I never try to hide my age; I’m proud of each and every year. I always say, no cancer survivor complains about growing older. I cherish and revel in my birthdays, because each one is another little triumph over the big C.
For those of you who dread getting older, you’re just too young and foolish to know what you’re missing.
This summer, on one of our St. Louis trips, we had pre-game drinks at this great bar called 360, that’s on the 26th floor of the Hyatt at the Ballpark, right across from Busch Stadium. It’s our favorite hotel in St. Louis. The view is spectacular, and, of couse, we loved looking down on the stadium as the Cardinals took batting practice (sadly, closed to the public). We may or may not have creeped on them with the big telephoto lens.
From the top, we could see the buildings, the graceful ones and the eyesores, but we couldn’t see the peeling paint, the cracks in the sidewalk, the litter, graffiti, or any other marks of a downtown urban neightborhood. Busch Stadium, the Gateway Arch, and the beautiful City Hall were easy to pick out, and we enjoyed the overview of a city with which we are only slightly familiar.
Aging is a little like that view from 26 floors up. You see the traffic jams, the road construction, and if you could yell loudly enough, you could tell the drivers below to avoid those streets. Instead, you watch them unwittingly strand themselves in traffic. The higher you climb, the farther out you can see, and the smaller the people and problems on the ground appear.
I love the view from 54. It’s hard to believe how much I dreaded the empty nest; I could not have been more wrong. I love the luxury of eating popcorn for dinner if we want to; making spontaneous plans and running off for weekend getaways with only the dogs to worry about.
But most of all, I love what I know. That money, clothes, houses, cars and other material things are not where it’s at. It’s about the experiences, the memories, and mostly the people.
I remember many moments from my younger days. With the exception of my wedding day, I don’t remember what I was wearing, how much I weighed, or what kind of car got me to my destination.
I remember faces. Voices. Hugs. Tears. Laughter. Love.
Life is short. Make memories.
It was about 104 degrees when I took the photo above. I hate that the sky is so blown out, but I was on the 26th floor, outside, shooting into — and rapidly wilting in — the late-afternoon sun. Jim would’ve shot it much better, but I like to hold the camera sometimes too.
One of the things I’m proudest of is the fact that Jim and I will celebrate 26 years of marriage next month. No small feat to find someone who will put up with me for that long.
We have learned a lesson or two in the process, so I thought I’d share a few.
First, you must understand that we are two people who could not be more different. He is an Excel ninja; spreadsheets make me cry. And not in the good way. When we did our premarital counseling, they gave us a personality test. I was terrified. Knowing what the results would be I was afraid they would tell us, “Whatever you do, do not get married.”
The results of the personality test are summarized in the chart below.
Despite my trepidation, the counselor actually told us we were perfectly matched. He explained that we would provide balance to one another.
And we have. I’m the one with 10,000-foot dreams and visions, with no clue how to make them happen. Jim is the guy who loves intricate charts and putting together complicated things. He actually reads those directions that come in the package. I find them boring and unnecessary. This is why I help open the box, leave the room, come back when he’s done and say, “Oh, that looks wonderful!” See how that works?
One year later, we returned and took the personality test again. Here are the results of the follow-up test.
Each of us had grown toward the middle. The goodness of marriage is that it causes you to stretch and grow in ways you wouldn’t otherwise.
Here are my five tips for a wonderful, long-lasting marriage ways to avoid driving one another insane:
Don’t expect your partner to think like you do. It’s like trying to teach a pig to sing. It’s impossible and it annoys the pig.
Try to stretch. I’ve learned to be a bit more practical and he’s learned to let go and dream a little. Sometimes.
Honor one another’s strengths. I used to do the bills, which is stupid. I’m terrible at that sort of thing. Now he does the bills and I find fun things for us to do so that we will have more bills.
Find common interests. I’m smart. I got him hooked on Cardinal baseball. Enough said.
Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s a cliche for a reason. Ask yourself, “How much will this matter in five years?” Because chances are it won’t and five years go by much more quickly than you think.
Right after “I do” is when you start preparing for the empty nest. Practice these things consistently and, after you’ve raised the kids and they’ve got their own lives, you’ll have a great time together.
