It Wasn't a Fluke

It's great to prove to yourself that you can accomplish a goal. It's even better when you can prove to yourself that you're capable of doing it more than once. That's why I'm sitting here, just a little bit proud of myself. Last year, I managed to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. It was something I've always wanted to do and taking up the challenge of the National Novel Writing Month, I surprised myself by actually being able to do it.

This year, I'm happy to say, I did it again. I finished three days early this time and I'm on my way to finishing my second novel in two years. At this rate, I'll catch up to Danielle Steel when I'm 137! I haven't actually managed to edit the first one yet and I'm still stuck trying to find an ending to the one I'm currently working on but none of that matters. My very undisciplined self managed to sit myself in front of a computer for two or three hours every day for the second time. I can no longer say that I can't do it. And since this book was complete fiction (with the exception of the European locales I just can't stop thinking about), I can't say I have no imagination. What I can say is that nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it. Okay, that's not true. I will never be able to be an Olympic figure skater. I will never walk on the moon. I will never be able to fly. But I will be able to be a published author. These last thirty days have finally convinced me.

Where I Am

Well, isn't it just like me to pop back in from my long vacation, write one blog and disappear again. No wonder I don't have many followers; they couldn't find me even if they wanted to. Now I am going to hit you with another legitimate excuse for my absence. Remember, this blog is supposed to be about my journey out of full-time motherhood. And this journey seems to be all about the twists and turns my life is taking as I set out to re-invent myself.

As many of you might remember, last year I took on the challenge of writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. As crazy as that might seem, I actually did it and am now the proud owner of one proof copy of a novel that has yet to be fully edited (or read) by anyone. What's even crazier than taking on such a challenge, you might ask? How about signing up to do it again?

For the next twenty-four days, (minus work hours and Bears games), I'll be sequestered in my basement, pounding on computer keys hoping to catch lightening in a bottle one more time. At first I thought I should quit while I was ahead. After all, I proved that I could do it. I'm sitting here with the proof, rough and unread though it may be. So why would I want to go through that torture again?

There isn't a simple answer but I think I came up with a few:

1. I need a project to take my mind off the fact that my vacation is over and winter is
about to make its appearance. Both events are making me pretty damn blue.
2. I work better with a deadline. My undisciplined nature would never take the easy
way out and write a novel over a rational time period, like oh, say, the other 335 days of
year.
3. (Most importantly) I want (need) to prove that last year wasn't a fluke. I want to write
a completely fictional, fun novel in a totally different genre. Maybe then I'll truly believe
I can make something out of this "hobby" I've pursued for the better part of my adult
life.

I'll try to check in once in awhile but, like I said last year, I have to write almost 2000 words
a day to meet my goal and, unless my husband is willing to go thru the next month with dirty clothes and an empty stomach, my free time has to be in the pursuit of those relentlessly unforgiving 2000 words. So, please bear with me and wish me luck. I'll come up for air when I can. This business of re-inventing yourself ain't easy.

Where I've Been

For those of you who've missed me (you seven or eight loyal readers know who you are), I feel I have to explain my absence. It's kind of hard to write a blog when you're too busy gallivanting all over Europe. Wait, that sounds bad. Let me try not to sound like one of the Kardashians. I haven't been able to write my blog because I was lucky enough to be able to take an amazing three week trip across the pond. Better?

I know, I know. A little thing like being four thousand miles away from my computer should not have stopped me. Not in 2011. And, honestly, I would have loved to file a daily commentary about my exploits stumbling through ancient cultures but I was under strict orders from my better half not to let anyone in on the fact that we were far from home. I'm not sure which of my dozen readers would jump at the chance to break into my vacant homestead but you never can tell.

Truth is, I probably couldn't have communicated very well even if my gag order had been lifted. Internet on a cruise ship is on par with the speed of AOL a decade ago with a cost of several Bahama Mamas per minute so it's all for the best that I remained silent until now. Anyway, our three week trip to Switzerland, Italy, Greece and Turkey went off without a hitch (if you overlook that nasty spill I took in Mykonos where my forehead became intimately acquainted with the cobblestone street. Luckily, it didn't put an end to our adventures, although all remaining pictures feature an improvised hairstyle designed to cover the lovely subsequent black eye.)

There's nothing like leaving the comfort of your surroundings and exploring other cultures to give one a lot to think about. From the start (in first class, mind you, for the first time thanks to hubby's frequent flier miles), I felt blessed beyond belief. I know how many people never get to live out their dreams. Just last weekend I heard about a friend of a friend who keeled over at the age of forty-five so I know how important it is to seize an opportunity when it presents itself. I realize we have to plan for our future but it's amazing to me how many people do it at the expense of their present. The memories we created over these past three weeks might have to sustain me someday when I'm living on food stamps, camped out in my kid's basement. But, so what? In my eyes, that would only be poetic justice.

So, now that I'm back doing laundry, dusting furniture and putting dinner (a little pasta, a little vino - hey, it's tough to let go) on the table, I want to encourage all of you to go for it. Even if it's a stretch financially, even if it's completely irrational, don't put off doing something you really want to do, don't put off going somewhere you're really dying to go. All life's problems will be there waiting for you when you get back. You'll just have a big smile on your face while you're dealing with them.

I Still Do

There's nothing like a wedding to get us old married folks to take a look at the state of our own unions. Sitting in the church, watching a young couple take their first steps down that unknown road of marital highs and lows, you can't help wondering if they have any idea what they're getting into. And how could they? No one knows what Paris is really like until they've actually been there no matter how many times they've seen it in the movies.

The priest, a jovial sort doing his best to emphasize the benefits of committing one's life to another human being, encouraged the bride and groom to communicate and compromise. You could see the glowing couple sharing knowing glances and tender touches as the priest continued to dispense his suggestions for the next fifty years of their lives. 'We've got this' their faces said. Maybe. But from the reactions of the longtime marrieds in attendance, who shared their own knowing glances as well as a few tender jabs in the ribcage anytime the priest hit a nerve, it was clear that it wasn't going to be as simple as Mr. and Mrs. Newlywed might think.

I was flying solo at this particular wedding; my better half had a previous commitment. After sitting through dozens of ceremonies during my nearly twenty-eight years of marriage, I've noticed that my reaction to the festivities has varied greatly. During those early years, I eagerly welcomed new members to "the club" with genuine smiles and congratulatory hugs. Later, when things were tough, it was all I could do to refrain from standing up and shouting, "DON'T DO IT. Whatever you think you're feeling, stop while you still can, strap on a pair of sneakers and head for the exit as fast as you possibly can." Then, there were the times when I'd get weepy, bemoaning the fact that I'd never feel that innocent, hopeful love present in couples that haven't yet had to deal with colicky babies, week-long business trips and forgotten anniversaries.

But this time was different. I didn't feel any of those responses. This time, I felt as much joy for myself as I did for the decked out couple walking down that aisle. My husband and I have made it through two kids, overseas moves, job changes, and menopause. We've struggled through financial disagreements, conflicting priorities and the occasional desire to hire a hit man. It hasn't been easy but getting to the place we are now has certainly been worth everything it took to get us here. I'm proud of us. And I wouldn't trade places with the newlyweds, even if I could.

But if they want to hand over those tickets to Cabo, I just might be persuaded to change my mind.

Sweet Temptations

Despite Cher's opinions to the contrary, getting older does have its benefits. At least it does for me. A former people pleaser, I no longer obsess about gaining everyone's approval. While I can't escape my natural tendency to worry, a few decades of experience have made it far easier to keep things in perspective. Best of all, I feel like I've learned a thing or two on the way to all these wrinkles. So, okay. Those are the good things. What's not so great is my body's insistence on displaying every calorie I ingest in places that are decidedly further south than they used to be.

Don't hate me but I used to be one of those people who could eat pretty much anything she wanted without the needle of the scale moving much. I should have appreciated that gift more. I should have embraced my good fortune before it ran out.

Most of the day, I'm in control. I'll make myself oatmeal or shredded wheat for breakfast. Then, I'll heat up a bowl of soup or toss a nice salad for lunch. So far, so good. Dinner's not much of a problem either. I've cut back on red meat, ditched the bread and loaded up on veggies. No, meal's are not usually the problem. It's when the sun goes down that my food demons come out to play. Take tonight, for example. All it took was a grocery store flyer with a picture of a chocolate chip cookie for me to pull out my trusty Kitchen Aid and mix up a batch of warm, gooey disks of temptation. Oh, I said they were a belated birthday treat for my husband but he and I both knew better. There was no doubt where those puppies were headed once they cleared that oven door. A cup of tea and one episode of Project Runway later, I had consumed seven of them. Seven.

So, now I'm about to sit on a giant rubber ball, make my way through one hundred crunches and twenty minutes of weight lifting in the hopes of undoing what I just did. There's got to be an easier way. Throwing out my mixer? Cancelling my newspaper subscription? No. I'm just going to have to avoid the combination of television and a comfy couch. Going to bed earlier might just do the trick. I wonder how my hubby will feel about an eight o'clock bedtime. At least, he'll finally be able to get his fair share of the cookies.

