We knew for weeks that he would be coming. His name was prominently displayed on our calendar from the day after Thanksgiving until Cyber Monday. We did everything we could to prepare ourselves. We stocked up on his favorite foods, his favorite playthings, and all the supplies we could possibly anticipate needing. We were ready.
What we weren't ready for was how hard it was going to be to let him go.
We already knew what a special grandson we have. We knew he was impossibly sweet, good-natured, easy-going, and flexible. What we didn't know was how our sixty-something year-old bodies were going to hold up taking care of that bundle of energy for four days. Easy baby or not, we were still going to have to get up and down off the floor (a lot), carry him up and down the stairs (a lot), wrangle him to change diapers and clothes (a lot), and get him in and out of that car seat (as little as possible). So how did it go? Well, let's just say that while our backs and knees might disagree, my husband and I were ready to take him back an hour after our daughter picked him up.
It was the silence that hit us first. Where was that contagious little laugh? Or those silly little sounds that mean something only to him? Or that pitter-patter of hands and knees on the kitchen floor? Of course, there were a couple of sounds we didn't miss - like the wail of his crying when he toppled over on that nasty wooden floor or that chug-a, chug-a big red Wiggles car that he incessantly wheels across the room. But by the time dinner rolled around (without anyone sitting in that high chair), we were even missing that. A little.
Now that he's back in the arms of his mommy and daddy I'm just sitting here wondering - who's going to help my husband make coffee? Or help me make banana bread? Or toss that tennis ball in our general direction?
And even more importantly, who's going to cuddle up with me under that blanket and make waking up at 7:00 a.m. so much fun?
Monday, November 30, 2015
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Harder Than I Thought
Vacations are a wonderful thing . . . until they're over. You spend months planning them, waiting for them, anticipating them - and then they're over before you know it. In other parts of the world, it's not uncommon for even entry-level workers to get four to six weeks of downtime but in our neck of the woods, most of us have to settle for a measly two weeks a year to recharge our batteries. Just when we start to relax, it's time to head back to reality and, as everyone knows, that is highly overrated.
My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?
It isn't any better.
At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.
And then it was over.
Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.
I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:
How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?
My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?
It isn't any better.
At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.
And then it was over.
Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.
I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:
How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?
Monday, September 14, 2015
Taking a Second Look
We have a close friend who is in his mid-fifties, divorced with no kids. He confided to my husband recently that he was burned out, tired of working, and finding it harder to get motivated about life in general. When my husband relayed bits of the conversation (husbands never reveal the whole conversation; they've usually run out of their daily word allotment by then), I couldn't help but feel sorry for our friend. Oh, he may find a way to shake off the funk he's feeling but there's no way he's going to be able to take advantage of one of life's greatest elixirs.
He's never going to become a grandfather.
As we approach our grandson's first birthday (was it really a year ago that I raced over to that hospital?), I can only say thank you to God (as well as our wonderful daughter and her almost equally wonderful hubby) for allowing this little guy to come into our lives. Thanks to him, his grandfather and I will never be bored; never take anything for granted; never cease to be amazed by the world around us. Because of one tiny human being, we are getting the chance to see the glories of our surroundings for the very first time all over again - through his impossibly blue eyes.
Simple things like crawling in the grass, seeing an airplane in the sky, hearing the hum of my Kitchen Aid mixer send him into squeals of delight which, of course, send all of us who love him into even louder squeals of delight. His enthusiasm for every activity (if not every food - his rejection of my homemade mac and cheese hurt, I have to admit) is so contagious that it makes his sixty-something grandparents feel like a couple of kids (if those kids were unlucky enough to have a couple of bad knees and sore backs).
We wake up every morning hoping for the chance to spend a little time with him and we go to bed every night grateful for every delicious moment he graces our lives with his presence.
Our friend has absolutely no idea what he's missing.
He's never going to become a grandfather.
As we approach our grandson's first birthday (was it really a year ago that I raced over to that hospital?), I can only say thank you to God (as well as our wonderful daughter and her almost equally wonderful hubby) for allowing this little guy to come into our lives. Thanks to him, his grandfather and I will never be bored; never take anything for granted; never cease to be amazed by the world around us. Because of one tiny human being, we are getting the chance to see the glories of our surroundings for the very first time all over again - through his impossibly blue eyes.
Simple things like crawling in the grass, seeing an airplane in the sky, hearing the hum of my Kitchen Aid mixer send him into squeals of delight which, of course, send all of us who love him into even louder squeals of delight. His enthusiasm for every activity (if not every food - his rejection of my homemade mac and cheese hurt, I have to admit) is so contagious that it makes his sixty-something grandparents feel like a couple of kids (if those kids were unlucky enough to have a couple of bad knees and sore backs).
We wake up every morning hoping for the chance to spend a little time with him and we go to bed every night grateful for every delicious moment he graces our lives with his presence.
Our friend has absolutely no idea what he's missing.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
The Role(s) of a Lifetime
When I was in my twenties I was lucky enough to be cast as Maria in our community college's production of West Side Story. If you know the show (and who doesn't?) you know that it's a fantastic part, one that I had always dreamed about playing. For months of rehearsals and two weekends of performances, I pranced around in my made-for-me costumes singing classics like I Feel Pretty and Tonight before bawling my eyes out after that revenge-seeking Chino (spoiler alert) killed the love of my life. It was almost forty years ago and I can still remember how great it felt to be standing on that stage doing something I loved to do and how incredulous I was when a few kids actually came up to me after the show looking for my autograph. (I sure hope those guys aren't too disappointed that it never turned out to be worth anything on e-Bay.)
At the time, I fantasized about heading out to Hollywood (Broadway would have been okay too but movies were always my thing and hey, that's where the real money was) to fulfill my life-long dream to be an actress but nothing ever went much beyond that community college stage. I guess my fear of rejection and your basic everyday set of insecurities stopped me from ever pursuing anything beyond local recognition but that didn't stop me from feeling a tinge of regret anytime I saw some newly discovered starlet walking the red carpet or some breathless ingenue clutching her first Oscar with tears streaming down her face.
Could that have been me? Did I miss out on my chance to be worshiped and adored?
Not by a long shot. Oh, sure. Maybe I could have been an actress. Maybe I could have gotten a recording contract. Maybe I could have even walked away with one of those gold, naked men. But if any of that had happened, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have found the time to be the kind of mom (and now Nana) that I believe I was truly destined to be.
When I think about the moments when my children looked at me as if I hung the moon, I know that I wouldn't have missed them for all the stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And when my little grandson's face lights up when I come around the corner or laughs at some silly face I make, I know that there is nothing that could come close to the joy I feel; not even George Clooney reading my name off that list of nominees (okay, that might be closer than I want to admit).
Playing Maria was fun. It was a fantastic time in my life that gave me a lot of confidence and I'm so grateful to have been able to fulfill my performing dreams, even if it was on a smaller scale than I would have liked.
But being a mom and a grandmother? Now, those are the roles I was born to play.
At the time, I fantasized about heading out to Hollywood (Broadway would have been okay too but movies were always my thing and hey, that's where the real money was) to fulfill my life-long dream to be an actress but nothing ever went much beyond that community college stage. I guess my fear of rejection and your basic everyday set of insecurities stopped me from ever pursuing anything beyond local recognition but that didn't stop me from feeling a tinge of regret anytime I saw some newly discovered starlet walking the red carpet or some breathless ingenue clutching her first Oscar with tears streaming down her face.
Could that have been me? Did I miss out on my chance to be worshiped and adored?
Not by a long shot. Oh, sure. Maybe I could have been an actress. Maybe I could have gotten a recording contract. Maybe I could have even walked away with one of those gold, naked men. But if any of that had happened, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have found the time to be the kind of mom (and now Nana) that I believe I was truly destined to be.
When I think about the moments when my children looked at me as if I hung the moon, I know that I wouldn't have missed them for all the stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And when my little grandson's face lights up when I come around the corner or laughs at some silly face I make, I know that there is nothing that could come close to the joy I feel; not even George Clooney reading my name off that list of nominees (okay, that might be closer than I want to admit).
