Eyes Wide Open

I have been talking to a dear person, (I’m keeping it simple to keep them anonymous - god I love the norm of flexible pronouns) about their long relationship and separate lives they and their partner live. They confessed to me that they’ve realized their partner is narcissistic. It shook me but I’ve known and loved these dear people for many years and with this revelation, what we always said was just quirks, fell into that “Ahhhh, now it all makes sense” revelation. 

So what do you do when partnered with a narcissist? You create your own parallel life. Their are times of interaction, but you are not the most important thing. It may appear that you are, because partner (hmmm, “Not Partner”, is a more appropriate label) knows that attending to your needs keeps their world the way they want it. But really Not Partner is just spinning within your world in their own orbit around themselves. 

As usual, my instinct is to try and help, to offer advice, to try to “fix” my dear one’s problem. But  this is my dear one’s life, their choice to stay or go, to fix or fight. And Dear One has come to the conclusion that Not Partner has been this way for so long that it is too late for Not Partner to change. 

Their lives, I tell myself, as I hear NP talking, working into the evening and on Saturday morning and in all the moments I’m visiting this lovely home that Dear One has created, are theirs to live the way they choose. And so my mind goes to a story (or is it a poem?) called Welcome to Holland. It was referenced in the book that I’m listening to when the author realized the way it spoke to her particular situation. It was originally written for parents who plan for a typical child and then find they have a neuro diverse or physically diverse child and the plans they made and dreams they have don’t fit the needs or potential future of their child and their lives change dramatically, but there is still beauty and joy in this unexpected life. Look it up. It’s a lovely allegory. 

So, I woke thinking that my Dear One is in Holland. They’ve always wanted to live in Italy, and has even attempted to move there. They’ve pleaded and cajoled Not Partner to go with them. But Dear One is in Holland, and can be miserable in Holland, choose to see the beauty, or move to Italy alone. 

Is it ever too late to change and become True Partners and move to Italy together? Do you live with frustration or enjoy the tulips and buy Italian wine for yourself to drink alone? 

So I Decided Not to Leave

Decisions, decisions. And at this stage of my life they all feel so final. Do we remodel the kitchen in this house? Will we live here long enough to enjoy it? Should my husband retire this year or next? Why do they keep giving him promotions? Should I keep trying for a different job or stay with my fabulous students and colleagues? 

One of our main tactics in answering these questions involves procrastination. The kitchen did get remodeled this summer and it is the best thing we've done in a long time. Still, it was a conversation for about five years before we both took the leap. Then the answer to question two is that we'd damn well better stay here forever because that kitchen was a lot of work! As for question three, retirement keeps eluding my husband, mainly because he says he may as well stay as long as he loves doing what he's doing and they keep paying him well enough for it. The final question is really rhetorical and was answered as I wrote it. I have hit so many walls to moving in the direction that I thought I should be taking that I think the universe is telling me to choose another path. Last week I realized (okay, okay, my husband told me) that part of my path must include writing. I talk about writing. I talk to myself about writing and I write in my head almost constantly. So I decided, for the fiftieth time in my life, that if I don't include writing in my life, I will go crazy. Crazy will be the next blog. 

Some things that have changed about my writing since I last wrote include the font size. Why does "normal" look like "tiny" now and I have to use the "large" font size choice on this stupid Blogger site? Well, I'm past thinking too much about comfort and am just going to go with it. Like shoes. My feet need comfy, clog-like shoes in order not to hurt. I have looked for three years in vain for an administrative-looking pump that I can wear all day comfortably. I have now added my fruitless efforts to the long list of ways the universe is telling me I am not meant for the administrative path. If I were going to be a school administrator full time then supportive but intimidating pumps would be required and they don't exist, so there's that. I choose comfy and am not ashamed of it, or of the large font.

I tried Xanax the other day in preparation for an MRI and it made me realize that I live with a constant level of anxiety that wasn't there ten years ago. At least I don't think it was. Two of those magical pills made a layer of anxious just evaporate like mist in the warm sunlight. I was calm and clear. I was able to get through what had caused a panic attack two weeks prior with a clear head and slow, steady breathing. Unfortunately, I could remember very little of what happened after that, and what conversations I had, so those magic little pills must be reserved for extreme circumstances only. Writing is a safer kind of Xanax for me. I feel calm when I write. The world makes more sense and I am not as anxious about the future, or about the decisions I have to make every day, big and small. Finding those shoes and deciding when to retire don't seem such large, looming problems anymore. 

So I've decided to write. More often. For me. If you enjoy my ramblings and want to join me for the ride, come along. I sincerely hope you find your own Xanax, but I'm more than willing to share mine. 

