Growing Old and Growing Young

It has been 8 weeks since my daughter Christine moved to Miami. It was a good thing. With the help of a new loving friend, she decided to pull together all the things she loves and make a new life on her terms. I give her credit for being so sure of herself and be willing to leave her comfort zone. It was the natural thing to do - to take the plunge when you are young enough to recover. The problem was how those left behind, me, go on. We have been through hard times, my daughter and I. She was a rebellious kid during her middle school and high school years and I was a busy mom. It would have been nice if she took the straight path while I tended to the things that I needed to do. Plan their activities, cook their meals, and be the mom. It seemed to be a simple request but it was not to be. She was experimental and I had lots more to do but much more to learn. She was growing up and I needed to grow down. I needed to learn to understand what it was like to be part of her world. Life is funny and many times, you make up the rules as you go along. As it turned out, I taught her to be mature, and she taught me to be young. I often said I did not want to be one of those mothers that complained about the music of the day, that technology was too challenging and the current fashion styles were not for me. Somewhere in the early 90s, shirts were not tucked into the waistband anymore and jeans were constructed with lycra (that eliminated the bags in your ass). It was not until the day my daughter said to me "don't be afraid of the new styles, mom. They are your friend". Her words made sense. I was wearing baggy ass jeans with boring tops, tucked into the waist band. This was 1995 and time to free myself of the suburban housewife standard costume of sweatpants, sweatshirts and sneakers. Enter the straight leg, lycra blend jeans with a "huckapoo" style shirt, untucked topped with a purple suede jacket. Yes, thanks to my daughter, I was released. In the course of raising children, I discover how my daughter matured to a sensible woman. She then raised me to be part of the 21st Century. I started shopping at Express and Anthropology (within reason) as an alternative to Ann Taylor. I learned you can get something from each of these stores and not become the stereotype of a person who gave up fashion to be boring. My younger co-workers love that I dress a little youthful but with a sense of style. My daughter brought that to me. She reminded me of who I was before I was a mom. As I said, she is living in Miami now. I am surrounded by my boys. They tease me, make me laugh and love me. But to them, I am their mother. To my daughter, I was her mother but also her companion. It is a different relationship. Each are great, but each are different. Today, I wore a white bra under a white T-shirt. I was not sure it looked right but I wore it to work anyway. At work, I asked a young girl in my department if she thought it looked alright. She commented, in a polite way, that she thought I could get away with it. My daughter would have told me the truth. I'm glad she went but I miss her.

Catch up

My daughter asks me every week, "why haven't you blogged". I don't know I say. I have a list of about 5 topics that I want to write about and never do. So I am coming back with pictures of what has been going on in the last few months. And a big thank you to you Christine for bugging me to come back. A lot of this is about Thomas but it was, after all, his last year in high school and a great year too: Thomas' prom - don't they look handsome! Tom's Graduation The Graduation Block Party: Ever see so much testosterone! Having way too much fun And the girl's aren't bad either (they're the ones in the skirts) The "young_old man" at bat. Form is still good, right! And July 4th fireworks in Manhattan pictures: I am posting twice today as some what of a makeup - second post - Julia and me. Still to come, the Paul McCartney concert and more altered recipes.

Ups and Downs

I don't know why but in March I usually feel out of sorts and become victim to a creative meltdown. It is a month where, much like the weather, life becomes unpredictable. Looking back to last year, the same thing happened around the same time. My thoughts dried up then as now as evident by the fact that I have not written anything in several weeks. It may be writer's block or that an emotional roller coaster is over taking my thought processes. I can't use any of the traditional women hormonal excuses because I am way beyond that. No it is life that is having it's ups and downs and here is why: Good news:

• I celebrated 5 years free of breast cancer. Doctor gave me a clean bill of health and told me not to come back for a year.
• I have completed my first 2 years of college to get an associates degree. I am taking a break while I ponder what I will do next.
• I still have a job, we are not in foreclosure and we can still afford to send my kid to college.

