One of my favorite movies of all time is "Little Miss Sunshine." My sister saw it first, at the theater. She called me and said, "Anna, you MUST see this movie. You'll pee your pants." Since my family considers laughing until you pee your pants to be the absolute pinnacle in judging a comedy, I listened to her.
And yes, I almost peed my pants. It was one of the most hilarious films I had ever seen. For those of you who haven't seen it, it is about the Hoover family, making a cross-country trip to get their daughter, Olive, to the Little Miss Sunshine pageant. Every member of the family is a failure in his or her own right, and the pageant becomes a delusion in their minds. They are so down on their luck, that they take every last penny they have and pin all hopes of any chance of winning at anything on poor little Olive. They are a desperate family on a mission, and they will let nothing stand in their way.
The following day, I went to work and told everyone I encountered to go see this movie. A few days later, my boss pulled me aside, and expressed her disappointment in me. "I saw 'Little Miss Sunshine,' Anna," she said. "I didn't laugh at all. I thought it was depressing, I thought it was sad, and I can't believe that you are the type of person who would laugh at the misfortune of others."
I was stumped. Had we seen the same movie? Did I miss the point? Was I a bad person for enjoying it? Upon viewing the movie again, this time with my mother, who laughed even harder than I did, I realized that I hadn't missed the point. My boss had. She just didn't "get" it.
The themes of LMS are not the most positive: Suicide. Unemployment. Drug Use. Bankruptcy. Death. But it is the manner in which the family handles them that makes it funny. I am not laughing at them, I am laughing with them. In one way or another, I have been there. I understand wanting something good to happen, and being willing to go through anything for a "win." There is a fine line between determination and desperation. Trust me, once you cross that line... sometimes all you can do is laugh.
I have been crammed in a Volkswagen Rabbit with no A/C in the middle of July with four other people, including my handicapped grandfather and a weeks worth of luggage, in a car that kept overheating. My dad was so determined - er, desperate - to get us to WV for vacation, that he kept waiting for the car to overheat, only to let it cool, pour some water in the radiator, and restart the car to drive five miles before having to start the process again. At the time, not so funny. Looking back, pretty hilarious.
I have gone with my mom and step dad to a vacation on Deep Creek lake, knowing we couldn't afford to go, but so desperate for a change of scenery, went anyway. Then I called my husband, convinced him to get into our son's piggy bank for enough change to get him enough gas in the car to come join us, with no way of knowing how we'd get home. After he arrived at the lake, we laughed about it all week long.
I have thrown impromptu Yard Sales in my front yard, selling anything from the rack the clothes were hanging on to half used bottles of hand lotion, because I was desperate to go out to dinner that evening. Insisting that a toothless woman wearing a mumu pay me $1.00 instead of $.50 for a bottle of Curel that I had just used after my shower that morning, just to get to eat a decent cheeseburger, that's worth a giggle or two.
I have been there. And I have not been alone. The best part of having a dysfunctional family, is that you are a "family." You are with others who are like you, who understand you, who "get" you. My boss came from a well-to-do household, where the car always ran, vacations were planned a year in advance, and she never had to have a yard sale in her life. Because of that, she doesn't understand that when faced with problems or tragedies, people find different was to cope. And my family, now and always, chooses to laugh. We understand that life is crappy, and as long as you surround yourself with people who understand that, everything with be okay. And if it's not, at least you have someone with whom to laugh about it.
My favorite scene in "Little Miss Sunshine," is right after the grandfather dies. (Hilarious, right??) Unable to afford funeral arrangements and having only an hour to get to the pageant, the Hoover family steals the dead body from the hospital, throws it in the trunk, and goes on their way. Soon after, sirens can be heard. Richard, the father, warns his family, "Pretend to be normal," and heads to the back of the van, where he fears the police officer has found the body. Instead, the officer has found the grandfather's porn stash. In an effort to distract the cop, Richard pretends that they are his, and he and the cop ogle the magazines while a dead body lies in front of them, covered only with a sheet. It is one of the funniest moments in movie history.
While my family doesn't regularly buy porn or use heroin, I am proud to have a family like the Hoovers. I am proud to have people in my life who "get" me. We understand each other's failures and flaws, and we accept them. And I am proud to be raising my children to laugh at themselves, instead of feeling sorry for themselves, by finding humor amid utter devastation. Sick kids, past due bills, overdrawn checking accounts, broken furnaces and all, I happen to think my life is, well, like Richard describes his copy of "Big Jugs" magazine... Sweet Sweetness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VWyH_twcMl0
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
A Memory of My Dad (for Father's Day)....
