Oh, the People You Meet in Key West

There's nothing quite like escaping to the South during the throes of winter.

The throes of winter: it begins on December 26th and lasts until that last, sneaky snowstorm in April or May. Visits to daughter in college town and soccer tournaments have prevented us from baring our pasty white legs in a warmer climate for quite some time. This year, however, we decided to revisit Key West and celebrate some special anniversaries with our in-laws.

I will try not to bore you with details like how good it felt to unthaw our bones in the 80 degree weather. Or how a fresh pina colada is like drinking a nectar from the gods. Or how watching the sun set over the Florida Straits while dining on fresh fish cleanses the soul of all worry. Ok, so I'll bore you a little.

I've always known that I have a problem with giving my full and undivided attention to people and things. (Doug will hastily agree.) It's not because I'm bored of the company, usually. It's because my mind is clicking on a thousand different issues. I believe the universe decided to play a little game  with me in Key West – to help me with this affliction of paying attention.

The first incident took place in a French Cafe where Doug, Judy, Mike and I were having breakfast. I ordered an omelette and asked what type of toast I could have. (I prefer to have my wait staff list off the options rather than just ask for the bread I want.) The waiter, in his French accent said, "vite, veet, bagel, or grrrrrriah." I really didn't want white, wheat, or a bagel. But I had no idea what a grrrrriah was. I politely asked him to repeat. With his French sigh, he said, "vite, veet, bagel, or grrrrriah." Since grrrrriah didn't sound anything close to sourdough (which is what I wanted), I went with wheat. After he left, I asked anyone if they knew what a grrrriah was. Mike informed me he was saying "croissant." Mike obviously learned to speak condescending French on one of their many vacations.

As the sun dropped into the sea.

The second incident occurred on a pier where we decided to drink, eat, and, watch the sunset over the water. We all had a hankering for seafood, so asked our pretty little waitress about the "Catch of the Day." In her sweet, hispanic accent she replied, "It's called the fish." I looked at Mike, who was so good at translating. He said, "It's fish." Yeah. That's what I thought she said. Judy said, "What fish though?" We asked again. Again, she said, "It's called the fish." After a Dumb and Dumber flashback of the "soup de jour" sounding delicious scene, it hit us. She was saying, "It's cod, the fish." The sweet waitress apologized for her accent as we apologized for our inability to hear very well after several drinks. And the fish of the day ended up being quite delicious.

The third incident happened on the night before our departure. We had stumbled across a hole in the wall off Duvall Street. It was carrying an enticing aroma of fire-oven pizza. We approached a young Italian hostess who said something to me which I interpreted to be "follow me." I was, after all, becoming quite good at translation. So, I waved my arm to our group and we followed her in. She turned back, surprised to see me right behind her. "Not yet," she said with a benevolent smile – as if she knew she was dealing with someone who would need extra help. She led us back to the entry to wait. I saw her begin to take names for tables, so I asked if she needed my name. She smiled again and said, "No. I will remember you." Eventually we were seated. And after a close call of ordering something that sounded like bruschetta, but wasn't, we all had spectacular pizza. As we waddled out, with my head in a cloud of mozzarella cheese and sangria, I found myself once again running into our original hostess. She gave me that "you again" look before politely excusing herself and getting on to her busy tasks.

The smallest bar in the world, they say.

Pay attention, Stef.

We noticed throughout vacation that Mike and Judy have a way of running into very interesting people. Broadcasters. Football players. Actors. Old men who know all the best places to eat in Key West. Maybe we would meet some of these people too, if we would just pay attention.

I'll end with one final story. During our tour of the Hemmingway house, my sister-in-law noticed one of the six-toed cats which are believed to be good luck. She quickly petted it, as did I. Then Judy prudently suggested we buy a lottery ticket. So we did. We both agreed that a few more trips to Key West wouldn't hurt anyone.

I asked Hemmingway for some writerly luck.

What I love best about vacation is the sudden opening of time – time to observe and time to reflect. You'd think with all of this weather, we'd have plenty of time for that here in the North. But we prefer to keep ourselves busy – probably to keep warm and to earn a paycheck in case we don't win the lottery.