Bad news: My beloved Uncle Paul in Australia died Friday. Having been diagnosed with advanced cancer, he succumbed this past week with his son and daughter at his side. I hate that I will never see him again. I miss him already. Very bad news: Thomas has to have surgery to correct a tumor that has grown larger in his left knee. Scheduled Friday, 4/3. Good news: The tumor is benign, he has a surgeon that is chief of orthopedic surgery at Mt. Sinai and he is on spring break the week after surgery so he can recover without loosing too much school time. (That's probably not good news to him.) Feeling sorry for myself news: I canceled the Whistler trip to be with my son. And with all this, I gave up drinking during the week for Lent. Is it Friday yet?

The Young

I came across this blog somewhere and I have been following it for sometime. I think I started reading it because she had some insights into NYC and then the blogger got pregnant. Her last post is about how concerned she is about this breastfeeding thing. It expressed so much of what I felt when I had my first child; confused, concerned and convinced I was doing everything wrong. I wanted to post a comment but she already had 62 comments of people telling her what they did and what she should do. I could not read them all but knowing what I know 23 years later, the kid will survive and probably because we are the kind of mother that posts blogs looking for reassurance. There should be some form of a formal mentoring system where you have an older parent around to help you get through these early years - somewhat like an intern system. In truth, with my first, Anthony, I had a cesarean and my mother came to help me for a week. The day she left, I cried feeling insecure and frightened that I would not be a good mother. Maybe that is the way to go - like birds, throw them out of the nest and let them fly. Somehow they survive and survive they do. I look at my kids now. They are young adults and I am still struggling with trying to stay out of their lives and letting them fly. I remember some of the times that made me feel that I was the worst mother on earth. When Anthony got his legs stuck in the crib bars and couldn't move for what seemed to be forever. I remember when Christine cried one night for longer than I wished but I was so tired I just prayed she would go to sleep. And Thomas who broke his arm one day when the babysitter claimed she was paying attention, and I knew she wasn't. Those memories last in me, but luckily not in them. I wish I could get them to do the things I am sure will get them to their goals faster, but I can't. I wish they would be happy all the time, but they won't be. In my life, I learned by flying alone. It is how they will learn and they will, but in their due time. So my blogger friend, it won't come easy, but it will come. I'm at least grateful that I am not worrying about breastfeeding, diapers and play dates. My kids turned out okay either because of me or in spite of me, but no matter, they are loved and will love. That is all that matters some days.

The Waiting Game

I am sick. Sick with a sore throat that kills when I swallow. I’m also sick of everyone’s complaints of winter. Hubby is in the garage, staring at the snow and at his motorcycle. He listens to the weather - more snow coming, temperatures in the single digits. He waits and dreams of California and waits for winter to be over. Anthony looks at motorcycle magazines planning, plotting and waiting. Christine, maybe the only smart one, booked a vacation to Florida where she has been for the last week. She will return today probably with some awesome tan and look to plan her next trip – and wait till then. Today is Super Bowl Sunday. Thomas will watch the game and then wait till next fall when the football season starts again. He is also waiting for college acceptance letters (particularly one) and hopefully will be playing football for the college of his choice. We all wait. A few weeks ago, Tony and I took off on a Friday and went skiing at Mountain Creek. The conditions there were the best I have ever experienced at this NJ mountain. But, I guess if you don’t ski, winter is just one long wait. So, here’s my response to winter. I booked a trip in April to Whistler, Vancouver to ski with my Houston girlfriend who I went to Banff with last year. To a skier, winter just isn’t long enough. I can’t wait till April.