It was a dark and stormy night. I was fourteen years old. It was the middle of winter and our heat had gone out. Again. Coming from a long line of family who had also coasted in on fumes, my dad decided to fix it himself. I was in my bedroom, listening to the Jackson 5 and writing up a Science lab, with a space heater at my feet. I could hear, through the vent, the normal sounds that came with my dad fixing things.
Banging. Clanging. Cussing.
I knew my mom was minutes away from calling a repairman, so I prayed that I would soon hear the familiar click of the furnace, so that an argument would be avoided. What I heard next was not a click. It was not a bang. It was not a clang. It was not a @#$*. It was the closest sound I had ever heard in my life to a KA-POW! I looked over to my heating vent and saw a puff of smoke come out of it. And then I heard my mother screaming. I flew downstairs to see smoke in the kitchen and smoke billowing from under the door of the basement, where my mother stood, calling frantically for my father. With still no response, my mom and I looked at each other, knowing someone was going to have to go down to see what happened. My little brother and sister stood huddled at my mom's legs, eyes wide with fright. Then, we heard his familiar footsteps. We backed up to give him room. When he reached the top of the stairs and the smoke had cleared, we gasped. We did not greet my father with cheers that he was alive, or hugs of relief. We met him with laughter.
My dad looked like Wile E. Coyote after an ACME stunt gone incredibly wrong.
What little hair he had left on his head when he had gone downstairs, was now singed to his scalp. His eyebrows were completely gone, and his moustache was burnt and frayed and sticking straight out from his upper lip. Angry at the utter lack of support from his family, my dad pushed past us to the bathroom mirror, to survey the damage. As he stood wiping the black off of his forehead and from around his eyes, I tapped my brother on the shoulder and pointed to my dad's legs. One thing I will always remember about my dad, is that he is perpetually hot. So, no matter the season or temperature, he always performed home repairs wearing a pair of cutoff shorts and no shirt. That night was no different. And the explosion had burnt every last hair off of my dad's legs. As our eyes drifted upward, we saw that the ten hairs that my dad had proudly displayed on his chest since puberty, were also gone. When we all composed ourselves from hysterical laughter, my mom spoke. "Larry, I yelled and yelled for you. I was worried! Why didn't you answer??" He slowly turned to look at her. "I couldn't answer you," he calmly replied, "because I was putting out the FIRE that was on my FACE!!!" And with that, the laughter started all over again.
In the end, the culprit was a faulty pilot light. Dad had tried to relight it with a Bic lighter, but hadn't checked to see if the gas was off, and it blew him all the way across the basement. A few days later, Dad began speaking to all of us again and soon found humor in what had happened. Aero Oil installed a new furnace the following week. And Dad's body hair grew back, just like normal.
But he never touched a lighter, again.
Happy Father's Day, Dad!!
Banging. Clanging. Cussing.
I knew my mom was minutes away from calling a repairman, so I prayed that I would soon hear the familiar click of the furnace, so that an argument would be avoided. What I heard next was not a click. It was not a bang. It was not a clang. It was not a @#$*. It was the closest sound I had ever heard in my life to a KA-POW! I looked over to my heating vent and saw a puff of smoke come out of it. And then I heard my mother screaming. I flew downstairs to see smoke in the kitchen and smoke billowing from under the door of the basement, where my mother stood, calling frantically for my father. With still no response, my mom and I looked at each other, knowing someone was going to have to go down to see what happened. My little brother and sister stood huddled at my mom's legs, eyes wide with fright. Then, we heard his familiar footsteps. We backed up to give him room. When he reached the top of the stairs and the smoke had cleared, we gasped. We did not greet my father with cheers that he was alive, or hugs of relief. We met him with laughter.
My dad looked like Wile E. Coyote after an ACME stunt gone incredibly wrong.
