A year of firsts without my mom, thinking of all the “lasts”

Posted on March 22, 2021 by Jean

It’s been a year since my mom passed. A year of firsts have come and gone. First holidays without her. First birthday with no call from her. Her first birthday that we didn’t celebrate with her came and went. And now, the grim first anniversary of her death.

It’s not like I needed this day to think about her. Truth is, there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t thought about her. Mostly those thoughts are wondering ones. What would my mother have thought about something…the state of the pandemic, or the insurrection at the Capitol or the election? On her more lucid days, she liked to talk about current events. And good or bad day, she loved to talk about her grandchildren.

Just as with all the firsts, I think about the lasts…the last time I saw her. The last time I spoke to her. Like so many people, we were not able to see our mom even before the official pandemic was declared. Her memory care facility was on lockdown in early March to keep the residents and the staff safe. She always declined when she didn’t see us frequently. And when we were prohibited from seeing her, we knew it was a death sentence.

Dementia robbed her of many things toward the end, including the ability to use her flip phone. I couldn’t help but think that was somehow my doing. My mother was a planner. An organizer. A creator of grand events. And she liked to talk about the details. And the logistics. My god, did that woman love to talk about logistics! The problem was, she tackled events, holiday meals or a grandchild’s birthday party, for example, like they were her job. And she wanted to talk about all of the details, sometimes weeks or months in advance. Working full time and commuting to another state for my job while trying to manage the lives of three kids, I often found myself impatient and annoyed at the calls. I didn’t know what I was going to make for dinner that night, let alone what appetizers we should serve that wouldn’t clash with lamb for Easter, which was still three weeks away.

We of course had no way of knowing that this would be our last Easter with our mom. Or that we would all decide to wear purple that day.

I have spent a lot of time since she passed thinking about the would haves and the could haves. Shortly before she passed, she had taken a fall, and the paramedics were called. They were planning to take her to the hospital, and she didn’t want to go. Her nurse called me, and asked me what I wanted to do. They were hesitant to automatically take her to the hospital for fear of Covid exposure. They wanted me to decide. I asked to speak to my mother. She sounded as lucid as ever. “Jean, I’m fine. I told them I’m fine. I just want to go back upstairs.” I asked her if she was sure. Selfishly, I thought, if she goes to the hospital, I can probably get into the ER to see her, as it had already been about 10 days since I saw her last. “Yes, I’m sure. I promise. I love you.” That was it. The last conversation I had with her.

As I suppose is true for most people, you rarely know it’s the last conversation you are going to have. Or the last time you are going to see someone. So, it’s hard to make that moment as perfect as you would want it to be. That’s ok, I tell myself. My relationship with my mom was far from perfect. As a mother myself, I am sure there are things my mother wished she could have done differently with me and my brothers. Just as I do in my own self critique of my parenting. And, when our roles reversed, and I had to be the parent and advocate for my mother, there are many things I wished I could have been better at, like being more patient. And treating each day like it might have been the last.

Now as I am getting ready to downsize, and trying to coordinate movers, an estate sale, real estate closing, and final cleaning, I find myself wishing she was here to help me with the logistics. In her prime, she would have had this all sorted and run like a precision military operation.

In packing up of 17 years of life in one place, I find signs of my mother everywhere. Halloween costumes she made for my kids. Christmas decorations she gave me. Popover pans she insisted I have. And a card I saved from my college graduation.

In her beautiful handwriting, she told me how proud she was of me, and that this was “one more accomplishment on an already large pile of successes.” She went on to say that she can only hope that someday I will be lucky enough “to have a daughter of your own that brings you as much joy and pride as you’ve brought me.”

I had forgotten all about the card, and how prescient my mother apparently was since I have three daughters who are the absolute light of my life.

You really never do know when that last conversation is going to be.

I love you, Mom.

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A birthday means a fresh start

Posted on May 1, 2023 by Jean

Today is one of my favorite days. It’s my beloved firstborn Isabella’s birthday, meaning it’s also my 27th anniversary at the greatest job I’ve ever had.

I love birthdays, my own and everyone else’s, and I especially love to celebrate those of my three favorite humans…always have. I vividly remember Isabella’s first birthday. She wore a sailor suit dress with a matching hat reminiscent of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. She ate her cake so delicately; there was not a single picture of her smashing cake in her face or of her hair covered in blue frosting. (Her sister Olivia would make up for this two years later on her first birthday when she wore more cake than she ate.)

