When I was in my twenties I was lucky enough to be cast as Maria in our community college's production of West Side Story. If you know the show (and who doesn't?) you know that it's a fantastic part, one that I had always dreamed about playing. For months of rehearsals and two weekends of performances, I pranced around in my made-for-me costumes singing classics like I Feel Pretty and Tonight before bawling my eyes out after that revenge-seeking Chino (spoiler alert) killed the love of my life. It was almost forty years ago and I can still remember how great it felt to be standing on that stage doing something I loved to do and how incredulous I was when a few kids actually came up to me after the show looking for my autograph. (I sure hope those guys aren't too disappointed that it never turned out to be worth anything on e-Bay.)
At the time, I fantasized about heading out to Hollywood (Broadway would have been okay too but movies were always my thing and hey, that's where the real money was) to fulfill my life-long dream to be an actress but nothing ever went much beyond that community college stage. I guess my fear of rejection and your basic everyday set of insecurities stopped me from ever pursuing anything beyond local recognition but that didn't stop me from feeling a tinge of regret anytime I saw some newly discovered starlet walking the red carpet or some breathless ingenue clutching her first Oscar with tears streaming down her face.
Could that have been me? Did I miss out on my chance to be worshiped and adored?
Not by a long shot. Oh, sure. Maybe I could have been an actress. Maybe I could have gotten a recording contract. Maybe I could have even walked away with one of those gold, naked men. But if any of that had happened, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have found the time to be the kind of mom (and now Nana) that I believe I was truly destined to be.
When I think about the moments when my children looked at me as if I hung the moon, I know that I wouldn't have missed them for all the stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And when my little grandson's face lights up when I come around the corner or laughs at some silly face I make, I know that there is nothing that could come close to the joy I feel; not even George Clooney reading my name off that list of nominees (okay, that might be closer than I want to admit).
Playing Maria was fun. It was a fantastic time in my life that gave me a lot of confidence and I'm so grateful to have been able to fulfill my performing dreams, even if it was on a smaller scale than I would have liked.
But being a mom and a grandmother? Now, those are the roles I was born to play.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Monday, July 6, 2015
Quality Control
This is going to sound like the rant of an old person (okay, maybe it is) but I'm getting a little tired of paying more and getting (a whole lot) less. Maybe it's because I remember when sugar actually came in five-pound bags instead of four or ice cream that came packed in half-gallon containers instead of whatever the heck size it's packed in now or maybe it's because I've been on the phone all day with businesses who have taken (or are trying to take) a good deal of my money and are dead set on giving me very little in return.
Thinking about changing your cable service? Good luck. I spent the better part of my morning trying to compare packages with several cable providers and, guess what? They make it pretty darn impossible for you to do that. That $99 Triple Play deal doesn't end up looking so hot after they tack on all the one-time charges, network surcharges, FCC fees, mandatory equipment rentals, and Europe 100 international calling plan costs that those splashy commercials fail to mention. In the end, I figured out that, at best, I could save $20 or $25 to make the switch. No thanks. Not for a commercial-laden product (wasn't the whole allure of paying for cable TV supposed to include ditching those things?) that costs more than my first monthly car payment. I'm now on to researching the cost of an indoor HD antenna and going back to ABC, NBC, and CBS. I might have to forego 118 hours of non-stop Wimbledon coverage but I'll have enough in my bank account to hop a plane and see it in person.
After all that, I decided to try to tackle an ongoing problem with my iPass. I was pretty sure I had been double-billed for tollway fees on my son's car and had the printout of the last two months worth of charges sitting in front of me, ready to do battle. By the time I got off the phone with an admittedly pleasant young lady by the name of Flavia, I was ready to blow off the $55.75, sell my car and start riding a bicycle (stop laughing, I still remember how).
