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.
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