Introduction: Grandma Hardt Was Really Something
Introduction
Grandma Hardt Was Really Something
Grandma lived with us. She moved in after I was born to help out my mom. I was the third child born in as many years. Well, she stayed until she died. Maybe it was because the next ten years
brought five more babies into our house or maybe it was because we loved her and she loved us and we needed each other. After all, she was our grandma and we were her grandchildren.
The last time I saw Grandma she was in the hospital. I don't even remember what was wrong with her but I do remember that the medicine was making her act goofy. I had just got engaged and was home for Easter vacation to share the good news. She knew John and was very fond of him.
What was to be our last conversation was about him. She wondered aloud if John knew what was in store for him. When I asked her why she thought that, she groggily replied, "Well, you're
so silly."
I shook my head in dismay, kissed her good-bye, and left the hospital. The most pressing thing on my mind was choosing between two wedding china patterns. She died a week after I
returned to school. I was very shocked It never occurred to me that she was going to die. That was ten years ago this month. I think of her all the time. She was really something. Her name was Della Hardt. I often called her Della. She thought that was OK. When I think about her, I mostly think of all the fun times we had, because she was a fun person. But sometimes I think about how little I really related to her life. It makes me feel sad and guilty, although Grandma would never want me to. Maybe it was because I was young; I hope it wasn't because I wasn't interested.
Her life was difficult, even tragic. Two of her babies died as toddlers and when she was about thirty-eight my grandfather died, leaving her on the fann to raise my mother and two sons alone. Even though she was a young woman when this happened, she never remarried. Around her 70th year, in confession, a priest asked why, to which she replied, "No one ever asked me."
Her life during the Depression was probably pretty trying, but the only story she ever related about it was one about getting a permanent - or should I say a marcel, the permanent wave of the '30s. They would yank her hair so much hooking it up to the curling machine that when they were through she had such a headache she had to retire to bed. By the time she recovered, the hairdo was ruined.
I loved that story. She used to tell it to Bonnie (my sister) and me as we walked her home through the snow from Mrs. Morris' beauty shop. She had a standing appointment on Thursday for a shampoo and pin curl set.
Bonnie and I did a lot of things with Grandma. She took us to the movies and out to dinner and we laughed a lot. Della had great insight into human nature, especially our neighbors. They were great story material.
One of the best is about Grandma's new car. She always had a car. As she was taking it out for a drive she asked Marian, a kittycornered neighbor who was working in her rose garden, if she wouldn't like to ride along. Marian declined. "No, Della, I can't. I think I'm going to die tonight."
''That's OK, I'll have you back in plenty of time," Grandma said, "I don't like to drive after dark."
Grandma sewed for us. She also mended things, took them in, let them out, and in the era of the miniskirt she did a lot of shortening. She never raised her eyebrows at the diminishing skirts. All she ever said was, "Just mark the hem, I'll make them as short as you want. You're the one running around half dressed, not me."
Making a nice appearance was important to Grandma. Whenever she was going out she'd like to be reassured that she looked nice. "Is my dress all right?" "What about my necklace, does it match?" I'd always offer the appropriate reassurance and at the same time wonder what difference it made ... In my world, if you were over 30 you were over the hill and should no longer concern yourself about appearances.
Grandma was right. I was silly and she'd be glad to know that I am still silly, but now I'm mature, too. Unfortunately, she's not here to see that John has been able to put up with me. She would be happy for me and she would love to hold all my babies. And she would be happy that now I know that she wasn't just a Grandma, but a person, too.
Why did it take so long?
May 3, 1979
Life's Little Headaches Are Put in Perspective
Things weren't going well that day. The air conditioning wasn't working and the house was humid enough to grow exotic flowers. The upstairs shower was leaking into the kitchen, the ceiling was on the verge of caving in, and my toes still hurt from having Machaela drop the church kneeler on my foot.
I would have liked to run away. But I had no car; it was at the gas station for a new battery. I certainly would have no money after I paid my repair bills.
Then I got into a conversation with one of the repairmen. Sevenmonth- old Michael was sitting on the floor and the plumber commented on how cute he was. "He reminds me of one of my boys," he said. "He was a chubby baby, too, but he could really get around. He walked when he was only nine months."
He went on to tell me about his grandchildren but his thoughts returned to his son who resembled Michael . . . "We lost him." I expressed my sympathy and asked when it happened. "Two years ago at age 28 he died of cancer."
As he stood there telling me this, he was looking at Michael, and yet he seemed to be seeing his own son. His face filled with sadness. It was a look every parent hopes never to experience.
All of a sudden a hot house, a dead battery, a leaky ceiling and a sore foot lost significance on the list of life's problems. What instantly seemed important was my beautiful healthy baby and his equally beautiful and healthy brothers and sisters.
I decided that next time when instead of getting ready for bed Maureen and Machaela run up and down the hall naked saying they have sexy legs while Johnny chases them with a toilet plunger stuck to his stomach, I'm going to think it's funny instead of being frustrated that they are still up.
As a matter of fact, I've been laughing more when the house is a mess. I was only cheerful when the house was clean and when it was a mess, watch out. I decided I didn't want my children growing up thinking their mom liked a clean house more than I liked them.
Before long this philosophical attitude will probably wear off but when it does, something else will happen to shake up my perspective. For my sake, I hope it does because when I think back on these years, I want to smile.
September 21, 1983
Rustling of Mice Makes a Strong Mother Feel Trapped Like a Rat
I had thought of myself as a modern woman who is capable, self sufficient, independent, smart – all in all a wonderful person. Someone who faces a crisis and manages.
That thought is no longer necessarily true. My self-image was destroyed the morning a mouse ran across my kitchen floor.
I know, I know. The poor little mouse is more afraid of me. After all, I'm quite a bit bigger.
But I can't help it. Having a mouse, or as it turned out, mice, in the house caused me to fall apart.
The day after the intruder made his presence known, my husband went out of town on business. I thought he should have canceled the trip.
I could handle the seven children, a jammed disposal, a dead car battery - all the usual things that happen when husbands aren't available - but I couldn't handle mice.
After spending a day in denial, I decided to take action and quizzed everyone for a solution to mice. I was told that if I used traps set with peanut butter, the extermination would be a snap (pun intended).
After spending a day in denial, I decided to take action and quizzed everyone for a solution to mice. I was told that if I used traps set with peanut butter, the extermination would be a snap (pun intended).
After purchasing the traps, my involvement ceased. I gave them to Patrick, my 12-year-old, and had him set one in the bread drawer. That appeared to be the mouse's headquarters, judging from the gnawed plastic bread bags and chewed pieces of bread.
The next few mornings, before I went downstairs, I had the kids check the drawer to see whether the coast was clear. Waking up to a recently departed mouse trapped in my bread drawer was an experience I preferred to miss.
Before the bread-drawer visitor was evicted, however, the theory that there's never just one mouse in the house proved correct. One evening as I was getting the kids ready for bed, we discovered what became known as the upstairs mouse.
He had a long tail. This fact became significant a few days later, when I was traveling from room to room collecting dirty clothes.
I tossed the clothes on the floor of the laundry room, ran down the hall to tuck the girls in bed, and then came back a moment later. I scooped up the clothes only to have a mouse jump out of the pile. My reaction could most likely be described as an excellent cardiovascular workout. After this incident, "jumpy" would best describe my frame of mind. I never knew when I would be face to face or toe to tail with a mouse.
One morning, I was leaning over making Johnny's bed when I felt a rustling along the cuff of my pant leg. It was a mouse. He ran out of the room, and I jumped on top of the bed.
We set a trap under the bed.
The next day I stepped on it.
Opening drawers in the kitchen and doing laundry involved a major mustering of courage. I never got out of bed until I put on my slippers.
After I endured several days of the heebie-jeebies, the peanut butter lure proved effective. One morning the kids ran upstairs all excited to report that we had won the battle of the bread drawer. Once Patrick disposed of the evidence, I went downstairs.
The next morning, my young exterminators gave me a good news-bad news story.
The next morning, my young exterminators gave me a good news-bad news story.
The good news was the capture of the upstairs mouse. The bad news was that he had a short tail. The washing-machine coast was still not clear.
Well, all-out trap setting continued until I felt assured that all the residents of our house were named Cavanaugh.
Despite my aversion to sharing my home with mice, the whole experience made me feel bad.
I wish I could have been more hospitable; after all, it was cold outside, and the little mice just wanted to be warm. It seems extreme that killing them is the only way they get the message that they aren't welcome.
Maybe if they had better manners ... and didn't chew up our bread ... and weren't always darting out of closets or out from under cabinets scaring me . . . I might let them stay.
Well, all-out trap setting continued until I felt assured that all the residents of our house were named Cavanaugh.
Despite my aversion to sharing my home with mice, the whole experience made me feel bad.
I wish I could have been more hospitable; after all, it was cold outside, and the little mice just wanted to be warm. It seems extreme that killing them is the only way they get the message that they aren't welcome.
Maybe if they had better manners ... and didn't chew up our bread ... and weren't always darting out of closets or out from under cabinets scaring me . . . I might let them stay.
On the other hand, it is my house!
April 17, 1985
April 17, 1985
Sleepless Night Hits High Gear
Last night was one of those nights.
I couldn't sleep. My mind was entered in the Indianapolis 500 of bedtime. It was racing down the road of wakefulness, making pit stops at any and every possible line of thought.
When this occurs, I completely exhaust one subject before the wheels of the cerebral cavity peel out and are off to a new one. One thought leads to another.
I could be in bed thinking that tomorrow I'm going to the library
but realize that first I have to find the books. Then I think, a page in
one book got ripped. I'll have to repair it first.
I wonder if we have any tape. Probably not any that I can find. I
can never find anything when I need it. I still haven't found a nail clippers, and the boys' fingernails are filthy.
And their hair is so long. I've got to get them in to have haircuts. I wonder if long hair on boys will come back in style?
I wonder if I should let my hair grow long. I saw someone in a movie with a hairdo I liked. I also liked an outfit the movie star was wearing. I'd like to find one similar to it but in a different color. Periodically there's a lull on the midnight run when I look at the clock, shudder, flip over on my other side, kick a leg out from under the covers and flop it on top of the quilt, grab my hair at the roots with one hand and drop the other arm across my forehead, all the while muttering, "I've got to get some sleep or tomorrow I'll be as useful as an abandoned and cracked-up stock car." This lecture to myself doesn't do any good, other than to give the computer disc of the mind another file to call up and inventory.
