Stepping Out

I’ve always been a bit of an enabler (which is a little like saying Ryan Reynolds is kinda sexy). It’s not that I don’t know that people benefit from facing the consequences of their actions, it’s just that I don’t want anyone I know and love to suffer (duh),especially if there’s anything I can do to help it. I’m rational enough to know that this is the mantra of all enablers and I’m doing my best to quiet my inclination to step in whenever my kids are having a problem, but it’s often a losing battle.

It’s not fun to watch your kids struggle (another duh). Remember when our parents used to say “this is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you”? Turns out they weren’t as crazy as we thought they were. But our parents were tougher; they knew the value of those lessons that could only be learned from experience. My husband, raised by strict, no-nonsense parents that made my parents look a couple of hippies, would have raised our kids a whole lot differently, if only he would have had a partner that would have let him.

Now that full-time motherhood is in my rear-view mirror, it’s so much easier to see things clearly. If it’s true, as Maya Angelou says (and everything she says is true), that “you did then what you knew then and now that you know more, you’ll do better”, it’s time for me to do better. It’s time for me to do what’s best for them, even if that means not being there to brace their every fall. It’s time for me to step out.

And it’s time for them to have a chance to step up.

Dinner and the Late Shift

It’s not often that I get to spend some one-on-one time with both of my children in one twenty-four hour period, but yesterday the stars aligned and I hit the jackpot. The first half of the daily double started with a mid-afternoon phone call from my daughter. “Hey, Mom,” she said. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately. I have to run a few errands after work and I wondered if you wanna meet me at Target around 6?” Now, I had no desire to go shopping after work. I had no interest in wandering around a store filled with stuff I didn’t need, especially when I was set to return to work at 7:30 to help with a last-minute mailing project. All I wanted to do was go home, find a comfy chair and flip through my DVR’d U.S. Open matches. But that would have to wait. I had a chance to spend a little time with my girl.

Turns out, “little time” was an accurate description. By the time she was able to break away from work, it was 6:30. We tried on a few things at Marshall’s before heading to Panera for a quick bite to eat. After carting our salads outside to enjoy the last hours of sunshine, we shared stories of our day and she even asked for a little advice. We never did make it to Target.

I got to spend a little more time with my son. Working at the same place has its benefits. As we stamped, stickered and stuffed hundreds of envelopes, I snuck in a few questions about his life and he actually answered. He even threw in an unexpected (and greatly appreciated) compliment about my appearance. Although I knew he didn’t want to, he stayed with me until the project was finished. I even got a few extra minutes of conversation when I drove him home.

When our kids are little, we spend thousands and thousands of hours with them. Last night, I was grateful for just a few more.

Am I Now the Guy?

Being in a long-term marriage affords one the opportunity to witness the ever-changing stages of human behavior. I'm not into defining anyone with typical gender-based roles but from my own experience, if you give a man and woman enough time and exposure to one another, they're going to slip in and out of one another's shoes every now and then.

When we started out almost 29 years ago, our roles were fairly traditional. My husband and I both held full-time jobs until the kids came. After that, he made the bulk of the money and I stayed home with our children, taking a few part-time jobs along the way. Our emotional behavior was pretty traditional, too. He said as few words as possible, rarely broke down in tears and approached most of our problems from a rational, logical point of view. I, on the other hand, always wanted to discuss our issues (usually right as he was falling asleep), could be brought to tears by any top 40 country song and dismissed his rational approach as cold and unfeeling. As you can imagine, these differences impeded our communication more than once.

Twenty years ago, my aunt warned me it would all change. She and her husband were just getting used to retirement when she said to me, "Hang in there. He's going to be a lot different after 55. When his job isn't the be all and end all that it once was, it'll be easier. You'll see, you're going to get yourself a whole different husband."

What she didn't tell me was that he was going to get a whole different wife.

I never would have expected that I would NOT want to talk, that I would enjoy spending time by myself or that I wouldn't need as much romantic affirmation as I used to. I never saw this change coming. The person whose body I now inhabit seems like a stranger. The behavior that I often exhibit seems a lot less loving, a lot less sensitive.

Now I need to have someone tell my husband to hang in there.

I Scream, You Scream

Labor Day weekend is just a few days away and that can only mean one thing. (Well, two things if you count the 'can't wear white after' nonsense). It means that ice cream season is almost over.