Clarity

I've decided to set an alarm on Sunday evenings. Well, maybe Saturday mornings. No, hmmm. Well, I've decided to set a weekly alarm so that I blog weekly. I came back to this blog six months ago and promised myself to wiggle a little. I did, then stopped. So let's try this again. 

I write because if I don't, I'll explode. The words go around in my head and I have conversations with myself (which I found out today, via FaceBook, means I'm a genius) and with others who are not here. It makes me feel saner to write the words on a page. To see them crisp and dark (and a font size larger since the last time I wrote, sigh) on the computer page. It gives me clarity.

Clarity is something I desperately need right now. I feel the need surrounding me, I see it swirling throughout the internet, the news, the streets and shops and neighborhoods. Clarity is stability, it gives us a vision of what the future might bring. Even if the clarity brings a vision of awful, hateful, bitter battles and difficult journeys, at least I know what plans to make, to brace myself for what's coming, I know what to pack for the trip.

This week I thought I had clarity, and on Tuesday night that was wiped away and swirls of uncertainty replaced it. My beautiful, ever hopeful, immigrant husband tries to see the best outcome, but all I feel is fear and sadness for him and for my family and neighbors and friends. Not immediate-danger kind of fear, because fortunately I live in California, a state that saw the hate and said NO very clearly. I fear for friends in pockets of communities where hate was bubbling under the surface and only needed permission to be let loose. I fear for larger communities in red states that feel permission to let the hate flow. I fear the flow of hate and the battle that will result to stem the tide. 

In order to keep clarity, I have to say over and over, LOVE TRUMPS HATE. I hope that an alarm has gone off for you and you stay very diligent. I hope that clarity comes for our leaders. I hope that those who think this win gives them permission to be hateful are given a clear message that LOVE AND RESPECT IS THE ANSWER, and it's NOT OKAY to hate.  

I hope for Clarity. I hope. I hope. I hope.

Love,

Janice

I'm Still Here

A friend who was set in my path last year challenged me a few weeks ago to wiggle. Just a little bit. To wiggle meant to write. If I want something enough, but fear, weariness, or time were the sticky mud that slowed me down, I should just set my mind to moving at a wiggle pace. Just a little every day and eventually I would get there. She is a champion of my writing, she takes risks and pushes herself and puts herself out there. She jumps out of that airplane daily, weekly, risking and flying at the same time. I believe she was put in my path for a number of reasons, and one was to hold my hand and lead me onto that plane, buckle my parachute, and cheer as I jump out into the clear blue sky.

Because writing is like that for me. It's a rush. It's adrenaline and anxiety and joy and tears and everything all at once. It's cathartic and cleansing and I feel stronger and clearer once I see my words on the page.

Today I went back. I opened this blog and I read entries from the past and thought, "Who is this woman? How did she get so insightful and eloquent?" I truly didn't recognize myself, my writing, in the mirror. And I loved them, the entries, the fears, the thinking and language and I felt them all over again, and she started to look familiar, came into focus. Me. That's me. I can do that. I can write. How could I have forgotten her, this writer? Did she get lost in the grief of slowly losing her two parents over the past three and a half years? 

Time's up. My wiggle is done for today. I'm promising myself at least a few days a week of writing time by setting my alarm 30 minutes earlier than I actually need to get ready for the day. So now I will go and dress for Pilates, have breakfast on this cloudy Saturday, correct some papers, run errands.

Thank you, my friend. 

My Background Music is Books

Many people hear music as they remember a particular place and time in their own personal history. I realized today that although music often takes me back to a specific place in the timeline of my life, books are actually the true score to my life.  

The past couple of weekends we painted the upstairs hallway (well, my husband painted while I helped prep and then told him the spots he missed), which meant moving furniture, the most daunting piece being The Bookcase. It isn't that huge, but it contains books that range from a 1929 Alice Through the Looking Glass that belonged to my mother, to Number the Stars bought for my own children, plus various Nicholas Sparks (mine and my oldest daughter's) and My Body My Self (I won't embarrass the proud owner of that one). That bookcase contains the complete Tolkien series, one baby book (I have three kids, so I wonder why only one? And where are the others?), CS Lewis, The Brothers Grimm, many Beatrix Potter mini books, and dozens of other treasures. These treasures represent periods of my life that are particularly poignant.  I was changed forever by Fahrenheit 451 and the high school teacher who assigned it.  As a teacher and mother I read and cried through Bridge to Tarabithia.  Again as teacher and mother I marveled at my youngest daughter's fascination with dark tragedies, but remember how challenging it was to get her to read at all.  I remember being delighted in my son's development as a reader when hooked on Watership Down (finally hooked on reading!) and proudly watching him as an independent thinker choose  Michael Moore's various takes on the political world as we know it.  

