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.