parenting

Unexpected Hope from the Littlest Lovebug

We are having unexpected January temperatures in the beginning of December and my mood is that much poorer for it. We have barely made it above freezing for the past 10 days and we are expected to hit a balmy 5 degrees on Sunday. I could feel myself slipping when I started replacing my water for hot cocoa and my daily workout with doomscrolling in my recliner. I hung on to happy-go-lucky D!  with my fingernails, as if I were scratching out the demons’ eyes who were ready to overtake me with one skipped breath, one exaggerated sigh too many.  And then like they did when they announced their presence on the ultrasound 17 years ago, Ez gave me hope.

Our car rides can range from dead silence, as they lose themselves in their headphones and Spotify, to full on philosophical discussions that are only halted by my pulling into the driveway. The other day, they were feeling philosophical. 

“If you were a mouse and you could only eat three cheeses for the rest of your life (keeping in mind a mouse’s life is only 4-5 years) what three cheeses would you choose?” It took me a minute, but I finally chose Camembert, honey goat Gouda, and Muenster for everyday snacking. They responded with Colby jack for every day snacking, pepper jack for when they were feeling spicy, and Bella vitano for the fancier times. We agreed that I have a wider breadth of cheese knowledge than they do, but they classed it up with the Bella vitano choice. 

We then talked about making positive changes in our lives, with Ez taking steps to get healthier through exercise and more water, fruits, and veggies. Once they started talking they opened up about how they are feeling better, losing weight, and feeling the mental benefits of regular exercise. I knew they were right and that’s half the reason I started to tumble into the weeds of depression that ensnare me in winter. I eat just fine, with The Mayor carefully curating a meal plan that is both healthy and delicious. But exercise is my bugaboo. I had finally found something that seemed to work for me, lifting weights and doing my walking and step ups every other day through autumn, but since The Mayor quit his job before Thanksgiving, I bumped and rolled right off that wagon and into the mud of “I just don’t feel like it.” 

But something about seeing Ez get excited about their walks around the lake and packing their lunch for work instead of the regular Crunch Wrap Supreme on the way home gave me the spark of hope that I needed. I made it a point that afternoon to do my step ups and lift my weights that had been untouched for 10 days. Feeling the natural high of my blood pumping through my arteries and my synapses firing on all cylinders, I vowed to get some form of exercise every day, even if it’s a simple walk around Meijer or Fresh Market. It is so easy for me to slowly descend into slothfulness and inactivity with my commute literally being 22 steps from the bedroom to the recliner, but I legitimately feel better if I give myself that endorphin rush. 

From the moment I knew they were growing inside my belly, Ez has been a source of hope for me. I remember half-joking during my baby shower that I hoped they weren’t a dud, since I had already been blessed with two kiddos who were perfect in their own unique snowflake kind of way. Ez has been anything but a dud. They continue to inspire me with their words and art, and they give me hope that I can pull myself up when I see them making positive choices that will affect their future. I don’t think there is anything more you can ask from a 17 year old on the cusp of adulthood.

I love you all, some more than others.💜🌻

I Write Therefore I Am

It’s winter time, which means I have plenty of dark days to ponder such somber thoughts as what kind of legacy I will leave behind when my time comes to become stardust in the universe. As I collect past writings and journal entries into a collective published piece, I am reminded of the Latin phrase Verba volant, scripta manent, which translates to “spoken words fly away, written words remain.” I live and die by the pen, so this resonates particularly strongly with me. 

Between Facebook and my blog, I am pretty much an open book. This has enabled me to nurture and develop relationships with people from all walks of my life all over the world, and with some whom I have never met. Just this week, I have been messaged by three different people of varying degrees of familiarity who said they thought of me because of something I had written.

My friend, Nick, from my study abroad year in England, messaged that something came across his feed about people who can make jokes about grammar are the cleverest of the lot and he thought of me. My bff’s mom, Linda, texted that she thought of me because she got an entire bag of “foldy” chips with her dinner and she knew that bag should’ve been mine. And then my own daughter, J, has texted me at the exact same time numerous times, indicating that we are never far from each other’s minds. 

