There are certain songs that, no matter how many times I hear them, bring me to tears. I Hope You Dance, a mother's anthem to her children, encouraging them not to "sit it out" but "dance" every chance they get, does me in every time. In My Daughter's Eyes by Martina McBride and Our Story Goes On from the musical Baby, sport lyrics that speak of the gratitude that comes with being a mom and both reduce me to a puddle whenever they pop up on the radio.
And then there's Goodnight, Saigon by Billy Joel.
Listening to a young soldier lament the horrors of the Vietnam war as the chorus chants "We said we'd all go down together" is the stuff of every mother's nightmares. Every time I hear it, I think of all the promising young men we've lost to wars; all the hopes and dreams that were vanquished by the stupidity of military conflict. But yesterday, as I listened again to the haunting lyrics, I was especially moved by the line "we promised our mothers we'd write" and I couldn't help thinking of all the moms who've sent their precious baby boys (or girls) off to fight, not knowing if they would ever get the chance to hold them in their arms again.
I honestly don't know how they do it.
Today is Memorial Day, a day we honor our military forces and all the brave men and women who have paid the ultimate price defending our freedom. I can't imagine what it would be like to be the mother of a soldier; to send my child off to Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan. I can't imagine the worry, the fear, and the sadness that would come with that task and, while I'm beyond grateful that I never had to make such a sacrifice, my heart breaks for those who have.
I'm glad I heard the song. It made me stop and think about who our country's real heroes should be. Forget about those vacuous celebrities who are spending millions of dollars to get married in some castle in Italy. Forget about the cheating sports stars who buy off their wives with ice cube-sized baubles. Forget about politicians who can't work for the greater good of the country because they're too busy trying to get re-elected.
In this celebrity-crazed world, it's easy to lose sight of who the real heroes are but the brave women who wait and pray for
their sons and daughters (and husbands) to return safely from their tours of
duty and the heroic men and women who have fought and continue to fight for freedom all over the world seem like a good place to start. They should have nothing but our unending admiration and respect (not to mention a Veteran's Administration that doesn't make them wait months to see a doctor).
One day on the calendar is not nearly enough.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Monday, May 19, 2014
Senior Year
If I won the lottery tomorrow, I'm pretty sure I would still be a regular customer at my local thrift stores. I'll be sure to confirm that assumption as soon as those damn ping-pong balls fall into line but until then, I'll be on the hunt for unique bargains anywhere I can find them.
It's not just purveyors of second-hand goods that get my blood pumping. Places like Marshall's and TJ Maxx were my mainstays long before they started having cool TV commercials featuring savvy twenty-somethings touting designer fashions at discount prices and the new flyers from Costco or Trader Joe's are my idea of scintillating reading material. I clip coupons (okay, I forget to bring them to the store but I do clip them), drive ten miles to save a couple of bucks on toilet paper, and head straight to the clearance rack in any store I enter.
With all that said, I have a great deal of trouble accepting one particular discount that has recently come my way. I was getting ready to check out at the local Goodwill store. I had an armful of Coldwater Creek and Banana Republic outcasts that were going to add up to less than the cost of a Target t-shirt when the youngster behind the desk asked me if I had my Goodwill frequent buyer card. When I replied I had one but didn't have it with me, he innocently responded that he "just wanted to mention it in case I was eligible for the Wednesday senior discount".
Talk about a mood killer. Here I was on a bargain hunter's high, getting designer duds for pennies on the dollar when, out of the blue, this kid shoots me down with his insinuation that I might be eligible for a senior discount. And it wasn't even the over 55 variety. It was 60. That little punk thought I looked 60. If it had been one of my bad hair days or one of my rushing out of the house without make-up days, I might have cut him some slack. But this was one of those "I just washed my hair and look pretty darn good" days. Or so I thought.
After confirming that I was indeed eligible for his stupid 15% discount, he packed my now tainted bargains into a bag, collected his $15.82 and wished me a nice day.
Too late.
It's not just purveyors of second-hand goods that get my blood pumping. Places like Marshall's and TJ Maxx were my mainstays long before they started having cool TV commercials featuring savvy twenty-somethings touting designer fashions at discount prices and the new flyers from Costco or Trader Joe's are my idea of scintillating reading material. I clip coupons (okay, I forget to bring them to the store but I do clip them), drive ten miles to save a couple of bucks on toilet paper, and head straight to the clearance rack in any store I enter.
