This song, from one of my favorite new artists, Eilen Jewell, (who is playing the Rochester International Jazz Fest on Friday night) goes out to my husband's friend Natasha who died last night.
Today is dark and rainy. And sad.
Natasha, we will miss your sweetness. The kindness of your soul. And your milkshakes.
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
With Love to Uncle Ed
Where do I begin?
With my Mother's Day overnight trip with my girlfriends to the spa at Mirbeau? Waiting in line just to gorge ourselves on steamers and shrimp kebabs at Doug's Fish Fry in Skaneateles? Sipping champagne cocktails with the Daytona Beach-like Moms Gone Wild crowd at the waterfall-fireplaced-grotto-like-outdoor hot tub? Trying to relax (with a pillow over my head) in the "quiet room" while some loud-mouthed chick told the whole room about her husband's celiac disease? Enjoying a fabulous but lengthy, three-hour dinner at the inn complete with capon magro (yummy lobster, shrimp, crab and capon crostini), venison tenderloin (delicious but so not a typical choice for me) and fork-fulls of my girlfriend's hummingbird cake (i.e., a hybrid, cream cheese frosted carrot/banana cake)? Waking up to a full clay body wrap treatment with head massage? Shopping in town the next day -- where timely Christmas music, including the Little Drummer Boy, played in the antique store? Coming home to the hammock and blowing off work for the day?
Where do I end?
With a visit from my mom's much loved, best friend from childhood, Joanne, and her husband John? With the, as always, wonderful barbecue at my sister's house? Or with Joanne carrying on a tradition that my Grandpa Jack established with our families many moons ago: handing my kids $$ as we left to go home? (They were so psyched.)
I guess a few days bookmarked on either end by friends from a) my childhood and b) my mom's childhood is a few days well spent. All in all, a great week with one major sadness thrown in the mix: my favorite uncle on my father's side, Ed, passed away in California. Truly heart wrenching. Our world lost a beautiful soul with sparkling eyes, an infectious laugh and a kind heart. He will be sorely missed.
With my Mother's Day overnight trip with my girlfriends to the spa at Mirbeau? Waiting in line just to gorge ourselves on steamers and shrimp kebabs at Doug's Fish Fry in Skaneateles? Sipping champagne cocktails with the Daytona Beach-like Moms Gone Wild crowd at the waterfall-fireplaced-grotto-like-outdoor hot tub? Trying to relax (with a pillow over my head) in the "quiet room" while some loud-mouthed chick told the whole room about her husband's celiac disease? Enjoying a fabulous but lengthy, three-hour dinner at the inn complete with capon magro (yummy lobster, shrimp, crab and capon crostini), venison tenderloin (delicious but so not a typical choice for me) and fork-fulls of my girlfriend's hummingbird cake (i.e., a hybrid, cream cheese frosted carrot/banana cake)? Waking up to a full clay body wrap treatment with head massage? Shopping in town the next day -- where timely Christmas music, including the Little Drummer Boy, played in the antique store? Coming home to the hammock and blowing off work for the day?
Where do I end?
With a visit from my mom's much loved, best friend from childhood, Joanne, and her husband John? With the, as always, wonderful barbecue at my sister's house? Or with Joanne carrying on a tradition that my Grandpa Jack established with our families many moons ago: handing my kids $$ as we left to go home? (They were so psyched.)
I guess a few days bookmarked on either end by friends from a) my childhood and b) my mom's childhood is a few days well spent. All in all, a great week with one major sadness thrown in the mix: my favorite uncle on my father's side, Ed, passed away in California. Truly heart wrenching. Our world lost a beautiful soul with sparkling eyes, an infectious laugh and a kind heart. He will be sorely missed.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Pity Party
For the second time this week, I began my day at 1:00 a.m. Before 8:00 a.m. today, Wednesday, I'll have already worked over 40 hours this week.
I know, I know. I didn't rappel into a gated compound, after experiencing a helicopter mechanical malfunction, and shoot Bin Laden in the eye -- but shouldn't I get some sort of pat on the back? Better yet, a raise?
Lord have mercy on me. Wo(oo)oe is me.
I know, I know. I didn't rappel into a gated compound, after experiencing a helicopter mechanical malfunction, and shoot Bin Laden in the eye -- but shouldn't I get some sort of pat on the back? Better yet, a raise?
Lord have mercy on me. Wo(oo)oe is me.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Jiggity Jig
Home again. Home again. I may be at work but my brain is still on vacation . . .
