Why Ya Gotta Be So Mean?

I used to live in England, a country known for its dreary weather, love of cricket, and questionable cuisine. While I never came to appreciate those things, I did develop a fondness for the English sense of propriety, unfailing politeness and overall civility. While I only shared the island for a couple of years, I found my hosts to be level-headed citizens who would have rather eaten glass than offend anyone with a harsh word and had the decency to pronounce everything "lovely" even when it was far from it.

Not exactly the way we do things around here, is it?

Last week, my sister and I (in two separate incidents) were treated to verbal (and, in my sister's case, written) abuse by someone who escalated a situation WAY beyond where it had any right to go. My sister, having accidentally bumped some Neanderthal's truck door with her car door after it had been grabbed by the wind, was treated to a nasty tirade AND a note on her windshield that invoked the dreaded C-word. My encounter was at work and involved a clearly bi-polar, off-her-meds customer who bit my head off when I inquired if she needed my help.

I don't get it. I know people can have a bad day. I know people can be burdened with stress and anxiety. I know there are underlying causes that provoke someone to lose their temper. But why is it happening so frequently these days? Why is everyone on such a short fuse; blowing everything out of proportion? Why can't we all calm down a little and be a whole lot kinder to one another?

If something doesn't change, I may just have to pack up my family and head back across the pond. I could use a little "That would be lovely" right now.

Six (and a Baby), Please

Sometimes, especially when I'm pouring over boxes of old photos, I ache for the days when my children were toddlers; when they would look at me as if I had invented ice-cream or hugged me with the ferocity of a soldier returning from the front lines. Those days are long gone but whenever that melancholy strikes I know that all I have to do is plug in one of our old family videos to be reminded of how cute they were; how sweet they were; how much fun they were. But once I have a sniffle or two tripping down memory lane, I inevitably start to think about how equally great it is that these adorable creatures are now adults.

Saturday night was one of those times I was grateful those toddler days are over. My daughter, knowing that I had to work from 12-5, suggested that we meet for dinner afterward at one of our favorite neighborhood spots, a place we used to frequent quite a bit when she was younger but hadn't visited for awhile. As someone who used to love to cook but now looks for any opportunity not to have to prep/cook/clean up, I jumped at the chance. By the time we were through talking, our night out was expanded to include our two hubbies, my parents, and Boo Bear (aka my adorable grandson).

We got there early (which was the only sensible way to hit a popular spot on a Saturday night with a baby). Before the Chianti was opened, we were already digging into a platter of bruschetta, fried ravioli and calamari. Soups and salads were next, accompanied by offers of "taste this" and a game of pass the baby. By the time our oversized bowls of pasta arrived, we were ready to ask for doggie bags (although my son-in-law didn't seem to have much trouble with that huge order of Chicken Parm). As I sat there, appreciating the wonderful couple who had given me life, the amazing woman I had brought into this world, and the sweet baby she had given birth to, all was right with the world.

And that ravioli with pesto cream sauce didn't hurt either.

Snow Daze

Something happens to me whenever we get a heavy snowfall like the one we got on Super Bowl Sunday - I turn into a pajama-wearing, donut-eating, binge-watching slug. My husband, on the other hand, is none of those things. He's unfailingly up at the crack of dawn, tackling the driveway with his trusty shovel. (I have given up trying to entice him to bring our snowblower up from its cobweb-encrusted corner of the basement). While I'm ready for a nap under the nearest down comforter, he's jumping around like a little kid, invigorated by the single digit temperatures, challenged by the blustery winds that blow his carefully mounded snow piles back in his face, and grateful for the chance to get another frosty workout.

This particular storm, the fifth biggest snowfall in Chicago history, was no different. By the end of the afternoon, I was still parked on the couch appreciating yet another episode of Parenthood while he was putting the finishing touches on another massive snow fort (please keep in mind that our youngest child is twenty-six and our grandson is several months away from crawling before applauding his creative efforts). Every so often he attempted to pry me off the sofa with "enticing" offers of a trudge around the block or a snowball fight but I (and my rapidly expanding ass) remained steadfast. Look, I appreciate the frosty beauty of being dumped on by Mother Nature as much as the next guy but six decades of dealing with snowdrifts over my head and winds that whip through the heartiest long-underwear have tempered my enthusiasm. I will admit to a few pangs of guilt about not picking up a shovel and giving the poor guy a hand but after reminding myself of all the times I had to deal with that driveway on my own when he was off in sunny Singapore on business, I took another sip of hot chocolate and the feeling passed.

In the end, everybody got what they wanted. I ate an entire (small) can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls while I watched Novak Djokovic dispatch Andy Murray for the Australian Open title and my hubby ended up with the cleanest driveway on the cul-de-sac and a snow fort that resembled Windsor Castle.

Once again, proof that marriage is a beautiful thing.

While He Was Sleeping

Well, that New Year's resolution is shot to hell. No, not the one I made about regular exercise (although that one is teetering precariously). The one that has really been blown out of the water is the one I make every year - writing more often. Thanks to Christmas, my son's visit, an illness that will not die that has sapped every bit of energy I possess, and a trip to Mexico I have not written anything (including Christmas cards; sorry to all who enjoyed my pithy year end wrap-ups) in more than a month.

Pathetic.

