My Son Has SIBLINGS!

Just about everyone I know has heard the story of JM's conception.  There are no lurid details to share; it was a date on the calendar and two trips to the hospital. And it is not without its comical anecdotes. Most people also know that my son is the creation of my egg and donor sperm.  This was never big news and we were always matter of fact and grateful about it.  With one major exception...we never told JM; at least not until recently.

When JM learned the truth he had two reactions. First, it was no big deal but he went silent - it was a lot to process.  Then he became curious.  He asked me for information on the donor and whether or not he had siblings.  I answered what I could and offered to find out the rest.

I hope you're sitting down...JM has four half-sisters and two half-brothers; the two boys and one of the girls are in contact with each other.  The three of them are now curious about him and want to meet him and get to know us.  JM is both excited, and a little unnerved. One of his sisters has already been in touch, texting him "a million questions."  She has told him about both brothers and shared pictures.  Apparently she and one of the boys have already made plans to meet in TX next summer before heading to CA.  When JM finds out, they won't be able to leave for CA without him!

I love that my kiddo has siblings - he's always wanted lots of brothers and sisters. Meeting them will be an amazing thing for all of us.  And here we go, off on another adventure!

Silence Isn't Always Golden

So much of my life I have been completely transparent (at times embarrassingly so).  In general I hold nothing back when it comes to sharing what’s going on with me.  Recently my family experienced a major event, one I not only didn’t share, but couldn’t share.  While that not sharing was difficult for other people to understand, it was horrible for me.  I have been fortunate over the years, in good times and bad, my friends have walked alongside to celebrate, cry, rally, pray, vent, and support, which is as it should be.  That’s what friends are for (and yes, Dionne Warwick is now signing in my head).  Without that support a challenging time seemed infinitely more challenging.  There was no one to call when the pressure was too great, no one to text who would tell me it would all be okay, and no one to vent with when it felt like the deck was stacked.  And there was no one to remind me that in the grand scheme of things this was small and survivable.  Thankfully I am afraid of heights making jumping off the ledge an inconvenient option.  Now that it is over, the view from the other side it is far less horrible than it was in the middle of the storm. 

As a parent I have been on a roller coaster ride from the moment I gave birth.  As mom to a 17-year-old boy on the verge of graduating I thought we were coasting into the station for a brief respite.  Nothing could have prepared me for the biggest twist-drop we experienced over the last month after my son was kicked out of school.

Scotty and I were asked to meet with JM’s assistant principal for a conference.  My kiddo had a couple of bad days – nothing serious; a few tardies, an argument with a fellow student, and leaving campus for lunch.  I was expecting the “it’s almost graduation, let’s make sure we make it” speech.  I thought leaving campus was the most serious offense and expected he might lose his parking privilege for the last month of school.  We were ushered in to an office and promptly had a list of charges read to us.  The list must have had 15 different things on it and I swear some items dated back to freshman year.  At the end of the recitation of what amounted to a hoodlum’s rap sheet, I was asked to answer for the charges.  I proffered an accurate psychological explanation of his behavior, one the administration readily agreed with, and JM was asked for his input.  Oh my child!  Watching him square his shoulders, state what he did was a proud moment - one I experience every time he takes responsibility for what anything he has done.  As we faced judge and jury awaiting his verdict, I was prepared for suspension, I was prepared for loss of parking privileges, I was prepared for Saturday school – after all my mind reasoned, we are talking about a good kid who did a 180 from previous years, whose teachers and administrators liked him, who hadn’t been in trouble, is a senior, and who was prepared to graduate in 33 days.

When the room began spinning I couldn’t tell if it was from rage or shock.  The verdict was to remove JM from school and place him at an alternative discipline school.  Not for the 15 day minimum, but for 34 days – there were only 33 days of school left!  We were then informed that even if he completed his coursework and received time off for good behavior, he would not return to his home campus.  The school did not want my child on their campus.  Talk about having the wind knocked out of you!  My focus slowly shifted to my son.  Of course he was devastated, but he also shrugged to let me know he would deal with it.  My insides screamed that he had no idea what he would be missing.  I knew what he would be missing; I knew those last idyllic weeks before graduation – Wildcat walk, Prom, Grad Night, yearbook signing, every single senior activity.  He was informed that he would be cited with criminal trespassing charges if he set foot on any Denton ISD property.  It hit me then that my son had finally given the school enough rope with which to hang him.  

I was angry at the administration and at my child.  He managed to get himself kicked out of school - he was no longer welcome.  And when we were ushered to the registrar’s office and told that his paperwork had been prepped the day before, I was angry all over again.  We were led to believe this was a conference, when in fact the verdict had been predetermined.  I seethed and as I drove to work I alternated between tears and anger.  The next day I enrolled him at the alternative school and I cried.  In fact, I cried for the next two weeks.  And then my kid showed me the silver lining; he would get the work done and finish school early, with better grades.  He would walk at graduation and the school administration would still have to hand him his diploma.  And he would be okay.  I was still angry – my child had created this situation, he deserved punishment, but he didn’t deserve this.  This was overkill for a good kid.  This was a kid who talked in class, was occasionally sarcastic, and would refuse to take consequences for something he didn’t do.  He was not the kid dealing drugs in the bathroom or the one who shows up drunk to class, or the one who bullies kids and teachers.  It felt personal and no matter who may try to convince me it otherwise, my instinct knows better. 