Playing Maria was fun. It was a fantastic time in my life that gave me a lot of confidence and I'm so grateful to have been able to fulfill my performing dreams, even if it was on a smaller scale than I would have liked.
But being a mom and a grandmother? Now, those are the roles I was born to play.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Quality Control
This is going to sound like the rant of an old person (okay, maybe it is) but I'm getting a little tired of paying more and getting (a whole lot) less. Maybe it's because I remember when sugar actually came in five-pound bags instead of four or ice cream that came packed in half-gallon containers instead of whatever the heck size it's packed in now or maybe it's because I've been on the phone all day with businesses who have taken (or are trying to take) a good deal of my money and are dead set on giving me very little in return.
Thinking about changing your cable service? Good luck. I spent the better part of my morning trying to compare packages with several cable providers and, guess what? They make it pretty darn impossible for you to do that. That $99 Triple Play deal doesn't end up looking so hot after they tack on all the one-time charges, network surcharges, FCC fees, mandatory equipment rentals, and Europe 100 international calling plan costs that those splashy commercials fail to mention. In the end, I figured out that, at best, I could save $20 or $25 to make the switch. No thanks. Not for a commercial-laden product (wasn't the whole allure of paying for cable TV supposed to include ditching those things?) that costs more than my first monthly car payment. I'm now on to researching the cost of an indoor HD antenna and going back to ABC, NBC, and CBS. I might have to forego 118 hours of non-stop Wimbledon coverage but I'll have enough in my bank account to hop a plane and see it in person.
After all that, I decided to try to tackle an ongoing problem with my iPass. I was pretty sure I had been double-billed for tollway fees on my son's car and had the printout of the last two months worth of charges sitting in front of me, ready to do battle. By the time I got off the phone with an admittedly pleasant young lady by the name of Flavia, I was ready to blow off the $55.75, sell my car and start riding a bicycle (stop laughing, I still remember how).
Finally, I tried to take on Coach. I have a bag I purchased at their outlet store two summers ago that has a strap that completely disintegrated. I thought, surely, a company that charges several hundred dollars for a purse (not that I actually paid that - what are you, crazy?) would stand behind their products for, if not a lifetime, at least a couple of years. A quick look at their website cleared up that delusional thinking in a hurry. They warranty their purses for ONE YEAR. Wow! One whole year. I have bags I've bought at Target for $19.99 that have lasted longer than that. So much for that label inside that says, and I quote, "This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted from the finest materials. Its superior craftsmanship reflects our commitment to enduring quality." I guess they forgot to mention that "enduring" only lasts for 364 days.
I know that customer service is dying (but does it have to do so continually on my doorstep?). I accept the fact that prices generally go in one direction (thank you, technology, for being the exception to that rule). And I know that mass production (i.e. progress) means that quality is going to suffer.
Billy Joel may have been right when he said "the good old days weren't always good" but I'd be willing to bet he didn't write that after talking with Comcast.
Thinking about changing your cable service? Good luck. I spent the better part of my morning trying to compare packages with several cable providers and, guess what? They make it pretty darn impossible for you to do that. That $99 Triple Play deal doesn't end up looking so hot after they tack on all the one-time charges, network surcharges, FCC fees, mandatory equipment rentals, and Europe 100 international calling plan costs that those splashy commercials fail to mention. In the end, I figured out that, at best, I could save $20 or $25 to make the switch. No thanks. Not for a commercial-laden product (wasn't the whole allure of paying for cable TV supposed to include ditching those things?) that costs more than my first monthly car payment. I'm now on to researching the cost of an indoor HD antenna and going back to ABC, NBC, and CBS. I might have to forego 118 hours of non-stop Wimbledon coverage but I'll have enough in my bank account to hop a plane and see it in person.
After all that, I decided to try to tackle an ongoing problem with my iPass. I was pretty sure I had been double-billed for tollway fees on my son's car and had the printout of the last two months worth of charges sitting in front of me, ready to do battle. By the time I got off the phone with an admittedly pleasant young lady by the name of Flavia, I was ready to blow off the $55.75, sell my car and start riding a bicycle (stop laughing, I still remember how).
Finally, I tried to take on Coach. I have a bag I purchased at their outlet store two summers ago that has a strap that completely disintegrated. I thought, surely, a company that charges several hundred dollars for a purse (not that I actually paid that - what are you, crazy?) would stand behind their products for, if not a lifetime, at least a couple of years. A quick look at their website cleared up that delusional thinking in a hurry. They warranty their purses for ONE YEAR. Wow! One whole year. I have bags I've bought at Target for $19.99 that have lasted longer than that. So much for that label inside that says, and I quote, "This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted from the finest materials. Its superior craftsmanship reflects our commitment to enduring quality." I guess they forgot to mention that "enduring" only lasts for 364 days.
I know that customer service is dying (but does it have to do so continually on my doorstep?). I accept the fact that prices generally go in one direction (thank you, technology, for being the exception to that rule). And I know that mass production (i.e. progress) means that quality is going to suffer.
Billy Joel may have been right when he said "the good old days weren't always good" but I'd be willing to bet he didn't write that after talking with Comcast.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Another Candle
It's hard not to be a little ambivalent about birthdays when you've already celebrated six decades worth of them. While I certainly want them to keep on coming, I can't help feeling a twinge of anxiety every time one of them rolls around. Since I'm prone to introspection (bet you figured that out already) I tend to use the arrival of another birthday to inspect, analyze, and critique my behavior over the last three hundred sixty-five days. Not always a pretty sight but hey, somebody's got to do it.
Did I learn anything new? (Princess Charlotte's nanny's name unfortunately doesn't count). Did I advance my spiritual growth? (Watching five minutes of Joel Osteen's Sunday service also does not make the cut). Did I love more? (This year? Undoubtedly. I have that new grand-baby, remember?) Was I kinder? (That crazy woman in the library yesterday probably doesn't think so). More thoughtful? (I try on this one but it's pretty tough when thoughts stay in my consciousness for under thirty seconds.) Less petty? (Again, sorry crazy library lady). More joyful? (Other than the time I spend with my grandson who makes it pretty darn hard to be anything but). Did I sweat the small stuff less? (Does not getting upset at my hubby's picking up the wrong peanut butter count?) Did I value the important stuff more? (It's getting a little late if I haven't). Did I finally finish editing that damn book that I keep talking about? (What do you think?)
All I know is that another June 24th has presented itself and I'm doing the best I can. (Wait. That's a lie. I could exercise more and it wouldn't hurt to stop eating those dark chocolate sea-salt caramels every night. Damn you, Costco). I do try to spend as much time as possible with the wonderful family and amazing friends that God has blessed me with (I sure hope that means another trip to Mexico this winter with the best friends anyone could ask for) and try to spend as little time as possible with toxic, negative people who's goal in life is to sap all the joy out of anyone within a five-mile radius (that's you, library lady).
It feels odd to be eligible for Social Security and AARP discounts. That's for old people and I have a hard time thinking of myself that way (unless I'm trying to get my creaky knees and plantar fascitis inflicted feet out of bed in the morning). But every time I feel sorry for myself or wish I didn't have to go through the decidedly negative aspects of getting older, I think of my friend Karyn who was stricken with Stage 4 cancer and died at fifty-four. I know she would have given anything to be here with her kids and grandkids; birthdays, achy joints and all.
She would feel lucky and blessed. And so do I.
Did I learn anything new? (Princess Charlotte's nanny's name unfortunately doesn't count). Did I advance my spiritual growth? (Watching five minutes of Joel Osteen's Sunday service also does not make the cut). Did I love more? (This year? Undoubtedly. I have that new grand-baby, remember?) Was I kinder? (That crazy woman in the library yesterday probably doesn't think so). More thoughtful? (I try on this one but it's pretty tough when thoughts stay in my consciousness for under thirty seconds.) Less petty? (Again, sorry crazy library lady). More joyful? (Other than the time I spend with my grandson who makes it pretty darn hard to be anything but). Did I sweat the small stuff less? (Does not getting upset at my hubby's picking up the wrong peanut butter count?) Did I value the important stuff more? (It's getting a little late if I haven't). Did I finally finish editing that damn book that I keep talking about? (What do you think?)