Usually the thoughts of the night aren't useful for any purpose other than keeping me awake. One night I spent what seemed like hours mentally remodeling and reorganizing a department store in Walworth, WI. Although I have absolutely nothing to do with the store except to occasionally shop there when I visit Wisconsin, that night I felt compelled to revamp the business.
When I finished, I had mentally spent thousands of dollars facelifting the exterior of the building and showcasing the store's interior.
I had arranged a gigantic sidewalk sale to eliminate all their existing merchandise, and hired a new team of buyers and sent them off to buy new merchandise at what I considered more with-it clothing markets.
This scenario unfolded as my late night scanner was reviewing all the bargains I had ever purchased, and I was wondering why no one ever wore the bathing suit I bought at that store's "buy one at regular price and get the second one for a dollar" sale.
Most of my wheel-spinning is not so imaginative. Lots of it is an express train through my finances, about the lots of money I spend and lots of money I need to pay lots of my bills. Or even more frequently, my wakefulness is a roller coaster ride covering the ups and downs of child rearing.
As tiring as a night of mental road running is, it is even worse when one of my children has this problem, because none of them will want to be alone. Usually I'll be comfortably knocked out with not a dream in my head when I sense someone entering my sleep zone.
“Mom, Mom," the voice says. I'm dreaming, I tell myself. I'm not going to move and it will be over.
It isn't. A hand is felt tapping on my shoulder. "Mom, I can't sleep," the voice that goes with that hand says to me.
"Go back to your room and count sheep," I tell the voice.
"I tried doing that. I counted to the highest number I know andI'm still awake."
The child continues, "I keep thinking what it would be like to have dinosaurs as next-door neighbors. Would we play with their kid dinosaurs and would they go to school with us?"
"Probably you'd do both," I mumble. "Go back to bed."
Just as I'm sinking blissfully back into a deep sleep, the tapping hand is back. "Mom, I still can't sleep. I keep wondering if for my birthday we could get a space shuttle launch pad built in the backyard."
"Your birthday is not for five months," I answer. "Go back to bed and say the rosary."
Usually this works, but it is too late because now I'm awake and thinking,
"What would it be like to have dinosaurs for neighbors?"
September 14, 1988
Frantic Mom Dressed to Kill
"Mom," Maureen said, "How come you always write about everyone's fits but you never say anything about the way you act?"
"That's because I'm perfect," I answered. "Does someone who's perfect go storming up and down the hall, wearing a slip, holding a curling iron, slamming doors and yelling,
'Why do things like this always happen?' "
"Oh, that? I was nervous."
"It looked like a fit to me," Maureen responded.
"Yeah," Colleen, the actress, joined in. "If I put on a performance like that, you'd accuse me of thinking I was on stage. You can throw a fit as good or even better than Machaela."
"I'm not a big fit-thrower at all - compared to John," Machaela
added.
It is true I was on a rampage that morning, but I was beyond even my wit's end. I had been invited to speak at the mother-son Mass and breakfast for Patrick's school, Creighton Prep. I was honored to be asked but a bit apprehensive about what to say to such a large group of young men and their moms.
This engagement was scheduled after an unusually tumultuous week. I was living for the moment. And as each moment presented itself, if I was ready I handled it, and if I wasn't, I'd panic first, then somehow get through it.
On the morning of my speech, I felt "sort of' in control.
I had retrieved and collected my thoughts from the various dumping sites in my mind. I had figured out what I should wear and it was even back from the cleaners, and I had the kids all situated.
I had Patrick out of bed and had picked out clothes for him that I thought would be appropriate for the occasion.
All I had to do was get myself dressed. I was feeling almost relaxed.
"Chances are good that I'm going to get through this," I thought. No such luck.
My hair, which had looked fine and dandy for my previous day's events, probably also would have passed a grooming test if that morning it could have been touched up with my electric rollers. Otherwise, I would look as if I just removed the nylon stocking from over my head after an all-night spree of gas station holdups.
The fit began when I ran to Colleen's room and woke her up. "Colleen, you've got to help me. My electric curlers won't heat up and my hair looks horrible."
"Your hair doesn't look bad," she said, but she didn't even have
her eyes open.
"How can you tell? It's half set with hot curlers except they
aren't hot. Get the curling iron and come to my room."
"Calm down, Mom, and put on your dress while this thing heats up," Colleen said as she plugged in the curling iron.
"I can't calm down. I'm going to look awful and everyone will see me because I'm the speaker."
As I continued my ranting and raving, several little folks appeared in my room to see what was going on. Maureen ushered them out, saying, "Mom has a problem with her head."
In the meantime, Colleen was trying to curl my hair but it wasn't working. I had too much hair and too little time. Then Patrick came in half-dressed.
"How come you are not ready? You make me so mad," I said to him with blood-vessel-breaking gusto. "Gee, that is not a very nice way to talk to your son right before we go to a mom-son thing."
"Get out of here," I screamed.
"Dad's shirt you want me to wear is too small."
"What?" I flew over to the dad's closet, the curling iron flew out of Colleen's hand, and another shirt flew through the air to Patrick. "Make this one fit."
Later that day, when the speech was over and I was back at home breathing a sigh of relief, Maureen asked one of Patrick's friends who was at the breakfast how I did.
When he said I did fine, she wondered out loud: "Did anyone say
anything about her hair?"
November 2, 1988
Writing a Column is Better Than Being Ann Landers
When a couple of Colleen's friends were over, we started talking about the search for Ann Landers' successor.
It seems Ann is doing some newspaper hopping. She took her column from the Chicago Sun-Times to the Chicago Tribune, so the Sun-Times is searching for a new advice columnist to fill Ann's space.
"You should get her job," one of the girls suggested to me. "You already are good at giving advice," another friend added.
"That's for sure," Colleen said. "You are always telling me what I should do."
I shook my head no to these suggestions. I wouldn't accept Ann Landers' job at the Sun-Times - although it hasn't been offered to me - because I don't want to hear about other peoples' problems.
I have enough problems of my own. I want people to listen to my problems. That's the benefit of writing this column. I get to air all my gripes under the guise of somewhat clever storytelling. I'm always composing letters in my mind that I could write to Ann Landers but never do. How do you think all my friends to whom I owe letters would feel if they thought I'd taken the time to write to Ann Landers instead of dropping them a friendly line?
If I did write to Ann, this is what I would say, and since I have been a constant reader of Ann Landers, I think I can safely guess how she would respond:
Dear Ann Landers,
I'm a busy woman who is always trying to do two things at once.
When I leave the house to go someplace, I don't have time to comb my hair and put on lipstick.
I use stop signs and stop lights en route as occasions to groom myself, but there's always some impatient oaf, Usually a man, who honks his horn because the light has changed and I haven't driven off. This startles me and I get rattled and smear my lipstick.
Signed, What's a Girl to Do?
I bet Ann couldn't give me an answer for that one because she probably is perfectly groomed at all times and doesn't do touchups in her car. So I'll answer the letter.
Dear What's,
Throw the car into reverse and step on the gas. A guy who
doesn't appreciate a woman's basic needs should have his fenders altered.
Dear Ann,
My 14-year-old son's favorite pair of tennis shoes is completely torn up, yet he insists on wearing them. He can't possibly walk comfortably in them. Do you think that's why he's always sitting around watching TV and eating bowls of cereal?
Signed, Mother of Shoe Worn
Dear Mom,
That boy needs counseling and you need to quit buying cereal. You are only feeding his weakness.
Dear Ann Landers,
Ask your experts if there is a spray I can spray on my garbage on trash day so the four-legged ones will find it too disgusting to tip
over and rip up.
Signed, Trashed Up Yard
Dear Trashed,
I don't answer such trashy questions.
Dear Ann,
Last night I dreamed I wasn't aging gracefully. Do you think I should start using Oil of Olay?
Signed, Wrinkles Pending
Dear Wrinkles,
You need counseling. Oil of Olay won't do anything for your guilty conscience.
Dear Ann Landers,
How come getting up early to work is considered admirable, but staying up late to do the same thing is considered decadent?
Signed, Wondering
Dear Wondering,
I'm wondering why you wonder such things. You should write a letter to that friend you have been neglecting. Maybe she'll have some answers for you.
April 22, 1987
It seems Ann is doing some newspaper hopping. She took her column from the Chicago Sun-Times to the Chicago Tribune, so the Sun-Times is searching for a new advice columnist to fill Ann's space.
"You should get her job," one of the girls suggested to me. "You already are good at giving advice," another friend added.
"That's for sure," Colleen said. "You are always telling me what I should do."
I shook my head no to these suggestions. I wouldn't accept Ann Landers' job at the Sun-Times - although it hasn't been offered to me - because I don't want to hear about other peoples' problems.
I have enough problems of my own. I want people to listen to my problems. That's the benefit of writing this column. I get to air all my gripes under the guise of somewhat clever storytelling. I'm always composing letters in my mind that I could write to Ann Landers but never do. How do you think all my friends to whom I owe letters would feel if they thought I'd taken the time to write to Ann Landers instead of dropping them a friendly line?
If I did write to Ann, this is what I would say, and since I have been a constant reader of Ann Landers, I think I can safely guess how she would respond:
Dear Ann Landers,
I'm a busy woman who is always trying to do two things at once.
When I leave the house to go someplace, I don't have time to comb my hair and put on lipstick.
I use stop signs and stop lights en route as occasions to groom myself, but there's always some impatient oaf, Usually a man, who honks his horn because the light has changed and I haven't driven off. This startles me and I get rattled and smear my lipstick.
Signed, What's a Girl to Do?
I bet Ann couldn't give me an answer for that one because she probably is perfectly groomed at all times and doesn't do touchups in her car. So I'll answer the letter.
Dear What's,
Throw the car into reverse and step on the gas. A guy who
doesn't appreciate a woman's basic needs should have his fenders altered.
Dear Ann,
My 14-year-old son's favorite pair of tennis shoes is completely torn up, yet he insists on wearing them. He can't possibly walk comfortably in them. Do you think that's why he's always sitting around watching TV and eating bowls of cereal?
Signed, Mother of Shoe Worn
Dear Mom,
That boy needs counseling and you need to quit buying cereal. You are only feeding his weakness.
