Whine&Cheese: The Loss of You.

Whine&Cheese: The Loss of You.

The Loss of You.

I wish I had the words to describe the loss of you. I wish I could stop the tears that show up without warning at the thought of you-the memory of your voice, the sound of your laughter or the feeling of your shoulder bumping mine.

I know things though. I know that each of us is a better person for the time we had you with us. I know that your smile could light up a whole room-a whole family. Your ears were silly and I loved them. I know that we miss you. I know that I felt you leave. I know that we have just suffered through the longest and most painful year of our lives and it feels like only yesterday that the phone rang and you were gone. I know that it will always feel like yesterday.

I don't have the words. I don't have the words to describe the changes that have happened to your mom and your dad. Or your siblings. Or your Aunt.  Or me.



I  wish I could write something coherent and sweet and comforting...but  I don't have it in me yet. I have moments of beautiful thoughts...but when my fingers go to type, they disappear just like you. I wish you had been here for everything 2016 tried to show us-but couldn't BECAUSE FUCK YOU 2016. YOU TOOK OUR BOY.

So yeah, I guess I am a little bit angry. Not with you, my darling...but with the thought of everything you won't get to experience. And I think about you everyday and wish you were here having so many amazing firsts because being young is wonderful...and I feel guilty for my son's firsts, I'm so proud and joyful for him...but sad and mournful too. Because I want all of those things for you. If I never said it, I'm sorry...I'll say it now, You mattered. You matter. And we will never be the same because of you. And that's a good thing-but its also a tragedy.

The Sun Sets Like a Kiss Part 1.

                                                 

We remember you 

in every sun rise and sun set 

because you loved them so

We post pictures and say they are for you

 and we cry 

Because you have left us alone

 with our memories of sunrises  

and because the sun is always setting

without you to make our family rise and shine. 

                                                      

   You

   are

      gone 

     but

      haven't

      left 

      my

       heart

        even 

       once.

                                                    

For my Carr

Where do you find peace?

In a world filled with instant gratification, constant reminders of who did what and when that never shut off or go away until I turn away from keyboard and mouse,  I get lost. I get lost in the impossible reverberations of every day details from you and I lose myself.

 The practical applications of experience, ie; living , seems to be a challenge for me.   I get stupefied in a moment of indecision.  I become a deer in headlights, unable to move forward or back from the glaring headlights of a moment.

I wish this challenge of living came with a simple set of rules for every situation. In my imagination, I can accomplish anything. I think I can is a popular mantra, right? If only, my creative process could trickle over into my every day. How does one become a person of action? How does one achieve a heart's desire? How does one experience only moments of unending peace and tranquility? How does one avoid the bits of chaos and disorder that bring headlights shining in an empty face? How do I find my peace? What if there is no peace without a wild, wicked, destroying volcano force of change?

Is it wrong to be acclimated to tedium? Where is the joy? If one is supposed to be placid and timid for commonality...for comfort...how does one ever experience knowledge or growth? Why is the world so confusing and bitingly painful?

When I was young, I was sure that the life I led then was as bad as it could get. I empathized with people who endured famine and war. Because I suffered I could relate. I craved ---I hungered for something normal and safe. I believed that by making the right choices, surrounding myself with the right people I could create the right life that would bring me peace.

Where is my peace? Didn't I make enough sacrifices? Didn't I --what? Didn't I cross on the dotted line in my life contract? Where did I place that anyway? Did I forget to get it notarized? Clearly I did something wrong because this life is not exactly what I signed on for. Oh! Life!!! How you are doing me wrong. How cruel you are to me...what? My life my choice? Am I choosing to be miserable? Am I choosing to let someone else's wants and needs dictate my decisions? Well, of course, I am a wife and mother. If I have learned anything over the years, I know that it is NOT all about me. Life seems to be one big compromise after the next. I don't think I even know how to stand up and take my life back without being a bigger asshole than I apparently am.

Where is my peace? Where am I? I'm not quite frozen by fear in the middle of the road. My legs are wobbling--they want to move.  I'm still standing there...but dammit, I am ready to flee, I just don't know which direction to go. Safety? Peace?  I've never found it. But, I haven't stopped looking either.