I don't know about you but I don't have a whole lot of interest in ingesting frozen confections when it's 12 degrees outside. Once those hot summer nights give way to blustery winter hibernation, I comfort myself with warm chocolate chip cookies and a cup of tea instead of a sundae. Somehow, dodging icicles outside has a way of shutting down my desire for fudgsicles when I'm inside.

But tonight, it's still August. It was still warm enough to walk around town after dinner. I wasn't going to pass up one of the remaining opportunities to enjoy a frosty treat. Lucky for me, I didn't have to have to settle for ice cream; our town has a gelato shop. Yes, I know. I'm addicted to anything Italian but, c'mon, I don't care how American you are, comparing ice cream to gelato is like comparing a Mitsubishi to a Mercedes. If you've had it before, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, what are you waiting for?

I'll have you know, I did behave myself. I got a small cup filled with a strawberry and raspberry combo. (The fruit flavors are definitely where gelato has it all over ice cream). As my husband and I wandered through the town, dipping our tiny plastic spoons into each others' flavors (I know, that sounds a little dirty), I tried to soak in the waning hours of this 27th day of August.

Summer's almost over. I've got a few more flavors to try before I'm ready to say good-bye.

Can We (Not) Talk?

A few days ago I accidentally left my phone at work. When I called in to see if it was there, one of my co-workers took one look at my sorry little flip phone and said, "What the heck is this? I haven't seen one of these in five years. It's time you moved into the 21st century and got yourself a new phone." To which I replied, "I don't think so."

I may be crazy (or at least out of touch with the rest of the world) but I don't get the obsession with cellphones. I do not want to be at the beck and call of every person I have ever met. I do not want to be awoken with missed text messages. And I do not want to retrieve my e-mail from Katmandu (okay, I don't really want to go to Katmandu either but it sounds better than Orlando).

Everywhere I go, I see people who feel differently. They walk around with bluetooth earpieces that make them sound like escaped inmates from an asylum. They bury their heads as they furiously type in some message that just can't wait until they get home. They do everything they can to interact with their electronic friend rather than actual human beings and I want no part of it. A friend of mine told me that he was at the pool with his daughter where he saw a mom so engrossed in her cellphone that she waded around the swimming pool, phone in hand, completely neglecting the child paddling at her feet. I don't care how cool any phone is, if that's what happens when you own one, you can count me out.

To be honest, it might be nice to slide through hundreds of photos on the latest gadget. It might be fun to take pictures and make them available immediately to any and all interested parties. It would certainly be convenient to have a built-in GPS to help me when I'm stuck on some road in the middle of nowhere. But I don't need any of it. And I don't want to be a slave to a piece of machinery that a recent poll revealed to be more necessary to the participants than their lunch (check out the recent Time Magazine cover story).

So, my flip-phone and I are going to hang tough. We're stuck with one another until the inevitable happens: it dies or I lose it. Until then, I'm going to try to ignore the pressure to upgrade to one of those expensive, do-everything-but-make-coffee smartphones.

I just have one request. Try not to run me down while you're using yours.

Friday Nite Lights

It's Friday. It's August. It's 92 degrees. Sounds like the perfect time for football. Not the real football, of course. That will come later when it cools down to 80 degrees. For now, we all have to settle for the pre-season variety; the inferior product for which those poor season ticket holders have to pay full price.Those of us without that kind of expendable cash, the ones forced to observe the mayhem on our 52 inch flat-screens, know we're the lucky ones. We watch the first quarter, check out the play of our first-string heroes and get on with our lives. We know pre-season is a joke; a tease designed to whet our appetite for the real thing. We know those four games are nothing more than the last stand for third-string players trying make the team. We can't get too excited about a win and we shouldn't get too unhappy about a loss. If our team's star players make it through the four games without injury, it's time to break out the champagne.

But then, there's the third game. That's the one, the only one, that means something. The starters play at least through the first half, often through the third quarter. You start to see a glimmer (coaches, especially our lovable Bears coach, don't like to tip their hand too much) of what your team is going to look like come opening day. It's exciting, it's fascinating, it's worth watching, and if your team is playing the defending Super Bowl Champions, it's a little bit scary.

Tonight, is that night.

Sorry, Say Yes to the Dress. You will just have to wait. Tonight, Randy and the girls are heading straight to the DVR. For this one and only Friday, Lovie and the boys need my complete attention. As far as I'm concerned, there's only one good thing about the end of summer - the start of football. So, I'm going to pick up a pizza, slip on my Bears t-shirt and try not to get too excited about this very intriguing season. 