Dear Ann Landers,
Ask your experts if there is a spray I can spray on my garbage on trash day so the four-legged ones will find it too disgusting to tip
over and rip up.
Signed, Trashed Up Yard
Dear Trashed,
I don't answer such trashy questions.
Dear Ann,
Last night I dreamed I wasn't aging gracefully. Do you think I should start using Oil of Olay?
Signed, Wrinkles Pending
Dear Wrinkles,
You need counseling. Oil of Olay won't do anything for your guilty conscience.
Dear Ann Landers,
How come getting up early to work is considered admirable, but staying up late to do the same thing is considered decadent?
Signed, Wondering
Dear Wondering,
I'm wondering why you wonder such things. You should write a letter to that friend you have been neglecting. Maybe she'll have some answers for you.
April 22, 1987
Fashion is Nice, But a Good Bargain is Better
"Kelly and her mom have a preppy style," Colleen said. "You know, they wear all those really cool sweaters and nice pants."
"Yeah, that's right," Maureen said. "And Allison's mom has a style all her own."
"She wears the best stuff I've every seen," Colleen agreed.
"Your Aunt Cathie's friend has a glamorous style," family friend Michelle added.
In the upstairs hallway in front of the mirror, we were having a
discussion on fashion and style.
"How would you describe my style?" I asked as I preened at my reflection, expecting an answer describing a combination of pizazz, glamour and good taste. Instead, Colleen Sr., our college student helper, offered this:
"Don't you have a buy-it-on-sale-and-wear-it style?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked the group, which was doubled over in laughter.
"Whenever you show us what you bought on a shopping outing, the first thing you mention is how much the price of the item was discounted," Colleen Sr. said. "You are more excited about the money you saved than what you bought."
"At the end of last summer, when you bought that dress for two dollars, we thought you'd never stop talking about what a great deal it was, especially since it has the French label in it."
"Well, it was a good deal, and it paid for itself right away because Colleen wore it to play practice that night, and I wore it the next day when I met friends for coffee."
"And I suppose you told them all about how cheap it was just like you told me to brag about your shopping skills at rehearsal,"
Colleen Jr. said.
"As a matter of fact, I did, and they were impressed as most people are when you tell them about a good deal." Those girls are right about me. I can't stand to buy anything unless it is on sale. I tell myself I can't afford an item and don't need it, but if it's marked down, suddenly my purchasing power appears and takes charge, literally and figuratively. For me, passing up a bargain would be like Bonnie and Clyde passing through a town without holding up the bank. The other day I ran into a friend when I was traveling about town searching for a wet vacuum to suck up the two to three inches of water that had flooded my basement. She asked me to go with her to a sale at a very nice ladies store. "There will be big markdowns,"she promised. She didn't need to say more. I immediately dismissed my water problems until later, rationalizing that the job would be easier when some of the water had evaporated, and I was off to the sale.
The bigger the markdown, the happier I am. "Clearance" has become one of my favorite words, as has the phrase "50 percent off lowest marked price." If an article of clothing doesn't have at least one red line through its original price tag, or isn't hanging on a special sale rack, it probably never will make its way out of the store in my possession. At these moments, I am so happy I even can instantaneously figure out in my head how much of a good deal I'm getting.
However, I have to admit that I'm not always as savvy as I purport to be.
Occasionally, I'll find a dress that has a price tag that is too good to be true, but the dress will look even better with just the right belt or scarf. So I set off searching for it and, of course, it costs three times what the dress does. And, of course, I buy it anyway. After all, I have to spend all the money I've saved somewhere.
November 30, 1988
Gas Gauge Hovering on Empty, But Kate's Late
The needle on the car's gas gauge is teetering on big "E" and I am a bit nervous. "I should stop and fill up my tank," I think, but if I do I'll be even later than I already am for my hair appointment, and it might be canceled and I can't go another day without a trim. So I hope I can go a few more miles with very little gas, because I'm opting to risk running out.
Things brighten as we go up hill and the gauge registers at about the one-sixteenth mark. I'm in good shape; I won't even need to buy gas on the way home. Now we are on level ground and the gauge is teetering around "E" again.
Uh-oh. We're going downhill and so is the gas gauge. I wish I had worn more comfortable walking shoes. I may be hiking to a gas station.
Whew! I made it. After the haircut I'm going directly to a gas station - if I can get the car running again.
Why am I always in this predicament? Whenever I'm in a hurry, I'm out or almost out of gasoline, and when I'm not in a hurry I don't need gas.
Why am I always in this predicament? Whenever I'm in a hurry, I'm out or almost out of gasoline, and when I'm not in a hurry I don't need gas.
Of course, I never think I need gas until the gauge registers below one-thirty-second of a tank. Oftentimes I just can't get around to buying gas. Yesterday I drove car pools and I noticed I was entering the danger zone but I kept putting off stopping.
"I'll wait until after I cash a check so I can pay in cash and get the discount," I thought.
Later when I was driving again, I decided to skip the gas pumping because it was too cold outside and I didn't have my gloves.
"I'll wait until I pass that cheaper price station that pumps for you," I thought, but I wasn't going that way.
"I'll wait until after I cash a check so I can pay in cash and get the discount," I thought.
Later when I was driving again, I decided to skip the gas pumping because it was too cold outside and I didn't have my gloves.
"I'll wait until I pass that cheaper price station that pumps for you," I thought, but I wasn't going that way.
Then last night I drove the whole crowd to skating and safely back home again and it never occurred to me to look at the gas gauge. My fairy godmother must have poured some of her magic dust into my tank to get us home. But today she is saying I can only get so much mileage from those gasoline fumes. "Go to a gas station!"
Another peculiarity I have about gassing up is that when we are traveling I never want to stop until we are at the desperation point.
Another peculiarity I have about gassing up is that when we are traveling I never want to stop until we are at the desperation point.
I figure the longer we go without filling up, the farther we can go before the next stop.
I'm one of those no-fun people who never likes to stop on trips. I want to get where I'm going, and a bunch of gas station stops only prolongs the agony. Plus, isn't it fun to see how far you can get on one tank of gas?
Fortunately, good sense - and traveling with kids - puts a damper on such an adventuresome idea. I don't think I'd like hiking down the Interstate in search of a gas station.
That doesn't mean I've never run out of gas.
We had a car once that didn't have a working gas gauge. It also didn't have a parking gear. That went out Thanksgiving Day, 1971, when one of my nine brothers-in-law - I won't name names threw the car into park before it was completely stopped and ran into our house to watch on television what he was hearing on the car radio: Nebraska's Johnny Rodgers running long for that famous touchdown against Oklahoma.
The gauge on this early marriage car always said full, but the tank never was.
Our plan was to try to remember the mileage on the odometer and then add the number of gallons pumped in the car times the number of miles per gallon the car would travel.
This was pure speculation since we never got around to accurately
figuring the mileage.
You probably are not surprised to hear that this system seldom worked. It was confusing.
figuring the mileage.
You probably are not surprised to hear that this system seldom worked. It was confusing.
Was the mileage 80,230 or 80,320? Did we put in 10 gallons of gas, or was it $10 worth? Does the mileage differ if we drive more in town or on the highway?
I could never keep these numbers straight and John never seemed to care. Our solution then was to keep an empty gas can in the car at all times. I hope I don't end up wishing I had one today.
January 20, 1988
January 20, 1988
Lefties Elbowed in a Right-Handed World
I've discovered one more area where I'm the victim of discrimination. That's right. Me, the suburban housewife.
You probably weren't aware of it, but I'm one of the downtrodden of the world, the elbowed, the neglected members of society.
OK, OK, I'm overreacting, but it's not easy being left-handed. Let's face it (or should I say, let's hand it), this is a right-handed world, and we lefties are left to our devices - right-handed ones. Anyway, on to the latest slight to us second-class folk. You know how it has become fashionable to accessorize clothing with a pin or a brooch? Well, the designers of these items must be right-handed.
The clasp on the back of the pin is situated so only a righthanded person can put it on. If I pin it on a sweater with my left hand, it's upside down.
Writing and eating are probably the most challenging problems for a leftie.
Many left-handed writers use what is known as overhand. I do. I think I do this because in handwriting class my paper was slanted to the left, just as my right-handed classmates' paper.
The problem with this style of writing, in addition to smearing the ink with the side of my hand, is that it's awkward.
When I was in school, note-taking was difficult in a classroom filled with right-sided desks.
Occasionally there would be a left-handed desk, but invariably a right-handed person would plop down in it and then complain about not being able to write.
Another of my gripes is spiral notebooks. If the spiral is on top of the notebook, I tum the notebook upside down. Then there's the clipboard. When the doctor's office asks you to fill out forms, they hand you the papers on a clipboard. For lefties, the clip gets in the way. So despite the doctor's good intentions, we still write on our laps - overhanded, naturally.
Lefties are often referred to as awkward, which is exactly how I feel when I confront a buffet line at a party. Invariably the serving pieces are set to the right of the serving dishes.
I bet you've never seen a left-handed person serving punch at a wedding. If you did, more punch was spilled than poured. Punch ladles are as far to the right as Jerry Falwell and just about as stubborn.
Not only is the handle shaped for the right-handed, the bowl is situated for right-handed pouring. There's no way a leftie can use it without undergoing some contortions.
Another moment of panic is when I find my seat at a long dinner table and discover I'm seated between two other diners. I immediately get that straitjacket feeling and wonder how I'll cut my food without elbowing my dinner companion. Usually I vie with other lefties for the seat at the left end.
As you probably have guessed, I don't think we lefties get any respect. Even the word left has some negative connotations, whereas right is so . . . right.
For example, "he's way out in left field" is derogatory, but "he's right on target" is positive.
Wouldn't you rather be right than left behind? What about lefthanded invitations, or having politics that are left of center (of course, I think that's fine) instead of right wing?
Being left-handed isn't always a problem. I like being different. I think lefties are more observant. I always observe other lefthanders.
There are more of us than you'd expect. Left-handedness can be an advantage in sports. It's a shame I don't have more athletic prowess, so this could be to my advantage. Left-handers are almost always creative. I am. I created two left-handed sons.
January 14, 1987
'Wonder Years' for Teens, 'Worry Years' for Parents
At the beginning of the new year 10 years ago, I had three little children with the fourth expected any minute. It didn't seem possible that life could be any more hectic or that the children's demand on my time could be greater.
