Was It Something I Said?

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly an innocuous comment or innocent question can derail a perfectly pleasant conversation. Case in point: The other night I casually asked my hubby what plans he had for the check he had recently received for some consulting services he had furnished. Now, I know what you're thinking - there is no such thing as a "casual" question about money. Everyone has their own ideas about how to earn/save/spend it and there are precious few of us walking around that aren't prone to get a little defensive when called upon to justify said ideas. But, honestly, I had no idea what flood gates were about to open. I had no hidden agenda. I wasn't lobbying for a new Coach bag or a day at the spa; I was just curious. Honest.

Let's just say we haven't been talking much since that conversation. He got defensive; I got angry. He got dismissive; I got angrier. His tone of voice finally pushed my retaliation button so hard that I resorted to calling him an a**hole (he was acting like one but I never should have said that) and I ended up slamming a couple of doors and wondering if it was too late to show up on my parents' driveway.

When I finally calmed down, I couldn't help asking myself, "What the hell just happened?" One minute we were happily chatting as he brushed his teeth and I paged through the latest Entertainment Weekly and the next minute we were in a battle worthy of a Bill O'Reilly smackdown. Did I ask the question too late at night? (Possibly. It's not his favorite time of day.) Did I invade his territory, implying that I knew better what to do with the money than he did? (I don't think so. Like I said, I wasn't looking to get my hands on any of it although he might not have heard it that way.) Was he just having a bad day? (Made even worse by a nagging back and/or wife?) Or was it just a combination of the above?

Who knows? The only thing I do know is that I have had an epiphany. I am never going to react that way again. I am never going to call my husband (or anyone else I love) a nasty name of any kind. (I can't promise I won't occasionally think it but that's a subject for another blog.)

I realize I've been married for thirty-one years and it might have been advantageous to have come to this conclusion a little earlier but wisdom comes with aging as surely as the achy knees, right? So, from this day forward, I promise to take a deep breath, say a prayer and then, after calmly telling him that I do not appreciate the way he's speaking to me, I'm going to walk away. I might end up in Indiana before I cool off but I refuse to put myself in another situation where I say things I'm going to regret.

Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if I can actually do it.

Mother's Day Times Three

I know Mother's Day only comes once a year (which is probably a good thing given how disappointed we moms tend to get over the slights - perceived or real - of our significant other and/or offspring) but this year my celebration somehow managed to span a full seventy-two hours.

Day One - The Festival of Motherhood commenced on Saturday. Since it was the only day that all the moms in my immediate family could gather, we decided to jump the gun. Leave those exorbitant Sunday brunches for the suckers who insist on celebrating when Hallmark tells them to, we reasoned, we will have our pick of any restaurant our little hearts desire. It sounded so good in theory. What we didn't factor in was having to include the two newest members of the family (the ones who made my niece and daughter eligible to participate in this year's celebration) in the festivities since both of the new dads were otherwise engaged. Don't get me wrong, they were a joy to share the table with - for the first hour or so anyway. After that, it was a mad scramble to gather up the uneaten onion straws and slurp down that last gulp of Sangria before the occasional glances coming our way turned into icy stares.

We finished up the afternoon back at Gigi's (my mom's new great-grandma moniker) place, trying to squeeze some conversation between emergency baby-proofing and diaper changes; the highlight of Day One being my sweet daughter's gift - a framed love letter to her mother (that girl sure knows how to bring on the waterworks) complete with beautiful embellishments surrounding pictures of the two of us. Other than making any subsequent photos a soggy mess, this was the kind of gift that we moms dream about. Consider this day a solid B+.

Day Two - This was the real one; the one where your hubby is supposed to bring you breakfast in bed and your kids are encouraged to fawn all over you as they remind you what an amazing mother you have been as they drown you with flowers and Mimosas. (A girl can dream, can't she?). In reality, I was up at 8, baking two kinds of bread and pulling out all the stops for a fabulous breakfast for what I thought would be my entire family. In their defense, I offered to do this since it was my daughter's first Mother's Day but still, I was expecting a bit more help from the men in my life - one of whom didn't even show up as he somehow misunderstood the order of the day and thought he was coming for dinner. Oh well, I think my daughter appreciated it. This one gets an A for the food (if I do say so myself) and the chance to make my girl's day special and a D- for having to cook and clean up on a day when I'm not supposed to have to do any of that stuff.

Day Three - My confused son wanted to make it up to me so he showed up today, very contrite and eager to show me just how much he cared. He brought me a card with a heartfelt note inside, took me to lunch, spent several hours tooling around Costco and Walmart, and even made time to pop in on the sister he had failed to wish a happy first Mother's Day (hey, she wasn't his mother). This last hurrah rates a B after deducting a few points for my son's late arrival.

