life according to me

Category: Love

A battle of wills

The single bark that has wakened me at 3 am five mornings in the last week sounded again this morning. I never hesitate when I hear it and roll from bed, feel around in the dark for my sweater and pull it over my head just before heading down the stairs, feeling my way against the wall as I go. I say nothing as I open the door of Wanda’s crate and hear her snuffling behind me as I head out to the chilly patio so she can take care of her business. The night is quiet. Stars glimmer in their places in a clear sky. Even in winter, I can hear crickets in the distance. I will admit I enjoy this aspect of a routine I want to keep from going any farther. Getting up this early is not something I want to look forward to on a regular basis.

(more…)

May 2, 2014
The Last Summer Vacation

It seems no matter where I am on the web right now, someone somewhere is headed Back-to-School. Mothers are sad summer is over (or secretly not), healthy lunches are discussed (or those not so healthy tsk-tsked over), and teachers are settling in with yet another year’s classroom full of children. The smell of crayons and freshly sharpened pencils waft through the streets.

(more…)

August 20, 2013
Cool August Mornings and a Mother’s Worries

It’s about that time. The heat of August has come like it always does and with it damp mornings that will always remind me of getting ready for a new school year to begin. As soon as the MoH is off to work, I putz around the pots and planters on my patio, snipping away the spent blossoms and sweeping the leaves that have dropped over the past day. The orb weavers have been out for a week now and trying to jockey for best web position for the season, their little orange bodies not quite adjusted to those of us who forget it’s their time in the garden now, and we crash into their hard work a couple of times before they teach us to remember, and look.

(more…)

August 15, 2012
College + Life: Year One

It’s been an interesting year and writing about it on July 6 is odd considering most people think about doing so on January 1 when they’re busy taking stock of their lives, yet again caught up in the idea of promising themselves the moon if only they might eat less, organize more, drink less, exercise more, want less, or earn more than they have in preceding years.

Go ahead. Just try and say that three times fast.

My reason for this reflection is to acknowledge my youngest son’s 19th birthday and with it, the conclusion of his first year of life away from home. No birthday cake and no wrapped prezzies. Out of tune renditions of Happy Birthday sung through a shared receiver. An agreed upon mini fridge for his dorm room being delivered shortly so he won’t have to walk to the corner for a snack or soda after remembering we tell him not forget to eat.

What strikes me as most significant about this past year is his adaptability. When others ask how he’s doing, we respond that he’s doing extremely well, loves San Francisco, has made friends, and is happy. He enjoys his classes, is interested in what he’s learning, and has a level head about how he’s doing performance-wise.

Those inquiring seem surprised by our assessment, and signs of that surprise lessening has coincided with an equal lessening of inquiries made. A collective huh if ever there was one.

Or, in the words of Wally and The Beav, “Go figure.”

The MoH would say I’m being irrational, but he listens to me as I blather on about it all being so curious. Not our son’s adaptability — others’ reactions to it. Perhaps everyone had their doubts. If a kid doesn’t exude hard charging in-your-face drive while he’s growing up, then the assumption is that he’s unmotivated — or even incapable, I suppose. If he’s not wielding a bat, or tackling someone on the opposing team, swinging, pedaling, spiking, serving, then maybe, just maybe he lacks muster. Stick a mirror under his nose to see if he’s breathing, I guess.

But I know better. Still waters run deep.

When I think of my youngest, I’ve come to the conclusion he quietly indulged his father and I all our fussing over him throughout his childhood. Even my mother has muttered, “Well, he has been somewhat sheltered.” But bear in mind that much of the fussing was our attempts at not acting like we were fussing instead of actually fussing which had to be comical on most days, exhausting others. He endured it — and us — with patience, grace, and a quiet but determined focus to carry on with his interests his way. The occasional flat-browed silence following the semi-terse exchanges one expects between a teenager and his parents notwithstanding, of course.

