I'm Gonna Knock Me Out

I'm out. 

Roughly translated, it means I'm done, I'm leaving, I'm over it, this is a pain etc. But are we really out? Can we ever be out? 

I can be a hermit. Winter is a trigger for my hermit-like behavior. And I wonder to myself could I really just disappear for awhile? Like Howard Hughes living in the penthouse at the Desert Inn. Except I would never let my nails grow the way he did. That's just weird. Plus he was a millionaire, so I would have to be "out" middle class style like at a Hampton Inn. 

I was talking to my neighbor who is a Staples grad a little older than I am. Her brother was one grade above mine. We know many of the same people like the Shaughnessy gang. I asked her about a cool necklace she was wearing and she said, "Oh I wear this when I need a little something extra." Or something like that. Like when she needs super powers. 

She went on to explain that she had a lot on her plate. She and her brother had recently met with their parents and decided they could no longer navigate their family home on their own. In her own family, she has 3 kids, 1 out of college, 1 in college, and another taking a break. Then she told me it was her first day back at work in the school system because of a "self-inflicted concussion." I asked what is that? 

She said she was taking laundry down to the basement and when she turned around, she ran smack into an iron pipe and knocked herself out. Like out cold. Thankfully, it was the weekend and someone was home. She didn't just lie there prone in the basement like I sometimes think they'll find me. 

Personally, I believe a "self-inflicted concussion" occurs when you're racing around trying to do too many things at one time and/or when you're pretty much like every mom I know.

I bet she wishes she could be out, this neighbor friend of mine. If you've cold cocked yourself by accident, then you've probably earned the right to be out.  

As a parent or a partner or a pet owner, I feel that we don't ever get to be out. Until we're finally out, the last hurrah, the big sleep. But a girl can dream of one day being out. Just for a bit. 

NB Mama Said Knock You Out is one of my faves from early rap from LL Cool J who was just honored at the Kennedy Center Awards where I was for the briefest moment ever a waitress during an event honoring Jimmy Stewart.  They probably should've told me I needed to carry a ginormous tray to be qualified. Instead, I think I just bussed tables for the rest of the night.

Our House Is a Very, Very, Very Fine House

Our house has had 3 owners – us, the Longs, and Per and Anna Swenson according to the census records. We bought the house from the Longs who lived here for nearly 45 years, happily raising a family of 6 children. When we moved in, we found a handwritten note from one of the Long's kids, Jane. Here's what it said:

To: The new people who will live in this house.

My daughter told me to leave a note so you would know how important this house was to us all who lived and grew up here, the last forty-three years. There were nine of us originally and almost every night we sat down to dinner in the dining room together. My dad liked to talk politics which my mom hated, but the rest of us enjoyed talking about ideas – and I think this house will remain with us as an idea.

We loved, lived and lost while living in this house, or just visiting our parents. My youngest brother kept an alligator in the bathroom on the 3rd floor. My wedding reception(s) were here. All the holidays…

Best of luck. I hope you have an emotionally enriched time living here.

Sincerely,
Jane

Here's what we'll miss about this house that we have loved for 15 years:

1. Our wonderful neighbors who keep watch over us, who hired our kid to do odd jobs and gave him cards for birthdays and holidays. They all have interesting professions like professor, painter, engineer, coach, cop, lawyer and nurse. 
2. Will's many special events that began here like his concerts, proms, awards ceremonies, first days of school, movie nights--even the day he got his license and drove off on his own.
3. Welcoming our doodle dog Daisy here for the first time and watching her perch her chin on the window sill observing life. 
4. The seasons, and how the garden and landscape changes--waiting for first signs of spring, the first chilly fall day.
5. HALLOWEEN--with kids flocking here by the hundreds to safely trick or treat on our neighborhood sidewalks. Our neighbor screening the Great Pumpkin in the backyard.
6. It's still a "borrow a cup of sugar" type of place where we know the kindness will be reciprocated. We meet kids at the bus when parents are running late, we help shovel, we share plants in our gardens.
7. Wonderful schools where Will made many friends, got his start in music and was made to feel welcome. He went on school trips to China and DC among other highlights.
8. Riding the train into the City to take classes, attend lectures at the 92nd Street Y, eat wonderful food, and take in the Christmas tree and decorations every year.
9. Going to the beaches in the summer for cookouts or to the lake year round to hike and walk the dog off leash. 
10. The live music scene at FTC, the Klein and other venues plus great restaurants, 2 movie theatres and a cool downtown.

