Some people ask delicately, with a smile and a tilt of the head, which begs my tender response, “Missing them.” Sniff. Others ask with a twinkle in their eye, to which I respond, “doing it with the door open.”

The truth is, I do miss the childrenꟷa little bit almost every single day. Not so much on Friday and Saturday nights.

Last summer at this time, just before our youngest two kids moved out, I asked a friend of mine what was in store for her and her husband, now that their youngest was also skipping town.

“So, do you guys have any plans for that big empty house?”

“No idea. Try not to drink every night?”

I thought that was a pretty good answer, but I wondered: Did she mean, try not to celebrate every night, or try not to drown her sorrows every night? I decided not to ask. What one is doing with one’s empty nest can be a loaded question.

Fortunately, I stumbled upon a hobby that just might be the thing that keeps me sane, instills a sense of adventure in my life, and reminds me that I am, after all, not dead. It’s a sport that blends my love for the outdoors with my enjoyment of a healthy, but mindless activity. It has just the right amount of physical rigor one would want at my age, and it’s easy on the joints, except the right elbow. Perhaps best of all, there is minimal preparation needed; after the initial outlay for equipment, which lasts for quite a long time if properly stored, there isn’t a whole lot to it. Did I mention it’s competitive? Well, it is. Perhaps best of all, you’ve got something to show for it when you finish. My new answer to people when they say, “What are you gonna do with all your time?”

“Extreme ironing.”

Extreme ironing is a thing. As the Wikipedia page explains, it involves traveling to remote, sometimes dangerous locations, and ironing. That’s right: setting up an ironing board, and what I assume must be a battery-operated iron, and ironing someone’s damn clothes. There’s even a governing body – the Extreme Ironing Bureau (EIB) that provides a list of guidelines.

Just in case that hobby doesn’t work out, I mean, I do still have to work for several more years, so I can’t just traipse around the globe, ironing board and iron in hand, visiting exotic locales, I have a Plan B: scootering.

My arthritic back has rendered my running days over, and I miss them. My husband tries to run regularly, and if I could just join him, we would have a joint public activity. I could get both a manual scooter, like a Razor, for the days I’m feeling really fit. I could also get one of those automated, stand up scooters, like the ones you rent for sightseeing, for the days I’m a little tired, or drunk.

I told my husband about my idea to scooter along with him around town and accompany him while he jogs.

“I wish I could run with you.”

“Yeah, me too. That would be nice.”

I know, I’ll get a scooter and scooter along while you run.”

“So, we’re gonna be that couple.”

“If you think about it, it’s possible we already are that couple.”

I explained the beauty of my idea in more detail. He got that look on his face that his Norwegian people do when they hear something frightfully stupid, but don’t like to get involved in the strenuous act of talking, or even worse, forming an opinion, which risks the dreaded conversation breaking out. Suffice to say that I did not feel supported.

I’m guessing that Plan A, extreme ironing, is something he will get behind. Anything to keep me off the scooter.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Lisa Lucke

This blog originally appeared at www.lisalucke.com

For me, it started with the mental anguish caused by the onset of puberty, when seemingly overnight, people had a problem with my 70’s era tube top. I didn’t get it, but I did get odd glances and suddenly there was whispering about whether it was appropriate. I was around 12 at the time, so I ignored them and went about my innocent, carefree existence. I don’t know if there exists an equivalent for men. Is it showing up to the public pool one summer during the junior high school years and overhearing someone remark that your Vienna sausage hammock has transformed into a banana hammock? Perhaps.

Then came the bleeding: through shorts, gym clothes, pants, dresses, you name it. Crossing the classroom with purse in hand, convinced that I probably looked like I just sat down at the scene of an ax murder; even if I didn’t, I’m carrying my purse to the bathroom so everyone knows what’s up. I guess a similar fate could befall young men, though an argument could be made they have monumentally more control over daytime emissions than young women do. So ya, no equivalent to be found here.