All I know is that another June 24th has presented itself and I'm doing the best I can. (Wait. That's a lie. I could exercise more and it wouldn't hurt to stop eating those dark chocolate sea-salt caramels every night. Damn you, Costco). I do try to spend as much time as possible with the wonderful family and amazing friends that God has blessed me with (I sure hope that means another trip to Mexico this winter with the best friends anyone could ask for) and try to spend as little time as possible with toxic, negative people who's goal in life is to sap all the joy out of anyone within a five-mile radius (that's you, library lady).
It feels odd to be eligible for Social Security and AARP discounts. That's for old people and I have a hard time thinking of myself that way (unless I'm trying to get my creaky knees and plantar fascitis inflicted feet out of bed in the morning). But every time I feel sorry for myself or wish I didn't have to go through the decidedly negative aspects of getting older, I think of my friend Karyn who was stricken with Stage 4 cancer and died at fifty-four. I know she would have given anything to be here with her kids and grandkids; birthdays, achy joints and all.
She would feel lucky and blessed. And so do I.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Living the Dream
For years I have dreamed about living in Italy. I've read every guidebook I could get my hands on, perused real estate websites with images of Tuscan cottages straight out of Under the Tuscan Sun, and watched every Italian episode of House Hunters International. I've fantasized about walking down to the village market with a wicker basket over my arm, greeting the locals with my impeccable Italian, and welcoming friends and relatives to my hillside home away from home. Amazingly, my dream is finally coming true.
For one of my best friends.
I never even knew we shared this dream. My friend, a high-school English teacher for many years, had always proclaimed her love for all things French, so I thought she would be bound for the South of France if ever she wanted to shake things up. But, no. This weekend she is jetting off to Florence to live out my greatest fantasy. She's recently retired from full-time teaching and intends to spend at least a year teaching English in Rome or Bologna or Orvieto or wherever she can find a job once she completes the one-month training class.
Am I jealous? Absolutely not. I'm happy for my friend. (Of course, I'm jealous. What are you, nuts? I'd love nothing better than to squeeze into a cozy spot in her largest piece of luggage.) Am I inspired to take her lead and start browsing again through those international real estate websites? Probably not, at least not for the foreseeable future.
See, I've got this grandson; this adorable human being who gets cuter and more animated every day. The thought of living in Italy is oh so tempting but the thought of missing him learning to crawl, walk, talk, and blow kisses is utterly unthinkable. My friend's grandsons are teenagers. Not to say she won't miss them like crazy but let's face it, they've already done all the excruciatingly cute things they're ever going to and she'll probably communicate with them as often through Skype as she would if she were a twenty minute drive away.
So, for right now, I'll have to live vicariously through her. I'll see her amazing photos on Facebook and read about all her book-worthy adventures in the blog she intends to write and I'm sure there will be days when I'll wish, more than anything, that I was right there with her.
And then my grandson will squeal with delight at the sight of the bubbles I've just blown and I'll know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.
For one of my best friends.
I never even knew we shared this dream. My friend, a high-school English teacher for many years, had always proclaimed her love for all things French, so I thought she would be bound for the South of France if ever she wanted to shake things up. But, no. This weekend she is jetting off to Florence to live out my greatest fantasy. She's recently retired from full-time teaching and intends to spend at least a year teaching English in Rome or Bologna or Orvieto or wherever she can find a job once she completes the one-month training class.
Am I jealous? Absolutely not. I'm happy for my friend. (Of course, I'm jealous. What are you, nuts? I'd love nothing better than to squeeze into a cozy spot in her largest piece of luggage.) Am I inspired to take her lead and start browsing again through those international real estate websites? Probably not, at least not for the foreseeable future.
See, I've got this grandson; this adorable human being who gets cuter and more animated every day. The thought of living in Italy is oh so tempting but the thought of missing him learning to crawl, walk, talk, and blow kisses is utterly unthinkable. My friend's grandsons are teenagers. Not to say she won't miss them like crazy but let's face it, they've already done all the excruciatingly cute things they're ever going to and she'll probably communicate with them as often through Skype as she would if she were a twenty minute drive away.
So, for right now, I'll have to live vicariously through her. I'll see her amazing photos on Facebook and read about all her book-worthy adventures in the blog she intends to write and I'm sure there will be days when I'll wish, more than anything, that I was right there with her.
And then my grandson will squeal with delight at the sight of the bubbles I've just blown and I'll know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Back in the Neighborhood
When my kids were little, I didn't have a lot of hard and fast rules. In fact, I can think of only two: No playing with sharp knives (dull ones were okay but only after all other forms of entertainment had been tried and rejected) and under no circumstances were they ever allowed to tune in to any episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.
Now, before you report me to the House Un-American Activities Committee, I'll try to explain my loathing of a beloved cultural icon by saying I have nothing against Fred Rogers personally. He was from all accounts a wonderfully kind, sensitive man who devoted his life to educating children. For that, I had (and still have) nothing but respect. I just could not stomach the show. The minute I heard that opening song, I would race for the TV to flip the channel before kindly Mr. Rogers got the chance to change into that raggedy red sweater. I disliked everything about that PBS classic from the insipid songs, to the creepy puppets, to the syrupy tone. In our house, it was definitely a case of Sesame Street, yeah. Mr. Rogers, no way.
Ironic, isn't it, that I am now watching a little show called Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on a regular basis? When I first tuned in, I didn't know that it had any connection with my original nemesis. All I knew was that it was a colorful, animated program that my little grandson loved. And at first, I thought it was cute. Yes, I recognized that annoying "won't you be my neighbor" ditty but I foolishly thought it was just a sweet homage to its creator. Slowly, though, it began to dawn on me. Daniel Tiger was that scraggly puppet brought to animated life. Prince Wednesday, his dad King Friday and that cat that said "meow, meow" in between every sentence weren't just Daniel Tiger's friends, they were those other scruffy puppets that Fred Rogers used to interact with. And then there was that magic trolley (which Daniel and his father have plastered all over their matching pajamas - a visual more frightening than anything I've ever seen on The Walking Dead) which should have been a dead giveaway but like I said, I tried hard to escape watching the show in its original incarnation so it took me longer than it should have to connect the dots.
So, Fred Rogers, you win. The last time I looked, Netflix had sixty-five episodes ready for my grandson's viewing pleasure and I'm pretty sure I'll end up seeing every one of them several times before he gets tired of the show. Oh, well. This Daniel Tiger is a whole lot cuter than the original, although he still insists on opening every episode exactly as his predecessor did by changing into his favorite red sweater (at least Fred Rogers had the decency to wear a pair of pants with his) and comfy shoes while imploring me to be his neighbor. (As if I would want to live in that podunk town with one street and one form of transportation).
Well, I think you get the idea. I would continue to complain about the unfairness of it all if I didn't feel the urgent need to visit the nearest restroom. And you know what the song says . . .
'If you have to go potty, stop and go right away. Flush and wash and be on your way.'
Now, before you report me to the House Un-American Activities Committee, I'll try to explain my loathing of a beloved cultural icon by saying I have nothing against Fred Rogers personally. He was from all accounts a wonderfully kind, sensitive man who devoted his life to educating children. For that, I had (and still have) nothing but respect. I just could not stomach the show. The minute I heard that opening song, I would race for the TV to flip the channel before kindly Mr. Rogers got the chance to change into that raggedy red sweater. I disliked everything about that PBS classic from the insipid songs, to the creepy puppets, to the syrupy tone. In our house, it was definitely a case of Sesame Street, yeah. Mr. Rogers, no way.