So, why didn’t I share?  It was a big story for our family, but this story wasn’t just about me. I was only a minor player.  This was about my son who was hurt and angry and embarrassed.  Sure, I too was embarrassed, sad and angry; I didn’t want to hear platitudes from well-meaning friends who could not possibly understand what it really felt like.  And I certainly didn’t want to hear “poster wisdom.”  I was in full mama bear mode protecting my cub.  I didn’t know if he would make it through this program.  I didn’t know if he would get the work completed on time – he only had 4 classes but the curriculum is different and he had to complete the entire second semester a second time in 30 days.  I didn’t know if he could get through a day without talking or interacting with another human being.  I didn’t know if he would want to deal with all of it just for a diploma and a chance to wear a dress and a funny hat.

I would like to say that my child surprised me.  He didn’t.  He did what he does; accepts responsibility, manages the consequences, and moves on.  He just keeps living.  He finished his coursework in three weeks with grades of 80 and above.  As he tells it, he is no longer required to set foot in a classroom – the next time he does it will be by choice.  Now that we are on the other side, my embarrassment has faded.  I am proud of him and how he handles adversity.  There are so many people that have a certain microscopic perspective of who he is, I wish they could know who he really is.  He isn’t the hoodlum or delinquent the administration sees, he isn’t the tough kid that he tries to be.  One day there will be some lucky people who get to see who he really is.  He is flawed, he is fabulous, and he is – thankfully – mine.  

Shock and Sadness

Last night it was Facebook that delivered the unbelievable news that Robin Williams had died.  I was stunned at his death, but not that it was considered suicide.  I knew he suffered from depression and that he had a very unhappy childhood; what I didn't know, what none of us could know, was how deeply he felt that pain.  I looked for confirmation from reliable news sources, I kept expecting a post suggesting it was a joke; finally, I acknowledged that the funniest person on the planet had left us.

Flabbergasted, I shared the news with Scotty and then, unfathomably, burst into deep gut-wrenching sobs. Yes, I was saddened, even devastated by the loss of this gifted comic, but it was not a personal loss.  I questioned my reaction; Why was the death of Robin Williams affecting me this way?  Had his work, his life, really had that much of an impact on me?  Or, was it simply that within moments of hearing the news there was an outpouring of love and admiration that would have humbled him, had he been alive to see it.  Was my grief simply a response of being too late to matter? Is it that I see a similarity between Robin Williams and someone I hold dear?  I still don't have the answer. For the next few hours I scoured Facebook for every mention, every picture, every quote; each one bringing fresh tears. I prayed endlessly that he would find peace and would make God laugh before finally crying myself to sleep.  And this morning I woke up still terribly saddened by his death.  Today I have read every obituary and every tribute that I could find.  I've watched countless clips that made me laugh and cry.  I've replayed lines in my head, thought about characters, and remembered the suspenders I had just like the ones he wore as Mork.

"Celebrity" deaths don't normally have this kind of affect on me.  Sure, I cried for hours when Elvis died.  I even shed a few tears when Paul Newman died.  But none affected me as deeply, or as profoundly, as the death of Robin Williams. Perhaps in the end all that is really important is this: his life and his death mattered.

I hope Robin Williams is at peace and I hope he finally knows, in every significant way, that he was loved, he was appreciated, he mattered, and he will be missed.  "Fly...be free Robin!"

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

For the last three years I have lamented my son’s choice to attend the neighborhood high school.  I thought then, and still do, that there were better choices for him both in the district and in non-traditional options.  Every year it was the same heated discussion, and every year my son’s mental well-being outweighed my maternal instinct and better knowledge.  But I always knew at the end of it there would be a high school graduation complete with senior pictures, invitations, yearbook and class ring.

I admit that I probably should have put my foot down hard and not given him any options, but I didn't for a handful of reasons including, bullying, isolation, depression, and happiness.  My son was miserable at the school, but he knew people there.  There are many shoulda, coulda, woulda moments; but no one else lived in my home and watched a happy, brilliant child crumble.  It was me who looked into those once-bright eyes to see desperation, fear, hurt and anger.  It was me who heard this child beg to stay in that school just so he didn’t have to start over – again.  It was me holding an emotionally battered and broken boy in my arms as he sobbed and beat himself up again and again.  Each and every time I did one of those things it broke my heart and my will; I could not knowingly subject my child to more of the same.  Moving him to a different school, while best in many ways, would have been the worst thing emotionally and psychologically.  So he stayed, and we moved mountains to make sure he could.

