Denial is a Beautiful Thing

Well, another birthday has come and gone. Can't say I look forward to them but, as they say, beats the alternative. A friend was generous enough to invite me up to her lakehouse for a couple of days where we tooled around the lake on her pontoon boat, played tennis and drank wine. Not a bad combination on any day but even more enjoyable when used to drown out the fact that one is another year older. Maybe I should have skipped the tennis if I had not wanted to be reminded of that fact since all I could do was take one game off of her. I'd like to think it was because she's younger but I'm guessing fourteen months wouldn't qualify as a legitimate advantage. I still can't understand why she barely broke a sweat while I was looking for an inhaler after the first set but maybe the real advantage had something to do with the occasional Dunkin Donuts drive-thru visits one of us took this past year. Nah! She's just a natural athlete who exploits my inablity to catch up to a well-struck cross-court forehand.

The truth is, I don't even know how old I am any more. My sister, the little dear, caught my mistake on a previous blog. I was convinced I was turning fifty-six until she oh so sweetly reminded me that no, she was turning fifty-six this summer. Oh well, you can't blame a girl for trying. At least I'm not running to the plastic surgeon's office or injecting myself with cow urine or whatever the hell else they're doing these days to look younger. Sure, I'd be happy to get rid of those Howdy Doody lines and I also wouldn't mind losing five pounds but the donuts usually win. And who really cares? I think I'll just keep trying to do my (semi) best to eat healthy, get in a few hours of exercise here and there and take my chances. Life's too short to be anything but happy and figuring that out almost makes being fifty-seven something to celebrate.

Old Friends?

I just had breakfast with a former neighbor that I haven't seen in four or five years. As soon as she arrived, I knew I had made a tactical error. I should have insisted on lunch. Not because I prefer a nice salad to bacon and eggs (although I do). Not because I like sleeping in (although I have been guilty of that once or twice). No, my decision to restrict all future outings to lunch or dinner rests solely on the fact that, at fifty-five, I look better after noon.

I suppose it didn't help that my friend walked in looking as beautiful as ever. She's one of those disgusting people who make it look easy. Her simple gray knit dress hugged her impossibly slim frame. Her thick, black hair, pulled back into a carefully tousled ponytail, showed off her porcelain, unlined skin. She hugged me and told me how good I looked and I returned the compliment but what I really wanted to say was 'You should see me in a couple of hours, or better yet, in the soft glow of candlelight'. I know I shouldn't be so shallow but it's getting tougher to ignore the fact that most of the women I know were born a decade later. Since I happen to love them all, I'm going for the easy solution. Lunch or dinner. Either that, or I have to find a few older friends. Maybe I'll meet them for breakfast.

Of Mice and Dads

Today I'm interrupting my ruminations on motherhood to take a look at the other side of the parenting equation. Admittedly biased about the role moms play in the lives of their children, I sometimes have to remind myself how impactful dads can be. Which brings me to the mouse.

For anyone who knows me well, the mouse story has been heard before. And like fishermen, the specifics of the incident have grown over time. It goes like this. I was getting ready to head out on a business trip to San Francisco. While packing, I saw something dart into my closet. I can't explain why a grown woman, out on her own for several years, would panic at the sight of a small, furry creature incapable of harming her in any way, but I did. Unable to continue packing and unwilling to go to sleep knowing that thing was in my apartment, I did what any self-respecting daddy's girl would do. I called my dad. At 1:00 A.M. In February. In a snowstorm. And what did he do? Okay, first he laughed but then he got in his car and drove to my apartment to see what he could do. When he couldn't find my dangerous invader, he calmly waited as I finished packing my suitcase and took me back home. The next day, I boarded a plane and acted like the strong, intelligent woman I purported to be (as long as there weren't any rodents in the vicinity). I'm not proud of how I acted that night but my father should be. At that moment of need, no matter how old his child was, he was there. He didn't complain about losing sleep. He didn't make me feel weak or incompetent. He just made me feel loved.

I'm happy to say I never saw the mouse again. I'm also happy to say that I continue to be blessed with my father's wisdom and generosity thirty years later. Thankfully, I don't wait for a Sunday in June to tell him how much he means to me. But it is Father's Day, a time to give the guys their due. So whether it's your own dad or grandfather, a special friend or the father of your children, let's appreciate the men in our lives who support us, put up with us and, yes, occasionally, rescue us. They deserve it.

Forever Mom

When I started this blog, I was convinced my children were determined to live out the rest of their lives in the comfort and security of their childhood home. I was concerned that the lifestyle we had provided them had inhibited their desire to ever forge a life out on their own. The guilt and frustration that propelled me to write this, had led to a good case of feeling sorry for myself. And then I attended our family reunion. This bi-annual event, that attempts to gather as many bodies of our large, regionally spread-out family as possible, took place last week as part of a wedding celebration for my cousin's son. While I was there, I was reminded of a hard truth. There are some moms who will never have the opportunity to send their child off to college, sit in the church as they are married or babysit for their grandchild. My aunt is one of those moms. She is the youngest girl of a family of nine children. She is my father's sister. She is also the mother of a thirty-seven year old child with Down's Syndrome.

This woman, at eighty-two, could teach anyone what it is to be a mother. She continues to take care of her child (who is the last of five) with unfailing faith and generosity of spirit. If she has ever been overwhelmed by the task, I have never seen it. What I have seen is her unrelenting sense of humor, which has become legendary in our family. If she ever has the chance to write a silly poem or wear an outrageous outfit, she grabs the opportunity with contagious enthusiasm. But what really struck me this past week, is how her legacy of selflessness has been passed down to her children. The way they support her and their sister is inspiring. While they have their arguments, as any family does, they never cease to rally around each other when needed. So the next time I'm feeling unappreciated or taken for granted, I'm determined instead to feel grateful. For my own two healthy children and my wonderful extended family whose devotion and grace I can only hope to aspire to.

24 Hours

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly life can change. In a matter of moments, your life can be headed into completely uncharted territory with no inkling of your eventual destination. This past week was one of those times for our family. On Sunday, we were hosting a family reunion party for thirty people. Relatives aged five to eighty-six converged in our back yard for a day of fun, food and conversation. It was a great day. Twenty-four hours later we were sitting in an emergency room with our twenty-one year old son waiting to find out why he was experiencing severe abdominal pain. What was casually dismissed on Monday morning as flu symptoms became instead an inflamed appendix that was on the verge of rupturing. As my husband and I sat there, waiting for Josh to come out of surgery, we were overcome with feelings of worry and guilt. Why hadn't we realized sooner that his "cramps" were more than that? How could this have progressed so quickly to something so potentially dangerous? Funny how much you can beat yourself up with nothing but six hours and quiet to keep you company. Now that he is back home and on the road to a full recovery, it might be easy to slide back into the taking everything for granted daily routine. I hope and pray I don't. If there's anything to be learned from the past seventy-two hours, it's that life is incredibly fragile. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to be reminded of that fact every now and then.