Though some of the stereotypes the South lives up to are regrettable, there is never disappointment in a small town Southern wedding. And don’t jump to conclusions. This is no backwoods affair. This is wedding in which tradition is king and good taste his loyal queen.
J. was initially very dismayed at having to attend this wedding. We had both been traveling all week and he was ready to spend the day clearing out his DVR. We compromised by agreeing to drive back after the wedding, and then he was cranky about that. Luckily, the 90 minute drive was a breeze (for once, no Atlanta traffic) and though hot as hell, it was sunny for the first time this month. The wedding was exactly what I had always pictured it would be when the bride – who I’ve known since college – would talk about having to one day get married in her small hometown. She loathed the idea! She had no reason to. Highlights included:
- A hand bell choir. With white-gloves!
- The same minister that baptized the bride thirty years ago
- A white lace dress and a processional to Edelweiss
- A buffet dinner (particularly poignant to me as the buffet was a battle I fought, and lost, with Sooz)
- A lemon cake with buttercream icing
- The following conversation overhead in the ladies lounge:
“You must be the groom’s grandmother. I’m the best friend of the bride’s mother. We’ve know each other since 7th grade and my daughter, the maid-of-honor, grew up with the bride. My granddaughter is the flower girl.”
J. and I agreed on the car ride home (as we listened to this awesome CD that they handed out as a favor) that if we could redo our wedding, we’d go ahead and copy a lot of what they did. Especially the playing of Edelweiss. Every Christmas we watch The Sound of Music and have to rewind that part of the movie several times. This year we had friends over and it turned into a bit of a maudlin sing-a-long. But I digress. The main point here is that in this damn economy, it’s nice to see that some things don’t change for the worse. And that tradition can’t be bought.
What can be bought are diamonds. Recently, J. has created a sticky sitch for himself by telling me something he shouldn’t have. Apparently while I was in Chicago for work, he hit a couple of jewelry stores in search of a new (translate: bigger) stone for my engagement ring in honor of our five-year anniversary. He wanted to surprise me with it when I came home…but he didn’t. After shopping around, he realized he doesn’t want to spend the money. And here’s where the big mistake comes in. Instead of not ever telling me about this field trip, he tells me within ten minutes of my arrival home. And though the thought of changing my ring had never crossed my mind, now that it has…whew, obsessed!
Per an email from J. I received yesterday, if we were getting engaged today, he would get a ring that was a bit different (insert above translation for “new” here). At first I thought this might be an expensive yet highly strategic jab to remind me that J. thinks we got married too young. It turns out he just really thinks I would like it. And though I loved then and now my current engagement ring, I think he’s right. Sometimes tradition takes a backseat.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
With This Ring
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Hot Off The Press
Even I (a little too mature to be considered cool) can recognize that the new all-music issue of FLYP magazine is VERY cool. Check it out! http://www.flypmedia.com/
Thursday, June 4, 2009
More or Less
Yes, I know that the blog needs updating. I know it's my turn. I know, I know, I know.....
Things have been busy. The super fun Florida trip was soon followed by D's arrival home from college. And when she's home there's just more -- more activity, more errands, more comings, more goings, more mess, more fun, more food, more laundry, more life. More. More happiness. And when she's gone again, as she is now, there's also more -- more wishing that time did not speed by so quickly, more quiet, more loneliness. All the mores that add up to less.
I'll adjust again. Today is already better than three days ago. It's not an unfamiliar process but it's still hard. Seems a bit unfair to pour one's life into raising kids, striving to make them independent, and then you succeed and they ARE independent and gone away. Not exactly a welcome reward for a job well done.
Okay, days have now passed since I began writing. D is happily settled in New York City and I have returned to a good routine. Less self-pity, more normal. And before more time can pass, I do want to tell you a little bit about the trip to Florida because it was just. so. fun. First, the weather was Chamber of Commerce perfect. This is important to mention, not only because while lolling under the clear blue skies and soaking in total sunshine, we missed five of the nine straight days of cold rain at home, but also because it has done very little except rain here since. And I'm now talking over a month's time! Yuck. It doesn't even seem summer-like; there have been only two trips to the pool since the Memorial Day opening. Back to Florida.... we stayed at an oceanfront private club, very posh, sooooo nice, with every amenity imaginable. Nothing so vile as money exchanged hands on the grounds; discreet signatures only, please. All this was made possible by my friend Annie and her reciprocal agreement with a Washington, DC club of which she is a member. We sunned, we ate, we watched tennis, we napped. It was truly the perfect vacation. We also had the opportunity to see a number of yachts docked on the inland waterway. When I say yachts, I am not speaking of larger boats, I am talking YACHTS! Those that require crews to run, and surely come with staff as well. Although I enjoy the occasional ride on a boat,I have never had any desire to own one of my own. That is, until I saw the yachts. I quickly became obsessed with ownership and could easily picture myself spending my days in sunny exotic locales. When we got home I researched my favorite boat, The Gallant Lady, as well as similar models, and learned that the yacht purchase may just be a little bit out of reach in the current economic climate. Those suckers are expensive! That disappointment in no way mars the great memory of the trip however -- it was a fabulous getaway!
Coming up on Monday is my granddaughter's birthday! Sweetums will be 3 years old. It's really hard for me to believe that she is no longer a baby, and is now very much a little girl. I say it over and over, but only because it is so true, being a grandmother is just the best! More love, less aggravation. Who could ask for more?
Things have been busy. The super fun Florida trip was soon followed by D's arrival home from college. And when she's home there's just more -- more activity, more errands, more comings, more goings, more mess, more fun, more food, more laundry, more life. More. More happiness. And when she's gone again, as she is now, there's also more -- more wishing that time did not speed by so quickly, more quiet, more loneliness. All the mores that add up to less.
I'll adjust again. Today is already better than three days ago. It's not an unfamiliar process but it's still hard. Seems a bit unfair to pour one's life into raising kids, striving to make them independent, and then you succeed and they ARE independent and gone away. Not exactly a welcome reward for a job well done.
Okay, days have now passed since I began writing. D is happily settled in New York City and I have returned to a good routine. Less self-pity, more normal. And before more time can pass, I do want to tell you a little bit about the trip to Florida because it was just. so. fun. First, the weather was Chamber of Commerce perfect. This is important to mention, not only because while lolling under the clear blue skies and soaking in total sunshine, we missed five of the nine straight days of cold rain at home, but also because it has done very little except rain here since. And I'm now talking over a month's time! Yuck. It doesn't even seem summer-like; there have been only two trips to the pool since the Memorial Day opening. Back to Florida.... we stayed at an oceanfront private club, very posh, sooooo nice, with every amenity imaginable. Nothing so vile as money exchanged hands on the grounds; discreet signatures only, please. All this was made possible by my friend Annie and her reciprocal agreement with a Washington, DC club of which she is a member. We sunned, we ate, we watched tennis, we napped. It was truly the perfect vacation. We also had the opportunity to see a number of yachts docked on the inland waterway. When I say yachts, I am not speaking of larger boats, I am talking YACHTS! Those that require crews to run, and surely come with staff as well. Although I enjoy the occasional ride on a boat,I have never had any desire to own one of my own. That is, until I saw the yachts. I quickly became obsessed with ownership and could easily picture myself spending my days in sunny exotic locales. When we got home I researched my favorite boat, The Gallant Lady, as well as similar models, and learned that the yacht purchase may just be a little bit out of reach in the current economic climate. Those suckers are expensive! That disappointment in no way mars the great memory of the trip however -- it was a fabulous getaway!
Coming up on Monday is my granddaughter's birthday! Sweetums will be 3 years old. It's really hard for me to believe that she is no longer a baby, and is now very much a little girl. I say it over and over, but only because it is so true, being a grandmother is just the best! More love, less aggravation. Who could ask for more?
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Better Days
Sooz is right. When life is, as a coworker calls it, “in session,” it’s hard to get a post written. Apart from being humdrum busy, there’s nothing of interest to share. And so the blog becomes one more thing to feel guilty about. Like my pile of hand-washables, I think about it a lot and don’t ever do it. But the blog must go on so I’ve decided to share what’s been happening lately chez moi.
Things have been breaking. My cell phone won’t hold a charge, our gutter fell off, a routine oil change revealed nails in two of my tires, an altered pair of pants is now silly short and our air conditioners – both of them – have leaky coils. We’re $500 in with about $2400 in repairs to go. J. (aka Hubs) is seeing stars. I’m unnaturally calm. As Dad (I refuse to call him Joe since that isn’t even close to his real name and I don’t know why he wants his grandchildren to call him this) says, “It’s just money.”
In other news, J., bowing to the pressure of my sighs every time I opened the door, cleaned out the refrigerator.
J: Honey, check out the fridge. It’s clean!
Smash: Nice! Did you actually clean the shelves too?
J. (undaunted): No. But I threw away a ton of stuff. Freezer too.
- Smash opens freezer.-
Smash: Where are my potstickers?
J.: You haven’t touched those in at least a month so I threw them away.
Smash: But I was going to eat those! I thought I could have them one night while you are out of town. (An outrageous lie. I hated those potstickers. )
J.: That’s an outrageous lie. You hated those potstickers. And besides, you know we shun buying in bulk.
And that’s true. We do shun buying in bulk. I let it go and showered him with praise.
It’s finally consistently warm/hot here in Atlanta so we went to the pool this weekend, which was nice. My stomach got burned and I’m convinced it was because I made J. stop at the Publix beforehand for a grilled Italian sausage which I accompanied with chips and a soda. My stomach was thus enormous and entirely too close to the sun, hence the burn. The whole pool experience is humiliating anyway because we (“we” used loosely as not to hurt feelings) are too cheap to buy a membership somewhere so we have to sneak into our old apartment complex, which we call our “Swim/Tennis.” It involves lurking around the front gate and then dashing in on foot behind the first car that drives in. I hate it. Am convinced we will be thrown out and possibly arrested for this. We’ll go again next weekend.