And then there’s the probing once a year by a total stranger. That started somewhere around 18. It was a male doctor. He entered the room with a lollipop in his mouth and two medical students by his side. While I’ve never been exactly certain why, the lollipop just seemed…unfortunate. Mortification ensued. As a male, did he fully appreciate what it’s like to be an 18-year-old female going through The Exam for the first time, not to mention having it conducted by Kojak and his team of journeymen detectives? I mean, was it really necessary to look up, wink and remark, “Who loves ya baby?!” upon finishing? But I guess the dreaded yearly medical exam for men is a male equivalent, of sorts. Perhaps it would only equal a female’s if it involved a female doctor wearing a mask and a cape, and one of those giant foam fingers when she told her patient to bend over.

Back to bleeding, because I haven’t even scratched the surface. So women will bleed around the clock, anywhere from three, to six or seven days out of the month, for about 40 years, on average, when it’s all said and done. The only time you won’t be bleeding once a month? When another human being has taken up residence inside your body (more on that below, pun intended). But the bleeding isn’t limited to only when it’s convenient, or slightly inconvenient with regard to getting up and walking across a classroom full of snickering punks. I’m talking about bleeding around the clock one week a month, whether you’re asleep, battling the flu, drunk, at a job interview, at the beach, camping, or trying to entertain a bunkmate. You name it, if you’re a female, you will probably have experienced bleeding right through it, and that includes desperately searching for a bathroom, outhouse, tree, or back seat of a car that gives you enough privacy to get things situated. Searching my mental Rolodex of male equivalent….wait, nope. Nothing, zip, nada.

Next, the childbearing years come into focus and the bodily function freak show begins in earnest. Ignoring the obvious “Alien” parallel of a creature living inside you, who one way or another is going to come out of there, there’s a rusty lining to this storm cloud: on the same day that human squatter is finally evicted, it will latch on and use you as a human feeding trough. For me, that was another ten months. That’s 19 months of having another human being physically attached to my body. And men wonder why women go batshit crazy during all or part of that process. Tell me the equivalent for the pregnancy-lactation double-header. Please, I’m dying to know.

Back to the breast. Few people dare to discuss anything but the exalted joy of nurturing a baby at your bosom, with a lovely little blanky fanned across the new mom’s shoulder. Nobody wants to talk about the other side of breastfeeding: scabby nipples. Not sure what I mean? Take the rough side of a kitchen sponge. Rub it back and forth across your nipple (men, I’m talking to you); then, allow to air dry for no more than two hours. Sponge treatment again. After about a week of round the clock, every two-hour sponge treatments, how do you think you’ll feel? A bit on the tense side? Over-reactive to seemingly innocent exchanges with your partner? Grouchy? Exhausted? When you express your discontent, be prepared to hear that lovely “flip side” that non-lactating people, male or female, just love to deliver, about the convenience of being able to feed another human being with your body, anytime, anywhere. Okay, sure, it’s pretty awesome (no sarcasm) when you’re on a bus, your kid is wailing, everyone is staring, and you don’t have any bottles with you, but you do have the one thing that will shut him up; but then again, you’re on a bus, your kid is wailing, everyone is staring, you don’t have any bottles with you, and you have the one thing that will shut him up (with sarcasm this time). It works both ways, my friend. I’m Googling ‘male equivalent for the non-positive attributes of publicly feeding your kid with your body. Not getting nothin’.

To be fair, males have their burdens to bear, like always being the go-to person for heavy lifting, killing hairy spiders and locking up the house at night. And if you’re a male cousin-in-law of mine, it’s your job to “fix the children” when they’re squabbling.

I think that’s a wrap for my scientific comparison of male vs. female bodily functions, adolescence through child-bearing years. Next time: “Male vs. Female Bodily Functions: The Middle Ages.

And yes, women will win again.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Lisa Lucke

I didn’t write about the halfway point, in January, because I didn’t feel like wallowing. And to be honest, I didn’t really wallow. He was home for an extra week, bringing the total to five, which was both great and not so. When his dad took him back, through a snow storm I wasn’t willing to tackle, he was anxious to go, and I was anxious for him to get back and get the semester underway, finally.

