dar liomsa (in my opinion)

O Christmas Tree

"Mom, let's buy icicles for the tree this year."

'Yea, let's do that.' I jumped at the chance to be free and spontaneous and let go of rules of my childhood.

Rules like no icicles, no messes, no presents left under the tree past 11:00am Christmas Day. Borderline OCD stuff that has molded me into the neurotic mom I am today.

Sure, let's throw caution to the wind and drape our real live Christmas tree in sparkly fake icicles. Because why not?

Why not? Why not? I'll tell you why not. I'll tell you the secret my dad was privy to way back in 1979 when I, an innocent and clueless child, pleaded for icicles and was a met with a resounding 'no'.

They don't stay on the tree. Nope.

Late at night, while we dream of sugarplums and crap, they slip off the piney needles of the tree and slither into shoes, drape themselves on couches, and onto clothes.

Icicles are the hot mess my dad swore they were. Of course, I never believed him, because what did he even know?

Apparently, a lot.

 

What Could Have Been

"Chip and Joanna Gaines are taking over the world.

Literally.

I mean, once you get your own line  at Target, world domination is  right around the corner."

I whined, as I elbowed my husband.

Why the elbow?

I think it's pretty clear.

It could have been us.

My husband is as handy as they come. He can build, fix, re-build, paint, anything. And I, can decorate, well sort of.

But I'm pretty sure if he had brought his handyman expertise to a nationally syndicated show, I would have upped my decorating game to be his sidekick.

That could have been us.

What with the way they banter and the way Chip acts all silly and Joanna pretends to be annoyed.

Okay, maybe our banter would boil into paint being thrown and a project or two never being completely finished, like the last piece of trim he never hung in our bedroom. But, for the right price, it could have been us. And maybe my annoyed look would look too real for primetime, but who would care once I was hawking my wares at TarJay.

Another missed opportunity.

It's like Guy Fieri all over again.

For the last 12 years, I have elbowed my husband at the mere sight of that bleach blonde chef. Guy won the Next Food Network Star contest that I urged my husband to enter. True story. Yea, when my husband isn't knee deep in home improvements, he kills it in the kitchen.

It could have been him wearing his sunglasses backwards and eating at every burger joint in the US, never once finding one he dislikes.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

 

 

Take Me to the Beach (House)

When I was a child, my Dad worked in an office and smoked cigarettes.

It was the late 1970's and things like smoking in one's office were totally a thing.

In the same office, sat his secretary, a woman named Joan, whose desk faced his.

Joan's New York accent was as thick as the smoke that wafted through their Manhattan workplace. Although I only visited there a few times, usually en route to a day filled with visiting The World Trade Center and the Statue of Liberty, I still remember it well.

I also remember random weeknights when Joan would call my dad at home to ask question about work. As soon as I answered the phone, she would begin to over-explain, announcing herself, "it's Joanie, Joanie from the office. Can I speak with Arthur?"

She was one of the few people who called my dad by his given name. And even as a kid, I enjoyed the disclaimer, 'from the office', lest we thought a random lady was phoning my dad at home, after hours.

Joanie from the office always struck me as innocent and a little naïve. She also had one more redeeming quality that I remember quite well.

She owned a beach house. In the Hamptons. It really speaks to my mantra, 'if you own a beach house and don't ever invite me, do you even own a beach house?'

Well, Joanie from the office had a beach house and invite us she did.

I'm not sure how many summers we spent there, but in my mind it was many.

Joanie's modest colonial with a grass filled yard and a short walk from the beach, has stayed with me all of these years. Mind you, this was long before the Hamptons was the Hamptons. I wasn't invited to Diddy's white party or anything. I mean it was 1979, for crying out loud.

Rather, I spent those chilly summer nights  curled in the front window seat, just off the kitchen, conjuring up a plan to make it my permanent home.

Fast forward, more than thirty years later, Joanie never did sign over the deed to that great place, to me.

But, what she did give me was a gift that has lasted a lifetime: a myriad of memories, of my parents and me relaxing in cozy little beach house.

If I close my eyes, I am there again.

 

 

#Missing4

Today, I trimmed hydrangea stems and placed their flowery purple heads into water-filled mason jars.

I needed a reminder that it's still summer.

This past  week has felt like ice cold winter, with a horrific story on a continuous loop. For four families, it's more than a story, it's a never-ending nightmare.

As a mother, I have felt a connection and a pull to people whom I have never met, and whose loss I can't erase from my mind.

For days, we watched and waited for their boys to be found. We held out hope for them, feeling the proximity of their lives to ours. Their smiling young boys, our boys, any of ours.