Ironic, isn't it, that I am now watching a little show called Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on a regular basis? When I first tuned in, I didn't know that it had any connection with my original nemesis. All I knew was that it was a colorful, animated program that my little grandson loved. And at first, I thought it was cute. Yes, I recognized that annoying "won't you be my neighbor" ditty but I foolishly thought it was just a sweet homage to its creator. Slowly, though, it began to dawn on me. Daniel Tiger was that scraggly puppet brought to animated life. Prince Wednesday, his dad King Friday and that cat that said "meow, meow" in between every sentence weren't just Daniel Tiger's friends, they were those other scruffy puppets that Fred Rogers used to interact with. And then there was that magic trolley (which Daniel and his father have plastered all over their matching pajamas - a visual more frightening than anything I've ever seen on The Walking Dead) which should have been a dead giveaway but like I said, I tried hard to escape watching the show in its original incarnation so it took me longer than it should have to connect the dots.
So, Fred Rogers, you win. The last time I looked, Netflix had sixty-five episodes ready for my grandson's viewing pleasure and I'm pretty sure I'll end up seeing every one of them several times before he gets tired of the show. Oh, well. This Daniel Tiger is a whole lot cuter than the original, although he still insists on opening every episode exactly as his predecessor did by changing into his favorite red sweater (at least Fred Rogers had the decency to wear a pair of pants with his) and comfy shoes while imploring me to be his neighbor. (As if I would want to live in that podunk town with one street and one form of transportation).
Well, I think you get the idea. I would continue to complain about the unfairness of it all if I didn't feel the urgent need to visit the nearest restroom. And you know what the song says . . .
'If you have to go potty, stop and go right away. Flush and wash and be on your way.'
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Was It Something I Said?
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly an innocuous comment or innocent question can derail a perfectly pleasant conversation. Case in point: The other night I casually asked my hubby what plans he had for the check he had recently received for some consulting services he had furnished. Now, I know what you're thinking - there is no such thing as a "casual" question about money. Everyone has their own ideas about how to earn/save/spend it and there are precious few of us walking around that aren't prone to get a little defensive when called upon to justify said ideas. But, honestly, I had no idea what flood gates were about to open. I had no hidden agenda. I wasn't lobbying for a new Coach bag or a day at the spa; I was just curious. Honest.
Let's just say we haven't been talking much since that conversation. He got defensive; I got angry. He got dismissive; I got angrier. His tone of voice finally pushed my retaliation button so hard that I resorted to calling him an a**hole (he was acting like one but I never should have said that) and I ended up slamming a couple of doors and wondering if it was too late to show up on my parents' driveway.
When I finally calmed down, I couldn't help asking myself, "What the hell just happened?" One minute we were happily chatting as he brushed his teeth and I paged through the latest Entertainment Weekly and the next minute we were in a battle worthy of a Bill O'Reilly smackdown. Did I ask the question too late at night? (Possibly. It's not his favorite time of day.) Did I invade his territory, implying that I knew better what to do with the money than he did? (I don't think so. Like I said, I wasn't looking to get my hands on any of it although he might not have heard it that way.) Was he just having a bad day? (Made even worse by a nagging back and/or wife?) Or was it just a combination of the above?
Who knows? The only thing I do know is that I have had an epiphany. I am never going to react that way again. I am never going to call my husband (or anyone else I love) a nasty name of any kind. (I can't promise I won't occasionally think it but that's a subject for another blog.)
I realize I've been married for thirty-one years and it might have been advantageous to have come to this conclusion a little earlier but wisdom comes with aging as surely as the achy knees, right? So, from this day forward, I promise to take a deep breath, say a prayer and then, after calmly telling him that I do not appreciate the way he's speaking to me, I'm going to walk away. I might end up in Indiana before I cool off but I refuse to put myself in another situation where I say things I'm going to regret.
Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if I can actually do it.
Let's just say we haven't been talking much since that conversation. He got defensive; I got angry. He got dismissive; I got angrier. His tone of voice finally pushed my retaliation button so hard that I resorted to calling him an a**hole (he was acting like one but I never should have said that) and I ended up slamming a couple of doors and wondering if it was too late to show up on my parents' driveway.
When I finally calmed down, I couldn't help asking myself, "What the hell just happened?" One minute we were happily chatting as he brushed his teeth and I paged through the latest Entertainment Weekly and the next minute we were in a battle worthy of a Bill O'Reilly smackdown. Did I ask the question too late at night? (Possibly. It's not his favorite time of day.) Did I invade his territory, implying that I knew better what to do with the money than he did? (I don't think so. Like I said, I wasn't looking to get my hands on any of it although he might not have heard it that way.) Was he just having a bad day? (Made even worse by a nagging back and/or wife?) Or was it just a combination of the above?
Who knows? The only thing I do know is that I have had an epiphany. I am never going to react that way again. I am never going to call my husband (or anyone else I love) a nasty name of any kind. (I can't promise I won't occasionally think it but that's a subject for another blog.)
I realize I've been married for thirty-one years and it might have been advantageous to have come to this conclusion a little earlier but wisdom comes with aging as surely as the achy knees, right? So, from this day forward, I promise to take a deep breath, say a prayer and then, after calmly telling him that I do not appreciate the way he's speaking to me, I'm going to walk away. I might end up in Indiana before I cool off but I refuse to put myself in another situation where I say things I'm going to regret.
Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if I can actually do it.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Mother's Day Times Three
I know Mother's Day only comes once a year (which is probably a good thing given how disappointed we moms tend to get over the slights - perceived or real - of our significant other and/or offspring) but this year my celebration somehow managed to span a full seventy-two hours.
Day One - The Festival of Motherhood commenced on Saturday. Since it was the only day that all the moms in my immediate family could gather, we decided to jump the gun. Leave those exorbitant Sunday brunches for the suckers who insist on celebrating when Hallmark tells them to, we reasoned, we will have our pick of any restaurant our little hearts desire. It sounded so good in theory. What we didn't factor in was having to include the two newest members of the family (the ones who made my niece and daughter eligible to participate in this year's celebration) in the festivities since both of the new dads were otherwise engaged. Don't get me wrong, they were a joy to share the table with - for the first hour or so anyway. After that, it was a mad scramble to gather up the uneaten onion straws and slurp down that last gulp of Sangria before the occasional glances coming our way turned into icy stares.
We finished up the afternoon back at Gigi's (my mom's new great-grandma moniker) place, trying to squeeze some conversation between emergency baby-proofing and diaper changes; the highlight of Day One being my sweet daughter's gift - a framed love letter to her mother (that girl sure knows how to bring on the waterworks) complete with beautiful embellishments surrounding pictures of the two of us. Other than making any subsequent photos a soggy mess, this was the kind of gift that we moms dream about. Consider this day a solid B+.
Day Two - This was the real one; the one where your hubby is supposed to bring you breakfast in bed and your kids are encouraged to fawn all over you as they remind you what an amazing mother you have been as they drown you with flowers and Mimosas. (A girl can dream, can't she?). In reality, I was up at 8, baking two kinds of bread and pulling out all the stops for a fabulous breakfast for what I thought would be my entire family. In their defense, I offered to do this since it was my daughter's first Mother's Day but still, I was expecting a bit more help from the men in my life - one of whom didn't even show up as he somehow misunderstood the order of the day and thought he was coming for dinner. Oh well, I think my daughter appreciated it. This one gets an A for the food (if I do say so myself) and the chance to make my girl's day special and a D- for having to cook and clean up on a day when I'm not supposed to have to do any of that stuff.
Day Three - My confused son wanted to make it up to me so he showed up today, very contrite and eager to show me just how much he cared. He brought me a card with a heartfelt note inside, took me to lunch, spent several hours tooling around Costco and Walmart, and even made time to pop in on the sister he had failed to wish a happy first Mother's Day (hey, she wasn't his mother). This last hurrah rates a B after deducting a few points for my son's late arrival.
