I Miss That Damn Rabbit!

Another holiday over. More time to wax rhapsodically about how much more fun it was when the kids were small. Easter was one of those holidays that had a lot of traditions in our family. Like everyone else we colored eggs, visited the giant bunny at the mall and baked a ham. Our unique activity was making up a batch of Easter themed butter cookies and painting them with pastel-colored frosting. My sister and I started this tradition when our kids were born and all of them seemed to enjoy it (especially after they figured out they could eat the paint!). Now, of course, no one but my ten year-old nephew is interested in the cookie painting so that little activity was scratched for this year. I couldn't help myself, however, from making a couple of pathetic baskets for my twenty-one and twenty-three year old "children", all the while remembering the fun stuff I used to find to surprise them. I even boiled a dozen eggs and coerced them both (as well as my son's girlfriend) into decorating them. I've never seen so many eyes roll at once, (although I swear I saw a secret hint of delight at their finished projects). My husband couldn't believe I was actually doing any of this. "Let it go", he said (more than once). But, like most moms, I just can't. The best I can do is keep my holiday mania on a low simmer until some eager, smiling, appreciative faces that call me "Nana" show up on the scene.

Here's the Dish

I am a reasonable person. Honest. I swear I'm not harboring lofty expectations and I tend to forgive transgressions relatively quickly. I accept the fact that life gets chaotic and that normal, everyday tasks can be often overlooked or neglected. But there is one thing that I do not understand about the behavior of my beloved family. Maybe there's someone out there who can enlighten me. Here's my question. WHY CAN'T ANYONE PUT THEIR DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER!!!

It seems like such a no-brainer. A lovely little machine occupies a small enclave in the kitchen, just waiting there with one job to do. All you have to do is open the door and find an empty spot for your dirty dishes. Our new machine is so hard-working, you don't even have to rinse the offending food particles away. You do, however, have to put the dish inside the machine. As easy as all this sounds, I constantly find plates on the counter, bowls in the family room, glasses in the sink. It seems I find china and cutlery everywhere except where they should be ending up and it's starting to send me over the edge. I'm all about the presentation when it comes to food but I'm seriously considering switching to paper plates and cups. Oh, wait. Who am I kidding? What are the odds of those actually finding their way into the garbage can?

I Want My Mommy

There's something about getting really sick that brings out your inner child. Last week, when I spent a good deal of my time praying to the porcelain goddess, was one of those times. My mom was always at her best during those times I needed her most. She'd stand at the ready with a cool washcloth for my forehead and a glass of ginger ale, undeterred by the grossness before her. As I knelt on the bathroom floor, I couldn't help thinking how much I missed being taken care of like that. Oh sure, my husband brought me chicken soup and extra blankets. My kids, proving to be half as self-centered as I often accuse them of being, offered to go shopping for whatever I needed, make me jello or clean the kitchen. They were all great but they weren't my mom. Now living forty-five minutes away, she did offer to come if I needed her but I'm pretty sure that didn't include holding my hair back and wiping my forehead every time I visited the bathroom which was exactly what I was missing. It never ceases to amaze me what we hold precious from our childhood. Sometimes it's the most mundane, forgettable occurrences that end up meaning the most. That's why I'm so glad I was able to be there for so much of my children's early years. I threw out a pretty wide net; it would be hard for them not to remember at least a few nice things I did for them. And if this ritual turns out to be one of them, my cool cloth and warm ginger ale will be standing by.

Facing Facebook

I've always been a late bloomer so the fact that I've just recently become a member of the Facebook community should not be a shocker. While everyone else is off twittering, I've been busy plastering my vacation photos and updates on a website I should have been a part of years ago. I honestly don't know what took me so long (besides my inherent laziness and an abhorence of the internet in general). In a lot of ways, this should have been a no brainer. My large extended family is spread out all over the U.S. so unless one of them is picked up for a double homicide or nominated for an Oscar, it's hard to keep track of what they're all up to. The only problem now seems to be having the privledge of knowing EVERYTHING they're all up to. Do I really want to know that cousin Tim has a migraine that's making him suicidal or that Aunt Milly's best friend won the big prize at bingo last Saturday? I think not. I love them all but can't we save the inconsequential stuff for the next reunion when we have 72 hours to kill? On the plus side, within minutes of setting up shop, I was greeted by the smiling face of one of my oldest friends, asking when we could get together. After a couple of hours of faceless Facebooking, I took the bait. "Would tomorrow be too soon?"

waiting for the touchdown dance

Okay, I haven't gotten off to a good start on this blog as I haven't written anything since Jan. 11! Wasn't my New Year's resolution to write more??? Anyway, I have a good excuse for the last few days at least. My 21 year old son had to have a needle biopsy on an enlarged lymph node in his neck. Needless to say, my mind goes directly to the most dire worst-case scenario and I'm back in full mother mode. There is no way this mothering thing is ever going to get any easier. And every time I'm silly enough to convince myself that I'm almost done with all the worrying involved in the tangled mess that is parenthood, I'm brought back to reality that nothing short of my demise will free me (and even then I'm not so sure). Seeing your child hooked up to IVs, enduring a painful procedure that you can't do a damn thing about humbles you. It's at those vulnerable moments that I can't help seeing him as the rambunctious five-year-old that jumped into my lap begging me to kiss his latest boo-boo to make it all better. That I could then and can't now is a killer.

Maybe India is On to Something

I've been praying for my daughter's future spouse for some time now but either God is not listening or he has a depraved sense of humor. My girlfriend, Linda, a devout Christian tells me that she began praying for her children's lifelong partners pretty much from the day they were born. Maybe I didn't start early enough but from the look of the potential candidates that are showing up on our doorstep, I think it's clear that it's time for my husband and I to take over the process. Forget about chemistry, forget about attraction. All we're asking for is a halfway intelligent employed individual with rudimentary hygiene to throw his hat into the ring. So far, her choices have left much to be desired and I am completely unwilling to even contemplate spending the next thirty Christmases with any of them. That's why I'm starting to research the idea of arranged marriages. I know it sounds archaic but I'm certain I could do a better job. And I'll do it for a lot less money than e-harmony or match.com. Funny thing is, my daughter seems to be warming to the idea. Whenever I mention it, she challenges me to "Bring it". So now all I need are a few applicants for the very desirable position of my future son-in-law. Resumes are currently being accepted.

Merry New Year

Well, this year our children weren't the only ones ringing in the new year in a festive environment. Translation: we broke tradition (that being extreme anti-socialism and laziness) and went to a party. The gathering was just ten minutes away which gave us little excuse not to ditch the pajama pants and go hang out with some grown-ups. The pressure was on. Could we make it to midnight or would we have to bail after the ball dropped in Times Square? It was touch and go but thanks to our gracious hosts (who practically barred the door), Daniel and I welcomed the New Year together at midnight CST for the first time in several years. While I was dreading leaving the house (hey, it was below zero) and walking into a house full of strangers, I have to admit I actually had a good time. I met some warm, intelligent people, saw the end of the Blackhawks game on a screen that was bigger than the one at my local theater and stuffed myself with the best shrimp I've had since I last visited San Francisco. All in all, not a bad way to ring in two thousand ten. Or is it twenty ten? I still haven't decided.