I hesitated, cleaning out the shelf of the "fluff" my mom lent me to read, and making a pile of my own children's books to add to my classroom library. Which of these may have been instrumental in my oldest daughter's development of world view or a writer's eye and mind? Did some of these have remnants of my mother's life philosophy or enjoyment of historical fiction (a passion we share)? My father had the habit of ordering books and copying magazine articles that reflected his philosophy, one for each of his daughters, and sometimes his grandchildren. I have a copy of the last of those thoughtful purchases with a note clipped to it in his handwriting that says "Janice". It's a gift from him, probably his last. I haven't read it yet, but it went into the pile of "to read".

Yes, books are the score that plays in the background through the stages of my life. The children's party planning books are alongside the master's degree books, each equally important, telling the tales of my many lives.  I clean away some space on the shelves and wonder what books I will add. I'm looking forward to carving out time for the "to read" books that are on the shelf, easily within reach, and wonder what my children will think when they go through those shelves of my life.

Never Apparent, Always A Parent

It's not always clear to me at what moments I am parenting, and when I'm just a parent. Is every conversation, every interaction with my kids an act of parenting? Friendly conversation or banter, an outing for yogurt or a simple car ride always seem to turn into something more. If our kids have become adults, are we still parenting them? My children are adults, according to the law of the land, because their birth dates fall more than eighteen years ago. If you are a parent you know that this means nothing to clarify the definition of their being 'adult'.

Our oldest child is completely financially independent. Child Number 2 is well on her way - we provide food and shelter, but she is saving towards getting her own shelter soon. The third is still a tax write-off, a full-time student, and completely reliant on us for food and shelter. Aside from those cold assessments of our assets, our kids are still our kids. They need advice and, asked for or not, we provide it. They need reminders that family time is important, so we dribble on the guilt. They need to hear that they are on the right path, are making good choices, are loved and smart and wonderful, so we praise and hug and encourage. We bribe them with promises of food, we buy them gifts of new tennis shoes, golf clubs, and clothes. We help them set up their new apartments. We provide gas and cars and muscles when they move. And all of that is the easy stuff. 

When they come to us with a proposition, or a decision, or a philosophical/political position, we have to stop and take a few breaths, or even give them an "I'll have to get back to you after I think about it." Encouraging independence and helping them get on their feet or on their way to achieving a goal or taking a stand is a path strewn with obstacles and potholes. Every hesitation can be interpreted as disapproval, every compromise a failed promise or dashed hope. Even encouragement can be misread as consent. Recently one of my children asked for help paying a couple of months rent (as a loan) in order to move into an apartment with friends who would be ready sooner than my child was ready with enough savings. Hmmm. We were asked carefully and seriously, and our progeny knew the amount was not a monetary hardship on us. In spite of the careful and difficult request, we paused. We want to instill responsibility and the ethic of paying cash not credit. How to do that without sounding selfish and stingy? Impossible; and apparently we achieved the double coup of appearing to be unsupportive as well.

We have three kids, and in a good week only one of three is mad at us. Usually it's two, and on rare occasions all three. And sometimes it's not both of us; two are mad at me and their dad, the third is only mad at dad. Or one is mad at both and two are mad at me, etc.  I'm going to take the position that anger and frustration is a sign that we are doing something right. Or not. Who knows? All I know is that I am always a parent.

When My Smartphone Dove into the Pool

There I was, sitting by the pool, just picking up my towel. Suddenly, (but slowly) it was like everything went into slow motion mode - the dark rectangle splashhhhhhhed into the aqua water, then slowly sank, twirling through the sparkling water like a leaf falling from a tree in the gentle autumn breeze. HOLY SHIT, MY PHONE!!!! I jumped in and scooped it up and wrapped it in the towel quick as a blink (slow motion mode stopped at "HOLY..."). Fortunately I had my bathing suit on so nothing else got wet that shouldn't. A friend was quick to suggest the rice drying method (I'd used this one successfully for my daughter's phone) so I got out a baggie and scooped the rice in, dried my phone as best I could, and popped it into the bag and prayed.

Meanwhile, I had to get on about the day's events without the assistance of my smart phone. I felt a little lost at first, then I began to problem solve, because that's just who I am, a problem solver.

First, I picked up my daughter's phone and texted her father to let him know I was phoneless for the rest of the day. He never checks messages so had no idea until much later. When she called him to gloat to, I mean inform, him that his 'girlfriend' (his pet name for me, still, 30 years after the wedding) had dropped her phone in the pool (insert hysterical, throaty laughter a la Demi Moore - my girls inherited their father's raspy voice), he thought she was the one who did it and refused to believe it, bless him. 

