What Women Do

My friend and I had the wonderful opportunity to attend a women’s retreat recently. I have been wanting to attend this particular retreat for years. The retreat was everything I had hoped for. It was fun, inspiring, and educational. All of those are important components to this “teacher-minded” individual. Although I’ve been to hundreds of conferences and trainings, I have never been to an event that was 99% women. The venue even re-named the men’s rooms to ladies rooms for this particular retreat. Being a woman, I know a lot about our gender, but there are certain womanly characteristics that I have never noticed until this particular weekend, being surrounded by hundreds of my sisters. My friend and I frequently commented on these idiosyncrasies as they repeatedly occurred over the course of the 2 days.

1.     Women take cuts.

From the time we boarded the ferry’s parking lot shuttle, to the time we were dropped off at our car, lady after lady unapologetically made her way in front of us saying things like, “Oh, my friends are up there, so we need to get by, ” or they’d say nothing at all. As an educator, this is particularly annoying because we just know that taking cuts is probably the worst etiquette rule you can break. That’s not to say that teachers don’t take cuts, we just apologize, explain, and justify our rude behavior. “I’m know I’m taking cuts and I’m so, so sorry! It’s inexcusable, but I really just had to run to the bathroom. Will you please let me back in with my friend here?” So you can understand my impatience.

2.     Women save seats.

As we were herded into the hotel dining room, my friend and I scoured the long tables for two seats. As we looked left and right, we noticed seat after seat covered with napkins, name badges, and purses so that the seats could be saved for any number of absent friends. And what was again, somewhat surprisingly unapologetic. We were just met with head shaking and outstretched arms (so as to protect saved seats from two obviously ravenous women). My friend and I came up with a rule of our own. If you want to save seats, it can be no more than two, and for no more than 5 minutes. Or as we tell the kids on the playground, “Count to 100 and if your friends aren’t here yet, someone else gets to use that swing.”

Overall the event was wonderful. We definitely plan to do it again. The cuts-taking and seat-saving weren’t enough to ruin our time at this event. But next time we will be prepared to wait a little longer in line and we will definitely get to dinner early. And I can’t even promise that I won’t ever take cuts or save seats again. I am, after all, a woman too. And apparently, that’s just what we women do.

Global Warming is Real

I am finally a believer in the theory of global warming. You are probably thinking to yourself
that it has something to do with the fact that I’m now over 50, but I can assure you that global
warming is for real. Not only global warming, but temperature extremes. For years I have
considered both sides of the issue, but between the cooler summers and long Northern
Michigan winters, I just couldn’t commit to the idea that our planet’s temperature is rising.
I  wasn’t convinced that the planet was warming when the entire summer stayed chilly.
In fact, I came up with an idea for a T shirt that said “Anxiously Awaiting Global Warming”
(when it was still snowing in April). Still, the theory of global warming is a hotly contested topic.
Depending on what side of the aisle you lean, you might not completely agree with one side or
the other. I know I didn’t. However, In the past few months I have been provided with the
evidence I needed to substantiate the existence of global warming.

Let me present the facts:

There have been increasing instances of fluctuating heat. I’m going about my own business
and suddenly it is so hot, I’m literally peeling off layers.

I have had to purchase thin pajamas because the sweltering heat that I’m experiencing in the
middle of the night has me drenched with sweat. Tom says he doesn’t know what I’m talking about,
but he’s just in denial. Global warming is real.

Even though winter is upon us and it’s been snowing like crazy, I can’t even look at my heavy
sweaters. If I’m not sweating in the morning when I’m getting dressed, I know I’ll definitely be
sweating when the temperature randomly increases at intervals throughout the day.

That being said, I can’t only blame global warming for this constant and unexplainable heat; I also
blame faulty thermostats. The thermostat at our house can’t seem to keep things at a constant,
comfortable temperature. One minute I’m snuggled up on the couch with fuzzy socks and a cozy
blanket, the next moment I’m kicking off the blanket and socks and turning on the ceiling fan.  It’s
the same at work. I’m cold, I’m hot, I’m cold, I’m hot. When I ask my co-workers if they are
sweltering, they say they aren’t. They must be in denial too. So take it from me, I wasn’t always a
believer, but now I am. There is such a thing as global warming, even if I’m the only one in the room
experiencing it.

