heygirlmommago.com

In Order of Priority

heygirl — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 02:19:27 +0000

When my parents were here a while back for a visit, they were watching TV one afternoon with sweetie boy sitting close by. As my dad channel surfed through daytime TV financial talk shows, across the screen flashed the show title, “Money Matters.“ With his insightful 8 ½ year-oldness in full force, my boy read it out loud and inquired, “Uh, so how much does money really matter Grammy and Bah?” Hmmm. Apparently he asked it as nonchalantly as he would ask if he had karate the next day. I don’t know what mom and dad’s exact answer was (I heard the story second hand) but no doubt they gave a fantastic grandparent-like answer that relayed the idea of balanced priorities and the dangers of materialism.

Later that night as I stood at the counter making dinner, I wanted to ask him about it. I got out a post-it note and a pen in preparation for our interview.

“So honey,” I asked, “Where would you put money on your list of important things? What would come first?” In between bites of fish sticks, with his knee up on his chair, tucked under his chin, he rattled this off…

How Much Money Matters According to an 8 ½ Year Old:

Family
Friends
Health
Fun
Food (I’m guessing cheeseburgers)
Animals (owls, lizards and tropical birds)
Play (Star Wars and Legos)
The Earth
The Universe
TV
Money

I’ve kept that post-it on my desk ever since. And when I sat down today to check email (20 of which were Black Friday deals), it dawned on me that this was a good day to share it.

Yesterday was for family and feasting and being thankful.

Today was about 2am-door-buster-gravy-blaster-red-tag slashin’-clearance-all-the-2-for-1 deals-you-can-cram-in-your-car-before-you-get-into-a-fist-fight-over-the-last-parking-spot-at-the-mall consumption.

Sigh.

For the next month it will be hard to get out from under the mountain of wrapping paper and added to-do’s and stress and remember what we’re celebrating in the first place. In fact, as I sit here and type this tonight, my husband is putting up or Christmas tree (and he’s already way annoyed at the strand of lights that won’t work and the fuses that are so dang small he has to put on his new glasses to be able to replace them).

We’re very lucky to be annoyed at our tree, that for the first time, will go for in our big new back porch with a high ceiling. We have a new house that we moved into this past summer. We are safe and warm and comfortable. And we have a big basement to hold years and years of stuff. It makes me feel guilty sometimes, this house…that maybe it’s more space than we need. That maybe we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. But then I think about why we bought it.

To put more people in it.

To finally cook a turkey in the oven (check!).

To fill our guest room.

To host sledding parties on snowy days (I have major plans for the ultimate neighborhood ice alpine races).

To put more friends and neighbors on the deck for cheeseburgers.

To someday (yikes) take the kid’s prom pictures in the pretty front yard.

It’s hard to keep it in perspective – the whole money thing. But in the end, I guess all that matters is that you just be sure, no matter how much you may or may not have, you try and keep it at #11. Because moms and dads, cousins, buddies, health, playgrounds, lizards, legos, the Earth, the Universe…and post-it notes you’ll keep forever – all come first.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Deep in the Heart

Thu, 24 Mar 2011 16:56:15 +0000

So I got some sad news from my folks in Texas yesterday. I found out that the nice man who owned a great little coffee shop near my parent’s house passed away from a heart attack. He was just 52.

I met him for the first time last year. Dad had (in his usual fashion) chatted with the guy a few times after he opened, so when I went in last August I was excited to also share my enthusiasm for his new shop. It was open and airy and a lovely haven for anyone with a hankering for a great cup of jo and a nice big table to plop down a laptop. And because I am my father’s daughter, I marched right up to his counter that day and introduced myself, and told him how excited I was to have his shop around the corner from my parents. The owner was friendly, gregarious and clearly loved his business, and cared about the quality of every drop he served to his clientele.

When he found out I was “from” Boston, the conversation inevitably turned to sports. He talked Red Sox, I talked Celtics. He even told me an incredible story about a pilgrimage he and a bunch of his buddies took many years back to see the Sox play at Fenway. I don’t remember the details now – oh how I wish I could – but I recall he said they’d spent a lot of money and many miles on the road for a huge road trip that lead them to several major ball parks on the east coast. And although the details of the story are fuzzy, I do remember being envious of someone so committed to a dream. I remember thinking, wow, now that is a life experience to be envied. He clearly was a guy who enjoyed his life. A guy who appreciated the beauty of sitting at an old and treasured ball park, with a cold beer in hand, having traveled over a thousand miles to do so.