Jane Long was right. We had an emotionally enriching time here. We hope the same for the next family. 

NB: That's Will with his friends Jordan, Jake, Emmett and Pedro headed into the City for his 18th birthday.

Love Is All Around & Mary Tyler Moore

My family and maybe some of my friends know I have a bit of the shine. I don't see dead people exactly but I have premonitions about things, weird hunches, strange dreams, one too many coincidences. 

I hear music a lot -- like in my basement I sometimes hear music. We have a stone foundation. I don't know if music is being carried through the ground and into the rock, but it's older music like Big Band era music so I wonder. Here's another thing, I like cemeteries.

Today I decided to go to Oak Lawn Cemetery in Fairfield.  It's a beautiful old cemetery in what is nearly Southport. I've been there once before to visit the grave of a young man whose family established a music scholarship in his name. I wanted to say thank you to David John Nogan for his help with our music kid's tuition at Loyola NOLA.

This time I was going to see Mary Tyler Moore's grave. I loved Mary Tyler Moore. Her shows yes, but I also loved her great style, the way she tossed her hat, and swished her beautiful 1970's long hair. She was just cool. I remember reading her obituary and feeling so sad for all of us who lost her. And then I read that she too was buried at Oak Lawn Cemetery in Fairfield. I knew someday I'd visit her grave. 

I brought with me the following offerings: one of our son Will's old baseballs, a guitar pick from his new music school in Minneapolis-St. Paul and some Mardi Gras beads with trumpets on them. My feeling was these were symbols of the old Will and the new Will. I wanted to leave the guitar pick and baseball for Mary Tyler Moore, the patron saint of Minneapolis-St. Paul, to watch over our Will as he transitions from young boy to young man in Minnesota. The beads were for David John Nogan, the musician who died far too young with connections to Louisana, where Will went to college last year. 

I need a Venn diagram to explain this clearly.  But in my mind, it mad perfect sense. Say goodbye to Louisiana, say hello to Minnesota and ask two souls to watch over Will.

Our dog Daisy ate the cover off the baseball on the way to the cemetery. She's obviously feeling better. My offerings now shrunk to two.

I drove in slowly, respectfully, minding the narrow paths that wind through Oak Lawn. I saw baby deer and big deer and none of them seemed to mind my passing. They would slowly shuffle out of the way, like here comes another one out to ruin my lunch. 

I found the section where Mary Tyler Moore was buried and circled slowly. I saw two people sitting near the center of section D, but I didn't really make a connection. I finally decided to get out of the car and walk around. I felt self-conscious because I'd just jumped in the car without thinking about what I was wearing. And that would be -- ripped jeans, my painting Birkenstocks with colorful splatter all over them and a kind of macrame detailed Lucky jeans shirt. But I thought, "Hey Mary Tyler Moore was a 1970's kind of gal, she'll get my hippie vibe." 

Here's where the shine part comes into play. 

The two people in the cemetery I would describe as a salt-and-pepper gentleman with glasses and a blond woman of a certain age, also with glasses and a vague European accent possibly of German or Austrian descent. With them, was an older dog who seemed friendly enough. But there are signs everywhere that say No Dogs Allowed. I felt sort of judgmental about them until I remembered my own dog was in the car with the AC blasting. 

I approached, said hello and met the dog. I asked the dog's name of the woman because he seemed to be her dog. 

The man answered, "Spanky." 

"Oh,' I said 'like that kid's show from back in the day?" 

He smiled. "Right," he said.

"Our Gang," I said. 

And I kept walking around in circles trying to find the place where Mary Tyler Moore was buried. The man, the woman and dog started packing up to leave.

There was something kind of strange about them. The woman sat upright, rather austerely, herding the dog as they left with commands of, "Heel!" The man sat on a stone bench in an enclosure surrounded by an orange mesh fence. I think he was reading a newspaper now that I think about it. For whatever reason, it never occurred to me that this area surrounded by fence might be where Mary Tyler Moore was buried. I did see a large white statue but I couldn't read the grave stone and I certainly didn't want to cross the orange fence to get a better look. 