When he backed out of the driveway, I felt nothing but relief that the next Mother's Day was 364 days away. After all these years, you would think I would know that it never lives up to the unrealistic expectations foisted on us by greeting cards and sitcoms. I've rarely gotten breakfast in bed (too messy), I've been disappointed in every over-priced brunch I've ever eaten, and I don't want or need anymore stuff proclaiming my position as world's greatest mom. I may have a momentary twinge of self-pity when I don't receive the pampering I mistakenly believe every other mother is receiving while I'm loading the dishwasher but I know in my heart that the moments to savor are the ones that happen on every other day of the year not singled out as Mother's Day.

And I'm lucky enough to have a family that gives me plenty of those - enough for me to get through every second Sunday in May that doesn't go exactly as I would like it to.

Something Special

Last week, in the hallowed pages of People magazine, I read an article about Hilary Duff. If you don't know who the heck she is, you're probably over thirty and don't make a habit of tuning in to the Disney channel. Anyway, she's out there promoting a new television series as well as speaking "candidly" about the break-up of her marriage. Recalling the recent "conscious uncoupling" of another Hollywood couple, she goes on and on about how she and her husband had given it their best shot, realized they weren't who they used to be, and decided to part as friends. All very civilized (although I'm pretty sure their three year-old son won't see it that way); all very honest and mature; all very hard-fought (they did make it to their fifth anniversary, after all).

So why did I find her words so infuriating?

As someone who's been married for more than three decades, I can safely state that my husband and I are no longer who we used to be. (Thank God). I can also confirm the fact that we have fallen in and out of love with one another at least 187 times. If we had thrown in the towel during any one of those "down" times (and believe me, I thought about it once or twice), who knows where we would be today. He might be tooling around Europe with some supermodel and I might be sharing a fireplace chat with that handsome devil I met on that Our Time dating site but that's beside the point. And even if we had managed to carve out some new lives for ourselves, I know one thing - we'd be all the poorer for it.

This week, my parents will celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary. Yes, you read that correctly. Sixty-five. When they said "I do", there was no such thing as TV, women still did their housework in dresses, and the civil rights movement was still a decade away. They have survived countless changes of address, the ups and downs of parenthood, various illnesses, and retirement. They have remained partners for more than six decades for one simple reason - because they wanted to; because they never even imagined an alternative. They had stood in front of family and friends and said "forever" and they meant it.

Yesterday, when our family celebrated this monumental achievement, it didn't take much for any of us to realize how grateful we were that they hadn't "given it their best shot" and walked away. As we poured over photographs of their life together, all of us who owed our very existence to their partnership couldn't help but be in awe of the rich history they had created; of the amazing tapestry of their life spent loving (and every now and then hating) one another.

Together. Through it all. For better or worse. Till death do they part.

Hittin' the Road

One of the best things about having grown children who have flown the coop is the freedom their father and I now have to drop everything, pack a bag, and head out of town. Our latest adventure was a quick four-day trip down to Kentucky to do some work on the lake home we are hoping to sell. We knew going in that this was not going to be a "vacation" but anytime I throw my clothes in a suitcase and check into a hotel (hello, Super 8) is a holiday to me.

An eight hour car ride (especially one without the radio) tells you a lot about your relationship. By the time we stopped for lunch, our conversations had already covered everything from our adorable grandson (okay, his antics kept us going for at least a hundred miles) to the nation's rising racial tensions. By the time we reached our destination, it was obvious that even after thirty-one years, we still had not run out of things to talk (or laugh) about.

For the next two days we raked, cut bushes, moved furniture, painted, sucked up endless varieties of bugs, and packed as many boxes as our humble SUV could handle. We also basked in the first really warm days of Spring, hung out at the local marina, chatted with our friendly neighbors, took a walk in the forest, ate Chinese, and shared a kiss under an impossibly starry sky.

Yep. Being an empty-nester has its moments.

Take Me Away

For those of you who maintained a relatively conscious state during the Seventies (those of you eager to point out you were toddlers in that decade, I hate you), you're sure to remember that ubiquitous commercial for Calgon; the one where some harried woman was imploring her box of bubble bath to get her the heck out of there. That's roughly where I'm at - except I'm not putting my faith in some stinkin' soap product to do the trick. No, my escape has nothing to do with soaking in a hot tub (unless it's on the top deck of a cruise ship); it has everything to do with physically being transported to another place.

Hello. I'm Coleen and I'm a travelholic.