With all that said, I have a great deal of trouble accepting one particular discount that has recently come my way. I was getting ready to check out at the local Goodwill store. I had an armful of Coldwater Creek and Banana Republic outcasts that were going to add up to less than the cost of a Target t-shirt when the youngster behind the desk asked me if I had my Goodwill frequent buyer card. When I replied I had one but didn't have it with me, he innocently responded that he "just wanted to mention it in case I was eligible for the Wednesday senior discount".
Talk about a mood killer. Here I was on a bargain hunter's high, getting designer duds for pennies on the dollar when, out of the blue, this kid shoots me down with his insinuation that I might be eligible for a senior discount. And it wasn't even the over 55 variety. It was 60. That little punk thought I looked 60. If it had been one of my bad hair days or one of my rushing out of the house without make-up days, I might have cut him some slack. But this was one of those "I just washed my hair and look pretty darn good" days. Or so I thought.
After confirming that I was indeed eligible for his stupid 15% discount, he packed my now tainted bargains into a bag, collected his $15.82 and wished me a nice day.
Too late.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Not So Great Expectations
Since yesterday was my 27th Mother's Day celebration, I had a pretty good idea how it would go down. I felt confident that I was not going to be whisked off in a limo for a relaxing day at the spa or be handed tickets for a three day culinary cruise to Bermuda. Maybe stuff like that really happens to the rich and famous (or wives with incredibly guilt-ridden husbands) but I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen to me. What I did expect was a couple of cards, maybe a flower or two and some heartfelt Facebook postings about "being the best mom ever".
I wasn't far off, except for the whole cooking my own breakfast thing. I didn't see that one coming.
With one of my kids (the boy who barely remembers Christmas) out of town, it fell to my pregnant daughter to take one for the team. She and her new hubby gave me a brightly-colored box filled with tiny slips of paper extolling my various virtues. While mine ("You bought me that cool bacon cooker") could hardly be compared to the list that Chelsea Clinton might have given Hillary ("Thanks for helping find Bin Laden"), it never hurts to hear your kids say nice things about you.
Once my son finally got home (after a nasty thunderstorm diverted his plane to Detroit), he promised me a lunch at the place of my choice, which I hastily collected this afternoon. With his imminent departure to the Pacific Time Zone looming, I'm not messing around. So I didn't get a mushy (or even funny) card from him (although I did get a sweet one from his girlfriend). I got something even
better - a sincere, "Love you" and pineapple/mango gelato. He's a man of few words but he knows about priorities.
Despite doing work than I wanted to yesterday (couldn't someone have handed me a glass of Sangria while I was making that bruschetta?), it turned out to be a very special day. And it didn't have anything to do with gifts, cards, or spa treatments. It had everything to do with getting the chance to be a part of my niece's very first Mother's Day. She, very much like her aunt, waited a long time to see her dream of becoming a mom come true and as I watched her dote on her adorable little guy, I felt transported back to those early days of motherhood; the days when you can't get enough sleep but don't really care; the days when you will do anything to provoke a laugh from a ten pound human being; the days when you thank God every fifteen seconds for bringing this tiny person into your life.
My daughter will be in those shoes next year. And I'll be promoted to "grandma" (or "Mimi" or "Oma" - I haven't decided yet).
With macaroni necklaces and handprint t-shirts in my future, who needs another pedicure?
I wasn't far off, except for the whole cooking my own breakfast thing. I didn't see that one coming.
With one of my kids (the boy who barely remembers Christmas) out of town, it fell to my pregnant daughter to take one for the team. She and her new hubby gave me a brightly-colored box filled with tiny slips of paper extolling my various virtues. While mine ("You bought me that cool bacon cooker") could hardly be compared to the list that Chelsea Clinton might have given Hillary ("Thanks for helping find Bin Laden"), it never hurts to hear your kids say nice things about you.
Once my son finally got home (after a nasty thunderstorm diverted his plane to Detroit), he promised me a lunch at the place of my choice, which I hastily collected this afternoon. With his imminent departure to the Pacific Time Zone looming, I'm not messing around. So I didn't get a mushy (or even funny) card from him (although I did get a sweet one from his girlfriend). I got something even
better - a sincere, "Love you" and pineapple/mango gelato. He's a man of few words but he knows about priorities.
Despite doing work than I wanted to yesterday (couldn't someone have handed me a glass of Sangria while I was making that bruschetta?), it turned out to be a very special day. And it didn't have anything to do with gifts, cards, or spa treatments. It had everything to do with getting the chance to be a part of my niece's very first Mother's Day. She, very much like her aunt, waited a long time to see her dream of becoming a mom come true and as I watched her dote on her adorable little guy, I felt transported back to those early days of motherhood; the days when you can't get enough sleep but don't really care; the days when you will do anything to provoke a laugh from a ten pound human being; the days when you thank God every fifteen seconds for bringing this tiny person into your life.
