No Birthday Pony...Again

Another year of spinning around for 365 days; my perspective on the world has been altered by the spinning.

Yesterday was my birthday... and, once again, there was NO pony.

Gaining a new perspective is always the greatest birthday gift of all. When I was young every birthday was totally ALL ABOUT ME. It took me 50 years to get over that warped view of life. 

I thought the world should give me lots of stuff and allow me to travel to cool places for my celebration or give me a new screened- in porch so people would quit asking why I have a door which leads to no where (a story for another time). 

Frankly, time has taught me that "birthday magic" costs more the older I get, and the stuff which once thrilled me in my youth no longer has the same zing when the calendars' pages flip by faster than an old Cary Grant movie sequence. 

In fact, the calendars' pages turn so quickly now that I am considering using them as a fan to cool my kitchen.

On this year's birthday, even though I gave my own self flowers and baked my own cake...

...and cleaned my house for my own party and made all my guests look at old photos of ME and I bought my own gift (for which my sweet husband gave me money), it wasn't about me this year. I didn't expect the world to alter its course to revolve around me. Instead, I made a decision to embrace my true gifts of...

...a mom who has devoted her entire life to her children and grandchildren, and...

...brothers and sons (missing one plus awesome daughter-in-law who later called me) and nieces (missing one who later sent me a text ) and a husband (who took this picture) and a dad (who is happily in heaven and told me right before he died, "There are only two things in life which are important: family and God") and two dogs which make my life both hectic and sweet and my new finches which are singing as I type and Gipsy the Teardrop (which my husband sacrificed to give to me because he is awesome like that) and Hillcrest Cottage which provides a place to make my life happen.

The wisdom-gift I opened on this birthday was that my true gifts are all around me and that if I am always looking for the next big thing... 

I will miss all the blessing of today.

Runners to Your Marks

I do not do transitions well. A day like this last day of 2011 finds me melancholy.

Looking ahead to the horizon I see nothing but changes in this unknown 2012.

There will be goals achieved. There will be celebrations of huge importance.

Our oldest son will toss his hat into the air with a meaning which only a West Point cadet can understand



and have bird seed tossed at him with a zeal which only wedding guests can perform.

My youngest son will finish high school and begin college. I will finish 23 years of parenting. I will begin the days when Hillcrest Cottage's walls will quietly whisper the stories of boyhood sword fights, marathon video game parties, late night kitchen raids, and the loud laughter of family gatherings.

Yes, the walls will talk. They will talk a lot.

They will speak of the love we do here, of forgiveness, of grace, of a thousand 'I love you' moments, of acceptance and belonging. The yucky stuff, sifted through grace, will be trampled underfoot and swept aside as rubbish. The good stuff will rise as a sweet aroma full of goodness,

like the smell of bacon on a snowy morning.

In this new 2012, I will write about transitions... a lot. I will talk about finishing... a lot.

If you care to join my 2012 roller coaster ride, you may understand what it means to accomplish a worthy goal. I imagine the lows will be very low and the highs will be very high.

And... as life goes... I am certain there will be a sprinkling of unexpected sorrows and joys.

My motto for 2012 of "Finish Strong" finds its roots in Hebrews 12;1,2:

Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus.

Runners to your mark... get set... GO.

The Lettered Cottage is hosting a "Word for the Year" link party. She is encouraging us to periodically post blogs relating to our chosen word.

Sr. Prom : To Be or Not To Be? (Prom Saga No. 1)

Senior Prom. A rite- of- passage in our society. For some the experience matches the expectations. For others, not so much.

Senior Prom 2008

Last year my oldest went to prom with a group of his best friends, stayed out all night complete with jumping into a pool fully clothed as the sun was rising over the picturesque Arkansas River ( how all proms should end). It wasn't over-hyped at our Hillcrest Cottage, so I think he was surprised at the fun he experienced. I got one picture out of him as he rushed out the door. Such is the life of a boy's mom.

Stairway to Heaven in '77

My senior prom was over-planned. I was on every committee in charge of it and, as chair of decorations, I worked non-stop for at least a month. High School Me was in the middle of all perceived fun, and my senior prom would never have been missed. On the down side, I was also in a relationship that had long lost its youthful fizz. My prom was over-hyped. No boy could have met my unrealistic prom expectations. I had an okay time.

Senior Prom To Be?

