Crazy is Relative

Best. Game. Ever.

2011-11-14T18:58:00.000-08:00

It was a big day in the Mc Donald household Saturday.

After all the whining I've done - for the past four months - about being a football mom, you know I have secretly loved every minute of it. I even read "Football for Dummies" so as not to look like too much of an idiot at the games. I spent more money than I thought possible on outfitting a kid so he wouldn't look like too much of an idiot.

The Pee Wees didn't start out to be a great team. Actually, they weren't even really a very good team. They were scattered and mostly new to each other, and the record they had to go on was, well, pretty crappy. Last year, this team won one game. The bar was low, but so was the morale.

I didn't care much in the beginning that they might be the laughing stock of the league. I was still in the Everyone Gets a Trophy/We're Just Here to Have Fun stage of my son's athletic career. But it didn't take long before I had to either go big or go home. Either I got serious about football, or Jack was going to fail miserably. So I stopped going to practice with him. I stopped babying him, trying to get him to tie his shoe by shouting to him in the middle of a play. I sat still when he was mowed down by a bigger player and I was certain that multiple bones lay crushed beneath his pads. I didn't really bond with the other ~~completely obsessed~~ moms, but I did develop the Competitive Mom Yell and could hold my own in the stands.

In the end, it was all worth it.

When those boys walked onto the field Saturday morning, I'm sure I was the proudest mom there. They came to that game with an amazing 7 and 2 season record, and I was as ready as anyone to scream my head off as they faced the toughest team in the league - an undefeated team - for the Season Championship Title. They could have lost, and I would have told you it was the best football season I'd ever seen.

But they didn't.

With three minutes left in the game, my son and his team pulled a two point lead to take home that trophy.

I've never yelled so loud for so long. I cried. All the moms cried. The coach cried, the boys cried. I don't think I've ever had such a proud and exhilarating moment as a mother.

Now that the season is over, I wonder what we will do with all of our newfound free time. (Or worry. God, this means I have to start cooking again. No more excuses for drive-thru.) I realize I am really going to miss the insanity of football.

Which just means that I'll have to gear up to start it all over again next August.

Thank God :)

Getting It

2011-10-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

By all accounts, I've traveled a lot in my lifetime. There aren't many people who have been so blessed as to begin stories with lines such as, "Once upon a time, on the southern coast of Portugal ..." Yet I am one of them, and I am one of an eclectic group of people to whom this means something extraordinarily special.

It was the early 1980s and we were ex-pats - American teenagers - transplanted from Any Given City, USA (or any other place on earth, for that matter) to London, England. We carried the world in the palms of our hands; we had freedom beyond reason, we had money and opportunity that most of us have never seen since. We were living in a surreal wonderworld, light years away from the reality to which we were accustomed.

Tonight, some thirty years later, we're in Chicago, Illinois. They call it our high school reunion, but it's not what you think. Our American school was in London, but very few of us live there now, or can afford to get there for any reason. Tonight, in an English-themed pub in the center of a city that is foreign to many of us, we met up with a few others to share our past over a few pints of Guinness and more than a couple orders of chips.

There are no limits, there are no boundaries, and all memories are worth repeating. We share stories from the glory days, interspersed with bragging about our kids and trading business cards. You could say it's like any other high school reunion in that way. There is something about revisiting the past - particularly those formative, untouchable years - that awakens every human spirit.

But there is something else for us. There is something about having lived in that place, in that suspension of time and reality, that transcends our need to prove anything to anyone these days. We don't judge each other. We are all equally proud to have become the diverse group that we are - the parents, the nurses, the salesmen, the artists, the lawyers - we live pretty ordinary lives now, most of us. We aren't rich and we aren't starving; most of us aren't doing anything with our time that will make its way into a history book. But the interesting thing is that, if you had seen us then, you would have pegged us for much more noteworthy ventures.

Throwing back a happy hour PBR, none of us thinks it's odd as we wax nostalgic about drinking champagne at the top of the Eiffel Tower back in the day. No one considers it pretentious to relive every turn of the ski as we killed the slopes in Crans Montana, after three bottles of gluvine. There is no rolling of eyes at the mention of riding on the backs of camels in the sands of Egypt and no one ever tries to wrench us back into the real world once we get going on our memory train.

When we do return, there is not one of us at these worn oak tables who does not miss London with an aching in our hearts we cannot explain.

We tell our children stories of those days that have become our own hand-made fairy tales in their little heads, and our significant others listen patiently when we reminisce idly. Only a precious few of us were fated to marry one of our own, one who doesn't just listen but who melts into the past with us whenever we so choose. Our experience became such an integral part of each of us that, even as we move farther from it every day, we do not know how to let go.

Perhaps I speak only for myself, but I’m willing to guess that the reason we all show up at these things every few years is because we miss that connection to something no one else in our present lives fully understands. I know we are happily married, or happily single. We have true and genuine friends who may have never left this country. It’s just that, once upon a time, we experienced something tremendously unique…with each other.

Riding back to Liz’s in the back seat of Roger’s BMW, with the sound system blasting Freebird, the five of us are singing at the tops of our lungs. We don’t care that we are middle-aged or that our own teenagers would be mortified to see that all the windows are down and people are staring and glaring as we fly by. We have traveled back, if only for a moment, and we are belting out the lyrics to a soundtrack only we have ever heard.

We get us.

30 Day Photo Challenge - Day Eleven

2011-08-08T05:43:00.000-07:00

Day Eleven

~ A picture of something you hate ~

I hate 3:00 in the morning these days.

The past year or so, I've been unable to establish a normal sleeping pattern where I fall asleep and stay that way all night long.

It's been so long since I've seen eight uninterrupted hours for more than a couple nights in a row that I'm now going to do a sleep study with a neurologist. God, I hope this helps.

I'm exhausted.

30 Day Photo Challenge - Day Ten

2011-06-01T20:28:00.000-07:00

Day Ten

~ A picture of the person with whom you do the most *#@*-up things ~

At my age, this one's a little tough.

I don't really do *#@*-up things anymore; I can't stay up that late. And even if I can, I can't get up in the morning so I try to avoid such activities.

But I guess if I'm going to get a little crazy, like dancing until the cleaning crew comes on at the Nine Fine Irishmen in Vegas, or singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of our lungs at a Christmas party, or drinking like fish at the BLT on a Friday night, I'd have to say that Todd is my best *#@* -up buddy.

I know, it's not like we've ever woken up in jail together or bungee jumped off the Space Needle.

But I'm pretty sure that, back in the day, we totally would've.

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Nine

2011-05-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

Day Nine

~ A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most ~

I'm sure this is cliche, but it's my Mom. Without question, she is the one person who has brought me this far.

Nine years ago, I wrote her this letter :

Dear Mom,

I just opened my email to find a picture of you that Dad sent yesterday. IN the picture, evidently, you are talking with me on the phone while gardening, which I think is a uniquely accurate portrait of you. Tending the earth and tending your family, balancing the corners of your life in both hands. I sat here and looked at the picture for a long time, thinking to myself how beautiful you are, have become, have always been.

Over the past few weeks, which I’m sure has been a culmination of many moments since my first child was born, you have been on my mind. My boys are growing up and into their own little people and each day, I find that as I learn more about them, in some ways I understand less. Their hearts and minds are feeling and thinking things I cannot see or touch and it is often hard for me to accept that. As they try new things and wander off in their own directions, I feel such a strong urge to pull them back and insist on knowing their every hope or dream.

But as time passes, I see that not only is that impossible, it’s not my place. I have to let them grow and in those moments where I love them so much it hurts, but I don’t like them one bit, I have to learn to forgive myself. I see that sometimes they might make me want to run away from home but that there is no time on earth when I love them more.

I learned all that from you and I don’t think I’ve ever once realized it until now. I don’t know why it’s starting to make sense; maybe because time seems to be flying by so quickly that I’m worried I might not figure out all that I’m supposed to figure out and I’m putting a little pressure on myself to give it a shot. Maybe it’s just that I am still growing up myself and this is a new stage of understanding and acceptance for me. Whatever it is, I feel there is so much I want to say to you and I don’t know where to start.

If I could apologize for every horrible thing I ever said or every time I ever doubted your counsel, I would, but I know that doesn’t mean much. Sometimes I say to Matthew, “I don’t want an apology, I just want you not to do it again”, and I think that’s true for most people. I’m sure an apology doesn’t make up for years of whining or complaining or attitude or ungratefulness. But for what it’s worth, it’s there in my heart anyway.

Before my kids came into my life, I never knew it was possible to love another person as much as I love them. It has taken me almost ten years to realize the full impact of that love and I’m quite sure there’s more to come. I live each day completely and totally devoted to them and it must seem effortless at times. I look back at my childhood and you made it look so easy that I thought it took nothing out of you to be our Mom. But now I know that it takes everything, and then some. I know that it takes every shred of patience, every ounce of energy, every drop of creativity in your soul to raise children and I am astounded.

I sit here looking at this picture of my mother and I suddenly realize how much of her is there that I have never seen. I wish I could thank you for every worry and every dream and every second guess that I know you harbored in your heart for us. I know you did because I do it now, and for the first time ever, I understand. I understand that the reason I love my children is because you loved me. The reason I am able to teach them right from wrong, table manners, multiplication and why it’s important to be nice to people even when they’re not nice back is because you were successful. When I can’t find the child-rearing manual, the only reason I know what to do in a crisis is because in some way you have taught me how to improvise.

I’m not writing this because it’s Mother’s Day. I’m writing it because of all the people in the world who deserve to know that their life has been an amazing success, you are at the top of my list. I know this because when I speak to my kids, I hear your voice. In the harshest of words born of love and the warmest of words born of gratitude, I hear the unmistakable likeness of my mother.

I never tell you how much I love you, or how much I miss living close enough to visit with you more often. I have many days when I would give anything to just hop in the car and go have lunch with you. Days when I wish I could hear your life story, spend some time, for once, listening to your dreams. In my whole life, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you what you wished for, what is important to you. I want to apologize for being so selfish but then I look at my boys and I think that they are my wish, they are what is important to me. Is that true for all mothers? I want to ask you, “What else was there? What was there before us?”

Mom, you have been, and continue to be my inspiration. “Thank you” and “I’m sorry” are completely meaningless here as I’m trying to write what I really feel. I suppose I just want you to know that there does come a moment in your child’s life where they look back and finally “get it”. I thank you in my heart every day for my life, my ability to listen and to love, to give to others and to stay afloat when the waters are rough. It will never be enough to say that but it’s the truest thing I know.

I hope you have a bright and wonderful Mother’s Day and that you celebrate the success of Motherhood you have so selflessly earned. I look forward to hugging you and telling you myself the next time we’re together.

I love you more than I can say.

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Eight

2011-04-25T19:47:00.000-07:00

Day Eight

~ A picture that makes you laugh ~

This is Matthew, up near Mt. Rainier, about 13 years ago. It puts me in a good mood every time I look at it.

That river was close to freezing, in late May I think, but the fact that he sunk right down into it explains my kid better than I ever could with my own words.

He's always been a daredevil, the kid who would try it, when even Mikey wouldn't. We dared him to take a bath here, but instead of the argument we might have gotten from any other kid, this is what we got. Matty, laughing his head off in that ice cold water.

This picture makes me laugh, every time I look at it.

It's Matthew at his happiest, his most free. These days, that smile appears when he's skydiving, or engaging in some other crazy, life-threatening activity, but I hold on tight to that moment when all it took was a glacial river and a double-dog-dare from his mom.

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Seven

2011-04-13T08:46:00.000-07:00

Day Seven

~ A picture of your most treasured item ~

You're so lucky you're not in my head with this whole photo challenge thing. My friend Joanne is the only one who truly gets my insane over-analysis of every tiny, insignificant thing. She would laugh at how I sit here and break down each day's assignment, as if it were the prompt for my entrance essay into heaven.

My most treasured item? Is that like the one thing I'd grab if my house were on fire? Or the most expensive thing I own? Or do they mean the one thing that has the most sentimental value to me? God, why can't they be clearer about this? And I have to pick one thing? I'm a borderline hoarder, people, don't make me pick one item. Do they mean, like, my senior year scrapbook from high school? My Grandma's bible? My wedding ring? My kid's first tooth? God I need a drink. Whose idea was this challenge?

Whatever. And I wonder why I need drugs.

Here it is. It's my signed Salvador Dali print, that I have loved, loved, loved for years.

I used to love it hanging in my parents' house, when we lived overseas. My parents bought it in the late 70's at Bonham's Auction House in London for some ridiculous pittance; my dad remembers it to have been in the $150 range. Who knows what it's really worth? It could be nothing, or I might take it on Antiques Roadshow someday and be that woman who passes out when the guy tells her the old painting will settle the national debt.

Funny thing is, I can't remember where it hung, but I know it always brought me peace and struck me with its beauty, every time I looked at it. When I was older, I told my folks that someday, I would like to have it. You know, how we - as "kids" - start picking out things that will mean something to us when our parents are gone. Only with my parents, I had to start early, because they're the opposite of me. They're Anti-Hoarders. They started on this "downsizing" kick a few years ago that, quite frankly, was a little worrisome. They were getting rid of things that seriously mattered to us, my brother and I. Like the time we were home for Christmas and, while making tacos, Brother John discovered that the red taco shell pan was gone. The one we'd been frying taco shells in since the dawn of time. Red on the outside, cast iron. Perfect taco shell size. Just gone. Like it's possible to fry taco shells in anything but.

"Oh, that old thing? Here. Use this new one." our mother said, in a painfully off-handed way. New one? We didn't need a new one. We needed the red one.

Anyway, I digress.

So I mentioned I'd like this painting, and the next thing I knew, it was mine. Good thing I said something. It wasn't even hanging up anywhere by that time; it was sitting neatly stacked in a closet, framed in this old, canvas-matte, unfinished wood frame that was, honestly, hideous.

I brought it home with no clear idea of where it might go in my simple house - void of any "real" art whatsoever - until I decided to have it reframed. I hung it proudly above my fireplace, center stage, and to this day, find the same joy in it that I always did as a child. Now it's above the wine rack, but I like it there too.

When my parents came to stay, my Mom walked into the room and stared at it.

"Edward!" she exclaimed. "Look at that! Look what she did with that painting!" They stood and admired my prize, then she turned to me and said,

"Can we have it back?"

Um, no.

It's my most treasured item, Mom.

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Six

2011-04-06T08:41:00.000-07:00

Day Six

~A picture of a person you'd like to trade places with for a day~

When I was little, all I wanted to be was rich and beautiful; I wanted to be Jackie O. I didn't care much about being smart or talented, I just wanted to gallivant around the world in million dollar outfits and ridiculously glamorous sunglasses, stepping gracefully from private jets to the blinding light of camera flashes. I spent hours daydreaming of seeing my own face on the cover of a magazine.

As you may have noticed, I have ended up neither rich nor beautiful. I don't even have really good sunglasses. So you would think that if you asked me who I'd like to trade places with for a day, I would jump at the chance to spend my Freaky Friday as Jennifer Aniston. Or [Almost] Princess Kate. Or, God rest her soul, Elizabeth Taylor.

Who would say no to a few hours of sky's-the-limit shopping? Catching sight of yourself in a store window on Rodeo Drive and thinking "Holy crap! Who's that hottie?" Who would turn down the ego-boosting attention and the ability to go and do and be whoever you want today?

I guess I would. Jodi Foster once said, "Turning 40 means you give up some things. Like you give up the hope that you're going to be a rock star. You just aren't." Being Jackie O is my rock star, and it's off my bucket list these days.

If I could trade places with anyone for a day, it would be me, when I am an old lady.

I will spend my day surrounded by grandkids and my grown children, marveling at what happy, productive, loving, good people they have become. Delighted at how they aren't in therapy or jail, or working in fast food.

My heart will be warmed, knowing that my friendships have lasted through the years and that my family has mended its cracked places...that my husband and I did indeed grow old together and he's over at the ballpark in Phoenix, chatting up the folks at spring training.

I will rock on my front porch, feeling just fine about never learning to knit, or jumping out of an airplane, or losing those last ten pounds. I will sit peacefully at ease with how I raised my kids, the way I kept my house, what I chose for my career and how it all ended up.

And tomorrow, I will return to being Present Day Me, and I will have a really, really good night's sleep.

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Five

2011-03-30T21:39:00.000-07:00

Day Five

A picture of your favorite memory

I knew this was going to get hard at some point. I was hoping it wouldn't be this early on in the game. My favorite memory? Seriously?? I'm almost 47 years old, for Pete's sake; I'm supposed to pick one?

I guess if I were really nostalgic I'd choose the day my first kid was born, or the day I got married, or graduated from college, or something really meaningful like that. But I'm not feeling all that sappy right now, and I came across a picture in my search for the perfect memory that seemed to fit my current mood.

I turned 40 in June of 2004, but for some reason, I didn't do anything in particular on that day. I'm sure we went out for dinner or something, but I knew my friends were cooking up a party. In the meantime, my daughter Casey was living in Belgium, on a horse farm, for the summer. (That's another story.) She had been there about six weeks when she called home with a small request.

"So, I was thinking...." as all small requests begin.

The next thing I knew, I was getting my passport picture taken and buying an airline ticket to Brussels, so that Casey could see a little bit of Europe before heading home at the end of the summer, with a tourguide. She had originally asked her Dad to come meet her, to explore Paris and London and Belgium with her, but he had little interest (???) and suggested I should go instead. I think I was out of bed and packing before he got off the phone with her.

It was mid-August, and I was heading to Europe for the first time in seventeen years. The last time I had been in London was Christmas of 1987, when my parents were still living there, and it never occurred to me then that it would be so long before I went back. I couldn't imagine a better 40th birthday present.

But that's not the story. That's kind of the icing on the cake - the one that hadn't been served yet.

I was due to leave on September 4th and I learned that my birthday party was to be held just two days beforehand. Could this summer get any better? It wasn't a surprise, by any stretch. But I didn't know much more than that it was to be an 80s Party, and that everyone would be required to dress accordingly.

I couldn't tell you which part of it all was the most memorable. Whether it was shopping through every thrift store from here to south Seattle and back, searching for the perfect outfit with Shawnie, or trying to figure out what John was going to wear (he had no say in the matter). Or sitting in my bathroom watching Shawn paint John's nails, once we had figured it out.

It could have been the marble-top table, perfectly balanced, that Todd built me especially for playing Quarters on, or the collection of photos on the wall of all the guests in authentic photos from the 80s. It could have been Chris Kaufman's 1985 brick cell phone, or the fact that Susan wore the same dress to the party that she wore in the photo on the wall - really, who can do that?

Maybe the music was the best part - the nine CDs that Todd spent days making, a quintessential collection of every "Oh my God that's my favorite song!" from 1980 to 1989. Or that we played them so long and so loud that the police came to bust up the party. Just like the old days. Only this time, Fire Chief Mc Donald and Police Chief Jeter answering the door was waaaaay better than anything I can describe. That rookie cop standing on the porch, looking at the two of them, speechless. I think "Evening, Chief" was all he could manage, followed by a mumbling "oh some neighbors called but I'm sure it's nothing sorry to bother you have a good night. Sir."

The best part is that I remember every minute of it, miraculously, since I was drinking from these cups that guests had to purchase to get in - just like the old days -

and I'm not entirely sure what was in them.

Is it too late to make this my official Thank You Note to Kim and Josh and Shawn and Todd, for one of my very favorite memories ever?

Even if I did have that whole problem with the quarter when I got to Belgium.

But that's a slightly less pleasant memory.

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Four

2011-03-24T19:20:00.000-07:00

Day Four

A Picture of Your Night

So I'm not really sure what they mean by this. All that comes to mind is an infrared image of me sleeping. That's pretty much my night.

But I'm going to interpret it as "evening".

Now, do they mean My Dream Evening? Like this?

Or my Real Life Evening? Because there's a slight difference.

In my real life, I might be doing something more like this:

Or I might be found helping Jack with this...

And even if I'm not particularly good at it, I do enjoy this most nights...

