Christmas Past

Another Christmas has come and gone. This was a particularly special one as it included a great day spent with extended family a few days before Christmas and a full day with my immediate family (including a brand new son-in-law) on the 25th. There was time for an inspirational church service, a couple of amazing dinners, one highly-competitive, entertaining cookie contest, Secret Santa deliveries, and one miserable football game whose pain was dulled with several glasses of Cabernet. Yes, Virginia, it was a good Christmas but that doesn't mean I'm not happy it's over. Here's a few reasons I'm grateful that I have 360 days to get ready for the next one:

- I can stop eating 3000 calories a day

- My credit card can retreat to my wallet for longer than forty-five minute intervals

- I will no longer be tortured by Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time. (I used to love you
  Paul McCartney)

- I won't have to scroll through 125 pages of Etsy looking for Zelda memorabilia

- I can spend one entire day at home enjoying my new slippers, cozy blanket, and Teavana teapot (Santa obviously thinks I'm 103)

- I can stop baking (see reason number one)

- I can stop looking for a comfortable position to wrap presents. Next year may have to be done
  standing up at a very high table.

- Lifetime and The Hallmark Channel can go back to chick flicks that don't include disillusioned
  Christmas tree sellers who fall in love with the fake Santa hired by their long-lost son or daughter  but who's really a multi-millionaire coming to town to save it from being torn down to build a ski resort.

- I won't have to set foot in the post office. Oh, wait, yes, I will. I still have one package to mail.

And finally, without the pressure and chaos of shopping, baking, wrapping, and eating, I can sit back and appreciate the glory and beauty of Winter as it settles in for its open-ended Midwestern run. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Now that Christmas is over, I can get the heck out of here, lose the fuzzy slippers and start sipping a Pina Colada on a beach somewhere.

Who's with me?


 

Merry Wedding, Happy Vacation

I would like to tell you that I'm one of those people who has their Christmas shopping done by October 1st. On second thought, maybe I wouldn't want to tell you that as those kind of people aren't usually looked on with a whole lot of fondness. But you get my drift. It must be nice to have all that craziness out of the way before the snow starts falling and be able to sit around and watch the rest of us lose our minds trying to find something to throw in a box for Aunt Minnie.

This year has been a whole new kind of crazy. After hosting my niece's baby shower in late November, our daughter's DIY wedding in early December and planning for our first cold weather vacation in ten years, I have to admit that Christmas has only recently shown up on my radar screen. Not one present was purchased before last Friday. I'll bet you all feel a lot better now, huh? But, you know what, it's all going to be okay. Much to my surprise, one very productive shopping day at local retailers and a couple of visits to a few favorite online sites have brought me to the happy conclusion that I'm going to make it. Everyone is going to have something under the tree. It may not be fancily wrapped, it may not be exactly what they wanted but there will be something there.

The Christmas cards may have to wait until next year. (Does anyone mind getting my long-winded update letter late anyway?) The Christmas cookies may not get made (unless my extra sessions on the treadmill actually help me get that bathing suit on and I have something to celebrate). And we might have to settle for that sad Charlie Brown tabletop tree that might manage to hold five or six of our most treasured ornaments. But there will be a Christmas.

For a horse that left the gate as late as I did, that feels like a win.

Period of Adjustment

You would think that someone who has been writing a blog about moving out of the motherhood for four years would be welcoming the permanent exit of one her children with relief and gratitude. And such a person might be out there. It just isn't me.

I miss her.

And while I know she hasn't shipped off to Siberia or chosen to live her life without the benefit of electronic communication, she has packed up the last of her belongings and left the nest to move in with some guy she keeps referring to as her "husband".

Okay, I know this guy is something special but where was he when she was throwing up spaghetti at 2 am, huh? Where was he when she had a science project that was due in twenty-four hours? Where was he during those awkward middle school years? Or rebellious high school days? That's right. Nowhere in sight. And now, after we've done all the hard work, he comes along and snatches the finished product right out from under our noses.

I miss her.

Their new apartment is adorable, decorated with wedding gifts and pilfered items from both of their previous places of residence. She calls me regularly with questions about cooking. She sends me funny e-mails about Breaking Bad. She posts her latest photos on Facebook. It's all wonderful and I'm honestly beyond thrilled that she's found someone to share her life with; someone who makes her happier than I've seen her in a very, very long time.

But I still miss her.

One Beautiful Bride

I am now a mother-in-law. Yesterday, my little girl, the one who used to dress up in Belle's ball gown and Dorothy's ruby slippers, stepped into her own fairytale dress and walked down the aisle to say yes to her Prince Charming.

It wasn't your typical wedding. The "church" was a multi-purpose room decorated by the hands and hearts of family and friends. The "after party" was held at the church center and included a homemade cake and champagne followed by a little dancing and fellowship. The "reception" was an intimate dinner for thirty-five at a local Italian restaurant instead of an over-the-top banquet hall extravaganza for 250.

It was nothing like I once envisioned and so much more than I could have ever imagined.

Our girl didn't need all that other stuff. She got exactly the day she wanted, simple and personal and every bit as special as she is. She walked down the makeshift aisle with a smile that wouldn't quit. She glowed as she promised to forever love and honor the grinning young man at her side. She sat at the piano (yes, she did) and sang a love song she had written for her new husband and brought the entire room to tears.

My husband and I could do nothing but look on with pride and more than a few sniffles. After a rough couple of years, our daughter was happy; truly and completely happy. She sailed through the rest of her big day with ease and grace. Through it all, I never saw one minute of doubt; one shred of nerves; one iota of stress. Unlike a lot of brides, she enjoyed every minute of the day and she did her best to make sure that everyone else did too.

While she and our new son-in-law are off on a well-deserved honeymoon in the Mexican sunshine, my husband and I are trying to catch our breath. But it's going to take more than a day or two to get used to this new reality - the one where our child is gone for good. Oh, we know she'll be back for dinner on a regular basis; we know she'll be back to "borrow" that black sweater with the silver buttons but it won't ever be the same. This is it. After years of teaching, caring, and worrying we've finally arrived at the day that we knew was coming; the day we have to relinquish our child to someone else.

The only thing that makes it easier is knowing that she just may have found someone who actually deserves her.

To Everything . . .

This past weekend I helped host a baby shower for my niece. Thirty-five of her nearest and dearest had accepted the invite to make the trek to my house to drink punch, play a couple of harmless games and oooh and aaah at appropriate intervals. Of course, they had no idea when they checked that "yes" box on the invite, that they were going to have to travel through monsoon-like conditions that included numerous tornado sightings but, happily, that didn't deter many of them. The weather may have been bad enough for a bunch of tough-guy football players to take a seat for a couple of hours but women on their way to a baby shower for someone as special as my niece? Not a chance.

As usual, my family was running behind when the first guests arrived. No problem. We hastily enlisted our new labor force and everyone pitched in to finish the last minute decorations and food preparation before the guest of honor arrived. Luckily, her baby bump prevented her from seeing my still unwashed kitchen floor as she pronounced the surroundings "beautiful" and "perfect".

After munching on an assortment of goodies (including mini-wieners and meatballs - don't blame me, it was her mom's idea to follow that "it's a boy" theme to its logical culinary conclusion), it was on to the gifts. And that's when I started getting a little misty. As she unwrapped colorful bouncy chairs and impossibly tiny booties, I remembered. I remembered the waiting; the anxiety; the hopefulness. I remembered the intense anticipation that washed over me as I prepared to be a first-time mom. Maybe it was a million years ago but I could feel everything she was feeling as if it were yesterday.

But it wasn't. My daughter is getting married in a couple of weeks and my son is planning a cross-country move sometime next year. I'm about to wrap up Act One of my mothering career and someone I love's adventure is just beginning.

Turn. Turn. Turn.

Oops, He Did it Again

Twenty-five years ago today I was basking in the glory of having done it again; I was savoring those indescribable moments of bliss and gratitude that wash over any new mom blessed enough to welcome a healthy baby into her life. My son was less than twenty-four hours old and I spent the day cradling my nine and a half pound bundle close to my heart knowing that, yet again, there was another person in my life for whom I would throw myself in front of a speeding locomotive.

Flash forward to this morning. As I struggled to work off the effects of the paperback-size slab of lasagna and less-than-perfect cake I baked  to celebrate said bundle of joy's birthday, I got a phone call. My darling baby boy was a tad hung over from his late-night celebration with his friends and was wondering if I might be willing to step in and relieve him at our mutual place of employment. (Damn. That sounded like such a good idea at the time.) As usual, he promised to do just about anything I asked for this one little, teensy-weensy favor (including cleaning my house - I've got to hand it to him, the kid does know his target audience) and, by the time I hung up the phone, I had been sweet-talked into giving up my day off.

I didn't give in without a fight. I told him no. . .twice. But somewhere between his lament about two hours of sleep and struggling to fight off a virus brought home by an under-the-weather girlfriend, I gave up. So, I'm going to slap on some clothes, gain a few "I've got the best mom in the world" brownie points, and go in and get some of my own work done in the process.

But he better feel a whole lot better tomorrow. That locomotive is nowhere in sight and he has a lot of cleaning to do.

