single parenting

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.

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.

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. 

Continue reading →

Take the Brownie!

Quarantine has not been kind to our bodies around here. We are weighed in regularly at our quarterly psychiatrist appointments, but with everything going telehealth, it had been since January that we had a weigh in. So imagine my surprise when we all weighed in within a week and found that J, Ry, and I had all gained 30 pounds each, and Ez, our little string bean who only gains 2-3 pounds a year, had gained 18. Our doctors were not worried, as it seems a lot of people have gained during quarantine. But they did warn us to be careful because another 30 lb gain wouldn’t be seen as kindly. 

W, ever the health conscious of the two of us, kicked it into high gear and had Ry sign up for MyFitnessPal to track her calories to help her lose 10 pounds. (J is firmly in the IDGAF camp and is managing herself.) While his intentions are undoubtedly pure, it has had devastating effects on my middle child. She obsessed over every bite she put in her mouth and let the negative self-talk creep in, wishing aloud how she wasn’t so fat or ugly. Last night was the final straw when she collapsed at the end of my bed and started bawling her eyes out. She explained that she was tired of looking at food as what you can and can’t have. She was offered a brownie in her video editing class and she said she knew she would have too many calories if she took it because she had Italian wedding cookies to sample in her baking class later that afternoon. She decided to take it anyway but then, in a fit of guilt, she stashed it in her backpack and threw it away after class. “But Mom, I really wanted that brownie. I just wish I could go back to when I didn’t care what I put in my mouth.” And I really felt that. Because I too, had been dieting since I was 13. And it sucks always looking at food as good and bad. Worrying about the extra calories and fitting into your clothes. Both of my parents are obese. I am technically obese. I don’t want my kids to struggle like I did. 

I was thinking last week about my impending 43rd birthday and what I had learned in my 42nd year, the year of epiphany and wonder. I had high hopes for that year, but I was struggling with a blog post that encapsulated my year, one that was ¾ spent in quarantine. It struck me that I have become the epitome of Gen-X—as long as I’m not hurting anyone, do I really give a fuck? I wear a mask, I socially distance, I eat something sweet every single night, I smoke the occasional joint to relax. Yes, I weigh too much according to the BMI scale. My bloodwork probably isn’t where it should be, but I am a firm believer that I have one life to live and by god, I’m going to live it. I hope I model this philosophy to my kids because after all, we should let them be kids. Model good behavior (R and I are gym buddies, we cook healthy dinners together) and let the doritos fall where they may. I don’t want to be a skinny 92 year old looking back wishing I hadn’t forsaken the extra dollop of whipped cream. I’d rather go out as the plump 70-something who rocked too hard at her favorite band’s concerts and enjoyed one too many cheese plates. It’s trite. It’s quaint. But it’s true. Just let it be.

And for christ’s sake, always take the brownie!

Il

Seven Sentences for Sunday: The Fed Up Edition

  1. Hairballs are disgusting; I am glad I have The Mayor to clean them.
  2. I must remember that losing weight is a journey not a sprint. I am 7 weeks in, 7 lbs down and already fed up with how slow this is happening.
  3. I had a mini breakdown yesterday due to lack of motivation for working out. But as a good friend says, those days are going to happen, it’s how you handle them and then crush your goals despite them.
  4. I might be looking to bootcamp again. I think I miss the camaraderie and the accountability.
  5. Any bootcamping will have to be done after June 1 because we will be moving before then.
  6. That’s right, we got approved, put an offer on a house, it was countered, then I accepted. Closing is May 16, which means I only have 36 more days of nerves to deal with.
  7. I want to go to the first day of Bunbury so bad: The Killers, The Mowgli’s, Red Wanting Blue. Now I just have to find a sitter for 12 hours.

I love you all, some more than others.

Falling Ahead

It seems strange to be mulling over summer memories as the leaves are tumbling down and pumpkin spice everything is in full effect. But on this crisp autumn day, that’s exactly what I have found myself doing. I attribute this reminiscing to several things: the fact that today I put away my flip flops after weeks of crunching leaves under open-toes due to my hard headed refusal to accept autumn and the necessity for full tootsie covering footwear. See you in April, I sigh, lacing up my trusty gym shoes to walk down memory lane of warm sunny days of yore. It does not bode well for me and my tendency toward seasonal depression that Halloween hasn’t hit yet and already I am in full winter hibernation mode. This dwelling on summer fun could also be attributed to the fact that it was, indeed, the Golden Summer of 2015. Continue reading →

Seven Sentences for Sunday: The Battle of Wits Edition

  1. I think I’m going to start asking my children to respond with “as you wish” to my requests. And if they don’t I’ll remind them “I’m no one to be trifled with…” Yes, I introduced them to The Princess Bride this weekend.
  2. I’d forgotten how many great lines are in The Princess Bride…perhaps my favorite line of all time is when Westley says, “Death cannot stop true love…all it can do is delay it for a while,” something I firmly believe.
  3. “Oh no! She didn’t stop, drop, and roll.”—Ez, upon watching Princess Buttercup’s skirt catch on fire in the Fire Swamp.
  4. With Christmas coming up, my schedule feels like Prince Humperdinck’s of late. “I’ve got my country’s 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped.”
  5. “Wuv. Twue wuv…will follow you forever.”—the Impressive Clergyman has only an inkling of the truth as I have traveled the galaxies through time with mine.
  6. “Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that have been rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.”—quite possibly the best ending line of a book.
  7. “I didn’t like all the sword fighting…”—Ez; “It was really good,”—R; “Not at all what I expected. I can’t believe Westley was alive the whole time!”—J

I love you all, some more than others.

Off Tempo

It was a hectic day, to say the least, with J’s 5th grade skating party from 4-6 and Ez’s 1st grade reading night from 6-7. Since school let out at 3:10, we had precious little time to grab a snack and dinner before the evening’s events Mother-pulling-her-hairstarted.

The roller skating party went off without a hitch. Ez and R stumbled their way around the rink, while J took off, grooving on all four wheels to the latest Taylor Swift songs. All was well until it was time to go. Continue reading →