IslandRoar

Transitioning...

I kept the key to my old NJ house on my key chain for eight years after I moved to Martha's Vineyard.

I've said it before: I'm not good with transitions.

Oh, I'm a big girl now. I manage. I just need a little time for internal processing.

There is artwork on various walls in my house that my kids made in school years ago. I like knowing it's there.

Since last June I've kept a decoration from Daughter #1's high school graduation party on the mantel. After she left for college I enjoyed looking at it even more. It reminded me of a safer past, when she was still living at home, secure under my watchful eye.

I finally banished it before she arrived for Thanksgiving. But only because I knew she would mock me.

2010 is upon us and every TV channel seems to be hosting a retrospective, looking back on this, the first decade of a still sparkling new millennium.

Is it really ten years since we partied "like it's 1999?" I still possess my very tacky and beloved 2000 glasses from that celebration. Can it already be time to ring in a new decade?

When your kids have one-and-a-half feet out the door and you're at this midpoint in life, some days every breath you take seems to be a transition of some sort. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically.

I'm trying to give myself a break. Requiring a few extra moments to ruminate before moving on isn't always a bad thing.

On the window sill above my kitchen sink is a small heart-shaped vase. In it are the very dried remains of the last few asters I snipped from my garden in October before the frost.

Their presence is a gesture, a tangible reminder of what, after a long gray winter, will inevitably return.

I may just keep them there until I cut my first bunch of daffodils. Or perhaps I'll toss them tomorrow.

But today, I like knowing they're there.

 

Enjoy your New Year's celebrations everyone! See you here in 2010.

 

 

I Want to be Tone Deaf

Today I am guest posting for Jen over at Sprite's Keeper.

I can't tell you how thrilled and honored I was when she asked me to do this. Jen was one of the early commenters back when I started this blog last May. I enjoy everything she writes.

My guest-post is about the lovely way my young-adult children talk to me. You know, that special, heartwarming tone that teenagers save just for their parents?

So click on over and leave me a comment. Please. I need to know somebody cares...

 

Spin Cycle: Cyber Santa

Jen of Sprite's Keeper very generously took the time to organize this Secret Cyber Santa Spin (say THAT five times fast). From a list of our favorite bloggers, she waved her magic wand and assigned us one lovely blogger on whom we were to post.

I get to rave about The South Dakota Cowgirl, Jen, one of my all time most fascinating bloggy buds.

I was first attracted to Jen's blog because her world is so completely different than my own. Originally from Texas, she rides horses in barrel events and lives on a huge cattle ranch in South Dakota.

Her days are filled with riding and training horses and helping her cowboy, Zach, with multiple ranch related activities, from herding and preg-checking cattle to rescuing horses stuck on wire fences.

It's clear from her posts that she's an awesome cook, but her creativity doesn't end there. Among her many talents, she makes gorgeous jewelry, plays piano and guitar, sings, and even writes her own songs. Her voice is lovely and definitely worth a listen.

I can't imagine what it's like to live on acres and acres populated with deer, antelope, rattlesnakes, jackrabbits and prairie dogs, but Jen's spectacular photographs and video give me some idea.

I may have originally followed SDCG out of curiosity, but I've stayed because of the sincere and generous person she is.

Like all of us, Jen has been through a lot, and I don't mean just upending her life in Texas to move to South Dakota. Her heartfelt writing reveals a woman who is courageous and adventurous, playful and stubborn, and very much devoted to her friends and family.

If you don't already follow SDCG, you should make a point to click on over there and take a look around.

One thing I didn't plan on when I started this whole blogging thing last May, was the extent to which I would develop actual relationships, however virtual, with fellow bloggers. Jen may be much younger than I, and our lives as different as night and day, but through her words I sense a kindred spirit.

She has been a fun and loyal cyber friend, and I truly hope she goes on sharing her world with us for a long, long time.

Jen may not know this, but it's entirely possible one day I just might show up at her door, ask her to throw me on a horse, and have her give me a personal tour of the ranch. I get the feeling we'll have a lot to talk about.

