He'll Be Home For Christmas

It's only December 23rd and I already know all about the best gift I'm going to get for Christmas. Before you rush off to report me to the Santa Police (wouldn't that be cool if there actually was such a thing?), I can assure you I haven't "accidentally" stumbled upon a box in the closet or "inadvertently" slipped the wrapping off a package under the tree. No, the best present of this or any other year is not going to be in any box. It is not going to be decorated with a giant bow (at least I don't think it will). It is going to arrive tonight around six o'clock and (I'm pretty sure) it won't be delivered by a guy in little brown shorts.

Four months and fourteen days ago, I watched my son drive off in a moving van. If I had had any idea it was going to be this long between hugs, there would have been one other item packed into one of those over-stuffed cartons making their way to Denver.

For the first time, we weren't together for Thanksgiving.  For the first time, I didn't get to make him his favorite birthday cake or watch him open his presents. He wasn't even able to be here to celebrate the birth of his sister's first child. For four and a half months we have had to make do with texts, e-mails and hastily arranged Skype chats - none of which afforded any opportunity for hugs. But all that ends today. He will be home for Christmas.

And unlike the song, it won't be only in my dreams.

Still At It

I think I read somewhere that it takes thirty days to establish a new habit. If that's the case, it looks like exercise is going to be a regular part of my life. That's right, people, six weeks and counting. Every day for the last month and a half I have walked on a treadmill, lifted weights, stretched impossibly tight hamstrings and glutes, and ticked off a hundred crunches on that damn inflatable ball. I haven't always made it to a mile; I haven't always pushed myself as hard as I could, and I certainly haven't eliminated all the crap out of my diet. (When celery tastes as good as McDonald's fries, we'll talk). But every day I have done something and that, in and of itself, is a miracle.

While this little milestone is encouraging,there is one small, teensy-weensy problem. I have yet to see much in the way of results. Scratch that. I do feel better. I think I have more energy. And I am starting to feel muscle springing up in my biceps - not anything Popeye would be showing off but, hey, he started somewhere, too. What hasn't happened yet is a visible change in the rest of my body. I know, I know. Rome wasn't built in a day; good things come to those who wait; patience is a virtue; don't give up; stay the course; everything worth having is worth waiting for. Words to live by. Then again, there's another saying from that wise philosopher, Tom Petty, that keeps going through my head.

The waiting is the hardest part.

The Guilt Trip

Maybe it has something to do with having been born Catholic but I usually walk around feeling guilty about something. I regularly beat myself up over stuff that I said that was insensitive/stupid/silly or moves that I made that were foolish/selfish/thoughtless or decisions that I didn't pull the trigger on that would have been smart/helpful/generous. It doesn't really matter. I'll find something. (Sister Mary Huberta would be so proud except I'm sure she's been dead for at least thirty years.)

While I have woulda/coulda/shoulda-ed myself on a variety of subjects often enough to regularly drive my husband to reach for that bottle of Cabernet, there is no area of my life that gets me hopping back on the good old Guilt Train more than motherhood. I'm like an actress who only believes the bad reviews.When I look back, I seem to fixate only on my "flops" and never my "hits". (Maybe that's why I'm so crazy about the moms on The Middle and The Goldbergs. Not all of us can be Clair Huxtable.)

I guess I should be thankful that one thing I never had to do was be a full-time working mom. I always thought I'd go back to teaching once the kids came but between our stint overseas and a husband that traveled a lot, I didn't end up doing much beyond a few consulting gigs. And even that was tough - finding a sitter, scrambling when the kids were sick, trying to talk to a client with someone tugging on your pants begging you for a Fudgesicle. I can only imagine what it would have been like if I had had to do it Monday thru Friday, fifty weeks a year.

Today my daughter's maternity leave is over. She is joining the ranks of the Working Mom. Luckily for her, she has a couple of grandmas that are eager to help and a job that allows her to bring her little guy with her whenever she needs to. He'll be in the room next door (she works in an early childhood educational facility) and she'll be able to pop in whenever she can. But that won't solve all her problems - getting on a schedule, bundling him in a snowsuit at 7:00 a.m., exhaustion, trying to find time for her husband (not to mention herself), paying child-care fees, and missing her baby like crazy will be obstacles she'll have to face for the foreseeable future. I know the next few weeks will be tough but I know she'll make it work.

And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn't feel guilty about a damn thing.

The First Year

Twenty-eight years ago, I had my first article published in Modern Bride magazine. I was eight and a half months pregnant when I waddled up to the cash register with the proof that someone other than my family actually thought I could write. The look on the cashier's face was priceless, I have to say. I shouldn't have said anything (except maybe that I was stopping next to pick up my veil) but I couldn't resist offering an explanation of why someone in my condition was purchasing a bridal magazine. Funny. He wasn't all that impressed when I pointed to my name in the table of contents. Maybe that's because he was all of seventeen and some crazy pregnant lady was losing her mind over an article called What a Difference a Year Makes. (Not my title. I wanted to go with something pithy like "Marriage Year One" or "Who the Hell Are You Anyway?" but those control freaks at Modern Bride wouldn't hear of it).

The reason I'm dredging up ancient history is today is my daughter's (the one that was with me in Aisle 4) first wedding anniversary. As I searched my filing cabinets for a copy of my insightful piece to share with her, I couldn't help wondering if she would even be able to relate. I was thirty when I got married. She was twenty-seven. So far, not too dissimilar. She moved into an apartment a few miles from both sets of in-laws. I moved across the ocean with no support system in sight. She got pregnant on her honeymoon. I, despite appearances mentioned earlier, didn't add a child to the mix for three years.

But as I read it, I realized that the first year of marriage, no matter what the circumstances, holds the same challenges now as it did then. Granted, I didn't have to adjust while dealing with a boatload of raging hormones but both of us had to learn to accommodate our new spouses, our new surroundings, get used to living 24/7 with another human being, juggle two jobs, and come to terms with two sets of different expectations. As Andy Rooney once said, "No one ever said that marriage was easy. And if anyone ever did say it, and I missed it, they were wrong."

Not easy. Definitely not easy. But so worth it.

Happy Anniversary, sweetie.

One More Time

Don't hate me for this but for most of my life, my weight was not an issue. I could eat what I wanted, when I wanted and still fit into the pants I wore in high school. Not that I would have ever wanted to do anything like that as most of those pants were butt ugly but I could have. And now? Now I can't even fit into the pants I wore last week. So here we go again.

This is Day Five of the new and improved exercise program - the one I am not going to give up on; the one that will make a difference; the one that will turn me into a lean, mean fighting machine. (Yikes! I have to stop watching The Biggest Loser).

My previous plan (one of them) to rid my diet of sugar lasted less than seventy-two hours and didn't really eliminate the evil white stuff beyond cookies, cupcakes, etc. I couldn't bring myself to give up my Frosted Mini-Wheats (I cannot eat eggs every day) or Skippy peanut butter (I know there are some without sugar but blech) but at least I restrained myself from activities like downing a half-bag of mini-donuts in one sitting.

This time around, I'm on the treadmill every morning, lifting weights every other day, doing 100 crunches, and trying to get my body to bend in ways it hasn't in quite a while. I'm trying to drink nothing but water and unsweetened tea. And I'm even giving that natural peanut butter another try. My late night snacking has been all but eliminated if you don't count the lone Nestle Crunch fun-size bar left over from Halloween. I know the upcoming holidays are going to be even tougher than that Trick-or-Treat bowl but nothing tastes as good as the first bite, right? And I plan on having several of those.

Where has all this renewed motivation to get in shape come from you may ask? Well. I have a new grandson and I'd like to be able to get down on the floor with him without needing a crane. So I've decided I'm going to do whatever it takes to feel better and stronger even if it means watching old Dr. Phil episodes while I'm pounding out that last quarter-mile or listening to Taylor Swift shake it off as I struggle with that last arm curl.

Hey, no matter what I do or how long I do it, I know it's unlikely that I'll ever go back to the size I was in high school and that's okay. In eight weeks, I hope to be an energetic sexagenarian with a little less flab and a little more muscle. I'll happily settle for that. Oh, and did I mention I've got a winter vacation coming up that involves a bathing suit.

Yeah. Getting on the floor to play with my grandson isn't my only motivation.

No Butts About It

If you haven’t been living in a submarine off the coast of Greenland or sailing down the Nile in a hollowed out canoe, you’ve undoubtedly heard about the pseudo-celebrity (who will remain nameless as uttering the devil’s name is just tempting fate) determined to break the Internet with images of her enormous, oiled-up derriere. If you’re as unfortunate as I am, you’ve even seen said images. I hope I’m wrong but I may never get that picture out of my head.

Let’s forget for a second that there is someone out there who is vain enough and spotlight-seeking enough to foist her dipped in butter tush onto our unsuspecting consciousness. What’s more disturbing is the fact that there’s such an insatiable demand for what this woman is selling. I know train wrecks are hard to ignore but if they were on the cover of every magazine short of Field and Stream, you would think the public might get a little tired of looking at them.

On top of the controversy over whether a mother should be behaving like a come-to-life version of an African fertility god, the Internet (when it recovered from being broken) blew up with a couple of interesting questions. Like: Why was a photo of Alyssa Milano breastfeeding her child so offensive to so many people when these photos of a contorted booty were not? And: how could the image of a woman doing something with her breasts that they were meant to do set off a mean-spirited Twitter stream when the image of a woman using her rear end as a coffee table did not?

I wish I had the answers.