And he appreciated the opportunity at the age of 50ish to fulfill, I presume, a dream to open a great little coffee shop. And I would also presume that it was not a dream driven by the promise of a financial windfall, but to spend his days being his own boss, enjoying flexible hours to be with his family and to have the chance to own a really incredible cappuccino machine. And be around people…all day long.

I bought this little sign for our kitchen a while back that reads “Any moment can change your life, you just have to be there.” I thought that was a very simple and beautiful way to think about the opportunities each day of our lives can present. Or I can look at it this way…you can walk into a coffee shop, breath in that heavenly smell and stop and browse all the flyers and business cards on the bulletin board. And you can admire the cool design of the tables, and you can spend a good 15 minutes talking to the owner about all things Boston including one really momumental and fantastic road trip that inspires you.

Or, you can get your coffee, zip out of the shop and go on with rest of your day and your errands and your life, all of which are not anywhere near as urgent as you think they are.

I’m so sad that David is gone. I barely knew him but I am thankful for our one conversation that neither of us could have known would be our first and last. I’m so sad for his family, for his children, and for the many people that are surely devastated that he was taken so suddenly.

So I’ve decided to do something for David, and frankly for me. I’m not much of a baseball fan really, but this summer I will go to a Red Sox game. I will sit in the stands, feel the sun and the warm breeze and take in the sound of the classic organ music. I will even eat a dirty water hot dog. I will take in all the sights and sounds of Fenway Park and imagine how it must have felt for David to be there on that great trip…laughing, cheering and snapping photos of the green monster, having the time of his life. I will look up at the sky, say a prayer for him and hope that he can see me, a virtual stranger sitting in the stands to honor his spirit.

Any one person can make a positive impact on your life and teach you something new. You just have to be willing to linger at the counter for a while. For me, it was 15 wonderful minutes.

Rest in peace, David.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Write Out Loud

Thu, 17 Feb 2011 03:09:57 +0000

So I cried in my new writing class last week.

Yup. I did.

The day started out like any typical oh-dear-lord-is-it-spring-yet weekday in my household..the uber mad dash to get out of the house to drop the kids at school on time, pop over to the next town, find parking and then slosh through the snow-filled streets to grab a very tall cup at the cool coffee shop before class.

My mind was racing.

Emails and conference calls for a big project at work…Mental note to be sure and book that direct flight (there aren’t many) to TX for June when my mom is having her knee replacement surgery…My daughter’s loose tooth reaching a crazy snaggletooth cartoonish level that warranted a phone call to the pediatric dentist who will try and squeeze us in over the next few days…I wonder if I could pull the darn thing out while she sleeps…maybe we should put in a claim with the insurance company for our dang ice dam and subsequent roof cleaning…can I get all my stuff done today so I can squeeze in a weight class at the gym tomorrow? And how am I going to help my sweet boy get over the epic blow to his confidence after being teased on the first day of basketball!? And how is ANYONE supposed to walk down this ice-covered sidewalk without sloshing their hot coffee that they’re trying to sneak in to the library all over the place!?! Argh..I forgot about the oil change again!

But then class started.

Ahhhh….for the next hour and a half I would be able to listen to my teacher’s soothing voice, do short writing exercises and listen to the words of my classmates. I particularly like “Henry,” who at the wonderful age of 94 promptly kicked me out of “his” seat on the first day of class. It was then that I knew I’d love him.

The woman who sits next to me, “Lorraine” read our first exercise of the day. We were to write a short essay about a memory of a telephone call. Hers was about a call many years ago, that would deliver the sad yet expected news that her father had passed away. She spoke of her mother’s voice on the phone, and of her teenage son, asleep upstairs and how she dreaded telling him. My heart instantly grew heavy. I felt the rush of sadness and I couldn’t stop it. It was a wonderful short piece written in just 10 minutes (per our instructions).

As Lorraine finished her emotional essay, I sniffed and ventured a glance across the table as I wiped the corners of my eyes with my index fingers and shifted in my chair.

“Wow,” I muttered.

I was thrilled to see another woman sitting across the table wiping her eyes as well. It wasn’t just super sensitive me. Someone else cried too! I felt better.

We moved on to the next exercise and a young woman with an absolutely fantastic British accent described treasured letters from her grandmother. I felt my face flush. Oh not again…tears. Full big ones. This time I just swiped them away as fast as I could without looking up.