When he backed out of the driveway, I felt nothing but relief that the next Mother's Day was 364 days away. After all these years, you would think I would know that it never lives up to the unrealistic expectations foisted on us by greeting cards and sitcoms. I've rarely gotten breakfast in bed (too messy), I've been disappointed in every over-priced brunch I've ever eaten, and I don't want or need anymore stuff proclaiming my position as world's greatest mom. I may have a momentary twinge of self-pity when I don't receive the pampering I mistakenly believe every other mother is receiving while I'm loading the dishwasher but I know in my heart that the moments to savor are the ones that happen on every other day of the year not singled out as Mother's Day.
And I'm lucky enough to have a family that gives me plenty of those - enough for me to get through every second Sunday in May that doesn't go exactly as I would like it to.
Day One - The Festival of Motherhood commenced on Saturday. Since it was the only day that all the moms in my immediate family could gather, we decided to jump the gun. Leave those exorbitant Sunday brunches for the suckers who insist on celebrating when Hallmark tells them to, we reasoned, we will have our pick of any restaurant our little hearts desire. It sounded so good in theory. What we didn't factor in was having to include the two newest members of the family (the ones who made my niece and daughter eligible to participate in this year's celebration) in the festivities since both of the new dads were otherwise engaged. Don't get me wrong, they were a joy to share the table with - for the first hour or so anyway. After that, it was a mad scramble to gather up the uneaten onion straws and slurp down that last gulp of Sangria before the occasional glances coming our way turned into icy stares.
We finished up the afternoon back at Gigi's (my mom's new great-grandma moniker) place, trying to squeeze some conversation between emergency baby-proofing and diaper changes; the highlight of Day One being my sweet daughter's gift - a framed love letter to her mother (that girl sure knows how to bring on the waterworks) complete with beautiful embellishments surrounding pictures of the two of us. Other than making any subsequent photos a soggy mess, this was the kind of gift that we moms dream about. Consider this day a solid B+.
Day Two - This was the real one; the one where your hubby is supposed to bring you breakfast in bed and your kids are encouraged to fawn all over you as they remind you what an amazing mother you have been as they drown you with flowers and Mimosas. (A girl can dream, can't she?). In reality, I was up at 8, baking two kinds of bread and pulling out all the stops for a fabulous breakfast for what I thought would be my entire family. In their defense, I offered to do this since it was my daughter's first Mother's Day but still, I was expecting a bit more help from the men in my life - one of whom didn't even show up as he somehow misunderstood the order of the day and thought he was coming for dinner. Oh well, I think my daughter appreciated it. This one gets an A for the food (if I do say so myself) and the chance to make my girl's day special and a D- for having to cook and clean up on a day when I'm not supposed to have to do any of that stuff.
Day Three - My confused son wanted to make it up to me so he showed up today, very contrite and eager to show me just how much he cared. He brought me a card with a heartfelt note inside, took me to lunch, spent several hours tooling around Costco and Walmart, and even made time to pop in on the sister he had failed to wish a happy first Mother's Day (hey, she wasn't his mother). This last hurrah rates a B after deducting a few points for my son's late arrival.
When he backed out of the driveway, I felt nothing but relief that the next Mother's Day was 364 days away. After all these years, you would think I would know that it never lives up to the unrealistic expectations foisted on us by greeting cards and sitcoms. I've rarely gotten breakfast in bed (too messy), I've been disappointed in every over-priced brunch I've ever eaten, and I don't want or need anymore stuff proclaiming my position as world's greatest mom. I may have a momentary twinge of self-pity when I don't receive the pampering I mistakenly believe every other mother is receiving while I'm loading the dishwasher but I know in my heart that the moments to savor are the ones that happen on every other day of the year not singled out as Mother's Day.
And I'm lucky enough to have a family that gives me plenty of those - enough for me to get through every second Sunday in May that doesn't go exactly as I would like it to.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Something Special
Last week, in the hallowed pages of People magazine, I read an article about Hilary Duff. If you don't know who the heck she is, you're probably over thirty and don't make a habit of tuning in to the Disney channel. Anyway, she's out there promoting a new television series as well as speaking "candidly" about the break-up of her marriage. Recalling the recent "conscious uncoupling" of another Hollywood couple, she goes on and on about how she and her husband had given it their best shot, realized they weren't who they used to be, and decided to part as friends. All very civilized (although I'm pretty sure their three year-old son won't see it that way); all very honest and mature; all very hard-fought (they did make it to their fifth anniversary, after all).
So why did I find her words so infuriating?
As someone who's been married for more than three decades, I can safely state that my husband and I are no longer who we used to be. (Thank God). I can also confirm the fact that we have fallen in and out of love with one another at least 187 times. If we had thrown in the towel during any one of those "down" times (and believe me, I thought about it once or twice), who knows where we would be today. He might be tooling around Europe with some supermodel and I might be sharing a fireplace chat with that handsome devil I met on that Our Time dating site but that's beside the point. And even if we had managed to carve out some new lives for ourselves, I know one thing - we'd be all the poorer for it.
This week, my parents will celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary. Yes, you read that correctly. Sixty-five. When they said "I do", there was no such thing as TV, women still did their housework in dresses, and the civil rights movement was still a decade away. They have survived countless changes of address, the ups and downs of parenthood, various illnesses, and retirement. They have remained partners for more than six decades for one simple reason - because they wanted to; because they never even imagined an alternative. They had stood in front of family and friends and said "forever" and they meant it.
Yesterday, when our family celebrated this monumental achievement, it didn't take much for any of us to realize how grateful we were that they hadn't "given it their best shot" and walked away. As we poured over photographs of their life together, all of us who owed our very existence to their partnership couldn't help but be in awe of the rich history they had created; of the amazing tapestry of their life spent loving (and every now and then hating) one another.
Together. Through it all. For better or worse. Till death do they part.
So why did I find her words so infuriating?
As someone who's been married for more than three decades, I can safely state that my husband and I are no longer who we used to be. (Thank God). I can also confirm the fact that we have fallen in and out of love with one another at least 187 times. If we had thrown in the towel during any one of those "down" times (and believe me, I thought about it once or twice), who knows where we would be today. He might be tooling around Europe with some supermodel and I might be sharing a fireplace chat with that handsome devil I met on that Our Time dating site but that's beside the point. And even if we had managed to carve out some new lives for ourselves, I know one thing - we'd be all the poorer for it.
This week, my parents will celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary. Yes, you read that correctly. Sixty-five. When they said "I do", there was no such thing as TV, women still did their housework in dresses, and the civil rights movement was still a decade away. They have survived countless changes of address, the ups and downs of parenthood, various illnesses, and retirement. They have remained partners for more than six decades for one simple reason - because they wanted to; because they never even imagined an alternative. They had stood in front of family and friends and said "forever" and they meant it.
Yesterday, when our family celebrated this monumental achievement, it didn't take much for any of us to realize how grateful we were that they hadn't "given it their best shot" and walked away. As we poured over photographs of their life together, all of us who owed our very existence to their partnership couldn't help but be in awe of the rich history they had created; of the amazing tapestry of their life spent loving (and every now and then hating) one another.
Together. Through it all. For better or worse. Till death do they part.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Hittin' the Road
One of the best things about having grown children who have flown the coop is the freedom their father and I now have to drop everything, pack a bag, and head out of town. Our latest adventure was a quick four-day trip down to Kentucky to do some work on the lake home we are hoping to sell. We knew going in that this was not going to be a "vacation" but anytime I throw my clothes in a suitcase and check into a hotel (hello, Super 8) is a holiday to me.
An eight hour car ride (especially one without the radio) tells you a lot about your relationship. By the time we stopped for lunch, our conversations had already covered everything from our adorable grandson (okay, his antics kept us going for at least a hundred miles) to the nation's rising racial tensions. By the time we reached our destination, it was obvious that even after thirty-one years, we still had not run out of things to talk (or laugh) about.
