The Journey Continues ...

Another Birthday... apparently 50 was really just the beginning of the “Journey.” The road after 50 has been quieter, more self-discovery than that year of self-promotion.  It's been 3 years since we talked (well I did the talking and you did the listening) and for some reason the occasion of my 53rd birthday compelled me to write a short "where is she now edition." This is not a jump back into the blogosphere... More like an “I'm still here and I sort of miss this” thing.  

53 is such an odd birthday... No fanfare, nothing notable; like somehow we have to wait until 55 for it to matter again. On the flip side, you can quietly slip into the next year without much attention (except in the Facebook world where every birthday counts and the number rarely matters). It’s strange that as much as we may tell ourselves that the messages on our “wall” don’t matter, each one really does make me smile. I’m sure I’ve missed a few of yours this year and I’m sorry if I did. I’ve been more of a Facebook observer for a while now... keeping up with you while staying under the radar. I’ve been a little disconnected in my non-virtual world too. I think I needed a little time out;maybe we all need one sometimes. It wasn’t intentional. Busy weeks turn into months, long days that leave no time or energy to pick up the phone or make plans. And just when we think that the calm is approaching, life throws us a curveball and we head for cover again. 

I started to enjoy the quiet. Solitude is different than loneliness. I watched less and less TV and almost never picked up the phone at night. I admit I still played plenty of Candy Crush but it’s almost meditative for me. Really, those silly candies dropping and exploding and my brain is almost Zen-like empty. Winter arrived. I have always had a tendency to hibernate, this one was no exception. Cold and dark and snowy are less and less appealing as I head deeper into the 50’s. Too young to retire to warm climates and no kids to build snowmen and make hot chocolate for. The sheer joy of watching the morning news for a snow day no longer exists. Walking the dog is an adventure of please hurry up its freezing out here and don’t poop there I have to get knee deep to pick it up. I needed to snap out of it in a big way. I thought about writing again then, during the journey to 50 it was the writing that saved me and connected me. Sending all (well most) of my thoughts out to the universe kept them from banging around in my head. But this time it was different, I felt like I didn’t have anything to say. 

So I made a different plan. I focused on things to look forward to. We signed a lease for a summer beach house... July at the shore was dream that I could visualize. I booked tickets for all 5 of us to celebrate my mama Nona’s 100th birthday in Boca. I spent a few perfect days in the sand in the Dominican Republic. This was good; I was heading towards life not hiding from it. But I hit a bump in the road, one of those damn potholes of reality that grab us when we are least expecting it. Everything is fine, the details don’t matter, I just hug all the people I love a little tighter these days. Enough said. 

Spring arrived; another birthday was in view, time to get back on track. I needed to be outside, to stay busy, so I started walking again (I’d been spending most of my sweaty time in the basement on the elliptical). It started silly enough with an App that counted my steps, 10,000 a day – roughly 5 miles. I got a little obsessive (that can happen) and wouldn’t sleep until I got them all in. It felt good, and then I thought it could feel better. What if walking could be running, what if I could I run a 5K before my 53rd birthday? Mind you in my first 52 years I ran upstairs, I ran errands, I ran to the store (in each case the word “ran” was just an expression not an actual measure of pace). So I bought new sneakers and used last year’s birthday gift card to Lulu lemon for the right gear (the appropriate clothes are an inspirational part of any plan). And I downloaded another App – Couch to 5K – or C25K to be cooler. The first few weeks I ran back and forth on my street, first at 90 second intervals, then 2 minutes, and if you think that’s easy for a non-runner it was torturous and I thought I was in good shape.  It got less awful and maybe I secretly started to look forward to it. I bought more stuff, a running belt to hold my phone, new headphones that stayed in place, running sunglasses (The Ray Bans weren’t cutting it). I was starting to feel like an actual runner. I treated myself to the non-free version of Spotify (if my kids can have it then why can’t I) and I learned what playlists kept me moving. I started to believe that this was possible. I moved from just my street to the whole neighborhood, to the reservoir trails... holy cr*p I was really doing this. The App was supposed to take me fully off the couch in 8 weeks but I was an unexpected overachiever and crossed the finish line early in living color.Literally, it was a color run, with the help of a 20 something friend who let me keep up with her the whole way. It felt amazing, no other word to describe it. 

I spent July at the beach. Got to run a lot of miles along the coastline and spent some really special time with family. That little cottage was like my own Field of Dreams... if you rent it they will come. It gets harder and harder to make those times happen and this was everything, and more, that I needed it to be.  Every dark winter day faded away with the tide. There is magic in that salty air.   

Fast forward, it’s my birthday once again. 53 is fine. A quieter birthday makes sense after a quieter year. Let’s hope the one ahead brings more accomplishments and fewer stumbling blocks. I thank you for all the birthday wishes and for listening again after all this time. Xoxo  

F Fifty

F FIFTY

Well, here I am roughly 6 weeks post the big day and I’m finally feeling like I'm ready to put closure to this journey – or at least the written part of it. I wasn’t sure that this was going to happen and honestly even as I type I have no idea whether this post will ever get to you. So for the moment I’m going to keep writing for myself and see if it becomes something I want to share.

The other day, on a perfect fall walk the title of this final chapter came to me. Of course the expected F word was the first one that came to mind, but there are so many more that could fill in the blank. For starters, I am Finally fifty, or for some of those who followed my August activities, I am Finally done with fifty. I could also say that I am Forgetting fifty, enough with this seemingly pointless journey to nowhere. Or maybe, I am once in for all, Facing 50. Either way, pick your favorite, the result is the same. It was a good run, I learned a lot and now it’s time to move on to the next adventure.