On to the list of How We Got To the New Dentist in the Other Valley Without My Smart Phone. Step 1, etc: Try to remember the name of the dentist that is typed into my calendar. Then realize that thanks to the magical Cloud, my calendar information from my phone (sometimes) transfers to my laptop. Fire up the Laptop. Look up the address online, then Mapquest (haven't used that in a while) it. Memorize the directions (and email them to Demi-laughter daughter just in case). Repeat this address to yourself over and over so your daughter doesn't think you've totally gone over the hill and are now sliding down it into dementia. Get in the car and pray the traffic isn't bad, because you certainly can't check it on your smart phone. Find the New Dentist on your own and feel totally, well, SMART. All on your own. Sit in the waiting room reading the TV Guide because you have no games to play, status to update, or online reading to do. BECAUSE YOUR SMARTPHONE is at home, sitting in a bag of rice. Find your way home (after a three hour visit - I almost said tour), with only one wrong turn. Try your best not to turn on the cell phone that still needs to sit in rice. Fold clothes. Wait.

I tried the rice, then the blow dryer, thinking two solutions are better than one. Over six hours after the swimming incident, I was tired of reading (actually turning pages. Of paper.) my book and trying to figure out what to put in the pasta salad (oh, yah, check the laptop edition of recipe finder) and I just couldn't wait any longer. It worked! My phone was working! How did I lever live without you?! I mean, ahem, no problem, could have gone a whole day no  problem....

Pin, Surf, Search, Post, Repin, Like

This is what I spend my time doing in my "free" time. Sitting in front of the computer, laughing, smiling, pecking away at the keys. I read jokes that make me laugh, watch TED videos that make me cry. I catch up on most of my friends and relatives and their families. I read reviews of books and movies and I pin photos of beautiful ideas onto my Pinterest (a baby obsession that I fear will continue to grow and develop into a demanding teenager). I do all this alone. In my room, or family room, or at the kitchen table. Yes, I interact with friends, posting comments to comments, or chatting in boxes. But I'm still alone. 

I find it surreal to think that when I was 15 it was a privilege (that a rich aunt afforded us) to have my own Princess phone in my room so I could call and talk, in real time, with my friends. But only after homework and dinner, and definitely before eight. Now I can be in almost immediate contact with anyone, literally anyone, I know around the world. I can even see their face while I speak to them. My kids can get a hold of me any time, any place via the magic mini-tablet I carry in my pocket. Oh, and it plays music, too. No more planning a meeting place or agenda for the day so that I know where they are or how to reach them. No longer do I ask for the phone number of the house they are visiting. That is a memory, a shadow, from a former life, a former generation.

So I wonder how this age of technology and instant communication has shaped us, or really the generations behind me, and how it continues to shape us. How are relationships different, and is the way our kids communicate and form relationships effected by this shift in the universe? I know, I'll goto the library, look through the card catalog under "Are you kidding me?!" and find magazine articles on such studies. Or I could wait for that annual Encyclopedia Britannica edition that highlights the year (no, it's not an ocean liner). But wait, I have this large, magic keyboard with a flat TV screen to help me...

Thank You, Title IX

Today is the fortieth birthday of the landmark legislation that has affected the lives of many people I love. It's been a long time since I have blogged, and I thought that this day was worthy of my time and effort, and for special recognition of this day.

Title IX, a portion of the Education Amendments of 1972, states that "No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance,...." (with some exceptions including religious and military), see http://www.dol.gov/oasam/regs/statutes/titleix.htm.  Title IX is most well-known for its impact on women's sports in public education. I was ten when this passed, so felt very little of it affect my own life or those of my peers.

As I drive by the many schools and parks of my town, I see girls playing soccer and softball as much as I do boys. I wonder what these girls would think if I told them that a few short years ago they wouldn't even be considered for a college soccer team or a national softball team? I look at my daughters' friends who went to college on scholarships and came out with a degree and the self discipline required to compete in a sport at the college level plus carry a full load of classes. I especially think about those girls who would not have had the opportunity to go to college without the financial help that they earned by excelling in their field of sport, particularly those who are the first college graduates of their family. What a different world we live in compared to when I went to college.

Thank you, Title IX for making the dreams of our little girl athletes as big (or almost as big - professional sports has some catching up to do) as their brothers'. I have my eye on some of my former students and expect to be invited to their college games in the not-so-distant future!