The hot weather has also, inexplicably, drawn a crowd to the bird feeder and I am very frustrated by the birds’ lack of self regulation. I’m running through a 20 pound bag every other week! Sometimes I put them on probation and don’t fill it up for a day, but then feel so bad that I get anxious and drive home from work super fast so I can fill it up before the sun goes down.
The last bit of news is the best bit. J. surprised me with tickets to Bruce Springsteen and the concert was Sunday night. We met up with some friends – friends that I always love to see and never see enough of – and then headed onto the floor of the arena for what I thought was an incredible show. It was so. much. fun. The title of this post is actually a nod to a favorite Boss song – “These are better days.” 100% agreed. Best days even.
Things have been breaking. My cell phone won’t hold a charge, our gutter fell off, a routine oil change revealed nails in two of my tires, an altered pair of pants is now silly short and our air conditioners – both of them – have leaky coils. We’re $500 in with about $2400 in repairs to go. J. (aka Hubs) is seeing stars. I’m unnaturally calm. As Dad (I refuse to call him Joe since that isn’t even close to his real name and I don’t know why he wants his grandchildren to call him this) says, “It’s just money.”
In other news, J., bowing to the pressure of my sighs every time I opened the door, cleaned out the refrigerator.
J: Honey, check out the fridge. It’s clean!
Smash: Nice! Did you actually clean the shelves too?
J. (undaunted): No. But I threw away a ton of stuff. Freezer too.
- Smash opens freezer.-
Smash: Where are my potstickers?
J.: You haven’t touched those in at least a month so I threw them away.
Smash: But I was going to eat those! I thought I could have them one night while you are out of town. (An outrageous lie. I hated those potstickers. )
J.: That’s an outrageous lie. You hated those potstickers. And besides, you know we shun buying in bulk.
And that’s true. We do shun buying in bulk. I let it go and showered him with praise.
It’s finally consistently warm/hot here in Atlanta so we went to the pool this weekend, which was nice. My stomach got burned and I’m convinced it was because I made J. stop at the Publix beforehand for a grilled Italian sausage which I accompanied with chips and a soda. My stomach was thus enormous and entirely too close to the sun, hence the burn. The whole pool experience is humiliating anyway because we (“we” used loosely as not to hurt feelings) are too cheap to buy a membership somewhere so we have to sneak into our old apartment complex, which we call our “Swim/Tennis.” It involves lurking around the front gate and then dashing in on foot behind the first car that drives in. I hate it. Am convinced we will be thrown out and possibly arrested for this. We’ll go again next weekend.
The hot weather has also, inexplicably, drawn a crowd to the bird feeder and I am very frustrated by the birds’ lack of self regulation. I’m running through a 20 pound bag every other week! Sometimes I put them on probation and don’t fill it up for a day, but then feel so bad that I get anxious and drive home from work super fast so I can fill it up before the sun goes down.
The last bit of news is the best bit. J. surprised me with tickets to Bruce Springsteen and the concert was Sunday night. We met up with some friends – friends that I always love to see and never see enough of – and then headed onto the floor of the arena for what I thought was an incredible show. It was so. much. fun. The title of this post is actually a nod to a favorite Boss song – “These are better days.” 100% agreed. Best days even.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Life Mundane
My oldest daughter was chastising me yesterday for not blogging more often. I know she's right. The time between entries is way too long. Some (a lot) of this fault rests with Smash who has not written in a very long time. Something about busy at work, busy at home, travel, guests, blah, blah, blah. I expect the real reason is the same as mine: when life is just moving along in a humdrum rhythm, there's really very little to blog about. I realize now that the blogs that I read the most often are those written by people who are experiencing some sort of upheaval in their lives, be it loss, infertility, or the trials and tribulations of raising young children. There's a tension in their writing -- a story to tell. Joe says that anyone's life can be an interesting story, that's it just all in the telling. I'm not sure that's true; sometimes my life even bores me.
I'm getting ready this week for a four day vacation beginning next Saturday. Joe and I are going to Florida with some friends. In preparation, I went shopping and bought a pair of pants that had to be hemmed. Needing any tailoring work done is always an adventure. I don't sew myself, but I have found someone who does. He runs a local drycleaners, can sew like a dream, does the work quickly, and charges reasonable prices. The only downside? As far as I can tell, he does not speak a word of English. We manage to communicate by pointing, folding material and hoping for the best. In the middle of the non-verbal communications, he often startles me by yelling out "Ye-ha." I have no idea what this means. He never gives a receipt for the clothes left for tailoring, and often retrieving ones garments requires lots of gesturing, pointing, and sighs of relief when the clothes are back in hand. Recently when I went to drop off a dress for alteration, the tailor's son was in the store. The son was in his thirties, well-dressed, and spoke perfect English with not even a hint of an accent. Noticing that I had no receipt in hand, he asked if I had been given one when I left the dress. I told him no, and he sighed with obvious distress. His dad went "Ye-ha." We have a system; no need to make changes.
I'm looking forward to being away for a few days, although beneath my happy anticipation is an undercurrent of worry about my dad. For the most part he seems to be doing okay, but there are still days when he tells me that he is so weak that it hard for him to get up from his recliner. I feel panicked and think that his congestive heart failure is catching up with him, but then the next day he reports that he feels much better. He's definitely more frail. I'm not sure why I worry about taking a trip -- I'm five hours away from him when I'm at home, and I expect if needed, I could reach him from Florida in about the same amount of time. Still, I just feel uneasy being "off duty" as it were. I'm not sure whether I will tell him that I am away. I think he would worry, so it may be best just to make my daily phone call from my cell and not mention that the call is being made beachside. I'm still thinking about what to do.
Perhaps worry about my dad, on top of worrying about everything else, has set off my recent wave of insomnia. For me, sleep has always been a refuge. When happy, I slept. When troubled, I slept. When bored, I slept. Naps, no problem. Early bedtime, all the better. But no longer. I can't sleep, and it's awful. I plan my whole day around sleeping. No caffeine, no naps, plenty of activity. Sometimes after dinner, I'm so tired I think my eyes just won't stay open a minute longer. But as soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind starts racing at a million miles per hour, and I am wide, WIDE awake. I toss, I turn, I get up, I go back to bed and finally at some point late into the night, I finally sleep an unrestful sleep. I hate it. I spend a lot of my time scheming as to how to lay my hands on an unlimited supply of ambien. So far, no good ideas.
The town where I live was named this week "The Most Affluent Town In America." I'm sure that people across the United States, hearing this breaking news, are picturing a vibrant downtown, fancy restaurants and stores, and even fancier people. I've lived here over twenty years; the thought makes me laugh. Sure we're up to our necks in politicians and rich folks, but what a dump! A dump we treasure, but still a dump. This is fodder for another post, for sure.
And finally, over dinner I was complaining to Joe that my blog is double dullsville. So, he's given me new ideas for upcoming entries. Stay tuned.
I'm getting ready this week for a four day vacation beginning next Saturday. Joe and I are going to Florida with some friends. In preparation, I went shopping and bought a pair of pants that had to be hemmed. Needing any tailoring work done is always an adventure. I don't sew myself, but I have found someone who does. He runs a local drycleaners, can sew like a dream, does the work quickly, and charges reasonable prices. The only downside? As far as I can tell, he does not speak a word of English. We manage to communicate by pointing, folding material and hoping for the best. In the middle of the non-verbal communications, he often startles me by yelling out "Ye-ha." I have no idea what this means. He never gives a receipt for the clothes left for tailoring, and often retrieving ones garments requires lots of gesturing, pointing, and sighs of relief when the clothes are back in hand. Recently when I went to drop off a dress for alteration, the tailor's son was in the store. The son was in his thirties, well-dressed, and spoke perfect English with not even a hint of an accent. Noticing that I had no receipt in hand, he asked if I had been given one when I left the dress. I told him no, and he sighed with obvious distress. His dad went "Ye-ha." We have a system; no need to make changes.
I'm looking forward to being away for a few days, although beneath my happy anticipation is an undercurrent of worry about my dad. For the most part he seems to be doing okay, but there are still days when he tells me that he is so weak that it hard for him to get up from his recliner. I feel panicked and think that his congestive heart failure is catching up with him, but then the next day he reports that he feels much better. He's definitely more frail. I'm not sure why I worry about taking a trip -- I'm five hours away from him when I'm at home, and I expect if needed, I could reach him from Florida in about the same amount of time. Still, I just feel uneasy being "off duty" as it were. I'm not sure whether I will tell him that I am away. I think he would worry, so it may be best just to make my daily phone call from my cell and not mention that the call is being made beachside. I'm still thinking about what to do.
Perhaps worry about my dad, on top of worrying about everything else, has set off my recent wave of insomnia. For me, sleep has always been a refuge. When happy, I slept. When troubled, I slept. When bored, I slept. Naps, no problem. Early bedtime, all the better. But no longer. I can't sleep, and it's awful. I plan my whole day around sleeping. No caffeine, no naps, plenty of activity. Sometimes after dinner, I'm so tired I think my eyes just won't stay open a minute longer. But as soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind starts racing at a million miles per hour, and I am wide, WIDE awake. I toss, I turn, I get up, I go back to bed and finally at some point late into the night, I finally sleep an unrestful sleep. I hate it. I spend a lot of my time scheming as to how to lay my hands on an unlimited supply of ambien. So far, no good ideas.
The town where I live was named this week "The Most Affluent Town In America." I'm sure that people across the United States, hearing this breaking news, are picturing a vibrant downtown, fancy restaurants and stores, and even fancier people. I've lived here over twenty years; the thought makes me laugh. Sure we're up to our necks in politicians and rich folks, but what a dump! A dump we treasure, but still a dump. This is fodder for another post, for sure.
And finally, over dinner I was complaining to Joe that my blog is double dullsville. So, he's given me new ideas for upcoming entries. Stay tuned.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
A Lift of Spirits
In the short lifetime of this blog, I've discovered this problem: when life is dull, there's nothing to blog about and when life is busy, there's no time to write. And then there's the third situation -- when life is busy and there are things to do, and yet I am stuck at home waiting for the oven repairman. Yes, the oven saga continues, now entering its fourth week. We've had missing parts, wrong parts, parts that needed to be special ordered, overly busy repairmen, repairmen taking a sick day, and finally today a technician who says he will arrive here between 11 and 2. My confidence level in that actually happening is not high. In fact, tonight's dinner is already cooking in the crockpot. In these last few weeks, I've become an expert at slow cooker, grilled or skillet meals. Were it not for my longing for a homemade chocolate chip cookie, I could no doubt remain ovenless for a while longer. Which, with the time ticking away and my confidence dropping further, still may happen.
