I have a great nemesis. Now perhaps the word 'nemesis' conjures up thoughts of Marvel Comic villains such as Lex Luthor or the Joker. Or maybe it brings to mind that girl back in high school who always seemed to be able to 'one up' you in every possible way. But for me, my great and formidable foe is a heaping basket of unmatched socks.
My nemesis lurks in the laundry room, daring me to take him on. It is not a challenge I take lightly. Many a day I have sought to defeat this mortal enemy only to retreat in utter despair. He seems to laugh at me as he produces one mismatched sock after another, wearing me down with the sheer enormity of his arsenal.
I have tried many a tactic to outwit my worthy rival. I started out trying to buy each boy a very distinctive style of sock...short black socks for this boy, tall white socks for another, and something with a colored heel for the third. That should have made partnering them up quick and easy. But somehow both socks never ended up hitting the laundry at the same time. The random stray would later be found under the couch or tucked inside a shoe. His perfect match would then take up residence in that blasted basket.
For a while, I tried to make sure only mated pairs went into the washer. It was a huge inconvenience, not to mention a big irritation, to sort through dirty socks and hold on to the unmated ones until their counterparts revealed themselves. But even going through such painstaking efforts didn't guarantee getting mated pairs back at the end. I was fairly certain my great adversary and the dryer were in cahoots on that one.
So with four males in the house, all wearing the same size socks, I decided I would just buy them all the same socks so everything would match everything else. It sounded like the perfect plan to me. But somehow, even two white socks fail to mate when one is white as snow and another is dingy brown from going through who knows what.
And then there's the dress socks. One blue. One black. One brown. One with stripes. One argyle. But a common theme among them all...just one of each. All of them coming together in one place...that infernal laundry basket!
Unfortunately, it isn't only unmatched socks piling up against me. That one dreaded laundry basket has become a depository for a plethora of old soccer and football socks. I don't know how many pair of thick, knee high, never-to-be-worn-again athletics socks he has taken possession of, but he does so to my chagrin. It isn't that anything is 'wrong' with these orphaned socks. But one year on the red team and another one on the green team times three boys times multiple sports has produced a lot of socks over the years. Many have made their way to Goodwill but many still have taken up residence with my archenemy.
But last week, with Christmas coming and new socks on the way, I waged an all out war against my great opponent. With reckless abandon, I overturned him, spilling his sizable accumulation of form fitting footwear onto the living room floor. I gave everyone in the house a minute...maybe less...to quickly pluck from the pile anything they deemed worthy of saving. And then, with no regard for whether anything else might be salvageable (which has been my downfall on many a prior occasion), I made one final brutal assault against my longtime opponent. With a sigh of relief and a feeling of victory deep in my belly, I scooped everything up and threw it all away. Having left my former foe completely decimated, I smiled with delight and proclaimed a new day...a new day for laundry at our house.
From now on, every man, woman and child in this house is responsible to wash, dry, fold and put away his or her own socks. We have each been doing our own regular laundry for quite some time so this seems like a very reasonable, even ingenious solution to my sock problem. However, I know from past experience to never underestimate this great nemesis of mine. I will definitely keep my guard up...and my laundry sorted.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future
Merry Christmas!
When I was a little girl, our big family Christmas festivities took place at my Grandma Hudson's house. Even though my siblings, cousins and I were all small at the time, the house was still filled to the rim when we all gathered together. There was music and food, and Grandpa's ribbon candy. The tree was always half swallowed up by the pretty wrapped packages piled all around it. It was loud with the sounds of laughter and warm with the caress of love.
By the time the wrapping paper stopped flying, not an empty spot was left to be found. I honestly cannot remember a single a gift I received in all those years, but I remember the feelings I had. Grandma's house was just the place to be. Christmas or just an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, it didn't matter. When I was Grandma's, everything was okay.
I was probably around 12 or 13 when the Christmas gathering moved to my parents' house. It was really just a matter of necessity. None of us were getting any smaller, and Grandma's house wasn't getting any bigger. At first it was odd to not be at Grandma's house. Even though all the same characters were there, the whole event felt different on a new stage.
Maybe it was just that we weren't going anywhere. We were just staying home and letting everyone come to us. Maybe that took some of the excitement out of the day. Maybe it was just the subtle differences between Mom's entertaining style and Grandma's. Maybe it was just me. I wasn't little anymore. The anticipation of Santa was gone. Not to mention, clothes and cash didn't hold the same thrill as Easy Bake ovens and Barbies.
When we all started marrying and having our own little families, the big family Christmas changed again. It wasn't everyone all in one place anymore. Instead, it was my parents and siblings and our little families having a Christmas gathering completely separate from from the rest of the family. I understand these kinds of changes are a natural part of the growing process, but still, something was lost for certain when the transition from one big family all together became two separate families each doing their own thing.
Now we stand on the cusp of another time of metamorphosis. The days of my siblings and I having little kids is quickly phasing out. My kids and my nieces and nephew aren't, for the most part, exactly little anymore. In fact, two of my children are in their twenties and likely to be marrying and starting their own families in the next few years. And with growth, both in physical size and numbers, the stage has changed once again.
This year, for the first time, my husband and I hosted the big family Christmas get together. It was grand. A fabulous time. My little family of five plus my sons' girlfriends, my parents, two sisters, a brother, two brothers-in-law, a sister-in-law, a nephew and three nieces all came together to celebrate Christmas right here in our home.
It was different than being at Mom and Dad's...fantastic but different. I wonder how it felt to the kids. Did they have those same feelings I did back when we went from Christmas at Grandma's to Christmas elsewhere? I wonder if the change in atmosphere took anything away or if it possibly added anything to the night. Will they remember this Christmas with any special fondness...the first Christmas at Aunt Tam's instead of Nana and Papaw's? And how about my siblings? Was anything lost or gained by the new stage set for them? Or is it possible, that as adults, it's only having the same cast that really matters.
I take a moment to pause at that thought, because the truth is, the cast is ever changing. Before much longer, as the 'kids' all become adults and marry and have children of their own, it's likely there will be more 'little' Christmases than 'big' ones...each little family within the the bigger one opting to have their own celebrations. The more we multiply, the more dividing becomes inevitable.
When the day comes that each of my siblings elect to have their own Christmas celebrations with their own kids and their own grandkids, it will be among the most bittersweet days of my life. How deeply I will miss the moments of utter joy that can be found across a table of tasty treats and candid conversation...the laughter that fills a room when a mediocre joke is delivered beautifully by a thirteen year old niece...the contentment of knowing that no matter how much or little we have to exchange, we are incredibly rich in all the ways that matter....the sheer delight of seeing the people I love the most love each other. Oh how precious these days are. How I savor them, knowing that as quickly as the days come, they are over. And while I know that what lies ahead for each of us is sure to be as wonderful as what lies behind, still I will miss it when it's gone.
To my family...each of you individually and all of you collectively...thanks for the memories. May we make many more together and be genuinely happy for each other as we make our own memories apart from one another. Merry Christmas!
When I was a little girl, our big family Christmas festivities took place at my Grandma Hudson's house. Even though my siblings, cousins and I were all small at the time, the house was still filled to the rim when we all gathered together. There was music and food, and Grandpa's ribbon candy. The tree was always half swallowed up by the pretty wrapped packages piled all around it. It was loud with the sounds of laughter and warm with the caress of love.
By the time the wrapping paper stopped flying, not an empty spot was left to be found. I honestly cannot remember a single a gift I received in all those years, but I remember the feelings I had. Grandma's house was just the place to be. Christmas or just an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, it didn't matter. When I was Grandma's, everything was okay.
I was probably around 12 or 13 when the Christmas gathering moved to my parents' house. It was really just a matter of necessity. None of us were getting any smaller, and Grandma's house wasn't getting any bigger. At first it was odd to not be at Grandma's house. Even though all the same characters were there, the whole event felt different on a new stage.
Maybe it was just that we weren't going anywhere. We were just staying home and letting everyone come to us. Maybe that took some of the excitement out of the day. Maybe it was just the subtle differences between Mom's entertaining style and Grandma's. Maybe it was just me. I wasn't little anymore. The anticipation of Santa was gone. Not to mention, clothes and cash didn't hold the same thrill as Easy Bake ovens and Barbies.
When we all started marrying and having our own little families, the big family Christmas changed again. It wasn't everyone all in one place anymore. Instead, it was my parents and siblings and our little families having a Christmas gathering completely separate from from the rest of the family. I understand these kinds of changes are a natural part of the growing process, but still, something was lost for certain when the transition from one big family all together became two separate families each doing their own thing.
Now we stand on the cusp of another time of metamorphosis. The days of my siblings and I having little kids is quickly phasing out. My kids and my nieces and nephew aren't, for the most part, exactly little anymore. In fact, two of my children are in their twenties and likely to be marrying and starting their own families in the next few years. And with growth, both in physical size and numbers, the stage has changed once again.
This year, for the first time, my husband and I hosted the big family Christmas get together. It was grand. A fabulous time. My little family of five plus my sons' girlfriends, my parents, two sisters, a brother, two brothers-in-law, a sister-in-law, a nephew and three nieces all came together to celebrate Christmas right here in our home.
It was different than being at Mom and Dad's...fantastic but different. I wonder how it felt to the kids. Did they have those same feelings I did back when we went from Christmas at Grandma's to Christmas elsewhere? I wonder if the change in atmosphere took anything away or if it possibly added anything to the night. Will they remember this Christmas with any special fondness...the first Christmas at Aunt Tam's instead of Nana and Papaw's? And how about my siblings? Was anything lost or gained by the new stage set for them? Or is it possible, that as adults, it's only having the same cast that really matters.
