I Believe in Angels

I believe in angels, and every Thanksgiving, I shout out an extra special 'thank you' to mine.

My Angel and many like her roam the same Earth we do. One may be sitting next to you on the bus or standing in front of you at the grocery checkout. She may even be your mother or grandmother.

My Angel is my middle son's birth mother, and she doesn't wear wings or any other special designation advertising that she's my Angel. In fact, no one but a few people may even know she's an Angel at all.

I should know the statistics, but I don't. But I'm sure there are hundreds of thousands of angels like mine in the world. And no matter what circumstances brought them to the place where they needed to decide "to be an angel or not to be," each and every one of them is so very special: special to that child whom they gave life to; special to the adoptive parents to whom they gave the greatest love to; and special to the world, who owes them a very big thank you for making a selfless sacrifice that creates an exponential joy in it.

It was a warm Thanksgiving Day four years ago when we picked up our newborn baby boy, and, speaking for every member in our extended families, none of our lives would have been complete without him. So, a few days late, I'm sending out to the universe, to my Angel and to all who have made the same choice of hope: thank you.

Putting Lipstick on a Pig

I'm less than/greater than 42-years-old, which means I've been dabbling in make-up for 25 years or so. As a teenager it was mostly concealer, and, as it was the 80s, blue eye shadow. I remember myself as a pimply teenager, which may or may not have been accurate (I also remember myself as chubby, but looking at old pictures corrects this memory.) So I remember "covering up" blotchy skin and "enhancing" my blue eyes as my two make-up goals.

I have never been good at it. I envied two types of girls as a teenager. Those who could put on makeup and look just plain pretty, and those who who looked just plain pretty without putting on any makeup.

It's the same thing with wardrobe. As the only daughter of a man whose life was Sears Roebuck and whose mother would actually wear a moo-moo to dinner parties, my formative fashion years were pathetic at best. Toughskins in sixth grade when everyone else was in Gloria Vanderbilt's? Yeah, I had a complex.

But I'm pushing mid-40s, my youngest child is nearly two, and I'm thinking it's time to put a little gloss on the ol' image.

It's not been easy.

I bought a blouse ... not a tech shirt or t-shirt or hoodie ... at a local boutique recently. Wore it to church, but snagged a big ol' long thread on it when the Velcro on my double-wide Bob stroller got caught on it.

So I figured, ok, maybe I'm not ready to implement the WIP, wardrobe improvement plan, just yet. Let's work on the face.

I believe, ok, I've read, in about 38 different magazines while waiting at various medical appointments, that what a woman really needs to look put together is lipstick.

I've actually made it my sole New Year's resolution many years in a row: wear lipstick every day.

Some people have loftier resolutions, I know. Not me. The sad thing is, I've failed, every single year. I barely make an effort.

But Monday of last week, I found myself at a cosmetics superstore, and I said to myself: Karen, you will wear lipstick. Every. Single. Day. No. Matter. What.

So I bought a lot of lipstick, hoping something would work.

Monday: Wore it, despite the funny look I received from my babysitter and my oldest son, who upon returning from school, asked, "Why are you wearing makeup, Mom?"

Tuesday: wore it to spinning class in the morning. Re-applied appropriately all day.

By Tuesday night, I'd come down with some kind of cruel stomach flu and could barely put myself in bed at 8 p.m. (I do not blame the lipstick.)

Wednesday: I actually put on the lipstick to walk the kids to the park, even though I felt like Mike Tyson had used me for a punching bag. Clearly, I need to negotiate for 'sick days' in my Mom contract. Because it was not pretty, lipstick or not.

By Wednesday night, I was good as new (apparently there's a 24-hour bug going around), showered and re-applied lipstick to go to a school meeting.

By Thursday I was a failure in the lipstick department. I went running with the kids in the double-wide, but didn't get to shower until late in the day. Or did I shower? Hmm. In any case, the lipstick remained in its case.

Friday I downgraded to tinted lip balm as I ran into my Body Pump class. Never reapplied. Failed again.

Saturday and Sunday went a little better than Thursday and Friday. So I'm feeling hopeful right now. I have a friend who, like soap opera stars, wears lipstick to bed. Said it is a good moisturizer. I may begin to try that, just to help with making this lipstick habit stick.

Even if it is just putting lipstick on a pig.

Kiss. Kiss.

When Misophobia Comes to Call

Everyone is working for the weekend, right, even us stay-mostly-at-home Moms? Well the weekend is here, and my house was clean for about 10 minutes between the time I finished cleaning and my weekend house guests arrived.

I am thrilled one of my best friends/college roommate is here, with her awesome husband and darling girls (who dove right into the childcare role, leaving me actually able to visit with my friends and have adult conversation. Wow.).

We've already made it to downtown Chicago today, the train ride always being a destination in itself for my boys.

Tomorrow, my friend and I will run our fastest 15Ks ever, because there is chocolate fondue at the finish line. At the "Hot Chocolate" race's expo this morning, we both bought tech shirts emblazoned with "Will Run for Chocolate."

Later on Saturday there's sightseeing to partake in and a circus to attend. Maybe Chicago pizza delivered or a grown-up dinner out. Haven't decided, and I sure don't know what kind of shape my stuck-in-a-meeting-all-week in San Diego husband will be in. He tends to crave home-cooked meals and movie nights with the boys after these extended trips.

Never mind that; my point is the weekend is here, and it's already great and is only getting better.

Getting to the weekend was a lot of work, though. My housekeeping standards have fallen to an all-time low the past couple of years. My standards remained fairly high after having Luke but lowered a bit after Toby joined our world; and, well, post-Andy, they sort of fell through the Cheerios-caramel dip-dehydrated peas-and-dried-out-spaghetti-crusted floor.

I see myself as more of a Mom and a writer than a housekeeper. Given the choice between cleaning my floors and building the greatest Lego creation ever, I choose Legos.

But my friend, with whom I also worked as a Resident Assistant back on the Mizzou campus decades ago, was known for her misophobia, her fear or dirt or germs. Staff sweatshirts we both still have picture her with a "no dirt" sign. (Of course, this same sweatshirt pictures me with a "no babies' sign, so I know people do change!)

Still, a clean freak is she, even though she swears her standards have also lowered with three girls at home.

But I've been to her house. And it was clean. So I needed to give my house my best college try this week. I think I did ok, if we don't count the boys' bathroom, which I should have just barricaded with 'crime scene' tape.

So now it's time to sit back and enjoy my friends. And the chocolate.

Here's to the weekends! Cheers!