Then it was Henry’s turn and he read about his wife whom he loved and admired and missed dearly. I took a deep breath as low and quiet and possible as my eyes filled again and I thought about taking my jacket off, but thought better of it since I had a sleeveless top underneath. I hadn’t anticipated having a tearful hot flash on a freezing February day.

What the heck is wrong with me!?!?

For 6 more weeks, I will revel in this little retreat that is a writing class in a conference room tucked down on the lower floor of a lovely old public library. I thought the class would be a great way to force myself to sit down and write on a regular basis again (life and work have clearly gotten in the way of that for many months). Today, it’s not so easy. I am a very emotional person for sure, but usually I can reel it in. I cleared my throat. Somehow, I collected myself again. I focused on the next 10 minute writing exercise. I didn’t want these nice folks that I barely know to think I’m a total basket case. I wrote and then gave my flow of words a quick read. When it was my turn to read aloud, I got halfway through it and choked up and had to stop.

“I’m sorry,” I said tearfully, “I think I’ll just stop there.” I quickly flipped my notebook over to show I was absolutely weepy…and done. I wanted to crawl under the table.

“OK.” The instructor smiled a warm smile, a look of concern in her eyes as she searched my face. The room was quiet. “Are you OK?,” She asked gently.

I nodded. And then stared at my lap.

The teacher thankfully moved right on to the next student, and I kept my head down, mortified, wondering if I should cut and run. All of the sudden I felt, oddly, like the new and unexpected little hole in the ceiling of my son’s room. For that past few days the ice dam on the corner roof of our house had caused water to drip down and be trapped in the attic, pooling in a corner. With nowhere to go, it had slowly and steadily leaked down through the ceiling in his room, dripping into a big bucket we put in the corner. One night my husband was looking at with a flashlight and reached up and gently poked the watery spot. His finger pushed right through and WHOOSH, down came the water in a big surprising gush, happy to find a release and give in to gravity.

Lorraine’s essay, apparently, had poked a hole in me that morning.

I sniffed my way through the last few minutes, my face blotchy, grateful for a final writing exercise to occupy my mind. Our teacher asked us to write on the topic “Why I Write.” As I sat back in the old creaky conference room chair with its dark orange harsh fabric and sunken seat, I realized I had just made a very public display (at least to a nice gang in a conference room) of exactly why.

You see, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always have. And I always will. I sometimes wish I were one of those stoic types that are calm all the time, so unflappable. But alas, that’s not me. I think too much, I feel too much and it’s more than a little tiring sometimes. I’m animated and I gesture wildly with my hands and I like to talk, a lot. I like to be a goof. I like to have a lot of people around me most of the time. And I clearly like to cry. Life experiences, big and small, leave indelible marks on my heart and my mind, for better or worse.

I write because I need to sort it out, to weed out the junk in my head, to filter, to process, to cultivate, to compartmentalize. I write to feel it all over again, to love, to purge, to share, to forgive, to forge, to wallow, to wish, to wonder. To chronicle things that happen, to take moments out of my life that always seems to move too fast and enjoy them, or to try to figure out what they mean. The more I live, the more people I meet, the more I can write. Maybe writing is a way for me to, finally, excuse myself for my emotional tendencies. It makes it OK to be the girl who cries first and hugs hard.

I write for me. I write for you. I write for people I don’t even know. I write for my children, my parents, my friends. I even write for the people that really make me angry or that I just can’t understand. And what I write may not even be all that good, or proper. My grammar certainly could use work and I use way too many dot, dot, dots….

But I do know that my love for it is a little gift I’ve been given. If just for me. The more real and raw I allow myself to be, the better I’ll be at putting all that on a page and capturing it so that it has a life well beyond me. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

So last Thursday, when the typical crazy noise in my head and someone’s lovely and real words got the better of me, I was also given the chance to think about why, exactly, I write.

Writing is a part of my life. And my life is still being written…

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Winter Road Warrior

heygirl — Tue, 21 Dec 2010 01:29:23 +0000

The following unedited, first-ever HeyGirl photo essay was taken today by my 7 3/4-year-old son. Let me preface the display of this “essay” by saying it is a truly gripping visual representation of life through the eyes of a second grader…who just happened to be completely punchy (as was his momma) after an all-day field trip to the Museum of Science in the big city.

The End!

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Boo

Fri, 22 Oct 2010 00:17:10 +0000

So we got “Boo’d” this week.