On a semi-related note: why does the Houston Aquarium have a white tiger? Was it unhappy in the zoo?
On a semi-related note: why does the Houston Aquarium have a white tiger? Was it unhappy in the zoo?
Friday, April 8, 2011
In the Air Tonight
Like many people, music forms the soundtrack of my life. When I hear a song that's had an impact on me, for better or for worse, I am immediately transported to that point in time when the song was imprinted on my brain. For this reason, while I love the Clash, their classic Rock the Casbah will forever remind me of a party full of drunk, singing frat boys in college that my girlfriends and I hastily departed. Conversely, while I'm not a fan of Phil Collins, the crappy Genesis song Invisible Touch reminds me watching a bunch of grade school kids dancing their hearts out on a ferry crossing the English Channel which renders it almost tolerable to me.
Horrifyingly, the Phil Collins song that I heard this morning, In the Air Tonight, reminds me of SU's Day Hall my freshman year. We had one elevator in a bank of three that, when you pushed the "emergency stop" button, would skip floors. I lived on the eighth and top residential floor -- so we continually bumped every floor stopping for no one. We called it the Day 8 Express. The repair man was also a frequent sight on our floor, and in the control room in the empty floor above, as the elevator was forever stopping between floors with the doors wide open (i.e., where people would have to climb in and out) and/or simply breaking down (i.e., out of order).
One warm, sunny day, my friends and I spent the day studying, hiking and playing Frisbee at Green Lakes State Park. When we arrived back, the winding road leading up to our dorm was closed so we parked down the hill and walked up. As we got closer, we initially noticed crowds of people gathered outside the dorm fire drill style and a moment later we saw the coroner's van. It was a slow motion, surreal experience.
Based on what we were told, a blond kid from my floor named Matt was getting into the elevator and it went up, doors wide open, to the control floor above -- decapitating him and sending his body down the shaft.
When we were allowed back into the dorm, to say the mood on the floor was somber would be a gross understatement. To the best of my recollection, we were not given grief counseling. Maybe I just don't remember it. What I do remember was a group of us sitting in Fernando's dorm room in silence just listening to music.
Well the hurt doesn't show but the pain still grows
It's no stranger to you and me
Horrifyingly, the Phil Collins song that I heard this morning, In the Air Tonight, reminds me of SU's Day Hall my freshman year. We had one elevator in a bank of three that, when you pushed the "emergency stop" button, would skip floors. I lived on the eighth and top residential floor -- so we continually bumped every floor stopping for no one. We called it the Day 8 Express. The repair man was also a frequent sight on our floor, and in the control room in the empty floor above, as the elevator was forever stopping between floors with the doors wide open (i.e., where people would have to climb in and out) and/or simply breaking down (i.e., out of order).
One warm, sunny day, my friends and I spent the day studying, hiking and playing Frisbee at Green Lakes State Park. When we arrived back, the winding road leading up to our dorm was closed so we parked down the hill and walked up. As we got closer, we initially noticed crowds of people gathered outside the dorm fire drill style and a moment later we saw the coroner's van. It was a slow motion, surreal experience.
Based on what we were told, a blond kid from my floor named Matt was getting into the elevator and it went up, doors wide open, to the control floor above -- decapitating him and sending his body down the shaft.
When we were allowed back into the dorm, to say the mood on the floor was somber would be a gross understatement. To the best of my recollection, we were not given grief counseling. Maybe I just don't remember it. What I do remember was a group of us sitting in Fernando's dorm room in silence just listening to music.
Well the hurt doesn't show but the pain still grows
It's no stranger to you and me
Friday, January 7, 2011
MYOB
Last night, Son #2 coined a new phrase: MYObesity.
After I recovered from laughing, I said, "Wow, you are clever" to which he responded, "Yeah, I've got a lot of hook, line and sinkers." I see a future in writing captions for the Daily Show.
Do they hire nine year old boys?
After I recovered from laughing, I said, "Wow, you are clever" to which he responded, "Yeah, I've got a lot of hook, line and sinkers." I see a future in writing captions for the Daily Show.
Do they hire nine year old boys?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Jumpin' Jack Flash
Gray and overcast. Cool. Melancholy baby.
I joined a roomful of old friends, and many people I didn't know, at a downtown church this morning in remembrance of another friend, Eric, whose decomposed body was found earlier this month in the Genesee River. Foul play not suspected. It was, quite simply, the tragic end to a very sad life.