Thinking Pink

Being a child of rock and roll, I've been to my fair share of ear-pounding, earth-shaking musical events. While I was never into heavy metal or anything that might possibly be responsible for any impending hearing loss (although it would be a lot cooler to blame it on prolonged exposure to AC/DC or Aerosmith), I was quite the regular concert goer back in the days of Billy Joel and Elton John. Oh, sure, as I got older I threw in a couple of side-trips to see Vince Gill and Reba McEntire but that was only after my daughter came along. Before she forced me to appreciate country, I was strictly a rock and roll girl.

I have to admit I haven't been to a concert in quite some time (unless you want to count those hours spent sitting on the lawn at Septemberfest listening to Heart or hanging out at The Last Fling and catching Rick Springfield's 8,478th rendition of "Jessie's Girl). The closest I've come, celebrating my hubby's birthday with Ravinia tickets to see Diana Krall, was a couple of years ago and that could hardly be mistaken for a rock concert.

Tomorrow, I'm going to change all that. Tomorrow, I'm going to make up for my concert absence with a vengeance. I'm going to accompany my daughter to a Pink concert. We've had the tickets for months (and probably paid more for them than I did for all my Billy Joel tickets) and now I've got another chance to relive my rock and roll days one more time.

I like Pink. I think she's smart, funny and writes clever, insightful lyrics. And just because she's more of an edgy bad-ass than I ever could have been, it doesn't make me appreciate her musical abilities any less. There's just one problem. It's one thing to listen to someone's CDs or download their music onto my MP3 player; it's another to brave the traffic and head into the city with twenty-thousand fans young enough to be my grandchildren to listen to someone put on a show with an end time that's way past my curfew.

But, I've decided I'm up for the challenge. I'm going to get out of the house on a Tuesday night. I'm going to get the chance to hang out with my girl for a few hours and I'm going to take the opportunity to remind her what a cool, relevant mom she has.

I just hope she doesn't notice the earplugs.

Hold on Loosely. . .

The other day (okay, it was a few weeks ago) when I was out for my once daily but now bi-weekly walk, I saw a mom walking ahead of me with her small son. She was dragging his now discarded scooter as he scurried gleefully ahead of her. I never saw their faces but I watched intently as they repeated the same pattern over and over again. He would run a half a block ahead of her and then come running back to hold her hand for a minute and then take off again. I never heard her say a word; no chastising threats about the looming street ahead; no frantic warning not to run too fast. No, this was a silent dance (except for the recurring giggles) that repeated itself for several blocks. And, as always, it made me think about my own children and about just how little things change.

If we do our jobs as parents, we'll give our kids the skills and confidence it takes to leave us. But, just like that mom with the scooter, we'll have our hands ready to grab onto in case things get too scary. When I watched that little guy take off, I could feel his delight in his independence; when I watched him come back to hold his mom's hand, I could feel his trust directed at the one person he knew would always have his back. He never turned around to make sure she was still there. He didn't have to. He knew she would be there to protect him, to look out for him. He could head for the unknown without fear.

Now that my son is living on his own and my daughter is about to be married, I can't help but think of that mom and her little boy. As much as I miss them being the babies and toddlers I fell in love with, I'm beyond thrilled at the competent, generous, adventurous people they've become. It may not always feel like it to them but I want my kids to take off; I want them to fly without fear.

My hand will always be there to come back to.

Gonna Soak up the Sun

I've written many times about the phenomenal group of friends I've been blessed to have for the last thirty years. We've been through dating, marriagse, kids, job changes, medical procedures and menopause. We've celebrated our kids' graduations and weddings; we've grieved together over the loss of a parent. I know my memory is going but I honestly can't remember a time when we weren't all happily entangled in each other's business. And I don't want to.

This winter, we're about to find out how much we really like each other. While we've done plenty of evenings out and several weekend trips to exotic places like Brown County, Indiana, the eight of us have never done a full-blown, adults only, we-deserve-it kind of vacation. Thanks to pesky distractions like mortgage payments and our children's educations, we haven't had the time and/or financial resources to do what we've always said we wanted to do - get away to some tropical location, park ourselves under a palapa hut and hang out for a week with nothing more pressing to do than call over that cabana boy for another pina colada.

After weeks of pouring over brochures and trading e-mails, we're finally ready. Deposits have been made, insurance has been taken out, and employers have been notified. We had to wait awhile but it's finally time for us to enjoy the fruits (especially papaya and mangos) of all that labor. So what if  I have to put on a bathing suit to do that. I have a couple of months and a bunch of Walk Away the Pounds DVDs to help me get ready.

And you know what they say. What happens in Mexico . . .

Feed the Parents

Now that we have an offspring who is engaged to be married, we're becoming well-acquainted with the list of rituals that goes with the territory. Our daughter is doing things a little differently - small ceremony with immediate family only and a bigger bash to follow later (and no, she's not pregnant) - but there are still many of the usual items that need to be checked off the checklist. The dress has been purchased, the invitations have been ordered (and are about to be re-ordered due to an ever-changing wedding date), and we're checking out venues for a still-to-be-determined follow-up reception for family and friends.  Last night, another part of the wedding ritual took place, having the prospective in-laws over for a meal.

This wasn't the first time we've met. We've bumped into them at church; we've shared a drink at a local bar, but this was the first time that we've had the opportunity to sit down over dinner (and a couple of glasses of wine - a nice Cabernet they were gracious enough to supply). Determined to make summer last as long as possible, I threw a couple of marinated pork tenderloins on the grill, chopped up some tomatoes from the garden for some bruschetta and husked the last of the sweet corn. Not wanting to abandon any weapon in my arsenal, I made both banana and pumpkin breads. When you can't decide, make both, right? And how awkward could dinner be it everyone had their mouths so full of food they didn't have time to talk?

Turns out I didn't have anything to worry about. We talked about ourselves, our kids, the wedding, and the merits of home ownership versus renting. We successfully side-tracked politics and religion (plenty of time for that over the next twenty or thirty years) and shared a lot of laughter. I'd say we made it through our first evening together with flying colors.

It's too soon to know if we'll end up being great friends or just see-you-at-birthdays-and-holidays relatives. What I do know is that we're going to be joined together by at least one thing we do have in common - our desire to do anything we can to make sure that our kids start their life together with as much love and support as we can give.

Welcome to the family.

It's the Little Things We Do Together. . .

After almost thirty years of marriage, I'm not often surprised by my husband's activities. I've gotten to know his patterns pretty well - needs coffee within fifteen minutes of rising, falls asleep on the way to the pillow, hurls insults in Swiss to moronic drivers, etc. - but the other night, he engaged in a behavior I never saw coming.

I was standing in the kitchen, trying to assemble a dinner out of the assortment of leftovers hanging out in the fridge, when I heard a couple of decidedly down-home Southern female voices emanating out of the family room TV. I expected to hear them hastily replaced by Bill O'Reilly's caustic comments or, at the very least, those guys from Mythbusters blowing up something, but I did not. I continued to re-purpose and reheat until my curiosity got the better of me.

What the heck was he watching?

Turns out my husband - the elegant, European-raised, reality-show abhorring man I married - was engrossed in a soon-to-be Emmy-nominated, culturally relevant, mind-expanding gem called Mud Loving Rednecks. I honestly could not believe what I was seeing. Yes, he has (reluctantly) watched a couple of Wife Swap episodes with me. Yes, he has deigned to sit through an occasional Wipeout to marvel at the lengths his fellow human beings will go to to make a few bucks. He's even caught a few minutes of Duck Dynasty and a millisecond of Say Yes to the Dress when he couldn't get out of the room fast enough. But this, a show about a family that owns a mud bog (a previously unknown to me venue of entertainment) in Alabama, was a shocker.

I plopped myself next to him on the couch and watched as the owners of the mud bog, a married couple and a few of their Harvard-educated pals, proceeded to host a wedding for a couple named Nikki and Cowboy, constructing, among other things, a camouflage-covered limo on a monster truck bed and a side-by-side tube slide by which the bride and groom would enter the mud once they had said "I do".

Amazingly, it turned out to be a fairly entertaining hour of TV. We laughed at the "unusual" bridal requests (bridesmaids were to be adorned in camouflage dresses courtesy of Aunt Pam) and the attire of the wedding guests (shirts were evidently optional but boots were not). When it was over, we came away impressed with the ingenuity of these hard-working people determined to make their business a success and have a good time while doing it. I also enjoyed seeing my husband let his hair down a little and not take life so seriously. He needs to do that more often, if you ask me. Maybe we all do.

Tomorrow's our thirtieth anniversary. Since we already took that amazing trip to Europe earlier this year in celebration, we're going to keep things pretty low-key. We've talked about going to see Gravity (if I can figure out a way to watch it with my eyes closed) and use a Groupon to treat ourselves to dinner.

If we're really lucky, there'll be an episode of Hillbilly Handfishing on when when we get home.

Saying Yes to the Dress

My only daughter is getting married. It's not going to be one of those big, extravagant, wallet-busting affairs (thank you, sweetie) but there are some things that have to happen whether you get married in the back yard or in St. Paul's Cathedral. Item number one is a dress. Little girls may not all have the same dream but most of them have envisioned how they would look on their wedding day at least once or twice. And it doesn't usually involve jeans and a t-shirt.

