Car Wars

When our daughter, Jessica, turned sixteen seven years ago, we were determined not to spoil her with her own car. After all, her father and I didn't get handed the keys to anything on our sixteenth birthdays. No sir, I had to get a part-time job and earn the money to buy my own car and my husband rode his bike or took public transportation. (They have it rough in Switzerland). We weren't completely heartless. We understood that times were different, that jobs didn't pay the percentage of a new car that they used to. So we decided to compromise. We would purchase a reasonably priced car that Jess (and later her brother, Josh) would contribute a set amount monthly towards the payment, insurance and gas. We were confident that this would work and that we weren't being too indulgent when we forked over the cash to help our young'uns have wheels. Parenting mistake #9,472.

So now here we are. They are twenty-one and twenty-three and neither one of them has managed to scrape enough money together to purchase their own vehicle. Why should they? They have a what was once-upon-a-time nice Honda Civic that they have run into the ground at their disposal without the pesky payments. Oh sure, they've managed to contribute here and there (when they have jobs) to oil changes, new brakes, etc. but the luxury of dealing with your parents concerning payments and bills bears no resemblance to dealing with banks and insurance companies. And they can't begin to build any pride of ownership (as evidenced by the condition of the car) when they haven't struggled to pay for it. Worse yet, they can't co-ordinate who has to use the car when and someone inevitably ends up asking me for the keys to my car. At this point, since we're not going to be able to use this wisdom on any additional offspring, there can be only one solution. It's time to sell the car, let them split the proceeds and put down payments on their own cars. There's just one problem. They would still have to park them on our driveway.

Meeting of the Minds

Twenty-three years after becoming parents, Daniel and I finally scheduled our first family meeting. Granted, this is probably an idea that would have been more beneficial years ago but heck, we were darn proud of ourselves that we actually got all four of us in a room at the same time without the television on. This particular pow-wow was initiated due to an unfortunate incident with the car purchased by us for use by our kids. Somehow or another this detail (the fact that it's our car) seems to be continually overlooked by our children. When my husband looked at said vehicle on the driveway, he was appalled to see it looking like something out of a Hoarders episode. Ready to relegate them both to bicycles and roller blades, we instead decided that a weekly family meeting to discuss respect, responsibility and goal-setting would be a better alternative. Okay, it was lame but we had to give it a shot.

Finding a day and time that worked for all was tough. Selling the idea was even toughter. We finally settled on Wednesday. Mid-week, right before dinner. If they behaved themselves, they might actually be fed. We set an agenda with time for complaints, concerns, compliments (don't laugh) and requests. Everyone got a chance to speak without interruption or critique. We even made sure that we ended on a positive note with everyone sharing something for which they were grateful. Surprisingly, no one groaned (loudly) and everyone seemed to think these weekly get-togethers might not be too painful and might actually be productive. I walked away feeling hopeful. After just one week, the jury's definitely still out but anything that gets this family talking has to be a step in the right direction.

TMI

One of the worst things about co-habiting with your adult children is knowing too much about what they're doing. Like most moms of my generation, I encouraged open communication with my kids from an early age so that they would feel free to come and talk to me about anything that was on their minds. I hoped this would lead to an honest exchange of ideas and feelings that would benefit all. What it did lead to is a steady stream of too much information. And I've discovered something about myself. I'm not as cool as I thought I was.

When they were younger, I could handle just about anything they threw at me. They were pretty good kids (i.e. police cars weren't regular visitors to our cul-de-sac) and their transgressions/confessions rarely kept me up at night. I figured I was through the worst of it when they each hit twenty-one. God is still laughing about that one.

Dealing with their love lives, employment (or unemployment) status, depression, financial problems, and general confusion about the direction of their lives is exhausting. I honestly try to stay out of it as much as I can but it's damn difficult when they're sleeping on the other side of my bedroom wall. (Alone, I hope). I keep telling myself that it's a temporary situation, that they're as anxious as I am to have space to themselves but lately I'm not so sure. Their current problems have given them legitimate excuses to hunker down into the family manor and their father and I are trying our best to help them with the tough transition to real life. I just wish they wouldn't feel so compelled to let me in on everything. They could at least have the courtesy to do what I did for my parents. Lie.

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?