Then I saw the man walking back toward me. Maybe he'd forgotten something I thought. 

He asked, "Can I help you with something?" 

"I"m looking for the grave of Mary Tyler Moore," I said. "Is this it? Do you know?" I asked, pointing to the fenced-in area. 

"Yes," he said. "We haven't finished with it yet. Pouring the cement and," his voice trailed off. 

And then I realized. "Are you her husband?" I asked. He nodded yes. 

I'm not a person who is light on her feet - I don't think quickly in situations like these. In an emergency, I'm a champ. Public speaking, not so much. I started babbling, explaining the story of taking Will to Minnesota, and that even though I know Mary Tyler Moore's not from Minnesota, I just wanted to leave something of Will's for her. 

"That's very sweet," he said. I showed him the guitar pick. 

"He's a musician," I said. 

"Leave it here," he said pointing to a row of stones on her grave. "Weight it down so it won't blow away." 

I thanked him as he watched me place the guitar pick on his wife's grave. Her husband was Jewish I remembered that too. I looked it up, the reason why Jews leaves stones on the graves of their loved ones. Putting stones on a grave keeps the person's soul down in this world. That's what I found out about the stones.

He had kind eyes. I must've sounded crazy with my ripped jeans and guitar pick rant about my kid in Minnesota. He's a cardiologist her husband, Dr. Robert Levine, so my guess is he's seen it all.

"I loved her," I said, starting to tear up. 

"Me too," he said.

NB: I did some more research. Of course, Mary Tyler Moore started a wonderful pet adoption charity called Broadway Barks and Spanky the dog was a rescue pit bull belonging to her housekeeper Anna, likely the woman I saw today. Moore said that Spanky could sense when her blood sugar dropped which helped with managing her diabetes.

Same As It Ever Was

Last week I dropped Will off at school. He's a sophomore now in college. My friend Lou Lou just dropped her daughter Olivia off at Tulane - a second generation who will live and breathe the walls of Josephine Louise dorm at Tulane University. Please god, let them be freshly painted.

I thought it would be easier this time, easier than before when Will was a freshman. His first summer back from college was a challenge. It's a strange time in a young man's life where he wants to do and be all things men do - or at least the fun things they do. But he's not quite old enough, he doesn't have enough money, he can't figure it out, women are difficult, cars are expensive. Strange times indeed. 

I'm reading a book called Lift by Kelly Corrigan at the random suggestion of a friend. It's a letter to her children to help them remember their young lives. In a way, this blog has been the same. Not all my posts are about our son Will, but I like to think the good ones are like:

Will, You Are Surrounded by Music 

The Makings of Mr. Right

In a World Without Earbuds

I have no real music skills, unlike most of the members of my family. Certainly, unlike Will. I don't play the piano. I'm just an okay singer. I do have one very unique musical talent however. I can remember the lyrics to many, many songs. Like the other day I burst into Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. "I'd be inclined," he sings. That's a twisty phrase for song lyrics. It would have no place in today's songs, but Neil Diamond rocked those lyrics and his denim jumpsuits back in the day. 

I saw Neil Diamond in the airport one time. I'd just spent a weekend with my Tulane roommate Lou Lou bumming off all the other recently graduated kids who were living in Aspen. We'd been to see Lyle Lovett and his Large Band featuring the super talented singer Francine Reed. We'd biked up to see Hunter S. Thompson's cabin in the woods, slightly fearing for our lives because it was rumored he shot at lookyloos. 

When it was time to head home, I cabbed it to the tiny Aspen airport. And that's when I saw him -- bathed in a beautiful light, talking on a pay phone no less, was Neil Diamond in full-on denim -- denim bell bottoms, denim jacket with sheepskin collar, denim shirt. Sweet Caroline, I couldn't believe it was him. I was suddenly back in 1970's Texas listening to my dad's vinyl. 

In New Orleans, I was lucky to see live music all the time. One of the most amazing concerts I saw while at Tulane - and there were many like Bonnie Raitt and David Crosby jamming at the Maple Leaf with Ed Bradley from 60 Minutes on percussion. Anyway, one of the most amazing concerts I saw was David Byrne's Burning Down the House tour. Incredible show. Incredible performances. Thinking of that show takes me back to college days. I don't want to romanticize that time or  gloss over the tough parts, but that was some kind of fun that night. 

