For the first time, a Blackhawks sweater (notice, I did not say jersey. I don't want anyone calling me out on that one) has brought me to tears. The waterworks had nothing to do with the fact that the team recently missed the chance to bring home The Stanley Cup for the second year in a row, although I was pretty sad about that back in June. No, the reason that Toews sweater got me teary-eyed was the fact that it was peaking out of one of the boxes taking up space in our dining room; a box bound for Colorado.
I knew my youngest was leaving; he's been talking about it for months. I just didn't really know it until the moment I saw that Indian head logo staring up at me. I can see now that those boxes mean business. Those boxes, including the one that has "Colorado, bitch" written on it, are soon going to be filled with my son's belongings and transported one thousand miles away. They are also making it next to impossible to walk through my dining room without bawling.
So, now the countdown has begun. We have eighteen days left until he backs his Mazda out of our driveway for the last time. (Yes, I know, he's not going to Mongolia; he'll be back for visits.) We have eighteen days to squeeze in as much "in person" time with him as possible before settling for "Face Timing" with him for the foreseeable future. We have two and a half weeks until I have to wave goodbye to my baby.
I don't want you to think that I'm one of those psycho moms that's going to hang on his leg begging him not to go. (Okay, the thought has occurred to me but I know it wouldn't do any good.) I'm rational enough to know this is a great thing for him. He has loved Colorado since he first set foot in the state when he was just a teenager. If you love your children you want them to be happy, right? And I am happy for him. Really. But I honestly don't know what I'm going to do that first morning when it finally hits me that he's gone; that I won't be able to give him a hug any time I feel like it; that I'm not going to hear him whistling as he gets ready for work. I also don't know what I'm going to do when hockey season starts and I have to watch the games without him and that sweater.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to survive his move. I just wish I didn't have to.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Monday, July 14, 2014
I Hate Cars
I was just doing what I was supposed to do. According to that little sticker on my windshield, it was time for an oil change. Being the consequent car owner that I am (or that my husband "encourages" me to be), I picked up the phone and made an appointment to get my vehicle's nasty, six month-old fluids removed. I almost didn't mind the fact that I would have to give up a couple of hours of my time to do it since I had a $20 coupon that would bring the cost down to the price of a pair of socks.
Or so I thought.
My husband and I were killing some time walking around town when the call came. Thinking it was just the obligatory call to let me know my beloved chariot was ready, I was blindsided by the news that during the mechanic's courtesy check (who the heck authorized that?) he had discovered one of my front springs had broken. After lots of discussion about my suspension system, struts, and a possible punctured tire should I hit a pothole, my friendly neighborhood repairman "recommended" that the offending parts be replaced. But, naturally, that was not the end of it because if you're going to replace one side of your car's suspension system, you have to replace the other side because you wouldn't want to drive around with one side of your car higher than the other, now would you?
Ten hours later I was $1200 poorer driving an eleven year-old car with the ride of a brand new SUV. Scratch that - I was actually $1500 poorer as my husband and I did a lot of shopping and eating as we slowly made our way back home. I guess I have to look on the bright side. The broken spring didn't blow out our tire on our recent trip back from Kentucky. We have a Firestone credit card that allows us to pay for the repair over six months without interest. And I got a pair of really cute shorts and two tops for less than fifty bucks at Talbots' 60% off sale.
Oh, and I almost forgot. I got to use that $20 coupon before it expired.
Or so I thought.
My husband and I were killing some time walking around town when the call came. Thinking it was just the obligatory call to let me know my beloved chariot was ready, I was blindsided by the news that during the mechanic's courtesy check (who the heck authorized that?) he had discovered one of my front springs had broken. After lots of discussion about my suspension system, struts, and a possible punctured tire should I hit a pothole, my friendly neighborhood repairman "recommended" that the offending parts be replaced. But, naturally, that was not the end of it because if you're going to replace one side of your car's suspension system, you have to replace the other side because you wouldn't want to drive around with one side of your car higher than the other, now would you?
Ten hours later I was $1200 poorer driving an eleven year-old car with the ride of a brand new SUV. Scratch that - I was actually $1500 poorer as my husband and I did a lot of shopping and eating as we slowly made our way back home. I guess I have to look on the bright side. The broken spring didn't blow out our tire on our recent trip back from Kentucky. We have a Firestone credit card that allows us to pay for the repair over six months without interest. And I got a pair of really cute shorts and two tops for less than fifty bucks at Talbots' 60% off sale.
Oh, and I almost forgot. I got to use that $20 coupon before it expired.