Tales from the Old

I sat with my father at his lunch time in the dining room of his care facility. He had tucked another clean linen napkin away in the basket of his walker to add to the crisply folded pile in his room. His regular table mate sat mute and smiling, carefully finishing the gelatin topped with whipped cream as his current girlfriend chatted with me about my wonderful father. 

Again she told me how nice it was to finally meet me ('again' because we had the same conversation last time I visited). Enthusiastically the woman went on about how highly my father spoke of me.  Her late husband had been an LAPD officer and they had known my father since he was 16.  What are the odds? Anyway, as she went on about what a gentleman my father was and how he loved my mother and called her his "little English wife", she started to vary from the tale I'd heard before.

Mentioning La Canada, where she still had a house, prompted her to divulge that, in a hushed voice, she couldn't go back, however much she wanted to, because of the dangerous neighbor. As we sat talking at the table, Dad's usual table partner quietly left to sit by the piano, saving his girl a seat so she could join him later. She continued to tell me in a low voice how a Jewish man had moved in to the house next to hers. She said that "they" put up a good surface appearance, but that he was dangerous. He had tried on many occasions to kill her with his car. She had even gone to the police station to report him; but he was tricky. Her daughter decided it was too dangerous for her to continue to live there, so she found this place as a temporary solution.

I said that her daughter must be very concerned with her safety to have moved her here, and it was important that she stay safe here. As this well-spoken woman went to join her boyfriend (does she know he is also Jewish?), I wondered about the brain and how it creates parallel realities. I thought of her daughter getting a call from the police station about her hysterical mother, and the decision made to move her to a care facility. My father has told residents and workers that the dog in the lobby painting is Ginger, my childhood dog, and sometimes that my sister owns the building and I am the Principal of a school. Perhaps all of the pattern-seeking brain activity that has gone on all our lives takes the side streets as we age, making sense of the strange neighborhoods we find ourselves in.

I sat at in the car thinking about this woman and her stories and I wondered how much truth there was stirred into the cauldron of her tales. There are over a hundred residents in this place, each with stories to tell. Fantastic, semi-truthful, historical, personal stories. What a treasure box of fables! A book could be written about the secrets, dramas, love stories, and mysteries swirling around the halls and dining rooms of this neighborhood aging care facility. I'd better get started...

Growing the Good Will Pile

Today is breezy, and after the rain stops there is a nip in the air. It's the weekend, when what I wear leans more toward comfortable than stylish...or flattering.  I put on pants and reach for the old faithful long-sleeved, high-waisted, slightly faded, knit top that hangs from my chest to below my hips. I even think as I look in the mirror - hmmm, this always makes me look a little pregnant, but I don't care what other people think. Comfort is king. Wrap a scarf around my neck and off I go. 

When I flag down a sales lady at the middle-aged-lady's shop that I occasionally make purchases from  she takes my selections as she says, "When are you due?"  This is so out of context and outside of my thought process that I don't take it in until she opens a dressing room for me and says, "Oh, July? Here you go, let me know if you need anything." Does she mean, no she couldn't possibly. OH MY GOD SHE DOES. Waves of emotion wash over me. Speechless, flabbergasted, MORTIFIED, I can barely stand and nothing looks good on me, in fact all of my choices are too big. As I sneak out of the store avoiding the sales lady, 

a big smile crosses my face. She actually thought that I looked 

young enough to be of child-bearing age.

I LOOK YOUNG ENOUGH TO BE PREGNANT.  

That must mean that I look at least 

 TEN YEARS YOUNGER than I am. Wow, I look gooooood. 

  Dance of Joy.

Thank you, sales lady, you made my day. And that top is in the Good Will pile, of course.

Jumping into 2012

I've been chopping and browning and chopping and seasoning (did I mention chopping?) all morning. And as I make chili to celebrate this new year, I've been thinking of my dad. My dad was a famous chili maker in his circle of friends. Every Memorial Day weekend a group of families my parents had camped with for years would have a chili cook-off. It was a festive but at the same time serious and competitive affair. And every year my dad would spend the day before with a variety of meats and spices and onions and peppers. He left beans out long ago, and often combined cuts of meat. The spices he used also varied, and he tried to keep it edible to most (he loved it so spicy that only a few could stand it).  Sometimes he'd start with a bag of spices he'd purchased, sometimes he'd mix his own. Although I loved to watch and be enveloped by the smells coming from the kitchen, my dad wasn't one to divulge his secrets easily. He took pride in coming in first place more than once, and was almost always in the top three. He would always say it was his "secret ingredient" that made his chili special. I have the feeling that the secret changed every year. For me it was the process and the love and care he put into it.  I wish I'd known that the man I watched with a mixture of amusement and admiration would slowly disappear before my eyes in just a few years so that I'd payed more attention. I wish I'd joined in more often.  I wish that dad was with me today.