The song lyrics I thought of as I dropped Will off at college were these words from The Talking Heads' more subdued song Once in a Lifetime:

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Same as it ever was
Look where my hand was
Time isn't holding up
Time isn't after us

This year Will is in school in St. Paul, MN - quite a departure from New Orleans. It was his choice and I think a very mature decision based on how he felt after his first year. I've never been to Minnesota until just now. People couldn't be nicer, just as you would expect from Midwesterners. I did feel that I shouldn't burst into tears there, on the street for example. Minnesotans don't cry. So I waited until I got back home and had myself a nice outburst at JFK airport in parking terminal 2. Ah New York, the land of crazy and plenty of crying. 

It doesn't get any easier, dropping your kid off 20 hours away in a place you've never been until last week. It's tough when they're freshman and when they're sophomores. Maybe it gets easier when they're a junior. For now, it's just me and the old man and our dog moping around. Same as it ever was, indeed. 

Just the Way You Are

This sign makes me sad. I think it's supposed to be sweet, but it makes me sad. 

I saw it on a walk through my neighborhood today. At first, I thought what a cute idea. Then I looked closer and saw that small children wrote their 2017 resolutions on this board. One says, "Stop sucking my thumb." The other says, "To focus better at school." And that makes me sad. 

I feel like knocking on my neighbor's door and saying, "Hey I sucked my thumb until I was driving and I hide chocolate bars in a small Igloo cooler in the pantry. I hide them from MYSELF!"  

But I totally get it. We want our kids to do better. "You can do better!" we say. I think it comes from a place of wanting better for them, wanting what we think we lack or didn't have or should've done differently. 

Now that Will is away at college, I'm thinking about all the things I wish I hadn't done as a parent. I think about what I put in his head with my "you can do better" prodding. 

Maybe, instead of worrying about the next thing and the next thing, I should've just sat in the grass and watched him play baseball. Or let him use every single dish in our home to bake his psychedelic, 7 different food coloring birthday cake with his friends. Or let him take hour long showers and run out all the hot water because at least I could hear him singing. Or not lose my shit when he forgot something again, because maybe what he forgot was never important to him or really even matters in the long run.

Will is an awesome kid. But I often think he is an awesome kid in spite of us. That our constant wanting better for him should've been, "You're pretty awesome just the way you are." Period. Mic drop.

The Things We Do for Love

When our son was a little boy, we took him to New York City's famed FAO Schwartz toy store. We would go there many times over the years until Will's interests turned to gaming and electronics that were scarce at FAO Schwartz. 

On our first trip, we bought him a remote control airplane. He was so excited about it. We took it immediately to Central Park where we planned to fly and fly it until we needed to head back home. As is often the case in life, things didn't go according to plan. On its maiden voyage, the plane flew into an immense evergreen in the park and came firmly to rest in the tree's branches. 

Will was distraught. His beloved plane just sitting up there taunting him. My husband started throwing things up in the air to try and dislodge it, but the plane was really stuck. We came to the conclusion that one of us should climb the tree and try to shake it loose. The tree was one of those good climbing trees with loads of branches evenly spaced. How hard could it be?

I tried helping my husband up to the first limb but he was too heavy. It would have to be me. Me and my black patent leather shoes were going to climb that tree. With my husband's help, I made it easily to the lowest branch. Once inside the giant tree, I actually felt pretty safe. Branches were everywhere, leaves were everywhere. How could I fall?

I shimmied up that tree and shook the branches until the plane was freed and fell to the ground. Well done me, pat on the back -- until I looked down. 

My husband and I are both pretty terrified of heights. We're the people clinging to the inner edge of the Empire State Building Observation deck saying, "I'm good. I don't need to see it."

As I sat there probably three stories up in that tree, I thought the same thing. I'm good. I'll just stay here. But of course, I couldn't. It's a strange thing adrenaline. The overwhelming feeling that pushes you as a parent to do crazy things for your kids. 

I think my husband started to realize what was happening because he was talking to me like a hostage negotiator, calmly yet firmly reminding me that I needed to get down from that tree. Like most things in life related to fear, it's that first step of letting go that's the hardest, like learning to back dive when you're a kid. That's scary stuff. 