It's not that I haven't had a wealth of material over the last thirty-three days. I could have waxed rhapsodically about the joys of spending two days a week with my beyond precious grandson, with a special chapter on the creative ways I manage to extricate myself off the floor (currently limited to variations of maneuvering myself to the nearest piece of furniture but soon to involve a small crane of some kind). I could also have detailed the joys of having my son back under our roof for the first time in four months with an entire paragraph dedicated to my shock and delight at his volunteering to join me for our church's Christmas Eve service. And then there was Mexico. What can I say about a seven day trip to paradise with six of the greatest friends on the planet taken during the coldest week of the year? Nothing. You don't won't to hear about it, do you? (But if you stop buy I'll be happy to show you a couple of the 1,147 pictures I took).

I could pull out the sympathy card. I am on my fifth box of Puffs. But who cares? Danielle Steel probably wrote an entire book every time she went into labor. And so what if I've been coughing loud enough to wake the neighbors (a couple of streets over). Who cares? Nora Roberts probably churned out her biggest bestseller when she had double pneumonia. No more excuses. I can do this. I can write this stupid blog once a week and I can finish editing that novel before I file for Social Security benefits. If nothing else, I can at least write something every time that sweet, adorable munchkin takes his naps every Tuesday and Thursday.

How much trouble can one little baby be?

He'll Be Home For Christmas

It's only December 23rd and I already know all about the best gift I'm going to get for Christmas. Before you rush off to report me to the Santa Police (wouldn't that be cool if there actually was such a thing?), I can assure you I haven't "accidentally" stumbled upon a box in the closet or "inadvertently" slipped the wrapping off a package under the tree. No, the best present of this or any other year is not going to be in any box. It is not going to be decorated with a giant bow (at least I don't think it will). It is going to arrive tonight around six o'clock and (I'm pretty sure) it won't be delivered by a guy in little brown shorts.

Four months and fourteen days ago, I watched my son drive off in a moving van. If I had had any idea it was going to be this long between hugs, there would have been one other item packed into one of those over-stuffed cartons making their way to Denver.

For the first time, we weren't together for Thanksgiving.  For the first time, I didn't get to make him his favorite birthday cake or watch him open his presents. He wasn't even able to be here to celebrate the birth of his sister's first child. For four and a half months we have had to make do with texts, e-mails and hastily arranged Skype chats - none of which afforded any opportunity for hugs. But all that ends today. He will be home for Christmas.

And unlike the song, it won't be only in my dreams.

Still At It

I think I read somewhere that it takes thirty days to establish a new habit. If that's the case, it looks like exercise is going to be a regular part of my life. That's right, people, six weeks and counting. Every day for the last month and a half I have walked on a treadmill, lifted weights, stretched impossibly tight hamstrings and glutes, and ticked off a hundred crunches on that damn inflatable ball. I haven't always made it to a mile; I haven't always pushed myself as hard as I could, and I certainly haven't eliminated all the crap out of my diet. (When celery tastes as good as McDonald's fries, we'll talk). But every day I have done something and that, in and of itself, is a miracle.

While this little milestone is encouraging,there is one small, teensy-weensy problem. I have yet to see much in the way of results. Scratch that. I do feel better. I think I have more energy. And I am starting to feel muscle springing up in my biceps - not anything Popeye would be showing off but, hey, he started somewhere, too. What hasn't happened yet is a visible change in the rest of my body. I know, I know. Rome wasn't built in a day; good things come to those who wait; patience is a virtue; don't give up; stay the course; everything worth having is worth waiting for. Words to live by. Then again, there's another saying from that wise philosopher, Tom Petty, that keeps going through my head.

The waiting is the hardest part.

The Guilt Trip

Maybe it has something to do with having been born Catholic but I usually walk around feeling guilty about something. I regularly beat myself up over stuff that I said that was insensitive/stupid/silly or moves that I made that were foolish/selfish/thoughtless or decisions that I didn't pull the trigger on that would have been smart/helpful/generous. It doesn't really matter. I'll find something. (Sister Mary Huberta would be so proud except I'm sure she's been dead for at least thirty years.)

While I have woulda/coulda/shoulda-ed myself on a variety of subjects often enough to regularly drive my husband to reach for that bottle of Cabernet, there is no area of my life that gets me hopping back on the good old Guilt Train more than motherhood. I'm like an actress who only believes the bad reviews.When I look back, I seem to fixate only on my "flops" and never my "hits". (Maybe that's why I'm so crazy about the moms on The Middle and The Goldbergs. Not all of us can be Clair Huxtable.)

I guess I should be thankful that one thing I never had to do was be a full-time working mom. I always thought I'd go back to teaching once the kids came but between our stint overseas and a husband that traveled a lot, I didn't end up doing much beyond a few consulting gigs. And even that was tough - finding a sitter, scrambling when the kids were sick, trying to talk to a client with someone tugging on your pants begging you for a Fudgesicle. I can only imagine what it would have been like if I had had to do it Monday thru Friday, fifty weeks a year.

Today my daughter's maternity leave is over. She is joining the ranks of the Working Mom. Luckily for her, she has a couple of grandmas that are eager to help and a job that allows her to bring her little guy with her whenever she needs to. He'll be in the room next door (she works in an early childhood educational facility) and she'll be able to pop in whenever she can. But that won't solve all her problems - getting on a schedule, bundling him in a snowsuit at 7:00 a.m., exhaustion, trying to find time for her husband (not to mention herself), paying child-care fees, and missing her baby like crazy will be obstacles she'll have to face for the foreseeable future. I know the next few weeks will be tough but I know she'll make it work.

And I'm going to do everything I can to make sure she doesn't feel guilty about a damn thing.