Just a Little Teary - A Snippet

FlapJilly is being promoted.

She's leaving the world of The Two's and crossing the parking lot to The Three's.  Her first friend at school moved over a month or so ago, so she'll have a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings.  The play equipment is bigger and more challenging and the curriculum is less pre and more school.  She's ready for the challenge, and her parents couldn't be more proud.

And then Little Cuter and I exchanged the glance that said it all:

OH, Where has my baby gone?  

It's a mixture of joy and yearning and overwhelming heart exploding love.... and it left us both just a little bit teary.  She's such a big girl now.

They Were There - Part Two

Little Cuter's acorn didn't fall far from her mama's tree. These are her words and pictures.

******

I made a promise to my daughter before she was born that I would do everything in my power to keep her safe and make her feel loved.

That is why I marched.

I marched to show solidarity to my fellow Americans that the current political climate is NOT ACCEPTABLE to me and that I will do whatever I can in my power to stand against it and protect the future I promised to my kid.

I also marched for strength. I marched because I didn’t want to feel removed, hopeless, rudderless or unable to turn on the television or open a newspaper. I marched for power - to share it with those who needed it and to siphon it from others who had some to spare.

I marched because I am not entitled to the cushy life that I’ve led so far. I’ve spent 31 years benefiting from the fight that those before me have waged, and I want to show respect, and allow the generations before me to know that they can hand off the baton - we are capable of taking it from here. Thank you for showing us the way.

————

I woke up this morning and peeked out of my hotel room window to see if I could gauge how the city was bracing for the march. Everything looked relatively peaceful, so I decided to get ready and psych myself up.

I got dressed in plain, unassuming clothes that would be easy to hide or flee in. Not one to discount the danger of attending a political event, I was as prepared as I could possibly be for things to turn south quickly. I had also promised my husband that I would not draw attention to myself unnecessarily (no signs, no themed clothing, please just stay safe).

I also knew I’d need fuel, so I pre-ordered some Starbucks and headed out. I was prepared for a madhouse once I made it to the march, but the house just felt SAFE from the minute I left my hotel. Women in Starbucks stood shoulder to shoulder, giving up seats to those who looked like they could use a rest and giving up spaces in line for the bathroom to the much older (and much younger) crowd.

Finishing my breakfast sandwich on the way to Grant Park, my first view was of the Art Institute:

The banners between the columns all depicted women, and the steps were full of fellow marchers. I knew I wanted my daughter to experience a small measure of this herself, so I called my husband and FaceTimed them on the walk to the bandshell where the rally would take place.

“CHECK OUT ALL OF THESE PEOPLE STANDING UP FOR WHAT THEY BELIEVE IN, BABY GIRL!” I cried out to her. “Look at all of the support and love Mommy has all around her!”

“Coooooooooooool, Mama” was the most I got out of her but that was more than enough for me.

To give you an idea of the crowd of 175,000 of us in Chicago that day I’d like to share one small tidbit that most likely won’t make it to the news: Those of us who had signed up online for the march had received an email with logistics for the day, one of which mentioned that the crowd should try to stay off the grass at Grant Park, because any damage would be the organizer’s responsibility to repair or replace and we didn’t want our fundraising efforts to go to sod. Not only did NO ONE WALK ON THE GRASS but as I was walking to the bandshell from Michigan Avenue I heard someone yell out “Please don’t walk on the grass - save our money for what matters!” and the person who was about to cross stopped short, waved, and kept marching.

I secured a place in the crowd by the stage at the bandshell- standing in front of a tall, square, iron parking meter. I had promised my husband I would think ahead about safety; securing my back end against a giant block of iron felt like a good start. Directly next to me was a woman fluent in ASL who had a sign saying so, and for the 5 minutes we stood next to each other she helped three different hearing impaired marchers make it to the bathrooms.

By the time the cast of Hamilton had led us in a chorus of “Let It Be” I had met a transgender woman marching with her teenage daughter, a woman who had just returned from her second tour in Iraq, and helped to hold a sign for a breastfeeding mother whose baby was getting distracted by the (unseasonably bright and warm) sun.

THIS IS THE AMERICA I IMAGINED FOR MY DAUGHTER.

An America whose citizens are as passionate as they are diverse. An America that stands for who they are and what they believe in in a RESPECTFUL and decent manner. An America that will stand up in the face of danger and say WE WILL BE HEARD.

I could go on about the massive turnout, the graceful and well-prepared police presence, the weather (seriously - 60 and sunny at the end of January in Chicago - I HEAR YOU, MOTHER EARTH!), the organizers, and my fellow marchers but I don’t want my point to get diluted. The Women’s March on Chicago was life changing for me. It gave me a guidepost by which to live not only the rest of my life but the next four years with hope and purpose. It showed me that there were hundreds of thousands of us who heard President Barack Obama when he told us it was time to get to work. And get to work we did.

(fist bump)

Watching Her Grow

Why work, when you can play in the sandbox?

That's my girl, the one who has had a smile on her face from the moment that first real food - a Chicago, deep dish pizza crust - crossed her lips.  She wanted to join the party, and once she did, she's rarely found it wanting.

Not to say that there haven't been moguls along the way. Simply to say that we've found our way through, relatively unscathed, and still speaking to those we love.

That's the talent she has, my little girl. She's honest, and not shy about speaking her mind, but the words are so obviously true and from her heart and there's not an ounce of condescension or taunting to be found, so you are forced to listen and hear her and learn.

Say what you mean, woman! she would cry, and I'd stop dancing and start singing.

And then, when we'd said what needed to be said, she would move on.  Why wallow in the past when the future's so bright, you have to wear shades?

I admit that I have been slower to learn that particular lesson, but that's because I find that I spend some time marveling at the adult human giving instruction, instead of improving my behavior. There have always been Mom Improvement Projects (don't talk so loud, so much, so often....), but this is an Improved Child sharing her learned wisdom with a Mom still in need of Improvement.

And she does it with love.

She had always been a wonderful kid; now she is a wonderful grown up.