What little hair he had left on his head when he had gone downstairs, was now singed to his scalp. His eyebrows were completely gone, and his moustache was burnt and frayed and sticking straight out from his upper lip. Angry at the utter lack of support from his family, my dad pushed past us to the bathroom mirror, to survey the damage. As he stood wiping the black off of his forehead and from around his eyes, I tapped my brother on the shoulder and pointed to my dad's legs. One thing I will always remember about my dad, is that he is perpetually hot. So, no matter the season or temperature, he always performed home repairs wearing a pair of cutoff shorts and no shirt. That night was no different. And the explosion had burnt every last hair off of my dad's legs. As our eyes drifted upward, we saw that the ten hairs that my dad had proudly displayed on his chest since puberty, were also gone. When we all composed ourselves from hysterical laughter, my mom spoke. "Larry, I yelled and yelled for you. I was worried! Why didn't you answer??" He slowly turned to look at her. "I couldn't answer you," he calmly replied, "because I was putting out the FIRE that was on my FACE!!!" And with that, the laughter started all over again.
In the end, the culprit was a faulty pilot light. Dad had tried to relight it with a Bic lighter, but hadn't checked to see if the gas was off, and it blew him all the way across the basement. A few days later, Dad began speaking to all of us again and soon found humor in what had happened. Aero Oil installed a new furnace the following week. And Dad's body hair grew back, just like normal.
But he never touched a lighter, again.
Happy Father's Day, Dad!!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Hello, my name is...
One of the charities that we support is the March of Dimes. Henry was premature, and the MoD does wonderful work. When you become a benefactor to the MoD, they show their gratitude by sending labels to you. They also ask for more donations, by sending labels to you. They send labels for every season. They send lots of labels. Thousands. I now have so many address labels that I have decided that we can never, ever move. The other day, I decided to organize them. The ones with snowflakes, I placed into an enveloped marked, "January." The ones with hearts - "February." Flip-Flops - "July." Pumpkins - "October." After a half an hour, I started giggling. I was labeling my labels.
From a sociological standpoint, when labels are applied to an individual, it can affect his behavior, particularly when the label is a negative one. Often, those who are labeled are forced to conform to how they are being judged by the labelers. For this reason, labeling concerns me, especially regarding my children. Children should never be labeled, but inevitably it happens. I catch myself trying to do it to my boys. I guess I think that since I love them, if I create the label, then they will be protected from someone else doing it. But not even I can find a label for them. They have Noonan Syndrome. That automatically makes them different. And while that difference needs to be understood and accepted, it should not be the basis on which to judge them. On the other hand, it also should not be ignored. It is there, and it is important that others acknowledge it, but not focus on it. And therein lies the dilemma.
So, are they "disabled?" Because they have a congenital syndrome that affects their overall health, with the proper paperwork, the state would say, "Absolutely!" And their physicians agree. I have a hard time with that, though. The Disabled Label implies that they are unable to do things that others can. My boys may take longer to do physical things, like hop on one foot or pedal a bike, but eventually they are able to do most things that other kids do. Jack is able to play football. But he is not allowed. A wrong hit could cause internal bleeding, that could be fatal for him. Therefore, we have been advised to never let him play. Henry is able to kick a soccer ball and chase it down the field. But he is not allowed. In addition to the bleeding issues, pushing himself too hard could put a strain on his delicate heart. Their conditions cause limitations only because of the risk involved. There is no piece of paperwork in the world that allows you to check a box that says, "Able, but not recommended."
Occasionally, I do use the term "special needs," when talking about the boys. It seems fair. If the boys get sick, they need extra time to get better, because of weak immune systems. If they fall or get cut, they need to take their clotting medicines. They also need to see at least five specialists, annually, in addition to their regular pediatrician visit. I guess the problem I have with the Special Needs Label is that it's a little broad. I think that even parents with healthy children would consider their kids to have "special needs." You could argue that all kids have special needs. I mean, Noonan Syndrome aside, Henry needs at least five minutes of snuggling after he wakes up, or his day just doesn't begin properly. Jack needs to have his oatmeal put in the freezer to cool off, or he won't eat it. Henry needs his blue clogs before he leaves the house, and Jack needs his boo-bah before he goes to sleep. And those special needs affect my daily life much more than the medical needs do.
Unfortunately, some labels my boys will never have. Normal. Healthy. Athletic. And that's okay, because those don't necessarily apply to Jack and Henry, either. It's only a matter of time before their peers realize that they are smaller than other kids their age. Or that they miss a lot of school. Or that they can't play as rough. But it's also only a matter of time before their peers realize that the vocabulary and grammar of my boys is more advanced than those of some adults. Or that they are so imaginative, they can create an entire day of play based around an empty paper towel roll. Or that they charm everyone that they meet, even if it's just in line at the grocery store. I can only hope that by the time they begin to be labeled, their medical issues take a backseat. I can only hope that others realize that there is much more to my boys than their NS. I can only hope that they are labeled Kind. Generous. Trustworthy. Gracious. Honest. Good.