He continues to indulge us, tolerating requests to have an online chat at a particular time on a specific day, numerous texts from his father (I lack that function on my cell, lucky kid), and horror of all horrors to many others his age, I’m sure — comments on his facebook wall.

You gotta love parents who don’t get it — or act like they don’t get it. That would be us. But we do get it, which is why we’re omnipresent — well, sort of — in his life from a manageable distance of 600 miles or so. Not quite helicoptering, but close. Very, very close. Telescopic helicoptering? I wish.

After getting his driver’s license in the nick of time late last summer and with no practice until returning home this June for a short four weeks, after one reminder session with the MoH, he was on his own, remembering to ask if I had plans to use the car before driving away to meet with friends. Suppressing the urge to sneak out the front door to snap 10 or 20 photos of him driving off the first time by himself, I had a little talk with God about keeping him safe instead. And I’m not one who talks to God, but the stars weren’t out, so I couldn’t see talking to a sunlit sky making sense. I count myself lucky that I didn’t have to deal with the worry of his wanting to drive when he was 16. The three years’ wait time gave me a chance to mature a bit or find out a few screws were loose.

I think what I miss about him the most is the conversation we’d have. A glimpse into what he was interested in (sci fi, video games, modeling…) and what he found funny (LOL cats?) was always an excuse to stop what I was doing to listen, watching his eyes as he talked, the start of a smile thinking about what he was telling me. Nice kid.

It’s a challenge to get much out of him on the phone now, and worried he might feel compelled to talk to “Mom,” I usually make it brief and on the not so fuzzy side of things I warned him I’d remind him of periodically, like, “Are you eating enough, and washing your hair? Taking showers, cleaning your face, putting on your deoderant?” before he cuts me off with an even-toned, “Mom” and patient explanation that he is, in fact, taking care of all of those things. Good answer.

You’re wincing, I’m sure, but someone has to remind him. It might as well be me. Call it a public service.

The MoH and I are fairly jealous that he’s getting this opportunity. That he gets to be in our favorite city every day, and when he leaves his dorm for class, it’s to walk among those who live there, work there, and vacation there. And then there are those who hang around the streets there, too, but that’s part of life, isn’t it? Knowing when to be aware, safe. It feels like we’ve made two steps in one with this experience of sending him out into the world — that he’s getting his education, but he’s getting it in a big city instead of on a traditional college campus.

We’re happy for him.

And proud.

Happy Belated, Doog. We love you.

p.s.

Has your mini-fridge arrived yet?

July 7, 2011
Billy Collins and stiff upper lips

I love Billy Collins. He makes me think differently about the things I think about. His sometimes irreverent, and certainly candid perspective always stops me long enough to think: Really? Do I need to take myself that seriously? It’s refreshing.

What’s not refreshing is that in this month of heightening everyone’s awareness about breast cancer, and celebrating survivors and their warrior stories, I’ve just found out my aunt has bone cancer.

Stage 4.

Meds to help her pain.

My mother beside herself with it all, but sporting a stiff upper lip.

All I can think of is how my aunt always has that knack of making things seem funny with little or no effort, a tough thing for some. She’s one of those people everyone else wants to be near, soaking her up. But I’ve always thought it was at some detriment to her.

I could say more, but it makes me sad.

I know I’m supposed to have a stiff upper lip and all that sort of thing, but I suck at that. People just think I’m good at it.

Pardon me if I don’t put up a yellow ribbon.

But I’ll find a star and put her name on it tonight.

I will.

October 8, 2010
All Summer in a Day

It’s funny that when you’ve waited long for something and it finally arrives, time slows to a crawl. It’s there, right on your doorstep but not quite ready to enter because it’s not quite time. I’m not the only one affected by this because I can hear my son in his room next door not doing much of anything. Yet again, checking the insistent tone in my voice, I’ve had to tell him that he needs to pick up his room. That I do not want to be left after we’ve dropped him off at school to come back home and see what’s left of his teenaged boyness strewn around the floor and on every surface, forcing me to acknowledge for the thousandth time how fast time passes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was suspicious that I had plans for his room in his absence. Plans like, ridding our house of all evidence of his having inhabited the space for nearly a decade and putting up ruffled curtains, or painting it pink.