Remembering..... I stand in her kitchen, wondering where the splatter screen might be hiding, and she laughs, gently shaking her head, and, as she tells me it is no where because she doesn't have one I flash to G'ma wondering where my aprons were stored.... and to my own, gentle laughter, as I gave the same reply.

It's a memory from my adulthood, not a college apartment reminiscence.  And now I have the same memory from my daughter's adulthood.

And still, she's my little girl.  She's the one who read all the Babysitters Club books and those pink ones about the ponies and who listened to Rosalind-the-Bookseller's suggestions to expand her horizons, too.

She's the one who was surprised that everyone else hadn't figured out the simplest thing, Mom.  If you don't fight with anyone then you can sit anyplace at lunchtime.  

It's been a pleasure to be around you for the last three decades, Little Cuter.  Happy Happy Birthday to YOU!

With Love

Today has gotten away from me, so I'm going to reprise, with some editing, an old post. 

The Hormonal Demons are attacking a formerly delightful 13 year old.  

I really hope this helps, MS.

Would You?

A question for my female readers over the age of 15:

Would you go back to being 12 again?

OK, you can stop screaming now. I am absolutely confident that the thought of living through that year or so makes you want to leave the room and begin drinking. Even if it is 6 am. And you're underage. Or your medicines contraindicate it.

I don't care how old you are, you still remember. It's a horrifying idea.

The year Little Cuter turned 12, I was sitting at the kitchen table writing the 10 or so holiday cards I'd send to my close but far-flung friends. "I'm doing...... TBG is....... The Big Cuter's so...... and The Little Cuter is trying to survive being a 12 year old girl."

TBG, reading over my shoulder, was appalled. How dare I? It was pure projection. Just because being 12 was a nightmare for me didn't mean the the same was true for our darling daughter. It was inappropriate and unsuitable and I should stop writing it.

I let him finish, which surprised him. I was calm, which really made him wonder. I just asked him to go to work the next day and pose the question to the first 5 women he encountered.

The phone rang before I had breakfast on the table. It was the phone call wives dream about but seldom receive.

"You were right. I was wrong. I'll never say it again."

It seems that he'd nearly caused a riot merely by asking the 30-something muffin seller if she would go back to being 12 again.  Women from the line converged around him to tell him their stories and to swear that it was the worst time of their lives.

And it certainly was in our house. One day, after we'd fought and argued and hugged and cried and screamed and were just at our wits end, I asked Little Cuter if it was as confusing inside her as it was for me out here.

"I'm just a confused youth,"  she sobbed back to me.

I remembered that I'd once been twelve and awful; if I had any doubt, G'ma proved it.

Her response to my email describing another filial outrage was one line:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

As TBG explained it, the problem was that I was on the planet and breathing at the same time that she was. Since there was nothing to be done about the situation, I just had to tough it out.  Like Cary Grant in Holiday, "Courage," was the best he could offer.

And it was enough, for the most part.

Because even when even my inhaling and exhaling drove her to distraction, she still liked me to give her a back rub to help her fall asleep at night. She always wanted me to drive for field trips and to away games. I knew she was proud of me and what I did because she told me - "I sooo love that you are President of the School Board!" 

And because Seret told me that I had an absolute right to expect politeness, I was able to hold on and hope that this was just another phase.....

....like when she wouldn't wear anything that matched... or when she was Cinderella and I had the cleanest kitchen cabinets from 3' to the floor.. or blamed every misdeed on her imaginary friend, Toni Zickel?

And, like those phases, this, too, did pass.

By the time she was 14, watching the Women's World Cup together, 65 rows up behind the goal in the Rose Bowl, we were fine.

For the next few years we camped and took the Coast Starlight and went to Las Vegas and to Ukiah 2 weekends in a row so she could play soccer. The worst was over, but I wasn't ready to relax. Not quite yet.

Then, the summer after her sophomore year in college, she invited me to drive back from Indiana to California across Route 80. "We always said we were gonna do it and we never did and don't you want to do it with me??????????"

So we got in the Civic did it.  2358 miles. 7 states. 5 days. 0 arguments.

Not a raised voice or eyebrow. No huffing or sneering or snide comments. We listened to each other's music and I wasn't too much of a side-seat driver, and we had the most fun ever.

I missed taking pictures of more Welcome To Our State signs than I should have, but she laughed.We ate the world's worst club sandwich and drove through hours of snow in the mountains, even though it was May, and Little Cuter got locked in a hotel bathroom and had to be battering-rammed out, and we were just so glad to be with each other that none of it mattered.

No, I wouldn't go back to being 12, again. Nor, I'm sure, would she.

We're pretty happy where we are right now.

Is it Weird?

I sent her furniture for the baby's room as her birthday gift.

I think I forgot to get TBG to sign the card I remembered to mail.

This morning, her email to me wondered what it meant that she kept forgetting that her birthday was approaching.  Is it weird? 

Yes, sweetie, it's very weird.  It's not unusual, but it's weird.

She's getting to the point where the individual years blur together. I remember it well.  She went to a 1980's theme party; I was bemused. I missed the 1980's; being pregnant and parenting little ones was as far as I could see. My musical tastes ran to Raffi and lullabies, my reading material centered on Margaret Wise Brown, and forget about fashion or lifestyle trends. Were I to be invited to that theme party, I'd have worn sweatpants.

My birthdays came and went and I was happy to buy my own strawberry shortcake and take a long bubble bath and be done with it all.  I had decade-celebratory parties for TBG, but I wasn't that interested in creating hoopla over my own. My girl's planning a similar weekend for herself - a pre-natal massage and a sunny weekend in her garden.  No fuss. No muss. Just peace.


Daddooooo always wanted Peace and Quiet for his birthday.

I sent clothes.

He wore brand new polo shirts while building and painting birdhouses.

The stains drove G'ma nutty, but they always made me smile. He had me around while he was doing the work, like a giant hug that he could wash and put on again and again.

I can see it and feel it right now.

That's what's weird about it, Little Cuter.  You're changing from celebrating outside yourself to celebrating within.  You're looking at your life from a different perspective, with someone new anchored firmly at the center... literally and figuratively.