Handsome. Adorable. Star athlete. Track team. Ski team. Highly intelligent. Kind and tender soul. Ravaged by schizophrenia and decades of drug abuse.
Those present reminisced about his appreciation of flowers and constant seeking of knowledge: philosophy, science, religion and physiology. Almost all comments returned to his gentle nature and indomitable spirit. To his abundant sense of humor and the sparkle in his eyes. A family friend of his, who arranged the memorial service, shared how he presciently said to her, "Everyone has a future ahead of them; I have only my past." To ease that pain, an older man brought a chrysalis that is expected to hatch this week to remind us of how, like a butterfly, Eric has been released from this life's bondage and transitioned to another state. I take comfort in knowing he's now roaming someplace infinitely more beautiful than here.
My favorite stories were those that reminded me of my time spent with him while growing up in Pittsford village. Stories, with long overdue apologies to his father, about stealing bottles of 1962 Château Lafite Rothschild from their wine cellar which gained the neighborhood moniker "Klein's fine wines." Stories about the various caves and forts he inhabited throughout town. And story after story about his love for music--which seemed to be another shared bind between Eric and many of us.
After some discussion of how he firmly believed he was, in fact, Jumpin' Jack Flash (a song another friend posted on Facebook in remembrance last week), one pony-tailed dude whom I had never met, commented on the notable absence of music today. He then got up and played Mr. Tambourine Man on the piano. And for the first time in perhaps my entire life, I listened to the lyrics while attempting to suppress my sobs.
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
As for me, I have spent years scanning the sidewalks as I drove down East Ave. looking for him -- because that's where I would tend to see him most often. You could find him walking anywhere and everywhere in this city, his long, gray hair flying. He always looked homeless yet strangely content.
Now that he's gone, I know that I will continue to look for him because old habits don't die easily. But now my seeking will be filled with a low grade melancholy feeling. Just like today.
Hey Mr. Tamborine Man, play a song for me. In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
I joined a roomful of old friends, and many people I didn't know, at a downtown church this morning in remembrance of another friend, Eric, whose decomposed body was found earlier this month in the Genesee River. Foul play not suspected. It was, quite simply, the tragic end to a very sad life.
Handsome. Adorable. Star athlete. Track team. Ski team. Highly intelligent. Kind and tender soul. Ravaged by schizophrenia and decades of drug abuse.
Those present reminisced about his appreciation of flowers and constant seeking of knowledge: philosophy, science, religion and physiology. Almost all comments returned to his gentle nature and indomitable spirit. To his abundant sense of humor and the sparkle in his eyes. A family friend of his, who arranged the memorial service, shared how he presciently said to her, "Everyone has a future ahead of them; I have only my past." To ease that pain, an older man brought a chrysalis that is expected to hatch this week to remind us of how, like a butterfly, Eric has been released from this life's bondage and transitioned to another state. I take comfort in knowing he's now roaming someplace infinitely more beautiful than here.
My favorite stories were those that reminded me of my time spent with him while growing up in Pittsford village. Stories, with long overdue apologies to his father, about stealing bottles of 1962 Château Lafite Rothschild from their wine cellar which gained the neighborhood moniker "Klein's fine wines." Stories about the various caves and forts he inhabited throughout town. And story after story about his love for music--which seemed to be another shared bind between Eric and many of us.
After some discussion of how he firmly believed he was, in fact, Jumpin' Jack Flash (a song another friend posted on Facebook in remembrance last week), one pony-tailed dude whom I had never met, commented on the notable absence of music today. He then got up and played Mr. Tambourine Man on the piano. And for the first time in perhaps my entire life, I listened to the lyrics while attempting to suppress my sobs.
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
As for me, I have spent years scanning the sidewalks as I drove down East Ave. looking for him -- because that's where I would tend to see him most often. You could find him walking anywhere and everywhere in this city, his long, gray hair flying. He always looked homeless yet strangely content.
Now that he's gone, I know that I will continue to look for him because old habits don't die easily. But now my seeking will be filled with a low grade melancholy feeling. Just like today.
Hey Mr. Tamborine Man, play a song for me. In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Until We Meet Again
Goodbye little Stinkers.
The other night Stinky's breathing became more labored but she was still purring and snugly. The next day, she began to deteriorate quickly so the hubby called the vet who thankfully makes house calls.
