dar liomsa (in my opinion)

Excuse Me, Who Said You Could Grow Up?

Every year, as  another school year ends, my sappy, Mom-self finds it harder to handle.

I'm not just referring to the piles of saved reports and awards, (times 3) (which may or may not become kindling for some backyard bonfires this summer). I'm referring to the realization that my children are moving on (and on).

When the oldest one made that move to Middle School, it felt momentous, it felt exciting. A few years later, when the second one did it, it hit me. 'Oh, I see, so, they are all going to grow up?!' I stared at my youngest, accusingly. 'guess you'll be next, huh?'

I have found myself awake, in the middle of the night, crying.  Crying that I  don't want my baby to go to college! My husband, who lives in the here and now, as most normal people do, is confused by my recurring nightmare.

Him: 'Calm down she's still in High School'

Me: 'But she is going to college'

Him: 'Yes. In. Three. Years.'

Me: 'But, still.'

This man must forget how fast three years can fly. 

Indeed, in three years, she will be the grown-up we've raised her to be. But, it leaves a mom wanting to cry out, 'Wait, I take it back, I didn't really want you to grow up and leave, let's do it all again, please!'

Then we get the gift of summer, which allows us all to pause and do things we've done since they were little. Bike rides in the park, picnic lunches by the pool, reading with flashlights in the backyard tent, and cheesy little educational field trips around our town. We've done these things every summer to fill time, and to prevent boredom. As they grow older, I will savor these things as  the last of our summers together slip through my clenched fists.

My two youngest will officially no longer to go school together. This past year has been a constant fight between the one who didn't want to be late and the one who didn't want to get out of bed, now they will each go it alone and we will all miss the morning fights, that have become our routine.

Like so many things in life, we forgot to enjoy it while it was here. And now? It's gone.

So, this summer  we will take our day trips to the beach, fight over daily chore charts, and hope they rise before 11am. We've got a summer to soak up. And Summer, like a fleeting childhood, will end before we are truly ready.

Happy Summer.

I'm Feeling Okay, Thanks for Asking

"How much ice cream are we buying?" asked my perceptive, sarcastic child.

I leaned in nice and close so only she could hear me, 'Listen, I just had two teeth pulled, my face hurts, my gums hurt, and this is the only thing that I have right now.  Besides, the dentist said soft diet.

She continued as we walked to the register. "Yogurt is soft, so is cottage cheese, and applesauce."

"Well, I'm choosing ice cream." I quipped as I loaded all of the containers onto the conveyor.

In the past week, I have had two teeth pulled and inadvertently passed a kidney stone (the details of which are only suitable to share after one too many cocktails  at my cousin's fancy outdoor wedding, apparently). In the midst of my recovery, on my weekend trip  to New York for said wedding,  I steered clear of the Feds as  my purse contained prescription pain pills, allergy meds and a little baggie of salt (for rinsing my mouth). I was sure I'd be a part of a major drug bust at s0me point, but I persevered and made it through.

I was only four days into my Kidney stone recovery, when my dentist informed me that I would be having two teeth extracted, stat. Stat is the only way I have major dental surgery done, as it provides no loopholes or quick getaways. Now, 7 days later, my mouth still hurts and I'm still eating ice cream, for medicinal purposes, you know.

In the interim, I also attempted an eye doctor visit, but luckily that was re-scheduled due to mis- communication.

I'll bet you're wondering, while we're on the topic of my health, when indeed was my last pap smear? Well, I'll save that gem for another day.

Today, I'm just glad to be back among the living. Back out in the living room with the rest of my family.

It's been a long week in bed. But I made it, and I know I couldn't have done it without my best friend.

 

The ice cream.

What Do You Do All Day?

The following is a summary of the awkward conversation I have every time someone asks me what it is, exactly, I do for a living.

Well, I'm a Blogger. But, not one of those Mommy-Bloggers, you know, I'm not someone who gets paid to endorse sh*t. In fact, no one pays me for my blog. Which is why I write about stupid people, life observations, and basically anything I choose. In 2009, when I was a young(er) and hungry, I blogged every day. Four years later, I'm still hungry but now I blog once a week. The reason is, my blog has led to other opportunities which I will list for you now.  And, by the way, I'm always hungry. Well, not as much now that I'm getting the right amount of protein in my diet, but, you know.