Earlier this week my son floated the idea that he leave school and not graduate with his class.  He still intended to get his diploma, just through alternative means.  You see he is feeling overwhelmed and, in his words, stupid; he is failing his junior year and he shouldn’t be.  He missed a bit of school this year due to injury, he got behind and has never been able to catch up.  A lot of that rests on his shoulders, and he accepts, and bears, the responsibility willingly.  As a parent I place some of that on the shoulders of the teachers; the ones who would not work with him.  The ones who, when approached for help because he missed the lesson, told him they taught it once he needed to get notes from someone.  The ones who told him to come for tutorials then didn’t show up – on five different occasions.  And the ones who, because he missed the classroom portion, moved him to the hallway for the activity portion of the lesson.  And to the one who saw the struggle and the effort and offered a hand, I am grateful.

So now that I have the opportunity to put my son in a different environment to finish high school, why does it bother me?  He doesn’t care about graduating in cap and gown with friends and family watching.  Why does it matter to me?  When he told me that all he was trying to do was finish school to make me happy, why did I cry?  Why is my heart broken that after buying a class ring, my son won’t be graduating from that very school?  Is it because we fought so hard to keep him in that school and now it’s for nothing?  Is it because of the inevitable comparisons to other kids’ high school happenings and college planning?  Or is it because I feel as though I have failed to do the right thing for my child and now feel like I don’t know what the right thing is?

I truly don’t have the answer.  What I do know is that I cried myself to sleep that night, mourning the loss of his dreams and my dreams for him.  I’m working on a new dream and although I’m not certain what our next step is or how we get there.

Twice in my working life I've been blessed to work for amazing businessmen.  The first time I was 18 and had a boss who recognized my ability, my intelligence and taught me many things, including how office politics can derail an career.

The second man who taught me much about business came many years later at 30.  He wasn't supposed to be my boss, but I campaigned him for the job, and eventually he gave in and coordinated the move from my current position to working as his assistant. 

He was, to most people in the office, intimidating.  For the first few weeks his gruff demeanor intimidated me.  We had a rocky start, but eventually found our groove and he taught me many things.  The business aspect was a given, but he taught me about management, managing office politics, how to pick your battles, and how to work with difficult people.  There was nothing I couldn't ask him, and I asked a lot.  I once brazenly asked him why he kept a certain manager.  He didn't like him, none of the staff liked him.  None of it made sense. He leaned back in his chair, tossed his glasses on his desk and said, "You know sometimes I ask myself that question.  Turns out I have an answer.  He does the XYZ report.  I hate the XYZ report.  If he weren't here I'd have to do it and I don't want to, nor do I have the time to work on it."  From that point on I understood the manager's purpose.  I didn't have to like him, but he had his uses; when others would complain and assume that the executives were blind, I could clarify without giving away details (and with permission) and soothe ruffled feathers.

That was one of the biggest lessons I learned as his assistant.  How to work with someone you didn't like without being a hypocrite.  He told me once I had to be civil, I didn't have to be nice and I didn't have to pretend. Just be civil and professional.  That lesson has served me well all these years later.  He taught me about management practices, and compassion in business.  I learned ethics and protocols.  I learned that loyalty and integrity were part of who I am and they were two things that I should never lose.  He showed me how being rewarded didn't always have to mean money and that sometimes money wasn't everything.

I learned to take my cues from him. Eventually people needing things from him would ask me first how to approach him or how to handle the situation.  I always gave guidance and if they listened, paid attention and followed my instruction the outcome was almost always what I predicted and what they wanted.  I knew his likes and dislikes, when to push and when to back off, how and when to ask to get what I needed.  I learned that when you ask is sometimes more important that what you're asking for. Long after I quit working for him I learned one final thing, that he valued what I did for him. 

Just before I left to move on to other things I told him why he never intimidated me.  He reminded me of someone equally gruff, my dad.  I always though of my dad as a toasted marshmallow.  When I told my boss that he was a toasted marshmallow, he smiled and I swear I saw a glint of a tear in his eye.  He made me promise not to tell anyone.  I couldn't keep the secret, so I told the office mafia, of which I was a part.  I think the four of us are still the only four that know.

I miss him, I'm grateful to him and I still think he is the best man and the best boss I ever worked for.  I can honestly say I wouldn't be where I am, with the success I've had without him and his guidance.  I don't think he knows the impact he had on me. I think I'll send this to him.  I'm sure it will get sent back full of red marks for all the errors and changes that need to be made.  And that's okay, just another lesson to be learned.

Is It Just Me?

It was a balmy morning as my family and I headed off to church this morning in time to get our teen to his youth discipleship class, which takes place an hour before service.  Not a big difference from many other churches, except that there are very few adult classes offered at that time.

So my husband and I sit.  And wait. For an hour and fifteen minutes.  The upside to our wait is that I usually head in to the sanctuary and place my purse, bible, and journal on our preferred seats.  This gives me a chance to socialize and my husband is usually part of the greeting team.  I know that church isn't about where you sit, but our sanctuary is kept dark and our preferred seats allow for some light to spill from the stage so I can see while I write notes.