Apart from the economic gloom and doom discussed by Smash in her last post, I'm feeling fairly optimistic. I always prefer April to March. March is my least favorite month --long, gray, and usually cold with just enough days with a hint of warmth to remind us of what we're missing when the next day is back to cold and windy. I was glad yesterday to bid March goodbye. So there's one for the Joy Journal.
The last few weekends have been fun-filled. Smash was home to visit, an increasingly rare treat. I love all three of my girls, but it's nice when I can have time to visit with each one individually. I'm not saying that having them together isn't wonderful as well, but sometimes it seems as the one-on-one time brings out the more adult, reasonable side of each darling daughter, not a return to the sibling squabbles of previous decades.
March Madness is always a fun time as well. I am usually spot-on with my bracket choices, and take great pleasure in pointing that out to all family members around me who have not made such wise choices. This season has been an exception; my brackets are busted. I blame that on the dismal economy. Obviously my worry about the financial future clouded my prognostication ability. D is leading the pack in her pool of 25 sorority sisters; unfortunately she is the administrator of the pool and failed to collect each person's one dollar in advance. There will surely be a life lesson there -- always better to get the money up front.
This past weekend we attended D's sorority Parents Formal. This is our third Parents Formal, and each year has been more and more fun as we've gotten to know more parents. The girls themselves are so lovely -- there's little fault to be seen in a group of so pretty 18-21 year olds all dressed in great dresses and escorted by handsome tuxedo clad dates. It was interesting to me that in the 100 or so young men that were in attendance, I didn't see one tuxedo that looked as if it were a rental. Do all college boys have their own tuxedos? Surely wasn't the case in my day, but as the evening with the sorority certainly pointed out -- college for me was a LONG time ago. I spent a good part of the evening avoiding the roaming photographers. A sure fire way to look old and feel depressed is to view myself in a photo standing next to the dewy skinned coeds. Someone took a picture of D and me on my camera.... one glance and I hit delete with record speed!
Following the college visit, we continued on to North Carolina to visit with my dad who lives in an independent living facility. Perhaps that should always be my next step after a visit with the college set.... I'm the youthful guest with my dad's crowd! Those visits are always interesting; the group dynamics are fascinating. There are always squabbles in the works about who sits where in the dining room, who is visiting whom, and the parking wars are vicious! When I commented that it seemed an awfully lot like high school, Joe corrected me and said he thought it was more like junior high school. He's right.
This weekend we'll spend at home with the focus being on the big UNC game on Saturday night. The cherry blossoms are in bloom, but I'll see them on television. Those of us who live in the DC area are loathe to go downtown on this, the busiest of all the tourist weekends. Still, there are some trees beautifully in bloom in my own neighborhood, the weather forecast is for gorgeous weather, and as of five minutes ago, I have a working oven!!! Toll House cookies here I come! So, no gloom and doom for me. It's joy all around.
Apart from the economic gloom and doom discussed by Smash in her last post, I'm feeling fairly optimistic. I always prefer April to March. March is my least favorite month --long, gray, and usually cold with just enough days with a hint of warmth to remind us of what we're missing when the next day is back to cold and windy. I was glad yesterday to bid March goodbye. So there's one for the Joy Journal.
The last few weekends have been fun-filled. Smash was home to visit, an increasingly rare treat. I love all three of my girls, but it's nice when I can have time to visit with each one individually. I'm not saying that having them together isn't wonderful as well, but sometimes it seems as the one-on-one time brings out the more adult, reasonable side of each darling daughter, not a return to the sibling squabbles of previous decades.
March Madness is always a fun time as well. I am usually spot-on with my bracket choices, and take great pleasure in pointing that out to all family members around me who have not made such wise choices. This season has been an exception; my brackets are busted. I blame that on the dismal economy. Obviously my worry about the financial future clouded my prognostication ability. D is leading the pack in her pool of 25 sorority sisters; unfortunately she is the administrator of the pool and failed to collect each person's one dollar in advance. There will surely be a life lesson there -- always better to get the money up front.
This past weekend we attended D's sorority Parents Formal. This is our third Parents Formal, and each year has been more and more fun as we've gotten to know more parents. The girls themselves are so lovely -- there's little fault to be seen in a group of so pretty 18-21 year olds all dressed in great dresses and escorted by handsome tuxedo clad dates. It was interesting to me that in the 100 or so young men that were in attendance, I didn't see one tuxedo that looked as if it were a rental. Do all college boys have their own tuxedos? Surely wasn't the case in my day, but as the evening with the sorority certainly pointed out -- college for me was a LONG time ago. I spent a good part of the evening avoiding the roaming photographers. A sure fire way to look old and feel depressed is to view myself in a photo standing next to the dewy skinned coeds. Someone took a picture of D and me on my camera.... one glance and I hit delete with record speed!
Following the college visit, we continued on to North Carolina to visit with my dad who lives in an independent living facility. Perhaps that should always be my next step after a visit with the college set.... I'm the youthful guest with my dad's crowd! Those visits are always interesting; the group dynamics are fascinating. There are always squabbles in the works about who sits where in the dining room, who is visiting whom, and the parking wars are vicious! When I commented that it seemed an awfully lot like high school, Joe corrected me and said he thought it was more like junior high school. He's right.
This weekend we'll spend at home with the focus being on the big UNC game on Saturday night. The cherry blossoms are in bloom, but I'll see them on television. Those of us who live in the DC area are loathe to go downtown on this, the busiest of all the tourist weekends. Still, there are some trees beautifully in bloom in my own neighborhood, the weather forecast is for gorgeous weather, and as of five minutes ago, I have a working oven!!! Toll House cookies here I come! So, no gloom and doom for me. It's joy all around.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Joy Journal
I'm exhausted from the persisting focus on the doom and gloom. The AIG bonus scandal dominates the news and apparently we've had to tell those taking stimulus money that it's not meant for building swimming pools and golf courses. Joe Biden is, to quote, "serious about this." I'm glad to hear it.
The exhaustion I feel does not preclude me from feeling concern for the people who are really struggling, but to the rest of us: enough already. Even Sooz, a true "snap out of it" personality, is dwelling in the dumps. With all the bad news and sad feelings, it actually feels inappropriate that I am in a good mood. But I just returned from a very nice long weekend with my parents and when I got back it was all sunshine and warm weather; Atlanta has made the switch to spring. Work is going fine, my husband is still the funniest person I know, it's Tournament of Champions week on Jeopardy.
Are our stocks down? Yes. Am I a smidge worried about my job? Sure. Even so, I'm abstaining from my favorite pastime of intense worry. What's the point? When my dad -- a loving but particularly gruff personality -- starts complaining (about anything) the family chants, "Time to get out your joy journal!" It's a therapist's method (or maybe it was from Oprah) for taking stock of the good things in life. I know, it's so good-natured I can hardly stand to write about it. But since it's the only tool I have right now, I'm giving it a try.
Today's joys (gag!) will include Obama choosing UNC as the NCAA champion, light traffic on the commute and, happening currently, watching a Jeopardy with my husband that I already watched with my parents and thus appearing as if I am really, really smart.
Yesterday the list included: America's Funniest Home Videos, the recent New Kids on the Block song and watching the cardinals on the bird feeder. It's the list of a loser. A happy one.
PS: My husband just announced he's making popcorn. Double joy.
PPS:
Hubs: Do you want some of this popcorn?
Smash: Not really, just a handful.
- Enter Popcorn -
Smash, tasting a piece: Did you put sugar on this?
Hubs: Yes, just a little.
Smash: But I hate sugar on popcorn.
Hubs: You said you didn't really want any.
Smash: Yeah, but just because I'm not having any doesn't mean you shouldn't make it how I like it.
Hubs, en route to basement: This is what I'm living with.
See? Joyful!
The exhaustion I feel does not preclude me from feeling concern for the people who are really struggling, but to the rest of us: enough already. Even Sooz, a true "snap out of it" personality, is dwelling in the dumps. With all the bad news and sad feelings, it actually feels inappropriate that I am in a good mood. But I just returned from a very nice long weekend with my parents and when I got back it was all sunshine and warm weather; Atlanta has made the switch to spring. Work is going fine, my husband is still the funniest person I know, it's Tournament of Champions week on Jeopardy.
Are our stocks down? Yes. Am I a smidge worried about my job? Sure. Even so, I'm abstaining from my favorite pastime of intense worry. What's the point? When my dad -- a loving but particularly gruff personality -- starts complaining (about anything) the family chants, "Time to get out your joy journal!" It's a therapist's method (or maybe it was from Oprah) for taking stock of the good things in life. I know, it's so good-natured I can hardly stand to write about it. But since it's the only tool I have right now, I'm giving it a try.
Today's joys (gag!) will include Obama choosing UNC as the NCAA champion, light traffic on the commute and, happening currently, watching a Jeopardy with my husband that I already watched with my parents and thus appearing as if I am really, really smart.
Yesterday the list included: America's Funniest Home Videos, the recent New Kids on the Block song and watching the cardinals on the bird feeder. It's the list of a loser. A happy one.
PS: My husband just announced he's making popcorn. Double joy.
PPS:
Hubs: Do you want some of this popcorn?
Smash: Not really, just a handful.
- Enter Popcorn -
Smash, tasting a piece: Did you put sugar on this?
Hubs: Yes, just a little.
Smash: But I hate sugar on popcorn.
Hubs: You said you didn't really want any.
Smash: Yeah, but just because I'm not having any doesn't mean you shouldn't make it how I like it.
Hubs, en route to basement: This is what I'm living with.
See? Joyful!