I’m sitting here instead of forcing things to move along more quickly in the day, but it’s conditioned response. My reasonably gentle prodding requires being within earshot of him to make sure he’s doing what he needs to do to get ready. It takes more time in the long run, but it’s good for me on the patience practicing front, and it’s good for him because let’s face it: he’ll be doing all of it on his own after tomorrow without the up close and personal variety of insistent prodding or reminders. They’ll be relegated to email and Skype instead.

Have you washed your hair? Done your laundry? How are your classes? Is your roommate a nice guy? Are you brushing your teeth, flossing your teeth, staying on top of your organization?

The contents of his day-to-day existence have steadily begun to fill my office — stacks of jeans, shorts, and tee shirts lining up against the bookcases. We stand looking at them as if they were something remarkable.

Me: Are three pair of jeans enough?

Him: I probably need a couple more.

Me: (holding up a dingy yellow tee) This one’s seen better days. If it’s a favorite, leave it here, otherwise, throw it in the discard pile.

Him: What’s wrong with it?

And then another laundry lesson begins about light colors being separated from dark when the weekly wash is completed. He’s been doing his laundry for a couple of years now, but I have to make sure, telling him something he knows already.

Economy sized bottle of detergent. Check. Even larger economy sized toilet paper package. Check. Body wash, shaving cream, toothpaste, dental floss…check. I wandered through the book section at Target last week after sending him off to get his personal supplies, the image a doting mother leading her 18-year-old son around to choose his deodorant not appealing to me even though I know he wouldn’t mind.

The sounds of hustle bustle next door have stopped again and a quick look around me reveals a few more items lying in wait– guitar, art supplies, a few of his favorite books — but I can tell he’s once again parked in front of his computer. The computer that’s staying here. The new laptop arrives today, just in time to be experimented with and the Wacom tablet hooked up to make sure everything works. Are 24 hours really enough for a day like this?

It’s 10am and things are finally going into the soft duffle bag with rollers we purchased a few years ago with this very moment in mind. Thankfully, there’s a second for the bits of this and that he’ll need — things that feel semi-familiar.

Will you have your own desk? Is there a lamp? Are there hangers in the closet? I’ve asked all these questions before and have been patiently told, yes. Yes, they’re all there. But what about something for your desk? Something to keep pencils in, or folders for important papers? He and the MoH were there on a dorm tour recently, so I’ve been assured that everything is just fine. But no mini fridges, no microwaves, and no used furniture is allowed. And definitely no pets, which is sad for Lizzie who clearly loves him more than anyone else here. He’s had to push her aside more than once as he filled the large duffle bag, trying to keep her out of it. For now, she’s content to make a nest on the clothes he’s put aside to wear tomorrow, her paws kneading the worn fleece before settling down to bathe, confirming that he’ll have cat hair on his clothes when he leaves just like any other day.

By this time tomorrow, we will have dropped him off at his dorm and helped him carry everything to his room. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to meet his roommate, but I’ve been told he thinks he can handle making his bed himself. Of course this is something I’ve always known, but he’s yet to make his bed once in his life, so the experience should be interesting. Bear in mind I’ve not made his bed many times, either, but I can think of many things I’d rather do than to make up a bunk bed. I wonder if he’ll have the top bunk or the bottom?

He’s semi-packed now and in the shower. We’re off to get his bi-annual haircut, pick up some new earphones and maybe assemble a junkfood stash for his dorm. It would be perfect to be able to put him in my car so he could take care of these last minute things himself, leaving me to fuss over the details, but after all the hassle of getting his driving permit, lessons, practice, and a last second driver’s test, he doesn’t like driving. Go figure. At least he’ll have some ID, right?

I wonder how he’ll feel about being in a big city away from just about everything he’s always known and depended upon?