This morning I stepped into the aisle for a moment to speak with someone.  Imagine my surprise when I went back to my seat to find all of my belongings moved and someone else sitting there.  Now there was only one seat left for my family of three. When I commented on the move the individual responsible looked me in the eye, laughed and said , "Whoops!"  No apology, no acknowledgement, nothing. I wasn't happy, but okay I'd move.  So I grabbed my stuff and turned to find another seat...difficult to do at this point as worship had started and people were filling aisles and rows.

Finally found three seats together, set my stuff down again and had another individual reach over the seat and move my things again.  At that point I grabbed my belongings and this time walked out of the sanctuary.  You see, this isn't the first time this has happened to me.  I've been told, rudely, not to sit somewhere, asked to move to accommodate someone else's family, and been told that the seats I chose were reserved.

I know it isn't about the seats.  In fact, our Pastor makes jokes about it.  But the reality is we all have our comfort zones.  A friend and her husband always sit in the same place.  The youth always sit in the same place.  The pastor's family always sits in the same place.  My family always sits in the same place.  For four years we've sat in the same place.  I think what bothered me most is the fact that I wasn't asked if I could, or would move, my things were simply moved so someone else could sit there, with no thought to my family.  Yes, I knew who moved my things.  Considering who it was and their response I was flabbergasted.  And pissed.

I'm sure I overreacted, but it didn't sit well with me.  After being moved twice I felt really unwelcome in my own church so I left.  Even though I've been back a few times since the incident I'm still not convinced I'll stay.

What Did I Get Myself Into?

For years I've been kicking around the idea of going back to school to get my degree.  Every time I'd think about it LIFE would rear it's beautifully ugly head and give me thousands of reasons not to head down the road.  

Hindsight is 20/20 and I wish now that I had been able to manage a full-time job and full-time education right after high school.  At the time I made the decision best for me. And then one day I looked up and it had been decades since graduation and I began having small feelings of regret about not getting my degree.

A couple of months ago a very dear friend sent me an email containing one sentence and a link.  The sentence was, "When you are ready."  The link was to FAFSA.gov.  It took me weeks, but after many prayers and deep breaths I clicked on the link, completed the application and was stunned to find out I qualified for financial aid.  Good thing too, because without financial aid there was no school in my future.

After a few false starts I found the right online college for me.  I completed paperwork, I waited, I completed more paperwork, I waited.  Several weeks later I got the letter I had been waiting for.  I had been accepted to college 29 years after I graduated high school!  I think I was more thrilled than any graduating senior getting their first choice acceptance.  I posted a quick note on Facebook, which apparently elicited a whoop of excitement from my son in the middle of his geometry class (yeah, that's another blog).

As excited as I've been once I got my first look at the syllabus for the first class I alternated between apprehension and abject terror.  A paper due in the first week.  Assignments due on Day 1.  A ton of weekly reading. A separate book to read. A final paper due at the end of the class.  As I sat stewing myself into a frenzy it was the encouraging words of friends, some from high school and other from more recent life, as well as words from my son that kept the terror at bay.  Everyone was encouraging, full of reminders about what I've already accomplished and reassurances that I could, in fact, do what I'd set out to do.  When my Mom told me she was proud of me, we both teared up.  Suddenly I knew I was capable of accomplishing my goal.

And yet, as I sit here on Day 1 of class looking at all I need to accomplish this week, I can't help but wonder... "What exactly did I get myself into?"

Marathon Madness

It's the first day of Memorial weekend and I have been inundated today with movie marathons.  All of them aimed at men.  

Before anyone goes off on me, let me explain a couple of things.  First I know that historically men have been the ones we memorialize and thank for their service.  Second, I love any excuse for a John Wayne marathon and I can always count on Memorial weekend for a long one.

For us working women Memorial weekend isn't always a time to go out on the lake, sometimes all we want to do is hang out on the couch and veg out while watching movies.  Where are the Elvis marathons, what about Julia Roberts, Harrison Ford, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn or even just a good chick flick marathon?  Why do the programmers insist on airing all their war movies this weekend?

I know it's probably just me, but I find it irritating.  Until things change I think I'll just keep my TV tuned to whichever station happens to be the John Wayne channel this weekend.  With any luck multiple stations will air their Duke marathons on different days and I'll get to see all my favorites.  Oh look, Rooster Cogburn is just starting!

God's Post-It -- does He have stock in 3M?

Every now and again God sends me a post-it note.  I count on these as subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, reminders from Him.  My recent trip to San Francisco for a trade show was a perfect example.  As I sat cramped in a too-small seat on a plane bound for San Francisco I was, for the first time, at a loss for a good reason to put myself through this process.  It was pre-dawn so the shades were still down and for the first time the window seat offered no relief.  My seat-mate, though small in size took up the majority of available space and I found my much larger self trying to take up less room.

As we flew west with the sun chasing us I lifted the shade.  What I saw reminded me of what I love about flying...God's artistry!  Only a master could paint with colors and textures like I saw below.  The ground resembled an old-time country quilt; tan, brown, cocoa and green stitched together with threads of grey and tan.  Circles and rectangles intersected squares and parallelograms.  Triangles crossed rectangles, everything dotted with sunlight and shadow.