You're rotating around a new axis, and the old pieces have to find their way.  They announce themselves with varying degrees of surprise... like, really, kiddo, HOW could you forget your birthday?????... or a yawn.... or ..... furniture for your birthday present.

Or, maybe, it's just that you have a lot on your plate right now?

Or, maybe, it's pregnancy-brain?

Or, maybe, it's just plain weird.

Whatever it is, there's one thing for certain: It's YOUR day.  That much hasn't changed. It's the day that you came out to join the party... a party you've been enlivening ever since.

Happy Birthday, Little Cuter!

Grandma? Nannie? Bubba?

My baby is having a baby.  

She's gone from "looking like I ate too much for dinner this weekend" to having a small protrusion in the middle of her body.  Growing in size from a lentil to a grape to a plum to a kumquat, the baby is making its presence known.

Everything smells weird.  Her pants don't fit anymore - "not even close." She's over the super-exhaustion that accompanied the start of the adventure - "It's not that I wanted to sleep; I needed to sleep." Her 36 hours of nausea abated, and she's stopped wondering how anyone could be that sick for more than a day or so.  I try to keep quiet about the three or four months I spent hurling and napping while she was establishing herself in my body; she's already apologized.

SIR is proud and happy.  TBG and I are still searching for the words to describe our joy.  We find ourselves looking from one end of the couch to the other, grins plastered on our faces, grins having no relationship to the novel I'm reading or the game he is watching.  We nod, we grin harder, we go back to what we were doing.  Our hearts are full.

I've been signing letters as GMU - Grand Maternal Unit.  Grammu works for me as a name, but TBG is having issues with being Grandpooooooo.  I can't really blame him, though the rest of us are laughing pretty hard whenever we think about it.  I'd always thought I'd want to be Nannie, like TBG's grandmother, a shining star in the heaven that was his childhood, the name his mother chose for herself.

But, when I tried to sign it on a card to the newly enlarging family, my fingers wouldn't form the word. It feels like someone else.  It's not me.  

Bubba, Yiddish for grandmother and what I called G'ma's mother, has no relevance to my life today.  I loved her, but I don't need to rename myself in her honor.  And, unfortunately, the same thing goes for my own Grandma.  She was a woman who loved me, but she had an odd way of showing it.  There 

were strings attached to everything, even the hugs and kisses.  She and my mother had a contentious relationship held together by a fragile truce.  It's not the kind of scenario I'm envisioning for my future with Flapjack.

Yes, Flapjack.  Apparently, the cocoon encasing him requires regular infusions of Aunt Jemima and syrup.  SIR has offered to make them at home, pancakes being one of the food stuffs he creates with style, but Little Cuter prefers the restaurant variety.  TBG, upon hearing of her craving, cried out "Flapjack" and the name stuck.  

And now we wait and watch and wonder.  Her body is no longer her own.  She worries about another human who has no power to protect itself, who relies only on her for sustenance and care.  Her shape shifts and her moods swing and she worries.

Yesterday, sharing the picture at the top with us, she was delighted with the smile and the touchdown arms of her soon-to-be-born.  Is that fetus dancing? Smiling?  Waving hello?  Imitating the Grateful Dead head? I think it's all of the above.  That's a package of love and joy and potential, of wonderfulness and happiness and the completion of a cycle, of expectations and happiness and the continuation of the species and it's all happening right inside my little girl.  Ain't life grand?

I'm Frighteningly Like Him

I get Dad because I am frighteningly like him.

Thus spake Little Cuter.  

It was via email, part of an ongoing conversation about a lifestyle change that makes me antsy but fills my loving husband with joy. I've been trying to lay out my concerns, my objections, my considerations, my rules, and my expectations.  I just seem to drive him further into a corner.  I look like the bad guy, when all I want is to set the parameters before we take the next step.

I don't want to be in charge.  I will help, but I don't want to be the First Responder.  I'll do errands if they fit, but I don't want to be the one who thinks of them. I don't want to be the responsible party. I don't want to add one more thing to my To Do List.

There will be daily chores and long term planning and clean ups and appointments and I start to sweat just typing them to you right now.  I've done it before and I'm not interested in doing it again. Why my sweet husband can't understand that is a mystery to me.  It's perfectly clear in my brain. Why isn't it clear to him?

This disconnect has happened before.  We spent two weeks arguing - silently, loudly, tearfully - over whether I should testify before the Senate on sensible gun control legislation.  I saw only the upside. He saw only the crazies on the other end of the spectrum, the ones with weapons and a proven willingness to use them, as my limping self demonstrated to him every time he looked my way. I thought he was standing in the way of an exciting opportunity, a chance to really make my voice heard, a place for me to promote an agenda. He thought I was being foolish, ignoring the realities, putting myself at risk for no real reason. I thought he was over-bearing and paternalistic.

It was a stalemate, until Little Cuter entered the fray. Her tearful "Mom, I don't know what I'd do if you got shot again!" was enough to seal my decision. Somehow, keeping my little girl free from worry trumped all my other issues. It was a no brainer from then on. I deferred to Pat Maisch, who did a wonderful job, who got lots of publicity, and who has not been the victim of recriminations or gunfire since she spoke to a less-than attentive Senate panel.  

The Big Guy shared her concerns.  He didn't phrase it in a way that I could hear it. He didn't put himself at the front and center of the issue the way that she did, although, in his heart, he was right out there leading the charge to keep me far from death's door, even if I didn't see the danger staring me in the face.  He was flummoxed that I heard and acted on Little Cuter's plea when I'd ignored his. He had been saying the same things for a week.  Or so he thought.

Somehow, our little girl took his words and put them into my language. I understood. I complied. I felt fine, or as fine as you can feel when you do the right thing, even if you wanted very very much to do the other thing. It didn't feel like giving in; it was agreeing to be kind to my child.  I'd have been as kind to my spouse, had I been able to hear his request.  The disconnect remains a mystery to all sides.

We're lucky to have the kid to translate.