I thought I remembered all of her birthdays vividly, but just yesterday when we were FaceTiming on the eve of her birthday, she shared how devastated she was to turn 10. Apparently, she wasn’t ready to be double digits. To mark the occasion, she wrote the darkest, four-verse song I’ve ever heard. She sang it for us on the FaceTime, and it was like the saddest Joni Mitchell tune (think Both Sides Now, the “Love Actually” version) coming out of an almost 10-year-old mind and performed by an almost 27-year-old. It was glorious. The 17-year gap between the occasion and the retelling of the tale made it absolutely hilarious. (I of course had to video the moment, which I’ve rewatched at least a dozen times, laughing more with each viewing.)

She went on to tell us that on the night before she turned 10, she sang the song for my mom, who told her to write it down, and assured her that she (my mother) was going to get Isabella onto American Idol. Everything about this birthday story made my heart smile. I loved that Isabella turned to writing to express her angst (even if it did lean a little Sylvia Plath). When she told us about telling my mom, I felt like I got a minute back of my mom’s life that I never knew about. What a gift that was. I loved that nearly 27-year-old Isabella could laugh about how dramatic her nearly 10-year-old self was. And I loved the reminder that my mom thought my girls could do anything. She wasn’t wrong.

Facebook memories remain one of the few things I love about the app, particularly when it shares birthday memories. Seeing the pictures of the time we surprised Isabella with a birthday breakfast at home (she loves breakfast more than other meal) with a dozen of her friends makes me smile. As does the video of the time when she was in college, and I showed up unannounced at her favorite restaurant, meeting her and her group of friends with her favorite cake (a box yellow sheet cake covered with a tub of Betty Crocker milk chocolate frosting, still her favorite to this day).

Now that Isabella lives in Hawaii, it’s a little bit harder to surprise her and show up unannounced, cake in hand. But that doesn’t make me want to celebrate her any less, particularly this year. Her 26th year on this earth was not without its challenges, both personally and professionally, and navigating those challenges when your family is 5,000 miles and six time zones away isn’t easy. Nevertheless, she persisted.

I asked her how she was feeling on the eve of this birthday, and was thankful that there were no dark songs written. Quite the opposite. She said she viewed her birthday as a personal New Year’s Day. A fresh start. An opportunity to leave all that was bad or hurtful or negative behind and to start anew, refusing to bring it into the next year. A clean sheet. What a perfect lens with which to view the coming year! Totally stealing this idea.

Then she asked what I thought about her coming year. I told her I saw nothing but great things. She got through so much, and came out better because of it. This past year, she started her own business. While borne out of what seemed like a crisis at the time became a great blessing. I’m so incredibly proud of her and what she has built. She helps people achieve their personal goals every day. I see what she does, and I am in awe because she is doing something I know I never could.

As a mother, you learn so much from your firstborn. It’s literal on-the-job training, often at the expense of your child. While you are experiencing the beauty of unconditional love for the first time, you are more rigid and more clueless than you are with any subsequent children. It’s hard to argue with the inequities. Like many firstborns, Isabella tells stories of how strict we were with her, and how easy we were with Sophia, her youngest sibling. She’s not wrong; I’m not even sure if we had a car seat for Sophia. And I know for a fact there was no boiling of bottle parts.

And for that, my beloved firstborn, I apologize. Despite the cruel and unusual punishments you endured of not being allowed to charge your phone overnight in your room, me calling the parents of any friend who was having a party before agreeing you could attend, and never letting you miss a day of school, I think you turned out pretty amazing. You also have the best baby books out of your sisters by a long shot. So, you’re welcome.

You have been a gift to me since the moment I learned of your existence, and you continue to be to this day. I am so excited, Isabella, for your personal new year because I know there is nothing but good things ahead for you. So while it’s your birthday, I feel like I am the one who got the present as I am forever grateful for the gift you continue to be in my life every day. I love you. Happy birthday, and happy personal New Year’s Day sweet girl.

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Love is all around, especially in tiny humans

Posted on February 14, 2021 by Jean

My favorite opening scene of any movie has to be “Love, Actually.”

Watching the arrivals gate at Heathrow with all the people embracing…as Hugh Grant says: “If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that love actually is all around.”

It’s hard to see sometimes. Hugh’s right. You have to look for it.

As awful as I have found a lot of social media to be, particularly the last four years, I also have found it to be the mother lode of love. For me, in a word, it’s this: babies.

When my kids were younger, the oversharing of mothering details would have annoyed me. It was my own failing. I was stuck deep in my own proverbial child-rearing forest. I had no brain capacity left to see the other trees much less learn about all the other little saplings. I would have categorized the (by my definition) over sharer as someone who thinks she was the first person to have a baby and make a mental note to never ask her about her weekend. For fear she might tell me.

But then something happened. Seemingly overnight. My babies grew up. And moved out. I can no longer sit in wonder watching them evolve and grow day to day. I know this is a good thing. The baby birds are supposed to leave the nest. But why does no one talk about what the mama bird is supposed to do then? With an empty nest and newfound free time?

