Menopause plus a teenager equals wine
“Happy Father’s Day Dad!”
“Thanks son.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, son.”
“Are you taking us out to breakfast now?”
Until next time -
C
Brian have you fed the dog?
My feet are cold.
—
Brian can you take the garbage out now?
There’s something weird on the floor over here.
—
Brian is your homework done?
We had to run the mile in PE today.
—
Brian, can you come lift this for me?
Did Alex call?
—
Brian, we need to be leaving now. Are you ready?
Mom, John said he could beat me arm wrestling at school, but he couldn’t, and Mrs. Lewis said we weren’t funny. But it was, you know? And then I said hey, and he said hey. (laughter) So funny huh mom?
—
Brian how are your grades in school?
I’m hungry.
—
Brian how was school today?
My back itches.
—
Or should I just be grateful he is talking to me at all?
Until next time -
C
It’s Sunday evening and the smell of teenagers have left the house. The dog is contentedly sleeping, dreaming of the day she spent with her pack of smelly teenage boys. The cat has come out of hiding, relieved that all that noise in her kingdom has subsided and those smelly big people left, except for the one she loves. He just showered and is fast asleep.
The once full refrigerator contains condiments and eggs, and possibly a drop of milk. The cupboards are bare of cookies and snacks. The quiet hum of the heater sings softly in the background. The dog gives out a sigh. The video games are off; the computer is dim. Another weekend has passed in a growing teenage boy’s life.
I wait for the sound of yet another “D UUUU D E!” followed by laughter filling the rooms of our tiny home, but my other sons, those teenage friends of Brian’s have all gone back to where they belong. No more “Thank you Brian’s mom”, or “Can I please have more?” as they try not to knock me down with their gangly teenage bodies. Once in a while they include me in their conversations – usually to win a point against another – then back into argument and laughter with each other.
Somehow they always seem to arrange their return home plans to enjoy one last dinner before leaving. The baked chicken looks as if wild vultures picked it dry to the point where even the dog isn’t interested. But then, she had the pleasure of playing vacuum cleaner around the boy’s feet all weekend. There are no more mashed potatoes and even the vegetables fell victim to teenage -always-empty stomachs.
There’s leaves on the couch and dirt on the carpet, soda rings on the coffee table and an empty toilet paper ring on the dispenser. The white soap next to the sink is brown and the hand towels next to the sink look like the soap should still be white. There’s a Nerf bullet in the refrigerator and a toothbrush in the shower. A line of play samurai swords line the hallway towards the front door. A basketball sits on the porch and a baseball glove rests contentedly on my microwave.
A mother’s slice of heaven.
Until next time-
C
http://www.aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com
Children teach us about life and how it should be lived. Tonight was the awards night after the final games of the basketball season. Brian’s team came in third after a stunning loss in the last split second of the game. Up to this point they were tied for second in the league.
This was his first time at basketball and he played with such fearlessness that I wondered if he was related to me at all. He went into a sport he knew nothing about and kept up with kids who played since they were 4. He never once complained about any of it – not the time on the bench – not the fouls or missed shots.
In fact, all the kids played brazenly tough games while still respecting each other. I often wonder if they were really the adults and us adults were really the kids. During one game it hit me like a brick to the head: the kids love what they are doing. This is what bliss looks like.
If the parents would just leave them alone.
Maybe we parents should be banned from all our kids sporting events. I’m not sure if they would miss us. All our side coaching and prodding. No wonder kids go away to college.
Brian sits displaying the medal he earned for attempting something he never tried before surrounded by us parents who needed to leave them play their sport.
He should wear it proud and I should get a life.
Until next time-
C
In honor of the holiday, here’s a little redhead joke for you -
A redhead went to the police station with her next-door neighbor to report that her husband was missing.
The policeman asked for a description.
She said, “He’s 45 years old, 6 foot 4, has dark eyes, dark wavy hair, an athletic build, weighs 185 pounds, is soft-spoken, and is good to the children.”
The next-door neighbor protested, “Wait a minute! Your husband is 5 foot 3, green eyed, hairy all over, 350 pounds, has a big mouth, and is mean to your children.”
The redhead replied, “Yes, but who wants HIM back?”
Happy Holidays!
Until next time -
C
One day in 1998, after my father’s death I found myself suddenly angry at the bizarre nature of funerals and death in America.
I poured out my heart in an English paper, describing the ritual of picking out my father’s coffin. I saw the irony in picking out something my father was going to be buried in like one might choose a prom gown or a new car. My English teacher wrote in the corner of this paper, “I have never read anything that touched me like this story. I cried. You have a gift, please share it.”
And that was it. Words began to gush, revealing my anger, bitterness, sadness and loneliness onto the lined pages of my journal. The writer in my was born.
Then my mother and I had a fight. The kind of fight two heart broken females have when one is a teenager and the other is the parent. I moved out in one day. I packed everything into my car and just drove off. I burned the journal and stopped writing.
I stopped writing for 18 years.
Fast forward to 1997 when a funny thing happened at work. I was given a laptop computer and access to the Internet. I was to test software and how a loan officer might use the Internet. Once home, like a chocolate addict given the keys to Sees, I used my computer as a magic carpet and flew all over the world exploring events and cultures I only imagined. (who cares what a loan officer uses it for).
One night, while quietly reading about Ireland and Gaelic language, my very first Instant Message popped up on the computer screen. It made this great little sound . . . like a bird whistling.
I almost dropped the laptop; it startled me so.
Suddenly there I was, writing from my lap in our little cottage home. Writing to people live – in real time. I love the back and forth banter between two people in an instant message. It is a writer’s paradise. We are most at home when typing a conversation, rather than delivering it in person. The ability to write to new found friends over the Internet gave me the strength to leave an unhappy marriage.
I became sick with Hashimoto’s somewhere around 2002 and went through a particularly rough period in my life. One day, while lying in bed I came across the opportunity to begin this blog. I had so many thoughts running through my head screaming at me to be written down. Without even thinking, I naturally followed the steps to create a blog and dove head first into writing.
I was back.
It was very difficult at first, like stretching a new muscle. But over time it evolved into the flow of a person’s life story.
Maybe not everything, but an idea of what my life is like.
Then the emails began. People writing to me about their thyroid problems, opening up and sharing very private, painful experiences. Experiences I can all too well relate. Suddenly I was surrounded by kindred spirits.
And calling myself a writer again.
Until next time -
C
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