New York, New York

My 18 year old daughter was lucky enough to go on a "New York experience" school trip this past week with her DECA group.  DECA is made up of kids who want to go into business and marketing related fields for their careers, which is what she is currently thinking about.  I thought this would be a great experience for her, so even though I myself have never been to New York City (I don't think it counts that I flew in to JFK once, saw the Statue of Liberty from the air, and after landing was whisked off on a bus to Long Island, never to set foot in the actual city), I gathered up my money and paid for her to go.  She is a young woman with stars in her eyes when it comes to big cities and nightlife. 

The morning she left I was moody and cried a lot.  At first I couldn't put my finger on it.   It wasn't because I would miss her horribly or was sad to see her go.  As a child of divorce, she has spent many days away from me, so the separation was not bothering me.   In fact, I was looking forward to the welcome break from the loud music she blares from her room, the food she picks at in the fridge,  and the messes she leaves around the house.  As the morning went on I went to the bookstore to try to cheer myself up.  What is this funk about?  I figured it out in the aisles of the bookstore.   I was feeling the reality that once she tastes the Big Apple, our small town in Colorado willl never be enough for her again. I know that she will come back with grandiose plans about living in New York.  I just know it. 

I haven't received a lot of texts from her.  The first day when I  texted her one too many times I guess, she sent me a text that said "Mom, I'm in NY, Stop texting me".  So I stopped.  A day went by with no communication.  I refrained from contacting her and being the hovering mom.   Then this morning I looked at my phone and saw that I missed a call from her.  If you could see my face at the time, you would have seen my frown of disappointment that she had actually initiated contact and I missed it.   So I sent a text, very nonchalant and non-demanding:  "I saw I missed your call.  Hope you are having a great time.  Call when you get a chance."  No mom verbage in it and very casual in a "not a big deal" sort of way.  

A few minutes go by and I get a text from her with a picture message. It's the New York skyline and a caption that they are touring an advertising agency and this is the view she is looking at.  Big buildings and grey sky. The view from my house is the Rocky Mountains and blue sky as far as the eye can see.  Couldn't be further away from each other.   

I send another text, just a little question.  "Do you love New York?"  I still manage to stay away from any demanding mother questions.  Still staying nonchalant. 

The text comes from her:  "I am madly in love with this town.  I'm looking at living in a loft in Times Square with a hot tub on the roof."

Do I know my daughter or what?

My reply:  "Ok, just find Derek Jeter to marry you and pay for it."

Her reply to that: "Already done.  Going to Vegas with him next weekend."

Looking forward to seeing her Sunday and hearing her amazing stories.

I Should Have Been A Cowboy

I just heard this song on the radio - "I should have been a cowboy, I should have learned to rope and ride, wearing my six shooter, riding by pony on a cattle drive."  This song really speaks to me.  I'm not saying that I should have been a cowboy, or even a cowgirl (although I really could see myself as one), but this song reminds me of all of the "would have, could have, should have" thoughts that enter my mind from time to time.  Whenever I hear it, the feeling I get from it is one of pure freedom.  It makes me wish that I was running though a meadow barefoot instead of sitting at a desk, or wading in a mountain lake instead of wasting time behind the wheel of my car stuck in traffic.

I try to banish the "would have, could have, should have" thoughts from my brain.  I try not to live with regrets, but there have certainly been times in my past when I could have maximized my experience rather than rush through everything, just to jump to the next item on the list.  I look back on those times and realize all of the "should haves". I am focusing on turning these thoughts into "I can, I will, I am". If I want to be a cowgirl, no one can stop me.

Holy Corks!

I got this wild idea to make a wine cork corkboard about a year ago at Thanksgiving when one of my friends told me to save corks for her because she was making one.  Being a semi-hoarder of useless items (boxes, bags, etc.),  I had been saving corks "just because" - maybe one day I would figure out a use for them.  I gave her my entire bag. 

Oops.  I shouldn't have done that because this cork idea had bubbled around my head all year and I decided to try to make one too.  I had done my part in drinking a lot of wine during the year, but when I started constructing my corkboard I realized I was way short on building supplies, namely the corks.  I pondered placing an ad for corks on Craigslist.  Then I thought to myself, "who else in the world besides me would have possibly been saving corks for a future unknown reason?"  Bingo!  I knew just who to call.  If there was anyone in the world I knew who drank a lot of wine and loved crafting, and might possibly have hoarded corks, it would be an old friend of mine from Seattle.  For this purpose and not to embarass her for all of the wine she drinks, I will refer to her as "wine diva". I texted "wine diva" to ask about corks.  Within seconds I had my answer.  I had hit the motherlode of corks! She had always saved them (just like me), waiting for that moment when someone needed them.  Within a couple of days she had shipped me a package of what looked like a bazillion corks.  Corks of all shapes and sizes, matched in twos per my request (God bless you "wine diva"), and from all different vineyards.  She actually said it was fun to put together the box carefully arranged in layers of twos, with paper separating the layers.  Now that is a true wine lover (or geek) for you. 

