Watching While Time Flies

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My son, AKA My Favorite Domer, was home over Christmas, and once again I was struck by how fast he’s growing up.

It’s not just that he towers over me (though he does!). It’s not just that his voice is deeper, or his features more angular than rounded.

It’s his grownup demeanor — his sense of responsibility, his assuming ownership of his day-to-day activities, his maturity.

I’m thrilled, of course, that he’s finding his way. Making what I hope will be lifelong friends. Focusing on his future by tending to his present studies. Not procrastinating when it comes to undesirable tasks like term papers, when he’d rather be playing video games.

We were at Mass, and I caught myself looking at his hands, remembering the baby fingernails I used to trim. Those pudgy fingers now have lengthened into slender, artist/musician’s hands, set off by his Notre Dame class ring.

I looked at his sneaker-clad feet and was transported back to his infancy. When I took him in his carrier to my obstetrician’s office, everybody wanted to hold and kiss those soft little feet with the tiny, perfect toes.

I looked at his profile, the Roman nose of his Italian ancestors, the twinkling eyes and dark coloring of his Irish forebears. How fascinating to see the family traits come together in a unique way!

Now, all this looking happened in the space of just a few seconds. No young man wants his mom staring at him in public.

But after he goes to bed at night and is deep in sleep, I tiptoe to his door and stare.

Drink him right in. That’s a parent’s prerogative, you know.

It reminds me how fast time flies, from infant carriers and diapers, to Legos and school projects, to senior pictures and high school graduation.

Sure those young child days sometimes seem to last forever, especially when you are casually turned into a taxi service, a place for them to dump fears and worries, even a grocery store or fast food outlet. But those days just FLY by, really. Blink and before you know it, they’re grown and out of your house.

So may I make a suggestion — Enjoy every second with your precious offspring. When the going gets difficult (and it does, for all of us!), remember, This, too shall pass.

Does anything make a mom’s heart burst with love the way watching her sleeping “baby” does?

I think not.

I’m so Versatile!

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The Versatile Blogger award

My friend Karen over at The Kazual Kreative recently bestowed an award upon me, and I thank her for it most sincerely!

Now I’ve seen these doo-dads around for a while, usually on blogs I enjoy reading because they’re posted by writers I’ve come to respect. To join their ranks is a humbling, yet exciting, experience.

As with any prize, there are rules attached to its full acceptance. I suppose one could simply grab the award and run, but where’s the fun in that??

I digress.

The Versatile Blogger award requires a nominee to:

  • link to and thank the person making the nomination. Check.
  • add the Versatile Blogger image on their blog. Check.
  • list seven things about him(her)self.
  • link to 15 blogs to “tag” as future recipients. Spread the love around, you know.

So, without further ado, I present 7 facts you might (or might not) know about me:

1. I wear silver-colored metals better than gold-colored ones.

2. I have never liked balloons.

3. Or clowns.

4. Once I rode in a hot-air balloon (totally cool and totally unlike party balloons!)

5. I also flew in a single-engine airplane. (But not at the same time as #4. Obviously!)

6. I don’t particularly enjoy being wet. Either from rain or from a swimming pool.

7. I won’t eat lima beans.

Phew, that was challenging. Who knew a person could make such a fascinating list, huh?!

Moving on, here are my nominees for the Versatile Blogger award. They’re listed in no particular order. And yes, I’ve checked to make sure I’m not repeating (wouldn’t want anyone to have to come up with new facts and links after they’ve done it once!).

Wait a minute. Linking to 15 previously non-rewarded blogs is more time-consuming than I’m willing to tackle. So I’m changing the rules. I herewith present eight nominees for the Versatile Blogger award. Anyone who regularly reads my blog and wants to be included in my list can e-mail me. Or just assume you’ve been included and thank me with a nice link!

Note to those who “control” this award: No, you may NOT take it away from me, just because I failed to find 15 blogs to link to! I tried, really. But this thing has been around the block a few times now, and while I should be miffed I wasn’t among the first to receive it, better late than never. Face it — it’s mine, regardless of whether I followed the rules. And I’m NOT giving it back!

To the following lucky bloggers, Tag, You’re It!

1. Memoir Writer’s Journey

2. One Sister’s Rant

3. The Whatever Factor

4. My Odd Family

5. Any Shiny Thing

6. Dawn King

7. Down the Road

8. Janna T writes

Beware the Stalker!

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My son and I got into a discussion that turned into a disagreement the other day.

I brought up the subject of blogging, how much I enjoy doing it, what interesting people I’ve met online, and how we’re all getting to know one another and support each other.

‘You ought to be more careful when you’re using the Internet,’ Domer chided me.