Today I welcome 2012 by honoring my past and looking forward. Everyone is home for one more day, so we'll all have chili and cornbread and maybe a salad for dinner. Today I honor you, Dad, by chopping and browning and mixing and stirring a pot of my closest approximation of your wonderful chili. It's a great way to start a year that will be full of new experiences, challenges, and changes! Happy New Year!

Friendly Skies and Super Stars

In the last 24 hours I have looked into booking three, no, four flights for my three kids. Wow, it's a busy time of year. Personally, my favorite airline to book with is Southwest. Easy online website, no change fees if you do it online, no bag fees, and lots of flights and prices to choose from. 

Chicago daughter was going to be home this weekend after a long ago planned trip to Vegas, but got a second interview on Tuesday for a job she really wants, so back to Chi town she goes. Can you guess how much it is to fly out of Vegas on a Sunday night?! They've got you if you have to be at work on Monday! It was cheaper to have her drive with her friends back to Orange County and then fly out of Long Beach on Monday. She'll stay with Auntie then get dropped at Long Beach airport. So I won't even see her until she comes back. Hmmm, we don't know when. I guess that will be the next flight I book.  

Youngest child is headed into her first college finals week ever. Not sure how she'll survive, but she's got friends to help her through. And she's growing by leaps and bounds every week.  However, she's still not sure if she'll have a final on Friday, and the flights home from San Jose are expensive except for the 6:00 a.m. on Friday morning or the 7:00 p.m. Saturday. When will you know if you have to take that Friday final??!  Oh, well, at least she's booked for Saturday. 

Today my son called asking me about flying in to town next weekend to meet friends near Irvine for a trip to Big Bear. Should he fly into Burbank and we meet him with a car to drive south? We have four cars for the two of us at the house right now, but I suggested he fly into Orange County, go up the mountain and back, then sleep at his Aunty's house so she can drop him at LAX on her way to work on Monday. She's coming in very handy over these two weekends, a super star in the eyes of my kids (as well as me and my tired cars), and the bonus is that she gets to see her adored niece and nephew (who are hard to pin down under normal circumstances). 

I'm exhausted, so I'll be at home, drinking wine while I sit in front of the tree listening to holiday music, waiting for my home to be full of my family once more.

Holidays 2011

So I'm baking and cooking and shopping and planning for the big meal on Thursday. LOVE this time of year. But because 1/3 of my children will not be joining us it is also a time of year that leaves me melancholy and sad at times. And because of the hormonal challenges that accompany this age of my life I am alternately elated, depressed, angry, impatient, happy, hyper, or tearful. Right now I'm hyper and happy, so I thought this would be a great time to post a holiday blog. 

So the story behind the reason that my middle maiden does not join us from Chicago is that she was supposed to stay in Chicago the Thanksgiving of the first year she was away at college due to the cost of travel. But I couldn't stand the thought of her being away so, with help from Grandma, I secretly flew her home. Picked her up at Burbank airport, 20 minutes away on a good day. The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is not a good day. It took us 6 hours (yes, I said 6) on the 5 freeway to get home. The first two hours were wonderful, full of catching up and reminiscing. After that there was a lot of lying and backpedaling on the phone to those at the house to try and keep Claire's arrival a secret, and other than that we were out of conversation. And had to pee really, really badly. I'm pretty sure by the time we got home everyone had figured it out. Claire and I are still scarred from the experience.

Needless to say, we haven't done that since, and she has established a wonderful tradition of making a feast at her apartment with the other ex-patriots hanging around. I'll never forget the first year of the feast and all of the phone calls I got about oven temperatures and how long it takes for a jello to set. Of course I loved every minute of it!

So Thursday we have some old friends joining us who we haven't seen in a couple of years. The needs of our parents have taken us away from each other recently, but we have decided to adjust as needed. This year my cousin won't be joining us because her daughter-in-law has a new job and is on call, so she wants to be available to spend an on-call Thanksgiving with them. I totally get it. Our family comes first, but in order of priority: Kids, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, lifetime friends, other friends, acquaintances. As kids move out and get jobs, as parents age, as siblings marry and procreate and divorce, things change and we flex with that change. Fortunately, in the United States, the holiday season starts at the end of November and lasts through the New Year. Hopefully we can all see each other at some time during the holiday season!

Chardonnay and Calm, Blue Seas

How did this happen? The last year of my 40s is slipping away like sand in an hourglass. The boys of summer are finishing up their run. My class is humming like a well-oiled machine. Evenings on the patio are crisp with the clear, fresh wash of cool breezes flowing across our valley. How on earth is 2011 almost over? 