This week we took our second trip to St. Louis this season to see the Cardinals play the Houston Astros. We got on the road early as we had booked a stadium tour at 2:00 p.m. Each trip is awesome in its own way, but this one may be the best yet.
We stopped in at the Westin Hotel across from the ballpark. It’s a beautiful hotel within steps of the ballpark. As we sat down in the nearly-empty grill off the lobby, we noticed a guy sitting in the corner by himself, clearly engrossed in whatever was on his iPad and in his earbuds. He made no eye contact and was eating a large bowl of pasta.
I turned to Jim and said, “That’s an Astros player, and from the look of him and the way he’s acting, I’m guessing he’s the starting pitcher.” Jim sort of nodded in that “Yes, dear, I’m sure you’re right” kinda way. Y’all know what I’m talking about.
So we head to the stadium for our tour. The first place they take us is the dugout. And right here is where I start to freak out. Imagine in a couple of hours my favorite players will be right where I’m standing now.
I cannot believe I’m standing here!Another dugout view, with Joe (right, in the navy jacket), our excellent tour guideThis is the phone. Yes, THAT phone. The left one calls the press box to notify them of injuries, etc. The one on the right calls the bullpen. The receivers are not there because last year Tony LaRussa thought a fan messed up the phone, so now they lock them away.OK, this is totally dorky, but I had to put my arm here, because it’s where Manager Mike Matheny stands during the game and rests his arm. So now he has my germs.These steps go to the clubhouse. I was briefly tempted to run down them, but decided against ruining the tour for everyone and getting escorted out of the stadium.These are the green seats. They cost $14,000/year for one seat. And you have to make a 10-year commitment. I’m pretty sure this is is the closest I’ll ever get to the green seats.We also got to see the broadcast booth – this is the view from where the announcers sit.So, as we’re standing right outside the visiting team clubhouse door, there’s a guy sitting there in Astro greys wearing headphones. Yup, the same guy we saw at the Westin. I looked at him and said “Good luck.” He said, “Thanks.” Jim gave me a dirty look for wishing the competition good luck.So, the guy we saw at the Westin and in the hallway outside the visiting clubhouse turned out to be this guy – Lucas Harrell, starting (and losing) pitcher for the Astros. I think Jim was kind of amazed that I was right. But he’d never admit it.It wasn’t on the tour, but we did get to watch the pregame show live, which was fun. I kept the paper that had their copy & notes on it.
As always, we did enjoy the game, though the Astros didn’t make it much of a contest. The Cardinals won easily, 5 – 0 and it was great to see former Memphis Redbird Lance Lynn throw five-and-two-thirds innings with two hits and two walks.
Matt Holliday yelling at the umpire about a called strikeA little encouragement for the middle relieverCatcher Yadier Molina crosses the plate after hitting a home runThere’s nothing like watching the game in person. You get to see things that the TV cameras don’t always show you. Like the third base coach giving signs to the batter.Cardinals win!
The gameday atmosphere in St. Louis is a little like a big SEC football game or the Final Four – there’s a sea of red everywhere, probably more fans than not wearing Cardinal logo gear and everyone is excited and friendly. The hotel and restaurant personnel are happy to share their stories of World Series craziness and everyone cares about the Cardinals. It’s fun to be part of the excitement and I imagine that’s a lot like how it would feel to be a football fan.
Yes, it is possible to communicate with teenagers — in fact, I believe most of the time they really want to invite us into their world.
But what happens when they do?
When they want to share their ideas about music, clothes, activities, do we call it stupid or let them know how much better our way is?
Three ways to build bridges instead of walls with teenagers:
Get with text. For teens and young adults, their primary mode of communication is the text message. Yet all too few parents are willing to adopt this quick, efficient mode of communication. Instead they complain that it’s silly and ask, “Why don’t you just call?” Instead of dismissing it because it’s less familiar, join them. Many times my girls texted me in situations in which they’d never have called, when they were out with friends, or even dates. They would let me know where they were and just chat about how things are going.