Just the idea that I crossed these friends’ minds and made them smile for a moment fills my love bucket to the brim. I am not one for long conversations, always a better listener than I am contributor, but I can collect my thoughts into an essay with relative ease. I think this has allowed me to be precisely in the moment soaking it all in, and then write about it later. While I hope to make an impact on people in real life connections, the reality of our virtual world is we have so many of those interactions online. We are who we are because of our words, and our written words are even more pertinent and meaningful today. 

It brings me joy and a sense of fulfillment that I can elicit a smile through my actions, but especially my words. My writings are an expression of my love for this journey we are on together, and that Love will remain in others whom I have touched after I am ashes. Hopefully I have plenty of years left to continue to make an impression in others who enter my sphere. At the very least, I will have left a library for my children and future grandchildren so that they will always know I love them. After all, scripta manent, amor manet. 

I love you all, some more than others 💜🌻 

A Present to My Future Self

I am a procrastinator at my very basic core. My friends can attest that I spent my college years doing everything last minute. I even wrote the speech I gave at graduation 2 hours before I was to deliver it, nearly giving my roommate, Karri, a coronary in the meantime. Somehow I never had any natural consequences because it always amazingly got done. 

This habit followed me into adulthood, through my marriage, divorce, raising kids, and finally meeting The Mayor. My procrastination techniques did not sit well with him, as The Mayor lives by a “future you will thank you” philosophy. He is the first to get the worst chores out of the way, rarely putting off til tomorrow what can be done this instant.

Now, although we had vastly different philosophies, he never lectured me to be more responsible. Instead he led by example. It started benignly with Christmas shopping. I grew up shopping and wrapping up until the 24th. The Mayor’s family celebrates on Christmas Eve, so we had to start earlier. Over the years, I have morphed into the one buying gifts months in advance and socking them away. This allows me to spread out the damage and shop the sales. Plus the kids always end up getting more on Christmas morning in the long run. I also never have to worry about stores running out of what I want and can enjoy the holiday season relatively stress free.

The Mayor has infected me with this philosophy in other areas of my life as well. Putting off a phone call? He’ll mute the Spotify and say “get it over with then it won’t be hanging over your head.” And he is always right. The temporary pain is minor compared to the stress of dragging something out.

Yesterday when Ez got into the car, they told me how they wished they weren’t such a procrastinator, as they stayed up past 10 the previous night to finish a presentation. I told them they come by it naturally, but they also have no natural repercussions, because they aced their presentation and the only downside to doing it so late was they were tired and grumpy during school. A boba tea and lunch at Bibibop after school straightened that attitude right up, and I gave them an example of how The Mayor’s philosophy has helped me and might help them.

I told them that earlier that day I was feeling puny and I didn’t feel like working out even though I haven’t worked out since last week. Instead of thinking of excuses I picked up my weights and told myself I was only going to do my bicep curls and then I would be done. Once I finished my reps, I thought “since I have my weights out, I might as well do my shoulder press …” which led to a couple of sets of triceps and finally abs and obliques. What started as me making deals with myself to stop sooner ended up with me saying just one more and a full workout. 

Oftentimes what I say as their mother goes in one ear and out the other, but maybe, just maybe, they will put more credence in The Mayor as the voice of reason. It’s a hard habit to break, and there is something to be said for brilliance under pressure, but I have learned that just getting started is half the battle. Once you write the first few words, make the first few presentation slides, do the first rep, you gain traction and momentum that carries through to a superior result.

 I still fight myself to not put off what should be done now, but I have trained my brain to override those foreboding thoughts by repeating, “Future you will thank you.” I know Ez has to learn that lesson themselves, but I hope as they make their way through the deadlines and projects of life, they will remember our conversation and relieve some stress by starting a bit earlier. Even if it’s one slide at a time. Future Ez will thank them, and that is one of the best presents I could give.

