IslandRoar

We Rock

I slept on curlers the other night, for the first time in a long time. The soft, foamy kind. Electric rollers don't work so well on my hair. It's kind of thick and stubborn. Like me.

I like my hair a lot. I've said this before. I consider myself a pretty humble person, but, for the record, I realize I've made a point of stating here that I like my hair and I think I smell nice.

Oh, and my feet. I think I have pretty feet.

I try to take photos of them in a variety of exotic warm weather locations. It's a love found late in life.

Believe it or not, I didn't start polishing my toenails until I was over 40. It seems the older I get, the more of a girly-girl I become. But a tough girly-girl. I am, after all, from New Jersey.

I'm a little worried that by admitting this stuff, you might think I have an inflated ego. Because of my feelings for my hair and my feet and how good I smell.

Why is it that we as women are so often hesitant to admit the many good things about ourselves, to praise ourselves? Are we worried other women will label us conceited bitches?

I've noticed most of us are pretty quick to point out our faults. I'm trying to stop doing this. I could name five negative things about myself right now in the blink of an eye.

But I won't. Instead, I'm going to tell you three good things about myself. Things I like.

And I'm going to have the nerve to ask you to do the same.

Here are mine: (in addition  to those I've already mentioned) I think I'm a generous and fun person; I like to think I have a really good sense of style; I like my fair, freckled, Irish coloring.

Okay, your turn. Come on, three things you like about yourself. Really, I want to know.

We all do.

 

One Day at a Time...

 

The Today Show was on as I was getting ready for work a couple of weeks ago, and Valerie Bertinelli was appearing in the next segment, which they were plugging by announcing, "Valerie Bertinelli turns 50!"

When she came on, however, it turned out that she wouldn't be 50 until April. I felt her indignation deeply.

February, March, April. Three months.

Here they were celebrating her half-century mark when she still had a whole quarter of a year left to be 49. How dare they.

Sure, back in the day I was quick to speed up the clock for myself. Weren't we all?

No sooner had I turned 13, than I looked forward to the half-year mark when I could legitimately start claiming I was almost 14.

I believe this habit came to an abrupt end at age 21.

These days, I take every single day the year has to offer before going on to the next one. Hours even.

I was born on the afternoon of August 20th. So don't go wishing me a Happy Birthday this year in the morning, or I'll be likely to tell you that I'm still 48 for a little while longer.

Daughter #2's birthday isn't until May, but already she says things like, "Of course I can stay out late...drive the car...make my own rules. I'm going to be 16."

"Not for a long time," I tell her. "You're 15."

"Close enough," she mumbles.

Oh, honey, I want to say, hold onto every second of 15 for as long as you can.

But I keep my mouth shut.

She'll find out soon enough.

 

*I'm having surgery on my sinuses tomorrow. And, while I've got some posts scheduled to run this week and next, I'm not sure if I'll be around to everyone's blogs, or commenting, with my usual frequency. I hope to be up to speed as soon as possible.

 

Female Troubles

 

I was thinking today about how far we've come in terms of being open about women's health issues. Society, I mean.

When my ex mother-in-law was only a young mother in her 20's, she lost her own mother to cancer. To this day she has no idea what kind of cancer it was.

"Oh," she'll say dismissively, "nobody talked about such things."

Many health topics pertaining to women just weren't spoken of. My father took this to extremes. I remember him once mentioning a female business colleague at the dinner table, and how she was doing poorly.

Ever curious, I piped up, "What's the matter with her?"

As children were generally supposed to be "seen and not heard," he glowered at me before lowering his voice significantly to say, "I'm not sure...Female Troubles."

I had no idea what the hell those were.. But it sounded deep and dark, and clearly I understood I should inquire no further.

As I got older however, I enjoyed making waves.

When I came home during college I would challenge him. "Women's troubles, dad? What does that mean? Is it (and here I would whisper) down there?"

He would look to my mother for help, but, to her credit, she would be laughing too.