For more Cyber Santa Spins, go call on Sprite's Keeper. And give her a big holiday hug from me.

 

"Mother Mary"

When my kids were younger and we lived in New Jersey, our church organized a Christmas pageant each Christmas Eve for the children's mass. An older child read the Christmas Gospel while an assortment of small shephards and angels, Wise Men and innkeepers, made their way down the aisle to the altar.

By the time First-Born Son was in third grade he was one of the older kids. He'd only stuck it out this long because he aspired to be Joseph.

There was one short "rehearsal" two days before the pageant, during which the parts were announced and costumes sorted out. To keep the whole thing fair, parents were allowed no input as to what part their child might receive.

I sat with the other moms and dads, trying not to pump my fist and exclaim "Yes!" when First-Born Son scored the role of Joseph.

The director then announced which little girl would be blessed with the part of Mary. The lucky child looked to be about seven. Her mother beamed with pride but the girl looked downright alarmed.

"No," she said. "I can't do it."

"Are you sure?" the director asked kindly.

The little girl nodded.

"Wait," her mother sputtered frantically. "Let me just talk to her."

But it was too late. The director consulted her list and announced another name.

"Daughter #1," she said. "Would you like to be Mary?"

Daughter #1 stood next to her brother, much too far away for me to nudge her and say, "Of course you would."

She was only five. I'd had no idea she was even in the running for Mary. There'd been no warning, no time for me to prep her to eagerly pounce on this role of a lifetime.

I held my breath, frozen, and tried to interpret her stoic little face. But her body language gave not a clue.

I needn't have feared. Already Daughter #1's competitive spirit had kicked into gear. She wasn't about to let this golden opportunity pass her by.

"What do you think?" the director prodded. She looked back down at her list. But without so much as a glance in my direction, D #1 gave one quick emphatic nod.

Discreetly I collected their costumes and shooed them out the door. I think some neurotic part of me feared that if the director realized her Mary and Joseph were actually sister and brother, she might rescind the offer.

Over my dead body.

Christmas Eve arrived. Mary and Joseph walked solemnly down the aisle and sat on either side of their baby-doll Jesus as he lay in the manger.

From our seats in the congregation, my mother and I exchanged wicked grins of delight. I was so proud.

Never had something so wrong seemed so very, very right.

 

 

Winter Solstice

 
  

It's 12 years this month that The Ex and I split.

Yes, I asked him to leave in December. Nice timing, huh? But really, there's never a good time for these things, so December it was.

I hadn't thought about the darkness. How it descends the first three weeks of December and hovers like a mo' fo'.

My kids were 3, 6, and 10. Dinnertime was the hardest. For some reason, planning what to make, getting it ready and on the table, then sliding into the cleanup, homework, bath and bedtime ritual, seemed, for a long while, hopelessly overwhelming.

I had to find ways to let in the light.

I began collecting recipes, planning menus. Playing music at dinner. The kids took turns picking the CD's. One night might be West Side Story, the next, Britney Spears.

We'd raise the volume while everyone helped clear the table, even three year-old Daughter #2. Most nights we wound up dancing. I'd grab a kid and jitterbug. Or tango. Daughter #1 would tap. It was amazingly therapeutic.

Still, the darkness hovered.

I stole an idea from some woman's magazine on celebrating the winter solstice, the shortest, darkest day of the year. I planned carefully.

Each older child was allowed to invite one friend. We lit a fire and ate dinner (homemade pizzas they topped themselves) by candlelight.

Everyone had to pick a poem from one of our many books of children's poetry. Preferably one about winter or the dark or the light. But any one would do. Each child read their poem at the table by the light of the candle flames. I read Daughter #2's. Then one I wrote myself.

I'm not sure if they got it. But they listened to me, to each other, respectfully. Suddenly kids were begging to read "one more" poem. Then another.

"We celebrate because today we've made it through the darkest day of the year," I told them. "Every day after this, the sun will move a little bit closer, and there will be a little more light. The days will grow longer and longer. Right up until the first day of summer."

