"Never Say Goodbye"

Bon Jovi, Baby.

That's what the GCHS Class of 1988 chose as our senior prom theme. I didn't go to prom with Chris that year -- we'd just begun dating and cummerbunds had already been matched and rented. I went with my very best friend (and my Mom's much younger love interest), Tim. We double-dated with Libby and Terry and after-partied in Brown County. It was a fabulous night.

But from 1989 on, I've only had one prom date.

Tonight, we're attending our 20th together.

I just asked my beloved to remind me what his senior prom theme was. His response? "I hope I get lucky."

He's so sentimental that way.

(His theme was, in fact, "Hold on to the Night." You can't argue with Richard Marx and pure, unadulterated, late-80s sap.)

Twenty years later, Chris is still hinting around at post-prom action. "That's what you DO after the prom," he assures me. "That's what EVERYONE does."

The peer pressure never ends, does it?

Not even when you're 40.

My best friend just called me and I answered the phone with my Valley Girl rendition of, "I'm soooo going to get laid tonight." (Sometimes I just can't help myself.) And the caller was, unfortunately, her 10-year-old son asking for a play date with Gus. "I'm really underpaid!" I wanted to shout. "That's what I said, Carson! I'm really UNDERPAID!" Chris was laughing so hard in the background that he damn near fell off his chair.

We've chaperoned a lot of proms in our day. Enough, in fact, that I'm hoping we'll actually be crowned King and Queen tonight. Kind of like bestowing an honorary degree on us. I'm going to wear a tiara -- just in case.

Prom night is one of my very favorite high school events. Watching all those fresh-faced kids wobble around in high heels and tug at their too-tight bow ties? Priceless. Seeing our babysitters in formal dresses when we're used to seeing them in sweatshirts and ponytails? Nothing better.

There's so much promise on Prom Night. Graduation looms, futures are bright, breathalyzers are being passed, sex is on the horizon...

And the memory of the sweaty gaggle of teenagers on the 1989 dance floor grooving to Paula Abdul and Milli Vanilli is a welcome walk down Memory Lane. (Yes, I said "grooving." When we weren't break dancing or head-banging, we were most definitely grooving. And yes, I mentioned Milli Vanilli. We were blissfully unaware of their lip-syncing scandal at that point in our young, innocent lives.)

After 20 years, I wouldn't trade my prom date for the world. He's graduated from mullet to gray, but he can still sweep me off my feet and make my knees go weak.

And the after-prom action? Well, just between you and me, he's probably getting lucky tonight. I have the power ballad 80s mix tape cued up and ready to go.

"Love Bites" can still do it for me.

Just the Bad Parts, Please

George is the "Spotlighted Student of the Week" at school. He filled out his poster, took his favorite book in, has gathered his most prized possessions.

Today, Chris and I were responsible for writing a letter about him that would be read by his teacher. Because I'm a rebel, however, I requested to read it myself. And instead of a letter, I took bits and pieces from the "George Anderson" chapter of my book.

But although I trimmed the original 20 pages down to 3, I didn't cut quite enough for George's taste.

"I don't want anything lovey-dovey," he demanded. "Nothing about how cute I am or how soft my cheeks are or how much you love me. None of that."

"Well, George," I pressed, "what exactly am I supposed to include?"

"Just the bad parts," he replied. "The parts about burping and getting into trouble."

"It's going to sound like we don't even like you."

"I'm okay with that."

So, the following excerpt is what I read to the class this morning.

I did choose to omit the part about his early admission to reform school.

Some things his classmates will just have to find out for themselves.

George Anderson

“The Baby”

05/22/2002

You can learn many things from children.  How much patience you have, for instance.    ~ Franklin P. Jones

            George Anderson Willis was born into our lives on May 22, 2002. He was welcomed home with excitement by big brothers, Sam and Gus and by his adoring sister, Mary Claire.

            The baby of the family, George’s status was confirmed from the beginning. We all doted on him, cooed at him, catered to him. His baby book was thinner than the others, not by choice but by necessity.

George learned things differently in our home. At age three, when our other kids were cutting their teeth on Barney and Sesame Street, he was watching Lord of the Rings.  By five, he was a Guitar Hero aficionado and could rock out to Led Zeppelin and Guns ‘N Roses with the best of them.

We call him the “Rain Man” of Legos. He can build anything with precision, symmetry, and speed. He has a freakish ability to construct complex creations far beyond his years. He’ll open a new Lego set, spread out the instructions, color code his Lego piles, and get lost in another world for the next couple of hours—or minutes—depending on the resultant product. He’s meticulous to a fault, unable to think about anything else until his latest masterpiece is finished. There are Lego displays all over his room. He becomes infuriated when I move them to dust his shelves, occasionally breaking off a piece that I can’t put back. He’ll sigh with the ennui of an old man as he instructs me how to rebuild what I broke.