Let me Tell You About my "Children"

Back in January I eagerly entered this column in the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. The results came out and I wasn't one of the winners, which was disappointing, but I can finally publish it. Enjoy!

I guess I just assumed that bragging about my children would always come naturally. Maybe not. A few weeks before Christmas, a neighbor of ours hosted a holiday open house as a sort of "get-to-know-you" evening. I should probably mention that our neighborhood isn't a young, up and coming area full of families with young kids. It is predominately people our age, (mid to upper 40's), and older. As we were chatting with folks we knew and acquainting ourselves with neighbors we didn't, I found myself talking mostly about our pets. People would ask about our kids and I would say, "We have two boys; one is 17 and one is 20. But let me tell you about our cats!" I seemed to blather on and on about how Nova is an expert mouser, or spent 45 minutes describing the medical concerns of our aging dog. The funny thing is the conversations like that were mutual. When do we stop bragging about our children and start swapping Instagram photos of our cats like I do with my friend Bridget? I have not seen one picture of an old friend's adult daughter on his Facebook page, but I could name every one of his 4 dogs. Our next door neighbor and I were discussing her previous dog, Ivy and also the current one, CJ, when she mentioned something about their son and daughter-in-law. Son? Those people have lived next door for 7 years and I had no idea that they even had children! And likewise, she couldn't get my kids' names straight but she could easily name our dog and recall the name of our last cat. I have known for a long time that the circle of life begins with your pets as "kids" and then when the real kids come along the pets become animals again. What I didn't know is that when you can't gush over those adorable pictures of your kids with green beans smeared over their faces anymore because they are now grouchy teenagers who want nothing to do with you, the next likely step is to revert back to those sweet furry friends who can't get enough of our affection. This went on and on at that party.
"Did you know the cute little dog on the corner, Angel, died? And what's the little girl's name again?"
"Yes, of course I know you. You are the one with the beautiful German Shepherds."
I'm sure this stage is temporary as we patiently await grandchildren. But until that time I'm going to need a bumper sticker that says "Let me tell you about my beagle/golden retriever mix."

What is Adulthood Really About?

I am a person who, much to the annoyance of my children, loves Facebook and Pinterest. You are probably familiar with Facebook, but if you aren't familiar with Pinterest, you should be. One popular part of both sites is the abundance of clever, inspirational, offensive, ridiculous, and downright hilarious quotes that get posted and reposted regularly. One of my favorite ridiculous quotes is "repost if you love your grandma. If you don't then you hate her." The truly ridiculous part of that is the fact that it actually gets reposted! I am guilty of reposting all kinds of (hopefully not offensive) quotes such as, "I don't know Karate, but I do know 'crazy' and I'm not afraid to use it."
There are literally hundreds that have made me laugh, cringe, or go "hmmm." A while back my niece reposted one that said "Adulthood is mostly about being tired and wishing you hadn't made plans." When I read that I felt like Peppermint Patty when she knocked Schroeder away from his piano when she yelled "That's it!" At this stage in my life I have found myself not only tired all the time but napping on a regular basis. They usually aren't planned naps either. They they can occur at any time that I am lying on the couch, which is usually after dinner. Several years back I even made a 'no more than one night of plans per week' rule. More than one night a week of activity just makes me more tired. I love going out with Tom or friends. I really love watching the kids performances or athletics. When I do make plans,I get really excited about whatever it is I'm doing but when the time comes I think "Why did I agree to this? I'm just so dang tired!" Most of the time I convince myself that I need to get out of the house and have some fun with friends or family. Rarely do I cancel.  I do however, find myself in full on yawning around 8:30 PM. I sometimes find myself with an inner-conflict. I love to socialize and hate feeling like I'm missing "the fun" but when I get invited to join the fun I excitedly accept then, like the quote says, wish I hadn't made plans. I guess if that is what adulthood mostly is, then I've nailed it. That and another catchy quote "Now that I've wasted an hour on Facebook, Ill just pop over to Pinterest and make an evening of it."

The Quest for Cool

I realize that there are many parents out there who are around my age (40-something) who want to be "cool" in the eyes of their children and their friends.

They dress well and drive awesome cars. They hang out with their kids and their kids see them more like friends.

I also know that there are some who want only to be parents, and if nerdyness is part of that equation, then so be it.

I fall somewhere in the middle. I realize that most likely no matter what I do or how hard I try to be "cool," my attempts will be met with rolling eyes or "Stop, Mom!" While I do try to dress in style, when Robby's friend asked, "Why does your mom dress like she's in our grade?" I took that into consideration and adjusted my wardrobe accordingly.