Optimism is great but it won't take down Mr. Rodgers and the Packers.

Pictures on the Wall

Last night, I was lying in my bed minding my own business, when I happened to look over at the window to my right. Not an unusual occurrence; when you have a large, picture window in your bedroom, you tend to look in that direction on a regular basis. But this time, I was struck by the 11x14 framed photo just off to the side of the window. It's been there awhile but I don't often stop to really look at it, which is a surprise as it's one of my favorites. It was taken when my daughter was four and my son was two. They're both dressed in Easter finery; she's wearing a ruffled dress and a straw hat with a ribbon flowing down the back and he's wearing suspenders and a bow tie (I know, I used to go a little crazy with the clothes on picture day). She's kneeling on the floor next to his wooden chair, holding his hand (probably to keep him from bolting) and both of them look like a couple of angels. No wonder I have a hard time accepting that they are now two adult individuals, prone to making the same mistakes as the rest of us.

But how do you stop thinking about your children as children when everywhere you look there are reminders of their sweet, innocent baby/toddler faces?

I know. I could take down all the photos. But that's not going to happen. There are so many memories on those walls; so many reminders of happy, funny, memorable moments, that I wouldn't want to sacrifice the joy I get from looking at them. There's the close-up of my daughter, sucking her thumb, holding her favorite lovey, a bunny blanket with blue eyes the same size and shape as hers. There's the hilarious shot of my son and his cousin trying to out-duel each other making faces. There's the one I took of the two of them, where she is laughing hysterically and he looks like a deer in the headlights. All of them make me smile (and occasionally make me tear up) but they all have something else in common - they all were taken before junior high. Somehow, the years between twelve and eighteen are conspicuous in their absence.

But maybe that's not so strange. What kid wants their picture taken during those adolescent years? Mine sure didn't; the fewer memories of braces, acne and bad haircuts, the better. And what parent wants to relive any of it anyway? Those were the tough years; the uncute years. Those were years filled with nagging about homework, suffering through hormonal changes and worrying about drugs, alcohol, and whether they could drive home safely in a snowstorm. Is it any wonder those pictures (what few of them there are) stay in a drawer?

It's a lot easier (and a lot more fun) to reminisce about those good-old-childhood days, when our children, and the size of their problems, were smaller.

Bargain Queen

There is nothing I like better than a good sale. Since paying retail is against my religion, I am always on the lookout for a great deal. I'm crazy about Costco, love Amazon and brake for garage sales. I have even fallen prey to the charms of HSN hostesses touting items that I never knew I always wanted. In fact, just this week I picked up the phone to buy Wolfgang Puck's electric piemaker. This handy gadget can make two pies (or cakes as the spirit moves me) in 8 minutes AND it was 60% off it's original price. I got it in red. It should be here by Friday.

This time of year is also the time for me to update my summer wardrobe. As soon as I see those big final clearance signs, I know it's my time to attack. I usually make my way through the sale racks at every Talbots and Ann Taylor store within a 30 mile radius and leave with $300 worth of clothes that cost me $35. What could be better than that? Answer: nothing. There is nothing better than getting beautiful, well-made clothes for the same price as their Wal-Mart cousins.

It's clear that God supports me in my mission. Today, when I went back to Talbots to exchange a pair of shorts that turned out to be a bit snug (I know I got them for 75% off but that's no reason to start getting so chintzy with the fabric), I discovered that they only had one pair left - in exactly the size I was looking for. And just to be sure that I hadn't missed anything in my other three visits in the last ten days, I scoured the racks one more time. Sure enough, there was a sleeveless pink and navy top that I had rejected as being too low cut. Having a few minutes to kill, I decided to slip it on and instantly fell in love. Turns out it was only too low on the hanger. Go figure. Fifteen minutes later, I left with a pair of shorts that now actually fits and a to-die-for top that cost me $12.

It's good to be the queen.

Time's Up

There are so many things I miss about having small children in my home - snuggling in bed with a book, the sound of secretive giggling, building with Legos, baking cookies - I could go on and on. One of the things that would not be on that list is going-back-to-school-shopping. Oh, I liked the going back to school part; after a long, chaotic summer I was always excited about that, but the pre-first-day-of-school buying frenzy? That wild goose chase was as much fun as attending a comedy concert in Japanese.