I climbed back down that tree by looking up. It's the only way I could make it. I listened to my husband and son on the ground and I climbed back down that tree at the pace of a giant sloth. I felt my way onto branches, stopped frequently and still considered from time to time that possibly the fire department might show up and rescue me.  Dear FDNY can't you hear my silent distress call?

That was really a proud moment for me as a parent. I did it! I climbed that freaking tree.

NB: Much later in life I would agree to go ziplining through the trees in Mexico with a guy named Loco in charge of securing our harnesses. He was missing part of his ear. But that's another story for another day.

Time to Put Away Childish Things

For Will's 18th birthday, all he wanted was clothes, or money for clothes so he could be a new man going to college in the fall. I tried to explain to him that the best clothes for New Orleans in August are probably gauze bandages or a bathing suit, but he isn't listening to me anymore. 

Typically frugal, I made him divest himself of old clothes that no longer worked, either to donate or trash based on condition. There was a third pile for clothes he might want to wear when he comes home for break -- if he comes home for break -- and needs something warm or different to bide his time.  He went through all diligently piling up clothes or putting away spares. And then from the depths of his closet, he brought out a wooden chest he'd had forever.

One of our neighbors makes jewelry and collects stones. Vic was at some point many years ago trying to dislodge a large couch stuck in his doorway. My husband happened to be walking by and helped him move it. Since then, Vic has been a friend but also like a tooth fairy. He drops off baked goods and he gives me tomatoes from his garden. Vic gave Will some rocks immediately after the couch incident. One was a showy crystal and the other a flat piece that sort of shimmered like shale. 

An interesting coincidence these gifts of rocks because as a kid I shared a love of rocks with my Grandpa Fred. I would walk around telling everyone, "I'm going to be a paleontologist."

Will put the rocks away and then some time later he bought a wooden box at a tag sale that became a kind of treasure chest. In it he stashed the crystal and the flat rock. He put marbles he got with my mom. Feathers, coins, a $2 bill my Uncle David gave him.  All his little treasures.

He hid this wooden chest away in the back of his closet, which of course I found immediately while doing laundry. But it stayed there for years. Until this year. This year, he decided he didn't need it anymore. The box was just taking up space in his closet. 

Now the box is sitting in our guestroom. I emptied its contents including the rocks and other treasures. Now an empty box, it's still a treasure to me. It's a reminder of Will's childhood.

It's a reminder to me of believing wholeheartedly in a world of magical rocks and found feathers and coins from a distant land. Yes, it is time for Will to put away childish things. But I'm keeping the box for that day when he wants to remember rocks and feathers and magic. Or maybe I'm just not ready to put it away. 
  
1 Corinthians 13:11
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

The Slippery Fish Won't Get Whacked

I went into the City on Thursday to meet up with a friend who was in town from Portland. It's been ages and I'm so glad we had the chance to catch up. Her 9 year-old son was with her and I was telling them one of my favorite New York stories about my son. 

Will has always been a dreamy kid as my mom puts it, just happy to be wherever he is at the moment. I remember that we were standing outside of Serendipity. It's the famous ice cream place where all the tourists go and have huge sundaes or whatever ice cream creation you want. Will was staring up at the sky or wandering or something and he got in this older lady's way. So she whacked him with her cane. And kept going. Not a hard whack, but it was odd. It was a first, even for New York.

So I asked Will if he was okay, and then I said, "Will, you've got to be a slippery fish in the City. You've got to weave in and out of the crowds of people looking for gaps where you can slide through and keep moving ahead. You have to pay attention to where you're going, watch for bike messengers. You can't just wander around."

You can always spot a City kid. They're still. They stand serenely on street corners holding their nanny's hand waiting for the light to change. They know the dangers of city streets unlike suburban kids who wander around looking up at the tall buildings touching every single filthy surface possible. City kids glide, kids from suburbia flail.

I met my friend and her son at Grand Central and by that time he was tired from walking -- there's so much walking in the City. I told him the story of the slippery fish. "You've got to be a slippery fish," I said. And my friend and I were laughing about that old lady whacking Will with her cane. And then this happened.