I'm a Freelance Writer. This means I pitch story ideas to my local newspaper, they decline, then I go back to blogging. Occasionally, I author little projects that people bring to me. I piece together words in grammatically correct form (sans humor) and write copy for businesses. Boring? Yes. But it pays a bill or two.

I'm a Social Media Manager. I run social media channels for businesses, saying what they don't have time to say on Facebook, Twitter, and even Google+. I know, who knew Google+ was a thing, right? But it is. And I'm there, only you don't realize I'm there because I'm busy pretending to be other people. Again, I check my humor and wit at the door on these projects because, well, it's just not the message they're looking to send.

I'm a Chronic Query-er. My manuscript is close to done, despite the many passed deadlines I have set for myself. Sometimes, late at night, I quietly stalk the Twitter accounts and websites of Literary Agents. Searching for some insight on what exactly they seek and how I can become that. Like an awkward High schooler trying everything she can to get in that 'cool girl' clique.

It's a strange  kind of thing, seeking acceptance from complete strangers in the hopes that they will be convinced that your story, your book, your blood, sweat, tears, and years of writing, is the one they should be shopping to Publishing Houses. While at the same time convincing them that you have enough followers (social media, that is) that will, indeed, buy said book.

Which leads me to my next project, which is Top Secret at the moment. But don't worry, when it goes public, YOU my faithful Blog readers will be the first to know. Well, sort of.

The List

Spring is slowly making its way into our lives. Not that you would know this by my wardrobe.

Most days you can still find me in fuzzy socks and drawstring sweats.

I can recall many a May much warmer than this. So, no I won't complain.

Regardless, our home is ready for Spring. And I will now list for you all the ways how, cleverly failing to indicate who was responsible for what.

The pool is open and clean.

The garden has been weeded, edged, weeded, mulched, and weeded.

The vegetables have been planted and watered and marked.

The strawberries kicked it into high gear and have bore fruit.

Closets and drawers have been cleaned and organized,  clothes and sizes that are so- last- year, have been deposited to local donation bins.

Windows have been washed.

The dog has been bathed.

The Keurig has arrived.

Nantucket Blend is my favorite.

WaWa's discounted specialty beverage deal has ended.

I'm still addicted to WaWa specialty beverages.

Salted Caramel Mocha Lattes are my favorite.

All this while waiting for spring to arrive.

Oh, and the most important of all, the heat. The heat has been turned off. But even more remarkable for this time of year, the air conditioning has not been turned on.

The next time you visit this site, scratch your head, and wonder why I haven't been blogging?

Read the list.

End of a Marriage

My husband and I have been married for 18 years.

18 long years.

Funny  that years are only described as long when we speak of marriages or jobs, (or writing a book). When describing years involved raising kids, they're fast.

In our( long) 18 years of marriage, we've seen the rise and fall of many things. Appliances top the list. In this house, we have mourned the loss of washers, dryers, dishwashers, microwaves and countless coffee pots.

We've come to know the warning signs. When the dishawasher runs louder and longer, it's on its last leg, or wash. When the washer spends more time agitating than actually washing, it needs to go. (there is a metaphor there somewhere, but for the sake of this story I'll pass) When a coffee maker has to be programmed to brew an hour earlier than normal because that's how long it now takes  to brew a whole pot, and while doing so it sounds like a jet plane has landed in our kitchen, it is promptly added to the death watch list.

My husband and I have been discussing the inevitable demise of our coffee pot for months, we've even taken the necessary steps in finding its final resting place and sadly, seeking its replacement. We've been in the market, we just haven't taken the plunge. ("in the market" is code for not ready to spend $200 until we know that sucker is deader than a door nail) We've bandied about the idea of buying a Keurig. A simple purchase, one would assume, until you start to shop. And talk to friends. Then you realize that this Keurig purchase, is, well it's kind of a cult.

