Youngest Child

The sun is shinning
I feel alright
I’m gonna lie in the shade and wait for the night
Ya know my eyes are gray, my hair is wild
That’s ok I’m the youngest child

I love my mother, she treats me good
My elder brothers don’t think she should
They say he sleeps all day, he’s so spoiled
She says that’s ok he’s the youngest child!

Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!

The girls all like me ‘cause I’m so sweet
They say let’s get married on Cypress Street
I say: Please baby, baby that’s not my style
They say that’s ok, he’s the youngest child

Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Everyday I go: Yeah, yeah, yeah!

Youngest Child

Youngest Child
Youngest Child
Youngest Child

- Spottiswoode and His Enemies

(Building a Road ©2005 High Wire )

I want to send this song to my sister, Daryl but I haven’t got the hang of the technology yet. OK, yes, I would have to actually purchase the song, download it to my computer and then send it to my sister in an email. Only I’m too cheap and she doesn’t check her email very often. I think she’d enjoy it. My intention is another jab in a life long but good natured ribbing between the two of us.

I am indeed the youngest child, the last of four daughters. Having a daughter of my own, I now really feel for my parents. What a challenge they faced with their offspring. And what a challenge the four of us faced being their children. We turned out to be a stereotypical set of ACOA kids. The eldest is a hyper responsible leader. The second is a cautious but outspoken rebel. The third is a lost soul and the fourth came along to distract everyone from the daily misery, a mischievous and light hearted child. At least I appear to be on the surface.

Like Jonathan Spottiswoode’s elder brothers, my sisters bitterly complained as I got away with what they considered murder. Carol moaned every time she heard: “You are older, you should know better.” What she should have known was that eventually the child you torment will grow up and if she gets bigger than you, she will beat the snot out of you because the younger child doesn’t have the brains or the communication skills you have. Poor Carol’s attempts to ditch a hero worshiping kid sister turned out to be a humiliating experience. The oldest, Deb, returned to the dysfunctional nest during my senior year in high school. Having a traumatic year of her own, she focused on my own misadventures. My parents were tired, worn out and worn down. The perfect ploy for a wild and willful high school senior with her own set of car keys. Instead of me getting hollered at for staying out all night, my mother got lectured by my sister who could not believe my parents rules had lapsed so greatly in ten short years. Blissfully, the second child, Daryl shared Deb’s patience with me as a small child, teaching me to read and creating stories with me. She remained both my mentor and somewhat distant during my teen years. Maybe that was the key!

Despite the family predictions that I would not live to see my thirtieth birthday, I have exceeded their expectations, in years and accomplishments. (It’s kinda easy when they don’t think much will come of you.) Not only did I make it to 30, I actually graduated from college before that birthday! I launched a career, married, bought a house and had two sweet kids. I am generally considered a success, although I struggle much more than they do financially and emotionally. Carol did not fare so well and has become a distant figure to us all.

In a stormy childhood, being the youngest is the best place to be. I was sheltered by those stronger and older than myself. Sometimes those protectors were raged at by both my parents and me. Depression and alcohol left the oldest two in charge of a quiet child, Carol and a changeling, me. I could be a fun & loving kid but conflict with my will could produce a violent battle. My poor sisters were faced with controlling me while Dad slept off a binge or Mom was holed up in depression. Either way they usually bore the brunt of our parent’s wrath when the youngest child set up a howl about the injustice of being reigned in by second string authority. The inability to gauge consequences sometimes eludes me to this day.

Despite the trials I put them through; my big sisters continue to support and love me, even in the most absurd circumstances. I miss Carol, her whereabouts are usually unknown. Deb and Daryl have valiantly stepped up to help her children when efforts to help Carol herself were refused. Deb and her husband, Ken are raising Carol’s kids, Max and Marisa. Daryl convinced my Mom to move next door to her to help raise Carol’s oldest, Caitlyn, now a junior in college. My heart swells when I think how fine these children have turned out. My pride in my family is overwhelming. They do all that and still have time to do the “Sister Check” on me, three states away. No matter my trouble, I feel that love and support through the phone lines. Occasionally, there’s a card in the mail (Hallmark should give Deb stock for her support over the years) or some silliness left on the answering machine. They’ve clothed my children and me with hand me downs. My children have yet to hit the soccer field without a cousin’s shoes!
They continue to love and protect me despite my bad choices and incredible luck.