Recently I got my dream car. Well, it's one of three dream cars, but a dream car no less. Tom and I happened upon a 1979 VW Super Beetle convertible.

We decided not to let this one go by and took the plunge. I was so excited! And to me and almost everyone I told, the response was the same -- "Cool!"

Of course "cool" is relative, generationally speaking.

When we brought the car home the boys both said that they wanted to learn to drive a stick so they could also drive it. Ah, success. They thought it was cool, too! While being cool in my sons' eyes isn't on the top of my priority list, it is a nice validation from time to time.

Tom got to work on making some necessary mechanical upgrades as I waited out the rain in order to drive the car.

The week after we got it, we were getting ready for church and when I was barking my usual Sunday morning orders to get in the car, I heard Sammy say, "We aren't taking that goofy Bug, are we?"

Wait a minute. Goofy?


Is my adorable little car not cool in the eyes of my teenagers after all? How could we have gotten this wrong? They want to learn to drive it, so wouldn't that make it cool in their eyes?

So while I've come to accept that for now I am just a huge geek in their eyes, there will still be a small part of me which hangs on to the notion that someday I'll hear those four magical words -- "Wow mom. That's cool!"

A Wrinkle in Time

This is my 24th Column! Happy 2 year Anniversary to me! I can't believe that two years have passed since I started sharing my life with my readers. I love writing and this has been a great outlet for me. I continued to be surprised when complete strangers comment on my column. Thanks for 2 years of encouragement (and material-haha).
Dawn

Published March 24, 2012:

I found a new wrinkle recently and I am not happy about it. It’s a horizontal line between my nose and upper lip. I’m guessing it’s some sort of laugh line. I think the name is misleading. I may have gotten it from laughing, but I’m not laughing now. I’ve watched the progression of wrinkles closely for years now. I figured that I would be looking at premature wrinkling due to my sun abuse in my younger days, yet I continue to be surprised at the appearance of those pesky fine lines. The frown lines (a much more appropriate name) were the first to appear. These are the prominent horizontal wrinkles across the forehead. When I had bangs it was easier to cover these up, but because of the motorcycle helmet, bangs are no longer an option. For years I have seen those crinkly crow’s feet on the corners of Tom’s eyes, but they have not seemed to go much further on him. Of course, wrinkles are distinguishing on a man, right? I have been preparing for wrinkles for years, starting with moisturizer in my early twenties and although there are people who are still surprised that I am 44, I can clearly see the elasticity disappearing from my face. When I wake up from a nap the telltale pillow dent can stay on my cheek for hours. My husband smirks and says “Sooooo, did you take a nap today?”  One morning I wore a crocheted hat to work and the bumps from it stayed on my forehead almost until lunch. The only good thing about that was that they distracted from my frown lines for a couple of hours. So I moisturize more with specific creams targeted for specific areas of my face like my eyes. I would consider more drastic measures but I hate needles so Botox isn’t an option for me. Plus I have seen too many rubber-faced women on TV who probably look worse than if they had just let the wrinkles progress naturally. My aunt once told me that she is embracing her wrinkles and trying to love each one. She is 10 years older than me so maybe she’s a little further along in the process of acceptance than I am. I’m sure I’ll get there some day. For now I plan to continue on my daily regimen of cleansing and moisturizing along with religious use of sunscreen.  Unlike grey hairs that can be covered in dye, wrinkles are a daily reminder in the mirror of middle age and the approach of old age. But I guess if I have to acquire more wrinkles I’m going to make darn sure that they are the ones that are named for laughing.

Being Seasoned Doesn't have to be a Bad Thing

In education, teachers try to put a positive spin on just about everything so as not to bring on discouragement or low self-esteem.

There is a term that we use to describe older teachers. The term is "seasoned" or "seasoned veteran."

The term "seasoned" still has somewhat of a sting to me, now that I fit that classification. Most teachers have their master's degrees. In fact, I am one of probably three teachers in our district that doesn't. A couple of years ago I decided to put forth the effort and cost and join my colleagues with that esteemed distinction of having an MA behind my name. So I enrolled in a fully online program through Northern Michigan University.