Monday, March 9, 2009
When It Rains It Pours
It should have been a fun weekend. After 8 inches of snow the previous Monday, the temperature hit 70 degrees on Saturday. My dad, who had been in the hospital earlier in the week, had rallied and seemed to be doing better. D had made it to New York City, albeit on a bus which traveled the last half of the trip with a flat tire. Friends were invited over for Sunday afternoon to watch the UNC-Duke basketball game and have dinner afterwards. It was going to be a fun, inexpensive weekend. Or so I thought.
On Saturday, while I shopped for the makings of my lasagna dinner, Joe decided to take our old Jeep, the one D uses, in to our local mechanic for an oil change, tire rotation and brake check. Fine, good idea. A few hours later the mechanic called to say that both the front and rear brakes, pads and rotors, need to be replaced. $700.
On Sunday, our friends arrived. We settled in to watch the game. At half-time, I stuck the lasagna in the (relatively new) oven. 45 minutes later I went upstairs to check to make sure that everything was okay. Inside the oven looked like a bang-up July 4th display. Sparks were flying everywhere, and the lower heating element was flaming. After a few screams, I cut off the oven, rescued the now well-done lasagna, and decided to deal with this problem later. However, I was overheated from the excitement, so went to the thermostat to turn on the furnace fan to blow a little air through the house. I pressed "Mode", the thermostat flashed, and then went blank. Another problem to deal with later.
Monday morning. When the cats came into the kitchen to be fed, I saw that one of the kitties had a red and swollen eye. I called the vet, scheduled an appointment, and took her in. An hour later I left the vet's office with my cat who has pink eye, three prescriptions, and $207 less in my checking account.
As I drove home, I noticed the car making a strange noise. I am ignoring that for now.
Back at home, I called for oven repair, but no one can come out until next Monday, so I'm left thinking about what we'll be eating for a week that does not require oven cooking. At the very least, I know the lower heating element will need to be replaced and I'm betting that will not come cheap. ARGGGG.
The HVAC company was able to send someone out this afternoon. He was just here. His diagnosis: a wire has shorted out that connects the thermostat to the furnace. We can either cut dry wall throughout the house to find and replace that wire or (he recommends) we can purchase and install a wireless thermometer for just $568. He will be back tomorrow for the installation.
I know that none of this is a big deal. Things break and need to be replaced. But that damn thermostat could be money left in the bank or, better still, the new spring Michael Kors purse that I covet. So, I'm feeling grumpy. And sorry for myself. And out of sorts. Welcome to my pity party.
On Saturday, while I shopped for the makings of my lasagna dinner, Joe decided to take our old Jeep, the one D uses, in to our local mechanic for an oil change, tire rotation and brake check. Fine, good idea. A few hours later the mechanic called to say that both the front and rear brakes, pads and rotors, need to be replaced. $700.
On Sunday, our friends arrived. We settled in to watch the game. At half-time, I stuck the lasagna in the (relatively new) oven. 45 minutes later I went upstairs to check to make sure that everything was okay. Inside the oven looked like a bang-up July 4th display. Sparks were flying everywhere, and the lower heating element was flaming. After a few screams, I cut off the oven, rescued the now well-done lasagna, and decided to deal with this problem later. However, I was overheated from the excitement, so went to the thermostat to turn on the furnace fan to blow a little air through the house. I pressed "Mode", the thermostat flashed, and then went blank. Another problem to deal with later.
Monday morning. When the cats came into the kitchen to be fed, I saw that one of the kitties had a red and swollen eye. I called the vet, scheduled an appointment, and took her in. An hour later I left the vet's office with my cat who has pink eye, three prescriptions, and $207 less in my checking account.
As I drove home, I noticed the car making a strange noise. I am ignoring that for now.
Back at home, I called for oven repair, but no one can come out until next Monday, so I'm left thinking about what we'll be eating for a week that does not require oven cooking. At the very least, I know the lower heating element will need to be replaced and I'm betting that will not come cheap. ARGGGG.
The HVAC company was able to send someone out this afternoon. He was just here. His diagnosis: a wire has shorted out that connects the thermostat to the furnace. We can either cut dry wall throughout the house to find and replace that wire or (he recommends) we can purchase and install a wireless thermometer for just $568. He will be back tomorrow for the installation.
I know that none of this is a big deal. Things break and need to be replaced. But that damn thermostat could be money left in the bank or, better still, the new spring Michael Kors purse that I covet. So, I'm feeling grumpy. And sorry for myself. And out of sorts. Welcome to my pity party.
Monday, February 23, 2009
This Damn Economy
Given the financial climate, I guess we’re all hoping for a big win these days. Sooz spent the weekend wishing for an Oscars trip while I’ve faithfully logged on to enter the HGTV Dream Home Sweepstakes each day for the past month. I use it to cure insomnia, calming my mind before bed by picturing the dream home, thinking about how each spring we’ll head out to Sonoma to enjoy it, tour the wine country, and throw amazing dinner parties on the back patio where guests will perch on designer pillows made of bamboo fabric.
Then last week I panicked. What if I really win? I can’t afford those taxes! And how much would it cost to heat and cool the monstrosity? We could never sell it in this market!
The only prize I’m winning is for most paranoid person. It’s the uncertainty of it all that gets to me. Experts throw out “roller-coaster” and “unpredictable” and “I’ve never seen this before in my life.” So how I am supposed to know what to do? Even my husband, the absolute calm in all my storms, feels queasy.
Last weekend I handed over $8 and saw Confessions of a Shopaholic. (I felt ashamed that I had the $8 to spend but justified it since it was the matinee.) The message of the movie is that you don’t need things to be happy. And that’s true, but man did that actress have some nice things! I left the theater and went straight to the mall. More shame. More guilt. After all, people are losing their jobs, their homes, their retirement packages. I’m at Dillards gleefully sorting through the dresses.
According to my friends, I shouldn’t feel guilty about shopping since I am stimulating the economy. This may be true, but I hunkered down this weekend and didn’t spend a dime. Today, however, I’m back. After a multi-year struggle, a dear friend of mine just had her first baby and I plan on sending the first gift that strikes my fancy, whatever the cost. Her shiniest day has come despite these very gray times and I’m going to celebrate. In this damn economy, joy remains recession-proof.
Then last week I panicked. What if I really win? I can’t afford those taxes! And how much would it cost to heat and cool the monstrosity? We could never sell it in this market!
The only prize I’m winning is for most paranoid person. It’s the uncertainty of it all that gets to me. Experts throw out “roller-coaster” and “unpredictable” and “I’ve never seen this before in my life.” So how I am supposed to know what to do? Even my husband, the absolute calm in all my storms, feels queasy.
Last weekend I handed over $8 and saw Confessions of a Shopaholic. (I felt ashamed that I had the $8 to spend but justified it since it was the matinee.) The message of the movie is that you don’t need things to be happy. And that’s true, but man did that actress have some nice things! I left the theater and went straight to the mall. More shame. More guilt. After all, people are losing their jobs, their homes, their retirement packages. I’m at Dillards gleefully sorting through the dresses.
According to my friends, I shouldn’t feel guilty about shopping since I am stimulating the economy. This may be true, but I hunkered down this weekend and didn’t spend a dime. Today, however, I’m back. After a multi-year struggle, a dear friend of mine just had her first baby and I plan on sending the first gift that strikes my fancy, whatever the cost. Her shiniest day has come despite these very gray times and I’m going to celebrate. In this damn economy, joy remains recession-proof.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
And The Winner Is...
Yesterday afternoon my best friend Annie phoned and said "Quick! Go to Oprah.com and enter the sweepstakes to win a trip to LA and two tickets to both Oprah's After-Oscar party and to the taping of Monday's show." I rushed to the computer and entered the contest just as Annie had directed. Annie and I then chatted on the phone, deciding what we would wear to each event, and what we would say to our soon-to-be new best friends, Oprah and Gayle. We realized that we needed to do some shopping and made plans to do that as soon as we were notified of our winning status. Annie decided to visit her safe deposit box and get us a few pieces of nice jewelry (and Annie has plenty!) for the events. I fretted a little about having to cancel the birthday dinner for my daughter tomorrow night as well as my trip to North Carolina to see my dad on Monday, but decided they would both understand. Annie declared that she would just quit her job if there was any problem about her not showing up on Monday and Tuesday. We were ready. We both had really, really strong feelings that we were going to be the lucky winners. All that was left to do was wait for that exciting call this morning. Would it be Oprah herself? Or perhaps one of her producers? What tone should we take -- shrieks or calm thanks?
I actually made pre-trip to-do lists in my head before I went to sleep last night. And this morning I anticipated the ringing of the phone. Knowing that the day of shopping and packing ahead would be busy, I was up early and into the shower --- with the phone right outside the shower door. The phone rang -- Daughter D. It rang again -- Verizon wanting to sell me FIOS service. Another call -- Daughter J. I checked the Oprah website thinking there might be some sort of announcement. Nothing. But while on the website, I read the information about attending the taping of a show and noted that neither Annie nor I should wear white or beige as those colors interfere with the show's lighting. At noon, Annie called. When I saw her name on Caller ID, I thought this might be it! But, no. Annie said that she had actually received a wrong number call earlier and looking at the unfamiliar name on her Caller ID, she had felt faint. Annie also confessed to listening to her own dial tone several times to be sure her phone was in service. We had been so sure that we were going to win.
As Annie and I talked, her husband, in the background, laughed and said we were "misguided." But I don't think that's right. We were exceedingly hopeful, and I don't think that can ever be a bad thing. Plus, we had such fun anticipating and planning the trip, and isn't that an important part of any getaway? Anyway, realizing that the winner had no doubt already been notified and sadly it was not one of us, Annie and I jumped right into discussing how Oprah had really missed out on a good thing. We talked and laughed until I was almost crying, and I was reminded once again of how great it is to have a really good friend. We may not be attending Oprah's party, but we had a great time.