But all the time I would hear, "Wait until they are teenagers." It was always said by parents of teenagers in a tone of voice so ominous that it suggested living through the teenage years would be like walking through a mine field, with minimal hopes of survival.
I didn't have to wait long to have teenagers. Before I had a chance to really get the hang of mothering pre-schoolers, I had high schoolers. These high-schoolers are wonderful people just as they were wonderful grade-school kids, toddlers and babies. They aren't the problem, their age is.
Teenagers want to do things that are dangerous, that don't seem sensible (at least to parents), and that parents just aren't ready for them to do.
What worries most parents is that they remember doing the same things, and they know there is something to worry about.
The sole aim of the parents of teenagers is to usher their children through these years in one piece. Whenever, I'm out for the evening, a sudden pang of terror grips me: "Did I ask my teenagers all the right questions about their evening plans? Did I make all the guidelines and curfews clear so later they can't say, 'Oh, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to go there.' "
I look around the room, which is often filled with people of my vintage and tell myself to
calm down, "You are surrounded by a houseful of people who survived the teenage years," I tell myself, "The percentages are in your favor." That helps me but still....
My suggestion for weekend activities for the high school age crowd is to invite a few friends over and I'll teach them to play Bridge. I'm always looking for partners.
The teens don't think much of this plan - it's not nearly risky enough. It is much more exciting to be driving around with no definite destination, although that's not what they told Mom and
Dad, who think they are at a party. The kids were at the party, but they left because it was boring and the parents were home, which is exactly the reason Mom and Dad wanted their teenagers there.
Adding to the teen's adventure for the evening is the driver, who finally passed his driver's test the previous week on the third try. On his first try he took out a couple of pedestrians. On his second try he made a left turn on red, even though he knew the law allows
only a right turn on red. He gets his right and left mixed up.
What it all comes down to is worry. Lots of it. Teen-age years are the worry years. Most of the worrying is done late at night while parents are also waiting for the teenagers to come home and
wondering if they will return unscathed physically, emotionally, and legally.
If they are late, the worrying automatically kicks into overdrive. If I'm in bed, I get up and stare out the window. My heart inflates as every car travels up the street and deflates when it continues by the house. If too much time passes, I go back downstairs to sit in
the dark, staring alternately at the clock and out the window.
Between the times that I'm thinking about the worst scenario for why they are late, I plan what I'm going to do to them when they do arrive home. Should I be hysterical? Calm? Should I pour on the guilt? I can never make up my mind, so I go back to praying the rosary for a safe return.
Finally, all's well. The evening's errant ones appear fortified with excuses but I'm too overjoyed to listen. Now I can go to bed.
Inevitably, before my head sinks all the way into the pillow, my mother's words to me during one of my teenage summers comes flashing into the dark. "But I do worry," she said, even though I told her not to. She also told me, "Come home earlier so I can get some sleep." I hear your Mom! Boy do I ever hear you!
January 18, 1989
'What Do I Own You?' Is Not a Simple Qustion
What is high finance? Is it what is depicted in the movie "Wall Street"? The president reporting to the nation on the complexities of the new tax bill? Donald Trump putting together a complicated real estate deal in New York City?
Or is it six women settling up the check after a $33.84 restaurant luncheon?
I often hang out with a group of female friends from my school days. The subject of money invariably emerges whenever we get together. Negotiations are begun, haggling continues, a deal is struck, money changes hands and all involved are satisfied that a
fair compromise has been attained.
Isn't this what goes on in the board rooms of the corporations of America?
The only difference is they may be dealing with $20 million and we are negotiating the fate of something under a $20 bill, small but coveted hunks of money usually acquired at grocery stores when the check written exceeds the tab total because it is an odd amount.
Who wants to register $37.63 in the checkbook when it's so much neater to subtract $50 and have $12.37 in mad money to pay for Brownie dues, roller skate rental and school lunches?
One of our recent get-togethers was a birthday celebration. We discussed getting a gift (negotiations had begun). After much discussion (the haggling), one of the group had an idea for an appropriate gift, so she became the designated purchaser (the deal was struck), with plans to be reimbursed at the party (money will change hands) and the birthday girl would be delighted (satisfaction all around).
During the course of the event everyone sidled up to the shopper and in a hushed voice - after all, the giftee has to be surprised asked, "What do I owe you'?"
But it is never that simple. First old debts have to be settled and suddenly all secrecy is tossed aside.
I'll be all set up to pay my share, then my friend who did the shopping - we'll call her Gladiola - will say, "Don't pay me because I still owe you for the Girl Scout cookies."
That's right. "But it was only $5," I say.
Petunia, standing checkbook in hand, says, "Why don't I make up the difference because you gave my son money for lunch the other day when you drove car pool."
When Rose attempts to put in her contribution, Iris puts the skids on it: "You don't owe anything."
"She's right," the rest of the bouquet agree. "You brought the cake, so we'll just split the gift cost among the rest of us."
Then I say to Tulip, "Why don't I pay for you because I owe you for that cookbook your daughter's school was selling." "I almost forgot about that," she answers.
"I've got a whole bunch of those cookbooks in the car. Anyone else interested'?"
"That reminds me," Magnolia sings out. "Does anyone want to go to that lecture on money management my investment club is sponsoring? I'm selling tickets."
Because this money back-and-forth has been going on for years, we think about appointing a treasurer who would tabulate who owes how much to whom for gifts. lunches, candy sales, theater tickets, flowers, our kids' walk-a-then pledges, raffle tickets, etc. At the end of the year she would submit statements on how much we were to pay each friend.
It would probably even out and no one would owe anything.
The problem is the recorder's job would be so confusing that she'd only do it if we paid her a salary. That would be OK, as long as we could divide it six ways and it was under $20.
January 27, 1988
Or is it six women settling up the check after a $33.84 restaurant luncheon?
I often hang out with a group of female friends from my school days. The subject of money invariably emerges whenever we get together. Negotiations are begun, haggling continues, a deal is struck, money changes hands and all involved are satisfied that a
fair compromise has been attained.
Isn't this what goes on in the board rooms of the corporations of America?
The only difference is they may be dealing with $20 million and we are negotiating the fate of something under a $20 bill, small but coveted hunks of money usually acquired at grocery stores when the check written exceeds the tab total because it is an odd amount.
Who wants to register $37.63 in the checkbook when it's so much neater to subtract $50 and have $12.37 in mad money to pay for Brownie dues, roller skate rental and school lunches?
One of our recent get-togethers was a birthday celebration. We discussed getting a gift (negotiations had begun). After much discussion (the haggling), one of the group had an idea for an appropriate gift, so she became the designated purchaser (the deal was struck), with plans to be reimbursed at the party (money will change hands) and the birthday girl would be delighted (satisfaction all around).
During the course of the event everyone sidled up to the shopper and in a hushed voice - after all, the giftee has to be surprised asked, "What do I owe you'?"
But it is never that simple. First old debts have to be settled and suddenly all secrecy is tossed aside.
I'll be all set up to pay my share, then my friend who did the shopping - we'll call her Gladiola - will say, "Don't pay me because I still owe you for the Girl Scout cookies."
That's right. "But it was only $5," I say.
Petunia, standing checkbook in hand, says, "Why don't I make up the difference because you gave my son money for lunch the other day when you drove car pool."
When Rose attempts to put in her contribution, Iris puts the skids on it: "You don't owe anything."
"She's right," the rest of the bouquet agree. "You brought the cake, so we'll just split the gift cost among the rest of us."
Then I say to Tulip, "Why don't I pay for you because I owe you for that cookbook your daughter's school was selling." "I almost forgot about that," she answers.
"I've got a whole bunch of those cookbooks in the car. Anyone else interested'?"
"That reminds me," Magnolia sings out. "Does anyone want to go to that lecture on money management my investment club is sponsoring? I'm selling tickets."
Because this money back-and-forth has been going on for years, we think about appointing a treasurer who would tabulate who owes how much to whom for gifts. lunches, candy sales, theater tickets, flowers, our kids' walk-a-then pledges, raffle tickets, etc. At the end of the year she would submit statements on how much we were to pay each friend.
It would probably even out and no one would owe anything.
The problem is the recorder's job would be so confusing that she'd only do it if we paid her a salary. That would be OK, as long as we could divide it six ways and it was under $20.
January 27, 1988
Case of 'I Should Be's' Is a Daily Dilemma
Have you been wondering what I do all day? I doubt that you have, but if you were my answer would be: "I do a lot of things but not what I should be doing because I'm never doing what I should be doing."
It seems that no matter how important what I'm doing is, I can always think of something I should be doing instead.
For example, when I was going to the hospital with the distinct feeling that my baby's birth was imminent, I felt like I shouldn't go because I should be straightening up the house.
Whenever I leave the house I think I shouldn't be going because I should be mowing the lawn or scouring the bathroom or vacuuming cobwebs off the basement windows.
Don't worry, I still go and usually to a place I've been telling myself I should go when I've been doing something else.
If I'm cleaning the basement to get ready for a birthday party, I keep thinking I should be shopping for party favors. Later, when I'm out shopping for the party loot I get nervous because I should be home planning party games.
Of course, there also is the dilemma of thinking I should be in two places at once. At 5 p.m. when I'm getting dinner started, I think I should jump into the car to pick up one of the children at soccer or dancing lessons. But I also think I should get the clothes out of the dryer before they wrinkle.
If I opt for doing the laundry, then I get really nervous because I know I should hurry up and pick up the kids. But I also think I should put another load of clothes in the washer.
I get a case of the "I should be's" when I'm just hanging around keeping the home fires burning. I tell myself I should be working on some project to improve our community. Then, when I'm at a good-deed-doers meeting, I think I probably should be home doing deeds I'm supposed to be doing.
I also love going to lunch with friends. These occasions don't often occur because most of my friends also have all these things they should be doing. When we do get together, it is relaxing and fun until I decide I have to get going because I should be home doing something. Of course, when I get home after an afternoon out I never feel like doing much of anything.
Food is a continual "I should be" problem. Whenever, I eat something, I know I should be eating something else or nothing at all. If I do eat something I should be eating, I know it won't be long before I'm tempted to eat something I shouldn't.