When talking to friends and family about the possibility, their cult instincts kick in. They are more than happy to pour you a fresh cup of their home brewed wonder. Spinning their carousel," pick any flavor you like and I'll show you how fast it brews!" Caffeine pushers. What you thought was the kitchen of a friend, now  an infomercial studio. "It's amazing! Whenever you want coffee, you pick one out, place your cup here, and it's done. Amazing!"Joe, your use of the word 'amazing' makes me feel as if you are getting a kickback from Keurig. Is this a pyramid scheme?'

I'm just not completely sold on the idea. For starters, convenience scares me. Actually, it's the expense of convenience that scares me. I've done the mental math on what it would take to stock that carousel, and house enough flavors to impress my friends and potential cult followers, and its a big number.

Second, I fear it will ruin our marriage.

For 18 years, my husband and I have shared many life experiences. The purchase of our home, the births of our three children, the loss of loved ones. Through it all, there has been one constant. One thing we share together every morning, good, bad, or indifferent.

That something is a pot of coffee.

It's the tie that binds. 'Want me to brew a pot of coffee?' makes everything better.

Every morning our old pot is programmed, waking before either of us do.

On miserable cold days, it's there for us. On mornings when we've stayed out too late the night before,  forgetting how old we are, the coffee pot is there.

There is just something about sharing a pot of coffee.

We even brew an after dinner pot , it's our quiet time, just the two of us sitting and sharing a warm cup, chatting about our day. (Read: Me, scrolling on the the iPad and he scrolling on the Channel Guide, but still, coffee is the common denominator.)

I fear that without that pot of coffee in the kitchen, we will start to go our  separate ways.

I can already hear the early morning conversation;: 'Want a cup?' "No, I already had one."

 That is how marriages end, people.

Sure, now  its just a simple cup of coffee, then what?

Separate dinners?

Separate bedrooms?

I've seen it happen.

For now, I'll stick with 'Old Bessy" and her gurgling and churning.

A good marriage is based on knowing what works and what doesn't.

In my mind, that pot of coffee, is something we share. It' s my something to look forward to at the end of the day.

It's okay that he sneaks into WaWa every morning on his way to work, and I patronize any Starbucks I pass in my daily travels. As long as we come together at the end of the day and share a pot, all is right with the world.

 

Some Late Day Randomness at Walgreen's

While I was waiting in line at Walgreen's, opportunity presented itself as it always does.

The over- sized woman in front of me, loudly announced for everyone to hear, her reason for being there. I don't quite understand the need people feel to announce, to everyone in earshot, why they are in Walgreen's. Not one bit, as I clutch my extra large pack of maxi pads.

Walgreen's, for me, is never a planned excursion. You will never find me in Walgreen's with my shopping heels and errand purse. (An errand purse is that cute little number that slings over the shoulder neatly holding credit cards, lists, and an iPhone- all that one needs to run errands)

PS: I actually  never wear shopping heels, but for the sake of this story let's pretend I do. I am always amazed when I spy women out shopping in heels.  I hate heels, only wear them when the occasion warrants. Pretty much weddings and funerals are the only two occasions that will coerce my tired feet into heels, and the first good dance song? will get me right out of them. That, of course, being at weddings, because as hip as they've become, funerals still pretty much frown upon that sort of thing.

When I'm in Walgreen's, I'm usually clad in some sort of of sweat/polyester ensemble, slippers, and almost always a ponytail. It's always some type of emergency, someone in the house in need of Motrin, ointment, or as was the issue today, pads!

But, I digress.

"I was right in the middle of cooking dinner when I realized we were out of ketchup.", she announced.

That must have been some gourmet meal you were whipping up, if you had to stop in the middle to fetch  ketchup, is exactly what my judgmental mind was thinking when she whipped her head around and looked at me.  I stared right back, wondering if I had just thought that out loud.

Meatloaf! That's about the only meal I cook with ketchup. The rest of the time? it's merely an accessory to a fattening crime of burgers, dogs, or fries. Which, by the way if my trainer is reading this, I only make because, you know, the kids.

The cashier laughed out loud at Ketchup Lady, even adding her own tid bit, 'Ha! That's like when you're in the bathroom and you realize you're out of toilet paper.'

Uh, no it's not. (again, in my head)

It's not that I'm afraid to share my honest opinion with this idiots in line at Walgreen's, its just that I've learned not to engage.