Yesterday, was our third shopping trip. The first two outings had been mother-daughter ventures, scoping out viable candidates for future, larger viewing groups. I have to admit, I loved having her all to myself. As I watched her try on that first dress, my mind raced back to the times she had stood in my high heels, rifled through my make-up and pranced around in Belle's yellow gown. It was only right and fair that I had first dibs on seeing her walk that bridal runway for the first time. And when they added that veil . . . It was our moment and I'm glad I didn't have to share it with anyone else.

Having walked away empty-handed the first two times out, I felt confident that we'd have a few more stores to hit before she finally said, "I do" to anything. This is a girl who loves fashion; the search wasn't going to be over until she said it was over. (Sorry, I've been watching a lot of Breaking Bad lately). When she and her fiance recently announced that they were moving their wedding date up a little (like three months from now), that idea went out the window. This was go time. There was no time to order anything. My girl was going to have to go vintage, find a sample off the racks, or scour the E-Bay website for jilted brides' cast-offs if she was going to come down the aisle in something other than her nightgown.

When we sat down yesterday with my daughter's best friend, grandmother, and future mother-in-law in tow, it felt different. This time we were in a small boutique that dealt only in off-the-rack samples and close-outs from other bridal stores. There was a warm, personal feel to this place that the big wedding superstores couldn't touch. And the dresses? Classy, stylish designer gowns without the designer prices. I felt like we had wandered into an episode of I Found the Gown.

And within an hour, she had. After trying on an $1800 number that resembled Princess Kate's and a heavily-embroidered beauty with a ten-foot train that would have been suited to a wedding in St. Peter's, she found it. Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it looked like since that might result in a speedy "uninvite" next to my name on the guest list but I can tell you what she looked like in it.

Beyond beautiful.

Mamma Mia!

Like a lot of women, I spent a good deal of time trying to distance myself from my mother. As a child of The Fifties and a woman of The Seventies I wanted very little to do with the stereotypical housewife and mother role presented to me by my mom and her friends. They had no life outside of their homes, they never earned a salary above minimum wage, and their main source of validation was their ability to pop out a new human being every few years. I arrogantly believed I could do so much more. And I wasn't shy in sharing that opinion.

Now that I'm looking back with some kind of clarity, I can see that my disdain for most of my mother's choices (the one to bring me or my terrific sister into this world not being among them) never seemed to take into consideration the limited options she might have had. In my youthful ignorance, all I could see was the fact that she depended on the male in her life for money, transportation, and just about everything else and I wanted no part of that.

I should probably mention here that I look quite a bit like my mom. I'm about the same height (before she shrunk an inch or so) and weight. We have the same wet sand-colored hair and fair complexion. The only physical trait I seemed to miss out on were those gorgeous green eyes. What I would have given for those! Anyway, I mention this because when I was younger, I used to be compared to my mom quite a bit. Friends and relatives would repeatedly tell me how much I reminded them of her. They would go on and on about our similarities thinking I would take it as a great compliment. I did not.

Couldn't they see I wasn't anything like her? Couldn't they see that I was a completely different kind of woman? What was wrong with them?

My mom is now eighty-three. In the last few years she has had a litany of ailments, injuries and medical "procedures". To say that she has faced each with grace and fortitude would be like saying Michael Jordan was a pretty good basketball player. Her latest ordeal yesterday, which left her with a few stitches in her eyelid and an eye that looks like she just went a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, was met with her typical Germanic stoicism and resolve. Her anxieties always seem to give way to strength; her fears do not paralyze her. She grabs that cane, puts on her size 5 Keds and faces whatever comes her way with grit and determination. She doesn't complain. She just takes care of business.

So, I think I'm finally ready now. It may have taken me longer than it should have but I'm going to be ready with a response the next time a friend or family member tells me I'm the spitting image of my mom.

"I should only be so lucky," I'll say. And I'll mean every word.

Lost and Found

I think I may have mentioned once or twice (or a hundred times) that I am not the greatest housekeeper in the world. I have no illusions about the dust bunnies that have made their home under my furniture or the spider webs that occasionally turn into magnificent mansions to which the residents regularly invite their friends and relatives. I know I won't be invaded by the Hoarders crew (at least not yet) but I will cop to a certain amount of frantic cleaning any time we host an event that would include anyone blessed with the gift of sight.

My husband, a much neater, more organized soul who has long given up on his vision of an orderly, uncluttered home similar to the one he grew up in, looks forward to any excuse to host a party. "Hey, it's Groundhog Day/Shark Week/J. Edgar Hoover's Birthday", he'll announce when he can't take it any longer, "let's invite the gang over". That's when I go into high gear, scurrying around trying to get the house to resemble something close to the one he would like to live in every day.

During this last mad frenzy I decided to go where I don't usually go; where no one around here goes - under the couch - the last resting place for many lost or forgotten objects.  In my defense, we have a family room that doesn't lend itself to moving furniture around so that heavy piece of upholstered refuge has occupied the same spot for a very long time. I might also mention that my husband, in his daily, non-party mode frustration, is often prone to slipping/shoving/kicking unwanted items in, into, or under whatever will hide them the quickest. I recently discovered one of the kid's baby toys on top of a non-visible shelf in our bathroom. Our youngest will be twenty-five in November.

Determined to re-arrange the furniture, I planted my feet and shoved the couch away from its long-standing residence against the wall. On my hands and knees, with a quick time-out for a prayer to bless me with better housekeeping skills and/or a lifetime contract with Merry Maids, I started gathering the once wanted, now forgotten bounty, That's when I realized that this treasure trove deserved a list. The Guinness people might someday be interested.

Under my sofa I found: eleven pens, 1 plastic (real would have been scary) knife, 1 cloth napkin (used to wipe one's hands before throwing it under the couch?), 1 half roll of toilet paper (I don't even want to know), 2 hair clips, 1 sock (so that's where that was hiding), 4 magazines, 3 tennis balls, 4 free weights, 1 slipper (who needs slippers until November), 1 Bears hat (probably thrown in disgust at the end of last season), 1 Happy Birthday balloon on a stick, 1 exercise band, and a half-finished crossword puzzle.

After finishing the puzzle, I put away/trashed all the other items and vacuumed. By the time our guests arrived, we had a new seating arrangement and a carpet free of dust bunnies and other unwanted visitors. Weeks later, I'm happy to say, there is still nothing residing under our couch.

Our bed? Maybe it's time for a slumber party.

Just Another Manic Wednesday

Last week, I was minding my own business, trying to get a little work done, when all hell broke loose. I got one of those phone calls that everyone dreads - the one where someone you love is ill and/or hurt and needs transport to the emergency room. This time it came from my husband, complaining that he felt as if he was about to pass out. His call for help, a most unusual occurrence, was intercepted by our son, who rushed from our mutual place of employment to see what he could do. By the time I was pulled from my meeting, they were already on their way to the hospital, ten minutes from my current location.

When I got there, my son was valiantly trying to provide personal information to the registration personnel. After I filled in the blanks, I looked into the bay where they were treating my husband. He was hyperventilating from the intense pain he was experiencing and I was enlisted to help get his breathing under control. This was not an easy task. I pulled out all my pain management tricks - in through the nose, out through the mouth; visualizing that balcony in Italy drinking Proseco; even that hee-hee-hoo breathing that he tried to get me to do when I was busy trying to get a ten pound child out of my body.

Nothing worked. Nothing except those two little syringes of miracle juice that lovely nurse stuck into his IV.

Once everything calmed down, we were able to rule out all the really bad stuff like a heart attack, stroke, etc. and tried to figure out what exactly had led this very capable, in-control person to pick up the phone and ask for help. After a little discussion, we came to the conclusion that twelve hours at the computer followed by mowing an over-sized lawn with a decrepit lawn mower was not a good combination. Convinced he had been attacked by either back spasms or a pinched nerve, we declined the recommended CAT scan (who needs the expense when no amount of pain killer will make you forget you have a kidney stone), accepted a prescription for muscle relaxants, and headed for the exit.

He's trying hard to avoid a repeat performance. He's alternating sitting and standing while he works. He's taking more frequent breaks from his computer projects and he's careful about any other stress he puts on his back. I think he's going to be fine.

Until he gets that bill.

Labor Days

Today I attended a "gender reveal" party, something that didn't exist a couple of decades ago when I had my kids. The mom-to-be, my one and only niece and her husband hosted the event attended by family and friends, eager to learn whether they would be buying dresses or overalls for the highly anticipated winter arrival. An avid baker, my niece decided cupcakes filled with either blue or pink icing would be an appropriate message delivery system. I can't argue. In fact, from now on I want all communication from all sources to come inside chocolatey desserts.

Anyway, at the count of three we all bit into our yummy treats to discover that we were about to welcome a little boy into the family. Those who had correctly predicted the gender gloated; those who had not, pouted and took another bite of their consolation prize. As I watched the future parents being hugged and congratulated, I couldn't help thinking about my own children's entry into the world - one's gender a surprise until the last; one's known a couple of weeks before.