Val-Kill

In the house we had before this one, I had a room I called Val-Kill. I named it after the cottage that Eleanor Roosevelt had in Hyde Park, NY – her place, her things, her sanctuary. I named my room Val-Kill for the same reason. In a house filled with toys, sporting equipment and a 12’ x 30' model train room, this small 10’ x 12’ room was mine. I decorated the window with sheer, white curtains, and the walls with blue painted wainscoting with soft off-white colored walls above it. It was minimally furnished with a desk, single bed, and my computer. On the wall hung an inexpensive, framed poster of the Van Gough painting, “First Steps” where a child takes his first steps towards the outstretched arms of his father. The room stored my hobbies, my memories and my life, past and present. It was the room I had imagined my mother would have when she would visit and hopefully would live in someday. Like Eleanor, my mother was the savior of lost soul. If you didn’t have a place to go at any holiday or would like a nice Armenian meal, you were invited to my mother’s house for dinner. Her charitable contributions consisted of regularly taking 2 buses to Jersey City to visit our elderly, shut-in relative who looked forward to the homemade dish my mother would bring. Like Eleanor’s children, I felt second string to my mother’s business (dressmaking), selfishly wanting just to enjoy her company. When I was younger, her quality time with me was going to a client’s home where I would sit quietly waiting until she finished fitting the dress on her customer. Returning home on the bus, we would talk for a while but inevitably, she would doze off to catch some desperately needed sleep. She seemed to exist on 4 – 5 hours a night and many a time, after I moved out of the house, I would be driving by her house on my way home at some un-Godly hour, seeing the silhouette of my mother in the dimly lit attic window, sewing to finish some customer’s dress. When I think back on it now, I wish I had been more of a help to her and less self-absorbed with the “all-about-me” teenage attitude. I’ll never be as talented as her or as generous as her but I am her daughter so I am lucky to be a product of this great woman. I remember her this week as her birthday, January 14, approaches. She never did get to live in my Val-Kill, just in my heart forever.

A Night To Remember

(that blur with the ball is Tom on the carry) It is 4 am and I can't sleep. Last night, I had too much wine. Last night, I told another man I loved him. Last night it was 30 degrees with a wind child that made it feel like 20 and Tony, Anthony, Christine and I sat in an open football field for 2 hours watching Thomas and his team in the deciding game of the high school football playoffs. In spite of the bitter cold, we were sweating it out. Both teams wanted this to go on to the State Championship. It is sudden death to the losing team; as a senior, your high school football career is over and you want to go out a winner. It is a scoreless first quarter. I don’t know how they are playing in this cold and without sleeves (it compromises their holding the ball). I am wearing everything I can think of to keep warm, and my lucky heart necklace. I prayed to my mother every time I see Thomas go in – she can help him, I know it. It is second quarter. Thomas is in. The quarterback gives the ball to him. And he runs, and he runs. And it’s Forest Gumpish. He is running 81 yards with a platoon of defensive linemen after him. They cannot catch him. He scores and the crowd goes nuts. In the second half, the opposing team came back and scored. After the third, it was us 7, them 10. The wind kicked in harder and it is colder, if that seemed possible. We are now officially freezing. It’s 2 minutes into the fourth quarter. The quarterback hands Thomas the ball. He runs and he runs. He does it! Tom scored again on a 39 yard run. After a 3 point field goal by us and what seemed like the longest quarter in history, Tom's team wins 17 - 10. He did it, its huge and its all about my kid! He's only 17 years old and when he is 30 and 40 and 50 years old, this day will live within him forever. He will remember this bitter cold night when he brought his team to victory. It is what I live for as a parent – my child’s success all on his own. His abilities, his accomplishment, his 15 minutes of fame. As is the case after every game, parents, coaches, players, cheerleaders and whoever else go to the after-game celebration at the local pub. Everybody came up to Tony and me and congratulated us. It was the team, I said. No one player can do it alone. But it was Thomas' in the spotlight. He gave up summers for 4 years to practice and be with his team. He worked at this and deserved it. Coach came to our table. He said my kid was great and very coachable. I told coach I loved him because of what he did for Thomas. I also thanked my mom. His MVP Trophy for the Playoff Game.

"Tom on the Carry"

The opening day of the high school football season took place last Friday evening. Thomas is playing. It is the night before the game and I am told to expect my house to be honored by being decorated by one of the cheerleaders for good luck. So Tony and I came home Thursday night to find this: and this and this and even this In my day, when I saw homes decorated with toilet paper dangling from the trees, it wasn't a form of admiration. It was trashing and usually to some poor kid who was being harassed at school. Somewhere along the line, I am imagining that some smart educator suggested that the way to stop this harassment was by decorating the house of a 250 pound senior lineman that nobody is going to dare mess with. It then became cool. My honored tradition takes place every week before each game until the season is over or the toilet paper freezes on the trees. It is high school football at its finest. I have even been blessed with a new fall wardrobe. This shirt: which I wear to every game and this 6" by 4" pin, which takes up most of one breast: (BTW, they won their first game - and he did carry a few times) Wish him luck.