Yesterday afternoon, I picked the kids up from school early and headed home to say goodbye. It was sunny and warm so we found both hubby and cat outside in the garden. Stinky was sniffing the flowers, gnawing on the grass and roaming around. As she was rubbing against the pine tree in the side yard, I sat down beside her and began to pet her. She then laid down in the warm sunshine next to the tree and simply hung out with us as we all continued petting her. It was very peaceful.
When the vet and his assistant came, she wasn't even scared. Without even getting up, she let them pet her. We agreed to give her the shots outside: the first in a vein to numb her and the second in a muscle to put her down. She put up a bit of a fight with the first shot so I placed her on my lap. I then held her, pet her and whispered to her as they put her to sleep.
It was the perfect ending for the perfect cat. Sitting in the warm sunshine surrounded by her family who loved her.
We buried her by the ring of pink flowers that is just starting to come up -- along with her Stinky bowl that I painted with my girlfriend Darlene in NJ one weekend many moons ago. I couldn't bare to ever see it again.
And then the kids and I read Psalm 23 aloud. She will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Goodbye my little love.
1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
4 Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, [a]
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
6 Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
The other night Stinky's breathing became more labored but she was still purring and snugly. The next day, she began to deteriorate quickly so the hubby called the vet who thankfully makes house calls.
Yesterday afternoon, I picked the kids up from school early and headed home to say goodbye. It was sunny and warm so we found both hubby and cat outside in the garden. Stinky was sniffing the flowers, gnawing on the grass and roaming around. As she was rubbing against the pine tree in the side yard, I sat down beside her and began to pet her. She then laid down in the warm sunshine next to the tree and simply hung out with us as we all continued petting her. It was very peaceful.
When the vet and his assistant came, she wasn't even scared. Without even getting up, she let them pet her. We agreed to give her the shots outside: the first in a vein to numb her and the second in a muscle to put her down. She put up a bit of a fight with the first shot so I placed her on my lap. I then held her, pet her and whispered to her as they put her to sleep.
It was the perfect ending for the perfect cat. Sitting in the warm sunshine surrounded by her family who loved her.
We buried her by the ring of pink flowers that is just starting to come up -- along with her Stinky bowl that I painted with my girlfriend Darlene in NJ one weekend many moons ago. I couldn't bare to ever see it again.
And then the kids and I read Psalm 23 aloud. She will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Goodbye my little love.
1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
4 Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, [a]
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
6 Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Stinky the Cat
Our much loved cat, age 16, is on her death bed. Illness: cancer. Prognosis: dire.
I'm going to miss her beyond measure and I don't want to let go.
Without Stinky, I may finally get a full night of sleep. No more midnight-to-three-AM face licks. I will no longer have to cover my head with my comforter for peace. She won't be around to scratch the comforter until I give in and let her smother me with affection.
Without Stinky, I may be able to read a book without her climbing onto my chest -- not my lap -- and snuggling against my neck thereby making my arm movements (and page turning) virtually impossible.
But I don't want to sleep or read. I just want her to live forever. Without illness or pain.
Son #1 cannot stop sobbing. Actually, none of us can. He was asking me tons of questions last night between tears including "How can I possibly go on without her?" (not sure) and "Can't she just make it until I turn 10?" (four weeks? unlikely).
He's also calculating how many years until he sees her again in heaven.
I'm discovering that facing the death of a beloved pet is, as always, very difficult but managing it with a grief-stricken kid is absolutely heart wrenching. God help us. And God bless little Stinkpot. May she go quickly and painlessly.
I'm going to miss her beyond measure and I don't want to let go.
Without Stinky, I may finally get a full night of sleep. No more midnight-to-three-AM face licks. I will no longer have to cover my head with my comforter for peace. She won't be around to scratch the comforter until I give in and let her smother me with affection.
Without Stinky, I may be able to read a book without her climbing onto my chest -- not my lap -- and snuggling against my neck thereby making my arm movements (and page turning) virtually impossible.
But I don't want to sleep or read. I just want her to live forever. Without illness or pain.
Son #1 cannot stop sobbing. Actually, none of us can. He was asking me tons of questions last night between tears including "How can I possibly go on without her?" (not sure) and "Can't she just make it until I turn 10?" (four weeks? unlikely).
He's also calculating how many years until he sees her again in heaven.