I was explaining this blog to someone new today and shared with her that what started out as a an outlet for me to express my creativity and exercise my mental muscles turned into something that I was totally unprepared for. The early days of writing were frenetic; I could hardly sleep with the excitement of what I would write about the next day and spend the rest of the day finding stolen moments to regurgitate my thoughts. I’d write and read and re-write until it sounded like me; the me I wanted you to know. Some days were the honest thoughts that went through my head and others maybe had a little more spin on the truth than was necessary; not sure who I was trying to convince, me or you. As the months went on the anticipation turned to anxiety.  I would close my eyes at night and stress over what the next day’s post would be – did you want funny or sad or reflective or that magical combination of all three. What began as a quirky project to mark my midlife passage evolved into something that felt pressured or expected - both counterproductive to the original plan. Looking back it was a good barometer of my life; the silent gaps as memorable to me as the verbose months. When I do find the need to go back and revisit old posts they still make me laugh and cry. I don’t think I’d change a word even if given the chance to edit or add a postscript. It is interesting to discover that as much as things change there is comfort in their sameness. Last year’s Brisket Blog could have been repeated verbatim last week. I will still cry on the anniversaries of all the losses that have shaped my life, still get cranky at the DMV and still get annoyed when Jeffrey uses “nice” as an adjective for my appearance. I can also say with complete certainty that there will be unexpected moments of joy and fear and laughter, and I look forward to both the continuity and the chaos of the days ahead. There are plenty of other stories I wish I had taken the time to tell and others I am thankful I kept to myself. I am still motivated to write, these words flowing easily and happily to the page. I hope that someday I’ll come back in a new way with maybe with a new perspective.

It is sort of fitting that I’m writing this final post on the eve of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement for the Jewish people. Tomorrow I will stand in temple before g-d (my new birthday shoes will be put to the test each time the Rabbi proclaims “let us rise”) and silently reflect on this past year. I will ask for forgiveness for my sins and hope to be sealed into the book of life for the year ahead. I will have plenty to think about and plenty to ask for forgiveness for – but I will also have a clear heart that my intention is never to hurt or do wrong. I am not perfect, certainly a work in progress for all my years ahead. But in the grand scheme of things my virtues outweigh my sins, and at the end of each day I am the only one who has to believe in that truth.  

This Journey to 50 has been quite a trip but I am ready for it to end. I had an interesting discussion with my son about life as a rollercoaster the other day. His metaphor boiled down to always being scared at the beginning, afraid to start, but once buckled in and cruising through the ups and downs it ends up being pretty exciting. No one is ever afraid at the end of a ride – they may not want to ever do it again, but they survived and more often than not the reality was far less painful than the expectation. If nothing else you can be proud that you did it. Finishing something is always more rewarding than never starting, and quitting in the middle isn’t an option on a rollercoaster and often equally as dangerous in real life. He’s a smart kid whose wise words gave me the courage to write this final post. I was scared to end this or frightened I wouldn’t know what to say or how to say it. So I did what he taught me to do, I stopped making excuses and just started. Now that I’m done I’ll share that my knees are a little wobbly and although I may not to want to ride this particular ride again, I’ll keep trying new ones because life without the highs and lows isn’t really living. At 50 I have no clue where the roads ahead will take me. My father only had 11 more birthdays and my grandmother has celebrated another 47 and counting. I have no control on the quantity, but improving the quality is possible. At 50, I hope I've learned to stop counting my years and focus instead on making my years count.

Thank you for listening and laughing and loving me (or not) – it was a great ride…. Jill  


 

Dog Day Afternoon

It's official, it's gonna be a Dog Day Afternoon. I’ve been holding my breath (no worries, not literally) for the past few days, anxiously waiting to see if our references checked out and we'd get the go ahead for canine adoption. I am being only mildly sarcastic; this was a much more rigorous process than you would think.

The house has been a little lonely without a dog, not to mention that I never realized what an excellent job Boola did at cleaning the crumbs off the kitchen floor. This family needed a new four-legged resident, and as a group we decided to forgo the breeder this time around and adopt a rescue dog. It seemed like the right thing to do. Even staring my empty nest in the face I am not the least bit tempted to raise another child (many assumed this was a possibility), but adopt a dog, that I can do. Jeffrey started the research; I narrowed the criteria (no Pit-bulls, no German Shepherds, no Rottweilers), he added his own restrictions (nothing that would fit in a pocketbook or could be picked up with one hand). That still left us thousands of dogs to choose from; really mind-boggling how many pets are living in shelters.