That's why when a friend stops by for a chat, instead of sitting and visiting I feel like we should take a walk while we talk so I can walk off the brownies or ice cream I shouldn't have eaten. When I'm having a nice dinner I would like to have a glass of wine to complement my food. But I think I should have water instead because wine will make me sleepy and I have things I should do after dinner. On the other hand, I tell myself, maybe I should have the wine because if I do I'll be relaxed enough so that all the should-be-dones are forgotten.
If I start dozing off while I'm lying on the couch reading the newspaper, I think I should go to bed. So I get off the couch and then decide I should straighten up the family room before I go
upstairs.
After reading about all these dilemmas, you probably could surmise that I'm either a very complex, multi-faceted worry wart, a frazzled organizer, a nervous wreck or all of the above. But
possibly I'm as normal as anyone else.
October 22, 1986
Machaela Cavanaugh was Worth Waiting For
No longer do I have to feel guilty about spending too much for a little girl's dress. Our third daughter was born Jan. 17, 1979, at 9:58 a.m. and we are thrilled with her. Now, not only does Patrick have three sisters, but I have another cuter-than-cute-itself girl to dress in hair ribbons.
The newest Cavanaugh arrived less than 12 hours after I finished writing "a column of despair" over her tardy appearance, but she was worth waiting for. She has a full head of red hair, which all sticks up, and we waver on the color of her eyes. Sometimes we think they'll be blue and at other times brown.
After waiting forever (nine and a half months) for the birth, I hesitated going to the hospital at the onset of labor. I wanted to make sure it was the real thing. My reluctance made everyone, including the doctor, nervous. He was beginning to wonder if I decided to stay home and have John deliver the baby.
Obviously he doesn't know John too well. John possesses many fine qualities and talents but midwifeing is not one of them. The only delivering I would entrust to him was delivering me to the maternity floor.
Enroute to Georgetown Hospital, John struck up a subject of conversation I had broached numerous times in the past six months but got little interest. All of a sudden he became nervous because the birth was imminent and we had not chosen a name.
Well the tables were turned. I decided I had waited so long to decide on a name I could wait a few more hours to see what the baby looked like before making such a choice.
It was a sensible decision, because after her birth none of my favorites seemed to suit our precious bundle. After deliberating for a day and a half, we decided that the name Machaela was perfect, and for her middle name we chose her grandmother's maiden name of Munnelly.
We brought Machaela home last Saturday. She has been well received by her brother and sisters. So far she's a good sleeper. I think she gets exhausted on her awake times. They all want to hold her so we have to keep track of whose turn it is.
Already Maureen is a little helper. She disposes of the dirty diapers at changing times. Now if she'd only exchange her own diapers for big girls' pants. Wishful thinking, I'm afraid.
For the first time John accompanied me into the delivery room. I convinced him that it was one of life's greatest experiences, which he shouldn't miss. He was apprehensive, but agreed. He did very well and I was very happy to have him with me.
After it was all over I asked him how he felt about it. He responded that it was wonderful, he was glad that he decided to do it, but he wasn't sure he would want to do it again. My response to that was it was okay because I wasn't real sure I would want to do it again, either.
I believe that every new mother is entitled to a special first night out after having a baby and I guess President Carter agrees with me. Last night he staged a gala at the Kennedy Center in honor of China's Vice Premier Deng Xiaoping and Madame Zhuo Lin and
invited us to attend.
The preparations for this event began two weeks ago just about the time that Machaela was born. The White House probably scheduled Deng's visit for this week, allowing me time to recuperate and to regain my figure to fit into a suitable gala outfit to be ready to attend. Wasn't that thoughtful of them?
You probably think that the coinciding of the vice premier's visit and my liberation from pregnancy was purely accidental. Well, even if it was, it certainly was an exciting postpartum outing.
The evening began with "A Performance of American Arts." The entertainment ranged from Rudolf Serkin, one of the finest pianists of our time, to the Harlem Globetrotters, who performed basketball aerobatics on the Opera House stage. The performance was followed by a reception of champagne and crepes in the Atrium of the Kennedy Center.
Not only was the gala a most pleasant evening, but also a historic occasion.
February 8, 1979
Hands: Independent, but Loving
As we were walking out of church Patrick put his hand in mine. It is not something he does that often anymore now that he has had his eighth birthday. He's sort of at the in-between stage where he still likes to be openly affectionate to his mom but no longer feels completely comfortable about it.
As we were walking along I started thinking about the different hands in my life. I love holding Patrick's hand. It is such a fine hand with a wide palm similar to his EE-width foot. Besides
occasionally holding hands with me, Patrick's hands are involved in inventions of his own making. He's sure that he could build an elevator for our house if only he had the wood. These same hands are also hard at work making the transition from printing to script handwriting.
Colleen's hands are more readily available for holding. She's six and a half and very affectionate. She'll hold hands with me, Dad, and even Patrick when I send them on a big kids' errand. Colleen and I have lots of conversations about her fingernails. She would like to grow her nails long and have glamorous hands, but I won't let her because they are always dirty that way. I tell her that if she doesn't let me clean and trim them, people will think that no one cares about her. She doesn't understand this kind of thinking.
Maureen's little four-year-old hands are beginning to make drawings to be displayed taped on the refrigerator. Sometimes I tape them upside down which causes her great distress. I love to hold her hands and she loves to hold mine. Her hands are so sweet and little just like she is.
Machaela's hand-holding has to be done when it is Machaela's idea. I guess that decision is an undeniable right of a 20-month old baby. The times that she never seems to want to hold hands are when we are crossing a busy parking lot from the car to a store. This is usually a time for a streak of independence. Her little hands can hold so many things especially when she's going to bed. She can carry Dee and Snoopy, her dolls, and Dee's pillow and her own blanket.
Many times I have been at meetings where John is the speaker. At the time I am interested in his subject but find when it is over I haven't really heard his speech at all because I have been looking at his hands the whole time, noticing all his gestures and thinking that I would like to be holding his hands in mine right then.
That is a lot of hands to think about on the short walk out of church, but it all led to one thought. Would our new baby be healthy? Would the baby have all his fingers and toes?
I didn't have to wait long to get my answer. Our new baby was born the next morning, an 8-pound, 10 ounce red-haired boy, whom we named John Joseph Jr. I think the first question any mother asks before wondering what sex the baby is, or what color hair the baby has, is "Is the baby OK? Does he have all his fingers and toes?" We are so thrilled and thankful that we have been blessed with another healthy baby.
I now have another pair of hands to fill my heart with joy.
October 16, 1980
Kate Has Another Man in Her Life
It happened so fast. Oh, I know it was nine and a half months, but all of a sudden it was over and it happened. I fell in love again hopelessly and forever. It is a love that I know will never waver. No matter what, it will grow stronger. Our sixth child, a 9-pound-5ounce baby boy, Michael William, was born February 1st.
The whole time I was expecting, I loved him because he was our baby. Yet, it seemed like love in the abstract. I wondered what he would be like, what the other kids would think of him and I worried about him. Would he be healthy?
Then he arrived. The second the doctor held him up - I can't even remember if he was right side up or upside down - I began loving him just for himself.
After I checked the baby over, my thoughts traveled back to an afternoon a week before Christmas. I had some errands to do. Patrick didn't want to come along, but I made him, insisting that I needed his help with the kids.
When we were in the drugstore buying stamps and wrapping paper, I noticed Patrick examining the extension cords. I knew he was thinking how he could have used them when he and his dad hung the outdoor Christmas lights the day before.
All of a sudden so many of my motherly feelings rushed forward. Patrick seemed so grown up, yet I remembered when he was a baby. I thought he was the most wonderful baby in the world, and I loved him so much. I didn't think I would have any love left over to give another child. Luckily Colleen was born soon there after, and I quickly realized that love has tremendous room for expansion.
Every day in some way each of my children fills my heart with joy. Every day they also try my patience and fray my nerves. But now, when the house is quiet, I want to remember Patrick thoughtfully bringing the bassinet downstairs the day we brought the baby home from the hospital; Colleen carefully trying to lay the baby in the bassinet after she rocked him to sleep; Maureen making three trips upstairs to get everything I needed for a diaper change; Machaela patiently waiting for her turn to hold the baby until I fed him; and Johnny saying, "I love Michael William."
February 23, 1983
A note from Kate:
There is no baby story about Peter Hardt Cavanaugh, a guy who is cuter than cute itself, because he was born October 21, 1984 when I was between column writing jobs.
Two Sisters Share the Spoils of Maternity
Lake Geneva, WI. - Boy, am I popular - at least with a couple of people.
When I packed to come to my parents' lakeside summer home for an annual family gathering, I gathered play clothes for warm weather, sweatshirts for cool nights, swimsuits for everyone, one good outfit to wear to church or restaurants, the tennis rackets, the camera, the water wings and the baby stroller.
But it was my maternity clothes that have made me so popular.
I am what doctors call a grand multipara, one who has given birth several times. That means among other things, I have accumulated a substantial wardrobe in the maternity line.
Two of my sisters who are visiting are, as we say in polite company, "in the family way." And since my family is just in the way instead of on the way, I offered to give my sisters my maternity clothes.
Due to their timing, they have to share the spoils of my pregnancy labors. Luckily, there's plenty of selection.
Many women never want to invest much money to clothe themselves during what they consider a temporary condition. Even some of the women who seem to be in this temporary condition permanently are hesitant.
I, however, have been a good customer at the expectancy shops. On baby No.5, I rationalized that it would be my last pregnancy, so I may as well go out in style.
With No.6, I convinced myself that the expenditure was worthwhile to boost my morale. For No.7, I just elaborated on that thinking.
My maternity wardrobe turned out to be more stylish than my non-maternity clothes.
Now, with morns-to-be Sheila and Mary Pat ready to tender an offer in the friendly takeover of my stock, I have decided it has been a sound investment.
But how should the sale be accomplished? I suggested an auction -Mary Pat and Sheila could write down all the nice things they could do for me, and I would select from their lists. As I selected, they could choose a garment.
Then Barbara, another sister, became involved. "Mary Pat, didn't you spend quite an extended time in Omaha and Washington babysitting for some little redheads?"
And "Sheila, haven't you made a few travel arrangements for the Cavanaughs?" (Sheila's a travel agent.)
As the realization set in that past favors might outweigh my stack of clothes, Barbara told me, "I think you'll have to go shopping."
I decided the recipients could settle it between themselves.
So Mary Pat made piles on the picnic table according to categories - nice dresses, casual things and work clothes. She said that since I had on my bathing suit, I could model the clothes.
