being sad about what I want to happen

It’s (almost) August, which means it’s time for football. August is when all the local teams, from college to middleschool, take to the my road.  When my sons would run by I’d smile and wave and the team would wave back. It’s part of conditioning and our house is on the best route.

It’s not just football, we see cross country and soccer players too. They start in small doses, a couple at a time. Usually the team captains and one or two other players they dragged out. In a week it will be doubled, they call those captain’s practices around here. Then by the last week of August they’ll run by in teams, lazy guys included. My youngest was always one of the first, my eldest one of the last.  My family had balance

The herds of runners are a sign that Fall’s coming soon. Pretty soon the college students will show up. Upper classmen carpooling with u-hauls, freshmen sitting in the back seat of their parents car knowing their new life is at the end of the car ride.  I did that ride with each of my sons, it was harder on me than it was on them but they love their Mom so they humored me.  I got to take the ‘putting key in dorm room lock’ pictures and they even let me make their beds before I left. I can’t have my kid sleeping in an unsheeted bed and I know them both pretty well so I knew they wouldn’t bother.

I also know Fall’s in the offing because at the WalMart school supplies have taken over the front half of the store. Luckily I can go in the other entrance and not have to wade through the petulant kid aisles. I never understood why a child needs new socks and underware for school. Seems a few crayons, a gluestick, and a bookbag would do it.

I only have to venture into school supply land when I buy pet food and I think I’m set on those for the month of August. Burg’s got a shiny new BJs membership and he really likes using it. He bought us shampoo in what seems like a gallon drum and we’re all set for life on q-tips.

The thought of summer ending makes me think of this:

In the next thirty days I will go from Tia:a parent to Tia:a grandmother. I think I’d like a little more time please. I know I’m old enough to be a grandmother. The boy says I’m older than dirt so I must be old enough to be a grandmother.

My age really doesn’t bother me anyway. It took me a lot of years to become who I am. I’ve done a lot of stuff in my years. It’s not like I wasted them, so why should age bother me? I like 45-ish me. I’m just not ready to be a grandmother quite yet.

Not because of me. I’m not ready to see my son as a ‘Father’. It went by too fast.  I really wouldn’t slow down or speed up time if I could but it hurts a little right now. I know life’s not a VHS tape and I’m a little eager to meet my granddaughter. It just hurts once in a while. 

I keep trying to remember, whenever I slip into sad, that in less than thirty days my son’s going to be a Daddy. There’s a good side to my sad feelings and I’m betting the sad ones will go away once life happens.  God’s good to us that way.

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We’re putting together a baby pool for the month of August. We’re all putting in $10.  Even though the Mommy-to-be has an unfair advantage.

I’m taking the 21st but I’ll do a side bet that whoever wins gives it all to the baby anyway.

stepping into the way back machine

I did a little weeding over the weekend and I’m paying for it now. Nothing I can’t handle but the twinges remind me of my age. This is where my generation pays for the lack of love from our parents. We pad our kids from head to toe but our folks didn’t so we’ve all got cracky knees and sore backs from time to time. If only they’d loved us more…Aleve would be out of business.  

Some parents take it a bit too far but I can see a need for the basics. Don’t want Jonny falling off his bike and scrambling his thinker. Jonny already can barely read, gotta protect what he’s got. Unfortunately my generation’s parents took a looser approach.

They let us ride in the back of pick-ups, play with pointy objects, and helmets were what Mork and Gazoo wore not something we strapped on before leaving the house. My folks gave my brother and me toys that consisted of two hard glass balls on the end of strings. They even had a handy plastic ring attached for better flingability. And my parents were the safe ones on the block. We didn’t get to hippity-hop down a hill in the winter or play with fireworks unattended like some kids did. Our Barbies and GI Joes didn’t get airtime strapped to an Estees rocket. My foks wouldn’t let us play with those things

My neighbors had a son who was routinely dragged around the yard by the string his mother used to keep his mittens with his coat. Some objects should be avoided if there’s more than one child in the family. Things like mitten strings and play handcuffs and lawn jarts. And certainly anything that consists of two balls of glass on a string.

Our parents probably didn’t love us any less than parents now. We just know more now. And more. And more…. I’m very glad that I raised my kids when I did. There’s too much stuff now. If love of a child is proven by the amount of useless baby products in your home…. my kids got very little love.

