50 Awesome Things About Turning 50

If you would've asked me at the age of 20 how I pictured myself at age 50, I probably would've said, "Who cares? I'll be old by then."

So, I didn't really make a list of 50 awesome things. I'm sorry. I tried, but then realized most of my ideas centered around the ability to afford things. It seemed a little shallow – as shallow as a 20-year-old! So, I shifted my thoughts and decided to make a list of blessings. But that just seemed like boasting about how perfect and great and talented and smart and beautiful our kids are. No one wants to hear that. So, I decided to nix the list and jot a few observations over this past weekend as I pondered this milestone that I share with Woodstock and Man on the Moon and The Gap.

Observations:

Look at that train.

• The shock of turning 50 can be softened by preparing for it early – like the day you turn 46. I distinctly remember saying "I'm almost 50" back then. It seemed to lessen the blow of actually turning fifty, until, of course, the smart ass in the room points out that I'm now half a century.
• At this age, nothing can be too boring. Boring is actually preferred. Doug and I visited Kenefick Park this weekend. It's a park which features two old Union Pacific locomotives. Yes, we did this upon our own volition. For years, I've been wanting Doug to throw me a surprise party. Somewhere along the line, this wish dissolved. I'd take our visit to the museum any day over a drinking binge. Almost any day.
• No matter their age, our kids have the ability to lift my heart with just the tiniest of efforts. Like a passing comment:"At least you're not turning sixty, Mom. That would really suck." Or, a text that says your long lost daughter can meet you for lunch after all. Or a heartfelt embrace between the kids showing their love for each other. They do like each other! (Those moments really made my heart sing.)
• My mother makes the best potato salad ever. We invited my parents over for steaks this weekend. I knew they'd bring me my birthday gift, but I was most excited about her potato salad. It's that good. It's a little sour, a little sweet and has the perfect texture – not one bit mushy nor overly mustardy like most potato salads I endure. Every mother has that specialty item – the thing they make better than anyone else and their kids will never forget it. Every mother, that is, except for me. I asked my kids what I make that they absolutely love. Nothing came to mind. This, I realize, is something I should work on.
• I will never, ever, ever grow tired of The Cheesecake Factory. Doug and I ate fantastic Indian food this weekend. (He hardly broke out into a sweat after eating a chili pepper!) But with the delicious naan and dashing company (Doug), it wasn't the same as sitting down at a Cheesecake Factory and breaking bread together as a family– as we have many times and happily repeated the ritual on my birthday. By the time we order cheesecake, it isn't so much about wanting dessert. It's about extending our time together as we catch up on each others' lives. Okay, that's not entirely true. It's very much about wanting dessert. And catching up on each others' lives.

My younger self might be surprised to learn that I still have goals and dreams at the ripe, old age of fifty. They're just different than those of the 20-year-old. Instead of dreaming about having a big house, a fancy convertible, and taking posh vacations, I dream about helping my family, writing inspiring books, and taking posh vacations. And by posh, I'm talking really fancy railroad museums. 

My husband worked especially hard to spoil me to the point of guilt this weekend. He watched the RBG documentary and talked feminism with me. He took me any place I wanted including a "SheRocks" concert which reminded me of my long ago dream of becoming a rock star. (Now, that's an actual recurring nightmare I have.) He bought me that gas fire pit I've been wanting. (Thank goodness, because Cole has plans for this.) Best of all, he drove me to Des Moines so our family could spend the day together – and eat Cheesecake Factory. But after receiving so much attention from my husband, my parents, the kids, my coworkers and friends, I've realized something. I'd much rather give attention than receive it. I never would've believed that as a 20-year-old. Perhaps that sentiment is the truest gift age can bring.

Pure love.

A Salute to Crazy Soccer Parents

So, I cleaned out the back of my Traverse last week. I put away four coats, two sweatshirts, one pair of mittens, two sets of gloves, two stocking caps and two baseball caps. The high school soccer season has come to an end. Not only will groceries fit in my car, but we'll "have our lives back" as parents like to say, but don't really mean.

What parent would deny the joy of "game night"? Knowing we'll likely be dining on extra salty popcorn and pizza and Tootsie pops. Knowing our kids will be competing their hearts out while insane parents coach from the bleachers. Knowing we'll endure the brutalist of cold not to miss one second of the game in case that almighty goal is scored.