Monday, July 7, 2014
The Story Goes On
My grandson won't make his arrival for a couple of months but he sure is making his presence known. My daughter's ever-expanding baby bump announces her impending motherhood to everyone she meets and is a constant source of amazement to this grandmother-to-be. I'm so excited about this new road that I'll soon be traveling but it's a little overwhelming seeing someone who once lived inside of me have someone now living inside of her.
I know this is how it's supposed to go but she's my baby. How can she possibly have a baby? I look through old photos and swear it was just a couple of years ago when she was jumping into the backyard wading pool or playing with Barbies. But when I feel the life growing in her tummy and I see the woman she has become, I know those days are very far away.
Maybe every mother feels this way when the nest is finally empty. Maybe we've spent so much time and energy raising our children that it's tough to fully reconcile the transformation from child to adult. Maybe those memories are so vivid, so special that we just don't want to let them go.
Or maybe, just maybe, that's why God created grandchildren.
I know this is how it's supposed to go but she's my baby. How can she possibly have a baby? I look through old photos and swear it was just a couple of years ago when she was jumping into the backyard wading pool or playing with Barbies. But when I feel the life growing in her tummy and I see the woman she has become, I know those days are very far away.
Maybe every mother feels this way when the nest is finally empty. Maybe we've spent so much time and energy raising our children that it's tough to fully reconcile the transformation from child to adult. Maybe those memories are so vivid, so special that we just don't want to let them go.
Or maybe, just maybe, that's why God created grandchildren.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Southern Comfort
Every now and then you hear stories about couples/families hopping into an RV for an extended road trip across the country. While I can understand the allure, I'm not sure a year in the back of a trailer is in my future. That's not to say I don't appreciate a good road trip. When the kids were little, we used to pack up a steady supply of diversions (later a small TV/VCR combo - hey, it's fun to travel with your kids but a little Ninja Turtles or Full House goes a long way) and hit the road. I'd be willing to bet that my offspring remember these trips with more fondness than that beach vacation in Mexico or even the obligatory week at Disney.
Now that my husband and I are on our own, the dynamics of our beloved road trips have changed but the surprising moments of joy they provide haven't. Take last week. The two of us packed up the car for a trip to Kentucky with a dual purpose - to work on the house we still own in the western part of the state and to attend a wedding in Lexington.We spent the first four days scrapping windows, painting bedrooms, and clearing brush (well, my hubby got the better part of that job) and the last three days cleaning ourselves up sufficiently to attend the festivities of a ritzy wedding in the heart of the horse capital of the world.
When you head south from the Chicago area, it isn't long before you enter into an alternate universe. People get a whole lot more friendly, the "y'alls" start flowing, and sausage gravy and biscuits shows up on every restaurant menu. While I can't imagine adding the latter to my diet, I love everything else that goes with a visit to the South. Whenever we had any kind of difficulty, from having enough quarters for my daily USA Today treat to picking out a gallon of paint to finding a place to eat, the residents of Kentucky couldn't do enough for us. We never encountered a rude sales clerk, a surly driver, or a pouty waitress. I'm not saying they don't exist south of the Mason/Dixon line but you sure couldn't prove it by our experiences. That's why, after a week of "yes, m'ams" and "no, sirs", I'm missing the polite, caring, go-out-of-your-way-for-your-neighbors attitude that permeates the South. I'm missing the slower, take-time-to-enjoy-your-life pace. And I'm especially missing the sound of that twang that infiltrates every syllable of a Kentuckian's speech.
Although my husband swears I bring a little of that home with me every time we go down there. I don't know what the heck he's talkin' about but y'all go out there and have a nice day, okay.
Now that my husband and I are on our own, the dynamics of our beloved road trips have changed but the surprising moments of joy they provide haven't. Take last week. The two of us packed up the car for a trip to Kentucky with a dual purpose - to work on the house we still own in the western part of the state and to attend a wedding in Lexington.We spent the first four days scrapping windows, painting bedrooms, and clearing brush (well, my hubby got the better part of that job) and the last three days cleaning ourselves up sufficiently to attend the festivities of a ritzy wedding in the heart of the horse capital of the world.
When you head south from the Chicago area, it isn't long before you enter into an alternate universe. People get a whole lot more friendly, the "y'alls" start flowing, and sausage gravy and biscuits shows up on every restaurant menu. While I can't imagine adding the latter to my diet, I love everything else that goes with a visit to the South. Whenever we had any kind of difficulty, from having enough quarters for my daily USA Today treat to picking out a gallon of paint to finding a place to eat, the residents of Kentucky couldn't do enough for us. We never encountered a rude sales clerk, a surly driver, or a pouty waitress. I'm not saying they don't exist south of the Mason/Dixon line but you sure couldn't prove it by our experiences. That's why, after a week of "yes, m'ams" and "no, sirs", I'm missing the polite, caring, go-out-of-your-way-for-your-neighbors attitude that permeates the South. I'm missing the slower, take-time-to-enjoy-your-life pace. And I'm especially missing the sound of that twang that infiltrates every syllable of a Kentuckian's speech.