When I finally told First-Born Son he was to be a big brother, I made sure to explain that the baby was growing in my uterus, not my stomach. I was following parenting advice I'd read which warned that if I didn't make this clear, he might surmise I'd eaten the baby or some ridiculous crap like that.

The very next day after I'd told him the good news, my parents came over. First-Born Son, only three at the time, ran to greet them at the door.

"Poppy," he shrieked. "Mommy has a baby growing. In her uterus!"

I thought my father would pass out. I'm betting he could've gone his whole life without acknowledging that either of his daughters even had a uterus.

First-Born Son today is, of course, more modern and open about these things than my dad. But in our house with all its estrogen, the girls and I have been known to bring up certain subjects just to give him a hard time. Tough boy that he is, he rarely cringes. But that doesn't mean we won't stop trying.

As I head toward The Big Change, I can't help but try and think of yet another way to yank both his and my father's chains. I'm not yet peri-menopausal, but at 48, I anticipate the big arrival any second now.

I envision myself calling my parents and getting my poor father on the phone.

"Guess what, Dad? I just had my first hot flash!"

How do you think that would go over?

Or maybe, better yet, I could get First-Born Son to make the call and tell him for me.

 

Spin Cycle: Fear?

I am not a fearful person.

Sure, there are things I don't like, such as heights, slasher movies, and stories about real life serial killers. But fear? Not so much.

When I was a young nurse working on pediatrics, one of my colleagues commented that she was afraid of dying.

I'd thought about this one a lot. "I don't really fear dying," I said, with the naive self assuredness that one can only possess in his or her 20's. "I mean, I don't want to die. But I''m not afraid of it."

To her credit, she did not slap me. "That's because you don't have kids," she said kindly. "Being a mother changes that."

"Maybe." I shrugged.

Maybe?

My son was probably only hours old when my fear of dying set in. If I died, who would raise him in the manner that I so carefully envisioned?

I felt a little better when I gave him a sibling, but I now had two souls whose very existence hinged on me being alive and well. And then, soon enough, three.

It's not as though it's some neurotic phobia. Rarely, if ever, does it creep into the forefront of my mind.

Yet somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, it's always there: I must stay alive at least long enough to see these three people into the realm of independent adulthood. Anything less would leave them vulnerable, exposed to emotional and psychological scars that might never heal.

Am I blowing this out of proportion to increase my own sense of importance? Possibly.

But it has always seemed to me that the loss of one's mother, before a certain age, is one that few recover from completely.

When Princess Diana died, I felt this pain for her as well as her sons. I was reassured that they were old enough to have lifelong memories of her, but felt she would've been devastated not to be there for the joys and pain of their teen years, and to cushion the angst of their early adulthood.

I'm sure I was internalizing big time.

So what is the magic age, the one my children need to reach before I'll feel comfortable giving up this fear? Well, at 22, I feel First-Born Son may be close. But Daughter #2 is only 15.

Believe me, I'm not about to stand up, arms wide open, beckoning the Grim Reaper, the day she turns 25. I fully intend to live to a good and annoyingly ripe old age.

And yes, I'm aware my grown children will never stop needing me in one way or another. But the major leg work, so to speak, will be complete. And, I think, I'll finally be able to let go of my fear.

To see what other bloggers fear-or not-go take a peek at Sprite's Keeper.

 

Spin Cycle: Spring Cleaning

Even the thought of Spring Cleaning leaves me a little nauseous.

Especially as I look out my windows and see ice and snow. Right now spring seems a cruel joke, tantalizing, dangling far off in the distance, never to arrive.

To understand my memories of Spring Cleaning, you must know that my mother is a neat-freak. I don't mean that in any derogatory way; it's simply a fact.

When I was growing up, the kitchen floor was scrubbed at least once a week. She dusted and vacuumed daily, and sheets were changed on a weekly basis. You don't want to know how frequently the sheets in my house are changed.

Spring Cleaning for my mother seemed to be a religious experience. Storm doors and windows were stored away and every window pane scrubbed inside and out.