When I was a college student in my younger years, I would glance around the class at what we referred to back then as nontraditional students. I thought that they had sort of an air of confidence about them while at the same time wondered if they felt out of place in a classroom of young 20-somethings.

In my online program, we have the luxury of not being able to see each other and therefore the playing field is somewhat leveled as far as who is seasoned and who is young (for lack of a better term). In every online class I have had to write a bio and include a picture and then read and comment on other classmates' bios.

For some reason, I was shocked to see pictures and read bios of first-time moms, recent graduates, and one or two other nontraditional students, including myself. As I would leave comments to others about their exciting futures as parents and educators, I would read comments on my bios that said things like, "I am looking forward to the expanse of knowledge and experience you will bring to the class as a seasoned veteran."

There it was.

I was the old lady of the class. In that first class I decided to tread lightly and not let my experience show, so to speak.

But as I proceeded through the coursework, I realized that I did have something to offer.

I quickly saw that my experience was met with appreciation. The younger teachers seemed to want to hear what I had to say. They weren't rolling their eyes and commenting about me under their breath, not that I could see anyway. I have come to embrace my role as an educator with experience that can bring a different perspective to those who have not been in education long.

With that, I think I'd like to update the term "seasoned" to something that describes how I feel inside.

I think I like "zesty" a little bit better.

Published February 25, 2012

Sometimes Dirt Doesn't Hurt

The boys and I at the youth group campout

My husband and I recently had the opportunity to be chaperones on a youth group camping trip for our church.
Since I am a planner and an organizer, camping is not one of my strong suits — it is not something that can be planned and executed perfectly because there are always those unique circumstances that arise that can ruin the whole experience for me.
When I set out to go camping with my family, I want it to be memorable.
What better way for things to be memorable, than to micro-manage every minute, right?
Because I didn’t plan this trip, we simply had to show up and help out with the kids when needed. I was able to sit back and observe some of the things that to adults can be trip-wreckers, but not to kids.
One thing that just irritates me to no end is that my feet are inevitably dirty the entire trip.
The ground is usually some sort of gray color and my flip-flopped feet just never seem to be free of it.
As I watched these kids walk around barefoot, moving the dirt around with their feet at the campfire, and then of course, go to bed that way, I wondered what I was so worried about. I knew the sheets could be cleaned and so could my feet.
Kids also don’t tend to be too concerned about whether or not their teeth get brushed. Some did, some didn’t. And my dentist might chastise me for saying this, but will one day of dirty teeth really cause advanced tooth decay?
I realized too that I don’t need modern conveniences like electricity or showers to have fun. Tent camping takes me back to my youth, only in a better, more water-resistant tent.
That brings me to my last point — rain.
I have come to realize that the only ones that seem to be bothered by rain are the adults. Kids and teens don’t have any trouble continuing to have fun on a camp-out when it rains.
As they get older they do, but only because of listening to us grumble about it. Fortunately we avoided rain until our final night.
The kids swam, ate banana boats and hobo dinners, played a game of predator in the woods at night and whittled knives out of sticks.
Our youth intern, Matt, did a wonderful job making the experience fun and memorable for everyone. All was done with dirty feet and questionable oral hygiene.
I loved every minute of it.

Published August, 2010

Breaking Up With the Sun

Even Molly has trouble staying away from our beautiful beaches in the summer!

I knew there was such a thing as skin cancer, but never thought it could happen to me.
But a few years ago I had a brush with melanoma. Although the test results were officially inconclusive, I still ended up with a 2-inch excision scar on my hip and dermatologist appointments three times a year.
That experience was enough to end my 25-plus year relationship with tanning beds and golden brown skin.
I have always loved being tan. I have skin that’s so pale in the winter that my husband says, “If you stand against that wall I can’t see you.”
I have always spent summers on the side of some pool or beach working on my perfect tan. I had two to three suits that insured I wouldn’t have defined strap marks.
The smell of Coppertone has always been intoxicating to me.
Since my skin cancer scare, my dermatologist has done a very good job at instilling fear in me. I don’t want any more icky moles or excision scars.
Last year when the weather was colder, I didn’t have as difficult a time staying out of the sun and away from the beach. I really felt that I was able to get to the point where I thought to myself, “I’m over 40 now. Is it really that important for me to get a tan?”
My derm told me in February that I could stretch my next exam to six months and see her in August.
“But you’d better not be tan!” she warned.
This year it’s warmer. The call of the beach is stronger as my scar fades.
The love of the sun and desire for brown skin is something with which I am definitely struggling.
I think to myself, “Who cares if I have farmer lines on my arms? Seriously, does it really matter that my stomach isn’t tan? No one sees it anyway.”
And in wanting to at least be seen when standing against the dining room wall, where do I draw the line so that I don’t look like I have the flu, but don’t look like that 20-year-old who spent the entire day on the shores of Gun Lake covered in baby oil, flipping every half-hour?
Getting older means letting go of some relatively silly things, such as being tan, that in the grand scheme of things really aren’t that important.
So with a lot of sunscreen, some sunless tanner and a new attitude, I think I’ll be able to show up in my derm’s office with my head up and my moles clean.
I guess it can happen to me.

