There’s a First Time for Everything…to Go Wrong

When think about high school, there’s nothing more iconic than The Prom. I’m reminded of it every year at this time when social media becomes a frenzy of gowns, tuxedos, corsages, and, at times, yes, awkward couple-y poses. The Prom is one of my favorite springtime traditions, even though I haven’t attended one in nearly 30 years.  

Maybe it’s because I grew up in Rural Kentucky – not quite Appalachia, but “Horse Country” Kentucky – where bluegrass thrives on hilltops as far as you can see and where my high school prom took place in a former oil tycoon’s stately mansion, now referred to as Spindletop Hall.  

The Prom was a really big deal at my high school. Wasn’t it at yours?  

But – WOW – none of us in the middle-aged category or older can compete with the even bigger deal The Prom has become in recent years. There’s so much build-up now: the videos of the wacky invitations to The Prom and the photos of shopping for the gown – the high school version of “She said YES to the dress!” Back in the ‘80s, we were lucky to get a hand-scrawled note stuffed inside our locker as our invitation and prom dresses were sometimes hand-me-downs. Even a decade after my own high school days, my sister wore her Maid of Honor dress recycled from my wedding to her Senior Prom in the Spring of ‘99. Luckily, she looked lovely in seafoam green! 

As I flip through all the fun and colorful prom photos every Spring on Facebook, I always take a stroll down my own Memory Lane. (I mean, don’t you?) Those recollections often take me to my sophomore year when I attended the Junior-Senior Prom with one of my first boyfriends. One year older than me, his name was Jim, and he was an identical twin. People often got Jim and his brother Bob confused, so they referred to both of them as “Jim-Bob” to avoid choosing the wrong name. My own stepfather called them this since he could never tell the young men apart. 

Even before we went to the Spring of ’89 Prom together, Jim asked me on my first official date. I was 16 at the time. My mother was protective and hesitant to let me go. After all, I was her only daughter, and a typically sassy teenager, but a good, clean kid overall. So, she eventually caved and agreed to it. Next thing I knew, I was headed to Lexington, about 20 miles away, for a night at the movies. My first real date ever. I wish I could remember what movie, but since I never got to see it, that detail escapes me now. It could have been “Say Anything” or maybe “Field of Dreams” – two true classics from early 1989…

Whatever the flick, we were double-dating with another young couple from Bourbon County High School (yes, that really was the name of my high school.) Bill, the other guy, was driving. At dusk, we were taking backroads into the city. If you’ve ever been to Central Kentucky, you know that these roads are windy, twisty-turvy, narrow, and bordered by endless miles of plank horse farm fences. And behind those fences live actual horses. The kind that occasionally jump those fences. 

You might be putting the pieces together about what happened the evening of My First Date. Two teenaged couples. One car. Curvy backroads. And, you guessed it, a horse that jumped the fence.  

Boyfriend and I were in the backseat. When the horse’s head went through the windshield, we ducked as the glass shards flew our way. Amazingly, none of us were hurt, not even the girl in the front passenger’s seat, although the horse’s head came just inches from her own. Somehow, Bill as the driver had effectively slammed on the brakes and controlled the car enough to avoid diving into the deep ditch or crossing over into the other lane. And the biggest miracle was the horse itself. Only his head made impact with the car through the windshield, and he pranced away with a few scratches. Eventually, his owners wrangled him back into the safety of his fenced, calm bluegrass pasture.  

After State Police arrived, checked everyone out, and took a report, they sent all of us back home. No movie. No buttered popcorn to romantically share out of one bucket. No first real date for me 

What relevance does this 30-year old story possibly have to life in 2019 

We face many firsts in our day-to-day lives. Whether it’s the first time we meet someone or the first time we do something or the first time our kids experience something new. Thinking of memorable first-time events in recent years, there was the first time I became the mother of a teenager, the first time I watched my younger daughter score a soccer goal (in fact, she had a hat trick during that game!), the first time I posted a blog here at iamyourmom.com, and the first time I parasailed, only a month ago. Looking forward and God willing, there will be countless more firsts for both you and me. I can only imagine how fantastic and emotional they will be. I often think about when The Precious Pair will graduate, leave for college, get married, and have children of their own. Yikes, Life! Please slow down the milestones, would you?    