Big Cuter tells me the same thing.  "Mom, your message is perfect. Your delivery, though....." I am Daddooooo when I get going on a topic, refusing to let go, a terrier with a chew toy in her mouth, endlessly swinging it side to side, repeating over and over the point I'm trying to get across. I know that if I say it with enough variation, enough nuance, enough passion, my point will be taken.

Not so much, it seems.

Sometimes it takes someone who's attached by love and time and genetics to break through the barriers and present the case in a way that can be heard by both sides.  Sometimes it takes a little girl with a connection to her daddy that is deep and personal and resonates in a way that I cannot imagine to tell him that 

Mom is so busy she doesn't need anything else to do.  

But you, Dad, you NEED a dog. 

Sitting in Backyards

I spent the afternoon in Little Cuter's backyard.  Their deck chairs are exactly as they should be - waterproof, classy, and comfortable.  Though the pillows are boring, they are fine for now.  Next year, when they are looking sad after 365 days of sunshine, she can replace the covers with something more fun. I don't know why she'd bother, though.  The rest of the yard more than makes up for these plain, brown, wrappers.

My girl was never one for gardening.  Then, she became a homeowner.  Now, she barely waits to change her clothes before she and SIR are out in the yard, watering, pruning, tending, cleaning.  I watched the mourning dove poop on the ledge; she came home and wiped it off.  Is this the same human who quailed at the thought of bird droppings on the deck in California? Apparently, paying the mortgage causes a profound change in attitude. If I'd only known that when she was a child, I'd have had her contribute just to get her to love the yard.

Loving the yard is something that comes easily for me.  G'ma and Daddooooo shared a backyard with his brother next door; we had no fence between the houses.  Kids ran freely from Uncle's rhubarb to G'ma's snowball bushes. Our yard was the one where all the neighborhood kids congregated.  We played Association (Daddooooo's faux-soccer invention) and whiffle ball and tag and hide and seek, using the tree as home base/plate.

The swings were in the corner - three singles and a push-me-pull-you at the end. There was a sandbox there too, for a while.  I think G'ma got tired of kids with grainy underwear well before we were ready to give it up.

Our dinnertimes were constantly interrupted by gently tapping on the back door.  "Can we play here til you're done?"  I've never felt more popular.

There was always something to do in the yard.  Daddooooo rigged up a long handled pruner with which he would remove the squirrels' nests.  They would dive bomb G'ma's bird feeders from above.  It wasn't the food thievery which bothered him. It was the wastefulness of the seeds strewn on the ground.  If he was going to put them into the feeder, they were going to stay there.

I had a blueberry bush of my very own, in the middle of the garden.  We covered it with cheesecloth.  We put up chicken wire.  We spread foul smelling potions around the roots.  Nothing helped. The birds and the beasts ate every single berry.  I never tasted one.

We had better luck with the strawberries.  They were the border of the back corner garden, and the covering seemed to work for them.  They were small and sweet and never lasted long enough to make it to the dinner table for dessert.  The tastiest berries were hidden well under the foliage; it was fun to forage.

Daddooooo built a grown-up swing once we were adults. There were pillows stored in the shed, and I can bring back their slightly musty odor without any effort at all.  I'd head out to the yard with a book or the NYTimes, prop the pillow on one armrest, my feet on the other, and promptly fall asleep.  I don't believe that I ever read more than a page at a time.  The birds, the breeze, the blue sky through the tree's leaves.... it defined soporific.

Accompanying us on house-hunting trips, my parents would judge a prospective residence by the viability of its backyard for a wedding. "This would be beautiful...." seemed far away when the Cuters were seven and nine; last summer, my own house was exactly that  beautiful for Little Cuter and SIR. When I reminded G'ma of those trips and comments her reply was quintessentially her: "And what else should you use it for?"

Well, let's see, Mommy.  SIR has his "throwing the ball with his kids" lanes scoped out in his head. Little Cuter is looking forward to the raised bed for veggies he'll build for her in the grassless far corner. Thomas, the Wonder Dog, finds the bunnies and squirrels and gnats infinitely amusing. And I, I enjoy sitting on the furniture, cocktail in hand, watching the clouds.

Some things never get old.

My Little Girl

The plan was to have boys.  Only boys.  Girls and I did not get along.  I didn't understand them.  

Then, I got the flu.  I also got pregnant.  I got morning sickness, congested nasal passages, and insomnia.  

I also got my little girl.

If there were two items of clothing which matched, up the stairs she ran to change one of them. Tender-headed, she refused to put a brush or a comb through her hair... which she also refused to cut.  Hair in her eyes made Daddy nutty, so she agreed to headbands and colorful clips. Bangs were never an option; they take too long to grow out.  I chose my battles in those days. She went happily uncombed to pre-school and I didn't care. It's not that I was all that talented in the tonsorial department, anyway. She really wasn't missing very much.

She learned to accept a compliment with grace when she was three.  It was a means of protecting herself from unwanted attention to just how cute she was.  She knew it.  She didn't want to hear it. I promised her that if she smiled and said "Thank You," the grown-up's attention would turn elsewhere.  I count that as a major parenting triumph.   

She is the glue that holds the group together.  There is nothing artificial about my daughter... or the people closest to her.  She's open and accepting and glad to make new friends, but the people she cherishes are the ones who cherish themselves. Her circle is diverse and marvelous and makes her smile.  What more could a mother want?

She's faced joys and she's faced sorrows. She's picked herself up, brushed herself off, and done her best to move on with her life.  It's a resiliency that inspires me; she is determined not to let the bad guys win. She faces the truth squarely... with the knowledge that she has a husband and parents and a brother who've got her back.

She's loved and she knows it and she lets us know that she does.  She has a happy soul, a soul she is willing to share.  I am so glad to be able to give you glimpses of her here, in The Burrow.  Trust me, the reality .... in person...  when you're around her..... it makes your heart sing.

Happy Birthday, Little Cuter.    

Being Away

When travel is easy, I wonder why I ever stay home.