When you engage them in small talk, the next thing you know, you're in the parking lot exchanging stories and phone numbers with Crazy.

I did not engage and let Ketchup Lady go on her way. Clearly, she had a delicious dinner to cook.

And I? Well, I apparently had a blog to write.

Happy Monday.

 

Damn You, Judgemental Girls from High School

Apparently, those judgmental girls from high school, the ones who could never look you in the eye because they were too busy looking down their noses, have spawned.

They've given birth to a new breed. A whole new group of judgers and their name is the trendy consignment shop employee.

You know,  one of those hip consignment shops, that only re-sells your name brand clothing,  if they choose accept it.

I don't care what names they are touting in that store, it still smells like a dirty hamper.

They claim to only accept gently used name brand, high -end fashions for teens.

So that is what I brought. In a bag. To be judged.

 My like, bag, was , like, given the once over and then I was told they would get like, back to me, like the next day.

The next day I arrived to find my entire bag of clothes had been rejected save for one tiny blouse, for which they offered me, like $1.50.

In an effort not to let the "bitches" win, I took that money. All one dollar and fifty cents of it, thank you very much.

Go ahead and judge me, little consignment shop girl, if that's what makes you feel better about being you.

Oh,  and tell your mom I said 'hi.'

 

 

 

Choose Your Friends Wisely

We learn, at a young age, the importance of choosing good friends.

Age 8: Choosing the friend whose yard boasts a swimming pool, during summer's hottest days: Good.

Age 17: Choosing a friend whose parents don't believe in weekend curfews: Even better.

Age 42: Choosing a friend who has a kid on the same team as your kid: Genius.

Let's face it, carpooling is a necessity. Having a friend  to share the load can make organized sports a little more bearable.

If that friend also shares your taste in good wine, well that's a bonus.

If that friend shares your sick and twisted sense of humor? That could be dangerous.

Before long, you and said friend are drinking good wine, and dishing on all the other parents on the team who do not care to participate in your carpooling (or wine drinking) activities.

Their loss.

 

 

Too Often

When a family loses a child, it is a private mourning.

When that tragedy is the result of a horrific national event, that mourning is magnified.

Instantly, we all feel ownership of the loss.

Yesterday's Boston Marathon bombing, left us with that all- too common news reel.

The pattern we've watched play out before, too often.

Videos, photos, and raw reactions captured and replayed for the following 24-48 hours.

How can we not report, react, repeat the events of the day?

To accompany the tragic events,  a smiling photo goes viral.

This time, of 8-year Martin Richard, a boy whose life was taken in this latest massacre.

In what appears to be a First Holy Communion photo, likely taken just weeks before, the little boy in the white- suit is smiling.

A smiling 8-year old.

The boy, who neighbors describe as happy, energetic, and full of life, is everyone's 8-year old son.

An 8-year old boy, on a Spring day in Boston, sharing ice cream and a family tradition with those he loves.

An innocent child, who one minute, is giving his Dad a high- five for a job well done, and in  the next, is gone.

Too soon.

Too young.

Too often.

 

 

 

 

 

A Warm Bath and a Good Book

When my kids were younger, we ended every day with a warm bath and a good book. (for them. not me.),

Especially during those 'every night is a bath night' months.

You know, those months when your kids spend an entire day outside in the fresh air. Leaving them covered in sweat, juice, grass, and bugs. Coated in that great spring time smell. On those days baths are not optional.

When they were very little, and on nights when I was very tired, they were all piled in the bath together. All three of them.

As they grew older and required more privacy, bathtime turned into shower time.

The new schedule began to cut into our reading time.

Reading time meant a half hour in each bedroom reading to each child from their favorite book; barely awake by child #3's turn.

"Mommy, you fell asleep on the book again." ended most nights.

Willing to forgo my Mom of the Year status, I soon encouraged them all to read their own books each night.

Looking back, baths, books, and bed was the simple life.

I miss it sometimes.

Especially now when I tuck them in and confiscate all of their electronics like a TSA agent.

Now the only one who gets a warm bath and a good book is me. (if I can stay awake for it)