When I see all the harried moms (where are those equal custody dads in all this fun?) tearing around Target and Wal-Mart, looking for the last three-ring binder with pockets in the Tri-State area, I feel nothing but relief. Thank God I don't have to do that anymore. When I see them forking over $100 for one of those graphing calculators that is now collecting dust in my son's closet, I do my best to give them a sympathetic nod. Yeah, I've been there. I know what you're feeling. 'Hang in there', I want to say. 'Soon you'll be able to spend your money on a mani/pedi or a nice dinner out with your husband.' But I don't. I wouldn't want to derail their quest with idle chitchat. I just flash a compassionate smile and get the hell out of their way.

And then I head straight to those cushy chairs and warm, bubbling foot bath that's waiting for me in that nice, little salon that's just around the corner.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pains

My parents have done a lot of wonderful things for me. Let's see, there was that shiny red bike I got one Christmas, the chance to pick out my bedroom furniture and wall color when I was ten, and oh, yeah, providing food and lodging for the first twenty years of my life. All kidding aside, I can never thank them enough for all the blessings they have unselfishly bestowed upon me. But the one that really stands out; the one I appreciate more than any other is the one they gave me fourteen months after I was born - a sister.

Now, I haven't always shown my appreciation of this gift in the way I probably should have (there are rumors of a flying spatula thrown in her direction that took a gouge out of her bedroom wall - lies, nothing but lies) but since today is her birthday, there's no time like the present (and no cheap excuse for a present like a flattery-laden blog).

So, here goes.

My little sister is the most generous, thoughtful, kind, loving, supportive, encouraging (wake up everybody I've got a lot more), sweet, funny, creative, talented, hard-working, honest, empathetic, trustworthy, beautiful (I'll end with that one since, at our age, that's the one that she'll like the most) human being I know. She is ALWAYS there for the people she loves (and often, for the people she only tolerates). She is the best listener (something her older sister is still working on) and the best secret-keeper in the world (something her older sister has worked on and failed miserably). And she's helped me through more late night phone calls than a suicide hotline.

But lately, we've been sharing more than stories of our kids and complaints about our husbands (yes, boys, we do complain about you every now and then). We've been commiserating about our various aches and pains; the multitude of ways that our bodies are finding to sabotage our daily activities. We're experiencing the reality of our mother, grandmothers and great-grandmothers before us, except we're fighting with Whole Foods, yoga and meditation; we're fighting the natural progression of time with every tool at our disposal. Sometimes, the results are nothing short of amazing. Other times, like right this very birthday, someone's splintering body refuses to co-operate. And that's when it gets tough to stay strong in the belief that we can forestall old age forever.

That's why I'm so grateful that I have this amazing woman in my life. We are comrades in arms, perpetually ready to remind each other that our bodies do not define us; that they are just the shells that house our spirits. Maybe our physical limitations, as annoying and frustrating as they may be, are here to teach us something. Maybe we are supposed to slow down a little, exercise our brains instead of our biceps and make use of our knowledge and experience instead of our physical prowess. Most of all, maybe we're supposed to learn to be patient and not be so darn hard on ourselves.

Another birthday should be something to celebrate. Today, I'm celebrating hers.

Wiped

It doesn't take much these days to remind me that I'm not as young as I used to be. Take today, for example. My twelve year-old nephew came to stay with us for a couple of days before he goes back to school. He looks forward to coming to visit (we do tend to go into overload planning fun stuff to keep him busy) and we love having him here. So why am I lying in bed at ten o'clock on a Friday night feeling completely and utterly exhausted? Maybe it has something to do with working a half day, hitting the driving range, playing a couple of sets of tennis and throwing the frisbee around. Factor in a fast food lunch and pizza for dinner and it's not hard to see why I've hit the wall.

Most of the time I don't mind the idea of getting older. Like they say, it beats the alternative. Like most of us, I wish I were in better shape but I don't seem to have the discipline and dedication to make that happen. Based on past performance, I think it's my destiny to start and stop at least a couple of hundred more fitness programs in my lifetime. But I'm too tired to beat myself up about any of that. I figure you can get down on yourself for not doing everything you can to feel your best or you can give yourself credit for the things you do manage to accomplish.

I may not do yoga every morning, but I still get out on the tennis courts as often as I can. I may pull into the drive-thru at Dunkin Donuts more than I should, but I try to eat enough fruits and vegetable to keep me out of the Metamucil aisle. And I may complain about a few aches and pains, but I also make it a point to regularly count my many blessings.

Can I help it if the only one that means anything to me at this very moment is my big, comfy bed?