It became a tradition. Each year: a friend, candles, poetry. I worried there might be some grumbling in high school. Instead, 16 year-old boys shrugged, decided to stay for dinner, and pored through books, looking for a poem.

Some of those other traditions that pulled me through survive to this day. Whenever all three kids are home, they still take turns picking our dinner music. And we frequently find ourselves dancing during cleanup.

And yes, it's still amazingly therapeutic.

 

Scent of a Woman

 

I once, for over a year, dated a guy who had no sense of smell.

There's an actual name for this, anosmia, and, unlike most people who get it, either from an illness or injury, he was born that way.

I know what you're thinking: free pass for the days when you skip a shower or those nights you have too much Mexican.

He too, seemed to be under the impression that the world was full of noxious odors like rotting fish or cat pee, and that he was much better off not smelling it. He  considered the ability to smell fairly useless.

I wasn't so sure. My sense of smell is extremely acute, and for that I'm generally very grateful. Life is filled with things that smell good: an herb garden, freshly baked cookies, lilacs......me.

Seriously, I happen to have it on very good authority. People lean in all the time and say, "Ooh, you smell really good." Could they all be lying? Possibly, I guess, but tell me, what would be the point?

This man had no idea that every person had their own unique scent. That rain smells different than snow, or that the scent of Halloween is different than that of Christmas.

How about the fact that our sense of smell evolved to protect us? What would've happened to all those cave men and women in the woods doing all that hunting and gathering if they couldn't smell fresh saber-toothed tiger poop? Or fire?

Think about the consequences today if you couldn't smell a gas leak, or that your dinner was burning. Or that your house was on fire.

This guy, ironically enough, wound up with a family of skunks wintering under his porch. Sure, it didn't bother him, but it was killing me. Okay, maybe I don't mean actual death, but the smell was giving me migraines which is pretty damned close to dying. Not to mention my kids started to complain that I came home reeking of Eau de Skunk.

I finally gave him an ultimatum: me or the skunks. He thought I was being dramatic. Nevertheless he set several traps and got out his gun.

Well, what did you expect? That some petting zoo flew on to the Vineyard and offered to capture them, surgically remove their scent glands, and then re-release them into the wild where, even today, they return to eat nuts from his hand and winter under his porch?

Come on people, this is Martha's Vineyard Real World, Off-Season Edition; there are probably as many guns here as there are skunks (and no, I don't own one).

But alas, even skunk-less, our relationship was not meant to be. That's okay. From now on I only date men who know what a good thing is when they smell it. And yes, I mean me.

 

The Kindness of Strangers

I had a doctor's appointment off-island in Hyannis last week. And of course it turned out to be the day the whole east coast was slammed with a major storm.

The cape and islands (Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard) mostly got rain, but lots of it. Wind gusts were over 50 miles per hour. I was sure the ferry would be canceled. That happens when we get really bad "weather," as New Englanders like to say.

But fortunately the boats were still running, and, after a rocking, rolling passage, I drove off on the other side into the storm.

No off-island trip is complete without a supply run, if only because items cost so much less off-island, never mind the convenience and choice factors.

So even in the monsoon-like conditions, I stopped at Walmart, where I needed a bunch of miscellaneous crap.

When I finally got home late that evening and unpacked my stash, I discovered I had an extra Walmart bag that wasn't mine. It must've been left on that baggy carousel by whoever had been in line before me.

The bag held three clunky watches and three boxes with faux pearl jewelry, as well as three of those big plastic candy canes filled with Runts. No doubt this was someone's bag of stocking stuffers, or maybe even gifts for some kids in their life.

It wasn't as if I could drop it back at the store any time soon; I doubt I'll be off-island again before Christmas. But the next day I called the store to see if anyone had reported a missing bag. Nobody had, so they took my phone number and that was the end of it.

"Wow, this is really nice of you." The manager sounded surprised. "Not many people would call like this."

Really? I find that hard to believe. I have more than enough of my own junk; I don't need to confiscate anyone else's. I think most of us would at least drop the bag back at the store if they could.

What would you do?