The box of corks has been waiting in my workroom for today, the day that I attempted this project.  Assembling the corks into a logical pattern was harder than it looks and it was somewhat like working on a difficult jigsaw puzzle.  Certain corks were too fat, skinny, whatever, to fit into certain places.  Maybe it would be easier if I had been drinking wine at the same time, but it was before noon, so not really happy hour yet.  Halfway through, I texted "wine diva" to let her know that I was working on it.  I thanked her for the sacrifices of wine drinking she had done on my behalf.  Her answer : "I try to be a team player and help where I can ! " 

Here it is.  The final project.  I love it.

I have enough corks left to start another one.  In order to finish it though, I am going to have to drink some more wine and put "wine diva" on alert that I need more corks.

Memories

My scrapbooks sit half-completed.  When my kids were little, I worked on the scrapbooks diligently, and my two daughters have several completed books.  Then my son came.  I still worked on them, but my time was spent on feedings, diaper changes, refereeing fights, playing games, toting kids here and there.  Three kids left little time for devoting my day to deluxe scrapbook pages with creative layouts and colorful labels.  Then divorce entered our lives.  For years I could not even bear to work on them.  I just didn't have the scrapbook karma.  My family was broken and I didn't know how to scrapbook those painful memories or journal thoughtful phrases of inspiration on their pages.

Years have gone by.  My kids are now 20, 18, and 13.  I pick up the boxes of pictures, school awards, varsity letters, and look through them.  Before I know it, I am lost in years and years of memories.  Sometimes I see events that I had forgot about it.  I see friends that had come and gone in my kids' lives that I wonder about now. 

These years went way too fast.  I know that everyone always tells you that when your kids are little.  "You're gonna miss this when it's gone".   It is true.  Before I could blink, my oldest daughter had gone to college.  My second one is ready to go next year.  I know this is my last school year to have her at home, and I know nothing will ever be the same.  My son will be an "only" child by the time school rolls around next year.   For all of the times that I wanted to scream because of the chaos and clutter in my home, I am now faced with the reality that the house is getting quieter with each passing day. 

My workbench is filled with the kids' childhood memories, waiting for me to start again filling their books.  I have sorted through the piles a few times, getting everything in chronological order.  It is hard, letting go of their childhoods.  Each time I peruse my stacks of memories I am stopped by the tears streaming down my cheeks. When I look at the pictures it takes me back to another place and time.  It wasn't always easy.  There were some tough times amidst the good times,  and there were times when I was bursting with pride for my kids and their accomplishments.   My most important job in the world was to be mom to these kids. These books are our lives together in words and pictures. 

I love the expression that author Anne Lamott uses:  "Bird by Bird."  I will tackle this project "Bird by Bird", one page at a time.  I will journey through infancy, preschool, grade school, middle school, and high school with my kids again. The only difference is that their faces will be looking at me and speaking to me from photos. 

I'll make sure I have the kleenex box handy.

Here I Go Again

Once again I have dropped my blog writing for weeks on end.  It sounds better to say "weeks" when in reality it is actually almost two months since I have written.  What has been going on?

Not to make excuses, but here is a start of the list of things that have happened since I last wrote:

• I have attended approximately 24 girls' high school softball games and 3 club softball games
• I have attended eight 13 year old boys' baseball games
• I have taken my annual anniversary trip to Steamboat Springs and fished for the second time all year
• I have given up on my vegetable garden and left it to die
• I have planted 150-200 tulips and daffodils with hopes of seeing them sprout in the spring

Not to mention, the usual: try to work enough to make a living, pay the bills, keep the house moderately clean, wash the clothes, feed the dogs, cats, snake, and family, try to make sure everyone gets to where they need to be on time with the right things on the right day......you get the picture.  

I tell myself not to beat myself up over this.   I got de-railed again.  I write in my head all of the time, but I don't sit down long enough to put the words on paper. 

How do you write about life when life gets in the way of your writing?  

A Snake, The Barbecue Tongs and Me

Let me start by saying that I hate snakes.  The only thing I fear more than snakes are spiders.  Both are equally terrifying but the spiders' creepy legs place them just a little higher on the hate meter for me.  The funny thing about this is that I inherited a snake from my daughter when she went off to college.  It is a corn snake and I guess at one time when she (the snake) lived at my ex's house, she was just a wee little baby snake.  Now she lives in my office in an aquarium and she is at least three feet long.  No, she is not cute no matter what my daughter says.  I don't even know if she is female, but it seems to help me deal with the situation better, knowing that surely a female snake is more loving and less likely to kill me than a male snake.   I have never touched her.  When it comes time for her weekly feeding of a thawed out previously frozen little white mouse, I have come up with a system.   