If you haven’t experienced this pre-Halloween phenomenon, it goes a little something like this….

You’ll be sitting there, one dark October evening, hanging out after dinner, and the doorbell will ring. At first you wonder, “Oh! Is that the UPS man with the new brown suede boots I ordered online!?” You run to the door, peer out the window, hoping… but alas, no sign of the driver bounding back across the front yard, or the familiar “whirr” of the gigantic brown truck pulling away. But, what’s this? A festive little orange and black bag sitting on the front stoop with a note?!

And that’s how it happens…you are perhaps chosen by fate, the higher-ups of Halloween, the goblins of gifting…and a super fun neighbor. We quickly opened the door and felt the crisp fall air, filled with anticipation – what was inside the little bag?! The attached note declared it to be true! We’d been Boo’d!

The kids went bananas. It was adorable. Stickers. Treats. A cute drawing of a bat and a note explaining that we now have to put a sign on our door (copy enclosed in the bag) to show our ‘hood that we’d been Boo’d. This safety measure, I presume, was created to ensure that one lucky family does not get Boo’d 14 times. Smart, those people behind the scenes at Boo.

The package also contained a note explaining how we must now secretly Boo two more friends in our general area of residence.

Hmm…So here’s the thing, as my children giddily searched for clues as to who the bag was from -“Mom! That kind of looks like Tyler’s writing!” – and simultaneously launched into negotiations over “can we PLEASE have a chocolate peanut butter pumpkin?,”…a thought crossed my mind. A thought that was admittedly as dark and gloomy as the attic of a haunted house…

Awww, man.

Now I have to schelp around tomorrow afternoon, buy bags, buy candy (knowing full well that I will eat half a bag of candy corn in the process as I have no willpower when it comes to fall-colored nuggets of sugar). Then, amidst promised Wii time, homework, dinner and reading, I will have to get the kids to make cards, choose a friend to Boo, arrange for a stealth drop off in the dark of the night and make sure that our Boo sign stays adhered to the front door until, I’m guessing, 10/31, midnight EST.

Then I felt guilty about my Halloween grinchy attitude.

As we drove to school the next day, discussing our final plans for the Boo Op – such as how fast we’ll run after we ring the bell, etc., we also look at other houses around us to see who’s already been Boo’d. Turns out the cute ghostly face on the 8 ½ x 11 paper is spotted on several doors, not counting the one that turned out to be a building permit on a lovely Cape expansion.

After school we headed to the local CVS for shopping. My sweet, sweet, children then proceeded to, in a span of 8 seconds while I was scoping out Halloween stickers, hit the ”on” button on every single battery light-up ghost in the store. Btw – hey lady, with the full hand basket in aisle 4, with the annoyed look, struggling to get past my giggling kids, lighten up. I bet you’re not here because you got Boo’d! Geez!

Anyhoo, we go home, we make the little cards. My two little pumpkins then confess that they’ve already informed their Boo recipients at school of what’s about to go down.

Ohhhh…So this in my mind, means that hell or high water, flat tire, sudden stomach bug or evil flying monkeys, we must get those bags delivered tonight. That was the plan anyway, but now it’s critical. I don’t want a cute little redhead to wake up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, run downstairs in her fuzzy pajamas and press her cute freckled nose to the window, only to find a front stoop as empty as a witch’s cauldron come November (I assume they take the month off after all that hoopla?).

So, game on. Bag decorating is finished. And like any other mother in the year 2010, I scan the Boo documents via my home computer/scanner, turn them into PDF’s for future use, and print out the appropriate copies for our pay-it-forward Booing.

Show time. My husband and son head to a church meeting, they are responsible for his Boo after the meeting (meanwhile my poor husband is clueless as to this whole deal).

My daughter and I head out for our mission. Since she already had told her BFF of her Boo’d fate, our “ding and dash” turned into a 10-minute visit where I left feeling awful that I’d 1) interrupted pre-bedtime down time that was in progress 2) brought a bag of sugar into the mix 3) gotten their adorable new puppy all riled up and 4) knocked over and spilled a box of Legos in their foyer in my efforts to literally carry my reluctant Boo-er out of her BFF’s house.

Sigh.

It ain’t easy being festive. But the giggles in the dark, the unidentified car zooming out of our driveway, lights off in an effort to be unseen, the sweet notes with hand drawn bats, the row of singing and dancing ghosts on a Tuesday afternoon…

Those fun little moments, you have to admit, are often born out of life’s inconvenient opportunities…

BOO!