My tiny Valentines, back in the day.

I have found that the time, interest and brain capacity that I didn’t have for over sharers before is suddenly abundant. And I crave seeing and hearing about other people’s delights in their children.

So I stalk other people’s babies.

Thanks to social media (and the fact that I am fortunate to have friends with young babies) I devour every second of baby sharing. I’m there for all it. First smiles. Tummy time. Drooly-faced new teeth. Frankenstein-like first steps. Gurgles. Halloween costumes. Bows on girl baby heads that are bigger than actual girl baby heads.

All of these images and videos transport me back to when my own kids were little. When Isabella would sing in her sweet 2-year-old voice “You’ll Be in My Heart” from Tarzan. Or when Olivia emerged on the scene, the first baby I ever saw who had visible cheekbones and huge eyes taking up half her face. Or when Sophia joined our all-girl band and my adoring mother-in-law would never let her feet touch the ground.

All of the Facekbook posts and Insta stories take me back and I CANNOT GET ENOUGH.

I love seeing the babies’ progressions. I’ll think to myself, “oh look, he’s moved on to table food” or “oh my gosh, she has her first braid!” This is usually followed by a thought to myself of “what is WRONG with me?”

And then, I read the caption on one of my friend’s pictures. It said: “I love this tiny human so much I think my heart is going to explode.”

That’s it.

As a parent, I don’t think you ever lose that feeling. Actually, that’s not true. If my own mother is any indication, that adoration might shift to the next generation of tiny humans. I remember a Sunday family dinner at my mom’s house. My oldest was just a baby. My mother held her up (think Mufasa showing off Simba at Pride Rock), looked into her blue eyes and declared, “YOU are the love of my life.”

Never mind that my brothers and her husband were ALSO sitting at the table. I mean I had always known I was not my mom’s favorite among my siblings. But as we all made awkward eye contact around the table, it occurred to me I might not even be in the top 10. I can’t blame her though. There is something magical about the tiny humans.

My tiny humans are no longer tiny. They have grown into smart, strong, compassionate and fierce young women. And today, on Valentine’s Day, and every day I love them so much I do think my heart may explode.

Pictured here with my entire heart.

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Raising good citizens in the land of Internet trolls

Posted on May 14, 2018 by Jean

If you ask any of my daughters what their dad’s and my mission is in raising them they will, without hesitation, answer: to raise good citizens.

It’s a four-word mission statement with brevity and simplicity that belies all it actually means.

We want them to be kind. And generous. We want them to give back. And stand up for what’s right. Fight injustice and intolerance. Be honest…with themselves and others. We want them to work hard and be proud of what they accomplish. And stay humble… saying thank you and living gratefully. And with grace. We want them to know what it is to be a good friend, to have a listening and forgiving heart and always be willing to offer a hand or a hug. We want them to laugh and love easily and for it to be hard to hate and hold a grudge. We want them to be intellectually curious and emotionally intelligent. We want them to be the kind of people they would choose to have as friends.

Said in a shorter, more crass way, their dad and I set out on a mission nearly 23 years ago to not raise assholes. The world, we decided, had enough of them, and we needn’t add to that population.

But how would I protect my kids from that seemingly growing population that I was committed to not add to? I still struggle with that.

When my kids were little, it was easier. I’d just politely decline the play date with the kid who made my kid cry. Ok, it usually involved some elaborate lie to the mom who offered the invite, if I’m being honest. Feigning that the family had been struck with tuberculosis seemed easier than telling a parent their kid was on a path to be a guest on Jerry Springer.

But infectious disease white lies aside, the older they get, the harder it is to protect them.

Raising kids gave me newfound appreciation for “The Boy in the Plastic Bubble.” I mean, come on, John Travolta, or his hair at least, was thriving in that movie. I know it’s completely unrealistic to think you can stick your kids in a plastic habitat and protect them from the ills of the world. But man, I would love to try. (It works for hamsters…just saying.)

It’s especially unrealistic when the ills of the world have the ability to hurt their feelings, or make them question their abilities or steal their self confidence all from the palm of their hand. Parents my age didn’t grow up with the internet. When people were mean to us or talked about us, they had to do it in person or over the phone. They didn’t have the ability to tweet at us or about us. Or passively aggressively show us how they felt about us by liking a post that maligned us. They couldn’t hide behind a keyboard and not take ownership for their behavior.

It’s a brave new world…if we are defining brave as cowardly and dehumanizing. Like a lot of parents, my kids are no stranger to cyber bullying. I thought it would get better as they and their peers got older and more mature and became more fully evolved humans. But it hasn’t. And it’s not just people they know. The internet empowers complete strangers to very publicly malign others. And as a parent, it’s a special kind of helpless that I feel. I’d like nothing more than take those to task who say awful things to my kids online. But that doesn’t actually help. It only makes it worse.