And, as spring descends upon us, one of my favorite things in the evening

is having all the neighbor kids out of hibernation, hanging out on my street.

Usually, I make time for a little of this...

And because I'm pretty good about relaxing,

when it's all said and done, my evenings often end like this.

30 Day Photo Challenge - Day Three

2011-03-23T19:29:00.000-07:00

Day Three

~ A photo of the cast from your favorite show ~

The cast of Criminal Minds

I have to say that this is my favorite cast - not the current one - since it changes from time to time. Sadly, Jason Gideon (Mandy Patinkin), one of the greatest tv characters of all time, is now gone :(

Criminal Minds is, hands down, the best show on television. I only started watching it, in out-of-order reruns, about a year ago. This past Christmas, my kids gave me the whole five-season set on DVD and I can't get enough. The writing is superior to any other crime drama, and there's a clever mix of horror and humor on the odd occasion. I am inspired by the character development and the relationships between them, on which the writers seem to really focus. And I'm a living room psychologist, so I'm all over the study of the human mind and the human condition.

I've never been one for scary stuff, though, so it's odd that I am drawn to this show. I would have thought it would keep me up at night, but it's not really about the sadists and the sickos, it's about how the rest of the world copes with their existence.

Oh, and I almost forgot.

There's Derek.

* sigh *

30-Day Photo Challenge ~ Day Two

2011-03-22T22:22:00.000-07:00

Day Two

~A picture of you and the person

you have been closest with the longest~

At a Mariners vs Rangers game, Safeco Field
October 15, 2009

I couldn't tell you the first time I met my oldest friend, Amir. But I do remember distinctly that I didn't like him. Isn't that the way most great friendships begin?

It was high school...my junior year I think. He moved to our school and instantly befriended my best friend, who also happened to be the absolute unrequited love of my life. Naturally, I was jealous.

He was loud. And gregarious. Smart and funny and really, really popular, right off the bat. Hated him.

Not long after we met, he was invited to a concert with our group of friends.

"Seriously???" I groaned. "Not that kid. He's sooooo annoying!"

I lost the argument with whomever had invited him, whomever was madly enamoured of him at that moment.

And I lost every one after that, until he ended up invited to a party at my house. And I think the rest is history.

What do I love about him?

~ A trip to Boston, and sitting at the foot of the Harvard statue in our cashmere scarves, pretending like we could actually have been students there.

~ The summer in London that he surprised me with tickets to Lloyd Weber's Chess on stage in Piccadilly, and we went dancing at the Lyceum. Crazy fun.

~ Too many nights downtown, too many beers, prom at the Waldorf.

~ The fact that my parents consider him a second son.

~ A road trip we took to Vancouver BC for Mona's wedding. We took mushrooms on the way. Hello, it was college. I lived in Eugene. What a blast we had!

~ He made me a thousand cassette tapes of our favorite songs, and each song would have a little explanation of why he chose it. Each tape had its own unique title. He mailed them to me all through college and beyond. I saved every one of them. For whatever reason I cannot remember, we took to calling each other Scarlett and Rhett, so each of the tapes was addressed and signed that way.

~ He has never once, in all that time, forgotten my birthday. Nor has he forgotten to call and send a card.

~ He never lost touch with me, even when I wandered away and our friendship risked extinction.

~ He takes more pictures than I do. And good ones.

~ He loves his family. He adores and admires and respects his parents (his mom is now deceased and I know he misses her terribly.) He is devoted to his father and his daughter and he's even nice to his ex-wife.

~ We have travelled across continents to see each other, to be in each others' weddings, to celebrate in each others' successes and cry through each others' failures.

~ In thirty years, we have never had a single romantic encounter with each other and have never spent a single moment being jealous or wishing otherwise.

In July he's flying out here just to sit at Safeco in a Ranger's jersey, while the Mariners kick some Texas butt. Or the other way around, it doesn't really matter.

Baseball, beer and hotdogs with your oldest, truest friend. It doesn't get much better than that.

30-Day Photo Challenge ~ Day One

2011-03-21T16:44:00.000-07:00

I stole this from Facebook; I sure hope it's not some copyrighted thing I'll get sued for. I could have done it on FB, like everyone else, but I'm going to use it differently.

The thing is, I spend way too much time on FB these days and not enough time writing real things, so I thought this might be a good way to get myself "to the page", as Joanne says, every day.

I have 30 days and 30 assignments. I also have a really nice new camera and four weeks of photography classes under my belt, so I think I'm ready to go. And instead of scribbling a one-sentence response to each of the daily assignments, my goal is to actually write.

So here we go. Welcome to my 30-Day Photo and Writing Challenge.

Day One

~ A picture of yourself with ten facts ~

Circa 1966ish in Southern California. I guarantee
either my Mom or my Grandma made this dress.

1. I'm a sucker for junk TV, but not like you think. I can't watch a whole minute of Jersey Shore but I can sit through four hours of Full House reruns without a second thought.

2. My initials spell my name. Except for a brief period when I was married to my ex-husband, they always have.

3. I once sold Rainbow vacuum cleaners for a living. It wasn't a great living, mind you. I set a woman's carpet on fire one time trying to show her the dirt in the fibers with a big spotlight.

4. I have lived in seventeen houses or apartments, in nine cities. This is the longest I've ever lived anywhere - 14 years! Before that, my longest stint was in London, where I lived for five years during high school.

5. I love to travel - anywhere - even if it's not far away. I love to fly and stay in hotels.

6. I went to a British high school in England for awhile. We wore hideous uniforms and were not allowed to wear nylons or makeup. I got beat up pretty regularly by mean British girls in the bathrooms at lunch time.

7. I've met David Cassidy. I'm still in love with him. Sorry, honey.

8. I never lie about my height or my age. Why bother? Clearly I'm short, and I kind of like getting older. It makes me feel like I've earned something.

9. I am the least athletic person I know. I am highly uncoordinated and ridiculously non-competitive. I don't understand game rules very well, either, which makes me a liability in any organized sport.

10. I talk to myself incessantly and I think I'm hilariously funny. Especially when no one else does.

Seeking a Cease Fire

2011-03-07T18:06:00.000-08:00

Teenagers.

That sums up my weekend in its simplest form, although I wish it really were as simple as a word that I could type out, then hit "delete". No, that came out wrong. I don't mean I want to delete my teenagers. I just want to erase all the shit that comes along with them that makes being a parent such a crappy job sometimes.

I'm sure my own parents are sitting back with a glass of wine, laughing, thinking "Yup, this is payback." I know I wasn't the greatest kid on earth. I remember once my mom even told me that I wasn't "her favorite person" when I was a teenager. Wow, that's nicer and more diplomatic than I think I could be right now. Of course, that was when I was in my 30's and the scars of my hateful self had all healed for her. I think.

But after all was said and done, this weekend, after battling with both my boys about doing dishes and taking out the trash, it came down to Matt and me, like it always does, butting heads over so much more than chores.

This is the kind of day when I talk to his dad. I talk to him every now and again, when I think he's missing out on something he ought to have been a part of. When it's something good, like something Matt does that I know would have made him proud, I talk to him with a little kindness. I tell him things like,

I'm sorry you're missing this. I wish you could be here to see the wonderful things he's doing and the young man he's become. I wish for both of you that you could share this moment. I'm so sorry that you felt you had no other choice, that your heart was so heavy that leaving him was all you could do.

But on days like today, I'm less likely to be kind, and more likely to let the bitterness from his death overwhelm me. I'm more apt to say things like,

Damn you. Damn you for leaving him, and leaving us to pick up the pieces of your mess. We didn't deserve this. Now we're here, wading through the wreckage of your untimely and selfish departure, trying to survive this pain and all the questions that will never be answered. You're gone, and in part because of that, we are hurting each other in ways that mothers and sons should never do, because both of us are angry at you. How can I forgive you?

I know my issues with Matt aren't all due to his dad. Of course, as the ex-wife, I'm supposed to say they are, but I admit we have done our own damage that Kenneth had no part of. Perhaps we're no different than any other mother and child, struggling to find their own unique connection that leaves them both content and secure.

Someday, I would like to hope, Matt and I will find a connection that is more like what I believed mothers and their sons shared. Someday, we will stop being at war with one another, whether he lives here, or far away from me. I have to believe that, right?

Sometimes, our only mode of transportation is a leap of faith.

I Remember...

2011-01-24T22:46:00.000-08:00

The other day, I was on Facebook "talking football" - ok, I use that term loosely - with a small group of women with whom I went to high school. I mentioned that I was pulling for the Packers, and Emily warned me not to tell Liz that I wasn't in favor of her Chicago Bears. In the meantime, I was trying to make sure I was rooting for the Jets, Kim's team, but worried that if I didn't put some faith in Pittsburgh, I might hurt someone else's feelings. In the end, I giggled and thought it was pretty cool that all four of us, Emily, Kim, Liz and I - were wearing four different jerseys last Sunday, yet we all grew up in the same town.

How's that? you ask. And, how is it that we will all be attending our high school reunion in Chicago this fall, when none of us is from Chicago? (Ok, Liz, maybe you are.)

When I explain it, I'm always afraid of sounding arrogant or pretentious. Sometimes I try to downplay my upbringing, or act like it was no big deal, but the older I get, the more I realize it was a big deal, and it's something of which I am very proud. My parents weren't rich - far from it - but I was privileged in a way that I will never be able to bestow upon my own kids, no matter how much money I make.

When I was twelve years old, about halfway through the worst year of my entire life in Portland, Oregon, my Dad announced that he had been transferred and we were moving. (I was being horribly bullied at school and was miserable every waking moment of the day, so he couldn't possibly have delivered more welcome news.) Thing was, we weren't moving to California, or even Washington - places with which I was somewhat familiar and that I could picture in my head. In fact, we weren't even moving to some remote, cool place, like New York, which I could have romanticized, having never been there.

My Dad had taken a job in England.

Great Britain.

Hmmmm. Where was that again? My seventh grade geography skills were a little rough.

Soon after my thirteenth birthday/going away party that summer, my family packed up and hopped a plane to London. By that time, I knew exactly where it was, and I was pretty clear on the fact that it was a gazillion miles away from everything and everyone I knew and loved. And, it was a gazillion miles away from Steve Greer and John Coleman, 7th Grade Terrorists. I was ready.

My parents bought a house in north London, away from the military bases and the centralized "American districts" in the city. My brother, John, and I tested to get into a public school (that's private, for us Americans) but neither of us passed the entrance exams. (Come to think of it, John might have. I know I didn't.) They wanted us to assimilate. We, conversely, missed Doritos and Oreos. Finally, they put us in a comprehensive (read: public) British school and wished us well each morning as we headed into what later became a ~~loving~~ family ~~legacy~~ joke. Ravenscroft was the name of the school, but I think even my Dad called it Ravenscrap in the end.

We spent Christmas of my eighth grade year in a gorgeous Zermatt, Switzerland, hotel room, overlooking the peaks of the Matterhorn. The real one. During that holiday, which was no more or less spectacular than any of the countless others we took as a family over the course of the next five years, my parents discussed the option of pulling us out of the British school system and enrolling us in The American School in London. I remember walking to school that following week, in our hideous school uniforms, making a pact with my brother that if our parents would let us move, we wouldn't even ask for new clothes to wear in the fancy, new, non-uniformed school. American kids??? American teachers?? Just like "home" ??? We would happily continue to tie our orange and navy and gold striped ties every morning if that's what it took.

We entered ASL that January, and I was fortunate to spend the following four and half years there, graduating in the 101-member Class of 1982, with some of the greatest, truest friends I will ever have in my life. Friends who came from all over the world - not just the United States - friends who had been uprooted from ordinary suburban American lives like I had, and friends who were merely stopping briefly in London between adventures in Saudi and Teheran and Melbourne.

Twenty nine years later, I am still in touch with many of my fellow ex-pats and we have shared many memory-filled weekend reunions in cities all over the U.S. Most of us can't get to London so easily these days, so the school holds our reunions over here, choosing a different city every five years. We have become teachers and nurses and investors and stay home parents; we have built families - some of us have married our old high school sweethearts, and others, like me, have raised children with steadfast Americans who can't begin to understand what it meant to grow up in a foreign city.

Except it wasn't foreign to us. The day I caught a plane "home" after graduation, I couldn't stop the tears. I had no idea what I was going back to, nor did I have any desire to go there. Everything I had come to know and love was intrinsically woven into the fabric of that city - and that school - and I was unsure of how to return to a place I no longer belonged to.

I made it ok. I went to college here and I live quite contentedly in the Pacific Northwest now. But there isn't a day goes by that I don't miss

... the London rain. The smell of the platform of the Totteridge tube station at 7:41 on a Monday morning, the taste of a sweet, room-temperature cider when an Op Period backs up to lunch time...I miss the cobblestone streets and the leaded glass windows of my bedroom looking over my mother's rose garden.

The first car I ever drove was an Austin Mini - half the size of the ones you can buy today and twice the fun...but I miss taking the tube everywhere we went instead, and keeping an eye on my brother, who always fell asleep to the rhythm of the clickety-clack of the tracks, and who counted on me to wake him in time to get home. (I often failed...hence the late night calls to Dad...)

I miss standing out on the library steps after school catching up on the gossip, meeting up at The Chiltern in Baker Street station on a Friday night for a pint...I miss the theater and the cheesy tourist stuff too, like Madame Tussauds and the Changing of the Guards. I miss Mr. Jesse and his crazy self teaching us how to love Shakespeare, and Mr. Noble being the best PE teacher a non-athletic girl could ever love. I miss the hours-long ride out to Molly's in the country, and the excitement of a sleepover smack downtown at Suzan's dad's pub.

I spent the night before Princess Diana's wedding with these friends, curled up in a sleeping bag on the concrete of Trafalgar Square, just to catch a glimpse of her satin gown the next morning - and it was one of the best nights of my life.

I took a trip down memory lane tonight, unintentionally; Matthew asked me to sit down and watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail with him and Jack.

I agreed, a little reluctantly - I mean, it's been 25 some-odd years since I last saw it and I'm pretty sure I was under the influence of something much stronger than red wine at that time. I knew Jack wouldn't understand most of it, although with as much Spongebob as he watches, he should have clicked into the random humor. But I love that Matt loves British humor, and I remembered it was really effin' funny at the time, so I gave it a shot.

And suddenly, I was travelling a long way back to a time I keep thinking is going to fade from my memory, but it never does.

I'm so glad I found you again, Kim and Emily, Liz and John P, Molly, Beth, Andi, Julie, Suzanne, Neil, LeeAnn...and for those of you I never lost...Jochann, Amir...you can only imagine how hard I laughed tonight and how many good times came flooding back to me as I sat there, in my suburban American life, sharing my past with my kids.

Thanks for the memories :)

Trafalgar Square, July 29, 1981 (that's me in the middle)

Enough

2011-01-19T16:35:00.000-08:00

I'm struggling a little here. Ok, a lot. I can't keep my mouth shut.

On The Today Show this morning, there was a segment about a high school in Tennessee that reportedly has some 90 teen mothers, or currently pregnant students enrolled. I listened to the story and then I read a few articles about the school district and the superintendent.

What I inferred from my reading is disturbing: somehow, some way, this "epidemic in teen pregnancy" is going to end up being A) the fault of the educational system in Tennessee and B) the responsibility of that system to fix it.

Huh?

The school's fault. Why haven't the teachers and the principals and the superintendent been paying more attention? Why are they offering support and resources to these teen parents? Why are they condoning this behavior?

Huh?

When I was a kid, these are the things we learned in school:

Math
Language Arts
Science
Social Studies
PE
Music
Art
and maybe like one week of sex ed in 6th grade that taught us the mating habits of turtles or some animal completely unrelated to humans.

SCHOOL. It was a place for learning ACADEMICS.

The rest? We learned AT HOME. From our PARENTS. And our friends' parents. THE VILLAGE.

Three years ago, right before I left the profession, I was teaching 10th grade English. For the most part, that includes a lot of reading and writing, some public speaking, some organization skills, some research skills and, as in all classrooms, some learning about how to sit still and pay attention.

In addition, I (the school system) was held responsible for each student's success in the following areas:

manners and general courtesy
money management (Ms. M, I don't have any lunch money; Ms. M, I don't have any money to buy school supplies)
homework completion
makeup work
special tutoring
getting along with others
drug and alcohol abstinence/education/counseling/enabling
getting along with parents
homelessness
hygiene
nutrition
[teachers, add your own here]

When did all of those things stop being the responsibility of PARENTS and COMMUNITY?

When did it become okay for Mom and Dad to disengage from a child's life to the point that a school superintendent is now in the hot seat because he has pregnant students? Is he organizing orgies in PE? Is that why it's his fault?

Seriously?

Freakin' Walmart might as well be just as responsible. There are far more pregnant girls in there than I've ever seen in a school and no one's calling their CEO up to the front of the room to explain what the hell they're doing wrong.

This shit has to stop. It's been making my blood boil all day.

Stand up and raise your kids, people.

Still Faking It

2011-01-17T21:42:00.000-08:00

Jack just got a little irked with me over my last blog post.

Evidently, even though I'm on the upswing of the Football Learning Curve, and I know why and how my Hawks actually lost that game to Da Bears, I am NOT allowed to trash talk them with comments like "got their asses handed to them".

God, Mom, they didn't play that bad.

Seriously? They didn't show up to the game until the end of the 3rd quarter, dude.

Whatever. Way to support your team, Mom.

Oh.

Woops.

Icing our Wounds

2011-01-16T20:44:00.000-08:00

After the Seahawks got their asses handed to them on a platter today, Karma and I took the kids ice skating as a consolation prize. Only two of them had ever been before; Karma and I weren't first timers, but we couldn't count back that far trying to remember how many years it had been. We ended up having a blast, even if everyone's ankles are burning tonight, and Jack has a blister the size of a silver dollar on his foot. There was a fair amount of laughter mixed with pain and humiliation, although Brian kind of showed everyone up with mad skillz.

Sydney, Shane, Jack, Brian, Matt and Elijah

and a LOT of this.

There was some of this...

Karma almost let go of the wall for a bit.

Jack kept trying to pull me down with him,
but I was way too smart for him.

and so did Syd...

except for when she was laughing at Shane.

Who would have thought a day on the ice could cure all ills?

Fake It Til You Make It

2011-01-09T12:45:00.000-08:00

By all standards, I'm not a huge football fan. I usually can't tell you who plays for which team, I don't fully understand the game, and I often confuse college teams with NFL teams, as in "So the Ducks are playing the Colts today, right?"

But I like it. I like the sound of a game filling up my house on a Saturday morning; I like that my kid loves to play it and that I get to stand out in the cold and cheer him on. I watch a lot on tv these days, and I've been to plenty of games in my time. Of course, most of these were in college at the U of O, and, if I remember correctly, that was more about who had the best tailgater in the parking lot, and less about what was happening inside the stadium. Still. I was there. Sporting logo gear and all.

I do know that the Seahawks are "my team" and that, being an Oregon Duck, I should be setting aside a few hours tomorrow night for wings and beer. I'm not entirely sure why - I mean, I know they're playing a championship game, but I couldn't tell you if it was the championship between college teams in Oregon or between all the football teams in the country. Or some contest in between. I just know that it's supposed to be a great game, and I'm going to watch it.

Yesterday, as the Hawks gave the Saints a little southern ass-whoopin' of their own, (and yes, I can say "Hawks" because they're my team, remember?) my son Matt came in and said to me,

"You seem so....involved... in this game." I felt a little silly then. Honestly, I had no idea what was going on, in terms of plays and stats and penalties and timeouts. I just knew that we were playing a game we shouldn't have even made it to, (although I can't explain that either) and we were winning! Of course I was involved!

Who can deny that kind of energy, even if you can't tell the difference between a quarterback and a tight end, unless you've got a clear shot of the number on the back of the jersey to tell you it's Hasselbeck?

Not me.

