from a year's vantage point

I had a lot of complaints this morning. The dog next door barked most of the night, what time my husband wasn't snoring. I am surrounded by teenagers. I feel old. I feel unattractive because I feel old. I like some people better than they like me, or at least my mind would have me believe so. The freezer is too damn full and guess who gets to clean it. I never finished school. My daughter took up soccer, which is turning into a part-time job for me (and folks around here have been put on notice: Use "soccer" and "mom" in the same sentence within my earshot and see what happens to you. Just see).

Then I remembered what day it was. More bad feelings, more ill will. Happy anniversary and thanks a lot, terrorists, for giving my children such an occasion to commemorate.

Dropping to my knees beside the bed provided more complaints. Did you know that past a certain age, your knee cartilege is no longer made of elastic? That your hips can hurt? Oh, great, I thought, we're off to a flying start.

Then I remembered why I was on my knees to begin with and it hit me.

The dog next door belongs to the woman next door, who is a police officer. Today she will probably feel some apprehension as she starts her shift. If anything is going to happen, it is going to happen to her first, or at least she will be very much on the front line. She doesn't seem to be complaining, though -- I just saw her walk to her car after giving the dog a pat goodbye.

I am not a police officer. I don't have to worry about such things. I don't have to walk into God knows what today and be prepared for the worst. I am protected.

My husband went to work this morning. I know where he is, I know what he's doing, and I am fairly secure in saying that he will be coming home safely this evening.

I don't have to look at an empty chair, feel the emptiness on the other side of the bed, drink my morning coffee alone, explain to my children that we cannot understand the evil ways of humans and that Dad is with God right now. I was not on the receiving end of a phone call that told me he was never coming home again.

The worst thing I am probably going to have to do today is call the bill collectors and do a little arguing. Oh, and defrost the freezer, and haul the trash cans to the curb.

I will not have to climb flights of stairs in a building that is collapsing around my ears, rescue as many as I can, and listen to the agonized pleas for help as the last sound I hear. I will not have to sit at a desk in a dispatch office and listen to men I know, friends of mine, dying as we speak. I will not have to figure out where the terrifying noise in my building is coming from, what to do about it or how much longer I have to live. No matter how I complain about it, I have the opportunity to get older.

My job is pretty easy.

I look out the window and I see that our neighbors have the lawn service over again, and the noise and smells combined are infuriating to me. I, however, do not have to look out my apartment window onto the streets of Manhattan and wonder if my home will be the next target. I do not have to watch life as I know it disintegrate before my eyes as thousands meet their painful and terrifying deaths. All I see is a dumb-looking truck and some chemical containers. All I smell is some lawn fertilizer. Not jet fuel. Not smoke. Not concrete dust or heated metal. Just some lawn chemicals from a dumb-looking truck.

I spend some time talking with a friend. I remember that my first thoughts last year after determining that my family was safe and accounted for was that my friend and his family might somehow be involved. It's irrational, because they live hundreds of miles from New York City. However, when we love people, our hearts and not our minds think first when tragedy strikes. But this afternoon, I was talking to him, and didn't have to wonder if I would ever see him again. No reason for the thought to cross my mind this afternoon. All in all, it wasn't even such a bad day.

None of the horrible events of a year ago that I have described even came close to being my reality. The closest, in fact, that I ever came to actual involvement was switching on the TV to hear Peter Jennings describe Flight 93 as "approaching Cleveland". I heard the plane engines. Then they got a little less loud. Then fainter. They were on their way to a field in Pennsylvania. And yet I complain.

God, remind me that I have no real problems, that I have much to be grateful for, and that my life and the lives of those I love, including everyone reading this, are a blessing. And never let me forget how much work I have left to do.

God bless you and keep you all in His peace and love,

Celia

the bad guy

Well, tonight I got the role that everyone envies and no-one wants -- I got to play The Bad Guy.

I went to the discount store to buy a karaoke CD for my daughter and four of her friends, for her 13th birthday sleepover. I know this sounds like self-inflicted punishment, but believe me, listening to them howling over the Destiny's Child CD into the karaoke mike was getting a taddy bit stale. Plus it is relatively quiet at the discount store, and if I encounter a mouthy, obstreperous, obnoxious child, I can give the parent a conspiratory grin and get the Hell away from the little blighter. When I encounter such a child around here, I am stuck, since it is my own flesh and blood, behaving in a fashion that proves neatly that the apple indeed does not fall too far from the tree.

I came roaring into the driveway in pretty good spirits, doing a little karaoke howl-along of my own to Bowie's "Afraid of Americans". The neighbors are afraid of ME when I sing it. I jumped out of the car and immediately knew something was up. First, I smelled cigarette smoke, and none of the neighbors smoke and neither do we. Second, the house was awfully quiet for a houseful of teenage girls. Third, I could see arms and legs flailing as people flew up and down stairs past windows. Hmm. So far, no good.

Of course, at least one of the girls had been smoking cigarettes. My impulse was to explode and throw everyone out, but my brain works a little better these days. Not much, though, because I roared: "EVERYBODY GET OUTTA THAT GODDAMN BASEMENT AND GET IN THIS KITCHEN ON THE DOUBLE!!!!!" Really, it sounded like a line froma Cagney movie -- one where they allow swearing, I guess.