Am I the Only One?

I was standing in line at the local grocery store the other day when I noticed a grey-haired woman in a checkout line next to mine. She looked a little like my grandma with a frizzy beauty parlor bouffant and sensible shoes. Everything looked as it should until I glanced at her ankle. Right above her sensible shoes was a sunburst tattoo. And that's when I knew. Everyone in the entire world above the age of sixteen, now has at least one of these hideous monstrosities masquerading as artwork. I now have become something I thought was impossible - a rebel.

When my son did a paper in high school on the history of tattoos, he wrote about their use being previously confined to sailors and hardened criminals. Can someone please hurry up and build that time machine so I can be transported back to a time when that was true? I'm all for personal expression but why do I have to look at ugly green snakes crawling up middle-aged calves, barbed wire encircling the tricep of an otherwise beautiful bride, or unreadable words of sanskrit wisdom trailing down the back of a red carpet celebrity. Tattoos may have once been edgy; they may have once been daring but right now they have become something else. Boring.

So I guess I have one more thing to add to my things I know for sure list. I will never subject myself to another perm, I would rather have a root canal than spend five minutes with Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian, and I will never, I repeat never, join the millions of people who think it's cool to have a tattoo. If you ask me, it's a whole lot cooler not to.

Doubting Momma

It doesn't take much these days for me to doubt everything I've done as a mother over the past twenty-four years. There are times when I question every instinct I've ever had; times I feel overpowering regret over choices I made; times I think maybe I wasn't such a great mother after all.

When you see your kids struggling to find their way, you start wondering what your participation in their troubles might be. Were you tough enough? Did you have a balance of discipline and tenderness? Did you encourage them on the road to success and comfort them during moments of failure? Did you shelter them too much from life's disappointments? Right now, I'm doubting it all.

The catalyst for my current bout of insecurities is the family my daughter is working for. They don't allow their four-year old twins to watch any TV, the toddlers have chores to do every day, and before bed, they contemplate the ups and downs of their day. They eat meals and snacks at pre-determined times and nap at 1:15 every day. Not exactly the world I created for my kids. At that age, they woke whenever the spirit moved them, they ate snacks in their carseats as I lugged them all over the northwest suburbs and got to bed before midnight. I thought I was being a cool mom. I thought I was making them flexible. Was I just being lazy? Was I really making them undisciplined?

God knows I'd go back and change a few things if I could. But where's the guarantee that my kids would be struggling less if I jumped into that time machine? And who's to say what challenges await those adorable four year-olds (or their "perfect" parents)? There's a million and one ways to screw up your kids. With luck, you love them enough to overcome your mistakes.

So, at this point, I'll just have to take comfort in hearing my daughter reassure me that I was a great mom, that she wouldn't trade me for anyone, especially one who wouldn't let her watch a cartoon once in awhile. If she feels that way, I can't have done everything wrong.

Where Are We Going?

Every year Money magazine has an article detailing the best places to live in America. I look forward to reading this issue each summer, hoping that some detail mentioned will be the catalyst to propel me to finally decide on my next (and hopefully last) zip code. Number one this year is Louisville, Colorado. Never heard of it but it looks nice enough; beautiful scenery, reasonable housing, strong economy. The town looks like something out of 1950s America, with a charming historic district and smiling children cuddled with their parents on a picnic blanket. It might be a contender except for one thing - winter.

I don't know where I want to eventually relocate but I'm pretty sure it won't be anywhere with little white flakes falling from the sky. Living an entire life in the Chicago area (with a couple of detours to England and Germany) had made me leery of settling anywhere with the potential of major snowfalls. I've definitely had it with winters that last for six months, white-knuckle driving and cold that takes your breath away. So I guess I'm out of luck hoping that the Money picks would help guide me. Nine out of the top ten are north of the Mason/Dixon line.

So the search goes on. Maybe I'll stumble across that perfect place with low taxes, warm temperatures and beautiful scenery. Maybe next year's list will uncover a hidden gem that moves me to hammer the "for sale" sign in my front yard. Maybe I'll sell my book or win the lottery so I can live half the year in a Tuscan villa and half the year here in the Midwest, close to family.

Stop laughing. A girl can dream, can't she?

Final Sale

I believe in recycling. I think all of us should do our part to protect the environment, reuse as much as possible and try our hardest not to waste resources. So, here's my promise. I vow to recycle everything I can, shop resale stores, buy from local farmers, and turn off water while I'm brushing my teeth. I promise to do all these things in exchange for just one thing in return. Please, please, please do not make me EVER have another garage sale.

When my kids were little, I was a garage sale nut. Most Thursday or Friday mornings from May until September would find me hunting for treasures on some stranger's driveway. I purchased ninety percent of my kids' clothes and a healthy amount of all the other stuff that filled their rooms from neighborhood treasure hunts. When they had outgrown their Osh Kosh overalls and Carter's sleepers, I would gather all my bargains and resell them for what (or sometimes even more than) I paid for them. But as much as I loved the first part of the equation, I grew to hate the second. All the preparation - the washing, sorting, tagging, hanging was bad enough but it was the haggling, greedy, unreasonable, sticker-switching patrons of these bargain fests that finally did me in. A couple of hundred dollars was not worth two days of sitting in a lawn chair dealing with any of them. I vowed to pack up all my future goodies and donate them to some worthy charity in return for a nice tax deduction. That plan worked for almost twenty years.

This past weekend I was (nicely) coerced into hosting a garage sale with my mom and sister. C'mon, they said. It'll be fun. We'll clean out our basements and make a few bucks. I knew what I was getting into but I thought, hey, I'll get rid of some stuff and spend a couple of days hanging out with my family. How bad could it be?

The good news first. We had great weather. Two sunny days in the eighties. We also had fairly steady crowds, a few of which even paid the price on the sticker. But the rest? The devious, penny-pinching zealots that I so hated dealing with? Oh, they were out in full force, confirming everything I always hated about letting complete strangers ravage through my personal (if unwanted) belongings. We even had one woman who aggravated me so much with her guerrilla tactics that I would have ran the items over with my SUV rather than let her have them.

So, what did I learn from all of this? Well, I have a great mom and sister that I enjoyed spending two exhausting days with. I also learned that there are crazy people who are willing to humiliate themselves over a quarter. But, the most important lesson I learned is that there are easier, much easier ways to earn $66.75.

Now that I've packed up what went unsold, I'm off to where it should have gone in the first place, the donation box at the Goodwill store. I promise all you wonderful charitable organizations who sort through everyone's junk I will not to be tempted by the dark side again. But, if I am, I've instructed my husband to slap some sense into me. Just remind me of that obnoxious woman who wanted that evening purse for fifty cents. That ought to do it.

To Speak or Not to Speak

One of the hardest things about having your grown child still living at home is how often you have to bite your tongue. Well, how often you have to at least try. Hearing parts of emotional phone conversations, seeing late night comings and goings, and observing questionable behavior without commenting is something I've discovered I'm not particularly good at. After butting my nose into my kids' business for two decades, it's asking a lot to turn off such a finely honed worrying machine. And while there are some wonderful aspects to being the parent of twenty-somethings, assuming the role of silent, yet emotionally invested, spectator isn't one of them.

I've found that twenty-four hours is about my limit. That's about all I can stand before I break down and ask that question that I probably shouldn't or offer that wise but totally unsolicited advice. Amazingly enough, it doesn't usually go well after that. My daughter ramps up the 'you're not the boss of me' attitude and I lapse into the disappointed parent incapable of keeping my mouth shut, even when I know I'm about to make matters worse. The funny thing is, in my rational moments, I know she's just trying to assert herself. I know she's trying to figure it out. Along the way, I know she's going to make choices I'm not crazy about. I also know that it's going to get a whole lot easier for both of us when she's not making them right in front of me.

Call Me

From the beginning, communicating with my daughter was a piece of cake. She shared her thoughts with me. She came to me for advice. She called me when she had good news to report or bad break-ups to get through. Sometimes she confided more than I wanted to know but my discomfort was a small price to pay. It felt good to be in the loop, to be a part of her life.

I only wish I had the opportunity to experience that connection with my son.

I never thought I'd enjoy having a boy as much as I did. A frightening combination of daring and energy, he kept me on my toes and taught me things I never knew I wanted to know. We spent hours building massive Lego starships. We constructed medieval villages out of hundreds of plastic pieces and filled them with tiny warriors on horses. We read books about dinosaurs, airplane engines and baseball. We laughed at Mad-Libs and silly songs he made up on the spot. He was a lot of fun but there wasn't a whole lot of talking going on.

Now that he's moved out, I realize how much easier it is to make the break with a daughter. Girls pick up the phone. They make lunch dates. They ask you to go shopping. They don't swing by, grab something still lurking in their childhood closet and race back out to an engine still running in the driveway. They don't disappear for a week without some kind of contact. And they don't make a habit of ignoring voicemails for days at a time.