We had such a fun time - I was especially enjoying myself because, as I told them, it was the last time I'd ever be dressed like that.
To which they said, "Sure, and my baby will always sleep through the night."
I hope they have triplets.
August 28, 1985
She Never Expected To Be Expecting Again
A few weeks ago at my doctor's office, the nurse asked, "When are you going to tell your readers about the baby? Don't you think they'll wonder if suddenly in August you add another name to the cast of characters in your column?"
I decided Nurse June was probably right - I should make you aware of my delicate condition. Cavanaugh Baby No. 8 is expected in mid-August. Although we thought seven was a lucky number for a family and planned to leave it at that, we discovered last winter that our luck was increasing.
Once we medically established that another Cavanaugh had germinated, John and I kept the news to ourselves until my fine tuned body began slipping into the shape in which it hums best. This required a change in wardrobe.
Ordinarily that means a trip to the spare closet where my maternity clothes hang, having their biennial rest. But you may recall that last summer I gave the clothes to my two expectant sisters, because I never expected to be expecting again. I planned that all the clothes I would buy from then on would have waistlines. I planned wrong. Or maybe it's that I never planned at all.
So what's a girl to do? Well, I went out and bought a bunch of new clothes. I suppose you're thinking, "that doesn't make sense, to spend money on clothes she'll only wear a few months." That may be the case, but having eight children already proves I don't have a lot of sense, so I may as well enjoy my delirium fashionably.
Luckily, since I've been through this before, being pregnant is not difficult. What really gets on my nerves is the weight.
You haven't experienced humility until you've suffered through a nine-month battle with the scale in your doctor's office.
I would never consider announcing my weight in public, even if I wasn't pregnant, even if I had just returned from a 40-day fast in the desert. So you can imagine how I dread hoisting myself monthly, and then weekly, onto a doctor's scale.
Some days, I convince myself that each day I am temperate in my calorie consumption is one fewer day I'll have to deprive myself to get back my sexy shape (such as it was) after the baby is born. That good-sense approach usually lasts until about 4 p.m.
Some days, my good intentions never have a chance. I call these chocolate chip cookie or doughnut days.
This over-indulgence is justified if it happens after a doctor's appointment. Such a bender is necessary to lift my spirits when I've conscientiously been counting calories (and some days the count is high) and I still gain 3 pounds.
Health experts, I'm sure, are shaking their heads in dismay at my approach to nutrition. They are always telling pregnant women to eat from the four food groups - meals such as green vegetable sandwiches made with whole-grain bread. This would suit me fine if one more food group could be added: junk.
Instead of concerning myself with what I can or cannot eat, as opposed to what I want to eat, I should be choosing a name for the little one.
But as I sit here chewing on the ice cubes in my glass of water, the only names that come to mind are Fudge Sauce for a girl and Banana Split for a boy.
July 9, 1986
Ritual of Motherhood Means Buying a New Nightgown
After eating, we decided to take a walk and look in the stores around the restaurant before going home.
The display in one shop caught my eye. Suspended from the ceiling was a silk and lace negligee, and hanging next to it was its companion morning jacket.
"Look at that nightie," I said to my friends, "Isn't it something?"
"Yes," they agreed it was. "Why don't you go in and try it on?"
"I don't think so," I laughed. "It doesn't look like something suitable for making the kids' cinnamon toast and cereal."
The outfit reminded me of something one would buy if she were planning to have a love affair in Paris or Rome, or if she played the part of the conniving other woman on a soap opera. Since neither of these circumstances was likely to occur, we continued walking.
As much as I would enjoy having something that pretty and bold in my wardrobe, I don't. The only time I buy nightgowns is when I'm going to the hospital to have a baby, which is a fairly regular occurrence for me.
Once again, my long-awaited delivery date is near, which puts me in the market for a new hospital ensemble.
After a woman gives birth, a nightgown is the first clothing she puts on that doesn't resemble the "awnings" she's been draping herself with for the last several months.
Although her figure doesn't spring back quite as quickly as a television mother's, it is a lot closer to its original form once mom and baby part company.
Therefore, it is necessary to celebrate by wearing something extra pretty when receiving compliments on the beautiful child she has produced. At least, I think it is.
So what should I get? I would like to buy something frilly and feminine like the ensemble I saw in the store window last summer, but that wouldn't be appropriate hospital wear. However, what I see in the stores that would be appropriate is so boring and unflattering.
Before I have a baby, I go on a search for just the right mix of appropriateness and style. It also has to fit.
The other day, accompanied by nine-year-old Maureen, I went on one of these shopping outings. We started going through the racks.
"How about this one?" Maureen asked as she picked out a filmy gown. "It's pretty."
"Yes, it is ... but I don't think so," I answered.
Her next offering was reminiscent of a cancan girl's outfit. I imagined the looks I would receive from the nursery room nurse when she carried the baby into my room for a feeding.
No, the feeling I want to convey is Madonna-like (I'm referring to the Blessed Mother, not the singer), with glamorous overtones. Looking like a dancer in the follies wouldn't project that image. I hung up the red and black gown.
"Let's look over here:' I pointed to another rack.
"This one is nice," I said as I held up a simple yellow number with flowers embroidered on it ''They also have it in white and in pink. Which one should I get?"
"Get the pink one, then for sure we'll have a girl and we can name her Maureen Jr.," my daughter said, cringing at the thought of having a fifth brother.
"Well, I haven't had anything in yellow in a while - maybe I'll get the yellow one. But it's pretty in white, too."
"We'll have a contest," Maureen decided as she grabbed the three sleepshirts from me and began her selection process. "No, my feet are swelling and they hurt. Let's leave," I said.
"Here, take off your shoes," Maureen said, and before I could object I was standing barefoot after Maureen swept the shoes off my feet. I did feel a lot better, so I kept looking. This may have been a mistake, because I ended up buying three nightgowns, the pink one Maureen wanted, a blue one in case the baby is a boy, and yellow one because I liked it. Now I'm all ready, except for outfitting the baby's crib. Pink, blue, or yellow?
August 27, 1986
Family Makes Room for One More
If I had been gambling a week ago Friday, I would have put my money on the number eight and won big. Even though I was too busy to go to the track, my lucky streak couldn't possibly have been more wonderful.
At 8 p.m. on August 22, I gave birth to my eighth child, an 8-pound, 8-ounce beautiful baby boy. He came into the world with a healthy body and an abundance of red hair.
The joy I felt at his arrival astounds me. Being blessed once again with a child seems like a gift only a greedy person would expect. I hoped and prayed that this would be another healthy baby and my heart is overflowing with gratitude that we received one.
It took a day and a half to decide on a name for the baby. My son Patrick had been lobbying to call him David Letterman, after the late-night TV talk show host. Colleen was putting on the pressure for Davy Jones, after one of the Monkees. My doctor suggested Ron, after President Reagan.
We vetoed all of these excellent suggestions and gave him the name Matthew Conroy, His father says Matt Cavanaugh sounds like a great name for a quarterback or a pitcher.
Matthew's four brothers and three sisters came to visit the afternoon after his birth. They arrived, accompanied by Grandma Cavanaugh, bringing flowers and candy. After washing their hands and putting on the protective gowns, each one took a turn handling the new baby while the new daddy took pictures.
As delighted as the kids were with the new baby, Matthew did have some competition for attention. My hospital bed and the box of candy also were strong attractions.
Pete was pushing the button to make the head of the bed rise. Mike was standing on the mattress and pushing the button to make the foot of the bed go down and Johnny was pushing the buttons that elevate the entire bed.
In the meantime, Maureen and Machaela were trying to get the bed's side rails to move. In case you were wondering, I wasn't in bed while all this was going on.
When the kids' hands weren't on the control buttons, they were in the candy box.
One of the hospital nurses said to me, "You and your husband sure are excited about the baby. You would think he was your first one. It's nice to know you haven't become matter-of-fact after having so many children."
After talking to the nurse, I thought that it's easier to become excited about each additional child we have. We already know that there is room in our hearts to love one more and now that Matthew Conroy has arrived. we can't wait to get to know him.
I'll let you get to know him, too.
September 9, 1986
Friends Greet New Baby, And Boy, Can They Cook
Having delicious, nutritious and elegant meals appear effortlessly on our dinner table is a fantasy I often daydream. Recently, this is a daydream come true.
When I came home from the hospital carrying our beautiful new son, Matthew, I was greeted with the news that our evening meal would be brought over by a friend, Louise.
Sure enough, later that day Louise arrived carrying a large pot, followed by her children who were carrying containers of food.
"What do you have there?" I asked, licking my lips. "It's manicotti," Louise answered as she lifted the lid to show me. "It's all set - just keep it warm in the oven until you're ready to eat.
There's also salad here, Italian bread and some dessert."
When our family sat down to eat, we all agreed that having such a nice meal was a great welcome home for the new baby, even though he didn't have any of it.
The next day, we breakfasted on a fresh fruit salad and lunched on potato salad sent over by our neighbor, Jean. Dinner that evening turned into another banquet when my friend and neighbor, Kathy, and her children brought a roast beef dinner.
The following day turned out to be equally tasty when Julie arrived with a roasting pan filled with a pot roast and vegetables.
She also was accompanied by her children, who were carrying salad, wine and dessert.
This kind of treatment should have been enough to spoil me completely, but it didn't stop. Sue brought one of our favorite casseroles to put in the freezer and also a pan of sinful caramel
brownies.
Claudia brought an exotic crab salad lunch for me and cookies for John and the kids, which I helped eat.
Kerry, my former nursing student helper, now a nurse and a married lady, arrived from her home in Ravenna, NE., to see the baby and to lend a hand for a few days. She lugged in a container of kolaches that she and her mother had made for us.
Whenever any of the extended Cavanaugh family comes by to take the kids off my hands, they drop off some form of nutrition.
This morning, just when I was thinking this is the day I'll have to break down and cook, Cindi arrived at my door carrying a roaster full of stew.
I always knew I had good-hearted friends and family, and it sure is nice that they are all such good cooks.
Before I get too accustomed to all this pampering, (Maureen already has; yesterday she asked, "Whose turn is it to bring over dinner tonight?") I've decided I've got to take the cure. Which means I have to stop eating so grandly if I want to fit back into my clothes.
According to articles I've read in baby magazines, new mothers shouldn't be impatient. We should allow four to six months to regain our shapes.
