Where the Hell is a Crystal Ball When You Need One?

Every time I see the movie Back to the Future I wonder what it would be like to be able to get a heads up on what's in store for me and the ones I love. As tempting as it might be to know, I'd probably take a pass if actually offered the opportunity. Because as much as I'd like to believe that that gypsy would foresee a chance encounter with George Clooney that would lead to summers spent in his Lake Como villa, I'm more afraid her visions would involve some freakish (and rather embarassing) hot tub accident. That being said, I'd be more than willing to sit down with the nearest fortune teller if she could convince my daughter that her future has more in store for her than what she's settling for at the moment. Currently out of a job, stuck in a relationship that's going nowhere and battling low self-esteem, she is ready to give up. And nothing in my twenty-three years of parenting her has broken my heart as much as seeing my beautiful, intelligent, funny child come undone. Just when she should be embracing her lack of entanglements and endless possibilities to utilize her God-given gifts, she instead dwells only on the turbulent state of her current affairs. Nothing anyone can say or do can convince her that her present pain is not only bearable but survivable. She's tried every self-help book in the library as well as visits to a therapist but what she really needs is to see her future the way all of us who love her envision it. So if anyone out there knows of a carnival heading this way, please give me a shout. I know someone who really needs to take a good look at that crystal ball.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Here is my new mantra. I say it, wait one hour, then repeat. My kids will be okay. My kids will be okay. My kids . . . you get the idea. When or if I'll actually believe it is another story. When they were younger, all I worried about was them being physically hurt. I knew I could kiss away the bumps and bruises but the thought of anything posing a real threat to either one of them was enough to propel me to the nearest bottle of wine. Now that they're older, I find myself worrying more about their emotional, psychological well-being, their ability to function as productive, responsible adults. With hindsight, those early years seem like a walk on the beach. Walking, talking, learning to feed themselves, writing their names, riding a bike, so many skills were taught and mastered within hours, days, months. Now, everything has shifted into slow motion. Waiting for kids to decide on a major, find a job, buy their own car, move into their own places, these things seem to be measured in weeks, months, even (the horror) years. I keep asking myself, when is this maturity thing going to kick into high gear? Are they ever going to be motivated enough to WANT to earn the money it takes to purchase big-ticket items for themselves? What is it going to take for them to get so fed up with having their parents looking over their shoulders, critiquing their decisions and offering unwanted advice that they actually leave?

What's really frustrating is there are moments I think we're almost there. When my son comes up to me saying he can't wait for school to start. When my daughter relays her discussion with a doctor about reducing her bill to an amount SHE can afford. When I come home to a clean kitchen. All these moments give me hope. And then there are the other moments. Seeing my son play World of Warcraft for hours on end. Watching my daughter leave yet another job before the six month mark. Having to remind them for the upteenth time to clean the bathroom. I want to enjoy the time I have left cohabiting with my kids but it's getting harder and harder. Am I just enabling them? Or am I simply providing a safety net while they work up the courage to pack their bags? I have to believe it's the latter, because as much as I loved my parents, as much as I appreciated my comfortable lifestyle, I couldn't wait to get out on my own. Scary or not, I revelled in those first few years of independence and I want my own children to experience those feelings,too. Soon.

Time for a Facelift

There comes a moment when even the best of us must face the passage of time, when we look at ourselves and see the truth. When we can no longer ignore the reality that everything is starting to sag, buckle, and creak. In our heart of hearts we know that all the cosmetic fixes in the world are just not going to cut it anymore. We have to bite the bullet, face our fears and do something drastic - a complete overhaul. And that's just exactly what happened this past week.