I didn’t love them enough to have a diaper/wipie warmer or a heated cozy to keep butt spackle pliant and toasty, or a cribside music player that plays animal sounds or womb noises. Someone loves their kid enough to want to listen to womb noises, good for them. I drew the line at the second set of Power Rangers, womb noises? hell no.

My parents never loved me enough to pad all the corners in the house. They let us walk right into the tables knowing we probably wouldn’t do it a second time. They didn’t love us enough to make us wear seat belts for kids. They never wore them much either. My Mother only put her’s on on Sundays. I’m not sure why, I guess she didn’t want to mess up her church clothes. My brother and I used ours as weapons. I’ve mentioned before that I think everyone in my generation knows about someone who fell out of a car when it rounded a corner. If it didn’t happen to your family it did to a friend or a cousin. 

Our swimming floatation devices were a chunk of styrofoam with a belt running through it. That pretty much sums it up.  The funny thing is even though we weren’t as safe then in a way we were safer. We had a whole neighborhood to roam in. You knew your neighbors, your neighbors were your friends. Kids could play outside, everyone knew who’s kid was who’s and who could do what. No adults ran our games and we policed ourselves when it came to cheaters. We didn’t have as much stuff and we had fun anyway. And somehow we all grew up in one piece. We’re a little achy when we do too much weeding and a little creaky on rainy mornings but we did okay, even though our parents obviously didn’t love us that much.

on death and dying

every time I hear the word “death” I automatically think of that book. Every Catholic school kid in this area had to read it. I’m not Catholic but I once coached a boys softball team for a Catholic school. My then brother-in-law couldn’t play on a team if they didn’t find a coach. Me, a two year old Burg,  and a herd of sixth grade boys. Obviously I was much dumber back then. Not a horrible team but more like Bad News Bears than my Yankees. We took second. By disqualification.  During the Championship game our third baseman took the Lord’s, and the umpire’s, name in vain in a very descriptive way.  We were o-u-t of there! I offered to bench the boy, he apologized in a shuffle your feet and not really mean it kind of way. The other coach even asked that the game be continued, the Umpire chose otherwise. The poor lad didn’t get smited but we did get disqualified. I have no idea if we could have won it but it sure would’ve made a great Disney movie if we had. 

 They were all reading ‘On Death and Dying’ and if you know me you know I’ll take any excuse to read a book.  I decided to read it too. It was interesting, the first time I’d read about the five stages. 

If only it were that easy.

I don’t put a lot of thought into dying.  It’ll happen when it happens. My parents phone calls are like death watches. They don’t go by events, they first cover the deaths.  They mark their memories by “that was around the time Mertyl died” or “that was right before Ed passed”, death is their focus. Who’s dying, who’s going to die, who died.  I don’t want to be that way.  

I also don’t want to be so afraid of dying that I put all my effort into being alive longer by being miserable now. I don’t want to be so caught up in preserving myself that I don’t enojy now a little too.  I want to enjoy a medium rare steak from the grill and a beef steak tomato with real salt. I want real creamer and real sugar in my coffee and I want it strong. I want to have flavor in my food and I want to enjoy the trip. Death’s going to happen when it happens and when it does ..it does. 

I have friends who don’t eat a lot of tasty stuff because they “want to live longer by eating healthy” That’s nice and all but you have to throw in something tasty once in a while.  I have friends who don’t touch caffine or alcohol. Again, that’s swell but there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a cup of coffee or having a glass of wine every now and again. It’s about moderation. Why prolong life if you aren’t enjoying the here and now.

That said, I’m not a big believer in the afterlife anyway. Not saying it can’t exist, the only people who can tell me aren’t talking to me in dreams and I’m not having visions of Great Uncle Max telling me about the light in the tunnel. I just believe in God and my personal faith tells me that I can’t really control death. I also believe that the majority of our reward for good things done and said, is the ability to really appreciate the people and things around us. Most people who I know who are rude, cold, and selfish don’t seem to appreciate the people and things they have. I also know people who are kind, good hearted, and nice and they seem to take such joy in their lives and savor each blessing.