There was no traffic on the way to the airport, the parking attendant picked up my car keys before I could leave them on the ground in the lot, all the boarding pass kiosks were available, and the gate agent let me walk down the jetway earlier than everyone except the First Class passengers so that no one would bump my still vaguely-unstable-on-uneven-surfaces self.

With only one-third of its seats filled, the plane was blissfully peaceful.  Everyone had room to spread out, and the only baby on the flight screeched once and then was silent.  The flight attendants were helpful and unobtrusive, the tail winds got us into O'Hare twenty-nine minutes early, and no one was stupid about getting bags out of the overhead compartments.  I was in the car with Seret and Mr. Dreamy Cakes, on our way to Little Cuter and SIR, in no time.  The traffic was moving, the roads were dry, and we didn't get lost.  Not once.

My girl is a great cook; even her OMG-I-forgot-to-get-hors-d'oeuvres display of goat cheese and toasted bread was fabulous.  She's having such a good time using all the beautiful wedding gifts that it would have been churlish to complain about anything at all.  A giant Nambe wooden salad bowl (did you know that Nambe was doing woods, now?), unchipped and perfectly sized dinner plates, a decanter that poured perfectly - I'd forgotten how much fun new stuff can be. The kids are so proud of themselves, and rightly so.  They've created a home out of a renovated house.

Chicago's western suburbs are filled with creeks and prairie grasses.  Their neighborhood is bounded by a path through one such oasis and Little Cuter and I followed SIR and Thomas-the-Wonder-Dog over the bridge and past the ducks, the boys racing ahead, one on roller-blades and one on the world's fastest paws.  I managed a mile or so, using one pole as needed.

We took the dog to the groomer, had a lovely lunch in downtown Naperville, and came back to watch Indiana defeat Michigan in a blow-out-turned-nail-biter.  Now, dog retrieved and post being written, we're melting into Cozy Rosie, Douglas's couchy cousin, snuggled under wedding afghans (thank you, Aunt Terri, it's quite wonderful) with football lulling us to sleep.

There will be a family-owned-Italian-restaurant dinner tonight, and more televised sports on Sunday.  I'll take the train to the city, breakfast with friends, and travel on to Detroit on Monday.  But, for now, I'm basking in the love.

I hate that they are so far away; I love that they make me feel like I'm at home.  I'm away, but it feels familiar.  With the skies darkening as a wintry mix of precipitation comes in as predicted, the comfort of family and football and blankets and hugs is feeling pretty perfect right now.

I'm a little sleepy, denizens, and Cozy Rosie is singing a siren song.......

Random Thoughts - The Travel Edition

Google Maps told me it would take 53 minutes from the kids' house to O'Hare. They weren't counting on the drizzle, I guess. Going uphill when the roads are slick seems to touch a slow down and take care button in certain drivers, which wouldn't bother me if they slowed down 5 or 10 miles per hour. Tooling along in the left lane at 30mph in a 55mph zone makes no sense to me.

*****

And then there were the gawkers. A sedan rear-ended a sports car. The tow trucks and the police were on the scene. All the vehicles were on the shoulder, lights blinking. The officers were taking information as the mechanics were attaching hoists to undercarriages while the drivers were waving their arms and trying to stay dry. How do I know all of this? Because traffic slowed to a crawl, delaying progress for miles.

I zipped past as the road opened up in front of me, otherwise I'd have been able to tell you the make and model of the vehicles involved. I let the other cars dawdle and gape; I wanted to get to O'Hare.

*****

I-pass is the Illinois Toll Road's E-Z pass system. If your vehicle is not equipped with such a device, as my rental was not, you exit and pay cash to the toll taker and then re-enter the highway. That way, there's no messing with the flow of the on-going traffic, which zips right through the extra-wide booths designed to calculate the toll and add it to your account. It's a perfectly lovely system, when there's a human inside the booth.  Unfortunately for me, my exit was un-staffed. It required $1.50 in coins, of which I had none.

Feeling naive and unprepared, I pouted and felt put-upon. But the lovely lady at Hertz told me how to pay it on-line without skipping a beat or judging me.

It seems I'm not the first to be flummoxed in this way. It was comforting to know that I was not alone.

*****

The Hertz bus was huge and empty and we had to wait for more passengers before we could depart. The driver and I shared travel sagas and limping stories and the time went by quickly. Still, waiting for anything is not my preferred option; I found myself tapping my toes and drumming my fingernails.

You can take the girl out of New York, but you can't take the New Yorker out of the girl, it seems.

*****

Puddles pooling at the bottom of the curb cuts seem to defeat the entire purpose of the ramp, don't you think? I was glad for my cowboy boots; my Chucks would have been sodden by the time I got inside.

*****

Security lines still make me nutty, even when the attendant directed me to a much shorter wait at the far end of the concourse. Certainly, the line was not as long. Equally as certain is the fact that I had to trek an extra quarter of a mile to save not so very many minutes at all.

I know she was trying to help; I wish she had recognized that pulling a suitcase, a purse, a coat and myself requires attention to distance as well as time.

*****

It's always a toss-up: do I sit down and dine or grab a bagel and go? Poppy seeds in my teeth versus hot scrambled eggs and toast with jelly is a dilemma I am forced to resolve each and every time I travel in the morning. I had plenty of time, but not much of an appetite today, so I opted for cream cheese and a personal dental examination at the gate this time.

Now, two hours later, my tummy is wishing that I'd chosen a real meal.

*****

I take advantage of my unstable gait and ask for pre-boarding these days. I have no interest in being bumped – intentionally or not – by the guy behind me on the jetway. No, I didn't need a wheelchair. I just needed more time and no distractions.

Wheeling my rolling suitcase down the jetway, negotiating over metal connecting panels every few yards, was challenge enough. I was delighted to have the path all to myself as I tried to avoid thinking about the reason I was so slow. I'm rarely angry about it anymore; traveling seems to open the box in which I have those thoughts securely stowed.

*****

Securely stowed.... those are the words the flight attendant used to describe how we should place our bags in the overhead bins. Why would anyone stow it insecurely, I wonder?

