Stepping Out

I’ve always been a bit of an enabler (which is a little like saying Ryan Reynolds is kinda sexy). It’s not that I don’t know that people benefit from facing the consequences of their actions, it’s just that I don’t want anyone I know and love to suffer (duh),especially if there’s anything I can do to help it. I’m rational enough to know that this is the mantra of all enablers and I’m doing my best to quiet my inclination to step in whenever my kids are having a problem, but it’s often a losing battle.

It’s not fun to watch your kids struggle (another duh). Remember when our parents used to say “this is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you”? Turns out they weren’t as crazy as we thought they were. But our parents were tougher; they knew the value of those lessons that could only be learned from experience. My husband, raised by strict, no-nonsense parents that made my parents look a couple of hippies, would have raised our kids a whole lot differently, if only he would have had a partner that would have let him.

Now that full-time motherhood is in my rear-view mirror, it’s so much easier to see things clearly. If it’s true, as Maya Angelou says (and everything she says is true), that “you did then what you knew then and now that you know more, you’ll do better”, it’s time for me to do better. It’s time for me to do what’s best for them, even if that means not being there to brace their every fall. It’s time for me to step out.

And it’s time for them to have a chance to step up.

Dinner and the Late Shift

It’s not often that I get to spend some one-on-one time with both of my children in one twenty-four hour period, but yesterday the stars aligned and I hit the jackpot. The first half of the daily double started with a mid-afternoon phone call from my daughter. “Hey, Mom,” she said. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately. I have to run a few errands after work and I wondered if you wanna meet me at Target around 6?” Now, I had no desire to go shopping after work. I had no interest in wandering around a store filled with stuff I didn’t need, especially when I was set to return to work at 7:30 to help with a last-minute mailing project. All I wanted to do was go home, find a comfy chair and flip through my DVR’d U.S. Open matches. But that would have to wait. I had a chance to spend a little time with my girl.

Turns out, “little time” was an accurate description. By the time she was able to break away from work, it was 6:30. We tried on a few things at Marshall’s before heading to Panera for a quick bite to eat. After carting our salads outside to enjoy the last hours of sunshine, we shared stories of our day and she even asked for a little advice. We never did make it to Target.

I got to spend a little more time with my son. Working at the same place has its benefits. As we stamped, stickered and stuffed hundreds of envelopes, I snuck in a few questions about his life and he actually answered. He even threw in an unexpected (and greatly appreciated) compliment about my appearance. Although I knew he didn’t want to, he stayed with me until the project was finished. I even got a few extra minutes of conversation when I drove him home.

When our kids are little, we spend thousands and thousands of hours with them. Last night, I was grateful for just a few more.

Am I Now the Guy?

Being in a long-term marriage affords one the opportunity to witness the ever-changing stages of human behavior. I'm not into defining anyone with typical gender-based roles but from my own experience, if you give a man and woman enough time and exposure to one another, they're going to slip in and out of one another's shoes every now and then.

When we started out almost 29 years ago, our roles were fairly traditional. My husband and I both held full-time jobs until the kids came. After that, he made the bulk of the money and I stayed home with our children, taking a few part-time jobs along the way. Our emotional behavior was pretty traditional, too. He said as few words as possible, rarely broke down in tears and approached most of our problems from a rational, logical point of view. I, on the other hand, always wanted to discuss our issues (usually right as he was falling asleep), could be brought to tears by any top 40 country song and dismissed his rational approach as cold and unfeeling. As you can imagine, these differences impeded our communication more than once.

Twenty years ago, my aunt warned me it would all change. She and her husband were just getting used to retirement when she said to me, "Hang in there. He's going to be a lot different after 55. When his job isn't the be all and end all that it once was, it'll be easier. You'll see, you're going to get yourself a whole different husband."

What she didn't tell me was that he was going to get a whole different wife.

I never would have expected that I would NOT want to talk, that I would enjoy spending time by myself or that I wouldn't need as much romantic affirmation as I used to. I never saw this change coming. The person whose body I now inhabit seems like a stranger. The behavior that I often exhibit seems a lot less loving, a lot less sensitive.

Now I need to have someone tell my husband to hang in there.

I Scream, You Scream

Labor Day weekend is just a few days away and that can only mean one thing. (Well, two things if you count the 'can't wear white after' nonsense). It means that ice cream season is almost over.

I don't know about you but I don't have a whole lot of interest in ingesting frozen confections when it's 12 degrees outside. Once those hot summer nights give way to blustery winter hibernation, I comfort myself with warm chocolate chip cookies and a cup of tea instead of a sundae. Somehow, dodging icicles outside has a way of shutting down my desire for fudgsicles when I'm inside.

But tonight, it's still August. It was still warm enough to walk around town after dinner. I wasn't going to pass up one of the remaining opportunities to enjoy a frosty treat. Lucky for me, I didn't have to have to settle for ice cream; our town has a gelato shop. Yes, I know. I'm addicted to anything Italian but, c'mon, I don't care how American you are, comparing ice cream to gelato is like comparing a Mitsubishi to a Mercedes. If you've had it before, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, what are you waiting for?

I'll have you know, I did behave myself. I got a small cup filled with a strawberry and raspberry combo. (The fruit flavors are definitely where gelato has it all over ice cream). As my husband and I wandered through the town, dipping our tiny plastic spoons into each others' flavors (I know, that sounds a little dirty), I tried to soak in the waning hours of this 27th day of August.

Summer's almost over. I've got a few more flavors to try before I'm ready to say good-bye.

Can We (Not) Talk?

