I’m going to preface this by saying that sometimes I have weird dreams. And weird thoughts. So maybe this is one of them, but it’s a kind of a fun mental game I’ve been playing for quite some time.
A few weeks ago, on the way home from our last lake trip, I shared my mental exercise with my family over lunch. They thought I was nuts. They still do. And they are probably going to roll their eyes if they read this (I’m used to it).
So I offer to you:
Let’s say you were being held against your will in an undisclosed location and had the opportunity to speak to your family in the presence of your captors. What would you say that is so out of character for you that your family would know you were in deep trouble?
For me:
I sure wish I had a cold beer (I hate beer).
Boy, do I need a good, hot cup of coffee (hate coffee too).
Ugh. All they are playing here is Simon & Garfunkel and it’s driving me crazy. Those guys can’t sing at all.
Just saw the most awesome ad set in Comic Sans and Papyrus.
I’m dying for that new Dell laptop (that one would have Jim sending the people in the white coats to carry me away).
You get the idea.
Some other favorites:
Jim: I’m craving broccoli. Ha.
Sara Ann (19-year-old daughter): My favorite word is crusty.
Elizabeth (22-year-old daughter): Sports are boring.
Ethan (Sara Ann’s boyfriend): I’m craving licorice and bell peppers.
JP (Elizabeth’s boyfriend): Sports are boring.
You get the idea. If you know these folks at all, you’d know that Jim despises broccoli, Sara Ann can’t stand the word crusty, Elizabeth and JP are sports fanatics and Ethan feels about licorice and bell peppers the way Jim does about broccoli.
I realize this has absolutely no value to anyone, but, please, I’m recovering from surgery, ok? Gimme a break.
So … how would I know if you were in trouble? Hit me up in the comments.
A hysterectomy is no minor procedure. Like anything involving an abdominal incision, it’s one of the biggies. So when I realized that’s the direction we were going, I made plans to live it up with my family and a few friends before being out of commission for several weeks.
And we did. Beginning with WordCamp Fayetteville. Jim’s and my trip to northwest Arkansas was great. The next weekend we enjoyed one last trip to Greers Ferry Lake with the kids and extended family. And last weekend — my last one before surgery — we enjoyed dinner with long-time friends on Friday night and left early Saturday morning for St. Louis, for what was my first Cardinal game in probably about 40 years.
Old Busch Stadium sometime in the 60s or 70s.
This was a particular thrill for me, as my daddy, who passed away suddenly in 1993, raised me on Cardinal baseball. Watching the games on TV and listening on the radio in the era of Lou Brock, Bob Gibson and the 1968 World Series was a family ritual and Daddy’s comments and insights taught me more than most girls knew about the game.
As I write this, I’ve begun the slow recovery from surgery and am making progress, but it helps to remember this time last week, when we were at the ballpark after a late lunch in Downtown St. Louis with a dear high school friend and fellow Cardinal fan. We got to the stadium early to walk around and see it from every angle. I wanted to see the somewhat-controversial statue of Stan Musial, the smaller statues of former Cardinal greats and just soak in the atmosphere. Pretty much all of Downtown St. Louis decks out in red for game day and lots of folks get there early, as we did, to watch batting practice.
Catcher Yadier Molina (left) and Manager Tony LaRussa (right) in the dugout
After watching the tail end of Cardinal batting practice, we headed for the Stadium Store, to spend the dollars I had earmarked for t-shirts and souvenirs for everyone. We took our bags full of gear and headed for our seats to settle in for the game.
Jim had rented us a Nikon D7000 with a telephoto lens for the trip; I told him I wanted to be able to shoot Albert Pujols’ nostrils. Not really, but I did want to be able to zoom in close. And it was awesome. I started snapping as soon as players and coaches started filtering into the dugout and got really excited watching Yadier Molina strap on his gear for the game and seeing Manager Tony LaRussa emerge from the clubhouse. Sadly, the game was not ours to win, and wasn’t even a decent contest, but I did get an awesome shot of Albert at bat.
And this awesome shot of me with my girls and their boyfriends sitting on the Cardinal dugout.
Win or lose, I’ll always love my Cardinals, just like Daddy raised me to do. I’m so glad we had this time for me to share it with my girls like he did with me — we all agreed it would be a great family tradition to continue into another generation.
And it’s an awesome way to take my mind off this icky surgery …
I’m a fan of tradition, especially at Christmas. Some of our traditions are warm, loving and spiritual. And some are downright … um, quirky.
