When the girl in this picture was a wee tot I took her to preschool.   I held her hand as  we walked down the hallway and as soon as she let go and waved ‘bye bye’ I started to cry.  I didn’t think she saw me when I teared up, and I know for sure she didn’t see the director comfort me and show me how I could peek into the classroom undetected to see that I had nothing to worry about.

So as certain as I am that she didn’t see me cry that day, she still somehow knew, because on day two as I held her hand and walked her down the hallway to her teacher she looked up at me and said “Mommy, are you going to cry again today?”    Of course, you know I did.    But on day two I cried because my little baby girl didn’t seem to mind leaving me and that was hard.

Yesterday, when I left her at college, it was just as hard.

And the reason it was hard to leave her two states away in a dorm room, was not because she doesn’t need me, and it wasn’t hard because I’ll miss her.  It was hard because she’s so incredibly confident and smart and beautiful and, well, ready.    She is ready and I don’t think she’s going to need me at all soon.   It makes me  wonder if the mama bird who kicks her birdies from the nest feels the pain too.   She thinks she’s ready for them to go, but then they fly away and it’s too late to say, “wait, make sure you eat vegetables, and make good choices!”   I wonder.

When we were leaving yesterday she let me have a little pow wow with her so I was in fact able to tell her to eat right, make good choices, and go to class, even when you don’t really want to sometimes.  We hugged for a long time (I thank her for that), we both got a little teary. and then hugged for a while more.    She hugged her sisters and her dad and we all said I love you and then she waved bye bye just like she did all those years ago.   She was off to start an exciting journey and we just went home.

So today was her first day there and our first day her without her.   When I went up the stairs past her room this morning I noticed from under the door that her light was off.  I thought “Hmm, she’s still asleep,” and then I realized she’s not here.  I told her sister the story and she said “Funny, I did the same thing.”

Resisting the urge to text her, to call her, to drive two states away and peek in the window like I did when she was little is hard. Yesterday I cried because I handed her off to her new place at her new school and today I cried because she went.  Tomorrow will be better and before you know she ‘ll be home arguing with her sisters and making a mess in the kitchen and I’ll have to remember just how much I  missed it when she was gone.

And when she returns to college for another term she might say “Mom, are you gonna cry again this time?”  And my answer will probably be yes.  Of course you know I will.

 

 

 

Last Friday I slipped and fell and fractured my coccyx.  As I write this, I’m sitting on a donut pillow, something I thought was reserved for grandmothers and post-op hemorrhoid sufferers.

On that same day was my childhood friend Kathy’s memorial service, she passed away 4 days prior.   I had planned on being with Kathy and our mutual friend Donna on the very day Kathy passed away but I didn’t arrive in time.    Now  I wonder if Kathy was pissed off that I returned to NJ before her memorial, and so she flicked me using other worldly powers.   Knowing her, I’m sure she didn’t intend for me to land on a 4″X4″ and then  suffer for weeks after.  But in some twisted way I think she would find this whole situation humorous.   I have to admit, even I find it a little  funny.

It’s an injury that is just perfect for jokes and  I’ve gotten all kinds of well wishes like these…

“I had that, it’s a real pain in the ass.”

“You break your ass all day long, and for what?”

“Get your ass out of here!  Go lay down!”

“That’s a little extreme to get people to kiss your ass don’t you think?”

“Ain’t that a kick in the ass.”

And my favorite was sent in card that came with flowers from the school where I teach music.

It said.  “We miss you. Butt, we want to you get better.  take care, with Love from your New School Family.”

The puns just keep rolling in don’t they.   I thought that after having children all of my dignity was gone, but I was wrong.   Just when you think you’ve heard it all, somebody sends you a butt mug.

 

It would be terribly cliche to say bottoms up at a time like this, or would it?

 

I’m sad that I have to say goodbye to another special person today.     My friend Kathy passed away this morning.  I knew she was sick, but I didn’t realize how sick until she went missing and her best friend Donna located her in a local hospital, dying.

I met Kathy before I have memories of life events and we were truly best friends.   When we were in fourth grade Kathy moved away and as any nine year old girl would, I sulked.   I grew up in  one of those inner city places where kids played outside until the streetlights came on and neighbors were in each others business all the time, and always looking out for the kids, my family and Kathy’s family included.   I have no idea how many sleepovers I had with her, but I felt like her sister and I loved her.