I know I shouldn't get worked up about my twenty-two year-old son's reluctance to hang out with his family. I know I shouldn't take it personally. Everyone tells me to relax. He's a guy. But maybe his lack of social skills (not to mention common courtesy) has nothing to do with being a guy. Maybe he just has a lot of growing up to do.

Who's Minding the Store?

Watching our political leaders wrangle over the debt ceiling bill reminded me of breaking up the stupid fights my kids used to have when they were little. You know, the ones that you stumbled into the middle of when it was just a barrage of he said, she said; he did, she did. All the parenting books say you should turn around, walk out of the room, and let them handle it. Looking back, I think my eight and ten year-olds did an infinitely better job of working things out than any of our esteemed leaders.

Like a lot of people, I was so disappointed in our legislators' behavior over the last two weeks that I finally broke down and sent off a scathing e-mail to my representative. I'm sure it never made its way to her desk but it did make me feel a little better. In it, I chastised her and her colleagues for wasting the nation's time and money debating what should be clear to anyone with an ounce of common sense. As we've tried to teach our children from day one (hopefully), don't spend what you don't have. When faced with lean times, tighten your belt and learn to live within your means. Just like there's only one real answer to weight loss - eat less, move more; there's only two ways to have more disposable income - find a way to make more and/or spend less.

Of course, if all else fails, you can do what our illustrious leaders tend to do - bury their heads in the sand and print more money. With an example like that, we parents don't stand a chance.

Married Without Children

From the moment you bring your baby home from the hospital, you realize that your life has changed. You can no longer have a spur of the moment date (unless your parents are feeling particularly benevolent), you can no longer sleep whenever or however long you might want to, and you can't take a vacation from September through May. In short, you can no longer be the center of your own universe. Then, one day, far off in the future, you have a chance to reclaim your life. You realize that no one is going to pull you out of bed to make pancakes (my husband learned long ago not to try that one again), there are no back to school supplies to purchase, and you can eat a cupcake at four in the afternoon without having to share. I've discovered that these are all very good things.

This weekend, my husband and I spontaneously headed to a ten a.m. showing of a romantic comedy at our local movie theater, followed by an alfresco lunch (okay, it was Culvers but still), and an afternoon of returning hastily purchased items to their original owners. We also took advantage of last minute (free) tickets to Wrigley Field and still managed to put in an appearance at a college graduation party on our way home. When our kids were little, there were months I didn't spend as much time with my husband as I did in these past two days.

There are still times, when I see an adorable toddler in the mall or when I walk past my credenza filled with framed images of my own two sweet babies, I miss the past. Then, there are days like the last two when I see the possibilities still ahead of me. The end of full-time motherhood has given me a chance to discover new interests (buon giorno italiano), embrace new challenges (still working on that novel), and rediscover relationships that all too often took a back seat to the demands of parenthood.

I'm not naive. I know I'll be mourning the loss of my full-time job for awhile. But, even though a pretty big door has closed, I have to say, I'm starting to enjoy the view out the window.

Rooting for the Underdogs

My kids will tell you that I'm a sap about sports. I love watching people rise to new heights to accomplish a goal that they've set for themselves. I love seeing people realize a dream. It's great when it happens to anyone but it's phenomenal when it happens to an underdog who comes out of nowhere to beat the best of the best. Whether it's an unheralded eighteen year-old skater who has spent years practicing triple salchows having the performance of her life in the Olympics or a sixty year-old golfer trying to beat the young lions who weren't even born when he won his last major, I'm riveted to the TV, cheering them on. I'm a complete sucker for the triumph-over-adversity-never-give-up sagas played out so often in sports. Today, I spent far too much time in front of the television (c'mon, it was 100 degrees outside) captivated by two such events.

The British Open, usually won by highly ranked golfers like Tiger Woods, was won by an overweight, forty-two year-old Irishman ranked 111th in the world. He had tried nineteen times before and suffered through the breast cancer death of his wife before having his moment of triumph. He didn't win because the younger, stronger contenders blew it (although they did misstep enough to make it easier in the end), he won it because he hung in there and did what he needed to do under the pressure of trying to achieve what he called "a lifelong dream". By the trophy presentation, I was crying as much as his own mother.

Next, I watched, (as I threw in a load of laundry, I don't want you to think I'm a total slug) a never-say-die Japanese soccer team beat the mighty Americans in a World Cup final that went to overtime and ended in a three to one victory in penalty kicks. While I started off rooting for team USA, it was impossible not to be happy for the victors. Their country has been through so much, their triumph is sure to bring temporary relief for millions of people anxious to celebrate anything, even something as ultimately meaningless as a sporting event.

Yes, I should have been doing something constructive with all those hours I spent observing someone else's achievements. Yes, I could have been cleaning out a closet or editing that book that refuses to edit itself. Instead, I got inspiration from being reminded that with a little hard work, some luck and perseverance, great things can happen. To anyone.

There are worse ways to spend a (did I mention it was hot?) Sunday afternoon.

I've Got a New Drug

Consider this blog a public service warning. If you consider yourself a fan of food with the dangerous salty/sweet combo, do not, I repeat, do not venture into your neighborhood Costco and succumb to purchasing the ginormous (but, then again, what isn't ginormous at Costco?) container of Sea Salt Caramels. And if you are walking past one of those friendly, smiling purveyors of free samples, keep walking. You won't just be saving yourself $8.69 and a few hundred calories. Trust me.

It's not the first time that Costco has reeled me in with their goodies. I've purchased one of their $17.00 mousse-filled sheet cakes for every major party I've thrown in the last five years. My freezer is full of every variety of bread from their bakery and their two inch thick NY strips have occupied a prominent place on our grill this summer. But this is different. This is scary. I'm a person who doesn't even like candy all that much and now I find myself breaking into a cold sweat whenever I start to see the bottom of the container.

So, until I get sick of them, I've decided I have to at least ration them. I'm happy to say that I'm down to two or three a day but my expanding waistline and I have decided that's not good enough. If this keeps up, I may be forced to hire a hypnotist to hit me with a dose of aversion therapy before I can set foot again in that warehouse. If you know a good one, please let me know. My container is almost empty.

Summer Nights

Just said goodbye to the parents after spending a wonderful day enjoying all the best things summer has to offer - firing up the grill, sitting out on the deck way past sunset, and indulging in fresh peach cobbler. As my dad said, heaven can't be much better than this. After living most of my life in Chicago, I'd have to agree. The length of the brutal winters only makes those of us crazy enough to live here a hardy bunch that appreciates and savors every minute of the shortest season of the year. We know it's going to be over before we know it and we're not about to let an opportunity to enjoy time in the warm sunshine slip away.

This holiday weekend, I was lucky enough to share two memorable gatherings - one with friends, one with family. One where I was a guest, one where I was the host. Two days ago, we shared the evening with friends we've been lucky enough to keep for thirty years. Today, I enjoyed the company of my amazing family and even got to share a prolonged meal with BOTH my kids. Granted, I'm for any holiday that involves plopping into the nearest comfortable lawn chair and imbibing in various cold drinks and endless excuses to eat. But this weekend was especially memorable. While we weren't motivated enough to get out of those lawn chairs and see the fireworks, we shared music, food and conversation with people we love without the interruption of television or cell phones. All we had was each other (and that peach cobbler) to keep us company.

I think my dad was right. It can't get too much better than that.

Reasons to Celebrate

Remember when you looked forward to birthdays? Me neither. Still, like my dad always says, any day on the right side of the dirt is a good day. So, last week I faced another annual celebration with a positive attitude. And you know what? It worked. I spent the whole day celebrating another notch on the birthday belt. I reminded myself that a good friend of mine never got to see the birthday I was celebrating. That's when I started counting my blessings.

1. I'm relatively healthy. Apart from the ubiquitous arthritis and a recurrent bout of plantar fasciitis (which would probably go away if I was smart enough to quit playing tennis), I'm in good shape.
2. Both my parents are still around. With those kind of genes, I should make it long enough to see Paris Hilton become a grandmother.
3. A couple of years ago, I got to take my dream trip to Italy. I could have died happy after that but God decided he wanted me to see a few of the spots we missed. We're going back later this year.
4. I have a husband who loves me and two kids that can tolerate being in the same room with me. On my birthday, my son actually took me to dinner and didn't even bolt right after the last bite was eaten!
5. After years of threats, I actually wrote a novel. More importantly, I completed a first revision and am awaiting the arrival of an actual 252 page paperback with my name on it.
   

I could go on and on. Stopping to count your blessings has a way of putting everything in perspective. In fact, when I think about it, lots of wonderful things have happened in my fifties so edging closer to sixty doesn't scare me nearly as much it used to. As long as I keep learning; as long as I keep moving; as long as I keep trying to grow, getting older can't get me down. As far as I can see, there's only one bad thing about getting older. Those pests from AARP and the Scooter store. They, and their buddies at the Hearing Aid Center, just won't leave me alone. If I could find a way to get off their mailing lists, maybe l wouldn't think about getting older at all.

Here's to Dads

This blog is normally about the adventures of motherhood. Today I'm going to give dads their due.