Candlelight and Carol service at the church we grew up in
Mass family sleepover on Christmas Eve at my mom’s; all the kids (loosely defined these days, as we have a 22-year-old) camp out on the floor of my mom’s room
The Christmas morning line; no one can come out of my mom’s room until all cameras are charged, ready and trained on the door where the kids will soon burst through to see what Santa has brought.
Christmas lunch, gourmet-style at my sister’s. Free-range turkey, smoked salmon, exotic cheeses, enough appetizers for a Food Network special; an amazing spread
Baking Christmas cookies; actually mostly just icing and decorating the cookies.
My sister and I shop for stocking stuffers for my mom. Among the essentials each year is the trashiest pair of thong underwear we can find. Tassels, feathers … the more outrageous the better. She rolls her eyes and acts horrified, but we think secretly she kind of likes it.
Some of these traditions are recent, some are long-standing; the thong began as a joke to make my mom laugh instead of cry because she missed my daddy at Christmas. The Christmas cookies and church service we’ve done all my life. But the one family Christmas tradition I miss the most is my daddy’s Christmas prayer.
When my daddy prayed, as we stood in a circle holding hands, he always began by thanking God for the gift of family and he always ended the prayer by talking about the Cross. And in between he reminded us all of the real meaning of love and the real meaning of Christmas. He was thoughtful, wise and eloquent and there was rarely a prayer that did not move us to tears.
I miss crying at my daddy’s prayers.
But new traditions have taken root; yesterday we went to the mall so my one-year-old nieces could sit on Santa’s lap. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve done the mall Santa. Today we’ll all visit my grandmother in the hospital at various times and take her a plate of food. We’ll still do the thong shopping, but now my sister and I take my grown daughters (18 and 22) with us.
Our family celebration of Christmas has always rightfully begun with the candlelight and carol service. Like all human tradition, the service changes from year to year but the Reason and the focus remain the same. Time and circumstance may change the way we mark this day, but the birth of Christ marks us anew each year.
The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever.
Hallelujah!
This countdown is getting serious. She leaves in One. Week.
What do you do the last week before your last child leaves for college?
It’s busy for her as she says goodbye to her friends, packs and cleans her trash pitdumping zone room. Busy for me as I plan the send-off dinner, try to enjoy every minute with her without smothering her to death and cry. A lot.
In some ways, the anticipation has been worse than the actual event. At least it seems so now — ask me again next week after she leaves.
She’s ready.
My dining room is full of dorm and her room is full of boxes and suitcases.
She’s excited about the challenge and ready to prepare for her future.
Over the weekend I got to hear her share insights on faith that were deep, thoughtful and meaningful, which gives me such peace.
I’m ready.
Yes, it’s hard. Hard as crap. But my Daddy taught me that few worthwhile things are easy. So that means this is very worthwhile.
I’ve got lots of exciting projects of my own to work on and that is going to be so much fun.
I can’t wait to watch how she’s going to use her gifts, talents and passions to work for good in the world.
At this point, I’ve either prepared her for adulthood or I have failed, so, in a way, the pressure is off. Now I get to just enjoy her last week at home. And try not to cry. Much.
In 20 days, my youngest daughter, Sara Ann, leaves for college. It’s the most significant life change since I first became a mother in 1988. I’ve been counting down the days, not to be morbid, but because it’s easier for me to process if I’m aware of what is happening.
We spent this past weekend at my family’s lake house on Greers Ferry Lake in Arkansas — the setting for some of the best times of our lives. It was our last lake weekend before The Empty Nest and my first inclination was, don’t think think about the fact that it is the last, just enjoy the time.
Except … while thinking about it certainly brings tears, do I really want to look back on these days and remember nothing special about them? No — I want to savor every moment; I want to be fully there. Tears are a small price to pay for the memory of:
The last dinner at the table at the lake. Steak, baked potatoes, garlic bread and peach cobbler. A nice bottle of Cabernet.
The last day on the lake. An idyllic sunny day with a pleasant breeze, screams of joy on the inner tube and time to relax and enjoy the clear water and unspoiled beauty of the foothills of the Ozarks.
The drawer. As we packed to leave, she showed me “her drawer” in the master bedroom. I hadn’t known about this drawer. It contains things she has kept there since she’s been old enough to open a drawer. Books, markers, hair clips, coloring books, rubber bands, some small toys, pencils. Little girl things, not college girl things.
The drawer took me back to a time when college would happen someday, not in 20 days; when many more dinners, sunny days, skinned knees, broken bones and broken hearts lie ahead.
I’ve never believed that to display emotion is to show weakness, that it’s necessary to deny what we feel in order to be strong. In my experience, it requires more strength to face that which is painful; to walk through rather than try to walk around and pretend to be unaffected.