Once in New Jersey, shortly after my marriage ended and my brain was not quite functioning to capacity, I left three bags of groceries underneath the cart in the parking lot. I packed up the car and drove home, where I realized pretty quickly I didn't have my fruits and veggies.

Not feeling very hopeful, I decided what the hell, and gave the store a call anyway.

Yup. Someone had brought in my bags from under the cart and left them with the manager. All my produce was there.

How surprising was that!

Have you ever been pleasantly surprised by the good will of perfect strangers?

I like to think that what comes around goes around. Maybe I'm hopelessly naive, but it's a hell of a lot better than settling for cynical and bitter, don't you think?

 

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Baking

When the kids were little I wanted to pass on the tradition of making Christmas cookies. They loved mixing the ingredients and decorating with colored sprinkles.

Neighbors gifted us with their holiday treats and we'd pack up some of our cookies to return the favor.

Over the years I tried new recipes. If they were a success we added them to the list of regulars. I gave cookies to neighbors and friends, people at work, the UPS man and the guy at the post office. I boxed them up and sent them to relatives.

Somewhere along the line I became a machine. A possessed, compulsive, cookie-making machine.

There are at least 10 types of cookies that must be baked to avoid loud squeals of dismay from the three adult-sized children in my life. Not including the buttermilk brownies, ginger muffins, cream cheese brownie bites, and chocolate cream pie.

I enjoy all this baking. Really. I do. And my kids are aware that, if they want to partake of their favorites, they need to pitch in with the process. Daughter #2 is a champion whipping up dough. Daughter #1 is a decorating queen. First-Born Son, these days, is mainly a taste-tester. Sexist, I know.

This year I am trying to restrain myself. A little. Maybe I don't need to populate the entire world with cookies. Maybe a few close friends and family are enough.

It's so easy to take a good thing and turn it into a weapon of self-torture. But with age has come wisdom.

If my cookie making starts to drive me a little crazy, that's kind of defeating the whole purpose, right?

My family and friends deserve to enjoy not just my baking this holiday season, but a merry, more relaxed me. Wouldn't you agree?

For more Spins on Holiday Baking that may actually include some recipes go visit Sprite's Keeper.

 

Flying Solo

This weekend I'm going to the one big formal holiday party I'm invited to each year.

By myself.

You don't get invited to many social events when you're divorced. I'm not trying to induce any pity here. It's just a fact.

I have some very good friends, and if they're having a pot-luck or a barbecue they'll be sure to include me. But when people decide to go out to dinner or have a drink at a restaurant or see a movie, it's generally a couples thing.

Two years ago when I was dating someone for a relatively long period of time I had many more invitations. Which is ironic, because I'm much more in need of a social life when I''m not dating and I'm by myself.

Nobody means to be cruel. I'm sure they don't think twice about it. It's one of society's best kept little secrets.

But this one party I am invited to each year requires flashing your invitation at the door to get in. I was lucky enough to land a spot on this mysterious "list" several years ago while I was working with one of the several people who host the affair (herself a single divorced woman). They key to remaining on the guest list, apparently, is that you must attend the party.

So I have. And, every year but one, I've attended it alone.

The first time I did this I thought I would throw up.

Go to a fancy party alone? The idea of merely walking in the door made me want to run home, grab some Haagen-Dazs, and break out the Netflix. It's not that I don't love parties. I do. But I'd never attended this kind of affair solo.

Two of my married friends, who themselves coveted a spot on the guest list, took me under their wing. One loaned me a vintage black wool halter dress that had belonged to her mother-in-law in the 60's. The other sent over several beautiful pieces of costume jewelry for me to choose from.

It may seem neurotic to think people turn and look when you enter such a soiree alone. But believe me, they do.

I headed straight for the bar. It was like being back in college, that feeling that I was capable of bridging any social barrier if I had a beer in my hand. Except now it was cabernet.

Martha's Vineyard is a small place, especially in winter. There were a lot of people there I knew. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a sight to behold here any time of year, take my word for it.

There was makeup, heels, men in actual suits and ties, tuxedos and gowns even. It felt a little like we were all Cinderella, transformed somehow from our every day selves by magic to attend the ball.