Our daughter was born in January, almost exactly when this new little guy is expected. It was one of the coldest, snowiest Januarys on record and all I was worried about was whether I would end up making it to the hospital or end up on the ten o'clock news having delivered my first child in the back of our car in the middle of a blizzard. (Note to niece: do not pick a hospital thirty minutes from your house!) When she safely popped out via C-section, I was so thrilled that everyone was okay (and not frozen in the middle of a snowbank), I barely had a chance to register my delight at having a little girl. I had secretly hoped for a daughter and now I had one.

The next time around, we had an ultrasound shortly before our son's birth to assess his size. When the doctor asked if we wanted to know the gender, we hemmed and hawed a bit, wondering if we would be short-changing ourselves from the big delivery room surprise. But curiosity won out and we left the office knowing we would be welcoming a son (although it still took us five days to name him after his birth). When he finally made his appearance, I soon found out that he was everything I never knew I always wanted.

In the end, the way we learned our children's gender didn't matter. In the delivery room or in your doctor's office, learning the sex of your baby is a monumental moment. Once "it" becomes he or she, something changes. "It" becomes your son or your daughter and everything becomes very, very real.

And very, very wonderful. 

Put Me in, Coach

I try my hardest to stay away from anything involving the Kardashian family. (If you ever see me hesitate, for even a second or two, to flip the channel past Kris Jenner's new talk show, you have my permission to confiscate my remote and send me to my room.) I find the fact that they are famous to be a sure sign of the impending apocalypse and I want no part in a world that wants anything to do with any of them.

There are countless reasons to support my disdain of all things Kardashian (North West, really?) but I'll just single out the latest - a $30,000 Hermes diaper bag. Yeah, that's right. Someone on this planet actually is stuffing dirty baby clothes into a vessel that cost more than my parents' first house.

My little Kardashian rant (I've been known to have them on a regular basis) serves to get me into my actual point - I've never been able to understand people who spend a lot of money on a purse. It seems like such a utilitarian purchase. You need something to hold your wallet, cellphone, coupons, etc. That much is clear. But as long as Target and TJ Maxx stock a bunch of cute bags that don't set you back more than a week's worth of lattes, I don't see any reason to drop a car payment or two on something that, sooner or later, is going to suffer an open lipstick tube or melted Milky Way.

So, if I'm such a stone-throwing realist, why am I now carrying a Coach bag over my shoulder?

It all started with a Girls' Day Out. After dropping old clothes off at Clothes Mentor (see, I do recycle and reuse), we headed to the nearest Factory Outlet Mall. My daughter, who doesn't share my contempt for designer bags, knew there was a Coach store on the premises and felt like treating herself.

When we walked in, we were handed a coupon informing us that we could take an additional thirty percent off the cost of anything in the already heavily discounted store. Within minutes, my daughter was holding five or six bags gleefully calculating the savings on each. Chastising me for not having anything in my hands, she insisted I "try on" a few. I humored her for awhile but had no intention of walking out of there with anything more than the satisfaction of knowing I was a more savvy shopper than the hordes of intoxicated customers eagerly paying for their armful of over-priced bags.

That's when I saw it. A black bag with relatively unobnoxious Coach lettering on it (why aren't all these manufacturers paying us to advertise their products instead of the other way around???) and a cute little pink flower hanging from its fully adjustable strap. It had hot pink lining, pockets for everything and a magnetic snap that didn't look like it would break anytime soon. It also had the cheapest price tag of anything I'd seen in the store - $198 with half off and the additional thirty percent on top of that. Very functional, very practical, likely to last longer than anything I'd bought at Target, highly approved by my resident personal shopper, and weighing in at a not too horrendous $66.50.

I wonder if this is how it started for Kim Kardashian?

I Want My Blankie!

I don't consider myself a materialistic person. My car is almost ten years old, I have shoes that are even older, and I don't own a piece of jewelry any self-respecting burglar would want to steal. If I get a little crazy about any of my possessions, it has to have something beyond monetary value. It has to have sentimental value. I guess that was why I was more upset that one of my Italian ceramic salad servers fell on the floor and shattered then I was when our son dented our car. Or why I went into a prolonged funk when I realized I had accidentally deleted a special photo of my husband, brother-in-law (seen once every two or three years), and son making music in the basement. It's all about the memories attached to an object.And I don't take it very well when one of those objects bites the dust.

The latest loss happened the other night. This time it was a comforter, a $6 garage sale purchase that quickly became our go-to picnic blanket. We shuttled it back and forth between our family room and the back of my car for years. We played games on it, we ate Chinese food on it, we cuddled under it. We took it to the beach, to concerts, to the park. In twenty years we put so much mileage on that tufted piece of material that the cars and trucks that decorated it had to have their tires replaced. In short, it was well-loved and full of memories.

And now it's gone, thrown out by one of our daughter's careless ex-boyfriends. I'd been asking her about it for months but by the time she got around to asking her ex about it, he sheepishly admitted that he thought it had been junked the last time his family cleaned out the garage. It never ceases to amaze me how someone can randomly make a decision about an item's value without consulting the owner. How easy it would have been for him to call first or drop it off on our doorstep instead of pitching it without consideration of the years of memories wrapped up in that dusty, old blanket.

I know I still have the memories. I know I shouldn't take the loss of a stupid blanket so seriously. I know I can find another comfortable garage sale bargain.

But it won't make me smile every time I look at it.

Walking the Walk

After a month of sticking to my daily morning walk routine (okay, I did miss a day here and there - what, are you a detective or something?), I have come to a few conclusions. One: No matter how nice a two mile area you live in, you're going to get bored seeing the same real estate over and over again. Two: Certain songs on my MP3 player (sorry, not cool enough to have an iPod) do not inspire additional exercise (Beach Boys, yes; Les Miz, no). And three: I don't like dogs as much as I thought I did.

Since this is the longest I've ever gone with (almost) daily exercise, I thought I would have seen a little more progress by now. I don't own a scale (except the one that measures flour in my kitchen and I'm sure not standing on that thing) but my clothes don't seem any looser and the tape measure doesn't squeeze any tighter. On the plus side, I do have more energy and I am getting to know my neighbors better. But, despite numerous crunches, weight and flexibility training, and a continued effort to eat healthier, my mid-region doesn't appear to look any different. Maybe things are getting tighter inside (those planks are getting easier) but I'm starting to get a little impatient about the outside. I wasn't foolish enough to think I'd be able to rock a bikini by now but I guess I was hoping to see a little less of my long-time friend, Mr. Muffin Top.

So, now what? (Did I hear someone say, give up? Oh, that was me.) No. Maybe I just have to start pumping up the volume a little. Maybe it's time for me to move up to the ten pound weights. Maybe I have to banish white flour and sugar from my diet entirely. (Like that's going to happen.) Or maybe I need to switch it up and ditch the walk every once in awhile for a nice, long bike ride. I could hit the beautiful trail that stretches along the local river down into town. I'd see some new scenery and get those legs really moving.

I just have to remember not to go anywhere near that Sugar Monkey cupcake shop. Those white chocolate raspberry concoctions are killers.

Happy Feet

We were supposed to go out to dinner. My better half was out of town and my daughter and I had a date at a local seafood restaurant. I had the Groupon ready to go when I got the call from my firstborn telling me that her stomach was on the fritz and she didn't think it was up to a big dinner. Feeling a little rejected (not to mention bummed out about having to cook), I sucked it up and told her not to worry, we'd do it another day.

That's when she offered me an alternative. After a rough day at work, she was craving a little pampering and wondered if I might like to join her at the nail salon where we could indulge ourselves in a couple of pedicures.

My love/hate relationship with pedicures is well-known in my family. I love the idea of making my feet look pretty but I feel funny having strangers coming at my sensitive toes with sharp, metal objects while they jump to conclusions about my lack of personal hygiene. I don't know how anyone else feels but the first time they used one of those callous scrapers on me, I thought I would die of embarrassment. (Does anyone else have shavings that resemble something under a woodworker's bench? Of course they don't.)

So, I had two choices. I could make myself a sandwich and wait for Project Runway to entertain me or I could go spend a little time with my daughter even if it meant risking a barrage of whispered commentaries directed at the sorry state of my feet.

As you might guess, I opted for the latter. As soon as I got in that fabulous massage chair and dipped my toes in that toasty foot bath, most of my apprehensions disappeared. The girl working on me looked like she was still in middle school but she tackled my tootsies like a pro. Both my daughter and I decided to go for the spa pedicure (what's another $7?) which included a sugar scrub and a hot (and I do mean hot) parafin soak. As for the dreaded callous scraper - my teenage friend said I didn't even need it!

Forty-five minutes later, after solving the problems of the world while enjoying a relaxing back massage, we walked out with the prettiest, softest, happiest feet in town. We headed home, found some leftovers in the fridge, and tossed off a few catty comments on the latest Project Runway dramas. . .I mean, fashions.

Reconnecting with my kid, sharing a guilty pleasure, AND getting a bit of pampering? I'd give up a seafood dinner for that any day.

Taming the Green Monster

It's been a while since I've taken a good look at the Ten Commandments but I seem to remember there's something in there about not coveting your neighbor's goods. I'm happy to say I don't usually have a problem with that; I'm lucky enough to have some pretty nice stuff. What I do occasionally have a problem with is envying someone else's good fortune and I don't think I've stumbled on any kind of loophole in the commandment with that one.

