Senior Skip Day

Life fades. The normal course is not to have things ripped away. Trauma comes in ripping, but the fading leaves quietly without notice. In peaceful moments, I often mark time with the thought: This is life... my life.

True and not true. It is, and it isn't.

For, Experience reminds me that I can no more hold onto the present than I can grasp falling water. Passing over fingertips, effects are felt, but don't remain. Every present is a part, a series of weavings that one day will form a whole, will one day reveal a story completed. Only then will I say with certainty: This is my life.

Today is 'Senior Skip Day'

So... today is Senior Skip Day. Translation: Mom of Senior has to Drive Carpool Day. It's on a morning like this I am taken back to passing water.

Mom Back in the Carpool Saddle

Turning the Expedition into the school driveway, I nostalgically observed a steady stream of parents filtering into grade and middle school lots. Whistle-blowing, hand-waving traffic directors braving the cold temperatures with mittens and earmuffs. Dads on cell phones scheduling daily appointments. Moms with no-so nicely coiffed hair, toddlers in tow. Moms with business suits, sipping the a.m. brew. Slightly older moms heading kidless toward the morning work-out.

Experiences Fade

A beehive of activity in which this Mom of Senior- who- normally -drives- carpool no longer daily partakes. I looooove having a son who drives...yet, this morning, I remembered how the water once felt, and I experienced a fading.

Fabric Fades

The fabric on my favorite windowseat daybed gets all the morning sun. Mac the Labradoodle knows how fabulous a nap can be on this spot! I know one day the sun will steal away all color. Fading.

Daily Rituals Fade

Nightly bedtime gatherings at the Kinleystead were ritualistic in the early years. Stories, prayers, giggles, and poking standard fare. Clayton always asked for a "hug and pat-pat". Davis was the one needing more water. Stuart dutifully remained in bed. Fading.

The 'Lasts' Fade

Yesterday Davis, while at a friend's house, had left on two lights with dirty clothes covering his floor. I walked into his room and wondered," When will I... turn this light off for the last time? When will I... pick-up the last dirty sock?" This, too, will fade.

My Stuart is a Senior

My skipping senior just entered the front door from spending the night out, made a mid-morning lunch, and headed up to his room to eat and play a video game. I can see the fading and know its quiet. I just closed my eyes, felt the water, and wondered how I could be the mom of another senior boy.

"Hop on up, Mac" I said, motioning for my fuzzy friend to claim her place on the sunny daybed.

"Enjoy the moment...this will also...fade.

Twenty Four Hours

Does everyone really get the same amount of time each day...the same twenty four hours? When I get to the end of each day, I am always disappointed at how little I seemed to have accomplished. I observe people whom I admire and, many times, they seem to possess the ability to get more done.

Gets My Goat

The type of person who really "gets my goat" ("gets my goat"...from where did that come and what does it mean? Or, better yet, why did I use it?).
The internet is great...just looked up that "gets my goat" expression and am now glad I used the expression all the more. Seems that race horses got anxious before races, so, to calm them down, the horse owners placed goats in front of each horse. Whatever works, I suppose. Anyway, in order to affect the race's outcome, goats were stolen and horse owners were angered.
I am that race horse... anxious to make it out of the gate... overly competitive... easily excited and wild. I want to go places, and I want to get there with great speed. Anything or one who gets in my way, including goat thieves, frustrate me. So, yeah, the type of person who really gets my goat is the one who seems to complete the list of tasks plus all the relational stuff and solitude.

My Overactive Imagination

Maybe I just read too many magazines. My ultimate phantom person is the woman living the artist's lifestyle... on a farm outside a major city with her husband, children, and photogenic dog. She has the time to cultivate an herb garden, gather fresh eggs from her prized chickens,and prune antique roses which don't seem to have those black spot things all over them like mine do. She's not Martha Stewart (I'm not into her). She's more like Tasha Tudor the artist of my childhood book which I loved so much and which Mac ate one day for no reason.

Read About This Artist

Recently, I was reading about one such artist whose work I enjoy. Oh, and, their husbands always quit their jobs and get on board. Maybe, he's the one getting the eggs, pruning ,and such.

(Pause for laughter as I close my eyes and think about my husband...no...that's not a good thought...more like a nightmare...he can't even keep the dogs for a weekend without me. The thought of him chasing down chickens and putting them in coops along with bloodied hands from roses popped into my head).

Buying Trips to France

Anyway, this artist seemed to have it all. They always live outside of New York so they can drop by their flagship retail shop in SoHo at will. And they always go frequently to the French countryside for flea market excursions.

In Her Cute Chicken Coop Studio

Yet, there she is...drinking coffee and sketching in her old- chicken- coop- turned- studio, dog at her feet. Who's minding the cute kids? And who cooked that really good dinner on the following page?

Let's Get 'Real'

Do we all really get the same twenty four hours each day? I'm just wondering about this as I drink coffee with my really cute dog napping beside me, gazing out the back window of my 1920's Tudor-style house toward a huge rubbish pile from the basement cleaning and the 3/4 complete fire pit project that needs landscaping in order to be complete while contemplating my art table covered with dust.