Well, I think like the corporate executive's wife who had made eight moves in 13 years, just as I've had eight babies in 13 years.
When she moves into each new home, she doesn't know how long she will live there before moving again, so she figures she may as well redecorate right away and enjoy her surroundings. I feel the same way about being pregnant. I never know how long I'll be out of maternity clothes before I'll need them again, so after the baby comes I have to hurry and shape up.
That's my plan for this week and it should work – unless someone brings over more brownies. Don't you think it would be rude if I didn't help eat them?
September 17, 1986
'Happy St. Mother's Day'
I was in a hurry. I had run upstairs to change my clothes for a late afternoon meeting when I heard two-year-old Mike waking up from his nap. I went into his room, picked him up from his crib and sat down to get some hugs and loves.
This scene only lasted a few seconds because we both had things to do. I had my meeting to get to, and Mike heard the music of his favorite cartoon show coming from the downstairs television. As he ran off in one direction I was about to turn and run off in the other, but I didn't. I stood at the top of the stairs. Watching a chubby little boy wearing rubber pants ballooning around his legs holding onto the banister with both hands as he took one step at a time seemed at that moment like the most important thing in the world.
Unfortunately, my thinking doesn't always go that way. There are many days when watching my children becomes the least important thing. Getting the laundry done and the kitchen cleaned comes before them.
It shouldn't be that way, but sometimes it's hard for the cup of motherly love to overflow when the house is overflowing with messes.
Even when I can't see my children through the sea of debris, I can always hear them. I can't help but listen to them - and isn't listening one of the elements necessary to successful parenting?
Of course, I'm not sure that listening to Patrick tell Colleen's friend that Colleen can't come to the phone because she's outside gazing at the stars when she's standing right next to him grabbing the phone and screaming that he's a jerk is the kind of listening that the child psychologists are referring to.
I know that I should listen to what my children are saying, and I should be watching them and enjoying them and reading to them and having them read to me and playing Old Maid and Candy Land and tossing balls with them.
I want to do all those things. I want to be the devoted mother- but jeepers creepers, if I expend all my energies on listening and watching and doing for my children, I wouldn't have time to do anything for myself.
What would happen to my dreams? They didn't go out the window when I gave birth. I want to be a mother, but I also want to continue being a person - maybe even a tap dancer or a torch singer.
No one said being a mother would be easy. The only advice I received beforehand was to be sure to get a husband first. What someone should have said was that once you have the children it's OK - even important - to develop and explore non-mothering skills. They should have added that no matter what the circumstances, you'll end up feeling guilty.
That's not necessarily fair, but it's true. You could be in the midst of negotiating world peace agreements when hovering ominously in the background would be your conscience tinged with guilt because your daughter went off to school needing a shampoo or your son had outgrown all his pants.
The trade-offs are tough in this job. I love observing the creative imagination of my two-year-old, but I'd also love to be able to leave a lipstick on the kitchen counter and not have it used as a
magic marker on the living room couch.
I treasure the chance to sit in a rocking chair cuddling a little baby, but I also treasure a good night's sleep.
I realize the importance of helping a seventh grader figure out the difference between subordinate and independent clauses, but sometimes I'd rather use my analytical skills on a bridge game.
Motherhood seems to be a juggling act. When all the balls are smoothly rotating from air to hands and back again, it is life's most joyous and fulfilling experience.
But when the balls fall, or too many balls get into the act, it's a good time to watch a chubby little toddler go down the stairs.
To all mothers trying to juggle through life, I join with your children in wishing you what we at our house call "Happy St.Mother's Day."
May 8, 1985
The Thrill of Washington Countineus for Kate
After living in Washington a short time, I have learned to be prepared for the unexpected.
Recently, I drove John to the airport for what we thought would be a trip back to Nebraska. As we approached the waiting area, John was paged for a telephone call. When he returned he said,
'That was the White House on the phone, the President wants me to go to India for President Ahmed's funeral with Miss Lillian and Chip Carter."
"Should I go?" he asked. "Of course you should go," I replied, "but you don't have any money or a passport." John answered that he told them that and The White House said he didn't need to worry.
Within ten minutes a late-working White House aide opened the door to a black limousine. John climbed in. Off they went to Andrews Air Force Base and an awaiting presidential jet.
Shortly after we arrived in Washington, as we walked back to our hotel, pushing baby Maureen in her stroller, the Capitol sitting splendidly before us, John asked, "00 you think you will be happy here."
"I don't know if I can stand the excitement," I said. We laughed, feeling certain that the thrill would quickly wear off - but it hasn't
Unquestionably, Washington is an exhilarating place and we have delighted in it. Although Jimmy Carter's inauguration was several weeks ago, I still get excited thinking about it.
John Kennedy was sworn in as President when I was in the eighth grade, and ever since, I have watched television and read in the newspaper about the oath of office and the inaugural address. I feel it is one of our country's greatest moments; a transition of great power carried out peacefully. This is an awesome event and I was there witnessing it.
As the Marine Band played "Battle Hymn of the Republic," Gerald Ford, in the closing minutes of his presidency, and Jimmy Carter, anticipating his monumental undertaking, sat next to each other talking. I couldn't help wondering what one talks about under such circumstances.
Life in Washington is different from what we are used to but we are enjoying it I just have to remember to take my map when I go driving and allow more time to get to places.
We are renting a home in an older neighborhood of Washington. We wish we could stay here but unfortunately the owners will be returning from Florida in May.
We are flabbergasted at the high price of real estate - a good deal is $125,000 for a four bedroom colonial style house. We are hoping we can find an Omaha type "good deal."
We do miss our good friends, the prices and conveniences of Omaha, but we hope to have the best of both places by making frequent trips back to Nebraska and by having many of our
Nebraska friends visit us here.
As we go about our new life, we often think: of John's father, Jack. Politics and good government meant so much to him. He was so proud of John. We know he would love to hear our tales of
Washington.
March 10, 1977
Why does Jimmy Carter Envy Kate Cavanaugh?
The title of this column could be "Jimmy Carter envies Kate's leadership abilities," or "How I went bonkers on 18th and Columbia Road N.W."
Both of these events actually took place on the occasion of the New Congressional Members family picnic. I was asked to provide the entertainment At first I thought they wanted me to tap dance (my next career), but the picnic organizers quickly informed me that they meant relay races and other games.
To do something different, I decided to be organized. I planned various relay races, gathered the necessary equipment, made up lists for the scavenger hunt, and bought prizes. I even rounded up a volunteer from The Earth Onion Woman's Theater who would come in costume to entertain the children with mask-making and mime. I put everything in the car early so I could avoid a last minute rush. However, what would life be without last-minute rushing?
The picnic was being held from 6 p.m. until dark at Rock Creek Park. John planned to meet me there as soon as the House adjourned for the day.
At 5:30 p.m. I jammed into the car the three kids, myself and the brownies minus the frosting which Patrick and Colleen had eaten off. Then I had to pick up the volunteer clown at 18th and
Columbia Road. I didn't think: I'd have any problem finding her; after all, she would be standing on the street dressed as a giant ugly duckling. But it was rush hour and I went up and down more one way streets the wrong way, made several (unknowingly, of course) illegal left-hand turns to the tune of Maureen screaming her head off and I still couldn't locate the theater. I was about to resort to screaming myself when a gas station attendant helped me after I hysterically blurted out my predicament So I finally found my duckling whose talents were well worth the search party.
Geography lesson to be learned from this is 18th Street N.W. changes into Adams Morgan Road at the 2500 block.
When at last our entourage got to the picnic, I collapsed - not really. I was rejuvenated and had a wonderful time. It was a regular family picnic with one exception: there were park police on horseback and Secret Service men in attendance. Amy Carter was there to the delight of all the other children.
Now you are probably wondering, "Why is Jimmy Carter envious of a person like her?" Well, he isn't - but it makes good copy.
After we ate, it was time for me to provide the entertainment which included a fatber-child relay. No Congressman or Senator was exempt. If they had no children or their children weren't there, they borrowed one from families who had extras. This was not an easy group to manipulate. Tony Beilenson of California wondered if he should carry his sixteen-year-old or if his son should carry him. As unruly as they were, I managed to get about twenty five new members of Congress to line up and follow my orders. There were two teams and each one felt they had won the relay, so they were all happy. M & M's were given as prizes.
So now can you see why President Carter might envy my political savvy?
We had several other activities, but mostly the picnic was an opportunity for the families to get together informally and become better acquainted.
June 15, 1977
White House Picnic Makes Kate's Heart Pound
Going to the White House is a thrill. You'd have to be terribly blase not to have a little fluttering of the heart when you walk through the White House gates. Last Thursday evening, when we attended President Caner's White House picnic, my heart not only fluttered, it pounded all evening.
President and Mrs. Carter gave a picnic for the members of Congress and their families. The House was in session a little late so the children and I came ahead of John. Patrick and Colleen were as excited about the picnic as I was.
We entered through the lovely Jacqueline Kennedy Garden. On the Presidential grass was a tent where soft drinks were served, a buffet table where the bill of fare included hamburgers, hot dogs, cole slaw and baked beans.
A huge stage was assembled so we could enjoy square dancing and a New Orleans jazz band. Colleen liked the music so much that she swayed to the blues as if she were on Bourbon Street. Clowns greeted the children and made animals from the balloons. On the lower lawn, a net was set up where teen-agers played volleyball with the Washington Redskins. There was even a hayrack which gave rides all around the grounds.
The Carters came out of the house at about 7 o'clock and remained until after dark. The President was dressed very casually. He and Mrs. Carter made sure they greeted everyone and patiently posed for pictures with everyone's baby including ours. Patrick diplomatically gave me his fudge bar stick before offering the President his sticky hand.
Hubert Humphrey was also there, looking quite well. I was delighted when he remembered meeting me in Omaha last October. It was a week previous to Maureen's birth so I was big with child. I'm sure that's why I stuck in his mind.
The ground floor of the White House was open so naturally we went in. We browsed through the Diplomatic Reception Room, the China Room and the Library where President Carter gave his first fireside cardigan sweater chat.
As we were leaving the mansion, we bumped into Chip Carter, who had just returned from a week in California. We chatted for only a few minutes because he was anxious to find his wife, Caron, and baby son, James.
All in all, it was a sparkling and memorable event.
August 11, 1977
The Campaign is Over- Oh, What at Relief It Is!