Yet one thing is truer than true. Things have gone wrong. Things do go wrong. Things will go wrong.  That’s what’s interesting about life and growth. Without the curves and obstacles and busted windshields, we aren’t challenged. We don’t gain the same kind of experience and wisdom when things go perfectly. So, we must learn to live with the things that go wrong. Learn to welcome them into your day like the hidden favors and lessons they are. Learn to recognize all the first times that go awry as the true gifts of second chances they become.  

My next opportunity to go on a date with my first love Jim was The Prom, where this blog began. Since he and I had endured together the strange collision with the horse, we were as happy and cute and carefree as ever, crossing arm-in-arm over the threshold of the building pictured above.   

There’s a first time for everything to go wrong
Luckily, that’s often followed by a second chance for things to go quite beautifully.  

Feeling nostalgic,
Meesh 

 

The Beast Called Feedback

I’m ready to move. I found the house I love in the location I love, and, yes, it has a white picket fence and a wraparound porch. What else could I possibly need? Of course, it comes with a mortgage. There’s always that part, even when we’re talking about a “dream home.”

But first, I’ve gotta’ sell this house I’m in. Tomorrow is our second Open House from 1 to 4 pm. Somebody’s out there who will come along and love this one as much as I did 11 years ago. It’s bound to happen. I just need it to happen within 30 days. That’s the timeframe of my accepted purchase agreement with contingency. The sellers of my 1900-ish seafoam green house on the corner, as referenced above, expect me to be ready in 30 days — which has already shrunk to 20. Eek.

So what do I do when I start to panic about such things? I look to my favorite poem, and we’ll get to that shortly. But back to my panicking…

Yes, I know I’m supposed to remove all signs of personalization from this house before showing it to strangers. But I cannot bring myself to do it entirely. I did take down most of our family photos. However, I cannot magic erase the homemade growth wall away. I tried. I just cannot do it. I’ve decided though if someone comes through this house tomorrow and takes great offense at my children’s heights marked on the wall in pencil since 2010, then so be it. Those people can keep on looking. If they don’t have a sentimental bone in their bodies, I don’t want them to live here anyway.

After all the purging and packing and hauling and cleaning and staging, that wall is what stops me in my tracks. It’s the symbol that best represents our decade-plus of growth in this house and with these kids, and my gosh, moving sucks.

But just like like last time, I left one house broken-hearted and crossed the threshold of this new one encouraged and hopeful and excited. This house has given me mixed memories, but many, many happy ones that I will pack away in my heart, wrapped up in protective, emotional bubble wrap for life. I am obsessively grateful to be moving on to the third house I’ve ever owned and the first one I’ve ever owned all by myself. But before that can happen, panic. We need that special somebody to come along. My Buyer. 

It might be a husband who convinces the wife to love it or a wife who persuades the husband. (“Happy Wife, Happy Life” they say!) Or maybe the kids will nag their parents into loving it. After all, we serve Break & Bakes at our Open Houses! So clearly this is an  awesome house with awesome owners. And there’s a fenced yard for the dog and a big carpeted basement for a new ping pong table. There’s something for everyone here — enough to look beyond a few stains on the carpeting and 19 year-old oak kitchen cabinets. Just paint them gray! Everybody wants gray kitchen cabinets these days.

My Dear Home Shoppers, you are right about one thing. JoJo Gaines did not decorate my house, so please quit complaining about “interior needs improvement” on my showing feedback form. I decorated it — a full time working (now single) mom who commutes 2 hours per weekday and writes a blog in the middle of the night when she cannot sleep. (Timestamp: 4:27 am) So forgive me if this place is not perfect.

Am I defensive? Yep. After all, my house does not smell like cats, even though that’s what another recent visitor has claimed. My cat died in October, and I’ve had carpets shampooed and a professional cleaning lady here since then – not to mention we’ve vacuumed and mopped and scrubbed this place several times. Maybe it’s my pig-like pug you’re sensing in the air over the scent of my Lavender-Vanilla Wallflower. That’s far more likely. She snorts and grunts and sweats and lays around on the couch for most of the day. Surely, that’s who you’re detecting. Not a cat.

What about curb appeal? Thank you to the viewers who accurately deemed it “Excellent.” Yes, indeed it is. Wraparound porch and all. I even planted yellow pansies, and who even bothers with PANSIES. The name itself implies that no one does. They are for sissies, and they die within a month. At this rate, mine will shrivel up before my purchase agreement expires. To the people who claimed “cat odor” and rated my curb appeal only “Good,” well, we already know all about them.