There was the official changing of the fall/winter curtains, draperies, and all bedspreads to the spring/summer variety.

Winter woolens were packed away in the attic in moth balls and exchanged for fair-weather cottons. Drawers and closets were purged and re-organized in the process, and my sister and I endured the torturous process of trying on Every Article Of Clothing to be sure it fit.

My father took time off work each year to polish the furniture. And I mean polish the furniture. We would come home from school to the overpowering chemical aroma of polish, and there he would be, sleeves rolled up, kneeling by the credenza or dining room table, chairs on their sides as he manhandled their surfaces to the kind of lustrous shine my own neglected furniture has no idea even exists.

I'm sure the house sparkled from top to bottom when she was through. But I'm also sure that satisfaction was short lived. The dust will gather, the windows will streak. Hands and feet never fail to leave their mark.

I have done little to carry  on my mother's tradition of Spring Cleaning. I do have seasonal bedding, and of course I store sweaters, pull out summer clothes.

But my real Spring Cleaning takes place outside. Clearing the gardens, cutting back the lavender and roses, breaking out the dahlia tubers. The deck will need re-finishing before we can drag out the wicker deck furniture, and the pool fence repaired from the ravages of winter.

My house is rarely messy, but my standards are nowhere near my mother's. Maybe it's a different generation but mostly, for me, it's a matter of choice.

If the very notion of Spring Cleaning leaves me nauseous and tense, it's better left behind with the old-time furniture polish, lost somewhere in my very distant past.

For some other takes on Spring Cleaning, go visit the always sparkling Sprite's Keeper.

 

Winter Wonderland?

I have determined that I'm not a cold weather vacation sort of gal.

It's something I've always suspected but I can now say, unequivocally, that it's a fact.

Last week we ventured into the mountainous New Hampshire wilderness for a family vacation. The fact that my kids now have three different winter breaks propelled me into scheduling a mini-vacation at a time convenient for all.

Reckless fool that I am, it didn't seem worth it booking a flight to some place warm for a mere four days. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight.

Instead, I chose an historic resort in New Hampshire. The place was beautiful. The skiing was right down the road, in addition to tubing, zip-lining, horse-drawn sleigh rides, and dog-sledding (yes, dog-sledding!).

These all seemed like fun-filled and perfectly reasonable activities at the time. And they were, they really were.

Except.

The east coast had that post-Christmas cold snap. Temps shot down to single digits, negative five with the wind chill during the day. It never stopped snowing, heavy at times, but, up until the morning of our departure, there was an endless cascade of flakes. Beautiful to look at. At least for the first day. Or two.

Remember when your kids were little and you spent all that time bundling them up to play in the snow? Extra socks and mittens. Hats and snow pants. Boots and scarves. And then of course, they'd have to pee, a truly monumental endeavor at that point.

Well, that's how I felt the whole time I was there. Bundle up to brave the great outdoors, peel off the layers once back inside. Bundle up. Peel off. A never-ending array of damp clothing and snow streaked floors.

Static electricity on the clothes, in the hair. Dry skin. Hat head. Numb faces and runny, red noses.

Don't get me wrong; we had fun. Tubing was fun. And zip-lining over a ski slope. I've always enjoyed speed.

And there was laughter, at times hysterical. Especially on our horse-drawn sleigh ride in blizzard-like conditions, an experience none of us will soon forget, including Dave, our driver, or Glenn, his trusty draft horse.

"I'm cold, Mommy. I'm cold." This, from my 22 year-old son, curled in the fetal position on his bed after skiing.

Shut up and grow a pair, I wanted to snap at him. Except that I was too busy counting my own frozen digits.

Okay, we admit it. We're wimps.

We tried our best. We persevered. We can check one off the bucket-list.

"The next time we take a sleigh ride, it won't be in a blizzard," First-Born Son informed me.

"What next time?" I stared at him. "I don't know about you, but I'm good. For life."

