A Twisted, Beautiful Day

I love Saturdays.

But today was weird.

I completely intended to sleep in until at least 7:30 – a nice reprieve from my normal 5:30 alarm. So, when I woke up at 4AM with a splitting headache, I was a tiny bit frustrated. It's normal for me to have a headache, so I follow a strict routine in attempt to cure. I start with a prescription dose of ibuprofen and put together an ice pack for my head. After securing and balancing a Ziploc ice bag on my head, I fell back asleep. When I awoke a few hours later, the ice had melted. So I picked up the bag, carelessly. Then, as it began to split wide open, I literally froze, feeling helpless as the broken bag waterboarded me. There's nothing quite like having a cup of icy cold water pour all over your face. Apparently, I had used a plethora of ice. After waking Doug up with a bloodcurling scream, there was nothing I could do. Except laugh with my hubby. It was kind of funny.

Then, minutes later, after changing out of my soaked t-shirt, I found my son standing at our bedroom door.

"Mom?" he said as I wondered if he was sick. (It was still quite early, mind you.)

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "But Percy puked all over the floor."

Percy didn't just puke all over the floor. He spewed like a volcano, all over the shag carpet. His particular brand of lava was chuckage of cheesy chicken and corn which really bonded nicely with the carpet fabric. All before 7:30.

But it was still Saturday!

Halloween finds. Great price. Great look.

After all was cleaned up, Cole and I decided to make a quick trip to Wal-Mart. Nothing perks me up like a shopping trip of any kind whatsoever. And we needed to pick up important Halloween supplies. We had pretty good luck! Upon checkout, the cashier asked me if I had good eyes. I wasn't sure where she was going with this, and I hesitated to respond. She asked me again. This time a little impatient. So I said, "I think so." (My eyesight isn't that great, but I panicked.) She asked me to read a UPC number on the Batman shirt I was buying because the tag had been cut off. Well, I failed. Twice. The font size was like "1"! And I'm 50 years-old for goodness sake. I sent Cole back for another shirt with a tag as the line behind us began to grow. Cole zipped back for the all important Batman shirt, so I bonded with the cashier and the guy behind me – trying to keep in his good graces. The nice cashier wasn't having a bad day. It was going fast for her! She had already been there an hour! (It was 9:00 AM.) That was good, she said, because often her work days didn't go so fast. She was really looking forward to Wednesday and Thursday – her days off. Anyway, the happy ending to this part of the day? We got the Batman shirt. And I feel like we made some friends.

This afternoon I decided to submit that winter is coming. I began to put away the outdoor furniture, sad as it may be. After making progress on that front, I thought to myself, what the heck. Let's transfer some of my lilies. A grave error on my part. Within minutes, I was covered with black pirate bugs who adored the taste of my skin. After doing the bug-get-off-me dance, I gave up on chores and showered. I was getting ready to make tatortot casserole, when Doug called for a water break. And he had a surprise! He told me he wouldn't be harvesting too late, and we could do something tonight. And I believed him. After nearly 30 years of this harvest dance, I believed him.

So, here I sit, in a really cute new vest, contemplating the events of the day. And I'm smiling. No matter what time the boys get in, it was a good day. Who cares about soaked t-shirts, dog puke and bug bites? My headache disappeared. I got to spend time with my son. I saw both my parents. My daughter texted me. The Hawks won. And I will soon have a beer with my hubby... even if we don't quite make it out tonight. It was a little twisty, but it really was a beautiful day.

Bittersweet Coming of Age

Our daughter has now settled in Denver – a city brimming with art, food, music, craft beer, legal narcotics, and majestic scenery. It's a place conducive to activity: biking, running, hiking, kayaking, walking dogs. She resides in a stylish townhouse with two of her high school pals. Truly, it's a haven for young people. I'm happy for her. Really. But I fear she may never come home again. It takes approximately eight hours and three minutes to get there from here. Doable. Not terribly practical. But doable. I'm guessing she thinks it's the perfect distance from her parents.

A Quick Trip to Denver...

I'm not gonna lie. I don't wan to interrupt her life, but there are so many things that pop into my head that I need to share with her. She's my girl, for goodness sake! Doug and Cole aren't gonna care about a potential hairstyle. They don't understand critical decisions needing to be made such as: flats or heels? And they most definitely won't care about a Netflix series that explores something as enthralling as feminism.

Cole has just informed us that he will most likely go to University of Iowa (3 hours away) and then eventually live in California (light years away). Now, I'm super excited we might have another Hawkeye alum in the family. But can't our kids at least pretend to be sad about moving away from us? Just a little?

I often hear people over the age of 40 complain about our attachment to cell phones. But I'm quite certain I'd need super dosages of anti-anxiety meds if I couldn't track the kids on Life 360 or send them threatening texts for not responding to me. And I'd be one sad mom if I couldn't Face-time my daughter who seems destined (or determined) to live hundreds of miles away.

There it is. The "Really, Mom?" look.

Okay. I understand the idiocy of my pity party. I know, I know. You raise your kid to be independent. To an extent, I'm happy about that. Proud, for sure. But, there's this gigantic maternal hole that plagues me as I feel the kids slipping away. I've had a couple of ideas on how to fill that hole. Grandkids come to mind. Then I shiver at the thought of our 18-year-old boy becoming a dad. I've even brought up adopting a 10-year-boy. But as Doug so profoundly pointed out, he'd just leave eventually too. Then it came to me this week. An idea so simple and so perfect. Something I've been doing with my own mother forever. A mother-daughter book club.

I've recommended millions of books to my daughter. But as I've pointed out, she's quite independent. I don't think she believed I could suggest a book that would satisfy her intellectual cravings. Nevermind, that I was an English major. (Maybe she too clearly remembered my obsession with the Twilight series.) However, recently I struck gold. Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler is a novel about a 22-year-old writer who moves to New York City and gets her start as a server in a swanky restaurant. How could my journalism major who is getting her start as a server in a swanky restaurant resist? Last week she began texting comments about the book. When we spoke on the phone, our conversation drifted to the story. Then it hit me. We were our own book club! I asked Alex should we formalize it? Set a date to Face-time and answer real book club discussion questions? She was in. And my world shone just a bit brighter.

The other morning Cole mentioned how much he loved the book he was reading right now: Catcher in the Rye. Interestingly, there are a few parallels between that classic and Sweetbitter. Also interestingly, it happens to be one of my ALL TIME FAVORITES. (You just can't beat a good coming-of-age novel.) I told Cole that perhaps he'd make a good English major. He shrugged me off. That's what kids do. That's okay. I got plans for him after he graduates from college and moves to California. A mother-son book club.