"Hello, I'm Kate Cavanaugh, John's wife. John is running for reelection to Congress. We'd appreciate your support on November 7."
"Oh, it's past November 7, the election is over, and John was reelected? That's great. I was so busy handshaking I forgot about the vote-taking."
What a relief! The campaign of 1978 is over, and I'm writing my "Letter from Washington," It's good to be back. I've missed writing, and I appreciate all the inquiries by readers who say they've missed reading my column and wondered when I would be back.
Much has happened since I last wrote. We went through a long and exciting campaign. It's a good feeling to have that behind us. Political campaigns were not something I was exposed to growing up in St. Charles, IL. The most exciting - and also about the only - political experience I had was in 1960. John Kennedy was campaigning in St. Charles. We must have had a Republican pastor at my school, because we weren't let out early to hear him speak. But as soon as school was dismissed, my dad jammed my brothers, sisters, and several friends into his Volkswagon and raced us to the parade site.
It was there, on the comer of Third and Main, in front of Lencioni's Blue Goose Grocery, that I got to shake hands with the next president.
Believe me, it was a great thrill, especially since my only other political experience would be three years later, when I went to my high school's Christmas formal with a son of the mayor of St. Charles.
But in Omaha, it is different. At least in South Omaha, where politics is a way of life and every occasion is a political one. Church dinners are a politico's delight. The hoopla surrounding a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes never ceases to make me wonder.
During a lively election year, in front of the church hall volunteers are handing out literature on candidates for jobs ranging from landfill overseer to the president. While waiting in line for the bill of fare, diners can read the literature, shake the candidates' hands, and peruse the walls completely decorated with political posters.
On being seated, the choices continue. The now well-informed diner can stick on his favorite candidate's sticker, file his nails with a political emory board, make a grocery list on a political tablet, put on a political rain bonnet in case of a shower of political rhetoric, light a political cigar with political matches, and finally, eat a meal set on a political placemat.
The key to a successful campaign is going out, meeting and talking to the potential voters. In order to do this, one has to go where the people are. The campaign trail leads a candidate down a path of bowling alleys, plant gates, shopping centers, union halls, country clubs, school festivals, church bazaars, meetings with senior citizens, meetings with junior citizens, and just meetings.
On one busy campaign day driving between a bake sale and a school carnival, my sister-in-law Pat and I were reminiscing about what it would be like to have a normal day where we did nothing more than stay home, fold laundry, and watch soap operas. We both agreed it would be nice, but probably not as interesting.
In a political campaign.,the wide range of activities exposes one to different facets and cultures of our community. If we weren't involved in it, we might have a more tranquil lifestyle, but we'd
also have a much narrower view of the world.
There are no glamour jobs in getting someone elected. John Green, a dedicated worker in our campaign, summed it up well: "At age 5, I was involved in my first campaign. I stuffed envelopes, licked them, and put stamps on them. Twenty-four years later I'm still involved in campaigns, and I'm still stuffing, licking, and stamping envelopes."
John and I feel that the success in his re-election to Congress was determined by the thousands of hours of hard work by the dedicated and enthusiastic campaign workers and volunteers. This dedication and support is tremendously heart warming and we are very grateful.
November 16, 1978
Kate Enjoys Fairyland Evening at White House
Christmas is a-coming and the geese are getting fat - and so am I. All I want for Christmas is to be able to bend over again, be able to buckle my shoes, and not need a Caterpillar crane to raise me out of bed However, these presents aren't scheduled to arrive until after the New Year begins.
Christmas activity is in full swing at two of Washington's White Houses. One is the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue where Jimmy and Roslyn Carter live and the other White House (with its black shutters) is where John and Kate live.
The official start of the Christmas season began Dec. 12 when President and Mrs. Carter opened the doors of the White House for the Congressional Christmas Ball.
The holiday atmosphere was unlike any I had ever seen. Upon arriving, we were greeted with Christmas carols sung by the Marine Band, brilliant red carpets, huge poinsettias, and a glass of eggnog. Upstairs the decorations were even more magnificent. Huge wreaths with red bows hung in every window, green garlands were draped over all the archways and holly, poinsettias, and red candles were bountiful. They had truly decked the halls.
The President and Mrs. Carter formed a receiving line in the Blue Room. In the center of the room is the official White House Christmas tree.
The tree, a 20-foot Veitchii Fir grown in Garrison, N.Y., was decorated with more than 2,800 miniature Victorian toys from the Margaret Woodbury Strong Museum of Rochester, N.Y. The late Mrs. Strong hoped to create a ''museum of fascination" with the things with which Victorian Americans surrounded themselves: ceramics, quilts, toys, and children's playthings. All the toys are 50 to 100 years old.
After receiving their guests, the Carters led the dancing in the East Room to the music of Peter Duchin's orchestra.
Following this fairyland evening I was brought quickly back to reality the next day when I fulfilled my motherly responsibility by selling milk and ice cream bars at Patrick's school cafeteria. Sincethen I have been busy readying things at the Cavanaugh White House for the approaching holiday.
Having small children around at Christmas time is especially nice. At our house each of them has a special task. Patrick is in charge of the countdown on the calendar, Colleen relays in precise detail the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, and Maureen plays Christmas carols on the record player. Maureen is only two and not really the most logical choice for this task. However, the fact that she is two and that she thinks she should be playing the records is why she's doing it.
At this time of year I'm thankful for many things - my husband, my children, that I live in America - and when our baby's born he/she will be so young he won't care that I never bleached out the infant T-shirts stored in the attic.
We are eagerly awaiting the arrival of 1979, which we hope will bring all of you much happiness, health, and prosperity, and in addition will bring us a healthy new baby. Do you think we'll have
a red-head?
December 28, 1978
Could Kate's Kitchen Be The New Sans Souci?
There's a search on in Washington for a new place in which to see and be seen. The Sans Souci, the pinnacle of "highfalutiness,"is tumbling as a restaurant favorite. They have lost their
maitre d'.
'What reason is there to go to a restaurant whose maitre d' has departed? None! The food reportedly has been lousy for years. Without Paul, nothing is assured. What kind of entrance can you make when, upon entering, you are seated under the emergency exit?
Talk of the toppling has been swirling around Washington. Last week, Washington Post columnist Richard Cohen devoted his column to it. It seems Art Buchwald, the syndicated columnist and one of Sans Souci's most noted patrons, is beside himself. Without Sans Saud, where is he going to go to order the usual?
Cohen decided to help Buchwald out in his search for a new noontime hangout. Together they set out to sample Washington lunch spots. 'What qualities does the new "in" spot need in order to make it "in"? A maitre d' who recognizes you upon your arrival, makes sure your entrance is noted by all the other patrons, and seats you ringside.
'When I read Richard Cohen's account, immediately I knew I had something to offer. I have never been to Sans Saud (the only place I go to see and be seen is the Giant Food Store), but I can imagine what it is like. Considering that, I wondered why couldn't my kitchen become the next watering hole and feed bag for the Elite? I could offer them everything that Sans Souci does, plus things that they couldn't ever possibly duplicate.
Before contacting Mr. Cohen, I decided I should plan out the motif of my restaurant to make sure it would qualify. Being the maitre d' would be no problem. I generally recognize the people who come in my front door. Nor would seating or "the usual" present any difficulties. All would be seated at the best table because there is only one in my kitchen, and the bill of fare would
be peanut butter and jelly or a bologna sandwich.
The extras would be luncheon entertainment with records spun by Maureen who, joined by Colleen, dances to the music. An opportunity to hold a newborn baby - or to listen to one cry if you don't - would be another bonus. Making my restaurant even more exclusive would be its limited operation. Late openings on Monday would be necessary because I have to drive Colleen's carpool, and the place will be closed on Wednesday because I'm maitre d' of the
milk and ice cream at Patrick's school cafeteria.
After establishing these criteria, I began to drum up business. I called Richard Cohen and presented him the opportunity to be my first customer. How could he turn down an invitation to be a pioneer at what was sure to become the trendy new lunch spot? We set a Thursday date, but Thursday came and so did an ice storm. We postponed until Tuesday, which turned out to be the day after the biggest Washington snowstorm in 50 years. We postponed again.
This time my illustrious guest had a hopelessly snowed-in car, so I added another fringe benefit to lunching in my kitchen limousine service (the limousine being a Ford Maverick, chauffeured by me and liveried by four little redheads). Upon picking up Mr. Cohen I launched into one of the literary dialogues I was offering at my new salon. For a special touch, Colleen joined the conversation by announcing that she felt funny and proceeded to burp rather dramatically allover herself, Maureen, and the car.
Upon arriving home, the resident artists gave the tour of the kitchen's art work of finger paintings and homemade Valentines, our patron held the baby, Patrick played records, and Maureen and Colleen danced as I assembled the p, b, & j's for the younger customers and, in honor of my grand opening, a spinach salad for the more calorie conscious.
The grand opening day happened to coincide with the baby's doctor appointment. After lunch, my lucky guest participated in some invigorating post luncheon entertainment dressing four children in boots, mittens and coats to go outdoors. That done, we loaded them into the car, which wouldn't start After numerous attempts, we gave up.
The six of us - me carrying the baby and the now-bewildered columnist carrying Maureen trudged through the snow to my neighbor's, who generously offered me the use of her car. After piling in once again we set off, dodging snow banks. We arrived at the doctor's office only to find a filled parking lot.
The role of chauffeur now switched. My little friends and I got out of the car as an even more befuddled journalist drove off searching for a parking place. Upon finding one he brought me the
keys and hastily departed to a taxicab, which delivered him to - by comparison - the tranquil and sane Washington Post newsroom.
Epilogue
Allowing him a few recovery days, I queried Richard Cohen: "Could my kitchen make a go of it?"
"It has certain advantages," he replied. "It's safe - the only under-the-table activity would be kids looking for crayons. I like it even if the background music is unnerving."
With this glowing review I'm open for reservations.
March 8, 1979
keys and hastily departed to a taxicab, which delivered him to - by comparison - the tranquil and sane Washington Post newsroom.
Epilogue
Allowing him a few recovery days, I queried Richard Cohen: "Could my kitchen make a go of it?"
"It has certain advantages," he replied. "It's safe - the only under-the-table activity would be kids looking for crayons. I like it even if the background music is unnerving."
With this glowing review I'm open for reservations.
March 8, 1979
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