This week, that ugly, green monster raised its head when someone I love very much had something wonderful happen to her. She and her family got an invitation to an exclusive event that I would have loved to have attended. As much as she wanted to include me, she couldn't. When she called to apologize, I did my best to let her off the hook. We had a long conversation that included a lot of joking around; you know, stuff like, "Go, have a good time. We'll just PhotoShop me in the pictures later" but I can't help thinking that my feeble attempts at sarcasm and humor might have only made her feel worse.

When we got off the phone, I started to analyze our conversation and this time I knew I should be the one doing all the apologizing. I have had so much good fortune in my life. I have an amazing house, a couple of cars in the driveway and have been lucky enough to travel the world. My friend, though blessed with a loving family and everything she really needs, has had it a little tougher. She's had more financial struggles and dealt with more health issues. And it's not fair. She's the most giving, loving person I know and should have nothing but the best in her life.

So, when she posts her pictures, I'm not going to feel sorry for myself. I'm not going to allow myself to feel one tiny, little bit of resentment or jealousy. I'm going to be happy for her; really, truly happy for her because no one deserves it more.

But I can still be jealous of her husband, can't I?

We Can Work it Out

I'm well into my second month of healthier eating (you did not see me eating a McDonald's cheeseburger and small fries this afternoon - that must have been somebody else) and daily exercise (yes, that was me taking a thirty minute walk this morning at 8:00 a.m.) and I've come to a few conclusions:

     1.   It's not as bad as I thought it was going to be.
     2.   It's not as much fun as Jillian Michaels would like you
           to think it's going to be.
     3.   I like feeling stronger than I did twenty years ago. If 
           my knees would co-operate, I think I would be on my 
           way to kicking some serious ass.
     4.   I love kale (already discussed in a previous blog but 
           worth noting again) but I love it even more when
           someone else cuts it up. This goes for all salad 
           materials.
     5.   I can scale back treats and still feel satisfied. Today I 
           stopped in a new donut shop (c'mon, I'm just trying to
           support a new local business), bought two donuts and
          cut them into quarters to put in my freezer. The single 
          bite of peanut butter chocolate cake donut topped with
          a Hershey's kiss was shockingly enough).
     6.   I've grown to like lemon water, especially the fizzy
           variety that Whole Foods sells.
     7.   Walking with your shoulders back and butt tucked
           under makes anyone look like they lost five pounds.
     8.   As much as I hate getting up early, exercising in the
           morning does give me more energy for the rest of the 
           day. (I always dismissed this notion as a delusional
           ranting of confirmed morning people but damn if they
           weren't right).
     9.   I'm actually starting to lose my taste for super-rich
           foods. Looks like I won't be dining at Cheesecake
           Factory anytime soon.
   10.   I would eat fresh fish two or three times a week if it
           didn't cost the same amount of money as a new piece
           of jewelry. Why is crappy eating so much cheaper than
           healthy eating???!!

I'm sure there will be more revelations in the future and I'm counting on subsequent updates to keep me honest. For anyone else interested in joining me on this quest, be sure to leave a comment and let me know how you're doing.

I wonder if I'll ever be able to do fifty push-ups? Stay tuned.

SuperKALEifragilistic!

One of the surprising things about getting older is the fact that your stomach starts to tell you what it does and does not want you to put in it. Salads get a big fat yes, Greek yogurt with fresh fruit, gets a yes, please and fried onions on a burger at nine o'clock at night, gets a resounding don't-even-think-about-it-unless-you-want-to-be-up-all-night. The good thing about this change in your digestive system is that certain foods look much more appealing than they ever used to and others, like the newly resurrected Twinkies and slabs of cheesecake smothered with whipped cream (I'm talking to you Cheesecake Factory), look a whole lot less.

Today, I got in my car and drove ten miles to get something for lunch. I had a taste for something specific and I just had to have it. It wasn't a juicy Italian Beef from Portillo's. It wasn't a bacon cheeseburger with cheddar and onions from Smashburger (although now that I'm typing it, that does sound good), and it wasn't deep dish pizza from Lou Malnati's (again, sounds pretty good). No, what I got my shoes on for was located in the nearest Whole Foods - raw kale salad.

I know, I know, kale is the new arugula. Everybody is jumping on the healthy eating bandwagon and proclaiming their love for this leafy green veggie that absolutely no one had in their refrigerators a year or two ago. But, trust me, this stuff is good.

First off, Whole Foods makes all their pre-made salads look amazingly appetizing. I don't know what they do to it, if they shine some special light on it or if we're all being hypnotized the minute we walk in, but all the quinoa, farro, bulgur, and all the other unknown-a-year-ago options actually look better than the cupcakes and gelato that are just a few steps away. The raw kale salad is no exception. Its bright green, ruffly leaves topped with bits of tomatoes, cranberries and pine nuts and drizzled with lemony vinaigrette practically scream "eat me". And I did, along with samples of several other worthy contenders. The farro salad was a "meh" (needs more seasoning) and the grilled veggie salad was an "I'll be back for more of that later" hit. After filling my cart with additional treats from the salad bar and three types of fish, I headed for the cashier with nary a brownie or key lime tartlet in sight.

Not that I should get too cocky. I know there's a pint of sea-salt caramel Talenti gelato sitting in my freezer (more on that obsession at a later time) that will be hard to resist a few hours from now. But I did make myself one heck of a healthy lunch.

Baby steps, right?.

Watch Out

Moving out of the motherhood is challenging and re-inventing yourself is an up and down journey that throws more curve balls at you than Chris Carpenter throws at National League hitters. You have to get motivation and inspiration wherever you can find it. And where do I usually find it? That's right. . .sports.

Yesterday, I spent a few hours watching a golf tournament. Nothing unusual about that.Anyone who is a regular reader of this blog knows I'm kind of obsessed with sports and tune in to any major event that doesn't involve cricket, soccer or rugby. This latest excuse to put my own life on hold and gawk at a bunch of people actually doing something with theirs happened to be The British Open (or just The Open for those purists on the other side of the pond). I told myself that this productivity detour was okay because a) it came on at 7:00am and would be over by noon and b) one of my favorite players just happened to be in contention.

As I sat there, happily ensconced with The Sunday Tribune and a cup of tea (Britain, remember?), doing double duty rooting Phil on and cheering whenever Tiger made a mistake, I felt encouraged by what I saw unfolding in front of me. Here was a forty-three year-old guy that one month ago had the biggest disappointment of his career when he came in second in The U.S. Open for the sixth time (after leading in the final round with a couple of holes to go). He was conquering an insidious Scottish course that had chewed up and spit out some of the best players in the game. Not to mention, he was doing it after being written off as not having the kind of game to ever win this particular major.

So, what happened? Even non-sports nuts probably know the answer to that one. He went out there and won the thing from five shots back, leaving Tiger and a whole lot of other talented players in his wake. It was great TV but, for me, it was more than that. This was one for the good guys and I picked up a few pointers watching him on his way to winning The Claret Jug. He succeeded by taking chances and trusting his talent. He triumphed because he didn't listen to the naysayers that said he couldn't. And he came out on top without acting like a jerk while he was doing it.

Now that he's won the tournament, I wonder if he might have a few minutes to teach me one other lesson - how to stop watching others live out their dreams and go out and fulfill a few of my own.

Let's Put on a Wedding

When I got married thirty years ago, I booked our church, found a banquet hall that had our date available (and featured family style dinners for $21 per person including open bar), and bought a dress for under $200. I picked out bridesmaids' dresses and flower arrangements and found a decent photographer. After that, I figured my work was done. And it was. I showed up on the big day, said "I do", and partied for the rest of the night. Today, if you don't want to pony up thirty or forty-thousand dollars, you have to get a lot more involved.

This past weekend, I saw what can happen when a group of loving, dedicated friends and family get together to help start a young couple off on their marital journey without breaking the bank. For two days (and many months leading up to those two days) a "village" of hard-working people did everything and anything necessary to ensure the bride and groom would have the wedding of their dreams. They strung lights, carried tables and chairs, arranged flowers, baked goodies, ran errands, hung decorations, practiced music, and calmed nerves. In the end, they turned an empty field and bare barn into a garden paradise and twinkling wonderland. Despite the summer heat and a rapidly approaching deadline, there was little complaining and a whole lot of laughter while everyone worked toward one goal - to give the best day of their lives to the much-loved bride and groom.

So, forget about those Kardashian-style extravaganzas that cost a million bucks and end in a couple of months. Forget about going into debt to feed over-cooked prime rib to 300 people you're not even sure you sent a Christmas card to last year. Forget about running away to some remote island destination wedding with you and your ten best friends. This is the way to do it. Surround yourself with people who love you, throw some chicken on the bar-b-que grill and pour some chilled Moscato into a Mason jar glass. When you're done, you won't be looking at a drawer full of credit card bills and you'll never have to ask yourself that question that creeps up on most of us once in a while - 'I wonder how everyone really feels about me?'

You'll have an album of pictures that tells you all you'll ever need to know.