Lunch Break

If there's anything better than the combination of delicious food and heartfelt conversation, I haven't discovered it, although I'm pretty sure that Ryan Reynolds and anything would certainly be in the running. Since that scenario is unlikely to present itself, I'll state my case for the beauty of the whole eating and talking thing.

Now, most people might not take it to the extreme that my very dear friend, Kirsten, and I did today (is a four hour lunch really all that extreme?) but, let's face it, any meal that you don't have to cook or clean up is a meal worth lingering over. And any friend that can engage you in meaningful, intelligent, funny conversation for 240 minutes is worth dealing with the rush hour traffic that is waiting for you when you're done.

What the heck did we talk about? A better question would be, what didn't we talk about? By the time we were done we had covered religion, husbands, work, food, politics, travel and our kids. Okay, the kids got the majority of the talk time but is that really a surprise? We're both moms who are moving out of the motherhood (if there really is such a thing) so we had a lot to sort through. She has twice the amount of children I have but we've parented in similar fashion - with lots of love tempered with a bit too much enabling and too few consequences.

Maybe that's why it was so great to spend the afternoon with her. We're two kindred spirits wrestling with equal parts of regret and relief; guilt and pride. It's so easy to take the rap for problems that your kids are having that, every once in a while, you have to be reminded that your every move was not a disaster. You need someone on the other side of the table to listen and nod in silent affirmation when you talk about how much your kids' lack of communication hurts. You need a good friend, armed with forgiveness and encouraging words, to talk you off the ledge.

And if you can help each other over sausage and ricotta flatbread and Chicken Romano, so much the better.

One Blink

If you're a mom, you worry. And if you say you don't, you're lying. It doesn't matter that my kids are in their twenties; just like it doesn't matter to my mother that I am in my fifties. You always know how fragile life is; you're always aware how quickly your life can be turned upside down.

When my son was two, I got a call from a neighbor informing me that he was walking down the road near our house. I had no idea how he got away from me; he had been right beside me a minute before. But like all parents, I had allowed myself to be distracted; I had allowed the gardening I was doing to take precedence over my job as a mom. As I frantically ran down the street, I saw my precious little boy walking alongside the curb as if he didn't have a care in the world. I remember covering his little face with kisses and grateful tears and thanking God that I was one of the lucky ones. He had not made me pay the ultimate price for my negligence.

Today, I read the story of a ten year-old boy who was killed by a speed boat on the Chain of Lakes. Reading the horrific account brought me to tears. One minute, this family was sharing a fun day tubing on the lake; the next, they were faced with the horror of a drunk boater speeding head-on into their child. But they weren't like me. They did nothing wrong. They weren't negligent in any way. And yet, they lost their child.

I can't imagine what this family is going through; no one should have to endure that kind of pain. I pray that they are a family of faith. I pray that they have the love and support of a church community and friends that will rally around them. Reading their story reminded me again how all our children are vulnerable; how all our children can be snatched from our presence without warning.

And that's why we worry.

And For My Next Number . . .

Trying to decide what you want to do with the next half (alright, third - I passed the halfway mark a little while ago) of your life is exhausting. Every now and then I look through full-time job ads trying to decide if I really want to re-join the ranks of commuters who fall into a coma in front of the TV after a ten hour day at the office. No thanks. I'm more intrigued by the possibility of working from home but who doesn't fantasize about collecting a paycheck while decked out in a pair of comfy pajamas? I've always said I'd rather clean toilets with a toothbrush (not my own, mind you) than earn a living as a telemarketer (something about all that rejection) so that's out. But my nephew has actually found a way to make a living writing for an educational website so I know there are other options. I just need to get myself in gear and go out and track those suckers down.

And there's the problem.

When my dad retired he said he wanted to use his time to grow spiritually, emotionally and physically; he wanted to learn new things, travel, volunteer. I'm not retired yet but I couldn't agree more. This is the time of my life when I don't have to worry about taking care of anyone but me (and my very neglected husband). This is the time in my life when I should be doing everything I can to make my dreams come true. I've feel proud to have checked off writing a book and blessed to have finally stepped on Italian ground (but that's never going to be off the list) so now it's time to see what else is left in the tank.

And there's the other problem.

If I had half my husband's drive and determination, I know I would be on The New York Times best-seller list by now. If I had one-quarter of his ability to organize and implement ideas (Excel and I are acquainted but I rarely keep in touch), I'd be on my way to my first million. If I had one-tenth of his innate know-how about making connections, setting deadlines, and promoting oneself, I wouldn't be sitting here writing a blog with nine followers (not that I don't appreciate each and every one of you); I would be networking and Twittering my little fanny off to work my way up to double, or maybe even triple, digits.