I've had the great opportunity to closely observe two very different styles of fathering in my life. My own dad, raised with six sisters, has always been in touch with his emotional side. He's smart, funny and as generous as Mother Teresa. Like most dads he's taught me about sports, finances, home repair and car maintenance. But, thanks to those sisters, he's been an unending source of support and encouragement.

My children's father brings his own gifts to the party. He's more rational than emotional but is still quick with words of praise and never shy about hugs. He values order and organization (something his wife continues to work on). His strength and determination, hard work and preparation have inspired our kids to set goals and believe in their ability to do anything they set their minds to. They can ask him about any subject from business to bougainvilleas and he'll usually have an answer. Since he's the most talented person I know, they can ask him how to do just about anything and he'll be able to tell them.

My kids are so lucky to have these two men in their lives. And so am I.

You Cannot Be Serious

Tonight I found out a shocking secret about my husband. No, he isn't having an affair. No, he hasn't embezzled funds from his place of business. No. What he confessed was something completely unbelievable. He has never paid an overdue fee at the library. Being the proud, not to mention frequent, benefactor of our local literary emporium, I expressed profound incredulity at this fact. "Never?" I asked. "You've never forgotten about a book; never lost a book?" He stared at me as if I had two heads. "Absolutely not. Why would anyone do that?" he replied, in imminent danger of being struck by the nearest heavy object.

Library fines are just the tip of the iceberg. He's never run out of gas; never paid a dime in credit card interest or late fees and never forgotten about a scheduled appointment/meeting/lunch date. He has agenda books as old as our children that are referenced frequently and protected like valuable first-editions. His life is a study in discipline, order and logic. In short, the exact opposite of yours truly.

I try. God knows, I try. I make lists. I put things on the fridge calendar. I even tried a Palm Pilot. Problem is, you have to remember to take the list with you, you have to glance at the calendar, you have to input info into the personal assistant. All of these minor details seem to be beyond me. And since I can no longer remember what I wanted when I get to the top of my staircase, I think it's safe to say that ship has sailed.

So, I'll have to be content with the satisfaction I felt today when I made my latest trip to the library, walking out without paying a dime. That makes me two for two. I know I'll never land on my husband's planet but, if I stay focused, I'll finally be able to orbit it for awhile. The downside is, that library better organize a decent fundraiser. They're going to miss me.

Second Chances

Exactly how many chances are we human beings entitled to? That's a question I've been wrestling with ever since my daughter announced that she's reconciling with her ex. Theirs has been a tempestuous relationship in the best of times and decidedly unhealthy in the worst. After more than a year of drama, her father and I were more than relieved when, after numerous break-ups, they finally went their separate ways. Now, after a couple of months, they've decided to forgive, forget and try again. And they want us to be, if not happy, okay with that.

I'm not stupid. I know people, especially young people, make mistakes. God knows my errors in judgment and dealing with relationships could fill a rather large, somewhat entertaining book. I try not to hold a grudge; I know how important it is to forgive. But when you mess with one of my kids, all bets are off. I want to preserve the close bond with my daughter; I don't want to drive a wedge between us. Trouble is, I keep remembering that Maya Angelou quote, 'When people show you who they are, believe them'. And, while I know people can change, I also know they usually don't. So, if I decide to welcome this guy back into the fold and he ends up resorting to his previous, verbally abusive behavior (or worse, escalates into something physical), how am I ever going to deal with that?

My daughter reassures me that it won't happen. He's a changed man. He's grown up. He's gotten his act together and is treating her like a queen. She's already convinced. Her father and I are going to take a lot longer.

All By Myself

When I was younger, I couldn't stand being alone. Naturally social (as evidenced by the fact I need to write about every aspect of my life), I always preferred the company of other homo sapiens to heading off to sunbathe on Walden Pond. Maybe I had a desperate need for approval and acceptance. Or maybe it was just a Hollywood induced fear of a masked intruder making his way into my bedroom. Whatever the motivation, I never found a reason to appreciate the joy of solitude.

How times have changed.

When I got the late phone call that my husband had been asked to join his boss for a dinner meeting, I tried to hide my excitement. Don't get me wrong. I love my husband. I love having dinner with him. But the Bulls game was on. My People magazine was waiting. Cooking would be limited to heating up some leftover pizza. C'mon. Who wouldn't rush home for that?

I was halfway through my pizza when I heard the garage door. What the . . .? I wasn't close to being ready to share my space. It wasn't even halftime. Even worse, I still had a secret doughnut to ingest. (Don't worry, I found a way to make that happen). It all slipped away so quickly. My evening alone had ended after a measly hour and a half. Oh, well. I put on a happy face and shared the couch (and the rest of the game) with my hubby. It seemed fitting that the Bulls blew a twelve point lead. But I'll survive. I haven't even opened my People and I still have half a pizza in the freezer. Just in case I get another one of those phone calls.

What I Should Have Said

Today I went to a baby shower. It's always fun to see the excitement and anticipation on the faces of the prospective parents. The afternoon followed the usual protocol. Lots of food, a few goofy games and opening up the adorably decorated loot. Surrounded by friends and family the young couple radiated the same joy I remember feeling twenty-five years ago. I envied them for that if not the challenges they have in front of them.

At each place setting, next to the cleverly designed party favors, were note cards that asked each guest for words of advice for the new parents. It was clearly too late to encourage them to reconsider. And, despite some recent bumpy times with both my kids, I wouldn't trade my years of mothering them for anything. But what words of wisdom could I put down on that piece of paper? What could I possibly say to enlighten them about what they were getting themselves into without scaring them half to death? What exactly had I learned from more than two decades of parenting?

Naturally, I took the coward's way out writing some innocuous hints like 'make time for each other', 'take lots of photos and videos' and 'write everything in a baby book because it'll all be forgotten if you don't'. What I should have said was, 'You won't believe how much your life is going to change. You're going to love this new, little person more than you've ever believed you could love anything in this world so don't get too crazy if the laundry's not done or the house is a wreck. The time you have with your precious baby will be over in a flash. All too soon he'll be holed up in his room, sitting at his computer with headphones on, completely tuning you out. So enjoy being the center of someone's universe. Appreciate every minute of it. It's a great ride while it lasts.'

Yeah. That's what I should have said.

Engaging My Inner Lioness

When your kids are in crisis, it doesn't matter if they're four or twenty-four. There's nothing you wouldn't do to take away their pain; to help them climb out of the hole they've dug themselves into. Even if you do manage to squelch that initial instinct to jump in and take over, you often can't help caving in the end. It must have something to do with that damn umbilical cord. Even after it's cut, it's still there, invisibly tugging you in the direction of that piece of your body that's now walking around on its own two feet.

I have to constantly remind myself that my "kids" are now adults. They should be able (and I should encourage them) to handle difficulties on their own. It's not as if they don't do their best to keep me in line. Those innocent eyes that once looked to me to make it all better have been replaced by icy looks that clearly say 'Don't even think about it'. Even if they want my help; even if they're going down for the third time, they're loath to let me in on it.

So, we lionesses have to be vigilant. We have to figure out how to separate the serious from the trivial. We can't go around roaring about everything. Because there will be times when you know you have to step in. There will be times when you feel in the deepest part of your gut that if you don't do something; if you don't help your child stop what they're doing/who they're seeing, something bad is going to happen. There will be times you just have to get in their face and stay there, shining a big fat light in their eyes until they finally see it.

This is one of those times.

Together Alone

Last night my husband and I had the house to ourselves. Not such an unusual thing these days, what with one of our kids gone and the other one making herself scarce as much as humanly possible. So I quickly changed into my French Maid outfit and we . . . Just kidding. Of course I did no such thing. Who do you think we are? Brad and Angie? No, we took advantage of our time alone in the way that all long-time married people will understand. I sat on the deck happily devouring my latest issue of People Magazine while he dutifully mowed the lawn.

Okay, so we're not the most romantic couple on the planet. Years living apart for weeks at a time may have made us a little too self-reliant; a little too independent. It seems as if we're always heading in different directions, hampered by opposing body clocks and work schedules. When he's in the mood to go out to dinner and a movie, I have to work. When I call to invite him to meet me for lunch, he's in the middle of creating a spreadsheet. Now that we don't have to worry about taking care of two kids, you would think carving out time to be a couple would be a lot easier. You would think.

I did tear myself away from the latest Royal Wedding update to fix us a delicious (not to mention healthy) grilled chicken and salad dinner, which seemed to make him pretty darn happy. We sat on the deck, sharing the events of the day as we admired his lawn mowing artistry. After that, we took a long walk around the neighborhood, commenting on everyone's landscaping skills or lack thereof. Once home, we capped off the evening by firing up the DVR and enjoying the latest episode of The Office.

It may not be everyone's idea of romance. But it works for us.

Mother's Day Treasures

When my kids were little, I knew I would get thoughtful gifts for Mother's Day I'd like to say that my husband took them by their little hands every year and lovingly helped them craft keepsakes for me but more often than not, it was their teachers. Many of my most cherished gifts were created in the classroom. Aprons with tiny hand prints, books with charmingly misspelled words, necklaces made out of various pasta shapes; I have my children's elementary teachers to thank for all of them.