*****

There are half a dozen empty seats on the flight, and one of them is next to me. Having the use of both armrests makes a big difference as seat widths shrink and leg room vanishes. Watching the basketball-player-sized passenger behind me fold himself into a middle seat touched my heart..... but not enough to offer to trade places with him.

Am I selfish? Perhaps. I'm also old and broken... or so I tell myself to assuage my guilt.

*****

The flight attendant and I had a lovely conversation about gun control and the lack of political will on the subject. Mayors Against Illegal Guns has been after me to join their ranks; the craziness the issue raises keeps me publicly silent on the subject. I did, however, give him the name of my contact there. His ire was deep enough for the both of us.

*****

I'm glad I'm out of touch and unable to listen to the talking heads dissecting last night's debate. The radio on the drive to the airport made me nutty enough, reminding me that foreign policy was not the issue with which most undecided voters were concerned. There's a comfort in the cocoon up here above the clouds. I wish I could take it with me when I deplane.

*****

I'm sitting in the rear of the plane, across from the galley; soda was offered before the cart began its journey to the front of the aircraft. There's an advantage to sitting beside the trash cans, it seems.

*****

I'm being ferried further and further from my girl and her boy and her dog and her life and I don't like it at all... not one little bit. True, TBG and G'ma await me in Tucson, but a big piece of my heart is still in the Midwest. Phone calls and emails and texts and tweets are all fine and wonderful but there's nothing like her arms around me, my nose in her hair, her murmuring “I love you, Mama” in my ear.

I don't think I'll be able to stay away for very long. No, I do not.  

Throw Out the Artwork

Yes, that is what Little Cuter emailed me this morning: Throw out the artwork.

Allow me to explain.  In preparation for her upcoming nuptials, hosted in our humble abode, I have been purging our personal spaces of detritus.  I have been cleansing with a vengeance.

It's not cleaning, per se.  I am sweeping up major piles of dust and debris, but I'm saving the actual washing of the garage floor for Ernie and his big strong guys.  I'm old.  I'm achy.  I'm lazy.  I'll pay.

But there are pieces of the task which cannot be accomplished by hired help.  Decisions must be made.  If I let TBG get involved, there will be nothing at all for my grandchildren to discover about their parents; he'd toss it all.  I'm closer to him than he thinks on this issue; what I save I save because I don't want the children to be angry if I dispose of a treasure they thought was safe at home.

Big Cuter was horrified that the photo album I created after his Grand Tour of Europe was not where he thought it would be.  No, dear, it was not sitting out on the shelf in the room in this house which is nominally yours but in which you have slept perhaps 50 nights in six years.  I had no idea that you would need it when I packed up the last room I moved you into and out of while your actual residence was elsewhere. 

Moms make mistakes, and apparently stashing his memories in a box with other childhood trinkets was a big one.  It reappeared when he was home for the holidays and we went through the boxes of books and toys and magazines and other relics of the days when he and his stuff were strewn over the floor.  He always knew where everything was, even if no one else could walk without damaging herself or his things. 

The kind of cleansing upon which I have embarked requires a ruthless dedication to the ultimate objective - less.  We had friends in Marin whose children could put something on their bulletin boards only if they removed something else.  Clothes were replaced, one by one, rather than added upon without thought.  If something came in, something went out.  The mom's entire childhood is contained in one, slightly oversized, shoebox.

I can't live like that.

On the other hand, I can't stand all these boxes.  They line the walls of the garage, marked with the kids' names and the contents within - books, collections, video games, stuff.  Four of the boxes contain the photo albums which don't fit on G'ma's shelves at the pod-castle.  The rest belong to my young adults.  I don't mind holding on to them for now, if what is inside is worth saving.  Yesterday, it was Little Cuter's turn to have her belongings put under the microscope.

I found soccer trophies of all sizes and descriptions; she definitely wants to keep them all.  I found trolls dressed, as she rightly pointed out, in clothes made by her babysitter and her mommy and her very much younger self.  Those she will save for her own children.  There's a polar fleece vest from the last soccer team she coached, girls who loved her so much there were always one or two of them hanging from her arms or her waist or her neck.  It, too, is a keeper.

And then there's the artwork.  I struggled with that this week just as I did when she was first creating the masterpieces.  There's a hidden talent lurking beneath the surface, but sports and friends competed for time and an evil photography teacher quashed her teenage spirit.  I remember the pride she felt when she presented me with the yarn self-portrait.  It was garish then and it is garish now but it's my girl.... by my girl.  How can I throw it away? 

How?  Simply by talking to the sanest, most reasonable human being I know - the artist herself.  Without batting an eyelash, without missing a beat, after listening to me brag about moving boxes and clearing out space she gave me permission to throw out the artwork. 

If she's not going to be sentimental about it, then neither am I. 

My Kind of Town

Chicago is the best city in the country.

You may argue all you'd like, but my opinion is set in stone.  There is culture and the lake and shopping and, of course Little Cuter and SIR.  I'm sure I'd like any city in which my girl and her guy were living, but the best will still be reserved for the city of big shoulders.

There's public transportation with a pass back feature - the monthly bus pass can be used for the holder and 7 of her friends.  Hybrid and clean, the front seats are reserved for the elderly and the infirm and the signs above them remind passengers to Stand up if asked.

I took the express bus to Water Tower Place to search for white Converse for the wedding.  It was cloudy when I boarded and pouring when I got off.  Unfortunately, the umbrella I grabbed from the hat rack sported broken ribs.... and I had the bloody thumb to prove it.  Paul Stuart, the upscale clothier,  used to be in the basement of the John Hancock Tower.  Best Buy replaced it several years ago and I've never recovered from the shock.  On Friday, though, I was delighted with its presence; I dropped in and found a phone charger and a bandaid in record time.

Then, it was across the street to America's first vertical mall. I needed a new umbrella (though I kept the broken one just in case the kids loved it and needed to save it) and there were hundreds of options.  Tucson is many things but a shopping mecca is not one of them.  I was overwhelmed with choices : Cubbies bumbershoots of all sizes and descriptions, Chicago collapsibles, and, of course, Totes.  Stripes and dots and primary colors.... I covered all seven floors of the mall before landing in Macy's accessories department and joining the long line of women who were also buying rain protection.