I'm discovering that facing the death of a beloved pet is, as always, very difficult but managing it with a grief-stricken kid is absolutely heart wrenching. God help us. And God bless little Stinkpot. May she go quickly and painlessly.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
JetBlew It
Yeah, I know: snowstorms screw up flights. But I've discovered that the chaos can be severely compounded. Take JetBlew, for example. Just prior to this storm that overtook the East coast, they upgraded their computer system which resulted in a planned outage. Seriously? In this day and age with testing, up/downtime statistics, sandboxes, etc.?
So here's what has happened so far on our "vacation":
In other words, without partnerships or reciprocal agreements, if your flight is canceled, you're SOL. They don't even suggest placing you with another carrier; they just ruin your vacation.
One guy next to me on line this morning was freaking out because he attempted to fly out last night and they wouldn't put him on the flight. They were asking for $450 because he was confirmed on today's flight. This morning, his flight was canceled and they couldn't rebook him until next Tuesday. I thought he was going to pummel someone.
The JetBlew woman who was handling him was curt and borderline nasty. "There's nothing we can do about the weather." (Aside, other carriers including Delta, American and Japan Air were still flying international. We could hear planes flying overhead throughout the day as we were stranded.)
She's right but a little compassion would go a long way.
I need a hug. And a suntan. Instead, my mom, kids and I are probably heading back to Rochester tomorrow filled with dashed hopes.
United breaks guitars. JetBlew breaks hearts.
So here's what has happened so far on our "vacation":
- JetBlew changed our confirmation number due to the system change but never communicated the change. We could not log in to confirm: call #1
- Even the new JetBlew confirmation number shows an error on the online system (i.e., states that it doesn't match my last name) and my TrueBlew number says that I have no upcoming flights: call #2
- JetBlew canceled our flight out of the Roch so I scrambled to leave work, took the kids out of school and checked into a hotel in sunny Jamaica, NY: call #3 (due to high call volumes, we cannot handle your call at this time) and call #4 (40 minute wait time)
- Awoke early to discover that our flight to Barbados this morning was preemptively canceled -- long before the snow even dusted the ground: call #5 during which I was on hold for over an hour as I walked through the hotel, waited for the airport shuttle, took the shuttle and finally hung up as I entered the airport
- At the airport was told (with a straight face) that tomorrow's flight was fully booked and that the next flight with any availability was the 16th (i.e., the day before we come home). Huh? And there's nothing anyone can do?
- My new friend Dany must have been thinking "This'll get rid of her" as he told me to call JetBlew after noon to see if they opened new flights for tomorrow. If so, maybe we could get on one.
- Called at 1:00 p.m. to see if they opened new flights, held for 40 more minutes and the lady basically laughed at me. She said, "I've never heard that one. Someone told you that?" She then said that my best bet would be to get on the standby list. Where? Oh yeah, gotta go back to the airport for that at least 24 hours before the flight (i.e., exactly when I was at the airport last time)
- Back to the airport for me where I stood by the counter for 2 hours and 48 minutes while the entire staff tried to figure out the new computer system. First they could only get me on standby. Then they could get only my mom and kids on standby and I was kicked off. Nothing would work. It took six people almost three hours to figure it out. As far as I know, we're on standby. Standby on a full flight that's likely to be canceled, as well.
- Wait, six people all helping little ole me? Why yes because there were probably 30 JetBlew staff members standing around doing nothing in an empty terminal while thousands of people were on interminable hold with their call centers. Talk about poor resource allocation.
- Interminable hold you say? Why yes and listening to on-hold messages like "Take a Vacation!"
In other words, without partnerships or reciprocal agreements, if your flight is canceled, you're SOL. They don't even suggest placing you with another carrier; they just ruin your vacation.
One guy next to me on line this morning was freaking out because he attempted to fly out last night and they wouldn't put him on the flight. They were asking for $450 because he was confirmed on today's flight. This morning, his flight was canceled and they couldn't rebook him until next Tuesday. I thought he was going to pummel someone.
The JetBlew woman who was handling him was curt and borderline nasty. "There's nothing we can do about the weather." (Aside, other carriers including Delta, American and Japan Air were still flying international. We could hear planes flying overhead throughout the day as we were stranded.)
She's right but a little compassion would go a long way.
I need a hug. And a suntan. Instead, my mom, kids and I are probably heading back to Rochester tomorrow filled with dashed hopes.
United breaks guitars. JetBlew breaks hearts.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
This Will Make You Cry
Click on this link to meet Matt Logelin who writes about life with his beautiful baby girl, who was born just over a year ago, and about life without the baby's mom who died 36 hours after the birth.