Not surprisingly, there was a little delay, just like the delay when we moved him into his dorms last fall. Now, I’m in the post-spring-break funk. It’s a little like the post-spring break funk I suffered in 1989, but with less diarrhea, because that was my spring break and I was on my way home from San Felipe. That spring break, I lived in a hammock for five days. When I got home to Chico, I rested. That should tell you something about San Felipe.

On a sunny, dry, early spring day, I drove my son back to school. It was just the two of us. After a three-hour drive filled with cussing, laughter, and a little advice, we pulled up in front of his dorm, with 30 minutes to spare before his late-afternoon class. He hefted his bursting duffel across one shoulder and swung a stuffed backpack over the other. I wrapped my arms around his torso, but not quite as far as back in September, thanks to his dedication to the gym and the dining hall. I got on my tippy toes, tilted my head all the way up, and planted a kiss on his cheek. His lanky, yet more solid-by-the-day frame ambled away. Getting into the car, I noticed his car charger. I grabbed it, jumped out and darted over to him just as he strode into the breezeway. Tucking it into his backpack, I told him I loved him and then hit the road.

I drove dry-eyed over the mountain. In fact, there really wasn’t a moment. It was business. We went up on a Tuesday, after his doctor appointment, so he was already stressed about missing a day of classes. As I headed west, my thoughts scanned the rest of my crammed week, almost halfway finished, yet still stuffed with appointments, meetings, and household projects. After 30 seconds, when the idea of my fully packed half-week got mentally and physically uncomfortable, I turned to my latest audio book. For the next three hours, I was a groupie tagging along through four chapters of Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography, Born to Run, as he traversed the badlands of the mid-point of his career. What a badass.

Come to think of it, I was kind of a badass, making a turn-around trip over the Sierra Nevada, dropping my kid at the curb and speeding back to my world, without so much as a sniffle. Just like a boss (but not the Boss).

Then, I got home. The house was quiet. I work from home, so I know what a quiet house sounds and doesn’t sound like. I thought about whether I’d have time to listen to a little more of Bruce’s story later that evening. I walked up the stairs. Then I glanced through the picture window, the one that faces east, that’s situated directly across from the upstairs landing. I stopped in my tracks and stared at the towering, snowy mountains I had just crossed. I thought about how far away in the distance they looked.

And I thought about my boy…on the other side.

Faaaaaaack.

Photo Credit

Photo by Lisa Lucke – All Rights Reserved

First published at www.lisalucke.com

To be clear, I’m brand spanking new to the whole concept of safewords, but I know there’s no wading in gently, and by gently, I mean very painfully, but in a good way (or so some people say). So here goes.

I heard the term somewhere not too long ago, probably at the family dinner table now that I think about it, and then I looked it up on Urban Dictionary. Since then, I’ve been intrigued with the idea that safewords aren’t just for consenting adult time.

If you’re in the dark, allow me to illuminate, especially since my family may be reading: It’s not my bag, but it is a lot of people’s bag, and those people use an agreed upon word, decided ahead of time (this is important), that alerts the pain giver that the pain receiver has reached the end of his or her rope (pun intended). Hence, the “safe” part of the word, “safeword.” Safewords are basically the verbal version of what extreme cage-fighters do when they “tap out,” that is, when they sense the nearness of that stage of the shenanigans at which they just want off the fun bus. Hey, there’s another metaphor: Remember when buses had long cords that ran from the front of the bus to the back, and one would pull it as a way of telling the driver to stop the bus? Exactly.

Semantics aside, let’s ease into how safewords work. A safeword must be completely unrelated to adult time of this sort. In other words, it should be random, given the context of the situation. And since it is designed to instantaneously halt unwanted activity, brevity is key! Examples of good safewords might be “log!” or “toe!” But make no mistake, what it means is, “Seriously. Not kidding. No, for real this time, knock it off!”

(Note: If by now you’ve stopped reading to Google “safeword” yourself, and yet you’ve come back for more, our safeword for this column is, “acorn.”

Surprising Fact: Everyday folk like you and me use safewords regularly without even realizing it. Take for example the following activities, and the safewords one might use to bring them to an immediate and abrupt halt:

Mondays: “Zin!”