Girls' Day Out

The first time I was pregnant, I secretly hoped for a girl. It had nothing to do with dressing her up in frilly clothes or styling her hair in perfectly coiffed French braids. At thirty-three, I was thrilled to be having a baby and would have happily left the hospital with either gender but having never had a brother, I was under the delusional impression that I was better equipped to deal with whatever a daughter might throw at me; that there would be fewer surprises. I also hoped that that fantasy daughter would someday turn out to be a friend that would share shopping trips and lunches to cute French bistros.

I never did master those tricky braids but I was blessed with a beautiful, smart, funny daughter. (I was also lucky enough to produce a male offspring a couple of years later but that's another story.) Since my sister had also been blessed with a daughter, we hoped the girls would turn out to be best friends (check) who wouldn't mind occasionally hanging out with their moms (check). What we could never have envisioned is that they would be kind enough to grace us with our first grandchildren within eight months of one another.

There may have been some great sales in the mall today. And that French bistro was probably serving a mean onion soup. But the four of us had no time for any of that. We sat on the floor of our mother's (Nana's) house, pouring over boxes of old photos, sharing a take-out lunch, and making every silly face we could think of to make the newest members of our family laugh.

No shopping bag full of bargains or fancy three-course meal can beat that.

This blog was originally published under Coleen's other blog ForeverAMom. You can check it out at  www.blogher.com/foreveramom

Wish I Was There

This sucks. Every November 10th for the last twenty-five years has been guaranteed face time with my son. We've been together since he put his hand in his very first (and oh, so, not the last) chocolate cake. We've celebrated at Chuckie Cheese, batting cages, go-kart tracks, arcades and laser tag venues. I've watched as he unwrapped stuffed animals, nerf guns, video games, and snowboarding equipment. I've baked Ninja Turtle cupcakes, fudge layer cakes, and Peanut Blossom cookies. For twenty-five years I've had a ringside seat at every one of his birthdays and now, when he's residing in a beautiful place like Colorado, where am I on his big day? A thousand miles away.

I really thought I'd be there for this one, too. My hubby and I had kicked around the idea of surprising him, showing up on his doorstep in time to whip up one of his favorite chocolate concoctions and treat him to some fancy dinner in Denver. But one thing after another conspired against us. Our son is still spending every waking hour on the job hunt and my husband had to schedule some important meetings this week. So, instead of celebrating the birth of my incredible son in person, I am forced to post mushy messages and old photos on Facebook and hope that his package of goodies got there in time. Maybe, if we're lucky, we'll be able to catch him on Skype later.

It's bad form to ditch your mother on the anniversary of the date she brought you into the world, isn't it?

Glad It's Over

I've never been a big fan of Halloween. Oh, I liked it when I was the one running around getting the candy (and I don't mean traipsing to Target to buy seventeen bags of Kit-Kats) but since those days are long gone, it's not a holiday I even remotely look forward to.

I think it has something to do with my general dislike of anything that scares me. Unlike much of America, you will never catch me watching Scream (1, 2, or however many they ended up making) or any episode of The Walking Dead.  I will not set foot in a haunted house (you would not believe how long it took my family to convince me that nothing bad would happen to me on The Haunted Mansion ride in Disney World) or read a Stephen King novel. The way I see it, life is scary enough on a day-to-day basis. I don't need anything else to ramp up the excitement.  Just give me a DVD collection of Seinfeld  or Everybody Loves Raymond and let me laugh while you check out what those crazy zombies are doing over on AMC.

Halloween did have its merits when my kids were little. I loved seeing their excitement as they put their costumes on every year. I even enjoyed making a few of them. What I didn't love was the pressure to come up with something amazing every October and haggling over how much sugar they could consume before I hid their pillow cases full of loot. I also didn't appreciate having to eat all those leftover M&Ms and 3 Musketeers bars after the last Trick-or-Treaters were gone. (I know, I know, I could have bought candy I didn't like but somehow I could never bring myself to do something so rational.)

So, I'm glad it's over. The ghosts and goblins have vanished. The bags of fun-sized Snickers are now on clearance and the pumpkins have all been smashed. I don't have to think about any of it for 364 more days. But next year is going to be different and I just may end up looking forward to October 31. My first grandchild is going to be old enough to dress up like Elmo or Buzz Lightyear or Batman. Or he may fit into the penguin costume his mom bought on clearance today.

As long as she doesn't put that Scream mask on him, I should be okay.

Nighty-Night

With two new babies in the family (my sis has recently moved into the grandmotherhood as well), there's an awful lot of discussion about sleep (or the lack thereof). And that discussion does not end at the dinner table. Sympathetic friends, concerned relatives, and "helpful" strangers are always eager to volunteer book titles, websites, blogs, and good old unsolicited advice (yes, I'm speaking to you lady in the Target checkout line) as the ultimate authority any time either my daughter or her cousin dares to make a comment on social media or anywhere else.

Everyone has an opinion. Everyone wants to share what worked for them. Tidbits like "My little Eddie was sleeping through the night when he was seventeen days old because we always put him in his crib awake" or "Make sure you feed him some cereal right before he goes to bed" or "It's perfectly okay to slip him a drop of Jack Daniels in his night-time bottle" may make the advice-giver feel superior but it doesn't do a whole lot for the sleep-deprived listener who is this close to hauling off and punching said advice-giver in the mouth (or in the case of social media, WRITE LIKE THIS).

Let's face it. Questions like:  "Why did he take a two hour nap yesterday but refuses to sleep longer than ten minutes today?" or "How can I get him to stop thinking of three a.m. as playtime?" or "Do I have to give him a hamburger to get him to sleep through the night?" are queries that have no right or wrong answer (except maybe that Jack Daniels tip) and trying to implement the laundry list of possible solutions could drive any new mom to reach for that bottle of Jack.

All of this guilt-inducing, "you're doing it wrong" helpfulness is just another reason I'm grateful to have been doing this whole mothering thing before we entered Facebookland or Twitterville. I had a dog-eared copy of Dr. Spock and my mom. That's it. Oh, I may have asked a couple of my closest friends what worked for them every now and then but I never had to suffer through the barrage of unwanted advice that new moms are currently being subjected to. If I had, I'd probably be handing over a boatload of money to the nearest psychiatrist instead of stashing it away for my next trip to Italy.

Like I said. Grateful.

Regrets . . I've Had a Bunch

I'm always amazed when I see some celebrity being interviewed who says they have no regrets. I have no idea how you get through life without having any of those pesky little creatures seeping into your thoughts as your head hits the pillow. When I was younger, I assumed those lucky people who were regret-free were a product of their charmed life. If you were rich, successful and/or famous, I had reasoned, how could you regret anything in the path that got you there. Now that I'm older and less stupid, I know that money and fame has nothing to do with it. To live a life with no regrets you must: a) be a fatalist who thinks everything happens for a reason, b) not give a flying you-know-what about the thoughts and feelings of anyone else on the planet, or c) not be a parent.

Looking in the rear view mirror at our life choices can be a dangerous hobby. Oh, sure, most of my regrets - "Why did I give away my original Beach Barbie?" or "What was I thinking when I got that haircut?" - don't end up keeping me up at night. I wince at the thought of not having a few extra bucks in our bank account or shudder at an old photograph but then I laugh and move on. Some others - "Why didn't I go to Arizona State when I had the chance?" or "Why didn't I take that entry-level job at the Washington Post?" - make me occasionally wonder about the road not taken but don't usually surface unless I see a picture of the ASU campus or stumble upon a late night showing of All the President's Men.

No. The only regrets that matter; the only ones that do end up invading my sleep are those that concern my parenting skills. "Why wasn't I tougher?" "Why didn't I follow through on consequences?" "Why did I bail my kids out of difficult situations as often as I did?" "Why didn't I "teach" instead of "do" more often than I did?" I could go on and on but I won't. I know it's a complete waste of time and accomplishes nothing. I could say I did the best that I could at the time but that wouldn't always be the truth. Sometimes I just did what was easiest or most convenient for me.

And maybe that's my biggest regret of all.

Two for the Road

Last week, my hubby and I celebrated another anniversary. In this era of seventy-two day marriages, I thought thirty-one years of togetherness was worthy of a night on the town (or, at the very least, a dinner out that didn't include a waiter asking me if "I would like fries with that") but trying to figure out a suitable way to celebrate our milestone didn't come as easily as you might think.

If it had been up to me, we would have driven thirty miles to this French restaurant I've been dying to try but since my husband is allergic to driving long distances to eat when there are "plenty of good places that won't waste a half tank of gas getting there", I knew that was not in the cards. (Last year it killed me to forfeit our $80 Groupon to said restaurant. Now it looks like the only way I'm ever getting there is if we ever find ourselves somehow in the vicinity of the North Shore or if I get some terminal disease that forces him to grant a last request).

The other half of my equation would have been happy with something a little more intimate - a home-cooked meal (guess who would be home-cooking it) and an action movie in our very own theater room. Since that scenario was also off the table (if he wanted to make it to thirty-two years), we decided on one of those lovely compromises that pop up every hour or so in a long-term marriage; we would go out to an actual movie theater (I haven't seen the inside of one of those since we put that damn screen up in our basement) to see an art film called The Trip to Italy and try the gourmet restaurant that is part of our local community college's culinary school.