It’s a bizarre and unfair reality our kids endure. Having someone subtweet something unkind about you and then having a bunch of your “friends” like it is a bit like getting invited to a sleepover and your “friends” decide they are going to stick your hand in warm water when you fall asleep or put your bra in the freezer. And in full insult to injury mode, they are going to do the unkind deed and then tell the entire world about it with a few taps of the keys.

There have been times when I have watched this unfold on the sidelines…and it’s sometimes kids who I have welcomed into my home who are being unkind on social media. I want to grab them by the virtual collar and ask them what they are thinking. Maybe they are not. Maybe in a misguided effort for likes and retweets they chose being unkind over being human.

My kids are not perfect. They have their unkind moments. Even though my older two are in their 20s, I still have alerts set so I get a text when they tweet. One, because I don’t live on Twitter all day, and two, because I’d like to be able to address in real time if they are being less than kind.

Like a lot of parents, I’m sure, I wonder if I’m making progress at achieving my goal of raising good citizens. The KPIs and ROI aren’t always immediately evident. But every now and then I get an unintended progress report.

Like when my middle daughter was getting ready to leave for college. Her older sister sat her down and said, “When you get to college you are going to meet a lot of different people, and you are going to encounter people who are not that nice, and you need to be prepared for that.”

I hate that she had to have the conversation. But I love that she did.

I hope my girls understand that some people were in fact raised by wolves. (Ok, probably not actual fact.) But I’m not even sure how they type the things they do with no opposable thumbs. But they do. I wish my kids could ignore some of what they hear on social media and realize there is a reason these haters are called trolls.
I know that’s asking a lot. But that’s what we ask of good citizens.

I hope my girls also know that even though they may leave the nest, their home team is always behind them, proud of where they are in this journey.

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Senior year: The last college drop off and a looming fear

Posted on September 5, 2017 by Jean

My oldest daughter is now a college senior. And so began the first of the lasts for her…her last college drop off. (Although I’ve since been told that senior year is a bit like Fight Club; the first rule of senior year: don’t talk about senior year.)

I think she doesn’t want to talk about it because then it makes the end seem more real and more near. I totally get the dread of senior year. It’s that realization that the perfect world of college is nearly over, and the real, grown-up world where beer costs more than a quarter is breathing down your neck, holding a packet of student loan repayment coupons. I was so full of that dread, I contemplated graduate school, just to hang on a bit longer.

For my oldest, that dread was paired with a secondary fear. We started talking about her graduation, and how I most certainly would cry. It was then that my daughter conveyed she worried that post graduation there would be no further milestones that would make me proud of her.

Gulp.

How could she possibly think that? Do she and her sisters not know how proud I am of them, of the people they have become? That I marvel at every new skill and bit of knowledge they acquire?

I vividly remember being at the wedding of a college roommate. My oldest was just two at the time. My roommate asked me how my daughter was, and instead of just saying “she’s great, thanks,” which would have been the polite answer to give a bride who was actively greeting guests, I went a different route.

I started on this very detailed description of how just that week, my daughter had picked up the lid from the milk off of the counter with her tiny fingers, placed it on top of the gallon jug opening, and screwed the lid on. She had never done it before. I was convinced she was displaying some genius level of fine motor skills, and was certain no other 2-year-old had ever done such a thing.

(Even typing this, I can’t believe my roommate didn’t give me the “oh, another-first-person-to-have-a-baby eye roll.) Instead, my roommate, childless at the time (and god bless her for this), shared my wide-eyed enthusiasm for this monumental, obviously never-before-accomplished-by-another-toddler task. 

How to explain to my daughters that I have that sense of awe of them all the time? (Although for most of my friends’ sakes I have tamped down my enthusiasm for public gushing, saving that for their dad and grandparents.)

Still, my heart swells all the time.

When they speak out against social injustice.

When they stand up for each other.

When they call an Uber rather than get behind the wheel if they have been drinking.

When they ask my opinion.

When they share their own opinions.

When they are kind and respectful to anyone they come in contact with in any kind of service capacity.

When they tell me their career goals are to help people.

When they ask to spend time with their grandparents.

When they say thank you.

When they Facetime me just to say hi.

When I see the kinds of people they choose to let into their lives.

When I see how they have grown and evolved when they have gotten hurt.

When they are a good friend.

When they laugh at themselves and remind me to do the same.

When they drag me to the gym and get me to close out the workout with a minute-long plank when I’m lobbying that it should only be 45 seconds.

When they choose to travel the world without me and come back home grateful and humbled for the experience.

