My mother, my grandmother and I.

This is a picture of my grandmother, my mother and I. My grandmother is 97 years-old and as you can tell from the spark in her eye, she is a firecracker. Lately, she is causing us some worry because she insists on living on her own.  She is independent, stubborn, resourceful and very loving. She has created many happy memories for me and her other 9 grandchildren. I think a lot of what my mother learned about being a mother, she learned from my grandmother.

This is my mother before she married my dad. My mom is the one who looks like she is 12 years-old and too young to be in Vegas with her girlfriends. She has always looked younger than her years.  When I was growing up I don’t think my mom ever weighed more than 110 pounds soaking wet.

In her late 20′s my mom met and married my dad. They started their family right away, with 3 kids  born 17 months apart. I don’t know how she did it. She says there was a time when my older brother, my younger sister and I were in diapers at the same time!  Eight years after my sister was born my dad said he wanted another boy. My mother agreed and 9 months later my younger brother was born. I don’t know how she did that! (Well, I do know how they did that, I just don’t like to think about it.)

When I was growing up my mother was in constant motion. Like many women of her day, she was a stay-at-home mom.  She made it look effortless. On our birthdays she organized parties for us and would invite the entire neighborhood.

We didn’t have bounce houses, clowns or magicians. We had my mom who would organize the games.

She was a soccer mom before there were soccer moms.

My mother didn’t just support my brother’s in their sports, she also supported me and my acting ambitions.  Here she is at one of my play productions, standing by while I sign autographs.

My mom wore many hats, including a barber hat.

Here she is in her laundress hat.

She rarely complained about her many household tasks, except when it came to do laundry. I didn’t understand why she disliked doing laundry for a family of 6. Now that I have my own family and my own endless pile of laundry, I understand.  But, at least I have a clothes dryer. Our family didn’t buy a clothes dryer until I was almost 13 years-old!

Something else happened when I was around 13 years-old, I suddenly knew everything there was to know about life.  Even though I still didn’t know how to do my own laundry, cook my own meals, or even pack my own school lunch, I knew more than anyone in my family, including my mother. Especially my mother. I would never stay home and raise children. I would work in show business, I would become a writer, or maybe even a lawyer. Thanks in part to my mom’s love and support,  I have had a turn doing all those things.  But wouldn’t you know it? I have also become a mom. Like my mom, I have two boys and two girls. Life has played a joke on me.  But my mom isn’t laughing. She is still here, supporting me, loving me and taking care of our family.  It’s something she learned from my grandmother, and something I hope I have learned from both of them. So, to my grandmother, and my mother…thank you and Happy Mother’s Day!

Number 22 on my list–Travel to Italy– was something I began to feel certain was more of a dream than a possibility. Traveling to Italy is something I have wanted to do for the last 28 years. When I was 22 I saved my waitress tips and wages until I had earned enough to travel through Europe for six weeks. I was young and adventurous so sleeping on trains made possible for me to criss-cross the continent and wake up in a new country every couple of days. I traveled on $30 per day, making meals out of bread and cheese, and I economized, squeezing in as much as I could see on my limited budget. My first visit to Italy was brief but memorable and it left me waiting for a day when I could to return. Like most tourists, I dropped my coins in the Trevi Fountain and vowed to come back one day to soak up the wonderful culture, and dine on something beyond bread and cheese.

If I had I really considered what my trip to Italy without kids would cost my husband Juan and I in time, money and effort, I might never have made such a public proclomation to return to Italy. I guess I’d forgotten how expensive and all-consuming it is to raise three teens and an 8 year-old. Suddenly, it’s two months before my 50th birthday and Olivia is about to graduate from high school and embark on her dream to attend college. Nico and Erica are freshman in high school and are busier than ever. Diego’s schedule is packed full with baseball, choir and the school play. Yikes. What was I thinking? With college tuition on the horizon and the usual onslaught of end of school year events, Italy was looking more like a pipe dream. Juan and I discussed it and decided that travel to Italy would have to wait until, well who knew when?

Then, after a particularly stressful month involving all sorts of teen drama, coupled with a large dose of adolescent entitlement, I received an email blast from one of my favorite travel websites. Travelzoo was offering a reasonably priced package to Rome, Tuscany and Venice, complete with airfare, hotel and rental car. The trip itself was only 8 days but really that was about all I could spend away from work and home. It sounded wonderful, but not probable. I sent the email to Juan anyway. That night we looked at our budget, our calendars and decided we had to do it. The trip started out as my dream, but the more Juan and I talked about it the more it the more my dream became his wish too. We would be celebrating 10 years of marriage in June. Married life can be wonderful and challenging, and marriage in a blended family has more than its share of struggles. We really felt like we owed it to ourselves and ultimately to our family.