So, this week I'm having another conversation with Stuart the senior trying one last time to persuade him to attend his prom. Everyone has had their time to nag him. His friends have tried every angle, and so have I. The boy is simply not interested in going.
"Mom," Stuart said using his famous black and white observation skills. [These are the skills which make him "Stuart". These observation skills make him both the funniest person I have ever known and an awesome judge of character. I can always trust the Stu-o-meter. He immediately cuts through all the 'fat' of life and goes straight to the core.] He continued,"Why do I want to dress in clothes that I don't want to wear to go somewhere where everyone eats the same meal. Afterward, I would go to the same room as everyone else and listen to the same lame music with a group where half of the people I can't stand. Another fourth of the group I normally like but not when they are with the original half I don't like. The rest are my friends, and I shouldn't have to suffer through a prom just to be with my friends."

But,It's Your Senior Prom!

See what I mean? He has a special no b.s. detector. He can always see situations so clearly. It's why he is so good at helping me with computer problems. What can I say? The kid pretty much hit the nail on the head. But I can't tell him that so I said, "Stuart...it's your senior prom!"
"Mom, why should I have to do something I don't want to do... just because society dictates that I should?"
Silence.
"Stuart, you are everything I have ever trained you to be (He is an independent thinker, not swayed by the crowd, confident in his choices,and makes his own decisions)...and... I don't like it.

Senior Prom Not To Be

Half of me still wanted him to not miss his senior prom.
The other half was glad for him to be "Stuart".

Was Your Senior Prom Good...or Bad?
Did You Jump in a Pool, Lake, or Fountain?

My New Hat

I have always loved hats...especially funky ones. They can bring so much humor into life without using words. In my younger and wilder days I had a reputation for wearing unique hats. [Disclaimer: Funky hats must be worn responsibly, only when the wearer possesses innate abilities to know when and how.] My college favorite was a moose antler hat found while skiing in Vail. The moose antler hat doesn't sound unique in today's world, but, trust me, in those days it would draw some attention. I loved that hat and wore it like it was the most normal thing I could do. Therein lies the wordless humor.

Stuart has Inherited the Gene

My Stuart is definitely the funniest person in our family. His humor is quiet and does not draw attention to itself. He has inherited the you-can-wear-a-funky-hat gene. During his 18th birthday trip to Las Vegas (with Dad to see Cirque Du Soleil's Beatle performance), he won a crazy hat which he wore with much humor. And, when I see the pics, the laughs just keep on coming.

Mom Hats

I thought I knew what it meant to wear hats but didn't really know until I became a 'mom'. Three guys call me 'Mom', so I have a multitude of hats. Naturally, the hats are added, subtracted and morphed as the seasons change.
Diaper Changer, Bottle Feeder, Nose Wiper, Story Reader were a lifetime ago.
Homework Czar, Carpool Queen, Social Director, Baseball Coach seem distant also.
At one point, it was normal for me to drive two to three hours per day. Taxi Driver Hat will be retired in August on Davis' 16th b-day.
Of course, maid, laundry mistress, and cook are hats I wear wearily. (Btw, did you know that good help is hard to find these days? Even when I am my own help.)

'Unavailable' Calls

'Unavailable' ( Whenever my West Point cadet calls, my caller ID says 'unavailable' for security reasons.) rings me up mid-evening last night. "Mom, can you help me with my taxes?"
"Clayton, the deadline is tonight at midnight." I replied trying to not sound as I-told-you-to-not-wait-until-the-last-minute-to-do-your-taxes as I felt. West Point even had tax professionals that could have assisted Unavailable . Aaarrrgghh.
"Can't you ask an upperclassman to help you? Our taxes are totally different, and are done by a professional."
"Mom, just help me out. I'm using Turbo Tax"
(Oh, great. Isn't that how our dear Treasury Secretary got himself into tax trouble? Maybe, then, if Clayton did anything wrong the IRS will be sure to extend sympathy.Ha.)
Anyway, I helped the best that I could, even added a enlightening and sagely tax-withholding commentary. When I was through with Unavailable, I reflected upon the new hat I had just worn. A new season. A new mom- of- adult- child kind of hat.

More Hats

No time for lots of reflection. More hats to wear. I wearily put a wet load of clothes into the dryer, finished cleaning a kitchen still dirty from the dinner I had cooked and served to 20 teenagers, and walked upstairs to see if youngest son was on his way to bed.

What Hats Do You Wear?
What's Your Fave/Least Fave?

What I Learned This Week #1

My new blog friend, Jo-Lynne at Musings of a Housewife encouraged me to do this post. Every Tuesday I have been challenged to share something which I have learned this past week... whether it be silly, serious, life-changing, or simply an observation. I love this challenge! Taking note of life in my Hillcrest Cottage is this blog's purpose. Therefore...every week I'll be involved in this new mental exercise.

Most Improved

I learn stuff all the time...every day. That is a catch-22 statement sorta like receiving the 'Most Improved Player' award at the sports banquet. The 'Most Improved' Award has always made me ask several questions: Was I really that bad? Am I still that bad? Am I getting this because I'm awesome now...or because you had to give me something and this is all was that's left?