The 'Good Little Cooker'

A recent recipe success- Chicken/bacon alfredo pizza. Yum!!

The other day my husband Tom and I were in the car and out of the blue he said, “You’ve really gotten to be a good little cooker.”
To tell you the truth, that’s quite a compliment considering how far I’ve come with my culinary skills.
As I was growing up I never had much interest in learning how to cook. When the food was on the table, I sat down and ate it.
When I got married my lack of experience was evident. I don’t remember a whole lot of my cooking from back then, but I do know that I made spaghetti so much that Tom began calling it “Old Standby.”
Tom grew up with a mom that was an excellent cook. She loved cooking and was very good at it — actually, she still is. Back then my incompetence in the kitchen reared its ugly head on more than one occasion. I called her frequently with my culinary emergencies.
The first thing she did was give me cookbook titled “The Absolute Beginner’s Cookbook: or, How Long Do I Cook a 3-Minute Egg?” by Jackie Eddy and Eleanor Clark.
Since she lived much closer than my own mother, she made dinner for us about twice a week. She’d include the recipe with the food, so if we liked it, I could make it again.
To this day I am extremely grateful for her help and generosity.
When we moved from Sault Ste. Marie to Charlevoix I was on my own again. We were back to “Old Standby” and lots of BC Pizza.
I did try, but I hadn’t built up the confidence to make anything that didn’t have cream of something soup in it.
A few years ago I flipped to Food Network and caught “30 Minute Meals” with Rachael Ray. She made cooking seem so effortless. It was like she was talking right to me.
As I continued to watch her show, print off the recipes and then make them myself, my awkwardness and fear of making meals containing more than five ingredients started to fade.
I started to hear, “This is good Mom. Make it again!” I got more and more confident and began to take risks in the kitchen. A friend even mentioned to me that my son, Robby, told her Rachael Ray had saved my life.
I don’t know if she really did save my life, or if it was my mother-in-law, or my incredibly patient and understanding family.
All I know is that I wear the title of “Good Little Cooker” with honor.

Published May, 2010

Boredom: Learning to Love it

This was my very first column back in April of 2010

A few years ago my friend Brenda gave me the book “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, 100 of the Best Inspirations from the Best-selling Series.”
In a variety of short essays, the author teaches the reader how to chill out and enjoy life. Since I tend to be a little high-strung, this turned out to be the perfect book for me.
My favorite, marked by a sticky note, is titled “Encourage Boredom in your Children.” When I read it I realized we adults need to do the same.
My husband and I have taken on the daunting task of living within our means. We decided taking vacations would only be done if we could pay cash for them.
Year after year, I would watch longingly as my friends began their late-winter ritual of building a base tan before going someplace warm and tropical for a week.
I would avoid the teachers’ lounge for the first two weeks after spring break so I would not have to listen to the excruciating stories and see the beautiful tans. Once the tans faded and the stories finished, I could return to daily lunches with my friends.
Many years, I would go so far as to purchase my own tan so when everyone returned, I wouldn’t get “Oh, you poor thing, you had to stay in this cold and miserable weather all spring break” looks. They don’t mean to do it, but they can’t help it. With a tan, people would assume that I had a fabulous break too, and hopefully wouldn’t ask about it.
As I felt more and more sorry for myself, my husband would try to cheer me up by saying things like, “Oh they’re just putting $3,000 on their Visas that they’ll have to pay off” or “There’s no way I’d be trapped in a car for four days just to go to Florida.”
It didn’t help.
I wanted to slather on Bain de Soleil for that St. Tropez tan and lounge in the sun by the pool. I wanted to wear shorts and flip flops, and my cute tankini with the little skirt. I continued to wallow in my self-pity.
Until this year, that is.
Every so often we are blessed with a two week break. For Christmas, we didn’t go anywhere and I decided to do as little as possible (a long time ago I realized the less busy I am the more slowly time goes by). I did a little cleaning, poked along at the laundry and laid around.
When the two weeks were over, boredom had set in and I was ready to go back to into the routine of my job. It felt like I had a month off.
This spring break, boredom hit about three days before the end.
Ready to go back to work, I was refreshed and recharged. My skin was pasty-white, but I wanted to see my friends and their tans, wanted to hear about wonderful trips and see pictures.
I’ve come back from vacations feeling rushed to do laundry and unpack, and go back to work tired, frazzled and grumbling, wishing break had not gone by so fast.
I have decided that there is value in not having to go on a fabulous trip every time there is a break.
Don’t get me wrong — if I have the opportunity to do something fun and fabulous somewhere warm and tropical, you can be sure that I’ll be there.
But I’ll pay for it with cash, and when I am there I will make sure I schedule in time just to be bored.