For the next two days we raked, cut bushes, moved furniture, painted, sucked up endless varieties of bugs, and packed as many boxes as our humble SUV could handle. We also basked in the first really warm days of Spring, hung out at the local marina, chatted with our friendly neighbors, took a walk in the forest, ate Chinese, and shared a kiss under an impossibly starry sky.
Yep. Being an empty-nester has its moments.
An eight hour car ride (especially one without the radio) tells you a lot about your relationship. By the time we stopped for lunch, our conversations had already covered everything from our adorable grandson (okay, his antics kept us going for at least a hundred miles) to the nation's rising racial tensions. By the time we reached our destination, it was obvious that even after thirty-one years, we still had not run out of things to talk (or laugh) about.
For the next two days we raked, cut bushes, moved furniture, painted, sucked up endless varieties of bugs, and packed as many boxes as our humble SUV could handle. We also basked in the first really warm days of Spring, hung out at the local marina, chatted with our friendly neighbors, took a walk in the forest, ate Chinese, and shared a kiss under an impossibly starry sky.
Yep. Being an empty-nester has its moments.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Take Me Away
For those of you who maintained a relatively conscious state during the Seventies (those of you eager to point out you were toddlers in that decade, I hate you), you're sure to remember that ubiquitous commercial for Calgon; the one where some harried woman was imploring her box of bubble bath to get her the heck out of there. That's roughly where I'm at - except I'm not putting my faith in some stinkin' soap product to do the trick. No, my escape has nothing to do with soaking in a hot tub (unless it's on the top deck of a cruise ship); it has everything to do with physically being transported to another place.
Hello. I'm Coleen and I'm a travelholic.
Not that my addiction is any kind of a secret. My mailbox is inundated on a daily basis with brochures from every known cruise operator detailing the latest Rhine River itineraries or round-the-world sailing bargains. Yesterday, I even got one from Linblad Expeditions, inviting me to explore the Antartic. (Clearly, this company has no idea who they're dealing with. Spending thousands of dollars to freeze my ass off when I can do it here for free is something that is never going to happen.)
My AOL (please don't laugh) inbox is full of e-mails from Cruise Critic.com, Tripadvisor, and Kayak. My Facebook ads are continually reminding me of the latest price reduction on a cruise to the Greek islands or the fact that there is only one more room left at that cute little hotel in Orvieto. And how do I go to sleep at night? Do my eyes start to close as I devour the latest bestseller? Not nearly as often as they used to. More often than not, I'm pouring over some Rick Steves' guidebook telling me how to get out of the port in Ajaccio, Corsica or finding out the optimum way to get from Perugia to Parma.
It's a sickness and I know it but I don't care. I love that I can now discover charming seaside hotels in far-flung places from the comfort of my own bedroom. I relish in the opportunity to find the "locals" way to get from Point A to Point B instead of signing up with some impersonal touring operator. Most of all, I love the fact that I'm always in the middle of planning my next trip, no matter how far in the future it may be.
It may be a sickness but I'm having so much fun I have no interest in finding a cure.
Hello. I'm Coleen and I'm a travelholic.
Not that my addiction is any kind of a secret. My mailbox is inundated on a daily basis with brochures from every known cruise operator detailing the latest Rhine River itineraries or round-the-world sailing bargains. Yesterday, I even got one from Linblad Expeditions, inviting me to explore the Antartic. (Clearly, this company has no idea who they're dealing with. Spending thousands of dollars to freeze my ass off when I can do it here for free is something that is never going to happen.)
My AOL (please don't laugh) inbox is full of e-mails from Cruise Critic.com, Tripadvisor, and Kayak. My Facebook ads are continually reminding me of the latest price reduction on a cruise to the Greek islands or the fact that there is only one more room left at that cute little hotel in Orvieto. And how do I go to sleep at night? Do my eyes start to close as I devour the latest bestseller? Not nearly as often as they used to. More often than not, I'm pouring over some Rick Steves' guidebook telling me how to get out of the port in Ajaccio, Corsica or finding out the optimum way to get from Perugia to Parma.
It's a sickness and I know it but I don't care. I love that I can now discover charming seaside hotels in far-flung places from the comfort of my own bedroom. I relish in the opportunity to find the "locals" way to get from Point A to Point B instead of signing up with some impersonal touring operator. Most of all, I love the fact that I'm always in the middle of planning my next trip, no matter how far in the future it may be.
It may be a sickness but I'm having so much fun I have no interest in finding a cure.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Stepping Back
When one of your adult children hits a rough patch, it can be tough to come up with the appropriate response .As a mother, it's so easy to want to jump in and shield your kids from any financial/emotional/physical discomfort that might come their way but how often should we? While Beverly Goldberg (the original Smother - if you're not watching The Goldbergs, this reference will mean nothing to you) would say always and forever, I'm coming to the painful realization that we're not doing our kids any favors when we make a habit of heading things off at the pass. (OMG. I am so old that I'm now quoting things that Edgar Buchanan would say in a John Wayne western).
What I'm struggling with is this: Does parental intervention really help our little darlings in any positive way? Are we just coming to the rescue to make ourselves feel better? And, more importantly, please tell me how to get a good night's sleep when I dig in and let one of them sink or swim without throwing them a line?
Money is especially tricky. If I have it and one of my kids doesn't, it seems like such a no-brainer to break out that check book. But what does that teach them? That it's okay to buy stuff they can't afford; that it's okay to shirk their responsibilities and risk ruining their good credit; that it's acceptable to expect to be bailed out when they've dug themselves into a giant hole? Not exactly a parental legacy worth carving into one's tombstone.
I guess it's all about common sense; possessing the ability to be more selective in the times and manner I offer my help. While I'm not quite the pushover (read enabler) that I used to be, I'm nowhere near the "you're an adult, it's time for you to figure it out" kind of gal that I aspire to. When it's crunch time my kids undoubtedly know that I'll be there to lend a helping hand or offer words of advice (unless I'm cruising the Mediterranean) but I also want them to realize they have the strength and ability to fend for themselves.
They may never have to worry about sleeping under a cold, snowy bridge but they just might have to find out what the world is like without an iPhone.
What I'm struggling with is this: Does parental intervention really help our little darlings in any positive way? Are we just coming to the rescue to make ourselves feel better? And, more importantly, please tell me how to get a good night's sleep when I dig in and let one of them sink or swim without throwing them a line?
Money is especially tricky. If I have it and one of my kids doesn't, it seems like such a no-brainer to break out that check book. But what does that teach them? That it's okay to buy stuff they can't afford; that it's okay to shirk their responsibilities and risk ruining their good credit; that it's acceptable to expect to be bailed out when they've dug themselves into a giant hole? Not exactly a parental legacy worth carving into one's tombstone.
I guess it's all about common sense; possessing the ability to be more selective in the times and manner I offer my help. While I'm not quite the pushover (read enabler) that I used to be, I'm nowhere near the "you're an adult, it's time for you to figure it out" kind of gal that I aspire to. When it's crunch time my kids undoubtedly know that I'll be there to lend a helping hand or offer words of advice (unless I'm cruising the Mediterranean) but I also want them to realize they have the strength and ability to fend for themselves.
They may never have to worry about sleeping under a cold, snowy bridge but they just might have to find out what the world is like without an iPhone.
Monday, March 16, 2015
The Circle Game
Joni Mitchell wrote a lot of great songs about life and love. One of my favorites was The Circle Game with lyrics extolling the joys and frustrations of living on Planet Earth for seventy or eighty years. If you're younger than I am (and who isn't?) you might not know (or in my case remember) the words: And the seasons, they go round and round. And the painted ponies go up and down. We're captive on a carousel of time. We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came. And go round and round and round in the circle game. (Just writing those words makes me want to go dig out my copy of Ladies of the Canyon.)
I was thinking of that song yesterday when I helped host a baby shower for one of my closest friend's daughter. She (and the other two hostesses) have been three of God's greatest blessings in my life for more than thirty years. As I watched her daughter gleefully open all the gifts that would soon clothe/educate/amuse her little one, I couldn't help thinking about how quickly the time had gone. Had it really been twenty-something years since my friends and I were the ones waddling around in maternity cloths? Had it truly been more than two decades since I was putting the finishing touches on the cake for my friend's baby shower instead of the cupcakes for this one? Could that really be my own daughter sitting on the floor tending to her six-month old son?