Seven Sentences for Someday: The Snowy Monday Edition

  1. When I am super hungry, I get highly irrational. Adam will ask me how many squares of pizza I want and I respond “Eighteen” and he says, “Hmmm. How about we start with three.” And of course he is always right. I hope we never lose this type of interaction. 
  2. Ez killed their senior pictures. We got proofs and they are outstanding. 
  3. R turned 19. The last year of her teens. I know so many good things are going to happen for her this year and she is going to go into her 20s soaring.
  4. The Mayor and I had early dinner out on Friday at one of our old haunts, Dos Amigos. I was thrilled the waiter checked out my cleavage and smiled, only for me to realize it’s because I had already spilled salsa down my top in the 25 seconds between him dropping off the chips and coming back to take our order. I’m 48 and still hopeless. 😩
  5. Today is our first day of snow. I love how peaceful and quiet it is, but only because I don’t have to be anywhere. 
  6. I accidentally dipped my thumb into a 460 degree water bath that I was pulling out of the oven when I made homemade baguettes. My entire thumb is one big blister now, which makes texting and typing a very surreal experience. 
  7. I finished and submitted my 1% Club application this morning. I don’t know if I could make it to the 100k, but it sure would be fun trying!! For my video I sang a made up song to the tune of Seasons of Love from Rent. Fingers crossed they like me enough to cast me!

I love you all, some more than others. 💜🌻

Proper Punctuation

The idea came to me the other day that not only is my career ruled by proper punctuation as an editor, but my adult life stages can be defined by punctuation marks as well. 

My first decade of adulthood started off with some certainty, as I married early at 21, but the rest of my life was a big fat question mark. After I decided not to go to medical school, I began down a path that would have many detours toward different careers. I spent a lot of time in nonprofit land, working with an adoption agency, the Girl Scouts, and an art museum. In my mid-twenties,  I would spend hours on the phone with my college roommate, Karri, wondering what I was meant to do with my life. We both had big aspirations and knew we were meant for “more,” we just weren’t sure what. Motherhood at almost 27 solidified a little for me, as I started a new job both as a mother and as a science editor. I pondered going back to grad school, but two quick pregnancies followed and I had 3 kids under 4 by age 30. Grad school would have to wait.

My thirties brought a divorce, a mental breakdown, several years of instability, and navigating single parenthood. A semicolon, signifying a pause in your life’s path, defined this decade. Being in and out of mental hospitals in my early thirties, finally stabilizing in my late thirties when The Mayor became a fixture in my life, marked a decade of tumultuousness with frequent “time-outs” and pauses. I was glad to make it through my thirties without the finality of a period, full stop. 

I spent the majority of my forties raising three teenage girls and growing my relationship with The Mayor, so I choose the ampersand for my forties. My forties weren’t about Just Destiny anymore, but rather Destiny and…I still have two years left of this decade, and though I am still working through the ampersand years, with adding projects AND hobbies AND work AND helping teens become adults, I anticipate the next decade will reap the rewards of all of my addition of my forties. The way it is going, I can already determine that my fifties will be marked by an exclamation point. Will it be a book deal? Grad school, finally? Eloping with The Mayor? Who knows, but whatever happens, I welcome the next decade with open arms. But only after I tie up the loose ends of my late forties.

I hope to revisit these ideas as the decades progress and I gain wisdom and insight into this raw and beautiful journey I have been so fortunate to live. I hope I am in my 80s writing about my 90s being the ellipses as I fade into the universe. But for now, this editor is still leaving her mark. Here’s to fresh red pens and track changes on…

I love you all, some more than others. 💜🌻

The Ultimate Extravagance

It was the day before my 10th birthday. Double digits this year. The stores were already decorating for Thanksgiving, with hints of Christmas peeking out of the aisles.

