Facing My Face

I love to read magazines. Yes, real paper magazines. I'm a throwback to a prior generation with my magazines, newspapers and printed books. I might single-handedly save the publishing industry from extinction. However, it is another kind of extinction I'm here to talk about today.My own. In one of those magazines, I was reading an article about the latest skin care products and which ones really work. They were lavishing praise upon one particular face cream that they promised worked better than any other they had tested. This amazing anti-aging cream could take up to five years off your appearance.This was one of those moments I have, and I have many, where I wished my life came with a sound track. As I read that line I imagined the screeching sounds of brakes filling the room around me.Five years? A quick application of math (carry the five, divide by the highest common denominator) told me that I am knocking on the door of 48 so this anti-age cream could possibly make me have the youthful skin of a 43 year old.

43?

43 year olds don't have youthful skin. Not without some constant chemical assistance. When in the world did I get so old that I could no longer spend a large portion of my husband's salary, unbeknownst to him of course, on a small jar of miracles and believe that it might work? Had I been using beauty products and actually thinking they might take 20 years off my appearance? Of course not. I had just started using them in my late 20s and continued right on, year after year after year, not even stopping to think that those years were adding up and apparently I was beginning to store them in my jowl area. And those weird deep creases going around my mouth.My husband's grandmother was a remarkable woman who lived to be 97. Every night of her life until the last couple of years, she would apply scotch tape to her forehead before she went to sleep. She swore it kept her forehead from getting wrinkles. My husband and I used to get such a giggle out of that - her thinking that a less-wrinkled forehead would somehow make her look youthful - maybe even a spry 80.And here I am, smack dab in the same pool of denial she must have swam in all of her life.
Obviously she was much smarter than me. Scotch tape is the infinitely cheaper beauty product. Now if you all will excuse me, I'm off to Staples.

Let Dead Possums Lie

I consider myself to be an animal lover. I like my non-domesticated animals to be free and wild. It doesn't bother me one bit to see a wild animal roaming through my yard or neighborhood. Within reason. I wouldn't want to look out and see a cougar stalking down my street and I dread the day I find a bear standing on my back deck - which I assume is only a matter of time.I've made no secret of the fact that I find spiders to be completely repulsive. Yes, I realize I'd have more bugs if it wasn't for spiders. This is a price I'd be willing to pay.I'm not a fan of raccoons. Nasty little critters. If you have a container of water anywhere outside and a raccoon gets near it, it will soon be the nastiest container of water you have ever seen. It isn't cute to me how they wash things in water. Yes, it is close to human behavior but humans, with the exception of teenage boys, know to throw the dirty water out after something has been washed in it. Raccoons? Not so much.But worse than raccoons in my mind are opossums. Or, as they are really called around here, possums. Beady eyed, pointy nosed, sharp teethed little devils. Did I mention that I don't like them?
Not long after my husband and I were married, I went into our garage to feed our cats. I reached toward the shelf where we kept the bag of cat food. Instead of a bag of cat food, I grabbed an opossum. It is a wonder I am still alive. I guess my heart was stronger in my 20s because I know I'd die now.

So, when I read the news story from Punxsutawney, PA (city motto: "We love rodents so much we build holidays around them") about an incident this past Saturday, I was transfixed. It seems the police arrested a 55 year old man for public drunkenness after multiple witnesses reported an odd behavior from the man. What was he doing?

Giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a long-dead possum along the side of the road.Yes folks. That is the description of drunk to me. I say avoid the time and trouble of court for this gentleman. There is no defense of his behavior.

I just pray he doesn't try to kiss someone with that mouth now that we know where it has been.

Testoster-home

This is a landmark year for me and something is occurring that we have not really talked about enough. Something monumental that deserves a little more attention.

I am now the mother of four teenagers.Currently, I live with my husband, my 16 year old son and my 13 year old son. Since my 19 year old son and daughter are away at school most of the time, it is just the four of us. Me and three guys.