I take a moment to pause at that thought, because the truth is, the cast is ever changing. Before much longer, as the 'kids' all become adults and marry and have children of their own, it's likely there will be more 'little' Christmases than 'big' ones...each little family within the the bigger one opting to have their own celebrations. The more we multiply, the more dividing becomes inevitable.
When the day comes that each of my siblings elect to have their own Christmas celebrations with their own kids and their own grandkids, it will be among the most bittersweet days of my life. How deeply I will miss the moments of utter joy that can be found across a table of tasty treats and candid conversation...the laughter that fills a room when a mediocre joke is delivered beautifully by a thirteen year old niece...the contentment of knowing that no matter how much or little we have to exchange, we are incredibly rich in all the ways that matter....the sheer delight of seeing the people I love the most love each other. Oh how precious these days are. How I savor them, knowing that as quickly as the days come, they are over. And while I know that what lies ahead for each of us is sure to be as wonderful as what lies behind, still I will miss it when it's gone.
To my family...each of you individually and all of you collectively...thanks for the memories. May we make many more together and be genuinely happy for each other as we make our own memories apart from one another. Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Raging bull
I can be a bit of a raging lunatic sometimes. Occasionally, I feel the overwhelming need to just let it all go. Spout...rant...rave...just completely blow my top and let all the steam come out. When one of my many hot buttons gets pushed, I quickly and freely let my thoughts, feelings and frustrations fly. My husband thinks I am too quick and free with my fury fanned words and aggravation fueled behavior. I often think he is too slow to respond or react. I suppose we balance each other out enough to keep our kids from being manic messes themselves.
It isn't like I go off for no reason at all. Typically, my irritation driven tirades come after repeated discussions or instructions have been given on a particular subject. For instance, if someone needs to use the washer and/or dryer but find they are not empty, do not throw those items into a laundry basket for someone else to worry about at some later time. I say, just go ahead and fold the clothes no matter who they belong to or move that wet laundry over to the dryer. Many a time, I have been so generous as to wash, dry and fold clothes that do not belong to me. It really isn't that hard and it honestly doesn't hurt to just take a minute or two and do it the right way. Few things irritate me more than finding a heaping basket full of towels that need folding or socks that need mating because whoever needed the dryer last couldn't be bothered and just piled them up for someone else, who almost always ends up being me, to do.
Turning off lights is another hot button for me. We live in house that literally sucks up money. It's an old house with a lot of room for improvement. There is always something that needs fixed or updated. And all of our do-it-yourself projects end up costing more than we expect. While little things may not make a big difference, I'm fairly convinced they make some difference. To waste electricity just because we can does not sit well with me. I do not know how many times I have said..."The switch works just as well in reverse"...when one of the boys have left the lights on in a room. It isn't just lights either. It's television sets, space heaters, video games. I'm constantly getting on someone about turning something off. I guess what bugs me most about this is how practically effortless it is, and how even after being nagged mercilessly their whole lives about it, it's still an issue.
"I'm not your maid" has been the opening line to many a hysterical diatribe unleashed on the people I live with. So has, "Am I the only one who knows how to ______", fill in the blank...do a dish, run a sweeper, let out the dog, make an appointment, answer the phone. The list is virtually limitless. Unfortunately, sometimes that feeling of it never getting better or people never learning or wondering if I'm just beating a dead horse or worse, banging my head against the wall gets to be too much. That's when it happens...the gasket blows...I take leave of my sanity and the verbal spewing begins.
I say all this to tell another story. The other day I came in like I do most every day after my paycheck producing job to begin my second job as wife and mother. We have a different routine here than most families in that my husband works second shift. So as I'm ending my work day, he's preparing to begin his. For me, that means I immediately start making his afternoon meal and packing his lunchbox for the evening. It's something I honestly don't mind doing. My husband works hard and does so much for our family. To cook for him actually gives me great pleasure. But some days, I'm just tired myself, and this continuum of work work to home work gets both exhausting and exasperating. In those moments, little things have a way of setting me off. So when I saw that someone had done the forbidden by microwaving canned pasta in a good plastic bowl, well, that lit my fuse. I launched into an adult-sized temper tantrum, vilifying the culprit as though he had committed a criminal offense. How dare someone do this dastardly thing, ruining a perfectly good piece of $2 plastic ware like that!
My husband went about his business as he usually does when I'm having one of these insanely exaggerated, over-the-top outbursts. But little did he know he was about to get a double dose of my outrageous ranting. As I opened the microwave, I discovered the wild red splattering of what appeared to be pasta sauce. Oh, no, it couldn't be! They wouldn't dare! Everyone in this household knows nothing is to be nuked without being properly covered to prevent such senseless messes in my...I mean our...microwave. Without missing a beat, I leapt from the stained bowl to the filthy microwave oven. "I am not cleaning this. Whoever did this is going to clean it up!" Since none of the logical three choices for who that might be were home at the time, I went about the task of cooking my husband's lunch, still moaning and complaining under my breath as I did.
So imagine my shock when just moments later my husband took it upon himself to begin cleaning out that spaghetti sauce splattered microwave oven. I was right down indignant. How would the boys ever learn if he did everything for them? Why would he spare them from having to clean up a mess they created? Did he think me too harsh in my determination to have the guilty party pay for their misdeed with a little lecturing followed by a few minutes of scouring out the microwave?
"What are you doing?" I asked, my annoyance more than obvious. "Whoever made that mess should clean it up."
To my great surprise, he replied, "Whoever made this mess is cleaning it up." Quite dumbfounded, I just looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Funny how with just a grin, none of it mattered. I guess it never really did anyway.
"I suppose you are the one who didn't fold the towels either."
"Could be." We both laughed, that laugh that comes from knowing we both had been in the wrong but all was right again.
I'm just thankful my husband understands that anything under pressure needs a release valve or it will explode. He doesn't mind me letting off a little steam from time to time. And truth be told, I don't really mind folding towels or wiping up messes in the microwave....much. <g>
It isn't like I go off for no reason at all. Typically, my irritation driven tirades come after repeated discussions or instructions have been given on a particular subject. For instance, if someone needs to use the washer and/or dryer but find they are not empty, do not throw those items into a laundry basket for someone else to worry about at some later time. I say, just go ahead and fold the clothes no matter who they belong to or move that wet laundry over to the dryer. Many a time, I have been so generous as to wash, dry and fold clothes that do not belong to me. It really isn't that hard and it honestly doesn't hurt to just take a minute or two and do it the right way. Few things irritate me more than finding a heaping basket full of towels that need folding or socks that need mating because whoever needed the dryer last couldn't be bothered and just piled them up for someone else, who almost always ends up being me, to do.
Turning off lights is another hot button for me. We live in house that literally sucks up money. It's an old house with a lot of room for improvement. There is always something that needs fixed or updated. And all of our do-it-yourself projects end up costing more than we expect. While little things may not make a big difference, I'm fairly convinced they make some difference. To waste electricity just because we can does not sit well with me. I do not know how many times I have said..."The switch works just as well in reverse"...when one of the boys have left the lights on in a room. It isn't just lights either. It's television sets, space heaters, video games. I'm constantly getting on someone about turning something off. I guess what bugs me most about this is how practically effortless it is, and how even after being nagged mercilessly their whole lives about it, it's still an issue.
"I'm not your maid" has been the opening line to many a hysterical diatribe unleashed on the people I live with. So has, "Am I the only one who knows how to ______", fill in the blank...do a dish, run a sweeper, let out the dog, make an appointment, answer the phone. The list is virtually limitless. Unfortunately, sometimes that feeling of it never getting better or people never learning or wondering if I'm just beating a dead horse or worse, banging my head against the wall gets to be too much. That's when it happens...the gasket blows...I take leave of my sanity and the verbal spewing begins.
I say all this to tell another story. The other day I came in like I do most every day after my paycheck producing job to begin my second job as wife and mother. We have a different routine here than most families in that my husband works second shift. So as I'm ending my work day, he's preparing to begin his. For me, that means I immediately start making his afternoon meal and packing his lunchbox for the evening. It's something I honestly don't mind doing. My husband works hard and does so much for our family. To cook for him actually gives me great pleasure. But some days, I'm just tired myself, and this continuum of work work to home work gets both exhausting and exasperating. In those moments, little things have a way of setting me off. So when I saw that someone had done the forbidden by microwaving canned pasta in a good plastic bowl, well, that lit my fuse. I launched into an adult-sized temper tantrum, vilifying the culprit as though he had committed a criminal offense. How dare someone do this dastardly thing, ruining a perfectly good piece of $2 plastic ware like that!
My husband went about his business as he usually does when I'm having one of these insanely exaggerated, over-the-top outbursts. But little did he know he was about to get a double dose of my outrageous ranting. As I opened the microwave, I discovered the wild red splattering of what appeared to be pasta sauce. Oh, no, it couldn't be! They wouldn't dare! Everyone in this household knows nothing is to be nuked without being properly covered to prevent such senseless messes in my...I mean our...microwave. Without missing a beat, I leapt from the stained bowl to the filthy microwave oven. "I am not cleaning this. Whoever did this is going to clean it up!" Since none of the logical three choices for who that might be were home at the time, I went about the task of cooking my husband's lunch, still moaning and complaining under my breath as I did.