Oh, my.

August 25, 2010
Road Trips and Empty Nests

It’s that odd time of year when the heaviness of gloomy June skies have given up the fight and succumbed to summer. In a few short weeks, all the weather you might attribute to the most southern corner of California has graced us with its seemingly relieved presence: blue skies clear enough for skywriters to appear, warm dry Santa Ana winds, damp nights when the sea air only begrudgingly wafts through open windows, and this morning, fog.

The RTR is on summer break and for the first time in his life since beginning school at the age of three, he’s home alone for nearly the entire 10 weeks. No camp, no classes, no arranged visits with relatives, and absolutely no agenda. Since I’ve been back to work for a couple of months now, he’s here each day most likely lost in a world that is unique to him — one more and more filled with what it appears to be his choice of direction in life. He draws and paints, develops fierce mechanical robot images and plays interactive video games at his computer. He wants to study game design.

I’d like to say that the past few years that I’ve been at home, I’ve had a positive influence on his quiet life, and at this point hope that whatever did come from our time together — more than we’ve spent together in his life — is far more lasting than what I’d originally intended: to keep an eye and ear out for him with respect to school and responsibility in general.

Yes, I actually said that. But I’ve learned quite a bit with this youngest of mine, and although we’re quite a long way from finding out whether he’s truly the strongest of us all, or whether he’s the absent-minded gentle boy I’ve always thought him to be, I suspect he’s a little of both, and we’ve barely a year left to send him on his way to find out for himself.

We’ve had little time or money for an elaborate vacation this year, and so we seized the opportunity to fly to San Francisco to tour the school he wants to attend. The plan was to spend a day in the city, take the tour the next morning, and then rent a car and drive up to Mendocino, a town I’ve wanted to visit forever.

Outside of my coming down with the strangest flu of sorts and being completely out for the count for two solid days, we made it to San Francisco just fine. I wouldn’t have missed the tour of this school for anything because I honestly have many hopes attached to it like I suppose most parents are inclined to, even if the circumstances surrounding that desire aren’t the best.

When the RTR was a freshman or sophomore, a visitor came to speak at his art class and the person made such an impression that the RTR made an effort to tell me about it without my routine inquiry about his day. I’ll never forget listening to him tell me about it because the focus of his interest was that he only needed a high school diploma to get in. No SAT scores. No AP credit. Just. Graduate.

It has been quite the journey since that day, and we’ve watched him do quite well in all of his classes each Fall semester, and then fall completely apart in the Spring. We’ve planned with him, discussed options for Plan B or C when Plan A clearly wasn’t working, we’ve tried to motivate and outright bribed him. We’ve threatened with images of our version of the real world although we weren’t completely convinced we wanted to be the part of that option we might have to be.

Deciding to save my breath and his ears this year has been a definite giving in. Yet again, I’ve caved to the strength of the passive genes my boys all clearly have. It’s amazing. But the school was amazing, and while on that tour, I found myself envious, pushing away the what ifs and if onlys that kept rising up in me. It’s an urban campus with buildings spread out all over the city with a timed shuttle that carries students to and from their classes and dorms. I watched as a student here and there walked by, laptop bags slung over shoulders, ears wired to iPods, Starbucks in hand. I imagined my son there and saw him fitting in at least from an external appearance — minus the coffee.

The million dollar question — no, make that almost $30,000 since that’s what will come out of our pockets to pay for this each year — is whether being in that environment where he won’t have to deal with calculus, or arcane subjects that aren’t directly related to his focus of study, where he’ll be able to take studio classes right away instead of having to wait until general ed requirements are satisfied will help him understand that life requires us all to complete basic tasks we don’t necessarily want to, nor enjoy. That sometimes, they are painfully challenging, but we have to do them anyway. That in spite of our angst, we often grow the most and admit to learning the best from those lessons that seem only to be hurdles in our path. Like parenthood at times. Like being the parent of children who quietly meander in a direction only they seem to understand at a pace that I swear is intended to make me crazy.