A change in heading took us northwest and the patterns changed.  No longer flat, it rose and fell bursting with explosions of red, orange and white, highlighted with soft tan and pink.  When I looked again I was mesmerized by the vast expanse of pure white.  As far as I could see the ground was covered in snow; pure, white, unbroken and unmarked.  and then suddenly it wasn't all white - there on the soft white carpet were dots of black poking up here and there, just like a glass of milk after an Oreo cookie had been dunked.  In the blink of an eye mountains loomed.  Standing majestically they welcomed me like sentries, letting me know silently that I was passing through the unseen gate to my home state.

Below and between, smaller hills and mountains were nestled under a blanket of grey.  A downy quilt surrounded them while they slumbered.  When the sun began to gently wake the west, the grey quilt was pulled back to reveal a lush green floor.  Just past the grey edge lay the deepest blue that warms my heart and soothes my soul, filling me with contentment...the Pacific Ocean was yawning it's welcome.  As her welcome home anthem hummed through my veins it was as though everything around me faded to nothing.

This was it, the reason I love flying. God paints the most perfect masterpieces that never fail to fill my soul and remind me of His power and glory.  My favorite thing, that I choose to believe He creates just for me, is the ocean.  That vast expanse of gentle fury speaks to me and soothes me like nothing else. And with every glimpse of the sea the subtle reminder that no matter where I go, the ocean that is part of me is always there, whether I can see it or not, just as He is.

Coming of Age

Technically I should have written this yesterday, but I'm claiming busy-mom-syndrome and writing this at 1:30 the morning after, so it still counts, right? Right!
When I woke up I recalled the excitement of waking up on this day 13 years ago. I just knew that in a few hours I would hold my son. Things didn't work out quite the way we planned, but the day ended and I had briefly held my son.

This morning I knew it was only minutes before I could hug him and I was sure that it too would be brief. I was a bit more apprehensive to wake him up this year, after all I was waking a teenager. Still, I thought that the lure of presents and cake would ensure a good mood long enough for me to get my hug. I was right.
I spent most of the day reflecting on the last 13 years of my son's life. There have been moments of unspeakable joy, heart-wrenching pain, white-hot anger, and sheer frustration. But, underneath every one of those moments was an endless supply of love. I never knew I could love so deeply and so unconditionally. I admit it, I am in love with my son. Not in an icky or, I hope, over-bearing way, but in a manner that allows me to see flaws and diamonds and love them both equally and deeply.
JM learned early on that my love was the "no matter what" kind, which for him is a very good thing. I could swear that he lies awake and thinks of ways to test the theory. Fortunately he also learned that I can separate him from his behavior and when I am most angry or frustrated it's at the behaviors not the person.

Today my son turned 13. In some cultures he would be considered a man. In the culture of my heart he's still my baby boy. The one I am most grateful for, and to; the child I am blessed to have call me Mom. It's been amazing to watch him for the past 13 years, I'm sure the future will be just as amazing. And while I suppose I'm not ready for him to move on and move forward, I'm grateful to be included on the journey.

A painful cut

My birthday was last week. I look forward to my birthday every year. It's a big deal to me, always has been. This year my cake had 45 candles.

As a treat for my birthday I wanted a haircut. I hadn't had a real haircut in about 9 months, since I was last in CA. I found a salon and made an appointment for the afternoon before my birthday. I arrived at the salon a few minutes early with slightly longer than shoulder length, flat, fine hair. I wanted an inverted cut, shorter in the back, longer in front, with the longest portion being 2 - 3 inches past chin length. We had a good consultation, and the stylist shampooed, conditioned and began cutting my hair. It seemed like she knew what she was doing and our conversation was pleasant if inane.

And then the horrors began. One side was longer than the other. Okay, no reason to panic, it happens. A few snips and, wait...one side is longer than the other. "Just a smidge'" she says. So a few more snips and, one side is longer than the other...by an inch. Just another smidge. I sneak a glance at my watch and realize that I've been in the chair for 45 minutes and the cut still isn't complete. Oh wait, we're blowing out the hair now. Good, almost done. No reason to panic.

Until she says, "I can't wait to see this dry so I can see what pieces I missed." Hello? Seriously? In all the decades I've had my hair cut no one has ever had to dry it to see what they missed! And guess what we found? My hair was uneven! I point it out twice, and realize that my hair is now 4 inches shorter than what I wanted and is no longer past chin length. The salon owner comes over, says she won't charge me, and makes a few snips to even it out. As my chair is turned toward the mirror and the scissors are picked up again, I look in horror at my reflection. I take off the cape, announce my departure and begin to sob uncontrollably. I look like the dutch boy! My hair is shorter than chin length and makes a nice square frame.

I manage to get in my car and call the only person that I can think will understand...my mom. She felt bad, told me not to worry, that I could work with it, and that it would grow back. Surely she would be more sympathetic if she could actually understand what I was saying. "Waaaaa, mmaaaaa haare, I can't....boy!" is what she heard. In actuality, what I said was "The dutch boy, I look like the dutch boy...the day before my 45th birthday and I look like the freaking dutch boy! This is not okay. I refuse to wake up on my birthday and look like this!" I still don't understand what got lost in the translation.