Home ?

Every time my husband and I go on vacation we think about what it would be like to live in the place we are visiting. So far we have considered a move by the beach at Newport, RI, to a hilltop villa in Tuscany and now, a small home or townhouse in Carmel. I can’t believe it took me so long to get to California but maybe the reason why is that I would love it so much that I would have wanted to move. California is awesome. We arrived in LA, drove to Solvang, stayed in Carmel, went on to Sonoma and ended in SF. I didn’t have a bad meal and loved seeing the view of the water everywhere. I realized I should never pack for my lifestyle but for the lifestyle I am going to (no dresses necessary). I spent a lot of days in fleece. My husband grew a beard, which actually looks very nice. There is still so much we haven’t done in CA and so many restaurants we have yet to experience. I thought Point Lobos was the most scenic place on earth. Tony loved the scenery of Monterey and was also excited about the Red Bull motorcycle race at Laguna Seca. I know he imagined the thrill and beauty of Highway 1 on a bike. I, on the other hand, would be happier on a cable car in the city. The narrow, winding road around Muir Woods which we mistakenly took thinking we were going to the Pelican Inn which was only 100 yards from the base of the road did me in. Next time, I will read the map more carefully. Everyone at home seemed to survive without us. I give my kids credit. We arrived Saturday morning on the redeye to a perfectly clean home and no signs of the parties that probably took place at least once or twice (or more) the last 10 days. I don’t know what they ate but in the fridge I found 5 boxes of ice cream (all different flavors), a carton of hot pockets and the leftovers from the dinner I made 10 days ago. So be it. Part of the enjoyment of the trip was thinking of how I would love it if the kids would be there too. There in is where the problem lies. We could move to the city of choice and enjoy the breathtaking scenery and perfect climate, or move to where the kids wind up. It is hard. My mother stayed in the same house she bought with my father until the day she died. Tony’s mother was in 14 houses, mostly in Florida, all within the last 20 years. I don’t know what feels right except that for now, I hope to travel more until I do know what I want. Next year, I want to go to California again. We’ll see. Family In Sausalito

California

It is finally here. The vacation I have planned since February starts tomorrow. Tony and I are going to California. The itinerary is to start in Solvang (the land of the movie Sideways), drive up the coast to Sonoma and end in San Francisco. Tony will be going to the Laguna Seca motorcycle race on Sunday. I, luckily, have a cousin who lives in San Francisco who will enjoy keeping company with Tony at the race while I am tooling around town with his lovely wife. I have never been to the west coast except for business and that wasn't much fun. Tony hasn't at all. The kids, oh yeah, they will be home alone. Honestly, it doesn't worry me that they are home. It worries me more that both my husband and I are traveling together. A feeling of danger came over me this week. My organizational skills kicked in. I'm flying to the land of fires, mudslides and earthquakes. What if I don't come back. I quickly pulled out my will. OMG, it hasn't been updated since 1997 when Anthony was 11! This will not do. Even if I am not around, I can't be leaving this planet without a plan. I know this is morbid but I am a realist and need to have things in order. I called the lawyer and asked to have the will updated before Tuesday. He said not to worry, most deaths occur within five miles from one's home. Very comforting, very lawyerlike. I typed up a While We Are Away sheet of things the kids should know about the house (empty dehumidifier every day, when the garbage is collected, where the electric panel is and what it does, who to contact for what). I have an emergency contact sheet that is hung up on the cork board in the laundry room. It once included the phone numbers of the nearest relatives, schools and doctors. It now includes my lawyer, accountant and financial adviser. I'm hoping they won't have to use it but just in case they should know I was thinking about them. I would have loved to have taken them along but schedules between 3 kids and 2 adults gets impossible to coordinate. Last year, I planned a week in Newport thinking the kids would join us. They didn't. It's okay, I get it now. I'm thinking they wouldn't want to go to the places in CA that we would be going to anyway (maybe). I'm packing tonight. My husband always tells me I overpack. Well what do you expect when I read that the temperature is 88 degrees during the day and 55 at night. The Mark Twain expression "the coldest winter I ever spent was the summer in San Francisco" keeps popping into my head. I like to be prepared clothingwise for anything. Doesn't everyone take 6 pairs of shoes? When we come back, we will have some new pictures, some good wine and hopefully, we will all be safe. We're California Dreaming, on such a summer's day.