Just a few hours ago, Judy texted me texted me the winning lottery numbers with the message, "6-toed cat did not help me win." But I wonder. Maybe the cat knew that money doesn't bring you luck. Paying attention sure does though. She also mentioned they met a writer for National Geographic and saw Forrest Whitaker in Miami. Meeting interesting people. Having enriching experiences. That's the best kind of luck.

Winter is Coming. Yay for TV.

"Repeat after me," said my son. "Dae-ner-ys Tar-gar-y-en."

I pronounce as he has instructed. I think the exercise is over. But he goes on.

"Stormborn, House of Targaryen... yada yada yada"

He is annoyed by my lack of knowledge and mispronunciations of the Westoros world.

It was only a few years ago when I told my husband he couldn't watch the show. All that gore and nudity? We have kids for goodness sake! We need to use discretion! Turn it to Family Guy, will ya?

Back in the Family Guy Days

Fast forward to 2019. Amazon Prime and Netflix have opened the floodgate on television programming. As it turned out, Cole discovered Game of Thrones on this own –the very show I prohibited Doug from watching. Now we're all watching it. (Cole is on his second tour.) Undoubtedly, it's uncomfortable watching "love" scenes with your kids. I simply diffuse the awkwardness by turning my head and asking Cole about Algebra or Chemistry. This typically works unless it's a noisy sex scene. Gosh, I never thought I'd be a mother who would watch this type of show with her kids. But, I have to! I'd be lost without my son's guidance. So many characters. So many families. So many realms. Who can really tell the difference between a Baratheon and a Tyrell anyway?

Amazon and Netflix has created a phenomenon that seems part soap opera and part book club. Our family will wear out the remote looking for a series that will engage us all. As many of you probably know, it's not so easy. Certain stories don't always appeal. (I'm only allowed to see Mrs. Maisel once a week.) But there's nothing like finding that magical storyline that enamors your entire family. And when you find out a friend is watching as well? Jackpot! You don't just want to discuss it with others, you NEED to discuss it with others. Despicable characters. (He reminds me of Dad!) The lovely ones. (Don't you just love that whore?) The plot twists! (I'm never watching this show again! Until tomorrow.)

When I was growing up, it was a well-known fact that watching too much television was going to ruin us kids. Now, video games and phones have taken on that role. I find myself saying to Cole, "Get off your phone. Turn off your PS4. Come up and watch some TV with us." Then I giggle, thinking about my wise parenting. It's almost like the time when I was worried that Alex was drinking too much milk and asked her if she'd like a Sprite instead. But I digress. Watching TV didn't turn out to be the worst thing. Did anyone ever quit pursuing a career  because of an addiction to TV? No. I don't think so, anyway. What we were really addicted to is a good story that allowed us to escape and share. And while a good book can serve the same purpose, television and movies do this with a bit more efficiency –as long as you don't spend too much time browsing options.

I'll close this post with a funny clip of one of my favorite GOT characters: Jon Snow, who attends a dinner party with Seth Meyers. If you're not familiar with Game of Thrones, just know that Jon Snow is a very serious man who has had a tough row of it.

Winter is Coming. Actually, it's here, Mr. Snow. The best part of winter? Lots of TV.

And Dad– just kidding.

Promise of a New Year

2019!

This year I will wrap up another decade of my life. Fifty certainly seems old on paper. But my middle-aged dreams and goals feel as fresh as the dreams of my twenty-year-old self. I traveled back to my junior year in college to compare my thoughts. The similarities are uncanny.

1990 Stef: Celebrate 21 with a bang. In Iowa City! A party! Bar crawl! College pals! 21 42 pitchers of beer. (Laura turning 21 too. Yay!).
2019 Stef: Celebrate 50. Maybe.

1990 Stef: Figure out a summer job.
2019 Stef: Figure out a summer job... for Cole.

1990 Stef: Find a cute bikini AND wear as much as possible at the beach.
2019 Stef: Find a swimsuit that doesn't look ridiculous. Wear only on vacation in a location far, far away from here.

1990: Find true love.
2019: Celebrate 25 years of true love.

1990 Stef: Get tan as quickly as possible. Begin in May no matter how chilly.
2019 Stef: Avoid skin cancer. Wear pants.

1990 Stef: Lose five pounds.
2019 Stef: Lose five pounds.

1990 Stef: Scrounge up some money for beer and cookies.
2019 Stef: Limit beer. Limit cookies. Scrounge up some money for Spanx.