We went on-line and booked the package, along with the trip insurance that would refund the cost in the event of a medical emergency or death. It’s probably a good thing the insurance didn’t cover cancellation in case of unforeseen teenage angst, or 8 year-old son separation anxiety, because I might have needed to use it.

So, here I am on the plane to Rome. Juan and I have spent the last two days frantically trying to get ready for this trip. We want the trip to be unstructured to allow us some time to explore on our own, and most of all, slow down and soak up the Italian culture. It’s a good thing too, because we have had very little time to really plan where we are going and what we will see. We have a wish list but it’s just that, a wish list. I know we won’t do or see half of it, and that’s okay. I am mostly looking forward to reconnecting with my husband, celebrating nearly 50 years of my life and 10 years of marriage, and of course, eating some really good food, and drinking Italian wines.

I had to keep all my hopes for this trip in mind this last week as I coordinated with the other parents who will take care of Nico and Olivia and Erica, and as I did countless loads of laundry, shopped for groceries to keep Diego and our nanny fed while we are gone, created schedules, arranged childcare, carpools, wrote medical authorizations, jotted down endless lists, and even reviewed our Wills. At one point I was so stressed I joked that maybe we should fake a medical emergency so we could cancel our trip!

Last night Diego spent the night with his grandmother because we had to catch an early morning flight. He used his iTouch to call and FaceTime with us four times. He was trying to be brave but I could tell from the way he combed his hands through his hair and blinked his eyes, that he was already homesick and sad. He called us again early this morning, right before we boarded the first leg of our flight. He tried to hold back tears. I cut the call short for fear I would begin to regret this trip altogether, but before I hung up the phone I told him that I left a present for him at home. He seemed to brighten up at the idea of a surprise waiting for him.

I bought him a Dreamcatcher, and I wrote him a note. The Dreamcatcher is something he’s wanted since he saw his older brother’s hanging over his bed. In the note I wrote to Diego I explained that while his dad and I are gone, the Dreamcatcher would help him keep away bad dreams and we could see each other in his good dreams. We said good-bye and as I hung up the phone,  I was cheered by Diego’s smile and the thought of how happy he would be by the Dreamcatcher. Then, it suddenly occurred to me that giving him a Dreamcatcher as I travel to Italy is the perfect going away gift for me too.

A dream about to be realized.

Do you have any travel dreams you would like to see come true?

Last night I attended another one of my favorite services of the year, Maundy Thursday. The Maundy Thursday service is the ritual foot washing, service among those congregants who wish to participate. The service reminds us of the caring and loving example that Jesus showed his disciples when he washed their feet. This foot washing service makes some people uncomfortable. I understand. I love this ritual but it took me a bit to become accustomed to it. Even the apostle Peter felt uncomfortable having Jesus wash his feet.

I sat in the pews with Juan and listened to the sermon in preparation of the foot washing, when I heard the rector say something which kind of startled me. He said, participation was greater than belief. He explained that one could be “religious” and believe in the mystery of the cross and the resurrection, but that was not greater than participation. He went on to say that Jesus gave us an example of participation when he washed his disciples feet, when he broke bread and served wine to the apostles during his Passover meal. Jesus gave us an example of participation when he did all of this on the last night he was alive, and when he told his followers to, “love one another as I loved you.”

I sat in the pew, moved by the prayers, the hyms, the dimly lit church and I watched as others in around me got up from the pews to have their feet washed and wash each others feet. Juan leaned over and said, “I want to be like Peter. I don’t feel like getting my feet washed.” I smiled at him and nodded. I understood how Juan, and maybe Peter felt.

This year Holy Week arrived before I was ready. I didn’t have a chance to get a pedicure. My toe nail polish was a mess, my feet were callused. I really didn’t want to wash anyone else’s feet either. Then, I thought about the photo I had seen earlier in the day. The photo of Pope Francis washing a woman’s feet and kissing them. So humble. So loving. How must that woman have felt?