When you're done reading (and sobbing), click here and donate money to the Liz Logelin Foundation to financially assist families as they deal with the loss of their loved ones, and struggle to move forward.
When you're done reading (and sobbing), click here and donate money to the Liz Logelin Foundation to financially assist families as they deal with the loss of their loved ones, and struggle to move forward.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Just Waiting on a Friend
There's a girl standing on the corner of East and University with a handwritten sign asking for money. She's wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, a knee-length black raincoat, big black sunglasses and a cute little black and white polka dotted kerchief/doo-rag.
She reminds me of me somehow. Pre-suits. Pre-kids. Or maybe just the weekend version of myself (sans sign).
I want to pull over and ask her what happened in her life. Simply down on her luck? Drug addiction? MBA loans too much to handle? Former AIG employee?
I also wonder if her parents are alive. They would probably be heartbroken to see her. I'm heartbroken to see her.
She reminds me of me somehow. Pre-suits. Pre-kids. Or maybe just the weekend version of myself (sans sign).
I want to pull over and ask her what happened in her life. Simply down on her luck? Drug addiction? MBA loans too much to handle? Former AIG employee?
I also wonder if her parents are alive. They would probably be heartbroken to see her. I'm heartbroken to see her.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Yin and Yang of the Weekend
Somehow missed posting on mini-weekend day 7 (last Friday) which turned into a long weekend, instead. Nice! Gotta stay flexible for my boss and clients.
The long weekend ranged from calling hours to church, from biking to watching movies (Taking Chance with Kevin Bacon -- very moving), from hosting sleepovers to jumping on the neighbors' trampoline, from cleaning to getting my colors analyzed, from relaxing over delicious sushi with the kids at the Plum Garden to coercing them to finally take a friggin' shower. Engulfed in sadness at times. Bouncing as high as possible, and laughing my head off, mere hours later.
On the color front: I'm a dark autumn. Rich, deep colors. I can wear silver and gold. Together. And, unlike my "true summer" mom and sis, I can wear black. (Sorry Mommy Cash!) But, I cannot wear white or off-white. So I went through my closet, compared all of my clothes against my new color palette and put aside the clothes that reportedly are not best for me. This includes two lilac sweaters that I always get compliments on. So, do people simply like the color (and would make flattering remarks regardless of who is wearing it)? Or am I in black so much that they're just reacting to the fact that I'm wearing any color? Or is that a good color but a different shade would be even better? Or is the color consultant simply wrong? Only time, governed by a million and one new "Darling you look divine," comments will tell.
On the church front: I didn't realize the impact of taking my kids to a non-Catholic church all these years would have. As Grannie's car was being fixed due to a parking lot hit-and-run (which, by the by, happens to her gorgeous Lexus and not my rusty, 10-year-old Jetta: unfair), the kids and I decided to take her to her church instead of ours.
First question, asked loudly by Son #1 upon walking in, "What's that?" to which I responded, "Holy water." That was followed by a slew of related questions. I'm sure the devout Catholics around us were assuming we're the great unwashed. Next, while seated in the pew, "When are those bells going to stop? They're annoying me." That just happens to be one of my favorite sounds ever!
One kid was chewing gum. Neither would arise for the Catholic aerobics throughout the ceremony. I was continually peppered with "Is this almost over?" questions. I got two, rapid head jerks in my direction when the priest said, "ass" and I had to remind them that it also meant "donkey." One refused to take his arms out of his sleeves during the hand-holding, singing rendition of the Lord's Prayer. Both looked extremely perplexed during the Kiss of Peace. And, finally, one was dying for the bathroom but didn't know where it was -- so we ended up spawning against the tide during communion.
At the end, I asked, "So what did you think of Grannie's church?" and received the following reply, "Well, I wasn't listening but the stained glass windows are cool." Yes, they are.
Amen.
The long weekend ranged from calling hours to church, from biking to watching movies (Taking Chance with Kevin Bacon -- very moving), from hosting sleepovers to jumping on the neighbors' trampoline, from cleaning to getting my colors analyzed, from relaxing over delicious sushi with the kids at the Plum Garden to coercing them to finally take a friggin' shower. Engulfed in sadness at times. Bouncing as high as possible, and laughing my head off, mere hours later.