You Can't go Back...or Can You?

Robby and I at the Homecoming football game at half-time

I recently found out that you can live vicariously through your children. I came home from work one day to my son Robby, a senior at Charlevoix High School, calling me up to his room because he needed to tell me something. Actually he needed to tell me three things. I have no idea what the first two things were because the third thing sent me skyward. He was on homecoming court. I jumped up and down and babbled a bunch of nonsense with a few “Oh my gosh’s!” thrown in. I bolted downstairs trying to figure out if I was going to text everyone I knew, call my mom, or post it on facebook as he sat there dumbfounded. My son obviously was not as excited to be thrust into the limelight as I was for him to be. My high school dream of being nominated for homecoming was being realized by my own flesh and blood. Back in high school I literally had more than 8 chances to be nominated and never once was my be-nice-to-everyone way of life rewarded with that one announcement that just about every girl waits with baited breath for “and the nominees for homecoming queen of 1986 are…” When I say I had numerous chances it’s because my high school did things a little differently. Each grade elected a king and queen for both football and basketball seasons. And that really wasn’t all. There was also a school-wide king and queen who were seniors and got elected during basketball season. And if you didn’t manage to get on any of those courts (or even if you did), there was always “King and Queen of The Ledge.” That’s right; Grand Ledge’s own yearbook royalty. Back in the 80’s the homecoming nominations were much more of a popularity contest than they are now. You had to be popular. Not just friends with a lot of people; friends with a lot of popular people. You had to be the envy of roughly 90% of your class and although I was nice to everyone, I was not popular in the “getting nominated for homecoming queen” sense of the word. I am happy to see that things have changed. The nice kids do get nominated right along-side the popular crowd. Oh that’s not to say that our homecoming court didn’t consist of nice people, many of my dearest friends held those coveted seats on the Kleenex flowered floats, waving at their adoring fans. I have come to terms with my past but it doesn’t mean I couldn’t share in the excitement of having a son on his senior class court. I may not get to buy a beautiful Cinderella dress with matching satin shoes, but I was be the proudest mom screaming from the stands in my jeans and sweatshirt as my husband took picture after picture and feeling just as elated as if I were out on the field myself. I guess that with the help of your kids, maybe you can go back.

Published October, 2011

Christmas on the Flip-Side

In America, Christmas is a time of gift-giving. We open our hearts and our wallets to show others how much we care about and love them. Generosity is at its peak during the Christmas season, no matter what religion or holiday you are celebrating. When I was younger I was always into Christmas big-time. I decorated like crazy and spent too much money on the kids. I loved doing the Secret Santa at work and mailing out Christmas cards. At this season of my life Christmas gift-giving has lost its “wow” factor. I do like giving gifts. I’m talking about no more long Christmas lists to Santa and no longer being woken up at 5 am because the kids just can’t sleep. I have 2 teenage boys who have long outgrown the excitement of waiting for Santa. No one wakes us up on Christmas morning anymore, unless the dog needs to go out. In fact, my husband is often the one saying “Go drag the kids out of bed so we can open presents!” The days of scouring the JC Penny toy catalog are gone. These days gift giving at our home revolves around much needed clothing, ski equipment, and paintball gear. I don’t have adorable little nieces or nephews to buy toys for. The lack of Christmas wonder puts kind of a damper on the festivities for me. Even putting up the tree just doesn’t hold that excitement that it used to. Unpacking those ornaments that the kids made in elementary school almost makes me sad in a way. I think my friend Roxann got it right when she and her husband took their adult kids to Florida last year as their family Christmas present. That’s what I think Christmas is about now. It’s about being together and making memories before the kids are off on their own. It’s about celebrating the birth of Jesus. It’s about finding joy in helping those less fortunate. Someday I’ll have grandkids and will be able to buy toys and bake cookies for Santa once again. But for now I’ll be thankful that we are together and healthy. I’ll continue teach my kids to focus on others. Maybe I’ll even start dropping hints to my husband about the possibility for a Christmas getaway next year. Why not?