So imagine my shock when just moments later my husband took it upon himself to begin cleaning out that spaghetti sauce splattered microwave oven. I was right down indignant. How would the boys ever learn if he did everything for them? Why would he spare them from having to clean up a mess they created? Did he think me too harsh in my determination to have the guilty party pay for their misdeed with a little lecturing followed by a few minutes of scouring out the microwave?
"What are you doing?" I asked, my annoyance more than obvious. "Whoever made that mess should clean it up."
To my great surprise, he replied, "Whoever made this mess is cleaning it up." Quite dumbfounded, I just looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Funny how with just a grin, none of it mattered. I guess it never really did anyway.
"I suppose you are the one who didn't fold the towels either."
"Could be." We both laughed, that laugh that comes from knowing we both had been in the wrong but all was right again.
I'm just thankful my husband understands that anything under pressure needs a release valve or it will explode. He doesn't mind me letting off a little steam from time to time. And truth be told, I don't really mind folding towels or wiping up messes in the microwave....much. <g>
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Meet my middle aged husband
I have what I consider the greatest husband in the world. We have literally grown up together, having first met in Mrs. Tupper's kindergarten class at Elwood Haynes Elementary school. Of my 40 years on this earth, I have been either dating or married to Dan for twenty seven of them. That is a long time!
Over the course of this lifetime together, he and I have changed in practically every way possible. We went from being boy and girl to man and woman. From young and free to married with children. From living for the moment to making a whole life together. The transitions have not always been easy. Growing pains are an inevitable part of any maturing process. But as we find ourselves firmly entrenched in our middle ages, I see my husband fighting it much harder than I.
With all his might, Dan is battling to stave off getting older. However, no matter how he tries, the war is getting harder and harder to win. Used to be, he could play basketball for hours on end and give just about anyone a run for their money on the court. He claims he still can hang with the big boys. The only difference is the big boys can still walk upright the next morning. He loves to point out the gray hairs I have, insisting he has none of his own. But his gray hairs are just choosing to sprout out his ears and nose instead of his head. At least I can color mine!
For this man who has been living in sheer and utter denial, this week was a tough one. Something happened that made my husband come smack dab face to face with just how middle aged he really is. While getting his routine annual eye exam, the doctor gave him two pieces of not so pleasant news. First off, he needs progressive lenses. Back in the day, those were known as bifocals. And while the technology has come a long way, the reason for needing it hasn't. Old eyes. Now Dan tried to deny that, but let's face it, there aren't too many twenty years olds who need progressive lenses.
And that wasn't the worst of it. The doctor also told my husband his high blood pressure was going to have to be addressed. Dan generally avoids our family doctor at all costs. It isn't that he doesn't like her. He does. The problem is that every time he goes in, she finds something wrong with him. And this time, he already knew what that something was going to be. Nonetheless, he had no choice so it was off to the doctor he went. And he was none too happy to come back home with a daily medication to take. He said, for the first time ever, "I am getting old."
Somehow this little pink pill was able to do what nothing else had to this point...push Dan over the hill. He is becoming painfully aware that no matter what he does, the middle ages will have their way. It doesn't mean that he's giving up the fight. Knowing him, he'll deny he's old even when his teeth are in a cup and our grandkids are in college. But rest assured, I'll always be here to gently remind him that he isn't getting any younger either.
Over the course of this lifetime together, he and I have changed in practically every way possible. We went from being boy and girl to man and woman. From young and free to married with children. From living for the moment to making a whole life together. The transitions have not always been easy. Growing pains are an inevitable part of any maturing process. But as we find ourselves firmly entrenched in our middle ages, I see my husband fighting it much harder than I.
With all his might, Dan is battling to stave off getting older. However, no matter how he tries, the war is getting harder and harder to win. Used to be, he could play basketball for hours on end and give just about anyone a run for their money on the court. He claims he still can hang with the big boys. The only difference is the big boys can still walk upright the next morning. He loves to point out the gray hairs I have, insisting he has none of his own. But his gray hairs are just choosing to sprout out his ears and nose instead of his head. At least I can color mine!
For this man who has been living in sheer and utter denial, this week was a tough one. Something happened that made my husband come smack dab face to face with just how middle aged he really is. While getting his routine annual eye exam, the doctor gave him two pieces of not so pleasant news. First off, he needs progressive lenses. Back in the day, those were known as bifocals. And while the technology has come a long way, the reason for needing it hasn't. Old eyes. Now Dan tried to deny that, but let's face it, there aren't too many twenty years olds who need progressive lenses.
And that wasn't the worst of it. The doctor also told my husband his high blood pressure was going to have to be addressed. Dan generally avoids our family doctor at all costs. It isn't that he doesn't like her. He does. The problem is that every time he goes in, she finds something wrong with him. And this time, he already knew what that something was going to be. Nonetheless, he had no choice so it was off to the doctor he went. And he was none too happy to come back home with a daily medication to take. He said, for the first time ever, "I am getting old."
Somehow this little pink pill was able to do what nothing else had to this point...push Dan over the hill. He is becoming painfully aware that no matter what he does, the middle ages will have their way. It doesn't mean that he's giving up the fight. Knowing him, he'll deny he's old even when his teeth are in a cup and our grandkids are in college. But rest assured, I'll always be here to gently remind him that he isn't getting any younger either.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Black Friday Shopping
It has become a Thanksgiving tradition at my house that, following dinner, all the womenfolk pour over the black Friday ads from the newspaper and plot our plan of attack. We have been doing this for years. Used to be, we could all go home, get some sleep and regroup at 2 or 3 Friday morning to begin our assault on both the stores and our checking accounts. But now, if we have any hope of getting those super duper dirt cheap items, we would have to forgo sleep altogether and hit the shopping trail Thanksgiving day itself or at least get on the road late that night.
I'm just not sure I'm feeling this level of commitment. Sure I like to save. Give me a coupon, I'll clip it. Show me a loss leader, I'll buy it. But to spend my Thanksgiving day primarily preparing for my Christmas...not sure I'm on board with that.
I enjoy my Thanksgiving. Sharing a great meal with the people I love the most in this world. Closing the gaps time and distance put on our relationships. Laughing over the memories of yesterday all while creating the memories of tomorrow. This isn't always going to be the way it is. The kids will soon be grown and possibly off to other places for the holidays. Our parents won't be with us forever either. To give up such precious little time we all have together to save 50% on some electronic device, well, it just doesn't seem prudent to me.
This year, I was most thankful for the time with my family. Time is the one commodity I can't buy more of or substitute something else in it's place. I can't get it back once it's gone, and I find the older I get, the quicker it's getting away from me. I know the times are changing, and who knows, maybe next year you'll find me out loading up my shopping cart on Thanksgiving day too, but this year, I am glad I chose not to.
My mom, sister-in law, son's girlfriend and her sister and I did go shopping on Friday. We didn't even bother going that early, leaving around 8 a.m. We figured all the really great deals would be long gone. But we had a good time. We did get some serious shopping done and even managed to save some money. And shockingly, we didn't even miss the craziness of most past black Friday adventures. :-)
I'm just not sure I'm feeling this level of commitment. Sure I like to save. Give me a coupon, I'll clip it. Show me a loss leader, I'll buy it. But to spend my Thanksgiving day primarily preparing for my Christmas...not sure I'm on board with that.
I enjoy my Thanksgiving. Sharing a great meal with the people I love the most in this world. Closing the gaps time and distance put on our relationships. Laughing over the memories of yesterday all while creating the memories of tomorrow. This isn't always going to be the way it is. The kids will soon be grown and possibly off to other places for the holidays. Our parents won't be with us forever either. To give up such precious little time we all have together to save 50% on some electronic device, well, it just doesn't seem prudent to me.
This year, I was most thankful for the time with my family. Time is the one commodity I can't buy more of or substitute something else in it's place. I can't get it back once it's gone, and I find the older I get, the quicker it's getting away from me. I know the times are changing, and who knows, maybe next year you'll find me out loading up my shopping cart on Thanksgiving day too, but this year, I am glad I chose not to.
My mom, sister-in law, son's girlfriend and her sister and I did go shopping on Friday. We didn't even bother going that early, leaving around 8 a.m. We figured all the really great deals would be long gone. But we had a good time. We did get some serious shopping done and even managed to save some money. And shockingly, we didn't even miss the craziness of most past black Friday adventures. :-)
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Girlfriends
I love my husband with all my heart. I wouldn't trade him for anything. I enjoy our time together immensely. He is, in fact, my best friend. But I'll tell ya what, there's nothing like spending some quality time with my girlfriends.
It sounds almost silly to call them 'girl' friends when, truth be told, they are some of the most mature, insightful, interesting and entertaining women I know. With them, there is no need to put on airs or puff up reality. They know from experience that it's possible, even probable, to love a man with all one's heart and still be routinely frustrated by him. They know that, no matter what I say, I do not really want to strangle, throttle or beat senseless any of my children. They know that a clean house is both subjective and often overrated. They know all this because, while our lives are all so very different, they are somehow still all so very much alike.
Married or single, little kids, big kids or no kids at all, working both inside and outside the home, thin, fat, tall, short, mild-mannered or boisterous...none of that matters. When we get together, somehow what makes us different is less important than what makes us alike.
We understand that life is precious. Accidents happen. Miracles do too. We know that when little dreams come true, big ones seem possible. We know there's strength in numbers. We know that the same person who will laugh with you over the most mundane things will also cry with you when your world falls apart.