When they hold their own in an argument on politics.

When they recognize that the opinions widely held by the reasonably conservative community where they grew up do not have to be theirs. And they can respect those opinions that differ from their own.

When they get that equal rights for everyone, doesn’t mean fewer rights for anyone and understand that rights aren’t pie.

There is a scene in the movie “The Sixth Sense” where Haley Joel Osment’s character is telling his mom about the dead people he sees, including his own grandmother. He tells her a story about how the grandmother told him to tell his mom the answer to her question she asked at the grandmother’s grave was “every day.” He then asks his mom: “what did you ask?”

His mom answers: “Do I make you proud?”

So yes, to my sweet oldest (and your darling sisters): college graduation is not the end of the line for the pride train. It’s just one stop. And there’s another stop every day after that.

 

 

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The quest for face time, not face-in-the-phone time

Posted on October 11, 2016 by Jean

Spending the day with my two favorite college girls was like a spa day for my soul. I spent it looking at their faces. Not my phone's.

Spending the day with my two favorite college girls was like a spa day for my soul. I spent it looking at their faces. Not my phone’s.

I was in a social media blackout. For a week. And I didn’t die.

It was the lifestyle challenge of the week in the Whole Life Challenge. An eight-week online, community building habit-changing game that challenges you and your friends to make small, daily changes…their description. I would describe it as a game that urges you do all the things you know you should do (like eat better, exercise, sleep more), but don’t. While giving up things you shouldn’t eat, but do. Like bread. And frosting. And any combination of Taco Bell’s five ingredients.

Each week there is something new introduced that you should do. Or not do, like not waste hours on social media. I didn’t think I would be able to do it. And full transparency…it wasn’t a complete blackout. I oversee social media for my job. And it would be a lie to say I didn’t occasionally peek at my personal pages. But I didn’t post. Or favorite. Or retweet. Or snap.

I didn’t wish anybody a happy birthday (whose birthday I wasn’t already aware of without Facebook or LinkedIn reminding me). I ate some amazing meals and didn’t take a single picture of them. Which begs the question: with no photographic proof…did I really eat them?

I encountered some ridiculous people while traveling and crafted (what I thought were) hilarious status updates in my head. And that’s where they stayed.

It was a week of a complete lack of sharing and liking and commenting. And nobody missed it. Not a single text from a friend checking to make sure I had eaten, since they had no evidence of it. Not one complaint about a lack of a like from me on their kid’s homecoming picture. No one wondered my take on the latest presidential election political gaffe.

I was gone from social media…and no one noticed. Not that anyone should.

It was a really good reminder for me about evaluating what I decide to post. Does it interest or amuse anyone other than me? Does the post steer clear of the posts that annoy me to no end? The “look how awesome my life is!” post. Followed by the “everyone who doesn’t think like me is an idiot!” post. Not to be confused with the “cryptic, in desperate need of attention, so I’m just going to post a few words so you know non specifically that I’m in a bad place” post. And the posts that make me think “holy crap, I had no idea I tangentially knew people who were so racist/misogynist/homophobic, how fast can I hide them?” And of course the “thanks, Obama.”

I didn’t realize how mindlessly I was on social media. Like a smoker reaching for that first morning cigarette, I’d reach for my phone, hit snooze on its alarm and spend the next nine minutes scanning my email and immediately scrolling through Facebook and Instagram. So I deleted the apps off my phone. Hey, first step is admitting you have a problem, right?

And I did. I was spending more time on social media than I was actually being social.

My middle daughter came home from college this week. I timed my flight home to arrive at O’Hare just before hers. I hadn’t seen her in two months…the longest I have ever gone without seeing her in her 18 years on this planet. Not being on social media, I didn’t concern myself with getting a pic of us and thinking of a clever hashtag to include in the caption. I was focused on seeing her getting off the plane, and running to hug her. The happy cartoon-like tears came fast when that moment finally happened. A true “Love Actually” moment not captured with a phone, but erasable from my mind’s eye.

I treasured the 45-minute drive home from the airport, hearing all that was happening in her new home-away-from home life. I didn’t think about sharing any of that with any friends or followers. I only cared about the conversation with the one connection sitting next to me in the car. That connection was made that much better by disconnecting.

The challenge blackout is over. But the personal challenge to be in the moment and not face in the phone remains. I am determined to win it.

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When the love of a daughter makes you say yes, and to jumping out of a perfectly good airplane

Posted on June 27, 2016 by Jean

we did it

Super happy we made it to the ground in one piece. And even happier that if my daughter ever questions my love for her…I can say, “remember that time I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane with you?”