This rant would not be complete without me mentioning the couple I will call “Cindy and Brandon” – names changed to protect the guilty. The infamous Nosy Neighbors who showed up here at the stroke of 1 pm during our first Sunday Open House. My Realtor, who we now adore and consider a family friend, greeted them at the door and quickly learned they lived here in the neighborhood. Nothing shocking about that. There are always Open House snoopers, and I’ve been one of them in the past. But Cindy and Brandon were unique. Not only did they want to know all about the house, they had several questions about my personal situation and why I was moving. Apparently, they wanted “The Scoop” about me. Ha! This is quite simply hilarious… and rude. Thanks to the inquisitive and distracting nature of Cindy and Brandon, my Realtor burned the Break & Bakes. So rather than a freshly-baked cookie smell wafting through the house, she had to burn countless candles to cover up the chocolate chip char scent instead.

So here I am on the eve of my second Open House, not sleeping, blogging and panicking. Thank God above for my favorite poem, written by a man born right here in Indiana and a fellow alumnus of my beloved DePauw University, where he attended 75 years before me. To the late Mr. Ehrmann, I say thank you for your wisdom, your calming spirit, and your lovely thoughts all wrapped up in this prose-poem that has brought me peace for the past 20 years since I discovered it. The title means “Desired” and defines what the poet wanted out of life for himself and what he highly recommended to others.

I have this hanging on my oldest daughter’s wall. I think at our new (actually it’s really old) house, I will display it in a much more public location like the kitchen or the living room so our visitors can see it and enjoy and soak it up for themselves. It’s advice that’s too good not to share broadly, which is why I’m sharing it now, at a time when I do need to be “gentle with myself” and “keep peace with my soul.”

This poem is the feedback I need to hear right now. I hope you will adore it as much as I do. I hope you will hang it on your wall.

On the Move,
Meesh

 

Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.
Source: http://mwkworks.com/desiderata.html

 

 

What April Fool’s Day Means to Me

1. Whoopie Cushion
2. Fake Melted Ice Cream
3. Exploding Can of Chips
4. Rubber Earthworms
5. Water-Spraying Bowtie

I’m not kidding when I tell you this was my youngest daughter’s packing list for Spring Break. We were leaving the eternally chilly Midwest for a few days under sunnier skies and much warmer air. Our destination: Fort Myers Beach. Our arrival: The Night Before April Fool’s Day.

You see, this timing is important to note and precisely the reason she did not want to arrive ill-prepared for shenanigans on the silliest day of the year. So she packed up her pranks and tricks to unleash on her grandfather all day long today here in Florida where my stepdad and my mother “snowbird” every winter.

To be honest, I’m not much of a Florida fan. It’s where everyone I know flocks for Spring Break, yet the mystique is lost on me. I don’t tan. I don’t swim. I don’t like humidity. What saves Florida for me are the great beach bars with their endless rum-based cocktails. Include the umbrella, please, and hold the sand. I’ll sit right here at the bar and admire the Gulf and the adventurous parasailers from a nicely air-conditioned building, thank you so much!

While I’m not enamored with Florida, this set of my parents has been coming here for years. So I do end up visiting here on a fairly regular basis like I’m doing this week, with The Precious Pair, of course.

As I’ve made it perfectly clear before, I am not your mom. But she is mine. Who? The lady born on April Fool’s Day 79 years ago today…

When I did a quick Google search to better understand the origin of April Fool’s Day, I didn’t learn anything definitive about it. Historians don’t agree about how it started, but it has certainly stuck with us in modern times and many media outlets and companies try to trick us every April 1st. Maybe you have already fallen for something today? I’ll have to report back about how the gags we packed will go over. Hopefully, no one will get kicked out of the condo for messing too much with the old man who lives here! My mother, on the other hand, will surely enjoy watching her youngest granddaughter play all her tricks. It should make for perfect birthday entertainment.

I’m willing to bet most of you can relate to the fact that she and I are very different people. My Mom and Me.

– She’s conservative. I’m moderate and even borderline liberal about several topics.
– She worked in accounting and bookkeeping for most of her life. I picked words for my career.
– She still has a flip phone. Yes, you heard that right. I am an iPhone aficionado, and I’m trying desperately to get her switched over.
– She likes cats. I really don’t, except for My Remy who passed away last fall of a heart attack. But he acted more like a dog trapped in a cat’s body. He probably deserves his own blog entry someday.

I read an article recently stating that most people begin to adopt and notice similarities to their parents around the age of 33, especially when it comes to the language, expressions, interests, hobbies, and quirks your parents have. According to this statistic, I’ve had about 13 years of experience and practice acting like my mother.