I was walking back to Grand Central to catch my train home. The sidewalk on 44th was a mess with scaffolding dividing the passage into two sides. On the right side, pedestrians were walking east and the left west. Well there were a lot of people walking east, so I decided to jump sides and walk in the opposite direction. There were a few people I had to dodge, but mostly I made it through well ahead of all those other poor people on the right. Until the very end.

At the very end of the block sat an older homeless woman who seemed to be directing traffic in that section of sidewalk. When she saw me walking on the left, she whacked me on the butt with her hand and said, "Get on over to the right side." Not a hard whack -- like the way your grandma might whack you to get in the house because it's getting late.  

I must be slowing down, because I never saw that whack coming. I used to be a slippery fish. 

Act As If This Is Your Last Chance

My friend Julie and I had a pretty funny conversation this afternoon, or it seemed funny to us. Through crackling cell phones we had a series of "old people" exchanges as follows,

"I'm hot," I yelled.
"What?" she yelled back.
"I'm hot," I yelled.
"What?" she yelled back.

This went on for at least a minute. A glimpse of things to come. 

At the same time, Will, my son was trying to tell me something about his scholarship money from Loyola in New Orleans. Some extra financial aid had appeared out of nowhere. A gift from the heavens. Great. Fantastic. At last, we can relax.

Then I opened the mail. You, Will,  have 8 absences, of which you are only allowed 12 in English for the entire year.  Or you lose credit and I don't know, maybe lose your biggest scholarship opportunity at Loyola. That's $15,000. 

I panicked. I got mad. It's like all the stages in Death and Dying by Kubler-Ross. Really panicking because it is frightening trying to get a kid into college these days and then figure out how to pay for it. 

I'm trying to be Irish Zen like my friend Lou Lou Mulderrig or my other friend Mike Casey. Just breathe, take it easy and know everything will be okay.  But that's not really how I tend to think. I tend to think the worst, predict the worst, fret about the worst case scenario that I know lies just around the bend. 

Until the worst case scenario happens, and then my thinking switches into another level of panic something like, "What if this is it?" I've experienced these moments under positive circumstances, for example when you see a landscape like parts of Texas and Louisiana, or pretty much anywhere on the Pacific Coast Highway. It's overwhelming, the feeling of smallness and finite and wow. This is really it.

And sometimes it happens in an emergency room, when I see my son attached to tubes and oxygen meters. Or when the vet finds Daisy, our beloved Doodle, has swollen lymph nodes. Or when, or when. It happens all the time. 

Bargaining kicks in. Dear god, I will do this thing, if you'll do this one for me. And the one thing becomes another, and another, until I would sell my soul to have one more chance. As I sit here thinking about how to tell Will that the absences in English could sink his ship, I try to also think of what I would say if I had one last chance. 

"Dear Will," I hope I would say. "It has been my great honor and pleasure to be your mom. You have a kind heart, a wonderful curiosity, a strong body and voice, a magnetism that could work in your favor if used wisely, an oblivious in the clouds nature that I think has to do with the music in your head, crazy confidence, less than exceptional work ethic and organizational habits. You would give a friend your last dollar and way too much of your time, so choose them wisely."

You asked me today how Dad and I raised an awesome kid like you -- not your words but I won't repeat them because you're a teenager and sometimes you say stupid stuff.

I think your dad and I made conscious decisions about choosing each other and not making the not-so-great relationship decisions we'd made in the past. We avoided certain patterns that were not healthy for either of us. We also discussed up front very important issues like how to discipline, how to talk to you, what to do about media (or too much of it), getting outside to build strength, what was important for your development. Most importantly, and THIS IS SO IMPORTANT, we wanted to keep an honest, open relationship with you. So we made a decision early on that if you told us the truth, we wouldn't punish you.

From what I've seen with your friends, this has sometimes been perceived as a positive and often times a negative. Some parents don't want to know what's happening. We do.

Full circle back to my typical worst case scenario thinking. You can't miss any more classes Will or you'll risk your scholarship, or worse, graduation. I'm seeing Poseidon Adventure scenes now in my head - the old one with Shelly Winters. 

But what's really important is to put this in context. I need to spend more time thinking like it's my last chance. When I think that something is finite, when we're in the ER with you because you've been bitten by a dog, fallen down a water slide, are overcome by asthma, then I start to think clearly about what is important. 