This is how it typically goes:  I remove one of the gross little white mice from its' box in our freezer, wondering to myself, how do they manufacture these little dead mice?  I also wonder, what if we have guests over and they see the little box of frozen dead mice in our freezer?  Will they think that we eat them?  Anyway, I put it in a cup of warm water to thaw it out to just the right temperature so the snake won't choke to death on it.  I approach the aquarium oh so quietly and sneakily.  If I see the snake is laying in the aquarium with its' head pointed the other direction I quickly remove the cover, dangle and then drop the mouse in, and slap the cover shut.  Then I tap my fingers on the glass near the mouse air drop location so that the snake, who seems to be incredibly stupid and blind, realizes that there is a mouse there.  Sometimes it takes the snake half an hour to realize it.   I think if this particular snake had to fend for itself in the wild, she would have been dead long ago.  

Today the snake threw a kink into my whole system.   First of all, she was very active, which scares the crap out of me.  She was obviously hungry and waiting to strike her prey.  Since she is blind and not the brightest snake in the jungle, this meant that if I stuck my hand in there even for a moment to drop the mouse, she might leap at it in error and cause me to have a heart attack.  I've actually been told that she doesn't have much in the way of teeth and is nonpoisonous, but that doesn't help calm me.    Anything leaping towards me in the form of a serpent is going to be traumatic and a life-changing event for me. 

So, I get the bright idea to get the barbecue tongs from the kitchen and dangle the mouse into the aquarium with them.  I strategically line the little mouse tail up in the grasp of the tongs.  Then I realize that it's very difficult to remove the cover of the aquarium with one hand... in fact, it's impossible.  So, I set the tongs down momentarily to get the cover off.   As soon as the snake hears the cover move, she starts lifting her head towards the top.   I freak out of course, and slam the cover shut.  Just about the same time, I bump the tongs with my arm and the mouse drops onto my yellow lab, who is laying underfoot because he has to be in the middle of all of the action.  The mouse lands on the dog's back.  As he reaches around to grab it in his mouth, I scream at him, 'DON'T EAT THAT!"  As he scrurries away from me and looks at me with that dog look of "What's wrong with her and what did I do wrong?"  I pick the mouse up by the tail.  I look at it.  The mouse is now covered in yellow dog hair. 

Even I know that dog hair is probably not good for a snake's diet, so now I have to go to the sink and rinse the little mouse off.  I feel like I am torturing it, even though it's been dead for quite awhile.  I start thinking about poor little Mickey Mouse and what I am doing to his relative all for the sake of this damn snake that I don't even like.  

I run back up the stairs holding the mouse by the tail, eager to get this escapade over with.  I look at where the snake is, and she is facing one side of the aquarium.  I whip the cover off of the tank, drop little Mickey's cousin in, and manage to get the cover shut in one fluid motion.   She slinks her way over to the site of the mouse drop and she devours him.  I think she imagines that she is one tough snake and an expert hunter.  She eats the poor little mouse that I have done all the work to provide her with, and curls up under her warm snake light.  She is pretty proud of herself I believe.

I'm off to clean the barbecue tongs.  

Tucker or Hamilton?

My poor dog.  He seems to have a split personality, which my family is actively reinforcing.

His real name is Tucker.  Actually, to be entirely correct, his AKC name is Sir Tucker of Berthoud.  I never had an AKC registered dog in my life, so when it came time to name him it only seemed fun to give him a regal name with a title.  That's what all the dogs in the the Westminster Kennel Club show seem to have, so we went with it.  Usually we simply call him Tuck.  Sometimes my husband wants to call him a bad word that rhymes with Tucker, but he usually refrains from yelling that word in the backyard.  Usually, I say.

I, of course, love everything about him and can hardly raise my voice to him.  He has me wrapped around his big paw.  

He is an eight month old destructive chewing machine.  He is also unbelievably cute, loyal, and my constant companion.  He still has that long and lanky puppy gallop where his feet and body don't always match up perfectly.  He has an enormous head and gigantic paws and a goofy smile.   

One day I noticed that the brand name of his collar is "Hamilton".   I thought to myself, "what a great dog name that would be."  Somehow this idea morphed into my dog's evil twin name.  Before I knew it, we all ran with it.  Whenever he is bad, we call him Hamilton in the same manner in which all of Seinfeld's characters yelled "Newman!". When he's being a well-behaved dog, we call him Tucker.   

A week or so ago when we went camping and left him in the backyard with minimal supervision (the two older dogs didn't keep him in line) he literally ate the label off of our propane tank on our grill and the igniter switch for the grill.  Now, we could have covered the grill with the grill cover and tried to keep him out of it, but he ate that a couple months ago.  Hamilton! We can no longer sit on our patio furniture because he has systematically removed all of the stuffing from all of the chairs. 

Earlier this morning, Hamilton made an appearance.  He pillaged the trash can in the bathroom and when I heard the familiar wet chewing sound coming from the other room and apprehended him, he was gnawing on used Q-tips and make-up remover pads.

But, a couple hours later, as I write this, sweet Tucker is sleeping at my feet.  His face is angelic and his sleepy expression is calm and peaceful.   Life is good with a puppy head lying on my foot while I sit at the computer. 

As he gets older, we hope that little by little the Tucker side of the personality takes over and we can bid Hamilton farewell.

Of course, he's a lab, so this could take years.