 “We’re here just for necessities,” my mom said, leading me toward the cake mixes. I loved this tradition of picking out my cake flavor. Mom made my cake every year and she always used a Duncan Hines cake mix as a base, but then added her extra secret ingredients to make it taste better. And homemade frosting. Always homemade frosting. Because the cake mix itself didn’t matter so much, but the canned frosting didn’t hold a candle to her homemade icing. I looked over the options, mulling a carrot cake versus devil’s food cake. And, oh, there’s the German chocolate cake too, but that icing meant getting pecans and coconut as well, and mom made it clear that her paycheck was late so I tried to be mindful of the extra expense. Finally I settled on devil’s food cake and asked for chocolate chip buttercream icing. Mom added the red and yellow box to the basket and said, “we need more eggs, too. I only have one left at home.” 

We made our way to the dairy, saying hello to the lobsters in the seafood case on the way. In front of the egg cooler, there was an end cap with individual butter sculptures carved like turkeys. Mom paused and gasped when she saw them. “Aren’t these just the most extravagant thing ever?” She ran her fingers over the box, as if she wanted to poke at the waddle of the butter turkey to see if it would gobble. She lingered a little longer, sighing that it was an unnecessary expense, but boy wouldn’t that be cool on the Thanksgiving table, before turning to the egg cooler and retrieving a dozen large. The way my mom said “extravagant” with a hint of longing, a smidgen of preposterousness, and a touch of regret made me want to experience that butter sculpture. I wondered if it would taste different, being carved up to look like a turkey. Surely it had to, if rich people were buying it. I determined right then and there that I would get one of those butter turkey sculptures on our Thanksgiving table somehow.

Mom made my birthday cake while I was at school the next day, and I opened my presents when I got home after I blew out my candles. I hadn’t stopped thinking about that butter sculpture we had seen, so when I opened my card from Papa and there was a crisp $20 bill with a note that said, “Buy yourself something extravagant…” I knew what I had to do. 

That Saturday, I asked mom if I could walk down to Kroger by myself; now that I was 10 I felt I was old enough. She agreed, but insisted on following me down and back in the car. I felt so free and grown walking down the big hill and in through the double doors. I thought to myself, “ten is old enough to walk to the grocery store by myself. It’s also old enough to start contributing to the house.”

I quickly weaved my way to the back corner of the store, praying the whole way that nobody had bought all the turkeys, and was rewarded with a whole selection of butter sculptures in the dairy. I picked one up, purchased it, and went back outside to let mom know I had made it out okay. I handed her the bag with the butter turkey in it and said, “I bought this for Thanksgiving because I wanted you to have something special.” Mom immediately started crying when she looked in the bag and said I shouldn’t have, but that it would look perfect on our Thanksgiving table. She’s always good about being grateful for gifts, even if she thinks I wasted my money. I asked if she would drive me up the big hill so I didn’t have to walk it by myself and she said of course.

At Thanksgiving, I helped set the table and put the butter turkey on a little plate in the center of the table next to mom’s yeast rolls. We said grace and loaded our plates. It was just the two of us so when we went to butter our rolls, we looked at the turkey sculpture and then at each other. It seemed a shame to cut into something so beautiful, we didn’t even know where to start. Finally mom said, “aw hell, I’m just gonna go for it” and cut that butter turkey’s head clean off and smeared it in the roll’s crevice. I started laughing at the headless butter carcass that remained and said, “I’m going to go for its butt” and took the tail feathers right off. Mom giggled and watched me as I took a bite of the roll with the fancy butter. I felt the creaminess and saltiness of the butter on my tongue and lips and pressed the excess to the roof of my mouth. I wanted to taste the indulgence that wealthy people thought nothing of and let my whole body feel its richness. Mom smiled at me and said, “I’m so thankful for you, turkey butt. I love you so much.” 

“I love you, too, mama. Happy Thanksgiving” and we devoured our dinners with the headless, buttless butter turkey between us, both of us realizing that the ultimate extravagance was spending the holiday together with a home cooked meal.

