Friday, December 30, 2011

Wedded bliss {My spin on poetry. :)}

This is what it is..
a safe place to fall...
a warm summer breeze..
fuzzy socks on a cold night.
It's a tall glass of iced tea and hot cup of cocoa with little bitty marshmallows floating on top.
It's a gentle laugh, a subtle smile, a soft touch.
It's being full...happy...content.
It's being totally vulnerable and completely protected all in the same moment.
It's the highest high and lowest low having a shared center.
It's opening the world to all the possibilities and then closing the circle around the heart of it all.
It's deliberate when it needs to be and beautifully random when it can be.
It's the perfect balance of sophistication and innocence...of elegance and messiness.
It's a whisper and a shout...a song and sigh.
It's shelter from the storms and dancing in the rain.
It's finding yourself enmeshed in someone else and finding someone else enmeshed in you, two becoming one.
It's ups and downs, leaps and bounds, two steps forward and three steps back.
It's giving up on the idea of giving up.
It's war and peace and joy and grief.
It's where hope and reality meet.
It's pure and simple...and complicated.
It's looking into someone's eyes and seeing only yourself there.
It's looking into your heart and seeing only him there.
It's love...and all love promises.
A ring and a kiss.
This is what it is...wedded bliss.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

What part of 'vacation' don't you understand?

I am married to a very hard-working man, for which, I am very grateful.  He takes both his paying job and his job as keeper of the castle very seriously...maybe too seriously sometimes.  Like today, for instance...


I am on day #7 of my Christmas break (one of the very nice perks of being employed by a school system).  In those seven days, however, there has been very little down time for me.  If all the pre-Christmas activities...shopping, baking, wrapping, cleaning...and all the Christmas events...going to see my husband's parents, hosting the big family get together for my side of the family, having our traditional Christmas breakfast with our little family unit...and all the post Christmas tasks...getting mountains of empty boxes and shredded wrapping paper bagged up, taking down the tree and decorations, making a return to two weren't enough, our youngest son has had basketball practice every morning at 9am except on Christmas Eve and Christmas itself.  With all that, there has been little 'vacation' to be found in this break as of yet.  


So this morning, on day #7, we finally had the opportunity to sleep in, slow down and just have a lazy day.  Oh wait, remember that hard-working man I'm married to?  Yeah, well, he doesn't believe in a lazy day.  


As I sit in my office hiding from his to-do list, I can hear him repeatedly calling for our fifteen year old son to come help him as he tiles and grouts the shower in our main bathroom.  My son's response...or lack thereof...indicates to me he has the same opinion about my husband's incessant need to stay busy as I do.  


What's wrong with the occasional day of sheer and utter slothfulness?  Spending the day in one's jammies, watching made-for-tv movies, playing mindless games on Facebook...how can that be such a terrible thing?   Will the world stop spinning or the sun cease to shine if we just let everything go for a single day?  Can there be any real harm in just taking it easy and doing absolutely nothing of real value for just a 24 hour period?  


As I hear him working away, I almost feel guilty for just sitting here now...almost.  It isn't that I don't have a to-do list of mine own.  I haven't been to the grocery store in almost two weeks.  I need to get the Christmas decorations down to the basement.  The checkbook needs balanced.  These are all things I could easily do today that would satisfy his need for us all to stay productive while not causing me to feel overworked on our very first free day. 


Maybe I'll even go offer him a little help...or at least company...while he works.  He always seems to appreciate that.  And after all, I really do enjoy the fruits of his labor so it's the least I can do...literally, it's the least I can do.  <g>


I guess I should just give up the dream of a totally lazy day...at least until January 4th.  That's the one day he'll be back at work, but I'll still be on vacation.  :-)







Friday, December 2, 2011

Flushing Optional

We have two bathrooms in our house...ours and the boys'.  The boys' bathroom is actually the main bathroom for the whole house, but for all intents and purposes, it is the boys' bathroom. They mark this bathroom much in the same way a dog marks it's territory.  In addition to dribble marks on the floor in front of the stool, they also leave their mark with dried blue toothpaste in the sink (sometimes mixed with whiskers), dirty laundry draped over the tub, the daily newspaper scattered about and more often than not, an empty toilet roll sitting on the counter.  


For these reasons, I have often referred to this bathroom as the gas station bathroom and have refused to use it.  But just before Thanksgiving, my husband remodeled their bathroom and made it simply beautiful.  So today, I decided to give this not even two week old bathroom a try.  For the most part, it looked great.  But then I saw the tell-tell sign that it definitely is still the boys' bathroom.  The toilet had not been flushed.


I do not know why my sons consider flushing to be optional.  And in spite of their mantra, 'if it's yellow, leave it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down', I somehow doubt their actions have as much to do with water conservation as simple laziness.  


Unfortunately, that isn't the only thing my sons consider 'optional' around here.  My youngest often considers tooth brushing optional.  When it's to the point where his teeth and flesh are almost the same color, I feel compelled to inquire when he last brushed.  (Were I more gifted, I could probably answer that question by the hardness of the dried toothpaste in the sink.)  He will then, use the inside collar of his shirt to wipe off his teeth...as though that's a worthy substitute for actual brushing.


Putting sheets on their beds is also optional to the boys.  My mom often says it looks like an episode of 'Cops' around here because the mattresses are always exposed and their bedrooms look like they were ransacked.  I have no idea why they elect to sleep in the remains of their own sloughed off skin cells or why they feel at home in rooms that put the best frat houses to shame.  