1990 Stef: Keep the rock star dream alive.
2019 Stef: Sing loud in car.

1990 Stef: Figure out a prestigious career! Add a major? 
2019 Stef: Get out of my basement office once in a while.

1990 Stef: Be the best person you can be! Study! Exercise! Eat healthy!
2019 Stef: Be a good person. Make a difference in others' lives.

I have always loved the hope that comes with a New Year. While my observations are somewhat facetious and somewhat sincere, there's one thing that never has changed – my desire to become a better person.

My 2019 resolutions are simple, but great: to love with all of my heart and find joy every day. I'm sure I would not have professed anything like that as a twenty-year-old. My 1990 New Year's Resolution was probably something like "Get a new hairstyle! Bigger bangs!" And that's okay. My compass has changed. Thank God. But there's a big part of me that hasn't changed: my hopeful spirit, still burning bright as ever. 

Wishing you all have a wonderful and peaceful 2019!

1990: Fun and Friends.

2019: Fun and Family.

The Dining Room Table

About 1/3 of table. Plenty-o-room.

I bought a 1000 piece puzzle this year. Time with my youngest is slipping away ever-so-quickly. I thought this would be a good trick to slow it down. I did NOT think it would an easy sell. A puzzle. An old-fashioned puzzle. There'd be no shooting down enemies, performing the floss, or posing for Snapchat. But a funny thing happened. When I showed him the box, he was surprisingly enthusiastic. Of course, I was sneaky. It was a Star Wars design.

When I was a young mother, activities with my kids were items to be crossed off a to-do list – in the name of raising successful kids, of course. We read Honey Bunny Funny Bunny over and over and over again because it was critical in developing mental acumen. We took nature walks even with the threat of snakes because fresh air is important to health. We made utter messes carving pumpkins or decorating cookies because creativity needs unleashing. I wish I could go back and tell my younger self to quit thinking of raising kids as a prescribed regimen. Enjoy the messes and re-

Now that's use of a table.

hashings of a good bunny tale.

I used to get out of sorts to come home and find stuff everywhere. Shoe mountains. Seven backpacks for two children. (??) Nearly-full gatorade bottles. I was especially irritated by the dirty socks on the dining room table. Yes, gross. But in less than two years, that dining room table will be collecting nothing but dust. It's gonna be lonely as hell. The table, I mean.

I recently had the honor of writing a recommendation for someone who will be receiving an award that any mother would covet. As I wrote, I considered what a wonderful job this person has done balancing family life and career. About ten years ago, I also received an award. A banking award. My husband barely flinched when I told him. I should've considered his reaction more deeply. Did I shortchange family time by focusing so much on my career? It's a question that burdens so many of us – fathers and mothers alike.

If I could roll back time...

As Charles Dickens teaches us in The Christmas Carol, it's never too late to change. I can still eke out quality time with my kids, even if they're the ones who now need to pencil me in. As a matter of fact, Cole has already picked out a project that will sit nicely on the bare portion of the dining room table: a gingerbread house. It will probably turn out to be a real sticky mess.

 I'll love every minute of it.

The Good Farm Wife

This might come as a surprise to some of you, but I didn't grow up on a farm. I was transplanted from Kirkman – the tiny little hamlet located on the other side of the county. My husband and I grew up ten miles apart not knowing each other. But our childhoods were more like ten thousand miles apart.

I'd like to point out that there were similarities. We both walked beans as kids. My experience wasn't as vast as Doug's. You see, I had this exercise routine which conflicted with the bean walking schedule my father had proposed. You get it. So, I wasn't as knowledgeable about crops as most Iowa kids are by the time Doug and I met in college. How was I supposed to know that those beans we walked were soybeans and not green beans? Or the corn in the fields wasn't the corn we eat? But stuff fed to animals or made into fuels?

So, I had a learning curve by the time we married.

I had always pictured myself as a career woman much like Claire Huxtable – easily navigating her roles as sassy wife, sage mother, and savvy lawyer. Once I fell in love with Doug, I realized these goals would need to be integrated into a farm setting. No big deal. So I thought.

Okay. It's taken 25 years for me to learn a few things. Here's advice I'd give to my younger farmwife self:

Ferocious Cows.