I get all caught up in the glory of the game and I'm hootin' and hollerin' and posting scores on Facebook with the best of them. Sometimes I wish I knew more, so I could hoot and holler intelligent things, like John does. He shouts advice at the players, and I have no doubt that it's good advice. Someday, after I get through Football for Dummies, I'll be able to do the same.

For now, I'm just making noise and having fun.

My parents house in Arizona - they're Ducks by Tuition

Back in the Day, I Could Handle This

2011-01-04T21:26:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I lived in a pretty low-rent college apartment in Santa Barbara with a couple of friends. Back then, we didn't actually consider it low-rent, seeing as how we were newly post-college and trying to make it on our own. We split a one-bedroom three ways and made it work somehow. The thing was, we thought we lived on Melrose Place, since it was only four blocks from the beach and a few miles into downtown and the party center of State Street. We had furniture from RentWorld and dishes we'd ~~stolen~~ lovingly kept as souvenirs from the dorms. And life was great, even if we did share our little place with several thousand huge cockroaches.

Yep. Lots of 'em. One night, I remember sitting out in the hallway, reading (I think this was because one roommate was sleeping in the living room and the other might have been entertaining in our bedroom). Every few minutes, I had to brush the bugs off my legs. But I sat there anyway, instead of running back to my parents' house in tears, which would have been a much nicer arrangement. The little guys had become such a norm around our place that they were more annoying than disgusting. When the exterminators came and we had to evacuate for the weekend, we thought our problems were over. But after they bombed the entire complex, they neglected to clean up the casualties. So we had to go around the apartment, sweeping up piles and piles of shiny little black corpses, which we then had to scoop up and dispose of on our own.

So one would think that now, having survived that, and being a mother who has cleaned up the horrors of children's injuries and sickness, one who has had spiders and snakes and other icky animals thrust upon her by small boys, one who currently lives with teen aged boys and who is subjected to not just the incessant talk of, but the toxic odor of, their bodily functions every day, one would think that I wouldn't be freaking out about the newest guests in our house. But I am.

We have mice.

Or one, very industrious, very smart, very busy mouse. I'm certain there's a whole herd of them, or flock, or whatever you call a gang of mice, because they did so much damage to the food stores in my pantry that we had to empty the entire thing out and toss at least half of the contents.

They got into almost everything. And the funny thing is that they were reorganizing my food. John opened a bag of rice, and inside it were a dozen Milk Duds. Huh??? There was popcorn in the box of cornmeal. Like the critters didn't think I had things in the right place.

I Clorox bleached every inch of my pantry and kitchen, as well as every can that survived the attack. And I still don't really want to put my feet on the floor. Or wonder where they're all hiding since I just cleared out their Armageddon stockpile.

Eeeew.

My skin is kind of itchy now.

2011-01-02T21:39:00.000-08:00

Oh help.

I hate this part, where you have to actually parent teenagers.

Since Matt came back in April, I've been pretty lenient with him in terms of house rules. I don't bug him too much about keeping his room clean, or staying out late. I don't read his texts and I'm not his friend on Facebook. I have chosen my battles very carefully, hoping that the glaring unfairness between his rules and Jack's won't come back to bite me....too hard. I've just tried to keep the boat steady, while still upholding my morals and beliefs.

And then he got a girlfriend.

Now I have to draw some lines. Like, for one, you can't spend the night in the same room. And...and...ok, that's really the only one I'm all that twitchy about. Kiss all you want in front of me (eew!) and hold hands and talk in that stupid lovey-dovey voice on the phone all night. I don't care. Write love notes. Stay out all night, even. Sleep together somewhere else - honest, I'm good with that.

Just not here.

Call me old fashioned. It's just not ok for teenagers to sleep together in my house.

And the "But I'm 18!" argument doesn't hold any water with me. Yeah, you're 18. That does not mean that suddenly, you are the King of the World and can do whatever you want, whenever you want, with whomever you please. No, you are still My Kid, you still live in My House and you still abide by My Rules.

Tell me I'm not totally uptight. Any parents out there letting your teenaged love birds share a bed under your roof?

If I remember correctly, Brooke Shields and her boyfriend were allowed to do that in the movie, Endless Love, and look what happened there. He burned her freakin' house down.

See? It's a bad idea.

To the New Year

2011-01-01T10:34:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, everyone! I missed the opportunity to wish you all a Merry Christmas, so let's throw that in there too.

How quickly the days go by once school starts in September. I always think I'm going to get so much done once the kids are gone all day, but it never happens. It seems the more time I have, the less I get done. Which should mean, theoretically, that since I'm working now, I'm uber-productive at home.

Not.

I didn't even completely decorate the house for the holidays this year. Normally, we kind of go all out, with indoor and outdoor decorations that set the mood for the entire season. John managed to get the yard done (beautifully, I might add) even with the trip to Hawaii right in the middle of the Parade of Boys with Ladders, our neighborhood weekend of Christmas light adornment.

But when we returned from heaven, I mean, Hawaii, I couldn't get into it. Compared to previous years, I was kind of a humbug.

The good thing is that I don't have too much to take down and pack up. Still, it's gotta be done and today's the day. Once it's all back in the garage and shelves are dusted, knick-knacks are rearranged and replaced, carpets are vacuumed in places that normally don't get vacuumed, I'm planning to begin work on one of my NY resolutions, which is to be more organized as a mom who works outside the home. It's been way too chaotic since I went back to work. My time management sucks.

My other resolutions are just like yours: lose weight, spend more time with the kids, organize my photos, clean out the linen closets, call my mom more often, that sort of thing. Nothing interesting or new, but nonetheless full of hope.

Wishing you a quiet and restful weekend before the new year kicks into full gear. Let's make it a great one!

Sigh

2010-12-16T21:36:00.000-08:00

I have ILH Syndrome.

I Left Hawaii.

And now I'm back home, in the rain and the wind and the can't-decide-if-it-wants-to-be-freezing-or-just-plain-cold state of Washington, and I'm not adapting well, at all.

My friend John suggested that the state of Hawaii give you a month's worth of anti-depressants when you get on the plane to go home. Um, yeah. Super idea.

Here's my photo journal of one of the best vacations I have ever taken in my life. I have to say, here, that I spent a number of years living in and traveling around Europe, enjoying some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, and this trip to Maui (my first) ranks up there with the best. Thanks, Mom & Dad!!

Day One, downtown Lahaina, already loving it, even without a tan.

My Dad on his balcony, as we found him every morning. Crossword, coffee, sun. Life's sustenance.

The view from MY balcony

The view from my chaise lounge. If I chose to open my eyes.

About ten steps out the front door of our condo.

With Mom at Morning Happy Hour (at the Kid's Pool!). Killer Bloody Marys with extra olives :)

John & me getting ready to snorkel (not a graceful sport) ...sea turtles everywhere!

]

Seriously.

This is the kind of gorgeous flora and fauna that is everywhere you look. Unbelievable!

Even when it was windy and rainy, it was beautiful.

Mom & me enjoying a cocktail before the Luau. One can never be too far ahead with Mai Tais, you know.

The view as we enjoyed those.

At the Luau with our waiter, Rob.

My Dad had a few Mai Tais too...

Unforgettable vacation with my folks!!

Crazy Stuff

2010-11-22T21:59:00.000-08:00

It's three days before Thanksgiving and this is my house as I go to bed tonight.

I kind of love it, as long as I'm in here.

The hour-long drive home from work - four stoplights and two turns - not so much.

2010-11-18T21:34:00.000-08:00

I just posted on my Facebook the new kind of noise in my house. I should take that back; I shouldn't call my son's music noise. Or my husband's, either, for that matter. Apparently, I now live in a highly musically inclined family.

Matt is in his room - slash- recording studio - mixing some kind of "hard style" music with which I am only recently familiar, thanks to him. It's not bad, it's just very techno, and very, very, very LOUD. And lots of bass. Thumpy. Deafening, if you want the truth. There was a time, I admit, when the subwoofer was the coolest piece of stereo equipment in any guy's apartment, but at my age, really, it's just a huge headache maker. No offense, Matt.

So you would think that if my 54-year-old husband were suddenly to take up a musical instrument, almost simultaneous to Matt's embarking on his recording career, that I would be thrilled, right? They'll have something in common! They might start a band together...what if Matt recorded John and they both became You Tube sensations?!

But what I really had in mind, there, was that John might take up the acoustic guitar. Or, say, something, older. More ... dignified.

I got what I asked for.

He took up the Bagpipes.

Dignified, yes. Older, for sure.

Quieter?

Than a techno, bass-driven screaming recording studio?

Not so much.

The noise level in this house right now, with both of them in their respective practice rooms, with both of their doors closed, is insane.

And what do I hear, when there is a break in the cacophony?

Matt: Hey, John, this isn't too loud is it?

John: No, you're good.

Matt: Ok, cuz I didn't want to throw your beat off or anything.

Too bad Jack's shower rendition of Club Can't Handle Me is getting drowned out.

LOL for the Day

2010-11-09T20:55:00.000-08:00

You may have seen this on The Today Show this morning, but if you didn't, it's classic!

Being the mom of a middle school football player who is now dying to use this play, it made me laugh :)

2010-11-05T03:48:00.000-07:00

So Halloween turned out to not be so sad after all. First, there was the Haunted House on Friday night, which was a huge hit. Jack didn't get home until almost ten, at which point he had to tell me all about it for another hour. He said he felt a little bad because he had made three girls cry.

"I wasn't even trying to scare them, they just looked at me and started bawling. And I was all, like, it's ok! Don't cry! I'm just a kid, see?"

Then, come Sunday night, imagine: he wanted to go trick or treating. I should have known. Three hours of virtually unsupervised collection and consumption of free candy. Hmmm. Who in his right mind wouldn't want to go? Fortunately, his buddies agreed, and off they went, for a night of reckless abandon. I'm so grateful for one more year of this, since I'm perfectly, painfully aware that in about ~~four~~ ~~three~~ two years from now, reckless abandon will mean something completely different.

For now, he's still just a kid.

I went back to work a couple of weeks ago, and even though my job is supposed to be part time, during the school day, I have been covering a full time shift for the first few weeks. I don't mind it; there's a little extra money I wasn't counting on for the holidays, and I'm learning my job in half the time, I guess. But I don't get home until 7:00 or later some nights, and our household routine is a little out of whack. Ok, a lot out of whack. Jack hates it. Someone else brings him home from wrestling every night and sometimes, even at 5:15, there's still no one home. Don't get me wrong - he's no different from any other pre-teen boy when it comes to being home alone. He's all about that. He just doesn't like to come home to an empty house. And he told me so.

I'm also going to miss his first two wrestling matches, which wouldn't be such a big deal, if wrestling, like baseball, were something he'd been doing for years. But it's not; this is his first shot at a new sport and I'm going to miss it twice. Not to mention the two more matches John and I will both miss when we're in Hawaii at the end of the month. Ouch.

The thing is, I've been kind of a grouchy mom since I started working again, and I think that's what's really bothering him. I'm not exactly laid back normally, but I'm sure I'm a lot less stressed out and tired than I have been the past two weeks. I know he feels it. I mean, I know everyone in my house feels it. I haven't made a very smooth transition back to Mom Who Works Outside the Home. Tonight, I got upset with him because I was having a party with all my girlfriends - something I'd planned months ago - and he wanted to stay up late since the house was full of people. John had gone to a friend's house so there I was, trying to negotiate, but ended up getting all grumpy instead. Now it's 3:30 in the morning and I can't sleep because I feel terrible about the way he went to bed.

Without me.

Mad at me.

I went into his room just now and recovered him with his blankets. He's taller than I am, and takes up pretty much that whole double bed, but I know I won't sleep until I tuck my kid in.

All Good Things Must...Change

2010-10-29T21:00:00.000-07:00

Photographed in our 'hood by good friend Scott Spanier

I love Halloween.

Love it.

I've mentioned before how much fun we have in my neighborhood and how crazy it gets with 600+ ghouls and goblins and princesses and super heroes parading up and down our street for one gloriously noisy, non-stop night. I know, it's not for everybody, but I look forward to it every year. I happily go to Costco and spend half a week's worth of groceries on candy; John and I go together so we can each pick out different kinds. He likes to get the stuff that he likes, so he can have the "leftovers" (that's the "one for you, two for me" pile he secretly makes as he hands out the loot). But I like to get the stuff the kids like, so we'll be a Popular House. I don't go all-out though; I'm not very competitive. No full size candy bars or Pop Tarts. (Pop Tarts! Can you imagine? There wouldn't be any left for the kids if I had 600 of those lying around the house.) Nor do I try to compete with The Best House on the Block: Karma and Randy give out Ding Dongs. Oh, for Pete's sake. Clearly a desperate ploy to get all the kids to like them.

Unlike some of my less enthusiastic neighbors, the ones who plan a quiet escape every October 31st and leave their porchlights off, I don't complain about the vanloads of kids that are dropped off to roam, sans supervision, from remote neighborhoods. I don't mind that there's a fair amount of garbage to clean up the next day. I don't care that there are parents who come through with infants and you think, "Hey, wait a minute! That kid doesn't even have teeth. Who's going to eat his candy?" And I'm more amused - in a Jersey Shore kind of way - than I am disgusted and appalled, by the adult Playboy bunnies / Naughty Nurses who cart their toddlers through. The only costume that ever made me cringe, and seriously question parental guidance, was the ten year old boy who came through as a pimp. A Pimp. Really?

If you remember from my post a couple years ago, (Lesson Learned) we have a tradition on Halloween to which we must adhere. John stays home and passes out candy and I do all the costume work, all the picture taking, and all the making sure that the kids have eaten something remotely healthy during the day before they short-circuit their little systems with sugar. Then, I go out and walk around all evening, with any one of my neighbors who also happens to be carrying a travel mug full of red wine, vaguely keeping an eye on our own children. And I love it more every year I go.

So you can understand how I've been a little teary eyed lately, as I have resigned myself to the fact that Jack isn't going to change his mind: He's not going trick or treating this year.

He's too old. Or too cool. Or both.

All of a sudden, all of my kids are done with Halloween. Just like that. No heads-up last year, no Pay Attention! Take Lots of Pictures! This is Your Last Year!

Just done.

I'm going to a party.

With girls.

* Sigh *

But wait!

God must have known that I wasn't really ready for this, that I wasn't going to cope with this particular End of Childhood Moment as well as other moms might. Because out of nowhere, Tuesday night, a friend called to ask me if Jack might be able to help her out. See, her kid is still in Elementary School, and they're having a Haunted House at school on Friday, and they really need middle schoolers to be monsters.

Hello! I get to make a costume? Of course Jack will help! We'll be there!

So, this afternoon, when I got off work 45 minutes late, in a slight panic, I raced home to get him ready. He was very excited to be a part of this, to be the older kid, the helper, the one who gets to scare all the little guys. We wrapped him up in cheese cloth and painted his face white until he was a pretty darn good mummy. We arrived just in time for him to take his place in the Haunted House. He's The Guide, the one who directs the kids through, then creepily taps their shoulders from behind when they least expect it. I helped out for a bit, in a school my kids do not attend, and never did. I pretended like I was on the PTA and started taking tickets, at the direction of my friend, just like in the old days.

I left there with a huge smile on my face. I grinned all the way home, thinking of him in the dark there, his arms stretched out in front of him, having a blast, being the scary mummy for all the little kids.

My kids might be done with Trick or Treating, but none of us is giving up Halloween.

A Night to Remember

2010-10-26T16:22:00.001-07:00

I know - crazy to have two posts in one day when I hardly write at all for weeks at a time. But I got the pictures back from the party and I wanted to share :)

Here are a few of my favorites, taken by our fantastic photographer (and good friend!) Kimberly at Kimberly Atkins Photography.

The Venue: The Attic in Sumner

The cake by Maribel at Maribel's Dream Cakes

My Mom, Dad, brother John, and me, just before we escorted them in

My Mom and Dad first coming in the door -- crying already!

My handsome husband John

Our gorgeous daughter Casey and her friend, Rodolfo

My Mom and her best friend Nancy, whom I adore

My beautiful, dear friends Todd and Shawn, who have adopted my parents as their own

It was hard to get the mic away from my Mom once she got started telling stories...

...and making everyone cry...

...but then she lightened it up by getting my Dad out on the dance floor

and cutting it up to the Rolling Stones with my cousin Patti and my Aunt Jodi

until we were all barefoot and dancing with the DJ.

Fifty years....now that's worth a dance!

It's Okay - Tuesday

2010-10-26T16:00:00.000-07:00

I stole this idea from Whispering Writer, over at Airing My Dirty Laundry, who stole it from Glamour Magazine. They have a section called "Hey, It’s Okay" - a list of a bunch of things to be okay about. I really like this, because I'm working so hard on trying to be OKAY with everything in my life/head/heart and to stop judging myself for everything I say/do/feel.

It's okay to be really angry at Jesse James for ending up with that Kat Von D. I mean, he wasn't a real stand-up guy to begin with, but this?!

It's okay to not mind at all having to wear a uniform to my new job. Sure, it's dorky and ugly, but I can now get from What Shall I Wear Today to Fully Dressed and Ready to Go in about three minutes. And it's not like anyone shows me up when I get there. We all look dorky and ugly.

It's okay to tell my 12 year old kid that he stinks - out loud and in front of his brother - whenever I notice that he does. I'm the only person in the world who will ever tell him that because I love him, unlike everyone else who will tell him to hurt his feelings. And for the record, it's ok to tell his friends they stink too, if they all happen to pile into my car after two hours of practice.

It's okay to pay $4.95 for a bag of veggie chips half the size of a small bag of regular potato chips, because they are the most awesome million dollar snack out there.

It's okay to have lost interest in Glee when the hype got so out of control that I felt like my best kept secret had been revealed to the entire world.

It's okay to watch Sister Wives. And, it's okay to hate Robyn because, admit it, she'd be a threat to anyone. Even if Kody is a pig and you are merely one of a herd of wives.

It's okay to wonder about that girl's story - the one whose husband was allegedly shot by pirates while jet skiing. Something is just not right there.

Working Girl

2010-10-21T07:33:00.001-07:00

It's my first day of work! Wish me luck!

Crazy Busy, but in a Sort of Good Way

2010-10-18T19:52:00.000-07:00

I've been away for awhile, tending to too many things at once, but it's all slowed down now.

On September 28th, my wonderful sister in law Dorothy lost her battle with leukemia. My husband John was fortunate enough to spend her last few days by her side, along with his other sister, and his older brother. The three of them never left her alone in the last weeks; they took shifts sitting by her bedside 24/7, always making sure she was comfortable and could hear them talking and laughing around her. Just so she knew she was surrounded by the love of her family. Lucky woman.

My daughter and I flew out the night she passed and missed her only by hours. Still, we were there for the wake and the funeral, which was something to behold, I must say. Over 700 people came to the wake and waited in line for hours just to say goodbye to her. We had no idea, as her family, what a tremendous impact she had on her friends and her community. As an educator and Principal of one of the local elementary schools, she was loved by so many parents and students, it was astounding. The district closed her school the day of the funeral and I'm pretty sure every staff member - and half the parents and students - were there with us. It was truly a testament to her life and work; one of John's cousins commented, "When I die, if people have to wait in line for an hour just to get into my wake, I'll know I've done something right."

Indeed.

I was only able to stay back in New York for five days, but I so loved being with my family-in-law for even that short period of time. They are the epitome of family to me: close knit, but still functional :) I miss them and have been leaning on John a bit to think about retiring back east. We'll see how that works out.

I had to get back home earlier than everyone else because I had the big 50th wedding anniversary party for my parents coming up that next weekend and I had a few loose ends to tie up beforehand. I managed, with the help of my dear friend Shawnie, to get it all finished not only in time for the party, but three days early! Table centerpieces and all. On Thursday, my parents arrived, followed shortly thereafter by my husband and a handful of cousins from out of state. By Friday, we had a dozen guests or so already in town and our casual pizza and beer dinner for "a few guests" turned into a crazy fun evening with probably 30 people at my house. It was a great night and a good chance for people to meet each other before Saturday night.