Not that my addiction is any kind of a secret. My mailbox is inundated on a daily basis with brochures from every known cruise operator detailing the latest Rhine River itineraries or round-the-world sailing bargains. Yesterday, I even got one from Linblad Expeditions, inviting me to explore the Antartic. (Clearly, this company has no idea who they're dealing with. Spending thousands of dollars to freeze my ass off when I can do it here for free is something that is never going to happen.)

My AOL (please don't laugh) inbox is full of e-mails from Cruise Critic.com, Tripadvisor, and Kayak. My Facebook ads are continually reminding me of the latest price reduction on a cruise to the Greek islands or the fact that there is only one more room left at that cute little hotel in Orvieto. And how do I go to sleep at night? Do my eyes start to close as I devour the latest bestseller? Not nearly as often as they used to. More often than not, I'm pouring over some Rick Steves' guidebook telling me how to get out of the port in Ajaccio, Corsica or finding out the optimum way to get from Perugia to Parma.

It's a sickness and I know it but I don't care. I love that I can now discover charming seaside hotels in far-flung places from the comfort of my own bedroom. I relish in the opportunity to find the "locals" way to get from Point A to Point B instead of signing up with some impersonal touring operator. Most of all, I love the fact that I'm always in the middle of planning my next trip, no matter how far in the future it may be.

It may be a sickness but I'm having so much fun I have no interest in finding a cure.

Stepping Back

When one of your adult children hits a rough patch, it can be tough to come up with the appropriate response .As a mother, it's so easy to want to jump in and shield your kids from any financial/emotional/physical discomfort that might come their way but how often should we? While Beverly Goldberg (the original Smother - if you're not watching The Goldbergs, this reference will mean nothing to you) would say always and forever, I'm coming to the painful realization that we're not doing our kids any favors when we make a habit of heading things off at the pass. (OMG. I am so old that I'm now quoting things that Edgar Buchanan would say in a John Wayne western).

What I'm struggling with is this: Does parental intervention really help our little darlings in any positive way? Are we just coming to the rescue to make ourselves feel better? And, more importantly, please tell me how to get a good night's sleep when I dig in and let one of them sink or swim without throwing them a line?

Money is especially tricky. If I have it and one of my kids doesn't, it seems like such a no-brainer to break out that check book. But what does that teach them? That it's okay to buy stuff they can't afford; that it's okay to shirk their responsibilities and risk ruining their good credit; that it's acceptable to expect to be bailed out when they've dug themselves into a giant hole? Not exactly a parental legacy worth carving into one's tombstone.

I guess it's all about common sense; possessing the ability to be more selective in the times and manner I offer my help. While I'm not quite the pushover (read enabler) that I used to be, I'm nowhere near the "you're an adult, it's time for you to figure it out" kind of gal that I aspire to.  When it's crunch time my kids undoubtedly know that I'll be there to lend a helping hand or offer words of advice (unless I'm cruising the Mediterranean) but I also want them to realize they have the strength and ability to fend for themselves.

They may never have to worry about sleeping under a cold, snowy bridge but they just might have to find out what the world is like without an iPhone.

The Circle Game

Joni Mitchell wrote a lot of great songs about life and love. One of my favorites was The Circle Game with lyrics extolling the joys and frustrations of living on Planet Earth for seventy or eighty years. If you're younger than I am (and who isn't?) you might not know (or in my case remember) the words:  And the seasons, they go round and round. And the painted ponies go up and down. We're captive on a carousel of time. We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came. And go round and round and round in the circle game. (Just writing those words makes me want to go dig out my copy of Ladies of the Canyon.)

I was thinking of that song yesterday when I helped host a baby shower for one of my closest friend's daughter. She (and the other two hostesses) have been three of God's greatest blessings in my life for more than thirty years. As I watched her daughter gleefully open all the gifts that would soon clothe/educate/amuse her little one, I couldn't help thinking about how quickly the time had gone. Had it really been twenty-something years since my friends and I were the ones waddling around in maternity cloths? Had it truly been more than two decades since I was putting the finishing touches on the cake for my friend's baby shower instead of the cupcakes for this one? Could that really be my own daughter sitting on the floor tending to her six-month old son?

I know. I know. Time marches on. Time waits for no (wo)man. Everyone tells you how fast it all goes by (even if they don't say it quite as eloquently as Ms. Mitchell) but nothing really prepares you for it. And even though I made sure to add some pearls of wisdom about savoring every moment of her parenthood journey in my message to the mommy-to-be, I know it won't do much good.

She won't really appreciate it until she's the one watching her own daughter open up those presents.