Our first stop was the Humane Society, very nice people but a limited selection of dogs (after applying the ruled out varieties). I did have my eye on one sweet pup, but he was visiting with another family and although I tried to mentally convince him through the playroom window that we would be a better choice, they had first dibs and I don’t do second fiddle. As it happens, they did let us spend a little time with my first crush and he was apparently shy with men and seemed to have attachment issues … neither one a good fit for us, so we moved on. The nice shelter lady took pity on me or was just tired of my questions and referred us to a private non-profit shelter closer to home. She even let us search their available pets and called ahead to make us an appointment (and potentially warn them about the needy mom and her teenage sons who tried in vain to mute her). Off we went to the fancy shelter, solely run by a philanthropic animal loving family, busily dog-viewing on my iPad in the car to select potential contenders. Like Match.com for pets, we read their profiles, their likes and dislikes, their personality quirks, and ruled them in or out. And then, like magic, I was smitten with the bio of Roberson, a Boxer/Mastiff mix, “Roberson is a big cuddlebug mush of a dog. He has a soft muzzle and big floppy ears. Roberson loves to go for long walks on our woodland trails.” Roby, you had me at Woof! Further investigation revealed that he was 3-years-old and had arrived here from the South, a mature southern gentlemen, be still my 49-year-old heart. Before the car was in park I knew this was my dog, now I just had to go through the motions and convince everyone else. Little did I know that I would have to be selected, as if any dog or shelter wouldn’t be thrilled that I had chosen them. Nevertheless, I put on my best compassionate face to establish my suitability as a prospective adoptive mom. Before a single dog could be introduced we were interviewed about our family (who lives home, how many hours do we work, what is our neighborhood like), our expectations for a new pet (did we expect him to play for hours or take long runs)  - I was getting nervous; what were the right answers? We’re a flexible family. We can change. After conditional approval we looked through the dossiers and selected potential candidates (Yes, I still knew it would be Roberson, but I didn’t want to show my hand just yet). Some were immediately dismissed as incompatible for our household (Fine, I didn’t want them anyway) and then the speed dating began. One at a time they came out to meet us, accompanied by more than one excited puddle of pee (they couldn’t help it, who wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the idea of coming home with us?) Coco was beautiful, but knocked me down at the first hug (David still regrets not capturing that moment for You Tube), Gypsy was sweet but a recent pregnancy had left her with some low hanging reminders of her nursing days and frankly, it felt a bit inappropriate, especially for the boys. And then came Roberson, my intended. Out he came, man’s best friend, not jumpy or nervous, confident and cuddly at the same time. He gravitated first to the boys, the staff lets us know that he relates better to men. I assured them that this was not an issue; I do too. He is playful and calm, no biting even with the four of us clamoring for his attention. He listens when David tells him to sit and lie down (apparently David has been hiding his dog whisperer skills) and we bond while the staff continues their secret evaluation of our family. We pass level one and get to take him outside for a walk. As soon as we are out the door Roby shows his man-swagger and lifts his leg to mark every tree in our path. It’s all good, I’m used to the Boola squat, but I like the macho peeing as long as my leg does not get mistaken for a low branch. Everyone is happy; we walk in rhythm on the leash, no aggressive pulling or veering off to explore. I have some long walks planned for my new companion; I needed to make sure that he was a suitable partner. Roby keeps a good pace, just right for me, with an attitude that says “don’t mess with me” but a face that tells a different story. I know immediately that he’ll keep me safe on any walk, day or night, and would gladly scare away the boogeyman if I were alone in the house. My choice has been confirmed, now we have to take him home.

Alas it was not that simple. Step three, references must be checked, and vets must be called. There is even the possibility of a home visit (do I have to cover the outlets again and lock up the cabinet under the sink?). I am not really worried, who would say anything that would make us unsuitable? There is a certain appreciation for the care in which this organization takes to make a proper placement and they could not have been sweeter or more assuring. This is a no kill shelter, meaning for every dog they place there is room for one more to be rescued. Their hearts are in the right place. They aren’t rushing to get the dogs out the door; they are making sure that they go through the right ones. A noble cause for sure.

Over the last few days we visited Roby one more time, even on Father’s Day the staff stayed late so we could enjoy another walk and some time outside. They called and chatted with both of my listed references and my veterinarian. They did a more thorough background check than most places of employment and all to make sure that Roby would be happy and cared for. As an added level of concern each adoptive family must agree to come back for 6 weeks of obedience and social training, provided free of charge by them. They also welcome their pets back for grooming and boarding, could it get more perfect than this? Last night at 9 pm I got the call on my cell (yes this staff works after hours) to let me know that Roby would love to come home with us, we had their blessing.

Like expectant parents we rushed out to buy a crate and other supplies and rearranged our work and social schedules to make sure that he wouldn’t be alone for the next few days. I am sure that there will be some sleepless nights and some accidents ahead but he’s not a newborn so it should pass sooner rather than later. I’m looking forward to our first walk together; I’ll let him lift his leg as often as he wants. A man has to do what a man has to do. David is ready to assume the role of daytime watchmen while he continues his search for post-collegiate employment (hint, hint …preferably NYC and in the media world, excellent resume and references). Andrew sadly left for the summer this morning before Roby came home, they will have to bond at a later date. Scott has virtually approved of our new family member and we will have a Facetime introduction later today.Jeffrey can’t wait for his man dog and will happily share the responsibility of listening for strange noises in the middle of the night that wake me up and need immediate attention. All in all, this whole process was both an educational and a feel-good experience. On a side note, if you remember from a previous post I had originally chosen another name for my next dog, and the shelter did give us the go ahead for a new name, but somehow it doesn’t seem right, so Roberson or Roby for short(pronounced Row-Bee) it is. And with a boy dog I’m back to being the lone lady of the house, but that usually works in my favor too. In 46 minutes I’m going to claim my man, let the Roby-tales begin…

Post Script: All joking aside, The Simon Foundation in Bloomfield, CT (thesimonfoundation.org) is an amazing place with a staff of caring professionals that are committed to finding good homes for good dogs (and cats). Check them out if you or anyone you know is looking for a new pet.

My Magic Sneakers

I bought magic sneakers. I will reveal their secret powers a little later on, but as usual you have to suffer through some back story. I'm sure you've seen those T-shirts with a smiley face and the Life is Good! slogan. They always annoyed me. Then last week I saw a Facebook post proclaiming "that those T- shirt people got it right" (shout out to JS?), and it got me thinking that maybe they did, life is pretty good. Granted, it has been sort of a gimme the last few days, perfect weather and generally low life-stress at the moment. Nevertheless, on one of my recent extra-long walks I spent some time pondering the famous T-shirt mantra. I have been doing a lot of mental whining lately (I spared you most of it) and decided what if they were right, maybe I should start to focus on the "Good." I’m not being Pollyanna, and who knows, next week Life might be Sh*t, but for the moment I’m going to do my best to see the positive. I would also assume that, for most people I know, the balance sheet of life would weigh fairly heavily in the affirmative. There will always be a few that seem happier or have more stuff or less baggage, but we live in a pretty small bubble around here and I would guess that just outside of it, our lives are looking pretty rosy.