Seven Sentences for Sunday: The 48th Birthday Wish Edition

  1. Our neighbors had a baby so I dropped off flowers and a Panera gift card and today they flagged me down to give me a thank you note. Ezra noticed the note when they got in the car and said, “Who sent you a message via carrier pigeon?!” I guess they don’t see handwritten letters very often. Haha.
  2. In my twenties I used to be paranoid that people would know if I’d just had sex, like I somehow radiated the JBF look. Now as I’m in my late 40’s I have no qualms about a quickie in the morning and then running carpool an hour later. I guess being 47 means realizing that people really don’t know or care. 
  3. One of my simplest pleasures is learning something new from one of my engineering articles and passing that tidbit on to my mom. She loves receiving those texts and is always enthusiastic with her replies. I hope I have 25 more years of those exchanges!
  4. I hit up Kroger this morning for their $5.99 sale on seapaks as well as their 33% off Halloween candy. Got stocked up on salmon, cod, and tilapia as well as bags of snickers, Twix, and skittles. Had to get in before the crazy church crowd terrorizes the public. 
  5. Sundays seem to be my catch up day with my BFF. We text over football about our weeks and all the progress we have made toward our goals. It’s nice to have a sympathetic ear when the world gets to be too much. 
  6. I’m not sure if it’s my bipolar or my neurodivergence, but I have half a dozen active projects in various stages of development and at least 50 more simmering in my brain. My brain can be a lot sometimes. 
  7. It’s the start of my birthday week! I’ll be 48 on Wednesday and my birthday wish this year is for it to be the year I start menopause. It’s about time and I’m about done. Let’s just finish it already. 

I love you all, some more than others. 💜🌻

Smile Because It Happened

I am sitting here at the Say Yes to Jess studio for Ez’s senior portrait session and Jess has supplied Ez’s favorite snacks of cool ranch Doritos, Dr. Pepper, and Sour Patch Kids. A playlist that Jess curated of Ez’s favorite bands is over the loudspeaker and I am on the couch in the adjacent lounge area letting Jess do her thing with Ez, only jumping in to help light my child on fire for a pic. It was surreal, but the pic came out amazing. 

Since this is the last senior portraits that I’ll have to attend, I find myself looking back through all the pictures of Ez over the years and I am oddly happy. There aren’t any tears because this is a season of joy. Their whole life is in front of them and they have eight short months before they’ll be a graduate. I am pretty much done with the raising part of parenthood, except for teaching them to drive. Soon I’ll be in the role of who they turn to for advice instead of shunning the pearls of wisdom I try to drop in the car on the way home from Leaves. 

I had a hot chocolate date with my friend Tracie the other day at this new cocoa lounge in Loveland. We are the same age, but she started her parenting journey about 10 years after I did. Her daughter is in 3rd grade now and Tracie was telling me she can’t believe how fast it has gone so far and soon enough she’ll have a graduate like Ezra. She mused that she would be a mess when her daughter graduates and asked if I find myself emotional at times with the reality of the coming year. I wonder if it’s weird that I am not. 

Ez has grown so much over the past few years, and especially over the past summer. As they prepare for college next fall, make the step toward getting their license, and wind down their high school career, they will mature so much more that who I am describing now will only be a shadow of who they will become. You would think this would make me sad, but I can’t wait to watch them spread their wings. 

My bff likes to quote a line attributed to Dr Seuss, “Don’t cry that it’s over, smile because it happened.” I live by that quote and try and remember all the beautiful, funny, poignant, and difficult moments that have led to this point. I embrace the changes in my role as a mom and am proud of the people my children have become. Ez may be the last, but they are making their mark in their own way. This season is ending but with comes the dawn of a new season and I am blessed to be able to experience the changes. And I’m smiling because I have been lucky enough to have watched it happen.

Heart of Fool’s Gold

As the seasons change from summer to fall and then again from winter to spring, I tend to get a little manic. Not full-blown, Destiny! of yesteryear psychotic manic, but my mind goes a little fast and I have to battle some demons that are resurrected at that time of year. I thought I handled this season’s change marvelously, deftly telling the demons to quiet themselves, and allowing my brain to create a flurry of thoughts to be used as future essays, blog posts, book ideas, or just facebook anecdotes. I have a lot to work on this winter. I also realized that I might not be completely through this season of mania, as evidenced by an internet interaction I had today.