Music. There has to be something you can find to like. When I was a teen (in the ‘70s), my parents hated all of the music I listened to except Simon and Garfunkel. My dad had derisive nicknames for rock and disco and constantly let me know how awful he thought it was. The only positive comment either of my parents ever made about my music was when I played Bridge Over Troubled Water for Daddy. He loved that song and I thought it was fabulous that he liked something I played for him. These days, much of what our kids listen to is remakes from the 70s. It’s so much fun to sing along and watch them wonder how I know the words.
Social Networking. Yes, they spend a lot of time on Facebook and, increasingly, Twitter. It’s not stupid and it’s not, except in extreme cases, a waste of time. They are preparing themselves to live in this technology-saturated world, they are learning to network and to embrace technology, which is a positive thing.
One question I get asked a lot as many parents begin to join Facebook, “Should I friend my kid?” I say no. Let them friend you. Don’t make it a requirement or an obligation. My policy has been not to friend folks my kids’ age, so they don’t feel obligated or uncomfortable, however I’ll certainly accept their requests if they friend me, which they generally have.
As for monitoring their postings on social networks, as long as they lived under my roof, I had the password or the account was closed. Complete and total access. No exceptions.
If you want to communicate with teens, you have to do it on their terms, come into their world. When they invite you in, be a good guest.
I’ve felt unusually emotional the past couple of days, without really knowing why. It hit me sometime yesterday while I was trying to think through something at work. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but now I think I know.
If you’re a mom, you feel what your children feel. When they are tiny and they have colic and cry, you’re at least as miserable as they are.
When they’re a little older and it’s chickenpox, ear infections, strep or a broken bone, you hurt too.
When they go to junior high and they feel like they don’t fit in, or the kids are mean, you remember when you felt the same way and you feel it all over again, but this time it’s worse because it’s your child.
The first time they fall in love and their heart breaks, yours breaks too.
You’re excited with and for them as they leave the nest, even though there’s an empty room in your home and a place in your heart that aches for them just a tiny bit.
As you watch them build their own lives and follow their dreams, their dreams become just a little bit yours, too.
I think that explains why, when I watched my oldest, Elizabeth, cross the finish line for her first marathon, I could not stop the tears. Thinking about the commitment, sacrifice and dedication it takes to complete 26.2 miles amazed me, but thinking about what that finish line meant to her brought the lump to my throat.
And maybe it explains why there may be a tear or two in a few hours when I see my youngest, Sara Ann, off to Zambia for a mission trip, which she has dreamed of since middle school. The fact that what she’s wanted for this long is to go to Africa and serve humbles me and fills me with admiration.
I don’t live through them, but being part of their adult lives is fulfilling in a way I never anticipated when they were small and I didn’t want them to grow up.
We don’t travel a lot and we don’t take many long vacations, so this last week has been a little wild and epically wonderful.
First, Jim and I took a quick trip to St. Louis for a Cardinal game. We drove up on Tuesday for that evening’s game, arrived early in the afternoon and had a couple of drinks at the 26th-floor bar at our hotel before walking across the street to Busch Stadium.
I still get emotional when I walk into Busch Stadium. Maybe it’s the sheer excitement of the in-person experience, the enormity of the World Series victory or the thrill of the crowd and the crack of the bat you don’t get from a TV broadcast. But I think it’s more than that. It takes me back to days when I sat next to my dad in the old Busch Stadium. He taught me to use the scorecard to keep up with every play, told me about his favorite player, Stan Musial and explained the finer points of the game as it unfolded.
We saw an incredible game, with a dream of a pitching matchup: Cardinal ace Adam Wainright vs. 2011 Cy Young winner Clayton Kershaw with the Los Angeles Dodgers. As much as I despise the heat, the 102-degree game time temperature didn’t matter. The game was exciting and the Cardinals won. We collapsed in our cool hotel room afterwards, enjoyed a good night’s sleep and drove home on Wednesday.
Back to reality, to the daily routine and the Cardinals on TV — that night in an even hotter game (104 at game time) that went into extra innings.
This weekend we took the girls and their boyfriends to the lake. It’s a lot of fun to have adult children and our girls and the guys they have chosen are all genuinely great young people that we enjoy spending time with. We spent the entire day on the boat, swimming, napping, relaxing and just enjoying the company of the ones we love most. We watched a beautiful sunset on the lake.