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Why Husbands Aren’t Allowed to Shop for School Supplies

Wed, 25 Aug 2010 02:00:54 +0000

This conversation took place in my kitchen an hour ago…

Husband: “I think I’ll take the kids school supply shopping this weekend.”

Me: “What?!…Why?”

Husband: “He (our son) got a letter in the mail from his teacher today, with a list, so I thought I’d take them.

Me: (whipping my head around to face him) “What!?! What do you mean? Is it a new, revised list or a supplement to the one we already got earlier this summer?? We’re not supposed to substitute stuff you know. What’s on it??”

Husband: “I dunno. It had things like, you know, blue folders, green folders, sanitary napkins, wait no… hand sanitizer..stuff like that.”

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Stuck in the Middle

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 01:15:28 +0000

Have you heard of the book The Middle Place? by Kelly Corrigan? Well, my sister-in-law gave it to me months ago and last week I finally read it. I think in some ways I was afraid to read it. It’s a memoir about Kelly’s childhood, about facing a tough time in her life and at the same time dealing with her father’s illness. It’s about being in that nebulous, unchartered zone that is being a daughter and being a mother and how those roles get complicated, and maybe even fight against each other in some ways…it’s a place that she calls, “the middle place”.

I was afraid that her story might hit too close to home. Turns out I was right.

Last week we headed to northern Florida for our annual summer trip to my grandmother’s (Mema’s) house. It’s a highlight of every summer, to spend a week in the modest little oasis of a house that my grandfather built 55 years ago. I wrote about it two years ago, and I talked about how I attended a town meeting to try and help stop the development of a condominium complex across the small bay where Mema lives. Our efforts did little, unfortunately. The permit to build was given to the developer, but thankfully, so far, the economy hasn’t cooperated. But, they do hold the permit and are free to build the eye sore and the 50 boat slips they’ll cram in there to go with it. At this point, I can only hope that my nearly 90-year old grandmother will outlast the project and she’ll get to spend her last years staring out over the water and not at a wall of bricks.

Anyhoo, our trip started out as usual…the mad dash and late night packing and emails and newspaper vacation holds and such. There was no traffic on the way to the airport. We got the kids happily settled with snacks and the portable DVD player. We took off on the first leg from Boston to Atlanta and I leaned back in seat 25C and cracked open The Middle Place and read the first chapter.

We landed hours later in Atlanta to the fun news that our next flight had been cancelled and we would be enjoying a free night at the Comfort Inn North (lovely view of a roof and airplanes, ick), with a $6 dinner voucher (yeehaw), a $6 breakfast voucher (zippidee-doo-dah) and no luggage, save the small overnight kit for each of us with toothpaste, toothbrush and a whisper-thin Skymiles night shirt.

But, 18 hours later than expected, we finally landed in Panama City and as we walked out the double doors of the airport, I expected the familiar hot rush of air to wash over my face and my neck and my arms, always the first sign of the week to come. And as we drew closer to Mema’s waterfront neighborhood out on the point, I anticipated the smell of the old paper mill – sulphur mixed with salt and sweat, an odd and unpleasant to most, but to me, the defining scent of all my summers. My Beba and my other grandfather worked at the mill for years and Beba called it, quite accurately, the smell of ‘bread and butter.”

We joyfully greeted and hugged Grammy and Bah and Mema and my aunt and uncle and cousin. The kids swam in the bay. I unpacked and put the kid’s clothes in the empty white dresser drawer that Mema cleaned out in preparation for our stay. My son fished and my daughter washed shells on the deck. My Yankee husband took refuge in the lazy boy under the fan. The next night we had a little party. We bought a cake with a beach scene and flip flops on it and celebrated Mema’s upcoming 90th. We all sang and gave her a custom-made t-shirt that read “Absolutely Fabulous, 90 Years in the Making!” She smiled and said she loved it, but she wasn’t as tickled as I thought she’d be or offer to model it, and soon after the cake was done she retreated back to her room for “a little rest.”

The next day, for the first time ever in all my summer visits, the rain set in. It rained for 5 days. It sprinkled. It poured. It thundered. The sky faded from gray to black, back to gray.