Finally, I tried to take on Coach. I have a bag I purchased at their outlet store two summers ago that has a strap that completely disintegrated. I thought, surely, a company that charges several hundred dollars for a purse (not that I actually paid that - what are you, crazy?) would stand behind their products for, if not a lifetime, at least a couple of years. A quick look at their website cleared up that delusional thinking in a hurry. They warranty their purses for ONE YEAR. Wow! One whole year. I have bags I've bought at Target for $19.99 that have lasted longer than that. So much for that label inside that says, and I quote, "This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted from the finest materials. Its superior craftsmanship reflects our commitment to enduring quality." I guess they forgot to mention that "enduring" only lasts for 364 days.
I know that customer service is dying (but does it have to do so continually on my doorstep?). I accept the fact that prices generally go in one direction (thank you, technology, for being the exception to that rule). And I know that mass production (i.e. progress) means that quality is going to suffer.
Billy Joel may have been right when he said "the good old days weren't always good" but I'd be willing to bet he didn't write that after talking with Comcast.
Thinking about changing your cable service? Good luck. I spent the better part of my morning trying to compare packages with several cable providers and, guess what? They make it pretty darn impossible for you to do that. That $99 Triple Play deal doesn't end up looking so hot after they tack on all the one-time charges, network surcharges, FCC fees, mandatory equipment rentals, and Europe 100 international calling plan costs that those splashy commercials fail to mention. In the end, I figured out that, at best, I could save $20 or $25 to make the switch. No thanks. Not for a commercial-laden product (wasn't the whole allure of paying for cable TV supposed to include ditching those things?) that costs more than my first monthly car payment. I'm now on to researching the cost of an indoor HD antenna and going back to ABC, NBC, and CBS. I might have to forego 118 hours of non-stop Wimbledon coverage but I'll have enough in my bank account to hop a plane and see it in person.
After all that, I decided to try to tackle an ongoing problem with my iPass. I was pretty sure I had been double-billed for tollway fees on my son's car and had the printout of the last two months worth of charges sitting in front of me, ready to do battle. By the time I got off the phone with an admittedly pleasant young lady by the name of Flavia, I was ready to blow off the $55.75, sell my car and start riding a bicycle (stop laughing, I still remember how).
Finally, I tried to take on Coach. I have a bag I purchased at their outlet store two summers ago that has a strap that completely disintegrated. I thought, surely, a company that charges several hundred dollars for a purse (not that I actually paid that - what are you, crazy?) would stand behind their products for, if not a lifetime, at least a couple of years. A quick look at their website cleared up that delusional thinking in a hurry. They warranty their purses for ONE YEAR. Wow! One whole year. I have bags I've bought at Target for $19.99 that have lasted longer than that. So much for that label inside that says, and I quote, "This is a Coach bag. It was handcrafted from the finest materials. Its superior craftsmanship reflects our commitment to enduring quality." I guess they forgot to mention that "enduring" only lasts for 364 days.
I know that customer service is dying (but does it have to do so continually on my doorstep?). I accept the fact that prices generally go in one direction (thank you, technology, for being the exception to that rule). And I know that mass production (i.e. progress) means that quality is going to suffer.
Billy Joel may have been right when he said "the good old days weren't always good" but I'd be willing to bet he didn't write that after talking with Comcast.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Another Candle
It's hard not to be a little ambivalent about birthdays when you've already celebrated six decades worth of them. While I certainly want them to keep on coming, I can't help feeling a twinge of anxiety every time one of them rolls around. Since I'm prone to introspection (bet you figured that out already) I tend to use the arrival of another birthday to inspect, analyze, and critique my behavior over the last three hundred sixty-five days. Not always a pretty sight but hey, somebody's got to do it.