We all say at some point – “Don’t let me turn into my parents!” It’s common, and I’m sure my own children while in their teens and young adulthood will feel the same. However, fortunately for me, I have a strong relationship with all my parents, and I have no fear or shame about turning into any of them.

As an example of my mom and her quirks, she has a theory for various types of itches you might have. Yes, strange, I know. If your hand itches, you will be getting some extra money soon. (I love it when my hand itches.) When your nose itches, it means you will be kissing a fool soon. (I’m not kissing anyone these days.) And now that I’m writing about itching, I’m starting to itch all over, so I’ll move on from this illustration. The crazy thing is, now I share these same theories with people when they’re scratching their hands or their noses. So I must believe they’re true.

And what’s not to believe about what my mom tells me? She has always been straight with me. Brutally honest at times. In fact, on a recent phone call, I blew up at her about that straight-forward style. We were discussing my recent dual home sale/home purchase situation. I explained to her I had found a practically perfect house in the exact local area I had dreamed about for years. Then the barrage of questions began.

“How much is it?’
“Is it worth that price?”
“Is that price in your budget?”
“Are the stairs really steep?”

This whole line of questioning hit a nerve with me, and I lost my patience.

“Why do you have to be negative about something I’m so excited about?” I challenged.

She defended herself, “Well, I’m not trying to be.”

And I’m sure she wasn’t. This scenario shows yet another difference we have. She is quite practical. I’m hopelessly creative. She is also a multi-property owner, so it’s in her nature to ask questions before buying. She owns several homes right here in Fort Myers, Florida, including the one where we’re staying now — with not only her and my stepdad, but also Dora the Cat and “Sexy Rexy” the Corgi.

While we are split on cats, my mom and I do align about dogs. She has her second Corgi currently and has inspired us to get our own this summer as a companion to our 7-year old pug. (See previous post – “The Pig in My Blankets”) My first-ever family dog as a young child was Sandy, a sheepdog mix. She was white and fluffy and you could never see her eyes; they were always buried in fur. One of my vivid memories of Sandy and my 30-something single mom at the time was a camping trip we took when our beloved pet clashed with a skunk. Rather than sleeping with a stinkbomb for the rest of the trip, my mom launched into problem-solving mode, and we found a grocery store and purchased blue laundry detergent and red tomato juice. We bathed her in both, and when combined with her white fur, she looked just like an American flag. God Bless the USA and Sweet Sandy.

Back to today – April Fool’s Day and my mom’s 79th birthday – we are making our plans for the day. We’ve decided on some sea-shelling on the beach, shopping, a stop for ice cream, and shrimp scampi for dinner. And beach cocktails are for certain – pink wine is her favorite. I feel super blessed that we get to spend this special day with her. You see, since I left for college at 18, we’ve never lived again in the same state. For part of each year, we are in neighboring states so we are able to visit a few times. But in the winter months when they fly the coop, we are separated across many miles, and we go several months without seeing each other. My kids get older and taller while Mom and I get older and shorter – shrinking seems to begin already in middle age! So physically we do change, yet our bond never does. We are close for life.

My mom has been one of my biggest lifelong fans and supporters, and this past year I have needed a LOT of fan support! Thank you, Momma. You’re the best and you’ve made me want to be the best I can be, too, even with my flaws and failures. But you will probably respond to that comment by saying I don’t have those because that’s what Moms do — they overlook our goofs and pick us up and dust us off and they love the crap out of us no matter what.

Happy Birthday to my mom – also known as Grandmaw – born on April Fool’s Day, but, trust me, she is no fool.

From Florida this time,
Meesh

How to Choose Your Masseuse by Bob Marks

NOTE: This is my first installment featuring a guest blogger – my Dad! Many thanks for his willingness to share a story here on my new site. I’ll be hitting up other family and friends soon to commit to more guest appearances. I have lots of Word Nerds in my life who inspire me, so this is my special way to feature and thank them for their positive and encouraging influences upon me. 

 

I am comfortable being your first guest blogger, Michelle, because I am definitely not your mom. I am, in fact, your dad. I even pinned your name on you. I chose it because (1) I love the melodies of the French language and (2) I was thinking that the song “Michelle” by The Beatles described my feelings about you very well. Your readers may want to dial it up on Youtube or their MP3 or Alexa or whatever they do these days. I first heard it on a vinyl LP33. To our family you are now known as “Mitchie”, which pretty much dilutes the French sonority, but is probably an even better fit.