Do I learned something new every week because I am so 'unlearn-ed'? Do I learn new things because I enjoy both learning and keeping life fresh? Yes...and yes.

Stinky Soccer Player

In the seventh grade my Davis announced that he had joined the school's soccer team. We laughed at him...out loud. "Davis, you stink at soccer!" was my reply. (Doesn't sound like an affirming "mom" comment. Be assured that Davis and I are "cool" . He won't be entering therapy at age 30 over this comment. Trust me, there's plenty more for which my kids might need to receive counsel after having suffered the fate of being my children...ha.)
It was true...Davis, who is a gifted athlete, did stink big-time at soccer. The last time he had been on a team, he stood statue-like in the field every game refusing to move or touch the ball. I had thought that season was a soccer career ender; another activity added to the 'Well We Tried That' list.
Out of nowhere, Davis developed an extremely strong passion for soccer. He worked his tail off that seventh grade season. At the end, he did receive the 'Most Improved Player' award. He was very proud...and so was I.

Davis' Passion

This soccer season he is on the high school team; people marvel that he is such a 'young' player! He's awesome. Mom Lesson and, maybe this brings me to what I learned this week: The passion for soccer came from within Davis. This passion was not the result of parental pressure to be a 'mini-me'. Husband and I are totally free of MMSS (Mini-Me Sports Syndrome) in the soccer department...didn't have that sport when we were his age...whew. Davis doesn't have to endure the long-winded tales of our youthful greatness...double whew.
I am free to be Davis' number one soccer fan and encourager. I don't care if he ever goes 'pro'; I just want him to have fun. Oh yeah...sports are supposed to be fun.

What Passions Do You Encourage in Your Kids?
What's the Best Award You Have Ever Received?

Ode to My Pets

"Help! Something is wrong with my chick!"
My mother, still asleep in bed, opened her eyes to my seven year old self dangling a purple Easter chickie inches above her face.
"It's dead," was her reply.
"Eeeeewwww!" screamed little me, immediately releasing it upon her unsuspecting face.
There's a reason why they don't allow purple, pink, and blue chickies during the Easter season any more because of high mortality rates. Why I was allowed to have a purple chickie while living in a high-rise apartment building, I'll never know. Had she survived her purple-ness, there couldn't have been a bright future ahead of her.

No Cats Allowed

My childhood was full of pets. Multiple bunnies, turtles and goldfish. Others included a sea horse and a canary, and always a dog, but never a cat. My mother's childhood Persian had a "crazy fit" one day and Grandmother called Grandad the sheriff who took the cat away, and no one ever spoke of the results. Cruel boys on the playground , however, did suggest the nearby Mississippi River.

My Childhood Dogs

Tried to ride Pudd the Dachshund like a horse and still have the facial scars to document his response. Pepe Levine the Jewish poodle was adopted from my grandmother's friend because I had wanted a poodle so badly. On my seventh birthday I received Coquette "Cokie" the French toy poodle (in the 60's the dog was always introduced as a French poodle...with a pedigree) who survived until I was married.

Kinleystead Dog Roster

The Kinleystead has seen Tifhy the Lhasa Apso (RIP... who loved to bite my boys' rear ends. After baths they would run naked through the house screaming with Tifhy following behind), Pepper the Cocker Spaniel (now blind, who the Kinley boys wish RIP upon because she is 12 and still not housetrained), and Mac the Labradoodle ( adored, spoiled by all, promoted to human status).

The Kinleystead Zoo

I think all families should have pets. Their chirps, their licks, their dependence, their humor all breathe life into a household.
At the pinnacle , of the Kinleystead's pet keeping there were two dogs, two birds, 3 bunnies, and a revolving door of lizards, frogs, and abandoned baby birds. No cats. No ferrets. No snakes or tarantulas. No rodents with tails.

How Pets Met Their Ends

I am a very faithful pet caregiver, so I was surprised to recount how many Kinleystead pets had met"untimely" or even violent departures.

• P.J. Funnybunny: "The flies have killed my bunny!" screamed five year old Clayton from the Kinleystead back yard...too much sun.
• Spot the Bunny: gone after only two days...too much birthday party.
• Puddles, Toot, and Flops (all bunnies): ripped violently out of cages by unknown animals.
• Cotton and Brownie (also bunnies): sent to the rabbit adoption center when one hissed...didn't know they did that... at me; the other leapt through the air and bit Flops who I was holding...scary.
• Noah the Lovebird: nicknamed "Vampire" because his beak drew so much blood from any hand that came near his cage. He deserves his own blog post...stay tuned.
• Ringo the Quaker Parrot: oh...what a story...he will definitely have his own post!
• Little Caesar the Tail-less Hamster: bought for a book report visual and lasted 2 years...think that's all that can be expected out of a hamster.
• Grumm the also Tail-less Hamster: replaced Little Caesar, escaped a lot, and got on his squeaky wheel at precisely 9:00 nightly...lasted 1 1/2 years.