If I learned one thing in my Second City improv classes, it’s the power of yes, and. Affirming what someone says and building on it, and at all costs avoiding saying no. I definitely employ it at work, and also in my more important, but not very well-paying job of mom to three girls.

Second City was an influence on my interactions with them, as was a kitschy sign that hung in the nursery when they all were babies. It was a list of rules about how to raise happy kids. I don’t know what happened to the sign, and I don’t remember all the rules. But one of them stayed with me: Say yes more often.

So when my middle daughter started talking about her approaching 18th birthday, I was trying to be all “yes, and…” and then she starts talking about getting a tattoo, and yes, and quickly became oh hell, no. Then, she says: “OK, I want to go skydiving.”

I didn’t say no. I didn’t say anything. I’m on a plane twice a week, every week, and I have never had occasion to jump out of a perfectly good one. I thought maybe she would forget about it. But in the weeks approaching her birthday, the request was more frequent.

I had dinner with a colleague who had jumped out of a plane earlier in the year for her 50th birthday. She says, without hesitation: “You should let her and you should go with her.” She’s a smart woman. And, she didn’t die in the process. So I took her advice, and said yes.

A leap of faith, so to speak.

On my daughter’s 18th birthday, we arrived at the skydiving place, and we went through what seems like about a 20-page disclaimer of things we agree that the facility is not liable for, which is everything.

And then we have to watch a video narrated by the grandfather of tandem skydiving. He proceeds to tell us that the activity we are about to embark on is “full of risk…and could lead to serious injury or death.”

I’m trying to focus, but his entire torso is covered in what appears to be a perfectly flat-ironed beard. Either that or he is wearing a turtleneck made of hair.

He starts out saying that there is no perfect plane, no perfect pilot, no perfect parachute…basically acknowledging that several people and pieces of equipment are involved in our jump, and each of them can be a point of failure that again…could lead to serious injury or death.

I turn to my daughter and say, “this hair bib guy is really sucking the fun out of this for me.”

Having watched the video and again acknowledged our risk of serious injury or death, we are paired with our skydiving instructors.

Mine’s name is Clash.

“Like the band?” I ask. He nods, and I am thankful it’s not Crash.

But I am immediately concerned that I easily have 40 pounds on him. I start to panic…should I have someone, I don’t know…sturdier? Will I crash on Clash? Or, is it better to have someone slighter, who will put less demand on the parachute? Why didn’t the hair bib guy cover any of this in his list of things that could possibly kill me?

We are fit into harnesses and get a brief tutorial about what is going to happen.

Clash asks me if I want to pull the cord. “What happens if I don’t do it right?” I ask.

“Then we both die,” he deadpans. And then laughs loudly.

Skydiving death humor is not funny to me at this moment.

We board the plane, which is tiny, and Clash attaches himself to me. Like in the movies, the plane has a red, yellow, green light telling us when to go. As we hit 14,000 feet, we start to move toward the open door on the yellow light. I tell my daughter I love her and give her a thumbs up. Really hoping that that is not the last time I say it. And then Clash and I tumble out of the plane.

We freefall for 60 seconds. It feels like about a second. I’d like to say this part was scary or exhilarating or felt like flying, but honestly all I felt was my face feeling like I stuck it out of the window of a car going 120 miles per hour.

Clash pulls the chute open, and we immediately soar upward and start our descent down. Our likelihood of serious injury or death seems less likely now. But all I can ask is, “do you see my daughter? Did her chute open?” Clash points to a speck in the sky above us, assuring me that yes, she is also fine.

We start to float toward the earth, and everything is going smoothly, until we start to get to closer to the ground. And we start to spin.

Heights don’t bother me. Roller coasters don’t bother me. Apparently, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane doesn’t bother me. But spinning…whether on a Ferris wheel or a merry-go-round or about to land in a parachute makes me instantly queasy.

I feel like I’m going to be sick. I start to think…which force is greater? Gravity? Or friction? If I actually hurl, is it going to hit the ground? Or hit Clash in the face? I wish I would have paid more attention in science class.

I start to convince myself that gravity is the greater force, and even if it’s not, Clash has probably been puked on before, right?

The mental acrobats that are going on in my head provide enough of a distraction that we are about to land, sliding onto the grass on our behinds. I don’t crash (or puke) on Clash, so it’s been a good day.

My daughter lands shortly after me, equally safe, and super happy for the experience. We hug, and I squeeze her extra tightly, so glad that she is back on the ground in one piece.

“We did it, Mom!” she says, happily.

“Yes!” I say. “And we didn’t die!”

Best yes, and ever.

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A new washer. And a key time marker.

Posted on January 30, 2016 by Jean

This is EXACTLY how laundry day at my house looks: me, doing squats in my halter dress, and my daughter lovingly folding clothes at my side.