With great friends, you can pick up right where you left off whether it's been an hour or a month since the last time you spoke. There's no scorecard or seating chart or pecking order to worry about. It's just easy, natural. Come-as-you-are, be-who-you-are. Sit and stay a spell. You know what I mean?
It's about venting over the struggles and stresses of life and knowing they get that you're just letting off steam. It's speaking your mind and not being offended when they speak theirs. It's about agreeing to disagree sometimes. It's about being genuinely happy for their successes and just as genuinely hurt when they hurt, sharing the good times and the bad.
These relationship are developed through long phones calls, during shopping trips and over good meals. They are tested by time and each participants ability to judge softly and support firmly. They are rare and special treasures, not to be taken for granted. So to the women I call 'friends', thank you for making life a little sweeter and the load a little lighter. You bring so much richness to my life.
It sounds almost silly to call them 'girl' friends when, truth be told, they are some of the most mature, insightful, interesting and entertaining women I know. With them, there is no need to put on airs or puff up reality. They know from experience that it's possible, even probable, to love a man with all one's heart and still be routinely frustrated by him. They know that, no matter what I say, I do not really want to strangle, throttle or beat senseless any of my children. They know that a clean house is both subjective and often overrated. They know all this because, while our lives are all so very different, they are somehow still all so very much alike.
Married or single, little kids, big kids or no kids at all, working both inside and outside the home, thin, fat, tall, short, mild-mannered or boisterous...none of that matters. When we get together, somehow what makes us different is less important than what makes us alike.
We understand that life is precious. Accidents happen. Miracles do too. We know that when little dreams come true, big ones seem possible. We know there's strength in numbers. We know that the same person who will laugh with you over the most mundane things will also cry with you when your world falls apart.
With great friends, you can pick up right where you left off whether it's been an hour or a month since the last time you spoke. There's no scorecard or seating chart or pecking order to worry about. It's just easy, natural. Come-as-you-are, be-who-you-are. Sit and stay a spell. You know what I mean?
It's about venting over the struggles and stresses of life and knowing they get that you're just letting off steam. It's speaking your mind and not being offended when they speak theirs. It's about agreeing to disagree sometimes. It's about being genuinely happy for their successes and just as genuinely hurt when they hurt, sharing the good times and the bad.
These relationship are developed through long phones calls, during shopping trips and over good meals. They are tested by time and each participants ability to judge softly and support firmly. They are rare and special treasures, not to be taken for granted. So to the women I call 'friends', thank you for making life a little sweeter and the load a little lighter. You bring so much richness to my life.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The little things
When I was newly married, my husband and I barely had two nickels to rub together. We lived in this old house that had been converted into apartments. It was dark and dank, the musty smell only occasionally masked by the pungent aroma of Indian food escaping from under our neighbor's door. There was a huge purple paint stain in the middle of the bedroom floor that was only semi-covered by our bed. A paper grocery sack served as the door to our apartment size freezer. The bathroom was so small, my husband had to do his business sitting sideways with his legs in the kitchen. It was quite a lovely place.
Back then, we couldn't afford cable or even a house phone. We had to walk two blocks to use a pay phone. (Do pay phones even exist anymore?) It was no fun calling collect from a pay phone to talk to our parents for three minutes. I think prisoners even have better phone privileges than that.
All our furniture was hand-me-down or bought used. We were fortunate enough to have gotten a couch, love seat, two end tables, and a small kitchen table with four chairs from another set of newlyweds. It was the second time around for them so they had double of everything and were willing to part with half of it for a little bit of nothing.
We drove the 1976 Ford Maverick, three speed on the column, that had been mine since I was sixteen. It was poop brown with poop brown interior. We did soon afterward upgrade to a Chevy Chevette with a $78 a month payment. Oh, those were the days!
Our first Christmas, we had an ugly white artificial tree we picked up at Big Lots for ten bucks. It was all of three foot tall and pathetically bare. There wasn't much under it either. But that didn't matter to us. It was ours, and we liked it.
It was a more modest way of life back then. Simpler. In a lot of ways, sweeter.
We couldn't afford to go out much or have many nice things. Luxuries were out of our reach. Back then, I was doing all my writing the old fashioned way, pen to paper. Not that I minded too terribly much, but I certainly can type a lot faster than I can write.
When I got married, I had to leave behind the electric typewriter that I used all through high school. My three younger siblings still needed it. But I doubt they had the same connection to it. Sitting at that machine, correction strips nearby, I pounded out not only many a Croxford paper (those from my high school alma mater will understand the reference), but I also spent hours spilling my thoughts and ideas all over plain white sheets of paper. With the click, click, click of the typewriter keys, I moved stories from my mind to the printed word. To me, that was like breathing life into something that hadn't existed until then. With words, I could create whole worlds, tailored to suit me. I could give birth to people, making them in whatever image I wished. Whatever I could imagine, I could bring to life. Writing was not only a means of escape but a means of great personal discovery.
My young husband, (we were eighteen at the time) did not seem to fully understand my need to spend large blocks of time filling spiral bound notebooks with stories and random thoughts and little notes with seemingly no real value to them. He didn't mind that I did it. He just didn't get why I did it. How did I find pleasure in pouring over pages and pages of written words, first writing, then reading aloud, then writing again? He just didn't seem to see the point.
So the afternoon he came home from his job at a small factory and announced proudly that he had something for me, I had no idea what to expect. He was holding a large box, trying to balance it's weight as he stepped down into our meager little living room. It could have been anything. We needed so much. He said the people at work were just going to throw it out. He hoped I could use it. He hoped I like it. With curiosity piqued, I watched as he lifted this monstrous contraption from the box. I didn't know for sure what it was at first sight, but I knew it had an electrical cord, and I knew it had lettered keys. He quickly informed me it was a word processor, not a typewriter exactly, but close. I remember clapping my hands and laughing aloud, tickled pink with my 'new' writing machine.
Today I write with ease at a computer, watching each word fall into place on a big monitor as I go, spell check following along. But as it turns out, the littlest things in life sometimes leave the greatest impressions on it. Maybe that's because the little things rarely are.
Even now, I look back on that moment some twenty two plus years ago with special fondness, not because the machine was so precious to me or because it forever changed my life in any way, but because at that moment, I knew my husband got me. He understood that at least part of who I am is a writer. He, whether instinctively or through insight, knew that nurturing me in one area would open me up to nurture him in others. He showed me love in a brand new way that day, by giving worth to something simply because I did.
Back then, we couldn't afford cable or even a house phone. We had to walk two blocks to use a pay phone. (Do pay phones even exist anymore?) It was no fun calling collect from a pay phone to talk to our parents for three minutes. I think prisoners even have better phone privileges than that.
All our furniture was hand-me-down or bought used. We were fortunate enough to have gotten a couch, love seat, two end tables, and a small kitchen table with four chairs from another set of newlyweds. It was the second time around for them so they had double of everything and were willing to part with half of it for a little bit of nothing.
We drove the 1976 Ford Maverick, three speed on the column, that had been mine since I was sixteen. It was poop brown with poop brown interior. We did soon afterward upgrade to a Chevy Chevette with a $78 a month payment. Oh, those were the days!
Our first Christmas, we had an ugly white artificial tree we picked up at Big Lots for ten bucks. It was all of three foot tall and pathetically bare. There wasn't much under it either. But that didn't matter to us. It was ours, and we liked it.
It was a more modest way of life back then. Simpler. In a lot of ways, sweeter.
We couldn't afford to go out much or have many nice things. Luxuries were out of our reach. Back then, I was doing all my writing the old fashioned way, pen to paper. Not that I minded too terribly much, but I certainly can type a lot faster than I can write.
When I got married, I had to leave behind the electric typewriter that I used all through high school. My three younger siblings still needed it. But I doubt they had the same connection to it. Sitting at that machine, correction strips nearby, I pounded out not only many a Croxford paper (those from my high school alma mater will understand the reference), but I also spent hours spilling my thoughts and ideas all over plain white sheets of paper. With the click, click, click of the typewriter keys, I moved stories from my mind to the printed word. To me, that was like breathing life into something that hadn't existed until then. With words, I could create whole worlds, tailored to suit me. I could give birth to people, making them in whatever image I wished. Whatever I could imagine, I could bring to life. Writing was not only a means of escape but a means of great personal discovery.
My young husband, (we were eighteen at the time) did not seem to fully understand my need to spend large blocks of time filling spiral bound notebooks with stories and random thoughts and little notes with seemingly no real value to them. He didn't mind that I did it. He just didn't get why I did it. How did I find pleasure in pouring over pages and pages of written words, first writing, then reading aloud, then writing again? He just didn't seem to see the point.
So the afternoon he came home from his job at a small factory and announced proudly that he had something for me, I had no idea what to expect. He was holding a large box, trying to balance it's weight as he stepped down into our meager little living room. It could have been anything. We needed so much. He said the people at work were just going to throw it out. He hoped I could use it. He hoped I like it. With curiosity piqued, I watched as he lifted this monstrous contraption from the box. I didn't know for sure what it was at first sight, but I knew it had an electrical cord, and I knew it had lettered keys. He quickly informed me it was a word processor, not a typewriter exactly, but close. I remember clapping my hands and laughing aloud, tickled pink with my 'new' writing machine.
Today I write with ease at a computer, watching each word fall into place on a big monitor as I go, spell check following along. But as it turns out, the littlest things in life sometimes leave the greatest impressions on it. Maybe that's because the little things rarely are.