Because I had managed to get organized (God knows how), Saturday was virtually stress free. I got to spend it cheering on Karma and her team at the Breast Cancer 5k run, then enjoyed Toby's football game later in the morning. I think I might even have taken a brief nap there somewhere in the afternoon before getting all dolled up for the big to-do.

I wish I had pictures to share, because the whole thing was so beautiful. It was everything I had pictured in my head and more; the food was excellent, the service was over the top. The room itself was breathtaking. The cake was gorgeous and delicious. The DJ was outstanding. My husband's speech - and the dozen others - were touching and memorable. And my dad danced. He laughed and talked and visited all night and he danced too. That's pretty unusual, if you know my dad. The rest of us? We were dancing fools all night long. Including my mom, of course, who was in her element.

They had a blast, my Mom and Dad. It might have been the night of their lives; I don't want to be too optimistic, but that was all I wanted to give them, and I think we succeeded. As soon as I get the pics back from our amazing photographer, I will share.

By Monday, we were exhausted, but in that good, satisfied way. And I had a job interview that day!

See? I told you I had a lot going on....

I am now gainfully employed, five days a week, 9-2:30 at a local medical office. But I'll write more about that later. I'll also fill you in on how my gorgeous oldest son is becoming such an awesome man and how my little guy got the Team Pin in the last game of the season tonight.

For now, I'm going to take my Vicodin for the tooth I just had pulled and hit the hay.

Did I say things were slowing down?

Guru in Training

2010-09-16T08:03:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those people who cracks herself up on a regular basis. I have a hard time amusing other people, unless it's because they're laughing at me, but I do a fine job of entertaining myself. I'm also the kind of person who reads self-help books, in my continual quest for a perfect life. Or a quieter brain.

I'm reading The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle. It's all about spiritual enlightenment, how to live in the moment, how to get out of your crazy head when your life is spinning in circles, you know, that kind of thing.

Jack comes in last night while I'm reading and he's bouncing off the walls in ecstasy over the new bat his Dad just bought him. He tells me seven times what brand it is and how much it weighs and how much it costs and why it's different from and better than all other bats in the world. He's hopping around next to my bed, making pretend swings with it, way too close to my head, with this beaming grin on his face the entire time.

I'm laughing at how happy he is over a baseball bat, thinking how lucky he is to be in that most simple of times in life, and how fortunate he is to be a person who sees good and light in everything around him. I tell him,

"I love you. You'll never have to read this book I'm reading."

"Why? What's it about?"

Uh, well...how do you explain Tolle to a 12 year old whose biggest worry is whether or not the team will be impressed with his bat?

"Oh," I say, casually waving the book away with my hand, "it's just about ... how to be happy."

He busts out laughing and raises his eyebrows.

"Seriously? You're reading a book about how to be happy?"

I sort of nod, wishing it didn't sound so stupid. He shrugs and says,

"You seem pretty happy to me. I mean, you laugh at everything you say."

Touche.

Series Finale, No Warning

2010-09-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

I read a "Farewell Post" from a fellow blogger this morning, and it totally took me by surprise. But it wasn't because she quit blogging, it was the new knowledge that anyone actually does that.

Really? I'm still a relatively new blogger, so there are a million things I don't know about it, but it never occurred to me that some writers might just stop doing it one day.

I read blogs like I watch TV shows - not often, but I definitely have my favorites. I read this particular blogger's every post with great pleasure and admiration; while she didn't write daily, or even weekly, she wrote very well and entertained me immensely with her outrageous stories about being a native Scot living as a closet lesbian in Egypt (and I'm not even making that up). And then, all of sudden, she says she's got other stuff to do.

Hello??? Over here - I'm reading you! (Me, and 600+ followers; what in the world would prompt a person to quit writing when that many people are actually reading you???)

This feels a bit like some random network executives deciding - without my input - that Benjamin Bratt didn't need to be flexing his tattooed guns on my big screen once a week, pretending to be a recovering drug addict. Um, yeah he does.

When I started writing this, if you had asked me how long I would do it, I would have thought that a weird question. Well, until I die, I guess. Or I lose my hands in a farming accident. Which isn't likely, but it could happen. A lot of the time, I don't have much to say. I don't write as often as some of the other bloggers I love and I don't have a lot of followers. But I come here to write because I'm practicing. I'm practicing not only my writing, but my thinking, my decision making skills, my life. If I quit writing my blog, it would be the first time in my life I voluntarily chose to shut up.

So, maybe too bad for you, this is not a Farewell Post. I will miss my cyber friend, Kerry, and her crazy life, but I guess now I know: I better not get too attached to anyone here.

Look how bitter I still am about that Benjamin Bratt thing, and that was two years ago.

Mom Nap

2010-09-02T19:05:00.000-07:00

The littlest McDonald had left the building, and the teenagers were upstairs being quiet, for once. I curled up on the comfy couch with my favorite quilt made by my mother. The windows were open and a light breeze was flowing through the room making it just cool enough to nap. In no time, I started to drift off into a heavenly snooze with no threat of interruption.

And then.

The laundry room door opened ...

"Mom!"

But before I am fully awakened by Jack's urgency to ask me some all-important question, Matt appears out of nowhere - bless his heart - and whispers,

"Dude. Mom's taking a nap."

"Oh, " Jack whispers back. They are standing 10 feet from my couch. I think they are, anyway, but I can't be sure because I haven't yet opened my eyes and am desperately hoping I will fall right back into my slumber.

Matt: "What do you want?" whispering.

Jack: "I want to ask her something." a little bit louder now...

"What do you need to ask her?" a little bit louder now...

"Something." a little bit louder now...

"Dude, just tell me. Maybe it's something I can help you with." loud...

"No, it's not." louder.

"Jack, you're gonna wake her up. Just ask me what you want."

"YOU CAN'T ANSWER IT!"

10 feet. In my ear. Same dif.

"Oh, you're awake." Jack whispers. "Can I have a cream soda?"

I'm in Love with the Air

2010-08-30T21:47:00.000-07:00

Mmmmmm...I can smell it in the air. Fall is coming! Don't get me wrong, I love summer as much as the next guy, and I feel a little gypped that we didn't get much of one this year, but still. I love fall.

I love the smell and the way things move differently in the air. I love the colors and cooler temperatures, sleeping in flannels again, putting the comforter back on the bed but still leaving all the windows open.

I love the leaves all over the yard (sorry, honey!) and the branches getting thinner and thinner, opening my view to the neighborhood as nature's curtains are slowly drawn from my front windows.

I love the sounds...the crispy crunching of drying leaves and dying twigs. The way the wind sounds stronger, more serious about its business, as it sweeps through my house and slams doors all on its own.

I love the briskness in the air and the darkness creeping in closer and closer to dinner time. I really love going to bed after the sun does.

But there's more. I love the beginning of school and the promise that this will be the best year ever. The year that I have the coolest school supplies and the cutest new clothes, the year that that certain someone will fall forever in love with me. Even as an adult, I wish these things for my kids and I love helping them get ready for it, even if they aren't remotely seeing it the way I do.

I can't wait for Halloween; it's right around the corner! It's my favorite holiday of the year (here's why) and this year will be no different. No matter that my kids are too old to Trick or Treat, it's still a night that can't be beat around here. This year, the kids are having a party. Yep, they're old enough to have a party of their own. Yikes.

When fall is well underway and the ghosts and goblins have all crawled back into the graveyard, I take down the gory, severed head on the front porch and replace it with my beautiful homemade fall wreath. And then...to celebrate the end of my favorite season, it's time to get ready for ThanksgivingChristmasNewYear'sEve.

Why yes, yes it is one big holiday all wrapped up together.

And that's why I love fall. Can you blame me?

Dream Job

2010-08-30T02:58:00.000-07:00

I want Dinking Around on the Computer to be my job. I mean my computer, not some random company's computer, doing data entry. I want to get paid to sit here and write my blog, cruise around Facebook, make cool things in Photoshop, take online tutorials about how to create an iMovie or how to make eggplant cheesecake (just saw it, didn't really want to eat it). All day. How cool would that be?

Because, quite frankly, when I sit down, I sit here far longer than I should. I read blogs and get ideas for writing and page designing. I check out websites of totally random things that have no bearing in my life whatsoever, just to live vicariously. I so wish I were making big bucks doing it.

I freak out, thinking about adding a job-outside-the-home to my daily routine, especially now that school is starting again and I kind of have to get my act together. Not that I'm oh-so-busy, but because my time management skills suck. If I had a job, when would I have time to do this???

Unless....

...I boycott the laundry. Boys are supposed to smell, everyone expects that.

...I quit picking Jack up from sports. It's only a few miles. He's an athlete, for Pete's sake, he can run home.

...I give up my quest to be The Best Cook Ever. Like I'm having any success anyway.

...I become the crunchy earthy girl I always wanted to be and save an hour+ on hair and makeup in the morning.

...I use Tuesday nights to blog, and give up Glee. Like that's ever gonna happen.

* Sigh *

No one's sending me a paycheck for parking my ass here, so I guess I better unload the dishwasher and make myself useful.

Ten Reasons Why I Love My Wayward Son

2010-08-21T20:44:00.000-07:00

No one could have told me, a year ago, that I would be able to write this. I wouldn't have believed anyone who said that things would get better, that my world would turn around, that my son would be home, for good. I would have wanted to believe it, but by then, I had given up hope and was trying to move forward.

It's been almost five months since Matt came back to live with us, and while I'm certain that he is internalizing much of the pain associated with the death of his father, I also know that he is coping better than I would have expected. He isn't a talker, and being raised to believe that "only crazy people go to therapy; that's why your mother goes", he's not one to try counseling. Believe me, we've encouraged it, we've tried our best to get him to go. But I have learned some things since he came home, and even if they aren't things I'd choose, they are true, nonetheless.

I have learned to let him be, more or less. He is no longer a kid. In many ways, he never really was. He's always been older than his years, and always a little less dependent on his parents than most kids. All his life, I have tried to mother him, care for him, take care of him - but in the end, I must realize that he's not that kind of person. He's very much like his dad was, in that way. Completely happy taking care of himself. Which is not to say that he doesn't want to be loved, or appreciated or even hugged and kissed. He's very affectionate and sweet when it comes down to it. He's just low maintenance, I guess. This is in such great contrast to Jack, and even Casey, I think, that it's hard for me to accept. My other kids like to be cared for, they like to have boundaries and structure. Not Matty, though. Nope, no coloring within the lines for that kid.

I worry that when Jack is almost 18 he will pull out the "But You Let Matthew..." card, but I doubt it. I think even Jack knows that the way Matt lives with us is different for a reason. Sometimes, you have to bend and reshape the way you do things for each kid. Sometimes, all the same rules need not apply in all situations.

Like the fact that Matt doesn't really have a curfew. This is a kid who has run away on multiple occasions, so really, setting a time to be home is pretty useless. The only thing I ask is that I know where he is and when he will be home. He doesn't really have to clean his room or make his bed, at least not as regularly as Jack is required to. He doesn't have a bedtime or rules about driving or using the internet. You think I'm crazy, don't you?

Here's the way I see it: he's almost 18 years old. He's been arrested twice and he' been in juvie. He has spent nights in places I don't want to imagine; he's been lost to me for so long that the mere thought of losing him again is more than I can bear. So I trust him. I trust that he will make the best choices he can and that he will tell me the truth when he doesn't. So far, he hasn't let me down. And he's still here.

Ten Reasons Why I Love Him

1. When he goes out, he always asks me if I have plans and need him to stay. He always tells me where he's going and with whom, even if he knows I don't like that particular friend, or event.

2. He cleans up after himself when he cooks and he does his own laundry (and anyone else's that happens to be in line).

3. He always offers to make something for anyone in the room when he's cooking or making a snack. He never fails to notice that other people are around him.

4. He offers me gas money if he needs a ride somewhere (!)

5. He texts me at 5:00 in the morning if he moves from where he was supposed to be spending the night so I always know where he is.

6. He tells me things about himself and his friends that are personal and sometimes shocking, but I know that he tells me because he trusts me with his feelings.

7. He does awesome little things for his brother, like taking him skating, or out for ice cream. Or, if he's going out for the evening, he'll go find Jack at whatever house he might be playing, and make sure he tells him goodnight. If he's home, he always goes in and says goodnight to Jack before he turns in himself. Even if Jack's asleep.

8. He compliments me on my outfits, or my hair, or something I've cooked.

9. He always, always, always, hugs and kisses me goodbye, or goodnight, and says I Love You a thousand times a day.

10. When all is said and done, he keeps coming home.

On the Fence

2010-08-14T21:24:00.000-07:00

The day has finally arrived, and I am the happiest blogger around: I went and bought myself an iMac. When I told my husband I had gone to the Mac Store, (because that's how out of touch I am with technology) he asked what kind of new makeup I bought. The very expensive kind, as it turns out.

I won't go on and on about it, because I've been doing that on Facebook all week, but I will say that this is the best thing I've purchased in ages. I love it. I know, for all of you Macsters out there, this isn't news, and for those of you die-hard PCers (like I was, four days ago) you'll never be convinced (like I wasn't, four days ago).

I'm generally not a gadget person, but I am trying to push myself into the 21st century one little step at a time. I don't have any techie stuff, really. I don't have a DVR. I don't play video games. I have to ask Jack most of the time how to work things that plug in. Of course I don't have an iPhone; in fact, I don't even have a phone with internet access. Up until about a year ago I didn't even know how to text. The only gadgety thing I have is the GPS in my car, and the only reason for that is because it's built in. Took me forever to figure out how to use it, but now I can't live without it.

This being said, where do I get off wanting to go back to school and learn to do web design? I'm completely enamored with browsing websites of all kinds, and most of the time, I look at them the way I look at rooms in a home. Hmmm, I think. This couch would look much better in this corner. Why on earth are there sheets on that window...what about some curtains, eh? Good gracious, who thought to paint this room Pepto Bismol pink? Not, mind you, that I'm all that when it comes to interior decorating. But I don't suck at it, either. I wander around websites and I'm constantly making mental notes about how, if this were my website, I'd put that here. And this, there. I'd change that font and I'd make that link easier to find.

It keeps calling to me. I keep pulling out the catalog and looking through the class schedule - even though I'm not sure what half the classes are about - and feeling like I should just sign up and go for it. Matt says I should; he says I should follow my dreams. Of course he does, he's 17. That's what I thought at his age, too.

Why is it so much harder when you're older? I mean, money aside. Let's just say that I had the money for tuition tucked into a manila envelope under my mattress. Let's pretend for a moment that I wouldn't have to take out (yet another) loan to pay for it. What else is stopping me?

Time. This is every day, all day, five days a week. And no paycheck at the end of the month. Who has that kind of time? I should be home with my kids after school. I should be here folding laundry and running errands and making sure the cat gets fed. And what about in the evenings? I'll be doing homework and not spending any time with my family.

Commitment. This is serious stuff. If I'm going to plop down this kind of cash, I better be serious about it. How can I commit to something that I don't even know the first thing about? How can I say I'm going to love it when I don't have any experience with it at all? What if I totally hate it; what if I really don't understand computers and I end up just not getting it?

The Future. So I get my degree and I'm the best web designer around, what if I still can't get a job? The whole point of doing this is would be to get a good job and have a second career as my kids start leaving the nest. Imagine putting in all that time and effort to discover, at the end, that the economy is still in the shitter, or - worse yet - that technology has advanced so quickly that websites are obsolete.

And...welcome to my brain.

Thoughts, anyone?

Kids These Days

2010-08-04T22:22:00.000-07:00

What's with work ethic these days? Here's a picture of Jack, trying to make some cash so he can go skating with his brother tonight. Look at his face: he's about to cry, I think. In the end, he did a fabulous job - better than I had hoped for, even - but getting him out there was a bit of a chore. You'd think he'd want to get it done so he'd have the moolah in his hot little hands, but no. He is so freakin' lazy sometimes I can't stand it. Oh, did I have something to do with that? Did I pamper and coddle him to the point that work of any nature is painful? Woops.

Evidently, I didn't do that with Matt. When he was little, he would do anything to make money. To this day, he is a hard worker who never complains. He gets stuff done. He helps around the house without a word. If you give him a job, he does it to the best of his ability. Maybe I have to give a little bit of that to his Dad, whose neuroses and OCD made him a really dedicated employee and I think he passed that ethic on to our kid. I wish Matt would pass it on to his brother.

When he was about eight or nine, Matt would take his Radio Flyer out of the garage and fill it with a bucket, some sponges, soap and towels. He'd pull that thing around the entire neighborhood, going door to door, washing cars. He had a whole price list, which I must have kept a copy of, I just can't find it. He had different prices for different kinds of cars/trucks/SUVs. They were pretty reasonable prices, if I remember, but you had to find the right category into which you fell. Like SUV's with a trailer hitch were extra. And, if you had a truck, you had to help him with the roof.

One summer, he passed out fliers for a carwash he was going to hold in our driveway. The flier listed the time, the day and the prices, but that wasn't all. He also promised a "comfortable waiting room with magazines and Kleenex." When I asked him about it, he told me that's what all good waiting rooms have: magazines to read while you're waiting, and Kleenex. In case you sneeze, I guess.

The Saturday came and he was out there, bright and early, getting his carwash set up. He placed three or four lawn chairs in the front yard with a little plastic patio table between them, on which he neatly fanned out several magazines. Promptly at the opening hour, my dear neighbors, Mary and Leon, both then in their late 70's, arrived for their carwash. Matty showed them to the waiting room and offered them a magazine to read. Mary looked around and said,

"Hmm...I need a tissue. I thought you were going to have tissues here."

You should have seen his little face; he was stricken to have forgotten something. He raced into the house and came out with a new box of Kleenex and apologetically handed it to Mary. I knew she was just messin' with him, but I learned on that day that he took his work - and his customer service - very seriously. I was laughing my ass off (all of us were) but deep down, I couldn't have been prouder of him. No way was that nice Mrs. Copeland gonna sit there in the waiting room without a Kleenex!

Leon is long gone now, but Mary remembers that day and I get a kick out of sharing it with her on occasion. They probably gave him a 50% tip, not because he was a stellar car washer, but because they believed in kids who had "spunk". They came from a generation that taught them if you worked hard and treated people nicely, you'd go far in life. I think they liked that there were still some kids around who believed that too.

Of all the things he's good at, I really hope he holds on to that.

Sure Thing

2010-08-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

I'm a yes girl.

Not like that.

I'm the girl who can't say no when you need something. Anything. And it's not because I love house sitting, or feeding your guinea pig or babysitting your kids or running to the store at the last minute because you're out of milk. It's because I talk before I think. Always. I hate it.

I'm always the first person to offer up when things are needed. Me! Pick Me! I'll do it! I'll buy it! I'll take care of it while you're in Hawaii for two weeks! God, half the time I don't even know what it is I've offered to do until I get a call the next day asking "Did you really mean you would plan my sister's wedding, or was that just drunk talk?" And still, I can't say it was drunk talk, because that would be rude. I said I'd do it, I'll do it.

I was the kid in class who raised her hand before the teacher asked the question because I wanted so much to be the one with the answer. It didn't matter if I didn't actually know it. That was totally beside the point.

The problem with being a yes girl is that it spills over into other things. For instance, I'm the Queen of "Let's have dinner next Friday. My house! With all the kids!" Why can't I just say "Let's do dinner sometime?" because what I really mean is that I don't really want to hang out with you, but I don't want to hurt your feelings. I just don't know how to do that. I feel like I haven't said enough. Therein lies the problem. I don't know when to shut up.

I feel like it's good karma, though. As if saying yes to all of this means that one day, when I'm in need, I will have a good support system. Does that make it selfish? I hope not. I don't do it to get something out of it. I think I do it because I like to hear myself talk and saying yes requires a lot more talking than saying no.

The Beach House

2010-08-02T12:42:00.000-07:00

That's where my friend Kim is this morning, and I am here, in my den, the fog outside beginning to lift with the promise that it may be sunny again today. I will have coffee with her when she gets settled in - phone coffee - but while I wait, I will imagine I am there, helping her unpack...