Pope washes feet of young detainees in Holy Thursday ritual – Getty Images

Juan and I left our pew and walked to the foot washing station. I knelt before another parishioner who was seated before a basin. I introduced myself to her and one of the acolytes brought me a jug of warm water and a clean towel. I knelt down before the woman and poured the water over her delicate feet. I rinsed them, using my hands. I thought about what it meant to participate in this religious ritual. What it meant to be a servant, and care for others the way Jesus demonstrated to us. When I was done I dried her feet and we switched places. The acolyte brought us clean water, a dry towel, and an empty basin. She washed my feet, gently, carefully. It seemed to take forever. All the while I was aware of how uncomfortable I felt. Sure, I get pedicures, but this was so different. I could tell by the care she took to wash my feet that she was doing this out of love.

Perhaps that’s why the particpation part of religion is so important. I could have sat in the pew and prayed, sang hyms and gazed at the beauty of my surroundings. I could have looked on as everyone else particpated in the foot washing. I might have stood by while everyone else experienced love and demonstrated love. But, I woud have missed out on fully experiencing the most important message of day and Jesus’ lesson to us all, “love one another.”

I told my friend Julie about my public proclamation to participate in a half-marathon and because she knows me so well, she laughed out loud and said, “What do you mean participate? Are you going to pass out water in those little cups?” She was right. Merely participating is too wimpy, too non-committal. If I was going to do it, I really needed to do it, and soon. My 50th birthday was approaching. Just after the New Year, Juan and I were sitting on our couch, sipping coffee on a lazy weekend morning and I was browsing through my Instagram feed when I spied a photo posted by Catalina, a local blogger I follow. She had posted this:

The photo that inspired me. Thanks Catalina!

It seemed Catalina was working her way to a 5K on a treadmill with an app, and she was posting her progress on line. That was my “Come to Jesus” moment. I knew I could not put this running thing off any longer. I asked Juan if he wanted to run with me and he agreed. We decided that we work our way up to a half-marathon and begin by running in the LA Big 5K, on the LA Marathon Weekend. We downloaded the Couch to 5K app on our smartphones and the next morning we began Week 1 of the 8 Week training program. We started out with four intervals of 2 minute jogs and 2 minute walks. That first morning I felt like I was going to pass out!

We kept at it and ran three times a week with this program, increasing our jogging time while decreasing our walking time and intervals. I gradually built up my endurance and soon we began running around the Rose Bowl with dozens of other joggers and fitness enthusiasts. I actually began to feel athletic. By week 8 I was running for 30 minutes straight and no longer felt like I was going to stroke out. Nevertheless, I still didn’t love running, and during the first 10 minutes of my runs, all I could think of was, “This hurts. I want to stop. Why can’t I breathe?” But after about 10 minutes my body would finally take over. Running became easier and almost meditative, even if I didn’t experience a runner’s high.

Finally, the day I trained for arrived. Last Sunday Juan and I woke up early and joined 3000 participants at Dodger Stadium for the LA Big 5K. We all gathered at the starting line and soon we were off! At least some of the runners in front were off. Those of us in the back moved en masse, walking more than running as we wound our way through the parking lot of Dodger Stadium. As I picked up my pace along the course I realized that this was not the easy, flat terrain I had trained on. There were some down slopes but my legs felt like most of the course was uphill. Juan hit his stride and broke away from me. I was in a pack of runner/walkers until the first big hill and then, even with my slow jog trudging uphill, I managed to break away. I finally found my groove and set my pace alongside another runner who looked like she was a bit older than me but had a consistent stride. I was tired and my thighs ached as I ran up one hill after another. I kept thinking about how far I had come training over the last 8 weeks and the thought of my success motivated me to keep running. When I finished the race I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment and maybe even a little bit of a runner’s high. Whatever. I felt great!

Feeling fine after my first 5K.

I don’t plan to stop at a 5K. After all, I did say I wanted to do a half-marathon. At the rate I am going I know I won’t be in shape to run 13.1 miles by my 50th birthday but I will get there, one slow slog at a time. Then, I can check number 33 from my list and finally say that I particpated ran a half-marathon.

Here is a short video Juan put together of our first 5k:
 

The conversation ranged broadly among these topics, and Sotomayor was well versed to speak to all of them.  As the first ever Latina, and only the third woman to be appointed to the highest court in the country, she has overcome many challenges in her life, including losing her father to alcoholism when she was 9,  and contracting juvenile diabetes as a child, and being the first in her family to attend college. Throughout the interview I was stuck by how personable she was, even though she is a Supreme Court Justice. For someone like me–a Latina, the first one in my family to graduate from college, and a lawyer–it was inspiring to hear her insightful words, and learn from her experience.