Whenever something breaks in our home—whether it’s a TV, an Xbox, or a large appliance—George can’t wait to take it apart piece by piece to determine what went wrong. He’ll cut and scrape his fingers and pull sharp metal pieces apart until his hands are raw and bleeding, but he’s not satisfied until he figures out how every single piece works.

He’s the loudest of the Willis’s—perhaps not by choice, but by necessity. Demanding to be heard, he makes noise endlessly. He sings to himself, talks to himself, whistles incessantly, hums and chatters to fill in any noise voids. When he wants to be heard, he yells. There is no “inside voice” for George. He has just one setting. And it’s stuck on “loud.”

He’s ferociously committed to his best friend, Ethan (Stacy’s youngest), whom he’s “known all my life except for three days because he wasn’t born until three days after me.” He and Ethan have plans to move to Africa and raise monkeys. Stacy and I have been granted visiting privileges, but only on the next hill over.

George’s imagination is boundless, but I often question his work ethic. Much like Sam, he prefers to have things handed to him, to only tackle those things that he’s already good at. He’s got an entrepreneurial spirit, though. Two of his ideas? Lickable meat wallpaper and a body zipper for easy surgical access.

As the final addition to the Willis Tribe, George Anderson is precocious, funny, introspective, smart as a whip, aware of the world around him like none of my other kids, can guilt us into almost anything, is a tad bit spoiled, unrestricted, energetic. And loud. Did I mention loud? Because his volume level could break the sound barrier—and my nerves. He’s always in trouble because he’s always the one we hear above the rest. As smart as he is, you’d think he’d figure this out.

            By the time I hustle him into his bed at night, I’m usually ready to turn off his lights and shut his door for a long, long time. Inevitably, he’s already fought with his siblings, argued a request to pick up his toys, tortured the dogs, ridden his bike without his helmet even though he knows it’s strictly forbidden, presented me with a school paper that says, “I don’t think George is working to his potential,” burped at the dinner table, refused to eat his green beans, used all the hot water in the shower, trashed the basement, and talked back to me.

            But when he smiles at me, he’s always forgiven.

Ode To a Lost Shoe

Oh, gray and red beauty,
How we've missed your exquisite size two.
Was it only yesterday you were running freely
On the foot of my seven-year-old boy?
And now...
Now you've disappeared into the night
Never to be seen again.
If I'd bought you at Target,
The pain wouldn't be so raw.
But with your specialty store price tag,
I feel your loss all the more deeply.
Where have you gone, old friend?
Were you tossed into the dark abyss of the garage?
Perhaps left in a neighbor's sand box?
Are you sitting beside an abandoned campfire?
It's hard to lose a shoe.
It takes some effort to go missing.
The only salve for my wounded checkbook is the knowledge
That flip-flop season is just around the corner.
And that, perhaps, by the time you were needed again,
You would have been too small.
Farewell, old friend.
It's time to surrender your better half,
The half that stuck around for the long haul.
Next time,
We'll be shopping Wal-Mart.

Half-Baked

We had some very special, very new friends over for dinner on Friday night. As we all well know, I DON'T COOK. Thank God my Renaissance Man does. We'd all go hungry around here otherwise -- or survive on a diet of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with turkey bacon and a side of Oreos.

Our friends were bringing a scrumptious salad -- complete with edamame -- so I decided the least I could do was offer up a dessert.

As the vacuuming and floor scrubbing began to consume the day, however, I decided a box cake was about the best I could muster.

But I thought I'd add a little twist -- fresh strawberries! And if my cake didn't taste very good, I reasoned, surely I could at least make it look good.

(Go on, I can hear you all giggling.)

Suffice it to say that I will never compete on the Ace of Cakes. Do you know how incredibly impossible it is to transfer a cake from pan to serving dish without completely destroying it in the process? Or how frustrating it is to ice a cake without tearing off large chunks and spreading them into the mix? On the advice of my best friend, I bought a pick (a pick!) so I could draw pretty lines around the circumference of my finished product. If I'd used that pick, however, the entire intricately constructed mess would have imploded -- pulleys, levers, and all.

Cake decorating is not my forte.

Neither is cake baking. From a BOX. Pathetic in so many ways...

When I pulled the cakes from the oven, I neglected to test their "done-ness."

And the result, my friends, was a couple of soggy-middled cakes. I determinedly attempted to scoop the wet batter out and fill the empty spaces with fresh strawberries.