But I can't give up hope. I have to keep plugging away; chipping away at those goals that seem so unattainable. I have to find a way to conquer the fear and insecurity (and, yes, laziness) that throw me off track.

And I can't forget about my secret weapon; that guy with enough ambition for both of us.

With his (and God's) help, I'm counting on being able to turn this second act into something worth writing about.

Cheerio, London

For as long as I can remember, I've looked forward to the Olympics. Every four years, I couldn't wait to get wrapped up in the patriotic salute to athletic excellence. It was a chance to see hard-working, dedicated, impossibly gifted athletes pursue their dreams and I devoured every moment of competition that I could. I knew I would never be able to skate like Janet Lynn (my favorite way before Michele Kwan) or prance around on the balance beam like Nadia Comaneci but I lived vicariously through every routine; held my breath through every dangerous move. And I loved it.

Then, the Olympics changed. Amateur athletics was infiltrated by a parade of professionals. I know I'm not alone in thinking that the day they allowed the Dream Team on the floor was the day the Olympics lost a lot of its appeal. Watching NBA players beat Croatia by fifty points doesn't interest me in the least. And if I want to see Roger Federer square off against Andy Murray, I can wait for the next Grand Slam. All these professionals, with plenty of hardware in their cabinets and money in the bank, provided a few thrills but The Olympics, as I knew and loved them, were over.

I know I'm living in a fantasy land hoping the current configuration will change. I know sports are big business and The Olympics will never go back to the original celebration of amateur athletics. That's why I so appreciate a moment like the one that happened Saturday night when three platform divers, one from America, one from China and one from Great Britain were separated by .15 going into the final dive. One dive, one chance would determine the gold medal; a lifetime of practice would come down to this one moment in a pool in London.

No one flinched; each of the young men standing on the top of that platform performed the dive of his life. And as I watched our guy come out on top, I finally broke into the tears that had eluded me for two weeks. The underdog, digging deep under unbelievable pressure in the most important moment of his life, had triumphed.

And that's how I remember the Olympics.

The New Republic(an)

Looks like the polarization of America has finally infiltrated my own backyard - my daughter is now dating a gun-toting, Ron Paul t-shirt-wearing, liberal-disliking (I won't say hating - he's also very religious) boyfriend. As I may have mentioned, my kid can be a little attracted to extremes. Her last boyfriend was a pot-smoking hippie type who liked nothing better than blowing off his part-time job, grabbing his camera and guitar, and heading out to commune with nature. While his dream job was running a medical marijuana farm in Oregon, her new beau has two actual jobs and an overwhelming desire to help people. It doesn't exactly zero out an NRA affiliation but, I'll admit, it's admirable and definitely a step up from the selfish, all-about-me types she's been attracted to in the past.

As someone who can't quite pick a political side (other than a firm belief that the 2nd Amendment does not refer to everyone having permission to walk around with semi-automatic weapons), I'm a little torn about how I feel about this relationship. On the one hand, I'm thrilled that she's happy; that she's found someone who treats her with respect and kindness. He can wear all the incendiary t-shirts he wants if he continues to be good to my girl. But I also know how hard it is to maintain a relationship with someone who has such passionate opinions about everything. It's not easy to hear your own voice when drowned out by fevered filibusters. She's come so far in her journey to discover who she is, I'm worried she might set aside her own convictions to please him; I'm concerned that her opinions won't be valued.

But I know I'm getting ahead of myself. They've just been dating for a month, one very intense month. The whole thing may burn itself out before he even gets the chance to slap a "Guns Don't Kill People, People Kill People" sticker on her bumper. And, if it doesn't, I'll just have to do my homework, polish my debating skills, and give him a run for his money.

After all, I've been known to have a few opinions of my own.

Silver Linings

Now that the re-construction of my basement is complete, I'm reminded how often events that feel so horrible at the time have a way of turning into something positive. Even the ugliest, most difficult times have a way of revealing some hidden blessing somewhere down the line. The Bible encourages us to thank God for hardships but that's a pretty tall order, especially when you're in the middle of one. It's usually much later, after the worst of the trial is over, that we can appreciate what we gained from going through it.