If you walk up to my house and open the door these days, the smell of testosterone that greets you would knock you back off my porch, down the three brick steps, and on your backside in a broken heap in the front yard. You'd be better off there than making it in the door.A funny thing happened when the older two went away to school and the youngest turned 13. A holy way started to see who could be the alpha male of our house. A jihad the likes of which I have never seen. I need a homeland security advisor for my own home.This has all come as a shock to me because I was the mom with the good kids. The sweet preschoolers who frolicked and played in the yard. The four little stair steps who accompanied me without complaint on errand after errand. The sweet little mopkins who played with each other all day long.No terrible twos for me. No trying threes. Nothing to prepare me for this.
It is bloodshed and carnage around here. The 16 year old actually vowed to me that his younger brother would not grow taller than him. I'm not sure what his plan is but I'm keeping the kitchen microplaner under lock and key just in case he plans to file down his brother's soles in the middle of the night.I'm reminded of watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom when I was a child and Marlin Perkins would send Jim out to check on the lion pride.

And I'm Jim.It's like being at a brutal boxing match although I'm not the referee. No way. I'm not the spellbound spectator either. I can't stand this stuff. What am I?

I'm the poor custodian waiting for the match to be over so I can clean up the blood and sweat and go to bed.

But the worst part? I'm an almost 48 year old woman. I thought it was my time to be having the raging hormones. My time to be out of control crazy.Once again, the mother has to put her own needs on the back burner for her family. Now where is the fairness in that?

Excuses-moi?

I often worry that I am slipping into that terrible condition of being an old fuddy-duddy. I vividly remember how much I detested those people when I was young and carefree. But, much like I swore I'd never develop my mother's thighs or wear comfortable shoes, I find myself standing comfortably in flats all day with cottage cheese thighs and snarling up my nose at the way people act.I am a fuddy-duddy.One of the behaviors that bothers me these days is the loss of the ability for most people to say "excuse me" or "I'm sorry". Best I can figure, both of those are fairly small expressions. I barely break a sweat uttering either of them. So why in the world have they left our vocabulary?I will be the first to admit that I am a profuse apologizer. If I think I have wronged someone, I will err on the side of apologizing so long and hard that I need to follow that up with an apology for my overblown apology. I have a deep desire for the other person to know I am aware that I have done something wrong and that I feel sorry about it.

Most other people I encounter don't have this need. Some people that I love dearly think that saying "sorry" and moving on is good enough. Drives me nuts.

I was at the scan-it-yourself lane at my neighborhood Kroger the other day, happily seeing how fast I could scan and bag my groceries when someone careened into my cart causing it to bump heavily into my legs. When I turned around to see what wild hooligan had caused this, I found a completely gray-haired lady of at least 70 in one of those motorized scooter-cart contraptions barreling it down between the aisles. She barely glanced in my direction but did manage to mutter something to me. What did she say in way of apology?
"My bad."

Sure, I've heard kids say this. It bugs me when they do. What in the world does "my bad" mean? That you were raised with bad manners? That's about all I can assume.

But when the seniors at Kroger start uttering this, I feel certain we are headed for anarchy. Who will chastise the young people and shoot them those dirty looks if the old people don't even know how to act?
See. I am a fuddy-duddy. Thank goodness. Apparently we need some fuddy-duddies to save civilization.

Food, Food, Glorious Food

You know how bloggers are always saying they will need to stop blogging because they can't think of anything else to write about? Well, I mostly write about the oddities in my life. Which, praise be, apparently I am the oddest person ever so the material just never stops.I was reading a post on another blog where people were discussing what time they started thinking about lunch. The common answer was 11:00 or 11:30.

Not me baby. It is even a source of teasing between my mother-in-law and me.

I start thinking about my meals at least a full 24 hours in advance. It's true. I am more than a little obsessed with my food. I've been making meal plans for about 18 years now. Much longer than it has been in style. I take great comfort in knowing what I will be eating this upcoming weekend.
If my kids are coming home from college, I get even more obsessed. Maybe if I serve them just the perfect food, they'll still love home more than college. Or something like that.But in all honesty, I'd be almost as obsessed if it was just my husband and me. We like our food. A lot. We are completely the same in this aspect. When we go to a restaurant, we have to decide together what to order. And the person that orders second almost always orders the same thing the first person ordered. We are terrified one of us will get something better than the other.I think I may have inadvertently stumbled onto something here. In our teens and twenties, our hormones have most of us focused on other activities than eating. In our thirties, most of us are parents and just focused on when in the world we might sleep for longer than 15 minutes at a stretch. Nothing is more desirable than that blissful sleep.
Then come the 40s and 50s. The kids are older and sleeping. The hormones have settled or completely left us. And what is left to focus our attention on? Food. Wonderful food.Which would explain the proliferation of the cooking shows on the air.And that midlife bulge.