My husband and I made daily attempts to get out of Mema’s hair. We snuck in just one hour at the beach and a couple of cloudy swims in the bay. Otherwise we kept the kids occupied with movies and trips to Walmart and the mall and a ride out to visit the souvenir shops along Panama City Beach. Because of the rain, the water parks were closed. The fun pirate kid’s cruise was cancelled. And the daily news warned us of unsightly tar balls washing up on the beach (thanks BP). We even drove by, which I dreaded, the burnt out shell of The Treasure Ship restaurant, my favorite as a kid. A fire earlier this year shut it down for good. It was the kind of restaurant that you’d bring your camera, where kids were given paper pirate hats while they drank huge Shirley Temples out of plastic hurricane glasses with the logo of the ship on it.

Even the biggest mega souvenir shop on the strip, a beach icon, Alvin’s, looked tired and worn to me. The live alligators in the tank looked sad. The sparkly mermaid picture frames on the shelves looked dusty. The fish tank was dirty and needed cleaning. As I walked around the store in a funk, I realized the economy and oil were doing this tourist destination no favors.

Ugh. I stood in the t-shirt section idly thumbing through the racks as the kids played skee ball. I didn’t like how this week was going at all. Despite loving the time with all my family, I was antsy, grouchy and more than a little unnerved. I had thought, as I do every year, that the salt and the sun, and driving Mema’s car and the sparkle of the sun off the bay would fill me. That the feeling of hugging Mema, wrapping my arms around her small shoulders and the feel of her cool, soft blue nightgown every morning would bring it all back. That the smell of coffee and biscuits would soothe and renew me and transport me back to that sheltered bubble of my childhood, that now I share with my kids.

I felt all of that. But at the same time, none of it.

Mema was feeling off because of an ongoing issue with pain around her eye and restless nights. One night, her growing anxiety (also an issue the past year), the crowded house, her rigid schedule thrown off and, a lack of sleep, triggered a nightmare so bad she actually grabbed hold of the curtain by her bedside and knocked over a lamp.

It was her nightmare. So why was I feeling like this was all just a bit surreal? There I was, spending a week inside one of my most treasured memories and it just didn’t feel right, even though I was RIGHT THERE, standing in Mema’s kitchen, and sleeping in her guest bed and eating her world-famous pound cake after dinner. And the sky would just not stop being so horribly gray.

I even stood out in the garage one night, trying to escape the feeling, just breathing in the smell of warm air and gasoline, trying to conjure up memories of my long passed Beba. I always feel closest to him out there, among his old tools, and where they used to keep a giant roll of thick paper from the paper mill. My brother and I were allowed to roll it out on the long driveway and scribble on it with strong smelling permanent markers that had the big fat tip to draw really thick lines.

But now, as I stood out there in the dark, the smooth concrete under my feet, bathing suits hanging over me on the line, I just couldn’t get to that place. That place that makes me feel like no matter how things change, some things remain the same.

I was stuck, in the middle.

On one of our last afternoons, we sat looking through the many photo albums Mema had put together over the years. I lingered on a picture of her with a friend on a cruise ship, going on one of her many long and exotic trips. There was a time when I was teenager that I loved to brag (and still do) that she’s the coolest grandmother you’ll ever meet. I still think she’s beautiful, stubborn as hell (and getting worse) and still has good advice to share, despite our generational differences. She still cares though, too much about what I weigh (if I get compliments she’s happy, if I don’t then, well, better luck next year if I get back to the kickboxing) – but that notion I’ve chalked up to the generational thing and the fact I can’t survive on half a turkey sandwich and coffee for lunch like she can. I’ve always admired her for being fabulous and strong and independent, not that she had much of a choice after Beba died 30 years ago. She had a nice boyfriend for while, in the late 80’s I think, a man from her church, but she had no interest in marrying him and good ol’ Bill moved on.

But again, here I was sitting next to her, watching the weather report with nothing new but more rain and looking at old photos feeling slighted, sad, and more than a little angry…This is MY special place. My haven. My Mema. And we were about to go home. This is where I come to balance out my crazy life and the junk that swirls around in my head. And this time, that’s not happening AT ALL. And I didn’t like it. Instead, I was seeing the reality of a place I love and a grandmother I love, showing the effects of time.

Mema is aging faster and she’s wrestling with curtains and table lamps and her anxiety is so thick it hangs around her like the Spanish moss on the trees around her house. Her friends are all dying before her, her best and last good friend has Alzheimer’s. She gets completely worked up over every ache and pain and is convinced, some days, that antibiotic cream causes panic attacks.