Have you ever tried to drive while sobbing uncontrollably? It isn't easy and it's hard to see things. I drove through 4 strip malls looking for another salon, passed one twice because I was afraid to go in. Apparently there were only two salons nearby; the butcher shop I had just left and the place I was afraid of. Drying my eyes I walked in to Salon #2. I was not reassured by what I found; a small staff and indifferent receptionist. But I pressed on and asked if someone could re-cut my hair. I waited patiently until I heard a chorus of "sorry no time" and one lone "I could fit her in on Saturday."

I admit it, I lost it. I broke down in tears, again, looked at the closest stylist and said, "Tomorrow is my 45th birthday and I can't look like this!" And proceeded to bawl loudly. His customer took pity on me and told him to fix my cut, while trying to reassure me that he was the one person I wanted to cut my hair. I managed to sniffle an acknowledgement that the only way to salvage the cut was to go shorter and he got to work. I heard the razor slicing through my hair and began to breathe. It was a familiar sound and it reassured me that he knew what he was doing. Then the frantic cutting began, it sounded like Edward Scissorhands was behind me, and when I said it out loud he laughed and I offered a watery smile. A few brush strokes, a blow dryer and a flat iron and voila, I was done. I felt better, it looked cuter than when I walked in, and I could live with it. Fortunately, the first person I saw after getting my second haircut told me how great it looked.

I learned something that day; never, ever will I get a haircut the day before my birthday, unless I'm sitting in Bev's chair. Oh, and one other thing I learned? Tears really can work for you!

Gonna be a Bear

I received the following in an email from a dear friend so I can't take credit for writing it; however, I agree with the sentiment whole-heartedly and that means it goes on the blog. Enjoy!

Writer's Block or Old Age?

It seems to me that every time I'm away from the laptop I have hundreds of ideas to blog about.  However, the moment I boot up, log on and sit down to write I seem to have nothing but air upstairs. 

Right about now some people I know will probably be making a snippy comment about what really goes on inside my head.  Those of you in the peanut gallery, please keep your comments to yourselves.

Seriously, I'm not sure if it's writer's block or old age, but either way I don't like it.  I have a little red notebook around here somewhere that holds ideas that I've jotted down.  It doesn't seem to help much.  Of course that could be because I spend umpteen minutes just looking for the darn thing.  When I finally find it I'm exhausted and not in the mood to write.  I've been told I need to carry my idea book everywhere.  I'm afraid if I do that I'll just have to look everywhere to find it after I've set it down one too many times.

Maybe I'll just pass on a daily blog and follow the best advice I've been given...when you have something to write about, write.  That's much more appealing than old age :)

A button down by any other name...

This is JM's first year of football. He is required to wear a dress shirt, tie, and dress slacks to school on game days. The first of those days is tomorrow and my darling son falls short on the dress clothes supply.
As luck would have it as we stepped into the mall yesterday my boss called; needing my services for an hour or two, so after checking with the boys a plan was hatched. Hubby and JM would stay at the mall and shop while I took care of work-related matters. They were given a budget and these last minute instructions:

1. Please make sure the pants, shirt and tie are color-coordinated.

2. Dress shirt should be long-sleeved so make sure the sleeves are the appropriate length.

3. Tie; no clip-ons. JM wants a real tie.

4. Button down shirt, not an oxford.

5. Dress slacks, please choose a shade of tan - not black.
And off I went. While I was gone I checked bank balances to see where they were shopping and whether or not they were on budget, but I didn't tell them that. Just under two hours later I was back at the mall and quickly spotted them as they went meandering on their way.

Hmmmm, only one bag. This did not bode well. Upon my arrival I was told that we were out of luck. No button down shirts. Of course this made no sense to me; an entire mall and not one dress shirt in the entire place? Hubby said the only choices were two shades of blue and two shades of white. Again I didn't see the problem. Oh wait, the bag. I was forbidden to open it, but I could see through the bag that the pants inside were black. Still, I didn't understand the problem.

It became clear when Hubby explained that he was looking for "button down" shirts. JM said it didn't matter as long as they were dress shirts. Hubby was sticking to shirts with button down collars and JM just wanted any old dress shirt, preferably black, with a tie. Poor hubby was laughing, but defenseless when I reminded him that he was from a different time (read: old) when a "button-down" meant something different. Of course his suggestion that we talk to a haberdasher didn't actually help his case either. When JM suggested it was 2009 not 1909 and we lived in America, not England where such things still matter, I though he was going to pop a blood vessel. Fortunately, we were able to resolve the discussion with a quick search of Wikipedia on the iPhone. We were both right. "Back in the old days" a button-down referred specifically to a shirt with a buttoned down collar. These days however, it simply refers to a shirt that buttons down the front. These shirts no longer being worn simply for "dress", but are often paired with jeans and left untucked. But, I digress...
Grumbling and grousing that they had been all over the mall, four times, and now knew it so well they found things they had never known were there, we headed back to get JM his dress shirt and tie. The one he wanted two hours earlier, and would have had, if his Dad lived in the current times. Fortunately Hubby had a sense of humor about the whole thing, but I'm still trying to figure out why he headed for the nearest exit as soon as I arrived, leaving me to handle the shirt and tie portion of the event...