In any case, my purpose today is not family history, but a contemporary illustration of the old saying, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” This antiquated homily apparently originated in the days when it was not uncommon to receive a horse as a gift. The idea was that one could tell the age of any horse with a careful examination of the animal’s teeth. But it was thought to be bad form, and probably politically incorrect, to do a dental exam after getting the poor creature for free!

My dear daughter, Mitchie, gave me a gift certificate for Christmas last year. It was good for one hour of “therapy” at a popular, nation-wide spa which I will not name. Suffice it to say that I have been very envious of the many massages she has enjoyed from her membership in this wonderful establishment. Two months had gone by before I really noticed the certificate sitting unused on the top of my bookcase. So, I phoned (by land line, of course, since I don’t have a phone that doesn’t plug into a wall) and the spa’s rep immediately assured me that they were delighted that I would be coming in tomorrow. I was told my massage therapist would be Erin, and I had an appointment at noon!

I eagerly announced my arrival (“Robert Marks for Erin!”) at 12 sharp the next day and could tell right away that I was not nearly as eagerly awaited. The charming woman at the front desk was profusely apologetic, but had to tell me they could not locate me in their register and, oh sorry, but Erin wouldn’t be coming in after all. I guess either one of these failings absolutely precluded my getting a massage at noon. I asked if Erin had flown the coop, but was told that, no, she just wasn’t scheduled to come in that day. To make up for my “inconvenience”, they wondered whether I could reschedule for 3 p.m., same day. If so, I could choose my therapist, either “Becky” or “Rylyn”. I was surprised because Mitchie’s older daughter has a good friend named Rylyn, a rather unusual and very pretty feminine name in my mind. Naturally, I took dibs on Rylyn, and we agreed on the 3 o’clock rubdown.

When I bounced back in at 3 on the dot, I was greeted fulsomely and assured they had verified me in their world-wide records and Rylyn was ready for me. Then I was ushered into the “relaxation room” where I plopped into a vibrating chair with visions of my masseuse dancing in my head.

I was drifting off after ten minutes of lovely vibrations when my reveries were interrupted by a gruff voice wanting to know if “Mark” was in the room. I looked up to see a hulking, 250-pound male with a knitted wool cap holding my appointment slip. He was not so much a lineman type; more like a linebacker. He asked me if my last name was Roberts, and I said, “No, it’s Marks, but my first name is Robert.” He told me he was “Rylyn” (male spelling unknown). As he led me down the hall to the cozy room where I anticipated soft new age music and fragrant aromatherapy, it dawned on me that Rylyn the Linebacker was the newly-selected massage therapist with whom I was going to spend the next hour in very close contact.

I got as comfortable as possible on the table and told him to use as much pressure as he thought I needed. He then proceeded to pound the stuffing out of me. I was in pain nearly the whole time, but decided to stick it out because it must be good for me or Rylyn surely wouldn’t be doing it. When I finally emerged from the massage chamber, the ladies at the front desk cheerfully told me I was “good to go!” Was that a giggle I heard behind me as the door was closing? There’s a fine line between massage and manipulation.

I don’t want to seem so unkind as to suggest that my daughter’s gift to me was anything but appreciated. I’m not looking that gift horse in the mouth. To prove all’s well that ends well, as a gesture of the spa’s gratitude for allowing them to cater to my massage needs, they awarded me another free hour of their services. To make this happen, they told me that Mitchie’s original gift certificate to me is still valid!

Thanks for giving me a chance to begin and end my blogging career on a site as distinguished as iamnotyourmom.com. Michelle, ma belle, your words go together very well.

Massaged and Manipulated,
Dad

It Was My Family, In the Kitchen, With a Board Game…

My memoir about Family Game Night begins with that time the younger daughter swallowed a chip from her Headbanz board game. The incident required two weekend visits to the emergency room and started with a hypothetical question, “What would happen if Cici swallowed a piece from a game?” she asked.

I replied not thinking too much of it, “Well, it would depend on what type of game piece it was. What are we talking about here?”

“Maybe a flat blue round chip from a game?”

“Really? Well, we would probably need to take Cici to the emergency vet if she did that.”

(Insert child’s blank terrified stare.)

Finally realizing where this was headed, I panicked, “Wait, did YOU eat the flat blue round chip from the game?”