Still going

Birthdays are not always magical but I can say, I had a nice day yesterday for mine. The day started when I came into the office to find my cubical decorated like this: They do this to everyone in the department so we all get a chance to look silly for the day. There is a committee (yes, a committee) that cooks up some goodies and buys bagels and muffins to bring in. Then it was home to my loved ones. It's always a good day when I can get my entire family to be with me for dinner but, being it was my birthday the kids all made an attempt to be there. We had a lovely dinner (which I made) and had nice conversation, and a few laughs. Three awesome kids, one great husband and many good friends. Life is good, and I'm so not done yet.

On Being Armenian

Throughout my life, I was reminded of the death and destruction that fell upon my family simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am Armenian – 100% and this week as every week around this time of the year, there is always a remembrance of the genocide that took place April 24, 1915. On that day, the Turkish government carried out their plan to rid their country of the Armenian population in much the same way Hitler planned the systematic destruction of the Jewish people. All Armenians have a story of someone in their family that either lived or died during this massacre. Mine involved my father. His father, who because he was among the prominent citizens of town, was one of the first to be taken from his home and never seen again. My father, his mother, brother and sister were forced to walk across the desert in what was labeled “the death march”. They somehow made their way to America, except for his 3-year-old sister who died of starvation en route. I was named after her. Growing up in NJ, our social life was only with other Armenian families. We lived near Armenians, spoke Armenian in the house and participated in only Armenian functions. I could only have Armenian friends (think how many of those there were in public school) and my brother and I were not allowed to join after school activities that did not have anything to do with the Armenians. That pretty much limits ones social life to being home with parents and their friends and hopefully, someone who was among them that was of our age. That may sound unreasonable but it was not within my world. Most Armenian parents of the genocide generation practiced that same philosophy of child rearing. Things loosened up for me in high school, but my cousin, even at age 16, wasn’t allowed to leave the house without a grown-up. Many of us from that age can’t ride a bike or swim. These were considered dangerous sports and unnecessary. Keep the kids close and pray they will be safe. There are a lot of good things about being from an Armenian household. We always had company over, even during the week and the cuisine is the best. We always knew there would be a lot of people over when the night before, my mother, an excellent cook, worked most of the night to make our favorite foods.We hold family above everything. The remembrance of the massacre by my generation is once removed from the horrors of the massacre. We grew up hearing about it but never experienced it. We didn’t know it then, but we were held close more for them than for us. They needed to feel we wouldn’t be taken away or led on a march somewhere. Our lives are better now because of the struggles of our parents and grandparents and we respect and love them for it. Today to commemorate the massacre, there is a rally in Times Square. to bring attention to the genocide and how the Turkish government still refuses to acknowledge that this systematic killing took place. I won’t go. Today, I will remember my father, who now as a parent, understand him more and more. Azat & Thomas on their wedding day