‘Huh? I am careful,’ I retorted (probably a bit huffily, for he was quick with his response).

‘No, you’re not. You don’t really know any of those people you’re talking to every day.’

‘You don’t know the people on Facebook either.’

‘But I do,’ he protested. ‘I only talk to my friends. People I actually know. Not like you. Your “friends” might be stalkers.’

Stalker cat (image thanks to http://www.icanhascheezburger.com)

‘No way. Some of them I know. Some I’ve met in person; some I’ve met through others. I’ve become friends with them over time.’

‘Right,’ he scoffed. ‘But you’ve never actually met them. You don’t really know them.’

‘Sure I do. Some are poets or writers like me; some are moms; some have dogs.’

Domer squinted at me. ‘Uh-huh, and most are probably liars.’

‘Nuh-uh,’ I said. (Like the way I switch to kid-mode when I can’t think of anything clever to say??)

‘Bet they are,’ he continued (Was he just trying to push my buttons??). ‘They’re probably perverts. You know, the kind that drive around in dirty panel vans with a sign on the front door saying “Free Candy” or something.’

‘They don’t either. We all have our photos posted. . . .’

‘Yeah, and photos aren’t available free for any pervert who wants to use one. Your “friends” probably don’t look a thing like their pictures either.’

‘But we’ve come to know each other. To learn each other’s likes and dislikes. To feel the truth through hundreds of words. To form a community.’

Domer kind of pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Whatever, Mom. But I still think you need to be more careful.’

I’ve tried to be prudent, I tell myself. I know the rules about not giving out full names or addresses or other personal information. About not broadcasting plans for being away from home. About not actually meeting online “friends” in anything other than very public places. About not posting intimate details or photos I wouldn’t want to share with a stranger.

Safety — my own and that of my family — is paramount in my mind when I post or comment. I want to be true to myself and real to my friends, but I don’t want to be accessible to the stalkers and creeps in the world. Shoot, my desire for anonymity and privacy is one of the reasons I don’t do Facebook and Twitter; the other is lack of time!

Still, the little imp probably has a point. One just can’t be too careful nowadays.

Do you ever relax and enjoy the online experience, or do you still find yourself censoring certain details?

Happy New Year!

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Sleeping Sheltie

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Looks like somebody got into the eggnog?? Or was it the Pupperoni snacks?

‘Mom, get that camera out of my face! I’m trying to nap here.’

Mind your manners, Doggin.

‘Okay. Happy New Year 2012 and thank you all for reading Mom’s blog!’

A Painful Anniversary

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Three years ago on this date, my dad lost his battle with esophagus cancer and entered eternity.

I remember him waking up in the wee hours of the morning, unable to catch his breath. We called the paramedics, who rushed right over and strapped him to a gurney for the trip to the hospital.

‘Do you want us to give you something to help you breathe?’ they asked him.

Dad nodded.

His eyes were huge. I’m certain he must have been frightened. And worried.

A ventilator was inserted, and off they went.

Some time later, Dad’s doctor came to the waiting room to inform us Dad wasn’t going to win this round.

‘He’s pulled out of these things before,’ Mom argued.

The doctor’s face was as grim as his words. ‘Not this time.’

He went on to explain what was happening to Daddy medically and, based on his experience, what Daddy’s foreseeable future would entail.

‘He wants to tell us something,’ my mom insisted. ‘Can’t we take the ventilator out?’

‘Yes, I’d recommend that. Let Nature take its course.’

Meaning, Daddy would die?

‘It’s time,’ the doctor said. ‘There’s nothing more we can do other than keep him comfortable.’

After the ventilator was removed, Daddy still couldn’t speak to us. His eyes held ours as he lay on the hospital bed, propped up amid pillows and hooked to various monitors.

We talked to him, held his hands. Prayed.

And tried not to let him see our tears.

Our parish priest came to administer the sacrament of the sick (last rites, it used to be called).

We prayed some more.

By this time, Daddy’s eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow.

‘Is he in pain?’ we asked the nurse.

‘No, we don’t think so,’ she said. ‘This is going to take a while. You all look exhausted. Why don’t you go get a bite of lunch?’

Food? At a time like this?

‘You have to eat,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll call immediately if there’s any change in his condition.’

Grudgingly, we left, but didn’t go far.

About forty-five minutes later, we re-entered the hospital corridor, and Mom’s cell phone went off.

‘We’re here,’ she told the nurse. We raced back to Daddy’s side.

‘This is really it?’ I asked.

The nurse nodded.

‘I’ll turn these monitors off so you don’t have to see or hear them,’ she said.

She pulled the curtains shut, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

Tearfully, we said our goodbyes as Daddy took his last breath.