If I had to explain my current euphoria I would have to say that I have started to take stock in the little things. The stuff that maybe I've been taking for granted or what generally gets pushed to the bottom of the life pile underneath the bills and the laundry and deciding what to cook for dinner. I think I had a "moment" (I won't say an Aha moment, too Oprah) on the aforementioned "extra-long walk." It was a perfectly warm day with clear blue skies and low humidity (the humidity factor is key for me).  I took my usual route, up and down the steep hills of my neighborhood, in and out of the cul-de-sacs of green lawns and flowers in full bloom. I had my head phones on, a perfect walking playlist (if I'm not careful I start dance-walking and singing out loud) and my new sneakers. It was revolutionary. When I started this walking thing a few months back I never invested in proper footwear.  I have been known to fully wardrobe myself for a new hobby (golf was an expensive one) and then just as I rip the tags off and the return period has ended, I have moved on to a new endeavor. Thus, I already had sneakers and sweatpants, so walking seemed to be a non-investment sport. As the walks became longer the blisters seemed to be a part of the package; I did feel as if maybe they were the battle scars of an athlete. Of all the labels I have been given in my lifetime, athlete has never been one of them, so I put Band-Aids on my injured heels with pride and continued walking. Then on a recent outlet trip I visited the Nike store and there in front of me were walking sneakers, cute ones in black with hot pink trim, and I thought maybe I should give them a try. It was instant Foot nirvana, my instep resting one a gel bed and my heels in a seemingly abrasion-free zone. Worst case scenario, they'd look good and I'd buy more Band-Aids. But no, the first walk was liberating, I could have gone another 5 miles. Apparently there is a reason people buy "real" sneakers, and the "fashion sneaker" category is just that, as in not meant for anything more than looking good. Anyway, back on my inaugural sneaker walk, it occurred to me that these adorable $59.99 Nikes made all of me happy, not just my battered feet. Instead of thinking about how painful the last mile home would be and how fast I could kick off my shoes at the front door, I just enjoyed the scenery and the music. I nodded hello to the other walkers, the gardeners, the cable guys (why is there always a Comcast truck parked somewhere on my route), and waved to the cars with familiar faces. Headphones give you license to not stop and say Hi, no one ever thinks you are being rude, it's a sweaty free pass. That's where it all began. What other little obstacles had been preventing me from enjoying the view? Maybe I had to stop putting bandages on the issues and just take steps to fix them or ignore them. So I promised myself to give it a shot, or at least try not to focus on the bruises that take away the pleasure of the journey. Just like Dorothy (I never miss a chance to make a Wizard of Oz reference), the power was in the shoes, I just had to discover it on my own.

My first few days out of the happiness gate were better than expected. It was Father's Day weekend which is usually kind of a downer for me, but Jeffrey is a father, an amazing one, and he deserves to be celebrated. We didn't have a plan, a few activities in mind, but figured we'd just go with the flow and enjoy a quiet family weekend (minus one family member, Scott did his best, but couldn't get home). Friday night was our usual dinner out with Andrew, a great Thai meal and an especially chatty son. Saturday morning Jeffrey and I enjoyed coffee and the paper while the boys slept, and discussed the day ahead. Watching me once again fight with my temperamental repaired iPad, he suggested a trip to the Apple store for a new one. I reminded him that it was Father's Day weekend, the presents weren't supposed to be for me (not that there was anything wrapped and hiding in the closet for him either, we are not big present people). In classic Jeffrey style he responded that the only present he wanted was to make me happy, and I would never want to disappoint him, so I guess I had to get a new iPad. But, it can't be all about me, and I knew just the thing to share the love. It was time for a new dog. I knew that he wouldn't push it until I was ready, but this seemed the perfect day to start the process. There was already a plan in place for Jeffrey and the boys to visit the animal shelter, but without me joining them (which I hadn't planned on doing) it was just window shopping. And so it was decided, the four of us would go get an iPad and then we'd go look for a new dog. We spent the day shopping, for technology and puppies, in and out of the car, laughing with and at each other and it was perfect. For a little while it seemed like I found the elusive "pause" button and life was stuck in one of those magical family moments. We got home well after dinner time with my new iPad (can’t you tell the ease with which I am typing), it's snappy orange case and a potential new doggie. I don't want to waste what I'm sure will be a furry blog, so I will save that story for later in the week.

Sunday, Father's Day, had a pre-planned father-son golf outing. Nothing fancy, just the three of them at a local course sharing one set of clubs and some man bonding. Apparently cell phones were left in the car (on purpose) which may be the best Father's Day gift of all. I used the alone time to buy a card at Walgreens, digging through the unloved cards, literally thrown in a rolling cart for the last-minute wives and children (no joke, see the photo on my Facebook page) and made a quick visit to my father. I wasn't planning on it, but got in the car after the card purchase and that's where I ended up. I also arranged a post-golf visit with our prospective new puppy so later that afternoon we all loaded in the car again for a walk and some playtime with Roby (I hope didn't just jinx it by mentioning his name). Back on the road, we headed to a favorite dinner spot down towards the shore, roasted clams and corn on the cob charred in the husk and dripping with butter (you're salivating, I know). We had a cooler packed with margaritas and beer and water bottles for Andrew, our under-age potential designated driver. An unexpected meeting with best friends at the restaurant led to combined tables and contraband. On a side note, wouldn't you know that a diner at the next table was wearing one of "the" T-shirts, its happy face slogan staring me in the face the whole night; an obvious cosmic poke. Lots of eating and even more laughing, ice cream for dessert and a night cap at their house on the beach, another perfect day. Joy once again found in the simple and the unexpected. Only thing preventing 100% satisfaction was Scott not being with us, but he made his presence known with a bottle of Jeffrey's favorite Bombay Sapphire Gin, hand delivered by David. If I had tried to orchestrate the perfect Father's Day weekend it would have paled in comparison to this one.