My Moon My Man

My husband and I will be married 26 years this year. Adding the 2 years we were together prior to marriage, I think it is safe to say, we are probably going to make it to death do us part. If I remember correctly, our first Valentine together, he bought me a box of candy. I bought him this jar of men's facial cream. Honestly, he wanted it. It was Clinque's line for men which was the same stuff that they put into the women's product but repackaged it so men would feel comfortable buying it. We probably went out to dinner too although that part I don't remember. What I remember is that we both knew without knowing, that we were on the same page. I wasn't a big fan of dating but it was the only game in town. Many times, it was a game. After what seemed as if I had gone through every style of man there was, I start thinking maybe my expectations are too high. Remember that song "if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with". Luckily, I didn't have to. Tony and I met through a work situation. I was a print buyer; he was the printer. He spotted me going through his plant checking out a job and later called to ask me out. That was the way dating worked then. A couple of dates, it clicks and one day he shows up with his shaving kit. I see my kids and their friends. They date, they have long and short relationships, they fight, they have a great night and so on. Same process but part of it is communicated behind IM messages and thumb dancing each other through texting. One thing that hasn't changed is going to the clubs. Still part of the scene to look around the room to find the face you want to talk to. It is hard for me to stand by knowing they will have to go through some heartache until they find the one. I wonder if they will ever try online dating - or maybe they already have. I'm guessing the service works by plugging in your likes and dislikes and the computer comes up with someone who is similar to you. My husband and I would have never met that way. Putting it on paper, we have nothing in common. He loves cars, trains and motorcycles. I would rather be on the bus or walk. I get my news through The New York Times. He watches the History Channel rehashing WWII. He can only sleep in total darkness. I could sleep standing up. Before kids, every Sunday morning it was a trip to the fabulous German bakery for fresh rolls and danish with the Sunday Times for breakfast. Friday nights were for pizza in Little Italy. Saturdays often times was a drive to a car show. Then there were moments. The snow storm where we walked to our favorite neighborhood restaurant to splurge on Chateaubriand and good wine watching the snow. The monoply game where I woke up the next morning to the biggest mess I had ever seen in a kitchen. He introduced me to punk music and we danced at Hurrah's and Danceteria. I watch the kids going through the trial and error of dating hoping the process is kind to them. They will go through the heartaches, I'm sure, but I hope the day comes soon that they find the one worthy of bring the shaving kit or beauty bag.

Freedom

Her name was Azat. It means freedom in Armenian. She escaped from Turkey with her family during the Armenian genocide. She spoke 5 languages and was a very hard working woman. Her profession was being a dressmaker (an amazingly talented one) and of course, a mother - my mother. She was my role model. This is not the first time I have written openly about her. In fashion school, I used her as a model for a term paper about a fashion designer. Today is her birthday or would have been. I think of her every day. After she died, I found that paper I wrote among her belongings. Last month, my daughter did something that made me realize how much her grandmother meant to her. Not that I am fond of tattoos, but what can I say. I love my daughter too.

Just 17, you know what I mean

This Christmas Eve my youngest son, Thomas turned 17 which means, after a year of driving with a permit, he can now go for the driving test. His test was for 8 AM, we were there at 7. The fourth car in a line of anxious teenagers waiting for their turn to strike the first cord of emancipation from their parents. I knew what was going through his head. "Always use blinkers, don't go too fast, why does parallel parking have to be part of this anyway. How will I bear the humiliation if I fail". I failed my first time taking the test. Fortunately, I was out of high school so my friends didn't know. Truthfully, I didn't care much for driving. I did know I had to do this because my father was getting too old to drive and my mother never did get a license. The car my father owned, and that I was to drive, was his 1949 Buick Dynaflow. It looked like a tank, had no power steering and I needed a large pillow to see over the steering wheel. See why I didn't want to drive. When the two older kids needed a car, they would complain if they had to drive my mini-van. Ask me how much sympathy I had for them. But isn't driving what you had boyfriends for. Back then, boys drove and girls were passengers. Oh wait, things haven't changed in 30 years have they. My husband always drives. In the last 25 years, I can count on one hand how many times my husband has been a passenger with me driving and never for longer than a couple of miles. He can have this driving thing anyway, put me on the bus. Back to my son. It is 8 AM. His turn came. This nice gray-haired woman officer approached the car and got in. I went to wait in the building with all the other parents. We talked about how we felt. Some saw it with mixed emotion. I didn't. I saw it as another stage. Joy to the World - he passed. We went home, he called his friend. It is no longer, "Mom, can you drive me.... It is replaced by Mom, can I have the car." It starts today, and goes on from here - another rite of passage.