Did I learn anything new? (Princess Charlotte's nanny's name unfortunately doesn't count). Did I advance my spiritual growth? (Watching five minutes of Joel Osteen's Sunday service also does not make the cut). Did I love more? (This year? Undoubtedly. I have that new grand-baby, remember?) Was I kinder? (That crazy woman in the library yesterday probably doesn't think so). More thoughtful? (I try on this one but it's pretty tough when thoughts stay in my consciousness for under thirty seconds.) Less petty? (Again, sorry crazy library lady). More joyful? (Other than the time I spend with my grandson who makes it pretty darn hard to be anything but). Did I sweat the small stuff less? (Does not getting upset at my hubby's picking up the wrong peanut butter count?) Did I value the important stuff more? (It's getting a little late if I haven't). Did I finally finish editing that damn book that I keep talking about? (What do you think?)
All I know is that another June 24th has presented itself and I'm doing the best I can. (Wait. That's a lie. I could exercise more and it wouldn't hurt to stop eating those dark chocolate sea-salt caramels every night. Damn you, Costco). I do try to spend as much time as possible with the wonderful family and amazing friends that God has blessed me with (I sure hope that means another trip to Mexico this winter with the best friends anyone could ask for) and try to spend as little time as possible with toxic, negative people who's goal in life is to sap all the joy out of anyone within a five-mile radius (that's you, library lady).
It feels odd to be eligible for Social Security and AARP discounts. That's for old people and I have a hard time thinking of myself that way (unless I'm trying to get my creaky knees and plantar fascitis inflicted feet out of bed in the morning). But every time I feel sorry for myself or wish I didn't have to go through the decidedly negative aspects of getting older, I think of my friend Karyn who was stricken with Stage 4 cancer and died at fifty-four. I know she would have given anything to be here with her kids and grandkids; birthdays, achy joints and all.
She would feel lucky and blessed. And so do I.
Did I learn anything new? (Princess Charlotte's nanny's name unfortunately doesn't count). Did I advance my spiritual growth? (Watching five minutes of Joel Osteen's Sunday service also does not make the cut). Did I love more? (This year? Undoubtedly. I have that new grand-baby, remember?) Was I kinder? (That crazy woman in the library yesterday probably doesn't think so). More thoughtful? (I try on this one but it's pretty tough when thoughts stay in my consciousness for under thirty seconds.) Less petty? (Again, sorry crazy library lady). More joyful? (Other than the time I spend with my grandson who makes it pretty darn hard to be anything but). Did I sweat the small stuff less? (Does not getting upset at my hubby's picking up the wrong peanut butter count?) Did I value the important stuff more? (It's getting a little late if I haven't). Did I finally finish editing that damn book that I keep talking about? (What do you think?)
All I know is that another June 24th has presented itself and I'm doing the best I can. (Wait. That's a lie. I could exercise more and it wouldn't hurt to stop eating those dark chocolate sea-salt caramels every night. Damn you, Costco). I do try to spend as much time as possible with the wonderful family and amazing friends that God has blessed me with (I sure hope that means another trip to Mexico this winter with the best friends anyone could ask for) and try to spend as little time as possible with toxic, negative people who's goal in life is to sap all the joy out of anyone within a five-mile radius (that's you, library lady).
It feels odd to be eligible for Social Security and AARP discounts. That's for old people and I have a hard time thinking of myself that way (unless I'm trying to get my creaky knees and plantar fascitis inflicted feet out of bed in the morning). But every time I feel sorry for myself or wish I didn't have to go through the decidedly negative aspects of getting older, I think of my friend Karyn who was stricken with Stage 4 cancer and died at fifty-four. I know she would have given anything to be here with her kids and grandkids; birthdays, achy joints and all.
She would feel lucky and blessed. And so do I.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Living the Dream
For years I have dreamed about living in Italy. I've read every guidebook I could get my hands on, perused real estate websites with images of Tuscan cottages straight out of Under the Tuscan Sun, and watched every Italian episode of House Hunters International. I've fantasized about walking down to the village market with a wicker basket over my arm, greeting the locals with my impeccable Italian, and welcoming friends and relatives to my hillside home away from home. Amazingly, my dream is finally coming true.
For one of my best friends.