One famous incident in our family is the canoe ride. Many years ago, when the kids were still in grade school, we took a trip up to northern Wisconsin. My husband, an avid outdoors man who had camped his entire childhood, suggested we visit an outfitter who would set us up with everything we needed to spend a couple of days in the wilderness. Unfortunately for him, his wife had come from a family whose idea of roughing it was arriving at the Holiday Inn without a reservation. But I decided to be brave. Armed with my copy of USA Today (a girl has to have some comforts of home) I took my place in the canoe and waved goodbye to civilization for the next 48 hours.

Nothing terrible happened for awhile. I watched as my husband taught our kids to set up a tent, gather firewood and keep food away from bears (that tidbit definitely snapped my head out of the newspaper - bears, what bears?). We spent the night on a tiny island and actually woke up with all limbs intact. Always a good thing. I was beginning to think this camping thing wasn't so bad.

Not so fast.

On the way back to the meeting point, the clouds started to roll in. Off in the distance, we could see the sky illuminated with ominous streaks of lightening. That's when my very level-headed, very calm husband shouted, "Paddle like hell before we all fry like eggs!"

Everything was a blur after that. All I can really remember is the sound of my children screaming "We don't want to die" or something of that nature and the rolling boom of approaching thunder. When we finally reached the shore, I cradled my frightened children and delicately chastised my husband ("Are you crazy? You scared the crap out of all of us!!).

You've probably figured out by now that we didn't fry like eggs that day. The storm passed and we (reluctantly) climbed back into the canoe and paddled back to the drop-off point where the outfitter was waiting to pick us up. We camped many times after that but, despite many memorable moments, nothing ever came close to creating the kind of lasting impression that that canoe ride did. And now, fifteen years later nothing makes our family laugh harder than remembering my husband's desperate plea.

So, whether it's a sewer back-up that ruins your basement, the sudden loss of a job, or a harrowing canoe ride, it's important to remember that, when the dust clears, you can end up with a beautiful new basement, a chance to start your own business, or a memory that can unite your family in familiar laughter forever.

Those silver linings may be tough to find sometimes but, if we look hard enough, they're usually there.
.

In His Room

Sometimes emotional moments sneak up on you. Birthdays, Christmas, pouring over old home videos, those are the ones you prepare for; those are the ones you see coming. Replacing sewer damaged carpet in the basement hardly sounds like something that would set off the waterworks. But, today, that's exactly what happened. And it wasn't really about the carpet. It was about moving stuff, his stuff.

My son moved out of the house over a year ago. At the time, I had trouble with the abruptness of the move; the fact that there was tension between us. But we worked through it. I know he's better off on his own. I know he had to move out to gain the independence and maturity that he's showing now. The trouble is, he has an awful lot of his stuff still hanging around. Most of it is piled up in his old room gathering dust, waiting for him to have a place big enough to store it. Usually, I just keep the door closed. But, today, I needed to move his stuff in order to have room to temporarily house other stuff from the rooms about to be re-carpeted.

As I walked around the room, hanging up clothes and pushing unwanted objects to the side, I spotted a few of his drawings. There was a sketch of a tennis shoe from several different angles. There was a pointillistic chalk piece of Charles Tillman in motion. There were reminders everywhere of his talent. But that wasn't what did it.

It was a teeny, tiny skateboard. I was gathering a few of his old toys when I stumbled on his collection of miniature skateboard paraphernalia. I remembered how much fun he had collecting the ramps, the stairs and the bridges. I remembered how many hours he spent playing with all the tiny replicas of the boards he dreamed of having in life-size versions. And, when I picked up one of those boards, my eyes misted over. Just a little.

He's a man now but, for just a moment, standing there in his old room with that tiny skateboard in my hand, he was my little boy.

Wearing the Other Shoe

A few days ago, I wrote about how much I've been needing alone time; how I haven't exactly been much of a people person. I told you how tough I've been on my poor husband (I think I actually called him a "girl" for wanting to spend more time with me - I know, horrible). But everything I said was a plea for understanding. Everything I wrote was an explanation of how I often feel possessed by emotions (or lack thereof) that I do not understand.

It seems as if God has been listening to Alanis Morrisette lately as my life has definitely entered Isn't It Ironic territory. Today, I came home to find my daughter in a less than sociable mood. Sitting in a chair, glued to her computer, she barely acknowledged my presence. By the time I pried the fifth word out of her mouth, I came to the realization that I was getting a taste of my own bitter medicine. And it didn't go down very well.

