Category Archives: Family/Parenting

Someone Special’s Celebrating

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Today’s my only sister’s birthday — I won’t say how many because she’d kill me or retaliate.

That’s the way it is with siblings. We know which buttons to press.

Or not to press.

And it’s always been that way.

When we were little, sharing a room, we had an imaginary line running down its center.

One side for her. One for me.

As we grew, we got separate rooms, but she tended to find mine MUCH more interesting than hers.

Probably because of the diary I kept under lock and key.

Not that I had anything exciting to write in its pages, but she thought I did.

Or maybe because of my closet, with its neatly hung and folded clothes.

No matter that we weren’t the same size. Or had the same tastes.

She was a believer in sharing; I was not.

You can imagine the arguments!

Sis and me after a trip to Texas way back when!

Sis and me after a trip to Texas way back when!

Some time after I left for college, we started becoming friends. Perhaps my late dad’s admonition, “You’ll always have each other” was making more sense.

For a while, we both worked in the same town. Across the street, actually.

And we’d share lunches and secrets, talk about “the ‘rents” and boyfriends, enjoy sun tanning by the pool and drinks on weekends.

I look on that time as idyllic.

Now we’re separated by some 700 miles, but we still manage to stay close.

Phone calls, e-mails, and such make it fairly easy.

Gone are the days when she’d snatch one of my sweaters and wear it to school, whether I approved or not. Gone, too, are the times I’d “rat” on her to our folks or we’d fight over whose turn it was to set the table.

Those two little girls have grown up and wonder of wonders, now they actually like each other.

Just as Daddy always hoped.

Happy Birthday, Sis — Love you!

Making Progress on Domer’s Move

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I’ve just returned from The Land of the North, where My Favorite Domer will be moving later this summer.

Our journey was necessitated because Domer rather likes — and needs — a place to call Home, yet he obviously didn’t have one since he’s never lived North.

(Other than four years in South Bend, which often felt like “North”!)

We packed the car on Sunday and took off, Google maps in hand, prepared for an eight-hour road trip. Domer took the wheel first, giving me a chance to file my fingernails, place some phone calls, and read.

Some time after lunch, we found ourselves in the Podunk region of a neighboring state, watching as farm after farm flashed by, enjoying the bucolic scenery of cows and hay, corn and trees.

But we were on a two-lane state highway, and Domer was “lucky” enough to have several slowpokes in front of him — with no easy way of getting around them.

“Can’t we go any faster than 50?” he wondered aloud.

Not really, I said. The road is twisting and turning, you’ve got hills and No Passing signs.

“I can’t stand this! The idiot in front of me is just far enough behind the guy in front of him that I’d have to go around the whole lot of them, and there’s no time.”

Poor Domer.

Want me to take over, I asked.

“What more could you do?”

He had a point.

Eventually, we landed in The Land of the North, checked into a hotel, and decided to look around.

How can one city have so many confusing road signs, I wondered.

Normally, I have a great sense of direction. Sure, the compass inside my rear view mirror helps, but still.

These streets felt as if they were going north when they were going south, east when they were actually west, and I felt much like somebody had blindfolded me, spun me in circles, then instructed me to walk a straight line.

We learned it was easier for Domer to play navigator and me to drive.

Fewer angry words, too!

Because it was after-hours for leasing offices, we opted to eat dinner and get an early start the next day.

DAY ONE:

Armed with a map and a list of addresses, Domer and I set out in hopeful spirits.

The first couple of places we checked felt a little sketchy.

Nice enough, I suppose, and certainly reasonable in price, but nothing to write home about.

“Remember,” my sister had advised me, “Shacks are cheap for a reason.”

She knows this, having helped lease apartments for her two kids several times now, and I’ve never felt the need to experience everything for myself when I can learn from others!

Finally, I sensed Domer’s growing frustration and suggested we look at something on the pricier end of his list.

“I can’t afford that,” he whined.

(Yep, by that time both of us were whiny!)

We’ll just look, I said. You can’t compare if you don’t have anything to compare to.

(Where had I heard that before??)

Long story short, we both fell in love with the “fancy” place, and if all works out, that’s where Domer will live.

A place that’s safe. And clean.

One that fits his budget and has amenities (like snow-removal and private entrances).