...a weathered Cape Cod with sand and tall grasses nestling the steps of the porch. Open windows with sheer Pottery Barn curtains flowing freely between the salty air outside and the wainscotted dormer room in which they hang, probably from driftwood rods my friend handcrafted. A kitchen with a worn hardwood floor and crisp white cabinets, artisan bowls of fruit or shells, exquisite framed photographs of her beautiful children on the sea blue walls. Beach towels that are huge and plush and that match. Fun and fanciful woven beach bags in which to tote them. White wood bunk beds in the bedrooms and a diaphanous comforter on the master bed. We will sip our coffee in real Adirondack chairs facing the water, the morning tide soothing our every care away. Later we will chop fresh vegetables from the garden in the back for a gourmet salad we will savor at the table her grandfather carved himself and passed down to her.

Technically, you couldn't say I was jealous, because I'm longing for a place I just invented. I have no idea what Kim's summer place is like. For all I know, it's a 1970s duplex, six blocks off the water with a view of overgrown shrubbery. But when you hear "Beach House", that's just not what comes to mind, is it?

I love how certain words just put me in a good mood.

Beach House. There's two of them.

Less Busy Than Not Very Busy At All

2010-07-30T11:19:00.000-07:00

Nothing.

That's what's on my calendar today. No errands, no appointments, no plans for dinner. Just wide open...and I couldn't be happier. I have been down with strep throat for four days now, and I'm all about not having to go anywhere or do anything while this antibiotic kicks in.

Not that I've been super busy lately, don't get me wrong. I'm never super busy. In fact, last week the guy came to fix my window screens at 9:30 in the morning. I just happened to have run out to the store beforehand and had to call to let him know I'd be a minute or two late in meeting him. When I got here, he shook his head and said "Wow, you're a busy person!" As if I had just finished painting my house and doing all my Christmas shopping. Yea, I'm exhausted. I went all the way down to Grocery Outlet before I even had coffee!

I don't mean to knock my job - the Stay Home Mom Gig. It's just that I never feel like I can't catch a break. There's nothing in my in-basket that will cause the stock market to crash if I don't get to it today. Sure, Jack might have to have a bagel instead of cereal if there's no milk, but he'll get over it. It's still white food. If I don't work today, millions of sea creatures will not perish from spilled oil. Crimes will not go unsolved.

I'm pretty sure though, over time, this little corner of the world would fall apart. (Ok, maybe not under the direction of my husband, but under normal circumstances.) Like the fact that there's a weird phenomenon in my boys' bathroom. Not the normal stuff, like molding socks. Lately, I've noticed that the bottles of shampoo and body wash and god knows what else are multiplying. On their own. I haven't bought anything recently, but there are like ten new bottles of half-full product all over the place. Are they stealing them from their friends? What the hell?

And dishes. If I say "Ok, one of you has to unload the dishwasher, the other one has to clean the cat box", they trample each other racing for the litter box. Really? Maybe it's just me, but putting away warm, clean, pretty dishware is more desirable than kneeling on the dirty laundry-room floor with a bacteria-infested scoop, shoveling cat shit. Just sayin.

Other than that, I'm not all that busy. I'm not preventing toddlers from inserting forks into electrical outlets all day, or cleaning up after Woops-I shouldn't-have-fed-the-baby-that. I'm not planning my every move around crucial nap time or trying to get my own nap in after spending the night with two small children wedged between me, the cat and the husband.

Especially in summer, anymore, there's very little care of children involved, other than basic life-or-death supervision. On occasion, I make lunch. Mostly, they feed themselves (freeze pops, Go-Gurt, cheese sticks) or maybe I have to drive one of them somewhere. I have to make sure there's food in the fridge. Toilet paper available, gas in the car, that sort of thing. Laundry and vacuuming and all that, of course. But really, this is a pretty rockin' job.

Still, I love NOTHING days.

Family Ties...

2010-07-22T11:52:00.000-07:00

Time to get back into writing. I've been in summer mode since school got out, and have had a hard time spending more than a few minutes at a time at the computer (read:facebook).

Unfortunately, our weather has turned to crap again so we're all wearing sweatshirts and hanging around the house. I shouldn't complain; I know other people are dying in heat waves around the country or getting flooded out. I just miss my poolside chaise lounge down in California!

The vacation was good for everyone, although I think the beneficial part for Matt was taking his little brother to Mississippi for the first time. Kenneth's family is all there, and Matt is close to all of them. He's been wanting to take Jack down there with him for years; this year seemed a good time for me to say yes.

They had a great time, as I knew they would. No over-protective Mom hanging over their heads to direct their every move. Still, I knew they were in good hands with Matt's Aunt Kim, who has always been like a second mother to him. Jack loved her, and in his thank you note, he wrote "I felt loved". That totally brought a tear to my eye!

Since they got home, Matt has been doing ok. Kim and I both were worried about how he's not really dealing with his Dad's death, but who's to say he is or isn't? I'm not in his head. I'm just afraid that this calm, seemingly everything's ok attitude is a facade, that the real explosion of anger and hurt is right around every corner. Yeah, that's me, constantly having to be worried about something.

But seriously, if he's keeping all that inside, something's gotta give at some point, right? He won't go to counseling, he won't talk to anyone (that I know of). He just keeps really busy with his friends. I know, that sounds like any normal 17 year old kid, but I wish there were more of a connection to our family. The one thing that hasn't changed since he came back to live with us is his lack of interest in being a part of "us". He tells me his friends are his family - the family he wants. He is always polite and respectful to us, helps around the house, etc, but he's not connected. There's no bond there, and I'm not sure if there ever was. I pretty much let him come and go as he pleases (not what I would choose) just because it's what he's so used to, and what will cause the least tension. Fighting with him is just something I can't do anymore. The slightest indication that we're going to battle sends me into a panic attack so quickly that I have to leave the room the minute I sense it. I have no desire anymore to engage and prove my point. I have no desire to be right or to have any kind of control or authority over him. He hasn't caused me any grief so far - meaning that he's always home at a decent hour, stays out of trouble, is nice to everyone. I can't push my luck.

Does that sound complacent? Lazy? I don't want to work too hard? Maybe. Maybe this is me, being the parent who finds that discipline is just too hard, that it's easier to say yes, to give in, to look the other way, than to create healthy boundaries. I guess I see it differently, though (of course I do, I'm trying to rationalize) since he's so much older, and the situation is somewhat unique.

I don't know. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I may be setting a precedent for Jack that will come back to haunt me later. I may be setting myself up for a fall, who knows. Right now, what I do know is that we're all getting along relatively well and as long as I can keep it like this, I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing.

Faith and a Fork

2010-06-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

So much going on around here... I don't know where to start. I have become a bit of a Facebook Soundbiter, sadly. Don't get me wrong; I love FB. I'm not quite as addicted to it as I was in the beginning, but I do check in to see what everyone's up to today, what new pictures have been posted (particularly now that all the grads are celebrating) and to chit chat about daily nonsense with far-away friends, which kind of makes me feel closer to them.

Still...there's other stuff happening that I really don't feel like posting to the universe. Like the fact that my sister in law, Dorth (John's oldest sister), was diagnosed with leukemia - out of the blue - last week, and is already undergoing aggressive chemo. There is not a high rate of success with this treatment, but it is her only option.

Being all the way across the country is particularly hard for John; his other sister and brother are there to take care of Mom and make hospital visits, but he's anxious to get home and be a part of things. Of course, this is all very sudden, so it's kind of a whirlwind trying to get flights arranged and work done, in the midst of school coming to an end and getting our boys ready to fly out for their vacation on Saturday.

I am not very close to Dorth; in fact I have spent very little time with her over the past fifteen years since I first met her. Still, I think she's pretty awesome. She's incredibly smart, for one. She went to college across the street from where I went in Boston (albeit many years earlier) so we had a connection right off the bat. She's an educator too - a principal - so we could engage in conversation with each other easily and comfortably. She has always struck me as vibrant and complex a little eccentric. It doesn't seem right that someone like this should be so sick, but that's a trite thing to say. It's not right that anyone should be this sick. I am sad for John, mostly, and for his mother. No one should ever have to see her child suffer.

I've done an awful lot of praying this week. I am not a religious person, but John told me yesterday that one of the things that he sensed was keeping her spirits up is her deep faith. Their family is Irish Catholic; his parents were devout churchgoers all their lives, and I remember when my father in law died, how deep and true his faith was until the end. In fact, one of my favorite moments in his last days, was when the Priest came by the house to visit with Pop one afternoon. I wasn't there, but the story goes that Pop asked him,

"So Father, why am I still here?"

The Priest wasn't sure how to respond. "What do you mean, Hugh?" Dying is awkward, even for men of cloth, I guess.

Pop was agitated, obviously irritated. "Well, you told me that when I was ready to go, I should let Him know, and that would be it. I told him I was ready, but I'm still here!"

I love it because he was ticked off and it cracked us all up, but also because he believed with his whole being that God was listening to him. There wasn't any doubt in his mind that he had a relationship with God and that he had somewhere important to go when he left this world.

I guess Dorth made John feel like that yesterday. She told him she didn't like the fact that God had chosen her to deal with this, but that she knew he had a plan, and that was all that mattered. She didn't wonder if He knew what He was doing, or if maybe He'd made a mistake. She wasn't angry with Him or wallowing in self pity. Sure, this hasn't been her best week ever. But when I heard the things she was telling John about it, I couldn't help but feel grateful that her faith is that strong. I have personally seen faith alone help people overcome insurmountable obstacles, so I know how powerful it is, and I thank God himself for giving her that.

I should probably give that some thought. Faith, I mean. I'm not a non-believer, by any stretch. I'm just not a Practicing Anything. What if that's what gets you through things like this, or gets you past them? What if not being afraid of what's next is what makes you peaceful when you're standing at that door?

John found a little story I received from a friend a couple of weeks ago, and he reprinted it for his whole family because it spoke to him this week. Maybe you've read it, but I thought I'd share it anyway.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things 'in order,' she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes. She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.

Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.

'There's one more thing,' she said excitedly.

'What's that?' came the Pastor's reply.

'This is very important,' the young woman continued. 'I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.'

The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.

'That surprises you, doesn't it?' the young woman asked.

'Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request,' said the Pastor.

The young woman explained. 'My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!

So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder 'What's with he fork?' Then I want you to tell them: 'Keep your fork ...the best is yet to come.'

At the funeral, people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand.. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, 'What's with the fork?' And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.

The next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come.

A Little Sun Does Wonders

2010-06-06T09:41:00.000-07:00

We had a beautiful day here in Washington yesterday - sun and everything!

After so much rain and gloom for so long, it was heaven to see all the neighbors out, washing cars, mowing lawns, gardening...all the kids were in shorts, playing in some form of water that didn't fall directly from the sky. I got some of the plants planted - the ones that have been sitting in their little plastic pots for the past three weeks, trying to survive the weather. I repaired some of the ones I planted in the first place, that had been ravaged by the rain. And, sadly, I pulled a few of the ones that didn't make it, and gave them their proper burials. I'm still a novice gardener, by comparison to Shawnie, who is an unoffical Master Gardener around here. But I did pretty well salvaging, I thought.

At some point, I looked up and saw half a dozen of the neighbor kids all huddled around Jack out in the street, so I went to investigate. Cool bug? Wandering frog? Injury of some sort? Nope.

Construction crew. Building a dam to catch carwash water.

I love how kids think.

I'm all, Thank God it finally stopped raining! and they're all, Better save this water! We didn't get any today!

Never fear, children. It's raining again today. Put your boots back on and wade out to play.

Camping....Um, Not So Much

2010-06-05T20:42:00.000-07:00

I think I was a little over optimistic about going camping last weekend. I tried to stay positive, what with the torrential rains and all, but once we got there, I just couldn't keep it up.

Camping directly on the beach seemed like a super idea last August. And it would have been fabulous had it been sunny. Or warm. Or not hurricane-ish. But it wasn't. Any of the above.

We couldn't tie off big, blue tarps to any trees so we had to improvise shelter with four pop-up tents around a fire pit. Smoke from fire goes up. Gets trapped in tents. People cough, choke. Go inside trailers.

Ten each is not enough extra shoes and socks. Not with 12-year-old boys.

The kids' tent flooded the first night, and they had to spend half the morning in town at the laundromat. Thank God they were the older kids, who drive. And know how to work a washing machine. All by themselves.

Did I mention I was on my stupid diet the whole time?

I'm all for family fun, really I am. I'm a pretty good sport about the rain most of the time. I don't even hate it. I just hate being out in it, for any reason other than getting from inside to my car and back. So sitting around the fire in a winter parka, trying to get away from the edge of the tent that will drop four gallons of rainwater in my lap just as soon as the sag hits its maximum capacity, not being able to even eat a S'more, really pretty much sucked.

I'm voting for room service next year.

I don't even need the real thing. I'd settle for my kids bringing me something from the vending machine down the hall at the local Holiday Inn.

Just park me by the indoor pool, after that free breakfast, and I'll enjoy the hell out of the rain next year.

Promise.

Off to the Wild Yonder...

2010-05-27T22:39:00.000-07:00

Could I be in a better mood? Tomorrow morning I'm leaving for the beach, for our annual camping trip with friends and family. And I mean, my whole family. It's been awhile since all three of my kids have been on this trip with us - sometimes, Casey hasn't made it, and, of course, Matt has missed a couple too. But this year, not only are all three of them with us, each of them is bringing a friend, too, so we'll have a campsiteful. The trailer, two tents, and enough food to survive the apocalypse. We're on our way.

Don't get me wrong, it's not the actual camping I'm psyched about. Camping is a lot of work. Particularly the getting ready part: the shopping and the cooking and the packing and the constant checking and re-checking of the master list, in an effort to not find yourself 50 miles from civilization with a 24-pack of hot dogs and no mustard. But I shouldn't complain too much, at least we're not sleeping in a tent. I'm far too old to drag my body off the ground in the middle of the night, to trudge through the mud to pee, every hour on the hour. Plus, I'm a major whiner about the cold and the wet, which is pretty standard for camping in the Pacific Northwest. Give me my heated trailer and no one gets hurt.

In the end, though, I love it. I bitch and moan but I always have a great time. Once we get settled in, I love sitting around the fire, tucked into my Jim Forman parka, camp coffee in my mug; I love the kids running in and out of the campsite, enjoying a kind of freedom that exists in no other place or time. I love my friends laughing, sharing memories of the past nine years we've taken this trip, catching up with those we only see this one time a year. I love curling up next to John at night in the most uncomfortable bed on earth, falling asleep to the sounds of everyone settling down for the night.

I'm pretty sure though, that this year, I'm really going to love having to cook and clean and set up and break down and keep track of...six kids.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Post-It Note Tuesday

2010-05-25T13:31:00.000-07:00

Letting Go...A Little

2010-05-19T21:17:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, I took Matty up to his dad’s old house to pick up a few of his things. It hadn’t occurred to me, before today, how hard this has been on my kid.

The moment we arrived, me with my organized plan of action, because that’s what I do, his entire mood changed. He went from being his usual laid-back self to an agitated, irritable grouch, stomping around the house and closing himself in his old bedroom. When I tried to talk to him, he snapped at me that I was confusing him, that he didn’t know we had to go through all this stuff….

…suddenly I realized that I was asking my son to clean out his life.

Everything there - everything - is a reminder of his father and what happened. Every poster he has to take off the wall is a stab in that still open wound – the one you’d never know he had if I didn’t tell you. He’s so nonchalant about his loss, normally, that sometimes I even forget for a minute that he is still mourning.

But not today. Today it was all there; I could feel his anger and resentment, even if he wouldn’t openly share it with me. I tried to explain that things needed to get done in order to settle the estate – as gently as I could...but I could tell I was making everything worse. Finally, I went out to the truck and called John for advice. He was right: leave him alone. Don’t make him do anything he’s not ready to do. Don’t worry about the grandfather and the money and all that crap. Just let him get his stereo and a teddy bear and let him leave.

So I went back in and told him we didn’t have to do anything at all today. And I left him to his own space for awhile. I sat in the truck with the rain pelting down on my windshield, the world outside blurred like melted crayons between sheets of wax paper. I stared into nowhere and listened to an old 80’s song I didn’t recognize, but the tone and the beat took me back to another time and place.

There was a time I loved his dad, even if I was 17 and desperate to be in love. Even if I fell in love with him for all the wrong reasons – the same reasons I came to hate him years later. There were times we laughed and dreamed together, times I felt like I would never love anyone as strongly or as surely as I loved him then.

Later, there were times I believed he was a good father. For all the things that made me insane, every once in awhile we would see eye to eye, or he would do something for Matt that made me grateful, even jealous sometimes. But mostly, it was so much anger and bitterness that I couldn’t find the good for all I tried.

And now he’s gone. I wished for this more times than I can bear to remember. He’s gone and he’s out of my hair and I can raise my kid the way I think he should be raised and the arguing is over and…and….

…my little boy just lost his dad.

I cried for the man who was the father of my son, and for the boy who will grow up without him. I allowed the anger to fade into sadness for awhile, and to tell Kenneth this:

You will miss so much. You will miss our son becoming a great man, and making you proud. I am grateful that your leaving brought him back to me, but when all is said and done, I wish you were here.

How on Earth Did We Survive Before???

2010-05-18T20:07:00.000-07:00

Crazy.

My computer started to get sick last week, and like a small child, it got worse as each day went on. I tried to nurse it, to defrag and compact and reboot it, but nothing worked. I got up early and spent hours trying to soothe it, make it better.

Alas, I lost. I gave in and took it to the ~~doctor~~ fix-it guy and prepared to either hand over every cent to my name, or leave it there for burial and start shopping for a new one.

I got lucky, I think. My fix-it guy is awesome, which is why I go there. He just charged me what appears to be about a third of the standard cost to patch up my CPU and make it run like new (which is relatively equal to the cost of an entirely new machine, I'm pretty sure.) I mean, "new" is like six years old, so it's not exactly running at the speed of light, but it's better.

I hope. I haven't actually got it back yet, so I'm here at the public library in a really uncomfortable chair, with a weird monitor that is hard to look at, a keyboard that is going to give me carpal tunnel in just this short hour, and some smelly guy next to me.

Hence, this brief update and a promise to return soon. Fingers crossed.

After all, we have Little League tournament Championships coming up this weekend and, being the current League Title holders, I might have some ~~bragging~~ writing to do. Go Pirates!!!

New Place in Town

2010-05-11T22:46:00.000-07:00

My buddy Jaired and his friend are starting up a new restaurant. They're only in first grade, but I think their menu is pretty impressive so far:

Reservations, anyone?

It's Okay - #2

2010-04-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

This is my second shot at It's Okay. I stole this idea from Whispering Writer, over at Airing My Dirty Laundry, who stole it from Glamour Magazine. They have a section called "Hey, It’s Okay" - a list of a bunch of things to be okay about. I really like this, because I'm working so hard on trying to be OKAY with everything in my life/head/heart and to stop judging myself for everything I say/do/feel.

When your kid is pitching and his best friend slams a double off him, it's okay to stick your tongue out at his mom across the bleachers.

It's okay to eat sushi and teriyaki in the same day, even if both included tempura side dishes.

It's okay to enjoy teaching kids who want to be in school, and not so much, the ones who don't.

It's okay to sit on Expedia for an hour, planning trips you can't remotely afford, because hope is a really powerful thing.

It's okay to cheat on Sudoku if it's late at night and you won't be able to sleep unless you finish the puzzle. Only one number, though.

It's okay to be insanely happy that your teenager chose to have dinner with the family, over his friends, even if it was a free dinner out.

I'm at a Loss for Words...almost!

2010-04-25T21:37:00.000-07:00

A year or so ago, the folks at John's office gave us a gift certificate to a mountain spa resort about an hour and a half from here. We kept it tacked to the bulletin board, not noticing that months after month, we found reason not to take two days out of our "busy" life to enjoy it. On the spur of the moment (almost - it was only about five days in advance) we decided to go this weekend.