Clothing is also optional around here much of the time.  I do not know why I cannot convince my boys that they are past the point where seeing them in their skivvies is cute.  One of them traipses through the house routinely in nothing but his undies, usually scratching himself as he goes.  But at least he refrains from letting it all hang out when we have company, unlike my youngest, who very recently made a trip through our dining room in just a sweatshirt and his underwear (why a sweatshirt with underwear, I haven't a clue) while I had several of my friends over.  Even when I shouted, "Hey, these ladies don't want to see that", he just shrugged and went on about his business.


Maybe these are just issues in our house.  Maybe they are just issues for mothers of sons.  Maybe they're the things that make for annoyances now but will make for funny memories somewhere down the road.  Who knows...I'm just glad I have my own bathroom.  :-)





Friday, November 18, 2011

Reflections of a Middle Aged....Grandma

Grandma...nana...memaw...granny...is there any way to become a grandmother without somehow also becoming 'old'? 


After receiving the news that our son and daughter-in-law are expecting their first baby next summer, my husband happily staked claim to the name, 'gramps'.  Seriously, 'gramps'??  How old are you?  Like 90? When I hear 'gramps', I picture a little old man with a bushy mustache and a walking stick, maybe sporting a pair of bib overalls or orthopedic shoes.  I certainly don't envision my 42 year old husband, who I happen to think still looks mighty fine and who, I'm fairly certain, would never wear bibs.


Somehow I thought we would have more time before we had to cross this particular bridge.  I at least thought our own nest would be empty before our kids started adding little birdies to their nests.  


I thought when grandparenthood became our reality, we would be older, grayer and more on top of our own lives.  I guess the truth is, 41 is older than I like to believe, and were it not for the help of Miss Clairol, I definitely would be grayer.  


As for being on top of things, here I feel like life is just beginning to settle down.  We are getting to a place where things just seem...easier.  We are hitting a nice stride...moving along at a comfortable pace.  We are, after 23 years of marriage, beginning to see the possibility of being 'just us' again.  


Not that we are pushing our own last little birdie out of the nest just yet, but we definitely are beginning to accept that our days as 'mommy and daddy' are numbered.  And making the move from parents of littles to parents of bigs is one we are fully prepared...even happy...to make.  


But grandkids?  Who saw that coming so soon?  "Not I", said the middle aged mom.  I do not feel like a grandma.  I do not look a nana.  I am not aptly prepared to be a mamaw.  I haven't a clue how to move from here to there.  


I have a friend with a grandson and two more grandchildren on the way who cannot believe I am not already over the moon at the prospect of having a grandbaby.  She assures me I will be.  I'm sure she's right.  After all, any child of my child is sure to steal my heart.  


So after mulling it over, I staked my claim to the name, 'MiMi'.  I don't think 'Mimi' sounds too old.  I think I could be a 'Mimi'.  After all, a 'Mimi' wouldn't wear a duster dress and keep her teeth in a cup...would she?  Well not this 'Mimi' anyway.  :-)

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Cutting the Cord

I vividly remember the day my twin sons were born.  I know how I felt...both the joy and the pain.  I can clearly recall the events of the entire day, from the moment my water broke to the moment I first held each of them in my arms.  One thing I don't remember, however, is the cutting of the cord. I mean, I remember the doctor telling me it was happening, but I don't remember how it felt.  For me, it was utterly painless and held no long-term significance.  What I didn't realize then is that it wasn't the literal cords that would be tough to cut.

This year as been one of great stretching and testing...and cord cutting.  As my eldest twin got engaged, married and announced he and his wife are expecting, I felt the deep stabbing pain of having to let go before I was ready.  With precision, he sliced his way into adulthood with seemingly fearless abandon.  He didn't ask for permission, and he didn't ask for help.  He just took the leap and dove right into a life all his own.  When he cut the cord, it may not have been the painless procedure the doctor had performed when he was a newborn, but it certainly was quick.

While I wasn't thrilled about it in the moment, now I'm convinced his way was ultimately the best way to do it.  I say that because now I am faced with the opposite end of the spectrum with Son #2.  

Son #2 has no interest in having his cord cut.  He is seemingly content to stay in some kind of suspended state of adolescence.  He doesn't have any urgency about growing up and getting on with his adult life.  He is hanging on with all his might while I saw at the cord with the dull butter knife that is motherly nagging.

It isn't that he doesn't have aspiration of a grown up life.  He is, in fact, engaged to be married and in the beginning stages of planning to make a life with his fiance.  What he isn't is realistic.  He wants to keep one foot in his youth while only stroking the edge of adulthood.  He is trying to find a way to hang on to the carefree, worry free, trouble free life he has enjoyed to this point while at the same time trying to muster the courage to step off the edge of the cliff that real life can be.  

I understand his apprehension.  After all, life is a complicated game we all play where sometimes we win and sometimes we lose...and the rules are always changing...and the stakes keep going up.  But it's also an exciting, whirlwind ride where we find love, happiness and our passion.  Being out on our own is when we go from crawling to walking and then hopefully to running the race like a champion.  It's when we discover who we really are and what's really important in life.

When we're young, the whole world is contained within the walls of our parents' house, the halls of our high school and the fences around playgrounds and ball fields...and all those places are wonderful.  But when we step outside of that, we are introduced to the whole wide world.  We find endless possibilities.  We discover limitless potential.  We are opened up to brand new opportunities we never even knew existed.  And we realize, maybe for the first time, those things were always there...somewhere inside us, hidden beneath the baby fat of childhood.  

So as my son struggles to strap on his parachute and prepare for the flight of his life, I firmly and steadily push him toward the door.  Not because I don't love him or don't want him to stay here with his father and I, but because I do love him.  And because I love him, I want him to experience all this life has for him.  I want him to feel the thrill of being independent...the pride of accomplishment...the kind of contentment that comes from knowing one has earned what he has.  I want him to step out of the shadow of the boy and be the man I know he can be.  I want him, when this life is at it's end, to look back and be able to say he's lived it well...that he wouldn't change anything...and that it's been a wild and wonderful ride.