There was some action-packed inner tubing that unfortunately ended with a trip to the emergency room when Elizabeth perforated her eardrum. She’s been in a lot of pain and we weren’t able to go back out on the lake on Sunday, but the girls and I had a nice leisurely trip to Wal-Mart while the boys unloaded and covered the boat.
Left to right: JP, Elizabeth, Sara Ann, Ethan
Few things go as smoothly as planned. What I love about our family is that even when they don’t, we find a way to enjoy each other even in Wal-Mart.
Parents of young kids, take heart. Your best times with your kids are yet to come. One day we’re changing diapers, the next we’re sending them off to senior prom and the next we’re discussing real-life issues and challenges with people we’ve come to respect and admire for their intelligence and character. Enjoy every phase and don’t dread the next; there is goodness ahead.
We aren’t quite to “after,” but the new cabinets are in. It took an entire day, and, of course we’re going to have to do some touch-up painting. And some drywall work as, shockingly, our furdown is not completely plumb.
Haven’t used the stove or oven yet, as we have no way to wash dishes. But the new microwave rocks.Love that we have two extra cabinets over where the sink will be. And the drawers are cool.Closeup. We love the finish on the cabinets.
Next phase: Countertops. Which come a week from this Monday. Yes, one more sinkless week.
We’ve been living with an outdated kitchen since we bought our house in 1991. Built in 1978, the kitchen was, and still is, of that vintage, complete with the lovely harvest gold stove and double ovens. The cabinets are original as well and the countertops date back to the 90s, when we were in the bright blue and white kitchen phase. We’ve repainted the cabinets so many times it seems they are at least a couple of inches smaller. Add that to the fact that our stove and oven are all but inoperative and it was time to jump.
So I decided to chronicle the process here.
Before
Sink side. Yes, those cabinets are closed. They’re that crappy.
So I was thrilled to see this:
Which contained these boxes, which contain our new cabinets:
And then yesterday these came:
A brand new stove with burners that I’m betting will actually work
A shiny new microwave that will give us back a couple of square feet of counter real estate
The Jim came home with this yesterday:
A pretty new faucet
And until it’s all done we have to live like this:
Cabinets unloaded – a mess
We’re hoping the installers will come put the cabinets in this week.
And here’s the real before picture: the day after we closed on the house, on our 23-year-old daughter Elizabeth’s third birthday.
Wearing his usual striped tie with the navy sportcoat over his shoulder
Today I think about my dad on the 19th anniversary of his passing. He taught me most of what I know about life, love and how to be a good person.
He also taught me 99 percent of what I know about baseball. I don’t even remember when we started watching games, I must have been six or seven, but I loved the time with Daddy and I loved sharing it with him.
I wanted to play baseball, but the closest thing to Little League for a girl in Arkansas in the 1960s was YMCA softball, so I signed up. The fly balls and grounders Daddy threw me in the front yard made me a pretty good third baseman and what he taught me about hitting earned me the cleanup spot in the lineup. I loved watching the outfielders back up when I came to the plate.
Every year we spent the better part of a week in St. Louis watching Cardinal games in person. I sat next to Daddy so I could listen to him talk about the game. He taught me to fill in the scorecard, told me about Stan Musial and how the catcher gives signs to the pitcher. We went early to watch batting practice and get autographs.
Sundays at home were baseball days; we watched on TV each Sunday after church and in the evenings during the week; we listened on the radio in the car on our way home from trips to the lake.
You can barely see the words “National League”
I’ve got lots of old baseball moments from the 60s and 70s — here are the highlights:
Watching Bob Gibson warm up, standing about 10 feet away. I still remember the intensity, the concentration, the sound of the ball hitting the glove at 90-something miles per hour.
Getting Lou Brock’s autograph
Catching a foul ball in the bottom of the second inning, after getting hit with a foul ball during batting practice
Meeting Stan Musial and getting his autograph (true to his reputation, he was kind and gracious)
Getting a photo of Hank Aaron looking right at me and waving, the year before he broke the home run record. Sadly, some idiot stole the roll of film from our hotel room.
Over the past two years, I’ve made some new baseball memories: last year’s St. Louis trip with the family, September’s amazing comeback, playoff race and the World Series. Game Six — enough said. And less than a month ago, a chance to see the World Series trophy at AutoZone Park.