In the midst of it all, we heard the disbelief of residents from the tiny Bucks County town where the tragedy occurred. Their selfish cries of 'things like that don't happen here' and 'not in my town' replacing the real story of these families whose lives were torn in two, never to be whole again.

This will forever be the summer of four boys who we all wished we could have saved.

Long after hydrangeas grow dormant and summer turns to fall, and the news vans leave town, I pray that they will begin to find their  way to peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ice hockey, really?

My youngest of three children started his T-ball career rather young.

With two older sisters committed to four days a week at the local softball field; learning to pitch, field and hit, it was the obvious choice for our 5-year old boy.

He tolerated a few seasons of t-ball, followed by baseball. Every Saturday morning, we cheered him on as he stepped up to bat and watched as his tiny legs carried him around the bases. He was our little baseball star.

Until one day, when he announced that he was done.

He would not be returning to the baseball diamond. Ever.

"Oh", was my reaction.

Of course. I had finally found a nice group of moms whose conversation could carry me through a summer night of kid-pitching games. I had somewhere to be three to four nights a week and I'd totally accepted cheese fries and soft pretzels as replacement for cooking dinner on baseball days.

So, you could imagine my dismay at the boy's announcement that, baseball, America's pastime, just wasn't for him.

We exited the field, took him home and waited. We waited for him to decide where his childhood sports career would take him next. A year or two passed and he announced, out of the blue, that he would like to try his hand at hockey.

"Hockey?" we said.

"Yes, hockey." he replied.

Equipment, ice time, skates, dollar signs. Hockey.

We pulled out the family spreadsheet and soon realized that compared to his sisters' Irish step dancing, pitching lessons, gymnastics, soccer, and softball, he was falling behind. Clearly, we were not spending enough time or money on our baby boy.

"Sign him up!" we proclaimed.

Once we outfitted our little 9-year old from head to toe,  in everything short of bubble wrap, we unleashed him on the ice for the most ridiculous sport known to man; ice hockey.

I mean, who came up with ice hockey, anyway?

I imagine it went like this:

So here's the concept. You have to get the puck into the opponent's goal.

Oh, okay like soccer.

Yea, except, instead of your feet you use a stick.

Okay, sounds great.

Oh wait, forget the grassy field, we're going to make them do all of that on a thick, slippery sheet of ice, and the players have to wear ice skates.

Oh.

That sounds dangerous.

Exactly!

So, we signed our son up for hockey.

If that wasn't stressful enough, we learned after a few years, that there is a level where all bets are off, and in addition to balancing on ice and hitting the puck, you get to have full body contact (i.e. checking).

God, I miss baseball.

 

 

 

Our Dog, Shane

Eleven years ago, our family of five snuggled on the couch for a movie night.

It was probably a VHS and I'm sure there was pizza involved.

The movie, My Dog Skip, was a solemn tribute to a boy and his dog.

I wept through the entire thing. It wasn't my love for animals that sparked this sob fest, but rather the circumstances surrounding me at the time.

My oldest was tackling second grade, while my younger two children kept me busy. All. Day. 

Add to that, my father was dying.

I can only say those words now, eleven years out, because I know the ending. At the time, I was in deep denial that my father was preparing to leave this earth and that worked well for me. Not even a cancer diagnosis could convince me. Nonetheless, I was an emotional wreck. I was consumed by questions of making the right decisions for my kids, while also stressing about soccer, dance lessons, t-ball, and gymnastics.

The longer I stayed in crazy, busy mode, the less I would have to think about what was really happening. Until, I sat in a quiet room, with my husband and kids and watched a movie. A movie about a young boy and his loyal dog.

By the end of the movie, my husband and kids seemed unchanged and sorted through the borrowed VHS tapes to decide what to watch next. I dried my eyes and proclaimed. "The kids need a dog!" My husband looked confused by the sudden outburst. "Okay."

I, then, began a ten minute tirade about how we were never allowed to have a dog when we were kids and the one we did have we had to give away and our kids aren't getting any younger and this is the time and every kid should know what it's like to have a.."

"I said okay." My husband, suddenly the calm.

The dust settled, another movie was played and we never spoke of it again. Until, a few months later.

It was the fall of 2006, the start of another school year, and now there two little ones on the bus waving goodbye.

My husband brought home the classified section of the newspaper and called the phone number he had circled. He spoke to a man about a dog and a few days later, we found ourelves on a farm, choosing a puppy. Like a scene from an old movie, the owner slid back the barn door and out bounced four Labrador puppies followed by their nonchalant mom. The chocolate one was spoken for, the yellow one had an odd growth on its head, and the runt was well, the runt. That left the most beautiful black puppy, with a white patch below his neck, that resembled his mom.

We scooped him up and headed home. I held him in my lap for the whole ride, this puppy that I insisted we get for the kids.