Tuesdays: “Coors!”

Wednesdays – Friday: “Double Martini-two-olives-up!” (A little long, yet effective, nevertheless.)

At the precise moment those safewords (or hyphenated phrases) are uttered, it’s over! Desks, half-made lasagnas, conversations, and children not dependent on their parents for survival are left abandoned, and the pain ceases. BAM!

Circling back, it’s occurred to me recently that the world needs more safewords for everyday situations. So I’ve come up with some, when I can’t take even one more second of the nonsense going on around me, whether I’m scanning Facebook, watching politicians move their mouths while holding microphones, or hanging around my kitchen.

I tested my theory recently, during a particularly painful Skype instant messaging conversation with a co-worker, when I wanted the asinine banter about absolutely nothing to just stop. So I abruptly typed, “safeword!” into the message field, and I waited. I chuckled at my cleverness. I knew he’d understand my point, which was, “Duuuude, my brain is going to pop out of my left ear and plop onto the floor like a poached egg if I remain in this conversation for one more second.” So of course, the reply I expected to see was, “Ha ha. See ya.” But the message that popped up? “Cadiddlehopper.”

What the heck? I decided to investigate (I regretted it). So I typed:

“Huh?”

“That was my and my first-wife’s safeword.”

“That seems like a lot of syllables when you’re like, you know…”

“We never used it.”

“Safeword.”

He did not reply. He got it. (See poached egg section above.)

Here’s another situation when safewords might come in handy: convos with husbands about sports.

Husband: “So, blah, blah, quarterback, blah, blah, fantasy football team, blah, blah, trade…”

Wife: “Kumquat.”

Husband: “What the heck is that?”

Wife: “It’s a safeword.”

Husband: “What’s a safeword?”

Wife: “Well, in this context, it’s a word that means, ‘Shhhhh.’”

Husband: “But why did you say it?”

Wife: “I’m in pain. I want it to stop.”

Now that I’ve covered the office and sports, let’s move on to the recent election.

Acorn.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Lisa Lucke

First published at The Surreal Housewife

Speaking of husbands, mine is still mourning the passing of his favorite holiday: Thanksgiving. It’s his favorite because it’s all about the Fs: Family, Food and Football, and not in that order. But I have a strong affinity for Thanksgiving because of a few things it doesn’t have: religious hypocrisy (love thy neighbor, unless I disapprove with whomever he or she might love, in the biblical sense) or strange rituals (hunting for eggs laid by rabbits).

This year, for some strange reason, I want to be helpful with my holiday posts. In the spirit of helpful advice, here are some tips that might help your next holiday dinner run more smoothly.

My first tip is to plan ahead. Don’t wait until the last minute to consider options, from menus to which flavor of pain you are in the mood for this year. In-laws or immediate family? Siblings or cousins? Neighbors or workmates? Ham or turducken (a turkey, stuffed with a duck, that’s been stuffed with a chicken.)

Once that’s all settled, it’s time to work out the details: Who is the most likely troublemaker? Will he or she wait until dinner to create the beastly moments (BMs) or will they get the ball rolling early, before the numbing juice has been sufficiently dispensed? What form(s) will the BMs take? (the presidential candidates, global warming, Russia, etc.) Which amount of wine goes best with Donald Trump, barely enough or too much?

Finally, whether you are hosting or attending someone else’s holiday dinner, do not forget to establish an SOS list. That is, the person(s) you can count on to run interference should a BM land at your feet.

And why is that? Well, like most get togethers, holiday or otherwise, group gropes always include THAT person who likes to push buttons. But the holidays are special, because you’re trapped. You can’t leave early. And it’s not a matter of IF the BMs will be launched, it’s a matter of WHEN, which creates a weird tension in the room. For four or five hours. This year, BMs will be brought to us by the fine folks at both political parties. However, as much as I’d hoped for it, one thing you won’t hear is, “Trump really got a raw deal in that election. It was totally rigged; you do know that, right?”