When Stan Musial’s wife passed away recently, my first thought was, “Daddy just met Mrs. Musial.” I love the thought of him watching Game Six from heaven. And, boy would he have loved to see that trophy.
Better yet, remember when you used an actual potato to play with Mr. Potato Head?
I do.
The older I get, the more nostalgic I become. Maybe it’s because I have increasingly more things to look back on.
What I didn’t remember is that, according to the folks at NowIKnow.com, Mr. Potato Head originally came with a pipe, which he donated to the American Cancer Society to help promote anti-smoking efforts.
In 1964, the plastic potato head was created as the pegs that allowed you to insert the pieces into potatoes and other fruits and vegetables were deemed too sharp for children.
I’m all for child safety, but, try as I might, I can’t remember ever hurting myself on a Mr. Potato Head peg.
Then again, I remember sitting on the armrest in the front seat of the family station wagon on the way to the grocery store. I never wore a helmet when I rode my bike and I never wore a seat belt.
How on earth did I survive these dangers and make it to the advanced age of 53?
Yesterday was an epic day in my baseball world. We went to AutoZone Park to enjoy a Redbirds baseball game, some postgame fireworks and the main attraction, the World Series trophy. The same trophy former manager Tony LaRussa held proudly after the historic 2011 series; that was displayed on the field at Busch Stadium on Opening Day, next to Lou Brock, Bob Gibson and other Cardinal greats.
Trophy close-up
It represents an incredible comeback triumph, the thrill of watching it unfold and an evening that has come to be known simply as Game Six.
My sister and her family joined us for the game and fireworks, but the real goodness was standing inches from the trophy and reliving those moments together.
A very long time ago, when I had a tiny baby, someone told me that successful parenting is a series of letting go moments. I didn’t believe it then. But now that I’ve lived it, I know it’s true.
I remember holding her, rocking her, inhaling the baby smells, feeling her little head nestling on my shoulder and thinking there was no way I was ever letting go.
Then one day I held her in my lap and felt her pull away, lean forward and try to sit up on her own. I let go and she sat up.
A few months later, I let her pull up on the coffee table and stand, sort of, on her own two feet.
Then she took a step, by herself, without my hand in hers.
After that, she learned to use the potty and sleep in a big-girl bed. She wanted to dress herself and she chose some interesting combinations of clothing. We took her to church in an outfit that didn’t match and we didn’t (much) care what anyone thought.
It seemed only moments later when I drove her to preschool, stopped the car and watched as she hopped out the door to go fingerpaint, run on the playground and listen to someone else read to her.
Soon she began Kindergarten — all day long. She learned to read and to write her name. And while she still wanted me to read to her occasionally, most of the time she wanted to read to her baby dolls and stuffed animals.
When it was time for the middle school dance, I couldn’t believe I was letting her go. To a dance? With a boy? But I helped her choose the perfect dress, watched her curl her hair and put on just a little blush, lip gloss, the tiniest bit of mascara and shoes with heels that were way too high. And she was beautiful.
Her freshman year, it was her first high school dance. She wore a long red dress and she looked way too grown up. But I let her go and after the dance, in the wee hours of the morning, she told me about her first kiss.
We taught her to drive cautiously and to concentrate on the road, knowing full well that when driver’s permit became license, away from our watchful eyes she would turn up the music and drive too fast and ride with boys. We were scared to death, but we watched her drive away.
All too soon we packed the car with her belongings and moved her into a tiny dorm room to live with another girl she barely knew. We helped her arrange her room, find a place for the mini-fridge and then I hugged her, afraid to let go, because I knew I was letting go for real this time.
A year or so later, we moved her into her first apartment. We bought a couch, a TV, a bed, gave her hand-me-downs from the attic, helped her hang pictures and cautioned her to always lock the door. Somewhere else became her home; now she comes to visit. When it’s time to go, she says, “I have to go home.”
One day, she’ll hold onto Jim’s arm as he escorts her down the aisle. She’ll let go and take the hand of a young man who loves her enough to never let go. Then someday she’ll become a mother and she’ll read this post and understand.
And that’s parenthood. It’s okay to let go. All of the growth is in the letting go.