On the color front: I'm a dark autumn. Rich, deep colors. I can wear silver and gold. Together. And, unlike my "true summer" mom and sis, I can wear black. (Sorry Mommy Cash!) But, I cannot wear white or off-white. So I went through my closet, compared all of my clothes against my new color palette and put aside the clothes that reportedly are not best for me. This includes two lilac sweaters that I always get compliments on. So, do people simply like the color (and would make flattering remarks regardless of who is wearing it)? Or am I in black so much that they're just reacting to the fact that I'm wearing any color? Or is that a good color but a different shade would be even better? Or is the color consultant simply wrong? Only time, governed by a million and one new "Darling you look divine," comments will tell.
On the church front: I didn't realize the impact of taking my kids to a non-Catholic church all these years would have. As Grannie's car was being fixed due to a parking lot hit-and-run (which, by the by, happens to her gorgeous Lexus and not my rusty, 10-year-old Jetta: unfair), the kids and I decided to take her to her church instead of ours.
First question, asked loudly by Son #1 upon walking in, "What's that?" to which I responded, "Holy water." That was followed by a slew of related questions. I'm sure the devout Catholics around us were assuming we're the great unwashed. Next, while seated in the pew, "When are those bells going to stop? They're annoying me." That just happens to be one of my favorite sounds ever!
One kid was chewing gum. Neither would arise for the Catholic aerobics throughout the ceremony. I was continually peppered with "Is this almost over?" questions. I got two, rapid head jerks in my direction when the priest said, "ass" and I had to remind them that it also meant "donkey." One refused to take his arms out of his sleeves during the hand-holding, singing rendition of the Lord's Prayer. Both looked extremely perplexed during the Kiss of Peace. And, finally, one was dying for the bathroom but didn't know where it was -- so we ended up spawning against the tide during communion.
At the end, I asked, "So what did you think of Grannie's church?" and received the following reply, "Well, I wasn't listening but the stained glass windows are cool." Yes, they are.
Amen.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Days with My Father
Days with My Father captures in gorgeous photos and compelling yet heart wrenching text a son's loving journey through life with his elderly father who is suffering from short-term memory loss.
(Note: Click on the screen and use your mouse to scroll through the photos and captions.)
It's sad, captivating, touching, charming and beautiful.
(Note: Click on the screen and use your mouse to scroll through the photos and captions.)
It's sad, captivating, touching, charming and beautiful.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Learning to Write a Second Grade "Personal Narrative"
The other night, son #1's homework involved writing the answers to the following three questions:
When he finished writing, I asked him if he had ever had any other problems in his life.
He responded by telling me, "Yes, but I don't want to talk about them."
When I prodded a little further, he told me that it was a secret. "Do you know what a secret means? It means that I am not going to tell it to you."
I gently told him that I respect keeping secrets and didn't want to pry but I did want him to know that he doesn't have to bottle things up. It's better to tell someone and get it off his chest.
He told me that he would just as soon forget about it which, as his mom, I'm having a hard time doing. "Was it that thing you wouldn't tell me that happened on the bus with Ethan?"
"No, it happened in the neighborhood and that's all I'm saying."
"Were any adults involved?"
"No, just kids," and he stood and began walking away. He then added, "I've actually had a lot of problems that I don't want to talk about."
I gave him a little hug, told him he can talk to me at any time, and let him leave. Inside, however, I'm still sad. What could have happened? Did he do something wrong or did someone wrong him? Is it a boy thing to not want to talk about it?
What it really amounts to is control: specifically, my lack thereof. I want to protect him from harm (especially while he's still so young) and help him make wise decisions. But he has his path in life and there's nothing I can do but be a good parent, a strong role model, and his biggest supporter in life.
And I need to learn how to give him space.
- What problem or challenge have you faced in life?
- How did you solve it?
- What did you learn from it? Or what is the moral of the story?
When he finished writing, I asked him if he had ever had any other problems in his life.
He responded by telling me, "Yes, but I don't want to talk about them."
When I prodded a little further, he told me that it was a secret. "Do you know what a secret means? It means that I am not going to tell it to you."
I gently told him that I respect keeping secrets and didn't want to pry but I did want him to know that he doesn't have to bottle things up. It's better to tell someone and get it off his chest.
He told me that he would just as soon forget about it which, as his mom, I'm having a hard time doing. "Was it that thing you wouldn't tell me that happened on the bus with Ethan?"
"No, it happened in the neighborhood and that's all I'm saying."