I know. I know. Time marches on. Time waits for no (wo)man. Everyone tells you how fast it all goes by (even if they don't say it quite as eloquently as Ms. Mitchell) but nothing really prepares you for it. And even though I made sure to add some pearls of wisdom about savoring every moment of her parenthood journey in my message to the mommy-to-be, I know it won't do much good.
She won't really appreciate it until she's the one watching her own daughter open up those presents.
I was thinking of that song yesterday when I helped host a baby shower for one of my closest friend's daughter. She (and the other two hostesses) have been three of God's greatest blessings in my life for more than thirty years. As I watched her daughter gleefully open all the gifts that would soon clothe/educate/amuse her little one, I couldn't help thinking about how quickly the time had gone. Had it really been twenty-something years since my friends and I were the ones waddling around in maternity cloths? Had it truly been more than two decades since I was putting the finishing touches on the cake for my friend's baby shower instead of the cupcakes for this one? Could that really be my own daughter sitting on the floor tending to her six-month old son?
I know. I know. Time marches on. Time waits for no (wo)man. Everyone tells you how fast it all goes by (even if they don't say it quite as eloquently as Ms. Mitchell) but nothing really prepares you for it. And even though I made sure to add some pearls of wisdom about savoring every moment of her parenthood journey in my message to the mommy-to-be, I know it won't do much good.
She won't really appreciate it until she's the one watching her own daughter open up those presents.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Tossin' My Cookies
When Matthew Perry was looking for something to do after his million dollar per episode stint on Friends was coming to an end, he starred in a cute movie that I loved and all the critics hated called Fools Rush In. He played an uptight architect who had a one night stand with fiery Selma Hayek and ended up falling in love with her after finding out they were going to be parents. It wasn't up for any Oscars that year but I thought it was a fun way to while away a couple of hours with a bucket of popcorn.
You may be wondering why I'm bringing up some obscure little romcom but something happened to me the other day that reminded me of one of the things Selma's character kept saying to Matthew's - that there were "signs" everywhere, if only we paid attention to them. Of course, Matthew thought she was loopy right up until the time he realized that she was "everything he never knew he always wanted". If you haven't guessed, I like sappy movies where the girl gets the guy and everybody lives happily ever after. So shoot me.
Back to the sign thing. What was mine, you ask? Well, I had succumbed to the lure of McDonald's drive-thru and ordered not only a burger and fries but a couple of chocolate chip cookies to boot. After polishing off my oh-so- nutritious dinner, I ran into Marshalls to return something, tossing my McDonald's bag into the trash can outside. It wasn't until I was deep into browsing through the clearance rack that I realized the horror of what I had just done - my yummy chocolate chip cookies were still in that bag, now on the bottom of an icy-cold garbage can.
After briefly considering a little discreet dumpster diving, I remembered what Selma said. This was a sign. It had to be. God did not want me to have those cookies. He knows that I've been trying to cut back on sugar and was doing his best to save me from myself by having my absent-minded brain throw out a bag containing two perfectly good (and possibly still warm) cookies. Now what? Was I going to bow to the wisdom and possible intervention of a higher power, taking the hint to go home and eat an apple instead? Or was I going to slink my way back to the nearest McDonalds to replace my poor fallen cookies?
What do you think?
You may be wondering why I'm bringing up some obscure little romcom but something happened to me the other day that reminded me of one of the things Selma's character kept saying to Matthew's - that there were "signs" everywhere, if only we paid attention to them. Of course, Matthew thought she was loopy right up until the time he realized that she was "everything he never knew he always wanted". If you haven't guessed, I like sappy movies where the girl gets the guy and everybody lives happily ever after. So shoot me.
Back to the sign thing. What was mine, you ask? Well, I had succumbed to the lure of McDonald's drive-thru and ordered not only a burger and fries but a couple of chocolate chip cookies to boot. After polishing off my oh-so- nutritious dinner, I ran into Marshalls to return something, tossing my McDonald's bag into the trash can outside. It wasn't until I was deep into browsing through the clearance rack that I realized the horror of what I had just done - my yummy chocolate chip cookies were still in that bag, now on the bottom of an icy-cold garbage can.
After briefly considering a little discreet dumpster diving, I remembered what Selma said. This was a sign. It had to be. God did not want me to have those cookies. He knows that I've been trying to cut back on sugar and was doing his best to save me from myself by having my absent-minded brain throw out a bag containing two perfectly good (and possibly still warm) cookies. Now what? Was I going to bow to the wisdom and possible intervention of a higher power, taking the hint to go home and eat an apple instead? Or was I going to slink my way back to the nearest McDonalds to replace my poor fallen cookies?
What do you think?
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Why Ya Gotta Be So Mean?
I used to live in England, a country known for its dreary weather, love of cricket, and questionable cuisine. While I never came to appreciate those things, I did develop a fondness for the English sense of propriety, unfailing politeness and overall civility. While I only shared the island for a couple of years, I found my hosts to be level-headed citizens who would have rather eaten glass than offend anyone with a harsh word and had the decency to pronounce everything "lovely" even when it was far from it.
Not exactly the way we do things around here, is it?
Last week, my sister and I (in two separate incidents) were treated to verbal (and, in my sister's case, written) abuse by someone who escalated a situation WAY beyond where it had any right to go. My sister, having accidentally bumped some Neanderthal's truck door with her car door after it had been grabbed by the wind, was treated to a nasty tirade AND a note on her windshield that invoked the dreaded C-word. My encounter was at work and involved a clearly bi-polar, off-her-meds customer who bit my head off when I inquired if she needed my help.
I don't get it. I know people can have a bad day. I know people can be burdened with stress and anxiety. I know there are underlying causes that provoke someone to lose their temper. But why is it happening so frequently these days? Why is everyone on such a short fuse; blowing everything out of proportion? Why can't we all calm down a little and be a whole lot kinder to one another?
If something doesn't change, I may just have to pack up my family and head back across the pond. I could use a little "That would be lovely" right now.
Not exactly the way we do things around here, is it?
Last week, my sister and I (in two separate incidents) were treated to verbal (and, in my sister's case, written) abuse by someone who escalated a situation WAY beyond where it had any right to go. My sister, having accidentally bumped some Neanderthal's truck door with her car door after it had been grabbed by the wind, was treated to a nasty tirade AND a note on her windshield that invoked the dreaded C-word. My encounter was at work and involved a clearly bi-polar, off-her-meds customer who bit my head off when I inquired if she needed my help.
I don't get it. I know people can have a bad day. I know people can be burdened with stress and anxiety. I know there are underlying causes that provoke someone to lose their temper. But why is it happening so frequently these days? Why is everyone on such a short fuse; blowing everything out of proportion? Why can't we all calm down a little and be a whole lot kinder to one another?
If something doesn't change, I may just have to pack up my family and head back across the pond. I could use a little "That would be lovely" right now.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Six (and a Baby), Please
Sometimes, especially when I'm pouring over boxes of old photos, I ache for the days when my children were toddlers; when they would look at me as if I had invented ice-cream or hugged me with the ferocity of a soldier returning from the front lines. Those days are long gone but whenever that melancholy strikes I know that all I have to do is plug in one of our old family videos to be reminded of how cute they were; how sweet they were; how much fun they were. But once I have a sniffle or two tripping down memory lane, I inevitably start to think about how equally great it is that these adorable creatures are now adults.
Saturday night was one of those times I was grateful those toddler days are over. My daughter, knowing that I had to work from 12-5, suggested that we meet for dinner afterward at one of our favorite neighborhood spots, a place we used to frequent quite a bit when she was younger but hadn't visited for awhile. As someone who used to love to cook but now looks for any opportunity not to have to prep/cook/clean up, I jumped at the chance. By the time we were through talking, our night out was expanded to include our two hubbies, my parents, and Boo Bear (aka my adorable grandson).