• Baby pigs are not nearly as sweet as they appear. They don't care how cute you are dressed. They bite.
• Following recipes is only important if you want food to taste good. And introduce exotic foods (like onions) slowly and in bits. Avoid tofu completely.
• Farm cats might have nine lives, but those lives are typically very short. Naming kittens is a full-time and often futile job. Be prepared for one or two to die on your lap as you speed to the vet.
• Farmers don't like to be found. Before cell phones... actually even after cell phones, I'd coordinate full-blown search parties as I imagined my husband pinned to the ground by a ferocious cow. I was eventually instructed not to call his brother or parents anymore. Thank God for FindMyiPhone.
• If you want your farmer to be pleasant on vacation, never ever ever plan a trip in September, October, November, March, April, May, or June. You can hardly go wrong with February.
• If you choose to defend cows who meandered to a greener pasture, be prepared not to talk with your spouse for a few hours.

Harvest deserves a paragraph on its own. It's a beautiful time of year. It's a stressful time of year. It's the climax when all the work of planting, growing, and caring for the crop comes to fruition. I used to think of it as a time when Doug was gone a lot and the kids and I planned Halloween costumes. But my perspective is different now. I'm older. Maybe even wiser. (The kids plan their own costumes.) And as I expected Doug to support my career, I need to support him. Really support him.

I'm no longer upset when he doesn't shut the combine down early to go out as he says he will. (It only took a couple of years to understand this – years of falling asleep on the couch after getting dressed up as I waited.) I'm no longer cranky when he calls me for a ride just after I crawl into bed. I'm just happy he hasn't been injured by a cow. And finally, I don't bitch about bringing him supper in the field. Admittedly, I used to be a little indignant about this food thing as I heard how good farm wives prepared feasts for their hubbies and crews. Let me clarify: Doug never expected me to do this. He knows I get home later and have stuff to do like laundry and write blogs. (He was also acutely aware of my cooking limitations.) But I'm different now. I'm no Rachel Ray, but I have Pinterest. If I can show him a little love by bringing out a roast beef sandwich with a splash of ranch dressing, why wouldn't I? It took me a long time to realize that.

The other morning, Doug looked at me with his tired, harvest eyes and gave me a hug. "Thanks for being so helpful this year." It made me a little sad. Not that I've been sitting on my ass eating bon bons for the past twenty-five years. But I definitely could've made a few more roast beef with ranch sandwiches. It might not be the most magnificent feast a farmwife ever made. But he doesn't care. It's not really the "what" I do to help, but the "why" I do it. Because I care.

That's the key to being a good farm wife.

The Homecoming Hangover

It's been a week since homecoming. The preparation! The anticipation! The pageantry! Now it's just a dim, fond memory. Wait a minute! Am I the parent or the student?

Cole was excited about homecoming this year. He skipped his sophomore year, because, well, we all know that your sophomore year is usually the worst. (Alex skipped that year too.) But now he's a junior. And he had a date!

A few weeks before the big weekend, we had to figure out clothes. My first inclination was to revive his confirmation garb. Then he told me, politely, that he had worn that same gray shirt/black pants combo for his last several dress-up events. True, true, true. (I never would've considered having Alex wear something she had worn before. Shame on me.)

So, one afternoon we went shopping.

At first I wasn't convinced of Cole's wish to do black on black. (Black pants. Black shirt.) But after accessorizing with the royal blue bow tie, suspenders, and colorful checkered socks, he won me over. He looked cute. He didn't disagree. As he stood admiring himself in the mirror, I had a flashback. Homecoming dress shopping with Alex. If only she would've admired herself in the mirror! But as is typical with almost every female I know, she focused on parts she didn't like about herself. And there was nothing that wasn't beautiful about her. Every girl needs to adopt Cole's sense of self.

Moving on.

Spirit week had arrived. And since Cole is officially an upper classman, he decided he needed to participate this year with the theme days. He usually doesn't! So I was refreshed by his energy! I was excited about the week. Of course, I had some ideas to contribute to his outfits. But my attitude soured the first night after the vollerama. He claimed his keys had been "stolen." I had to pull myself out of bed to bring him an extra set. I hate, hate, hate getting out of bed. I thought it strange that the culprits stole the keys without stealing the car. And as it turned out, Cole discovered the next day that one of his best friends had them. How he had forgotten this, I do not know. But I don't like to hold a grudge, so I moved on. There was more fun to be had.