Still, regardless of which way you wanted the election to go, no Thanksgiving is complete without a big helping of verbal turducken: An ill-informed point, wrapped inside a lie, shoved inside a jackass. Verbal turducken cannot be countered; there is no winning. Once you’ve got a bite in your mouth, you must chew the turducken slowly, 20 times, before swallowing. Use the opportunity to smile and nod. Sip. Sip once more. Rinse, repeat. Imagine a bowling alley, and a super slow-moving, 17-lb bowling ball (the BM), rolling into the pins. You’re that one pin that topples, spins, and sits there. You don’t get knocked away, off the lane and into safety. Instead, you lay there whispering desperately for the lane clearing machine to put you out of your misery: “Please, metal sweeper; get me out of here. I’m suffering.”

And that’s when you make eye contact with your SOS person, widening your eyes slightly to silently convey the torture of the BM that you are currently experiencing. If your SOS person turns away, you’re in trouble. But if they respond by somehow bailing you out, you have found your soulmate. Marry him or her immediately, even if it’s your long-eared coonhound, Flappers, or your same-sex cousin and neither of you are gay.

Just think of all the turducken it will provide for years to come.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Lisa Lucke

First published at The Surreal Housewife

Truth be told, I wasn’t born into a family of shopping enthusiasts. We aren’t recreational shoppers; we’re a pragmatic bunch when it comes to gift giving. Growing up in the 70s, our big night was Christmas Eve, when we gathered at my Nonie’s house. My mom’s family drew names every year, so each person only had to shop for one other person. The adults, all seven or eight of them, all shopped for the children, as was appropriate. My brother and I liked to show our giving spirit also, so we usually pooled our resources and shopped for the relatives out of the Avon catalog. To this day, I choose to believe my uncle appreciated every one of his yearly musk-scented soap-on-a-ropes, which likely paid off handsomely down at the pub for weeks to come. Catalog Santa for the score!

As much as my brother and I were eager to get to the main event, I enjoyed watching the grown-ups open their gifts. They were almost always big, like a countertop appliance, or some weird gadget just out on the market (think, Water Pik, when that was cutting edge). The expression on my Nonie’s face conveyed one of two thoughts, whether watching someone else open a gift, or peering into her own present as she carefully unwrapped: “What the hell?” or “Oooooooh,” depending whether she knew exactly what she was looking at.

One memory, particularly, stands out. I must have been about eight, because as I recall, I was rocking one of my favorite material possessions ever, a pair of white, knee-high leather boots with embroidered flowers up the sides (remember, this was the 70s). After the various blenders, toasters, air popcorn poppers, etc., were opened by my parents, aunt, uncles and grandpa, it was my Nonie’s turn. Out of the box came a DaZey Seal-a-Meal. We marveled at the technology of the day. This was going to change everything for my grandma, who cooked entirely from scratch, often in batches large enough to feed a platoon. Consequently, a lot of oooohs and aaaaahs were heard that night. Secret Santa for the win!

Then came the envelopes. Every adult and child got an envelope from a certain not-so-secret Santa who wasn’t much for shopping, even for one person. We all loved Envelope Santa. If you asked the adults in the room that age-old Christmas question, “Do you believe?” they would have all answered “Yessss.” Luckily, that torch was passed and Envelope Santa still makes it possible for my generation to hear the bell on Christmas. Envelope Santa rocks!

But did you know that there are other Santas, such as Buys Clothes Anyway Santa? Even when you have specifically asked, or even begged BCA Santa not to buy you clothes, you know what’s in the box. In all honesty, BCA Santa hits a home run now and then (further reinforcing her position to keep swinging for the stands). But the ground-out-to-first-base years, not so much. Those post-gift-exchange rituals are more like needle exchange programs: “Give me a clean needle (the receipt) and no one gets hurt.”

This year, it’s going to be a home run year for BCA Santa; as a matter of fact, it’s shaping up to be Chicago Cub-like! I happen to know this because recently (spoiler alert), my mom asked me if I thought my brother might like the same sweater she had just bought for my father. Like a dutiful sister, I said, “No. He’s asked you not to buy him clothes.” But then, a week later, when my brother was visiting, this happened:

Son: “Pop, love the sweater! Where’d you get it?”