I love you Zachary.  Always have...always will.  Now jump!!






Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Changing direction

During the twenty-three years my husband and I have been married, we have worked opposite shifts for eighteen of them.  A dozen and a half years of living in a revolving door has been by far our single most challenging hurdle.  


For me, the primary downside of having a husband who works second shift is that I have been, for all intents and purposes, a single parent much of the time.  I have done the vast majority of homework helping, ball game watching and parent/teacher conference attending alone.  I have sat by myself at band and choral concerts, awards dinners, in doctor's offices and on many a set of cold, hard bleachers wishing beyond words to have my husband by my side.  


If you were to ask him, Dan would tell you this has been his biggest hurdle too. He has, after all, missed out on many, if not most, of the boys' major success and little victory moments.  He wasn't there when Kyle won the final match and consequently the entire meet for his wrestling team in the 8th grade.  He wasn't there for Aaron's National Junior Honor Society induction.  He missed out on seeing Zach the day he got his high school diploma.  My most special days with the boys have been among some of Dan's saddest.




It's the simple things of life...the things most married couples take for granted...that we have missed out on all these years.  Sitting down to dinner together.  Actually talking face to face rather than via text or phone.  Celebrating both the big and little things as a family.  Going to bed at the same time rather than me climbing out of it about the time he's climbing in.  We really haven't been able to share our whole lives...not the way we've wanted to...certainly not the way we thought we would when we got married oh so many years ago.  


All this separation has taken it's toll on my husband.  He has a deep anguish over the things he has sacrificed all these years...the precious moments he's missed...the things he has lost that he can never get back.  


As our children are growing up and now beginning to go away, he questions the choices he has made..we have made.  He asks if being a good provider was reason enough to be a part-time parent.  He wonders if, in the end, it will really have been worth it all.  


So here we stand on top of the hill that is being middle aged.  We look back and see a place we can never return to....a place both replete with glorious memories of days gone by and littered with the remnants of our past mistakes.  We look forward and wonder what still lies ahead.  We ask, can we erase any of the heartache of the past by choosing better in the future?  Can we heal the wounds of yesterday by applying the salve of today's wisdom and insight?  Is it possible to change directions so late in the journey and still end up exactly where we ought to be?  


As we face the second half of our lives...the time when we begin to go back to being 'just us'...we find ourselves redefining what 'happy' means and refining our plan for how to get there from here.   We know now that sometimes learning to live with less is the only way to truly have more....that dollars and cents can't always make up for everything we have to trade to get them.   We wish we had realized that much much earlier but we accept that we can't undo what's been done.  However, we also know it's not too late to start doing things differently.


So instead of laying down and beginning a slow roll over that proverbial hill, we are going to shift gears and try going a whole new direction.  It's scary.  It's exciting.  It's something new.  It's frankly something long overdue.  I take a deep breath, pray, pray and pray again and, hand in hand with the only man I've ever loved, step out into the great unknown.  And when we land...wherever we land...so long as we're still clinging to each other, I know everything will be all right.



Saturday, September 3, 2011

Love can build a bridge

This morning as I passed through my living room, it was wall to wall boys, everyone seeming to sleep where they fell.  It's been like that a million Saturday mornings around here over the years...everyone crashing at our house after a football game or a big dance.  But never before has it been because we were up late getting ready for my son's wedding day.


Said son had apparently earned the right to sleep on the couch last night rather than the floor.  As I tiptoed by him, it hit me...this may be the last morning we ever wake up under the same roof.  


Oh, I'm sure he'll be around a lot.  It doesn't hurt that her parents live literally two blocks away.  But the possibility that he'll never again lay his head down in this house at night or open his eyes here in the morning is very real.  


If they were moving far away, perhaps the opportunity to have them spend extended time with us...whole weekends, entire holidays, summer vacations...would be more likely to present itself.  But since 'home' will be just a stone's throw away, we may discover we actually see them less rather than more.  


There's something about knowing you can get to a person any time you want in theory that often makes you get to them less in reality.  I have a best friend who lives just one street over.  I enjoy every moment she and I spend together.  I'm always amazed how many hours we can still burn on the phone.  But the truth is, we don't actually connect with each other very often.  Even my parents, the most incredible parents in the world may I add, who's house I drive by at least two or four times a day, do I rarely just stop in to visit.  When I do, I stay for hours on end.  I relish my time with them, but honestly, it doesn't happen as often as it should. 


The truth of the matter is two people can live in the same house and still not get to each other.  We get busy or distracted or disgruntled and the distance between our hearts can grow quite substantial even while we're sharing the same dinner table.  We figure we'll bridge the gap eventually, but before we know it, the bridge is burning behind us.


We take it for granted when someone is nearby that they'll always be nearby, that we'll always be able to reach out and touch them whenever we'd like.  We think there will always be time.  There will always be another chance.  But sometimes, there isn't.


So today and from now on, my husband and I will be steadily laying rungs of a bridge we pray will give our son and his wife a clear path to us.  And I hope they will be laying their own rungs from their end of it, so the distance between us...both literally and figuratively...will always be small.







Wednesday, August 31, 2011

New Lenses For Some Old Eyes

About two years ago, our longtime optometrist not so delicately informed me that my eyes were getting old.  He said by 40, I'd need reading glasses.  I doubted him.  But he was right.  


I remember the moment I knew he was right.  I was sitting comfortably on the couch, legs curled up behind me, happily eating yogurt from a cute little single-serve cup.  I turned the cup so I could see the nutritional information, not that it mattered, and was shocked to see nothing but a jumbled mess of blurry chicken scratches.  I quickly discovered, however, by simply moving the cup a little bit further away, things came quickly into focus.  