When she moved away, long distance phone calling was expensive for our families so  my mother made me use a timer.  I was  allowed just 10 minutes once a week to talk on the phone, and Kathy could do the same to call me, once a week.   She made a new friend named Donna when were around 11 or 12 years old.   I hated this new girl on principal, even though I knew nothing about her.  But then came the day when Donna and I were face to face and what surprised me the most  was how much I liked her.  Even more, I wasn’t at all upset when I saw them together,  Kathy and her new best friend.   Donna did, and still does have a special air of  honest caring that let me know, even at that difficult age that she loved Kathy (and me too by association), and we could all co-exist just fine.   When they left that weekend, because they both lived hours away, Kathy’s mom and dad packed up their station wagon and I waved from the sidewalk.  I said so long, but not goodbye.

Adolescence set in, and Kathy and I didn’t talk much.  I had new friends in high school as did she.   I went to college and started to work and Kathy’s life  moved forward too.  Then one day I got a wedding invitation, to Kathy’s wedding.  I didn’t think she ever really thought about me anymore and I was so excited to see her and her family again.   Her wedding  was pretty, simple, and important.   That’s the metaphor I’d use for Kathy too.  She didn’t ask for much, and she cherished what she had.  At the wedding I saw Donna again, and she  was married by that time.  She had the same light and welcoming naturalness that made me feel sad like I missed something not growing up with them, but that at the same time happy becuase everything I missed was right there.  It was if decades had passed but also as if no time had passed at all.

We got together, the three of us, a couple of times more, but mostly we kept in touch over the last ten years or so via the internet.   I got a message recently from Donna that said, “Call Kathy.”   I looked on Facebook and saw that Kathy had been in poor health, in fact, she had cancer.  That was just two weeks ago.  So I did as Donna suggested and called.  “Kathy!” I said.  “What’ve you been up to besides growing a tumor?”  She laughed and told me that she had been in a lot of pain recently but she also suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, and a host of other ailments so she shrugged off the abdominal pain as a symptom of something less significant than cancer.   But when she finally went to the doctor, she was told she had a very large tumor and that it was malignant.   We kept things as light as we could and her plan was to have surgery to remove the tumor, and then go stay with Donna to recuperate.  We made a plan that I would visit them both while she was there and have a weekend together, like old times.

Last week we found out that the cancer had spread to Kathy’s liver and lungs as well as her colon.   We had no idea.  When  Donna’s texts and phone calls to Kathy went unanswered it was clear that something else had happened.   I thought Kathy needed time to process her situation,  but Donna didn’t.  She thought to call the hospitals near Kathy’s home and found out that she was in fact in ICU with a bleak outlook.  Donna immediatly drove three hours to see Kathy and once again sent me a text that said “Call.”

I got to talk to Kathy last night and say I love you.  This time I didn’t say so long, but thanks to Donna I got to say goodbye.

What can I say about Kathy?  She was fun, and loyal, and loving, and gone too soon.   She was compassionate and appreciative and lovely.  But what else can I say?  I can say that she had an angel named Donna who I’m so happy was able to be my friend’s friend and in some ways has been my angel too.  Can I say that Kathy was so giving that she shared Donna with me, and as has always been the case, Donna shared her most precious last night with Kathy when she told me to call.  I will always be grateful for them both.

Life is hard, and it’s hard to accept that for some of us, life is short.   Two things stick out for me today.  The first is what my mom said to me after Kathy moved … “If you have are able to have one good friend in your life, one really good friend, that means a lot.”   And the other is from Stephen King, from the book different seasons…

“I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12 – Jesus, did you?”

― Stephen King, Different Seasons

 

God Bless You Kathy.  I will miss you.

 

 

I just finished my fifth reading of a web article called 26 Habits of Exceptionally Successful People  by Richard Feloni.   It’s based on the teachings of Andrew Carnegie & Napoleon Hill, both experts on success.  It’s not long, it’s not complicated, but every time I read it I feel like it’s almost futile for a person like me to be a person like that.   Or is it?