Although my husband swears I bring a little of that home with me every time we go down there. I don't know what the heck he's talkin' about but y'all go out there and have a nice day, okay.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sugar, Sugar
When I'm not playing Candy Crush on my Kindle, I'm reading a very interesting book called A Year Without Sugar by Eve Schaub. As someone who struggles with a sweet tooth (especially after 7:00pm) and have only managed to go three days without some kind of dessert, I just had to read how the author lived without sugar for an entire year.
It turns out, she wasn't alone in this quest. She convinced her husband and TWO CHILDREN to go on this little journey with her. Although the kids weren't initially keen on the idea (they actually burst into tears at the mere thought of giving up sweets for 365 days), their parents built in a few compromises to keep everyone on track. The family would be allowed to have one dessert per month and birthday party behavior would be at the discretion of the invitee.
I haven't finished the book yet so I'm not sure what my final response will be to the very scary facts presented within. I will say that I'm reading labels much more carefully (do you know how much sugar is in ketchup?) and I'm rejecting a lot more purchases at the grocery store. (Goodbye, Frosted Mini-Wheats; Hello, Cheerios.)
The author talks about how it's nearly impossible to find a cereal without sugar (shredded wheat and/or oatmeal being the lone holdouts) and how much waitresses hate her. Her observations on the struggle to abstain from fructose are funny and enlightening and I'm learning a lot. I still haven't watched the YouTube video that started her experiment, "Sugar: The Bitter Truth" by Dr. Robert Lustig but it's on my list of required viewing. Maybe he'll be able to scare me off the sweet stuff for good, too. With statistics like "Our generation is on average twenty-five pounds heavier than our counterparts from twenty-five years ago" and "Americans are currently consuming sixty-three pounds per person of high-fructose corn syrup per year" he's made me sit up and take notice. Maybe I'll have to find a way to live without donuts. Maybe I'll have to find a substitute for double chocolate brownies. But, even if I do, there's always one sweet treat I can still indulge in.
Candy Crush might be another addiction but at least I can turn to that without gaining a pound.
It turns out, she wasn't alone in this quest. She convinced her husband and TWO CHILDREN to go on this little journey with her. Although the kids weren't initially keen on the idea (they actually burst into tears at the mere thought of giving up sweets for 365 days), their parents built in a few compromises to keep everyone on track. The family would be allowed to have one dessert per month and birthday party behavior would be at the discretion of the invitee.
I haven't finished the book yet so I'm not sure what my final response will be to the very scary facts presented within. I will say that I'm reading labels much more carefully (do you know how much sugar is in ketchup?) and I'm rejecting a lot more purchases at the grocery store. (Goodbye, Frosted Mini-Wheats; Hello, Cheerios.)
The author talks about how it's nearly impossible to find a cereal without sugar (shredded wheat and/or oatmeal being the lone holdouts) and how much waitresses hate her. Her observations on the struggle to abstain from fructose are funny and enlightening and I'm learning a lot. I still haven't watched the YouTube video that started her experiment, "Sugar: The Bitter Truth" by Dr. Robert Lustig but it's on my list of required viewing. Maybe he'll be able to scare me off the sweet stuff for good, too. With statistics like "Our generation is on average twenty-five pounds heavier than our counterparts from twenty-five years ago" and "Americans are currently consuming sixty-three pounds per person of high-fructose corn syrup per year" he's made me sit up and take notice. Maybe I'll have to find a way to live without donuts. Maybe I'll have to find a substitute for double chocolate brownies. But, even if I do, there's always one sweet treat I can still indulge in.
Candy Crush might be another addiction but at least I can turn to that without gaining a pound.
Monday, June 16, 2014
Careful What You Wish For
When I started writing this blog a few years ago, my goal was to document my transition from full-time mom to whatever I turned out to be when I grew up. (Still waiting.) Since my original mission statement, "All I ever wanted to be was a mom; now all I want is to get my kids out of my house") still resides on my page, you could easily conclude that a) Not much has changed and I'm still eagerly awaiting their departure or b) Things have changed but I'm just too lazy to come up with a new sound-bite for my weekly journal.
As of yesterday, it's a little bit of both.