Expectations

I never thought my expectations for my son's academic performance were out of line. Apparently, I was wrong.

Recently my husband came home, grabbed an envelope off the table and began reviewing our son's state required test scores. They were scores any parent and student would be proud of, but our son wasn't proud. He felt as though he failed and let us down in the process. No matter how quietly or loudly we praised his accomplishment he kept saying he failed (using a variety of teen angst-filled phrases, of course).

I finally cracked through the wall of negativity by pointing out that I've never seen him study or do much homework. Then I said to him, "Look at your scores without studying, can you imagine what they'd be if you actually cracked a book?" He laughed and the tension dissipated, but it left me wondering...

Are our expectations too high? Have we set an impossible standard?

This morning I reflected on the conversation. Then I did what I do best. I called a friend. Then I called my mom. Of course, I got two differing opinions. One says I'm too hard and my expectations are too high, the other says that my expectations are are justified and based solely on his abilities. So now what?

It's tough having a gifted child. It's even tougher being a gifted child. I've stood on both sides of the fence and now I understand how my mom must have felt when I put her through the same angst. After much soul-searching and conversation, I think I finally have the words that will hopefully ease the burden of high expectations:

Excellence does not mean perfection.

I expect my son to perform at his best level. I expect excellence from him because he is clearly capable of just that. I do not expect perfection.

I find perfection in his ability to make me laugh. It's in the way he tells me he loves me at just the right moment. It's in his eyes, the exact same shade as mine, every time he smiles. I find perfection in the simple fact that my son exists.

My son is not a perfect person, but to me, he is absolute perfection. And that is most excellent.

From the "It could only happen to me" file

I was laid off from my last job in February along with a good friend, Magcake, that I met while working there. We jokingly said we should bill ourselves as a package deal and try to get hired by the same company. She had a temp job for two weeks and I've worked a part time position for the last month. Neither of us is getting very many interviews.

Magcake had an interview two weeks ago. She asked for my resume so she could take it with her. To the amazement of the CEO, Magcake left my resume suggesting that he should hire me if he didn't like her. A week later I got a call to meet with him on Saturday.

As the interview was winding down we started discussing Magcake. He mentioned that he was looking for a way to hire her, but wasn't sure where she would fit. Magcake and I have different backgrounds, I'm Exec Admin and she's IP legal. after conversations back and forth I got a call this afternoon. We've both been hired.

Not only did I get myself a job, but I got Magcake one too. It was unorthodox, and it could only happen to me...or Magcake. :)

I have a host of friends...

At the end of El Dorado (the John Wayne version), James Caan's character is the recipient of good natured ribbing. His reply, as they ride of into the sunset is "I have a host of friends." The line was delivered with the right blend of wit and sarcasm and is one of my favorite lines of any movie and it is also applicable to my life.

My friends run the spectrum of personalities and quirks and fuel different parts of my life an personality. I have a slew of good friends that I rely on to keep me sane, living, out of trouble when necessary, in trouble when it's time, and generally appreciative of life. And then I have a handful of friends that I can count on for anything at any time. They would move mountains for me (and have many times).

It used to bother me that I had unintentionally classified my friends. I've come to realize, however, that it's natural. Not all of my friends can be all things to me. It's a burden that should not be placed on their shoulders. Their job is to fill a niche. Each friend has their unwritten role in my life. Some come in for a specific reason or a short time, others come in, stay awhile and then move on, and some come in, unpack their bags and never leave. You never know which it's going to be. It's kind of the like the prize in the cracker-jack box. You never know what you're going to get, but you know it's gonna be good. I never know how or when I'll have a new friend. Some of my friends have been no-brainer choices, our friendship was obvious and others were unexpected gifts discovered in unexpected places.

One friendship still has the ability to leave me questioning. The fact that we're friends after 33 years still amazes and delights me. But, even though I've known her longer than anyone else, we're total opposites with similar likes and dislikes. Had I been asked on graduation day who I would still be friends with in 30 years, I would not have named her. I expected we would have drifted apart our differences defining us more than our similarities. I have never been happier to be wrong. Ours is an easy friendship with ebbs and flows and yet the unwavering commitment and dedication to each other. And another friendship was gifted to me like a perfect pearl from inside a clam. The shell was hard to crack but held an undeniable treasure. She is my almost-daily connection and compass. I count on her more than she knows even when I don't show it well. Over the years we have developed a bond that allows us to talk about all topics and subjects without recrimination or rejection.