Dear Will. It has been my great honor and pleasure to be your mom. 

(NB This is one of my favorite videos of you singing at Greenfield Hills Congregational)

A Sharp Dressed Man

I'm putting together some blogs for my son about becoming an adult. So if some of my posts seem a bit "master of the obvious" just bear with me. He's graduating this year and I want him to have stories that he can read, or not, about life and lessons learned. This one is about shoes. 

Shoes. Just writing the word makes me want to go shopping. At the Marshall's shoe superstore of course, because I've got a kid leaving for college in a year. Shoes are my Achilles heel.  Even when I've sworn off shopping, shoes will lure me back. My other weakness is travel. For example, this summer I went to France with my friend Sylvie completely on a whim, partially financed by credit card debt, and I'm so glad I did. 

When I was a kid, our family traveled quite a bit. My dad worked for IBM and was very successful, always winning trips to beautiful places like Hawaii. And then we moved to various places too, as all IBM'ers did back in the day. The only trip I recall taking outside the US as a kid was crossing the Rio Grande into Mexico via rowboat. Then small donkeys took us to a tiny border town. I'm pretty sure we made that crossing illegally, but it was back in the 70's when there wasn't a wall.

In college, I spent my junior year in Paris. Lucky girl. I know that now. I probably knew it then, but I definitely know it know. Having a home base in Europe gave me the opportunity to train it to lots of other destinations and I traveled as often as I could. When I got out of school, I continued to travel frequently. My mom planned this wild trip to Egypt and India and it was on that trip that I learned the lesson about shoes. 

I also learned about dysentery. But here's what I learned about shoes. 

We were riding on a barge down the Nile for several days with a group of fellow travelers from England, New Zealand and Canada. One of the women traveling was a headhunter in London. She had a very scary demeanor, even with the Egyptians, that said don't mess with me. And she had one of those classic English hairstyles like the Queen. I have no idea how she kept it so rigid under the conditions we were living in on that boat.

We were talking one night about her job and the interviewing process. She told me she makes an immediate decision based on the job candidate's shoes. If their shoes are scuffed or not cared for, they're out. That's it. Not because they don't have the credentials or the education. She makes a snap decision based on their shoes. 

I thought wow that's harsh. Then she explained that if the job candidate doesn't take care of their shoes that says something about them. Maybe it says this interview isn't important to me or I'm disorganized, I'm sloppy etc... She explained that the shoes don't have to be new or expensive, they just need to look sharp. Today, I have pairs of shoes I've had for years and I make sure when I'm headed out to a meeting or a party, those shoes are polished and look good. Sometimes I take a black sharpie to them to fill in scuffs.

My advice for you Will is to buy the best shoes you can afford and then keep them looking sharp. You never know who's watching.

 

Not Yet Men

Last night Will was coming home from the gym and ran into some kids he knows from baseball. One of them has a dog that apparently gets out of the house quite a bit. They live near a busy intersection.

The dog followed Will across the street and was hit and killed. The driver didn't stop. Will carried the dog home to the boy's house who was also a witness and obviously distraught. I don't know what to say to my son about this. He was washing blood off his shoes and I was washing blood out of his clothes. What do you say about that?

N.B. I was harassing Will about AP English homework last night and he said something about what I must think of him -- that he's a slacker. And I said I don't think of you like that. I think you're heroic. What I think I meant was he has great character. He may not have great grades, but he has great character. This is what I think about Will. 

A Short Blog About Responsibility at 15

Our neighbors and dear friends have two younger boys and we have an older boy. There was a a time when they were all sort of closer in age, but now that Will is 15 and they are still in elementary, the gap widens. For the most part, I think their kids have always viewed Will as a playmate or possibly a horse. Definitely not an authority figure. 

Of late, our boy Will is thinking constantly about making money to save up for games and sports stuff and a car. When I was 15, I made my money babysitting. Quite a good bit of money, less the stuff my bother "borrowed" from me. I don't know though, boy babysitters have a much harder time. You would probably leave your kids with a girl just because she's a girl. I mean she could have like a side job on the reality series Teen Mom, and you will still feel a little bit safer leaving your kids with a girl. I actually had a boy babysitter as a kid and he was kind of creepy. Plus his name was Skipper.