So in 20 days, when I leave my youngest three hours away in Conway, Arkansas, I will feel it. I won’t distract myself with busyness, or try to take my mind to a happy place. I’ll curl up in a ball and cry if I need to and I’ll remember every thought, every feeling, every moment. And I know there will be a time when it hurts just a little less.
But for now, I’m going to count down the last 20 days and treasure each one. Even if it costs me a tear or two.
I hope she does 1 and 5 (but let’s wait a few years for 5), 3 is coming soon, I figure she’ll do 4 in a year or so and hope she’ll never do 2, 6 or 7.
My oldest child graduates from college tomorrow.
I can hope, pray and plead, but the decisions are now theirs. I can influence, advise and guide, but I can no longer control.
A few weeks ago, around the time of her 18th birthday, Sara Ann placed these things on my kitchen table. No more denial about this graduation thing. It is going to happen. It’s now three months and a few days until we move her into the dorm at Hendrix on August 17. Until my life changes more drastically than it has since September 20, 1988, when I became a mom for the first time.
One of my favorite songs, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, by George Harrison, has a line that says,
“with every mistake, we must surely be learning …”
I think that sums up parenting pretty well. And I’ve made my share of mistakes.
What have I learned? I’ve learned that many of the things that I thought were Really Big Things are really … not. Such as:
Potty training Really, we make this so much harder than it needs to be. Early potty training does not equal higher intelligence. No toddler who doesn’t want to use the potty is going to do it consistently for little pieces of cereal. I promise by the time they hit puberty, you will have forgotten about the potty.
How clean/messy they keep their room When they go to college and get a room of their own, they will either do better at it or learn to live as a slob.
Grades in middle school Middle school demands that a family shift into survival mode. It’s the bridge between elementary school playmates with squeaky voices and classmates with facial hair and raging hormones. Boys are icky vs. Ohhhh, he is hott*. It’s a time of transition: socially, academically, emotionally and physically. More than anything, they need a safe environment, free from undue pressure.
What they wear Beyond basic decency and modesty, let them express themselves freely. My two girls’ styles are as different as night and day; one can spend an entire day in stilettos on concrete and the other is all about Tom’s and Chacos. And both are absolutely beautiful in their own way. Their style is not an expression of you and it’s not their job to impress your friends with how nice they look.
Shaving I’m speaking about girls here; I know next-to-nothing about boys and shaving. Let them shave when they want to shave. The main thing about shaving is talking about it. I shaved, I need to shave, Omigosh it’s been a week since I shaved! This is just not important enough to let them feel excluded about. It’s hair. Let it go.
The most important thing I have learned in 21 years of parenting is savor every moment. From the first step to the first date, there is joy in every milestone. Take a million pictures, even when it seems silly. You’ll be glad when you look back at them and you won’t remember how much they complained.
Be there with your whole heart. Shop for school supplies and prom dresses. Be the one who always drives them places and listen to them laugh with their friends. Let them mess up your house and stay up all night, even if they keep you awake. Watch them fall in love and hold them when their tender heart breaks for the first time.
Welcome each new phase; in every change is a glimpse of the adult that you’ll someday know as friend rather than child. The one who just might give you grandchildren.
*This is not a typo; two ts means he/she is really hot. Which is just like cute, but scarier.
I turned 51 a couple of weeks ago. I like birthdays. And no cancer survivor in their right mind complains about getting another year older.
It’s kind of like a lopsided baseball game — even though the winning team is far ahead, they still try to cross home plate one more time. You can certainly win the game without the insurance runs, but they do make the victory a little more secure. At 51, I’m 11 runs ahead, which is a pretty nice lead.
A few random birthday reflections:
My family doesn’t even try to put all those candles on my birthday cake anymore; i just get the big number candles. I think they believe it would be dangerous otherwise.
It’s fun to watch my younger friends freak out when I tell them I finished my masters degree before they were born.
It’s cool to see the look of surprise when younger people realize I know how to work a computer and can type a text message just as fast as they can.
It’s good to have an excuse for being absent-minded and scatterbrained, which I’ve always been anyway. Now I can just remind people that I’m old. My kids buy it completely and leave me alone about the forgetfulness.
Every year is better than the last. The body may be falling apart, but my mind is full of the kind of lessons you only learn from experience. When I can remember them. See above.
I have a great life and am grateful for each and every one of these years. I love having adult and almost-adult children, especially when they turn out to be people you’d spend time with anyway. Marriage is better after 23 years than after one — anyone can be married for a year; 23 is a grand slam — and I’ve always wanted to hit one of those.
Note: I do know that baseball season is over. It’s the only sport I know enough about to make an analogy. And it’s only a few months until spring training starts.