And while nothing beats sipping a hot-toddy by the warmth of a roaring fire as the winds howl at the windows, I think I prefer a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella in it, while lounging poolside or on some warm, white sand.

Promise me you'll remind me of this next winter, okay?

 

New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve celebrations were tailor made for night owls like me. And some of mine have been rather memorable.

But this year I spent it completely alone. It was kind of weird.

It's not that there's always been a party. But if I was stuck without plans, at least one or two of my three kids were sure to be home, celebrating with or without their friends, running in at midnight to embrace and steal a sip of my champagne.

Not this year. First-Born Son and Daughter #1 were gone for the night with friends, Daughter #2 off at a New Year's sleepover.

And me? Well, no champagne this year. Instead I had a hot date with Netflix and a chocolate mousse brownie. Then I lay in bed and watched the ball drop in Times Square.

I wondered, did my parents feel this way when, one year, my New Year's Eve plans exceeded their own? Perhaps.

Yet it's different when there's two of you. You laugh at or with one another, and settle in for another boring night at home. Together.

It's not that I don't have friends. But they were off-island or with family. Or spending that boring night at home with their spouses.

I hesitate to even write all this down. I don't want anybody feeling sorry for me. Even though I might possibly feel just a wee bit sorry for myself.

Maybe not sorry, actually. Maybe just disappointed. I expect more. I want more. Dick Clark  himself would be hard-pressed to call this New year's Eve "Rockin'."

I'm not really worried about this becoming a habit, however. I like my late nights and social gathrings too much to settle for that.

And seriously, a New Year's Eve like this one is pretty much guaranteed to come along only once in a blue moon, right?

 

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...

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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...

 

A Little Sugar...

 

The South Dakota Cowgirl honored me with this blog award recently. If you don't know her, you definitely should. She lives on a huge ranch with her guy Zach, some cattle, and some of the prettiest horses I've ever seen. Her posts are fun and thoughtful, and I make sure to check in with her every day.

Before passing this award along, I''m supposed to share up to 10 fascinating things about myself. Which is pretty hard, because I think you all probably know everything there is to know about me already. Let's see...

-For a short time, around age 8, I wanted to be a nun (yeah, I know; tell me about it). My parents wisely humored me until the inclination passed.

-A couple of years ago I dated a guy, for over a year, who had no sense of smell (are you thinking Blog Post, because I certainly am).

-I have the tiniest wrists I've ever seen in an adult. Really, I'm 5'9" and I have these wrists smaller than most infants. I love bracelets, but finding ones small enough is a challenge.

-I've always been able to do a back-bend, and now that I'm fast approaching old age, I make sure to do one once a year, just to prove I still can. 

-I love long dangly earrings. Although again, as I get older, I have to choose ones that are more lightweight so my earlobes don't end up on my shoulders.

-At family gatherings when I was a kid, my parents had me do impressions for entertainment; I did a great Ed Sullivan and Richard Nixon (who didn't?), as well as two of Lily Tomlin's characters: her telephone operator ("One ringie-dingie"), and Edith Anne.

-I love my feet. Of course it's just my opinion, but I think they're really pretty.

-I had a dream when I was pregnant with all three of my kids that correctly predicted what sex they would be.

 

Okay that's only eight, but I think we can agree it's more than enough. I'd like to pass this award on to the following blogs:

1) Erin at The Locals Love It: She has some great posts about cool places by people who actually live there, as well as useful travel tips and her own very thoughtful reflections on life in general.

2) Lynn at For Love or Funny: She never fails to make me smile.

3) Jill at Stella's Roar: I've been following her for a while now, and she always posts photos of the most beautiful and interesting things, leaving me in a constant state of yearning.

Please take some time and go visit these lovely ladies. You'll be really glad you did.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving! I am going to take the next few days off and be back on Monday.

 

 

Spin Cycle: Being Thankful

Every year at the holidays my Grandma would sit at the head of the table and gaze fondly out over her very full plate of dinner to the faces of her loved ones spread out before her on either side of the table.