Our Dad passed away over twenty years ago and our Mom has begun the spiral of ill health which we can only watch with concern. There have been conversations about when we are alone, whether it will be easier or not because we are our own support system. Nobody can replace my parents but the good parts of them continue in my sisters. The sheer determination of self preservation from my mother exists in them. The insights to the human condition (or bar stool sociologist) from my father exists in them. They are so much more than that.

Chronologically, I should be the last one standing. That should happen through sheer luck. I cannot imagine a world with out my sisters in it. Between them they have raised five children that can step up to the plate. I pray I’ll be wise enough to accept the beautiful things each of these children offer.

Some how, even among the younger generation, I’m still the youngest child.

Yoga with Dogs...and Cats

In my never ending but always short lived attempts to improve my health, both mental and physical, I occasionally attempt to do yoga. I’m not very good at it and my last real commitment to the pretzel twists of the body fell to the mat when the Oxygen channel dropped the 8 am airing of “Inhale” with Steve Ross. That leaves only a 6 am airing of the ever challenging yoga show. As much as I love to hear the eloquent quips of Steve Ross, the only thing I’ve ever managed to do at 6 am is have a death grip on a coffee cup. I have actually watched the 6 am show while clutching a cup of java but never stretched more than an arm muscle lifting the mug. He really is entertaining even if you are not stretching and sweating along with the stick thin Hollywood actors and actresses on the mats.

My first experience with yoga was with “Inhale”. I worked in the cable industry, myself having actually contributed a tiny bit of programming to Oxygen from Louisville (about the Derby of course). In a vocation chock full of men, my sisters in TV and I were excited about a whole channel predominantly run by women specifically for a female audience. As I recall, unless we were in the studio or field producing our own programming, we were tuning into Oxygen. And there I found Steve Ross.

While Oprah had just birthed her brain child, Oxygen on to the cable line up, I had just birthed a 9 lb 10oz child of my own. Sean was a big boy, surgically lifted from my body by a team of people I’ll never see again. My body had expanded to support such a hefty child in vitro and unfortunately that crowd of medical experts only took out the kid and put everything else back. My butt was huge and it needed something.

A Caesarean Section delivery was not going let me launch into an aerobic routine (even I was so inclined, which I wasn’t) and so yoga seemed to be the thing. Never mind that getting two kids out in the morning to daycare and myself to a job on time didn’t exactly lend itself to a peaceful hour doing yoga, I was gonna try.

There in the darkness, I lie with only the glow of the television illuminating the room. I stretched and surprisingly, sweated. Who knew the downward facing dog would be so much work? For a couple of days, I slugged through bad imitations of the camel, dog, lotus, camel and warrior poses. The real animal population of my house watched with amused and sometimes perplexed expressions. They surely had a good laugh. What would this silly human servant of theirs do next? Was I trying to lick my butt? A cat, Misha, came by and effortless showed me how to do that. The dog, Kayla came by and licked my face. Was it love, sympathy or just the inability to resist the salty sweat of my brow? A playful feline paw later tickled an outstretched toe. When I was cooling down the sweetest of our felines, Buster, climbed on to my chest. He apparently enjoyed the peaceful breathing because he began to purr most righteously. That became a regular thing with Buster but the final blow to my attempt came as I lay in the darkness, with a cat on my chest and the baby started his morning squall.

Flash forward seven years and the boy is now in first grade and my butt is bigger than ever. There was some attempt made with a children’s yoga tape but I got edged out by the kids who chose each other as partners. It actually proved too silly to keep my interest. My father-in-law’s girlfriend has given me a half hour yoga tape and my efforts are renewed. Some personnel changes have occurred, a new cat, Jet, and another dog, Piper the Jack Russell Terrorist, have joined the crew. Lilia’s Yoga features a not so entertaining host and almost milk toast moves (perfect for my wretched body) but it is an adequate start.
This morning as I dusted the hardwood floors with my body, an elderly dog watched from her cozy perch on the couch. Jet managed to position his long fluffy black tail beneath my head during abdominal stretches. I swear I saw a smirk beneath his elegant whiskers. Stretching and breathing, breathing and stretching, I was wishing and wondering if Buster (now a diabetic, acting old before his time) would join me. And then a greedy snout pushes my hand off my belly and demands attention. How could I be on the ground and not be petting Piper? It all seems odd to her since she is the center of her universe. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an orange figure saunter by. It’s Misha, he’s laughing because, of course, he is the center of the universe. He can lick his butt and doesn’t need a video tape or a cable channel to do it. Sometimes those humans just never learn. Maybe I’ll get up and check out Steve Ross in the morning…..maybe.