It's now 10:54 pm on Monday and Life is still feeling pretty Good! I don't need the T-shirt (and although I learned the lesson, truthfully they still annoy me). I've got happy feet, a new attitude and my magic sneakers; together they'll lead the way.

A Mall Tale

I took the day off today. I have the next 16 days to sneak in another 5 days or so of vacation time or I’ll lose it, so I decided to celebrate the first day of sunshine in what seems like forever by taking a “staycation” day. Andrew also had a free day pre-finals and needed a few things before he leaves for his summer as a camp counselor next week. He requested a trip to the mall (can’t study all day) and well, that is an offer I would never refuse. As a mother of 3 sons, there has not been an abundance of "can we go to the mall" cries in my house. More likely to hear "Do we have to go the mall...?" Practically blasphemy in my world, the mall is a happy place; how did I give life to these non-believers? To be honest I've been spending less time at the mall in recent years, perhaps due to double college tuitions or the ease of on-line shopping. Lately each visit is more for a necessity or just a pleasant way to waste a few hours.  Virtual shopping doesn't give me nearly as much joy, I need to touch and try on and see how I feel in a potential purchase. Web shopping has its own rush when I click "add to cart" but I like to leave it there for a while and see if I'm still fixated on it later. I put items on a “mental hold” and sometimes just the thought of a purchase is enough, no shipping required. When I do complete a transaction, less often than you would think, it's a bit of a letdown, knowing I have to wait for delivery. I'm an immediate gratification kind of gal, "I want it now", like Veruca Salt (Willy Wonka reference). When the UPS packages arrive I am faced with the moment of truth, still love it or what was I thinking. Then, the choice, can't wait to wear it or crap, I have to go to the post office to return it. The mall eliminates the waiting and return postage; "yes" you're coming home to my closet or "no" back to the rack. Occasional buyer’s remorse does require that some of the chosen ones never get a wearing, but a return always offers the hope for something better. I know what you're thinking, and I am a little obsessed, but acknowledgment is power and I can and do shop with control. I can't always tell a waiter to skip the bread basket (and almost never do) but I can leave the mall empty handed and log-off jcrew.com with a full cart of pretend purchases.

My mall love began at an early age. Back in 1974, I was 12 year old, when WestFarms Mall entered my world. Almost every Saturday my parents would drop me off with my friends, $20, store credit cards and a parental note allowing purchasing power. Something tells me none of the above would work for today’s teenage girls. I remember in the early years we’d anxiously wait to see what new stores would open, pushing each other into the temporary white construction facades if someone got too close. We’d try on clothes that our parents would never let us buy and make-up and jewelry that we’d never wear. Lunch was at Kathy John’s, a restaurant and pseudo old-fashioned candy store with big wooden barrels filled with penny candy. At some point we’d use the pay phone and call a parent to come get us. With any luck I’d come home with something new; who remembers Huck-a-poo shirts or Sasson jeans? It went on like that for the a few years until my mall weekends ended abruptly with a shoplifting incident at JC Penney, that after that day, was never spoken about again. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I was so traumatized by my capture by mall security guards, my winter coat pockets filled with Bonne Belle lip smackers, and ushered to the JC Penney security office that from that moment on I have been a law abiding citizen (at least when it comes to petty theft). I had money and the credit cards with me, but when the cool girls invite you to hang out with them at the mall, the five-finger discount seemed a fairly harmless way to fit in. Obviously my first venture into the dark underbelly of the “bad girls” did not end well for the 4’10” goody-two-shoes who was also the Student Council president. My parents were called, I was sent home in shame with a warning that I was not to enter JC Penney until I was 18. I kid you not, I never did (and in truth, it was no great sacrifice in my pursuit of fashion). Sadly, I do have to admit that there were moments in my adult life where I did have to cross the JCP threshold and each time I took a nervous breath wondering if somewhere in the deep recesses of the security offices was a tattered black and white photo from my early years of crime. Would the now seasoned mall cop of my youth recognize me and search my baby bag for potential stolen goods? Happily I have escaped any further brush with the law and the reputation shattering listing in the local police log.  At some point I felt it necessary to share this unfortunate chapter with my teenage children, a parental moment of “scared straight”, saving this generation from a life of crime. I am actually imagining my mother reading this blog thinking, I can’t believe she told this story. Sorry Mom, dirty laundry has been aired, I think most people know I turned out OK and the transgressions of my pre-teen years are no reflection on your parenting skills.

Today’s trip to the mall was far less eventful, as they usually are with boys. We had 4 items on the list and that is exactly what we bought. No impulse purchases, all accomplished in less than an hour and back in the car. Not even the offer of an Aunt Annie’s pretzel or visit to Game Stop could entice him to hang out even a second longer than necessary. Although my sons think that I am forever pining for a daughter to enjoy “malldom” with me, they are sadly misinformed. Yes, a mother/daughter shopping trip sounds fun and I do still enjoy plenty of them with my mom (wish she still paid and hung up the discarded clothes in the fitting room) but I have come to realize that there is only enough purchasing power in my wallet for one mall lover. For a mother that can’t say no, even to the limited desires of sons, a daughter would surely have made us the best dressed family in the homeless shelter (I share that line with RW, we both realized this early on when nearly maxing out the credit cards with clothing for infant sons). My boys have simple needs, granted they have excellent taste (hello, who is their mother) and as long as it fits, doesn’t itch and isn’t even remotely metrosexual, we’re good. I know that someday I will be the best mother-in-law a girl could hope for. I tested it out with a few potential choices, and have been an excellent pretend MIL, generous, non-judgmental and fashionably informed. I also have a stellar reputation as a shopping companion; nothing makes me happier than helping others spend their money and make superior wardrobe decisions, all done with complete honesty and plenty of laughs. I have references if you don’t believe me, I make shopping fun.