Breakfast at Wimbledon

Having lived in England for a couple of years, I have to cop to being a bit of an Anglophile. I drink tea instead of coffee, get a kick out of all that pomp and circumstance surrounding the Royal Family, and make a mean scone, complete with clotted cream and strawberry jam. When I get the opportunity to celebrate my affinity for all things British, like Kate and Williams' little shindig a while back, I jump right on it. I may not be there to get caught up in all the pageantry but I still like to find a way to reconnect with my "second home" from this side of the pond any chance I get. Needless to say, that includes the annual Wimbledon fortnight.

Luckily for me, I have a son who likes tennis almost as much as I do. I wish I could say that I play as well as he does (just wait, he'll have arthritic knees someday, too) but the joy I get from our shared passion almost makes up for the fact that I will never, ever beat him. He usually doesn't have the patience (or time) to watch a televised match with me but yesterday, when I asked him if he wanted to watch the Men's Final between Djokovic and Murray, he actually said yes.

When he arrived around 9:30 a.m., the DVR already had an hour and a half head start. Learning that I was out of both o.j. and bacon, he bolted back to his car to head to the nearest grocery store. By the time he got back, the poached eggs were almost done and I was working on the French Toast. A few minutes later, we were sitting in front of the TV with our calorie-laden breakfasts watching Novak and Andy duke it out.

After the first set was over, I mentioned that, while I had forgotten to thaw out the amazing frozen chocolate croissants from Trader Joe's that he loves, I did have a can of Pillsbury Grand biscuits in the fridge. (For those not in the know, these things make phenomenal donuts. Just punch out a hole with a vanilla bottle lid, drop them into a shallow pan of hot oil, and dredge in powdered sugar or cinnamon or dip in chocolate frosting - beats any store bought donut around.)

While my son continued watching the match, I fried up the dough. Within minutes, I had a plateful of warm, crusty, gooey donuts that would lead to me adding another half hour to my exercise schedule. (Side note: I've been on a real health kick for the last month. I've been exercising every day, eating more greenery than your average rabbit, and cutting down on sweets.) But watching my son devour his favorite childhood treat while we watched Andy Murray become the first British male to win Wimbledon in seventy-seven years put a big smile on my face.

Some things are worth a few extra calories.

LX and Counting

Well, it's been an eventful week. I celebrated a milestone birthday and The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup. I have to say that the Hawks winning The Cup on my actual birthday made the transition to a new decade a lot more tolerable but still, when the high-fiveing and jumping up and down were over, I had to face my new reality. I was now in serious AARP country; a place where Scooter Store flyers and hearing aid offers would be regular visitors to my mailbox. (My husband actually asked me the next morning, "How's my little senior doing today?" It's amazing the man is still taking in oxygen after that one.)

Don't get me wrong, I know there are a lot of people in this world who didn't get to reach the birthday I just celebrated, including a very dear friend that I miss terribly. She would have given anything to be standing in my Clark shoes so I should shut up and appreciate the gift of every day. And I do. Honestly, I do. But there's something about hitting those zero birthdays that sobers you up in a hurry - Blackhawks win or no Blackhawks win.

So, here's my plan. I'm getting off my saggy heinie and getting myself in shape. I'm looking very carefully at food labels (hello, Whole Foods) and trying to cook fresh, healthy meals as often as possible (goodbye, McDonalds). I'm not going to go through another day putting off what I know I need (edit that book) to do and want (a 2015 return to Italy?) to do. I want to learn more; help more; grow more (except in that aforementioned heinie area which has grown quite enough, thank you very much). In short, I want to use whatever time I have left on this planet to be as productive, supportive, generous and kind as I possibly can.

And if, along the way, a book with my name on it ends up finding its way to a shelf at your nearest bookstore, I don't think I'll be too worried about that next zero birthday.

The Better Part of Valor

I use this forum for lots of reasons, not the least of which is to share what I've learned after thirty years of marriage. So here goes. I hate to burst anyone's bubble but to all you engaged or newly married readers out there - spoiler alert - I have to tell you, whether you choose to believe it or not, you will wind up keeping a few secrets from your beloved spouse. I'm not talking about the big, hairy, headline-making-Dr. Phil kind of secrets like "I had an affair with my husband's grandfather" or "I shoplifted enough items to open my own boutique", I'm talking about the "what he doesn't know won't hurt me" kind of secrets; the ones that don't do any real damage but save a lot of unnecessary (not to mention unpleasant) conversation.

For instance. The other day we were out shopping. My dear husband (henceforth referred to as DH) had come along to keep me company as I purchased a Father's Day gift for my DF (I might as well keep the stupid acronyms going). Okay, his presence may have had something to do with the fact that I was going to one of his favorite electronics stores but, nevertheless, he dropped what he was doing to hang out with me.

After finding an inexpensive MP3 player that I hoped would replace the Walkman that my dad currently employs when he mows the lawn, I left my husband browsing while I hit the cashier's line. When I reached into my purse for my one-and-only credit card, it wasn't there. Panic set in. I tried to remember when I had last used it and where I could have possibly put it. I'm not known as the most organized person (I may have mentioned that once or twice) but I always put this particular card  in the first slot of my wallet and now it was gone.

I switched to Plan B, pulled out my debit card, and put on a game face when my DH asked if I had paid. I knew I had two choices - tell him about the missing card, in which case I would have to listen to a rather lengthy lecture about my carelessness and an urgent insistence that we call the credit card company to cancel our card, or say "yep, all set" and get my ass home as quickly as possible to look through every pants pocket in my closet.

Guess which one I chose?

You'll be relieved to know that within the hour, I had found the card in a pair of shorts I had worn the day before. No harm, no foul. And if you're sitting there thinking you would have done it differently, I have to ask you. Do you honestly think you'll always tell your husband the price of that dress you bought for your cousin's wedding? Or what exactly you did when you had a couple of margaritas with your girlfriends? Or how you feel every time you watch Ryan Reynolds in Just Friends?

Liar.

Be Italian

When you're getting back into the swing of things after a long vacation, you've got to appreciate the small pleasures of being back home. And since this wasn't exactly a pampered beach getaway complete with limitless drinks adorned with colorful paper umbrellas, I'll admit to being grateful that I'm back in the land of escalators, inexpensive restaurants and no-smoking signs. I'm also glad to have returned to reality just as my favorite season gets ready to make an appearance. Our last big trip ended in October which made facing the prospect of a Chicago winter an added hurdle to getting over the "home-from-vacation-blues". Spring getaways make for a softer return landing.

So, after getting used to eating nothing but fresh, cooked-from-scratch meals loaded with colorful fruits and vegetables for weeks, I'm determined to keep the magic going. I'm making salads every night, complete with homemade dressing and have gotten into the habit of serving small glasses of sparkling water (I think it's mandatory at every meal but breakfast in Europe) and slightly larger glasses of red wine with every dinner. We've kept the pasta thing going but have now thrown grilled fish or chicken into the mix. Tonight, we split a grilled steak with Caprese salad and sauteed potatoes and mushrooms. We're trying to eat as many meals as we can on our deck (it may not have a view of the ocean but it is pretty peaceful). We listen to the birds, talk, and keep the television off as much as possible (yes to the Hawks' playoff games; no to "The Bachelorette").

Maybe that's the secret. Maybe vacations are supposed to help you figure out the secrets to living the other fifty weeks of the year. They shake up your routine, expose you to other cultures' ways of doing things and give you some insight into what's really important to you.

We may not be able to live our lives on vacation but no one can stop us from bringing a little of our vacations into our lives.

I Want to be Rick Steves

Well, loyal readers, I've procrastinated long enough. After an amazing three week trip to Europe, it's time for me to get back to real life and that includes this humble little forum for my earth-shattering observations about life after motherhood.

After that kind of break, I'm here to tell you that there are some perks to a life sans children. You don't have to plan your trips around school holidays. You can walk around historic sites for hours without hearing anyone say, "I'm tired" or "Are we there yet?" (Although I think I might have muttered both of those on our four hour hike from Monterosso to Vernazza). And you can drink as much wine as you want to without worrying about embarrassing yourself in front of your offspring.Your husband, however, may be forced to occasionally pretend he has no idea who you are.

Our hastily put together trip was designed to be a celebration of our 30th anniversary and our (gulp) 60th birthdays coming up later this year. We originally thought about waiting until the fall but when a good deal presented itself, we jumped on it and decided to treat ourselves early (you know, the old "Who knows if we'll be around in six months" argument - the one I drag out quite regularly when I'm trying to justify spending money we probably shouldn't spend).

Anyway, before we knew it, the trip turned into a twenty-three day marathon (what can I say, it was cheaper to fly on Tuesday) visiting over twenty cities by train, bus and ship. We climbed more stairs than Rocky Balboa and visited more churches than the Pope. We schlepped our luggage over cobblestone streets, dragged them up dozens of flights of stairs (including one narrow nightmare of a circular staircase that should have been put out of its misery years ago), and subjected ourselves to a level of physicality that would have challenged Jillian Michaels. And you know what? Now that we're back, I can tell you one thing.