Living the American Dream

     My American dream has always been to have a big house with a huge yard. I have fantasised for years about the gazebo that will grace our property and of the room in the house that is all pink and purple, and glittery that no one but I am allowed to enter.  In this dream world of mine, my husband would like to have a room just for playing music and an area that can fit all his tools and machines.

     If you know me, then you know that my family was hit hard by the economic downturn in 2008. If you know me, you also know that our family circumstances have rebounded well, thanks to the automotive bailout. If you know me, you know that my hubs and I have a list. Anytime one of us says "I need..." or , "You know what I really want?" The other one of us will say, "Put it on the list..."

     The list in our home is kind of like our American dream. Anything can and does go on the list. Our list includes things like: a new TV, a sectional that will fit our round living room, a sectional that would fit someone elses living room, or a chair, or a footstool...our list also includes things like: turning half of our huge garage into a sun room, buying a jacuzzi, and heading to Disney Land.

     Our list, very clearly is about THINGS! This is ironic because my hubs and I take great pride in the fact that we don't worry about keeping up with the neighbors or our friends. Reading over our list shows me that although we aren't super extravagant in our wishes(yet!), we are very clearly on our way.

     I wouldn't have recognized this fact if it weren't for my teenage son. As his mother, I try to stay connected with him. I ask him how he feels, if he has any plans and how his day is going.  A few days ago I asked him how he was doing, while I was driving him home from a friends. My son reached over and gave me a little hug and told me," Of course I am fine,  Mom, I am living the American dream. "

     Sometimes, I am a little boggled by the intensity of irony in this new generation, and I have to really think about what and how my son is reacting to my questions. Needless to say, I asked if he was serious! He smiled at me and gave me a list of reasons why his life was good: he has a roof that keeps him warm,(our tiny little house), he has good friends, he loves his school, and his family takes great care of him.

     NOWHERE in my sons list did he mention loving anyTHING. His American dream gave me food for thought about my American dream. I'm thinking that maybe I need a new list. So, here it is.
      
     Reasons Why I am Grateful: 

     I am grateful to have The Todd in my life. My hubs keeps me laughing (even when I am so angry I could explode), and sets an excellent example for how a man should work hard and take care of his family. He works hard at listening to what I am saying...which isn't easy, America, because I have   A LOT to say. He encourages me to follow my dreams and to set goals. He still dances. He has my heart.

     I am grateful that my son Alfred has grown so wise. He has matured so much this last year, and I am proud of the example he is setting for his little brother. I am also grateful that Fred has inherited his Papa's easy smile and his fathers charm.

     I am grateful for my Lewie. He is sensitive. He is kind. He wants to do his best. He is full of funny. He is funny in a way that I never would have dreamed of at his age. (I recently recognized that he inherited his Papa's sense of humor! and I am definitely grateful for that. )He has pride, and ego, and character.

     I am grateful for the friendships I have. My sweet Jodi, Kristen and Cathy are family to me. They are my soul sisters. They have kept me sane with their unconditional love and devotion. 

     I am grateful that Jodi spent the last month of summer tutoring Alfred in Spanish, even though he didn't get it first semester. And that she always calls me back when I call...and says yes to every insane last minute idea that pops into my head.
 
     I am grateful that Kristen listens to my unending tirade against life like I am a comedian. I hope she knows I steal all of my best lines from her! I am grateful that she is a crutch when I need someone to lean on and a boot when I need motivation.

    I am grateful to have met and instantly recognized a sister in my amazing Momma Cathy! She makes me laugh til I pee (literally, dammit Cathy!), doesn't expect or want me to censor myself(except when our kids are present, but that’s how I roll too!) and gracefully accepted the burden of mothering my children when I couldn't be there.

     I am grateful for my extended family. You are there when I want you and when I don't! My cousins are like brothers and sisters. I am grateful to have finally realized how much I need the flavor you add to my life.

     I am grateful for Todd's family. You are mine now too. And I love each and every one of you. You took me in when mine threw me out, and I will always appreciate the way you welcomed me in and held on.

     I am grateful to live in a neighborhood where everyone knows each other and is willing to send over an onion or an egg, dog food or a garbage bag whenever needed. I am grateful that I could spend my mornings sharing coffee and kids and chaos all summer long.  
  
      I have so much more to be thankful for, more than I could ever list. I guess Freddy is right, this is the American dream.

