Sleep-Away Camp Awakens Mom

Day 5 of Nick’s 14 days at overnight summer camp. I miss my 12-year old terribly. The other parents were so excited when we waved good-bye to the busload of campers. Not me. I’m lethargic and can’t find my zest. I rummage around different stores looking for interesting cards to send him. I hit the jackpot when I find one with a cover from a Rumplestiltskin picture book. Nick’s favorite childhood story. I want to find enough energy to get some things done around the house while he’s gone. Can’t I at least be productive? The house is too quiet. I’m sad.

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Once a BFF, Always a BFF

My friend Deb called me last October.  I hadn’t seen her in about seven years.  Our 35^th high school reunion was coming up and she wondered if I’d want to go with her.  I was thrilled to hear her voice although I’d been hurt and confused during the past several years, wondering why she’d let our friendship wither.  I’d long considered her one of my closest friends, but calls and cards had gone unanswered for a few years before I’d stopped contacting her. 

Toughest to digest was that our friendship moved from the slow lane to the exit ramp when she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age forty-four.  I so wanted to support her through her treatments but she did not need me.  She had her husband, her sisters and other friends who lived closer.  I heard enough to know she’d survived, but her not needing or wanting my support forced me to realize our friendship had eroded more than I’d been willing to admit.  A few years later, my holiday card was returned with a red stamp of No Forwarding Address.  I took this as the final signal that I should let the relationship go.

The high school reunion was a blast.  Deb spent the weekend at my house.  We gabbed for hours.  She made no mention of her silence over the years and I’d decided beforehand that I would welcome her back, no questions asked.  I honestly don’t think the years of silence were anything personal – probably more to do with living one-hundred miles away, raising two teenagers and finding time with a husband who worked long hours.  I can’t say I felt no resentment but mostly I was glad to have her back.

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A Nursing Home Holiday Filled with Family, Memories and Tears

My father-in-law, Glyn, moved to a nursing home in early December. We came bearing gifts on Christmas day – my husband, me, our 10-year old son, along with my husband’s brother and his 11-year old daughter.

Glyn sat in the dining room. A first for him as he had been taking all his meals in his room. He ate his prime rib with gusto as we hovered around the table. Conversation was sparse. I had thought that this visit to the nursing home would be sad but it felt okay.

Holding a gift box and tearing the wrapping paper off was difficult for Glyn. My husband helped him open a large box filled with a heavy black jacket. I wondered if he’d ever get the chance to wear it.

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From One Generation to the Next and the Next

My father-in-law will move from a skilled nursing facility to an assisted living apartment this week.

My husband and I are a bit frantic about figuring out what furniture and belongings from his large three-bedroom home will fit best in the new, tiny apartment, and about getting his nicotine stained and smelly condominium ready to rent out.

And we try not to panic over where the money to pay for all of this will come from.

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Mornings are a Mother’s Time

I pop out of bed at 5:45 am and push the alarm button to off.

I pad down the hall and get the coffee started, careful not to wake my husband or son. My workout clothes, laid out the night before, await me on the sofa. I dress, walk up the driveway to pick up the newspaper. The moon still shines and the air is crisp and cold.

Twenty-five minutes for sipping coffee and reading the paper before I head to my 6:30 a.m. exercise class. An hour of hard sweating. Back home for a quick shower, an even quicker bowl of cereal and I’m out the door by 8 a.m.

Three more stops before I get to work – gas station, ATM and dry cleaners. I slide into my desk chair a few minutes before 9 a.m.

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A Mom Dances When She Has Time to Herself

I’m home alone for six days while my husband and son ski in Lake Tahoe!!!

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Mothers Sing the Most Rockin’ Lullabies

My son loves to hear me sing lullabies.

“Sing to me, Mommy,” his sleepy voice pleads as I sit on his bed, stroking his head. I start my trio of songs, almost carrying a tune. My singing voice is horrible. I can’t hear when I’m off key.

I love music so I don’t think I’m tone deaf, but something’s missing in how I hear the notes. What comes out of my mouth does not at all match what I hear in my head.

But Nick loves my lullabies. Nick loves me.

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Christmas Shopping Traditions: The Wife’s & The Husband’s

My Christmas shopping exploded when I met my husband.  I’m the third of eight children and our family gift traditions were simple.

My husband had only his father, his brother and his brother’s girlfriend.  But their tradition was (and remains) to buy each other five or six gifts.  And then there were “gifties” for the close friends that are his extended family. 

And my husband-to-be never started shopping before December 20^th.  His routine was going to a big mall, feeling so totally overwhelmed and freaked out that he became paralyzed and went home nearly empty handed.  The real shopping happened between noon and six on Christmas Eve.  I played along the first year and hated it, but somehow felt it was my role to support his holiday routine.  He loved having me with him.  

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Childhood Memories of a Magical Nutcracker Past

The young girls in holiday finery caught my eye as I stepped off the escalator onto the BART platform at the Civic Center station in San Francisco. 

They sat on one of the round marbled benches, maybe seven and nine-years old, carrying on a lively conversation with their wooden nutcrackers.  Their mother, in a black and silver lace blouse, was standing and looking up at the electronic schedule display.  I smiled and was about to ask how they had enjoyed the ballet when a lump swelled and my throat closed. 

My body had reacted before my memory caught up. 

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A Winter Ritual’s Location Is Changed So ALL Are Included

My son’s school has used the auditorium at the Oakland Mormon Temple for many years for our annual winter concert. 

The auditorium can accommodate the crowd of several hundred students, parents, grandparents and friends who flock to this holiday highlight.  The huge outdoor light and nativity display add to our anticipation as we walk through the crisp night air into the warm theatre.

We relish the familiarity of this winter ritual.  The opening act is the kindergarteners (don’t they absolutely get more adorable each year?) marching down the aisles in angel garb. 

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