Don't ask me how either one of them were. We didn't make it to either one. We ended up spending the day cuddling our new grandson, shopping for comfortable shoes at DSW (don't judge me, I had a coupon that was about to expire), and ordering a salad and something called a "Buddha Bowl" at our local Standard Market. It would have been a nice Saturday afternoon if it hadn't been our anniversary (and it hadn't been on Wednesday).  Now I'll have to wait until next year to have a shot at that restaurant and I'll have to invent another excuse to get him to take me to see that movie.

I wonder if he'd fall for the idea of celebrating our 1613th week anniversary.

Back on the Bike

Relax. This is not going to be some tiresome essay about the benefits of exercise. Go ahead. Finish that bagel/donut/cupcake. I'm not about to make you feel guilty for doing so. (I might, however, give you a hard time for not having one for me.) No, this one's about that feeling you get when you haven't done something for awhile; that shred of doubt that seeps into your psyche when you try to do something that you used to be pretty good at but haven't had a chance to practice lately.

Like taking care of a brand new human being.

Out of practice or not, my daughter and her hubby decided I was trustworthy enough to leave their precious baby with me for a couple of hours on Saturday. After guzzling his bottle in record time (and depositing the contents in his diaper almost immediately thereafter), it was time to show him around. I suppressed the urge to dig out his mother and uncle's old toys (although Tickle Me Elmo came close to making an appearance) and just carried him around from room to room letting him get his first real look at the place. His review of the place is still out but early indications point to the twinkling lights over the kitchen sink and the patterned comforter that hosted his tummy time being potential favorites.

When his parents came to collect him, he was sleeping peacefully in his Nana's arms. Yes, getting up and down from the floor was a little more difficult than I remember it being twenty-five years ago. Sure, there were a few gadgets in that diaper bag that I have never seen before (that snot-sucker is not something I'm eager to try). And I've been told that babies are no longer put to bed on their tummies. Other than that, not much has changed.

Holding a baby is still one of the quickest remedies for a bad day. Watching a baby is more entertaining than the hottest ticket on Broadway. And getting the chance to hug and kiss your baby's baby is a better gift than Ryan Reynolds under the Christmas tree.

This is going to be so much fun.

Replacement Therapy

It's a good thing I have a new little boy in my life to distract me, otherwise I might be good and depressed about the lack of communication I'm receiving from my original little boy. Since his move to Denver almost two months ago, I've calculated that I've talked to my son a total of seventeen and a half minutes. (You might think I'm exaggerating but Skype and my cell phone do not lie.)

I've tried phoning, texting, video messages, and a subtle blend of both irate and pathetic voicemails. I've given up on e-mails and/or Facebook messaging as they don't give me the personal touch I'm craving (and he doesn't answer them anyway) and am now contemplating using the only two communication methods I haven't tried - Western Union and smoke signals.

Considering the fact that he has avoided responding to either of his parents or his new-mother sister's impassioned pleas to give her a call, I'm beginning to worry.  I know he's one of those quiet types (if the average man speaks 3,000 words a day, somebody out there must be talking all day to make up for my guy) so I wasn't expecting daily (at this point I'd settle for bi-weekly) conversations filling me in on what he's up to, but c'mon, does he have to act as if he's part of the Witness Protection program?

Since my mama didn't raise no stupid children, I've decided to seek out the attention of someone who might actually appreciate it. That's why I've seen my new grandson nine out of the ten days he's been on this earth. So far, he's been as chatty as my son but he seems relatively happy to see me, pays attention when I speak to him, and doesn't seem to mind my peppering him with kisses and incessant cuddling.

Some people know a good thing when they see it.

Call Me Nana

This time it was no false alarm. When the call came at 7:00 a.m. last Thursday, I could clearly hear my daughter in the background in obvious distress. As my son-in-law calmly explained that they had been at the hospital for two hours already but had waited to call until they were sure, I was already slipping into my clothes and waving to my husband to get a move on.

We were about to become grandparents.

After flying out of the house without breakfast (who could think of food at a time like this?), my husband took the wheel (who could drive at a time like this?), negotiating the rush hour traffic without a single curse word. I, however, was not as civil. Didn't these people know our daughter was having a baby? Couldn't they have had the decency to have taken a sick day or scheduled a vacation to Tahiti?

Thankfully, when we finally arrived, our daughter was in better shape than she had been earlier. The nice doctor with the needle had been to visit right before we got there and the epidural was slowly starting to work it's magic. After welcoming the paternal grandparents to the party, we spent the next few hours talking, laughing, and marveling at the miracle that was taking place.

A little before noon, it was go time. The nurses called for the doctor and shuttled all but the delirious dad into a separate waiting area. The four anxious grandparents-to-be spent the next two hours checking our phones, calling our friends and praying.

When my son-in-law stuck his head around the corner, we thought it was all over. Hardly. Things had stalled. Our daughter was doing great but our grandson had not yet made his appearance. That's when I asked if it would be okay for me to pop in and check up on her.

I didn't expect to stay. I didn't want to take anything away from their moment as a couple. But as I was getting ready to excuse myself, they both wholeheartedly invited me to stay; to be a part of the biggest day of their lives.

There was no way I was going to say no. And if I had, I would have missed one of the most memorable days of my life.

Encouraged by the nurses to jump right in, I did what I could, offering words of encouragement and support as her husband counted through each contraction. Throughout the next two challenging hours, I marveled at my daughter's steely determination and courage and my son-in-law's calm, confident demeanor. When my first grandson finally did make his appearance, the room erupted with such joy and relief that I felt blessed beyond belief to have been able to share in his parents' sheer elation and document the new family's first moments with my trusty Nikon.

Since then, I've taken 1,472 photos, spent countless hours staring at his sweet little face, and started looking into trips to Disney World.

What? Too soon?

Hurry Up and Wait

Yesterday was supposed to be the day. The weather was beautiful, my husband and I were both available, and I had 9/14/14 in the "guess the baby's arrival date" pool. It was a done deal; especially after our daughter called before nine to let us know they were heading to the hospital.

So why am I still grandchild-less?

The hospital gave the usual song and dance as they sent my kid packing. "Go for a walk; call us when contractions are stronger; he's not quite ready."

Not quite ready? What kind of passive/aggressive diva (can a boy be a diva?) behavior is that?

Obviously, this child has no idea how many people are breathlessly waiting to meet him. He has no clue how many people are chomping at the bit to shower him with love and affection (and trips to Toys R Us). He can't begin to imagine the fun he's going to have once he gets a load of the crazy family he's about to be born into. If he did, he wouldn't be hunkered down in that claustrophobic nightmare he calls home and he would get his cute little butt (head first, if you please) out here.

His new digs are ready. His two sets of first-time grandparents are ready. And his mother is really ready.

I hate to say this but it looks like somebody has a little selfish streak in him.

Size Matters

Yesterday, I was reminded that I'm not the only one going through this whole empty-nester thing. Enjoying a beautiful late summer morning with the Sunday Tribune, I found a compatriot soul in John Kass. He's the Tribune writer who holds the coveted page two spot where he editorializes on life in Chicago. I've been moved by his pieces on gun violence and entertained by his dissection of Illinois politicians and read his musings whenever I get the chance. But this time, it wasn't his column detailing his empty nest journey that caught my eye but an image accompanying the text. It was a picture of a lonely quart of milk standing sentry in an empty refrigerator. It looked just like the one I recently bought. (Except my fridge didn't look half as clean.  Those out-of-date condiments and leftovers that should have gone out in Thursday's trash collection take up a lot of room.)

I had never bought a quart of milk before last week. Even when I was single, I bought a gallon. I used to drink tons of the stuff, pouring it over daily cereal or downing it after late-night chocolate chip cookies. And the kids? They used to drink enough to get me occasionally thinking about the benefits of tying Bessie up in the back yard. But now that I've cut back on carbs (good-bye, Mini-Wheats; hello, veggie omelets) and taken up drinking tea with my greatly reduced sweets consumption, and my dairy-loving offspring have checked into other accommodations, a gallon of milk wouldn't stand a chance of ending up anywhere other than the sink.

Unfortunately, my husband is no help in this department. Born and raised in Europe, he finds it odd that anyone past the age of twelve finds milk remotely palatable. (Even Kate Hudson in that "Got milk?" campaign couldn't sway him.) And he wouldn't dream of putting anything less than Half and Half in his coffee.

I wouldn't mind downsizing so much except I hate paying so much more for so much less. When I know that I can get a gallon of milk at Costco for $2.38 it kills me to pay some grocery store $1.68 for a quart. It goes against every fiber of my being to give up a bargain just because my tax deductions have flown the coop. Thank God it won't impact my purchases of toilet paper (we're set until 2017) or laundry detergent (ditto) and I just bought a bottle of Shout that should take me to the grave but those damn perishables are another story. Maybe I just need to stand outside Costco with my gallon of milk, my three dozen eggs, my four pounds of strawberries and a few empty containers.