Even now, I look back on that moment some twenty two plus years ago with special fondness, not because the machine was so precious to me or because it forever changed my life in any way, but because at that moment, I knew my husband got me. He understood that at least part of who I am is a writer. He, whether instinctively or through insight, knew that nurturing me in one area would open me up to nurture him in others. He showed me love in a brand new way that day, by giving worth to something simply because I did.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Pet Peeves
Am I seriously the only person in this house who knows how to replace an empty toilet paper roll?
How about fill an ice cube tray?
Or put my shoes in the cute little caddies I bought solely for that purpose?
I am not an easy woman to please, I understand that, but why do these people I live with not even try?!? They claim to hate my nagging yet they provide me with an endless list of irritations and annoyances to harp on.
For instance, what is the deal with refusing to finish off the last of something? I mean, why leave half a swallow of milk in the jug, a smattering of ketchup in the bottom of the bottle or a single Oreo in the package? What good is one Oreo?? And why leave a bread bag with just the heels in it laying on the counter? Just throw it away!
Oh, and speaking of bread bags, am I the only one who knows how to use the twisty tie on the bread? Or a chip clip? Or reseal a zipper baggie? Seriously, folding the bag over does not in any way, shape or form constitute an air tight seal.
And more bag related vexations...Why is it that no one else in this house can figure out that when the trash bag is full, an actual human being must remove said bag and replace it with a new one? And why, oh why, do the people I live with think that an acceptable solution to a full garbage pail is to sit excess refuse on the kitchen counter?!? I don't know which is more irritating, the trash on the counter or that darn single Oreo in the package.
Also, I'd like to know what's so hard about scraping one's plate? We have a garbage disposal, for Pete's sake, so even if that trash can is full, there's no excuse for not scraping.
And why when I tell someone to pick up something or clean up a mess do they feel it necessary to inform me that it isn't theirs? Did I ask if it was theirs? Do I care? NO! Just do it. I pick up stuff and clean up junk that isn't mine all day long. It doesn't kill me, and it won't kill them.
Honestly, if they'd just put things back where they belong, they wouldn't have to all that picking up and cleaning up to begin with. Plus, if they'd put things back when they're finished with them, I wouldn't always have to go hunting for scissors, tape and my good ink pens.
I could go on and on and on, but by now, you're probably feeling like my family does...wishing I would just quit complaining already. So...I will. :-)
How about fill an ice cube tray?
Or put my shoes in the cute little caddies I bought solely for that purpose?
I am not an easy woman to please, I understand that, but why do these people I live with not even try?!? They claim to hate my nagging yet they provide me with an endless list of irritations and annoyances to harp on.
For instance, what is the deal with refusing to finish off the last of something? I mean, why leave half a swallow of milk in the jug, a smattering of ketchup in the bottom of the bottle or a single Oreo in the package? What good is one Oreo?? And why leave a bread bag with just the heels in it laying on the counter? Just throw it away!
Oh, and speaking of bread bags, am I the only one who knows how to use the twisty tie on the bread? Or a chip clip? Or reseal a zipper baggie? Seriously, folding the bag over does not in any way, shape or form constitute an air tight seal.
And more bag related vexations...Why is it that no one else in this house can figure out that when the trash bag is full, an actual human being must remove said bag and replace it with a new one? And why, oh why, do the people I live with think that an acceptable solution to a full garbage pail is to sit excess refuse on the kitchen counter?!? I don't know which is more irritating, the trash on the counter or that darn single Oreo in the package.
Also, I'd like to know what's so hard about scraping one's plate? We have a garbage disposal, for Pete's sake, so even if that trash can is full, there's no excuse for not scraping.
And why when I tell someone to pick up something or clean up a mess do they feel it necessary to inform me that it isn't theirs? Did I ask if it was theirs? Do I care? NO! Just do it. I pick up stuff and clean up junk that isn't mine all day long. It doesn't kill me, and it won't kill them.
Honestly, if they'd just put things back where they belong, they wouldn't have to all that picking up and cleaning up to begin with. Plus, if they'd put things back when they're finished with them, I wouldn't always have to go hunting for scissors, tape and my good ink pens.
I could go on and on and on, but by now, you're probably feeling like my family does...wishing I would just quit complaining already. So...I will. :-)
Monday, November 1, 2010
When the memories hurt
Isn't it interesting how some things fade quickly into the sea of lost memories while other moments forever etch themselves on our hearts and in our minds. I wonder why learning to tie with a gigantic ribbon on an ordinary wooden chair in Mrs. Tupper's kindergarten class sticks with me while almost nothing else from five to seven remains. I wonder why I remember one Christmas where I lay on the floor staring at a candle for hours in my feety pajamas while my parents and their friends talked in the next room, but I cannot recall a single gift from that year. I wonder why I remember sleeping in our family's camper in the back yard one summer night prior to leaving on a big vacation, but I don't remember a single thing about the trip itself. Strange how our minds work.
I wish all the things that stick with me were positive or benign. But somehow the cruelest moments of life seem to leave the deepest and most lasting marks. I had an uncle, by marriage, who routinely spoke to me with menacing brutality. His words were harsh and cutting, and I felt helpless to defend myself from them. Worse, I felt betrayed by the adults around me who failed to protect me from his malevolent taunts. I wondered why no one rescued me. Did no one notice? Did no one care? Or did everyone feel the same defenselessness I did against such a tyrannical bully? I wonder still.
With vivid clarity, I remember the night another uncle was lost, a good uncle. He was young, just twenty-four, handsome, charismatic and kind. He was everything an uncle should be, fun, easy going and accommodating of the inconvenience little kids can be. The memory is seared into my mind. My sister, cousin and I were watching the Love Boat on tv while our parents talked in the background. A friend of my uncle's came unexpectedly to our front door. He asked to talk to my mom in the other room. I can remember her saying, 'Only if you promise not to hit me.' She was joking, but the blow that was about to strike her took the very breath out of her. There was screaming, sobbing, bewildered disbelief...we watched in silent horror. Her reaction left no question that whatever news she had just received was not good.
It was my first taste of real loss. While others I had known and even loved had passed on before him, they had done so leaving nary a mark on my young life. But I knew almost immediately that my Uncle John's death was different. Things were going to be different. I was going to be different. My mother, my grandmother, the atmosphere itself...it was all going to be changed because he was no longer with us. I cry now with an even deeper sadness over his loss. It is with greater understanding that I now realize the implications of what his life lived could have meant to us all and how losing him changed the shape of each of our hearts to varying degrees.
That same event sparked another memory of mine that is set in stone. At my uncle's funeral, I was instructed to go find my older cousin. He was my father's nephew, but he had found a kindred spirit in my mother's brother. My cousin had a difficult childhood and was being raised by my dad's mother. He was 'spoiled' in some people's eyes, but I believe wholeheartedly he would have gladly traded every gift to have involved, interested or even present parents in his life. And now he met my Uncle John, who in the gentle, kind way he had about him had welcome my cousin Brent into the fold. They shared an interest in music and motorcycles. They had a relationship all their own, a relationship my cousin desperately needed. A relationship with an adult male who had time and a willingness to actively participate in his teen aged life. But now that man, my uncle, Brent's friend, had been taken from us. In that moment, Brent's pain surpassed my own. He was feeling the loss on a much different level than I was. It was not his first taste of loss, but it was, to date, his most bitter.
I found Brent sitting in the dark beside a dumpster behind the funeral home. He was crying. I had never seen him show any emotion, ever, so I was shocked to find him crying. I didn't understand back then the depth of his pain. He looked up at me and asked, "Why? Why did this happen? He was my friend." I stood there with my eight years of wisdom and life experience and shrugged my shoulders. I had nothing to offer him in the way of condolences. I didn't know why anything happened. What could I say to ease his pain when I couldn't even ease my own? Then he grabbed me and held me tightly, crying like a baby, saying nothing, just crying. And I just stood there and let him hug me. I don't even think I hugged him back. I don't even think I cried with him. I just stood there wishing someone else would come looking for us, that someone would help us escape this thing that was swallowing us up. I know now it was grief that was tormenting us, each in our own way. But then, I was certain the darkness in us and all around us was going to consume us.
That was the one and only genuine moment I had with my cousin Brent. He died a few years ago, a drug overdose. I wonder if I had been able to answer his "why", would it have made a difference in the path his life took? Or did he even remember that moment ever happened between us?
Funny how memories work, stirring us up over things that were long ago said and done. Interesting what our minds hold onto through space and time. Amazing how retrospection leads to introspection. To have a moment back, who doesn't wish for that? To be able to apply today's insight to yesterday's occasion, who wouldn't like to have that ability? To find peace with those things we cannot forget and yet are unable to redeem, am I the only one who desires such a thing?
I wish all the things that stick with me were positive or benign. But somehow the cruelest moments of life seem to leave the deepest and most lasting marks. I had an uncle, by marriage, who routinely spoke to me with menacing brutality. His words were harsh and cutting, and I felt helpless to defend myself from them. Worse, I felt betrayed by the adults around me who failed to protect me from his malevolent taunts. I wondered why no one rescued me. Did no one notice? Did no one care? Or did everyone feel the same defenselessness I did against such a tyrannical bully? I wonder still.
With vivid clarity, I remember the night another uncle was lost, a good uncle. He was young, just twenty-four, handsome, charismatic and kind. He was everything an uncle should be, fun, easy going and accommodating of the inconvenience little kids can be. The memory is seared into my mind. My sister, cousin and I were watching the Love Boat on tv while our parents talked in the background. A friend of my uncle's came unexpectedly to our front door. He asked to talk to my mom in the other room. I can remember her saying, 'Only if you promise not to hit me.' She was joking, but the blow that was about to strike her took the very breath out of her. There was screaming, sobbing, bewildered disbelief...we watched in silent horror. Her reaction left no question that whatever news she had just received was not good.