As they got older, their dad's reminders (and, I suspect, his financial subsidies) assured me of a steady stream of flowers and trinkets bought and wrapped at the last minute. They were appreciated but I missed the thought and effort that had gone into their art projects. But I held out hope that some day, without a teacher or father to pressure them, they would again put a little time and energy into Mother's Day.

Today, I got my wish.

It didn't start well. When I woke up, I was alone. Not that I minded. I settled in with the paper and a freshly baked croissant (thank you, Trader Joes). So much for breakfast in bed. Before long, my daughter arrived with a beautiful card and an even more beautiful hand-written note. That wasn't such a surprise. For some time, she's been a thoughtful, creative gift-giver. She's also made it clear that her intention is to make me cry with each card she presents me.

The real shocker was my son. I knew he had been making progress when it came to holidays; i.e. actually being aware of them. Last Christmas he did a great job, choosing thoughtful, useful gifts for the entire family. But, today, he outdid himself by picking up a book called "What I Love About You" and filling in every page with loving, as well as, hilarious commentary. I loved it more than I've loved any gift since that macaroni necklace.

So, here's to the moms who are still waiting for their kids to appreciate them. I'm here to tell you to hang in there. It's gonna happen. It may take awhile but when it does, I promise you it's gonna feel really good.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

After more than twenty years of feeding a person on a regular basis, you would think that his arrival for yet another meal would be no big deal. You would be wrong. Today, my son is coming over for dinner. It's not a holiday and it's no one's birthday and he's coming for dinner. Okay, I did entice him by dangling the promise of one of his favorite meals. I know he loves us but it never hurts to sweeten the pot.

Still, it's weird hosting your kid when a couple of months ago he was helping himself to anything you were silly enough to leave in the fridge. Oh, wait, he still does that. But it does feel strange to see him on the other side of the door, standing there with dessert in his hands. Don't get me wrong. It's nice. But it's weird.

I'm sure I'll get used to this new phase of our relationship. I've already accepted the fact that he's gone (although he did camp out on our couch this week for one night). I know I'll eventually clean out his room and turn it into something else. Exercise room, anyone? But, right now, I'm not there yet. It's still just a little weird.

I've Got a Secret

There have been studies that reveal that men use an average of three thousand words a day while women use an average of five thousand. All I can say is, there's must be a woman somewhere who isn't saying a word to make up for my five digit daily verbal barrage.

I've always had a bit of trouble keeping my mouth shut. My mom tells me that I've always been quite chatty, to the point of being afraid I would walk off with one of the nice strangers polite enough to listen to my endless yammering. As I got older, I did manage to curtail my incessant need to speak after being made aware (by fed up friends) that others had a right to chime in once in a while, too. My need to express myself and every feeling or opinion that I've ever had has gotten me in trouble more than I'd like to acknowledge. But it's never really stopped me. Until now.

My son has informed me that the reason he doesn't share more of his life with me is my "big mouth". He's afraid that I won't respect his privacy. He's afraid I'll reveal embarrassing confidences to my friends over lunch. And, you know what? He has every right to be afraid.

So, I've promised him I'll do better. I've promised him that I'm going to regain his trust and show him that I can keep his secrets. I've promised him that I'll stop myself before diving into any conversation that I know would embarrass him. Now I just have to do it.

Still Hovering

I once saw a piece on a national news show about "helicopter moms". Smugly, I judged these crazy women who were calling their college aged children, checking up on everything from homework assignments to roommate squabbles. 'That will never be me', I told myself. 'I would never humiliate my children (or worse, myself) by sticking my nose into every aspect of their lives. Some of these women even called their kids' professors, pleading for better grades or leniency for missed assignments. It's a wonder that their "little darlings" were still taking their calls.

While I'm proud to say I haven't actually done any of the above, I have to admit I'm still having a lot of trouble not allowing my kids to suffer the consequences of their actions. Take taxes. They knew they were due on the 18th. So why did I feel I had to beg, cajole and, I'm sorry to admit, actually do most of the work associated with filing their paperwork? Why couldn't I just step out of the way and let them take care of it? Why couldn't I mind my own business, concentrate on finishing my own and head to the post office without those extra envelopes in hand. It's not like a SWAT team was going to show up to haul them off to jail if they were late. They were getting money back. The IRS probably doesn't mind a bit if you're late if they owe you. But I simply could not wrap my head around their procrastination. They were going to get money back. What the heck were they waiting for? Oh, yeah. They were waiting for me to do it for them.

It's That Time

Well, today is tax day and for the first time in my life I'm going to be one of those people scrambling to finish before the deadline. So, what am I doing writing this blog, you may ask? Why am I not crunching numbers and imputing data into Turbo Tax? Denial. Plain and simple. I do not want to face the inevitable writing of that check.

When I hear friends talking about what they're doing with their tax refunds, I want to cry. We haven't had the pleasure of opening one of those envelopes for years. And now, no longer able to claim our children as dependents (even though one of them is still occupying a bedroom), the possibility of ever receiving payback from Uncle Sam seems more remote than ever.

I suppose I have no right to complain. I live in the greatest country in the world and everyone needs to pull their weight, right? But it's not always fun to do the right thing. Maybe I shouldn't have watched that show on CNBC last night about tax cheats. Stories about billionaires hiding money in the Cayman Islands and millionaires trying to get away with paying $400 tax bills didn't help. I'm being honest and they're sailing off the coast of Barbados. Of course, a bunch of them ended up in jail. I did enjoy that part.

So, I guess I've procrastinated long enough. Time to stop whining and pay up. After all, the IRS did give us a couple of extra days this year. Good thing. When I'm finished I still have to help my two non-dependents with their returns. But they have no good reason for their tardiness. They're two of the lucky ones. They're getting money back. Must be nice.

Is This Really the End?

Today, I put on a pair of shorts for the first time in seven months. That they still fit was the first cause for celebration. The second, was enjoying an April day that topped eighty degrees. Just a few days ago I wrote about the vice-like grip of winter and the feeling that spring would never actually arrive. But that's Chicago for you. One day you're grabbing your down coat to fetch the newspaper off the driveway and the next you're sitting on your deck in a tank top. (Okay, I don't actually own a tank top anymore. No need to expose those flappy, Grandma waving arms; we have new neighbors).

So, what did we do with this lovely day? I can't believe I'm going to say this but we went to the garden store. Along with fifty-thousand of our closest friends. No, we weren't there to buy plants. I'm not that crazy. I know I can't plant anything around here until Memorial Day. But we did need new patio chair cushions. Seems as if some resourceful squirrel family in the area is now enjoying a very plush den (?) with what used to be the stuffing of our former outdoor seating. If we were going to enjoy this day sitting down, we were going to have to brave the crowds in search of replacements. After roaming the three aisles housing our choices, we quickly (as quickly as I can choose anything) settled on a red and gold striped pattern that looked like something we could live with for the next eight to ten years and headed home to throw a couple of gorgeous NY Strip steaks on the grill.

Life doesn't get much better. But if I ever get my hands on those high-living squirrels, they better be ready for a fight. They owe us $120.

Enough Already

Okay. Yesterday it was 71 degrees and today was 41. I've had it with weather that cannot make up its mind. Is this Spring? Are we on our way to summer? Or have we been sucked into a 'Groundhog's Day' vortex of the winter that just will not die? I'm starting to think it's the latter.

You'd think I would be used to it by now. I've lived in Chicago most of my life and, when I got the chance to escape, I ended up in England where the lack of sunshine was enough to make me want to take a dive off the London Bridge (if it hadn't already relocated to its sunny new home in Arizona). Maybe that's one more reason I'm so enamored with Italy. Among other things going for it, there seems to be an endless supply of sunny days without the joys of twenty-seven inch snowfalls and winters that last for six months.

I've dealt with this winter for long enough. I just want to pack up the heavy sweaters. I want to deposit the hats, boots and gloves in the back of the closet. I want to turn off the heat. I want to take the extra blankets off the bed. Oh, wait. I forgot. I live in Chicago. I can't safely do any of those things until May. But, if I'm lucky, I may not need any of them again until September.

Something to Look Forward To

I last wrote about how much I missed the great family vacations we used to take over Spring Break. Oh, sure, we had to take them with several thousand other families but that was a small price to pay for all that togetherness. Now that those days are behind us, I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself for still reporting to work while everyone else was off lounging in a cabana somewhere.

Little did I know that my hubby had something up his sleeve. As I was whining, he was busy planning. So it looks like we're going to be on the road again after all. I'm not sure when but it looks as if I might be getting back to my beloved Italy sooner then I ever expected. Life sure is full of surprises. I know I'll always be grateful to look back on the memories of those amazing times with our kids. But it looks like it might finally be time for their father and I to stop reminiscing and go out and make a few amazing memories of our own .

Spring Brake

This is the week out of the year that I used to love. When our kids were little we often took amazing trips to warm, sunny beaches where I indulged my love of Pina Coladas before noon and made my way through two or three bestsellers in seven days. These days, my longest trip is walking down the driveway to retrieve the soggy newspaper that reminds me that the temperature in Cancun yesterday was 82 degrees.