A place I wouldn’t mind living myself.

If it weren’t in The Land of the North!

How do I Save these Items?

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In the midst of the hubbub my life has become, I’m trying to finish My Favorite Domer’s senior year Memory Book before he takes off for The Working World.

My consolation is that this task is almost done, and if he wants any more memory books, he’ll have to compile them for himself!

Still, it’s been a labor of love. And I enjoy reliving with him those precious memories.

Now some things are fairly easy to preserve, even for a non-scrapbooker like me.

Things like ticket stubs. Photos. Boarding passes. Notes and letters. Football schedules with game results. Programs from award ceremonies.

But it’s the odd-shaped things that have me stumped.

And if anybody has realistic suggestions on how to preserve them, please let me know!

Need an example? How about this:

Band hat

Band hat

How do you save a Band hat? Don’t ask me Why he needs it, or Why the Band parted with it. It is what it is — a memory. And just looking at it, I get teary-eyed. All those football games, Bowl games, marchouts, friends. He’s not parting with this, and that’s that!

Or this:

Leprechaun Legion hat

Leprechaun Legion hat

Domer got this as part of the basketball pep band one year, and it’s never left. It’s a huge, foam, green hat with a gold shamrock on one side. Leprechaun Legion, by the way, is the student fan section at athletic events.

Does he need it? Will he ever wear it again? Probably not. But we’re not getting rid of it, either.

Or how about these:

Beads

Beads

Domer got these “Mardi Gras beads” during the women’s basketball trip to New Orleans for the Final Four tournament. You probably can’t tell, but the gold “beads” are actually small basketballs. Cute, huh?

I have no idea how to preserve something like this. Perhaps he can simply hang them on a doorknob and recall the fun he and his Band buddies had, eating jambalaya and beignets, hoisting a tall cool one, and watching basketball.

Or what about this:

Mortarboard

Mortarboard

We’ve got the tassel preserved in a photo frame with his picture, but this hat is a bit cumbersome. What does one do with a used mortarboard?

But the best of the lot is this thing:

Horse mask

Horse mask

A horse mask?? Seriously? I’m supposed to save this?

Absolutely, he says. We had all kinds of fun wearing this thing. It was worth every penny!

You paid good money for a horse mask?

Sure, I did. And I’d do it again, too.

Well, okay, but even Dallas seems to think there’s something amiss with a horse in his living room:

Dallas and the horse

Dallas and the horse

From Student to Employee

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I think I alluded to this in my last post, but now that graduation is over, now that we’re back from our miserable trip abroad, the BIG item on the To-Do List for my son and me is getting him relocated.

Out of state.

Far out of state.

For his new job.

Not a part time internship.

A real JOB.

With a paycheck. And benefits. And bills.

Because My Favorite Domer is entering the World of the Employed.

Woo-Hoo, can you see me doing the Happy Dance?!

What is it they say, Parenting is the only job that, once you get really really good at it, you’re unemployed.

Maybe, but I believe I’m a long was from that.

Anyway, relocation means work. Lots of work.

And expenses. Mucho expenses.

  • Like an apartment.
  • And stuff to go into the apartment — furniture, towels, cooking items, food.
  • And a car, since he didn’t have one at college, by his own choice.
  • And insurance.
  • And a new cell phone (because his is woefully outdated, has an annoying proclivity to shut down willy-nilly, has buttons in the wrong places, and won’t keep a charge).
  • And a laptop (because the battery on his overheats, shutting down the entire system without warning).
  • And working people clothes (as opposed to T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers).

It’s exciting to be sharing this time in his life. And I’m ever-so-grateful that he’s found gainful employment (and doesn’t have to hang around here being bored).

So don’t ask me if I’m working on my novel.

With this much on my mind, I’m doing good just to keep up with this blog!

And it’s okay. Really.

As my late dad used to say, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Nor is a novel.

When LIFE interferes with your writing, you have two options:

  1. Rail against it, squeeze out time to write when you can, then throw it all out when you realize it sucks, and rail some more at the injustice of it all, or
  2. Roll with the punches, write when you can, and don’t sweat it when you can’t.

I’m trying the second route. I’ve tried the first one before, and it doesn’t work.

Too much angst.

Rolling with the punches feels better.