You Are My Sunshine

     On this dreary but strangely peaceful rainy Sunday, I have woken with a desire to write about mothers. Mothers are the foundation of life. The pinnacle of the food chain. A good mother can make you great, a loving mother can make you love, a sad mother will make you sad, a mother who loves life will make you live. I would like to talk about the woman who made me live today. She has been in my heart sharing her smile with me for years.
    
    A few weeks ago I attended an event known as The Moth. It is an event that occurs once a month all over this beautiful country of ours. During the course of the evening, strangers will gather to share stories. Ten lucky ones are able to stand in front of the room and share their true life stories, be judged and rated, win and lose. It is a competition. I have put speaking like this in public on my bucket list. However, that night I didn't speak, didn't even try. The topic for the evening was Mothers....I didn't know what to say on this oh so very complicated subject. For weeks, I have been thinking, what would make a good story? If I had spoken, who's story would I have shared? My amazing grandmother? My complicated childhood? My own mom who has so many stories buried inside her, but very few she will share? and then I remembered one of the amazing speakers from my night at The Moth. The mother was talking about her son and his food allergies and how she loves him but she could kill him...which I kept repeating because it was so profound...then I realized if I had spoken that night of nights there was only  one woman whom I  would have been able to speak of.  This woman saved my life.

     *This is not easy for me to write, friends, but I would like to pay tribute to this woman today. For her I will be brave and speak truth.

      Growing up with an alcoholic for a father was a challenge. I loved my dad, and I know that he loved me, I say this truthfully: He was a good man.  However, when he drank he was either super funny or incredibly bitter. There were a few shades of grey in there, but these were the most frequent realities of life with him. There were nights when I would wake to hear him yelling, my parents fighting, nights when my siblings and I would huddle together on the stairs holding hands with our hearts pounding and our eyes super wide...terrified of what would happen next. Sometimes his rages would carry on until the early hours, or sometimes the police would come to the door and "encourage" our family to go somewhere else until my dad calmed down. Sometimes we would all barricade ourselves in my moms bedroom until the morning.

     How do I describe the jealousy and angst I felt toward my normal friends and family? I don't have the words. But it is a personality trait that I still carry. I don't share well. Ever. and I want my kids to feel normal so badly that I have built an invisible wall of acceptable behavior that you cannot cross if you want to be in our lives...it can be a little stifling.
  
    As a young girl, I felt out of place. I truly thought every neighbor could see our shame. That when I would step out the door, those lights on top of the police cruiser would be going off and everyone would be looking out their windows. When I was 11 years old, in the fifth grade, I wanted to die.  Every night for months I would steal a bottle of pills from my dad, usually his blood pressure medicine and stand at the bathroom sink, looking at myself in the mirror and seeing the ugly girl who didn't have a future because of where she came from...sometimes I would pour the pills into my hand and once I even put some in my mouth...I was so very sad. 

     I'm not sure how she heard, maybe I screamed at my mom in one of my adolescent rages that I wanted to die, maybe my mom told her...but one Easter at my grandparents house, she took me aside and asked me to take a walk with her. With a serious look in her eye, she asked me if I wanted to talk. She listened and then she told me how special I was. She gave me this little notebook with a puppy on it. Then she sang to me. She made me laugh and she made me cry. She gave me hope that day. She made me feel loved.

     My aunt Linda Kay didn't forget about me or my problems. She called me to check up on me. She invited me to sleepovers at her house. She called herself my second mother. She called herself that for a lot of kids. But for me, she meant it and I knew it. She gave me life.

     Linda Kay Berger...my moms fun loving younger sister was born with a hole in her heart and was never expected to live to see 18 or be able to have children. This grandmother passed away in her sixties after living a full life--getting married a few times, having a couple of kids, bingo, bowling, and having a good  laugh the whole way. When she died, my quirky aunt was loved by many and missed by all who knew her.

      At her funeral, my cousin asked if there was anything anyone wanted to say about his mom. There must have been 100 people standing around the crypt where her ashes were going. I didn't speak up, in my heart I did...today I will..."You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You'll never know dear how much I love you...please don't take my sunshine away. " Happy Mothers Day Aunt Linda. I love you.
    

Time for Love

Driving this morning hopped up on a mocha latte espresso(awesome! combo) my wandering fingers found Alan Jackson's Livin on Love.  Couldn't help thinking bout my Grandparents, how much they loved each other and how much I am missing them today.