Anyway, our neighbors asked us one day for the number of the teenaged girl down the street. I had to ask Will for it because I didn't have it. He gave it to me and asked why. I said I think for babysitting the boys next door. At first he was sort of like what? I can do this. 

Eventually he texted me the number. I texted back, "Sorry bud." He replied, "It's okay. She'd be better at it than me." I thought that was some responsible shit. And honestly, I think he's right.

Update: My awesome neighbor read this blog and had no idea Will was interested in babysitting and he got his first job with her. There you go. 

Compression Hose, Chin Hairs, Varicose Veins. Oh My!

Is this an homage to my husband's favorite ad?

No it's not.

Here's what really happened.

I was at my friend's parents' house. We were talking about all kinds of stuff. She's a 48 year-old new mom. I'm a 49 year-old mother of a teenager. Her sister was there, another mom to a teenager. Their older parents were there. My friend's vascular surgeon husband was there. So three middle-aged women, older parents and a doctor - really nothing was sacred in terms of discussion topics.

We were talking about things like facial hair (women's). We were talking about compression hose (had no idea). We were talking about pacifiers. 

That's how it was going. 

I confessed to the group that I had recently discovered a vein on my calf I wanted to have fixed. Hint, hint vascular surgeon. I so thought we could handle this "amongst friends" if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

See what happened was...one day...in the daylight...I saw this vein. 

Okay before that, let me say that I got lucky. My mom has good legs. My grandmas both had good legs. So I got lucky in the leg department. Like this summer I was walking through the mall and this older lady -- I'm going to say 80? -- said out loud to me, "You've got great legs." Of course I was by myself and there were no witnesses, but I swear she said it.

And I said, "Thanks doll!" Cuz that's what old broads call each other. Doll. Sugar. Hon.

But the thing is, I've only seen the front of my legs recently. Then I caught a glimpse of the back of my legs. And without my knowledge or consent, something had happened to one of my good parts. One of the parts I thought was still standing. 

This weird vein that's a dot - like the skin is smooth and then there's a dot of a vein about the size of a small pea - well that just appeared overnight. That's not right. That pea-sized vein dot is not right.

And I thought, "I have a what on my what what?"

What the hell?

Oh the horrors of getting old.

The Makings of Mr. Right

Too long off the blog. Not for lack of content. Writing for work and writing my blog for fun...can at times be mutually exclusive. I'll keep this brief since I'm getting back on the horse after weeks. This thing happened with my son and I just thought it was sweet.

Will was away most of the summer so I'd left his room alone. I didn't worry about peach pits growing fuzz in his garbage can, or dirty socks left under the bed. It was nice and quiet and lonely as hell.

When he came back home, I returned to my old habits of daily visits to his room. Will is an A #1 pack rat. This trait gets in his way at school when he can't find his book in the piles. Or he does his homework but forgets it under the papers on his desk. Will collects random scraps of paper, guitar picks, chapsticks, pencils in various states of sharpness, receipts, beef jerky pouches, etc. He dumps everything out of his pockets on to his desk and then doesn't give it much thought. Or so it seems to me.

I was shuffling through a stack of papers on Will's desk to see if there was anything that could be tossed. Then I found it. It was a 3 x 5 note card lying face down . On it was a list of 5 items for dating. 

Will has many girl friends that he sees frequently to hang with on weekends or go to parties. My favorite party so far was the one for his friend from Nepal. Her father is extremely strict. For her 15th birthday she was allowed to invite one boy in a sea of girls. I dropped Will off and went inside to meet the parents. Nice parents. But it's strange having your son be the only boy. I gave him lots of completely obvious tips like use your manners, be polite, no swearing. He's since gone on to be one of the only boys invited to a New Year's Eve party, bowling parties and movie nights.

Will has had some dates with girls from school.  The first girl was a beauty. She looked like Mila Kunis. But she made her sister cry in front of Will so he decided she was kind of mean. A few more dates with another girl. They decided they were better suited as friends. It's all been very civil so far. While he's still where he is, I am delighted to know that what's been on his mind is a simple list of 5 dating rules.

The first? Be friends with her.

The last? Take her somewhere that costs $30.

I think he's definitely on the right track. I'm not exactly sure where he got the $30 figure but it sounds fair to me.