If I can find three other empty-nesters, I should be able to turn a nice profit on the deal.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

After almost a month of empty-nesting, I've decided that there are a few positives. Like:

•  No empty toilet paper rolls at the most inopportune time
•  Doing laundry that does not contain seventeen bath towels
•  Chocolate that sticks around longer than twenty-four hours
•  There are no "I meant to wash them but I forgot" dishes in the sink
•  No Gatorade or Power Bars mysteriously showing up in the Costco shopping cart
•  Not having to harass offspring for payment of above
•  My Cheetos are right where I left them
•  Not having to get the attention of someone perpetually wearing headphones
•  Having an extra bed to offer to a Margarita-imbibing friend
•  Knowing whether or not my remaining one and only roommate will be there for dinner
•  Not fighting over the rapid disappearance of water bottles and Keurig cups
•  Finding more than a spoonful of vanilla ice cream in the carton
•  Not finding empty containers of anything

I'm sure I've forgotten a few others and as time goes on, it's a safe bet we'll discover a few more. (Sex on the living room floor? Who am I kidding? I can't even sit down on the living room floor.) We just have to get through this period of adjustment. And, while I appreciate all of the above, right this minute nothing seems to make up for one thing:

•  Skype hasn't figured out how to let its users give each other a hug

 

Sitcom Mom

Anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile knows that I have an affection for a couple of current TV moms, namely Frankie Heck of The Middle and Beverly Goldberg of The Goldbergs. Not only do I think they're two of the funniest depictions of motherhood available for your viewing pleasure, I also think they're consistently an honest representation of the inner thoughts and feelings, (good, bad, and certifiable) that come with being a mom.

Until Frankie and Bev came along, I had never seen myself in past TV matriarchs. Roseanne was way too caustic and crude. Carol Brady was entirely too chipper (and sported a haircut that no one could identify with). And Edith Bunker was too passive. I did throw my chips in with Debra Barone (like Frankie, another Patricia Heaton role) of Everybody Loves Raymond for awhile but, as the series went on, she developed a nasty edge that broke the bond. (But if you haven't seen the PMS episode, check that out of your local library. It should be required viewing for all married couples.)

I'm not saying that I agree with all of Frankie and Bev's choices but watching Frankie run down to the field after she thinks her son is hurt in a football game or Bev, mournfully sniffing her children's baby blankets after one of them gets his driver's license, makes me feel as if someone out there gets it; that someone else knows how it feels to wear your heart outside of your body. And, if I can feel better, knowing that at least I would never have embarrassed my kid by bringing his jockstrap to class or loudly proclaiming to other shoppers at Bed, Bath and Everything Else that my son had agreed to spend the day with me, that's a productive use of a half hour.

But, sometimes, an episode hits a little too close to home.  This year, on The Middle, the eldest son goes off to college and neglects to call his mom. Oh, he texts his dad about everything under the sun but doesn't make an effort to stay in touch with the woman who gave him life. (Did that sound too bitter?) When she finally confronts him about how hurt she is, he's clueless but does confess to not wanting to hear her ramble on about nothing or risk being chastised for something he had or had not done and that, here's where the knife goes right into the heart, it's just easier to talk to Dad.

My son hasn't come out and said any of that or I might be saying all of this to a therapist instead of my keyboard. And, in all fairness, my son's Internet connection is not up yet so we haven't been able to Skype and my ancient flip-phone is incapable of sending a text that doesn't take ten minutes to compose. (Yeah, I know I have to get on that.) But I haven't heard his voice in over a week (if you don't count his outgoing voicemail message) and, like my sitcom compatriot Frankie, I'm having a tough time with that.

I thought we had a deal. I would let him go without hanging on to his leg, begging him to stay. And, in exchange, he would pick up the phone often enough that I could pretend he wasn't a thousand miles away. He was supposed to "call me when he got there".

It didn't work for Beverly Goldberg either.

Just You and Me, Kid

My husband used to travel for business . . . a lot. He would often be gone for 2-3 weeks at a time negotiating deals in Hong Kong or sizing up a possible acquisition in Jaipur while I busied myself signing the kids up for Park District swim classes or attending middle school band concerts. Don't try this at home but we even lived apart for longer than I care to admit when he finished up an assignment in Germany and, later, took a job in Virginia that he feared might not work out long enough to uproot the kids. Even when we were clever enough to be living in the same zip code, my hubby tended to be one of those Type A personalities who worked fourteen hour days and weekends. Long story short - we spent a lot of time apart.

Lately, not so much. For the last year, my better half has been working out of a home office, establishing a media business as well as trying to get some consulting projects off the ground. We've gone from being separated by an ocean to being separated by nothing more than a staircase. It's great to have him around more but, now that we're the only two people living in the house, it's also an adjustment.

As newly-christened empty-nesters, we're bound to hit a few speed bumps as we try to re-invent our relationship while we each try to re-invent ourselves. Whether it's taking a walk around the block or making a spontaneous trip to McDonald's for one of those $ .49 cones, we're in the early stages of converting our routine into something that resembles the one we signed on for when we said, "I do". Hopefully, we can avoid the pitfalls of other long-time married folks who found out they had nothing to say to each other once the kids hit the road. Since I still find my hubby one of the smartest, funniest, most challenging people I know, I doubt I have to worry about that one.

But trying to interrupt me after the new People magazine is delivered? That could be a deal breaker.

Goings and Comings

Having a baby shower for your firstborn on the same weekend your youngest moves halfway across the country makes for some interesting emotional moments. From 5:00 a.m. on Saturday, standing on the driveway tearfully waving goodbye to collapsing on the couch and sleeping in my party dress on Sunday, the highs and lows I experienced over the past two days would rival anything Space Mountain could ever throw at me.

Change and I have never been the best of friends. I'm all for the status quo if I have any kind of say in the matter. I know that's not a recipe for growth but if you ask me, growth is very overrated. And you can call me crazy but I'm also not particularly fond of events that leave me feeling as if my heart is being ripped out of my chest. Having never sent either of my kids off to a college that was more than a couple of hours away, it was inevitable that a few tears were going to be shed as I watched the Denver-bound moving truck fill up with my son's belongings; as I watched my parents envelop him in a bear hug and warn him to stay away from "that marijuana crap"; as I watched his pregnant sister give him an extra embrace, knowing that he would miss the birth of her first child.

But, after all the tears, I knew there was work to be done. There was a shower to be thrown; a welcoming party for the newest member of our family. There were cupcakes to decorate and balloons to be hung. I was grateful for the diversion.

Sunday afternoon, a roomful of friends and relatives gathered to abundantly bless our daughter and her husband with love and everything our new grandson could possibly need. There was so much joy watching my daughter revel in the anticipation of becoming a mother that, for a moment, I could only remember how wonderful it is to be a parent. Because, no matter how many times I've felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest, I've been lucky enough to be a part of creating two amazing people that have brought me more happiness than I could have ever imagined. They were the ones who made my dreams come true.

Now it's their turn.

Dinner for Six

It's not often that I can corral our two kids and their significant others for a night out but last night, I decided to take advantage of the fact that our son is leaving and guilt everybody into a dinner at Olive Garden. I know what you're thinking. "You had a chance to have a dinner out with your family, the last one you're going to have for the foreseeable future, and you picked Olive Garden?" Well, here's the thing. I knew I had to shoot for a place that would be relatively quick (for my son), relatively inexpensive (for my hubby), and relatively delicious (for my pregnant daughter). And I really didn't care. As long as we were all together for a couple of hours (and I didn't have to cook or clean up), I could have cared less about the menu.

We met up at six. The kids surprised me with a shadow box of three hysterical photos of the two of them holding large letters spelling out the word M-O-M. After I stopped crying, we drank some wine (at least I did) and ate our breadsticks. We talked. We ate some more breadsticks. And we laughed. A lot.

After a couple of hours, it was time to hand over our coupons and pay the bill. It was time for my son and his girlfriend to do some more packing and time for my daughter to go home and put her feet up. I wish it could have lasted a little longer but I was happy to take what I could get; happy that everyone had made the time to get together to share one more memorable evening with one another.

Hey, I know no one is dying. I know Denver isn't the other side of the moon; that there'll be many more chances to get together to share special evenings with my family. But I also know that things are changing.

And I have to be grateful for right now.

Hugging It Out

When one of your kids is getting ready to move halfway across the country, hugs are at a premium. I know I'm blessed to live in the era of Skype, FaceTime, and texting; an era where communication is fast and cheap. When we lived in Germany twenty years ago, my phone calls back home were relegated to a once a week, fast-talking half hour that tacked $150 onto our monthly phone bills and made my time overseas an emotional challenge. I know that Colorado isn't Germany and 2014 isn't the early 90's; I'll have ample, inexpensive (often free) opportunities to keep up with my son's comings and goings. Technology has taken care of that.

What it hasn't done is figure out a way to hug someone who's residing in another time zone.

So, for the next twelve days my son had better be prepared. He's going to be hugged when he wakes up, when he puts his dishes in the sink, when he makes himself a grilled cheese sandwich, and when he signs off at night. He's going to get hugged before he goes out and when he comes back. And he might even get a couple for no reason at all.

Except for the reason that in twelve days, I won't be able to hug him at all.

Eighteen Days and Counting

For the first time, a Blackhawks sweater (notice, I did not say jersey. I don't want anyone calling me out on that one) has brought me to tears. The waterworks had nothing to do with the fact that the team recently missed the chance to bring home The Stanley Cup for the second year in a row, although I was pretty sad about that back in June. No, the reason that Toews sweater got me teary-eyed was the fact that it was peaking out of one of the boxes taking up space in our dining room; a box bound for Colorado.

I knew my youngest was leaving; he's been talking about it for months. I just didn't really know it until the moment I saw that Indian head logo staring up at me. I can see now that those boxes mean business. Those boxes, including the one that has "Colorado, bitch" written on it, are soon going to be filled with my son's belongings and transported one thousand miles away. They are also making it next to impossible to walk through my dining room without bawling.

So, now the countdown has begun. We have eighteen days left until he backs his Mazda out of our driveway for the last time. (Yes, I know, he's not going to Mongolia; he'll be back for visits.) We have eighteen days to squeeze in as much "in person" time with him as possible before settling for "Face Timing" with him for the foreseeable future. We have two and a half weeks until I have to wave goodbye to my baby.