I wasn't prepared for the first comment on my flying solo.

"You're here alone?" an acquaintance boldly exclaimed. Then she patted me on the arm enthusiastically. "Good for you!"

I wish I could say she was the only one.

To be honest, some years it would be easier to stay home. But it's kind of become a challenge I feel I must rise to year after year.

I always end up having a good time. And I always leave feeling a little stronger, a little more whole in my self.

And, of course, I'm always happy to realize I've clinched my spot on the guest list for at least one more year.

 

The F-Word

Do you know what the F-word is?

Oh, you may think you do, but I'll bet you don't know what the F-word is in our house. 

It's Focus. As in: my 5 year-old/8 year-old/18 year-old son cannot, apparently, do it.

First-Born Son, also known as Mr. ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder for those few of you lucky enough to have no idea what I'm talking about), was not formally diagnosed until fifth grade. But of course by then I'd been dealing with it informally for years.

"I just start staring out the window while the teacher talks," he'd confess. "And the next thing you know, I'm thinking about Star Wars and Darth Vader and light-saber battles."

The irony was that at two or three he would sit in my lap for hours while I read to him. Book after book. On dinosaurs. Sharks. King Arthur. He could play Lego's or act out James Bond all afternoon.

But ask him to sit for a 20 minute lesson on fractions or write an essay on osmosis versus diffusion? Well, that was another story.

His incredible kindergarten teacher (who I believe was actually capable of walking on water) gave me the heads-up in my first Parent-Teacher conference. She never used the letters ADD, but she did use the F-word.

"He's a smart, wonderful little boy," she said, "who has trouble when it comes to being able to focus on things he'd rather not do."

"I want you to be prepared," she went on. "Some teachers will see this as a problem. You're going to hear this word again and again."

She was right. It became downright predictable.

The first time I came home from a conference and announced, "Your teacher used the F-word," he looked at me like I was insane.

His teacher? The F-word? No F-ing way! 

"Focus," I explained. "She needs you to focus."

And we both laughed our F-ing heads off.

It's not that we didn't take it seriously. Or that I wasn't constantly searching for new strategies to try and help him deal. 

"Look at me," I still say to him when I need him to pay attention. "What did I just say?" To this day I try not to give him more than three directions at a time. AND make him repeat them back to me.

Still, he'll wander in sheepishly 20 minutes later. "Okay, I fed the dog and vaccuumed the pool. What was that other thing again?"

And we laugh.

Because really, what are we going to do? Cry about a little trouble focusing?

Today First-Born Son goes to film school where he's learning the art of making movies. Movies that, one day, other young children will be thinking about, drowning out the words of their teachers, as they stare out the windows of their classrooms.

It's a lot to hope for.

His kindergarten teacher would be so F-ing proud.

 

Santa Did What?

I decorated the house for Christmas last week.

I was pretty proud of myself. Usually I wind up storing away whole rooms worth of photos, vases, and multiple other assorted knickknacks, in the quest to spread Christmas cheer throughout the first floor of my house.

I get this inclination from my mother. Every holiday season growing up, each square inch of our house screamed Ho-Ho-Ho. To be fair, it was the 70's; a lot of things were extreme, especially in the decorating department.

But thinking back, our house looked like Santa threw up in it. Seriously. That is, if Santa's throw-up contained tinsel and a vast assortment of shiny and/or red and green holiday kitsch.

The sad part is I loved it. And as soon as I had independent space of my own, I tried my merry best to emulate it: my college dorm room, first apartment, and later, my house.

By the time I came to my senses several years ago, it was too late. My children, near-grown though they may be, are attached to the decorations like Rudolph to his nose.

My casual assertions of, "I think we'll scale back this year," have been met with strong reaction.

"No, you can't! It's tradition. You'll destroy the very foundation upon which our childhood security and future happiness rests."

Okay, maybe they don't say those exact words, but the implication is clear.

This year however, two of them are away at college. They'll return shortly before Christmas, happy merely to be home and basking in the warm glow of my motherly love and affection.