I am ridiculous. On the same day Mema turns 90 this month, I’ll turn 39. I should have faced this years ago. But the whole week suddenly felt like that ocean wave you don’t see coming… When you get distracted and glance back behind you at the beach for a moment too long…. and then,” BAM!” you’re knocked off your feet , flailing and sputtering, scraping your legs against the sharp shells on the bottom as you try to get your footing again.

I wanted to close my eyes and for just a little while ignore it all and be 14 again and lay out on the dock with my giant yellow Sony walkman and put on too little sunscreen and lay on my huge new Coppertone towel memorizing every word on the new Wham! album and fantasize about wowing my summer crush, the captain of the varsity basketball team, with my tan when I get home. And then I’d come up to the house late in the afternoon, take a long shower in the back bathroom (that would tick Mema off because I’d have gotten water all over the place) and sit down to dinner of homemade chicken casserole and butter beans and hear her familiar laugh as she sat, legs elegantly crossed, off in the corner chair or on the side couch telling stories and old jokes.

And I’m just so pissed off. I’m mad she’s no longer the grandmother that sends me postcards from Alaska and mows the lawn herself. The kind of grandmother that wears a show stopping dress at your wedding. I’m mad that she’s scared. And I’m mad that I am too. That’s she’s vulnerable and sad and that she’ll go days without wanting to get out of the house. That she’s fearful of handling things outside the tiny bubble that is now her life…getting her morning newspaper, putting her garbage out, going to the doctor for a blood pressure check, going to church, going to the Winn Dixie, having my aunt and uncle meet my parents halfway in Louisiana so they can take her to Texas for a visit because she won’t fly by herself anymore.

I’m mad at time. I’m mad that I’m getting older and my parents are getting older and this is how it works. And one day she won’t be here at all and then that whole part of my life will be gone. I am so bratty and so selfish. Like that same 14-year-old who slams doors and yells because she’s still not allowed to go on a date with a boy in his car.

It’s just not fair. But of course it is. It’s life.

And I should be absolutely and fully aware of the gift I have been given of having a 90-year old grandmother. Many of my close friends have sadly, dealt with the loss of their own parents at this point. I have no right to feel this way. I’m on borrowed time with Mema as it is. And my kids not only know her, they love and enjoy her and that’s more than I could have ever hoped for.

So as we sat around dinner at the local Po Folks restaurant on our last night, my mom and aunt and I quietly discussed the fact that next year, we just have to do it differently. Maybe we come down for a week but we take a few days and drive down to Disney with just the kids so it’s not so overwhelming for Mema. Or maybe we rent a house nearby. Or maybe she doesn’t feel up to it at all, and next year, we don’t even come. Maybe we meet her in Texas at my parents…or I fly down for the weekend. Who knows?

This trip did me a favor though. It has better prepared me for what I will have to face in the years to come. I have to focus on creating new memories of Mema, not trying to hold her accountable for the old. That photo album doesn’t have any more room for pictures. It’s time for a new one.

I was relieved to get on the plane home. I immersed myself in reading The Middle Place. And it helped. It helped me stand up out of that wave of memories and denial and fear that knocked me down when I wasn’t looking.

It helped me slowly take a walk back up the beach, back to reality. Back to being a grownup.

And straight out of the middle place.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Playgroup

Mon, 10 May 2010 01:35:55 +0000

I sat in the cafeteria at my daughter’s preschool on Friday, in a bright and sunny church and loved every minute of their annual Mother’s Day Tea. We were given homemade placemats, goodie bags and potted plants. We were treated to three songs, the last of which ended with little hands blowing kisses to the audience.

Heart-melting adorable stuff.

It was a wonderful day because of that, and because my daughter kept proclaiming all week, “Happy Mother’s Day Mommy!,” as if it were my birthday.

I’ve been thinking about my fellow mothers a lot lately, not only because of Mother’s Day, but I’ve been missing them due to an uber-hectic schedule, and also because a big part of my beloved Momtourage, my Friday afternoon playgroup, is quickly nearing (insert deep breath here while eyes well up) “graduation.”

For the past few years, 10 of us gals have met faithfully once a week with our preschool age kids (nearly all of whom will start kindergarten in the fall). Every Friday, at 1pm sharp (barring a volunteer commitment, travel, or stomach bug) our minivans and SUV’s pull up. We drop little shoes in the hall, and the kids head straight for the toys – we head straight for the coffee. If you’re hosting that week, you fire up the java pot, put out the cream, milk and sugar, plop some juice boxes and nut-free snacks on the table, and we’re good.