I’m convinced now that I’m down to my last year and facing empty nest syndrome square in the face, that I’m the one who has learned the most. I’ve learned that if I had it to do all over again, very few things would change. But I would wonder about the strangeness of life’s plan and our response to it. To whom it carries along and to those it mystifies.

I will also hold my breath this last year and continue to wonder why, why, why, why if all he needed was a high school diploma to get into that art school, he would seemingly intentionally fail a semester of English. He told me he just didn’t do the work. That he waited, and then it was too late.

Yes, life’s like that. It’s like that all the time.

July 20, 2009
Loving my Valentine

I don’t expect that on Valentine’s Day anyone will be spanking me with dog or goat-skin whips in order to increase my fertility this year, because although some may find that entertaining, I wouldn’t. I’m thinking that the MoH wouldn’t like it much either, since he’s my Valentine, and I his.

We’re more about simple things and silliness, like emails that come as soon as I sit down in front of my Mac because he’s figured out nearly exactly when that happens each day. Some people think that after two people have been Valentines for 25 years that there might not be too many more surprises, but I’d say they’re wrong. I’ve been surprised four times this week and it’s not yet Valentine’s Day.

The first email said…

On the first day of Valentine’s your true love gave to yooooouuuuuuuu….

Something sweet under a pillow very nearby.

He knows I love Chuao chocolate. Love. It.

On the next morning, just as I was wondering if there would be a second day of Valentines and whether I qualified, the second email came…

On the second day of Valentine’s your true love gave to yooouuuuuuu….

Something stinky that thought it was going to watch TV but ended up in a dark cave.

Let me know if you can’t figure that out.

Now, I don’t know about you, but since I’m sort of stuck in all things food on most days, I thought of a very nice piece of cheese. I know. But the MoH knows me and clearly he was enjoying himself with all of this Valentine’s Day revelry. So I went with my first instinct and checked the cheese drawer in our fridge. It’s pretty dark in there these days since I haven’t changed the light bulbs that have long been burned out, and I suppose you could consider it as dark as a cave.

Regardless, there was no package in the cheese drawer, so I went down to the laundry room where it is on the chilly side and can be smelly as well. It’s where the cat’s litter box resides. Still, no present. But there is a second fridge in the garage! Alas, no present. Back upstairs, I peered into the dimness of his closet and searched his laundry basket. Nothing.

He sent me a second clue…

Stinky generally means bad, but maybe it just has a strong fragrance.

See clue 1 and then you were close with d) the garage fridge. And you will have to open up something to find it. And no it’s not in the trash cans.

I ventured back to the garage fridge and opened the butter box to find a bag of peanut butter filled pretzel nuggets with a $1.00 tag on them thinking, “He must have forgotten that he was going to do this riddle scavenger hut thing and ran into 7/11 on the way home…Or wants to get rid of me by feeding me tainted peanut butter snack products.” Hell. When it comes right down to it, peanut butter isn’t high on my list of special things unless it’s in the form of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup that’s been in the freezer for a while.

So I sent him this…

And then he sent me this…

So hmmm, I said you were close but that is too close.

What used to have a TV in it, is now in the garage and has a cavernous opening that you can close that sits next to the trash cans.

It starts with an A and ends with an R

Poor things, sitting waiting for someone to find them.

: )

And so I ventured back to the garage to open our old armoire and found flowers! Yes, the presents are nice, but I love this goofy, romantic man I’m married to who has taken the time to do all of this for me. In between meetings, and keeping up with it all when I still haven’t decided whether I’ll change my clothes or not. Or combed my hair.

This morning, I hadn’t yet opened my email because I was focused on other things. But no sooner had I opened my email and the MoH’s latest arrived…

Are you sitting at your computer waiting?

Sweets,

Have you already rifled thru the house wondering what treasure your sweet husband has left for you??

So here we go.

On the third day of Valentines your true love gave to yooooouuuuu.