It was a most humbling experience. One that most certainly shouldn't have ended up displayed on a pedestal.

I do have some skills. I can sing (or at least I used to be able to before age turned me from a first soprano into a bass). I can write (sometimes with a hint of clarity). I can diaper and bathe four kids under the age of five with the grace of an Olympic gymnast (almost). I know the lyrics to every 80s song that was ever written. My toenails are generally clean.

But I can't cook.

Anything.

Period.

There's really nothing more to say.

Excuse me now while I get my ass out of this kitchen and move it to somewhere more fitting.

The couch looks good.

Baby Steps

This morning started off with a bit of a hiccup.

Mary Claire spilled half a gallon of milk at the breakfast table and tried her darndest to silently and stealthily clean it up before I got downstairs -- resulting in a smeary, stinky mess all over my kitchen floor, my kitchen table, her homework, and George's chair. George proceeded to harass her, and all hell broke loose. As I was coming down the stairs, the screaming began.

"SHUT UP, George!"

"We don't SAY 'SHUT UP,' Mary!"

"I HATE YOU, George!"

"We don't SAY 'I HATE YOU,' Mary!"

"I don't care what the RULES are! I still HATE YOU!"

And that's when I arrived on the scene.

The kitchen was a disaster, the decibel level was climbing, and my blood pressure was rising.

"That's enough from both of you!" I demanded in a somewhat controlled (but commanding) voice.

And I'm pretty sure I must have been rendered temporarily mute because neither of them even acknowledged my presence.

And they continued. With increased volume. And with greater venom.

And then Mama pulled out her trusty old can of Whoop Ass.

I slammed my fist down on the island and yelled, "I said that's ENOUGH! I won't have this in my house!"

And George looked at me and remarked smugly, "I thought you said you weren't going to yell at us anymore."

And even though I momentarily wanted to dump the remainder of the milk over his head, I knew he was right.

We've been working a little differently around here lately. There's a whole lot less drama, an emphasis on responsibility and ownership, and an intolerance for playing the victim.

If my kids hear me say, "If you can't change it, choose it" one more time, I'm pretty sure their heads will pop off.

So, I apologized for my outburst, cleaned up the milk mess with Mary Claire's help, and asked for a morning "do over." And because kids are generally resilient and forgiving, it was over for them. And because my eyes are looking through a different lens now, it was over for me, too. (Amazing, I know. The Queen of Grudges just... let... it... go.)

After I dropped them off at school, I met a friend for coffee -- one whom I haven't seen in far too long. We talked and sipped and talked some more. And the sun began to feel warmer and brighter.

Then I ran a couple of errands and met my Renaissance Man for lunch. Over refried beans and taco salads, we spent a bit of uninterrupted time together. A most welcome gift, indeed.

I then ventured out to buy some fresh flowers for the house. I jammed to J Lo's "Let's Get Loud" on the way (who KNEW I'd enjoy Jennifer Lopez so much??), and the world was once again brand new.

I struck up conversations with random strangers, smiled maniacally at everyone I passed on the street, and bought lemonade from a kids' neighborhood stand -- at four times their advertised price.

When I got home, I finally hit "send." My complete manuscript is now in the hands of the four requesting agents. NOW. As we speak. It's out there. OUT THERE.

And then I called my Dad.

Who says life has to stay the same?

Journeying

"Just a small town girl livin' in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere..."

Okay, I'm not really talking about that kind of Journey. But when I think of the word Journey, I can't help but think of Steve Perry and his penchant for jeans that left nothing to the imagination. (You can take the girl out of the 80s, but you can't take the 80s out of the girl.)

The journey I'm describing, however, is a different one altogether. And the vocabulary required to tell the story still eludes me.

I'm digesting. And processing. And learning.

I just completed a leadership and enrichment course that has changed my perspective in ways I could have never imagined.

I just created powerful, intimate relationships with people who -- two short months ago -- were complete and total strangers, people who will forever cause my heart to skip a beat and encourage my arms to hold on a little more tightly.

I just learned how to be courageous and authentic and loving.

The world looks beautifully different today. The sun is brighter, the colors more vibrant. My husband is more cherished than ever before, my kids more wholly loved and appreciated. (Yup, even George.) My heart is full of gratitude.

Today, I can fly.

Words -- the devices upon which I've always depended -- fail me. Today, they are inadequate representations of what is real, what is important.

Hell, I've been singing along with Jennifer Lopez and The Judds all day long. THE JUDDS! If that doesn't indicate a change, I'm not sure what does.