Mom in the Kitchen

Last week, my mother-in-law came up from Florida to relocate to New Jersey to be near her family. She is 83 years old, and in her life, starting with the Bronx, she has lived in 4 places in New York, 5 in New Jersey and 7 in Florida. Obviously, she is not one to hold sentiments about any one place for any reason. I admire my mother-in-law for not having the fear of moving. Nothing stopped her from selling her home when the market was right or if she tired of the neighborhood. In comparison, I have lived in 4 homes and expect to die in this one (unless I can convince my husband to get an apartment in Manhattan - highly unlikely). So mother-in-law sold her house in Florida, and drove up with my husband. It's interesting how things change when you are the adult. Mom is very respectful of the son who she once pranced onto his baseball field, loudly ordering him home for dinner. Mom doesn't touch the food I have in the refrigerator for fear that I intended it for something other than eating (??). And mom buys toilet paper to use in my bathroom because she doesn't want to use mine up (??). I have forgotten what it is like to have someone cook those meals that only a mom/grandmother cooks. I come home and the comfort food I love is there. I haven't slaved over a stove all day being the mom. Mother-in-law is the mom in the kitchen. Sunday dinners are a little more special because she made them. Although my sauce is good, her sauce is awesome as are her meatballs. Maybe only because it is different from mine. Sunday dinners are the day we all try and be together as a family but when Grandma is cooking, the sauce is a little more special and worth being home for. I am enjoying my new found freedom from kids but for this short time, I am the kid again. Someone is cooking and food shopping for me. She loves it and so do it.

Autumn and Christine

September and October are my favorite months. There's fall festivals, pumpkins to paint and great clothes to buy in rich fall colors. Schedules get crammed with school, soccer and dance classes, but when the kids were little, I added one more thing to the busy autumn months that I actually enjoyed. That was to have their birthday parties in the Fall. Planning kid birthday party is a mother's rite of passage. You either love doing it or just want to get through it. The entertainment involved either spending hundreds of dollars at Chucky Cheese or a Fun Time Junction, or having the party at your house where you struggled to entertain 10 or more kids so they wouldn't tear the place apart. Some families had pools which made having the party during the summer easy. Serve pizza, everybody jump in. Given I did not have that option, I came up with my own solution. Being the old-fashion sensible mother I think I am, I preferred to take the home route. It would have helped if I had some artistic talents to get the kids involved in a craft or if I had a sophomoric sense of humor where I would not have felt ridiculous dressed in some costume telling funny stories. But, without those attributes, those parties could become the longest two hours of life. So, my decision to have the parties at home came under my terms. Those terms were that regardless of when their actual birthday was, the kids had to have their party in September or October. There were more ways to entertain in the fall. Hayrides, picking and painting pumpkins or watching scary movies with a sleepover were more fun than Chucky Cheese anyway. At least, I could relate to those activities. So as it went, Thomas’ December birthday was celebrate in September with a camp out in the back yard on the first Friday after the new school year started. Anthony’s August birthday was in October usually starting with a haunted hayride and then the sleepover and scary movie. But where I really lucked out was with my daughter Christine. Although her due date was in November, she got it right by arriving three weeks early to be born October 22. Although she did have her kid parties where we made candy apples, painted the pumpkins and had the sleep overs, we always used her birthday to get the family together too. She was very close to my mother who loved her only granddaughter in a very special way. If she was alive today, she would have been proud to see how strong and beautiful Christine is. Christine looks like a mini-me, but she is my husband. She has a love for NY and clothes both of which she got from me and my mother and has a kind sense of caring for people. From my husband, she has this strong focus on her work along with his creativity and sense of humor. When she was little, Tony would read these little girl books to her about “Rainbow Brite” and “Star Sprinkles”. She never speaks of them now but what she does remember are the movies he introduced her to. She knew all the classics; original King Kong, The Thing and Bride of Frankenstein and still speaks in movie dialog quoting mostly from her favorites, Jaws, Finding Nemo and the original King Kong. A sampling of a conversation goes something like this: Me: Christine did you pack for the trip Christine: Yes, I brought the gas bombs (King Kong). Me: I’m so mad I can't fix this computer and don’t know what to do? Christine (melodiously): Keep on swimming, keep on swimming (Finding Nemo) Me: Do you want fish or chicken for dinner? Christine: I want to be sure it’s the fish. It probably is Martin, it probably is. (Jaws) And so it goes. You get use to it. This October, my daughter will turn 21. If you ask her, it's just another day. She really was never big on the kid parties and sleepovers made her very cranky. I don't miss those parties. As I said, it is a rite of passage. But this year, I think we will paint pumpkins and have family over.