Normally, I would write a big, long, too-detailed account of our little getaway, but I thought I'd just tell you about it in pictures (with a caption or two.)

We pulled up to our new home Friday evening...

which really took our breath away as we entered.

The we thought we'd go find a good place to have dinner, and we found this.

We had some amazing beef stew with homemade bread here, washed down with good beer and local wine.

~~~~~~~~

On Saturday we headed up to Mt. Rainier National Park, and saw a little of this

and some of these

and hiked through this

to get to this old homestead built in the 1800s.

We drove further up into the park, and the temperature started to drop. It was pretty cold by the time we got here...

then it was freezing by the time we reached this one...

...see the snow?...

...and this is where the whining started...as in, we're not hiking up here, right?

At this point, we were starving, so we headed back down, out of the park, and stopped here for dinner. Mmmm....veal picatta and cabernet !

When we got back "home" we John built this...

and the crackling serenaded us (in harmony with the frogs and crickets outside)

while we sat in the jacuzzi

...for two hours....

at which point we were hungry again.

As I'm sure you can imagine, after all that, we were exhausted!

I hope your weekend was even half as good as mine!!

Why Teenagers Hate Us

2010-04-23T00:35:00.000-07:00

I just got back from taking Matt to the airport for a redeye flight to Mississipi. This weekend, he will join his dad's extended family for another memorial service.

These past few weeks in our home have been good, but not really normal, if that makes any sense. We have managed to get along with each other famously, as if we had never had issues before. But because of the grieving and the weirdness of his being back here so suddenly, we haven't really talked about anything. In fact, we talk very little. I am so hyper aware of not rocking the boat that I hardly say more than "How was your day?" and "I love you". Still, it is calm, and good.

On our drive to SeaTac tonight, just Matt and me, we had a nice chat, though. He asked me to help him look into some pre-college work he can do. (He asked me for help!). We had to stop by his dad's house to pick up the urn - his dad's ashes - so that he could carry them on the plane. For whatever insane reason, CFIL (cantankerous father-in-law) didn't want them shipped or mailed, so Matt had to carry them on the plane. This was fine; we had them all sealed up properly for the airlines and TSA, and the box fit perfectly in an old backpack that Matt's dad used to carry around.

As we were leaving the house, I asked him if he was ok. I mean, how weird is that, to be carrying your dad's ashes around in a wooden box in a backpack? I'm good, he said.

Then, walking through the airport, out of the blue, he says,

"This is weird."
"What's that?" I ask.
"Carrying this backpack. With my dad in it. He used to carry this backpack around everywhere, all the time. I bet he never thought he'd be going to Mississippi riding in his own backpack."

I think my burst of laughter was appropriate, because he smiled. He was trying to be funny. I squeezed his hand and said,

"Yep, it's weird. But you still have your sense of humor. Your dad would like that."

I stuck around while he was going through security, just to make sure he got through ok, with the box of ashes and all. There are actually regulations for carrying human remains on an airplane, in case you didn't know. I watched him take his shoes off and then he disappeared behind a pillar while getting all checked through.

The next thing I hear is some guy yelling,

"I said, PULL YOUR PANTS UP! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR!"

I rush down to where I can see Matt from around the wall, and I realize the guy is yelling at him.

Some idiot at TSA, is yelling at a teenager, at midnight, in the airport, carrying his dad's freakin' ashes in a box, to pull up his pants.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I thought I was going to come unglued. Had I not been afraid of being arrested for some other heinous crime, like standing up for my kid, I'd have blown a gasket all over the guy.

As it was, I just stood there and started to cry. Another TSA guy came over to me and nicely handed me a screwdriver and told me that Matt had it in the backpack and he coudn't carry it on the plane. I wanted to stab his eyes out with it, but I just said, thanks.

Then I asked him if he was a supervisor. He could see I was crying, and he said he wasn't one, but he'd get me one if I needed him to.

"No," I said, sniffing, "it's just that that guy over there is yelling at my kid to pull his pants up. Is there some breach of security that his boxers are showing?"

"No, ma'am, no, it's just that it's not real appropriate for the airport." (Evidently school, the general public and everywhere else on earth is ok)

"Yea," I said, starting to cry harder, "he's 17. He's carrying his dad's ashes in that backpack. Maybe that guy could lighten up a little."

The nice TSA man looked over at the asshole TSA man and nodded his head, and he looked like he might say he was sorry, but I walked away.

I cried all the way to my car; people must have thought I had just bid farewell to one of the many soldiers in the airport tonight. I sat in my car and cried until all my makeup was gone and I thought I could drive home without a major accident.

I made it ok, and I realized that the tears weren't so much about the mean TSA man. I had my little breakdown because my kid was leaving. Again. Already. I can hardly bear saying goodbye every morning when he goes to school, and here is, leaving for four whole days, when I only just got him back.

I know he's coming back, I know I'm being silly and dramatic.

Still.

The guy at TSA?

No wonder teenagers hate us.

Post-It Note Tuesday

2010-04-14T00:01:00.001-07:00

Shit. I Knew This Would Happen.

2010-04-08T22:01:00.000-07:00

Can you hear that? That wind-like sound, getting louder and louder?

It's me.

Getting sucked into Facebook.

I tried to stay away, I really did.

I said it was too hard.

I said it was too time consuming.

I said I didn't care what 213 of my most intimate "friends" were doing at any given time of the day or night.

I said, when hell freezes over.

Damn, it's cold in here.

Take a Minute...

2010-04-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

In the midst of our own personal traumas, sometimes it seems overwhelming to attend to the needs of others, too. Like, for instance, if your ex-husband dies and your estranged son comes home, you might not have the energy to comfort your good friend, whose baby niece is in the hospital with an undiagnosed blood disorder. Or the friend whose son was killed in a car crash, or the one whose Dad finally gave in to the long months of cancer.

We've been racking up the trauma over here in our circle of friends, I'll tell ya. But not once have we been so consumed with our own pain that we haven't reached out to each other. Maybe it's that misery loves company, maybe it's that we're grateful for the things we do have, maybe it's just that, underneath all the daily grind, we're all just really good people who care about each other, no matter what.

I read a post this morning that made me step back and remind myself that no matter what challenges are thrown our way, someone else can always use our love and support.

Check it out.

Here's my challenge to you today:

Find someone who needs a hug, and give it, with all your heart.

2010-04-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

~ ~ ~ Happy Belated Easter, everyone ~ ~ ~

All three of my kids
Easter, 2010

Although Easter Sunday itself was really quite nice, it's been a long, long week here.

As a writer, I always aim to be articulate; on a good day I might strive for eloquent; on my game, I hope to be profound. Today, however, I'm just going for informative.

A week ago today, my ex-husband, Matthew's dad, died unexpectedly. Apart from all the anger and turmoil and pain and confusion my son is feeling, he is suddenly without a father and is completely displaced from his home. So, as would be normal in most other families, he has moved in with us again. If you remember, this is as far from normal as our family could get.

I'd love to be able to say that I, too, am sad for the loss of this man, but I can't get there yet. Too many years of garbage between being in love with him and today. As you can imagine, we're all upside down, in our own ways. But I'm not grieving a loss so much as I'm in a state of weird, subdued panic/anxiety/hope. Wish I could explain it better...as I said, I wasn't even hoping to be articulate.

A week ago, my son and I were barely speaking to each other. He lived in another town and we had no contact at all for over 10 months. Today, he is back in our house, eating at our table, getting up and going to school with Jack - whether any of us was ready for this or not. Talk about immersion learning.

So we're getting through this day by day. It's been ok, I guess. He's grieving, of course, and probably still a little in shock, too, but felt ready to go back to school today. He has a new, supportive group of friends. He's been really, really nice to all of us since he got here. We've hugged and said "I love you" more than I can ever remember. It almost seemed normal, when the five of us sat down and played Uno after dinner last night.

It's not permanent, at least not yet. It's logical, of course, that he moves back in and stays here, but I know from past experience that making that happen will be a bit like making mercury stay in the thermometer when the glass has been broken. I'm not sure where else he'd go - the girlfriend's, a friend's, there's no telling. He can't go back to the house his dad lived in and he's in a position to keep it for himself, even if he will be 18 in just six months. I'm sure we'll figure it out, as we navigate through these next few weeks getting our new life in order. I'm just hoping that whatever it is that we decide, it will be the right thing for all of us and not cause a whole new rift.

So I'm trying to balance hope with realism, and blessings with curses. I can't tell you how many times over the years I've wished his father dead, and now I'm the poster child for Careful What You Wish For. The nightmare of managing the estate in Matt's best interest (with the cantankerous ex-father in law) is already causing me angina, and it's hardly even started. The logistics of moving him back into our home when we never expected - ever - that he would return, are a bit tricky. We no loner have a bedroom for him; we must create one out of Jack's playroom and figure out what to do with a boatload of stuff, old and new. But then, I think, who cares? He's back! Which is great, right? It's what I wanted, right?

But it wasn't supposed to happen like this. Not out of the blue, not without preparation and healing and a plan, not because of some horrible tragedy, not because he has to.

It will all be ok, right? In the end, everything will work itself out. We will get through this like we've gotten through the past two years: trial and error, ups and downs, living and learning. Today, I was just happy to get up and make breakfast for both my boys, and watch them walk to the bustop, like in the old days.

I'll take that, for now.

Jack finds an egg - the hiding places are getting a little more challenging these days...

Why is this ok, when usually, we don't eat off the floor?

My Easter present: Matt and Elle hanging out with us at home.

I Swear It's True

2010-03-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

So this is what I get for not blogging/reading for long periods of time: I was nominated for an award and I didn't even know it!!! Hello?!? That's my first one ever, and it's been sitting our there for a month...my mother would be mortified at how late this thank-you note is:

Thanks to Little Ms. J for mentioning me in her Creative Blogger Award post. She thinks I might have creative thoughts to offer in the challenge to give SIX LIES AND A TRUTH about myself. After you read them, all of you are supposed to guess which is the truth, and which are the things I creatively invented in my little head.

So here goes:

1. I was suspended from a private school twice in the 8th grade, for smoking in the bathroom.

2. I finished graduate school on the Dean's List, with a 3.9 GPA.

3. My mom taught me to burp the alphabet forwards and backwards, Sometimes, we do it together at parties. She taught Jack how to do it, too.

4. I was arrested for disorderly conduct in my early 20s, while out partying with friends. We were drunk (duh) and disturbing the peace. I spent the night in a jail in Santa Barbara and had to hock my moped to pay the fine.

5. I'm a closet Halo player, even though I outwardly hate computer games of any kind.

6. In 12th grade, I was impeached as President of the Pep Club because I was too bossy and too lazy. How can you be both?

7. I balance my bank book in my head and am rarely ever wrong.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. Seriously: you try it! I hereby nominate

Whispering Writer at Airing my Dirty Laundry

Joanne at I [Heart] Arugula

My new BF, Heidi, at Some Mad Hope

ED at Eternally Distracted, who, I'm certain, will find it nearly impossible to make up anything we won't believe.

Thanks again, Ms. J; I'm honored!

BOOK REVIEW

2010-03-26T07:11:00.000-07:00

Some Kind of Normal
by Heidi Willis

I knew less than nothing about diabetes when I opened this book, and to be honest, didn't have much of an interest in learning. But I was immediately taken in by the story of Ashley, Babs Babcock's 12 year old daughter, who is slowly being eaten away by the disease. I became so entrenched in Babs' own desperate search for knowledge and understanding that I actually paid attention to all of the medical details, as if I might be able to help her myself.

From the moment this heart wrenching story opened, I fell in love with Babs, through the voice that Willis has given her. Willis has a tremendous gift of dialogue, and a way with dialect that I have seldom experienced. Babs is one of the most realistic literary voices I have ever read; there is no way to describe it but raw. And so human, it almost hurts. I often felt as though I were reading a dear friend's diary, instead of a novel. She puts up no pretenses, and apologizes for nothing, yet still manages to doubt herself more than she ever needs to.

The characters in Babs' life are remarkably true also; from Travis, her faith-bound husband, to Logan, her steadfast, yet wayward son, to Dr. Benton, her angel in disguise, Babs asks - no, demands - that we know them all as well as she does, and that we love them all with her same intensity. And she leads us to discover that the story isn't about diabetes at all, or about controversial research, or really even about faith. It's about the love a mother has for her children, and the strength we find within ourselves to get up every morning and hope again, when we're certain there's no hope left.

In moments of panic and desperation, Babs will make you laugh out loud with her honesty and absolute simplicity. But don't be fooled by her candid humor; you're going to need the Kleenex, too.

I love this book.

It wasn't one I would have chosen on my own, though. Heidi is friends with my friend Karma, and the last time they were together, Karma got me a signed copy. I started following Heidi's blog then, and we became cyber friends. Her book was still on my TBR list when I heard she was coming to visit, in RL! I thought, Crap! I better read that book! I don't want to be sitting there at the dinner table faking an intelligent conversation!

And I am so glad I did.

Jackyl and Hyde

2010-03-24T21:56:00.000-07:00

As much as I love him to death, my kid's a walking contradiction.

On Monday, he got in trouble twice at school. Once for coming in to finish a test and then not actually doing it, at all, but bothering all the kids around him instead. The second offense was to move his desk away from a girl he didn't want to sit next to. Sounds innocent, even responsible, don't you think? Yea, me too. Then I heard the other side of the story - the teacher's - and I had to agree that scooting one's desk repeatedly and loudly during a quiz, and giggling while one does it, and drawing attention to oneself deliberately in the process, wasn't exactly responsible. Anyway, so there he was, busted again.

As a result, he has to stay after school tomorrow to finish the test. And, his consequence at home was that he was grounded until that test was done. Fair enough.

That was until I realized that he still hadn't found the $70 pair of Converse basketball shoes he lost a week ago. Crap! Now I have to impose the consequence for that, too! So, figuring he's already grounded this week, I decided to have him work off some of the cost of the shoes, since he didn't seem to be making much of an effort to look for them.

When he got home from school today, I told him this, and I suggested that since he was dying to go outside, he could wash my car. Good lord, you would have thought I'd said he should clean a septic tank barehanded. He started crying and stomping. In between sobs, he'd spit out "I don't want to wash the car."

Everyone together, now, what was my response?

"I didn't ask you if you wanted to wash the car, I asked you to do it." Firm, yet calm.

But the meltdown continued until I left the house to find solace in the little nursery down the road. After all, it was a gorgeous day and I could be outside planting, not in here, listening to this temper tantrum.

When I got home, the car was almost finished. I was so proud! I thanked him, then gave him the rest of the Pay Off the Sneakers List: clean the cat box, take out the garbage, empty the dishwasher.

Waaaaah!!!!! It starts up all over again. Throws himself on the couch. Sobs into my silk pillows, snot and all. I ignore him; after how many years of this parenting thing, I'm finally learning the art of not escalating a situation.

Finally, he calms down. He does all the chores. I even hear him singing at one point. When he's all done, I let him go outside to shoot hoops for a bit. Alone, of course.

I sat down for a few minutes to think about how I should handle this stuff in the future. How am I going to help him become more responsible? Stop throwing fits when he has to do things he doesn't like? Oh my God! Is he going to end up a delinquent too??? Will he ever be able to accomplish anything ???

But just as my own tailspin began, the one where I take one bad moment in the present and transform it into an entire lifetime of bad behavior, I had to regroup and make dinner.

After all, we didn't want to be late to the Awards Ceremony at school. You know, for Honors Society: where the members all maintain at least a 3.5 GPA, participate in a community project, act as leaders and role models for their peers and generally ~~shine above the rest of the world~~ behave well and achieve great things.

And there he is. The same kid who tore half his room up in protest of basic manual labor, who couldn't get his shit together in class and got himself a detention, showing us his Honors Society Certificate.

Go figure. At the end of the day, he's a pilar of society.

Keepin' Busy

2010-03-10T21:58:00.000-08:00

Ahhhh...lapsing again...just haven't had much to say lately. This doesn't excuse my not reading, though, so please don't ditch me if I haven't been over to your blog in awhile. I got a little nudge from my friend Karma, who has a gazillion other things to read beside my blog (she's finishing her B.A.) but who dropped me an email asking why I hadn't written lately.

Actually, I've sort of been busy. I've been working, for God's sake. Like, at a paying job, outside my home.

Twice I've subbed. Two whole days so far. Frankly, I'm exhausted. Have you ever taught kindergarten? See, you know what I mean.

But I've also been doing my Julie McCoy thing with Kim's Book Signing and having a blast with that. I love saying "I have a meeting", like I'm going to a glass-walled conference room on the 30th floor of some swank building downtown, where someone will bring me coffee and croissants while I impress bigwigs with my Powerpoint skills.

In reality, I'm walking over to Kim's house, to sit with her and her staff - that would be her friend Jacqueline, her hub Josh, and me - around her kitchen table, each of us with our own travel mug of homemade coffee, scribbling notes on lined notebook paper and mostly shooting the shit about her trip to Hawaii. (I've not once asked to hook the projector up to her TV; they don't know what they're missing.) Seriously, though, we have planned an awesome day and I can't wait! I love being friends with a ~~Practically~~ Famous Author.

And I've also been carting Jack and all his buddies all over the place from basketball to baseball and back again, and cheering like a lunatic at all the games - even though I appear to be the only mom doing it so loudly. Whatev. They need support. Last week, they lost 51-24 and I had to drive home with three teary-eyed boys in the back seat.

I love that my kid is an athlete, though. I'm all about being the soccer mom (God I hate that word) and their biggest cheerleader. I was not, in any way, shape, or form, an athlete as a kid. In highschool, I couldn't even make the cheerleading squad because I thought all you had to do was yell and smile. I didn't realize you couldn't be fat and completely out of shape. Total discrimination, I say. But I digress.

Because of this, I kind of ~~taught myself~~ was forced to hate athletes. It was the only defense I had against feeling like a total slug. As I got older, though, not being into sports became one of my big Life Regrets, especially now, when I struggle every day with staying active and eating healthy. So when I popped out this kid who lives and breathes physical activity of all kinds, I felt like I had an opportunity to get it right.

Wait. That came out wrong. That just painted me as the Mother Who Lives Vicariously Through Her Son, which I so am not. I'm not sure I could be, if I tried. I guess I'm just enjoying sports for the first time in my life, and not feeling like I have to hate them all because they're out there and I'm not.

How can I live vicariously through Jack's sports when half the time I have to ask him to explain what he's doing out there?

Me: Are you playing point guard today?"

Jack (with great patience) : "Nope, Mom, not today. Today I'm a quarterback.

If Only He Had a Pair of Stolen Nikes....

2010-02-26T20:52:00.000-08:00

How I wish I were quick enough (and technologically savvy enough) to grab my new phone that takes really good pictures and capture Jack in the car yesterday. But, aside from the fact that I was driving, I didn't think quickly and the moment was gone.

First, let me share with you one of his most annoying habits: changing the radio station no more than a minute and a half through any given song. If I didn't already have ADD, this would give it to me.

So as we're driving home from wherever, he's switching back and forth between five or six stations that - mind you - are all playing the same songs, and the volume is up way louder than I would have it, if I were to be in control of Car Music. Which I'm not, because I try to be a nice mom, and I try to choose my battles carefully these days. Car Music is not on my list of Really Important Things I Need to Control. And, when it's a song I like, I crank the volume, so really, who am I to complain?

He's "singing" along - in quotes, because Jack only knows about five words to any song. I believe this is why he changes the station...his lyric bank is a little low and he doesn't want anyone to catch on.

Anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I see his head bopping like he's a Hilltop gangsta, and I turn to see if he's doing that fake driving thing, you know, with one hand on the imaginary wheel...? Like this:

Evidently, that's what you do when you listen to music these days. I think it's the new air guitar.

But he's not gangsta driving, because his left hand is covering his ear and I think there's something wrong because his head is bowed low, almost into his lap, and his right hand is flailing around near the window like he's having a seizure. I turn fully, to make sure he's ok, and that's when I wish I had the camera phone ready.

He's fine, I see. He appears to be completely engaged in mixing some kind of sick tunes on his imaginary turntable set-up, with his left hand covering the pretend earphone (better sound definition) and his right hand squeaking the invisible record back and forth to make that eee-eee-eee sound of a perfectly good vinyl LP being ruined.

Sort of like this:

Only, not.

Joannie Rochette

2010-02-26T00:25:00.000-08:00

I would have stayed up all night just to see this.

And I thought I was done crying.

A Moment of Hope

2010-02-25T20:42:00.001-08:00

It's been four days since this happened, but I haven't felt much like sharing it with anyone until now. I did tell MC, since I had my counseling appointment on Tuesday and the minute I got there, I couldn't really talk about anything else. Then, of course, as soon as I opened my mouth, I just sat there and cried the entire rest of the hour. I suppose MC's office is a really good place to be if I'm going to melt down like that.

I ran into Matt on Monday, outside the highschool. If you're new here, you can read this and this to catch up. I haven't seen him since Christmas, when he stopped by unexpectedly to deliver gifts to Jack (not to anyone else in the family, mind you). He just appeared on the doorstep (with his dad no less!) as if it were perfectly normal for them to pop in on Christmas Eve. They didn't stay, but the brief foyer gift exchange was awkward enough for the whole month.

On Monday afternoon, I was killing an hour between Jack's basketball and baseball practices, and thought I'd grab a snack at the market. As I passed the highschool, I saw Matt walking along the sidewalk, all by himself, an hour after school let out.

Seeing him, I was struck with a profound sadness...much different from the anger and resentment I have felt in the past year. I was sad that he was all alone - not even any Emo/Goth/Criminal friends walking with him, not a girl, not even a teacher. Or a cop. Just Matt, all by himself.

I wondered where he was going, and why he was there so late. I wondered how he was getting home these days, since he wrecked his car in November and his Dad lives a half hour from here. I wondered what I would say to him if he would let me, if .... and then I started bawling and had to pull into the parking lot of the grocery store to get it together.

MC and MC2, my therapy partners, and I are working on feeling things. I'm supposed to let myself cry when it hits. Up until now, I've been pretty good at fighting it, because I'm sort of afraid that if I start, I won't be able to stop. I'm afraid it will become a full on breakdown, and I just can't afford that right now. I've got another kid to take care of.

But I went ahead and felt for a few minutes. I felt sad and helpless and very much like a failure, although I'm not supposed to blame myself. It's not always that easy. I sat in my car and cried for a bit, then I took a deep breath and said a prayer for him, and me, and all the moms and kids out there who have lost each other.

When I pulled back onto the road, I was looking for him. I hadn't really seen his face the first time, and I just wanted to see his face. Suddenly, he was there, sitting at a table outside the Starbucks, and before I knew what I was doing, I pulled my car into the parking lot and walked up to him. Before I could talk myself out of it, and before I could devise a plan as to what the f*%# I thought I was going to say to him.

"Hey," was a decent start.

He took his earbuds out and said "Hey," back, which I thought was a groundbreaking next step.

And our conversation went like that, about one word at a time, for a minute or two. Then I asked him if I could sit, and he let me.

I asked him if I could buy him a cup of coffee, but he said no.

Oh, I forgot. You don't need me.

He was waiting for his train - the one that doesn't come until 4:40, two and a half hours after school lets out. The one he takes every day since he lost his car.

He asked me what I was doing, and I told him. Then, without thinking, I asked if he wanted to go watch the end of Jack's practice, and he agreed.

He agreed to be with me.

He still didn't want a drink, or a snack. I wanted so much to give him something, but I settled for the company, gladly.

We drove in an awkward semi-silence over to the middle school; I asked him weird, distant questions about the classes he was taking. It was better than nothing. At the gym, we stood ten feet apart and watched practice until it was over, and the excitement of his little brother discovering him there eased us up.

Jack introduced him to all his friends, who said things like, wow, you really are tall! and I laughed inside. I was too afraid to laugh out loud, to be a part of that relationship, the only one he hasn't severed, afraid I might ruin it for Jack. Still, I giggled as the 6th graders craned their little necks to see what 6'3" looks like.

When it was time to go, the little guys piled into the back seat and Matt sat up front with me, chatting with them. We drove him to the train station, where Jack got out and hugged him. They exchanged I love yous, then Matt leaned his head back into the car and said,

"Thanks for the ride."

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too."

Oh yes, he did.

And then he was gone. It wasn't all better. It wasn't anywhere near normal. But it was nice.

And I was back in my real life, driving 12 year olds all over tarnation, pretending that I didn't ache every day for the first born son I somehow lost and didn't know how to find.

Maybe it's just like that. One tiny little baby step at a time. One awkward meeting that feels like strangers talking at a bus stop.

One moment.

Four words.

Post It Note Tuesday

2010-02-23T21:47:00.001-08:00

It's Okay. Today.

2010-02-23T21:15:00.000-08:00

I'm going to try something new. I stole this idea from Whispering Writer, over at Airing My Dirty Laundry, who stole it from Glamour Magazine. They have a section called "Hey, It’s Okay" - a list of a bunch of things to be okay about. I really like this, because I'm working so hard on trying to be OKAY with everything in my life/head/heart and to stop judging myself for everything I say/do/feel.

I don't want to be a total copycat, though, so I won't call it "It's Okay Tuesday", like WW did. It'll just be "It's Okay". Today.

It's Okay to cry at everything Olympics-related, even the commercials.

It's Okay to soothe the tears with chocolate. Like Cadbury eggs, maybe. Just sayin.

It's Okay to have the First Episode of Season 2 of Glee marked on the calendar.

It's Okay to not want to be a teacher anymore, even though it's the only job for which I seem to be qualified.

It's Okay to not Tweet or Twitter or whatever it is, and to not even know what it is, and not even care.

It's Okay not to watch the Kardashians or The Jersey Shore or The Bachelor, even though the rest of the civilized world is doing it.

It's Okay to boss other people's kids around, if they're doing something inappropriate or dangerous, and you're the only adult around. It takes a village.

One More Year of Semi-Sanity

2010-02-21T19:40:00.001-08:00

The Jackster turned 12 on Friday. When did that happen???

I think he had a pretty stellar birthday weekend, all in all:

A three-day diet of sugar, chips, soda and sugar

A hockey game with a signed birthday card from the team and his name on the scoreboard

A sleepover with his buddies.

8:00 on Sunday night and he's already sound asleep. And I'm right behind him.

Happy Birthday, JMan. I LOVE YOU!!

Little Letter Tuesday

2010-02-09T18:05:00.000-08:00

Too much for a Post-It Note, so today is a Little Letter for Tuesday.

Dear Kirstie Alley.

Fat Actress. Jenny Craig. Oprah. New show: Kirstie's Big Life. Why is it that, ever since you left Cheers, your career - your entire identity - revolves around the size of your butt? And we wonder why women are obsessed with their bodies. How about you focus on talent? Or intelligence? Or even your kick-ass hair, for God's sake. Please, get off the scale and move on.

Your friend,
Tam

To Recomment or Not to Recomment?

2010-02-09T16:44:00.000-08:00

Thanks for all the supportive and funny comments this morning. I was giggling to myself as I scanned those poems, thinking, 'Is this endearing, or totally embarrassing?' I was perfectly at peace with Dorky, with a capital D, then a bunch of you thought it was endearing. Awww! Ya mean I'm not as big a geek as I thought? I love you guys!

Now that I'm in the 100 Club (I'll be getting my lapel pin in the mail, right?) I have a couple of questions. The more I read & write, the more I learn about this medium, and there are still a lot of little things I'm not hip on. Like giveaways. If anyone wants to give me the lowdown on how that works, that'd be great.

But let's talk COMMENTS.

I love the whole concept of commenting. I think it's fabulous validation for putting yourself out there, and a big motivator to do it again tomorrow. And I love that sometimes, it's a topic-specific, insightful, sympathetic response, but sometimes, it's just a little high-five for being brave enough to read your paper out loud to the class. I don't mind the "Great post!" comment one bit. It makes my day to know that someone out there stopped in and said hi.

What I'm a little unsure of, though, is the commenting back to the commenters who've commented to you. The ReCommenting. Some people do it, some don't. Is there an etiquette to this? I rarely recomment here because I think it's a touchy area.

You kinda have to recomment to everyone on the post, don't you? Like when it's Valentine's Day in elementary school - if you don't bring a card for everyone, you can't bring cards at all. You can't just recomment to the comments that warrant recommenting. Someone is bound to end up in the coat closet tucked in between the smelly lunchboxes, crying her eyes out. And she'll grow up to find herself running from therapy sessions to AA meetings and back, and ..... I'm just guessing that's how it would turn out.

So, are you a ReCommenter?

Do you have a policy? Or am I neurotic and no one else gives a shit?

And what do you say to "Great Post!" ?

At some point, doesn't it become akin to writing a thank you note for a thank you note? I mean, when does it end? How do you know if you're done?

To everyone who has been kind enough to visit, read, and comment - or not - for now, I'll just throw out a big blanket thanks.

Yeah, I know, some of you deserve more than that.

It's ok, I won't go to recess without you.

My Humble Beginnings

2010-02-08T19:46:00.000-08:00

First of all... Thank You to Joanne, for bringing me to the page in the first place, and for getting me here every day since, especially when I couldn't do it alone...
...and to all the readers who honor me with your time and your comments, who write remarkable blogs of your own that inspire me in so many ways.