I like to think my novel is percolating, that I’m letting the creative juices simmer while I tend to everyday things.

And besides, I’d boxed myself into a terrible corner, one I can only hope time will help me resolve!

But I’m putting my Muse on notice — I’ll be back.

Baking with Domer

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Now that my son (AKA My Favorite Domer) has graduated, he’s got a brief window of time to “rest” before he commences work.

And he’s using this time wisely, or so I think.

He’s invested in a super-thick cookbook and is teaching himself how to cook (something he didn’t have much need for while he was a student in a college dorm, eating dining hall food — or fast food! — every day).

Following the recommendation of one of his Notre Dame friends, he bought Mark Bittman’s “How to Cook Everything,” a 1,000+ page tome chock-full of recipes, instructions, helpful aids, line drawings, and all things culinary.

I realize not everybody likes or appreciates Mr. Bittman, a former columnist for The New York Times and author of more than a dozen cookbooks. However, a young person needs to start somewhere, and Bittman has a way of walking his readers through the process while encouraging them to experiment and stretch themselves.

Just the confidence-booster they need!

For dinner tonight, Domer and I decided to try our hands at Oatmeal Cookies.

Yes, I know you can buy them at the store. But we wanted to bake!

Now there’s not enough money in my hometown to pay me to eat a bowl of hot oatmeal. I don’t like the taste, or the consistency, or anything about it.

Never have.

My mom eats oatmeal (“gruel,” I call it) practically every morning, but not me.

Not Domer either.

But I like oatmeal cookies, and these were delicious — chewy, filled with raisins and chocolate chips, and hot from the oven.

See for yourselves:

Yummy oatmeal cookies, fresh from the oven1

Yummy oatmeal cookies, fresh from the oven1

The recipe calls for rolled oats, but we used instant. Didn’t make much difference, we decided (of course, we’re not oats experts either!)

For those who are interested, here’s the recipe:

Oatmeal Cookies (makes 3-4 dozen)

Time: about 30 min.

Ingredients —

8 tablespoons (one stick) unsalted butter, softened

Half-cup granulated sugar

Half-cup brown sugar

2 eggs

1 1/2 C. all-purpose flour

2 C. rolled oats (not instant)

Half-teaspoon ground cinnamon

Pinch salt

2 teaspoons baking powder

Half-cup milk

Half-teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions —

  1. Heat oven to 375° F. Use an electric mixer to cream together the butter and sugars. Add the eggs, one at a time, and beat until well blended.
  2. Mix the flour, oats, cinnamon, salt, and baking powder together in a bowl. Alternating with the milk, add the dry ingredients to the dough, a little at a time, mixing on low. Add in raisins and/or other ingredients. Stir in the extract.
  3. Drop tablespoon-sized mounds of dough, about 3 inches apart, in rows and columns on ungreased baking sheet. Bake until lightly browned, 12-15 min. Cool for about 2 minutes on the sheets before using a spatula to transfer the cookies to a rack to finish cooling. Store in a tightly covered container at room temperature for no more than a day or two.

As Julia Child used to say, Bob Appetit!!

 

Props to the Savviest Shopper I Know!

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I think I’ve finally figured out what went wrong with our trip to Ireland.

Someone (I won’t point a finger, but you can guess!) is just too CHEAP to enjoy a vacation!

Here’s what gave it away:

This weekend, My Favorite Domer and I went into a Kohl’s store. I wanted to return a pair of shoes I’d bought for Commencement but found too uncomfortable; he said he was just going to “poke around” while I was in the Customer Service line.

When I finished, I went to the ladies section, zeroed in on a couple of things to try on, and was in the dressing room when my cell phone rang.

It was Domer.

“Have you got a minute?” he wondered. “I found some things and want you to take a look at them.”

“Where are you?”

“Men’s section.”

“Be right there.”

I discovered Domer wandering aimlessly around the men’s section, a pile of clothes in his arms.

Turns out, he’d found three sweaters, one half-zip top, and a dress topcoat.

“They were on clearance,” he told me.

Now much of those racks look like a garage sale to me, so I was hesitant.

“Do they fit?” I asked. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing. They’re fine. I can wear them this winter.”

I noticed all were quality brand-name items that would go with other things in his closet.

When he showed me the price tags, I gasped.

“Too much?”