We got there early (which was the only sensible way to hit a popular spot on a Saturday night with a baby). Before the Chianti was opened, we were already digging into a platter of bruschetta, fried ravioli and calamari. Soups and salads were next, accompanied by offers of "taste this" and a game of pass the baby. By the time our oversized bowls of pasta arrived, we were ready to ask for doggie bags (although my son-in-law didn't seem to have much trouble with that huge order of Chicken Parm). As I sat there, appreciating the wonderful couple who had given me life, the amazing woman I had brought into this world, and the sweet baby she had given birth to, all was right with the world.
And that ravioli with pesto cream sauce didn't hurt either.
Saturday night was one of those times I was grateful those toddler days are over. My daughter, knowing that I had to work from 12-5, suggested that we meet for dinner afterward at one of our favorite neighborhood spots, a place we used to frequent quite a bit when she was younger but hadn't visited for awhile. As someone who used to love to cook but now looks for any opportunity not to have to prep/cook/clean up, I jumped at the chance. By the time we were through talking, our night out was expanded to include our two hubbies, my parents, and Boo Bear (aka my adorable grandson).
We got there early (which was the only sensible way to hit a popular spot on a Saturday night with a baby). Before the Chianti was opened, we were already digging into a platter of bruschetta, fried ravioli and calamari. Soups and salads were next, accompanied by offers of "taste this" and a game of pass the baby. By the time our oversized bowls of pasta arrived, we were ready to ask for doggie bags (although my son-in-law didn't seem to have much trouble with that huge order of Chicken Parm). As I sat there, appreciating the wonderful couple who had given me life, the amazing woman I had brought into this world, and the sweet baby she had given birth to, all was right with the world.
And that ravioli with pesto cream sauce didn't hurt either.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Snow Daze
Something happens to me whenever we get a heavy snowfall like the one we got on Super Bowl Sunday - I turn into a pajama-wearing, donut-eating, binge-watching slug. My husband, on the other hand, is none of those things. He's unfailingly up at the crack of dawn, tackling the driveway with his trusty shovel. (I have given up trying to entice him to bring our snowblower up from its cobweb-encrusted corner of the basement). While I'm ready for a nap under the nearest down comforter, he's jumping around like a little kid, invigorated by the single digit temperatures, challenged by the blustery winds that blow his carefully mounded snow piles back in his face, and grateful for the chance to get another frosty workout.
This particular storm, the fifth biggest snowfall in Chicago history, was no different. By the end of the afternoon, I was still parked on the couch appreciating yet another episode of Parenthood while he was putting the finishing touches on another massive snow fort (please keep in mind that our youngest child is twenty-six and our grandson is several months away from crawling before applauding his creative efforts). Every so often he attempted to pry me off the sofa with "enticing" offers of a trudge around the block or a snowball fight but I (and my rapidly expanding ass) remained steadfast. Look, I appreciate the frosty beauty of being dumped on by Mother Nature as much as the next guy but six decades of dealing with snowdrifts over my head and winds that whip through the heartiest long-underwear have tempered my enthusiasm. I will admit to a few pangs of guilt about not picking up a shovel and giving the poor guy a hand but after reminding myself of all the times I had to deal with that driveway on my own when he was off in sunny Singapore on business, I took another sip of hot chocolate and the feeling passed.
In the end, everybody got what they wanted. I ate an entire (small) can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls while I watched Novak Djokovic dispatch Andy Murray for the Australian Open title and my hubby ended up with the cleanest driveway on the cul-de-sac and a snow fort that resembled Windsor Castle.
Once again, proof that marriage is a beautiful thing.
This particular storm, the fifth biggest snowfall in Chicago history, was no different. By the end of the afternoon, I was still parked on the couch appreciating yet another episode of Parenthood while he was putting the finishing touches on another massive snow fort (please keep in mind that our youngest child is twenty-six and our grandson is several months away from crawling before applauding his creative efforts). Every so often he attempted to pry me off the sofa with "enticing" offers of a trudge around the block or a snowball fight but I (and my rapidly expanding ass) remained steadfast. Look, I appreciate the frosty beauty of being dumped on by Mother Nature as much as the next guy but six decades of dealing with snowdrifts over my head and winds that whip through the heartiest long-underwear have tempered my enthusiasm. I will admit to a few pangs of guilt about not picking up a shovel and giving the poor guy a hand but after reminding myself of all the times I had to deal with that driveway on my own when he was off in sunny Singapore on business, I took another sip of hot chocolate and the feeling passed.
In the end, everybody got what they wanted. I ate an entire (small) can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls while I watched Novak Djokovic dispatch Andy Murray for the Australian Open title and my hubby ended up with the cleanest driveway on the cul-de-sac and a snow fort that resembled Windsor Castle.
Once again, proof that marriage is a beautiful thing.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
While He Was Sleeping
Well, that New Year's resolution is shot to hell. No, not the one I made about regular exercise (although that one is teetering precariously). The one that has really been blown out of the water is the one I make every year - writing more often. Thanks to Christmas, my son's visit, an illness that will not die that has sapped every bit of energy I possess, and a trip to Mexico I have not written anything (including Christmas cards; sorry to all who enjoyed my pithy year end wrap-ups) in more than a month.
Pathetic.
It's not that I haven't had a wealth of material over the last thirty-three days. I could have waxed rhapsodically about the joys of spending two days a week with my beyond precious grandson, with a special chapter on the creative ways I manage to extricate myself off the floor (currently limited to variations of maneuvering myself to the nearest piece of furniture but soon to involve a small crane of some kind). I could also have detailed the joys of having my son back under our roof for the first time in four months with an entire paragraph dedicated to my shock and delight at his volunteering to join me for our church's Christmas Eve service. And then there was Mexico. What can I say about a seven day trip to paradise with six of the greatest friends on the planet taken during the coldest week of the year? Nothing. You don't won't to hear about it, do you? (But if you stop buy I'll be happy to show you a couple of the 1,147 pictures I took).
I could pull out the sympathy card. I am on my fifth box of Puffs. But who cares? Danielle Steel probably wrote an entire book every time she went into labor. And so what if I've been coughing loud enough to wake the neighbors (a couple of streets over). Who cares? Nora Roberts probably churned out her biggest bestseller when she had double pneumonia. No more excuses. I can do this. I can write this stupid blog once a week and I can finish editing that novel before I file for Social Security benefits. If nothing else, I can at least write something every time that sweet, adorable munchkin takes his naps every Tuesday and Thursday.
How much trouble can one little baby be?
Pathetic.
It's not that I haven't had a wealth of material over the last thirty-three days. I could have waxed rhapsodically about the joys of spending two days a week with my beyond precious grandson, with a special chapter on the creative ways I manage to extricate myself off the floor (currently limited to variations of maneuvering myself to the nearest piece of furniture but soon to involve a small crane of some kind). I could also have detailed the joys of having my son back under our roof for the first time in four months with an entire paragraph dedicated to my shock and delight at his volunteering to join me for our church's Christmas Eve service. And then there was Mexico. What can I say about a seven day trip to paradise with six of the greatest friends on the planet taken during the coldest week of the year? Nothing. You don't won't to hear about it, do you? (But if you stop buy I'll be happy to show you a couple of the 1,147 pictures I took).
I could pull out the sympathy card. I am on my fifth box of Puffs. But who cares? Danielle Steel probably wrote an entire book every time she went into labor. And so what if I've been coughing loud enough to wake the neighbors (a couple of streets over). Who cares? Nora Roberts probably churned out her biggest bestseller when she had double pneumonia. No more excuses. I can do this. I can write this stupid blog once a week and I can finish editing that novel before I file for Social Security benefits. If nothing else, I can at least write something every time that sweet, adorable munchkin takes his naps every Tuesday and Thursday.
How much trouble can one little baby be?
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