A piece of plastic and a folded piece of paper.

But before I tell you where it is, it looks like you have a headache and need an aspirin.

Now I had already emailed him about what I was preoccupied with — our son, the RTR, who is somewhat absent-minded on most days. The night before, he’d been talking about spending the weekend with his cousin, and we have a routine where my sister-in-law and I meet half way to their house and drop off whichever boy is doing the visiting. I was worried that the plans weren’t in stone and that he needed to talk to the carpool driver about not picking him up after school today, or whether he’d packed a bag for the weekend. I needed to figure out Plan B and realized that the MoH and I could go out tonight and maybe see a movie or something.

With a barely recognizable rendition of The 12 Days of Christmas oddly coming from my pursed lips, I opened the MoH’s most recent email …

There’s no need to fear — Underdad is here.

I reminded him to tell M that he wouldn’t need a ride
I asked him about the bag and he said there would be time to come home
and pack it after school (then why do you need to cancel the ride?)
3pm at the halfway point is correct
See my last e-mail regarding your last question.

This makes me smile since I was still in bed sleeping this morning when all of this was going on. The MoH was the Mom of this family for many years while I was working, so he’s good at organizing details about who should be where and when.

Today’s riddle was very easy since I knew where the aspirin was even though I rarely have headaches. This is what I found…

A gift certificate to shop in a favorite store and dinner at my favorite Greek restaurant. Guess I’ll have no excuse to wear sweats.

With Valentine’s Day still not quite here, I’ve collected quite a few Valentines from my Valentine.

And because I’m a sap, the best part has been all the fun.

He makes my heart go flippety-flop.

February 13, 2009
Fifty Years, Love and Memories

Today is my mother and father-in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary. Fifty years is a very long time. I should know because that’s how long my very own bones have been on this planet learning to walk, and run, falling down, then starting again. Relentlessly.

Fifty years.

A marriage lasting fifty years is more something to read about in the section of the newspaper that also records births and deaths, engagements and graduations than it is something people I know have accomplished. Sure, my grandparents were married fifty years, but it took my mother’s mother three tries to get it right, and at that point, I think maybe she was just tired.

When I think of my mother and father-in-law, they’re rarely considered separately. They go together like a nicely wrapped present, and if you’d told me years ago that they would matter to me as much as they now do, I would have had trouble believing you. But they matter quite a bit.

Maybe it’s because of their unwavering support — their interest, their enthusiasm, their curiosity, energy, patience, graciousness…uncomplicated kindness.

I’ve known them for nearly half the time they’ve been married, which is an interesting perspective now that I think of it. And in that time, we’ve shared quite a lot: Thursday night pizza and wine — lots and lots of wine; annual dinners out to celebrate our anniversaries and birthdays all in one big night; old jobs and new jobs; trips and family holidays; mint juleps and phone calls from the Kentucky Derby. It may not sound like anything out of the ordinary to others, but I’m smiling as I think about it all.

I think about my father-in-law’s quiet, positive outlook, and my mother-in-law’s plans of places to go and things to see. I think about what caring grandparents they are, and how good they are at making sure everyone knows that he or she is thought of in a special way.

I guess thinking about all of this today has made me realize that outside of a few stories about how they met, and where they lived, I don’t know all that much about their lives together — except that they raised a remarkably patient man I happen to be married to. I haven’t seen many photos, either, and wonder about them now.

We’re all going out to dinner tonight to celebrate their 50 years together. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to get a story or two out of them, and if I’m lucky, some photos not too much longer from now, just to see.

Fifty years.

The MoH and I aren’t quite half way there, but we’ll get there. We’ll get there with bells on, grinning all the way.

January 31, 2009
You, too can enjoy life past 30
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.

I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.

Fifty-two.

The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.

I beg to differ.

Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”

Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.

I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.

Um, no thanks.

I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
1. The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
2. Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
3. It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
4. It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
5. Good friends are priceless.
6. Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
7. It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.

And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
September 3, 2008