At least, that's what I'm counting on. See, I decorated while the only remaining child, Daughter #2, was at school. And I cleverly managed to fill a whole box with things I no longer care to display.

The best part is, she hasn't noticed a thing. I've got my fingers crossed her siblings will be equally oblivious (Daughter #2, if you're reading this, pay no attention to these silly words. I would never deceive my own children. And besides, you know everything I write here is a complete lie).

So what do I plan on doing with that box of discarded holiday cheer? Why, pass it on to my own offspring of course.

I wouldn't want to deprive them of one day experiencing first hand the joy of Santa's throwing up Christmas tradition right in their very own homes.

 

Spin Cycle: Wish List

 

What do I wish for? Ha! A better question might be what don't I wish for?

I know admitting I wish for anything is probably mucho politically incorrect. So let me say right up front: I love my family and I'm grateful to be blessed with my wonderful life, blah blah blah...

Now that that's out of the way, I have to say it'd be really nice to replace the crappy carpeting in my house with hardwood floors. What were the people who built this place thinking! And on that same note, tile for the kitchen and the bathroom, because apparently they considered that a luxury as well.

While I'm on a roll, let me add a hot tub and a sex life (I don't believe the two have to be mutually exclusive), and a car that runs so that people won't actually laugh at me or want to scream obscenities about me murdering the environment when I drive by.

And how about a MacBook, a Kindle, and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of (they exist, I know they do. Ask Twenty Four; she sees them every day in Money Town).

Let me not forget a successful writing career, generous stock dividends, and children who are cheerful, always polite, and eternally grateful.

Wow, I'm exhausted. Who knew being shallow was this consuming?

Of course, I'd have to tag onto the end: no more wars or hate or poverty, and public acceptance by all world leaders that women really are the superior sex. No wish list would be complete without those.

Anything else?

No, actually, I think that'll do.

 

For more inspired and infinitely more generous wish lists, go see Sprite's Keeper. I really wish you would.

 

Lilah's Big Adventure

Have you ever lost a pet?  Maybe they got out or ran away? Did they turn up eventually, after days or weeks, or has their fate become one of life's unsolved mysteries?

My old cat, Lilah, went missing last week. Of my five cats, four are strictly house cats, including Lilah. It took me a couple of days to realize she was gone.

I know that sounds terrible, but life is busy. And with five cats, I don't always register which ones I haven't seen that day. When finally it dawned on me, I scoured the house with a sense of foreboding. Lilah is almost 16; it was entirely possible, I knew, that she had crawled off somewhere to die.

I searched under beds, behind furniture, in closets,  calling her name all the while, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, snapping my fingers. All her favorite calling sounds. No Lilah.

Then I happened to glance out at the backyard from my bathroom window. There she sat in front of my annual beds, front paws daintily side by side, looking up at the house.

I screamed. I couldn't help it. I was so happy to see her alive. I ran outside but, predictable feline that she is, she took off into the scrubby overgrowth behind the pool fence and wouldn't let me come near.

I put dishes of food out on the deck and went to work. When I got home, the food was gone. But no Lilah.

"We have to find her!" Daughter #2 was frantic as she left for a sleepover. "Text me as soon as you get her. No, send me a photo. I need to see her!"

"Set a trap," First-Born Son directed when I called to report the news.

"Who do you think I am?" I asked. "MacGyver?"

"Get a cardboard box and prop it with a stick. Put the food under it and attach a string to the stick."

He was serious. I had visions of Elmer Fudd or Wile E. Coyote's futile attempts to trap their elusive, much more clever prey. "Then pull the string when she comes to eat."

I decided to give it a try. Understand, my 16 year old arthritic, pansy-ass kitty was out in the wind and rain for the second night in a row. I was desperate.

In the end the wind knocked over my trap and the rain rendered the cardboard box soggy. But we were lucky. We'd also left the garage door open as backup, and that's where I found Lilah at six the following morning.

She was skinnier and maybe a little dehydrated, but otherwise okay. For the next two days she couldn't get enough of us. Purring and meowing, following me everywhere.