My daughter will be in those shoes next year. And I'll be promoted to "grandma" (or "Mimi" or "Oma" - I haven't decided yet).
With macaroni necklaces and handprint t-shirts in my future, who needs another pedicure?
Monday, May 5, 2014
A Tale of Two Siblings
Every time I happen to catch a snippet of the 19 Kids and Counting TV show, I can't help wondering what it would have been like to have had more siblings. Having just grown up with one sister, I can only imagine what life would have been like to share bedrooms/bathrooms/parents with a boatload of other kids.
I'm sure being part of a large family would have its ups (always having someone to hang out with, always having someone to blame) and downs (jockeying for attention, not being able to afford taking a big clan on vacation) but the idea of having an additional sibling or two gathered around the Christmas tree was one that always sounded pretty appealing.
And then there is reality.
While it would be nice if every family behaved as unselfishly as that Duggar brood, the truth is many families just don't get along. For one reason or another, siblings who had once been buddies sadly grow up to fight about money, parental responsibilities, material possessions and misplaced loyalties. They betray trusts, break promises, and neglect communication. They can be consumed with jealousy and greed, taking actions that break their families into a million little pieces.
When you hear about familial discord in the news, you can shake your head in disbelief. When it happens to people you care about, it breaks your heart. It also makes you stop and take stock of your own relationships.
I thank God every day for the unbreakable relationship I have with my one and only sibling (since I highly doubt that either one of my 84 year-old parents will provide me with another.) I know you can be certain of very little in this world (never getting another perm can safely claim a spot on my list) but I cannot envision any scenario that would break the bond I have with the wonderful woman I'm lucky enough to call my sister. No amount of money, no amount of stuff and no man (short of Ryan Reynolds) would be reason enough to jeopardize the relationship I have with her.
I only wish everyone in my life could be so fortunate.
I'm sure being part of a large family would have its ups (always having someone to hang out with, always having someone to blame) and downs (jockeying for attention, not being able to afford taking a big clan on vacation) but the idea of having an additional sibling or two gathered around the Christmas tree was one that always sounded pretty appealing.
And then there is reality.
While it would be nice if every family behaved as unselfishly as that Duggar brood, the truth is many families just don't get along. For one reason or another, siblings who had once been buddies sadly grow up to fight about money, parental responsibilities, material possessions and misplaced loyalties. They betray trusts, break promises, and neglect communication. They can be consumed with jealousy and greed, taking actions that break their families into a million little pieces.
When you hear about familial discord in the news, you can shake your head in disbelief. When it happens to people you care about, it breaks your heart. It also makes you stop and take stock of your own relationships.
I thank God every day for the unbreakable relationship I have with my one and only sibling (since I highly doubt that either one of my 84 year-old parents will provide me with another.) I know you can be certain of very little in this world (never getting another perm can safely claim a spot on my list) but I cannot envision any scenario that would break the bond I have with the wonderful woman I'm lucky enough to call my sister. No amount of money, no amount of stuff and no man (short of Ryan Reynolds) would be reason enough to jeopardize the relationship I have with her.
I only wish everyone in my life could be so fortunate.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Elisabeth
I can still remember the first time I met her. I had traveled to Switzerland for Christmas to meet my boyfriend's family. It was the first time I had spent Christmas away from my own family and my anxiety levels were off the charts as we rode from the airport to their home outside Zurich. Would they like me? Would I like them? Would we have anything in common? Would we be able to communicate? And, most importantly, would I come back from this trip with a ring on my finger?
She was waiting in the kitchen. Tall, impossibly thin, with perfectly coiffed jet black hair and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen, she interrupted whatever cooking, baking, canning, cleaning she was up to, smiled warmly, and welcomed me.
I have never been so intimidated by anyone in my life. . .before or since.
My mother-in-law, who passed away yesterday, was truly one of a kind. In her eighty-nine years on earth she worked as a nurse, a seamstress, and a writer. Her home could have (and should have) graced the pages of House Beautiful. She almost single-handedly raised three boys, maintained a garden that would have turned Martha Stewart green with envy, and created culinary dishes worthy of a five star chef.
No wonder I was intimidated.
Our first encounter set the stage for the next thirty years. Seeing a romantic New Year's Eve listening to church bells ring as we stood overlooking a twinkling Swiss village as the perfect opportunity to pop the question, I was devastated that my eventual husband hadn't gotten the memo. Turning to the only female within view, I poured my disappointed heart out to my future mother-in-law only to have her respond with the less than sympathetic, "Last year he brought Nancy, this year he brought you, who knows who he'll bring next year."