My family used to joke that shopping was my hobby, and maybe that’s just a little bit true, but I’m not ashamed anymore. As defined by Webster, a hobby is an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation. Guess that shoe fits, put it on my debit card and I’ll take it home. See you at the mall.

The Home Stretch

Here I am, exactly 2 months to the day of my fiftieth birthday, so I figured maybe I would check in and say "Hi." I guess this is the proverbial "home stretch." Funny thing, I always thought that was a baseball term, relating to the run from third base to home plate, wrong (of all my limited sports knowledge, baseball is the lowest on the list). Upon further review, the term specifically refers to the final portion of a race track, from the last turn to the finish line. Informally it has come to mean the final stages of an undertaking, one web definition even explaining it as the last part of something, like a journey or a project.  Guess I'm approaching the final turn, in the home stretch to 50.

I set out last August 13th to share this year daily and publicly, and although I abandoned ship many times along the way, I have come to realize my absences were a necessary part of the process. I've been writing in my head all along, but those entries were just for me. Silent discussions that would have mostly bored you or exposed parts of myself that I've decided are better left unsaid. The last few months have been more introspective than usual, probably too much alone time than is good for me, and more than likely temporarily disconnected me from the people who I love and who love me most. Granted the almost nightly hour long walks were good for my body, but maybe not as good for my family. They helped me sleep better but left more laundry in the basket than the drawers. I enjoyed almost all of those walks with Boola, something I didn't do the first 12 years of her life, and hopefully a happy memory she took with her when we said goodbye a few weeks ago. I didn't blog about the end of her life, my 13 year old golden retriever, whose death hit me so much harder than I could have imagined.  I am not a dog person, in comparison to my friends who really love their dogs like children. I didn't grow up that way; my childhood dogs (Muffin and Bridget) always seemed to be part of the package of suburban life, but never really a part of the family. I have no memory of them coming into or leaving my life. They were just there and then not; I can't explain it any other way. Boola came into our life shortly after my Dad died (thus her name, Boola, a nod to his beloved Yale, and a little inside joke because he was the original non-dog lover) and although I still can't say that I loved her like a child, she was a member of the family for the hardest years of my life. The sadness in losing her was undoubtedly wrapped up in all we had been through while she was here; letting go of those memories a bit and acknowledging how much had changed in the 13 years she was around. I was 36 years old when we she arrived and the day we said goodbye was a heart-wrenching, slow motion replay of all she had witnessed in her lifetime. Her presence was practically the only constant of those years, everything else in a seemingly relentless flux. Enough said about that for now, can't go down that road again. We are still sorting out what our next four-legged friend will be; we have agreed on a large breed, preferably short-haired (still finding tumbleweeds of long blonde hair ) and an activity level more suited to our soon to be empty nester lifestyle.  I think I'll go for a boy dog this time, and already picked a name, Eli, continuing the slightly irreverent “Yalie” reference for my father. My friends and family are relieved that I have retreated from my bull mastiff fascination (especially the Cane Corso variety) and that I have vetoed Jeffrey's desire for a German shepherd or a Rottweiler.  I'm sure we'll make a decision before I turn 50, so stay tuned....

In the months since we last spoke David graduated from college, a perfect weekend with family and friends that ended with Mother’s Day with all 3 boys and my mom; couldn’t have asked for more. So what precipitated this blog, other than my noticing that today is the 13^th of June and 60 short days from THE day? I’ve covered lots of topics in the last 10 months, some funny (hopefully) and some serious, and some inspired by my children. It got to be a little inside joke in our house, something happens and I get the “is that gonna be in the blog?” query. For a while most stories found their way to the page, but countless others did not. Andrew felt a bit slighted that David’s wisdom teeth were blog-worthy and his own extraction just two weeks later did not warrant a post. Sorry Andrew, but I just wasn’t feeling the need to share the second time around. Andrew had his solo blog moment at the DMV and many honorable mentions along the way. But today, he inspired me and humbled me.

I arrived home from work and noticed a typed paper casually sitting on top of his backpack. It was obviously graded; I could see the teacher comments in the margins. I was also pretty sure that he did not leave it there intentionally for me to pick up and read, but I’m a mom so that’s what I did. Let me back track a bit and let you know that this is not a child that requires any prodding to do his homework and he has barely given me an instant of angst in his entire academic life. I rarely get to see his work anymore and most of it is well beyond my skill level anyway. I did spend many nights in the past year correcting his practice SAT tests (yes, he did them nightly and yes, it was worth the effort) and although I was only required to correct his answer sheet I was pretty amazed by his nearly perfect responses. On more than one occasion I secretly wondered if he was taking a peek at the back of the book, but I knew better. Back to the paper … Of course I flip immediately to the last page to see the grade (come on, you would too) and see the A++, along with some pretty heady comments from a notoriously grade stingy Professor (he does have a PhD) of 21^st Century Literature. I knew that he was a good writer (he is my son, and his skill set is enhanced with much better grammar), but what could have inspired this glowing praise? And then I sat down and read it, twice, maybe three times, partially because I was trying to absorb every word and partially because I kept tearing up. It wasn’t sad, actually clever and funny at times. I cried because it suddenly occurred to me that this paper wasn’t written by my baby. It was the work of my 16 year old son, who somehow in the blink of an eye became a young man with a mind and an intellect that took my breath away. Somewhere in between the countless hours of PS3 and Facebook and ESPN he really learned a few things. Don’t get me wrong, I knew he was smart and a good student and all the stuff we see on the surface, but this was more, this was understanding and reason and maturity. When Andrew got home from work I told him how amazing it was and he beamed with pride, “Mom, Dr. Shivers does not give A++’s. “Well Andrew, I guess he thought you deserved it, maybe he just never got a paper like that before.”. His response “Is this going to be a blog post?" For Andrew, I came back to the keyboard. There are always the predictable moments of parental pride, but this one caught me off guard. How did I not know that this was inside of him and when did he get so much smarter than me? I guess that’s what we all hope for with our children, taller and smarter. Now we’re three for three in both categories. Apparently, my work is done.