It was my first taste of real loss. While others I had known and even loved had passed on before him, they had done so leaving nary a mark on my young life. But I knew almost immediately that my Uncle John's death was different. Things were going to be different. I was going to be different. My mother, my grandmother, the atmosphere itself...it was all going to be changed because he was no longer with us. I cry now with an even deeper sadness over his loss. It is with greater understanding that I now realize the implications of what his life lived could have meant to us all and how losing him changed the shape of each of our hearts to varying degrees.
That same event sparked another memory of mine that is set in stone. At my uncle's funeral, I was instructed to go find my older cousin. He was my father's nephew, but he had found a kindred spirit in my mother's brother. My cousin had a difficult childhood and was being raised by my dad's mother. He was 'spoiled' in some people's eyes, but I believe wholeheartedly he would have gladly traded every gift to have involved, interested or even present parents in his life. And now he met my Uncle John, who in the gentle, kind way he had about him had welcome my cousin Brent into the fold. They shared an interest in music and motorcycles. They had a relationship all their own, a relationship my cousin desperately needed. A relationship with an adult male who had time and a willingness to actively participate in his teen aged life. But now that man, my uncle, Brent's friend, had been taken from us. In that moment, Brent's pain surpassed my own. He was feeling the loss on a much different level than I was. It was not his first taste of loss, but it was, to date, his most bitter.
I found Brent sitting in the dark beside a dumpster behind the funeral home. He was crying. I had never seen him show any emotion, ever, so I was shocked to find him crying. I didn't understand back then the depth of his pain. He looked up at me and asked, "Why? Why did this happen? He was my friend." I stood there with my eight years of wisdom and life experience and shrugged my shoulders. I had nothing to offer him in the way of condolences. I didn't know why anything happened. What could I say to ease his pain when I couldn't even ease my own? Then he grabbed me and held me tightly, crying like a baby, saying nothing, just crying. And I just stood there and let him hug me. I don't even think I hugged him back. I don't even think I cried with him. I just stood there wishing someone else would come looking for us, that someone would help us escape this thing that was swallowing us up. I know now it was grief that was tormenting us, each in our own way. But then, I was certain the darkness in us and all around us was going to consume us.
That was the one and only genuine moment I had with my cousin Brent. He died a few years ago, a drug overdose. I wonder if I had been able to answer his "why", would it have made a difference in the path his life took? Or did he even remember that moment ever happened between us?
Funny how memories work, stirring us up over things that were long ago said and done. Interesting what our minds hold onto through space and time. Amazing how retrospection leads to introspection. To have a moment back, who doesn't wish for that? To be able to apply today's insight to yesterday's occasion, who wouldn't like to have that ability? To find peace with those things we cannot forget and yet are unable to redeem, am I the only one who desires such a thing?
Friday, October 29, 2010
Doing the laundry is like raising a family
Washing laundry is kind of like raising a family.
You have all different sorts of clothes to deal with just like you do personalities.
Some people are like jeans, rough and tumble yet laid back and comfortable.
Others are like sweaters, a little heavy and restrictive but generally nice and warm.
There are always a few dressier clothes. They're a little higher maintenance but they sure can make a good impression.
Towels are like the family members who hang back and just soak it all in while washcloths are the ones who come in and clean up the messes.
Then there are all those delicate items that take special care but with whom you have the most intimate relationship.
And every family has a red sock once in a while, a trouble maker who needs sorted out and dealt with individually.
When doing the laundry or raising a family, it's important to know the following things.
Temperature matters...not everyone is the same, some can handle the heat and others shrink under it.
Picking the proper setting for the situation is important. Some situations will require a gentle cycle while others will demand something a little more aggressive.
Detergent is like love. It filters out the dirt and covers up the smell. Every load needs it. So does every person.
Sorting is optional but just because you can put everyone together at once doesn't mean you should.
And no matter what, there will be agitation.
So next time you're turning the kids' clothes right side out and picking tissue pieces from the dryer vent and you're feeling overwhelmed by the pile spilling out of the hamper, just remember that someday, when the kids are grown and gone, the loads will be lighter. But you may just be surprised to find that you miss it.
You have all different sorts of clothes to deal with just like you do personalities.
Some people are like jeans, rough and tumble yet laid back and comfortable.
Others are like sweaters, a little heavy and restrictive but generally nice and warm.
There are always a few dressier clothes. They're a little higher maintenance but they sure can make a good impression.
Towels are like the family members who hang back and just soak it all in while washcloths are the ones who come in and clean up the messes.
Then there are all those delicate items that take special care but with whom you have the most intimate relationship.
And every family has a red sock once in a while, a trouble maker who needs sorted out and dealt with individually.
When doing the laundry or raising a family, it's important to know the following things.
Temperature matters...not everyone is the same, some can handle the heat and others shrink under it.
Picking the proper setting for the situation is important. Some situations will require a gentle cycle while others will demand something a little more aggressive.
Detergent is like love. It filters out the dirt and covers up the smell. Every load needs it. So does every person.
Sorting is optional but just because you can put everyone together at once doesn't mean you should.
And no matter what, there will be agitation.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Gravity
I have this love hate relationship with Gravitational Pull...Gravity for short. When I was younger, I hardly noticed him at all. He was always just there, wherever I went, keeping my feet on the ground. I guess I took him for granted mostly, knowing he'd keep doing his thing while I was doing mine.
But apparently Gravity doesn't much appreciate not being acknowledged. He makes himself known quite a bit now, and not always in the nice, gentle ways he did before. All the sudden, I notice Gravity playing tricks on me.
Back in the 80s, Gravity was so passive he didn't even put up a fight against a big can of Aqua Net. No matter how much I defied him with a teasing comb and sticky aerosols, he didn't do a thing to stop it. But he's getting his revenge now. Even my hair is flatter than it used to be. It's as though he's tugging on it, refusing it let it bounce like it once did.
Used to be that I'd never think twice about sitting on the floor. Now, knowing that Gravity isn't going to let me up without a fight, it's a whole different story. Getting off the floor these days looks likes a sad game of Twister. I end up on all fours, literally pushing against Gravity to escape his powerful grip. When he's especially clingy, I must resort to using the furniture to climb my way back to my feet.
Worst of all, he thinks it's funny to yank my flesh downward in the most unflattering ways. I think it's his version of that classic high school prank, 'de-pantsing'. His not so funny antics have everything settling just a little lower these days from my eyelids to my thighs and everything in between.
I remember when bras and panties not only served their intended purpose, but they could do so while looking super cute. Now, 'foundational garments' need extra hooks and wires and lycra control panels just to hope to hold things somewhat in their original places. My hair may not bounce, but everything else sure does. Go figure.
It's amazing how Gravity can sneak up on a person, how quickly he can turn on someone and how cruel he can be. And yet, given all that, the pros of my relationship with him so far outweigh the cons that I still am quite glad he sticks around.
I appreciate you, Gravity...I really do. Now will you please give me a break!?!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Visiting the Old Folks Home
I had an interesting visit with my Grandpa today. I stopped in while he and his friends at their independent living facility were involved in a rousing game of BINGO. My Grandpa is your pretty typical old fella. He's lived a lot of life and has the stories to prove it. Today was no different. I heard about how he'd gotten the measles immediately followed by scarlet fever in the fifth grade. He missed a good chunk of the class, but his teacher passed him on to the sixth grade anyway. He said he struggled in school from then on. He brought up a trip my sisters and I took to St. Louis with him and Grandma when I was about eight or nine years old. Now that was a trip to remember! He talked about his love for gambling but how Las Vegas just wasn't the same since it became a family town. He liked it better when it was for adults only. Of course, he added that not having Grandma with him anymore just made taking those kinds of trips seem pointless. That was really the point of the story.
Some of my grandpa's stories are repeats, stories I've heard him tell before. He tells them with fondness and great introspection. Stories about his military service, growing up playing high school football, dropping out of college. He tells of his world travels with my grandma. They went just about everywhere and did just about everything. He talks occasionally about his father, a man small in stature but stout of heart who loaded boxcars for a living. Sometimes they're stories I wonder why he's sharing, seeming to have no connection to the moment we're currently experiencing. But I listen just the same.
I sometimes think he's reliving the past through his autobiographical history lessons. Other times I am certain he's hoping I can learn some valuable life lesson from his personal experiences. His stories are often told for pure entertainment and other times as cautionary tales. No matter the motivation, the result is the same. My grandpa is leaving his fingerprints on this world, making sure something of his life succeeds him, guaranteeing his memory outlives his body.
I think we all have that thing inside of us that causes us to want to preserve some part of ourselves for posterity. It's the reason we take pictures, keep journals, blog. It's the reason we procreate, invent and
proselytize. We want to send some part of ourselves into a future world we won't be actively participating in. We want to stake a claim to a moment in time, put our mark on it, make it our own. We want to take our place in history and make sure someone knows we existed.
None of us want to pass through this life unnoticed. We want to leave something behind that proves we traveled this path on our journey. Whether through the transfer of knowledge or through passing on of our genetic material or through sharing the milk of human kindness, whether through fame or talent, in small ways or monumental ones, whether through acts of great bravery or sacrifice, through conquests or accomplishments, whether for all the world or just our little one, we all seek to leave an indelible mark that says, "I was here".