But there's something else. Whereas before she was fairly low in the animal hierarchy at our house, she now seems to have risen to the top. The other cats make room for her on the couch and the bed. The dog, who enjoys a good kitty-chasing from time to time, goes out of her way to give her her space.

They clearly think she's a rock star.

I'd love to have a little video camera that could give me a playback of her two day adventure in the big bad world, but alas, I've no idea what happened to her out there.  

Whatever it was, though, it must have been something big. She left a timid old lady. But she came back one super cool cat.

 

Story Time

 

A few weeks ago the librarian at work who runs Toddler Story Time was off-island at a conference. They asked me if I would be willing to fill in.

As I generally aspire to be an optimistic, fearless sort of person, I smiled and said, "Sure."

Yeah. Right.

I had about two minutes to prepare. Okay, maybe it was closer to 30, but clearly I needed more. The parents and their tiny offspring assembled in the children's room, eying me with suspicion.

Perched with only half my ass on a kiddie-sized chair, I began reading from the pile of books the children's librarian had left for this purpose.

It was a tough crowd. The kids were all under two, but they were the least of my problems. I spilled out a bag of puppets onto the floor. Passed around bells. They were putty in my hands.

But their parents? Well, they expected more. Clearly I did not know the routine. Naively, they expected singing.

"Oookaay," I exclaimed brightly. "What should we sing?"

Then I drew a complete blank.

How embarrassing. There I was, a veteran mother with three ancient children. Not to mention the thousands I've cared for in the hospital. Although to be fair, sick or injured kids don't frequently require lots of singing from their nurses.

Maybe things would've run more smoothly if I could've administered IV antibiotics or listened to their lungs?

Meanwhile, the toddlers were waiting, bells at the ready. One adorable little babe sporting round pink eyeglasses stared at me with wide-eyed expectation. My heart melted.

"How about Itsy Bitsy Spider," one grandmother not much older than me suggested helpfully. And off we went. 

"You had to sing?" First-Born Son remarked incredulously that night on the phone when I recounted my tale of woe. "Those poor kids."

Do you see what I have to put up with? And he's the nice one.

Now that it's over, it doesn't seem quite so bad. Maybe I'll even do it again some time. Although I'll definitely bone up on my kiddie songs first.

I get to see that sweet little baby with the pink glasses each week when she and her mom check out their books. She always gives me a huge grin. I'm convinced she remembers who I am.

But I'm not quite sure if she's laughing with me or at me.

 

The Middle Place

 

My parents, like a lot of people, have had a tough year.

My father, 78, has had one health problem after another. The last couple of months they've dealt with the removal of a rather deep melanoma (the most serious type of skin cancer) below his eye, then a complicated skin graft at this site.

It required three surgeries, drains, packing, multiple dressing changes for the large amounts of bleeding and drainage, and many different medications. My mother, never much of a nurse herself, has been the one to perform all these required tasks.

In addition, the hospital where the doctor practices and the surgeries were performed is over an hours drive from their Florida home. My mother hates to drive. My father has always done the driving for both of them. He even took her to the grocery store or the mall, and ran errands with her. Until now.

In reality, the past couple of years he'd also been there to offer her physical support. She suffered from polio as a teen, and these last years her muscles, never strong to begin with, have grown increasingly weak and, at times, downright unreliable.

I think my mother is upset that my dad, usually the strong one, has now put her in the unenviable position of caretaker. I don't blame her, but I also don't know if there's a solution.

It's been many years since they moved from New Jersey, where my sister and I still lived at the time. They hated the ice and snow. But originally New Yorkers, they were genuinely appalled when I moved my family to this "God-forsaken island."

My job and my younger daughter, as well as my finances, prevent me from hopping on a plane to buzz down there and help her out as I wish I could. Don't misunderstand; if my parents were very ill, or even required an extended hospital stay, I would find a way to be there.

But it's these smaller, ongoing, chronic if you will, episodes, so common as our parents grow older, that are the hardest to handle without family nearby.

I hope not to be in the same boat one day. But who knows?