I have to say this was kind of fun, the words flowing pretty freely tonight. Not sure when you’ll hear from me again, but I’m going to make an effort to chronicle these last 60 days on a more consistent basis. There are still a few stories that I didn’t share along the way and I do miss the daily rush of a post. I hope some of you are still out there as I enter the last turn, 50 is starting to feel pretty good.

A Time for Wisdom

Seems like lately a long plane ride is my only opportunity for blog writing (my last entry was on the way home from Boca in February). It could also be that without a travel companion to talk to, you are my only available audience, and a girl who likes to talk is lost without someone to listen to her. Either way, we've got the next 12 hours or so together, I'll attempt to make it worth your while. It's about 8 pm in Phoenix, Arizona and I am waiting semi-patiently to board an 11:15 red-eye flight home, without any delays that should be roughly 9:30 tomorrow morning. At the moment I am sitting at the bar at an airport Mexican restaurant having a cold Blue Moon and a lousy soft taco. Unfortunately this was the only spot in the terminal that gave me a quiet place to sit for 2 hours and not have to write on my lap. If you haven't already learned why I'm here from my Facebook page, this trip was neither business or pleasure, but it turned out to be a good deal of the latter..

This journey was about wisdom tooth extraction, 4 of them, that my University of Arizona son has been complaining about for weeks. To be perfectly honest, they've been giving him trouble since Thanksgiving, but he didn't force the issue of removal, so neither did I. He held it together for the last week with antibiotics, oxycodone, numerous phone calls home, little sleep, and almost no eating (hurt too much). When your college son voluntarily takes himself to the dentist, you know he's hurting. It became abundantly clear to me on Wednesday evening (courtesy of some guidance from his older brother and a few sleepless hours) that he was not going to make it through graduation day with his wisdom teeth. Thursday morning I kicked into warrior-mother mode and did what had to be done. Before noon I had booked a consult at a Tucson oral surgeon and a hotel room for me and the patient to recover (All accomplished while getting my hair colored - necessary multi-tasking). I had to hold off on the plane ticket until they confirmed a surgery date and time. That confirmation came at 3 pm with surgery scheduled for 8 am the next day (Friday). Good news, he would be feeling better soon, Bad news, there was one remaining flight from Hartford to Tucson at 4:55 pm (I wasn't risking Boston or New York for their 7pm options). I throw what is closest to me (top of the clean laundry basket) in a carry-on bag and go for it. I "OJ" it through the airport (referencing the old TV commercial, not the murder), booked a rental car en route and added Thursday night to my hotel reservation. I'm at the gate with 20 minutes to spare and manage to snag a bulk head seat on a very enjoyable southwest flight to chicago. I relish the extra hour I get back on central time and enjoy a burger and a beer (don't think I had a chance to eat all day) before boarding the last leg to Tucson. Another bulk head seat does not make-up for the freak electrical storm that lights the night sky and I am more than grateful for the wi-fi that allows me to text and Facebook with night owl friends who keep me calm and steady through the turbulence. The layover beer (or two) provide just enough relaxation to let me close my eyes for an hour or so. I land safely at 9:05 pm to a perfect 75 degree evening in Tucson (another 2 hours back in my day- time change is key to this whole equation).I Pick up my rental car, forgot the portable GPS, no worries, I have an app for that (WAZE, get it now if you can). 30 minutes later I am happily in my comfortable Marriott bed (note to self: time to buy a new bed at home) and set the iPhone alarm and a wake up call for 6 am. I am up and ready at 4:30 am anyway, my body had apparently not taken note of the 3-hour time change. I make coffee in the room, check-in at home, drink coffee in the lobby, read the paper, walk outside, and finally pick up David at 7:20. I haven't seen him since January. So happy to see his face, so sad that he looks nervous and thin. It's an easy 20 minute drive to the office and he declares he's ready to deal with whatever lies ahead just to stop the pain (mother guilt in full bloom, how did I let him suffer for so long?) .

We move quickly from reception to extraction; the heart monitor visibly displays his nerves as they prep him. My children are not a fan of anything involving a needle (a valuable fear preventing them from ever being IV drug users or getting tattoos), and their mother is no better. I can barely look when they touch his forearm, and focus instead on his face and keeping my tears to my self. Sense of humor intact, he interrogates the doctor to confirm that no one is immune to the sedative and that he will definitely be asleep. He is out before the answer and I am told it's time for mom to leave. I help myself to a single kiss on his forehead before I go. Whatever comfort it provided to him can't possibly compare to the instantaneous swelling of my heart. More than likely he doesn't remember, but it will forever remind me that children, no matter how old, sometimes still need some mothering. If there is such a thing in reverse, I need that too.

Brave mommy waited till she walked to a bench in the parking lot (why sit in a waiting room when turquoise skies and mountain views were available outside) to let the tears flow and make a silent wish to whoever is listening that he come through safe and sound. Melodramatic I know for wisdom tooth removal, but hey, my father didn't call me Sarah Bernhardt for nothing ( google it). Less than 30 minutes later the nurse walks outside to get me ( that would never happen at home; year-round sun makes people nicer, I'm convinced) and of course I think there is a problem; why else would she come and get me? But no, he's all done and doing fine. My heart rate and breathing return to normal and I go inside to claim my slightly loopy child, cheeks full of gauze. "Root" of all pain gone, not a single stitch required.