I don't want you to think that I'm one of those psycho moms that's going to hang on his leg begging him not to go. (Okay, the thought has occurred to me but I know it wouldn't do any good.) I'm rational enough to  know this is a great thing for him. He has loved Colorado since he first set foot in the state when he was just a teenager. If you love your children you want them to be happy, right? And I am happy for him. Really. But I honestly don't know what I'm going to do that first morning when it finally hits me that he's gone; that I won't be able to give him a hug any time I feel like it; that I'm not going to hear him whistling as he gets ready for work. I also don't know what I'm going to do when hockey season starts and I have to watch the games without him and that sweater.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to survive his move. I just wish I didn't have to.

I Hate Cars

I was just doing what I was supposed to do. According to that little sticker on my windshield, it was time for an oil change. Being the consequent car owner that I am (or that my husband "encourages" me to be), I picked up the phone and made an appointment to get my vehicle's nasty, six month-old fluids removed. I almost didn't mind the fact that I would have to give up a couple of hours of my time to do it since I had a $20 coupon that would bring the cost down to the price of a pair of socks.

Or so I thought.

My husband and I were killing some time walking around town when the call came. Thinking it was just the obligatory call to let me know my beloved chariot was ready, I was blindsided by the news that during the mechanic's courtesy check (who the heck authorized that?) he had discovered one of my front springs had broken. After lots of discussion about my suspension system, struts, and a possible punctured tire should I hit a pothole, my friendly neighborhood repairman "recommended" that the offending parts be replaced. But, naturally, that was not the end of it because if you're going to replace one side of your car's suspension system, you have to replace the other side because you wouldn't want to drive around with one side of your car higher than the other, now would you?

Ten hours later I was $1200 poorer driving an eleven year-old car with the ride of a brand new SUV. Scratch that - I was actually $1500 poorer as my husband and I did a lot of shopping and eating as we slowly made our way back home. I guess I have to look on the bright side. The broken spring didn't blow out our tire on our recent trip back from Kentucky. We have a Firestone credit card that allows us to pay for the repair over six months without interest. And I got a pair of really cute shorts and two tops for less than fifty bucks at Talbots' 60% off sale.

Oh, and I almost forgot. I got to use that $20 coupon before it expired.

The Story Goes On

My grandson won't make his arrival for a couple of months but he sure is making his presence known. My daughter's ever-expanding baby bump announces her impending motherhood to everyone she meets and is a constant source of amazement to this grandmother-to-be. I'm so excited about this new road that I'll soon be traveling but it's a little overwhelming seeing someone who once lived inside of me have someone now living inside of her.

I know this is how it's supposed to go but she's my baby. How can she possibly have a baby? I look through old photos and swear it was just a couple of years ago when she was jumping into the backyard wading pool or playing with Barbies. But when I feel the life growing in her tummy and I see the woman she has become, I know those days are very far away.

Maybe every mother feels this way when the nest is finally empty. Maybe we've spent so much time and energy raising our children that it's tough to fully reconcile the transformation from child to adult. Maybe those memories are so vivid, so special that we just don't want to let them go.

Or maybe, just maybe, that's why God created grandchildren.

Southern Comfort

Every now and then you hear stories about couples/families hopping into an RV for an extended road trip across the country. While I can understand the allure, I'm not sure a year in the back of a trailer is in my future. That's not to say I don't appreciate a good road trip. When the kids were little, we used to pack up a steady supply of diversions (later a small TV/VCR combo - hey, it's fun to travel with your kids but a little Ninja Turtles or Full House goes a long way) and hit the road. I'd be willing to bet that my offspring remember these trips with more fondness than that beach vacation in Mexico or even the obligatory week at Disney.

Now that my husband and I are on our own, the dynamics of our beloved road trips have changed but the surprising moments of joy they provide haven't. Take last week. The two of us packed up the car for a trip to Kentucky with a dual purpose - to work on the house we still own in the western part of the state and to attend a wedding in Lexington.We spent the first four days scrapping windows, painting bedrooms, and clearing brush (well, my hubby got the better part of that job) and the last three days cleaning ourselves up sufficiently to attend the festivities of a ritzy wedding in the heart of the horse capital of the world.

When you head south from the Chicago area, it isn't long before you enter into an alternate universe. People get a whole lot more friendly, the "y'alls" start flowing, and sausage gravy and biscuits shows up on every restaurant menu.  While I can't imagine adding the latter to my diet, I love everything else that goes with a visit to the South. Whenever we had any kind of difficulty, from having enough quarters for my daily USA Today treat to picking out a gallon of paint to finding a place to eat, the residents of Kentucky couldn't do enough for us. We never encountered a rude sales clerk, a surly driver, or a pouty waitress. I'm not saying they don't exist south of the Mason/Dixon line but you sure couldn't prove it by our experiences. That's why, after a week of "yes, m'ams" and "no, sirs", I'm missing the polite, caring, go-out-of-your-way-for-your-neighbors attitude that permeates the South. I'm missing the slower, take-time-to-enjoy-your-life pace. And I'm especially missing the sound of that twang that infiltrates every syllable of a Kentuckian's speech.

Although my husband swears I bring a little of that home with me every time we go down there. I don't know what the heck he's talkin' about but y'all go out there and have a nice day, okay.

Sugar, Sugar

When I'm not playing Candy Crush on my Kindle, I'm reading a very interesting book called A Year Without Sugar by Eve Schaub. As someone who struggles with a sweet tooth (especially after 7:00pm) and have only managed to go three days without some kind of dessert, I just had to read how the author lived without sugar for an entire year.

It turns out, she wasn't alone in this quest. She convinced her husband and TWO CHILDREN to go on this little journey with her. Although the kids weren't initially keen on the idea (they actually burst into tears at the mere thought of giving up sweets for 365 days), their parents built in a few compromises to keep everyone on track. The family would be allowed to have one dessert per month and birthday party behavior would be at the discretion of  the invitee.

I haven't finished the book yet so I'm not sure what my final response will be to the very scary facts presented within. I will say that I'm reading labels much more carefully (do you know how much sugar is in ketchup?) and I'm rejecting a lot more purchases at the grocery store. (Goodbye, Frosted Mini-Wheats; Hello, Cheerios.)

The author talks about how it's nearly impossible to find a cereal without sugar (shredded wheat and/or oatmeal being the lone holdouts) and how much waitresses hate her. Her observations on the struggle to abstain from fructose are funny and enlightening and I'm learning a lot. I still haven't watched the YouTube video that started her experiment, "Sugar: The Bitter Truth" by Dr. Robert Lustig but it's on my list of required viewing. Maybe he'll be able to scare me off the sweet stuff for good, too. With statistics like "Our generation is on average twenty-five pounds heavier than our counterparts from twenty-five years ago" and "Americans are currently consuming sixty-three pounds per person of high-fructose corn syrup per year" he's made me sit up and take notice. Maybe I'll have to find a way to live without donuts. Maybe I'll have to find a substitute for double chocolate brownies. But, even if I do, there's always one sweet treat I can still indulge in.

Candy Crush might be another addiction but at least I can turn to that without gaining a pound.

Careful What You Wish For

When I started writing this blog a few years ago, my goal was to document my transition from full-time mom to whatever I turned out to be when I grew up. (Still waiting.) Since my original mission statement, "All I ever wanted to be was a mom; now all I want is to get my kids out of my house") still resides on my page, you could easily conclude that a) Not much has changed and I'm still eagerly awaiting their departure or b) Things have changed but I'm just too lazy to come up with a new sound-bite for my weekly journal.

As of yesterday, it's a little bit of both.

I've known for awhile that my son has been contemplating a major life change. I got a big clue when he moved back in with us in December, a week after our daughter packed up her stuff and vacated her room for good (or so she says . . . married, pregnant offspring have been known to show up on their parents' doorsteps . . . or have you not seen Father of the Bride Part II?). After living on his own for two years, I knew he wasn't heading back to the ranch for my home cooking or sparkling conversation - he was coming back because he knew it was the quickest way for him to save up the cash he needed to get out of Dodge for good. All this togetherness would be temporary; he had made up his mind; he was finally going to relocate to his habitat of choice - Colorado.

And now we have a date.

On August 9th, my husband and I will become empty nesters. We will help our son pack up his belongings (a lot of clothes, a laptop and several crates full of Legos) and load them into a POD bound for Denver. We will stand on the driveway and wave as he pulls out of the cul-de-sac, knowing that we're going to go from seeing him every day to seeing him two or three times a year. We'll walk back into a quiet house and realize that that day I so glibly wished for when I started writing this blog, has finally arrived.

Funny. I don't think I'll feel like celebrating.

Who's on First?

I'd be the first to admit that I sometimes take sports just a little too seriously. When the Cubs were a couple of outs away from getting into the World Series and blew it (I know it wasn't your fault, Mr. Bartman); when the Bears failed to beat the Colts (and that no-talent Peyton Manning) for their second Super Bowl; when the Europeans stole the Ryder Cup from us at Medinah, I let those crushing defeats get to me in a way that was only marginally less than how it must have affected the actual participants. I know it's only a game. But it's a game I often get way too emotionally invested in.

Take last Monday.

After watching my favorite hockey team lose Game 7 at home in overtime (after coughing up several leads), I'm sorry to say I had a rough time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that stupid puck bounce off our defenseman's shoulder into the goal. Crazy, right? The next morning, still bummed out about an event that had no affect on my actual life, I had to ask my bleary-eyed self one question. Why do I care so much? Why do I take someone else's endeavors so seriously? Why do I let a sports disappointment affect me in such a negative way?