What I'm experiencing is truly a journey. My path will veer and meander and -- quite possibly -- end up in a place I never knew existed. (Once geographically-challenged, always geographically-challenged.)

I'm not there yet.

But I'm never looking back.

Hail to the Chief

Chris is out of town.

You know what that means?

Breakfast for dinner. Frozen pizza. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I hate cooking. My kids hate my cooking. Therefore, I tend not to cook unless threatened by death or serious bodily harm.

My Renaissance Man is truly the House Chef. That's very different than the House Chief, which is--of course--me. With Chris's lack of spelling prowess, however (see "Buckit List" post and nod in agreement when I say that particular apple didn't fall far from the tree), he might not get the subtle difference. But I can assure you that I do.

I'd much rather be the Chief than the Chef.

When the Chef is gone, we tend to eat a lot of Subway, and we're much more likely to gather around a table where someone brings our food and refills our drinks than we are to gather around our own kitchen table and pick through our paltry offerings like grooming monkeys. (POT ROAST?? What the hell kind of meal is THAT to prepare for your family?? Potatoes? CARROTS? In some kind of BROTH? Why not just ask them to give up the XBox for 24 hours? COULD THERE BE A WORSE PUNISHMENT??)

SUBWAY SIDEBAR: My children have recently begun ordering a "few red onions" on their drier-than-dry subs. They then proceed to sit down, unwrap their sandwiches, and promptly remove all the red onions. When questioned about their motives, they insist that having a "few red onions" on their sandwiches for the 30 seconds it takes to fill their drinks leaves an acceptable level of red onion "flavor" on their sandwiches without the actual act of red onion ingesting. Yeah. I'm not kidding. That's the shit I deal with on a daily basis. I've perfected the art of "smiling and nodding."

Anyway...

I dream of family dinners at home where the conversation is easy and the plates are eventually cleaned. Instead, we typically experience looks of disgust at what's presented for consumption, bargaining over how many green beans constitutes "enough," shameless begging for dessert, and general disdain for anything that's both healthy and edible.

Tonight, I made my kids very happy with waffles and bacon for dinner. Perhaps it wasn't the Dinner of Champions, but everyone ate. Everyone smiled. No one complained.

It was a Festivus Miracle.

And you know how much bacon they ate?

One full pound. They're animals, those Willis kids.

Most of you know that Mary Claire has a thing for pigs, so we always opt for the turkey variety at home. Sam insists that turkey bacon is for sissies, but he can shovel it into his mouth like a crazed lunatic when it's his only option. And Mary Claire is much happier feasting on Turkey Lurkey than on Wilbur.

You know what else we did tonight? Stayed up until 9:30 PM.

Not by choice, but necessity.

After baseball practice, lacrosse drop-off and pick-up, bacon frying, syrup warming, homework help, spelling quizzing, babysitter scheduling, dish washing, and laundry folding, I couldn't get them to bed any damn earlier.

Bacon and late bedtimes?

I am the Chief tonight. Chief Resident Rockstar, that is.

Chefs need not apply.

Welcome, New Friends

Technology is amazing, isn't it? An email and a Facebook message, and suddenly...

THERE YOU ALL ARE!

For those of you who have just found Table 4 Six, please note that all the Willis Tribe news (that's fit -- or almost fit -- to print) from December 2007 through March 2010 can be found at:

www.willistribe.com.

You can catch up there and keep up here.

Thanks for joining us -- hope you enjoy the ride!

The Bukit List

By George, age 7

(published without permission)

1. move to afrika with Ethun
2. skidive
3. bunjy jump
4. cave jump
5. drive frary inzo
6. cruz bahama
7. go on the moon
8. go to adlantis (hotel wordor park)
9. be half tim show (sooper bole)
10. skooba dive
11. get a dalmashin pupy
12. go on a afrikan safary
13. ride acrost grate wall of china on a super bike
14. eat choltlit graffe
15. live in the white house for a week

I love him.

A Bioluminescent Binge

We’re home.


Finally.

After four hours of bay fishing followed by fifteen overnight hours in the car, we made it. We stink, we’re dirty, we’re tired, we traveled with a cooler full of dead trout, but we’re home.

And what a final couple of days it was.

Friday night, we decided to walk the beach after dark to see the magnificent stars. And what we saw in addition to the stars was straight out of a special effects shoot--the waves that were crashing up onto the shore were actually glowing.

In my 40 years of living, I never knew such a thing occurred. For those of you as dumb as I am, it’s called bioluminescence (the production of light by living organisms).

Now, I knew certain living creatures had glowing capabilities. I’ve squished many fireflies in my day. But I never knew that entire ocean waves could glow.