I actually made pre-trip to-do lists in my head before I went to sleep last night. And this morning I anticipated the ringing of the phone. Knowing that the day of shopping and packing ahead would be busy, I was up early and into the shower --- with the phone right outside the shower door. The phone rang -- Daughter D. It rang again -- Verizon wanting to sell me FIOS service. Another call -- Daughter J. I checked the Oprah website thinking there might be some sort of announcement. Nothing. But while on the website, I read the information about attending the taping of a show and noted that neither Annie nor I should wear white or beige as those colors interfere with the show's lighting. At noon, Annie called. When I saw her name on Caller ID, I thought this might be it! But, no. Annie said that she had actually received a wrong number call earlier and looking at the unfamiliar name on her Caller ID, she had felt faint. Annie also confessed to listening to her own dial tone several times to be sure her phone was in service. We had been so sure that we were going to win.
As Annie and I talked, her husband, in the background, laughed and said we were "misguided." But I don't think that's right. We were exceedingly hopeful, and I don't think that can ever be a bad thing. Plus, we had such fun anticipating and planning the trip, and isn't that an important part of any getaway? Anyway, realizing that the winner had no doubt already been notified and sadly it was not one of us, Annie and I jumped right into discussing how Oprah had really missed out on a good thing. We talked and laughed until I was almost crying, and I was reminded once again of how great it is to have a really good friend. We may not be attending Oprah's party, but we had a great time.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Let Me Eat Cake
If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that birthday cake always tastes better when eaten with a plastic fork.
I'm struggling with this post. I've written and deleted several times now. It's my birthday, and naturally I'm filled with thoughts of getting older. Being old. Yikes. But my day has so far been filled with sweet cards, calls and messages from the people I love, so who can go wrong with that? Age really sneaked up on me. Whew! Time has flown by. Yet how lucky I am, because I have everything I've ever wished for.
So let me say on this, my day, how delighted I am with my life. No one ever had a better husband. At age 19, I looked across the college library and met eyes with a boy I had never seen before. Time literally stood still, and I can still feel the moment. I knew he was "the one" and thankfully, he came and talked to me and that was that. And then, our girls. The joy, the fun, the frustration.....I would not trade a day. The girls are so different in looks and temperaments, yet each so perfect. Smash does not like the word "proud" but that is what I am.... I am proud of these so very lovely young women whom I so much adore. And I am so thankful for the close relationship I have with each of them. I didn't have that with my own mother, but having my daughters has made that not matter.
And, of course, the icing on this birthday cake is my granddaughter. Even though she loves her mommy the very best, and will barely give me the time of day when that mommy is around, just looking into her big brown eyes is a pleasure unparalleled.
I'm old(er) today. And I'm wrinkling, sagging, and filled with aches and pains. But man, am I happy. I'm holding the plastic fork.
I'm struggling with this post. I've written and deleted several times now. It's my birthday, and naturally I'm filled with thoughts of getting older. Being old. Yikes. But my day has so far been filled with sweet cards, calls and messages from the people I love, so who can go wrong with that? Age really sneaked up on me. Whew! Time has flown by. Yet how lucky I am, because I have everything I've ever wished for.
So let me say on this, my day, how delighted I am with my life. No one ever had a better husband. At age 19, I looked across the college library and met eyes with a boy I had never seen before. Time literally stood still, and I can still feel the moment. I knew he was "the one" and thankfully, he came and talked to me and that was that. And then, our girls. The joy, the fun, the frustration.....I would not trade a day. The girls are so different in looks and temperaments, yet each so perfect. Smash does not like the word "proud" but that is what I am.... I am proud of these so very lovely young women whom I so much adore. And I am so thankful for the close relationship I have with each of them. I didn't have that with my own mother, but having my daughters has made that not matter.
And, of course, the icing on this birthday cake is my granddaughter. Even though she loves her mommy the very best, and will barely give me the time of day when that mommy is around, just looking into her big brown eyes is a pleasure unparalleled.
I'm old(er) today. And I'm wrinkling, sagging, and filled with aches and pains. But man, am I happy. I'm holding the plastic fork.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Another Day, Another A
Thankfully, the phrase is the only thing left over from my first college boyfriend, a boy I once thought I would marry, and am decidedly glad I did not. These days I’m pulling mostly Bs and Cs which seems okay given that most people (Sooz included) are barely passing with Ds and Fs. Childishly, I actually felt left out of her last post. After all, everyone else’s bad news was included! But I don’t really have bad news and a B average means life is humming along as it should. But man, these days are dragging on…
Maybe it’s the weather, but nothing is holding my interest lately. Even finding something to post was a struggle. I work. I work out. I eat out. I sleep. Again. Again. Again. Even my body has the doldrums – the heartbreak of psoriasis is more painful than ever, my hip flares up with every temperature drop and my nose alternates between too dry and too runny. I am grouchy and judgmental. Chuck on NBC in 3D? Stupid. $1 photo valentines at the mall? Ridiculous. I sneer. I slump. I sigh.
The most telling symptom of my malaise is my bank account. Usually filled with debits from dinners out, new clothes and pedicures, my last three major purchases are as follows:
· Three 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles ordered online
· Overdue library fines (Who has the energy to return books?)
· An $85 bird feeder
The hubs almost fainted at the cost of the bird feeder, but I insisted. There is a fat red cardinal that I want to woo to our deck in hopes he brightens these winter days. I’m 30, living the life of a 90 year old.
My friends at work have expressed concern. Is it Seasonal Affective Disorder they wonder? Oh, if only it were something so topical and interesting. She’s too young for a midlife crisis, they verify. And work is going fine, so what could it be? One particularly kind friend emailed this weekend, urging me to discuss my mood with my husband. I take her advice and as I fold laundry while he packs for a trip I proclaim, “I’m in a major funk!”
“I know,” he says, without looking up, “That’s why we got you that bird feeder.”
Good enough. Another day…another A.
PS: Scoots, we know you’re reading. What we don’t know is: are you enjoying?
Maybe it’s the weather, but nothing is holding my interest lately. Even finding something to post was a struggle. I work. I work out. I eat out. I sleep. Again. Again. Again. Even my body has the doldrums – the heartbreak of psoriasis is more painful than ever, my hip flares up with every temperature drop and my nose alternates between too dry and too runny. I am grouchy and judgmental. Chuck on NBC in 3D? Stupid. $1 photo valentines at the mall? Ridiculous. I sneer. I slump. I sigh.
The most telling symptom of my malaise is my bank account. Usually filled with debits from dinners out, new clothes and pedicures, my last three major purchases are as follows:
· Three 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles ordered online
· Overdue library fines (Who has the energy to return books?)
· An $85 bird feeder
The hubs almost fainted at the cost of the bird feeder, but I insisted. There is a fat red cardinal that I want to woo to our deck in hopes he brightens these winter days. I’m 30, living the life of a 90 year old.
My friends at work have expressed concern. Is it Seasonal Affective Disorder they wonder? Oh, if only it were something so topical and interesting. She’s too young for a midlife crisis, they verify. And work is going fine, so what could it be? One particularly kind friend emailed this weekend, urging me to discuss my mood with my husband. I take her advice and as I fold laundry while he packs for a trip I proclaim, “I’m in a major funk!”
“I know,” he says, without looking up, “That’s why we got you that bird feeder.”
Good enough. Another day…another A.
PS: Scoots, we know you’re reading. What we don’t know is: are you enjoying?
Monday, January 12, 2009
2009: Re-boot Needed
Usually I don't think much about the start of a new year. I've never been one for wild celebrations or resounding resolutions. I've always seen January 1 as the day which follows December 31, my only nod to the New Year being eating a meal which includes black-eyed peas. That is until 2008. 2008 was the type of year that caused me to long for a new calendar, a fresh start, a beginning of something better. Because 2008 was not a good year and I was eager to have it gone. My mother died in 2008, leaving my 95 year old dad and her husband of 73 years, alone and a five hour drive from me. The economy spiraled downward, taking a direct hit not only on our savings, but also on Joe's line of work. After a somewhat smug decision made in January 2008 (following a healthy 2007) to sharply raise our medical insurance deductible, I learned in 2008 that an MRI is really pricey, specialists charge an arm and a leg, and that physical therapy requires a lot of expensive sessions to effect even the slightest improvement. One of my daughters faced a huge disappointment in the fall, and the resulting sadness lingered. The roof leaked. The oven broke. Our stock portfolio only got worse. D came home from college for Christmas break and within hours was violently ill. On December 26, my son-in-law's car was hit by a red light runner. He was fine but the car was totaled. How many more days until 2008 is over?
So, imagine how I felt on the morning of December 30, when I awoke with a sore throat. Undeterred, I got up, dosed myself with zinc, vitamin C, and Advil and assured myself it was nothing. I would get better. I would in two days time feel great and welcome the new year with open arms, assuring myself a change of fortune and happier days ahead. I felt lousy on the morning of the 31st as well, but surely I would make the turn-around and be fine for the planned evening activities of a nice dinner and a movie. Okay, Chicken Out eaten while lying on the sofa was not what I had in mind, and I was in a feverish fog at midnight, but still I planned on waking up on January 1, 2009 feeling great and ready for a happy new year. Fast forward to January 10, ten days of misery and a Z-Pack later, and hello 2009. It's time to get this party started. But wait.... there's the sound of sneezing and snuffling. Joe is sick. And 2009 remains on hold.
So, imagine how I felt on the morning of December 30, when I awoke with a sore throat. Undeterred, I got up, dosed myself with zinc, vitamin C, and Advil and assured myself it was nothing. I would get better. I would in two days time feel great and welcome the new year with open arms, assuring myself a change of fortune and happier days ahead. I felt lousy on the morning of the 31st as well, but surely I would make the turn-around and be fine for the planned evening activities of a nice dinner and a movie. Okay, Chicken Out eaten while lying on the sofa was not what I had in mind, and I was in a feverish fog at midnight, but still I planned on waking up on January 1, 2009 feeling great and ready for a happy new year. Fast forward to January 10, ten days of misery and a Z-Pack later, and hello 2009. It's time to get this party started. But wait.... there's the sound of sneezing and snuffling. Joe is sick. And 2009 remains on hold.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
T’was The Season…
It is with regret that I report that the 2008 holiday season has passed without incident. No family blow-ups, inappropriate questions or personal offenses. Not even a lingering resentment to keep me warm on the cold nights ahead. Even on the home front things were quiet, with only one minor flare-up manifested in two harshly worded emails and a trip alone to the bookstore before all was forgiven. It’s as if the holidays didn’t happen at all.