“Uh, no, I think I’ve got a fifteen percent off coupon somewhere. Ready to check out?”

He nodded and carried his loot to a cashier.

After ringing in the total, she gave me a big grin and said, “You saved $500!”

The lady behind us almost fell over from the shock.

My savvy shopper had picked up merchandise that was 90 percent off! The topcoat alone carried an original price tag of $275, and he got it for $27.50. Those sweaters were between $6 and $9 each. Each!

Now, I’ve got friends who pride themselves on spotting bargains. They browse resale shops, buy only off-season items, trade with friends, etc.

But NEVER have I had the pleasure of saving $500 on one shopping trip!!

Traveling Abroad (Four) — May, 2013

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There’s something inherently sad about the demise of a dream, whether it blows up or just fizzles into nothingness.

We Americans tend to think we corner the market on dreams.

That anything is possible, if we’ll just buckle down, persevere, hang tough.

There are reams of quotes to that effect.

But sometimes, things happen that are unplanned. Unforeseen.

And dreams, once held so tightly, shatter.

Not necessarily becoming nightmares, but close.

Our trip abroad was like that for me.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, but perhaps we should have done a better job pre-planning. Securing visitor brochures, booking hotels, familiarizing ourselves with transportation and food and the monetary system.

Perhaps Domer and I are too cheap to be world travelers. Or too solidly ingrained in home and routine.

Perhaps this was the wrong time for a trip. Too soon on the heels of commencement.

Perhaps we should have signed up for a group tour.

(Nah, we’re too independent for that!)

If it’d been me by myself, I’d have stuck it out. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

No way would I readily admit failure. Defeat.

But this was Domer’s trip, and he was miserable. So I did what any parent would have done — whatever it took to make him un-miserable.

That meant swallowing my pride, shelling out a small fortune in cancellations and penalties, and accepting responsibility for the mistake.

But I can’t think of it as a mistake.

After all, we did see some beautiful countryside, we passed interesting-looking museums, and — short though it was — I was actually on Irish soil!

Nor did it rain all the time; in fact, we only got the briefest of mists our first day.

I haven’t lost a deep kinship with Ireland, the country of some of my forbears, either. And one day I hope to return — wiser and more organized.

Domer looks at me like I sprouted a pineapple on my head when I say that. Fine, let him grumble that our trip sucked, big time.

I disagree.

We came back with a new appreciation for our homeland. For Wal Mart, green beans, fruit salads, hamburgers, ice in drinks.

We understood what Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz — “There’s no place like home.”

And we realized it’s a whole lot different being Irish-American than being Irish.

That, despite our our disparities, our aggravations and frustrations, the people of the USA — with their core beliefs in Freedom, Equality, Dignity, and Liberty — are strong and independent.

That our competitive spirit, free enterprise system, and a persistent belief in the goodness of mankind are valuable and honorable things.

That dreams — and the possibility of making one’s dreams come true — are worth holding onto.

And those are lessons every American needs to learn!

I’m B-a-a-a-c-k!!

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Dallas

Dallas

Dallas here.

Mama hasn’t touched her blog in nearly two weeks, so I’m pitch-hitting for her.

Even though I’m kinda mad with her.

You see, she left me at the kennel while she and Grandma went to The Kid’s big hoop-de-doo. You know him as Domer, but to me, he’s The Kid.

And we’ve been together a long time — six years, in fact.

When Mama first brought me home, The Kid was a little guy. Fifteen, I think. And he was scared of doggins.

Because we have toofies. And can stand on our back legs to jump on people.

But Mama quickly taught me not to bite — not even in play — and not to jump.

Truth be told, I didn’t particularly like jumping anyway. I’m a herding dog, not a circus monkey!

Anyway, The Kid and I grew up together. I taught him to like dogs; he let me lick his sweat after he’d come home from golf and tennis. I taught him to throw a ball; he taught me to bring it back. He taught me to play Chase and Hide and Seek; I taught him unconditional love.

So it was only right for Mama to take me to see The Kid graduate.

I’d have been good. Honest.

I could’ve stayed in the motel. I wouldn’t “go” on the rug or bite the housekeeping staff or howl long and loud.

I wouldn’t have been any trouble at all.

But they stuck me in the kennel. I’ve been there before, though never for this long. And they say dogs can’t tell time — huh!