Beating those Holiday Blues

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It’s easy to feel let down after the Christmas presents are opened, the relatives and friends have packed up and moved out, and it’s time to return to work.

After all, some of us have spent more money on gifts and activities than we’d planned. Others built the holidays up to such euphoric heights that day-to-day life can’t possibly compete. And still others might have experienced quarrels with family, bad feelings from over-eating or failure to exercise, and the “sadness” that often arrives during the shortened grey days of winter.

While I don’t profess to be a therapist, I know several tricks for beating the blues that can come after the holidays are over:

  • Eat healthy. Okay, so you slacked off your diet during Christmas. Big deal. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Just start today to eat healthy again. Back to the fruit and veggies; away from the cream pies and liquor.
  • Exercise. Join a gym or the Y. Put on your sneakers and walk at the mall. Start a yoga program. Try some new exercises described in magazines. Just get moving! And you’ll stick with it longer if you have a buddy join you (like maybe your dog or spouse?)
  • Leave your decorations up. Don’t be too quick to haul the tree, garland, and lights back to the attic. Leaving them up until mid-January frees you from the immediate stress of having to take them down, as well as can evoke good feelings of your Christmas get-together.
  • Or not. For some people, getting the house “back to normal” waylays depression. Perhaps you can enlist your family’s help, rather than trying to do it all yourself. Make it fun and reward them afterward.
  • Cut back on unnecessary expenses. Do you really need to eat out that often? Can’t you wait until that movie comes out on DVD? Don’t you have enough clothes and gadgets without shopping for more? Don’t bring yourself down by putting yourself in a financial hole.
  • If you make New Year’s resolutions, be sure they’re realistic. Failing to meet your “goals” can lead to more stress and depression!
  • Find things to look forward to. If you’re creative, you might want to catalog your Christmas memories in a photo album. If the holidays found you smothered by too much family and friends, perhaps you can take 20-30 minutes a day just for yourself — to meditate, to read, to regroup.
  • Give to the less fortunate. Christmas probably brought you some new things. Maybe after-Christmas would be a good time to donate your used things to others.
  • Listen to music. And while you’re at it, dance! And sing! Doesn’t matter if you’re good at it. Nobody needs to know but you.
  • Get professional help. If you find your sadness and lethargy lingering beyond what’s reasonable, you might consider talking to a professional counselor. Depression is treatable, you know!

Here Comes Santa Paws

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Where? Did somebody say Santa Paws? Where is he?

He’s not in the fireplace, Mom!

He’s not outside, either!

I don’t see him here

Wait! I think I heard him!

I’ll just look cute and wait for him! Happy Holidays, Y’all!

Home for the Holidays

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When I was a college student, I looked forward to coming home for the holidays.

School food was good, but it wasn’t homemade by Mom. My room was comfy, but I had to share it with a roommate. My living quarters were clean, but they weren’t home.

Coming home meant I could impress my parents (and my sister) with how grown up I’d become. How I could set my own schedule and choose my own clothes without fear that someone, somewhere, might disapprove.  How I could drink a soda in the middle of the afternoon if I wanted, or stay up ’til the wee hours of the morning and sleep until noon.

But two days after I’d arrived home and seen everybody, I was ready to go back to campus. Back to my world. My life.

Because family was stifling me.

Mom, of course, wanted to fuss and worry over me — was I getting enough to eat, was I making friends. Daddy didn’t like my new independent streak; I was supposed to stay shy and fearful, I guess. And Sis pretended to hate me for leaving her, when what she really wanted was a chance to grow up and go away, too.

The family dynamics change when a young person goes off to college, especially if the teen goes far enough away to where she can’t come home on weekends. The teen, of necessity, becomes more of an adult, responsible for her own life, but the family still sees her as its little girl.

Conflicts are bound to arise.

This situation came home to roost for me earlier in the week.

Now that I’m the mom, I was looking forward to My Favorite Domer being home for the holidays. To fuss a bit over him. To make him special snacks. To buy him things he needed for school or play. To wash his laundry and iron his dress shirts.

But he wasn’t having any of it.

Just like his mom before him!

‘I’m tired of you hovering over me, trying to stuff food down my face,’ he told me one day.

Yikes, was I becoming my mother??

Has one of your mom’s traits popped up in you lately?

Be Careful with Your Words

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Earlier this week my mom tearfully apologized for something she and Daddy did two decades ago — they refused to attend my wedding.

‘Daddy wanted you to know before he died,’ she told me. ‘We both did.’

But Daddy died three years ago this month, the words still stuck in his throat. And the only reason Mom was confessing is because without my marriage, she wouldn’t have My Favorite Domer (my son) around.

Domer is, in her opinion, better than sliced bread.