She'd be cajoled into making the first toast and she always said the same thing. "I'm just so happy to have my family gathered around me."

At this, her four grown children would start to laugh. "Oh Mother, here you go again."

They would wave their hands dismissively, the broad smiles on their faces giving away how happy they really were to hear Grandma's predictably mushy words.

These last years, my parents generally fly to Arizona on Thanksgiving to my sister's. With no family nearby, I, like many others, spend the holiday with friends.

They are my neighbors. My Vineyard family. They watch our pets when we go on vacation. They bring us food when we're sick. Our seven children think of one another as cousins.

We have Thanksgiving at their house and then Christmas at our's. We've been doing this for years.

On Thursday they'll make the turkey. The Ex brings his mashed potatoes. I arrive laden in desserts. Pumpkin pie, apple crisp with vanilla ice cream, holiday cookies. Sometimes there are miscellaneous friends or family members in attendance. Every year is a little different but the core remains the same.

It will be the first time since August that all three of my children are gathered together at one table. I will look out over our bountiful spread to these faces I so love and, as always, I'll think of my Grandma.

I didn't get it all those years ago. I thought she was being overly sentimental. But I get it now.

Oh yeah, I'm right there with you Grandma.

 

For more Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. Jen always gives us something to be thankful for, no?

 

 

Family Time: Mandatory

Are you, like me, your family's Cruise Director?

I used to think this job description only applied when they were younger. But I've realized recently how much more important the job is now that my kids have one foot out the door. If I didn't plan ahead and inform them that participation is mandatory it would never happen.

My own parents pretty much gave up on the concept of Family Time when my sister and I became teenagers. I can understand why.

My kids grumble and complain. They recite a hundred reasons why it won't work for them. "I can't get off work for a whole weekend." "I have too much homework." "I have my own life too, you know." I've heard it all.

But as I saw us scattering in several different directions a few years ago, I realized that the days we have left for Family Time are numbered. I decided then not to listen to their objections. For any and all excuses they throw my way, I counter with only this: Make it Work.

My goal is not to make them miserable. It's to make memories. Maybe if I was still married it wouldn't be so important to me; maybe I'd be relishing the couple-alone time after all that parenting.

But I've found that by enforcing Mandatory Family Time, my jaded older kids wind up having a blast. Whisked away from their outside lives and personas, old sibling alliances are rekindled, and new ones have a chance to ignite.

Well worn family jokes resurface, although we  inevitably wind up with new zingers for the memory book. Like the time Daughter #2 innocently read aloud a sign on a Florida highway as we drove by: Hooters, where everyone gets their own cheerleader. She was about 12 and had no idea what Hooters was. But her 16 and 19 year-old siblings did, and that line is now a family classic.

The idea is simple: Keep it brief. A long weekend may work better than a week for a mini family vacation.

Don't overschedule: I'm planning a mandatory hike up-island for the day after Thanksgiving this year. If the weather tanks, I have a DVD as backup. But I would never try both for the same day when they're only here a couple of days.

Don't ban technology: You can't fight City Hall but do use your discretion. I allow computers and cell phones. But only during down-time or at the end of the day, not in the middle of a car ride through the rain forrest in Puerto Rico.

It's important to remember that they will complain about being forced to spend time with the family. It's pretty much their job. Check your sensitivity at the door. Last summer, my kids kvetched right up until we left for our long weekend in New Jersey. Yet they're still talking about how much fun they had.

In fact, since realizing these family "adventures" aren't going away, they've taken to emailing me links for possible things to do and places to go. We booked the hotel for our mini ski vacation this year based on a suggestion from Daughter #1.

One day maybe not too far off I'm looking forward to handing off the mantle of Cruise Director to them. Then all I'll need to do is go along for the ride.

Do you think, when that day comes, they'll get the joke if I show up with my arms folded, cell phone in hand, eyes rolling belligerently? Nah, I wouldn't really do that. Someone's got to at least pretend to be the mature one, right?