The kennel’s nice, all things considered. There’s other dogs and cats around, they feed me the same stuff Mama does, and they even take me for walks.

But I wanted to be with my family.

Mama’s back now. So’s Grandma and The Kid.

They surely don’t expect me to believe it took this long for him to graduate. I don’t know for certain, but I think another trip was squeezed in there somewhere.

To a place called “abroad.”

I don’t know what that was about, but I’ll tell Mama to blog it for you, okay?

“Commencement” really is a Beginning

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Playing right now: “Pomp and Circumstance” by Sir Edward Elgar

When I was in high school, our band played “Pomp and Circumstance” while the seniors were marching into and out of the gym for graduation.

It was a tradition, one we eagerly embraced. As we embraced our new (higher!) chair positions without our “leaders.”

A week was set aside to practice. The seniors would walk in as we played; they’d listen as their names were read aloud, then they’d walk back out as we played again.

Over and over until it was right.

So by graduation evening, it was old hat. It never crossed my mind to cry.

Nor did I cry when I was the graduating senior (eager, I recall, to get out of Dodge!)

By the time my son (AKA My Favorite Domer) graduated from high school — Class of 2009 — they’d chosen a prerecorded version of “Pomp and Circumstance” to accompany the seniors’ processional.

Call me old-fashioned, but I liked it better when the band played. Squeaks and wrong notes and all.

So I didn’t cry at Domer’s high school graduation.

But now, he’s completed his final, final exam, marking the end of his four-year stint at Notre Dame, and Commencement is right around the corner.

And I feel weepy.

I’m going to miss ND more than Domer will because, after all, it’s “home” to him. He’ll be back for football games, reunions, and such.

I, on the other hand, won’t have a reason to go back without him there.

The other day I was in the car when “Pomp and Circumstance” — the long version — played on Sirius radio, and I couldn’t help myself.

The tears just started flowing.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be emotional when Domer walks across that stage to accept his diploma. So I’ve decided to desensitize by listening to “Pomp” every chance I get.

And it’s helping.

When I left for college, my late dad termed it a “four-year paid vacation.”

Not so. I worked too hard.

Stayed up late too often studying. Involved myself in a gazillion activities. Reported for the campus newspaper. Had a scholarship to the Band.

Yes, I had fun. But not “vacation” fun.

Domer wouldn’t call his four years a “vacation,” either.

For the first time in his life, he’s been surrounded with young people just like him.

Bright. Talented. Big-hearted. Idealistic.

Kids who are athletic. Musical. Scholars. Volunteers.

Kids who recognize that they’ve been given many advantages and “To whom much is given, much is expected in return.” (Luke 12:48)

I predict good things for the Class of 2013.

Now, if I can just get past the Alma Mater. . . .!

Let’s Go Lego-ing

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When My Favorite Domer was little, he spent an inordinate amount of time playing with Legos.

In his little hands, these hard plastic colored bricks became spaceships. Or villages. Or monsters. Or whatever.

A $5 box of Legos was the perfect reward for a boy eager to do his best, to help out around the house, to bring home A’s.

Bribe, you say? Hey, whatever works — as long as he picked them up, and I didn’t have to step on them with bare feet!

On summer days, or weekends during the school year, his friends would come over to design and fabricate entire Lego worlds, complete with people. And vehicles to move them from place to place.

I lost track of how many pictures I took of him with his finished creations to submit to the Lego magazine.

“What do you get for winning?” I’d ask.

And he’d show me some expensive, one-of-a-kind set that he had to have.

Sadly, he never won.

But that didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. Or stop him from dreaming and creating.

Four years ago when Domer headed off to Notre Dame, he packed up his precious creations and stored them in boxes.

It’s the end of an era, I thought, figuring maybe his kids would get some enjoyment out of them one day.

Because plastic bricks don’t go bad, do they?

I was wrong. Not about the bricks, but about the end of an era.

Because boys really never outgrow their toys, you know.

Over Christmas break, Domer got a notion to break out his Legos. To look, once again, at his creations.

To see whether they were as “cool” as they once were.

They didn’t disappoint. You think I’m kidding, right? Well, you’d be wrong. See for yourself:

Trip down Lego Memory Lane

Trip down Lego Memory Lane