Her apology sent me right back to what was supposed to be one of the most wonderful times in a person’s life. Having met the one I thought I wanted to spend eternity with, I was happy. Busily planning our wedding ceremony. Attending pre-wedding parties. Shopping for a gown. Sending out invitations. Basking when someone complimented my engagement diamond.

Glowing.

Mom and Daddy told me over the phone they wouldn’t be at the ceremony.

‘We don’t approve, and we don’t think it will last,’ they said.

I thought they’d change their minds.

Then a terse, formal rejection to our invitation came. In perfect Emily Post wording.

They really weren’t coming.

So be it, I thought. I was over 21 — shoot, I was over 25! I was an adult; so was my fiance’. We didn’t need anyone to “give” me away when I was old enough to walk myself down the aisle.

Which I did.

Until that moment, I’d hoped Mom and Daddy would show up, maybe with an apology.

It wasn’t to be.

Shortly after our wedding, my new husband and I moved several hundred miles away, seeking, I suppose, a way to strengthen our bond without the interference of family and friends who didn’t approve. We found jobs, built a house, made new friends, and loved our new life.

Eventually we got the happy news I was expecting. However, that coincided with my husband’s job loss.

As my midsection grew, our finances tanked. The bank repossessed our beautiful home two months after Domer arrived. We separated, Domer and I going to stay with my sister, and hubby to stay with his brother. The plan was to put the fractured pieces of our life back together after we were stronger and he’d found work again.

That didn’t happen. Instead, we got divorced.

And while Mom and Daddy didn’t say, ‘We told you so,’ neither did they do much to empathize. Their philosophy seemed to be, Better to erase all traces of that phase of my life and move on.

So Mom’s apology is two decades late, and while it might be the “right” thing to do, I find it hard to forgive. The hurt just goes too deep.

The one good thing to come from this is my conviction that even wild horses couldn’t keep me from Domer. Whether it’s a major occasion or a minor one, I’ll be there, cheering him on, supporting him with my love and attention, and never ever forcing him to choose between me and somebody else.

I’m not posting this to play on your sympathies. Rather, I’m hoping you won’t leave unsaid the words that need to be spoken to those you love, that you’ll think twice before doing or saying things that can’t be undone.

Whoever penned the old quote, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,’ didn’t know what he was talking about. Words do hurt — sometimes for a very long time.

The Debate Continues

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A columnist for my newspaper this morning extolled the benefits of having a real — as opposed to artificial — Christmas tree.

As “virtues” he cited the “fresh pine scent,” the joys of buying local from a Christmas tree farm, and the delights of getting your tree home to decorate it.

Obviously, he didn’t grow up in my house.

I recall far too many Christmases trekking through the cold and snow to find a real tree, wrestling the thing into the trunk of the car, driving back home, maneuvering the prize out of the car, and discovering it was too “fat” to fit in the stand.

Then we had to hoist it onto the front porch, dig through the garage to find a saw, shave the sides of the trunk, and place it back in the stand, where it quickly became obvious the tree leaned a bit to one side or the other and had unusual “bare” spots. By the time it was erected and inside, nobody wanted to continue the decorating — needles were strewn all over the floor; angry and hurt feelings thickened the air.

No wonder something like 50 to 75 percent of people now go with an artificial tree! Consider the advantages:

* Cost. Once you’ve made the initial investment in an artificial tree, it’s yours. No more shelling out money every year for gas to search for that perfect specimen. No more annual cash outlay to purchase it.

* Convenience. Store your artificial tree in its box, get it out as early as you’d like (hey, even keep it up all year if you want!), and know just where to find it when next Christmas rolls around. Most are easy to put up, too.

* Upkeep. Artificial trees don’t need to be watered. So you can keep Fido from lapping up the sugar water and forcing someone to constantly refill the stand.

* Fires. Real trees eventually dry out. A dry Christmas tree can go up in a blazing inferno. Who wants to come home to find their home in flames?

* Cleanup. Artificial trees generally hold their needles whereas real ones don’t. If you get a real tree, you’re going to be constantly running a sweeper or something to keep the dried needles picked up so Fido won’t swallow one.

* Allergies. Many people are allergic to Christmas trees (in particular the sap but also the pesticides used to grow it). Don’t force your guests to choose between visiting you in your home and avoiding you like a plague!

* Snakes. I suspect the last thing most folks want in their homes is a snake or other critter. However, there have been occasions when just that has happened (do a Google search and see how often!)

* Practical. Trees belong outside, you know. If you insist on having a real tree, get one that can be re-planted outside rather than using one for a couple of weeks then tossing it out with the trash!

What’s your preference — Real or Artificial Trees?