When someone from the audience asked her what advice she could give to others about being a trailblazer, she responded, “Take other people with you.” She explained that occasionally she will invite her mother to accompany her to events but her mother sometimes refuses to go because she’s afraid she won’t fit in. She will tell her that’s fine, they’ll go anyway and not fit in together. I love that even a US Supreme Court Justice can feel a bit like a fish out of water, just like so many of us. I think it’s especially true for those of us living in two cultures.

Sotomayor also spoke candidly about her relationship with her mother, and how she sometimes felt abandoned by a mother who had to raised her daughter as a single mother.  She spoke about the difficulty she had writing this memoir, but how it became a vehicle for her to repair the relationship with her mother and forgive her for her mother’s detachment.  I was so inspired to hear that even now, as a grown woman, a “wise Latina woman,” she is still every bit a daughter to her mother. She realized, as we all do, that our parents aren’t perfect but that she has come to appreciate how far her mother had to travel to get to be where she is and support her daughters’ rise to the bench.  It gave me hope that my children, who by now realize how imperfect I am, will come to know and appreciate my efforts to support them in their lives.

Sotomayor told of her experience in writing her memoir, and how she was able to learn more of her parents’ story.  She explained that through her  genealogy research she learned where her father came from, and she learned of the love story between her parents. She told us that writing her memoir caused her to listen to family stories from a 97 year-old uncle and encouraged us to listen to our own family members tell their stories, even if we’ve heard the stories before. Instead of tuning out. she encouraged us to listen, and ask, “Why?” We may be surprised by the answers. This was inspiring to me because one of my fondest memories I have is talking to my 97 year-old grandmother about her story before she died, and chronicling some of my family’s history on this blog.

Perhaps the most moving part of the afternoon’s conversation was not just in the words Sotomayor spoke, but the way her words were received. The audience was diverse. There were people of all ages, ethnicity, and professions.  My husband Juan was also there, and so was a dear friend of mine, who is also a Latina attorney. My friend is also diabetic and has been dealing with the challenges of this disease for nearly 25 years. As my friend listened to Sotomayor speak, she was moved to tears.  As a justice on Supreme Court, it would seem natural for Sotomayor to be removed and detached, but Sotomayor has such a warm presence, that she made my friend and I both feel like she could a family member. It was awesome and I was so glad to experience such a moving afternoon. I can’t wait to experience more of her story when I read her book.

I looked up to see Diego with blood pouring from his mouth. It was a scene right out of “True Blood.” I calmed him down enough to figure out that he was bleeding from a busted lip. I stopped the bleeding and gave him some ice to put on his lip. In another #MotherFail moment I was so preoccupied that I didn’t notice anything unusual about his front tooth. I finished the party preparations and the next day the party went off very nicely, as evidenced by the photos showing people having a good time. Evidence of my mommy neglect can be found in the photos showing Diego looking like a boxer who just went 9 rounds.

Several days later Diego’s right front tooth began to discolor. It turned a nice shade of gray. At his next dental appointment the doctor remarked that the tooth had died but not to worry since it appeared there was no infection and it would fall out on its own. Over the next couple of years Diego began to lose his teeth. I was anxious for him to lose the gray tooth, but that little dead tooth was content to stay there, rooted in his mouth. Taunting me. Reminding me of my own failing. That tooth seemed to taunt me even more when the gum above it developed a bump and caused me enough concern to take him to the dentist. The dentist diagnosed an abscess. He prescribed an antibiotic which cured the infection, prevented an emergency tooth extraction and temporarily eased my guilt.

Finally, when Diego was 7 his left front tooth fell out. At last! Soon he would be free of the right gray front tooth and I would be absolved. All would be forgotten. I waited. We went to the dentist again and the doctor took x-rays. He delivered the bad news. That tooth needed to come out and it needed to come out now. The x-rays showed the adult tooth ready to descend but the dead tooth was standing its ground. We agreed that Diego would try to wiggle that tooth out but if it didn’t come out by Halloween, one month later, the tooth would need to be extracted.

