because no…I most definitely did not.

But, I guess I had forgotten the extent to which I did not have it together, or just how much I worried about how I stacked up next to other kids my age, until I read those journals.

The angst. The drama. The boys.

Reading this helped to put some of the angst that I hear from my students into perspective.

I can be quick to write it off and say “Let it go,” but reading my own words yesterday reminded me of that ache and that sick feeling in your stomach.

My students will say, “He clearly opened my Snap, but hasn’t responded! Who is he snapping instead of me?”

In my journal I wrote, “I’ve called him three times in the last hour, but it’s busy. Who is he talking to?”

The examples like this are endless, but they remind me that some teenage issues are timeless. It’s only the medium that changes.

If you have any of your own journals, diaries, or whatever from your high school years, I highly suggest you peek through them.

It’ll give you a good laugh, and will remind you of how awful and amazing those years were.

And, again, if you were someone I interacted with from the ages of 15-22…good luck looking my Mom in the eye next time you see her.

At the beginning of each school year, the 8th grade social studies teachers do a lesson on historical thinking.

It’s an activity that trains the 8th graders to think like an historian.

In order to create the lesson, we bring in “artifacts” from our lives and place them at a variety of stations throughout the room.

The students rotate through the stations and have to make observations about what they find and then draw some conclusions.

The students aren’t given the information that the artifacts are pieces of my life. They have to put it all together and decipher the identity of the subject based on the clues that they find, much like an archaeologist.

At the end, they write a biography of my life based on the info, which is always highly entertaining.

Some of the artifacts that I use at my stations are a wedding picture of my Great Grandparents from Denmark, my high school yearbook, an Archie comic, an album, an antique book, a glucose monitor and many other items.

Some of the kids struggle to make meaning of the items, others are able to see connections, and even others are able to weave a fairly accurate biography based on what they observed.

However, my favorite part of the entire process, every year, is listening to the students try to guess what a few of the objects are.

For example, even though I’ve heard that vinyl is making a comeback, the students hold the album in their hands and don’t even realize that there is something inside.

“What is this? Who is this a picture of? Do you think it’s her brother? Wait, is this a list of poems on the back? What IS this?”

Then, when someone in the group discovers that the side of the cardboard opens and there is a vinyl treasure inside, I hear…

“Oh! It’s a case for this frisbee!”

Students who have a dim recollection of seeing one of these artifacts at their grandparents homes ask questions like “This plays music, right? Is there only one song on this thing? How does it work? I don’t understand how the music comes off of here if it isn’t digital?”

Some of the items are fairly straightforward, and still, they struggle.

My Great Grandparent’s wedding picture is from the 1890’s. It is obviously from the 1890’s.

And yet…

“Do you think this is her wedding picture?”

Gee. Thanks, guys.

Then, the students pick up the glucose monitor.

“Oh, I know this! I saw it in a vintage shop. I think it’s a Yarakuchi. No, a Kapalanchy. Wait…it’s a Tamagachi! It’s like a virtual pet that you have to take care of or it dies.”

Yep. That’s it, kid.

And then comes the Archie comic.

Not a vintage Archie comic, mind you. One that I bought at ShopRite last summer.

“OMG…this is, like, one of the original comic books.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, totally. Look at what they are wearing. That’s like, clothes from the 1800’s.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve heard of this comic. This isn’t the original comic. The original comic was Scooby Doo.”

“Wait, the dog that solves mysteries?”

“Yeah. Scooby Doo came first. This is a total rip off of Scooby Doo. I think they go around and solve mysteries but without the dog.”

“Lame.”

—–

I share this, not because I think my students are anything less than brilliant, but because it amazes me, sometimes, how little today’s kids know about the items from their parents generation, much less their grandparent’s.

I feel like, when I was a kid, I knew all about my parent’s childhoods.

I knew the toys they played with, the music they listened to, the celebrities they worshiped, and understood their cultural references.

But my students, my own children, don’t seem to have those cultural connections.

They live in their world and have blinders on to anything outside their own experience.

Is it technology? Does it fill their every waking moment so much that they don’t have space to learn about the items and experiences from the past?

I don’t know.

But I truly hope that it this doesn’t become the new normal; that each new generation exists in a vacuum.

Although, it wouldn’t be a huge loss if the next generation were ignorant of all things Justin Bieber.

I just think that the sharing of culture is an important rite of passage between generations, and as the ancients shared their traditions with their children to preserve their civilization, so should modern adults continue the process, and modern children be willing to receive it.

Because, if they don’t, Corey Hart and his nocturnal sunglasses could disappear forever.

And that, my friends, would be a real tragedy.