More Pets to Come

Have I mentioned I have always wanted to raise chickens who lay eggs? And I still have a soft spot in my heart for bunnies hopping about the garden. When my nest is empty, I wonder if I will fill it again with pets...hmmm.

What was Your Fave Pet or Pet's Name?

The Quiet Calls My Name

I can hear the Quiet this morning. A repetitive bird chirps in the back yard. Rhythmic drips from the kitchen faucet. An occasional car noise. Mac the Labradoodle sighs.

Hadn't Been Alone In 20 Years

This is a most unusual morning because I am practically alone. Clayton's birth was twenty years ago; I have not been alone since. On the day when the last boy entered kindergarten, my husband moved his office home. Here and there I will have "alone mornings", but they are rare. Rare...that's what makes them special. I don't want to wish away my family! I'm just hearing the Quiet.
My youngest resident teenager is asleep upstairs. My oldest is hundreds of miles away dead-dog tired from cleaning every particle in his barracks room for the infamous SAMI (Saturday A.M. Inspection). Husband and middle son are flying home from Las Vegas after experiencing Stuart's awesome 18th birthday/graduation gift of seeing the Cirque Du Soleil Beatles show.

Uncomfortable Chair Syndrome

Last February, after having had the flu, I said to Jeff, "Did you know that we don't have one comfortable chair in this entire house?" (A mom can't have the flu in an isolated bedroom, I still had to be out where I could see and command the troops.) So, during my illness, I had been longing for a spot to rest my flu-infested muscles and found none.
"I've been telling you that for years, " was his simple reply.
Seriously, I had never noticed that our family was plagued by UCS (Uncomfortable-Chair Syndrome) because, quite frankly, I am always moving and never sit down. This was my eye-opening epiphany regarding our UCS and, upon my recovery, I re-arranged some furniture and created the Kinleystead's favorite sitting spot enjoyed by family and visitors alike. This place which has also received the Mac the Labradoodle Seal of Approval is my wonderful daybed window seat.

Too Many Choices!!!

What do "quiet" and "UCS" have in common? The simple answer is: The Kinleystead is rarely quiet and I am rarely still, so, I find myself being "lost" in these moments. It's like when I try shopping in a department store; I look at everything and buy nothing. Too many choices paralyze me! I say to myself, "What shall you do with this quiet or with this "free" time?" I find myself frozen in the answer. Not frozen because I am boring or have no interests...frozen because I have too many choices!

Time for Me

This morning the Quiet is calling my name. I hear it, and my response is to do something just for me.

What do you do for 'Me Time'?

Film

I still use "film". Every time I buy a new roll I wonder how long it will be before film passes away like home movie reels and polaroid cameras. If I had digital options, I could pretend that film is uber-cool and superior and artsy but difficult to be plausible when comparing film -produced photos to the digital sisters.

Film Can't Compete

The competitive nature within rises when I know my photos can't compete. Frustration results from the playing field's unevenness. I feel handicapped.
Film is delayed gratification. I remember the day when people had to wait an entire week to get photos back from the drugstore. I also remember taking film to quality developing studios where each photo was hand developed. In today's world, development only takes an hour and even that seems long.
We just returned from an important weekend at West Point. With twenty four pictures on a roll, I took four rolls of film for a total of ninety six photos. Once upon a time, that was considered good documentation. In comparison, a digital photographer would have returned with five hundred pics. Knowing about the luck-factor in photography, the odds are against the film guys.
And another thing: Whenever I say to a random person, "Would you please take our picture?" (and this is done only in the "big" moments), the photo always returns to me with something chopped off or, even with an auto-focus lens, blurry. It's simply a fact on which I can always count.

Always the Photographer

Now I am brought to the present point regarding Plebe Parent Weekend and its photos which returned from Target (and, yes I did wait an entire day for them). Out of the four rolls, there were some keepers. For that I am thankful because I know that is not always the case because there are no re-do's with film. Here's the point: Where am I? Me. The mom part of "parent". Always the photographer, never in the picture. Turns out in the one photo I allowed myself to enter, the ole chopping block syndrome came to visit.