A few days ago I accidentally left my phone at work. When I called in to see if it was there, one of my co-workers took one look at my sorry little flip phone and said, "What the heck is this? I haven't seen one of these in five years. It's time you moved into the 21st century and got yourself a new phone." To which I replied, "I don't think so."

I may be crazy (or at least out of touch with the rest of the world) but I don't get the obsession with cellphones. I do not want to be at the beck and call of every person I have ever met. I do not want to be awoken with missed text messages. And I do not want to retrieve my e-mail from Katmandu (okay, I don't really want to go to Katmandu either but it sounds better than Orlando).

Everywhere I go, I see people who feel differently. They walk around with bluetooth earpieces that make them sound like escaped inmates from an asylum. They bury their heads as they furiously type in some message that just can't wait until they get home. They do everything they can to interact with their electronic friend rather than actual human beings and I want no part of it. A friend of mine told me that he was at the pool with his daughter where he saw a mom so engrossed in her cellphone that she waded around the swimming pool, phone in hand, completely neglecting the child paddling at her feet. I don't care how cool any phone is, if that's what happens when you own one, you can count me out.

To be honest, it might be nice to slide through hundreds of photos on the latest gadget. It might be fun to take pictures and make them available immediately to any and all interested parties. It would certainly be convenient to have a built-in GPS to help me when I'm stuck on some road in the middle of nowhere. But I don't need any of it. And I don't want to be a slave to a piece of machinery that a recent poll revealed to be more necessary to the participants than their lunch (check out the recent Time Magazine cover story).

So, my flip-phone and I are going to hang tough. We're stuck with one another until the inevitable happens: it dies or I lose it. Until then, I'm going to try to ignore the pressure to upgrade to one of those expensive, do-everything-but-make-coffee smartphones.

I just have one request. Try not to run me down while you're using yours.

Friday Nite Lights

It's Friday. It's August. It's 92 degrees. Sounds like the perfect time for football. Not the real football, of course. That will come later when it cools down to 80 degrees. For now, we all have to settle for the pre-season variety; the inferior product for which those poor season ticket holders have to pay full price.Those of us without that kind of expendable cash, the ones forced to observe the mayhem on our 52 inch flat-screens, know we're the lucky ones. We watch the first quarter, check out the play of our first-string heroes and get on with our lives. We know pre-season is a joke; a tease designed to whet our appetite for the real thing. We know those four games are nothing more than the last stand for third-string players trying make the team. We can't get too excited about a win and we shouldn't get too unhappy about a loss. If our team's star players make it through the four games without injury, it's time to break out the champagne.

But then, there's the third game. That's the one, the only one, that means something. The starters play at least through the first half, often through the third quarter. You start to see a glimmer (coaches, especially our lovable Bears coach, don't like to tip their hand too much) of what your team is going to look like come opening day. It's exciting, it's fascinating, it's worth watching, and if your team is playing the defending Super Bowl Champions, it's a little bit scary.

Tonight, is that night.

Sorry, Say Yes to the Dress. You will just have to wait. Tonight, Randy and the girls are heading straight to the DVR. For this one and only Friday, Lovie and the boys need my complete attention. As far as I'm concerned, there's only one good thing about the end of summer - the start of football. So, I'm going to pick up a pizza, slip on my Bears t-shirt and try not to get too excited about this very intriguing season. 

Optimism is great but it won't take down Mr. Rodgers and the Packers.

Pictures on the Wall

Last night, I was lying in my bed minding my own business, when I happened to look over at the window to my right. Not an unusual occurrence; when you have a large, picture window in your bedroom, you tend to look in that direction on a regular basis. But this time, I was struck by the 11x14 framed photo just off to the side of the window. It's been there awhile but I don't often stop to really look at it, which is a surprise as it's one of my favorites. It was taken when my daughter was four and my son was two. They're both dressed in Easter finery; she's wearing a ruffled dress and a straw hat with a ribbon flowing down the back and he's wearing suspenders and a bow tie (I know, I used to go a little crazy with the clothes on picture day). She's kneeling on the floor next to his wooden chair, holding his hand (probably to keep him from bolting) and both of them look like a couple of angels. No wonder I have a hard time accepting that they are now two adult individuals, prone to making the same mistakes as the rest of us.

But how do you stop thinking about your children as children when everywhere you look there are reminders of their sweet, innocent baby/toddler faces?

I know. I could take down all the photos. But that's not going to happen. There are so many memories on those walls; so many reminders of happy, funny, memorable moments, that I wouldn't want to sacrifice the joy I get from looking at them. There's the close-up of my daughter, sucking her thumb, holding her favorite lovey, a bunny blanket with blue eyes the same size and shape as hers. There's the hilarious shot of my son and his cousin trying to out-duel each other making faces. There's the one I took of the two of them, where she is laughing hysterically and he looks like a deer in the headlights. All of them make me smile (and occasionally make me tear up) but they all have something else in common - they all were taken before junior high. Somehow, the years between twelve and eighteen are conspicuous in their absence.

But maybe that's not so strange. What kid wants their picture taken during those adolescent years? Mine sure didn't; the fewer memories of braces, acne and bad haircuts, the better. And what parent wants to relive any of it anyway? Those were the tough years; the uncute years. Those were years filled with nagging about homework, suffering through hormonal changes and worrying about drugs, alcohol, and whether they could drive home safely in a snowstorm. Is it any wonder those pictures (what few of them there are) stay in a drawer?

It's a lot easier (and a lot more fun) to reminisce about those good-old-childhood days, when our children, and the size of their problems, were smaller.