There are basically two types of soccer parents. There's the certified crazy. These people have been told their kids have talent – usually when the kid was six-years-old and consistently score nine goals against a goalie who was smart enough to step aside when the herd approached. But no matter the age, the word talent almost immediately translates to likeliness of college scholarships and thoughts of playing in the MLS. These parents:

1. will ask their child if they have practiced enough if they don't score a hat trick. 
2. will grunt about a missed passed.
3. will tear the referees a new one if their kid falls on the ground, as soccer players often do.
4. will try really hard not to talk about their own kid. Too much.
5. will never, ever really understand offsides.

Most of us fall within this category. (I'm sure there a a few parents ranting, "I understand offsides!" My apologies.) But there is a small sub-set of soccer parents are are just plain cool. They never seem to get angry or upset. They offer only positive encouragement to every player on the team that no one can hear because of their mild demeanor. These are typically the grandparents. 

All kidding aside, there are two things all parents have in common: the love for our kids and a need for connection. We want our kids to perform well, because it will obviously make them happy. But as Doug often says, what Cole will remember most about soccer are the bus trips or the chatter in the huddles or the movie nights with his team. It's a similar notion for the parents. It won't be that one goal or interception. It will be the sharing of the salty popcorn. It will be the cool pics Denise took. It will be the stories of our boys' unbearably, aromatic cleats and lost jerseys. It will be the hugs we shared after a PK shootout.

We all seek camaraderie. I'll miss it. Not as much as I'll miss my son when he graduates next year, but I'll miss every single parent. Crazy or not.

In my Traverse, there still are four blankets, two stadium chairs and two soccer chairs. Summer league has started. Cole has mentioned more than a few times, we don't have to attend. We know we don't have to. But we kinda want to. We crazies need to connect.

Slides, Bikes and Elephants

Alex graduated from the University of Iowa two weeks ago. It was a joyous, tear-filled event that poured buckets of pride over me and her father. Not only did she graduate from my favorite college in the whole wide world, and majored in a demanding field which I hold close to my heart, but she graduated holding a compass: a compass facing her true north. Today, she's in India. Well, maybe the compass was facing east.

The first time she mentioned this trip, my heart dropped out of my chest. Aren't you a journalist now, Alex? Don't you know that women get raped and murdered there? That was my knee-jerk maternal reaction. Anytime our kids tell us they're going to do something, anything, with an inkling of risk, my optimistic brain turns very dark. Obviously.

Alex was always a cautious little girl.

Once when my sisters-in-law and I took our kids to the park, I had to coax her to have fun. My nephew had gone down the slide at least ten times. Alex sat at the top, contemplating whether it was really safe to go down. I stood at the bottom, trying to convince her she'd be okay. I promised I would catch her. She'd watched Mitch go down with no notable injuries. She was still skeptical. Eventually, she scooted her way down – not the most fun way to enjoy a slide, but she did it. Then she did it again, with a little less scooting and a little more sliding.

Teaching Alex to ride a bike a few years later had a similar theme. I can't remember exactly how old she was, but everyone else her age had mastered it. Finally, Doug took over. I simply couldn't convince her that she'd be okay – even if she did fall. It was one of those times our kids needed someone who was a little less patient and a little more militant. Even with Doug in command, Alex was still tentative. "Dad, you promise you won't let go?" I think Doug was sneaky in his response. He said something like, "I won't let you get hurt." Reluctantly, she let him push her off. And, of course, he let go. For the next few seconds she had no idea he wasn't holding on to her. When she checked behind to see if he was still there, she wrecked. And despite not having one scratch from the fall, she was furious. "You let go!" While she wouldn't admit it (not even to this day), we suspected a bit of pride in the accomplishment.

Now, she's off to India to help a journalist friend with a story. I have no doubt her curious nature will always lead her to some interesting adventures. And while my heartburn has set in while she's across the world, I have no regrets of convincing our cautious little daughter to take some risks. I'm quite proud of it, actually. She's come a long way from slides and bicycles. Now, she searching for an elephant. Literally. She literally wants to ride an elephant.

I hope she does.

Ghosts of Easter Past

It's Easter Sunday. It's that day when Jesus rises again to remind us that winter is over and the living win.