Pictures That Last Forever

When Stuart was small I caught him doing a very strange thing one day. He would put his index finger under his eye and jerk it up and down once at a time very quickly. And, then, he would turn his head slightly and repeat the motion.
"Stuart, what are you doing?" I asked him after observing this several times.
"I'm taking pictures with my mind," was his reply. And he switched to the other eye like it was the most normal thing a kid could do.
"Why did you do that?" I inquired again.
"I ran out of film," he answered with the confidence of a professional photographer.
I believed him then...and I still do. The photographs taken by our minds are superior to both film AND digital.
Guess what? I'm in every one of those pics.

Does anyone else have this problem of never being in the photo?

The Three-Cornered Hat Principle

Clayton was barely six, Stuart was four, and Davis was not quite two when we took a family trip to Williamsburg, Virginia... love the history... top places ever... spent two days of our honeymoon there. Anyway, so we were on this family vacation taking in the history and having a great time walking until our feet hurt. We still had a stroller, and everyone wanted to get in...even me.
As in any tourist destination, there are always "things" that the tourist simply must have. On this particular trip, the "must-have" was the three-cornered hat. Every kid had one! I wanted mine to have one , too.
"It would make the pictures so much cuter," I whined, trying to persuade Jeff to buy one...errr, make that three. Let's just say the ole three-cornered hats times three were going to set us back quite a bit more than had been expected and, so, they did not come to be.
Still,the more we did not have the hats and the more people we saw with the hats, the greater the desire for the hats became. We went about our day. We took tons of pictures. We had lots of fun, but not having the three-cornered hats continued to rear its ugly head.

At the Beach

Fast forward several days to where we were back at our beach house taking in the surf, sand, and shell collecting.
Jeff observed, "You know, the three-cornered hats would really look silly about now." And we laughed at the silliness of how important they had seemed in the "Williamsburg moment".

Plebe Parent Weekend

Fast forward fourteen years into the future. Clayton is only weeks away from being twenty. We are at West Point for Plebe Parent Weekend (PPW).The "must-have" of this trip... the official standard-issue wool parka with the "USMA 12" patch sewn over the heart. It's a parka made by the West Point uniform factory and only Cadets, Old Grads, and parents are allowed to have them. So exclusive.
Jeff had planned in advance to purchase the parka ("Parka" is just not a term we would use in the South. Is it Yankee-ease or traditional WP-ease? I don't know. "Parkas" to a Southern mind are worn only by Eskimos in Alaska, but this one is navy blue thick wool with a zip- down- the- middle hood.), thus, he had not packed a coat knowing that his new official West Point parka would keep him warm. And it was a very cold day to our thin Southern blood.
I simply could not justify the $90.00 X 2, so I unselfishly allowed Jeff to make the parka purchase.

Everyone Had One

However,I still wanted one...REAL badly. When they were stitching on the "USMA 12" patch, I almost caved to the desire. But, I wisely revisited the "Three-Cornered Hat Principle". I pictured both Kinley parents showing up at high school football games both wearing the USMA 12 parkas and I knew it would be like being on the beach with the three-cornered hat and a bathing suit.
On the other hand, I knew if I couldn't wear a USMA 12 parka to an Army football game, then I should probably stay at home. "How many Army football games will you be attending?" I asked myself. (Maybe one...if I am fortunate.)
Many comments throughout the weekend were made by husband as to how warm and toasty he was because of his magical, new parka. Every parent had one...many husbands and wives. They were all I could see.
I held firm.

Parkas Continued to Look Cool at the Airport

At the airport, they still looked awesome as the parkas would distinguish the WP parents from the crowd.
Today, it was 68 degrees in Little Rock. For now, anyway, the parka's magic is fading. But, it looks great in the pictures....

The Wrestle Room

With children comes stuff. Their toys seem to procreate nightly. The first midnight brontosaurus into the foot is a true wake- up call. Preparing meals with building blocks and action figures sprinkled about the kitchen floor can ignite claustrophobic panic.

Maxed Out

Two boys quickly maxed out our small vintage '36 bungalow. With news of number three's arrival, an immediate space search began.
"If I could only have a room for toys and playing," I wished, "I would be content."
We searched diligently for 8 months. It was a tight housing market, and nothing seemed to meet out criteria.
"God, please give us a new house before the baby chums," was our two year old's nightly prayer.
But, the baby was chummin with no new house in sight. One sleepless night I made a quick decision to buy the house offered by friends also desiring a space move. The following afternoon, we had a contract.

August Moving Day

Interesting moving day...also number three's due date.
August in Arkansas and a sweltering 100 degrees. Kind people pitched in, and I carried my own load...even lifted the forbidden heavy objects when no one was looking. A long day finally ended with everything under the new roof.
"Whew," I remember sitting in our vacant bungalow directing the final clean-up and small repairs, for I knew...the baby...was...chummin.
Labor. Delivery. It's a boy! Air conditioning condenser in new house breaks. Did I mention August in Arkansas? Finally settled. Our family was complete. Special times began on White Oak Lane.