Now that our kids are adults, we don't have to live by the school calendar. That's a good thing. We can pick up and go any time we want to. With that kind of freedom, you'd think we would be on the move on a regular basis. It's not just lack of funds that are keeping us housebound. It's the fact that we don't have to put vacations on the calendar anymore; we don't have to schedule time to be together the way we used to. My husband and I see each other ALL the time. We've gone from living on different continents to seeing each other 24/7. Still, I wish we could get the four of us together one last time for one big blowout vacation. I miss the enforced family time that a trip to a foreign country guarantees. When you're the foreigner, it's amazing how eagerly you cling to the people you previously scorned. I suppose I'll just have to rely on my rosy memories of vacations past and accept the fact that we may have shared our last all-inclusive bonanza. But all is not lost. I do have something to look forward to. We have a big family wedding coming up next April. Too bad it's in California. Everybody there speaks English.

Who Needs TV?

Well, 'The Bachelor' chose Emily so what am I going to do now when I want a little relationship drama? Oh, wait, I forgot. I still have my twenty-four year old daughter living with me. As long as she's still here, I'm betting I won't be needing Brad Womack, Charlie Sheen or any other source of histrionics. Between her adventures in online dating and fractured friendships with girls she outgrew a long time ago, I sometimes feel like I'm immersed in my own reality show.

I thought it would be over by now. I didn't know I'd still be dealing with late night phone calls and tearful advice seeking sessions this late in the game. The problem is, my daughter has had the same group of friends since she was ten. They all know exactly how to push each others' buttons; they all know how to get back in each others' good graces. But now, she's facing the fact that it's just not worth the heartache. Sometimes you have to let go. Girlfriends, boyfriends, family members. No matter how much history you have with someone; no matter how much you've been through together, sometimes you have to let go. Who needs a bunch of toxic people who bring nothing to the party but a whole lot of drama? That's what 'The Bachelor' is for.

My Kind of Reality

Buried by the avalanche of reality TV, it's sometimes hard to remember that there are television shows that are put together by a talented team of writers and actors. There are even a few that are worth the time you spend watching them. These days, I'm gravitating more and more toward anything that makes me laugh so I make it a habit to check out 'Modern Family' and 'The Office' but my personal favorite may be one you've never seen. I'm talking about 'The Middle', an unassuming comedy gem that has one of the most realistic families ever presented on TV.

Watching the Indiana based Heck (as in what the . . .) family, I'm struck by the writer's uncanny ability to depict real life in a humorous, yet totally relatable way. I haven't been this impressed with a show's ability to "get it right" since 'Thirtysomething' (which wasn't usually funny but eerily mirrored my own life at the time). Every week 'The Middle' makes everyday struggles hysterically funny. The family consists of a loving, yet stressed out, middle-class pair dealing with a clueless teenage son, an awkward but impossibly resilient daughter and a gifted ten-year-old without social skills. These can't be actors; their family looks (and acts) just like one I'd find in my own neighborhood. And that's how you know you're watching something special. If you can stop laughing long enough to look for a listening device in your kitchen, convinced the writers are bugging your home for their material, you know they must be doing something right.

There But For the Grace

For the last few days we've been shown a steady stream of images from hell. What the people of Japan are going through is hard to imagine but the pictures of devastation and loss can't help but encourage all of us to hold our loved ones a little closer. Hearing stories of children ripped out of their mothers' arms or seeing an old man standing on the remnants of his roof as it drifts out to sea has a way of putting things into perspective.

But why does it take tragedy to make us appreciate our blessings? Are we so wrapped up in our day to day routines that we can't stop doing long enough to just be? Are we so addicted to stimuli that we are unable to tolerate quiet? I don't know. It seems to be so easy these days to lose sight of what's important; so easy to forget that our days on this planet are numbered. Do we really want to be spending them texting, surfing the internet and talking incessantly on our cell phones? God, I hope not.

Weighing My Options

When I was younger, I could eat anything I wanted. I could stuff my face full of donuts, cookies and pizza without my body betraying my lack of willpower to the world. I wish I had known then that the betrayal was just biding its time, waiting around the menopausal corner. Maybe I would have gotten my act together a little sooner. Now, after adding ten pounds in the last two years, I have to face the reality that others have had to deal with their whole lives - fattening food makes you fat.

It's not that I don't like broccoli. I do. I just like it better when it has a spoonful of hollandaise covering it. It's not that I don't appreciate a good salad. I do. My problem is in the definition of a good salad. Mine is mixed greens topped with goat cheese, walnuts, fruit (notice I didn't say croutons) and a generous ladle of Lou Malnati's sweet vinegarette. Most days I get through breakfast and lunch relatively unscathed. If I can talk myself out of heading to Big Apple for their cinnamon danish bagel, I've hit the home stretch without doing much damage. But come sunset, I'm in trouble. There's no way I'm plopping in front of the TV without a cup of tea and some nefarious waist buster. If I'm behaving myself, it'll be a few vanilla wafers or cinnamon graham crackers. If I'm not, . . . well, it gets ugly pretty darn quickly.

So, now I have some tough questions to ask. How much do I want it? How much do I want to rid myself of the muffin tops that pop over my jeans? Am I willing to do what it takes (for more than a day or two) to get myself in shape? So far, the spirit has been strong but the body has been weak. I don't remember exercise hurting this much. Could it have something to do with my rebellious joints? Or is the lure of that piece of chocolate cake just too strong? Hamlet had his questions. I have mine.

What Goes Around . . .

I've been using this blog to do a lot of complaining about the fact that my son hasn't been quick to pick up a phone and let me know how things are going now that he's moved out. Oh, sure, because we work at the same tennis club, I see him a couple of times a week but that's not exactly the place to have a heart to heart talk. If anything, it makes things more confusing. It's been more than strange to hear him call me by my first name (can't drop that businesslike demeanor that he's so proud of) and even stranger to have him walk out the door without getting the hug I've been so used to receiving any time we've said goodbye in the past. But all this sensitivity about his lack of communication got me thinking. How often do I call my own mother?

Now in her eighties, my mom has made a habit out of not interfering in her children's lives. She was actually happy for me when I got a chance to live overseas for a few years. She didn't whine about how lonely she was going to be or try to talk me out of leaving. She didn't pack up her things and find an apartment she could rent in Knightsbridge. No. She talked to me once a week and used the opportunity to visit a part of the world she had never seen before. Her whole adult life was lived as a mom and yet she was able to step back and let her daughters fly the nest without making us feel bad for doing so. She's there when we need her, doesn't offer advice unless we ask for it and tries not to guilt us into spending time with her. Sounds like something I should be shooting for.

Round Two

How can a little thing like changing your cable company lead to a major screamfest? All I wanted to do was discuss the possibility of switching to Comcast. Sounds innocuous enough, right? So how did I end up eating my dinner alone?

I may be crazy but, for me, it all comes down to tone. I didn't have a problem with my husband questioning my motivation. I didn't mind that he thought the persistent salesman who came to our door was less than truthful about the product he was pushing. I've been married for twenty-seven years; this kind of thing has come up before. No, what I have a problem with is being talked to as if I'm a child. When anyone takes that 'I know more than you do' tone with me, I tend to tune out whatever comes next. Shocker, huh?

The problem is, he honestly doesn't hear it. He thinks he's just making observations or providing me with necessary information. All I hear is the condescending tone of a know-it-all bully. As I learned in cross cultural training (a program designed to help you understand the linguistic minefields you might encounter living overseas), the source of the trouble resides in our different upbringings. My husband's homeland is big on delivering information. They're not overly concerned about being tactful and they sure don't understand Americans' tendency to sugarcoat everything that comes out of our mouths. I get it. I try to understand it. I just don't have to like it.

Surprising Yourself

When you're young, you think you have all the time in the world to take advantage of all the opportunities life offers. By the time you realize you don't, your mind and body are often not eager to cooperate. That's one of the reasons I insisted on taking our dream trip to Italy even when I knew it wasn't the best use of our financial resources. Some things are worth doing no matter what the cost. Ask my husband now about his reservations about that trip and he'll tell you it was the best money we ever spent. That's the thing about grasping opportunity when it comes your way. You're not usually sorry about the things you do. It's the opportunities you leave on the table that come back to haunt you.

That's why I couldn't be happier for my sister. This weekend, she didn't let a little thing like being terrified out of her mind stop her from stepping out on the edge and trying something new. Twice she stood for two hours on a stage and conquered that frightened inner voice that holds us back. Despite being a seasoned musical performer, this time she took a leap out of her comfort zone - a role in a new serious comedy called My Occasional Torment. The play's themes of love, marriage, aging and insecurities hit a bit too close to home. That would have been reason enough to have said no to the part (which she did more than a couple of times). Once she got past that roadblock, she had to face her real demon - memorizing one hundred pages of dialogue. As someone who struggles to recite her own cellphone number, I don't know how she did it. Didn't she? She did. (Sorry. Had to steal a line from the show). There she was, in the spotlight, in front of one hundred and fifty people, pushing herself to do something that she truly feared she would be unable to do. Two packed houses and two standing ovations begged to differ.