That was my mother-in-law - always direct, always honest, rarely tactful. She spoke her mind and had an opinion about everything, which often led to someone's (my) feelings getting hurt. But over time, I saw her softer side and after I presented her with the one thing she always wanted, a baby girl, my standing in her eyes instantly elevated.
Over thirty years we grew to understand one another; to accept one another; to appreciate one another. Yes, she could be tough, distant, and stubborn. Yes, she could be infuriating and frustrating. But she could also be incredibly generous, extremely loyal, and funny as hell. Oh, and there was one other thing she never was. She was never, ever boring.
So, get ready, God. Put up your feet and grab a bowl of popcorn. Elisabeth is on her way. Be sure to ask her to make you one of her famous plum kuchen. You won't be disappointed.
She was waiting in the kitchen. Tall, impossibly thin, with perfectly coiffed jet black hair and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen, she interrupted whatever cooking, baking, canning, cleaning she was up to, smiled warmly, and welcomed me.
I have never been so intimidated by anyone in my life. . .before or since.
My mother-in-law, who passed away yesterday, was truly one of a kind. In her eighty-nine years on earth she worked as a nurse, a seamstress, and a writer. Her home could have (and should have) graced the pages of House Beautiful. She almost single-handedly raised three boys, maintained a garden that would have turned Martha Stewart green with envy, and created culinary dishes worthy of a five star chef.
No wonder I was intimidated.
Our first encounter set the stage for the next thirty years. Seeing a romantic New Year's Eve listening to church bells ring as we stood overlooking a twinkling Swiss village as the perfect opportunity to pop the question, I was devastated that my eventual husband hadn't gotten the memo. Turning to the only female within view, I poured my disappointed heart out to my future mother-in-law only to have her respond with the less than sympathetic, "Last year he brought Nancy, this year he brought you, who knows who he'll bring next year."
That was my mother-in-law - always direct, always honest, rarely tactful. She spoke her mind and had an opinion about everything, which often led to someone's (my) feelings getting hurt. But over time, I saw her softer side and after I presented her with the one thing she always wanted, a baby girl, my standing in her eyes instantly elevated.
Over thirty years we grew to understand one another; to accept one another; to appreciate one another. Yes, she could be tough, distant, and stubborn. Yes, she could be infuriating and frustrating. But she could also be incredibly generous, extremely loyal, and funny as hell. Oh, and there was one other thing she never was. She was never, ever boring.
So, get ready, God. Put up your feet and grab a bowl of popcorn. Elisabeth is on her way. Be sure to ask her to make you one of her famous plum kuchen. You won't be disappointed.
Monday, April 21, 2014
And Two Shall Become One
It's hard to believe that our daughter will soon celebrate five months of wedded bliss. Seems like those champagne glasses were clinking just a couple of weeks ago. Although quite a bit of evidence remains that she once lived here (like that bedroom closet and the steady stream of mail with her name on it), she has moved most of her stuff out of the family homestead and settled happily into life as a married woman (and soon to be mom). It's hard not to have her around every day but I know she's found a partner that will love and care for her as long as he has breath in his body and who could ask for anything more than that?
The one thing I wasn't looking forward to dealing with once she said "I do" was having to share my child with another family. Oh, I didn't mind the idea that she would be having dinner or catching a movie with the in-laws every now and then, I just didn't want to haggle over who was going to get who for Thanksgiving or Christmas morning. I've watched my sister struggle with her sadness over empty holiday chairs and I knew I wasn't going to handle it very well. And the alternative? Melding the two families for holiday celebrations? Well, that worried me too. What if our traditions bit the dust? What if the new family's Thanksgiving stuffing sucked? Or, even worse, my girl liked it better than mine? Petty, I know, but this is the stuff that keeps me up nights.
Not to worry. Yesterday, the first big holiday since my daughter's wedding, we were invited to her in-laws for Easter dinner. Her second mama made a ham on the grill, laid out a beautiful table and welcomed not only my husband and me but our son, his girlfriend and my parents. Enjoying the first truly beautiful day of Spring, we sat out on their spacious deck, drank several glasses of wine, and shared our stories. We talked (and laughed) about our holiday traditions, our families, our jobs, and anything else that could comfortably be discussed in that kind of mixed company. (I'll have plenty of time to shock them with what I'm capable of talking about later.) It was surprisingly effortless and a whole lot more fun than I originally thought it would be.