Because really, where is the joy in everyone getting along? Thanksgiving was such a pleasant affair that we weren’t even able to come up with a post about it. Who wants to hear that we sat down at 4p to eat, spoke with ease on a range of subjects and disbanded around 9p after sharing pumpkin pie? Even Sooz, who can usually be counted on for at least one fit of rage about how she does all the work and no one appreciates it, went silent this year. The sisters know how to really work me up but the baby sister is now big and the big sister has a baby…neither status conducive to the slur-flinging, hairbrush hitting fights of yore…
Christmas was spent with my in-laws, an experience that traditionally gets my back up a good week before we even arrive. I spend days carefully planning my responses to snarky comments and bait my husband into plotting a full spousal defense strategy. (My brilliant plan this year involved responding, “That’s interesting,” to pretty much everything.) Imagine my disappointment when the days passed with nothing more than several nice presents and one “We’re so glad you came.” Even our tree was well-behaved, refusing to spread those pesky needles all over the house, despite being withheld water for a week.
Perhaps this underwhelming theme of peace was brought on by healthy doses of Xanax and white wine. I fear it is because somewhere along the way we all decided to grow up. To grin and bear those probing questions and strong opinions, to choose a common conversation over a controversial one and to remember these people are family and thus deserve our best and brightest selves. How very mature. How very boring.
New Year’s Eve is tonight and we’ve planned to have dinner alone and then drive to a friend’s house for a small party. The friend lives far away and if we drink, a car will definitely have to be left for pick-up tomorrow. I don’t want to leave my car overnight. My husband doesn’t want to leave his car overnight. I smell a fight in the air. Happy New Year!!
Because really, where is the joy in everyone getting along? Thanksgiving was such a pleasant affair that we weren’t even able to come up with a post about it. Who wants to hear that we sat down at 4p to eat, spoke with ease on a range of subjects and disbanded around 9p after sharing pumpkin pie? Even Sooz, who can usually be counted on for at least one fit of rage about how she does all the work and no one appreciates it, went silent this year. The sisters know how to really work me up but the baby sister is now big and the big sister has a baby…neither status conducive to the slur-flinging, hairbrush hitting fights of yore…
Christmas was spent with my in-laws, an experience that traditionally gets my back up a good week before we even arrive. I spend days carefully planning my responses to snarky comments and bait my husband into plotting a full spousal defense strategy. (My brilliant plan this year involved responding, “That’s interesting,” to pretty much everything.) Imagine my disappointment when the days passed with nothing more than several nice presents and one “We’re so glad you came.” Even our tree was well-behaved, refusing to spread those pesky needles all over the house, despite being withheld water for a week.
Perhaps this underwhelming theme of peace was brought on by healthy doses of Xanax and white wine. I fear it is because somewhere along the way we all decided to grow up. To grin and bear those probing questions and strong opinions, to choose a common conversation over a controversial one and to remember these people are family and thus deserve our best and brightest selves. How very mature. How very boring.
New Year’s Eve is tonight and we’ve planned to have dinner alone and then drive to a friend’s house for a small party. The friend lives far away and if we drink, a car will definitely have to be left for pick-up tomorrow. I don’t want to leave my car overnight. My husband doesn’t want to leave his car overnight. I smell a fight in the air. Happy New Year!!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Lotta Rock in Little Rock
This past Monday, the airplane I was on almost went down due to turbulence.
I realize that no airplane (at least in recent history) has been taken down by turbulence, but every time it hits, I’m convinced it’s over. In this instance, the bodies would have landed in Little Rock, Arkansas, and as we bounced and swayed our way towards Atlanta, my central thought was: I’m going to die and it’s been seven days since I’ve seen my husband.
I was coming back from a weeklong trip to Vegas and like most business trips, it was a lot of work with a little fun. You can take on a revised persona on a business trip and while I was in Vegas, dancing into the early hours of the morning, I felt young and pretty and even a bit adventurous, which anyone who knows me can refute. (I could tell you what I’m going to do on a Tuesday a month from now. I hate adventure.) But on that plane home, rocking back and forth and wondering if I could clench the hand of the stranger next to me, I just felt…weary.
Yes, the world’s an exciting place but what’s the point if you are forever bound to see it with those that you send the most emails to, but who don’t know that you can’t do simple math and only learned to use (okay, handle) chopsticks 4 months ago? Something continues to build inside of me and I’m finally starting to pay attention. I want a smaller world.
I don’t mean small as in the politically correct eco-sense of “we’re all neighbors and I buy my Chapstick from a woman who makes it in Mongolia” small, I mean actually small. (Not that I disagree with being neighborly with the world, but I get my Chapstick from the CVS.)
How tedious yet reassuring to spend my days picking up the dry-cleaning from Rebecca and her dog Angel, then swinging by to the Italian take-out place to grab dinner. (And possibly say hello to the manager who after 8 years has finally deigned to recognize me.) “The boredom! The boredom!” some of you are shrieking. But I see only calm – a plain backdrop on which to manage life’s real problems.
There is a book I admire even though I can’t remember the name or the author but the crux of it is that a woman who traveled frequently spent her flying time writing letters to her children. Touching and smart. For me, however, the only letters I plan on writing will be those I send to my children’s summer camp. And the rest of the year, when the children are tucked into their own beds, I’ll be right there with them telling a story. “Once upon a time your mom and your dad traveled everywhere and met some very smart and semi-famous people and saw the world and felt energized and exhausted all at the same time.”
Once upon a time indeed. As the plane made its final approach into Hartsfield, my heart hummed. Home sweet home.
I realize that no airplane (at least in recent history) has been taken down by turbulence, but every time it hits, I’m convinced it’s over. In this instance, the bodies would have landed in Little Rock, Arkansas, and as we bounced and swayed our way towards Atlanta, my central thought was: I’m going to die and it’s been seven days since I’ve seen my husband.
I was coming back from a weeklong trip to Vegas and like most business trips, it was a lot of work with a little fun. You can take on a revised persona on a business trip and while I was in Vegas, dancing into the early hours of the morning, I felt young and pretty and even a bit adventurous, which anyone who knows me can refute. (I could tell you what I’m going to do on a Tuesday a month from now. I hate adventure.) But on that plane home, rocking back and forth and wondering if I could clench the hand of the stranger next to me, I just felt…weary.
Yes, the world’s an exciting place but what’s the point if you are forever bound to see it with those that you send the most emails to, but who don’t know that you can’t do simple math and only learned to use (okay, handle) chopsticks 4 months ago? Something continues to build inside of me and I’m finally starting to pay attention. I want a smaller world.
I don’t mean small as in the politically correct eco-sense of “we’re all neighbors and I buy my Chapstick from a woman who makes it in Mongolia” small, I mean actually small. (Not that I disagree with being neighborly with the world, but I get my Chapstick from the CVS.)
How tedious yet reassuring to spend my days picking up the dry-cleaning from Rebecca and her dog Angel, then swinging by to the Italian take-out place to grab dinner. (And possibly say hello to the manager who after 8 years has finally deigned to recognize me.) “The boredom! The boredom!” some of you are shrieking. But I see only calm – a plain backdrop on which to manage life’s real problems.
There is a book I admire even though I can’t remember the name or the author but the crux of it is that a woman who traveled frequently spent her flying time writing letters to her children. Touching and smart. For me, however, the only letters I plan on writing will be those I send to my children’s summer camp. And the rest of the year, when the children are tucked into their own beds, I’ll be right there with them telling a story. “Once upon a time your mom and your dad traveled everywhere and met some very smart and semi-famous people and saw the world and felt energized and exhausted all at the same time.”
Once upon a time indeed. As the plane made its final approach into Hartsfield, my heart hummed. Home sweet home.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Homeland Security
As I love to do as often as possible, this last weekend I spent some time with my two year old granddaughter. (An aside: apologies to any of you who have two year old daughters, nieces, siblings or granddaughters because I have to say that MY granddaughter is the cutest, sweetest, smartest and most wonderful two year old in the ENTIRE world. She really is.) Anyhow, as we were playing with lots of toys strewn on the floor, Sweetums tripped and fell down hard. She wasn't hurt, but it certainly startled her and was quite enough to set off some loud wailing. Her mommy scooped her right up and began soothing her, but the crying continued, loud and clear. But between the sobs, I heard her making a request...."I want my blankie."
And so begins another generation of blanket love. Before my first daughter was born, I had been warned not to allow her to get too attached to one blanket as that presented all sorts of problems for laundering or loss. That seemed like an easy problem to fix.... I bought TWO blankets for her crib. Little did I realize at the time how quickly she would form an attachment to BOTH. Although my original plan had backfired, when little sister came along two years later, she surely couldn't be given less than the first baby, so again two blankets. And again, quick attachment to BOTH blankets. Now, don't get me wrong, my children were not at all Linus like-- the blankets were for home use only and were not dragged along every time we left the house for an errand. But for sleeping, or comfort, or just hanging around, those blankies were a MUST. And not to seem like a slow learner, but ten years later, guess how many blankets were given to the new baby? And guess how many she loved? Right..... two.
I never made a big deal about when it would be time to say goodbye to the beloved blankets. We got rid of pacifiers when baby teeth started being misaligned. We said adios to bottles when ear infections set in. Stuffed animals were loved for awhile and then deserted in favor of something new. But not the bankies, as they were called in our house. Years passed and they were still with us. The blankets went on vacations. They went to overnight camps. They went to sleepovers. They went to college. They showed their age becoming filled with holes and worn on the edges. Still, they were loved.