And next weekend, she gets to do it again. Maybe she'll be a little less terrified, maybe not. But she'll be there. As she wrote on her Facebook wall the morning after opening night, 'We're capable of so much more than we ever think we are'. Amen.

Bumps in the Road

Yesterday was a particularly bumpy ride on my way out of the motherhood. Can't say that anything major precipitated this emotional meltdown other than a less than perfect phone call with my son but that seems to be the pattern. The act of letting go of the reins of full-time motherhood is a dicey operation. Sometimes you're able to steer your way around the potholes and sometimes you're not.

Expecting your grown up male child to keep you informed of what's going on in his life is a little like peace in the Middle East. You want it to happen with all of your heart and soul but know there's not a chance in hell of it actually taking place. So while I think I'm asking for something completely reasonable, he sees it as an invasion of his privacy. While I think I'm just trying to forge the new and improved version of our relationship, he thinks I'm trying to keep him a child forever. I honestly don't think that's true but I did underestimate how hard it was going to be to let go.

The day did end on a happy note when he and his girlfriend showed up on our doorstep with dessert. I tried to keep the conversation light. He gave me extra hugs. I didn't pry or give advice. He brought chocolate. We're getting there.

Football Blues

I know this blog is supposed to be about the transition out of full time motherhood but today I'm mourning another transition - the end of the football season. Every year is difficult but this one ended with a spirit crushing, hard to swallow Super Bowl triumph by our arch rivals so it's even tougher than usual. The fact that we wasted the opportunity to knock them out of the playoffs not once but twice makes the upcoming off-season even worse. Not that I held out much hope that we could have won it all. I'll cop to being a crazed Bears fan but I'm actually sane enough to know that the better team moved forward. But you can't blame me for hoping our luck would hold out for a little while longer.

I was surprised how much it all bothered me. It's just a game. I know that. But seeing Aaron Rodgers and his cohorts hoisting that trophy when we were unable to do it when we had the chance a few years ago; not gonna lie, it made me a little sick to my stomach. I also had to deal with a couple of zealous Packer fans the next day at work. Didn't make Monday morning any easier.

So, now what? What the heck am I going to do with my Sunday afternoons? Baseball's months away and I'm not that big of a fan anyway. Golf? Except for the pleasure of seeing Tiger lose another one, there's not much fun in that snoozefest. Basketball? I might get interested in the last two minutes and the NCAA can be addictive with all that bracket nonsense but nothing holds my interests in the same way those helmeted Monsters of the Midway do. I guess I'll just have to find another outlet to get through this never ending winter. Since I'm still procrastinating editing my book, anybody up for a scintillating game of Trivial Pursuit?

eHarmony and Friends

My daughter joined an online dating network a few weeks ago. She now has one hundred and sixteen matches waiting for her perusal. So far she has gone out with four of them. To be honest, if I were single again (perish the thought), I would definitely give online matchmaking a try. It can't be worse than the way I used to meet potential boyfriends; i.e. blind dates, bars and my sister's discards. But it is a little scary. As a parent, you can't help envisioning a demented serial killer waiting for your firstborn at Starbucks. I've looked at their pictures and profiles. They all look normal (except for one that looked exactly like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast) but so did Ted Bundy.

Luckily, my daughter wants my opinion. She sifts through her favorites before asking what I think of each potential candidate. I'm amazed how many men are on the site. I'm even more amazed by how honestly and thoughtfully many of them seem to answer the questions. (Although there was one who answered 'Why are you on eHarmony?' with one word - sex. Got to give him props for honesty. Wonder how many responses he got?) Despite the requisite weirdos, there seem to be a lot of nice, hard-working, family oriented guys who say they want what my daughter wants - someone to accept and love them for who they are; someone to laugh with; someone to share their life with. Don't we all?

It all sounds too good to be true. But, given the chance to find real love, how often do women ignore the great guy right under their noses in order to hook up with the good looking bad boy who's bound to break their hearts? In our house, way too often so I am encouraged by the fact that my daughter is trying to break the pattern. If this doesn't work, I may be forced to resort to that age-old remedy of finding your children a mate - a good, old-fashioned arranged marriage.

Digging Out

It's a weird feeling to have your life in the hands of a stranger that operates a truck with a big, metal plate attached to the front. After experiencing the biggest snowstorm since I was a teenager, I'm now a prisoner in my own home. Granted, it's a nice place to be imprisoned, what with the HD TV and fully stocked fridge. Don't think I haven't taken the time over the last twenty-four hours to thank God for that particular blessing.

Every winter I ask myself what I'm doing here. Every winter my answer gets a little louder. I DON'T KNOW. Shoveling two feet of snow at 8:00 A.M. is not my idea of a fun wake up call. And my crazy husband refuses to use our perfectly good snow blower that resides in the basement. 'It's too heavy', 'It's too small', ' 'I can do it quicker by hand' are his favorite excuses. Today he rolled out a new one. "The fumes make me nauseous", he said as our neighbor offered him the use of his heavy duty machine. I tried to remind him that nauseating fumes were preferable to a coronary but he wasn't hearing any of it. Maybe I wouldn't mind so much if my son were still here to man the second shovel but since that job now falls to me, I'm not empathizing with my husband's sensitive nose as much as I probably should.

Now he's informed me to be ready for "night shoveling" after the plow makes it through to our cul-de-sac. This winter just keeps getting better and better.

The Pity Party is Over . . . For Now

If you look at the description of this blog, it's supposed to be an "often humorous" look at the transition from full-time motherhood to whatever comes next. As anyone who's been reading this over the last few weeks knows, it's been anything but funny. Well, that's about to change. Beating myself up about the mistakes I've made as a parent could easily turn into a full-time job. Since that occupation doesn't pay very well, I've decided to direct my energies elsewhere.

Although I have one foot out the door of full-time parenting, our daughter is still gracing us with her presence so I still have opportunities to impart my hard-won wisdom on somebody. God knows, she's having her own transitional issues. She's between boyfriends and jobs. She's undecided about returning to school. She's confused about where she wants to live, although I did hear her mention to a friend that she might as well live here until she's thirty. She did laugh after she said that. That means she was kidding, right?

So, from now on, I'm going to concentrate on getting my own act together. I'll help my kids when I can (hopefully, not before I'm asked) but I'm going to stop focusing on the things that I cannot control and start working on what I can. That bestseller is not going to edit itself.

Boyz to Men

I have to admit I'm not handling this very well. I thought I'd be so happy to have my children move out but now that the first one has actually done it, I'm spending more time crying than celebrating. Maybe it's because it's my son. Unlike my daughter, he never was very demonstrative or communicative. He'd spend days in his room playing video games or talking to his friends, venturing out only to grab a Gatorade and a slice of pizza. If I was lucky, he'd ask me something about Sports Center or throw me a compliment about what I'd made for dinner. If I wasn't, he'd pass me in the hallway without uttering anything more than a couple of grunts. But, every now and then, he'd surprise me. He'd tackle me with a giant hug, reassuring me that I was the greatest mom on earth. Okay. It was usually when he wanted something but I didn't care.

Now that I can no longer find him hanging out in his room, I'm having trouble adapting to our new relationship. Since we work together occasionally, I still get to see him on a regular basis but it's always so impersonal. If he was uncomfortable showing emotion when he was in the privacy of his own home, you can imagine how much he hates it under the glaring eye of non-family members. I'm trying as hard as I can to give him time; to honor his privacy. I remind myself that he still loves me; that we'll get back to a close, connected relationship one of these days.

I just hate the meandering path we're on getting there.

It's Only a Game

It's taken me a couple of days to bring myself to talk about it. As anyone who reads this blog regularly knows, I'm a bit of a sports nut. Okay, more than a bit. Instead of January, February, March, etc., my calendar reads football, Australian Open, hockey, The Masters, Wimbledon; well, you get the picture. I support all the Chicago teams but I am an especially rabid Bears fan. Unfortunately.

Sunday was a sad, sad day for Bears fans. Hoping against hope that this unbelievably lucky streak that they've been on all season would hold until they made it to the Super Bowl, I invited my entire family to share in the glorious victory over the hated Packers. We didn't get the victory. We didn't even get any points on the board until the second half. What we did get was an exciting (although totally predictable) ending. We also got acquainted with our third string quarterback. Seems like a nice guy, which is more than I can say for our first stringer.

The day wasn't a total loss. My family brought tons of food and lots of alcoholic beverages. There was even a giant chocolate cake to drown my sorrows in. They're a fun group; they refuse to let anyone wallow. If I have to have my dreams crushed, these are the people I want to have talking me off the ledge. As they pulled out of the driveway, I thought about how much worse it could be.

I could be dreaming about the Cubs winning the World Series.