When you think about a successful person who do you picture?  I could guess right now who most of you would think of, but I’m not going on record with that.   But was it a man or a woman?  Was he or she wealthy?  Did you choose a celebrity, a relative, or a politician?

The article I read, and will probably read again, lists the number one habit of  success as “making up your mind about how much success you want, and defining the terms of that success.” I never really thought much about habit #1 before because I was busy lamenting over two other things listed that I’m NOT in the habit of doing: being decisive, and paying attention to details.

One other important nugget mentioned (#2) is to know your motives.  Of course!  And what does this mean to a person like me?   It means my motives need improvement.

Sometimes I feel like I was born with defective DNA because I am not motivated to have shiny kitchen counters, vacuumed car mats, balanced checkbooks, or show up on time, every time, with everything I need….  but maybe I just need the right motivation.   Is it possible to change?  That’s an entirely separate lecture, article, and reflection but let’s say it is.  What would be the motivation for that?  Self improvement?  Leading by example? Happiness?

This brings me back to #1 habit listed in the article – defining and measuring your own success.  Given that prescription, I will define my own success by getting up everyday and doing what needs to be done, fix it up and make it do, and going to bed with my husband and three teenagers safely home, whether they like it or not,  and getting the cat in for the night.

It might sound lazy but there you go — success.

If you’d like to read the piece by Feloni, click here and have a very successful Monday y’all.

 

 

 

 

I don’t like Mondays. Does anybody?  I’ve always preferred to take a day off on a Monday over a  Friday when I want a long weekend, because I don’t want my extended weekend to end with a Monday morning.

Apparently the US Government also felt that Monday mornings were better spent away from work when they passed the Uniform Monday Holiday Law.  But what I find most  interesting about this document is that the bill was signed as law in June of 1968, but it wasn’t put into effect until January 1st, 1971 which was 155 Mondays later.

And the United States isn’t the only country who has a problem with Mondays. According to a study by Marmite, a British food company, most of us find Mondays so difficult that we can’t even smile until after 11am, half of us will be late for work on Monday and  most and will moan for around 12 minutes during the day.

Marmite’s study also offers some ways to help fight the Monday blues.  Recommendations include watching television, having sex, shopping, and eating chocolate.  I wonder how much money the spent figuring that out?

And the music industry proves the point even further with an abundance of music about Mondays, and none of it uplifting. Here are some, with links to the music videos..

I Don’t Like Mondays – The Boomtown Rats

Rainy Days and Mondays –  The Carpenters

Manic Monday – The Bangles

Monday Monday – The Mamas and Papas

Blue Monday – Fats Domino

But all is not lost with Mondays.  I did find a couple of good things. Historically Monday it’s the least rainy day of the week and it’s also the best day to buy a car.  That might be because most people shop for cars on the weekend, making salespeople happier on Monday from a great sales weekend.  Or, it’s possible that they sold no cars over the weekend  and are more desperate to meet a quota, but either way…

So my afternoon of research about Mondays has led me to this.  You should take Mondays off whenever possible, eat chocolate, have sex, enjoy the sunshine and go shopping.   When explained that way, Mondays don’t seem so bad.

    I am exhausted today, and probably will be for the next week.   And it’s just an hour right?  It shouldn’t be such a big deal to move the clock up, or back an hour, but is there really a problem with daylight?

In 1895 a man named George Hudson, for very selfish reasons, started this whole thing because he didn’t like darkness after work – it limited his bug collecting time.   His job as a postal worker in New Zealand ended in the evening and as we all know, winter daylight is shorter.  There was less time for George to walk around after work with a net and catch bugs.   Now to be fair he was a big deal bug collector, but come on!   He requested  a change in the time of day by submitting a written request to the guy in charge of New Zealand and voila! That was the first country to have Daylight Savings Time (DST).   Our buddy  George was given an award in 1927 by which time the earth was rife with time changes.

In the United  States, during and after WWI and WWII,  there were some acceptable uses for Daylight Savings Time.  But, after WWII the regulation and practicality flipped quite a bit across the country.  In the 1960’s, our transportation industry was a mess because the entire country wasn’t using the same time within the time zones, making schedule keeping a nightmare so federal regulation was again put in place.  And then in the 1970’s, the US energy crisis also required DST tweaking in order reduce the need for electricity by providing more daylight evening hours.