I haven't used an umbrella for the six years we've been in Tucson.  Everyone on line was complaining about the downpour while I was enjoying the wet.  I smiled inside.


The whole weekend has been like that - a study in contrasts.  The wedding shower was filled with women who've know my girl since she was born; in Tucson, my family are strangers.  There's something about the women with whom I raised my children that new friends just cannot replicate.  I have no interest in moving back to the cold and the humidity and the traffic, but I am delighted that the kids have decided to make their life here.  


When I look out my window at home, I see mountains and a big blue sky.  From the bay windows here on the ninth floor, I see hundreds of other apartments and their dwellers turning off lights or changing the channel on the television.  I enjoy watching the Gambrel quail and their babies frolic in my front yard.  Little Cuter and SIR look down upon the swimmers in their pool and create backstories from their antics.  

And then there's this

taken from Sixteen, Trump Tower's outdoor restaurant and cocktail bar.  

The drinks were expensive and potent, and the girls enjoyed their adult popsicles

 while I admired the architecture

 and Seret and I reminisced and shared parenting tips ..... okay, she shared and I learned, as usual.

I love my home in the desert southwest..... but I'm really glad to have an ongoing excuse to return to the midwest and scenes like these

Lake Michigan does strange things to clouds, and I was there to see it.

I'm leaving today, with a tear in my eye.  It's hard to have to split my heart.

Grown Up

To Little Cuter, with love.

All of a sudden they are grown-ups.
You plan for it.  You set standards and expectations and examples.  You know it's coming.  You see the signs of maturity and you applaud them, encourage them, delight in them.  It's a gradual process most of the time.


Unless you get shot.


All of a sudden they are grown-ups.  They rush to your bedside and monitor your machinery. They hold your foot for an hour and don't complain - instead they laugh with you and try to distract you and they comfort you and, for a while, they are in charge and you are basking in the wonderfulness, the warmth, the excellence of being cared for by someone who gets you, who knows you, who loves you.


It comes on like that last sentence, all in a rush.  Like the spring run-off from the mountain tops that turns the dry-for-eleven-months Rillito into a 9' deep raging torrent, you are floating on an unstoppable current.  Along with the discarded sofas and engine parts riding atop the rapids, there you are, carried into the future with your once-and-never-again baby leading the way.

https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-nk1-MFk-bH8/TW7CA10wjqI

It's not an easy ride.  Not everyone has a clearly delineated door through which to pass.  More often than not I think it's a slide into a new role until one morning you wake up and find yourself in a house in the suburbs with a station wagon, two kids and a dachshund.  TBG may try to assuage the anguish with a Honda del Sol, but you're still there, facing the fact that somehow, without quite being aware of it, you've become an adult.


But sometimes life conspires to make that transition more abrupt.  You may pay your own bills and have a dog and a cell phone in your own name but your self-image is still stuck somewhere around 7.  And then, one day, you get a phone call in Target and you spring into action.  Airlines, pet boarders, parking lot attendants - get out of your way.  You are a woman on a mission, a person with a purpose, and you will use all the resources at your disposal to complete the task.


Watching someone as she passes over the threshold between her childhood and her future is an awesome thing.  She's right : she's sitting at the grown-up's table now.  She's brought her invitation to the party and we're welcoming her right in.  She's paid her dues, and left a trail of glistening stars behind her.  We are proud of her, but no more than she is of herself.


And isn't that a good definition of a competent adult: 

Someone who (with good reason) is proud of the person she's become.

Everyone Keeps Asking….

From the Little Cuter. 

Everyone keeps asking how I’m doing. How we’re doing. There is absolutely no correct way to respond.

Do you really want to know? Are you interested in the glossed over version? The version we’ve concocted that is shiny, protective… the Teflon version that we’ve created so that we can keep breathing? Because that version I’ve got down pat.

We are doing great! Mom is incredible, a superhero, she is recovering at a rate that I can’t even keep track of. Emotionally, physically, spiritually… she is surpassing every expectation given to us from people who are properly educated in gauging their own opinions. 16 weeks of physical recovery? No way, she’ll be back walking in 10. Emotions? Yeah, this is unspeakable, but she’s got 24-hour access to therapists who are trained in walking you through these kinds of things…

..... These kinds of things … those are the kinds of phrases that keep coming out of my mouth, the kinds of phrases that, the second they enter the air in front of me, I feel like cringing, like hitting the quick rewind button on my “life DVR” because they feel so trite. There’s no way I said something that slight, something that glossed over.

But I did, I’ve had plenty of practice, I’ve gotten really good at it.

Do you really want to know how I am doing? They haven’t invented a word for it yet.

How do you describe a time in your life that has been simultaneously the most horrific, most unimaginable, and the most inspiring, the most encouraging, the most incredible that you’ve ever seen?

In one week I saw my mother, my totem pole for existence, my pillar of strength, my role model, my MODEL, my template, my third ear, my second brain, my MOM, riddled with BULLET WOUNDS.

Think about that for a second. BULLET WOUNDS. HOLES in her person. Passages in
her body that did not exist before someone inflicted them upon her.

That same week I hugged the president. Twice.

How would you describe that? How would you answer, in a sound bite, when someone asked you how you were?

I use the Teflon version of my reaction because I can’t begin to expect people to understand. They want to know if I am, if we are, surviving. Yes. If that is what we are doing right now then, YES, we are surviving.

But I also feel something that I’ve only recently been able to put my finger on. Stay with me for a second… Do you remember the first time someone described outer space to you? The first time you were able to conceive the fact that you, your body, your entire existence, live on Planet Earth. And Earth is part of a solar system, which is part of a galaxy, which is part of a universe, which is always expanding. Then you realize, WAIT, the universe, which contains ALL of existence, is expanding? WHAT is it expanding into?

Do you remember how it feels to try to wrap your head around the space that our universe is expanding into? That, that brain ache, that inconceivability… That is how I’m feeling.