Football and the Summer of Content

Every year I dreaded summer. While most are planning vacations, lazy days at the pool or beach, I was struggling trying to find a full time babysitter and activities that would entertain my kids and keep them out of trouble. My budget would be in the red paying for day camps, summer clinics, trips to the movies, or whatever. It seemed to be forever that this would be going on until the two older kids were in high school which led to a worse set of issues about who was coming in and out of the house with who and doing what! I hated summer - until this year. This year, with the two older kids having full time jobs, there was only my youngest, Thomas to deal with. He is 16. Up until the age of 10, Thomas was the type of kid that would come down stairs sliding on the banister, yell out "boring" at a display at the Smithsonian and wind up in the principal's office in grammar school for hitting the girl who hit his friend (who got even the next week by pushed him into a pile of mulch). I loved Thomas but was convinced I had a lunatic on my hands. Somewhere along the line, though he settled down. He always made good choices of friends which led to my having close relationships with their parents. In spite of his antics, teachers and parents liked him. And then he chose to play football. In 8th grade, the high school coaches come to the middle school to talk to the boys about football. He was interested and signed up for freshman football. Little by little, it became an obsession. Instead of that 70s Show, he is watching ESPN - constantly. Star Wars posters are replaced by Tiki Barber and whoever else in a football uniform. I find him bidding on Ebay for football jerseys that he must have. But here's where the contentment lies. Training starts before the school year ends in May and continues all through the summer. Every day he is at the school with team and coaches and safe (exclusive of the tackling part). When he's not practicing, he's too tired to do much else except play Madden (like I said, obsession). We never went to the beach this year except for some time in Newport where he came for only a few days and hurried back to practice. It's what he wants and what makes him happy. He made his summer and made mine too. Ah contentment.

Anthony's Birthday

I knew when I was a teenage that I wanted to have a family first and a career of some kind after that. As fate is, I started a career in Facilities Management at The New Yorker magazine and met my husband through work. We married when I was 30 and had my first child at 32. Tuesday, August 14th, is my first-born child, Anthony's birthday. He is 22 years old. If you have more than one, the oldest child is who you make your mistakes on. By the time I had the third, I felt I finally got this baby-sleeping thing under control but I never understood what they meant when they said a mother could recognize what’s wrong with a baby by its cry. I am freely admitting those deafening cries all sounded the same to me. But even with my inexperience, if you look at Anthony, he doesn’t look wrong.

This semester, Anthony is starting his final year at Fordham. He will be the first in my family to graduate college. He works as a waiter and bartender on Friday and Saturdays. He goes out with friends that he has had since middle school and one since he was 1 year old. I think he does too much but I wasn’t any better. I’m very proud of him. Many of my friends have kids that are much younger than mine. They sometimes wish they had the freedom I have. I’ve waited 20 years to be able to take off on a Saturday morning to NYC without having a soccer practice or something I signed up for get in the way. Now when I go to the city, I’m usually back home before any of the kids actually wake up. It’s great having some freedom again, but I would kill to have all of the kids over for Sunday dinner each week This year, my husband, Tony and I celebrated 25 years of marriage. To commemorate the event, we booked a weekend alone where we vacationed in our earlier years with and without kids, Cape May. It was just great, just great. Then the following weekend, we headed to Newport, RI where a year ago, I booked a one week vacation expecting some of the family would join us if not all. Anthony and Thomas, my youngest, came for the first few days. Christine had to work. The days the boys were up were great fun for them and us. Then they left to go home to their own responsibilities. My husband and I were alone together again – uh oh. Now I’m thinking “can we actually find more things to talk about for another week?” We did and even went to a blues club where I didn’t feel like the oldest hippie there. We started to find the things we left behind when we had Anthony. So today, I celebrate Anthony – who started the best part of my life.