I want to know when I am gone that some part of me still remains. I want be in the hearts of the people who knew me. I want the people who love me to love me still, to talk about me with genuine affection. I want my legacy to be a good one, that I was a good wife and mother, that I gave more than I took, that my influence was powerful and positive. As I live and die, as we are all living and dying daily, may our fingerprints be firmly and forcefully left behind on a life embraced and lived exceedingly well.
Some of my grandpa's stories are repeats, stories I've heard him tell before. He tells them with fondness and great introspection. Stories about his military service, growing up playing high school football, dropping out of college. He tells of his world travels with my grandma. They went just about everywhere and did just about everything. He talks occasionally about his father, a man small in stature but stout of heart who loaded boxcars for a living. Sometimes they're stories I wonder why he's sharing, seeming to have no connection to the moment we're currently experiencing. But I listen just the same.
I sometimes think he's reliving the past through his autobiographical history lessons. Other times I am certain he's hoping I can learn some valuable life lesson from his personal experiences. His stories are often told for pure entertainment and other times as cautionary tales. No matter the motivation, the result is the same. My grandpa is leaving his fingerprints on this world, making sure something of his life succeeds him, guaranteeing his memory outlives his body.
I think we all have that thing inside of us that causes us to want to preserve some part of ourselves for posterity. It's the reason we take pictures, keep journals, blog. It's the reason we procreate, invent and
proselytize. We want to send some part of ourselves into a future world we won't be actively participating in. We want to stake a claim to a moment in time, put our mark on it, make it our own. We want to take our place in history and make sure someone knows we existed.
None of us want to pass through this life unnoticed. We want to leave something behind that proves we traveled this path on our journey. Whether through the transfer of knowledge or through passing on of our genetic material or through sharing the milk of human kindness, whether through fame or talent, in small ways or monumental ones, whether through acts of great bravery or sacrifice, through conquests or accomplishments, whether for all the world or just our little one, we all seek to leave an indelible mark that says, "I was here".
I want to know when I am gone that some part of me still remains. I want be in the hearts of the people who knew me. I want the people who love me to love me still, to talk about me with genuine affection. I want my legacy to be a good one, that I was a good wife and mother, that I gave more than I took, that my influence was powerful and positive. As I live and die, as we are all living and dying daily, may our fingerprints be firmly and forcefully left behind on a life embraced and lived exceedingly well.
Monday, October 25, 2010
In the beginning...motherhood.
A young woman I used to babysit when she was a child just delivered twin sons this week. I babysat for her and her twin sister when my own twins were early elementary students. It's interesting how the life events of someone else stir up the memories of one's own past.
It almost seems like yesterday that my own twin sons were born. In fact, it was over twenty years ago. Amazing how quickly twenty years go by!
I was just a twenty year old girl myself when I was introduced to motherhood for the very first time. I use the word 'girl' because that is certainly what I was. I was young and green and almost painfully naive about the impact two newborns was going to have on my life.
When my husband and I married, we said we'd wait five years to have children, but there we were. Just two and half years in and expecting not one but two babies. I remember vividly the day we found out we were going to be doubly blessed.
At twenty-four weeks along, I was still clueless as to what was coming my way. Then an ultrasound tech put the fear of God in us by asking if my doctor had mentioned an enlargement of my uterus. No, he hadn't. And now my husband and I waited anxiously as she went to track him down and discuss whatever she had just witnessed on her little magic screen.
When she returned, she angled the monitor so we could see it and began with the words, "Here, you can see head #1." A statement like that is quite the attention getter. My husband moved promptly from his cushy little chair to my side, leaning over my now shockingly imposing belly to get a better look at the magic screen. She quickly followed with the words, "And here you can see the head of twin B."
Those were the names of my sons for quite some time, Twin A and Twin B. Of course at the time, we didn't know they would be sons. Back then, we were hoping for a boy and a girl. Imagine me with a daughter. That seems so completely inconceivable now, both literally and figuratively.
The very same day we discovered we were having twins I was also put on complete bed rest. Bed rest sounds like a good thing in theory, but in reality, it stinks. A person can only lay around doing nothing for so long before restlessness sets in. Insanity seems only a short distance beyond that. Since we lived an hour away from family and long distance phone calls were out of our budget with just one income, I found myself bored half out of my mind and counting the days until I'd have my normal life back. That makes me laugh now as it's twenty years later and I'm still waiting for 'normal' to return.
My mother had informed me there was only one day she hoped the babies weren't born on, September 12. My sister Michelle had an appointment with a specialist that day. So of course, at about 5:30a.m. on September 12, my water broke. It was nearly a month before my due date and took me completely by surprise.
My husband was a spastic mess. He was rushing around our little rented house, doing what, I'm not exactly sure. I just remember telling him to calm down. We knew this moment was coming and I was as prepared as one could be. I had a bag packed. We knew our route to the hospital. We were pre-registered. Take a breath, hon.
After just one short, generally uneventful hour, I found myself in a delivery room surrounded by my doctor, a handful of nurses and a neo-natal intensive care team. In the dark shadows of the room were also about fifteen young student doctors, there to observe their first delivery of multiples. My husband asked me later why I had agreed to let the students watch. I told him at that point they could have rolled me into the lobby with feet in the stirrups and all just so long as someone was going to the catch the kids and get the whole labor process over.
Twin A made his arrival at 9:11a.m. He weighed four pounds and eleven ounces and was completely covered in what appeared to be cottage cheese. The nurse held him close to my face so I could get a good look before starting on round two. It was love at first sight even though he had an alien-like little head and squinty little eyes. I remember saying he was just beautiful, and my husband saying I should look again. Falling in love isn't quite as instant with all dads.
It was a full fifteen minutes later and with the help of a nurse literally pushing on my abdomen to force him into the birth canal before Twin B made his debut. He came out screaming, his skinny little arms and legs flailing wildly. All five pounds and two ounces of him rebelling right out the womb. Interesting how some things never change. And yet again, I was head over heels in love.
Fast forward two days, and I found myself being discharged from the hospital with two babies and no idea what life had in store. As I sat in a wheelchair, one baby in each arm, waiting for Dan to bring the car around, it hit me that no one was going to stop us from just leaving. They were really just going to let us go. No one had figured out that we were just two stupid kids who thought we could be parents and who had just possibly bitten off way more than we could chew. No one was questioning our ability to step up to the plate and deliver...no one but us. Could we really be good parents, good providers, good role models? Could we give these two precious little creatures the love and security all children deserve? Could we grow up fast enough to be parents rather than mere playmates? Could we figure it all out well enough to raise good, decent, wonderful young men?
Yes, yes...we did it. Kyle and Zachary Wyant are the tangible evidence that we did indeed do it. I love them both so very much. And I'm thankful for who they have grown to be, whether because of us or in spite of us.
Congratulations Amanda and Vince on your own double blessing! Welcome Logan and Stryder, seen below with their mom, dad and big sister Emmie. Thank you for letting your birthdays give me an excuse to reminiscence for a few minutes.
It almost seems like yesterday that my own twin sons were born. In fact, it was over twenty years ago. Amazing how quickly twenty years go by!
I was just a twenty year old girl myself when I was introduced to motherhood for the very first time. I use the word 'girl' because that is certainly what I was. I was young and green and almost painfully naive about the impact two newborns was going to have on my life.
When my husband and I married, we said we'd wait five years to have children, but there we were. Just two and half years in and expecting not one but two babies. I remember vividly the day we found out we were going to be doubly blessed.
At twenty-four weeks along, I was still clueless as to what was coming my way. Then an ultrasound tech put the fear of God in us by asking if my doctor had mentioned an enlargement of my uterus. No, he hadn't. And now my husband and I waited anxiously as she went to track him down and discuss whatever she had just witnessed on her little magic screen.
When she returned, she angled the monitor so we could see it and began with the words, "Here, you can see head #1." A statement like that is quite the attention getter. My husband moved promptly from his cushy little chair to my side, leaning over my now shockingly imposing belly to get a better look at the magic screen. She quickly followed with the words, "And here you can see the head of twin B."
Those were the names of my sons for quite some time, Twin A and Twin B. Of course at the time, we didn't know they would be sons. Back then, we were hoping for a boy and a girl. Imagine me with a daughter. That seems so completely inconceivable now, both literally and figuratively.
The very same day we discovered we were having twins I was also put on complete bed rest. Bed rest sounds like a good thing in theory, but in reality, it stinks. A person can only lay around doing nothing for so long before restlessness sets in. Insanity seems only a short distance beyond that. Since we lived an hour away from family and long distance phone calls were out of our budget with just one income, I found myself bored half out of my mind and counting the days until I'd have my normal life back. That makes me laugh now as it's twenty years later and I'm still waiting for 'normal' to return.
My mother had informed me there was only one day she hoped the babies weren't born on, September 12. My sister Michelle had an appointment with a specialist that day. So of course, at about 5:30a.m. on September 12, my water broke. It was nearly a month before my due date and took me completely by surprise.
My husband was a spastic mess. He was rushing around our little rented house, doing what, I'm not exactly sure. I just remember telling him to calm down. We knew this moment was coming and I was as prepared as one could be. I had a bag packed. We knew our route to the hospital. We were pre-registered. Take a breath, hon.
After just one short, generally uneventful hour, I found myself in a delivery room surrounded by my doctor, a handful of nurses and a neo-natal intensive care team. In the dark shadows of the room were also about fifteen young student doctors, there to observe their first delivery of multiples. My husband asked me later why I had agreed to let the students watch. I told him at that point they could have rolled me into the lobby with feet in the stirrups and all just so long as someone was going to the catch the kids and get the whole labor process over.