And those traditions I was so worried about? I came armed with our world-famous Easter egg cookies and Mama #2 made her husband's favorite Polish sausage with sauerkraut (which my hubby eagerly devoured). I made a variation of my mom's revered mac and cheese and our go-to sweet potato recipe got a sensational make-over by the newlywed that had all of us asking for more.
When we packed up the leftovers and headed for home, it dawned on me that sharing my daughter with another generous, loving family that's almost as crazy about her as I am might not be nearly as hard as I feared it would be. The food was great, the conversation was lively and I didn't have a sink full of dishes to wash.
Always looking for that silver lining.
The one thing I wasn't looking forward to dealing with once she said "I do" was having to share my child with another family. Oh, I didn't mind the idea that she would be having dinner or catching a movie with the in-laws every now and then, I just didn't want to haggle over who was going to get who for Thanksgiving or Christmas morning. I've watched my sister struggle with her sadness over empty holiday chairs and I knew I wasn't going to handle it very well. And the alternative? Melding the two families for holiday celebrations? Well, that worried me too. What if our traditions bit the dust? What if the new family's Thanksgiving stuffing sucked? Or, even worse, my girl liked it better than mine? Petty, I know, but this is the stuff that keeps me up nights.
Not to worry. Yesterday, the first big holiday since my daughter's wedding, we were invited to her in-laws for Easter dinner. Her second mama made a ham on the grill, laid out a beautiful table and welcomed not only my husband and me but our son, his girlfriend and my parents. Enjoying the first truly beautiful day of Spring, we sat out on their spacious deck, drank several glasses of wine, and shared our stories. We talked (and laughed) about our holiday traditions, our families, our jobs, and anything else that could comfortably be discussed in that kind of mixed company. (I'll have plenty of time to shock them with what I'm capable of talking about later.) It was surprisingly effortless and a whole lot more fun than I originally thought it would be.
And those traditions I was so worried about? I came armed with our world-famous Easter egg cookies and Mama #2 made her husband's favorite Polish sausage with sauerkraut (which my hubby eagerly devoured). I made a variation of my mom's revered mac and cheese and our go-to sweet potato recipe got a sensational make-over by the newlywed that had all of us asking for more.
When we packed up the leftovers and headed for home, it dawned on me that sharing my daughter with another generous, loving family that's almost as crazy about her as I am might not be nearly as hard as I feared it would be. The food was great, the conversation was lively and I didn't have a sink full of dishes to wash.
Always looking for that silver lining.
Monday, April 14, 2014
You Cannot Be Serious
Forty-eight hours ago, my husband, son, and I were helping my parents with some yard work. The sun was shining, the temperatures were in the upper seventies and I was a little bit tempted to break out the shorts.
So glad I didn't fall for that one.
It is now snowing. Snowing. Two days ago I was actually contemplating baring very white, not to mention hairy, legs to the world and now I'm sitting here watching frozen dandruff fall out of the sky on my poor little daffodils.
When is it ever going to end?
My hometown has a lot going for it. The pizza is awesome (despite what Jon Stewart says), Lakeshore Drive is breathtaking, and The Magnificent Mile is, well, magnificent. If it wasn't perpetually entrenched in the throes of a new Ice Age, Chicago would be a great place to live. If San Diego's weather could somehow be miraculously imported (c'mon, global warming - where the heck are you?), maybe I could even stop daydreaming about living in Italy. Okay, maybe not but I'm frustrated enough at this point to entertain such an idea.
All I know is, I've had enough. And I know I'm not alone. Even the die-hard winter fans I know have had enough. Spring, stop teasing us and get your butt back here.
And stick around this time, will you? Please.
So glad I didn't fall for that one.
It is now snowing. Snowing. Two days ago I was actually contemplating baring very white, not to mention hairy, legs to the world and now I'm sitting here watching frozen dandruff fall out of the sky on my poor little daffodils.
When is it ever going to end?
My hometown has a lot going for it. The pizza is awesome (despite what Jon Stewart says), Lakeshore Drive is breathtaking, and The Magnificent Mile is, well, magnificent. If it wasn't perpetually entrenched in the throes of a new Ice Age, Chicago would be a great place to live. If San Diego's weather could somehow be miraculously imported (c'mon, global warming - where the heck are you?), maybe I could even stop daydreaming about living in Italy. Okay, maybe not but I'm frustrated enough at this point to entertain such an idea.
All I know is, I've had enough. And I know I'm not alone. Even the die-hard winter fans I know have had enough. Spring, stop teasing us and get your butt back here.
And stick around this time, will you? Please.
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