"I should have had more children," my mother complained over the phone recently.

"But then they'd just be far away as well," I said (my sister now lives in Arizona).

"Maybe not," she argued. "Maybe they'd live close by and be here all the time."

"Yes," I agreed. "Our unborn children are always the most loyal, aren't they?"

Even she had to laugh.

Do you all live near enough to help out your folks if they need it? Or are you, like me, impossibly far away? I'm pretty sure both can be a blessing and a curse. But it'd be nice to know how other people are handling it...

 

More Bloggy Bling

 

A new bloggy pal of mine over at Gone Bananas was kind enough to bestow this award on me, or, as she so cleverly put it, Bloggy Bling. Her blog is lots of fun, and it doesn't hurt that she posts great photos of her cute-as-a-button daughter.

Before I pass it on, I am supposed to list 7 traits about myself. Aw, hell. I'll try 5:

-I'm artistic. I hope that doesn't sound like bragging; it's just the way my brain works.

-I'm competitive. Not in a bad way, but if you're going to do something you might as well do it right.

-I'm loyal.

-I'm fierce. Don't mess with me when it comes to my family or a cause I believe in.

-I'm optimistic. I'm good at finding that silver lining. Life's a lot less draining that way.

 

I'd like to pass this award on to the following blogs. Whether they make me laugh or reach for the tissues, they're always a good read:

1) SuziCate at The Water Witch's Daughter: She tells a great story. She was kind enough to give me an award a few weeks ago and I'm happy to say Right back at you!

2) Jen at Jen on the Edge: Her thoughts on motherhood and chocolate make me think we're kindred spirits.

3) Casey at Half As Good As You: For me, she is the ultimate definition of "LOL."

Whether you already know these rockin' bloggers or not, go show them some bloggy love. That's what it's all about, no?

 

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Newsletters

 

Let me preface this by saying that I have, on occasion, sent out holiday newsletters and I may again some day in the far off future. I receive a couple each year and I'm always eager to find out what people are up to. But let's face it, some newsletters read more like an ostentatious listing of Can You Top This rather than a warm friendly note of catch-up.

This then, is my tongue-in-cheek version of how one such holiday newsletter might read. I know none of you would EVER send out anything even remotely like this...

 

To all our wonderful friends and family,

Can you believe another year has rolled by? If not for the photos of little Chloe's Yale graduation (magna cum laude of course,) and the new addition to our summer "cottage" finally being complete (see photos on other side), it wouldn't seem possible.

In this time of financial hardship for so many, we're blessed that Tim has received not one but two promotions. His Christmas bonus will just about cover next year's college tuition for the twins. Hughie, that little braniac, got into Harvard and is cruising toward clinching class valedictorian. But poor Louie is another story. He was wait-listed at Princeton and it looks like he may have to settle for either Brown or Columbia.

Baby Stewie is now president of his middle school class and captain of both his soccer and basketball teams, as well as first chair cello in the orchestra. He's raising funds for a class trip to Every-Country-in-Europe and he'd really appreciate it if you could purchase some candy or wrapping paper to show him you care (brochure enclosed).

Tim's work keeps him so busy that he's only been able to compete in three triathlons this year. His new BMW is small consolation. And Peg is her usual hectic self, running the PTA and the Junior League. But she still manages to volunteer at the hospital AND do her weekly Meals-on-Wheels deliveries. Her new organic beauty-care product-line has been a huge success (website below). You should definitely check it out!

Well, we hope everyone's had a terrific year. We're sorry we didn't get a chance to see you all, but with our Family Volunteer Vacation to rebuild New Orleans in February, and our two short weeks cruising the Virgin Islands in April, time just seems to fly by. Maybe next year...

If you're ever up this way please give us a call. Barring scheduling conflicts, we can meet for coffee or brunch at your hotel. Or maybe a drink at the airport before you leave. That will give us a chance to really catch you up on our lives!

Sincerely, The Mimi-Mee Family

 

For more heartfelt and less jaded Spins on holiday newsletters, check out Sprite's Keeper.