I watched it from our deck of my family’s house overlooking Greers Ferry Lake. Sara Ann was about to begin her senior year in high school, my last school year with a child at home. Prelude to the empty nest.
Between the uncharacteristically cool breeze, the natural beauty and the chardonnay, my mood was reflective as I thought about the beginning of the end of this part of my life. A life defined by semesters, school days, spring breaks and Christmas vacations. The end of my girls’ lives as children as they move into adulthood — college graduation and the beginning of a bright career for Elizabeth, high school graduation and off to college for Sara Ann. A beginning for me as, for the first time in 21 years, I explore my own priorities and interests apart from motherhood. The end of rules and curfews. The beginning of years of friendship with my girls.
I love pictures of sunsets. This particular sunset marked the end of an amazing day, but as sure as it set over the lake, the sun rose again on the other side of the night. When you look at the photo, unless you know the exact location and directional orientation, you don’t know whether it’s a sunrise or a sunset. So I realize it is with life — every end holds within it a new beginning and there is beauty in both.
Though I know this transition will not be easy and I approach it with mixed emotions, I cling to the idea that, for us, the sun is rising.
This past Sunday, Mother’s Day, I celebrated my 20th anniversary of motherhood. It began about this time of year in 1988 — my first pregnancy. While lying on the couch one afternoon, I felt a strange fluttering in my abdomen, which I immediately recognized as life.
Some highlights of my 20 years as a mom:
My husband talked to my stomach throughout both pregnancies. My girls knew his voice and quieted to it at birth.
Nursing.
The first smile, solid food, step, word, hug, kiss, I love you. The first day of school, first day of middle school, first day of high school, first love, first kiss, first heartbreak.
The sex talk.
Many, many meals together around our kitchen table.
Being excited for her as she prepares for college while my heart breaks at the thought of her leaving my home.
My youngest daughter wraps her foot around mine when we snuggle, and says, yeah girl, when I call her. She knows that she can invite her friends over first and ask later.
My oldest daughter takes my hand during church, looks into my eyes, pulls me close to her and smiles. She sends me text messages and tells me she can’t wait to come home from college and hang out with me.
I miss the tiny shoes, huge hair bows, sticky hands, dirty faces and the innocence, but I love the conversations, lunches, shopping, text messages and the time when a daughter becomes a friend.
This photo was taken in the summer of 1994, when my girls were two and five-and-a-half. They are now 16 and 19. Time flies.
About 19 years ago I read a magazine article that talked about how we often wish our children’s lives away. I can’t wait until the first smile, can’t wait until they can sit up, crawl, walk, talk, or the biggie … use the potty. I stuck the article on my refrigerator as a reminder to savor each moment. Though I’ve long since lost the article, its truth has stayed with me through the years.
A guy I know from Twitter reminded me of that old magazine article. The other day I realized that as of this writing, I have exactly 16 more times to drive a child to school and pick her up — ever. Next year, she’ll drive herself to school and I will be through with carpool line forever.
Though there are many things about child rearing that aren’t particularly enjoyable, I’m never ready to leave them behind. Nothing particularly fun about carpool line. Sitting and waiting, then fighting traffic. Potty training wasn’t such a joy and being awakened in the middle of the night by a screaming baby certainly was no day at the beach.
Though I’m often called sappy and overly sentimental, I’m glad I’ve allowed myself to dwell in some of these moments for a bit. Yesterday it was pacifiers, strollers and carseats — today it’s boys, cars and college — and tomorrow’s empty nest will come far too quickly.
My girls, left, in 1992 (Sara Ann was one day old) and, right, on Mother’s Day 2007
My two girls have always been very close. They are three-and-a-half years apart in age, four grades apart in school, which works out marvelously where college is concerned.
I resolved early on, as soon as I knew I was pregnant with Sara Ann, that I would do everything in my power to ensure that their relationship was close. So when I went into labor, we took Elizabeth to the hospital with us, so she could see her new sister as soon as possible after her birth.
It didn’t work out that way — 24 hours of labor later, I had a C-section and Elizabeth (then 3 1/2) had to go home to sleep.
But the next day, she came to the hospital and held her sister for the first time. That was a profound moment for me, and I don’t think I was emotional just because of the hormones. She was then and always has been very careful, very maternal, very protective of her sister, and I know that Sara Ann looks up to her. It has been such a sweet thing to watch them grow and watch their relationship bloom.
One of the most satisfying things about my life now is watching how, despite their differences in personality and style, they genuinely love and enjoy one another. I love seeing them snuggle together in my bed to watch a TV show and help each other decide what to wear.
e as a slob.