I never even knew we shared this dream. My friend, a high-school English teacher for many years, had always proclaimed her love for all things French, so I thought she would be bound for the South of France if ever she wanted to shake things up. But, no. This weekend she is jetting off to Florence to live out my greatest fantasy. She's recently retired from full-time teaching and intends to spend at least a year teaching English in Rome or Bologna or Orvieto or wherever she can find a job once she completes the one-month training class.
Am I jealous? Absolutely not. I'm happy for my friend. (Of course, I'm jealous. What are you, nuts? I'd love nothing better than to squeeze into a cozy spot in her largest piece of luggage.) Am I inspired to take her lead and start browsing again through those international real estate websites? Probably not, at least not for the foreseeable future.
See, I've got this grandson; this adorable human being who gets cuter and more animated every day. The thought of living in Italy is oh so tempting but the thought of missing him learning to crawl, walk, talk, and blow kisses is utterly unthinkable. My friend's grandsons are teenagers. Not to say she won't miss them like crazy but let's face it, they've already done all the excruciatingly cute things they're ever going to and she'll probably communicate with them as often through Skype as she would if she were a twenty minute drive away.
So, for right now, I'll have to live vicariously through her. I'll see her amazing photos on Facebook and read about all her book-worthy adventures in the blog she intends to write and I'm sure there will be days when I'll wish, more than anything, that I was right there with her.
And then my grandson will squeal with delight at the sight of the bubbles I've just blown and I'll know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.
For one of my best friends.
I never even knew we shared this dream. My friend, a high-school English teacher for many years, had always proclaimed her love for all things French, so I thought she would be bound for the South of France if ever she wanted to shake things up. But, no. This weekend she is jetting off to Florence to live out my greatest fantasy. She's recently retired from full-time teaching and intends to spend at least a year teaching English in Rome or Bologna or Orvieto or wherever she can find a job once she completes the one-month training class.
Am I jealous? Absolutely not. I'm happy for my friend. (Of course, I'm jealous. What are you, nuts? I'd love nothing better than to squeeze into a cozy spot in her largest piece of luggage.) Am I inspired to take her lead and start browsing again through those international real estate websites? Probably not, at least not for the foreseeable future.
See, I've got this grandson; this adorable human being who gets cuter and more animated every day. The thought of living in Italy is oh so tempting but the thought of missing him learning to crawl, walk, talk, and blow kisses is utterly unthinkable. My friend's grandsons are teenagers. Not to say she won't miss them like crazy but let's face it, they've already done all the excruciatingly cute things they're ever going to and she'll probably communicate with them as often through Skype as she would if she were a twenty minute drive away.
So, for right now, I'll have to live vicariously through her. I'll see her amazing photos on Facebook and read about all her book-worthy adventures in the blog she intends to write and I'm sure there will be days when I'll wish, more than anything, that I was right there with her.
And then my grandson will squeal with delight at the sight of the bubbles I've just blown and I'll know that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Back in the Neighborhood
When my kids were little, I didn't have a lot of hard and fast rules. In fact, I can think of only two: No playing with sharp knives (dull ones were okay but only after all other forms of entertainment had been tried and rejected) and under no circumstances were they ever allowed to tune in to any episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.
Now, before you report me to the House Un-American Activities Committee, I'll try to explain my loathing of a beloved cultural icon by saying I have nothing against Fred Rogers personally. He was from all accounts a wonderfully kind, sensitive man who devoted his life to educating children. For that, I had (and still have) nothing but respect. I just could not stomach the show. The minute I heard that opening song, I would race for the TV to flip the channel before kindly Mr. Rogers got the chance to change into that raggedy red sweater. I disliked everything about that PBS classic from the insipid songs, to the creepy puppets, to the syrupy tone. In our house, it was definitely a case of Sesame Street, yeah. Mr. Rogers, no way.