~~~~~

I've been writing since I was a little kid. Even though it was my brother who wrote that story - in second grade - about the detective with the Porsche, the one that my parents had "bound" like it was a real book, I kept doing it. I read like crazy and then tried to emulate my favorite authors.

There was this whole Erma Bombeck period, a Shakespeare stint, even a stab at *ahem* trashy romance. But my big thing was poetry. I fancied myself a bit of an artist that way, all the way up through college.

A couple of months ago, I found a Poetry Anthology (I made that up) I had written in the 5th grade. It was bound with thread and leftover wallpaper from my pre-teen bedroom. It was also written in - get this - calligraphy. I think the official title was "Poems by Tammy", although over the years, the front cover has seen some wear and the piece of construction paper I vaguely remember being glued to the front has been lost.

Here is what's left of my first bound edition.

Please be nice if you choose to comment on the fact that, at the age of 10, I was a little unclear on the order of seasons.

2010-02-05T11:38:00.000-08:00

I think it's time I really did get a job. I mean a paying job, outside my house. Not that what I do around here as a SHM isn't real; believe me, it is. But some days I get really bored, which feeds into the whole reason I'm drinking the Wacky Water lately.

A few weeks ago, Kim Derting asked if I would help plan the day for her Book Release on March 16th. Of course I said I would, because planning events is one of my very favorite activities ever. But this isn't my profession, or my own small business. This is Kim knowing that I'm all bossy and Julie McCoy and shit, so things will get done. So now I'm on the Official Planning Committee, but since no one nominated me for Chairman right off the bat, I'll probably have to make up a little campaign flier for our next meeting.

You think I'm kidding, don't you? You think I couldn't possibly be that Rachel Berry-ish. But I am, sort of. I'm all over this new project, partly because it's fun to do, partly because it's way cool to hang out with a published author, and partly because it's totally surreal to be - even remotely - put in charge of handling her fans at Borders next month.

But I'd do this for any friend. I think what I'm enjoying more than anything is that I have a purpose. Something to do, something to get done, on a time schedule. In my current world, would anyone care if I didn't get the laundry done today? Jack would've taken his PE shirt, dirty and wrinkled and stinking to high heaven, right out of the laundry basket and worn it without a second thought today. As it was, it did get washed, but he might not even have noticed that it was clean had he not had to pull it out of the dryer himself as he ran out the door.

Three weeks - maybe a month - ago, I took all the pictures off my picture wall, with all good intentions of remodeling my photo gallery. That's as far as I got. Everything needed to complete this is still sitting under the end table, the wall is still bare, and guess what? No one cares! Not one word about when this project is going to get done. No supervisor leaving me snippy emails about my lack of follow-through, no coworkers complaining that they're tired of tripping over the crap in my in-basket.

I know that many of you envy that kind of day-to-day To Do List, and I am, without a doubt, extremely fortunate to be able to work at my own pace. But I've forgotten how motivating it is when someone else is depending on me to meet a deadline. Must get done = Will get done. I like that.

On another note, I'm excited to report that, in addition to working on a task I enjoy, I may be able to attribute part of this drive to the new Remedy. One week of the magic potion, and I am feeling fabulous. No, really, I mean this. I can tell the difference. Not a drastic difference, like I'm a whole new person, but a noticeable difference in specific things: I am sleeping better, I am eating better (by choice) and I am drinking & eating less (without struggling). I am calmer and less weepy, and I'm about 75% less tired during the day than I was a week ago. The best way to describe it is that I feel softer.

One more week with this one, then I go in for a remedy tune-up and some diet/nutrition counseling. It's the best I've felt in a really, really long time, without taking Ambien, or being drunk, or both. I'm definitely a believer now.

Thanks for the ideas on what to do with my next (100th!) post. I love that there are so many people out there who agree that it's a big deal! Still not sure what I'm going to do and I'm a little stressed about it....

...see? Rachel Berry really is my role model.

2010-02-03T19:40:00.000-08:00

Oh, wow! I'm about to reach my 100th post! (This is #98.) As I read other blogs I notice that some writers seriously celebrate this moment, others don't. Some people do big giveaways, which I would love to do, but I don't know how that all works. (Oh sure, I could ask around, but who wants to look like they're not blog savvy? I've been writing for nearly 100 posts now, for Pete's sake!) Some people actually celebrate with family and such. No one in my family reads my blog, so if I baked myself a cake, they'd all just think I was weird. And if I opened a good bottle of wine, well, no one would notice.

Soooo....not sure what I'll do to mark the day. I feel like I should do something. I'll have to give it some thought. What did/will you do?

Doctor NOT

2010-02-02T15:27:00.000-08:00

I could have gone to Med School, but I didn't. It had nothing to do with my 2.7 highschool GPA or my inability to pass a science class of any kind beyond the 9th grade; it wasn't because I can't pay attention to anything for more than an hour, let alone eight years. Mostly, I didn't go to Med School because I'm a wimp.

I don't faint at the sight of blood (like my Dad, I understand) but I get really queasy if I have to witness an injury that requires anything more than a blob of Neosporin and a couple of bandaids. I do ok with my own kids when it's not too bad, but once I've turned over my First Responder duties to the next guy - husband, friend, medic, doctor - I'm a complete wreck. If they're seriously hurt, I tend to freak out way more than necessary and scare the crap out of them. Like when Jack flipped off his skateboard, hit the pavement face first, and broke his two front teeth off. He was fine until I actually looked at the teeth (he wouldn't take his hand off his mouth), at which point I screamed "OH MY GOD!" and nearly fainted. He wasn't crying until then.

These are indicators that I've chosen the right career path, I think. Or at least that I didn't definitely, absolutely, choose the wrong one. And today, I got a little unexpected confirmation:

Did anyone catch the segment on The Today Show this morning, about the live birth? (Let's not even ask why we are watching a live C-Section on my morning show. It's pretty much the only news I watch, and I really hope to gain some worldly info while I'm tuned in.) There they were, filming the birth of this baby, not on TLC, not on Lifetime, not even on the flippin' Surgery Channel, but right there, on Channel 5. And Dr. Nancy, the new Dr. Oz, is in the delivery room with the parents, and her commentary goes something like this:

" Ok, "Susie" is ready to go, her lower womb has been opened up and oh! there was a big squirt of amniotic fluid there! "

O.M.G! Stop it! Not only are they talking about squirting amniotic fluid, they're showing it to me! Oh please, please, please let it be time for Al and the weather, or even Willard with the birthday thing. Don't make me leave Matt for George.

I think childbirth is amazing and beautiful, don't get me wrong. And I get that we were just witnessing the Miracle of Life. But maybe a little heads-up would have been nice. Like: Warning, Non-Doctor Types! Blood and amniotic fluid up ahead! This would be a good time to go blowdry your hair!

A powdery little bambino, all wrapped up in a cute little blanket, would have been plenty a miracle for me.

PS. Wanna see Jack's teeth? Heads up....

Post It Note Tuesday

2010-02-02T15:25:00.001-08:00

He Needs Me - Really

2010-02-02T09:29:00.001-08:00

I love the stuff kids say sometimes. I always think I'm going to remember their words, or I think I should write them down, but I rarely do either. I'm going to make a better effort, though...so here's my attempt for today.

I'm sitting with friends the other day, talking about how Jack likes me being a Stay Home Mom. I said, "He's just like his Dad. He doesn't necessarily need to be with me, or talk to me, or interact with me in any way, he just needs to know I'm here. Then he's fine." I smile lovingly at him, as he half-eavesdrops on our conversation.

"I know," I continue, "that when he comes home from school, he's going to be out the door again within minutes. But he comes in just to make sure I'm here first." My heart is swelling with this knowledge I have, of how much my kid needs me....

"Actually," Jack pipes up, "I just come in to put my backpack away."

Right. I knew that.

Disney's Hot Ticket

2010-01-29T09:26:00.000-08:00

FYI: I really don't give the Magic Potion that much credit, although yes, I am a nut. Duh! Why would I be trying this in the first place?!? However. I am feeling pretty darn good, third day in a row.

I was just reading a post on Janana Bee about The Rock -er, Dwayne. She's upset with The Rock for going "all Disney" on her. I can understand; she's an old WWF fan and this turn on his career path must be excrutiating to watch. But me? I'm personally grateful for the staff over there at the happiest place on earth. I was not a WWF fan at all, so I never knew who The Rock was, really, until they sucked him over to the dark side.

Janana thinks Dwayne's lost his hotness. Hello?!? Ok, so he's not all guns and sweat, like in the old days. But I have to sit through a lot of brain-rotting movies, because I'm a Mom* (i.e. Paul Blart - I wince just typing it). Sometimes, these movies claim to "appeal to adults too!", but what they really mean is that there might be a smidge of cleverly disguised adult humor, or a Stop Global Warming subplot.

Really? You want to appeal to Moms who take 11-year-old boys to the movies? Don't get in my way with politics or wit.

Hand over the popcorn and give me The Rock.

* Don't start with me. I know I don't "have to" take my kid to these movies, that I could take them to the Natural History Museum or enroll them in Scouts instead. Let me live in my fantasy that seeing all the popular movies and eating at McDonalds makes me a Good Mom.

2010-01-28T21:55:00.000-08:00

Fun Fact about me: I have a wierd thing about teeth. I hate brushing them because it makes me gag. (But I do it anyway, twice a day, just so you know.) I can't even watch other people brush their teeth, that makes me gag too. You know how, when your kids are really little, you have to brush their teeth for them? Eeew!! I think my boys could brush their own teeth before they were potty trained.

So you can imagine how a root canal would sit with me, huh? Never, ever had work (beyond cleaning) done on my teeth, and I thought I was home free, at my age. But no. Last September, I called my cards too quickly and learned what an endodontist is. The day of the surgery, I went for the full sedation package, just short of knocking me totally out and staying overnight in the hospital, but I was still a nervous wreck and hated every minute of the entire day.

And today, I had the privilege of getting a redo on my root canal from last fall. I won't ~~sicken~~ bore you with the details of why I got to do this, but I will say that it was waaaaay better the second time around. Which, for the record, does not mean to suggest that one should always do a root canal twice. Not even kinda.

But guess what? I didn't freak out beforehand, like I did the first time, when I was shaking like a scared puppy, even though I was sedated enough that I couldn't move out of my chair, or remember my own name. I didn't get all chatty on the way there, like I do when I am insanely nervous about something. And, when I got home, I didn't get nauseous merely from the thought of what had just happened in my mouth.

Today, I easily conversed with My Endo (we're tight now), Dr. Susan, about why teens shouldn't have cell phones, right before she disappeared into my mouth and left - wait for this - stitches in my gums. I had taken a sedative (duh! I'm not stupid!) but wasn't all hooked up to an IV like last time, my will sitting on the table next to me, waiting for my wobbly, dying signature, just in case. And not once did I gag or shudder, before, during, or after the fact. I even looked at the stitches in the mirror when I got home. You have no idea how not me that is.