So, why do I feel so beaten? Let me dissect the weekend.

Good Friday
The day began with a college visit. It's an exciting time for our son who is exploring his options. When a friend asked if we wanted to go, we couldn't say no. The particular college happens to be on Cole's short list. In theory, it was a good day. We were with good friends touring a pretty campus with knowledgeable and enthusiastic tour guides. The only problem? Cole really liked it. He really liked Iowa State University. The interstate rival of my alma mater. Don't get me wrong. I'm very happy he's beginning to narrow his choices. Very happy. But I won't deny the inner turmoil I feel when I imagine him wearing red and gold.

Holy Saturday
Saturday was lovely and warm. I spent the day with the boys prepping for guests since it was my turn to host for the holiday. By all accounts, it was a nice evening with good laughs, good stories, and good food. I hardly had time to think of Cole's impending college choice.

Throwback Easter. 10 years ago.

But there was something else niggling at me.

The absence of our eldest.

Easter Sunday
It's the first Easter in 22 years that we haven't been seen Alex. No longer are the days of hiding eggs and bribing the kids to wear the cute outfits I bought for them. As a matter of fact, I hardly flinched when Cole came upstairs this morning wearing a maroon winter sweater and shorts for church. There was no reason for us to fight over clothing this year.

Messy bun. My go-to hairstyle for Al.

As always, church was good. But afterwards, the boys kept asking me what was wrong. I was uncharacteristically quiet. I said I was tired. Had a headache. Had an ear ache. I wasn't lying. But I wasn't completely telling the truth either. I was being a baby. I wanted our entire family to be together. And I wanted the kids to be little again.

In other words, I was glum for no good reason. How could I be glum when my son is actually thinking about his future and my daughter couldn't make it home because she needed to cover shifts and focus on the last of her college projects? This is why you raise kids, right?

So dapper in a springlike tie.

The boys and I ended up trekking to The Cheesecake Factory and Barnes and Nobles. Doug and Cole have a way of making me laugh even when I don't want to. (Farts, mainly.) We also ended up taking a detour and saw flood damaged areas which punched me in the gut and made me realize I TRULY have nothing to be glum about. Once we got home, we checked cows and saw four adorable calves nuzzling each other. Then we watched HGTV and dreamt about future vacation homes that hopefully would involve a truckload of grandkids.

As I was writing this post I received a call from... wait for it... Alex Kramer! My glum was dissolving anyway, but hearing her enthusiastic voice that's really too busy to chat filled the little hole that had been needling my heart.

Hallelujah! I say now. Winter is over. Flowers are poking through the ground. The kids are dipping their toes into fresh waters. What better day than Easter to encourage these kids to live their lives with hope and love? As Matthew says in his gospel:

"Let your life shine before others." - Matthew 5:16.

Alex and Cole: Let your life shine. Don't let your mother hold you back.

The Spectrum of Anxiety: Prom to India

Cole's Junior Prom is over. Check that most over-celebrated high school event off the list for this year. Don't get me wrong. I love being involved with our kids' activities. And while co-chairing the after-prom party was kind of like having mud thrown in your face (in a good way), it really wasn't all that bad. Not that I'd ever do it again, Mrs. Heithoff. But I have to admit it. Helping to plan the after-prom party was nothing compared to the actual anxiety over my son's entire experience.

Prom Challenge #1: Would his tux be a skinny fit?
Prom Challenge #2: Would another date cancel right before the buzzer?
Prom Challenge #3: And finally, would his awful cold prevent him from getting through the night?

As it turned out...

kramer.cole kramer.

• Cole's tux fit like a glove. More specifically, it had a James Bond appeal without the pistol.
• His date did not cancel, and she was beyond lovely. He had a great time despite the fact that her boyfriend was actually at prom as well. (Long story.) 
• And his nasty cold turned out to be a bit of a blessing! To his parents, anyway. He got through casino night (under our watchful eye). And by 2:00 AM, he was too sick to attend any after-after prom party. Poor kid. (Whew! Thank God.)

worth the hassles.

Now on to other worries. There's this one that's been niggling at me. Especially when I pushed the banality of prom drama aside.

A few weeks ago, Alex casually mentioned she might be taking a trip to India. Just for a few weeks to help her friend with a journalism project.

Say what?

India! No, Alex! Haven't you read what happens to women over there?