Sine then, Scientists, Universities, and Government Agencies have spent hundreds of millions of our dollars in research to determine whether or not DST is something we non bug collectors still need.   The results are unanimous     more research is needed.

Welcome to the USA.

So let’s go back for a minute to George Hudson, one man who liked bugs and who wrote to the guy in charge.  George changed the way the planet keeps time.   I bet I’m not the first, or only person to think it’s time for another change.  Instead of back and forth with one hour year after year can’t we  just make one permanent 30 minute adjustment across the planet and put the whole business to rest?  I guess we need a man like George Hudson again.

And I need a nap.

I’m trying to get in shape.  For me, that sentence conjures up an image of the blobby GAK product from a decade ago.  You could mold it into any shape you wanted, but, eventually it turned into a blobby slab and there was really nothing you could do about it.

I need to think more like kinetic sand.  That stuff is amazing.  It looks like regular sand but you can mold or sculpt it into any shape and it stays put.  

So in an effort to transform my GAK self into Kinetic Sand, I went to LA Fitness to take whatever ‘the next available class was’ last Sunday afternoon.   It was a cycle class, also called spinning.   There was one beginning in fifteen minutes and the current one was about to end.  I watched through the glass doors as the nice looking young girl hollered things to the cyclers in the room, motivating them to work harder.  I rehearsed what I would say.  “Hi my name is Helen, and I’ve never done this before.”  She would say, “Great! Newcomers are always welcome.  I’m Nancy, I’ll show you what to do.”

What happened instead was that Nancy left and the next instructor showed up.  His name was named Tyrone.   Have you seen The Rock?

Okay he wasn’t The Rock but he may as well have been.  So  at this point I’m not at all happy now about bringing my GAK body over to The Rock and explaining that I was new.

“Are you the teacher?”

“I am the instructor.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“I was going to take this class.”

“Okay.”

“I’m new.”

“Okay.”

“Ummm….”

“Pick a bike,”

“Are they all the same?”

“Yes.”

“This one?”

“No, you better use this one here, right in front of me.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll show you how to adjust it.  What’s your name?”

“Helen.”

“Where are you from?”

“Middletown.”

“Okay Middletown, hop on.”

Well… how did it end?   After 50 minutes of cycle time, I had a sore butt and a burning sense of victory.   I thanked Tyrone when it was over, and despite my embarrassment, when over the loud pulsing music I heard Tyrone call out “How you doing Middletown?!”  I have conquered the spinning class.

Yesterday, after my sore “bike butt” was feeling better I showed up again.  But this time there was no Tyrone.   I know I didn’t imagine it because on the class list that is taped on the door of the spinning room,  in the space where it should say Nancy, Cyclezone 2pm.   It says, TyroneZone and nothing more.   He’s not listed as a regular teacher anywhere on the schedule.  I know that I could ask at the front desk, but for now I’m just going to think of him as my guardian exercise angel because I really could use a little magic if I’m going to make  Kinetic Sand out of GAK.

 

 

This morning while stopped at a traffic light I watched a mom on a rant. It was my neighbor actually, who is a great mom to a great kid, most of the time. She was clearly annoyed with her daughter, whose gaze went everywhere except to her mother’s face. I could feel the push and pull between the two of them; the mother talking and talking without pause for her daughter to speak, and the girl, waiting for a chance to defend herself but relenting to one long sigh that went nicely with her rolling eyes. It was a clear case of the mother needing to be heard verses the girl wishing mother would just shut up. Of course it’s possible, even likely that the girl was thinking about lunch with her friends, or about a boy. I’m pretty sure she burst from the car as soon as they pulled up in front of the school and she didn’t look back, except to glare. But more importantly she won’t remember a single thing that was said in the car.   Of this I am certain.

The first thing I did when the mom/daughter duo passed by me at the traffic light was smile, happy it wasn’t me. It could have been, but it wasn’t, at least not this morning. I only had a 15 second glimpse of the scene in the minivan, the mom’s hand waving in the air, her unpainted face stuck in a grimace, a mom who’d had her fill of back talk and excuses, of lousy attitudes and empty promises from her teen. And the teenager, whose body was in the car and whose mind was a million miles away.  I get it.