White Oak Lane Days

A room for toys and playing had been a priority and thankfulness abounded for the granted request. However, that room, never to be called "The Playroom", was swiftly dubbed "The Wrestle Room." Being the only carpeted room in the house, and furniture-less, it perfectly matched its nickname. The floor was cushy, and it had plenty of space for rowdy rumbles with Dad. The White Oak Lane Kinleystead eagerly anticipated its nightly "Wrestle Time!"
An out-of-town job caused White Oak Lane to last only two short years. But the impact of The Wrestle Room echoes to today.

Tea Party for Pirates

Flea markets and old books are my favorite combination. One Saturday morning, happy and nicely dressed children politely pouring tea for one another smiled at me. An idea was hatched, and I rang the bell for Mom's Etiquette Class to commence.

Marketer Mom

As a good marketer, I began by creating a "need" in my target market's eyes.

"Boys, in the future, you may find yourself dining at an expensive restaurant with your boss," I ominously warned,"And there will be lots of forks and various silverware. You'll be glad, in that moment, your mother had the foresight to teach you what to do."

"I don't ever want to look like the geeks in that book," replied my oldest son.

"Yeah...geeks," parroted the youngest.

"Besides," the middle son added,"We're going to be pirates, and pirates don't have bosses."

Touche to Mom

All three smiled back smugly, quite pleased with the logic they thought had certainly derailed the entire Etiquette Class proposition.

Let the Lessons Begin

Knowing well there is not a grade school boy anywhere who appreciates the value of proper manners, despite their initial protests, and in the face of continual objections, brief readings from the little blue book soon began.

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.

Over Stuffed

I am officially "over stuffed". Having collected all things interesting from my early youth, I'm done. There is no more wall space, floor space, closet, attic or basement space. Nada. I wish I could scrap it all and start afresh, but I can't do that because of sentimental attachments.

Aaaahhh...what a dilemma! What does a collector do when she can collect no more?

Sold the Osmonds on Ebay

I just went through a spurt of cleaning which was way overdue. I finally rid myself of high school and college clothes. I donated my entire Osmond Brothers record collection to the local thrift shop and have sold my childhood on EBay. I feel cleansed...sorta...but I miss it.

Saving Stuff

At first I saved stuff for myself. Next I saved it for my future kids. Then, my future kids became present and had the audacity to say they didn't want my stuff.

"What?," I replied with great surprise, "It's great stuff!"

I Am the Family 'Dumping Ground'

I finally came to the conclusion that I had been for many years the family dumping ground for everyone's life. They were free, but I was not. I was held captive by the family historian and curator role. I had hoped for a son, niece, or nephew to carry the family mantle of saving...but no one seems to want it.

I Am Dead...Who Wants It?

So, I faced reality, determined I would not go to the place of saving for potential grandchildren (well...just a few choice things) and arduously made my way into the attic. I pretended to be dead and asked myself, "If I am my children, would I want this?" It was a difficult task, but I did it. I threw away, Ebayed, and donated.

Can I Die Twice?

Truth is, I need to "die" a couple more times.

I'm on a Mission

This year is the year I decide what's worth saving, what needs to be trashed. I'm making my way through the trunks, and I'll probably be writing about what I find along the way.

My West Point Cadet's Xmas Leave '08 Homecoming (Mom Gets the First Hug!!!)

Merry-Go-Round

On my grade school playground the longest line was always for the merry-go-round. To be in line next to the fastest boy was good because he would always be the one to spin us all around in the fastest way possible. The “scaredy-cats” in dresses would choose to ride in the middle. Those wanting to get the maximum thrill would hold on with both hands while tilting their heads backwards as far as possible. Opened eyes would produce nausea but eyes closed tightly captured the full spinning sensation.
Today I held onto life with knuckle-whitening tightness, and I felt so out-of-control. I spun to next fall when Stuart was gone to college. People I love were dead. Dreams I had held onto since childhood were buried beneath a pile of dirty laundry so hidden that I could no longer find them. My house was quiet…and clean…and lonely. I wished I could move closer to the center where the spinning was much slower. I wished for hamsters on squeaky wheels, loud techno music, “Good Night Moon” and my boys laughing at how I couldn’t finish “Charlotte’s Web” or “The Giving Tree” without crying.
Where did all the swords and pirate patches go? Why don’t I suck up barrel- of- monkeys and air soft bb’s in my vacuum any more? Takers for Saturday night cards are difficult to find. Suggesting an air guitar contest (like when every contestant voted for themselves and didn’t realize that Mom was the tie-breaker) would produce my kids calling an ambulance for transportation to that special floor where all the Jesus’ and Napoleons are kept in separate hallways so they don’t meet each other.
When we did the bi-annual basement cleaning, my 9th grader told me to toss the sled because no one would ever use it again. Irritated by the suggestion, I told him it didn’t snow last year and this winter I planned to ride the sled down the hill myself. Through the years, the basement had been the scene of many a chemistry set experiment. It was there that action figures were melted, mutilated and morphed. The basement lab had produced Batman with three arms and soldiers with dinosaur tails…scary stuff. Speaking of “spooky” it had been the trap door (hidden beneath a dusty braided rug) leading down a crude ladder to the room below the basement that had convinced the guys this house must be the new Kinleystead.
There’s a teenager with hair over his eyes in the room where my freckled-faced Stu likes to read Hardy Boys books. Did I talk to my son the West Point Cadet an hour ago? Not possible, I just walked past the dining room table where he is struggling to finish a report which requires cursive writing (he hates cursive writing). I also wonder why there’s that extra car in the driveway because I thought we could go bike riding down by the river or take a walk through the park and that car’s kinda in the way.
The spinning hasn't stopped. On this day I feel dizzy. I was also wondering about what happened to that fast boy from grade school who's was pushing this merry-go-round.