Well, yes. She does read. Journalists read.

I get that she's an adult now, despite what our tax returns might say. So, we can't really forbid her from going on this so-called Pulitzer grant project. But certainly, she'll listen to us. I've been trying to formulate a coherent argument. It goes something like this:

"No, Alex. You can't go. We won't let you. Just because you want to experience a new world and write an in-depth article about social injustice in a remote part of an undeveloped country doesn't mean you should...Heck, why don't you join the Marines or the Peace Corp while you're at it?"

This is where I get stuck.

Is it wrong to discourage a child from pursuing a noble cause in favor of eliminating a parent's anxiety? Is it all that different from discouraging your kid to attend an after-after prom party to keep from getting sicker? Okay. Maybe it's a little different.

When Alex was a junior in high school, she saved her money and convinced us to let her go to Amsterdam. It was an amazing, enlightening experience for her while I suffered painstaking heartburn for the entire two weeks. Despite the pain in my chest, my mother's voice would ring in my head. "You raise kids to be independent." I believe that, in theory. I just can't quite let my heart

See that map on her wall?

embrace it.

But I will. It's the right thing to do. If she decides to go, I'll load up on Tums and ensure my fervent prayers reach across the world. And perhaps I'll preoccupy myself by helping Cole to figure out a date for homecoming next fall.

Only the Lonely

I recently read an article by Dave Barry who recently made a life altering decision: to emulate his dog. Not so much to do things like drink toilet water, but to fearlessly connect with others as our canine friends so easily do. I gave the article specifically to my husband and my father. They share a common quality with Dave Barry: they're all a bit skeptical of people. Now that my dad is retired, he spends much of his time with his motorcycles and dogs. And my husband, as a farmer, spends much of his time with his tractors and cows. I worry about the amount of time they spend alone.

I also worry about my daughter. She's fiercely independent and lives three hours away, often strapped to her studies and work. I keep asking her if she's getting enough hugs – of the maternal type. She assures me she's fine, especially after visits to the pet store to hold puppies.

It just occurred to me that I never worry about my son being lonely. I actually worry more about his overactive social life. But that's a story for another blog.

It can be difficult to reach out – especially for the introverted. I worry so much about loneliness. Not for me. (Or Cole.) I'm rarely lonely, even when I'm alone. (This, could be a result of my only-childness, having spent much of my youth reading Nancy Drew, writing screenplays suspiciously similar to Grease, and playing games like Monopoly by myself.) But I obviously worry about it for others – even beyond my family. Whenever I see someone at a restaurant eating by themselves, my heart breaks a little. I say a prayer and do my best to catch their eyes just to say hello. It's probably not enough.

During our last book club, we discussed a novel called The Story of Arthur Truluv by Elizabeth Berg about an unlikely friendship between a teenage girl, a widower, and a spinster-ish teacher. It was a joy to read as these three lonely souls found each other. But what has been lingering with me in regard to this book isn't anything about the story itself. It's a comment made by one of my book club friends. "I really get this. It's like how Sundays get so long for me."

Growing up, I watched my mother talk to just about anyone in her path. Sometimes, I'd get annoyed by this. I didn't want to stand there listening to stupid adult stuff. Sometimes I'd even be embarrassed when she'd realize she wasn't talking to who she thought she was. ("Why do you keep calling me Bob?" We still get a good laugh over that.) But now I have a great respect for this ability to connect. Mom opened a shop as a retirement gig. And countless people tell me how they love stopping in to visit with her. I even catch Dad in there! Who knew he liked to visit with my mother!

I think there's lots of remedies for loneliness. Dogs and cattle are an obvious solution. But there's another one that doesn't involve animals. Heed the advice of AT&T's 80's slogan: "Reach Out and Touch Someone." Not literally obviously. But say hi to the lady next to you in the produce section. Tell her how good the mangos are. Take your book club friends to lunch. Hug your daughter every day when she's home on break even if it annoys the crap out of her. Or simply smile and say hi to the elderly gentlemen eating pizza by himself at the next table. As Mother Teresa said, "The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved."

Loneliness is a terrible poverty. But the good news? It can be cured without spending a single penny. Especially if you happen befriend a dog running the ditches. That's worked for us quite well.

Percy, former ditch runner.

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.