From that moment forward this was a pleasure trip. Not a person did I meet who didn't overwhelm me with kindness. Each and every staff member at the oral surgeons office (beginning long before I got here on the phone), the girl at the CVS pharmacy who filled 3 prescriptions in record time using only an iPhone image of my insurance card. The hotel manager and all the guests who heard or overheard my story along the way and never missed an opportunity to ask me how my son was doing when we passed in the lobby or by the pool. Sandy, the waitress at the hotel restaurant who kept my breakfast check open till David made it downstairs and sweetly encouraged him to eat his scrambled eggs. His beautiful girlfriend who's hotel visit made him smile the way a mother can't. And of course all the facebook posts, phone calls and text messages from friends and family that kept everything in perspective, made me laugh, and cursed my unfortunate hours sunning by the pool. Drama aside, I won't complain about nursing him back to health poolside (he was upstairs sleeping and I was only a text away) . I checked on him hourly and brought him soft food. He wanted me to be happy, so why would I disappoint him and sit by his bedside when I could be a mere nine floors below on a lounge chair. It didn't hurt that he didn't swell, complain, or get out of bed much for the first 24 hours. The two days that followed were an easy routine of sleeping, eating, medicating, icing, movie watching and talking (when he was awake enough to participate in the conversation). Despite the reason, we had a perfectly relaxing weekend. Not sure when I'll get another chance to have his undivided attention for 72 hours. I know that he was happy I was there and I wasn't driving him crazy, what more could I ask for? By Saturday he was well on his way to 100% and even spent a few hours with me at the pool. We walked to campus for a dinner outside of the hotel room. Sitting outside enjoying Tucson's spectacular warm evening sun was a welcome change of venue from the room that we had not let housekeeping enter for the duration of our stay. The main drag was busy with young tan undergrads all sporting some sort of U of A apparel. If I had to do college again, I'd do it in a place like this, no doubt about it. Not at this age of course, I'd have to be 18 again too. I'm not sure there could ever be a bad hair day out here, what kind of impact would that have had on my college experience?

We started a conversation at dinner that flowed from religion to movies to this semesters classes and continued long after we were back in the dark hotel room, illuminated only by the light of our computers and unnecessary television. By 8 pm we were in our beds talking about what happens next in his life, scripts and story lines he's kicking around ( same professional dreams he's had all along, but suddenly more refined and realistic ) . He answers all my questions with the confidence of an adult who knows exactly what he wants and the drive to pursue it, and he listens intently to my suggestions and commentary. We talk about his friends, the 10 boys (sorry, men) who share 2 adjacent houses off- campus. They have been his Arizona family for 4 years and one of the most important things he will take with him after graduation. Strange but true, but I leave him in good hands with this crew. They have certainly seen him at his worst and love him for his best; they are the kind of friends that you hope your children pick up along the way. I fall asleep long before him, happy knowing that he's ready for whatever comes next. I needed to be here to get him through this little obstacle, but he's not a little boy anymore. Apparently he didn't need the wisdom in those 4 teeth. As in my own college experience, he has learned as much (maybe more) outside the classroom as in it. Proud mother, another son successfully launching into the world.

In retrospect, I gained a little wisdom too this weekend. I learned to trust my gut (mothers intuition is usually right), and that geography and logistics can't stop a mother who needs to get to her kid. I learned that I can survive for 3 days with a carry-on bag, no accessories or cosmetics, 2 pairs of pants, a few shirts, flip-flops, sneakers, a toothbrush and a bathing suit - everything else is available at CVS ( I never said all the knowledge was earth shattering). And most importantly, as my empty nest rapidly approaches, I learned that there will always be times when my children need me, even when they say they don't.
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Post-Script (s)

Still waiting to board at 10:30 pm, but now I'm sitting on the floor next to a cement pole charging my iStuff. It took me almost 20 minutes to find a single available outlet which I am now using to alternately charge the phone and the pad. I should have enough juice at this point to make it through the first leg, especially if I attempt any sleep. I have an hour or so layover in Charlotte, NC hopefully giving me a chance to recharge for the remainder, use a non-airplane restroom and post this blog. I'll keep you updated from the air..courtesy of go-go in flight wi-fi.

Currently somewhere above 10,000 feet. No clue what time zone I'm in. My watch says 5:15 (kept it on CT time for the duration), my iPad says 2:15 and my phone says 4:15. Help, should I be tired or getting ready to wake up? If I'm calculating correctly, and that's a huge "if" , I've been flying for 4 hours. I've had my eyes closed for maybe an hour, not really sleep - maybe a meditative trance, and haven't made a single trip to the restroom. I'm at 39and 17% power on my iPad and phone, respectively, if we don't land soon I could be forced to power down before I'm ready. I'm sure my seat mates would be more than pleased as I am not being very respectful of the "night flight dark cabin mode." Hey, It's not a rule, simply a courtesy, and I've got blogging to do. Just to clarify, I do not have the overhead light on, that would be a bit much, even for me. Actually, I'm feeling like this is a good place to wrap it up. My eyelids are feeling a bit heavy and the current spot in my music library would be good fall asleep tunes. Thanks for keeping me company along the way, hope we talk again soon.

Because I'm sure you would want to know....at just about the moment I previously signed off, the stewardess voice announced our decent into Charlotte and the cabin lights were lit. So much for the last minute shut eye. I have since travelled half-way through the airport to my next departure terminal, and faced the moment of truth at Starbucks, caffeine or no caffeine. I went Venti full-power. The next flight is too short for a full sleep and my brain says morning = coffee. I'm back sitting on the airport floor, 2 outlets all to myself, and ready to post.