My children are spending time with each other independent of me, or my planning. They now enjoy each others' company and call/text/email/message each other regularly. Life moves on without consulting me. Come on, I'm supposed to be in charge here!! I guess I should just relax into it and let it happen. It's inevitable, the passage of time and the changes in me, my husband, and those around us (most of our changes involve sagging body parts and unexpected aches and pains -god, are we really talking about our health issues??). Mo and I talk more about retirement planning and living trusts than what we are going to do this weekend.

I'm having a hard time with all of this. Anyone else? I can no longer keep track of the current stars of the box office or Billboard charts. I feel so.... well, so... hmmm. Behind? Old? Out of touch? Like I've stepped off the train and am sitting on the platform watching it roll by. But with a glass of really nice chardonnay in my hand, or maybe gin and tonic. With lime. In my gloved hand, wearing a nice wool coat. With boots. Really tall boots. But not the ones with the spiky heels.  Waiting for the other train. The one that takes me to the pier where the cruise ship departs. Yah, that's it. The cruise to the Mediterranean. Okay, I think I can slip into this phase of life now. As long as there is wine and calm blue seas...

Change and The Light

There is a moment, a day, in September, when the light changes. The sun crosses the sky at a lower angle, the shadows are longer, the afternoon feels later than it actually is. These are the signs that fall is creeping towards us, ready to sit at our table very soon. Everything is a little more golden, a little less brilliantly outlined, a little softer, more shadowed. This change affects me. Today, it feels like a nation of change.

Ten years ago violence against our nation struck all of us. Each one of us has a story of where we were, who we were with,  and where our family members were at that moment we found out about the planes. Every one of us has a story of how we have changed, how our lives have changed because of this experience. All of us felt the horror, the heartbreak, to our core, and all of us remember how we came together as a nation afterwards.

I did not listen to the radio that morning, so when I walked into my classroom and found my partner teacher on her cell phone, asking anxiously if the person on the other end of the phone had heard from his daughter yet, the urgency and grief on her face made me think that someone in their family had died. She looked at me incredulously and said, "You haven't heard?"  Every day since then, and I mean every single one no matter where I am or what I am doing, I wake to or turn on the radio to listen to the news.

The light signals passing time. A new season approaches. The tears still come when I see the images and faces of the tragedy of 9/11/01. I don't think the passage of time will ever change that.  Where were you? What did you do? Please share this post and respond. Sharing experiences is a privilege and one of our most important human experiences.

You Must Pass Go

Time moves on. Another roll, count the spaces, buy, sell, move on. Empty Nest. At least that's what they call it and that's what I've got. That was never part of Monopoly; maybe The Game of Life mentioned it somewhere. My nest is supposedly empty now. Only it's not so empty. This weekend, the first empty weekend in our careers as parents, my husband decided to clean and organize the empty rooms. This pissed my off just a little. Already you want to purge the mess of our kids from your life and make it look like they never were??! But that's not really what he had in mind. I guess I may have a little bit of a hoarding thing going on. Considering I still have vhs tapes of Neverending Story and Winnie the Pooh. And we haven't had a vhs tape player in about 6 years. I guess it's time. Time to take the board games to my classroom. Time to put the cassette tapes in the trash and to get the family movies transferred from vhs and 8mm to DVD. But don't do it to me all at once. I can't, just can't, go through the drawers and closets just yet. The prom and formal dresses will remain hanging in the closet. The stuffed animals in the box under the stairs will stay there. I'm thinking that grandchildren will love the Ravensburger puzzles I've collected over the years and just can't part with (they are beautiful works of art). Will they love Monopoly and Clue the way my kids (their future parents - weird) did? Probably, so I'd better keep those. I'm sure I can find a corner in a closet my husband won't look in. And if I put the stuff in boxes marked "stereo" or "college text books" he won't bother them. At least not for a while.

Sick, Ill, Not Feeling Well

So why does it take a sore throat and sinus infection to get me to actually sit still for more than ten minutes? If it weren't summer, I'd make myself get up and go to work, I'd get through the day, and then, maybe, I'd go to the doctor in the afternoon and get some medicine. And back to work I'd go the next day.

Is it a mom thing? A female thing? I know it's not a male thing... Men are well known for their ability to sit through inane television shows (how many ways can an animal die/procreate/capture it's prey) or sports games, remaining primarily in the vicinity of the couch. Oh, they may leave that area to go just far enough to procure a beverage, usually beer, or a snack, but back they go until the bitter end. Women have a harder time focusing solely on one task for the length of time it takes to get through 9 innings, 2 halves, or 90 minutes. Come on, we all have our favorite sports, and I'm not saying that we aren't fans, even of Deadliest Catch. But do we really sit and just watch? I know I spend about a third of the time watching, even a college softball game, the rest is spent wiping surfaces, folding laundry, paying bills online, even playing Words with Friends or catching up on Facebook.