Apparently, the sea life contained within the waves illuminates when it’s moved. Thus, we witnessed something similar to the above picture. Breathtaking, really. We were all astounded.

Then Gus shone his flashlight onto the sand and we realized we were being mobbed by ghost crabs. When I stopped freaking out -- and when I talked Mary Claire off the ledge -- we were pretty impressed with their presence, too. They were, quite literally, everywhere.

One of the most magical nights we’ve ever experienced.

The next day, we packed up our belongings and headed to meet Captain Terry for our 4-hour cruise... our 4-hour cruise. (Did you sing along, ye children of the 70s?)

We caught trout after trout after trout in the bay. For 4 hours, we threw our lines in and pulled them back out with stinky, wiggly, slimy fish. And we kept enough to grill for dinner tonight. Chris just cleaned them. I can’t quite talk about it right now. The guts, the heads... ugh.

But the big news of the week?

I managed to gain 10 pounds.

In one week, my friends.

That’s true dedication.

When I think back to what I ingested on our vacation, I guess it’s no big surprise. The bread, the wine, the vodka beach drinks, the potatoes, the vodka beach drinks, the Fudge Stripes, the red wine, the donuts, the white wine, the creamy soups, the vodka beach drinks, the fried fish, the red wine, the ice cream, the wine.

I ingested enough of the White Devil to ensure my eternal passage to hell. (As if that wasn’t already guaranteed.) After 8 months of faithful and prudent South Beaching, I just ran that train right off the track and into the convenience store...

Where the Hostess treats of my childhood were waiting.

When I walked out to the Suburban for my 3:00 AM driving shift with coffee in one hand and a 2-pack of Ding Dongs in the other, Chris just shook his head sadly and proclaimed, “That’s not going to end well.”

And he was right.

The bingeing didn’t end well. It never does. I feel sick, bloated, disgusted, 10 nasty pounds heavier.

But the good news is that I’m completely re-committed to South Beaching it tomorrow. I’m going back to Phase One, baby, and the thought of carrots and filet and daily exercising sounds like manna from heaven.

But tonight, I’m going to finish off the gluttonous ride with a Reeses Peanut Butter Egg.

Or four.

Happy Easter, everyone!

Once Upon a Time

There was a family of six who loved and cherished one another. They sat in an overcrowded Suburban for 15 hours, drove through the night to reach their paradise destination, didn’t argue once, didn’t complain about anything, and then arrived on the beach to frolic happily -- and contentedly -- for seven glorious days.

Or something like that.

This vacation is -- in fact -- pretty darn close to perfect. The kids are old enough now to entertain themselves during the day. Which means, of course, that I am free to sit on the beach drinking White Cran Peach and vodka tumblers of goodness while devouring all the latest novels that I’ve been neglecting over the past few months. (And just for the record, my friends, MANY of those are actually from The Library. Yup. THE LIBRARY. And I haven’t developed any communicable diseases from them... yet.)

In true Beverly Hillbilly fashion, we loaded the kids bikes up on the back of the Suburban, and Chris and I rented two more when we arrived. We’ve been biking all over the island. We biked to the State Park, biked for ice cream, biked for dinner, biked in circles like the Shriners. We’ve been biking fools. On our first full day here, we biked over 12 miles. Yes, there was a bit of complaining, but we soothed our girl’s concerns with a little yelling and a lot of ice cream.

We’ve watched dolphins swimming right outside our windows, we’ve examined jellyfish that washed up on the shore during the night, we’ve eaten oysters. OYSTERS!

We’ve played Scrabble, painted our nails (well, the boys didn’t participate in this little adventure, but I probably could have convinced a couple of them if I’d promised some extra trips to the ice cream store...), watched movies together, thrown the football on the beach, attended Bingo night at the local firehouse.

Our faces are sunburned, the tops of our feet are peeling, and life is good.

Saturday, we’re scheduled for a fishing excursion with Captain Terry. We’ve loaded up on seasick bands and bought a lifetime supply of Dramamine. Jared suggested we “keep our eyes on the horizon,” and Brian requested video footage of the barfing carnage that will most likely ensue. We’re keeping both options open.

I’m ready to walk away from our rumor-addled small town and embrace this kind of life permanently. The problem is, however, that at some point we’d have to work. And the kids would have to go to school. And then we’d just create a new small town life -- one that’s just a bit sandier.

But for now, we’ll enjoy every minute of our vacation. We’ll barf our way through our sea fishing expedition. We’ll play some more high-stakes Scrabble, eat some more ice cream, and enjoy the ride.

And if I can get video footage of Chris on his girly beach bike? I’ll be sure to post it for your viewing pleasure.