I knew at some point, the length of my arms wouldn't be enough to remedy the issue.  Given that, I broke down, admitted my vision wasn't what it ought to be and got a a pair of reading glasses.  Unfortunately, it hasn't just been my eyesight that's been a little out of focus lately.  


It's funny how a mom has trouble seeing her kids as anything other than...well, kids.  Even though we know they're getting bigger...bigger than us even...we still see them as 'little'.  We want to protect them and provide for them, to lead them and guide them.  We want to encourage them and inspire them, teach them and shape them.  We invest ourselves in them so fully that the line between them and us often gets very blurry indeed.


But our kids come to a place in their own journey where they need the lines to blur just a little less.  They start to make their own lives.  They make their own friends.  Want privacy.  Think they know it all.  They  
have opinions we don't always share.  Ideas we don't always understand.  Dreams we don't always embrace.  They feel their own feelings and think their own thoughts.  They have attractions that astound us and preferences that confound us.


And then the moment comes when, like with the writing on my yogurt cup, you just can't quite make them out anymore.  So you let them move away a little bit...an overnighter...a boy girl party...a driver's license...prom...college...and boom...your arm can't reach any longer.  You stretch as far as you can, but then you just have to let them go.  As your fingertips slip off the edge of their childhood, they become...their own.


At first, it's almost devastating.  All you see is an empty house filled with painful quietness.  You see that you're losing what you had...you're losing who you've been.  But then, you begin to see things differently, if you're willing to look through a fresh set of eyes.  


You see that all the years of bedtime prayers, loving care and a strong guiding hand have led to a beautiful place.  It's a place where little boys become great men and little girls become incredible women.  With a change of a prospective, you suddenly begin to see your children as the grown up...competent, capable, productive, insightful, wholly wonderful human beings they were destined to be all along.  You see that who they are is exactly who they ought to be.


And the beauty of it is, just about the time they have children of their own, they'll begin to see us with different eyes.  They'll understand why, even when we're truly happy for our kids, even when we're genuinely excited for them to spread their wings and fly...we still cry as we watch them grow and our heart still aches as we watch them go.  

Monday, August 8, 2011

The Score Keeper

My guess is every family has one...the person who appoints him or herself as scorekeeper.  This is the person, in my experience most often a middle child, who feels compelled to keep a detailed record of every gift given, every chore assigned and every penny spent on each member of the family.  The scorekeeper does not really do this to keep things even.  He does this to make sure he gets, at least, his fair share.  


I myself have never been an even Steven sort of mom.  I've had the philosophy that we should meet each child's needs as they arise, without particular regard for keeping all things equal.  After all, just because one boy needed new shoes or jeans or a backpack, didn't mean everyone did.  And just because one child might need extra money for something didn't demand I dole out the dough in even shares to everyone else.  I figured that over the course of each of their childhoods', it would all even itself out so I didn't have to.  


It was basically that same notion that governed the assignment of household chores.  I never did stars on a chart or a color-coded calendar detailing each person's daily responsibilities.  I admired that kind of organization, I just didn't aspire to it.  So we pretty much have always had a 'mind your own stuff and do what mom tells you when she tells you' policy.  


This parenting style has served my husband and I well, but for our little scorekeeper, it has been a perpetual source of irritation.  You see, the scorekeeper remembers with utter clarity the exact number of times he has taken out the trash in comparison to his brothers.  He has made mental notes of the dollars spent by us toward his possessions and activities in proportion to the budget allocated to each of his siblings.  He has kept a painstaking record of the ages at which he was permitted to do specific things as opposed to when we are allowing his younger brother to do the same things.  




Now, as the face of our family is quickly changing, the scorekeeper of our house has become increasingly disgruntled.  With he and "A" being more men than boys, the chasm between them and the 'baby' is ever widening.   And while "A" is moving into adulthood seemingly without giving it a thought and the 'baby' is happy with the impending prospect of being an 'only child', the scorekeeper quite openly expresses his displeasure with it all.


Our scorekeeper simply cannot believe how excessive my husband and I have become now that we aren't fully supporting him anymore.  He is appalled by the quality and corresponding price tag of the 'baby's' new soccer gear, sure we never would have spent so exorbitantly on him and "A" at that age.  He is concerned that the 'baby' is going to end up driving a car far superior to his first one...although he has had two vehicles he didn't pay a penny for.  And the kicker is that he was appalled by the amount he is certain we spent on a child-free weekend getaway although he honestly hasn't a clue what it cost nor is it any of his business.  


Moreover, he's flabbergasted that we are considering the possibility of taking a second long weekend away later this year to which the 'baby' is likely to be invited, but which he is unlikely to be.  Not that we wouldn't want to spend the time with him, but as an adult, he isn't certain to be in a position to get away from his own grown up obligations when our schedule permits.  


I have to keep reminding him that times are changing.  His father and I have more discretionary money now that we are no longer the sole support for three children.  We have more free time too.  And while the 'baby' is likely to benefit from his years as the only child in this house, I try to remind the scorekeeper that he and "A" had half a dozen years on the front end of their lives to be lavished with unfettered attention, affection and gifts as they were not only our only children, but they were also the only grandchildren and nephews on either side of the family.  Of course, the scorekeeper in him can't help but point out that he doesn't remember most of that while the 'baby' will remember all of this.  


I truly hope as the scorekeeper grows up and moves into the role of husband and father himself someday, he will come to care less about what the score was and find satisfaction in how we all played the game.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Turning the page

My oldest son is getting married, and I'm not dealing with it particularly well.  The impending nuptials have sent me into an emotional tailspin.  It isn't that I don't want to be happy and excited.  I do.  But there's this dull aching that I just can't seem to get over.