Another Match

For the second time in a week, I played tennis with my son. Due to a lack of available subs at the tennis club where we both work, we found ourselves pressed into service to even out the courts. Nothing unusual about that. We're both paid to play tennis occasionally, one of our job's best perks. What was surprising about this particular circumstance was my son's desire to play on the same court. While my insecurity and general neurosis led me to believe that he would rather play with complete strangers than risk being embarrassed by his mom, I was thrilled when he wanted to jockey some of the players around to other courts in order for us to play together.

Our opponents, two friendly, accommodating ladies, begged him to "play nice". They could see that his natural athleticism and power would be overwhelming weapons if he decided to unleash them. They needn't have worried. He had no intention of beating up on them. He saved that for the woman who gave birth to him.

His first serve to me was a rocket that hit me in the stomach. I knew it was coming. I've known this kid for twenty-two years. I knew he couldn't resist showing off. He wasn't about to play his regular game against the other ladies but knocking mom on her keester, that was completely acceptable. Better yet, it was fun.

We played for an hour and a half. One third of the time we were teammates; two thirds of the time, opponents. He never did hit me again; he just ran me around the court with wicked backhands and well-placed lobs. I didn't play particularly well. I guess I was trying too hard; trying to make him proud of his old mom. Maybe that's just one more thing we have in common.

One Little Yellow Ball

The older I get the more I realize how life's small moments keep us going. Last week, when I wrote my last blog, I was completely derailed by my son abruptly moving out of the house. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world. In a way, I guess it was. It was the end of the world as I knew it; the world of two parents and two offspring sharing a house. Although this blog clearly states that my goal is to get my children out of my house, this was all too sudden; too tense; too sad.

Today, I played tennis. I smacked the hell out of that fuzzy sphere and you know what? I feel better. For the first time in weeks I played halfway decent tennis. That alone made me feel good. Once you've passed the half-century mark, any day you come off the court without injuring something is a good day. When you win the match on top of it, actually contributing some rocking shots against opponents ten to fifteen years younger than you are, other problems fade away. At least for a few minutes. I got a great workout and had a lot of laughs. There's not much in life that's better than that.

But the best part of this story is the half hour before my match. My son, who also works at the tennis club, decided to rent a court with a ball machine. After playing for a half hour, he invited me to join him. We hit with the machine until the last ball was hurled at us and then stood on opposite sides of the net. We traded ground strokes, volleys and overheads. We teased each other about missed shots. We laughed. The tension of last week was nowhere to be found. He may not live here anymore but for thirty minutes on the court, I got my boy back.

This Sucks

In one of my earlier posts I mentioned how I had dreaded my children's teenage years. Looking back, they were a piece of cake compared to what we're dealing with now. Trying to help your adult children find their way in the world seems so much more difficult in 2011 than it ever was when I was younger. When I was their age, I had already bought my own car. I had already rented an apartment. I easily found employment. I had the tools to make it on my own. Even though I came from a family where much was done for me at home, I managed to handle laundry, grocery shopping and bill paying without too much trouble. More importantly, I did it without alienating the two people who had brought me into this world.

Is it asking too much to expect your twenty-something children to leave the nest without disconnecting completely? Is it unreasonable to expect them to treat you with love and respect as they walk out the door? Is it naive to think they might miss you as much as you're going to miss them? I thought I knew the answers to those questions. Today, I'm not so sure.

The Parents Are Coming, The Parents Are Coming

One of the worst things about getting older is the fact that your parents are getting older too. After attending the funeral of the mother of one of my co-worker's, I spent this weekend reflecting on just how lucky I am to have both of my parents in my life. At eighty, they are still relatively healthy, able to participate in most family activities (okay, bowling is out) and live just a short distance from our home. They are two of the most generous, kind, intelligent people you would ever want to meet and I know how blessed I am to have them swimming in my gene pool.

How do you ever let such special people know how much you appreciate them? I have no idea. There is no way I can ever repay them for the loving, secure foundation they provided me. There is no way I can ever make up for all the money spent, hours worked or all the other sacrifices they have made to ensure my health and happiness. Now that I have adult children who are struggling to find their place in the world, I realize more than ever what a great combination of love and discipline; support and encouragement my own parents were able to provide. Now that I think of it, I'm getting a little angry. Why did they have to go and set the bar so damn high? It just makes the rest of us look bad.

Since it's impossible for me to truly show them how grateful I am to have had them as parents, I'm opting for doing the next best thing - feeding them. Every Sunday they have a standing invitation for dinner accompanied by HD baseball/football/golf/whatever. The sport isn't important; it's just an excuse to get them to come down for a few hours of conversation and gluttony. It's not always fine dining (yesterday it was Sloppy Joe's and pound cake) but they always make me feel as if it is. Great. Just one more thing I have to thank them for.

Truth or Consequence

Last week I wrote about a particularly difficult incident with one of my kids. When your children are in their twenties and still living at home, it's hard not to be affected by their mistakes. This wasn't anything life or jail threatening but it did hurt. The hardest part was being lied to and dealing with the loss of trust that will be affecting our relationship for some time to come.

Two days after our family meltdown, our son left for Colorado. It was a trip that had been planned for weeks but the act of rewarding himself with a vacation when things were so broken seemed ill-advised and wrong. A friend advised me to warn him that if he went on this trip, he would have to find another place to live when he came home. I couldn't do it. Maybe I should have. Maybe he needed to finally learn that there are negative consequences to negative behavior but I just couldn't do it. Maybe he needed to man up and accept responsibility for his actions by giving up something he really wanted to do. He chose not to.

So, who's got the most to learn here?

Car Trouble

When I was sixteen, all I wanted was the freedom of having my own wheels. Growing up with a mother who didn't drive, I was first in line at the DMV the morning of my birthday. When I failed the test the first time around (the tester was a Nazi who hated teenagers), I was inconsolable. Two weeks later, when I passed with flying colors, I couldn't wait until I drained every last penny out of my savings account to buy my first car - a Toyota Corolla for $2400. Brand new with automatic transmission, no less.

As I am now paying a repair bill that almost equals the cost of my first vehicle fresh off the showroom floor, I have changed my mind about cars. I hate them. I hate paying for them, taking care of them, cleaning them, insuring them; I hate everything about them. I wish I could live without one but as long as I chose to live in suburbia, I know that's impossible.

The source of my latest rant against America's chosen mode of transportation stems from having to bring my car in three times in the last two weeks for the same problem; a chirping noise that sounds like a flock of chicks has moved in under my hood. I've left it overnight twice (it only makes the noise when the engine is cold) and it has been diagnosed as a faulty belt. Replaced twice, the chicks are still in residence. In addition, the check engine light when on today and the terrorists running the repair shop want to charge me another $100 to diagnose the problem. They don't have to. I already know what the problem is. I bought a car.

Back to Reality

Well, the holidays are finally over. Except for a couple of returns I've yet to make, my trips to Marshalls and T.J. Maxx have come to an end. The cookie tins that used to occupy an entire countertop have been whittled down to one lonely canister housing the last of the sugar dusted reindeer. Thank God. The tree and its decorative cousins are still around but their days are numbered. Now it's time to return to winter reality in the Midwest.

I hate January and February. There, I said it. Long, icy, frigid, snowy months with nothing to show for them except Valentine's Day, a lame holiday designed to make women fatter and men feel inadequate. Once the holidays, full of parties, family get-togethers and food, are over, I have absolutely no use for the rest of winter. I think someone in my family must have mated at some point with a grizzly, as all I want to do this time of year is put on my pajamas and hibernate. (Okay, I know grizzlies don't possess pajamas but, hey, it's cold and that's the only analogy my frozen brain could come up with).

On a positive note, I am encouraged that I have actually fulfilled my 2009 new year resolution by completing the first draft of my book. While I hunker down at home, the editing should (if I stop procrastinating) keep me busy until Spring allows me to venture outside. Until then, I'll have to content myself with the fact that the Bears are in the playoffs. Now there's something to look forward to.

The Deepest Cut

I was hoping to start the New Year with optimism. After finishing the first draft of my first novel in November, I was sure that 2011 was going to be the year; the year of no excuses, the year of fulfilling long held resolutions, the year our family was going to put past difficulties behind us. Instead, the first few days of 2011 have been some of the most challenging moments of my life as a parent.

What do you do when the people you love most in the world let you down? What do you do when the children you've nurtured and supported for more than two decades completely demolish your sense of trust, causing you to question every parenting move you've ever made? If you're expecting me to answer those questions, you're out of luck. After several bottles of wine and a lot of tears I don't have any answers. When your children make mistakes, it's easy to remember your own youth and have compassion. When they compound those mistakes by lying to your face over and over again, taking advantage of all the love and trust you've freely given, it's not so easy.

So, today I sat in the upper balcony in church and prayed for understanding. I asked God to help me get through this latest parenting hurdle with as much love and forgiveness as He can send my way. What I really want to do is change the locks, confiscate their cell phones and car keys and send them out into the real world to fend for themselves. Hopefully, my prayers will be answered with my offspring making amends in a concrete way that allows them to continue to have a roof over their heads without sacrificing my sanity and integrity. Then again, God may answer with the toughest response of all. He might agree with me.