This is EXACTLY how laundry day at my house looks: me, doing squats in my halter dress, and my daughter lovingly folding clothes at my side.

I bought a washing machine. I offer that sentence without fanfare. Because it is, by its nature, fanfareless. For me, buying a washing machine is a lot like buying a new hot water heater. Or tires. You need these things in life. But there is no great joy in getting them. There is no Instagramming of the new washer. Or selfies in front of the hot water heater. And, if the teen girl influence in my house tells me anything, if it’s not worth putting on social media, it really doesn’t matter.

Except it does; both functionally, and as I later realize as a marker of time.

It was the first time I bought an appliance. I mean I have been part of a couple that bought appliances. But this was my first solo foray into buying an appliance. Heady responsibility, I know.

It reminded me a little bit of the first time I bought a new car, when the salesman didn’t want to talk to me without my husband. Which was frustrating, given I had done the research, determined the model and knew exactly what I was willing to pay. And I was all ready to beat back the inane “how much would you like your monthly payment to be” question.

The salesman did not have the car color I wanted. He tried to talk me into what was basically a purple car. Like I was driving around in The Grimace. He said, “Most women like this color.” Note to salesmen: most women don’t want to do what “most women” are doing. I told him I did in fact like the color. For a blouse.

Set on quickly accomplishing the washer acquisition, I dropped into a Sears appliance and hardware store. As it was each time I have been to this store, the employees far outnumbered the customers. And in fact there were two men in the appliance section. One approaches. I have a couple of questions. My salesman starts to answer and is approached by another salesman, who says something I don’t understand. My salesman excuses himself. “Pardon me, we have a bit of an emergency I need to attend to.”

An emergency? In the Sears appliance section? What kind of emergency could you possibly be having? Is the ratio of customers to associates out of whack? Is someone grilling you on the number of socks each model washer eats per annum?

I leave…washerless.

My trip to Lowe’s is more productive. And my salesman compliments me on my product knowledge, decisiveness and the price I got on the washer. All of which may have been salesman schmooze. It doesn’t matter. By the next day I could cancel time set aside for beating clothes with rocks.

And it hits me…much like a recent replacement carpet purchase for the upstairs…I really only need a washer that’s going to last for about five years. In five years, my youngest will be off to college, and I won’t be living in an empty house in the suburbs. Even with its recently replaced carpet and washing machine.

If the first 19 years of parenthood are any indication, the next five will feel like a blink. And the fleetingness makes me sad. And it makes me want to hug the new washer. Mostly because it can’t protest excessive hugs like my youngest does. But I keep hugging her anyway.

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Pass the turkey…no really, right past me.

Posted on December 29, 2015 by Jean

Two of my children toasting sparkling grape juice to a Steaksgiving feast.

Two of my children toasting sparkling grape juice to a Steaksgiving feast.

Now that another Thanksgiving and Christmas has passed, I can disclose this secret: I have never once cooked a turkey, despite hosting Thanksgiving and Christmas more than a dozen or so times. It’s weird because I had a roommate in college who cooked one at least once a month. She was allergic to a lot of things. Except turkey. And she would eat that bird over the course of a month. Down to using the carcass for soup.

I’m not saying there is a causal relationship between waking up on many a Sunday morning in college to the sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival coming from the boom box and the smell of roasting runner up for national bird. But it was definitely a factor.

The truth is, I don’t really like turkey. Nor do my children. I may have unwittingly caused this, but I still cannot tell whether it’s due to nature or nurture.

In the nurture camp would be the fact that I realized I don’t serve food I don’t like to my children. I mean, I did when they were babies, eating baby food. Which, as stages go, was always my least favorite. Seated in front of them trying to get more gelatinous food into their squirming mouths than on their faces, or highchair tray or hair. Even as I remember every time my spoon full of goop was called a train coming into a station or a plane going into a hangar I cannot unsmell the smell of baby food. It makes cat food smell like something you would eat on a Wheat Thin.

Like most parents, I bought everything green and orange and beige that I thought they should be eating. But once they were eating table food, I stopped serving the stuff I didn’t like.

Which meant there were no peas. Or cooked carrots. Or olives of any color. Or Indian food. And no thanksgiving turkey. I’d like to take credit for the tryptophan avoidance. But I can’t.

Several years ago, my oldest very wisely asked: “We hate turkey. Why do we have to have turkey on Thanksgiving just because everyone else does? We like steak. Why can’t we have Steaksgiving?”

Do you ever have one of those moments where you look at your kid and you are blown away by her brilliance? Sort of like the drill sergeant in “Forrest Gump” when he says, “God damn it, Gump, you are a god damn genius!”