At the request of his future mother-in-law (yet another woman I am going to have to share him with), I went on an expedition to gather photographs of his growing up years.  As I poured over pictures of the past twenty years...pictures documenting virtually every noteworthy moment of his life from sporting conquests to his first dance...from carefree moments of childhood play to crossing the stage at his high school graduation...from annual shots of he and his brothers in front the family Christmas tree to my personal favorite of all the men in my life piled in our bed acting goofy and just enjoying being together...I was painfully aware of just how quickly the time had slipped away.


In the day to day, while there was a tight schedule to keep and chores to be done and an  overwhelming sense of never getting through it all, well, it felt like it would go on forever.  I remember thinking they would always be little.  It would always be hectic.  There would always be chaos and clamor and busyness.  I remember thinking there would never be enough hours in the days to do everything we wanted or enough hours in the night to recover from it all.  I remember thinking this was my life...my whole life... being a mom.  


So what becomes of a woman who is at the root of herself a mom, when her children no longer need mothered?  What becomes of me when who I have been is no longer who I can be?  When my house is quiet and my calendar is clear...when the hampers aren't full and the sink is empty...when no one needs me to take them anywhere or help them with anything...what then do I do about getting on with having a life of my own?


I hadn't really given this moment a bit of thought before now.  It wasn't that I didn't know it was coming.  I just didn't expect it to happen so quickly.  Twenty years went by like a tick of the clock.  The next few will go by even faster, I can only suspect.  And then what?  Who will I become when I'm no longer mommy...when there's no longer a child in this house to fill up my life?  Will there just be emptiness...vacuous, echoing space that haunts me?  When this phase of my life is over, will the next find me brooding and anguished over the one I've had to let go?  


I don't know if I'm supposed to grieve over this.  I've never been here before.  Perhaps tomorrow I can find a way to be happy about it all, but today, I just feel like I want to cry...so I am.  In this moment, I feel like I'm losing a piece of myself I will never be able to get back.  But who knows, maybe as the page turns, I can find a new me in the ashes of the old one.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Going Topless

I am a woman with curves...and rolls...and bulges...and some very gelatinous underarm flaps.  But I am aware of these imperfections in my figure and do my best to enhance...or at least cover...the parts of my body that are best not exposed to the general viewing public.  I have discovered, however, that middle aged men do not seem to share the kind of self awareness about their bodies that inspires more clothes rather than less.   


While visiting a local ice cream shop with my teenage son, we were greeted, not so pleasantly, but a rotund little man who had to be mid-sixties if he was a day.  He stood squarely in front of the entrance all the while wrestling with an inside out t-shirt that he managed to get right side out but then proceeded to struggle getting over his big 'ol head and down around his basketball-esque belly.  As I stood there like some kind of dessert deprived hostage, I couldn't help but wonder why he was going topless in the first place.  


It sadly wasn't the first or the last time this thought crossed my mind.  There was the similarly shaped and identically dressed man perched proudly on his riding mower on my way home.  There was the man riding his bike as I came into town who's hair had all left his head only to relocate with a vengeance on his back.  There was another guy with his shirt flung over his shoulder as he, proud as a peacock, strutted past the house.  


I just wanted to yell out...cover it up already!!  There's a time and a place where I'm willing to tolerate a little more exposed flesh than others...no matter how flabby or excessive that flesh might be.  The beach, the pool, the privacy of my own home.  But in general, I do not personally find the bare chest of a middle aged man to be a thing of beauty.  I understand for them, that's not likely the motivation for baring it all from the waist up, but seriously fellas...consider the fact that you do have an audience.  


Unless you're cut...buff...ripped...most women (regardless of age) prefer a well dressed man to a nearly naked one.  Just ask ZZ Topp...or any man in uniform.  So whether your sporting boobies big enough for a B cup and a rock hard beer gut...or your just shapeless and sagging...PUT A SHIRT ON WILL YA!!  



Friday, July 8, 2011

On the edge

Sometimes I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering on the cusp of sanity.  Today was one of those days.  It was something relatively insignificant in the scope of life as a whole...but truthfully, all the things that push me closer to the brink generally are.  Today it was frustration at work, but sometimes it's my kids not listening to me, my husband doing something he knows gets on my nerves, the dog being under foot, traffic lights, unpaid bills, waiting in a line with a slow cashier, plans being made for me or my plans getting ruined.  Sometimes it's an unexpected late night or worse, an all too early morning.  It's unexpected guests and a perpetually full laundry hamper.  It's the price of gas  and the cost of living.  It's my neighbors who never leash their dogs and people who throw cigarettes out their car windows when I'm behind them.  It's itchy tags in my shirts and holes in the toes of my socks.  It's having a longer to do list than I have hours in the day or money in the bank to finance.


When I was younger, I would simply steamroll...with word or deed...over anyone or anything that tried to upset my proverbial apple cart.  I am by nature, after all, a person who often lacks patience and who is, callous as it sounds, intolerant of stupidity.  I do not appreciate having to take detours...literally or figuratively.  I want things the way I want them, and I'm rarely quick to accept the fact that I simply can't always have it all my way.  Every little irritation threatens to stir up hostility within me.  I'm like that little tea..short and stout...when I get all steamed up you'll hear me shout. 


But now that I'm a little older and a little wiser, I realize that this take no prisoners, no holds barred approach to life only serves to breed frustration rather than alleviate it.  Perhaps I have been a slow learner, but I'm finally figuring out that it is selfishness that lines the threshold of my inner peace.  And crossing that line never makes my journey easier. 


Oh it may feel better for a while, the satisfaction that comes from getting my own way, but it's a very fleeting feeling for sure.  Having others kowtow to me for fear of unleashing my primal rage isn't really how I want to achieve my goals.


