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