All My Pirates have Sailed Away

My babies were birthed in a rhythmic pattern every couple of years. After the third boy, my husband bought a personalized license plate which read, "3 Sons", and my childhood Barbie doll heads fell off ( a scary omen). I embraced the Mom-role enthusiastically, after which followed a flurry of themed backyard birthday parties.
There were also t-ball, soccer, and basketball teams. We never did the music lessons, however, because someone gave us a piano, and I stuck it in the playroom. No musical genius emerged or even gravitated toward it, but they did "take to" the computer and the video gaming console. Oh, well.
We had an acre backyard crowned with a massive spreading live oak tree. I lobbied diligently for my husband to build a tree house. Eventually, the tree house did come to be, complete with zipline. Sword fighting pirates and Jedis with light sabers began to fill the yard daily. (Historical anachronisms mean nothing to grade school boys.) The skull and crossbone flag flew proud and high in the live oak branches.
Eye patches, hooks, and swords were commonly found about the Kinleystead. There were many treasure hunts, and I could write the most challenging clues which my children became very skilled at cracking.
The pinnacle of our pirating was Stuart's 6th or 7th birthday party. I made Jeff, against his will, appear as Cap'n Hook. His very- cool costume was something my grandfather used to wear to some sort of masonic meeting, and I even blackened his face and teeth. He was more than a slightly grumpy participant. But, it was possible to rent a clown...just not a pirate...and I was desperate.
Anyone who has ever enjoyed a hummingbird feeder will understand that they hover about the garden, squeak and war against each other delightfully for a season. One day, abruptly without farewell, they are gone.
It's the same with Pirates. They just sail away. And leave the swords and eyepatches lifeless on the playroom floor.

Open Windows

My college guy called me last night. He wanted me to know that he had received his "Happy Fall" package and that it was awesome and would be great for weekend eating! He was extremely tired, as West Point Cadets tend to be, and was heading to bed early. So, after visiting briefly, I said, "I'll let you get on to bed. Thanks for calling."
"...So...uhhh...how is everyone?" was his response and a window was opened for an extremely chatty 30 minute conversation. (Mother of sons are not used to this.)
I'm slowly morphing into Mom- of -College -Person. I would talk to him every day if I could, not to instruct him on his life or to tell him what to do, but just because I miss his voice, his loud techno music, his messy room, his very smelly socks, and all his friends.
It takes a lot of discipline to be a mom in this new role. I'm learning to give him space, to keep my advice in check, and to become less instructor more cheerleader.
I'm in a unique situation with few of the "omg, my son's a college freshman" fears. (I'll save those for next fall when Stu is a freshman.) Clayton's school cares more about his grades than I do. They care more about his health and what he eats; he can't skip class -ever, and his room has to be spotlessly clean. (I'm still in awe that Clayton received the award for "Best Room in his Company". The last two months of his senior year, I had put a "CONDEMNED" sign on his door.)
Open window moments don't come frequently, and I want be wise enough to recognize them and discerning enough to not force it open myself.
I am pausing from my busy Thursday to paste this "Open Window Encounter" into my mental scrapbook.