Ironic, isn't it, that I am now watching a little show called Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on a regular basis? When I first tuned in, I didn't know that it had any connection with my original nemesis. All I knew was that it was a colorful, animated program that my little grandson loved. And at first, I thought it was cute. Yes, I recognized that annoying "won't you be my neighbor" ditty but I foolishly thought it was just a sweet homage to its creator. Slowly, though, it began to dawn on me. Daniel Tiger was that scraggly puppet brought to animated life. Prince Wednesday, his dad King Friday and that cat that said "meow, meow" in between every sentence weren't just Daniel Tiger's friends, they were those other scruffy puppets that Fred Rogers used to interact with. And then there was that magic trolley (which Daniel and his father have plastered all over their matching pajamas - a visual more frightening than anything I've ever seen on The Walking Dead) which should have been a dead giveaway but like I said, I tried hard to escape watching the show in its original incarnation so it took me longer than it should have to connect the dots.
So, Fred Rogers, you win. The last time I looked, Netflix had sixty-five episodes ready for my grandson's viewing pleasure and I'm pretty sure I'll end up seeing every one of them several times before he gets tired of the show. Oh, well. This Daniel Tiger is a whole lot cuter than the original, although he still insists on opening every episode exactly as his predecessor did by changing into his favorite red sweater (at least Fred Rogers had the decency to wear a pair of pants with his) and comfy shoes while imploring me to be his neighbor. (As if I would want to live in that podunk town with one street and one form of transportation).
Well, I think you get the idea. I would continue to complain about the unfairness of it all if I didn't feel the urgent need to visit the nearest restroom. And you know what the song says . . .
'If you have to go potty, stop and go right away. Flush and wash and be on your way.'
Now, before you report me to the House Un-American Activities Committee, I'll try to explain my loathing of a beloved cultural icon by saying I have nothing against Fred Rogers personally. He was from all accounts a wonderfully kind, sensitive man who devoted his life to educating children. For that, I had (and still have) nothing but respect. I just could not stomach the show. The minute I heard that opening song, I would race for the TV to flip the channel before kindly Mr. Rogers got the chance to change into that raggedy red sweater. I disliked everything about that PBS classic from the insipid songs, to the creepy puppets, to the syrupy tone. In our house, it was definitely a case of Sesame Street, yeah. Mr. Rogers, no way.
Ironic, isn't it, that I am now watching a little show called Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on a regular basis? When I first tuned in, I didn't know that it had any connection with my original nemesis. All I knew was that it was a colorful, animated program that my little grandson loved. And at first, I thought it was cute. Yes, I recognized that annoying "won't you be my neighbor" ditty but I foolishly thought it was just a sweet homage to its creator. Slowly, though, it began to dawn on me. Daniel Tiger was that scraggly puppet brought to animated life. Prince Wednesday, his dad King Friday and that cat that said "meow, meow" in between every sentence weren't just Daniel Tiger's friends, they were those other scruffy puppets that Fred Rogers used to interact with. And then there was that magic trolley (which Daniel and his father have plastered all over their matching pajamas - a visual more frightening than anything I've ever seen on The Walking Dead) which should have been a dead giveaway but like I said, I tried hard to escape watching the show in its original incarnation so it took me longer than it should have to connect the dots.
So, Fred Rogers, you win. The last time I looked, Netflix had sixty-five episodes ready for my grandson's viewing pleasure and I'm pretty sure I'll end up seeing every one of them several times before he gets tired of the show. Oh, well. This Daniel Tiger is a whole lot cuter than the original, although he still insists on opening every episode exactly as his predecessor did by changing into his favorite red sweater (at least Fred Rogers had the decency to wear a pair of pants with his) and comfy shoes while imploring me to be his neighbor. (As if I would want to live in that podunk town with one street and one form of transportation).
Well, I think you get the idea. I would continue to complain about the unfairness of it all if I didn't feel the urgent need to visit the nearest restroom. And you know what the song says . . .
'If you have to go potty, stop and go right away. Flush and wash and be on your way.'
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, May 11, 2015
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.
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.
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