Pop: “Costco. Want to try it on?” (sneaking a look at my mom, who was salivating at the idea of a “W” on the Christmas books.)

Son: “Sure. (tries on the sweater) Wow, I really like this.”

Mom: “I’ll get you one for Christmas!”

Son: “Can I just have this one?”

Pop (frown): “No.”

Mom: “I’ll take care of it!”

BCA Santa for the walk-off home run!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Lisa Lucke

Originally published in the Amador Ledger Dispatch

The chair was free, which makes it even more comfortable. My aunt bought it, used it for a short time, and then decided it wasn’t quite what she was looking for. I don’t know how long she had it, and it really doesn’t matter; she takes good care of her stuff. It’s virtually brand new.

So this chair is really comfortable. It’s in the reading room at our house, which is a room that has no TV, just some bookshelves and leather couches and a jukebox that doesn’t work. My husband, whenever he sees me sitting in the chair, says, “How does my chair feel?” I reply, “Our chair feels great.” We both sort of make a break for the chair in the evening, or on the weekends, when the time is just right. If I get it first, he gets a sad look on his face and sits in the 80-year old creaking rocker and winces in pain with every rock. If he gets the recliner first, I sit on his lap. That’s how we roll. He eventually moves.

It’s hard to describe how comfortable this chair really is. One day, about a week after we acquired it, I nestled into it and ate my lunch. Since I work from home, I had nobody watching the time-clock; and since there is no time-clock, I closed my eyes. And then the funniest thing happened: I fell asleep. And then the most horrifying thing happened: My four bosses came home from boss school. As they bounded through the unlocked door, I looked up and smiled a loungy, chair-drunk smile. That’s right: I was high on chair.

“Hiiiiiiiii.”

“Really, Mom, this is what you do all day?”

“No, but this is what I did today, from 1 – 3.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Whatever.”

“Nice, Mom.”

Lately, I’ve been using the chair as a docking station for my butt, while my teenagers get ready for school. Since the chair is in full view and earshot of every room in the house practically, thanks to a winning open floor plan, I am totally accessible. With my coffee, slippers and blanky, I sink into my chair and wait out the clamor. By 8:15 a.m., I am high as a kite, but I am technically also working, because I’m checking my work E-mails that have come in overnight. I’m also being a mom, ready at a moment’s notice to help someone find lost crap, or sign random pieces of paper they shove in front of me.

“Here, you need to sign this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a durable power attorney over your estate. I showed it to Dad last night while he was asleep. He mumbled something about you signing it first.”

“Well, OK, if he said so…” I say, in my chair-induced haze.

All of this is leading up to the moment, a few weeks ago, when we moved the chair from its temporary December position, in another room, wedged between the piano and the china cabinet, back to the reading room.

Suddenly, the dead-beat squatters staged a coup.

“The chair needs to go there, by the bookshelf!”

“No, it needs to go by the jukebox!”

“Can the chair go in my room?”

“When are we getting the jukebox fixed?”

“Yeah, let’s get the jukebox fixed. It’s cool!”

And that’s how it went, for approximately 20 minutes.

My head spinning, I told them to put the chair wherever they wanted. When they were finished, the reading room looked like Fred Sanford’s front yard.

“Can we keep it this way?”

“Sure. Until you leave for school tomorrow, which is when I’ll put it the way I want it.”

The next morning, at approximately 8:16 a.m., I moved my high-chair to the spot right next to the window. Then, I went to work upstairs, waiting patiently for nap-thirty.

Photo Credit

Photo by Lisa Lucke – All Rights Reserved

First Posted At The Surreal Housewife

I suppose he figured he’d have time to whisper the words, “drafts folder” from his deathbed, but alas, there were no last words that anyone was witness to. There was a tree, and a single car accident in the middle of an otherwise perfect, sunny Colorado afternoon.

I admire his courage to write down his last wishes. He also left letters to his wife and children, who were devastated by his untimely death. But having those letters, knowing they were written with the understanding that they would someday be navigating this world without him, must have brought them what I can only assume was a shred of comfort in a sea of pain. It’s a brave thing to do, to face one’s own mortality and write stuff down.