The next few weeks I resolved to get that tooth out. Every day I wiggled that tooth for Diego. Every day, when I asked him if he had a) finished his homework, b) made his bed, I also asked if he c) wiggled his tooth. Everyday he said, yes, I finished my homework, yes I wiggled my tooth, and I forgot to make my bed. At night when I would read with him he talked about his tooth. He became so anxious about the tooth extraction that instead of reading a book with him, I spent the time calming him down. As Halloween grew closer, he became more distressed. “Great”, I thought. He’s going to develop a dental phobia which will plague him the rest of his life. Good job Mom. Succumbing to Mommy Guilt, I told him that we could wait to pull his tooth out until after Christmas. In the meantime, he promised to keep wiggling.

A brief reprieve until New Years. Then his concern started in earnest. With every passing day he grew more anxious and I felt worse. The tooth, for all our efforts did not seem to be any looser. Finally, shortly after the New Year, I decided to be done with it. No more tooth. No more guilt. It’s a New Year. Time to absolve myself. I called a wonderful pediatric dentist nearby and made an appointment for the following day. I explained that Diego was very anxious and that I thought a consultation would help him through his anxiety. I told Juan about the appointment but didn’t tell Diego.

The next morning Diego woke up excited about the upcoming weekend. I told him he would be late to school that morning because we had a dental appointment. He immediately got nervous, but I told him not to worry because the doctor was not going to be able to take out the tooth that morning. That seemed to do the trick. He trusted me.

We arrived at the pediatric dental office, complete with cartoons on the TV, marshmallow and strawberry cheesecake flavored toothpaste and shelves filled with toys. This wasn’t so bad after all. Diego seemed content to sit in the dental chair watching Toy Story while the adults in the room examined his X-Ray. The doctor explained how the tooth needed to come out to allow the adult tooth to descend. He also explained why, despite our wiggling efforts, the tooth would probably never come out on its own. Something to do with ligaments around the tooth fusing to the bone when the tooth was traumatized. I was right, that tooth was taunting me.

We decided not to wait any longer. We were there, the tooth needed to come out and Diego was at ease. He didn’t suspect a thing. After all, he trusted that when I told him that he wouldn’t have the tooth pulled that day, I meant it. I told the dentist about my promise to him and the dentist said he could take the blame. The dentist recommended we not tell Diego what was going to happen until just before we started. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Diego happily climbed back into the dentist chair and didn’t even squirm when the small mask with the laughing gas was placed over his nose. He seemed calm while the doctor told him to breathe in the gas. I stood outside the room, watching Juan’s expression as he sat in the chair next to the dental chair. It wasn’t until the dentist brought out the Novocain and Diego must have seen the needle that he realized what was about to happen. He tried to grab the dentist’s hand but the assistant restrained him. The dentist explained what needed to happen and Diego seemed to relax. I guess he figured it was inevitable, either that or the laughing gas seemed to be working. In what seemed like an eternity, the dentist administered two doses of Novocain and pulled out the tooth.

It was done. Except for the long ride home while Diego sobbed and asked me “Why? ” Why didn’t I tell him? I replied that I really didn’t know it was going to happen until we got there. He said if he had known, he would have bitten the dentist and run out the door. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror and saw his gap-toothed smile and cried anew. He was so unhappy with the way he looked. He told me that it was worse than the summer haircut he got last year. When we finally got home he calmed down enough to hear me say that the dentist ordered Diego to have only soft foods like ice cream, smoothies, and yogurt. Maybe it was the thought of all that ice cream, or the idea that he had an unexpected day off from school. Whatever it was he finally stopped crying. I began to think that maybe he won’t be scarred for life and have to deal with dental phobia as an adult. Diego’s gray tooth was gone, and with it some of my Mommy Guilt was gone too. Or, at least it will be after the tooth fairy makes good on her delivery.

Diego, after his tooth is out, and he’s eaten his fill of ice cream.

What kind of #MotherFail moments have you experienced?

We also really appreciated the occasional “special foods” our mother would buy, like the bags of chips, the boxes of Hostess Ding Dongs, Twinkies and the packages of sweet rolls.  In fact, we so appreciated these treats that we coveted them. Literally. With four kids in the house, one of them my teenage brother with an insatiable appetite, we had to ration our shares. If we didn’t, my brother would get more than his share donuts, cookies, or chips. When a package of special foods found its way into our pantry, we would count how many treats were in the package and pronounce to everyone, our allotted number.  I quickly learned that in order to secure my treat, I had to put a label on it and hope my siblings honored my claim to rights.