I want to do it again.  Soon

Passage to India

I know all of you reading this have been worrying yourselves to death over my previously mentioned trips to the urologist. I'm here to reassure you that Misty (yes, that's her real name for anyone new to the party) and I are still getting together on a semi-regular basis. But after spending enough money to pay for a week in Tuscany (my barometer for all expenditures) on ultrasounds, urine tests, office visits and one really uncomfortable "stretching" episode, Misty was no closer to remedying the problem than the day I stepped into her office.

That's when I decided to take matters into my own hands. No, I didn't enroll in med school - I'm trying to re-invent myself but I'm not crazy -  I just started reading everything I could get my hands on about my miraculous body and why it might be turning on me. In my search, I discovered a website where other women were wrestling with the very same issue. They were all spending the majority of their day going to the bathroom, thinking about going to the bathroom, or trying to distract themselves from thinking about going to the bathroom. Their stories were mirror images of mine as were their experiences with their doctors - not a whole lot of help for the money spent.

As I continued to read the comments, I stumbled upon one woman's solution. She said she had begged her (male) doctor to let her try a topical estrogen cream, Estrace, because she had heard that it might be the answer to her problem. Having never taken any kind of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) to get me through menopause, I never thought about missing hormones being a part of my current discomfort but the more I read up on the idea, the more it made sense.

So, naturally, I trudged over to my (male) urologist's office (by this time Misty had handed me over to her boss, a grizzled old guy who was as serious as Misty was chipper) to ask if I could try this miracle cream. When he reluctantly provided me with a prescription, I headed straight to Costco where I found out that trying this possible remedy would result in a $145 hit to my bank account. As much as I wanted to try it, I couldn't pull the trigger.

I went home, searched the internet for prices on Estrace and found a website that offered it for $42 for two tubes. Skeptical but willing to risk fifty bucks, I placed my order. That's when I found out that it would take two to four weeks to receive it because it was coming from. . .you guessed it, India.

Long story short (yeah, I know, too late), it's made a difference. I've only been using it for two weeks and, while not where I used to be when I was twenty, I no longer feel destined for the Depends' aisle.

I do, however, see more boxes from Bombay and a whole lot less interaction with my friend Misty in my future.

One Man's Generosity

One of the most amazing things about life is how often it surprises you. Just when you think you've seen it all, something happens that reminds you that you haven't.

Tonight my husband and I went out for pizza to a new coal oven pizza place whose bakers throw the dough in the air, slide it into an inferno and produce a paper thin pie in a matter of minutes. My husband had recently completed a website commercial for the owner and was anxious to deliver the finished product. I, of course, was more than happy to go along for the ride. . .as long as there was one of those delicious-looking pizzas from the video at the end of it.

The owner greeted us and told us how much he liked the video and we sat down to sample the goods. Within minutes, a smiling young man was standing at our table. Assuming he was our waiter, I listened as he said his name was Tony and then went on to say that tonight he was going to buy our dinner. My husband and I immediately jumped to the conclusion that the owner had sent over one of his staff to say the meal was on the house in appreciation for the completed commercial but we soon realized that this was not the case. This was a complete stranger offering to treat us to the dinner of our choice. When pressed further, he stated that he'd struggled for the last few years but now was doing so well that he not only was buying our dinner but popping for all the other tables in the restaurant as well.

We tried to refuse but he wouldn't take no for an answer. As we watched him make his way around to the other beneficiaries of his giving spirit, we couldn't help wondering how his random act of kindness would inspire everyone it touched. Would the family at the table near the window invite a homeless family for dinner? Would the couple by the door offer to pay for the senior citizen's groceries waiting behind them in the checkout line? Would the waitress donate a percentage of her tips to her favorite charity?

Who knows? I just know I'm going to do something. I don't know what, where or when but if I were you, I'd want to start hanging out with me.

63 and Counting

I know this is supposed to be a blog about stepping gracefully away from full-time motherhood but my wandering mind doesn't always stick to the rules. And since I'm the one sitting down to type the damn thing, I think I have to write about the spirits that move me and tonight I'm thinking a lot about the institution that got me into this whole motherhood thing in the first place. That's right. . .tonight I'm thinking about marriage and what a tough, impossible, challenging, rewarding, wonderful little sucker it can be.

April 22nd, 1950. A pound of hamburger cost thirty cents. A gallon of gas was a little more than half that and a new car to put it in could be had for $1500. It was also the time when a couple of crazy kids decided to get married. They had known each other for all of six months. He had turned twenty in February and she left her teenage years behind the day before her wedding. Their reception was catered by friends and they honeymooned in a leaky, cold cottage in Wisconsin.

April 22nd, 2013. A pound of hamburger costs $3.69 on sale (unless you're into that organic, non-antiobiotic variety which might have you reconsidering the merits of vegetarianism). A gallon of gas is now hovering around the $4 mark. And a new car. . .well, let's just say that when I helped my son buy his used car recently, the salesman told me we wouldn't be able to get anything for less than $10,000.

And what about those two crazy kids. . .the ones I left back in 1950? They made it through it all - sixteen Presidential elections, a stint in the military, a couple of kids, several job-related moves, women's liberation, and more than a few economic downturns. They argue about what happened when and who said what to whom. They finish each others' sentences and they share dinners at Olive Garden. They show up at as many family events as their tired bodies allow and still manage to get in a round of golf or a few hours at the casino. They also bring more joy, wisdom, compassion and laughter into the lives of anyone lucky enough to hang with them than any two people on the planet . I should know. Those two crazy kids are my parents.And today is their anniversary.

63. It looks good on them.

Change. . .Will Do You Good

If you haven't guessed by now, I'm less than thrilled by disruptions in my status quo. Translation: not too crazy about change. From what I eat for breakfast (Frosted Mini-Wheats with fruit is the standard these days) to the route I take to work I tend to stick with patterns of behavior longer than Neil Diamond has been singing Sweet Caroline. This personality trait works well if your husband is answering questions about you on a game show ("I'll take 'What she wears to bed' for $200, Alex") but is decidedly troublesome when one is trying to re-invent oneself.

That's why I'm grateful that God takes a hand in situations that get away from me. Whenever I don't have the courage/intelligence/decisiveness to pull the trigger and move on from something that isn't working in my life, He seems to step in and make the decision for me. Take last week. I had been struggling for awhile with the writing assignments I'd been getting from the online educational website that had hired me to write video scripts. The job was never a perfect marriage of my skills to their needs but I spent a lot of time, often  way too much time, trying to adapt my style of writing to theirs. For awhile, I seemed to pull it off. They were happy with what I was doing and I was thrilled to be paid for my words; it was especially gratifying to actually see my writing turned into two-minute videos on the site. But lately, things weren't working. No matter what I tried to write, I couldn't find the right tone, the right pop-cultural references, the right humor/slang/puns to satisfy my editors. I wasn't enjoying the process anymore; no, scratch that, I was dreading the idea of sitting down and coming up with material that was no longer knocking their socks off and wasn't even remotely satisfying to me as a writer.

That's where God stepped in. While I couldn't (or wouldn't) tell my boss (who also happens to be my nephew who recommended me for the freelance opportunity) that I wanted to move on, I continued to work for hours trying to please someone other than myself. I didn't want to disappoint my nephew or have it reflect badly on him that his crazy aunt had run out of gas. I didn't want to disappoint the website who had hired me and given me my first writing income in years. And, most importantly, I didn't want to admit that I couldn't bend and twist my writing ability to fit into the website's very specific mold. So, when my nephew had to reluctantly inform me that the site wasn't "digging" my latest efforts, I was initially crushed. How dare they break up with me before I had the nerve to break up with them? But, you know what? That feeling was quickly replaced with waves of relief - real, honest-to-goodness relief.

I wouldn't have to come up with a silly pun or conjure up some potty humor that would make a twelve year-old chuckle. I wouldn't have to wrack my fifty-something brain to suggest a relevant pop-cultural video image that wouldn't leave a high-schooler scratching his head (can I help it if they don't know Paul McCartney isn't just some old guy singing at the Super Bowl?). And, more importantly, I wouldn't have any excuse not to get back to the writing that means something to me.

So, it turns out that that amazingly wise woman Sheryl Crow was right. If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad AND a change will do you good.

Now why can't I write shit like that?

Big News

It's tough sometimes to react the way people want you to when they share big news. I'll bet no one who knew Nadiya Suileman (better known as the Octomom) was jumping up and down when she announced she was pregnant with her 7th - 14th children. Families who get the announcements that their son has joined the Marines or their daughter is moving to Tanzania with a guy she met at Buffalo Wild Wings know what I'm talking about. It's hard to be as excited as your kids want you to be when you have a few reservations about what they've decided to do.

I guess I'm feeling this way because our daughter just announced her engagement. He's a great guy and treats her like a queen. They met a church and he doesn't have one visible tattoo. Yeah, I know - what's the problem? I should shut up and start calling banquet halls, right? The truth is, I'm a little worried about how fast everything's moving. I know she's a big girl and I should just butt out but c'mon, we all know that that's not going to happen.

I'm trying my hardest to be as over-the-moon about all this as she is. I even bought her a Brides Magazine today, hoping to show her I'm not trying to rain all over her parade. Like every mother of the bride before me, I love my daughter to death and I want nothing more than her continued happiness as she heads off into the sunset with her Prince Charming.