I'm not sure if I know the answer but I think I know what I have to do about it. I have to try to use some of the energy I expend watching and worrying about whether my team is going to do what I'd like them to do and start worrying about how (and when) I'm going to start focusing on what I want to accomplish in my own life. It's not as if Jonathan Toews is worrying about whether or not I get my book edited. It's not as if Patrick Kane is tossing and turning trying to figure out how I'm going to turn my love of writing into something that can pay a couple of bills. And, more importantly, not one of my beloved Blackhawks is going to help me deal with the fact that my youngest child is about to move very far away in the very near future.

Getting through that last one is going to be tougher than any Game 7 I can imagine.

Real Heroes

There are certain songs that, no matter how many times I hear them, bring me to tears. I Hope You Dance, a mother's anthem to her children, encouraging them not to "sit it out" but "dance" every chance they get, does me in every time. In My Daughter's Eyes by Martina McBride and Our Story Goes On from the musical Baby, sport lyrics that speak of the gratitude that comes with being a mom and both reduce me to a puddle whenever they pop up on the radio.

And then there's Goodnight, Saigon by Billy Joel.

Listening to a young soldier lament the horrors of the Vietnam war as the chorus chants  "We said we'd all go down together" is the stuff of every mother's nightmares. Every time I hear it, I think of all the promising young men we've lost to wars; all the hopes and dreams that were vanquished by the stupidity of military conflict. But yesterday, as I listened again to the haunting lyrics, I was especially moved by the line "we promised our mothers we'd write" and I couldn't help thinking of all the moms who've sent their precious baby boys (or girls) off to fight, not knowing if they would ever get the chance to hold them in their arms again.

I honestly don't know how they do it.

Today is Memorial Day, a day we honor our military forces and all the brave men and women who have paid the ultimate price defending our freedom. I can't imagine what it would be like to be the mother of a soldier; to send my child off to Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan.  I can't imagine the worry, the fear, and the sadness that would come with that task and, while I'm beyond grateful that I never had to make such a sacrifice, my heart breaks for those who have.

I'm glad I heard the song. It made me stop and think about who our country's real heroes should be. Forget about those vacuous celebrities who are spending millions of dollars to get married in some castle in Italy. Forget about the cheating sports stars who buy off their wives with ice cube-sized baubles. Forget about politicians who can't work for the greater good of the country because they're too busy trying to get re-elected.

In this celebrity-crazed world, it's easy to lose sight of who the real heroes are but the brave women who wait and pray for their sons and daughters (and husbands) to return safely from their tours of duty and the heroic men and women who have fought and continue to fight for freedom all over the world seem like a good place to start. They should have nothing but our unending admiration and respect (not to mention a Veteran's Administration that doesn't make them wait months to see a doctor).

One day on the calendar is not nearly enough.

Senior Year

If I won the lottery tomorrow, I'm pretty sure I would still be a regular customer at my local thrift stores. I'll be sure to confirm that assumption as soon as those damn ping-pong balls fall into line but until then, I'll be on the hunt for unique bargains anywhere I can find them.

It's not just purveyors of second-hand goods that get my blood pumping. Places like Marshall's and TJ Maxx were my mainstays long before they started having cool TV commercials featuring savvy twenty-somethings touting designer fashions at discount prices and the new flyers from Costco or Trader Joe's are my idea of scintillating reading material. I clip coupons (okay, I forget to bring them to the store but I do clip them), drive ten miles to save a couple of bucks on toilet paper, and head straight to the clearance rack in any store I enter.

With all that said, I have a great deal of trouble accepting one particular discount that has recently come my way. I was getting ready to check out at the local Goodwill store. I had an armful of Coldwater Creek and Banana Republic outcasts that were going to add up to less than the cost of a Target t-shirt when the youngster behind the desk asked me if I had my Goodwill frequent buyer card. When I replied I had one but didn't have it with me, he innocently responded that he "just wanted to mention it in case I was eligible for the Wednesday senior discount".

Talk about a mood killer. Here I was on a bargain hunter's high, getting designer duds for pennies on the dollar when, out of the blue, this kid shoots me down with his insinuation that I might be eligible for a senior discount. And it wasn't even the over 55 variety. It was 60. That little punk thought I looked 60. If it had been one of my bad hair days or one of my rushing out of the house without make-up days, I might have cut him some slack. But this was one of those "I just washed my hair and look pretty darn good" days. Or so I thought.

After confirming that I was indeed eligible for his stupid 15% discount, he packed my now tainted bargains into a bag, collected his $15.82 and wished me a nice day.

Too late.

Not So Great Expectations

Since yesterday was my 27th Mother's Day celebration, I had a pretty good idea how it would go down. I felt confident that I was not going to be whisked off in a limo for a relaxing day at the spa or be handed tickets for a three day culinary cruise to Bermuda. Maybe stuff like that really happens to the rich and famous (or wives with incredibly guilt-ridden husbands) but I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen to me. What I did expect was a couple of cards, maybe a flower or two and some heartfelt Facebook postings about "being the best mom ever".

I wasn't far off, except for the whole cooking my own breakfast thing. I didn't see that one coming.

With one of my kids (the boy who barely remembers Christmas) out of town, it fell to my pregnant daughter to take one for the team. She and her new hubby gave me a brightly-colored box filled with tiny slips of paper extolling my various virtues. While mine ("You bought me that cool bacon cooker") could hardly be compared to the list that Chelsea Clinton might have given Hillary ("Thanks for helping find Bin Laden"), it never hurts to hear your kids say nice things about you.

Once my son finally got home (after a nasty thunderstorm diverted his plane to Detroit), he promised me a lunch at the place of my choice, which I hastily collected this afternoon. With his imminent departure to the Pacific Time Zone looming, I'm not messing around. So I didn't get a mushy (or even funny) card from him (although I did get a sweet one from his girlfriend). I got something even
better - a sincere, "Love you" and pineapple/mango gelato. He's a man of few words but he knows about priorities.

Despite doing work than I wanted to yesterday (couldn't someone have handed me a glass of Sangria while I was making that bruschetta?), it turned out to be a very special day. And it didn't have anything to do with gifts, cards, or spa treatments. It had everything to do with getting the chance to be a part of my niece's very first Mother's Day. She, very much like her aunt, waited a long time to see her dream of becoming a mom come true and as I watched her dote on her adorable little guy, I felt transported back to those early days of motherhood; the days when you can't get enough sleep but don't really care; the days when you will do anything to provoke a laugh from a ten pound human being; the days when you thank God every fifteen seconds for bringing this tiny person into your life.

My daughter will be in those shoes next year. And I'll be promoted to "grandma" (or "Mimi" or "Oma" - I haven't decided yet).

With macaroni necklaces and handprint t-shirts in my future, who needs another pedicure?

A Tale of Two Siblings

Every time I happen to catch a snippet of the 19 Kids and Counting TV show, I can't help wondering what it would have been like to have had more siblings. Having just grown up with one sister, I can only imagine what life would have been like to share bedrooms/bathrooms/parents with a boatload of other kids.

I'm sure being part of a large family would have its ups (always having someone to hang out with, always having someone to blame) and downs (jockeying for attention, not being able to afford taking a big clan on vacation) but the idea of having an additional sibling or two gathered around the Christmas tree was one that always sounded pretty appealing.

And then there is reality.

While it would be nice if every family behaved as unselfishly as that Duggar brood, the truth is many families just don't get along. For one reason or another, siblings who had once been buddies sadly grow up to fight about money, parental responsibilities, material possessions and misplaced loyalties. They betray trusts, break promises, and neglect communication. They can be consumed with jealousy and greed, taking actions that break their families into a million little pieces.

When you hear about familial discord in the news, you can shake your head in disbelief. When it happens to people you care about, it breaks your heart. It also makes you stop and take stock of your own relationships.

I thank God every day for the unbreakable relationship I have with my one and only sibling (since I highly doubt that either one of my 84 year-old parents will provide me with another.) I know you can be certain of very little in this world (never getting another perm can safely claim a spot on my list) but I cannot envision any scenario that would break the bond I have with the wonderful woman I'm lucky enough to call my sister. No amount of money, no amount of stuff and no man (short of Ryan Reynolds) would be reason enough to jeopardize the relationship I have with her.

I only wish everyone in my life could be so fortunate.

Elisabeth

I can still remember the first time I met her. I had traveled to Switzerland for Christmas to meet my boyfriend's family. It was the first time I had spent Christmas away from my own family and my anxiety levels were off the charts as we rode from the airport to their home outside Zurich. Would they like me? Would I like them? Would we have anything in common? Would we be able to communicate? And, most importantly, would I come back from this trip with a ring on my finger?

She was waiting in the kitchen. Tall, impossibly thin, with perfectly coiffed jet black hair and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen, she interrupted whatever cooking, baking, canning, cleaning she was up to, smiled warmly, and welcomed me.

I have never been so intimidated by anyone in my life. . .before or since.

My mother-in-law, who passed away yesterday, was truly one of a kind. In her eighty-nine years on earth she worked as a nurse, a seamstress, and a writer. Her home could have (and should have) graced the pages of House Beautiful. She almost single-handedly raised three boys, maintained a garden that would have turned Martha Stewart green with envy, and created culinary dishes worthy of a five star chef.

No wonder I was intimidated.