Sometimes, if I really wanted to be sure that the treat would be there for me, I had to resort to more drastic measures. I had to hide my food. I sought out places to stash those foil wrapped Ding Dongs which looked like presents, or the cellophane wrapped Twinkies. If only I had known that someday the Twinkie would become an endangered species, I might have stashed more of them.

As an adult one of my pleasures is going into the grocery store and buying foods I like, knowing that I can savor them in the comfort of my own home. No labels. No hiding.

Until recently. My girls like food too. In fact, they like good food like gourmet cheeses, breads, snacks.  Juan and I will sometimes enjoy a glass or two of wine, with a cheese plate and maybe some nice meats, like the dry aged salami I find at Trader Joes.  When I realized that the girls began indulging in my stash, I became annoyed. Especially, when at the end of a long work week, I looked forward to pouring myself a glass of wine, making up a cheese plate, and having my own private happy hour.

This week I was at Trader Joes doing my usual grocery shopping when I browsed the cheese selection and spied the aged cheddar, the brie and the wine salamis. Ahhhh. I realized that the girls would probably appreciate the cheese and salami as much as I would and if they got their hands on it, it would all be eaten faster than you can say Bon Apetite. As soon as I got home from the store, I unloaded my groceries, and I hid the cheese and salami. That’s right, I HID THEM. I am back to hiding my food.

As the week passed I knew that my salami was safely squirreled away, waiting to be savored, I thought to myself that I had outsmarted them. Then, I decided it was time. It was Friday and the weekend was upon me. I was ready to enjoy my happy hour. I took the salami from its hiding place and was ready.

But, something distracted me, and I had to delay my wine and cheese soiree. So I put it in the refrigerator, promising myself I would return. As it happened I got sidetracked and my happy hour plans were derailed. That night Erica had a friend spend the night. I made them dinner and dessert then cleaned the kitchen. As I went to bed, I could hear the girls foraging through the pantry looking for something to snack on.  Really, could they still be hungry? I checked in on them as they found a box of cereal to snack on. I went back to bed, knowing that their appetites should be satisfied.

When I woke the next morning I found the girls asleep on the couch, an opened box of cereal, the salami and a stack of dirty dishes on the coffee table. I guess the girls had their own happy hour. Forget the hiding place, I think I need to put a lock on the refrigerator.

Is nothing sacred? And why does she need a knife that big?

 Do you hide food to keep others in your house from eating it? 

Where I could watch the show presented its own problem since Juan and I have been pushed out of watching TV in the family room. The television has been taken over by the  Nico and Diego and the X-Box. When the boys aren’t playing their games on the family TV, Olivia is either doing homework on the computer in the family room, or she has set the DVR to record multiple episodes of Criminal Minds, SNL, or Tattoo Nightmares.  I have decided it’s easier to watch TV shows on my computer rather than vie for TV time in the family room.

Actually, watching my favorite television shows on my computer is pretty efficient. I blew through the entire series of Game of Thrones in about 10 days, engrossed in the drama until the early morning hours. Now, I’m anxiously wating for Season 3 in March. But, that’s a whole other post.

Once I realized that I would have to watch Downton Abbey on my computer, I had to figure out how to watch it since Season One was no longer airing on PBS.  I found out that Season One was being streamed on Netflix. Perfect!  I just set up the show to stream on my computer. After streaming and watching the first episode of Downtown Abbey on Netflix, I was totally hooked.  I stayed up until 1:30 on a weeknight just so I could see what was going to happen with Hot Sister, Way Hot Sister, and The Other Sister. There are only seven one-hour episodes in Season One, so I watched the entire season in just two nights and a lunch hour.

Season Two presented a problem for me.  It was not available to stream on Netflix. Amazon had it for sale but I didn’t want to spend the money on the DVDs. I decided to upgrade my Netflix membership so that I could rent DVDs.  Christmas was extended for me when I opened the mailbox on January 2nd and saw that little red envelope containing three full hours of escape TV. As soon as I was able, (which basically meant after Diego went to bed), I put on my pajamas, borrowed Diego’s personal DVD player and a set of headphones, and went to my bedroom to begin watching Season Two. I was not disappointed, except when it was 2:00 a.m. and I realized that I finished watching the last episode on the DVD. I  would have to wait to receive the next three episodes in the mail.  I finally went to sleep, happy to be reunited with The Crawleys and all the drama going on downstairs with the house staff, but I was upset that I cheaped out and didn’t upgrade my Netflix membership so that I could rent more than one DVD at a time. Wah!