Hazel Marquerite Groat and (William) Clare Beaudry met and fell instantly in love at a baseball game. My grandpa was playing a game with his friends(Hazel's brother being one of them) and my Grandma was flipping the score cards on the board. They were too young to get married, she was only 15 years old and he wasn't much older.  Against the wishes of her family they married and had 11 children. Raising their large family was a financial burden, but it didn't hinder their commitment to each other. During their life time they survived the depression, being estranged from family (the marriage wasn't looked on fondly ) being separated for two years during World War II,  the loss of their young son,a daughter born with a hole in her heart, and both working many jobs as they made ends meet, as well as living with the challenges of emphysema and diabetes in their later years.

                                                          
We live in a society that doesn't seem to have much staying power. Marriages seem to be as disposable as Kleenex. My Grandparents were married for 59 years and I know they weren't always easy ones. However, my grandparents were having  a glorious love affair with each other and I know that is what got them through the tough times. 

Growing up, I spent many of my weekends and family vacations staying with my grandparents, I called them Papa and Meemaw. My grandma always wore red lipstick, had her hair done and had red nail polish on her fingers. She played bingo, talked to her daughters every day, and didn't take any bologna from kids. My grandpa was always convinced that my grandma was busy flirting with the old men if she took too long at the grocery store. He watched baseball(all the flippity doo dah time!), watched CBS soap operas, and gave great advice.

                                           
                                                     
My Grandma was a lady. Sure, she swore sometimes...but hell, damn, and sh#$ were the absolute limits. She twinkled and she was a charmer. As a child, I was terrified of my grandma. As a teenager I was in awe of her. The older I became, the more clearly I saw her. A woman with 10 kids to raise, hold down a job(or two), and keep her home up  had to be tough. As I aged, I saw her resiliency come through. She was there for everyone in her life. Always giving a smile, a phone call, a meal, or a dollar.

                                                          

My Papa was the same way. He gave nicknames to the grand kids...oddly appropriate ones...mine was Weasel. He was always reorganizing his home, or building a lamp or visiting his kids. Or in my case, attending the Daddy/Daughter dance dressed up in his best suit and sitting with the other dads clapping for the girls singing and dancing out on the dance floor.

My grandparents had so much love for each other that it overflowed and spilled out to the rest of us. Days spent with them were filled with laughter and stories told sitting at the dining room table playing kings in the corner or 10,000. There are many examples I could share with you of how madly and  deeply they were in love...but I will give just a few of my favorites. Driving with my grandparents to Algonac to spend the day with  family my Grandma put her hand on my Papa's where it was resting on the stick shift and they drove like that the whole way(they lived in Fraser).   My favorite moment happened once around the time my Grandma's kidney's started to give out on her. My Grandpa was sitting in his recliner in the corner of the living room, and my Grandma was walking by. I was sitting on the couch. My Grandpa just said her name...real soft...and she looked over at him and smiled(twinkled at him)...and he smiled back. She walked back to him and sat on the arm of his chair and kissed him. They had to be at least in their late 70's...

                                                              
I thought of them today and I cried just a little.  I wish everyone could be inspired by this  kind of love or at least have the opportunity to share it.

                                                       

                                                              

A Musical Tribute

Today I would like to share my thanks for some of the people who help to get me out of bed in the morning.  I have decided to share songs instead of stories. The songs selected are each significant to myself and the person I am thanking.  Each one is indicative of a moment, a memory, an event that we have experienced together.


The one I love the most! He keeps me sane, and grounded(as in feet on the ground!) and is a part of the voices in the back of my head(as in a conscience!) and still likes to dance.

My First Born. The child I birthed and tried to change my whole self for in the hopes of raising him right. It feels like I gave him all my hopes and aspirations to carry...what a heavy burdon for a young man. (I'm trying to take them back, and let him have his own!)

The young one. The little boss man in our house. He says jump and we say how high. Begrudgingly we move but every smile he gives out is precious to my heart. This was a tough nut to crack...he's sensitive, I don't want to break that creative spirit waiting to take flight.