"Were any adults involved?"
"No, just kids," and he stood and began walking away. He then added, "I've actually had a lot of problems that I don't want to talk about."
I gave him a little hug, told him he can talk to me at any time, and let him leave. Inside, however, I'm still sad. What could have happened? Did he do something wrong or did someone wrong him? Is it a boy thing to not want to talk about it?
What it really amounts to is control: specifically, my lack thereof. I want to protect him from harm (especially while he's still so young) and help him make wise decisions. But he has his path in life and there's nothing I can do but be a good parent, a strong role model, and his biggest supporter in life.
And I need to learn how to give him space.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Birthday Meltdown
Today is Son #1's eighth birthday! Holy moly! Happy birthday dude.
Last night, I came home to have dinner with the family (as most normal parents do) and put the kids to bed before going back to work until 2:15 a.m.
Son #1 wouldn't fall asleep and I finally had to say, "Hey birthday boy, I have to get to work so that I'm not there all night long. But just think, next time I see you, you'll be eight!!!"
Bad idea.
He burst into tears exclaiming, "I don't want anything to change. I don't want to turn eight. I didn't accomplish what I wanted to accomplish for seven yet."
(Huh?)
"What did you want to accomplish for seven?"
"Lot's of things. I had goals for seven."
OMG. Since when? This is the kid that prefers video games and watching Naruto over pretty much everything else except perhaps chess. The kid who would prefer to watch Iron Chef and learn how to cook than play outside. The kid who loves to swim but can't be bothered to learn any proper strokes. The kid who, at seven, refused to learn to ride his bike until almost the last day of the summer. What goals?
After much hugging and cajoling, I got him to calm down and go back to his room. And there, hanging in a bag on his door, were the parts of one of his unfinished (or should I say "un-started"?) projects: making a Webkinz wishing well out of a paper towel roll, string, etc.
Let the waterworks begin anew. "That was one of my goals. I wanted to make that when I was seven and now it's too late!" Yes, little man, it is.
Now, thanks to Outlook and a husband who had to deal with additional sadness after I left for work last night, I now have a 9:00 a.m. "craft date" with my son scheduled and confirmed on my calendar for Saturday morning. And Son #1 and I agreed that we would begin a list of "Things I Want to Accomplish While I'm Eight" to ensure all of his goals are met this year.
I guess the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.
Last night, I came home to have dinner with the family (as most normal parents do) and put the kids to bed before going back to work until 2:15 a.m.
Son #1 wouldn't fall asleep and I finally had to say, "Hey birthday boy, I have to get to work so that I'm not there all night long. But just think, next time I see you, you'll be eight!!!"
Bad idea.
He burst into tears exclaiming, "I don't want anything to change. I don't want to turn eight. I didn't accomplish what I wanted to accomplish for seven yet."
(Huh?)
"What did you want to accomplish for seven?"
"Lot's of things. I had goals for seven."
OMG. Since when? This is the kid that prefers video games and watching Naruto over pretty much everything else except perhaps chess. The kid who would prefer to watch Iron Chef and learn how to cook than play outside. The kid who loves to swim but can't be bothered to learn any proper strokes. The kid who, at seven, refused to learn to ride his bike until almost the last day of the summer. What goals?
After much hugging and cajoling, I got him to calm down and go back to his room. And there, hanging in a bag on his door, were the parts of one of his unfinished (or should I say "un-started"?) projects: making a Webkinz wishing well out of a paper towel roll, string, etc.
Let the waterworks begin anew. "That was one of my goals. I wanted to make that when I was seven and now it's too late!" Yes, little man, it is.
Now, thanks to Outlook and a husband who had to deal with additional sadness after I left for work last night, I now have a 9:00 a.m. "craft date" with my son scheduled and confirmed on my calendar for Saturday morning. And Son #1 and I agreed that we would begin a list of "Things I Want to Accomplish While I'm Eight" to ensure all of his goals are met this year.
I guess the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
No More Tears
While I was gone last weekend, Son #2 began sobbing before bedtime on Saturday night because he missed me.
In order to get him to fall asleep, the hubby told him that if he stopped crying, blew his nose and put the tissue under his pillow, he might get a visit from the snot fairy.
I wonder what she brought . . .
In order to get him to fall asleep, the hubby told him that if he stopped crying, blew his nose and put the tissue under his pillow, he might get a visit from the snot fairy.
I wonder what she brought . . .
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