While I could identify with the mood she was in, I sure didn't like having to deal with it. I had things I wanted to say to her. I had things I needed her to hear. I wanted to engage in a conversation that would last longer than three sentences. But I knew it was futile. I knew I had to wait. I knew there would be another, better time.

Now I need to learn to back off and wait for it.

Just the Invite I Needed

Okay, so I missed a day. I should have written a blog on Friday but, as I used to tell my math teacher when she badgered me about that missing homework, I have a good excuse. God heard my prayers about needing a week or two in a cabin in the woods and answered them in the form of a phone call from a good friend who invited me to her lake house for the weekend. It was such a wonderful break, I'm going to overlook the fact that He misheard my prayer by a week or so.

After a 3 1/2 hour drive, we settled in to her cozy place just long enough to get back into the car to head into the town of Beaver Dam, a thriving metropolis of 16,000. All I want to know is: how does a town that small have an Italian restaurant that good? Then, it was back to the house to talk, read, and finally, sleep (once that dive-bombing fly left my room - but I'm not complaining).

The next morning, I was up at 7.  Not my usual hour to rise on a weekend but the sun and the promise of a tennis match was all the incentive I needed. So what if she beat me 6-0, 6-1. The trade-off was more than worth it; two days of reading, talking, eating, floating on the pontoon boat, more reading, more talking, and, oh yeah, a night of outdoor games where I discovered that I'm pretty darn good at beer pong.

Just in case you think this was a weekend of all play and no work, let me assure you, it was not. My friend, who's quite the little slave driver, made me earn my keep by suggesting I break out the screwdriver and help her re-align her screen door that had popped out of its track. I'm pretty sure I broke a sweat before we rewarded ourselves for a job well done by opening that last bottle of wine.

And, just so you know, in a few weeks she's making me go back to help her clean out her shed.

It's a rotten job but somebody has to do it.

It's Not You, It's Me

I don't know if it's my age, my lack of hormones or the heat but I'm not exactly a people person these days. While I'm not packing my bags for a move to Walden Pond, the idea of spending a week or two in a cabin by myself sounds pretty darn appealing right now. Twenty years ago, I could never have imagined saying such a thing. The thought of spending that much time without the possibility of conversation would have filled me with fear. I needed people to feel whole; I didn't know what to do when I was alone.

My husband, on the other hand, always had a need for alone time. When we first got married it bothered me. Why did he want to get away from me? Why did he want; no, need to have so much space? Now I know. As is often the case with husbands and wives, our timing was just off. Now that I appreciate the benefits of enjoying my own company, he is feeling lonely and left out. Now that I understand what he was talking about a couple of decades ago, he is lobbying for more togetherness. I don't want to hurt his feelings but I'm trying to figure out who I am now that I'm not a full-time mom. I need some (maybe more than some) time alone to find the answers.

But, if there's any justice in the crazy world of relationships, we should be on the same page by the time we hit seventy.

Winning Big

There's no sound a mother loves more than a telephone call from her adult child inviting her to hang out. It doesn't happen all that often and sometimes there is an ulterior motive attached but when the invite is as string-free as the one I got the other day, well, there's not much that can top it.

This chance to spend some time together came out of the blue. My son announced that he was taking his girlfriend to the local casino the next day and asked if I thought my mom would be interested in accompanying them. When I stopped laughing (my mother, an inveterate gambler who has never been known to fold any hand of poker, would spend her last hours sitting in front of a slot machine if she could), I encouraged my son to give her a call. A few hours later, I actually heard back from him. "We're meeting at noon tomorrow. Do you want to come?" he asked. (Just as back story, the entire family has been promising my son's girlfriend a trip to the casino since she turned twenty-one six months ago.) While I may not like gambling as much as my mom (that wouldn't be hard), there was no way I was passing up the chance to spend an afternoon with my kid, especially when it was an afternoon I hadn't coerced him into.

Somehow, I ended up leaving the place $125 richer (yes, I finally won something on those stupid two cent machines). But that wasn't the best part. After losing money at the casino, my son agreed to have a late lunch with his dad, his grandparents and me. We didn't have much time together (my dad, great guy that he is, had to run to another obligation for his other daughter) but at least this time it wasn't my son itching to leave as it has been in the past. Not only did he hang around after my parents left, he also showed up two days later for dinner and the Olympics at the old homestead. I know it sounds crazy but all this surprise togetherness made me feel a little like Sally Field after she won that Oscar.

He likes us; he really, really likes us.