I've known for awhile that my son has been contemplating a major life change. I got a big clue when he moved back in with us in December, a week after our daughter packed up her stuff and vacated her room for good (or so she says . . . married, pregnant offspring have been known to show up on their parents' doorsteps . . . or have you not seen Father of the Bride Part II?). After living on his own for two years, I knew he wasn't heading back to the ranch for my home cooking or sparkling conversation - he was coming back because he knew it was the quickest way for him to save up the cash he needed to get out of Dodge for good. All this togetherness would be temporary; he had made up his mind; he was finally going to relocate to his habitat of choice - Colorado.
And now we have a date.
On August 9th, my husband and I will become empty nesters. We will help our son pack up his belongings (a lot of clothes, a laptop and several crates full of Legos) and load them into a POD bound for Denver. We will stand on the driveway and wave as he pulls out of the cul-de-sac, knowing that we're going to go from seeing him every day to seeing him two or three times a year. We'll walk back into a quiet house and realize that that day I so glibly wished for when I started writing this blog, has finally arrived.
Funny. I don't think I'll feel like celebrating.
As of yesterday, it's a little bit of both.
I've known for awhile that my son has been contemplating a major life change. I got a big clue when he moved back in with us in December, a week after our daughter packed up her stuff and vacated her room for good (or so she says . . . married, pregnant offspring have been known to show up on their parents' doorsteps . . . or have you not seen Father of the Bride Part II?). After living on his own for two years, I knew he wasn't heading back to the ranch for my home cooking or sparkling conversation - he was coming back because he knew it was the quickest way for him to save up the cash he needed to get out of Dodge for good. All this togetherness would be temporary; he had made up his mind; he was finally going to relocate to his habitat of choice - Colorado.
And now we have a date.
On August 9th, my husband and I will become empty nesters. We will help our son pack up his belongings (a lot of clothes, a laptop and several crates full of Legos) and load them into a POD bound for Denver. We will stand on the driveway and wave as he pulls out of the cul-de-sac, knowing that we're going to go from seeing him every day to seeing him two or three times a year. We'll walk back into a quiet house and realize that that day I so glibly wished for when I started writing this blog, has finally arrived.
Funny. I don't think I'll feel like celebrating.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Who's on First?
I'd be the first to admit that I sometimes take sports just a little too seriously. When the Cubs were a couple of outs away from getting into the World Series and blew it (I know it wasn't your fault, Mr. Bartman); when the Bears failed to beat the Colts (and that no-talent Peyton Manning) for their second Super Bowl; when the Europeans stole the Ryder Cup from us at Medinah, I let those crushing defeats get to me in a way that was only marginally less than how it must have affected the actual participants. I know it's only a game. But it's a game I often get way too emotionally invested in.
Take last Monday.
After watching my favorite hockey team lose Game 7 at home in overtime (after coughing up several leads), I'm sorry to say I had a rough time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that stupid puck bounce off our defenseman's shoulder into the goal. Crazy, right? The next morning, still bummed out about an event that had no affect on my actual life, I had to ask my bleary-eyed self one question. Why do I care so much? Why do I take someone else's endeavors so seriously? Why do I let a sports disappointment affect me in such a negative way?
I'm not sure if I know the answer but I think I know what I have to do about it. I have to try to use some of the energy I expend watching and worrying about whether my team is going to do what I'd like them to do and start worrying about how (and when) I'm going to start focusing on what I want to accomplish in my own life. It's not as if Jonathan Toews is worrying about whether or not I get my book edited. It's not as if Patrick Kane is tossing and turning trying to figure out how I'm going to turn my love of writing into something that can pay a couple of bills. And, more importantly, not one of my beloved Blackhawks is going to help me deal with the fact that my youngest child is about to move very far away in the very near future.
Getting through that last one is going to be tougher than any Game 7 I can imagine.
Take last Monday.
After watching my favorite hockey team lose Game 7 at home in overtime (after coughing up several leads), I'm sorry to say I had a rough time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that stupid puck bounce off our defenseman's shoulder into the goal. Crazy, right? The next morning, still bummed out about an event that had no affect on my actual life, I had to ask my bleary-eyed self one question. Why do I care so much? Why do I take someone else's endeavors so seriously? Why do I let a sports disappointment affect me in such a negative way?
I'm not sure if I know the answer but I think I know what I have to do about it. I have to try to use some of the energy I expend watching and worrying about whether my team is going to do what I'd like them to do and start worrying about how (and when) I'm going to start focusing on what I want to accomplish in my own life. It's not as if Jonathan Toews is worrying about whether or not I get my book edited. It's not as if Patrick Kane is tossing and turning trying to figure out how I'm going to turn my love of writing into something that can pay a couple of bills. And, more importantly, not one of my beloved Blackhawks is going to help me deal with the fact that my youngest child is about to move very far away in the very near future.
Getting through that last one is going to be tougher than any Game 7 I can imagine.
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