Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho

Now that my lifelong job of being a mom is winding down, you would think that I have a lot more time to myself. Funny, I don't. I always imagined my post-menopausal years to be filled with travel, volunteering and the occasional obligatory continuing education class. I thought it would be a time for both intellectual and spiritual growth. I was sure I would finally plow through a Chopin piece or master Italian. What my friendly crystal ball never revealed was an economic tsunami that would result in my husband's job loss and require me to return to nearly full-time employment.

It's not that I mind working. God knows, no job could ever be more taxing than the one I'm "retiring" from. I'm lucky enough to work at a local tennis club and my hours there are generally enjoyable, if not particularly well-paid. I get to share my days with others who enjoy an activity that I love and occasionally, I even get paid to play tennis. The problem is, I seem to be existing in a state of constant exhaustion which has forced me to face a simple fact - I was a lot younger the last time I did this. So now I'm working on a new scenario for my future. My current plan is to continue this blog, accumulate enough amusing slices of life to send to an agent and reap the rewards of a job I can do sitting down. If I can somehow churn out a bestseller, I might be able to swing the two things I desire most: a return trip to Italy and a chance to sleep past seven.

God Made a Mistake

Today is my anniversary. No, not my wedding anniversary. That one (our 27th) is in October. No, one year ago today I fell in love with a country. Last year, celebrating our 25th anniversary (okay, we were a little late), I finally set foot in a land I've been dreaming about for years. Italy.

It was supposed to happen a long time ago. When we were first married, living in England, we were scheduled to take a romantic vacation to Lake Maggiore (not far from George Clooney's humble abode). Newly pregnant after miscarrying I experienced complications and was advised not to fly. Reluctantly, our plans were cancelled but my hubby was quick to reassure me that it would be a short delay. I wish I would have asked him to clarify "short" because, despite two stints in Europe, we never did set foot on Italian soil until last April 13th.

There's not much in life that can live up to the hype of waiting for something for twenty-two years. Tack on another year and a half of planning, which included reading every guide book, studying the language and watching every Italian travel video our local library possesses, and you have a recipe for disappointment. Not even close. This trip was a life-changing event. Venice, Rome, Positano, Capri, Sorrento - places that only lived in my fantasies, are now the sites of the most memorable seventeen days of my live. To say I am obsessed with all things Italian is putting it mildly. Just ask my children. So now, one year later, I'm counting the days (as are my kids) until I can find a way to get back on that plane and reacquaint myself with the culture I should have been born into. Until then, I have seventeen hundred photos and a brain full of memories that will have to sustain me. Some days, that's almost enough.

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.