My youngest daughter had to retire one blanket when it became too "fragile" but she still has her other. It resides on her bed at college and is almost always found wrapped around her neck as she studies or watches tv. As far as I know, none of her friends have ever teased her about the banky; it's just a part of who she is. Smash still has both her blankets; her blankets are of heartier stock -- both waffle weave. Smash travels with only one blanket -- too risky to have both -- and after a particular scary incident of lost luggage, the one making the trip always goes in carry-on. Smash tells me that after a particularly hard day at work, she will come home and put her face into her blanket until the world looks a little brighter. Smash's husband has accepted the blankets as part of their lives. My oldest daughter has put away her blankets, but they are still on a nearby closet shelf, ready if needed. And it is her daughter who, when hurt, sad or tired wants her blanket. The torch has been passed.
I've often asked the girls how their blankets make them feel. What about them lend that sense of comfort and well-being? None of them have ever really given me an answer and I really do want to know. I want that feeling. I too want to have that special something for the times when anxiety is creeping up or bad news is settling in. I think it's something we all could use. I want my blankie.
And so begins another generation of blanket love. Before my first daughter was born, I had been warned not to allow her to get too attached to one blanket as that presented all sorts of problems for laundering or loss. That seemed like an easy problem to fix.... I bought TWO blankets for her crib. Little did I realize at the time how quickly she would form an attachment to BOTH. Although my original plan had backfired, when little sister came along two years later, she surely couldn't be given less than the first baby, so again two blankets. And again, quick attachment to BOTH blankets. Now, don't get me wrong, my children were not at all Linus like-- the blankets were for home use only and were not dragged along every time we left the house for an errand. But for sleeping, or comfort, or just hanging around, those blankies were a MUST. And not to seem like a slow learner, but ten years later, guess how many blankets were given to the new baby? And guess how many she loved? Right..... two.
I never made a big deal about when it would be time to say goodbye to the beloved blankets. We got rid of pacifiers when baby teeth started being misaligned. We said adios to bottles when ear infections set in. Stuffed animals were loved for awhile and then deserted in favor of something new. But not the bankies, as they were called in our house. Years passed and they were still with us. The blankets went on vacations. They went to overnight camps. They went to sleepovers. They went to college. They showed their age becoming filled with holes and worn on the edges. Still, they were loved.
My youngest daughter had to retire one blanket when it became too "fragile" but she still has her other. It resides on her bed at college and is almost always found wrapped around her neck as she studies or watches tv. As far as I know, none of her friends have ever teased her about the banky; it's just a part of who she is. Smash still has both her blankets; her blankets are of heartier stock -- both waffle weave. Smash travels with only one blanket -- too risky to have both -- and after a particular scary incident of lost luggage, the one making the trip always goes in carry-on. Smash tells me that after a particularly hard day at work, she will come home and put her face into her blanket until the world looks a little brighter. Smash's husband has accepted the blankets as part of their lives. My oldest daughter has put away her blankets, but they are still on a nearby closet shelf, ready if needed. And it is her daughter who, when hurt, sad or tired wants her blanket. The torch has been passed.
I've often asked the girls how their blankets make them feel. What about them lend that sense of comfort and well-being? None of them have ever really given me an answer and I really do want to know. I want that feeling. I too want to have that special something for the times when anxiety is creeping up or bad news is settling in. I think it's something we all could use. I want my blankie.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
For Your Eyes Only
Several months ago, when Smash and I first discussed starting a blog, we encountered a bit of skepticism from my husband-- let's call him Joe. Joe opined that he would expect to see the blog up and running just about..... never. Granted, a blog did have the sound of a new "project" and I'll be the first to admit that some previous endeavors didn't quite work out. But how can anyone finish crocheting an afghan after the pattern somehow goes askew and the shape becomes decidedly not rectangular? Who says that membership in a pricey fitness club translates into actual daily (weekly or occasional) exercise? And I AM still working on getting all the old photographs into albums. So there. But Joe took us seriously enough to mention the proposed blog to our college-age daughter who immediately got her back up and declared she knew that the only reason we would write a blog would be to write about HER! After that reaction, I thought it best just not to mention the subject to my oldest daughter, who, by the very nature of being the first-born, might call foul for not being included. Other than to Smash, I never spoke of the blog again, and I assume all memories of the original discussion are long forgotten.
I haven't told anyone, family or friends, that Smash and I are actually writing. I'm not sure why. Smash tells me that she has eagerly shown both friends and co-workers. I don't know why I'm reluctant. After all, I surely don't plan to write anything hurtful or derogatory about the people I care about. So why the hesitation? Perhaps it's a holdover from the years spent keeping secrets. Not big, important, or hurtful secrets.... just those little nothings that are shared by each daughter with her mom, little things that seem big at the time, hopes that may or may not turn into realities, realities that might make someone else feel hurt or envious. I listen, I process, I keep quiet. Other people's secrets are not mine to tell.
Still, it's unusual for me to have a secret of my own making. My life is for the most part the proverbial open book. Any blog entry even hinting at mystery or intrigue would most decidedly not be about me. I want people to read the blog. I hope they will find what Smash and I have to say both entertaining and interesting. I hope they'll comment and initiate new discussions. But unlike many of the blogs I myself read and enjoy, I can't make my entries a journal of my daily activities. Trust me, that would be sleep-inducing. So, instead I'll try to offer up things I think about, things that strike me as funny, things that drive me to distraction. And maybe, after awhile, I'll tell someone about the blog. But, for now, it's just our little secret.
I haven't told anyone, family or friends, that Smash and I are actually writing. I'm not sure why. Smash tells me that she has eagerly shown both friends and co-workers. I don't know why I'm reluctant. After all, I surely don't plan to write anything hurtful or derogatory about the people I care about. So why the hesitation? Perhaps it's a holdover from the years spent keeping secrets. Not big, important, or hurtful secrets.... just those little nothings that are shared by each daughter with her mom, little things that seem big at the time, hopes that may or may not turn into realities, realities that might make someone else feel hurt or envious. I listen, I process, I keep quiet. Other people's secrets are not mine to tell.
Still, it's unusual for me to have a secret of my own making. My life is for the most part the proverbial open book. Any blog entry even hinting at mystery or intrigue would most decidedly not be about me. I want people to read the blog. I hope they will find what Smash and I have to say both entertaining and interesting. I hope they'll comment and initiate new discussions. But unlike many of the blogs I myself read and enjoy, I can't make my entries a journal of my daily activities. Trust me, that would be sleep-inducing. So, instead I'll try to offer up things I think about, things that strike me as funny, things that drive me to distraction. And maybe, after awhile, I'll tell someone about the blog. But, for now, it's just our little secret.
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Things That Were Lost
My mom actually does have a gold watch, or had one many years ago when we lived in Wisconsin. It was lost when she let me hold it and I dropped it down the wagon's heating vent. I don't recall why I did this. I do remember that she was less mad and more stunned.
Several things have been lost through the years. There are the intangibles, such as the belief your parents know everything, or the conviction your children are perfect. (Certainly the watch incident ruined that illusion.) And then there are the actual things that went missing. The less precious ones are too numerous to count - sweaters, softball gloves, retainers...But there are a few key pieces which are missed so much, they've become part of our family vernacular. In 7th grade my mom packed me off to a school bake sale with an enormous (and apparently one-of-a-kind) Tupperware container. The Tupperware was never seen again, and to this day when I allude to anything being misplaced, my mother will shriek, "Tupperware container! Tupperware container!" She never even mentions the cameo earrings from her 16th birthday that the plumber stole off my dresser top.
My sisters are equal offenders. The younger one loses so many things that we all cringe when she opens something nice at Christmas, knowing it will be lost by the New Year. The older does less losing and more misplacing. She provided many an evening's theatrics standing in front of her closet screaming accusations about some stolen skirt or belt. The obscenities stopped only when I, with courage unprecedented in a young child, stepped into her abyss and located the article front and center on the rack.
Despite such shaky beginnings, now as an adult I don't lose anything. (I refrain comment on the sisters.) Instead, I've married someone who loses everything and it infuriates me.
Daily from him: Where are the keys? Where are my vitamins? Where do "we" keep the stamps?
Annually from him: Where is the car registration? Where is the grill lighter? Where are the tax receipts?
Occasionally from me: WHERE THE HELL ARE THE 2006 TAX RETURNS?
Except for the things he loses (i.e. tax returns), I have a running mental inventory of everything in our lives. To a fault perhaps, because unlike my mom I hold a grudge when things go missing. There was a spoon three silverware sets ago that my roommate took to work and never brought back. And I'd like my copy of Jodi Picoult's The Pact returned, thank you. And to my nearest and dearest husband, could you please locate the turquoise towel I've had since college that belongs with its mate in the linen closet?
I realize this trait is unattractive. Last year I had a bad slip and carelessly left a treasured necklace in a hotel glass. Room service collected and the necklace was gone. I immediately called my mom, crying. (Side note: If we post her phone records her claims that she is no longer needed by her children would be quickly refuted.) So, I'm on the phone sniveling and Sooz, always a fan of straight talk said, "It's just a thing honey. That necklace is just a thing. You shouldn't be so attached." "I know, I know," I sniffed.
And I do know. I still really miss that necklace but nothing too great was lost when it was. I am lucky that the things I have lost have been, for the most part, things. And trite though it may be, we do have our memories and we have each other. Now where is that turquoise towel?
Several things have been lost through the years. There are the intangibles, such as the belief your parents know everything, or the conviction your children are perfect. (Certainly the watch incident ruined that illusion.) And then there are the actual things that went missing. The less precious ones are too numerous to count - sweaters, softball gloves, retainers...But there are a few key pieces which are missed so much, they've become part of our family vernacular. In 7th grade my mom packed me off to a school bake sale with an enormous (and apparently one-of-a-kind) Tupperware container. The Tupperware was never seen again, and to this day when I allude to anything being misplaced, my mother will shriek, "Tupperware container! Tupperware container!" She never even mentions the cameo earrings from her 16th birthday that the plumber stole off my dresser top.
My sisters are equal offenders. The younger one loses so many things that we all cringe when she opens something nice at Christmas, knowing it will be lost by the New Year. The older does less losing and more misplacing. She provided many an evening's theatrics standing in front of her closet screaming accusations about some stolen skirt or belt. The obscenities stopped only when I, with courage unprecedented in a young child, stepped into her abyss and located the article front and center on the rack.