So as I move forward into the second half of my life, I have decided to make it my objective to be less self serving...to realize not everything everyone else does that stirs my pot was intended to do so...to accept that not every hurdle I come up against needs to be taken as a personal affront.  I am going to do my best to see others before I look at myself.  I'm going to work on thickening my skin and softening my heart.  I'm going to focus less on how close to the edge I am and more on the path that leads me away from it.  So I take a deep breath and remind myself to get over myself.  I am, after all, not the center of the universe.   






Saturday, June 25, 2011

The Rules of Engagement..for moms

This week I have come smack dab, face-to-face, up close and personal with the mother's curse.  Oh, you know what that is.  It's when your mother said, "I hope you grow up and have children just like you."  Now, let me preface by saying, I honestly don't remember my mother ever saying those exact words to me, but I am sure in her heart she thought them on various occasions.  For example, when, as a senior in high school, my boyfriend and I announced that we were going to get married.  


Now you must understand that while I wasn't the best or the brightest in my small graduating class, I wasn't exactly stupid either.  I had been heavily recruited by the journalism department at Indiana University and had aspirations of becoming a well respected author.  But somewhere between planning a future as a writer and actually getting to college, I just happened to fall in love.  And as anyone who has ever taken that plunge knows, falling in love has the ability to change the course of history.


So as my boyfriend and I sat in my parent's living room and made our grand announcement, I could not quite understand my mother's cold, if not right down rude, reaction.  She sat in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, face forward, lips pursed...and silent.  She said nothing as we told her and my dad the very loosely constructed wedding plans we had made. She did not share one iota of our enthusiasm, not one ounce of our joy.  She was not happy and made no attempt to hide it.


I remember my father, always the voice of reason, asking her if she was really surprised by all this.  After all, Dan and I had dated since seventh grade and had been completely inseparable for the previous two years.  But still, my mom remained stone cold, not at all interested in sharing in our excitement.


She asked questions like, 'did we have to get married?'...'what was our rush?'...'had we really considered how hard it would be?'...'and what about school?'


As I sat in this very room with my son and his now....fiancee...not much more than a week ago, I experienced a very strange sort of deja vu.  It was the kind where I had lived this moment before...just on the other end of the conversation.  Now I was the one with all the pointed questions...mostly the same ones my mother had asked me oh so many years ago.  Imagine my surprise when my son gave me, almost verbatim, the same answers I had given my mom.  


As I sat there with my head spinning and my heart palpitating, I suddenly could see myself in him...a person so in love and so determined to be with that person that no one or no thing was going to persuade him otherwise.  I could see that fearlessness that comes from being certain you're doing the right thing at the right time with the right person.  That kind of certainty brings a confidence no amount of reason, logic or circumstantial evidence could overcome.  And no amount of parental objection would do it either. 


All he could see was the new plans he and she were making together.  My plans for him were no longer his priority.  At that moment, I knew I had two choices...be on his side...or not.  Because for all my arguments, no matter how sound, no matter how valid, they all were going to fail to change his mind.  He is going to get married.  He is going to pack his things and leave this home and go into the world with her by his side, and they are going to make a life together.  And it's a life I want to be part of.  


So, with tears both of joy and sadness, I told my son he has my blessing.  Joy because he is beginning his life a man.  Sadness because he is leaving behind his life as a child.  


We've raised him well.  We've taught him everything he needs to know. We've equipped him for this moment as best we could.  So as hard as it is for me, I have to take my hands off the wheel because the reality is, he knows how to drive.  And wherever the path takes him, I want him to know we will always love him...and we will love her too.





Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Pinch a penny, squeeze a dime

There's an adage that says, a man will spend $2 on a $1 item he needs, while a woman will spend $1 on a $2 item she doesn't need.  If this is generally the norm, then my husband and I fall into the totally typical category.  


He is, like most men I suppose, a hunter gatherer.  He identifies a target and sets his sights on it.  Whether it's a power tool, a pair of shoes or a pizza, he knows what he wants, and he single mindedly pursues said objective until he acquires it.   With his wallet holstered in his back pocket like a weapon, he enters a store, takes aim at the desired item and wrangles it to the register without being even a little tempted to just look around and see what else he might find. 


There is no such thing as browsing in his world.  Every shopping trip has a defined goal and a direct path.  There is no need to peruse the aisles...no reason to check the clearance racks.  


There is also no need to look for a good deal in his world either.  If he needs something, he doesn't see any real advantage to checking the Sunday ads, waiting for a coupon or sale or shopping around.  He'll just go to the most convenient vendor, pay the asking price, whatever it is, and call it a successful trip.


This method simply does not work for me.  I do not like to pay full price for anything...not food, not clothes, not household goods.  I never consider the 'original price' to be the actual price.  I know there is a deal to be had on almost everything we buy, and I'm willing to work a little and wait a little to get it.  


For me, paying full price feels like a waste.  Everything goes on sale eventually...stores have mark downs...manufacturers offer coupons...even services are offered at discounted rates during certain times of the year.  It's all about planning ahead and having the patience to overcome the instant gratification urges we all have from time to time.  


But I definitely am one who will spend $1 on a $2 item I don't need...or at least don't need at the moment.  Why wait until we're out of peanut butter and then have to pay whatever the asking price may be?  If I can buy it today on sale, with a coupon and keep it on hand for whenever the need does arise, doesn't that make more sense?


My husband thinks it's just a little nutty to have multiple bottles of ketchup, salad dressing and bbq sauce stocked in the pantry.  But he sure has benefited more than once from an extra package of toilet tissue stashed away somewhere or an spare stick of deodorant stockpiled under the sink.  And he certainly appreciates the wide variety of breakfast cereals we always have on hand and the fact that he can always find a quick snack when he rolls in from work at 2a.m.  