As soon as we returned home from the funeral, my husband and I had that conversation usually reserved for late in one’s life. But that’s the thing: How do we know how late (or early) it is in our life? One of my kids could be sneaking up behind me with a heavy frying pan as I write this.

My point is this: Why leave it to your grieving relatives, who will be furiously looking for your will, to make important decisions about your send-off? Regardless of how comfortable you are thinking about your own demise, isn’t it your responsibility? And besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have the last word, once and for all?

Here is how my letter to my children might look:

Dear Children:

Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope your Grand Theft Auto score or your rating on Kim K. is not terribly impacted; I’m sure you’ll be a C-lister in no time, even without my guidance. Regarding my last wishes and life in general, here you go:

You must do your chores this week, but take next week off. By then, the fridge and cupboards will be empty and you will be weak with malnourishment. Behind the microwave you’ll find a few twenties; call in a pizza.
Since you already know everything, all you must do is remember it, along with the location of your shoes, phone, homework and head, if it weren’t attached. Nevertheless, follow this last bit of advice if you want to get ahead in life, or at least to the corner: Accept your responsibilities and the consequences of your actions; treat others the way you would like to be treated; look both ways before you snatch the last slice of pizza.

Please cremate me. (In the event this letter is found while I’m still alive, I take that last sentence back). Please, no weepy gatherings inside of a faux-wood paneled room with uncomfortable benches or I will haunt you for eternity. Sprinkle my ashes to the winds at any location above 7000 feet. Whatever you do, please don’t leave my ashes in the closet for eternity, or until someone needs the shoebox to wrap a Christmas present in and I am poured into the recycle bin, which, come to think of it, would create a new circle of Dante’s hell and serve as fitting punishment for having sent so many wine bottles to the same demise.

Love, Mom.

Photo Credit

Photo by Lisa Lucke – All Rights Reserved

I had just moved to a new town at the end of eighth grade, so I began my freshman year with one friend—my next door neighbor who was kind enough to follow her parents instructions to be nice to me. I quickly branched out and began accruing friends in a more organic way, which helped calm my nervous stomach as I walked on campus those first few weeks. By mid-year I was settled in. But that was in a school of nearly 2500 students. When you don’t know anyone, in a sea of bodies that vast, you can both blend in and feel even more alone than ever at the same time. For my kids, it’s a little different. There are only 550 students in the entire school. They’ve known their friends since pre-school.

I’ve got four kids in high school this year, and for the next two years, when the eldest graduates and likely heads either north, to my alma mater (CSU Chico), or south, to San Diego. At least, that’s what he’s thinking about this week. The two freshmen, my daughter and youngest step-daughter, escorted their dad down the driveway this morning, each taking an arm for the long walk to the truck. Was he going willingly? I think so. He’s been waiting a long, long time to have all his kids on campus with him. I upgraded his classroom mini-fridge to a slightly larger, dorm-style version last year, when our second-eldest, my other step-daughter, started high school. Now, he’s got five lunches to store, including his own, not to mention water, yogurt and whatever else they can cram in there.

Where did the time go? I don’t just mean this summer; I mean the last 16 summers. Seems like just yesterday I was packing bikes and kids into the truck and heading to the elementary school to teach them how to ride a bike, which was impossible on the hill we lived on. Or I was killing time at the park, pushing them “higher” on the swings and catching them at the bottom of the “loopy slide.”

A lot of time definitely went to operating car seats. Sometimes, at the end of a long day, or even at the beginning of what surely would become one, just thinking about taking the kids along somewhere would lead me to conjure up and then calculate exactly how much work it would entail, and whether it was worth it. Into the car seat, out of the car seat, into the car seat, out of the car seat. Those days when I had to run three or four errands, to the drug store, the cleaners, or god forbid, the grocery store, it became a shit show of buckling and unbuckling, keeping one on track (alive) while the other was either being removed from or put back into the car. And back then I only had two kids. In fact, I recall moments in the early evening, when this single mom was not up to cooking even mac n’ cheese, and I’d decide to get takeout. Hmmm, I’d think. Do I want to pile two tired, sweaty, not to mention mostly uncooperative kids into the car, drive to whatever fast food joint we could all agree on, spend the money, come home, and pile them out of the car, just to avoid boiling water and mixing in some powdered cheese and butter? Some days the answer was “hell, no” and other days it was “hell, yes.” Funny, how that works.