I am trying to convince my brain that what I’m going through isn’t just an elaborate dream. I am trying to rationalize evil. I am trying to come to terms with that fact that I CAN’T. I am furious with people telling me to “try and find a new normal”, and realizing that they are absolutely right. I am the kind of woman who relishes the mundane. Ask me before how I would describe my ideal day, and I would say it was “blissfully dull”. I finally learned to love my reality, to accept what brought me peace, and be proud that I could find it, maintain it, and be proud of it.

And then someone SHOT my mother.

Shot her. Shot her. Shot her. Three times. SHOT my mother. How do you say that? How do I write it? How do I conceive of a nauseating “new normal” that consists of my mother as a “victim”? Suzi Hileman, my template, my role model, my MOTHER, is not a victim. I now know that I hate that word. Victim. Victim implies weakness, that someone is capable of DOING something to you.

I can’t think of her, of us, of the Hilemans that way. We are not victims. We survived that week: That first week of restoring my mom’s body so that her mind, her incredible, incalculable, incomparable mind could come back to us. I’ve never been one for spirituality, never done much praying of any kind. But if there is a higher being to thank for bringing that mind back to me, to us, I thank it. Good gravy do I thank it.

I thank the people from my past. People whom I have loved from every different point in my life, for reaching out to me and reminding me that the love is still there. I thank compassion and empathy. I think back on those nights in the hospital, reading notes from them and knowing that I could call on any one of them for strength.

I understand now, and thank Shock: An emotion I’ve feigned in the past when something unnatural has happened. I give Shock credit for the strength I was able to maintain in the hospital. I thank it for allowing me brief moments of terror, but then reminding me that there was a job to be done, a woman to remind to STAY THE HELL WITH US, and I got back to the task at hand.

I thank my Brian. SIR. I know no other human in this world that could have been with me at that time, and helped me to hold it together like I did. Whatever “it” was that got me through that week, has gotten me through the weeks since, he was one of the main reasons I was able to maintain it.

So….

So how am I doing? The Teflon version reads the same. The other version, the one I, we, have now to learn to live with every day, the nauseatingly necessary and “healthy” new normal, the most honest example of an “ugly truth” that I’ve ever lived through, is far more complicated.

A Staycation in Chicagoland

The Little Cuter and SIR spent the long weekend on a Chicago stay-cation. SIR planned the whole thing; all she had to do was pack. Here's her review of the experience --- my guest post for Friday:

Wednesday & Thursday- Harrah’s

HILARIOUS and good times at the casino… except it ate all my money…. Damn slot machines! I gave up on the slots after I lost $40 and then gained 10 back playing roulette. I’ve decided I’m no longer intimidated by the tables.... We stuck out like sore thumbs being the only under 60 year olds in the place, but we had a great time nonetheless. I also learned that winning a free dinner buffet might sound like a huge score, but using the coupon after having a few rounds of beers will leave one so uncomfortably bloated that one must retire to the room for an hour and unbutton one’s pants whilst groaning. Hint: never eat pizza AND mashed potatoes from one plate.

Friday—Bulls Game

The NBA is difficult to watch nowadays. The first half is a giant throwaway and feels like you’re sitting in a live commercial break. When the game finally ticks down to the final minutes you can see actual talent on the court and things get interesting. This is why it is important to bring a (hidden from the security guards) flask of whiskey to the game— it numbs the feeling that you’re being ripped off. However, we did end up getting our money’s worth as the game went in to DOUBLE OT!!!! And we got to witness Derrick Rose’s highest scoring NBA game yet. I kept asking SIR if he thought Rose would score more points this year than his faked score on the SATs. My humor was not appreciated…

Saturday—Free night at the Wyndham

Nothing quite compares to having a boy in your life who people throw freebies at … it is delightful. I kept telling SIR that I LOVED being the beneficiary of his charms. We got a corner suite at the Wyndham, and a free bottle of champagne and a cheese plate that we ate in pj’s on the GIANT fluffy bed while we watched the Saints game. I was basically in heaven.

Then we went to the Signature Room where we had two very overpriced Long Island Iced Teas and cursed our luck at going up there on the ONE foggy night of the year. Couldn’t see squat. I took some ironic “view pictures” though.

We woke up in the morning to our check-out sheet slipped under the door and attached? Two free breakfast buffet tickets!! TWO FREE BUFFETS in one week!

Sunday- Blue Man Group

YOU MUST SEE THIS SHOW. It knocked my socks off. We are totally going next time you are in the city.

Monday- Chinatown (my idea!)

I’d never been to Chinatown here in the Chi as I’ve heard it was superdupercalifragilistiexpial-idociously lame, but the whole point of the stay-cay was to do things in the city that we’d never otherwise make time for. So we went. Took the train and it dropped us off RIGHT there (gotta love the city!) and it’s true, the town itself is a little sad—only one street.

But it was perfect because SIR is nothing if not a VERY THOROUGH TOURIST. We walked in and out of every shop on the street and bought silly trinkets for a dollar and a Sake set and saw the world’s fanciest Menorah shop (what is a Judaica shop doing in Chinatown? I’m not sure…. But they felt they had the right to charge $500 for a menorah, so poo on me!).

Then we ate dim sum and split the world’s most delicious Mongolian Beef. We decided that we would declare the day “ASIA DAY!” and on the way home stopped and bought some sake at Jewel (only in Chicago do they have sake in the grocery store). Then we went home and giggled while we unpacked our goodies and SIR planted the three bamboo stalks he bought and turned our apartment into Asia for the night. We googled “how to drink sake” and followed all of the traditional heating and pouring techniques until the liquor got the better of us and we gave up.

Seriously, a blast was had by all. I felt like I was off work for a MONTH and was actually looking forward to coming back and getting back in to my routine. The gluttony was a bit out of control with 2 (TWO!!) buffets in one week, so I decided to double the workouts this week and I woke up this morning and drank a cup of DETOXIFICATION tea (thank you, Chinatown!).

(And thank you Little Cuter for this post!)