Published December 2010

A Week without Texting: This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you!

A few weeks ago we sent out son off to a camp in Colorado for the adventure of a lifetime.  One of the rules for the campers was that they weren’t allowed to take their cellphones. One of the leaders reminded the kids that if they were caught with cellphones, that the phones would be confiscated. Many of the parents, myself included, nodded in agreement. My friend and I discussed how it was important for our kids to let go of their texting for a week and focus on making friendships the old fashioned way. “They have those phones attached to their hips! They can’t do anything without having their phones. They are addicted to texting.” But as the busses pulled away, I came to the realization that my son would be literally half-way across the country and I couldn’t just check in. I couldn’t ask him if he’s having fun, or if he has enough money. I couldn’t just say “I miss you!” You see, I have to admit that I have become almost as accustomed to being connected to my kids as they are to their friends. As our kids get older and further from the safety of Mom and Dad, the thought that they are just a text or a call away is comforting to me. Sometimes my kids can get a little too much courage when arguing via text, but that is far outweighed by the feeling that I can always get ahold of my kids no matter where they are or what they are doing. I often wonder how my parents did it. How did they give us the keys and watch us pull out of the driveway without knowing whether or not we would be able to contact them if we got into a bind, or worse, an accident? I know the gut-wrenching feeling when my kids don’t answer a call or if a text isn’t quickly returned. Aside from the safety aspects of our kids having phones, the convenience of my being able to just call and say “Are you going to be home for dinner?” or if they are on the other side of Walmart, texting to say “Meet me in checkout aisle 9” is just as important. So it wasn’t just my son who had to do a week of adjusting, it was Mom who was doing some adjusting of my own. A day after one son came home, the other left for a different camp downstate, without his phone. Fortunately for me, I can email him as many times as I want just to say “I miss you!”

Published June, 2011

The Best Date Nights are on Two Wheels

This photo was taken summer of 2008

I’d like to say that our motorcycle saved our marriage, but in reality it wasn’t bad to begin with. After we moved down here from the Sault, Tom fulfilled his dream of getting back into motorcycling. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but wasn’t going to say that he couldn’t get one. The first bike was a Honda Shadow and he loved it. I really had no interest in riding on it and was frankly scared of hitting a bump and being thrown off the back. When he did coerce me into riding I was scared for my life the entire time. I really avoided going. At that time our kids were young and we were at the point in our marriage where they took up more time than our relationship. We didn’t spend much time together as a couple and we definitely didn’t have a designated “date night.” But he persisted. I didn’t know why he wanted me on the back of that thing, but he just did. As I got more comfortable riding on the bike, our rides became more frequent and our relationship got stronger. Date night became a regular from the time the temperature got up to around 60 in May until the temperature got down to around 60 in October. We were so excited when the boys were old enough to not need a sitter. We were able to go that much more. Our trips together have been to motorcycle rallies within our state and to places like Milwaukee and Sturgis, SD. Just this past July we took a trip to the U.P. together. We think nothing of riding up to Mackinac City for dinner.  We no longer have the Honda. My husband has since upgraded to a Harley-Davidson which he has completely modified. The bike has 40,000 miles on it, most of those miles we have ridden together. These days we mostly just ride around the lake and then “flake-out” in the grass of East Park in Charlevoix with some ice cream. We often ride with friends who enjoy riding as much as we do. People ask me if I’m going to get my own bike. I could I suppose. I have my endorsement. I don’t know if I want to give up sitting on the back with my arms around my best guy. There is something different about being together on a motorcycle that I think brings couples closer. I know it did for us. So did a motorcycle fix a broken marriage? No, it just made a good marriage great.