 My soul sister who I still live vicariously through

My Sweet Friend who shares the burden of dysfunction and teenagers with me and gives me laughter instead of tears and a swift kick in the pants instead of sympathy

My Friend who seems more lost than found and is too far away for me to ever see, I miss our moments of shared insanity...and looking back, those are some of my favorite days

Sometimes, it feels as if the world has left me alone in a puddle and there isn't anything except rain to look forward to. Each of these people has handed me an umbrella, given me a hand or shown me in some special way that the sun will shine again. I won't name them they know who they are. I would be lost and quite possibly drown with out them.

Detroit Crazy Eyes or the D. C. E

     Tonight I would like to introduce you to the concept of crazy eyes. Many times in my young(ahem!) life, I have encountered someone who is not quite sane. Yes, some of you might remember my old neighbor Mary who would water my plants until they drowned to death every summer, who collected cats, and shopped HSN all day long. Mary had eyes that were the size of saucers and she believed everything she said so intensely that she would never blink. Mary had all kinds of crazy...but this eventide's story is not about her. Tonight's story is about the Motor City. That's right. I'm talking Detroit, baby.
    Sometimes, when you head downtown and park away from Jefferson, you pass people. Folks will be siting on a wall, the ledge of a building or parked in a folding chair right next to a parking lot. Some people will be sitting with friends, talking and laughing...others will be sitting by themselves...talking and laughing or (worse) arguing and gesturing angrily...still sitting by themselves.
     When I pass a group I might say a polite hello or excuse me...when I pass the  lone chatter, I will usually steer a kid by the shoulder to the far side of the walkway. Generally , I will try to NOT make eye contact with the lone stranger--not because I am trying to be polite and ignore the personal conversation he  is having with himself, and not because of a misguided sense of superiority. The main reason I won't make eye contact with a lone stranger downtown, talking to himself is because of his eyes.  The twitchy one on the right, that narrows to give you the "what are you looking at?"look...or the one that is all bloodshot and angry widening to stare you down for walking on his side of the street.
     Yep, we know that look. Normally we just hustle by as quickly as possible, but every once in a while one of us catches the eye. By one of us, I am referencing my husband and our sons. The one best able to shrug off and move on after an experience with the Detroit Crazy Eye is my husband, Todd. I think this is because he was born and raised in the city. He doesn't talk about it too much, but I am starting to think that the D. C. E. was an every day experience for him.
     Well, I  surely never thought to see it on our side of town. But I did. Tonight the D C E invaded my home.  Tonight the D C E was almost responsible for my sweet husband losing his mind. Tonight I watched him silently struggle and overcome a personal bout with D C E. How does this happen you ask? Well, the easy answer is "teenagers." The complicated part of the story includes one phone call home in the middle of the day while my son was in English. And then another one while he was at his after school club...and one frustrated momma passing the buck. But I wouldn't have if I had known what it would drive my husband to do. (BTW: no children or animals were harmed in the writing or experiencing of this story)

     This is the story of  what happened when the Father had to deal with the boy. Simply put, he ranted and raved. He talked himself silly with his calmness. He questioned the boys sanity ( while clearly struggling with his own) and then he got very very quiet. He crossed his arms in front of himself and then his eyes got really big.  They were as wide as I have ever seen them, and his blue irises were almost silver in their radiance. I do not say radiance lightly. There was a fever in my husbands eyes tonight that I have never seen before...they glowed with a silent fury that heated the room. If our son was a ball of snow, he would have been melted by the intensity of silence.  It was that moment when I realized the crazies I have seen before are pretty normal. I will no longer shudder in fear when I walk by...because I have truly met the Detroit Crazy Eye...and he lives with me.