Our first encounter set the stage for the next thirty years. Seeing a romantic New Year's Eve listening to church bells ring as we stood overlooking a twinkling Swiss village as the perfect opportunity to pop the question, I was devastated that my eventual husband hadn't gotten the memo. Turning to the only female within view, I poured my disappointed heart out to my future mother-in-law only to have her respond with the less than sympathetic, "Last year he brought Nancy, this year he brought you, who knows who he'll bring next year."

That was my mother-in-law - always direct, always honest, rarely tactful. She spoke her mind and had an opinion about everything, which often led to someone's (my) feelings getting hurt. But over time, I saw her softer side and after I presented her with the one thing she always wanted, a baby girl, my standing in her eyes instantly elevated.

Over thirty years we grew to understand one another; to accept one another; to appreciate one another. Yes, she could be tough, distant, and stubborn. Yes, she could be infuriating and frustrating. But she could also be incredibly generous, extremely loyal, and funny as hell. Oh, and there was one other thing she never was. She was never, ever boring.

So, get ready, God. Put up your feet and grab a bowl of popcorn. Elisabeth is on her way. Be sure to ask her to make you one of her famous plum kuchen. You won't be disappointed.

And Two Shall Become One

It's hard to believe that our daughter will soon celebrate five months of wedded bliss. Seems like those champagne glasses were clinking just a couple of weeks ago. Although quite a bit of evidence remains that she once lived here (like that bedroom closet and the steady stream of mail with her name on it), she has moved most of her stuff out of the family homestead and settled happily into life as a married woman (and soon to be mom). It's hard not to have her around every day but I know she's found a partner that will love and care for her as long as he has breath in his body and who could ask for anything more than that?

The one thing I wasn't looking forward to dealing with once she said "I do" was having to share my child with another family. Oh, I didn't mind the idea that she would be having dinner or catching a movie with the in-laws every now and then, I just didn't want to haggle over who was going to get who for Thanksgiving or Christmas morning. I've watched my sister struggle with her sadness over empty holiday chairs and I knew I wasn't going to handle it very well. And the alternative? Melding the two families for holiday celebrations? Well, that worried me too. What if our traditions bit the dust? What if the new family's Thanksgiving stuffing sucked? Or, even worse, my girl liked it better than mine? Petty, I know, but this is the stuff that keeps me up nights.

Not to worry. Yesterday, the first big holiday since my daughter's wedding, we were invited to her in-laws for Easter dinner. Her second mama made a ham on the grill, laid out a beautiful table and welcomed not only my husband and me but our son, his girlfriend and my parents. Enjoying the first truly beautiful day of Spring, we sat out on their spacious deck, drank several glasses of wine, and shared our stories. We talked (and laughed) about our holiday traditions, our families, our jobs, and anything else that could comfortably be discussed in that kind of mixed company. (I'll have plenty of time to shock them with what I'm capable of talking about later.) It was surprisingly effortless and a whole lot more fun than I originally thought it would be.

And those traditions I was so worried about? I came armed with our world-famous Easter egg cookies and Mama #2 made her husband's favorite Polish sausage with sauerkraut (which my hubby eagerly devoured). I made a variation of my mom's revered mac and cheese and our go-to sweet potato recipe got a sensational make-over by the newlywed that had all of us asking for more.

When we packed up the leftovers and headed for home, it dawned on me that sharing my daughter with another generous, loving family that's almost as crazy about her as I am might not be nearly as hard as I feared it would be. The food was great, the conversation was lively and I didn't have a sink full of dishes to wash.

Always looking for that silver lining.

You Cannot Be Serious

Forty-eight hours ago, my husband, son, and I were helping my parents with some yard work. The sun was shining, the temperatures were in the upper seventies and I was a little bit tempted to break out the shorts.

So glad I didn't fall for that one.

It is now snowing. Snowing. Two days ago I was actually contemplating baring very white, not to mention hairy, legs to the world and now I'm sitting here watching frozen dandruff fall out of the sky on my poor little daffodils.

When is it ever going to end?

My hometown has a lot going for it. The pizza is awesome (despite what Jon Stewart says), Lakeshore Drive is breathtaking, and The Magnificent Mile is, well, magnificent. If it wasn't perpetually entrenched in the throes of a new Ice Age, Chicago would be a great place to live. If San Diego's weather could somehow be miraculously imported (c'mon, global warming - where the heck are you?), maybe I could even stop daydreaming about living in Italy. Okay, maybe not but I'm frustrated enough at this point to entertain such an idea.

All I know is, I've had enough. And I know I'm not alone. Even the die-hard winter fans I know have had enough. Spring, stop teasing us and get your butt back here.

And stick around this time, will you? Please.

The Taxman Cometh

Aaaah, Spring. Soft rain showers, colorful tulips, buds on the trees, temperatures (occasionally) above freezing. It's one of my favorite times of the year - a time of rebirth and growth; a time to come out of hibernation and join the world of the living. It would be just about perfect except for one teeny, tiny thing - the ever-looming Ides of April, the dreaded day of reckoning with Uncle Sam and his IRS henchmen.

Whenever I hear anyone talking about their joy at receiving their tax refund, I smile wistfully and try to remember those days. Refund? Refund?(As the cranky father in the movie Breaking Away would ask - I know it's an obscure reference but some of you out there might get it). What the heck is that?

The memories are hazy but I'm pretty sure there actually was a time when we did our taxes immediately upon receiving our W-2s; when we eagerly awaited that "found" money that arrived just in time to buy a new couch/TV/patio furniture. But those days seem very, very far away. Now, while others are out spending their interest-free bounty from the Treasury Department, we now belong to the club that does everything they can to stave off the inevitable "balance due" for as long as possible.

Today, knowing our return was going to be a little more complicated than usual, I finally got started. After several hours of number crunching, investigation into stock prices from 1983, and sifting through various 1099s, 1098s and several other 10 something or others, my head was ready to explode. Why does this have to be so hard? Why is the instruction manual 250 pages long? Why are my notes scribbled on multiple pieces of paper and as cryptic as hieroglyphics on some caveman's wall?

And why didn't we hire someone to do this a couple of months ago?

Spring?

I haven't seen a daffodil or tulip outside my window (although they have popped up in my local Trader Joe's). The trees are still bare (or, in the case of the dogwoods outside my living room window, dead.) And we still have a couple of mounds of snow at the end of our cul-de-sac. But, I didn't care.

I broke out the barbeque grill.

Yesterday, when the temperature hit a balmy sixty degrees, I couldn't resist the urge to dust (chisel) off the old Weber and throw a couple of pieces of chicken and a mammoth Costco strip steak on the weathered grate. If I had known how to whistle, I'm sure I would have done so as I cleaned out the ribs-we-had-last-October's ashes still residing in the bottom of the kettle. (What? You clean your grills at the end every season?) As I readied the black giant for duty, I didn't even care that I was doing all this work for a single meal. I knew this sunshine tease was scheduled to last all of forty-eight hours with the weather gurus promising a return to the forties (and possibly yet more snow) later in the week. But none of that mattered. The winter that seems determined to never end had given me a break. There was no way I was going to let it slip through my fingers.

Tomorrow, I might have to crack out the crock pot again. Or I might be forced to defrost the chicken soup in the freezer just to get warm. But, for one glorious moment, I had a meal that didn't involve comfort food; that didn't involve scrubbing a frying pan or a hefty enameled Dutch oven; that actually did involve a salad.

Summer can't be far behind.

No Place for My Stuff

One of my favorite comedians, the late, great George Carlin, had a hilarious routine about stuff; how we accumulate it, why we can't get rid of it, and the need to store it all somewhere. Like most of his musings, it was so on the money, hitting a nerve of embarrassing recognition. I'm not sure when stuff started taking over my life, I just know it has. But unlike the hapless hoarders that Carlin ridiculed, I'm determined to do something about it.

I honestly never thought of myself as much of a "conspicuous consumer". I've always seen myself as an inveterate bargain hunter; someone who values a good deal above almost anything else in life. But that's not really the issue. It doesn't matter how much you spent for the stuff that's taken up permanent residence in your closets, the only thing that matters is that you own things you haven't used since Madonna was married to Sean Penn.

My "ah-ha" moment happened on Sunday. I was looking for my old laptop, the sluggish dinosaur I had replaced with the shiny, new number on which I'm composing this blog. I needed my ancient friend to retrieve my old tax records and despite a thorough search of every room, it was nowhere to be found. As I deepened the search, I started to open every drawer and closet door. That's when I knew I was in serious trouble. You know those TV characters that open a closet and everything in it comes tumbling down on top of them? Not quite but close.

So, before basketballs and tennis racquets start raining down on my head, I'm stepping into action. I wish I could be as ambitious as the go-getter I saw on Facebook touting the virtues of digital garage sales. I read a couple of paragraphs before coming to the conclusion that that option was not for me - too much work for too little reward.

I've also ditched the whole e-bay idea. I've gone that route a few times but, again, not a fan of all that effort. Taking pictures, writing descriptions, tracking bids, packing boxes, and trekking to the post office can only be worthwhile for items whose sale might result in a nice meal at Olive Garden. 

So, that leaves me with only two options - giving stuff away or throwing stuff away. Since I can't deal with the guilt of tossing perfectly usable items into the trash, I think I'll have to fall back on my old standby, saying "yes" to every charitable organization that calls looking for "clothing or small household items" for donation and entering all those tax deductions (yes, I finally found that elusive computer underneath a table in the basement.)

I may have to pay for my own Fettuccine Alfredo but it's the only way I can ever be certain I'll see the walls of my closets again.