The fight is exhausting.

We give them unsolicited advice. We ask what they’re up to when we already know.    We make punishments ten times larger than the offense calls for, and then when we’re too weary to follow through with the consequences, we grant them amnesty “this one time.”   Is it possible that we make them as crazy as they make us?

If there were a job posted that listed the qualifications, expectations, consequences, and pay of a mom, nobody would interview. You’d have to be crazy to take that position! But maybe that’s just it. Crazy. Yes, it is crazy to expect that their agenda, at 16 years old, could even remotely match ours. It is crazy to think that she could understand how badly I want her to mature into a decent, loving and lovable human, one who makes good choices and contributes well to society. And, it is crazy to think that I can remember high school the way she sees it today. It’s all a little nutty.

So if we are crazy, that explains the scene in the van right?  Maybe. But here’s what I also know.   The same arm that I saw waving like mad as their minivan passed my car this morning is the same arm that  will hold the girl from harms way at any cost, and that same grimacing face spewing ultimatums in the car is the same face that will say “I love you, even when you make me crazy, I love you.”

So if you lose your cool once in a while, if you know a mom who goes a little bonkers from time to time, or if you look in a minivan at the school drop off and see a mom on a rant, rest assured that this is because crazy is part of the job description.

Let’s face it; you wouldn’t get the job any other way.

I thought I’d do a little tribute to my brother in law Howard who passed away early this morning.   He was 50 years old.  Howard had a heart that didn’t work as well as it could have, maybe that was because it was doing other work –  holding so much love.

Howard was born with down’s syndrome, a genetic condition that causes individuals to have physical and intellectual challenges as they develop and mature. Most of us humans have  DNA that is made up of  23 pairs of chromosomes for a total of 46.   People with Down’s syndrome have 47 chromosomes because one of the pairs,(pair #21) is a trisomy, or a set of three instead of two. One extra. That extra genetic material is the reason Howard’s heart didn’t work so well at pumping blood, but it may also be the reason that it was extra good at loving.

For the past 15 years or so we would visit him in Long Island NY where he lived with “the guys,”  who were his housemates. Often we’d call him and he was headed off to the movies with “the guys”, or a play, or a dance, even a hockey game.    If you asked him how the game was, he’d say “Great! Very Exciting!” with as much enthusiasm as any sports fan of the winning team.   But if you asked him who won, he’d say “I don’t know,” which was the same answer he gave if you asked who was playing.  It didn’t matter who played or what the score was because Howard was there for the joy.

It was impossible to stay in a bad mood when he was around too. You know the family parties where aunts and cousins show up with their signature dishes, or flowers, or wine?  Uncle Howard had a signature dish too, he always brought a smile and hug and a warm fuzzy feeling.   He was reliably kind, and funny, and even liked being part of the clean up crew.

We were lucky enough to have him as a houseguest twice last year. and when he came to visit us he often would pick up my husband’s acoustic guitar even though he had no idea how to play it.  That didn’t stop him from strumming and singing a love song. I’m sure that Howard thought he sounded like Elvis singing a ballad and the truth is, he did not.   But none of us would tell him that because we enjoyed every heartfelt attempt he made. And if by chance somebody said “You sound awful,” I know Howard would have said “Oh, can you help me?  Can you help me sound good?”  I never knew another person who took every critique he was given as an opportunity for improvement like he did.   He just wanted to make people happy.

Desert was his favorite, or maybe desert was tied for first place with cheeseburgers.  He also liked puppies and notebooks and new pens. He loved his mother and his brother and wished hard for good things to happen in the world.  Optimistic?  Indeed.   If you asked him how he was, he always said the same thing.   “Doing good, doing great!”  It didn’t matter if he was home watching television or in the hospital with only a small chance of recovery.  Howard was always “Doing good, Doing great!”

Trisomy 21, or Down’s Syndrome comes with a host of things like delayed development, up slanted eyes,  low set ears, and speech impairment, but I think they should add extra loving to that list, at least as one possible thing you might expect from Trisomy 21.   So Howard, if you’ve left a lesson for the rest of us still walking around it should be this – life is short, look for the joy, and listen to love songs whenever you get the chance.

RIP Howard.  XOXO