ADD? Easily distracted? Although these are true of myself at times, I believe that my inability to just do nothing comes from a feeling that I am unworthy. I have not earned "free" time, because there is so much more to "do". I have not (and never will have) completed my duties so am not deserving of the time-wasting activity of watching t.v. uninterrupted or just sitting enjoying the view over my backyard fence (fyi I'm not a voyeur, I live on a hillside with a view of mountains). Many women have at least a niggling of lack of self worth, of being undeserving. So my question is, why do we have to deserve something in order to enjoy it? A reward is more enjoyable when you have earned it, but who decides if you are worthy? And why on earth would I wait until I feel so miserable I can hardly move to just sit.

I've worked hard to get where I am. It's labor being a wife, a mother, a student, a friend, keeping a nice house and cars (often pleasurable labor, but still difficult) . It's a labor of love taking care of all the people who rely on me. I think I'll go open a beer and see what's on t.v.

Summer 2011

I love summer. I am off work and get to catch up on some of those projects and books and chores, etc. that I've been putting off or just haven't had time for. I feel like I have a lot of time, then the hours slip away and I've done...nothing but spend hours on the computer paying bills, looking for good deals on airfare, and catching up on Facebook!

The past couple of weeks I did spend some precious time at home watching my girls and boy and their friends and family interact, cook, swim, tan, and gossip. We plan special trips and our family reunion during these warm, relaxing months. During our family reunion weekend a cousin who follows my blog challenged me to write more often. I am going to designate a regular time for myself to write this blog and hope that the muse is there when I ask it to be.I sincerely apologize in advance for all the blogs that will be museless.

This summer is a summer of change for our family. Number One, son, is working full time, all done with school, at least for now. A doctorate is most likely in his future. Number Two, daughter, is a full time  Chicagoan, job hunting, waiting to finish one more semester. No more softball. She only came "home" for two weeks. She jammed a lot into those two weeks, but it felt, for the first time, like she was on a vacation while here, and returned "home" when she went back to Chicago. Number Three, daughter, is in that limbo between high school and college. For some reason she seems to have suddenly matured. I even watched her and her friends make a full meal all by themselves a few days ago. Okay, I had to tell them where the butter was and how long to boil the pasta, but otherwise they were quite independent! 

I told my husband last night: My job is done. They don't need me anymore and can live productive, independent lives without any input from me. Until they start having children, that is....

Seriously, Hormones, LEAVE ME ALONE!!

I woke up this morning ready to cry and kick someone's ass at the same time. Don't talk to me, don't touch me, LEAVE ME ALONE! I have failed as a mother and I have no friends. My kids hate me, my life is over, I'm old and wrinkly and fat. Any minute now I will turn into a lonely, sad, old lady sitting in a room. With cats. I'm mad that my kids are grown, I'm mad that I've missed the time I could be a triathlete or the head of a corporation. I'm just mad. And sad. Terribly, terribly sad. I even had a dream last night that my cousins called to tell me their mother died. She's been dead for almost twenty years. But I woke up feeling such grief and sadness. I'm a terrible daughter; I don't visit my dad as much as I should. I bully my mom into taking care of herself. I am a terrible wife; I complain and whine, and don't try hard enough. My kids can't stand to be around me for very long because they can't stand the sound of my nagging voice. 

HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN??!! 

I woke up yesterday and sat happily on my patio, in the sun, drinking my coffee and literally counting my blessings. I live in my dream house. I drive my dream car. I have a husband who makes me laugh and children who are not addicted to or selling drugs (or if they are, they are also able to be fully functioning citizens), and who are seeking or have achieved college degrees. Both of my parents are still living. I have an amazing relationship with my sister, and wonderful friends around the world. I am truly blessed. 

So how does it happen that the next day I can wake up in such a foul mood, feeling so low? Is it something I ate? Is this my true disposition rearing it's head, pushing aside my usual "glass half full" philosophy? Nope, I know, it's that bastard that comes whenever it wants now and smacks me upside the head; it is the bane of middle aged women, turning us into shrieking, crazy people who can't remember shit (I, the excellent speller, had to ask my English-language-learner husband how to spell 'shriek'. He thanked me and said he was honored but had no idea) and who sink into the abyss then soar to the heights of hormone-induced depression and ecstasy. Menopause, will you please LEAVE ME ALONE!