Now, I pull up at the softball or soccer field, leave the motor running and wait for them to scramble out, grabbing their gear, water and sweatshirts. In less than ten seconds, I’m on my way. We’ve come a long, long way from car seats. So far, in fact, that the junior is now driving himself around and the sophomore will be soon.

The time went to a million different places: family movie night, when we’d pile onto the couch and shush each other for two hours; dinners at Mel’s, endless trips to the park, or the museum, camping, vacations to Hawaii, Colorado and Washington, trips to the City (San Francisco), baseball games, an endless stream of softball tournaments, Saturday soccer games that seemed to end in a different time zone they went on so long, holiday dinners, family reunions, and most recently, sitting in or around the pool at all hours of the day or evening.

Monday is the big day. Four kids in high school. R.I.P. Summer of ’14, and all that came before you. You will be missed.

Photo Credit

Photo by Lisa Lucke – All Rights Reserved

First Posted At The Surreal Housewife

All of this attention to remembering five other people’s important data, and by important data, I mean crap, is on top of remembering my own work-related tasks and deadlines as editor of two monthly trade magazines. Weekly deadlines bear down on me like a speeding locomotive, and there I am on the track (at my desk), jumping out of the way (hitting the send button) at precisely the last second before getting a face full of train.

The elephant in the memory room, so to speak, is age. How does one compensate for the decline in memory as one ages? Buy more Post-its? Put chalkboards in every room? (The bedroom wall chalkboard could get interesting.) Set alarms for our impending alarms?

Surely, there’s got to be another way.

I contemplated this at length the other day, while driving across town (all two miles of it) and forgetting where I was going. So I asked my 14-year old passenger.

“Where are we going?”

“To Save-Mart for milk and then Play it Again Sports for cleats.”

Wow! Not only did she remember the places we were headed, but the items we were buying! Eureka! The sure-fire way to compensate for an aging brain is to surround oneself with young, fresh brains! And since I’ve got between one and four much younger brains around me most days, this had to be the answer.

To test my theory, I made sure I wasn’t alone from the time the kids got home from school, until they went to bed, so that I could compile some simple stats on how many things I didn’t let slip through the cracks. Here’s how it worked out:

On day one of my experiment, my 16-year old son told me that he needed to go to his dad’s classroom to get a book that he had forgotten (an early clue that my fresh-brain theory may not be airtight). The trip required that we first drive to the softball field where Dad was coaching, in order to retrieve the classroom keys from his truck. Halfway between our house and the softball field is the classroom, which you must drive right past; there is no other route. To illustrate just how short of a journey this is, the entire round trip takes approximately four minutes with no stops. And, the road runs so close to the classroom that the room number painted on the door can be read from the road.

Off we went, son at the wheel, me in the passenger seat, enjoying the sunset view of cows, fields and oak trees. In about two minutes, we were pulling up to the truck. We got the keys, which took ten seconds, and turned around to go back the same way we came. Two minutes later, as we pulled into the garage, I said, “Don’t turn off the car. I have to go run an errand.” My son mumbled something that sounded like “ok” as he put the car into park and set the brake. Then, we looked at each other.

“Crap.”

“Oh my god.”

“I can’t believe….”

“Let’s go.”

That’s right: In the two-tenths of a mile between the field and the classroom, we’d forgotten to stop the car. And the whole point we were in the car, at all, was to get into the classroom, which we’d driven right by on a quiet two-lane road with no traffic, no distractions, not even any conversation.

Now what do I do? Install a chalkboard in the car? Make sure a second teenager is present? Or should I call protective services? Child or adult?

Photo Credits

Photos from – The Microsoft Office Clipart Collection

First Posted At The Surreal Housewife