I Used to Love Weekends ...

I've been trying to stay positive about this weather -- the cold, the wind, the snow. Overall, I'm actually OK with it, even with the roof's ice dam creating an indoor waterfall in my kitchen. Having Dolly (my new dog!!! ... a blog or two to be penned soon) has helped, well, has forced me to learn to bundle up and get outside no matter what Mother Nature is doing. Or maybe it has something to do with my Scandinavian heritage. The cold doesn't bother me so much, really.

It's the never-ending Christmas vacation (and c'mon, it's a Christmas vacation because if it were a 'winter break' it would start mid-winter, like now, not at Christmas), and now it's the never-ending weekend that's doing me in.

I love my kids. I love spending time with my kids. I love being creative and spontaneous and fun. But my kids have an energy that could fuel a nuclear reactor. And, dammit, I've got stuff to do. Yesterday I wore them out at the local (indoor, duh!) swimming pool. Today it was shoe shopping and closet cleaning. Clearly I won't win 'mother of the year' this year. Again. Boo hoo.

Just now my oldest guy needed the computer, this computer, the only computer in our home, to finish his homework, but it's been days since I've been able to sit down in front of it and delete the hundreds of unread emails that have come in over the weekend. So I told him, "No, I have important work to do and you had all day, in fact you had the past four days to do whatever it is you needed to do."

Which is why I threw together this post, which is really about nothing. And it's not important, per se. I figured it's been six months since my last post, and a little more than six months since I promised to write weekly, so it was time to get back on the horse. Again.

So, stay warm, stay safe and stay tuned. Now to those unread emails. Delete, delete, delete.

Cheers!

Diagnosis: A Serious Case of the Lazies

I don't know enough about The Simpsons
to know why, or if, this image is
related to my topic, but I believe it is.
Thanks to my neighbor, Jenny,
and April showers, for the photo op.

The symptoms started Friday, July 12, a full three days ago. An extreme desire to do nothing. Complete boredom with everything. Utter disinterest in accomplishing much.

I chalked it up to the birthday blues. Now, I like birthdays. They beat the alternative, right? Just ask anyone who's been denied. But let's face it, turning 45 was nothing for me like turning 40. At 40, I had all those miraculous pregnancy hormones ricocheting through my body, thinking it was 25 again. Today, I'm facing life as a mom with a very 45-year-old body but a very energetic 4-year-old (not to mention a demanding 6-year-old and prepubescent 11-year-old).

So Friday I coasted. I figured, it was my birthday; I'll be lazy if I want to. But then Saturday and Sunday, and now, Monday, rolled through, and I still didn't feel like facing the daunting projects before me.

Everything we stored in our unfinished basement sits in my dining room, living room and garage, begging to get sorted, cleaned, given away, sold or re-stored when our basement renovation is complete. All three children and sometimes one husband expects to be fed, again and again and again. Letters to a friend studying in Bolivia should be written and mailed. Phone calls, texts, emails should be returned. Baby showers and block parties demand to be planned. Fall PTO projects beg to get jump-started. And then there's the idea of generating income from actual work I could be getting paid to do, if only I'd make the time.

But I want to do none of it right now. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the birthday. I'm getting done what needs to get done, but not much more. I'm calling in 'sick' on everything else with a serious case of the lazies. I sure hope it's just a 96-hour bug, because I'm not a fan of lazy. Ask my kids.

Cheers, friends!

Destruction Junction

I love destroying stuff. I love how a hammer swinging in my hand and the resulting impact it makes upon a deserving piece of matter feels.

So I consider our recent decision to renovate our basement from "unfinished" to "completely and absolutely and without question unfinished" a bit of a rainbow after a series of storms. (Ha ha ... neighbors know what I'm talking about!)

Recently borrowed from my good friend and lawyer, who is also middle guy's Godfather, are a sledgehammer and crowbar, called by my alley neighbor, an accountant by trade, a "persuader." Imagine what Scott Turow could do with all that. 