Turns out, caring for another living creature, though a daunting thing to add to my already full to-do list, was just the distraction I needed.

We had him crate trained in no time, and anxiously awaited the nightmarish puppy phase where everything gets chewed up and peed on.

But it never came.

Instead, he blended in and became a silent observer to the craziness of our house.

Over time, he claimed his own spot where he would lay. In the summer time, he enjoyed beefy treats from the grill. And he would politely greet anyone who visited, offering his head toward their hand for petting.

At family gatherings, he would position himself next to the person who fed him the most table scraps at the last event. He wouldn't beg, but he would wait.

Patiently.

Over the last few months, he quietly grew sick, without us noticing. Maybe, I did start to notice changes, but I think we have concluded denial is kind of my thing. And then one cold weekend in March, after a quick trip to the vet for a diagnosis, we were delivered news we hadn't prepared for. And just like that, our dog, Shane was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too Hot for February?

The past few February days felt like a lot like May and there were a lot of people upset about it.

There was some head shaking and disapproval for a too-warm day in a month that normally promises snow.

'This is not as it should be, this is not a good thing.' were random bits of conversation I overheard, while shielding my eyes from the sun.

Global warming may be to blame, but who can deny the sheer pleasure of leaving the winter coat in the closet and waking to singing birds, even if the calendar isn't ready. Sure, trees will bud too soon and remain confused through a cold March. But there is something to be said for short sleeves and lunch outside arriving earlier than expected. Spring cleaning, yard work, and big summer plans were given a head start this weekend. And, tell me, who can complain about that?

Plenty of people, apparently.

As for me, I spent the better part of the weekend watching my favorite boy on the ice, as I sat wrapped in a blanket, because global warming has nothing on a well insulated hockey rink.

Oh, January

As much as I adore everything that the holiday season has to offer, I love almost nearly as much, it's ending.

In the exciting month of December, I'm really into 1960's claymation Christmas favorites providing background noise to tree trimming, gift wrapping, and cookie baking.

I live for our yearly trek to Christmas Eve mass, fresh new Christmas jammies and ornaments right before bed on Christmas Eve, and still playing Santa to a house full of teenagers.

But it all comes in a close-second to packing it all away.

Because, let's face it, the month of January is the calm and peace my OCD heart desires.

It means my house has been put back together, presents have been delivered to kids' bedrooms, and I can once again breathe.

This time of year also leaves me standing behind a man in a warehouse store, buying up every last holiday chocolate gift tower. My mind racing, wondering, who will be receiving those half priced chocolates, and better yet, when?

Just me?

Seven Summers

Seven summers ago, surrounded by elementary aged kids and an incessantly shedding dog, I had a grand idea to start a blog.

Spending my mornings sipping coffee and stringing words was my escape from dish-filled sinks and mounting laundry.

The blog grew in popularity, with at least a handful of readers and eventually spawned into a nice little writing life- a freelance life.

Freelance, as I soon learned, had little to do with its root word: free. I had little free time and little free money, as I worked tirelessly to claim a life of self-employment.

It was much like a dusty treadmill, it's great when you're into exercising, but on the days that you're not- well, it's a dusty nuisance where you may or may not stub your toe. In other words, sweet little gigs have a nice payout, but time in between waiting for said gigs can make one feel as if they are unemployed. It's a scary little trap.

Fast forward to the year 2016, where my oldest is preparing for college, my middle child is loading up on high school honors classes, and my youngest is learning the art of checking in ice hockey. I leave the house everyday and work at a job with real people and sip from a mug of coffee. Sure, I blog less, but I still feel, I feel my Mommy years slipping away and my snarky rants about feuding children less amusing or worthy of reading. I find myself watering plants, fussing over my newest manicure, and devouring a book, while waiting for teenagers to return home. A lot has changed, while some things have not. Milestones get me less weepy and I have allowed my kids to grow up.

And that is all.

 

Hmmm

I don't like to judge people. Well, maybe I do. It's not so much that I enjoy it as it just comes natural.

I'll admit that it's not nice. But neither is smoking next to a building's entrance and people are still doing that.

So. I judge. I judge people who smoke cigarettes near building entrances, because I hate getting the smell of smoke in my hair.

I also judge people who go out of their way to be rude to strangers.

The hardest judging I do, is against women who wear chipped nail polish. There. I said it.

I believe, when it comes to nail polish, it's all or nothing. You're either freshly manicured or you're not. If you're beginning to chip or lose the fresh look, remove it. It's that simple. It's the only way I roll. If you're checking me in at the doctor's office or handing me change at the coffee shop, I will look at your nails and I will judge. So, clean them up.

There's a good chance that I may be punished in the after-life for this un-Christian like behavior, but I'm willing to take the chance.