You know what I'm going to say, don't you?

Yep.

Magic potion's working, methinks.

Day One on Mother Nature's Prozac

2010-01-27T15:59:00.000-08:00

Well....it's been 24 hours or so since I had my first dose of magic potion. So far, I have had a really good day. I feel good. I don't feel like I'm going to fall asleep in the middle of any given activity. I don't feel like a drastic change has occurred, I'm just in a good mood. John and I talked about the placebo effect last night, wondering if I would start feeling super today just because I had my little blue bottle and $238 less in my bank account. I figure there must be some effect, but I'll know for sure when a crisis moment hits, or even after a few days if this feeling doesn't go away. Because sometimes I have these days all by myself, no medicinal help needed. But they don't last very long.

MC2, my naturopath, (she has the same initials as my life coach; is that a sign?) also taught me an exercise that is supposed to bring the right and left sides of my brain into harmony. Apparently, when an emotionally upsetting moment is occuring, the brain is all kinds of separated and out of sync. So, I'm supposed to do this exercise whenever I'm feeling overwhelmed, or can't make a decision, or am stressing over something. So, last night, before I went to bed, I thought I' do this. I wondered if maybe it would help me sleep better. I crawled into bed and after about 10 minutes, I started to stress out that it might not work. That, if it didn't, I would be stuck, today, having gotten an awful night's sleep. So I got up and took two Tylenol PMs anyway. So much for patience. I think there's some herb in my blue bottle for that, so I'll have to wait for it to kick in.

I'm feeling good about the whole thing, though. I thought it was pretty funny when I was telling John about it at dinner; I could tell he was trying not to laugh when I told him about my arm answering the wall questions. He's an even bigger skeptic than I, but at least he's supportive. He doesn't like living with my craziness any more than I do, I'm sure.

Completely off the subject, I read a great post today. For all my teacher friends and for anyone who has ever sent an utterly insignificant prayer up to the big guy, go read A Teacher's Prayer over at Joanne's blog. It made me laugh; if I were God, I would totally grant this one.

Just Ask My Arm

2010-01-26T15:32:00.000-08:00

Woah. I just got home from my appointment with the Naturopath, and I wasn't terribly far off when I was poking fun at this yesterday. I feel like I just traveled backwards in time to about 1800-something, like I might walk out of the office and find that my Acura had been transformed into a horse and that, instead of stopping by Walmart on the way home for dinner, I would have to hit the back 40 and milk some cows before suppertime.

I know there are many of you who are not new to this way of thinking, so this won't come as a surprise to you. But for those of you die-hard pharmaceutical consumers, get this: I actually came home with a little blue bottle with a dropper in it, just like Laura Ingalls. With a hand-written label. And the word "remedy" on it. I was given this bottle after an hour and a half of answering questions with my arm muscles, as opposed to my vocal chords. And by that, I mean she would ask me questions and then touch my arm; if it moved just a tiny bit, my answer was "no". If it moved noticeably, my answer was "yes". For real.

The walls were lined with little hand-labeled vials and the first thing she told me was that I probably want to stay away from storing food in plastic containers, what with my family history of cancer and all. She was talking to me as if I even remotely understood her, but I set her straight right away. As soon as I asked her what in the world I would store food in, if I threw out my several thousand dollars worth of original Tupperware, I think she could see just how far down the other side of the spectrum I actually am.

But it appeared that I was no real challenge for her, and I started to relax. I thought, I must not be the worst she's seen. I must not be the only person who has come in here, completely oblivious to the fact that there are mercury fillings in my mouth that could, potentially, contribute to my death. And once we got into the muscle-as-voice thing, I was very intrigued. I kept trying to "figure out the trick", as if I were watching a magician. How does she get my arm to move like that? She's asking for information from the bottles on the wall, and my arm is answering her. She asked the wall, "Is there anything here I've missed?" And my arm answered "no." Seriously, I couldn't make this up.

She made a remedy for me that seemed to cover every possible ailment I might suffer now, or have every suffered in the past, from low self-esteem to an overwhelming desire to take a vacation by myself (no joke, there's actually an herb for that). I'm supposed to take it three times a day and within two weeks (probably much sooner, she told me) I am going to feel balanced and grounded and motivated again.

So you probably think I walked out of there hoping she hadn't cast any spells on me, fearing that I would turn into a frog on the way home. But I didn't. I was completely fascinated by the entire thing, and set my little blue bottle carefully on my console as I drove away. In my car.

I'll keep you posted....

Post It Note Tuesday

2010-01-26T09:32:00.001-08:00

Something New

2010-01-25T13:07:00.000-08:00

When I first started writing this blog, it was with the intention of sharing some of the trials and tribulations of raising a teenager on the verge, and the coping strategies I used to do it. I suppose I was mostly looking for an outlet, and a reason to write every day, since I wasn't working on a novel or anything concrete enough to warrant sitting here for hours on end. I guess I was hoping I might get some feedback or some brilliant ideas that would solve all my problems. Most of all, I just wanted the secret code to a peaceful and harmonious family.

I didn't claim to be savvy in parenting, sociology, psychiatry or medicine, I merely had a lot to say about it. I kind of veered from my original forum, though, when Matt left last spring. The worse things got in our house, the harder it was to write about, so I didn't. I tried being on anti-depressants for awhile, but I couldn't see through the emotionally protective fog to get to the rest of my life - the part that wasn't all screwed up. So I got rid of those and figured I should probably just do what my mom told me I should be doing all along. Get off your butt and get on with it! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Why don't you put a smile on your face and you'll feel so much better!

I pulled up my bootstraps. I kicked myself in the ass. I became a little obsessive about getting things done, even if they weren't important things, or priorities. I cleaned and ran errands and showed up to volunteer on all the right days at school. I planned parties and attended functions. I used the anger that had built up over those months as fuel. Turns out, it was pretty high octane for awhile. Then, without warning, the anger started to disappear and I didn't have much to work with. Out of nowhere, one day on the phone to Joanne, I burst into tears and said, "I'm not angry anymore. I just miss him. So much." And so, that afternoon, I reinstated my client status with my therapist, MC, who is a Life Coach.

~~ Let me say, I really love her. Yet, I still struggle with this title: Life Coach. Really? Like she's gonna stand on third base and tell me when I should run home? I make fun of things like this all the time - anything even slightly new age puts me on the defensive. Not the kind of defensive where I doubt it and won't try it, but the defensive where I totally and completely buy into it but I'm pretty sure the rest of the world will think I'm a nutcase, so I need to defend myself.

Intellectually, yes, I know this is stupid. I know that the stigmas attached to the study, practice and care of mental health are dying out and that I'm probably a statistic if I'm not in some kind of therapy. But still. There are the voices of my mother, my father, and anyone else in their generation, yammering away in the back of my head somewhere, making me slap my caveat all over the front page of my life before I tell you that, yes, I see a therapist and I take medication. ~~

When I told MC that I wanted to get my shit together without taking drugs, she decided to send me to a Naturopath. (Great! Now I get to mix up potions and press different points on my wrist when I feel like kicking back a bottle of Stoli.) My first appointment is tomorrow, and I'm actually excited about it. I haven't got anything to lose; I don't do well with the drugs and I certainly can't keep up my home-brewed concoction of Sleep, Insomnia, Food and Cabernet, so I'll try something new. I know it won't be a magic cure-all, but I'm hopeful that it might be a start. I'm convinced that finding some physical/physiological balance is the only way I'm going to get out of this ridiculous circle of dysfunction.

When Matt was little, I couldn't possibly have imagined that, by the time he was 17, I would rarely speak to him, or see him only from a distance. Some days, I drive past his school and wonder what would happen if I just went in there to stand in the same room with him. To smell him, to feel his gangly height and crazy hair against me, in a hug I haven't felt in so long. I want to call him, most every day, but I don't know what to say to him. In fact, he called this morning, just to say hello to Jack. I can't even manage to say anything to him when I have him right there on the phone. I pass it to Jack, and wish I could have thought of the right thing to say. The attempts I've made at writing to him have been ignored, and I wonder if he even gets the mail I send him.

Stigma or no stigma, I guess I do need MC standing there on third base. I have no idea how to run home.

2010-01-23T19:44:00.000-08:00

Wow! Where does the time go? Honestly, I didn't mean to be gone so long. I marvel at some of the bloggers here who have small children (plural) jobs and families, and still manage to write every day.

I currrently feel as though I have multiple small children, although what's really happening is that my near-teenager, my husband, my 25 year old daughter and her boyfriend are playing Cabela's Big Game Hunter on the Wii. This, if you're not familiar with the game, is a sound that's up there in the Ten Most Annoying Noises in the World. It's a repetetive, yet random, series of bangs! coupled with this ticker-clicking noise from the counter that's tracking your points, mixed with a four note electric guitar rift that belongs to no music known to anyone and then an occasional comment from a person off screen, whom I can only assume is supposed to be your hunting partner. If there is such a thing. I know nothing about hunting, so there may be some technical term for that person. The funny thing is, no one playing knows anything about hunting either, so the running commentary among them is pretty entertaining.

This is the second day of our trip to visit Casey here at her home in Oregon. Yesterday, we met her and NB (the New Boyfriend) at a hockey game in Portland. I have never been to a hockey game before, and was really looking forward to going, as was Jack. I had an idea in my head of what it would be like, but it wasn't like that at all. Still, I loved it, and I'm pretty excited to go to another game as soon as I can. I'm mostly just impressed with the skill and agility it must take to even play the game, let alone play it well. I'm sure it's ten times harder than it looks, and it looks impossible. And never mind the game, it would take me a month just to learn how to hop over that wall in all that gear without taking out someone's eye or ending up in a turtle flop on the ice. I loved that part, where they all changed players. It was like a little bit of synchronized ice dancing right in the middle of a manly man's sport.

Oh, and the fighting! I had to ask if it was real, or if there was a touch of WWF in there, because it happens out of nowhere, for no reason that is apparent to a beginner like me. One minute they're all skating, and the next, there are helmets and pads and sticks on the ice and two or more guys are tearing each other up, and the refs are just standing there, doing nothing about it. Turns out it's pretty real. It's better than a goal to get the crowd riled up and then the fighters get huge applause as they glide into their respective penalty boxes. Evidently, they're like Beta fish - they have to have separate boxes or they'll kill each other. Normally, I'm opposed to any kind of fighting as sport - I think things like cage fighting are frightening and insane and sort of sick. But this, this spontaneous pounding mid-skate, was surprisingly fun to watch. Maybe because it only lasts a few seconds, and maybe because I witnessed none of the legendary bloodshed hockey is known for, I don't know. Whatever, it might be my new favorite sport.

Post It Note Tuesday

2010-01-12T22:27:00.001-08:00

In response to J's comment on my last post:

2010-01-12T21:18:00.000-08:00

Styx, Cornerstone Tour
June 20, 1980

Hammersmith Odeon, London

Todd Ogden broke up with Jenny Roundy that night and asked me out right before "Babe."

My first concert. My first boyfriend.

It's still in the pile.

A Clean Sweep

2010-01-11T12:55:00.000-08:00

I think I've mentioned that I'm sort of obsessed with cleaning my house. I mean, not in a can't-do-anything-else way, but probably more than normal people. I just like things in order. Tidy. Jen thinks this is a control thing - since I have little control over my kid, at least I can do this. She's probably right. Wish I could be obsessively controlling about my diet and exercise instead. But I digress.

Being this way doesn't come free. There's a price to neatness, and yesterday, I had to pay the piper. You know all that crap you don't exactly know what to do with, but feel like you can't throw out? Most of us put it in a pile. Maybe it's a neat pile, in a basket, or a drawer. Or maybe it's lots of piles, that multiply, all over the guest bedroom or the formal dining room table. And, eventually, we must attack the pile(s) and make tough decisions, in order to clear up some space. For most people, this might happen once a year, or even more frequently.

Not me, though, because my piles are in my garage. I mean, John's garage. They aren't in my face year round, reminding me, daily, that they need attention. They could sit out there for years and years, and never bother me.

I'm quite certain they bother John, but he's tolerant and nice and hardly ever blows a fit about all that crap I save that takes up "his space". Except for when they really do sit out there for years and years.

Turns out, I haven't dealt with my crap in almost a decade. I'm a closet hoarder. Not the obvious kind, who can't find the bathroom and eventually ends up on a reality show, but the kind who hides all that shit and hopes that no one notices it's still there. I have a really hard time letting go of things.

But yesterday, completely out of the blue, I was overwhelmed with motivation and a desire to expand my clutter-free space. In an impromptu spree, while John was putting away all the Christmas stuff, I tackled it. I didn't question it. I didn't even take a Xanax. I only drank one beer the entire day, and it wasn't because of anxiety, it was because I was on a roll and I was thirsty.

In the end, I managed to eliminate no fewer than four large boxes of crap, not including the two plastic file cabinets that I never actually used and six pairs of shoes that long ago passed the last person in the family on the hand-me-down list. The really sad thing is that the majority of it was paper. Paper. Like old bills and bank statements and kids' school work. (Wait, you say, that's pretty normal. Most people don't throw that stuff out right away.) But it got better: I found files from a job I held 12 years ago. Birthday cards from people I no longer know. Warranties for products that aren't even in production anymore. Receipts for clothes that are currently coming back into style. And my favorite? A grocery list. Did I think I might need ideas for the next time I went shopping?

But I got rid of it all. Ok, most of it. In a flash of downsizing, I made bold, firm decisions about the stuff that had to go and the stuff that got to stay. John helped me neatly put all the newly packed bins back in tidy, smaller places and we admired the floor of our garage. A floor! And we can even open the beer fridge now, without knocking anything over.

I think 90% of it went. Like the matchbook from the restaurant in NYC, circa 1988, where I lit the table next to me on fire by accidentally tipping the end of my menu in the candle while boisterously talking with my hands. (Don't lie. You'd have kept that too.) And I finally let go of all the health benefit brochures from the job I had before Jack was born. I'm pretty sure I can't claim on those anymore.

But I did keep the first nameplate from my first cubicle at my first job. Partly because it's kind of cool, and partly because it's the only nameplate I ever had. And I saved every card my husband has ever written me, because there are hundreds, and every one of them says something worth reading for the rest of my life.

Some things just need to stay in the pile.

2010-01-09T22:07:00.000-08:00

I wish I could sit down tonight and write all about my month-long vacation to a remote Indonesian island that had no modern-day technological connection to the outside world, but sorry to say, I'm just back from my mental hiatus to nowhere in particular. I took a break from writing during the madness of Christmas not because I didn't have anything to say, but because I was afraid to say anything at all. I was afraid that if I started to talk about my first Christmas without Matt, I wouldn't be able to keep my shit together, and I'd never get through the month.

But I did. And now I'm back from wherever that place was. Maybe I went to Denial, where I could sail through the month of December, pretending that everything was ok. Maybe I shopped and wrapped and entertained and drank and ate and drank instead of having a complete nervous breakdown, which is, quite frankly, what I probably would have done instead. I was just really busy trying not to be sad and feel sorry for myself and spend every minute of every day wondering what I could have done differently - and blah, blah, blah.

But I'm back now. I'm back from not only The Verge, but from Denial too. It's time to start writing again, even if I have to dump way TMI on you while I'm here. I've decided that not writing is way worse than writing too much, since getting back in front of this keyboard is about killing me. I have spent the evening getting caught up on everyone's blogs and am a little embarrassed that I didn't bother to wish anyone a Merry Christmas or a Happy New Year. My belated and heartfelt wishes to all of you now - from my new, better place.

More later (as in, tomorrow, not February) when I'm feeling more in the groove. Tonight was just a matter of reconnecting with the blogosphere.

Glad to be here. I missed you guys :)

Things I [Heart] About this Season

2009-12-18T16:38:00.000-08:00

Plus

I was a bit of a Crabster yesterday, so I didn't bother writing. I have no idea what was wrong with me; nothing in particular had happened, it was just one of those days. I want to say that I'm much better today. Doesn't take much, does it?

This time of year, I think we could all blame the occasional, random, bad mood on the complete overload of activity and emotional stress we are hit with, from Halloween until New Years.

No, I'm not acting like this because I'm on my period. Or because your son has 15 missing assignments and what am I supposed to do, ground him for the entire Christmas break? I'm not cranky because we just had to fix the furnace - out of the blue - for $350, or because Glee isn't on TV again until April.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm a little edgy because there are 4 million people on the only road in our town, and all I want to do is go the 1/2 mile distance to the grocery store. Or because, when I get there, the same 4 million people have somehow beat me and have all managed to get in line before me.

Whatever it is, I'm over it. Oh and thank God! because nobody likes a cranky me.

And, since I'm feeling so peppy, I thought I'd share a few of my favorite "This Time of the Year" things with you.

~~My white sweater~~

It's ugly and too big and not flattering in any way at all, but it is sooooooo toasty and cuddly and like wearing a blanket all the time.

~~Eggnog Lattes~~

I'm sure I've already sung their praises. Still. Yum.

~~Taking the long way through the neighborhood at night~~

I live at the end of my street, so I usually turn off the main road at the first turn and miss everything going on beyond me. But these days I take the second turn, and every time I come around the corner, the spectacular display of Christmas lights on every single house, in every single yard, from one end of my street to the other, never ceases to surprise and delight me.

~~Christmas cards with family pictures ~~

I'm a big fan of sending a picture, and I'm all about the unique and funny cards too. My favorite this year comes from new friends. It's a picture of their two teenaged kids, in full camo, kneeling over a massive dead buck. (Which, I am assuming, they killed, since their Dad has a garage full of commercial fridges and freezers for storing that sort of thing.) John's comment: "Nothing says 'Christmas' like two kids standing over a dead reindeer."

Merry Christmas from the Mc Donalds!

Crazy is Relative

Best. Game. Ever.

Getting It

30 Day Photo Challenge - Day Eleven

30 Day Photo Challenge - Day Ten

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Nine

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Eight

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Seven

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Six

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Five

30-Day Photo Challenge - Day Four

30 Day Photo Challenge - Day Three

30-Day Photo Challenge ~ Day Two

30-Day Photo Challenge ~ Day One

Seeking a Cease Fire

I Remember...

Enough

Still Faking It

Icing our Wounds

Fake It Til You Make It

Back in the Day, I Could Handle This

To the New Year

*Sigh*

Crazy Stuff

LOL for the Day

All Good Things Must...Change

A Night to Remember

It's Okay - Tuesday

Working Girl

Crazy Busy, but in a Sort of Good Way

Guru in Training

Series Finale, No Warning

Mom Nap

I'm in Love with the Air

Dream Job

Ten Reasons Why I Love My Wayward Son

On the Fence

Kids These Days

Sure Thing

The Beach House

Less Busy Than Not Very Busy At All

Family Ties...

Faith and a Fork

A Little Sun Does Wonders

Camping....Um, Not So Much

Off to the Wild Yonder...

Post-It Note Tuesday

Letting Go...A Little

How on Earth Did We Survive Before???

New Place in Town

It's Okay - #2

I'm at a Loss for Words...almost!

Why Teenagers Hate Us

Post-It Note Tuesday

Shit. I Knew This Would Happen.

Take a Minute...

I Swear It's True

BOOK REVIEW

Jackyl and Hyde

Keepin' Busy

If Only He Had a Pair of Stolen Nikes....

Joannie Rochette

A Moment of Hope

Post It Note Tuesday

It's Okay. Today.

One More Year of Semi-Sanity

Little Letter Tuesday

To Recomment or Not to Recomment?

My Humble Beginnings

Doctor NOT

Post It Note Tuesday

He Needs Me - Really

Disney's Hot Ticket

Day One on Mother Nature's Prozac

Just Ask My Arm

Post It Note Tuesday

Something New

Post It Note Tuesday

In response to J's comment on my last post:

A Clean Sweep

Sigh