I know that my job today while Kevin was out of town was to finish emptying the basement of all our stored (and now that I see them spread all around my dining room, back patio, garage and delivered and donated to the Maryville Crisis Nursery's resale shop) mostly unnecessary belongings.

But I had this newly acquired sledgehammer and crowbar. And it's been a long time since I've purposely destroyed something. (Surely I'm destroying one child or another's self-esteem or confidence on a regular basis, but we won't know for sure until they complete their therapy when they're adults, right?)

I bribed myself. Finish emptying these four shelving units, drag them out to the garbage ... then you can know what a crowbar wedged between wall and floorboard feels like, what a sledgehammer swung at older-than-dirt drywall sounds like.

Sweet. It feels and sounds sweet. 

A Confession and a Promise

This starts like a confession: Dear Readers, it's been seven months since I last blogged. During this time, I've often thought about blogging. I've missed blogging. I've often blogged in my head, while running or driving or trying to fall asleep. It's not that I didn't want to blog. It's just that often my blog thoughts were not good thoughts. They weren't wicked or anything. They just weren't that positive or uplifting, and I really try not to be a complainer or whiner (at least in the blogosphere). After all, my life is pretty awesome despite the chaos that I work on loving. A bowl of cherries, if you will.

But seven months have passed. It's been a busy seven months, but that's no excuse to not do something that you enjoy and proves to be a healthy way to relieve stress.

So I'm back. Heck, my 11-year-old son is blogging now, and he's taught me something in his writing. It's not the number of words that count, it's the message. Shorter is often better.

So, I'm making my promise to myself official right here, right now. I'll write at least once a week. I guess that's my penance. I hope you missed me; I missed you.

How the Tooth Fairy Got Hoodwinked

A classic 'disappointed' look.

Our middle guy FINALLY, just days after his sixth birthday, lost his first tooth. Hours later he also lost his second tooth. We're calling it a "two-fer."

I say FINALLY because the "grown up" teeth had already entered the picture and those front two bottom baby teeth had been dangling for quite a while. It was uncomfortable to eat with him.

It's been a four long decades since I first lost a tooth, but I think I 'get' the fear factor. To a six-year-old, losing a tooth, at least the first one, is a pretty scary deal. He might be thinking 'if my tooth can just fall out, and if Uncle JB's hair falls out, what else? Will my eyeball just fall out some day?'

So the Tooth Fairy entered our home again last night. I woke up earlier than necessary this morning worrying, "Did we forget?" So I woke Kevin to get his confirmation that he did indeed take care of the Fairy visit. He had; I caught a few more winks.

Then Toby came in, box of teeth in hand, claiming the Tooth Fairy didn't come.

Well, that woke me up.

I thought quickly and said, "Oh, the Tooth Fairy must've thought you wanted to save those special teeth, so she* left them for you." (Unlike the mean, nasty Tonsil Fairy, who said it was against hospital bio hazardous waste rules that we couldn't take his tonsils and adenoids home with us.)

Toby added, "But she didn't leave me anything."

A quick visit to his room, turning over pillows, a dozen stuffed animals, blankets, pulling out the bed from the wall, sure that the $20 (Tooth Fairy pays big for the first tooth, and when you have a two-fer, well ...) had simply fallen somewhere.

The bill was not to be found. Kevin joined in the search, confused. In desperation, not wanting to let his son down (he looked so genuinely hurt), Kevin grabbed a second $20 bill and planted it between the mattress and box spring and suggested Toby look a little longer.

He found the new money and was thrilled. And only then did he share that in fact, the Tooth Fairy had come. He then pulled out the original $20 from his book case, adding, "See, I hid it over here."

Not knowing whether to scream, cry or laugh, I excused myself and laughed in private. Then I wondered, "What was that boy thinking? What is going through his head? Why would he hide the money, very convincingly lie to us, with very genuinely saddened face, voice, body, demeanor, and tell us the Tooth Fairy had forgotten him.

Those are the questions I plan to take with me to our first therapy visit.