Stage Presence

You can get out of a lot of parenting duties if you really want to. You can find a nanny to change diapers and take your kids to the park. You can hire a tutor to help them with their homework. You can bring in a maid to pick up all those Legos. (Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that you have to be a lottery winner to pull off the above but hey, it can be done.) What you can't get away from is the certainty that, before your kid puts on a cap and gown, you will have to park your tush a couple of hundred times in an uncomfortable seat and watch them perform. From Christmas concerts to baseball games; spelling bees to recitals, there's no escaping the fact that your presence will be required on a regular basis.

Not that this is a bad thing. Getting the chance to prove, once and for all, that your child is indeed the most talented human being on the planet is a worthwhile way to spend a couple of hours. Watching my daughter knock the audience's socks off when she belted out a Celine Dion-worthy rendition of a song or my son rip a forehand past an unsuspecting opponent are memories that I'll treasure forever.

But it doesn't always work out that way.

Sometimes you sit there on that cold, hard chair and watch your child falter. And there's nothing worse than that. More often than not, you end up suffering through two hours of less than scintillating entertainment just to catch your kid's two minutes of magic. You tell yourself you have to stay; that it would be rude to leave just as little Cody is getting ready for his clarinet solo. So, even though all you really want to do is grab your little darling and head home for that latest episode of Homeland, you stay.

This week, despite the fact that my own children are in their twenties and my future grandchild's arrival is months away, I found myself back on those hard chairs. . .twice. My nephew, about to exit Junior High, performed in both a jazz band concert and a production of High School Musical. While not everyone involved in the events had been blessed with his innate abilities (we're still trying to find something this kid can't do), you couldn't help but appreciate the time and effort that each of them had given, regardless of their talent level.

So there were a few missed notes; so there were a couple of missed lines; so some of them looked like they would rather be having a root canal. None of that mattered. They were all up there trying. They were all up there adding another life experience to their resumes. They were all in the game, not sitting on the sidelines. And I was full of admiration for all of them, especially the ones who would never get the lead; who would never get the solo.

I may have been better entertained but I've seldom had better teachers.

Moving Into the (Grand)motherhood

I knew my newly-married daughter wouldn't waste much time before going after her dream of becoming a mom (she is my daughter, after all) but her warp-speed leap from newlywed to expectant mother caught everyone, including me, by surprise. Honeymoon babies were part of my parents' generation not the planned parenthood generation, right?

After the initial shock wore off, the excitement started to set in. I was going to be a grandma. I was going to have the sweet pleasure of watching my baby have a baby. I was going to get the chance to hold a little one that would be part of, maybe even look like, my own child. Better yet, I wasn't going to have to get up in the middle of the night, deal with a mountain of dirty diapers or worry about how I was going to pay for someone's college.

No. This time, I'm going to know the joy of having a baby for a weekend; a baby I can love like crazy and send home on Sunday night. My daughter and her husband will do most of the heavy lifting and I'll get to relish in the glow of being my grandchild's favorite person on earth. (What can I say? I dream big.) I might even find out what it feels like to love, cuddle and spoil a tiny human being without worrying that everything I do is scarring him/her for life.

This is going to be fun.

.

Winter Rant

I'm so over: snow, ice, cold, slush, freezing rain, icicles, flurries, blizzards (yes, even the Dairy Queen variety - I'm boycotting on principle alone), wind chill advisories, shoveling, scraping, defrosting, de-icing, turning up the heat, outrageous gas bills from turning up the heat, heavy sweaters, thick socks, sweatpants, long underwear, layering, mittens, gloves, scarves, hoodies, boots, down comforters, extra blankets, shivering, sniffling,sneezing, chapped lips, dry skin, brittle nails, hot soup, hot tea, hot chocolate (with or without marshmallows), and hibernation.

I'm so ready for: sunshine, green grass, leaves on the trees, flowers, heat advisories, air-conditioning, walks in the park, driving with the windows open, bicycles, sleeveless tops (yes, even with my grandma arms), shorts, capris, flip-flops, strappy sandals, (notice I didn't say "bathing suits" - I may be desperate but I'm not crazy), barbecues, picnics, farmstands, farmer's markets, craft fairs, outdoor festivals, concerts in the park, lemonade, white wine, hot dogs, ribs, watermelon, ice cream cones, baseball, golf, tennis, sitting on my deck, birds chirping and seeing human beings venture outside their homes.

C'mon, Spring.

Hollywood Nights

When I was a little girl, Oscar night was a very big deal. Obsessed with movie stars, I had to be in on every moment of Hollywood's self-congratulatory celebration. The whole day turned into an event (I even talked my mom into staying home from school one year) and I mapped it out like a wedding planner. Ballot with my predictions - check; special dinner in front of the TV - check; suitable attire - check. If I couldn't be one of them, I was going to use this yearly opportunity to pretend I was.

Remember, these were the days before pre-shows, post-shows and fashion reviews so we're only talking about a 3-4 hour commitment. If I were going to show the same dedication today, I'd have to plant my tush in a comfy chair for an entire weekend and carve out half a day on Monday to catch all the coverage on after-parties and best-dressed lists (and that's not even including The Golden Globes, The SAGs, The People's Choice, and any one of the other twenty-seven awards shows that are on between January and March). And who's got that kind of time?

So, last night, for the gazillionth time, I revisited my childhood ritual. I watched as beautiful (if surgically enhanced) celebrities paraded around in sparkly designer dresses and millions of dollars worth of jewelry. I listened as they were interviewed about their outfits, their award day rituals, and their nerves. The "who are you wearing" insanity hadn't been a part of the broadcasts I remember so fondly twenty or thirty years ago; it was all about seeing Jack Lemmon or Dustin Hoffman or Jack Nicholson give their winning speech; it was all about seeing legends like Jimmy Cagney or John Wayne or Audrey Hepburn make a surprise appearance.

I still love movies. I still hope to see all of this year's nominees. And I still get choked up seeing someone get emotional about winning a prize they've always dreamed of winning.

But the Oscars are just not as much fun as they used to be. 

I've Got a Crush on You

I come late to the party. . .a lot. While everyone was raving about HD-TV and the joys of owning a DVR, I was still holding on to a 25 inch TV I bought when Reagan was President. When everyone was walking out of the Apple store with a new i-Pad, I was struggling with a desktop that accessed the Internet in the same time it took for Dominos to deliver a pizza. And don't even try to text me - I still have a flip phone in my purse. It's not that I'm afraid of technology or don't like to have the newest, trendiest gadget before anyone on my block (I actually was the first person I knew to have a VCR - how else was I going to see what happened on All My Children?), it's just that, most of the time, I walk into the pool rather than diving in.

The latest example of my joining the parade as it rounds the last corner is a little game called Candy Crush Saga. This devious, diabolical time-waster has been around for quite awhile. I've had plenty of invites on Facebook to join in on the fun but was never interested. I saw my son waste a few years of his life playing video games and had no intention of getting hooked on anything that would only encourage me to procrastinate more than I already do (see many of my previous blogs for more on that subject).

But then, my Kindle and I went to Mexico. I loaded up a couple of books and verified my web version of People magazine was up to date. That should have been enough but, no, I had to press on.  Having tired of my earlier obsession with Angry Birds (another late-to-the-party discovery), I decided to check out free game downloads. After trying and failing to load Free Cell on the darn thing, I noticed that Candy Crush was available.

And you can probably guess the rest.

I'm now on Level 85. I've seen more of those insipid cartoon characters talking about the Marshmallow Swamp or Licorice Lagoon (or whatever the hell those little cartoon interludes are rambling on about) than I want to admit. I still haven't spent a dime playing it (and when I do, it's time for my credit cards to be taken away from me) but I have spent way too much of my precious time on earth trying to figure out how to get rid of all the jelly or bring all the ingredients down. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself lucky.) But I'm not addicted, no matter what my husband says. I can stop anytime I want to. In fact, I haven't played it once today. Not once.

And I don't think the fact that I have to wait 24 hours to get another quest has anything to do with it.

My Valentine

When you've been married for more than thirty years, Valentine's Day doesn't always get the attention that it used to get. Those expensive dinners, long-stemmed roses, and two pound boxes of chocolates are nice memories but I have to admit, I like the pressure being off. It feels good not to have to succumb to the madness of picking out just the right $5.95 Hallmark ditty or think of something heart-shaped that my husband will actually want to use. (I scoured Home Depot to find tools with heart embellishments and came up empty and "Be My Valentine" boxers are definitely not my guy's style.)

So what does it say about us that this year Valentine's Day went relatively uncelebrated? For the first time, we did nothing on the actual day - no card, no flowers, no nothing. And do you know what? It was one of the best ever. The night before, we ventured out into the cold (because only those trying to impress or don't mind waiting for hours and dropping a couple days pay go out to dinner on the real Valentine's Day, right?) to have dinner at our local Olive Garden. Say what you will about the place, you get a lot for your money. We tried a couple of their new specials (the Parmesan crusted tortellini actually tasted very similar to a dish I had in Italy so all you Olive Garden haters can bite me), shared a quartino of wine (Chianti Riserva, if you're wondering. Good but gave me a headache. Next time will stick to the Shiraz or Malbec), and polished off a piece of the should-be-illegal white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.

If all of this sounds like we're getting old, we are. If all of this sounds like we've given up, we haven't. It was a really sweet evening of conversation about our kids, memories of our travels together, and making plans for our future.

And if that's not celebrating Valentine's Day, I don't know what is.