Twin A made his arrival at 9:11a.m. He weighed four pounds and eleven ounces and was completely covered in what appeared to be cottage cheese. The nurse held him close to my face so I could get a good look before starting on round two. It was love at first sight even though he had an alien-like little head and squinty little eyes. I remember saying he was just beautiful, and my husband saying I should look again. Falling in love isn't quite as instant with all dads.
It was a full fifteen minutes later and with the help of a nurse literally pushing on my abdomen to force him into the birth canal before Twin B made his debut. He came out screaming, his skinny little arms and legs flailing wildly. All five pounds and two ounces of him rebelling right out the womb. Interesting how some things never change. And yet again, I was head over heels in love.
The boys were whisked off the intensive care unit and I was back in my labor room waiting to get into a regular room, after which, I could go be with my babies. I then remember hearing my mom's voice as she was frantically looking for me. Getting three teenagers up and ready, canceling that appointment for my sister, picking up my Grandma on the way and making the hour drive had caused them to miss the whole delivery. It didn't take away from anyone's excitement though. Two new babies...the first grandbabies for my parents, the first great grandbabies for my grandma and the first nephews for my siblings. It was a grand day!
Fast forward two days, and I found myself being discharged from the hospital with two babies and no idea what life had in store. As I sat in a wheelchair, one baby in each arm, waiting for Dan to bring the car around, it hit me that no one was going to stop us from just leaving. They were really just going to let us go. No one had figured out that we were just two stupid kids who thought we could be parents and who had just possibly bitten off way more than we could chew. No one was questioning our ability to step up to the plate and deliver...no one but us. Could we really be good parents, good providers, good role models? Could we give these two precious little creatures the love and security all children deserve? Could we grow up fast enough to be parents rather than mere playmates? Could we figure it all out well enough to raise good, decent, wonderful young men?
Congratulations Amanda and Vince on your own double blessing! Welcome Logan and Stryder, seen below with their mom, dad and big sister Emmie. Thank you for letting your birthdays give me an excuse to reminiscence for a few minutes.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Unsolicited Marriage Advice
I pretty much consider myself an old married person. I think anyone who had been married more than half their life qualifies. I hit that milestone when I was 36. Being an official old married person, here are some things I have learned over the years.
1.) Pick your battles. Some things are worth fighting for. A few things are worth going to war over. Almost nothing is worth dying for. Everything cannot be important. Don't try to make it that way. Whiskers in the sink and dirty underwear on the floor really aren't grounds for divorce.
2.) Honesty is always the best policy, but make sure you can afford the premiums if you're going to buy into that. When your wife asks how she looks, the answer should always be 'beautiful'. It really shouldn't be about her hairstyle or the dress she's wearing anyway. When your husband asks if there's something he can do to help you, you should be aware he probably isn't interested in the truth. He is most likely just being polite. So while you can give him a to do list, don't expect him to be genuinely thrilled about it.
3.) Money isn't everything, but it is something. Having money won't make you happy...neither will being broke. Being on the same page about money makes it better.
4.) Kids are work. If you don't like work, you won't like having kids. If you must have sleep, money, privacy when using the bathroom or peace and quiet, you probably won't like having kids either.
5.) Marriage is work. If you don't like work, you won't like marriage either.
6.) Marriage and children are awesome!! If you don't mind the work, the benefits are phenomenal.
7.) Great communication is 10% talking and 90% listening. The best communication usually involves little or no words at all. A look, a touch, an unexpected expression of appreciation and adoration...they all have the ability to speak louder than words.
8.) If you're always waiting for the 'perfect' time to do something, you'll waste a lot of 'perfectly good' time in the meanwhile. The desire for absolute perfection has been the downfall of many a perfectly good life.
9.) Love should always have less to do with feelings and emotions than it does with deliberate, purposeful choices. 'In love' is fickle. It comes and goes over the course of time, influenced by external conditions and the circumstances of life. If you want to have the giddy, butterflies in your stomach, kissed by cherubs 'in love' feelings every single day, marriage may not be for you. The kind of love that makes a marriage work relies very little on those kinds of feelings.
10.) And last but not least, in a new marriage, be extremely thoughtful about what you do first. When you do something first, it becomes your job forever. My mom told me this when I was getting married, and she was totally right.
1.) Pick your battles. Some things are worth fighting for. A few things are worth going to war over. Almost nothing is worth dying for. Everything cannot be important. Don't try to make it that way. Whiskers in the sink and dirty underwear on the floor really aren't grounds for divorce.
2.) Honesty is always the best policy, but make sure you can afford the premiums if you're going to buy into that. When your wife asks how she looks, the answer should always be 'beautiful'. It really shouldn't be about her hairstyle or the dress she's wearing anyway. When your husband asks if there's something he can do to help you, you should be aware he probably isn't interested in the truth. He is most likely just being polite. So while you can give him a to do list, don't expect him to be genuinely thrilled about it.
3.) Money isn't everything, but it is something. Having money won't make you happy...neither will being broke. Being on the same page about money makes it better.
4.) Kids are work. If you don't like work, you won't like having kids. If you must have sleep, money, privacy when using the bathroom or peace and quiet, you probably won't like having kids either.
5.) Marriage is work. If you don't like work, you won't like marriage either.
6.) Marriage and children are awesome!! If you don't mind the work, the benefits are phenomenal.
7.) Great communication is 10% talking and 90% listening. The best communication usually involves little or no words at all. A look, a touch, an unexpected expression of appreciation and adoration...they all have the ability to speak louder than words.
8.) If you're always waiting for the 'perfect' time to do something, you'll waste a lot of 'perfectly good' time in the meanwhile. The desire for absolute perfection has been the downfall of many a perfectly good life.
9.) Love should always have less to do with feelings and emotions than it does with deliberate, purposeful choices. 'In love' is fickle. It comes and goes over the course of time, influenced by external conditions and the circumstances of life. If you want to have the giddy, butterflies in your stomach, kissed by cherubs 'in love' feelings every single day, marriage may not be for you. The kind of love that makes a marriage work relies very little on those kinds of feelings.
10.) And last but not least, in a new marriage, be extremely thoughtful about what you do first. When you do something first, it becomes your job forever. My mom told me this when I was getting married, and she was totally right.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Is this really what middle aged looks like?
Welcome to middle aged. Really? When did this happen to me? Wrinkles. Gray hair. Reading glasses. The start of jowls. Seriously...jowls. Moisturizing is no longer for silky soft skin. It's a necessity to keep the sheets from snagging on my nasty cracked old lady heels. Ice cream gives me a belly ache, which in the middle ages is defined as being lactose intolerant, not to mention it bothers my sensitive teeth. My knees creek louder than a rusty hinge. I sometimes feel like the Tin Man's sister. Suddenly I think everyone in my family mumbles. They all think I need a Beltone. Oh, and am now in a race with my fourteen year old son to see who can grow a mustache first.
Forty is not the for the faint of heart. It isn't that it's the end. It's that it's just the beginning. It's realizing that time is marching on faster and faster. The things I thought I'd have plenty of time for later now are either dead dreams or pressing matters. As I stand on the cusp of the hill, (you know the hill...the one we all aspire to climb only to discover going over it makes us old), as I stand on the cusp of that hill, I look over to survey what lies ahead. It isn't all bad. But there's always some level of anxiety that goes along with the unknown.
I wonder if I'll age beautifully like my mother and her mother before her. Will I act my age or will I still be able to find my inner thirty-something when I'm getting a senior citizen's discount? Will I have a gaggle of grandkids while I'm still young enough to enjoy them but after I'm old enough to feel comfortable being called granny, memaw or nana? Will I grow old gracefully or will I fight it every step of the way...or is it possible to do both?
So while I don't particularly feel middle aged or think of myself as middle aged, I resign myself to the fact that I am indeed middle aged. And I'm going to do my best to embrace this time in my life, to celebrate it, marinate in it and with great fondness, reflect on it as I would my own face in the mirror. In that reflection, I hope to see the me I used to be merged into the me I am and easing into the me I'm destined to be. If this is what middle aged looks like, I think I'm ok with joining the club.
Forty is not the for the faint of heart. It isn't that it's the end. It's that it's just the beginning. It's realizing that time is marching on faster and faster. The things I thought I'd have plenty of time for later now are either dead dreams or pressing matters. As I stand on the cusp of the hill, (you know the hill...the one we all aspire to climb only to discover going over it makes us old), as I stand on the cusp of that hill, I look over to survey what lies ahead. It isn't all bad. But there's always some level of anxiety that goes along with the unknown.
I wonder if I'll age beautifully like my mother and her mother before her. Will I act my age or will I still be able to find my inner thirty-something when I'm getting a senior citizen's discount? Will I have a gaggle of grandkids while I'm still young enough to enjoy them but after I'm old enough to feel comfortable being called granny, memaw or nana? Will I grow old gracefully or will I fight it every step of the way...or is it possible to do both?
So while I don't particularly feel middle aged or think of myself as middle aged, I resign myself to the fact that I am indeed middle aged. And I'm going to do my best to embrace this time in my life, to celebrate it, marinate in it and with great fondness, reflect on it as I would my own face in the mirror. In that reflection, I hope to see the me I used to be merged into the me I am and easing into the me I'm destined to be. If this is what middle aged looks like, I think I'm ok with joining the club.
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