And that, my friends, is how the Tooth Fairy got hoodwinked. Be warned.

Cheers!

*Is the Tooth Fairy male or female? I believe it is male. Kevin, female. Discuss among yourselves.

The Ring's The Thing

It's been, as of today, 15 years since I married my first husband. So we're celebrating big tonight, with him leading our oldest son's baseball practice and me cooking up some spaghetti. Perhaps I'll change out of my yoga clothes and not put on my sleep pants before 7 p.m. 

Such is life after 15 years of wedded bliss and three young sons.

But there have been some gestures.

The man I married 15 years ago sent me a dozen beautiful roses. Romantic, classic.

My lead-by-example inlaws (married 49 years, and counting!) sent a card and called early in the morning.

My 'best woman' (I hated the term 'maid of honor'...how is it an honor being any one's maid?) sent me a congratulatory text message. Thoughtful, modern.

And I visited John, my local jeweler to investigate repairing my wedding ring. Yep, I broke it a couple of weeks ago. Caught my finger in a folding chair that I happened to be folding at the time. It's now oval shaped, although my finger remains round, and the solitaire diamond, although in tact, is bent backwards.

Turns out repairing a 15+-year-old ring that's been smashed is not as simple as you might think. Turns out that a decade and a half of cleaning as well as swimming in chlorinated pools with the ring on has made the gold band very fragile.

At least the marriage is stronger than the ring, which is really the point of this 'happy anniversary' blog. (Romantic, modern, right?)

But I can't wrap this up without my favorite wedding ring story from the past 15 years.  Only a year into our marriage, Kevin had a work trip to Las Vegas. I knew he'd spend a fair amount of time out in the sun, as he was training for one of his many marathons, so I had nagged -- I mean, reminded -- him to pack sunscreen and to use it.

When I got home from work, I noticed his sun screen still on the bathroom sink. So later that evening when he called, I believe I said, "I have a bone to pick with you," or, "I'm some kinda mad." Anyway, the rookie says, "Oh, yeah, I know, I left my wedding ring on the dresser."

What? You went to Las Vegas without your wife or your wedding ring? Forget about the sun screen.

Happy anniversary, Kevin!

Good Grief!

Good. Grief. Good, grief. Good grief!

As they say, punctuation matters.

I was brought up in a world, or at least in a culture, in which grief is not a shared emotion. I came to believe that was a good thing.

Be strong.

Have faith, or Faith, if you prefer.

Remember it it not your will but God's will.

I heard those phrases during many a crisis ... parents' deaths, fertility challenges, fleeing Manhattan after 9/11. And I believed them.

I live in that same world now as an adult, a world in which we give very little credence to grief, in which there's all but a note in our i-calendars that says, "OK, time to move on."

Grief has been on my mind for a week now, since the unexpected death of a neighbor and friend, the dad to two of my boys' friends. Of course, I've been very sensitive to what my boys are feeling and thinking. So I keep asking them about what they are feeling and thinking. Then my oldest snapped at me, "Why do you keep asking me about this? Leave it alone."

That's when I realized it was my grief I was trying to get my son to feel, to express. He may or may not grieve. As long as he supports his friend, he doesn't need to, I suppose. But I need to, and I've sensed that many in our community need to as well.

I need to grieve a little more publicly than usual. Hence, this blog entry.

But as usual, my sons bring a much-needed lightness to me when dealing with dark issues. Last night at dinner, after Kevin, Luke and I returned from the memorial reception for our friend, the youngest grilled his Dad on death. "How many sleeps until you die? Until mom dies? Until I die?" And it kept coming back to the simplest thing for the little guy. "But who would fix me breakfast?"

While their self-centeredness drives me crazy at times, it saved us on this tough subject. Because I feel safe in assuring the boys that there will always be someone to take care of them. When they are as old as we are, they will have friends and perhaps their own children to do it, just like my boys take care of me and shine their light all around on those dark days.

Cheers! La Chaim!