Can I help it if I'd prefer that the ride wasn't jet-propelled?

Our Favorite House Guest

Last week was Spring Break and instead of joining the hordes heading off to some all-inclusive beach resort like we used to do when our kids were little, we stayed home and suffered through the last few days of winter in sweet home Chicago. But we weren't alone. We were the vacation destination of choice of my thirteen year-old nephew who loves nothing better than hanging out with his decade-older cousins.

For three days I watched as my son and daughter entertained my nephew with video games, ping pong tournaments and trips to fast food havens. We let him eat and drink everything that was off limits at his organically-minded household and let him stay up as long as he could keep his bleary eyes open.

It wasn't difficult. He's a great kid who's an absolute joy to have around - he's smart, funny and relatively polite (c'mon, he's thirteen - he can't be perfect all the time). Unfortunately, the weather didn't cooperate enough to do anything outside but I think he had a great time anyway. We all did.

But his visit made me realize something. I'm glad I'm not in my sister's shoes. Because I could never go through raising another kid. I don't have the patience, not to mention selflessness, required to sit through parent-teacher conferences (even ones celebrating another semester of straight As), help with homework, or attend band concerts and Saturday morning baseball games. I don't have the fortitude to watch another one go through first love, requited or otherwise. My sister, God love her, is only fourteen months younger than I am and I don't know how she does it.

One of my biggest regrets is not having had more children. In my thirties and forties I know I could have handled four or five.

I don't know why but it didn't work out that way. But, as usual, my sister has my back. She's generous enough to let me borrow one of hers.

Enough Already

If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm not a big fan of cold weather. I'm the kind of gal that needs a sweater and a good pair of socks when the temperature dips below 70 so you can imagine how I feel about dealing with Chicago winters. Granted, this one hasn't been as bad as most but I still have days when I can't get warm no matter what I do and I've done just about everything except hop inside my nicely pre-heated 350 degree oven.

But now it's March. Tomorrow is the first full day of Spring. And it's 19 degrees outside. Not funny.

I'm ready to pack up the fuzzy socks and fleece jackets and dig out the shorts and flip flops. I'm ready to pack up the space heater in the family room and open up the windows. I'm ready to put away the slow cooker and crank up the barbeque grill.

I am not ready for more winter.

Don't Stand. . . Don't Stand So Close To Me

I have never used this blog to tell any of my readers what to do but that's all going to change today. If you see me standing in line in the mall, in the grocery store or at the DMV, do not, I repeat do not under any circumstances, get behind me. No doubt I would enjoy talking to you during the interminable time I am about to waste waiting in line but I wouldn't want to put any of you through that torture. Because no matter how I try to scope out the available cashiers, I will inevitably be standing behind a) someone who needs to search the deep recesses of her over-sized bag for her checkbook, coupons, or exact change, b) someone who picked up the one and only item in the entire store that doesn't have a barcode, c) an unhappy customer who "needs to speak to the manager", d) a mom who has to send her kid back to Aisle 12 for something she forgot or e) all of the above.

I'm not kidding.

Yesterday I was in Costco. I had four items in my arms including a package of aluminum foil that weighed roughly the same as your average toddler. I looked for others who had made the trek to the cavernous superstore for less than a month's worth of supplies and found a line with two customers ahead of me. The elderly couple right in front of me had wine, yogurt and bottled water so they looked like a safe bet and the woman ahead of them was already loading her half-filled cart on the belt.

And that's when the fun started.

She started arguing about returning a box of Keurig coffee cups for a different brand and the cashier had to ever-so-politely inform her that she couldn't do that at the register. They went back and forth about why it wasn't an even exchange and why she couldn't perform the transaction. Oh, but it didn't stop there.

After that discussion was over, the customer waited at the end of the belt until everything was paid for before loading any of it back into the cart. And when she finally paid (with pennies, I think) she deposited every item into the cart as if it were made of glass and/or TNT with a speed rivaling dripping molasses. Meanwhile, I stood there, arms aching from my ten pound package of aluminum foil, watching the two lines on either side of me move through four or five happy customers who had done the smartest thing they had done all day.

They hadn't chosen to get behind me.

Why Can't I . . .?

Most of the time when I write one of these, I can't think of anything to write about but today's different. I actually found myself wondering about all this stuff today and figured there was no better way to get this out of my system than to burden other people (namely my friends and family) with my insecurities. So, here goes:

1.  Why can't I like natural peanut butter as much as I like Skippy?
2.  Why can't I stop obsessing about when I'm going on another cruise?
3.  Why can't I stop performing menial tasks in the dark? (I'm not being frugal, just lazy)
4.  Why can't I like hummus like every other woman I know?
5.  Why can't I find The Big Bang Theory funny? (Annoying, yes; funny, no)
6.  Why can't I finish editing the novel I wrote more than two years ago?
7.  Why can't I call my friends more often?
8.  Why can't I find Johnny Depp remotely sexy?
9.  Why can't I force myself to go to bed before midnight? (Okay, before one)
10. Why can't I figure out how to win the lottery so I can go back to Italy every year?
11. Why can't I be more interested in politics? (Oh, I know this one - it's too depressing)
12. Why can't I stop myself from tuning in to see who The Bachelor picks? (Yeah, that's right. I'll
       be watching tonight - don't you dare judge me!)
13. Why can't I stop eating something sweet late at night?
14. Why can't I be a better housekeeper? (Good at cooking, lousy at cleaning)
15. Why can't I make a list and stick to it? (My husband wants the answer to this one as well)
16. Why can't I find a single fitted sheet for my king-sized bed (that doesn't cost a couple of
      days' pay)?
17. Why can't I stop "reminding" my kids to do things?
18. Why can't I care about texting?
19. Why can't I exercise more?
20. Why can't I write this damn blog EVERY Monday, Wednesday and Friday????

Let Them Eat Cupcakes

I'd like to make a case for an addition to the food group pyramid. We all know that we should be eating a diet of low-fat protein, lots of fruit and vegetables and healthy carbohydrates in the form of whole grains. But, c'mon, one perfect food has been ignored for too long and I'm convinced it needs to be added to the list of foods we should be eating if not daily, at least weekly. I'm speaking, of course, about the humble
cupcake - God's heavenly alternative to the celery stick.

Let's look at the positives. It's small, portable and can be decorated to accommodate any occasion. You can flavor it with just about anything that sparks your imagination, personalizing them to please a crowd of even the most picky eaters. Its calorie count is miniscule compared to its full-sized counterparts so guilt can be kept at a minimum and everyone from toddlers to grandmothers is crazy about them.

Just let a bowl of steamed kale try to tick off all those boxes.

Oh, I almost forgot the cupcake's most important attribute, its uncanny ability to make any day better and improve even the deepest case of the blues. For this alone, it needs to take its rightful place on the top of that pyramid. I know, I know, those crazy healthy food zealots will fight me but you know I'm right..

Should I make yours chocolate or vanilla?

Rolling the Dice

When your kids are little you spend a lot of time on the floor. You shake rattles over their chubby cheeks as they wiggle on a crocheted blanket. You push colorful trains along a wooden track as your excited toddler yells, "Choo-choo". And you suffer through yet another round of  sleep-inducing adventures in a place called Candyland.

Looking back, I cherish every one of those moments (really, even the Candyland) I spent crawling around on the carpet with my kids. From the building blocks to the board games to the building of Lego masterpieces, I wouldn't trade a minute of that floor time, especially now that it's nearly impossible for me to get down there. And even more impossible for me to get back up.

But the other night, I made the effort. A late night knock on my door had me ditching the remote and finding a way to contort my arthritic knees into a semi-lotus position just long enough to play a couple of games of Yahtzee with my not-so-little boy.

Because no matter how old your kids are, when they want to play with you, you've got to make it happen

The Little Things

I have to admit, my last blog was an indulgent trip to the pity pot. I wrote it late at night (always a mistake) after a nasty argument with one of my kids. I was hurt, tired and frustrated - a trifecta that rarely results in anything positive. If I had just said a prayer and gone to bed like I should have, I would have saved myself a lot of grief.

The next day, nothing seemed as dire as it had the night before (just like my mother always told me it would). When the alarm went off, I knew I had a choice - I could wallow in self-pity or give myself (and everyone else) a break and choose to be joyful. Guess which one I chose?

If you're open to it, it's not hard. There's a lot in life to be joyful about - a friend's thoughtfulness, an exciting Blackhawks victory, the humor of Stephen Colbert, a glass of good red wine, a late-nite Facebook chat with your sister. I took advantage of all of them because you never know which one is going to do the trick.

And if all else fails, there's always cupcakes.

Not So Fast

Last time I sat down to write one of these things, I was filled with optimism. That's what a good day will do for you. You see that light at the end of the tunnel, you slap on those sunglasses and head right for it. Too bad the little sucker's batteries die just as you get close enough to touch it.

It's tough to see your kids struggle. But it's even tougher to see them making the same mistakes over and over again. Stepping in only makes matters worse and butting out is impossible. Especially when they're sleeping down the hall. You're caught in that "no mans land" they talk about on the tennis court and no matter what you do, somebody ends up feeling lousy.

And until somebody turns that light back on, it's me.