Then, the next morning I received a text that made my heart fall. My friend, Ann, (mother of another one of Cole's BFs) had sent this:

"OMG! Kate said the WORST thing ever last night!!!"

Context: Kate is the cute little sister of Cole's buddy. My heart raced. What now? It was morning, so I wasn't getting an immediate response. I waited. And waited. Then heard the ding.

"She said, "Mom, you should've seen Cole yesterday. He dressed like a nerd. But umph... he was like a hot nerd!!" Double angry emoji.

That made me laugh. And breathe a sigh of relief.

In truth, Cole has a decent amount of nerd in him. (He gets this honestly from me.) As a matter of fact, one of his soccer buds suggested he complete his nerd look by carrying around one of his many comic books.

Anyway! Back to homecoming. The day of the big dance came. We went to take pictures at the designated spot. After getting a few shots and maneuvering the crowd of kids and parents, I lost sight of Cole. Apparently, he had left. When I texted him to say that he was missing out on some pictures with his friends, he just said, "We had enough pictures." I didn't disagree. But again, I had a flashback to Alex's homecoming days. There were never enough pictures with friends.

It was all wrapping up. The kids were off to dance in their new duds. The parents were off to partake in a few adult beverages, taking any edge off the worrying. Would they have fun? Would they be safe? Of course they would, as my husband would aptly remind me.

That evening I got a text from my old college roommate. She sent me a picture of her pretty daughter going to homecoming for the first time. I'm sure she was feeling the same anxiety and pride as every parent. Homecoming has a way of filling us with nostalgia. It seems like yesterday when were pinning corsages on our dates. Then we get a glimpse of our kids transforming into young adults. We want them to have great memories to share with their children someday. Maybe their kids will lose their keys. Or find their inner nerd. But one thing we know with certainty. The kids will shine.

Toddler Sock Wisdom

Today as I was rummaging through one of my cupboards, I came across this:

A toddler sock. Never mind my poor housekeeping skills. I was instantly sad. Yesterday I had toddlers. Now those toddlers are 21 and 17. Not that I miss wiping poopy butts. I absolutely do not. And I find great joy in watching our kids turn into fine young adults. But here's what I do miss: my unmistakeable purpose. As in wiping poopy butts.

Right now I have a disgusting cold sore in my nose. (Sorry for the gross nature of this blog post so far.) It's something that happens when I'm stressed or overwhelmed. Of course, I can't admit this to my husband, because he will accurately point out that I do this to myself. (And who can stand a spousal "told ya so"?) But he's probably right. I don't need to teach a class, but I do. I don't need to help my mother at her shop, but I do. I don't need to write a book, but I do. I don't need to work at the bank, but... wait, yes, I do need to work at the bank. My point? I seem to fill in any little crack of time to the point of cold sore or migraine hell. Yesterday, I realized why I do this when I found that little toddler sock.

Every mother either remembers or looks forward to the day she can shop at a supermarket (do people say that anymore?) without having to mediate a meltdown or worry about a pile of apples tumbling on the floor. Going to the grocery store without a toddler seems to be one of the first benchmarks of parental freedom. Before that day, our world consists of ensuring the kids are fed, bathed, schooled, soccer'd, etc. So, when I wrote my first book about ten years ago, I'm guessing Cole had learned to cut his own meat. No, that's not right. I think that was last year. But he probably, most certainly, had learned to wipe his own butt, somewhat anyway.

Wrong colors, Kiddo!

Don't get me wrong. I'm still a mom, first and foremost. But I feel like I'm more on-call than 24/7. And in between signing up for ACTs or wielding a stressed out college girl, I dabble in these other roles in my life which I completely enjoy. But that's the key: dabble. Not immerse. Dabble. It might save me on Abreva. (That's cold sore medication for those of you who haven't had the joy of pustules in your nose or mouth.)

And perhaps, just perhaps, I should be stepping up my maternal helicoptering in spite of having nearly grown children. I discovered yesterday that kid #2 is considering the wrong state university! Excuse me, I have some talking to do before the next cold sore sets in and Cole forgets his Hawkeye pedigree.