I don’t know if I buy into the who “heaven” concept. I’ve never been completely sure it exists. I do tend to think that the occasional thinking of others helps our own eyes open to the life we have. To me death is just God finishing my chapter. I’m not sure how, why, or when, I’ll find out soon enough.  Until then I plan to enjoy the people who care about me, the blessings I have, and the occasional medium rare steak with a side of onion rings and a mug of coffee… caffinated not that nasty decaf stuff.

spare change

not the kind of change you’re thinking about although I have added quite a bit of that kind to my granddaughter’s piggy bank. The first thing I did when I found out I was a gramma-to-be  (and once the buzzing in my head stopped and I’d talked it over with a good egg) was buy a piggy bank with remove able cork. Believe it or not none of the new ones come with corks, it’s a plastic stopper now. I had to search high and low to find a cork for her piggy. It just seems like they should have them. I’m sure the plastic stoppers are cheaper to make though.

I put the piggy on the bookcase right by the front door and we all throw our spare change in it. It adds up quickly, piggy’s been emptied twice now and all the money from her will go into an savings account/ cert. for her future. Hopefully college, possibly not, she’ll live it as she goes and make her own choices in time. She’s not even born yet but a pre-gramma can daydream

edob is 56.5 days away….not that I’m counting 

The change I’m talking about is a little pattern I have when I hit speed bumps in life. I’m not going to do anything about it, it’s not important enough.

I have been working hard on two other things: cutting out cursing and stopping interupting people when they talk. One of my spare kids does it and I’m trying to get him to stop…not good if the teacher does it too. I’ve pulled in the big guns to help me, I’ve asked them to please tell me when I do it. It’s the only way I’ll stop. Neither son has any problem chastising me. They’ve gotten quite creative with it. Yesterday my older one told me “this is a one way conversation right now Mom”. 

 

We were picking up more paint. I’m painting my bedroom. It’s looking pretty good if I say so myself, and I do. 

When something in my life changes and I’m living on, I tend to change something with it. That’s the little pattern I was talking about. I had my ears pierced a second time after a divorce <bad move>, gone way too blond <super bad move> over another divorce (yup, that’s two… life happens), even cut off/grew out my hair over breakups, but this time I decided to just repaint my bedroom.

It’s been a hell of a year and I kind of like my hair long. So I’ve sanded and patched and spackled and now all I have left is one wall. It’s drying now and then I’m painting it.

What a difference. It went from drab fingerprinty walls, with thumbtacks and scuff marks to soothing and clean. And my mind’s done the same.  I was heading into a self induced funk over my sons. The one I’m pushing out of the nest with both feet on his butt and the one who is appx. 56.5 away from going from ’son’ to ‘Dad’. That’s the biggie.

He’ll always be ’son’ but Dad will be first as it should be. Once he becomes Dad we hit the last step in our relationship. We’re both going to be adults and parents. We’ll share a new bond. I love this kid. Hyperactive little frustrating charmer that he was.  And I can’t stop myself from having little memories come to mind.  Those get to me a little. I’m sure someone’s thinking “then don’t think about it” but I can’t.  It’s not in my nature to be able to stop, it’s part of my process. I’m lucky enough that they want me involved and they ask my opinions. They’re sharing this with us and I’m glad. It feels good to be included and I know that the little mind burps go along with it. When they chose their baby book, my mind flashed to the first time I wrote in his. So I’m fighting the self-induced funk and painting my room.

I knew this semifunk I’m heading into is common, maybe even expected but I’m not in a wallowing mood so I decided to accomplish something. If I’m going to think anyway, might as well get something done.  My room looks good. It’s been a lot of work but that was on purpose. I needed to make somekind of change and it’s working fine. Saves me a hair cut. Although the dog and I have both gotten trims. The end of my pony tail and the end of her doggy tail. She painted my dresser and bedtable before I caught up to her. 

I did find some spare change and I put it in baby’s piggy. She may have been a surprise but already she has a family who loves her. I’ve even caught the boy stuffing folded bills into her piggy, but I didn’t tell him I saw.

I’m off to paint my last wall. Like my room, one by one the sides of my life have changed. And with the big one coming a fresh coat of paint makes a difference and along with the change will come a whole new type of joy.  

And to keep my busy, I’m going to stencil a garden onto one wall. I have a feeling I’m going to need busy work every once in a while. I still have 56.5 days