As I finished labeling my labels, the boys came up to me and asked if they could have some of my "stickers." So, using a Sharpie over my own name and address, I finally did it. I labeled my boys. On the one with the mess of curls, who looks exactly like his mother and has a laugh that can light up a room, I placed a sticker that said, "Jack." On the one with self-cut bangs, his daddy's eyes and a devilish grin, I placed a sticker that said, "Henry."
They stood, happily, proud to display who they really are, my Henry and my Jack. And I hope that those labels stay with them forever.
From a sociological standpoint, when labels are applied to an individual, it can affect his behavior, particularly when the label is a negative one. Often, those who are labeled are forced to conform to how they are being judged by the labelers. For this reason, labeling concerns me, especially regarding my children. Children should never be labeled, but inevitably it happens. I catch myself trying to do it to my boys. I guess I think that since I love them, if I create the label, then they will be protected from someone else doing it. But not even I can find a label for them. They have Noonan Syndrome. That automatically makes them different. And while that difference needs to be understood and accepted, it should not be the basis on which to judge them. On the other hand, it also should not be ignored. It is there, and it is important that others acknowledge it, but not focus on it. And therein lies the dilemma.
So, are they "disabled?" Because they have a congenital syndrome that affects their overall health, with the proper paperwork, the state would say, "Absolutely!" And their physicians agree. I have a hard time with that, though. The Disabled Label implies that they are unable to do things that others can. My boys may take longer to do physical things, like hop on one foot or pedal a bike, but eventually they are able to do most things that other kids do. Jack is able to play football. But he is not allowed. A wrong hit could cause internal bleeding, that could be fatal for him. Therefore, we have been advised to never let him play. Henry is able to kick a soccer ball and chase it down the field. But he is not allowed. In addition to the bleeding issues, pushing himself too hard could put a strain on his delicate heart. Their conditions cause limitations only because of the risk involved. There is no piece of paperwork in the world that allows you to check a box that says, "Able, but not recommended."
Occasionally, I do use the term "special needs," when talking about the boys. It seems fair. If the boys get sick, they need extra time to get better, because of weak immune systems. If they fall or get cut, they need to take their clotting medicines. They also need to see at least five specialists, annually, in addition to their regular pediatrician visit. I guess the problem I have with the Special Needs Label is that it's a little broad. I think that even parents with healthy children would consider their kids to have "special needs." You could argue that all kids have special needs. I mean, Noonan Syndrome aside, Henry needs at least five minutes of snuggling after he wakes up, or his day just doesn't begin properly. Jack needs to have his oatmeal put in the freezer to cool off, or he won't eat it. Henry needs his blue clogs before he leaves the house, and Jack needs his boo-bah before he goes to sleep. And those special needs affect my daily life much more than the medical needs do.
Unfortunately, some labels my boys will never have. Normal. Healthy. Athletic. And that's okay, because those don't necessarily apply to Jack and Henry, either. It's only a matter of time before their peers realize that they are smaller than other kids their age. Or that they miss a lot of school. Or that they can't play as rough. But it's also only a matter of time before their peers realize that the vocabulary and grammar of my boys is more advanced than those of some adults. Or that they are so imaginative, they can create an entire day of play based around an empty paper towel roll. Or that they charm everyone that they meet, even if it's just in line at the grocery store. I can only hope that by the time they begin to be labeled, their medical issues take a backseat. I can only hope that others realize that there is much more to my boys than their NS. I can only hope that they are labeled Kind. Generous. Trustworthy. Gracious. Honest. Good.
As I finished labeling my labels, the boys came up to me and asked if they could have some of my "stickers." So, using a Sharpie over my own name and address, I finally did it. I labeled my boys. On the one with the mess of curls, who looks exactly like his mother and has a laugh that can light up a room, I placed a sticker that said, "Jack." On the one with self-cut bangs, his daddy's eyes and a devilish grin, I placed a sticker that said, "Henry."
They stood, happily, proud to display who they really are, my Henry and my Jack. And I hope that those labels stay with them forever.
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