They got. On the double. I sound like a cross between a drill sergeant and a banshee when I really yell, which is blessedly seldom these days. And let me tell you, brother, I was roaring.

I went upstairs to where my husband lay fast asleep. I was furious with him too. '"THE GIRLS ARE SMOKING CIGARETTES IN THE BASEMENT! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON AROUND HERE? WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?"

"Well, tell them to stop," said he, and rolled over. I made a mental note to deal with him later, and believe me thee, his reckoning is coming in the morning.

Back to the kitchen I went. Nobody knew anything. Nobody was going to say anything. My daughter has been taught well -- there's nothing more despised than an informer (unless of course, her brother is the transgressor).

I said: "ALL RIGHT. WHOEVER DID THIS IS GOING TO TELL ME RIGHT NOW OR I WANT EVERYBODY TO GET IN THE CAR NOW -- YOU'RE GOING HOME. PARENTS _WILL_ BE CALLED."

They didn't doubt me for a second. If there had been any holdouts, the uproar from above had dispelled their doubts that I was kicking ass and taking names.

The culprit, seeing that a) she was going to ruin everyone's fun and b) the people who wished to have more fun were going to turn her in, came forth. I said: "M., get your stuff. You're going home."

Naturally, at this point the girls are gathered around her as if she were a sister going to the guillotine. It was a messy scene of weeping, tearful protestations of love and support, and hugging between sniffles. I wondered if they really did believe that I dismember unruly children for sport. Nasty rumor, that, and you know how it is once these things get started.

I drove M. home after being certain there was somone there -- an older sister. On the way, she asked me: "Am I ever allowed to talk to [your daughter] again? Oh, please, please please give me one more chance, Mrs. B. -- please let me come back I won't do it any more."

I pulled the car into her driveway. "M., despite what you've heard I'm not the Wicked Witch of the West Side. Of course you are welcome in our home, and we don't judge people based on mistakes. But it is important for you to know, tonight, that this is a mistake. It's the only way you'll learn from it. So, for tonight, I am sorry, but the party is over. You can call [my daughter] tomorrow and talk about this."

She is talking to a lady who hopes she has learned from her mistakes, you see. Just maybe.

Now I have to tell the parents. In a way, I don't want to tell them anything. Inside me there is a thirteen year old girl who could tell you a thing or two about stealing altar wine and nicking a Stroh's or two from the old man. I know that M. probably stole those cigarettes from her parents, and I know that, irrationally, they are going to want to blast her for doing what they do. But I'm sorry. _I_ would want to know.

When I arrived back home, I received quite a surprise. Far from seeing me as the Devil incarnate, those girls were relieved. "You have no IDEA, Mom -- I am SO glad you did that. She needed that, " said my daughter. "My mother would have done the same thing," put in S. Little K., who is a child of unfortunate circumstances and has heard the counseling lingo, said: "Sometimes, Mrs. B., you just have to set boundaries." (K.'s mother shall be treated of in a separate piece, she who got smashed, dented my car and made a pass at my husband, he who was too dumb to know it, and thank God, because she is also a Full-Breasted Wonder. K.'s mother doesn't know how close she came to being treated at Deaconess Hospital that day, but I am Living a Different Way Today. Yeah. I still wanted to slug her, but at least I know better now. Occasionally, I _still_ want to slug her. Just for fun. She looks like she'd be no use at all in a fight, and she has it coming. But anyway.) Dear H., my favorite friend of my daughter's, said quietly: "We understand. It's okay."

We had a little impromptu talk in the kitchen, and it was pretty much along the lines of why it's important not to let friends make dangerous choices and why sometimes we have to get tough. The girls were concerned that I would bar M., and I made it clear that we don't treat people that way here. But we do not brook nonsense, either. "I'm not _a_ bitch, I'm _The_Bitch," I said, which brought unexpected comic relief. I didn't hit too much on the evils of smoking; they've heard it all a million times at school and home anyway. The emphasis was on trust, on taking care of friends and on setting limits.

I let them talk to M. briefly on the phone. It didn't hurt her or them to realize just how miserable she was or how much fun she was missing. Sometimes it needs to sting. I've certainly been there.

Now the girls are playing the karaoke disc for the twentieth time. I got dragged downstairs and forced to sing "Drops of Jupiter" and "Hey Baby", both of which are better left to Train and No Doubt, respectively, but they think I can sing. Arah thinks I'm her Performing Pet Mom sometimes. More importantly, they wanted me down there. That made me feel good.

See, it's scary stuff being the Bad Guy. Nobody wants to be hated or feared. I confess to being really nervous as to how all this would go and whether they'd resent me. But I think we did just fine. They like me, but more importantly, they respect me. It's not really a matter of being the Bad Guy as being responsible and protective. This isn't about punishment; its about love.

On the other hand, I know somebody who is not getting his bacon and eggs in the morning however he pleads. And he can forget my buckwheat pancakes, too.

I'd hate to ruin my reputation.