A Visit With My Dad

     Yesterday, while I was sleeping I tried to find my father. When he first died, I was fifteen and in the ninth grade. At that time, I would often dream of him...finding him deep in a forest, somewhere in time standing along a riverbank having a picnic. Those dreams were rich in flavors. I could smell the grass and his cologne and best of all--I could hold his hand and breathe in the aroma of a fathers love.
     Yesterday, I tried to find him. In my dream I knew he was alive, but he was hiding from me. I became frantic, desperate to find him. My heart was pounding and I broke into a sweat and anxiety was crawling over me. Until I remembered he was gone. Then, I knew why I couldn't find him. But it isn't because he is dead, deceased, singing with angels...it is because he is ashamed of me.
      My father always warned us girls to stick together. Often when we would fight he would tell us that we were going to need each other. That one day he and my mom would be gone and we(Kelly and I ) were going to be all that was left of our family. My dad knew this from bitter experience. He hadn't spoken to one of his brothers for 45 years and didn't ever reconcile before his death. His oldest brother came in and out of his life...maybe once every 10 years or so...until my dad got sick. Then his brother was there for him every day...
     My dad treated his girls like princesses. I was the high maintenance one, and my sister was more like a tomboy...but we were both his Pumpkins...and he was our Daddy.  The loss of my dad in hindsight, seems to be the beginning of the end for our family. For a few years we stuck together, but then puberty and boys and money problems and anger and shame started to trickle into our lives and tear us apart.
     At this time, I am not speaking to my sister.  Can I tell you why? I wish I knew.  What do I think happened? Well, a few years ago, I had the worst year of my life since 1990 when I lost my dad. I lost my father in law, and a few other pretty scary...I don't want to repeat the details...things happened, my husband left the state for work...and I felt alone...well...these were the times I was supposed to rely on my sister...the only connection I had left with my dad. Sadly, she wasn't there for me. I don't know ...I have spent years trying to rebuild a connection with her...I think I just gave up trying to make do with the paltry relationship she was willing to give. See...the truth of the matter is , she replaced me...and I haven't been able to forgive her. Family is supposed to be there for you forever and no matter what...that was the lesson my dad tried to tell...that is what our entire extended family always spouted. But we grow up and we all grow away and stay busy with our own lives and those of our children. I seem to be able to forgive anyone for anything...except for her and except for myself. I truly believe that if my sisters replacement for me had a child any time over the last 20 years, she would have no need for my children...and absolutely none for me.
     This is why I couldn't find my father. He shames me in my dreams for not being bigger than my emotions. He reminds me with his  silence that I am older and should set a good example and make the first move...regardless of age and pride.
    When I was small, my dad would play this silly game with me. I would walk past him and he would grab my hand. I would try to pull away, but he was so strong...and I would jump into his lap and bury my head into his shoulder  laughing while he  would wrap his arms around me.  That is how love feels to me. One of my last memories of my dad was when he was hospitalized with the cancer that claimed him. My big 250 pound dad was reduced to a skeleton under a sheet when my sister and I walked in to say our goodbyes. When I leaned over to kiss his emaciated cheek, he reached out to hold my hand and squeezed it with the little strength he had left...that was love...it was goodbye and it was the last time I saw him alive..
    Love no matter what, no matter when...that is supposed to be the message of family...it should be our family motto...maybe then...I would have  a family again.

10 Most Recent Blogs That Should Have Been Written But Weren't

I would like to offer an apology to my readers(all 4 of you). I am sorry that I haven't made time to write. I would like to reassure you that even when my page is silent, my mind is writing pages and storing them for later use. As an apology and an expression to my democratic commitment, I would like to offer you my 10 Most Recent Blogs That Should Have Been Written But Weren't. If you care to spend a moment perusing my ideas and comment on the ONE that you would most like to read...I will write the one that majority rules dictate.
And So....
                    10 Most Recent Blogs That Should Have Been Written But Weren't

1. Where have all the flowers gone...or..He Farts A Lot...aka...The Flowers are dead because he farts a lot

2 .The Series' I Obsess About

3. Why Babies are Better than Big Kids

4. Reason's Why No One Likes a Teenager

5. If I want you to get all A's, I guess I better start doing your homework

6. The Reason God Makes Kids Cute

7. The Things That Lift Me Up

8. Letting Go

9. The Best Man I Know(Also ties in to item #1)

10. Things I love

(Extra's)

11. The Best Advice is Usually the Stuff You Always Refused to Try

12.Why Living on a Budget is Fun! (please don't pick this one)!