There are those that have special places and roles in my life like family, while others feel like pieces of my soul. And there are those whose company I simply enjoy and others who add peace to my life. There are the bookworm friends, the vegetarian friends, the super mom friend, the cheer mom friend, the mom-of-a-friend friend, the church friends, the knows-all-my-secrets friend, the spiritual friend, the my-twin friend, the school friends, scout friends, PTA survivor friends, the psycho-bitch friend, the neighborhood friends, the long-lost friends, the we-used-to-date-and-I-still-like-you friends, and the very-best-always-supportive-friends.

Each of them fills a different part of my soul. Each is valuable and relied on in different ways. They are all brilliant gems in their own right, but the colors and displays we make when grouped together is the most amazing of any gift I have ever received.

So to all of them I say thank you, I am blessed. I have a host of friends.

Losing Belle

On February 4, 2009 I got a call that rocked my world. Little did I know how profoundly I would be affected or for how long.

Belle is/was my teacup Maltese. I got her in September 2007 and it was love at first sight. Although she is purebred she was deeply discounted in price - she was 4 months old when I brought her home and she fit in one hand. She immediately claimed me as her person and I was enamored of her. She has a travel bag and a few cute clothes and I loved to take her with me whenever I left the house. Unfortunately that didn't include work.

When Scott called me and told me she was missing I went ballistic. My rage was directed at the neighbors who owned the renegade dog that chased her. It was a vain attempt not to flame my husband for his part in the ordeal.

It's been exactly 10 weeks today. I still look for her, I still miss her and I absolutely want her back. I have spent money on ads and flyers and posters. I have gone door-to-door and reached for the obscure. Part of me knows that it's unlikely I'll ever see her again, but no matter how hard I try I can't seem to let go. Even now the tears threaten. I am her person and perhaps, against all odds, I hope that it is enough to keep her connected and bring her home.

She's a dog and yet she's so much more. At least to me. If I could only figure out how to convey that to whomever has her, it might be enough to get her back. For now I pray for her return and I pray for the pain to ease. I know which one I want more.

Catching Up

Boy, I have no idea where the time went. I just started working a part time job last week and I feel like I have no time to get anything done. This makes no sense to me. While working full time it seems like I managed to get so much more done, including this blog. But for some reason working 10A to 3P three days a week leaves me with no time. I'm sure there are other things I'm missing, but I can't quite figure this out. When I do you can count on regular updates again. Speaking of which...

It must be a boy thing. When we lived in Southern California my son wanted to learn to surf, loved playing soccer, enjoyed baseball, and had absolutely zero interest in football. What happened? In Texas, all of a sudden he wants to play football. We are not a football family. I have a favorite team (Go Steelers) and have enjoyed watching specific players over the years (Swann, Piccolo, Alzado, Long, Christensen, Matuzak, Bradshaw, a host of others and of course, Montana is the ultimate), but I don't live and die by the game. So where does the football desire come from?

It's a boy thing. And my son wants to fit in. Which is why, in spite of my better judgement I gave parental approval for him to begin a 7-on-7 flag football camp and tournament through his school. With trepidation we bought cleats, a practice jersey and extra pair of shorts. The first day of practice went off without a hitch and JM was glowing after practice. Tired, but glowing. He proclaimed that he would be a wide receiver since he caught more balls than he dropped. As long as he wasn't a linebacker I had to breath a little easier, but not much.

The second day of practice I was a little less worried. It was FLAG football so I was fairly sure he wouldn't be stomped on and broken like a twig. Until I picked him up afterwards and he told me that he couldn't catch anything. He held up his right hand and informed me that he jammed his finger on his third catch, didn't tell the coaches and kept playing. And my insides turned cold. It was only a finger, but it looked like more than a jam. He was determined to tough it out and refused medical treatment. Until later.

After returning from urgent care we have a possible fracture. A radiologist will review the films today and we'll know tomorrow if we need to see an orthopedist. So for now there's no football, no diving which starts in two weeks, and no flute practice. And while I do feel really bad for him missing the tournament, I'm secretly a little relieved. And yet I have to contend with the whole badge of honor issue since he's now thrilled that if it is a fracture he's finally received his first broken bone. That must be a boy thing!

Someday My Race Will Come...

I've been a NASCAR fan for a hundred years, or at least it feels that way. I spent many years following Indy and Formula 1, especially enjoying and working the Toyota Gran Prix of Long Beach. That is a race that I have seen in person at least a dozen times.

Still NASCAR was always my first love. Drive fast, turn left! For the second time in my life I live within spitting distance of a race track with huge races. Here in Texas they have the race twice a year. But, have I ever managed to see a race in person? Uh, no.

For some reason it seems like this year just about everyone I know, including some that I never thought were race fans, got invited to today's race. Fully half of them got to see the race from a suite! Before we moved to TX the DH went to California Motor Speedway and saw a race. Oh yeah, from a suite! Did I get to use the extra ticket? NO! And he isn't really even a NASCAR fan.

Am I just a wee bit jealous? Ya think?! But that's okay, someday my race will come. When it does not only will I have great seats, maybe even a suite, but my favorite driver will be in the winner's circle! Until then I'll just whine a little on race days.