Choosing Favorites

I have the hardest time when asked to choose my favorite in some category. Books? I can only choose a long list and even then I am filled with regret when I think of little gems I have left off the list. I've been on blogs that were having great giveaways but in order to enter, I would need to leave my favorite song. How is anyone able to do that? I don't have a favorite song. Ditto for food. Numerous posts have asked me to list my favorite food. I often do but I alternate between several.It is just so hard for me to ever choose a favorite. So why is it that my children have always felt certain that I can pick a favorite among them without even trying?

I don't know how Switzerland does it. I find it to be almost impossible to remain neutral on everything.
As people, we are programmed to be somewhat insecure. Our very survival depends on us being able to claw and fight our way to the top enough to get what we need. Never mind that in our society, very few of us even need to have claws anymore to get enough from our abundance. I think that animal instinct is still alive and well in most people.
Especially children. From an early age they are able to recite that lovely "It's not fair" phrase in many different situations. I learned in raising my four that even though they are lovely people and relish when their siblings do well in something, it still seems to threaten them when their father and I celebrate an accomplishment.
We have four refrigerator magnets that we've owned since our children were small that say, "Look what ___ did". Each child has one with their name on it. Want to know what is hanging on my fridge right now? My college daughter's magnet with a college test paper under it. Yes, she brought it home and hung it up.

We are proud of her. But we can't give her what she secretly desires - the title of "favorite".

If I Like Your Kids, You'll Know It

A few years ago, my loving husband turned to me and said, "You don't even try to pretend anymore, do you?" What was he referring to? Me pretending to like other people's children.Oh sure. I have quite a few friends whose kids I like. A lot. Kids who will look me in the eye when I speak to them. Kids who will answer me if I ask them a question - sometimes even answer in complete sentences. Kids who have uttered the words please and thank you more than a few times in my presence.
And then there are the other kids. Kids who will not even acknowledge that I am a living being even if I am standing two feet from them and asking them how they are. Kids who still run and hide when their parents come to pick them up. Kids who feel like they can say negative things in my home about how few computers we have or the size of our TV. No, I no longer pretend to like those kids. Maybe it's because I'm in my late 40s and no longer pretend to be someone I'm not. Or maybe it is just because these entitled kids have worn me down.Recently I observed a two year old slap his mother in the face while saying "I hate you" to her. In church. What did she do? Nothing, of course. That's what leads to this behavior.

I read something when my children were younger that was about feeding your child. It basically said that you should not let your child eat like an animal because you were raising your child to be a social creature. Someone that other people would like to be around, even when eating. Obviously, that stuck with me because I can remember it 19 years later. It hit a nerve. I remember thinking, "I am raising them to be people that others want to be around. Not just me and my husband." I felt that advice was applicable to a heck of a lot more than eating.
No child behaves all the time. My teens are still wildly unpredictable and at times act worse than preschoolers. But, most of the time they know what behavior is expected of them and what consequences they will incur if they don't meet those expectations.

We've reached a point in our society where so many people seem to feel entitled all the time. Our children seem to have this attitude the most. I have actually heard children tell teachers they didn't have to do well on a standardized test - that their parents said that was the "teacher's problem", not theirs.I don't have a quick fix. I do know it takes some backbone to be a parent and it isn't a fun job all the time. I also know that quite a few folks don't seem to have the backbone for the job.

I also know I don't pretend around their kids anymore.

How Things Are With The Kids In College

This motherhood dance of letting my college kids go is continually teaching me new things. Just when I think I have it figured out, the tempo changes and I find I am a klutz once again.Back in August, I thought I handled moving them out rather well. Yes, I did have one night between the time I moved my son out and when I had to move my daughter that I truly did go into my closet, close the door, and sob my eyes out.But, only one night. I thought that was rather mature of me.

I managed to drive her to college by myself, leave her there, and then drive home without any tears at all.

I pulled over four times to text her. Not bad.The days after they left seemed fairly normal. Until the weekend came. Then I felt like a dog circling through my house looking for something I had misplaced. Oh, that's right - my heart. I suppose the weekend days without their regular routines and with everyone else home just emphasized that a third of our family was missing.

But, even that got easier. The human spirit is an amazing thing and can adapt remarkably well. And yes, I do realize I am blessed. Many, many times I have thought about what a selfish and childish woman I am to be moaning about missing my kids when I am blessed to have healthy kids who can attend college.

Life goes on. And a new normal takes over. We are all used to that. We had to adjust to new normals when we got married, each time we had a child, and through any of life's transitions.