Needless to say, the hypothetical situation quickly turned to reality with a trip to the human emergency room where the six-year-old’s throat and gut were thoroughly checked via X-ray. The chip was translucent, so it never showed up on the images. The ER doctor assured me that was a good thing; it must not have gotten lodged and, therefore, wasn’t blocking any essential bodily functions.

They sent us packing, but first told us to “watch for the chip” if you know what I mean.

But we were back the next day after she complained of feeling ill. I had pictured the piece lodged in an important spot. In retrospect, she probably had only pangs of guilt. The entire process above repeated itself.

PSA to Children and Childish Adults: Do NOT swallow the game pieces.

These things happen though. My older brother, six years my senior, reportedly once shoved a bean up his nose. Something he found in the yard. It quickly got stuck in his nasal passage and required his own ER visit. My most memorable trip to the hospital warrants its own full story, so I will be sure to write about it soon, but I’ll keep you in suspense about it for now.

Speaking of injuries and hospitals and games, everyone knows the traditional board game Clue results in a murder. The victim is Mr. Boddy. My older daughter recently observed “With a name like that, you’re just asking to be murdered.” She has a point.

For the under 8 crowd, there’s Clue Junior. We discovered it earlier this year. Rather than a gruesome shooting or stabbing or clubbing of the head by The Candlestick, the non-violent mystery to be solved is “Who ate the chocolate cake?” You follow a trail of crumbs straight to the culprit. This is what happens in my house every night. I come home from work and identify who has eaten what for their after-school snacks based on the morsels and bits I find on the counter, in the sink, and all over the floor. Just call me the Snacking Sleuth.

In the classic version of Clue, the colorful cast of characters and suspects includes the well-known Miss Scarlett, Mrs. White, Miss Peacock, Mr. Green, Colonel Mustard, and Professor Plum. We have a newer version of the game in which Dr. Orchid appears on the scene. Where did she come from? I wonder what kind of doctor she is? The kind who sees children who eat stuff they shouldn’t? I am skeptical of her, the same way I am typically skeptical of the new person in Book Club or the new neighbor who moves in across the street. This is a tendency I’m not proud to admit.

Just ask my dear friend K. about it. When she showed up as a coworker at my office 15 years ago, she wanted us to be friends. I resisted aggressively for months. Back then, in my early 30s, I was cocky and thinking I had plenty of friends and didn’t need anymore. But K. was determined to prove me wrong. She made it her mission to make us friends. Ultimately, she won. Thank goodness, she did.

My hesitance to befriend Dr. Orchid aside, Clue is one of my favorite games to play with The Precious Pair. However, the past several times we have played, one of them has beaten me. Yes, I am in the transitional stage of life when my kids are starting to beat me at board games. What does this mean? Am I losing my edge? Or, most likely, am I overthinking games (and everything) in my middle age?

The last time we played Clue, the younger daughter claimed victory, having guessed the suspect, the room, and the weapon accurately before I had even a clue about any of the solutions. (Pun intended.) I had carefully marked my Ex’s & Oh’s on my tracking sheet to show who had what cards, or what cards I thought they had. In the end, I was way off the mark.

I need to work on my board gaming strategies. I am a competitive person, so losing all the time against them is not going to work well for me long-term. As these two keep maturing and getting smarter, I need to up my game. I need to get back in touch with my childhood Family Game Night roots so I can dig into their little psyches and better understand how they’re playing…

Yes, Family Game Night has represented something special to me since I was a kid. As a lifelong devoted eater of food, my memory goes directly to the snacks! Salty stuff like popcorn or a cheese & summer sausage tray, and sweets like ice cream and, to wash everything down, ALWAYS “pop” – as we called it in the Midwest. That older brother of mine, the one who shoved the seed in his nostril, had a game night comedy routine where he would guzzle his pop, burp loudly, and pretend he was drunk. Yep, it was the classic teenage boy comedy act. Circa 1980. His 8 year old little sis – as in me – loved it. Even better were the nights when my stepmom would join him in this silly gig. My dad has it captured on movie film.

Few would disagree how priceless it can be to have family members coming together like this, even for just a few hours, with common goals: to focus, to compete and, yes, to win. And it’s okay to want to win. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. That’s why it’s called a game. Our family was competitive, and when we sat down to play Trivial Pursuit, Uno, Pictionary, and many others, we weren’t messing around. Each of us was there to win, even our baby sister when she came along. She learned a love of games and the family art of competing at an early age. That edge stuck with her, and today she is the most successful of all three siblings, as an attorney in the often intense area of family law.  