The Cross-Eyed Trooper

Getting Stuart's driver's license was a three year quest. In hindsight, I know that I started him too soon, even though it's legal at 14. It began well when he passed Driver's Ed and the written test with ease. It was just the driving part that seemed to get in the way. Fact: Our Expedition is as appealing to a young driver as maneuvering an Abrams tank through the mall parking lot. (My first driver got his license at 16 but chose a year-long no-driving strike before conceding to the tank.)
For Stuart, the biggest obstacle was the Cross-Eyed Trooper - Arkansas Department of Motor Vehicles self-appointed Gate Keeper. He was fat, tall, and extremely mean. Stuart failed twice under his watch, once out of sheer nervousness. Hated by all, including his co-workers, he handed out failure slips with maniacal glee.
Our third effort to get the license proved successful. I stood in the waiting room praying and peeking. "Please, God, don't let Stuart get the Cross-Eyed Trooper, pleeeease."
Test-givers manned desks horizontally placed before the excessively long line of licensee-hopefuls. One-by-one they were called forward.
"Please, God, please," as Stuart inched his way to the front. "Let it be the smiling, jolly African American Trooper or the woman."
"No, God, no!" as Stuart was called to appear before the Cross-Eyed Trooper.
"Why, God, why?" as Stuart joined the smaller Road Test Group.
Then, I don't how, another Trooper appeared like an angel sent directly from Heaven, and Stuart was ushered out to his test and came back with a pass slip and we laughed and rejoiced and did high fives in line for his license photo and celebrated with a hamburger.
I have Cross-Eyed Troopers in my life...obstacles so scary that I become paralyzed. The Cross-Eyed Trooper means failure. He doesn't go away; he grows meaner and bigger the more I ignore him.

Operating Heavy Machinery

I like to be in control. For this reason even thinking about small, tight places causes my palms to sweat. The "tight space fear" is actually the result of a childhood hide-and-seek game when, while I was hiding in the laundry hamper, my brother sat on top and refused to let me out. Loss of control.
I'm not a fan of flying. I only do it because it takes me fun places; the result trumps the fear. But, I'd much rather have my feet on the ground.
I don't like prescription drugs. If I have a short-term affliction, I'll take something for that (usually has to be quite dire), and if I'm ever struck with a life-threatening disease, okay. But, long term drugs for regular stuff, no way. It represents to me a loss of control.
I especially don't like prescriptions whose bottles caution: May cause drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this drug.
Stuart challenged me on this one, "Mom, when have you ever operated heavy machinery?"
"Are you kidding?" was my appalled response, "A mom needs to be ready to operate heavy machinery at any given time!"
Any mother knows this fact is true. If my children need me, and I am called upon to do so, I need to always be ready to operate heavy machinery. I care not if I have ever done so in the past, this mother of three teenage boys is at all times on standby.

"It" - The Ninety Second Good-Bye

Have you ever waited a long time for something bad to happen? The bad thing is not desired, yet relief occurs when the event has passed. Such was the infamous "90 Second Good-Bye".
When I first learned of "It" in all its horrific-ness, I cried every time my brain would bring it to remembrance. Throughout the "graduation season", there was a guaranteed cry-fest whenever I mentioned "It" to fellow moms (and dads) of seniors.
Life-altering events always arrive amidst a countdown. Reception Day (R-Day) at West Point was both life-altering and now upon us. The Eve had been spent triple-checking Clayton's duffel bag and eating steak.
Everyone in our hotel was delivering a son or daughter to West Point. There was an uncanny seriousness in the air. However, I was amused that night to view several future New Cadets, mine included, circling the hotel parking lot, cellphones pressed to their ears. Last calls to friends before dropping off civilization's radar for the 7 weeks of Cadet Basis Training (Beast Barracks) soon to come.
The morning "of It" came quickly and early. Soon we were in front of Ike Hall joining the "Long Anxious Line", enduring two hours of chatty stories about any body's West Point experience - complete with embellishments and urban legends. Clayton somberly inched his duffel bag forward, arms folded across his chest "Clayton-style", offering few words.
Groups of 40 soon-to-be New Cadets and their entourages of family were invited chunk-by-chunk into the auditorium for "It", accompanied by a short briefing.
"It" had been peeking its ugly head around the corner for months. I couldn't believe "It" was upon me.
Who can remember what the upfront person said or who-the-heck they were? "It" was coming: I bit the side of my cheek and tried to focus on not being a mom soon to give away her firstborn son.
The "It" lady appeared too soon at the microphone, "You now have 90 seconds to say 'good-bye' ".
Hugs, pats, kisses, tears, admonishments whispered in secret filled the room. In 30 seconds my Clayton, holding his carefully-checked bag, was in line for the transition from civilian to military, separated only by an auditorium door. Twelve hundred ninety two stepped forward that R-Day from comfort, affirmation, hometown hero-status into a new world. On the door's other side, superiors were immediately in their faces barking orders and initiating the longest day of their young lives.
"It" was over.
The door was shut on the past 19 years. The unexpectedness of life...who could have predicted that "It" would end the chapter.