This morning during a break from editing physics, I opened my facebook to find a notification that someone had commented on a comment I had posted on a public page 3 days ago. My comment, which was in response to a news article, said simply “Pritzker is going to take the president to the United States Supreme Court and after that, The Hague,” received several likes and had honestly been forgotten because the days just replace each other when they consist of carpool, editing physics, engineering, and law, and maintaining a relationship with The Mayor. I clicked on what would then consume me for the next hour. Some random woman whom I do not know posted, “You all need to step away from the Pringles” under my comment. I was aghast. What the hell was this attack about? I thought, do I handle this with grace and say, “Jesus loves you, even if no one else does…”? But she attacked not only me but my kids. So I responded quickly and said, “Is this supposed to be a fat joke? Because I can lose weight. You unfortunately can do nothing about that face, those teeth, and that ugly personality.” That’ll show her, I thought. Ugly is as ugly does.

I went back to physics and finished my article; before switching to engineering, I took a peek at my facebook again (what can I say, it is a ridiculous addiction). Another notification. This time she said, “Aww, so you guys choose to be fat.” Well, she can just eat a satchel of richards. Lady, you do not want to fuck with a wordsmith. So I unleashed a tirade that would make any venomous teenage girl cringe. “Oh you poor thing…And you choose to be hateful. I’m sorry your kids hate you and your parents are disappointed in you. I hope my name flashes through your mind when your doctor gives you your diagnosis. Bless your precious heart.” Was I proud of this outburst? Admittedly, a little. Fuck with me and my kids, I will fuck with you so hard mentally that you won’t know what hit you. I pushed post and waited… Soon I was rewarded with a little red bubble. “Who is hateful now?” So I quickly replied, “You come after me unprovoked and when I bite back, you are offended. Go cry in a pillow.” Another quick notification with a simple, “You are crazy.” Your goddamn right I am, tell me something I don’t know. So I sealed our interaction with a kiss and simply replied, “Oh dear. Did someone learn the hard way not to pick fights with strangers on the internet? Have a “blessed” day. I’m sure you will.” A southern lady threat, how I learned growing up.

I rode this little high into thrifting with Ez and relayed my interaction to them, which they agreed she deserved it, even if I did cross the line with my threat of a “blessed” day and an unknown diagnosis. As the day wore on, I expected the little guilt pangs that normally come from one of my outbursts, but they never came. I might still be a little manic, but more astutely, I am pissed. I am so pissed that they (and they know who they are) can spew hatred from their mouths and when they get the first inkling of a pushback, they play victim. I am so pissed that our country takes an already marginalized community that constitutes 1% of our population and villainizes them from their positions of power. I am so pissed that truth no longer has a place in our media.

After dinner, I was finishing up an engineering article and Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” came on Spotify. I heard the lyric “You keep me searching for a heart of gold…” and I wondered if it was my angels saying they were disappointed in me today. Should I have responded to that stranger with love? Maybe. Did I tarnish my heart a bit with my tirade? Perhaps. But gold is malleable and soft. I am not. I will fight for my kids rights. I will fight for the rights of marginalized communities. I will fight for truth. And if Stephen King has taught us anything, you best not come after a wordsmith, because we will decimate you. A heart of gold, perhaps not. But a living, beating heart filled with blood that bleeds my truth. You’re goddamn right.

The Last Lovebug

I take a right on Galbraith Road as the opening notes of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” play against the faint crackle of static from the Dayton radio station. Still close enough to come in, but far away enough to not be completely clear. Instantly my heart twinges and I can feel the emotions start to bubble up as I remember my mom singing along to Patsy on the way to taking me to school. She loved that song. Still does, I’m quite sure, even though she is 3,000 miles away. I cross Kenwood and slow past the hospital, thinking this is the first of many lasts. I am on my way to pick up Ezra on their last first day of high school, the last of my three kids, the last one to need my driver’s license as their ticket to freedom before they launch on their own. 

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