The construction company arrived before eight last Tuesday. Their trucks, loaded with the brand new, energy-efficient windows and fiber cement siding that would transform our aging, weather-damaged home (what did you think I was talking about?) into a better-than-new version of itself, filled the cul-de-sac. The enormous dumpster destined to haul our rotted windows to their final resting place took possession of the driveway. For eight days we were awakened by the melodious sounds of hammering and sawing. But, now that it's done, I have to say it was well worth it. Of course, I'm more than depressed about spending this kind of money on anything that doesn't involve Italy but I'm more than happy with the results. After two years of getting estimates, looking through showrooms and calling references, at least it looks like we went with the right guys. They were on time, hard-working and meticulous; all you can reasonably ask for from contractors. Beside the fact that our home could now grace the cover of House Beautiful, we're thrilled to be rid of the drafty, broken windows that made our house feel like a sauna in the summer and a meat locker in the winter. So now that we've dipped into the home equity line, there's just one question. What's next?

It's Good to Be the Queen

I won't deny it. I'm a teeny, weeny bit competitive. I like winning. I especially like conquests involving the use of my brain or my tennis acumen. Since the latter happens as rarely as Rod Blagojevich's dinner invite from the Obamas, I'm settling lately for the heady feeling involved when my brain cells prove to me that there's something left in the tank. Case in point, I just beat my nephew at Scrabble. No, my nephew is not ten (don't be mean), he's thirty-two and one of the most well-read, erudite people I have ever met. He thinks so, too. And that's why this particular triumph was so much fun.

When we started our online contests a few weeks ago, he warned me that it was unlikely that I would ever beat him. In his infinite subtlety, he advised me that only three people have beaten him at Scrabble since he was twelve. If them's not fightin' words, I don't know what are.

In all honesty, he beat me pretty badly the first two games. I was able to stay with him for awhile but then he'd pull some crazy word out of nowhere and score fifty or sixty points. But I remained hopeful. I knew I was an educated, experienced human being capable of beating this cocky, smug wordsmith (who I dearly love, by the way). I also knew I needed help. Do you know there's a big, fat book called Everything Scrabble? Neither did I. But a few late nights studying the tricks that all good players should know was just the ticket to taking my eminent opponent down.

I can't say my moment of glory came easily. He was leading by one and I had five tiles left, including one blank. I knew if I was able to use all my tiles, I would be victorious but I could not for the life of me figure out where to put them. When I finally relaxed my brain and decided not to use the blank as an S, I realized I had the letters to spell ORDEAL right in a juicy spot that garnered me twenty-one points and the win. I can't tell you how excited I was. When you spend a good deal of your day not remembering the word for an object right in front of you, it seems like a big deal to score 369 points against an agile, confident, YOUNG mind. That's why I named our next rematch game It's On. I think I'm ready for another, another . . ., what's that word again? Oh, yeah, challenge.

Pomp and Circumstances

June is finally over. Can't say I'm going to miss it, which is unusual for me since I'm one of those people who can't wait to say goodbye to cold, snowy weather. I normally embrace the summer with considerable passion. It's my favorite time of the year. Time to enjoy sun-soaked picnics and trips to the ballpark, golf, tennis and nightly use of the Weber. The problem is, it's also the time for graduation parties. Maybe it's just me, but opening the mailbox to find yet another reminder of our suspect parenting tends to put me in a less than celebratory mood.

In my head, I know our kids have to find their own way. I know they're on their own unique journey of discovery. But how have all of our friends' children managed to navigate four years of college while ours have not? What did all of them do that we didn't? Were we not tough enough? Did we not make education enough of a priority? Could we have helped them research schools more thoroughly? Did we leave too much of the process in their hands? The answer is probably yes to all of the above but maybe it's just more complicated than that. It's certainly not as simple as saying that our friends' kids were just more mature/intelligent/ambitious than ours. I've known most of them all their lives and that sure as hell isn't true. Our kids are every bit as capable but, for some reason, have struggled with picking a lane and moving forward. So, while they've accumulated college credits, neither one of them is remotely close to picking up that sheepskin. But I haven't given up hope. Our son has enrolled in fall classes at the community college and our daughter is intent on going back to complete her degree in Fashion Merchandising as soon as she can apply for aid on her own. Maybe there's a June celebration in our future after all. Class of 2013. It has a nice ring to it.