IHOP

Q: Is it strange that our son pulls his pants down, bends over, pretends his cute, little, naked butt is talking and calls said talking butt "Dr. Waffles"?

A: Not in our house. Nope, not strange at all.

Beau Ties

One other thing about last weekend's funeral that I liked . . .

My uncle was a long-time wearer of bow ties. As a fitting tribute, most of the men in his family (i.e., sons, stepsons, son-in-law, grandsons) wore bow ties during the ceremony and at the reception at the Genesee Valley Club. My cousin's husband David, from California, brought a slew of bow ties with him for people to choose from -- including one from this company, Beau Ties, whose name I also liked.

Anyhoo, it got me thinking. Maybe everyone should wear lampshades at my funeral, no? Tiaras would work also. Or ascots. Just putting the idea out there.

My Eulogy

I just went through the 3.5 years of this blog and deleted most of my work-related rants. Why? Partly because I'm very appreciative of this job (which is also well documented) but mainly because it's hurtful. And, while my readers are limited to a few friends and family, I don't want to be that person who intentionally or unintentionally hurts someone's feelings. It amounted to 13 posts over the past 46 months (i.e., roughly one per quarter). In hindsight, not too bad, after all.

The other morning I had coffee with a headhunter who bills himself as a connector. He wanted to meet with me to discuss a business idea he's hatching. Somehow in the course of our conversation, he asked what I wanted said about me during my eulogy. Nothing business-related, I assured him. (Man, could she produce. Have you seen her spreadsheets?)

The topic came up again later that same day when I had lunch with my favorite pastor. He said it's a topic in the bestseller and major snooze fest (my add), The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. To live a noteworthy life, you basically start with the end in mind. For example, he said that he hopes people will always recognize him as someone who truly cared for others. Nice.

But what's my end goal? The question keeps rolling and rolling around with the tumbleweed in my brain.

Yesterday, my mom and I went to my uncle's funeral. His eulogy was centered around his larger-than-life personality, ability to live life to its fullest and can-do personality. He focused his approach to life around a single question: Is it the right thing to do? and, if the answer was "yes," he would say, "then do it."

I have no such defining principles. Or, if I do, I'm not sure they're earmarked as mine and/or shared readily with others.

What would others say at my funeral? She was so busy, I barely saw her anymore? That probably would not be stated aloud. Maybe people would say that I'm nice. Or sometimes funny. A good mom. All of these are good things but they're not strong differentiators.

Who am I? More importantly, what positive mark should I be attempting to imprint on my children? I don't have the answer yet but I'm glad to be posing the question.

Venus Envy

Shrieked in our family room last night, "Dude, I just Saturn Uranus."

My Retirement Castle Awaits

My oldest brother turned 50 in July. In preparation for the week long, bacchanalian festivities that never took place, my kids and I invested $0.35 in a beautiful glass mug at the Volunteers of America. It bears a lovely painting of a horse on one side along with lyrics and musical notes on the flip side for The Old Gray Mare (she ain't what she used to be).

We sadly never sent it to him because a) his gorgeous house outside of Chicago was on the market and we didn't think he would want more crap to pack but really because b) Son #2 took an immediately liking to this garish glass and didn't want to part with it.

He's very giving, I know.

The other night he told me he was going to keep it forever.

Son #2: Mom, you can borrow it in 50 years, if you want.
Son #1: No she can't! She'll be dead. Mom, you don't plan to live until you're 95, do you?
Son #2: Oh right. Yeah, and if you're not dead, we'll definitely have you in a nursing home by then.

Once again, feeling the love.

Memorial Day

Finally I can wear my white pumps again . . .

I took Friday off because it was (dare I say) a bit quiet at work and the kids were off from school. I slept in the hammock while soaking up the sunshine and chatted with my next door neighbor as the kids played.

Then my mom, sis and I flew to Greensboro on Saturday to hang with my brother and sister-in-law and meet their gorgeous, sweet, awesome, baby boy who made my heart swell. I have to say, what a great little city: beautiful neighborhoods, nice shops, cool relatives. I could totally live there. Maybe I could score a job at the Center for Creative Leadership? Not sure what I would do exactly but the topic of leadership is certainly one that is of great interest to me not only because I have slaved under some of the worst "leaders" on the planet but also because I have gladly served some of the best. Anyhoo, I digress.

While there -- just for a microsecond -- we somehow got on the topic of how we're all worth more dead than alive. I was thinking about it later that night. Menendez brothers aside, what keeps most families from killing each other? In addition to the fact that it would be horribly disturbing (as Lady Macbeth clearly demonstrated), life isn't about money at all: it's about love and relationships. You could have all of the money in the world but, without love, it's worthless. Conversely, one moment of pure love is worth more than gold.

Last night I had a date with Son #1. Just the two of us; his brother and dad went to the movies. We went to the Red Lobster (!) because he has been asking to go there for ages and we've been putting him off. As I was cracking our crab legs, he was dipping the crab meat in butter and repeatedly exclaiming how it was one of the best meals of his life (next to daddy's cooking). I couldn't help but think how blessed I was for these little moments in life -- just spending time with someone who is still capable of being in awe of the world.

So, yes, today it's back to work. But I'm extremely grateful to have had a four-day weekend filled with the people I love the most: my family.

Same Games, Different Millennium

My middle brother, who is closest in age to me, was in town from NC -- just for dinner -- last week. It was awesome to see him, albeit briefly. The strange thing is that, now that I have two little boys, I feel like I’m reliving much of my childhood with him. I can still hear him badgering me to stay in the lines as I sit on the floor at night coloring robots and racecars. And he and I played endless games of “pig” (i.e., basketball) and Battleship: two things I’ve been doing a lot lately. But finally, at least for now, I have the advantage. “Mama, you’re really good at basketball.” Yep, and I’ll take on any five-year-old who dares me.

Like him, my boys are nascent drummers and both are even sporting the same, short, military haircut that he modeled in the 60s; they’re just lacking the Buddy Holly, thick, black-framed glasses to complete the look.

I wonder, however, if either of my kids will get his bizarre sense of humor. He once told me that we went to private school because we were mentally challenged. “Haven’t you ever noticed it says ‘SLOW Children’ right where the buses park?” Nice.

My girlfriends loved him because he used to make Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes for us during sleepovers. This was after he would wake us up just to “make sure we were sleeping okay.”

He and I were the ones who rode in the back of station wagon together, facing backwards, on every family trip. Then, when he learned to drive, he would purposely hit every bump on the road if I was applying mascara in the passenger seat. He later taught me how to drive.

Because of my brother, my heart now aches when I witness kids in the neighborhood not wanting to play with the younger kids -- not because the little ones feel left out but rather because it must be such a huge drag for the older kids when they are forced to include them. My mom always strong-armed my brother to let me tag along with him and his friends even though I am a girl and four years younger. And then he would get in BIG trouble when his friends would ditch me. Especially when I got home first and promptly told my mom (like the time I made the perilous journey back from the next town over, sans supervision, along the train tracks). D'oh!

It's hard to believe it's been over thirty years since we hung out as kids. It feels like only yesterday.