I don't want to ever get to the place where my family has to stage a hoarder's intervention, but I do enjoy the feeling of having the fridge full and the shelves well stocked.  Paying only a fraction of the retail price makes that sensation only that much sweeter.  So say what what you will, but I'll just keep squeezing dimes to see if I can get more than ten cents worth of something  to fall out of them.  









Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Fat is NOT a Four Letter Word

I have a friend who absolutely hates it when I refer to myself as fat.  She will give me a stern look and tell me not to say that, as though it's some kind of malicious self-commentary.  But personally, I find nothing offensive about the word fat.  I am, after all, fat.  


Female, brunette, lunch lady...no one would debate I'm all those things, and no one would expect me to take them as slights. I wouldn't be insulted if you called me middle-aged, loud or opinionated.  I don't even mind bossy or controlling.  Those are all adjectives that aptly apply to me, so why take offense?  It is what it is...or rather, I am what I am.  


Now that isn't to say that I wouldn't change some things about myself if it were easy to do...and that goes for my size as well.  If I could snap my fingers and be thin, I'd so do it.  I'd also be 5'7, have straight, gap-less teeth and be able to walk in heels.  But it isn't that easy, and obviously I'm not interested in doing the work required to make the changes the old fashioned way.


Oh I know there are legitimate reasons why I should lose weight.  Health, agility, longevity...all perfectly valid reasons indeed why I should drop fifty or a hundred and fifty pounds.  But honestly, I just haven't come to the place in my own life...in my own body...where I've felt compelled to do what's necessary to get there.   And I don't think that makes me a terrible person.


So no, I don't mind being called fat...when used as a matter of fact.  I'm not expecting to be beaten over the head with the word or have it shouted at me for meanness sake.  But I am, by choice, electing to see myself as I am and accept myself for who I am..of which, my size is, ironically, but a very small component.  


I think in a world where people are stuck with all sorts of labels...some deserved and others purely derogatory...it is wise to honestly evaluate the ones applied to us.  If they're true, why fight it?  If they're true, but we just don't like it, then we should do something to change it or...excuse my brashness...suck it up.


The truth of the matter, as I see it anyway, is that the people who love me will love me at any size and those who don't care for me wouldn't be obliged to if I weighed less.  And the bigger truth is that I am a lot more than simply my size...mostly wonderful things.  I am a Child of God.  I am a great wife and mother.   I am a good daughter, sister, aunt, cousin and friend.  I am smart, hard-working, insightful and personable.  I have a vivid imagination and a way with words.  I am an excellent cook (which certainly contributes to my fat issues).  I could go on, but I wouldn't want to give you the impression I'm full of myself, although some would argue that I am.  :-)  But those things...coupled with or rather counterbalanced by the not so positive aspects of my character...are the things that really make me...me.  If they happen to come in a plus size package, well so be it.    

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Don't Drop the Ball

Most every woman with kids has, at one time in her life, tried to play the 'super mom game'.  It's an interesting game with just one rule...DON'T DROP THE BALL.


At first, this seems simple enough.  One little softball lobs your direction, and you scoop it up with ease.  A diaper leaks through, a pacifier comes up missing, that night-night blankie didn't make into the dryer before bedtime...for a beginner, all seem quite serious at the moment.  But the pros know that's all just kids' play.  


By the time they're 4, many kids are already carving out their own space on the family calendar...T-ball, soccer, ballet lessons, vacation Bible school, play dates and birthday parties.  As 'super mom' will soon realize, it's not just a matter of catching the balls thrown her direction.  It's a matter of keeping them all in the air. It's on the job training, learning not only how to catch but how to juggle.  


A truly adept 'super mom' must master multi-tasking.  With her, housework, homework and busy work all manage to get done somehow.  'Super mom' can check a kid's math, bake 24 cupcakes on the fly, get Junior to his game on time and still find a moment to have a semi-rational thought.  


She also knows that it isn't just the schedule and business of living that have to be juggled.  The emotions, fears and personalities of her little darlings threaten the delicate balance she must maintain to keep everything moving smoothly.  But no matter what they throw at her, she just keeps those balls in motion.


She can remove a splinter or a loose tooth with hardly a whimper.  
She can make tangles into French braids with nary a tear being shed.  
She can turn a pound of hamburger and a can of cream of mushroom soup into a meal in thirty minutes or less.  
She loves the games her kids play even if she doesn't know all the rules.  
She will give up the last piece of cake although she really was looking forward to it.  
She will drive to Walmart at 10pm on Sunday to buy poster board for a project due on Monday morning that her kid has known about for two weeks.  
She knows the phone number of the doctor, dentist and school secretary by heart.  
She'll pack a lunch even when she knows for certain her kid absolutely would eat sloppy Joe's before he'd starve to death.
She will host a sleepover for a dozen kids at the end of an insane work week.
She'll sign up for team treats, send cups and napkins for the Valentine's Day party and paint faces at the school carnival.
She will suffer through many a recital or concert with a smile.
She will stay up late to wash a uniform for the game, no matter how big or small.
She'll get up early to iron a special shirt for school pictures even though she knows the photographer won't do a thing if the kid's hair is standing up.
She knows that while it's ok to say "yes", it's also ok to say "no".  
She will put on her brave face when she gives any one of the various 'talks'.
She'll laugh at dumb jokes...
Cry over baby pictures...
Cheer at graduation (even if it's only on the inside because she knows her kid would die of embarrassment if she actually got up and cheered out loud).
She'll love them when it's easy, and she'll love them when it's hard.
She'll fight their battles when she can, and do her best to equip them to fight the battles they must must face on their own.