What catches me off guard are the little things. The times when out of the blue I feel that jab in my stomach that makes me catch my breath and realize how much I miss them. When I'm making plans for something for the rest of our family but realize one or both of then won't be here.When they went back after being home for Christmas break, the separation was tough again. Honestly, the couple of days leading up to them leaving are the hardest. The anticipation of them being gone, of that hole being back in our family, is tougher to handle.

I hear my 16 year old son's voice from another room and mistake him for his brother. I hear a door open and think one of them has come home from work before I realize that can't be the case.

An elderly woman said to me recently that the two best days of her life were when her children started kindergarten and again when they went to college.

Not me. My daughter is currently home for spring break and tonight I told her I will be happy for her to live her own, independent life. But that I wanted her to do it in my house.

So far the separation hasn't gotten easier. It's just gotten more common.

When I'm an elderly woman I won't be telling anyone that my kids leaving were the best days of my life. No way. The best times of my life start with, "Mom, I'm home".

Fun With Airport Security

A few years ago we loaded up our East Tennessee family and flew to California for a two week vacation. Our layover was in Chicago and we were there most of the two weeks. Not really, but it was one of those layovers that got longer and longer and even included the airline moving us from a gate at one end of the airport to one at the opposite end, which was more walking than I normally do in a year. The layover time was educational as my family befriended a nun from a contemplative order who was returning from a vacation. (Which did beg us to ask ourselves what exactly a nun who thinks and prays for her daily work needed a vacation from. But we didn't ask her. No use begging for plagues and such.)

As we prepared in California for our return trip home, I remembered our lengthy time spent in Chicago. Not having an extra $100 to blow on snack food for 6 people in airport snack shops, I decided to pack some peanut butter and a sleeve of crackers in my carry on backpack. I also stuck in a little plastic picnic knife for the peanut butter. Off we went.

As the mother, it was my assigned duty to bring up the rear in all lines, including the security check-in line, which the other five members of my family breezed through. I, of course, was pulled aside after sliding my backpack through the xray machine and walking through the metal detectors. Let me tell you, these airport security people are no Jerry Seinfelds. Humor is not how they happily make it through their work days.
"Please step aside", was about as friendly as it got. The gentleman then donned thick rubber gloves to carefully comb through my backpack as if my Mad libs book was going to give him the cooties. Speaking of comb, I wondered if perhaps the one I had in the backpack had triggered some alarm. Then I thought of my plastic peanut butter knife.

"Oh, I have a small plastic knife in there for peanut butter. I bet that is what you saw.", I helpfully offered to the gentleman who I now realize was probably second in line to take back over The Tonight Show job. He gave me the look. You know the one. The one that said, "Why do they let people as stupid as you out of your home state?". Yes, that one. He removed said plastic knife from my backpack, grandly set it aside while glaring at me, then continued to paw through my pack with his protected appendage. Meanwhile, I was sweating from pores on my body that I didn't even realize I had. Who knew elbows could drip sweat? I could hear my heart beating over the noise in the terminal. I was happy my life insurance policy was paid up because clearly I was going to die from terror standing in this airport.The security man stuck that hand further into my backpack and removed a pocket knife. A metal pocket knife. One that looked amazingly like my husband's. Like the one he had out in the hotel the night before to pack in our checked luggage.

My husband who had been standing several feet away from me in the area for people who know how to travel and don't pose any national security risk. Standing with my four children who are bent over with laughter and glee - not from the obviously hysterical security man - but from the thrill they have been getting from seeing their mother squirm like a woman in a lineup.
My husband was grinning sheepishly at this point. You know the look - the one that is the cross between bewilderment at what is going on and the faint idea that he might be responsible in some way.Of course by this point a second security agent had come over to assist the first one because clearly I am a force to be reckoned with and backup is necessary. They explained to me that I could take the offending knife over to another counter and pay to have it shipped to my house. Or I could have them discard it.

At this point, I wouldn't have cared if that had been a diamond encrusted family heirloom handed down through 8 generations including one ancestor that had survived the sinking of the Titanic. I jumped at the chance to have them throw that thing away.
After being allowed to put my shoes and a few other articles of clothing back on and then watching the security guy carefully and lovingly shove my belongings back into my backpack, I met my family on the good side of the security ropes.

Let me just say that it is a good thing for my husband that you can't do any real damage with a plastic peanut butter knife.

Not that I didn't try.