But even more important than winning, we were all there to bond. And to laugh. And to sit in close proximity to one another, where we could enjoy each other’s company and comedy routines. Sharing a game creates the ultimate example of togetherness among families, friends, neighbors, classmates, and even coworkers. (Wow, you have not seen true competitiveness until you meet the people where I work!)

Board games on the kitchen table with their playing tokens and pretend money and indigestible chips do far more for family bonding than today’s modern digital gaming habits. I pray for board games to stick around. To think my grandchildren might not enjoy the tradition of my own childhood and that of their mothers’ childhoods, well, that would be a shame. May the power of video games and apps and virtual reality never snuff out the real intimacy and down-to-earth entertainment value of Family Game Night.

In It To Win It,
Meesh

Stop and Save the Scribbles

I’m a sentimental saver. This is not to be mistaken for a hoarder. I would not qualify for one of those cable shows you get sucked in to watching for hours on a Saturday afternoon. Because, after all, you have nothing better to do, right?

No, my saving habits are not problematic. It’s actually a sweet trait I possess. If you give me something – as a gift or as a hand-me-down or for whatever reason- I will remember you gave it to me and when and where and why. If the time comes to pack up a house and move, I will not want to part with said object due to the sentimental connections I’ve mentally fabricated among it, you, and me. Did I say this tendency is not a problem? Well, I fibbed…

It becomes a problem at a time like this, when I’m facing the monumental challenge of sifting through 13 rooms and a semi-finished basement to prep and stage our house for sale. My Realtors explain the objective is “to create the impact of a model home” and “to remove ‘all signs of work’ from the house.” Both statements mean you must remove everything you need to function daily as a human being: dish soap, laundry soap, body soap (as people, we do use a lot of soaps), but also kitchen appliances, bath mats and small rugs, garbage cans, hampers and piles of laundry, all family photos, and any signs of the dog. Ultimate success will come to us only once it appears no one actually lives here at all. And it certainly won’t hurt if the master bath ends up looking, feeling, and smelling like a spa. White fluffy towels required.

You can likely sense by now I am stressed. I have packed and moved a house only one other time in my adult life, and that was 11 years ago when I had one child versus two and a much smaller house to shove into boxes and bins. Even then, I splurged and paid packers. As a much more sensible middle-aged woman, I can’t justify an expense like that when we have three able-bodied people to handle the task.

Have you noticed how trendy it is to purge these days? We’re living in a Purging Revolution with tiny, adorable Marie Kondo at the helm. If you’re not familiar with her, look her up. I feel extra trendy to say I was a fan of Marie long before her new Netflix show which has fast-tracked her to fame. My dear friend K. from college gifted me her book “The Joy of Tidying Up” a few years ago. I’ve read it once already and have started it again. It has a fascinating impact. It makes you WANT to tidy and organize everything you own. Of course, I will never part with this book. I will always associate it with my friend K. who sent it to me via Amazon as a “just because” type of gift. See, I really do remember the details behind the objects I own.

But back to the three able-bodied people who live here. As is often the case with a mother and her daughters, each of us plays a distinctly different role in everyday life, and this process of packing up the house is no exception. As I’ve said, I am the Sentimental Saver. The older daughter is the Minimalist. The younger daughter is the Clutter Keeper. These competing positions have already led to multiple disagreements about what we should keep, toss, donate, or share with their younger cousins.

For instance, I sunk to the depths of digging through my teenager’s trash can after she decluttered her room recently. Inside I found multiple homemade birthday cards from her mother, as in me. What the heck?!? I was hurt. I made her keep a couple of them.

Related to this startling discovery, this same daughter confided in me during a recent car conversation, “When I’m a parent, I might not do a good job of saving my kids’ artwork. I don’t attach emotion to material things like you do, you know? I mean do you have to save every scribble?”

“No, you don’t,” I replied, “Even I have been known to smuggle a drawing or two into the trash when nobody was looking.”

Then I got sappy on her, “But, let me tell you, be sure to save a few of the scribbles. You’ll want and need those someday to help you remember your kids were actually tiny once and capable of only scribbling at the time. As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m starting to forget more and more what that was like.”

And this is precisely why the piling, purging, and packing exhausts me. Granted, it’s physical work loading boxes into the car and unloading them at the storage unit, but it’s the mental work that’s especially draining. This process requires letting go of possessions that represent our shared past – their toys, their art supplies, their clothes. All of it speaks to me about our earlier years in this house and as a family. If I part with these items and have less evidence of them when they were little, will I remember them that way even less? Ugh.