Published September, 2011

Home Coloring: Not so Nice 'n Easy

I’m not afraid to admit that I pluck out grey hairs. When I get in the mood to hunt them down it’s like a search and destroy mission. That usually only happens when my roots have gotten dark enough for the silver shards of old age to become visible even with my glasses off. I am far too young at heart to allow the grey to take over so I color my hair. A few years back when we went on a budget, one of the luxuries to go was my professionally done highlights. I made the sacrifice and began to color my own hair. I reasoned that the $7 box of color was much more economical than the cost of having the hairdresser do it. I would give up the highlights, but I would reap the savings, in theory anyway. However, when someone has to color and recolor her hair several times, the savings quickly dwindles. My natural hair color is dark brown. My natural skin color is Elmer’s paste. The highlights went well with my skin tone. Unfortunately I have not been able to find a box color that comes close to what Lisa was able to accomplish in 1 hour every 8 weeks. When I covered my beloved highlights I started with “medium brown”. I don’t know the difference between warm, caramel, natural, or ash brown. But from what I have discovered in my bathroom chemistry lessons is that ash is the only brown that actually turns my hair brown. The rest have resulted in a Lucille Ball meets golden retriever orange. The medium ash brown was a little too dark and did nothing for my skin tone, so I experimented with all of the varieties of light brown, each one resulting in the same shade of orange. I tried putting highlights on the medium brown and they were orange.  Last summer, I decided to just forget the light colors and experimented with dark brown, rationalizing that if it matched my roots then I wouldn’t have roots. That was just a disaster. I looked like Morticia Addams. I had to strip all of the color out of my hair and re-dye it.  It’s a wonder my hair isn’t the texture of straw. The last time I dyed my hair I found a new color, which was in the light brown family, but had a nice warm tone to it. For the first time in 2 years I had finally found a color that I liked. Of course I didn’t save the number so I had to rely on my failing memory to find it again. I came across light caramel warm brown. That sounded about right. I left it on the full 45 minutes to be sure that my extremely dark roots wouldn’t turn orange. But upon final rinse, that familiar tone taunted me in the mirror. My husband jokingly commented to our golden retriever, “Now you look like Mommy!” When will I get it right? When the economy makes its anticipated turn-around, I’ll happily skip into my hairdresser for my beautiful coffee-with-cream highlights. Until then I will return to the store and grab old-faithful, medium ash brown, and wash that grey right out of my hair.

Published April, 2011

Confessions of a (middle-aged) Shopaholic

I love going to the mall because I love shopping. I enjoy the feeling that comes with getting a cute new outfit or the perfect pair of shoes. My shopping roots run deep. My grandma and I shared a love of Liz Claiborne and shoes. When I was a middle school student, my friends and I thought nothing of spending 4 hours at the Lansing Mall making $5 last all day. As I grew older, the stores of choice grew with me. In college my favorite stores were Limited Express and the Gap.  I knew that the best deals were on the clearance racks at the back of the store and that was where I headed first. I could dress in style, on a budget. A few months ago I had the opportunity to do some power shopping at the Rivertown Mall near Grand Rapids. This particular trip to the mall had me feeling somewhat dazed and overwhelmed. It wasn’t just the fact that it had been such a long time since I had the opportunity to shop for myself. Venturing into stores like Aeropostale or American Eagle make me feel a little bit uncomfortable. I am just sure that the girls at the counter either believe that I am buying something for a teenager, or wonder what in the heck an old lady like me is doing looking for clothes in such a young, hip store. I stumbled in and out of stores not really seeing anything that I felt like I’d be comfortable wearing. I found myself thinking “Cute skirt, but too young for me.”  And I thought that a lot. I remember walking down the mall and looking up to see the Sears sign illuminating in the distance. It was like a beacon of light that guided me down the vast expanse of the mall. I entered the large store and felt a wave of relief come over me. There in front of me were the age-appropriate Lands End clothes that I had been seeking and off to the right were racks and racks of clearance items. I discovered that it isn’t important where the clothes are, but that I like them and I feel comfortable wearing them. Sure, I’ll wear the cool jeans that someone ½ my age passed on to me, but for me as a shopper I realized that I’m OK with clothes from Sears, JC Penny, Target and Walmart. Heck, Meijer has some really cute stuff too. Fortunately for me, my elementary aged students could care less what I have on, let alone where it came from.  And that’s just fine with me.

Published May, 2011