Music, Kids and the Rolling Stones

My kid is playing Mozart to get another Mozart tune out of her head that she heard at school. Mind you, I'm not complaining that somebody at school is playing Mozart. It's just I'm glad she's branching out. Again. At the moment, my ten year old is into Jimi Hendrix. At six, she could sing Averill Levine’s "Complicated" after hearing it twice. She didn't sing it well but knew it word for word. As a toddler she had to be dragged from the stage at the Reggae fest. As an apple faced baby she started rhythm-like mumbling while strapped in her snowsuit and again strapped into a car seat. I strained to catch what she was up to and suddenly recognized a Bruce Springsteen tune that was playing on the radio. Great, I thought to myself, can't wait to hear what she thinks of Bob Dylan!
It's been fun sharing all kinds of music with our kids. We've got lots of resources to share what we've enjoyed and we have all sorts of musicians in our lives that the kids know. And we have a great public radio station, WFPK that satisfies our eclectic tastes. Today I heard Stomping at the Savoy by Louis Armstrong in 1957, The Muffin man by Frank Zappa, a cut from an Icelandic band and the Grateful Dead all between 8 & 9 am. They have a great classic rock historian jock, Duke Meyer, who goes beyond the radio hits of the 60s and 70s. On Saturday, we hang out, work around the house and spend the whole afternoon listening to that guy's show. And now and then we tolerate a dose of Radio Disney. Fortunately, AM does not come in very well on the big family stereo. Heh, heh, heh....we're all broken up about that one!
So Sunday, while indulging in too much to eat and drink, we watched the Rolling Stones perform at the Super Bowl. My daughter thought it was cool. I was impressed with the showmanship Mick puts out. No, he's not the Mick of my youth or his! But he did a high energy show. That's tough for the regular folk and considering he's sixty-one years old, well it was great. The chaps have been in a band since I was a toddler. A musician two seats over began to mumble about how awful Mick sounded. Oh, ya know I just gotta cut the guy some slack. And my friend, a long grey haired grandpa, a little worse for wear and tear himself, said he hoped he never embarrass himself that way. He does pick up a bass every Sunday night and plays with the chaps that he's played with for 25 years.
My wee brain has been churning around lately that most of my role models, icons and heroes are mostly over sixty years of age. More of my own friends have bifocals than tattoos. Bifocals and tattoos are not mutually exclusive groups.

Anyway, nobody said “OH my God! Aaron Copeland is 92!!!!! Many, including myself, were sad at his passing but nobody was surprised. On the other hand, guys like Duane Allman and Keith Richards are still alive thanks to medical science. Billy Joel is 57, Elton will be 59, Clapton and Bowie are 61 and darlin’ Paul is 64! Civil rights activists are dying of natural causes and old age. Modern equivalents push out a generation of classic books, hopefully the same messages made relative for youth. And so it goes. All that is left is the music and the memories. I’m glad my kid got to see Mick shake his booty. I hope she doesn’t find the “Some Girls” cd too quickly but when I’m 61 and shaking my booty maybe she won’t think I’ve completely lost my mind!!

And just for the record, I am younger than Jon Bon Jovi and KD Lang. Not by much but still.

Super Bowl Sunday

An unexpected free afternoon has brought me to starting a blog. There are just times when I run with an impulse (actually some odd idea spun in my head over the last twentyfour hours) and sometimes it actually becomes a decent enterprise. The idea is a result of reading my shrink's blog and the thought that raced through my head; "Hell, I can do that!" How nice it seemed to have a place to rant publicly and see what sticks to the wall. I am in no way implying the good Doctor's blog is a rant but once again I've taken an idea and modified it for my own ends! On the other hand, this is intended by no means to be a public diary. Whatever I write here will probably be the equivalant of the information I'd give to a neighbor or even a co-worker. Expect to hear about liberal endorsements, pro-choice tyraids, disertations on pet overpopulation, comedic tales of parenting and other near death experiences. And endless spirituality questions but no real answers, sorry. "Ethics" could eat up a huge chunk or too as well.