But the truly advanced 'super mom' also knows when to shout, "Don't you dare throw that ball this way!"  She knows when she's reached her limit, and she can't juggle one more thing.  She understands that while, 'don't drop the ball', is the only rule, it's a rule that will inevitably be broken.  She knows she can't be all things to all people at all times.  She also knows that there is only one way to know what's really important in life...let all the balls hit the floor and sees in what order she picks them back up.  We all need to do that once in a while...JUST DROP THE BALLS!!







Monday, May 16, 2011

Love Triangle

I know I can't be the only mother who has ever felt a little trepidation over her child dating. I have sons, so I'll proceed from my point of view, but I'm sure it's much the same for the mother of daughters.


Watching that little boy who you've fawned over, cheered for, chauffeured around, gone to battle to protect, laughed with, laughed at, and loved passionately turn his affections from you to someone else is just heartbreaking in a way.  We all know as mothers that's what's supposed to happen.  It's honestly what we want for them...to fall in love and have a happy life and a family of their own.  We just don't realize how bittersweet the moment will be when they move us to the back burner and give our spot to another woman.  


I genuinely have tried over these past four or five years, during which my sons have been dating, to be open to and accepting of the young women they have chosen.  Neither of them have been serial daters, and for the most part, they have chosen relatively well so it hasn't been horribly difficult to at least be pleasant and welcoming to the handful of girls who have come through our door and been introduced as 'girlfriend'.  That isn't to say I've had the warm and fuzzies about all of them or that it hasn't taken time for one or two of them to grow on me.  It is, after all, difficult to put on a happy face all the time when dealing with 'the other woman'.


I was recently able to have a very frank discussion with one son's girlfriend.  She started by asking, somewhat jokingly but somewhat seriously, if we liked her.  And of course, we do like her.  But what she really wanted to know was did we like her in her role as potential future daughter-in-law.  


I could easily have just given her a glib response, a simple and dismissive 'yes' and went about my business.  But it isn't too often you get a wide open door and an invitation to enter from the woman you share your son with, so I proceeded, albeit with caution.


I decided to tell her what I wish I had known back oh so many years ago when I was dating my husband.  Back then, his mother seemed to dislike me...or at least be indifferent to me...even though I considered myself an ok catch.  I was, after all, a straight-laced, polite, moderately intelligent girl with my head screwed on right.  What more could the mother of a teen aged boy expect from a teen aged girl?  


Well, now that I'm a mother, I know.  She expected me to stay the heck away from her son.  He was too young for her to just turn over to some girl she didn't even know.  With me in the picture, he was too easily distracted from the life he shared with her.  He was choosing me over her to be his confidant, his companion, his secret keeper.  He didn't need his mother to hold his hand when he had a girlfriend to do so.


Had I known back then what I know now, I may not have been so snarky every time she demanded he come home immediately or get off the phone right that second.  I might have understood her coldness toward me really had very little to do with me specifically.  Her seeming reluctance to accept me wasn't because there was something wrong with me either.  In retrospect, I'm sure her emotions over being suddenly and unwillingly thrust into a love triangle were probably not unlike my own.  So as I sat next to my son's girlfriend, preparing to embark on our first intimate conversation of any serious substance, I tried to remember how it felt when I was on her side of the love triangle now that I was on my side of it.


I did start off with the obligatory 'yes, we like you', a soft segue into much rougher territory.  I went on to tell her that it's not, in my experience...or at least not usually...something to be taken personally when a mother seems to not be so crazy about the person her son seems crazy about.  


Mothers don't see 'the other woman' with stars in their eyes like their sons do.  They aren't impressed by mere appearance or even honey sweet behavior.  They aren't swayed by flattery or even acts of good will. We know a girl trying extra hard to make her mark on us typically has ulterior motives and most likely plans to stick around.


Mothers understand right from square one that interlopers always present a certain threat.  The introduction of a new character often means a lesser role for the one who is already there.  There's no way for her to fit into the picture without me scooting over to make room. And if I don't scoot of my own volition, my son will certainly give me a firm nudge.  He needs me to make room for her.  And I need to do what's best for him, even if I don't like it.


It doesn't really matter whether boy or girl, the love affair a mother has with her child is different from any other.  There's nothing better than being mommy...superhero, magic maker, master encourager.  There's nothing better than holding your child close and rocking them in your arms...whether they're babies or bigger than we are. To love unconditionally someone who loves you exactly the same way is priceless. 


To go from center of my child's universe, where I hung the moon and made the sun rise, where I could kiss a boo boo and make it all better or where I had the power to make everything right with the world in their eyes...to go from "I want to live with you forever" and having my opinion count above everyone else's...to go from all that to being practically invisible sometimes, out of sight and out of mind, the last resort instead of the first choice...well frankly, it stinks.  


As I explained, being as sensitive as I could to my son's girlfriend's feelings, it's hard for a mother to let go of her child, trusting the person he chooses as a mate to really and truly love him..to want what's best for him even above what's best for herself...to protect his heart even at the expense of her own...to build him up when he's weak and come along side him in his pursuits...to see him as beautiful even when it takes rose-colored glasses to do so...to love him...like I love him.


How will she ever?  How could she?  And when she takes him away from me, will he remember that I still do love him that way?  That I'll always be his mommy, and he'll always be my little boy.  I needed her to understand that...those fears, those reservations, those aching little spots left on a mother's heart when her child falls in love with someone other than her...it has nothing to do with her really.  It has to do with me...letting go of him.


I know, from her side of the triangle, it all looks very different.  She probably thinks I don't understand just how much she loves him.  But I have a pretty good idea.  And I really do know that just because he loves her doesn't mean he loves me any less.  Who knows, maybe one day she and I will love each other in a way that makes me feel less like I'm losing a son and more like I'm gaining...well, you know how that saying goes, but I'm not sure I'm ready to apply it to myself just quite yet.