Despite such shaky beginnings, now as an adult I don't lose anything. (I refrain comment on the sisters.) Instead, I've married someone who loses everything and it infuriates me.
Daily from him: Where are the keys? Where are my vitamins? Where do "we" keep the stamps?
Annually from him: Where is the car registration? Where is the grill lighter? Where are the tax receipts?
Occasionally from me: WHERE THE HELL ARE THE 2006 TAX RETURNS?
Except for the things he loses (i.e. tax returns), I have a running mental inventory of everything in our lives. To a fault perhaps, because unlike my mom I hold a grudge when things go missing. There was a spoon three silverware sets ago that my roommate took to work and never brought back. And I'd like my copy of Jodi Picoult's The Pact returned, thank you. And to my nearest and dearest husband, could you please locate the turquoise towel I've had since college that belongs with its mate in the linen closet?
I realize this trait is unattractive. Last year I had a bad slip and carelessly left a treasured necklace in a hotel glass. Room service collected and the necklace was gone. I immediately called my mom, crying. (Side note: If we post her phone records her claims that she is no longer needed by her children would be quickly refuted.) So, I'm on the phone sniveling and Sooz, always a fan of straight talk said, "It's just a thing honey. That necklace is just a thing. You shouldn't be so attached." "I know, I know," I sniffed.
And I do know. I still really miss that necklace but nothing too great was lost when it was. I am lucky that the things I have lost have been, for the most part, things. And trite though it may be, we do have our memories and we have each other. Now where is that turquoise towel?
Monday, October 20, 2008
Not Even a Gold Watch
Thirty-three years ago after four years of marriage, a move to a new city, and a total lack of desire to hunt for a new job, I decided the time was right to have a baby. I was undeterred by the fact that we lived in a one bedroom rental, had only a minimum amount of money in the bank and no secretly stashed savings -- not to mention that I knew absolutely nothing about babies and childrearing. Why would these little things matter? I'd learn. We would survive. It would all work out. And within the year, our first daughter arrived. I left the hospital, headed (baby in arms; no carseat in those days!) for home and my new career: motherhood. Sure I faced a stiff learning curve, literally learning how to diaper (once again olden days-cloth diapers), feed, bathe, and care for my precious infant by reading the baby book and following the diagrams. There was no baby nurse, no mother, no mother-in-law to help. It was just me and my husband (while he wasn't working), but it didn't matter. I had found my passion, my calling, my career. I was a mother.
Two years later our family of three grew to a family of four with the birth of another daughter.
And as the years sped by I surrounded myself with all the trappings of my well-loved career -- a station wagon, carpools, volunteer jobs in the schools, Brownie scout leader, chief cook and bottle washer. Some days were harder than others; this career path definitely had some bumps along the way. But I loved it all. Despite my dedication and best intentions, I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. There are so many occasions that are still painful for me to remember and how I long for a do-over. But I did the best I could at that particular time. The damage was minimal (I hope) and my girls thrived. So did I.
A decade sped by, and suddenly my husband and I realized that the babies we adored were babies no more. A meticulous planner by nature, surprisingly once again I made a snap decison. We would have another baby. And that's just what we did. Daughter number three joined her then twelve and ten year old sisters. Practice had certainly not made perfect, but experience had helped, and I felt as though with the third, I hit my stride as a mother. The next six years were busy ones, with three kids, each at a different point in her life, in the house and needing mom's attention. Then one was off to college, a quick two years later followed by her sister. But, no worries, the "baby" was still there. I was not put out to pasture.
So, how could it be that in a blink of an eye, I was waving goodbye to that baby, as she stood in front of her college dorm? For thirty, THIRTY!, years, there had been a child in my house. Someone who needed me. Someone who required my care and attention. Someone to mother. But with that wave goodbye, I was forced into a retirement I didn't want. There was no retirement party, no golden parachute, not even a gold watch. It was over without fanfare.
My husband, whom I still adore after almost forty years, and I quickly fell into a pleasant childless routine. We enjoy each other's company. We go to movies. We eat in restaurants. We do as we please. There's no one to wait up for. There's no one who needs a ride. There's no one who needs a meal. It's an easy life. I see friends, work part-time, keep up with chores. I'm sure my life appears to be quite ideal. What is not visible is the floundering, the wondering who I am if I'm not someone's mom. My daughters have grown into lovely adults. They are smart and competent and building lives and families of their own. Just as it should be. Athough I
expect they would say differently, they really do not need me any longer. They know that; I know that. My job is done. That career, motherhood, is finished. So what comes next? After all, being someone's mom is all I ever wanted.
Two years later our family of three grew to a family of four with the birth of another daughter.
And as the years sped by I surrounded myself with all the trappings of my well-loved career -- a station wagon, carpools, volunteer jobs in the schools, Brownie scout leader, chief cook and bottle washer. Some days were harder than others; this career path definitely had some bumps along the way. But I loved it all. Despite my dedication and best intentions, I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. There are so many occasions that are still painful for me to remember and how I long for a do-over. But I did the best I could at that particular time. The damage was minimal (I hope) and my girls thrived. So did I.
A decade sped by, and suddenly my husband and I realized that the babies we adored were babies no more. A meticulous planner by nature, surprisingly once again I made a snap decison. We would have another baby. And that's just what we did. Daughter number three joined her then twelve and ten year old sisters. Practice had certainly not made perfect, but experience had helped, and I felt as though with the third, I hit my stride as a mother. The next six years were busy ones, with three kids, each at a different point in her life, in the house and needing mom's attention. Then one was off to college, a quick two years later followed by her sister. But, no worries, the "baby" was still there. I was not put out to pasture.
So, how could it be that in a blink of an eye, I was waving goodbye to that baby, as she stood in front of her college dorm? For thirty, THIRTY!, years, there had been a child in my house. Someone who needed me. Someone who required my care and attention. Someone to mother. But with that wave goodbye, I was forced into a retirement I didn't want. There was no retirement party, no golden parachute, not even a gold watch. It was over without fanfare.
My husband, whom I still adore after almost forty years, and I quickly fell into a pleasant childless routine. We enjoy each other's company. We go to movies. We eat in restaurants. We do as we please. There's no one to wait up for. There's no one who needs a ride. There's no one who needs a meal. It's an easy life. I see friends, work part-time, keep up with chores. I'm sure my life appears to be quite ideal. What is not visible is the floundering, the wondering who I am if I'm not someone's mom. My daughters have grown into lovely adults. They are smart and competent and building lives and families of their own. Just as it should be. Athough I
expect they would say differently, they really do not need me any longer. They know that; I know that. My job is done. That career, motherhood, is finished. So what comes next? After all, being someone's mom is all I ever wanted.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Pressing Pause
My mom’s post made me laugh. First, despite a certain dedication to the online panda cam – she does not spend endless hours on the computer. She’s never at home when I call, always out working, at appointments, at the grocery store and more and more, out of town visiting her father. Secondly, “fast-paced demanding career” makes my job sound much more important than it is, though when (in disbelief) I read the phrase aloud to my co-worker, she actually agreed with it.
So maybe there is some truth to it. Certainly my weeks fly by in a haze of conference calls and emails, fires to be put out and coworkers to pacify. To be such a presence in my life, it certainly started very innocuously. Like my mom – I am exactly like her despite early resistance – I went to college, met a boy, fell in love and got married. Unlike my mom, who early on joyously settled in to homemaking, I became a working girl and now, nine years later, am a working woman.
The crazy here is that I have always hated work. It cuts into my day and requires me to be awake hours before my choosing, with clean hair no less. This dislike, however, does not affect my work; I take it very, very seriously. As a person who aims to please, I spend hours making sure my work is perfect and even more hours worrying that it might not be. When things do go wrong, I call my mother and her advice is always the same, “Fire someone.” It’s meant to be a joke, a little phrase to make me get some perspective. It hasn’t yet, but it does make me think. Think about the fact that I’ve become someone who checks her Blackberry at stoplights. It’s not all doom and gloom though. I love the people I work with, my business trips border on glamorous and I make good money.
These days it’s with equal parts dismay and delight that I can say while I still hate working, I love my job. It affords me a life I really like and it is only when I am extremely tired (overwrought, my mom would say) that I think about the downsides. I examine the numbers beyond the paycheck and the frequent flier miles. What do I mean? Well, with this job, dinner gets pushed back to 9p, friends get seen once a month, families are visited twice a year and babies are delayed until my mid (maybe late?) thirties. On the day-to-day, I’m okay with these figures and so is my husband. So we go and go and go. But some days I’d really like to just press pause. Maybe rewind. Maybe push stop, and play something new.
So maybe there is some truth to it. Certainly my weeks fly by in a haze of conference calls and emails, fires to be put out and coworkers to pacify. To be such a presence in my life, it certainly started very innocuously. Like my mom – I am exactly like her despite early resistance – I went to college, met a boy, fell in love and got married. Unlike my mom, who early on joyously settled in to homemaking, I became a working girl and now, nine years later, am a working woman.
The crazy here is that I have always hated work. It cuts into my day and requires me to be awake hours before my choosing, with clean hair no less. This dislike, however, does not affect my work; I take it very, very seriously. As a person who aims to please, I spend hours making sure my work is perfect and even more hours worrying that it might not be. When things do go wrong, I call my mother and her advice is always the same, “Fire someone.” It’s meant to be a joke, a little phrase to make me get some perspective. It hasn’t yet, but it does make me think. Think about the fact that I’ve become someone who checks her Blackberry at stoplights. It’s not all doom and gloom though. I love the people I work with, my business trips border on glamorous and I make good money.
These days it’s with equal parts dismay and delight that I can say while I still hate working, I love my job. It affords me a life I really like and it is only when I am extremely tired (overwrought, my mom would say) that I think about the downsides. I examine the numbers beyond the paycheck and the frequent flier miles. What do I mean? Well, with this job, dinner gets pushed back to 9p, friends get seen once a month, families are visited twice a year and babies are delayed until my mid (maybe late?) thirties. On the day-to-day, I’m okay with these figures and so is my husband. So we go and go and go. But some days I’d really like to just press pause. Maybe rewind. Maybe push stop, and play something new.
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