And every Friday the topics we discuss, with our hands wrapped around our coffee mugs standing in the kitchen or seated around a living room sofa, are varied. We cover everything from our kid’s summer camp schedules, to fashion dilemmas (I asked of the group this week, “Is my hair too long? Should I cut it?” The group consensus was no). We have heated discussions on tantrum management, fear of swim lessons, the latest Disney movie, who’s got Wii, where to get the best pedicure, who’s doing what for the weekend, who knows a good landscaper and stuff that, well, I’m not at liberty to even mention. We celebrate each other’s first communions and milestone birthdays and new haircuts, and tease those who get speeding tickets. We swap books and fancy shoes and the kids’ old ballet slippers and baseball pants. Most weeks there are lots of laughs, but sometimes someone may need to shed a tear or two (both kids and moms).

Some of us met years ago, some of us were acquaintances before we casually started our Friday gatherings. But regardless of how it started, it just works. We air out our parenting dilemmas, get coveted advice and vent our frustrations without restraint. And we have a rule (as hinted to previously) that personal stuff discussed in playgroup, stays in playgroup. It’s quite awesome actually.

And underneath all the coffee talk, we all, I think recognize that we have become somewhat of a Board of Directors of the 10+ little people screaming with delight in the basement playroom below us. And we take our job very seriously.

We are friends, companions, and teammates, soldiers even perhaps, in motherhood.

Case in point:

If one of us or anyone in our immediate family is sick or injured, an impressive and swift operation is launched, and we are deployed to deliver food, babysitting, rides or just comforting words.

If you surprise the group with the news that another new baby is on the way, we will jump up and down and hug you and feel your belly every week.

If you need a buddy for a power walk one afternoon, done.

If you host a fundraiser, we not only show up, we help set up.

If you need to know if a new dress works, you bring it one Friday and model it and we’ll give you an honest opinion and then loan you a necklace to go with it.

If you post pictures on Facebook, we will comment and “ooh” and “ahh” over recital and vacation pics.

If you are running late for school pick up, someone in playgroup will already have noticed your child looking lonely with their backpack, and is sitting with them, given them a big reassuring smile, calling your cell phone as you pull into the parking lot. But they won’t get you on your cell because you are already talking to another playgroup member who is just steps behind the first one, already on the task of finding your child before they get upset that mommy isn’t there yet.

If you lose someone you love, we will grieve with you and for you.

We fix scraped knees and bruised egos. We heal our kids and every week, we strengthen and heal each other.

We know we are lucky. I don’t know how you can put 10 different women together and it just clicks. We were thrown together simply by the timing of our motherhood and a common zip code.

We are Catholic. We are Jewish. We are Protestant.
We are blonde and brunette.
We are 30ish. We are 40ish.
Some of us finish triathlons together.
Some of us make the most incredible multi-colored cupcakes you have ever seen.
Some do both (I know, right!?)
We take coffee with cream.
We take tea with milk.
Some of us are entrepreneurs or run a business unit. Some of us rock the PTA.
We are shy. We are the life of the party.
We have gone to reunions and laughed that we were once teenage rebels or queen of the swim team, or that we had very big hair (well, I still do).
We grew up blocks away, or halfway across the country.
We are all so different.

But we are all incredibly efficient, and caring to each other, and we don’t pull any punches. We laugh at our most trying parental moments (following the school bus to school to make a morning argument right) and silly antics at holiday parties. We celebrate first tooth fairy visits and karate belts.

And every Friday at 3pm, with empty mugs placed in the sink, we depart as a convoy, off to get our older kids off the bus or to gymnastics…having spent two hours laughing, learning and building this team called playgroup.

Oh lordy.

I will really miss our Fridays and the safety net of seeing those gals every single week. I will miss the coffee.

Note: And I love that they will all totally razz me for writing this and recognizing this milestone that we promised we wouldn’t make a big deal of (sorry gals, I love ya).

But it will, in fact, be the end of an era.

But I also know that we will get together when we can, and simply move our discussions to coffee shops or diners or someone’s back deck (with a bottle of wine on the table perhaps). The topics will evolve…to grades, try-outs and school dances. And our lives will change. Our schedules will change, we will have unexpected highs and lows. But what we’ve built for each other and for our kids (not to mention the “Anti-teenage shenanigans” patrol that we already have in place) is here for the long haul.

We may be done with our Fridays soon.

But ladies, trust me, playgroup is just getting started.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…