13. Why Don't More Kids Ride Bikes?

14. Tour De Troit

15. My Anniversary(Ties into #1 & 9)

Little Shoes

     Today is the day I have been waiting 13 years for.  A day which signifies the passing of a generational shoe...err...torch....err...maybe I should start wtih the beginning.  One day while I was in the early stages of my first pregnancy I heard this crazy rumor about the Shrine of the Little Flower in Royal Oak. The rumor was concerning Italian leather shoes...for kids. Those of you who know me, know about my passion for shoes. I will buy two Pair of the same shoe if I think they are really cute.
     The rumor about the Shrine of the Little Flower was true. Twice a year someone donates brand new Italian leather shoes to raise money for the church. Each pair is  $5 regardless of size. Twice a year the SOTLF holds a Mom to Mom sale.
     This lover of  all things soley woke at an ungodly hour to get in the front of the line for this, her very first Mom to Mom sale. As early as I was, I wasn't early enough(I arrived at 7 and doors didn't open til 8) to be first in line. Upon reaching the room holding the array of super cute awesome Italian leather shoes for my unborn child, I was in a quandary. My child who would wear these shoes was still in utero. Completely undetected by the human eye unless  revealed by word of mouth.
     This shoe loving mother had no idea of the sex of her unborn shoe user and  still no idea what size shoe to buy. I remember the scent of leather and how the background noise was nothing more than the eery buzzing of a bee as my hand reached out and unconcsiously selected a pair of  shoes, The shoes are a dark mauve, almost  a dusky rose,one shade on the toe and a deeper glossy shade on the heel., they are a boot shoe and completely gorgeous...and utterly wasted on me because a few weeks later I discovered my son would not be wearing this infant shoe. Nether of my sons have worn this one pair of Italian leather shoes that have traveled from baby's room to baby's room in our various homes.
     This gorgeous pair of leather shoes have finally reached the end of their journey.  My babies are all grown and my baby making days are over. It is time to pull this gorgeous pair of shoes out of the closet and hand them over to the next generation of shoe lovers. Today, I dedicate my heart and my love of shoes to my beautiful new cousin Roan.  I think Roan's momma is a bit of a tomboy and sweet Roan might learn how to swing a hammer before she learns to play with dolls...but maybe if she starts  life out with the right pair of shoes...she will be heading in the right direction.

Let's talk about Girls...

     This post is about my darling Alfreddy. For the first 12 years of his life, my boy child was a child. The last few months have been a huge challenge for me personally.  My sweet son is finally 13 and he is surrounded by girls, all the time. Mostly he is surrounded by the teens on our block. Or at his tennis class, or the pool.  I should add that my bff has stated her opinion that I will make the absolute worst mother-in-law. This opinion is probably due to my inability to not micromanage. Her opinion was stated when Fred was 3. I always hoped she would be mistaken, but I am starting to think she is RIGHT!

    So, there is a problem on my block. Simply stated...I don't like teenage girls. They walk past my house a hundred times a day. They are constantly instant messaging him. They travel in packs. They don't seem to have a curfew(I didn't either, but I'm going to  hold it against them even though I turned out alright.).Worst of all, is that although they are the same age as my son, these girls look OLD and act it. I'm not talking cougar old,but  definitely more senior high than middle school.

     OK, there is another problem on my block. Alfred isn't ever home. He is hanging out with his friends at other houses (houses where the parent's don't seem to see the dangerous glint in those lady tiger cubs eyes). I think the true reason that Fred isn't home is because he is (oh-horror-of-all-horrors!) embarrassed by his mother(ME!).

    I would like to be different. I would like to be ok with these little (hussies)girls coming over, offering glasses of lemonade or plates of cookies.  I sometimes think to myself that I would behave well if Fred just introduced me to the young(harlots) ladies. Maybe I could share the gems of wisdom that I gleaned over the years.

     The truth of the matter is, these girls don't stand a chance with me. I see them walking around after dark, with their loud voices and their cell phones and I recognize them. I know who they are without having a single conversation. I know them because I was them. My girls and I made almost every wrong choice to be made at the same age those girls are...and we loved it. Just like them. 

    Although I would love to envision a time when Fred and his friends will come hang out at our house again, I won't hold my breath.

My question for all of you parents of sons(sorry to the moms and dads of daughters), how do you talk with your boys about girls? How do you start that conversation about making good choices and how not to be influenced by kids with different values than your parents? How do you know when there has been enough said? 