At that moment, I did. And just like that, Steaksgiving was born. Some of my family members still bring a turkey with them when I host. They know that thanksgiving at my house is BYOT. Others join us in celebrating Steaksgiving.

I sometimes wonder if I am robbing my children of some experiences by limiting their home-cooked menu based on my biases. But then (in the nature category) I see what they eat at college (pizza rolls…yuck) or at restaurants (random breakfast meats from different farm animals and potatoes and eggs thrown in a skillet and baked) and realize that they clearly have minds (and tastebuds) of their own.

By the same token, I can’t force them to like things I grew up with…like breakfast stew. This is basically cut up beef, water and an onion left in a crockpot overnight. My family cuts French bread, slathers it with butter and then dunks it in the beef broth. For people who didn’t grow up with this, it sounds a lot like prison food, minus the butter. It’s not bad. But it is an acquired taste.

As are Spaghettios, cold out of the can. With a spoon. Something I ate all through college and my kids all seem to like.

Nature or nurture? Even Chef Boyardee can’t say for sure.

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The end of a Halloween era, aka no more Milk Duds for me

Posted on November 12, 2015 by Jean

I threw out the rotting, carved pumpkin today, the last vestige of this year’s Halloween. It was time. The inside had blackened. Not in a cool, eerie Halloween way. More in a way that would prompt the neighbors to think I was foreshadowing the length of time my Christmas lights would be up.

It’s possible I was holding onto the pumpkin because this Halloween was the end of an era…the last year my youngest child will trick or treat. (It’s also possible I completely forgot about the hollowed gourd and somehow remembered today was garbage day.) But let’s go with the nostalgic symbolism for a moment.

The last year as a parent of a trick-or-treater. I found these Waldos at my house briefly.

The last year as a parent of a trick-or-treater. I found these Waldos at my house briefly.

Halloween and the ritual of ringing doorbells and demanding candy of strangers has always been one of my favorites. And I can clearly remember all the various stages of Halloween as a parent.

There’s the “look I have a baby and am going to dress her in something adorable, and likely pull her in a wagon and come to your door and beg for candy, even though my child has no teeth yet.” Yes, I did this. Don’t judge. And, I absolutely had the cutest leopard, penguin and pea in the pod ever.

My first Halloween as a parent...I definitely took my toothless baby trick or treating.

My first Halloween as a parent…I definitely took my toothless baby trick or treating.

Soon, they could walk on their own, and carry their own personalized Lillian Vernon pumpkins and ring doorbells. I call this the “I want to trick or treat by myself, but you need to walk to the door with me, in case there is a barking dog or doorbell too high for me to reach or a grown up dressed as something scary who may or may not be wearing a costume” stage.

This is also the start of the “I don’t want to wear a coat to cover my costume even though it’s 37 degrees with snow flurries” stage. I’m informed, somewhat ironically, given the character’s backstory, that Cinderella does not wear a hand-me-down parka. Thanks to my crafty mother, I conquered this stage, for a few years anyway, with a floor-length baby blue and silver lamé cape. So, while Cinderella does not do a puffy coat, Cinderella (including all three of my daughters and at least one of my nieces) absolutely rocked the matching cape.

Then there is the “you can come with me trick-or-treating, but you have to stay on the sidewalk, and stop reminding me at every stop to say thank you or I will run ahead of my slower younger sister, and force you to make the Halloween version of Sophie’s Choice and see which one you choose to follow” stage. This stage is really only fun if you have another parent to walk with you for the inevitable zone defense you have to deploy. And if you have wine in your travel mug.

Then comes the “Mom, you are NOT coming trick or treating with me…that’s SO EMBARASSING” stage. Despite my offering that I picked up a cute new Halloween T-shirt at Target, I am shunned. But that’s ok…I get tagged back into action for the inevitable stop at our house for hot chocolate, and initial scanning of the loot, including a report out on who is giving out full-size bars, and who thought giving out Bit-O-Honey was ok.

Somewhere around this time comes the troubling parental “why are there no costumes for girls age 10 or over that don’t have the word ‘sexy’ in front of them?” stage. Sexy Mario? Sure, we all want to see the video game character reimagined with a teenage girl in half overalls and thigh highs. Then my favorite: sexy Indian…both inappropriate AND culturally insensitive. And, of course, sexy corn on the cob. I prefer to call it Sexy Maize.

I was ever happy that my youngest and her friends decided for their trick or treat swan song to all dress as Waldo, as in where’s? Decidedly not sexy, but cute and practical…down to the knit hats. When she got home, she tossed me a box of Milk Duds, my favorite. “I wasn’t going to pick these, but I remembered you liked them, Mom,” she tells me.

And thus marks the end of the “root through your bag and toss your mom her favorite candy” stage. I’m going to miss it.

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