So, now I’m in a dilemma. Season Three starts tonight. TONIGHT! I still haven’t finished watching Episodes Four  through Seven of Season Two. My next DVD containing Episodes Four through Six should arrive on Monday. By my calculations I should be able to finish watching Season Two by Saturday. This means I can override the DVR’s scheduled recordings of Criminal Minds and Tattoo Nightmares, and set the DVR to record Episode One of Season Three, then watch it before Episode Two airs next Sunday. Are you still with me?

I don’t want any Downton Abbey spoilers, so I am putting myself in a media blackout. I realize this is completely a First World Problem, but, at least I’m not fixated on watching that other popular Showtime cable series.

Come to think of it, I am a whole season behind in Homeland. I guess I’ll have to catch up on that series when Netflix starts streaming it.

Are you a fan of Downton Abbey? Will you be watching tonight?

There have still been the regular stresses of living with teens, which seem to be amplified when you factor in the multiple households that come with our blended family situation. The living arrangement that I hoped to return to hasn’t materialized–Erica still lives most days with her mom and Olivia is full-time with us. I miss having the consistent routine of shared custody, (that’s an oxymoron). The transitions we experience when Erica returns for all too brief periods, are difficult, especially for Diego, who misses his sister’s regular presence.  But, Olivia seems to have benefited greatly from living with us full-time. She finished the important junior year in high school with exceptional grades, and seems content. At least, as content as any 17 year-old anxious to leave the nest and escape her parents’ clutches. The fact that Olivia is now a licensed driver helps to ease her restlessness and gives her some independence, at least temporarily until she sets off to college in the Fall.  She’s already been accepted to two of her top colleges and is waiting to hear from a third. 2013 should be a good year for her.

Olivia earned praise for her hard work this year.

2012 marked a huge transition for Nico and Erica. They graduated from junior high and have started high school. Both are finding their way through the academic challenges of Freshman English and Algebra I and they are loving the social life and “big pond” experience they have gained moving onto high school.  Having spent 9 years at the elementary school and junior high with essentially the same kids, they are both enjoying maintaining friendships with some of their former classmates who are attending the same high school, and they are thrilled to be making new friendships too. As for me, I love seeing them expand their universe with new friends, and new experiences. I know 2013 will be an enriching year for them too.

Erica and Nico at one of the last events of Junior High.

For Diego, 2013 will probably be more of the same,  I hope. After all, he is only 8 years old, and I don’t expect a new calendar to rock his world too much. He’s (finally) in the second grade, and happy to be there. His Spanish is improved, and he is a strong reader.  He consistently drops in a Spanish word or phrase when he talks to me or Juan, and he is proud of his expanding vocabulary. I am convinced that sending him to the Spanish immersion program in our public school district was a good idea. Sure there have been things he’s missed out on not attending the Catholic school that his older siblings attended, but he is gaining a language. How can you beat that? We manage to help him fill in the gaps with his participation in our church childrens’ choir, soccer and little league baseball. He’s looking forward to moving up a division in soccer this year. So, for Diego 2013 should be just fine.

Diego enjoyed his first season of baseball in 2012.

As for Juan, I think 2012 was a very satisfying year, professionally.  He was rightfully recognized by my alma mater,  Loyola Law School and the Criminal Courts Bar Association for all the hard work he did on a case involving a wrongfully convicted defendant. He was in his element this political season, since he loves politics. He followed all the pundits and devoured all kinds of blogs, and news shows during the elections.  His two worlds collided this year, when our boss, the District Attorney for Los Angeles, did not seek another term, and we had to elect a new top prosecutor. Ultimately, we are very happy with our new DA, and look forward to the changes in our workplace that a new administration will bring. I think 2013 will be a very good year for Juan too.

Juan earned the Ignatian Award, in service towards others.

When I started writing this post I wasn’t sure how it would go. I realize I didn’t have any time this year to write my regular Christmas newsletter, like I have done in our 2006 Family Newsletter, and in 2007, 2008, 2009, and in 2011, so I wanted to write a kind of retrospective on the year, but there is just too much to say. That’s another perk to blogging, I can post another day. For now, for me, 2012 had some high points, and some very definite low points. It wasn’t the year I hoped it would be, but it wasn’t a year to frown upon either. I think 2012 was probably a transitional year–one which I hope will lead me to an even better year in 2013. Happy New Year. 2013. Bring it!

How was your 2012? Are you looking forward to a New Year?