Ode to Lewie

     Today I would like to share a day from my past..  When my boys were little, summer was (and still is) my favorite time to spend with them.  Back when Lewis was a toddler, I worked nights and mornings were an awful chore. The South Lake school district can verify this if you would like me to pull up some tardy/truancy/lady-why-can't -you-get-this-kid-to-school-on-time letters...poor Fred. Anyway, the point is mornings were never my strong suit. But our summer mornings were glorious.
     Our day would always start with our dog King. He is a big boned hairy beast of a gentle giant mutt. Our days usually began by letting the doggy out in our pajamas-with Lewis riding piggy back on me and Freddy holding the door. Our back yard is tiny, I mean small, I mean almost so small we are sitting in our neighbors yard when we barbecue. When my boys were small though, my yard was just the right size.
     While the dog was relieving himself, the boys and I would forage from our garden pieces of broccoli, string beans, snap peas and if we were lucky-very tiny strawberries. This would be our breakfast. Under the sun, with the dog--every day.
     OH--and of course, at a certain point before, after, or during our meal there was usually bubbles.  Both my boys loved to chase bubbles.Heck I still love bubbles. But when they were smaller we would find the biggest bubble wand and bowl  and have bubble extravaganza's. At a certain point during our morning, my little piece of green would be a frothing mess of bubbles and a medley assortment of giggles and barks and crashes as tables and people would topple over and bubbles would spill and vegetables would have to be re-picked.
     I miss those beautiful mornings. Obviously I am feeling a little melancholia today. My baby is 9 and my biggest is 13 (holy crap!) and our mornings have definitely changed. I ran across a poem I wrote for Lewis one  summer when he was about 2. He was super opinionated even then. I  think I wrote this for my benefit, to try and understand him a little better. It is short and sweet, I hope you like it.

Morning shimmers with delight of summer
Feather-like winds blow laughter
Sparkling dew glistens from shining eyes
Baby browns reminiscent of trees
Open defiance stout like pine
Love in skin like spring
Lewie

Why I dance

Welcome to day 2 of  Whine & Cheese. For those of you know me well you know that these are my vices. I love to complain, drink wine, eat  cheese and make schmaltzy jokes. For those of you who don''t know me, the secret is out..
     What can I share with you that you havent' heard before? I haven't a clue. I don't know who is reading this or what you have experienced today.  However, I have  had a moment of clarity. An epiphany and , if you will indulge me, I will  reveal the moment. ..
     I dance. Sometimes I dance 4-5 times a week.  I escape the mild chaos that is my home, lace up my huaraches, grab the biggest bottle of water I can find, my favorite cd, and a towel---and I drive with my windows down, singing loudly and smiling at strangers until  I get to my class. My class has helped me rediscover myself.   While moving to the latin beats, I feel young again.   The turmoil of my life seems to fall off my shoulders like sweat and melt into the floor  to be  pounded into nothing by my dancing feet.

     During my day I can't help but think about the people who have let me down.  The ones I was raised to believe would always be there for me and hold me up when I really want to crawl away and hide. The last few years have been very difficult for me emotionally as well as physically.  The loss of  my best friend and father in law was a heavy blow. The loss of my sister and brother is challenging in another way. How strange to miss people who aren't gone.  The whole year- 2009-wrapped me in an ugly bubble of discontent and almost stole my smile and my hope.
     I won't even mention the people I spent the last five years of my life sharing time with.  That is an ache I am going to ignore for as long as possible. Except for one. She brought me to my first dance class. She was my dancing buddy for almost a year.She and I have known each other for a long time. I am so very tired of losing people who matter. I am exhausted holding onto petty grudges and the principles I espouse are hanging on by a thread. Tonight I shared a moment with someone who hurt me( Probably she didn't mean to, possibly I deserved it).My moment:  a simple greeting, a conversation and of course a hug.
     My epiphany happened as I drove away. I felt  as if a tiny crack in my heart was healed. Now I know that when I dance, my heartache disappears and I have peace. 

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Why am I blogging?

     To blog or not to blog has been the question in my head these last few months. Blogging seems like a wonderful way to share feelings and emotions . It seems like a fun way to keep in touch. It seems like a gesture of good faith, a way to share your life and truths with friends and strangers. Unless, like me, you are afraid of letting the true "you" shine. In that case, starting a blog is a terrifying venture.
    
     So the truth for me  is going to sometimes be ugly. Quite possibly, it won't be funny. It might even make you feel a little dirty.  I am tired of analyzing each word and gesture. I am exhausted from living in this vacuum of what people will think.   I would like to apologize before I even get started because I am really too tired to apologize after this.