As this question weighed heavy on my heart, we went to service at our new church this past Sunday, and the pastor’s message was made for me to hear — “Do you want more stuff or more stories?” he challenged. Wow. Mind blown. Yes, of course, I want more stories! Who would answer any differently? In fact, I want more trips and game nights and backyard BBQs at a new house we have yet to find. I want frequent visits to see family and friends and visits from them to see us, too. I want more money to donate to the causes we care about. I want less time cleaning a big house and more time writing about what happens in a smaller one. And I really do want less stuff, so I can fit it into less space with a more reasonable mortgage payment.

This is my path to freely affording more experiences versus more things. Yes, please. Sign me up for this life.  The simple and decluttered kind where peace, happy times, and all the people I love are there; not the stuff.

Well, except maybe the scribbles.

The Reformed Sentimental Saver,
Meesh

 

An Open Letter to the Girl Half My Age

To Whom It Does Concern:

Hello, and thank you for reading this letter. What I have to say here will be good for both you and me. After all, I have lived a while, and you are full of life. We can learn from one another, and perhaps reach a point of mutual understanding.

The contents of this letter are certainly not intended to mother you, because I am not your Mom. (I own a website that publicly declares this!) Consider me a mentor you don’t even know yet. So, float your trust to me, as I share 5 key lessons with you today. Something tells me these concepts will come in handy for you in the years ahead:

Your Brain, Your Heart and Your Gut Serve Different Purposes. They perform separate duties and constantly compete with and contradict each other. Listen to each of them to determine which one is right for the job at hand. Listening is one of the hardest habits you will learn. Because, much like me, you always have something to say. But you’ve got to stop and hear the signals from Inner You. Your Brain will overthink things; Your Heart will take risks; and Your Gut will offer you a nice blend of the two. In most cases, go with Your Gut. But protect yourself with Your Brain and push yourself with Your Heart on various occasions.

You Can Only Fix and Change Yourself. It is not your job to take care of other people at all costs. Spoiler Alert: The exception will be the children you will have.

Believe in Boundaries. This one goes nicely with the tip above. Life is not a game of X-treme Loyalty, where a gold medal goes to the girl who sticks around the longest because that’s what she’s supposed to do. There’s no guilt or shame in having high standards and expectations of others and their behavior. Hold your people accountable.

Give Your Best. If you’re on the other side of high standards and expectations, then deliver. You will rarely disappoint anyone, including yourself, if you consistently bring  your best effort to your job, to your relationships, to your piles of laundry. The world wants your best. At the same time, don’t fool yourself with unrealistic expectations. You will fail more than you’ll ever expect or plan for. Fail with dignity; never excuses, please.

Joy Wins. Do not fight at the price of your peace. Give away love and kindness to anyone who will receive it. Laugh instead of crying, but go ahead and cry when you really mean it and when you have actual tears to send down your cheeks, not the crocodile kind. And if something or someone has rattled your joy and you can’t seem to get past it, go to bed. A night of sleep will always reduce your pain and lessen your worries. Your pillow is home.

So, I’ve got to be honest – if you followed all this advice now and moving forward, your life would be downright dull, and you’d never have anything worthwhile to write about later. You will likely not listen to what I’ve said here because you believe you have many advantages over me, and you think you know what you are doing.

You are wide-eyed. I’m getting wise.
You sleep like a baby at night. I’m awake writing you this letter at 1 am.
You are enviously whole. I’m beautifully broken.
You don’t know yet what your life holds for you. I know quite a bit more…

You see, you are me 23 years ago, and I am you 23 years ahead. You have only an inkling or wild guess about who I am while you are a mysterious memory to me. To be frank, I’m pretty frustrated with you right now. Frustrated by some choices you are going to make. At the same time, I can’t be angry with you. Your decisions will also lead to some unbelievably wonderful results: strong friendships, a special bond with your family, a stable career you enjoy, and best of all, The Precious Pair, but I won’t spoil that part entirely for you. (HINT: They will be strong, creative, and – YES – joyful, just like you. Aren’t you proud already?)

Finally, for good measure, I want you to know you will lose things – lots of things. Keys, debit cards, credit cards, library books, your cell phone, and other assorted possessions. Do us both a favor and keep better track of your stuff, would you?

All My Love,
The Girl Twice Your Age