Childhood Remembrances

For nearly 13 years now, I've been holding onto a letter that Grace wrote to herself.

I can't remember if the letter was my idea or if she'd heard it from one of her friends. The goal was that she not become one of those strong girls who goes through middle school and becomes a people pleaser, boy crazy girl who puts aside her own interests and activities. 

I imagined that she would passionately describe the joy of swinging her lanky legs over the back of a horse, the bliss of leading it by the leather reins tight in her gloved-hands and the sheer elation she felt as she became weightless when the horse leaped over a fence or water-filled ditch before the jolt of landing on the hard ground again. 

Her true bliss, curling up on the floor with our droopy-eared dog or sleeping with the weight of our black cat on the bed, surely would find its way into her letter. She would run her hand over their backs, telling them secrets. 

And I thought for sure that she'd write about how powerful she felt in the swimming pool as she moved her arms like an endless paddlewheel, stroking and kicking her way through the water to pop her head up at the wall. 

And maybe she'd remind herself how much she loved languages, memorizing each symbol of Egyptian hieroglyphs and wearing out a book on Cherokee symbols. Each language felt like a challenge that she needed to conquer, which perhaps led her to dive into opera and efforts to understand German, French and Italian.

It might have been around 12 that she discovered the mysteries of genetics. She'd spend time diagramming how the different genetic material might result in a left-handed child or a blue-eyed child. 

If nothing else, I figured she'd write about her obsession with Harry Potter books, the endless roleplay she and her friends acted out in our backyard.  

So Grace took some stationery and diligently wrote in her 12-year-old handwriting. Then she handed it over to me. 

I didn't have a specific place that I stashed it, but occasionally, when I cleaned off my bedside table, I'd find it there amongst my journals.

Yesterday, Grace turned 25, and I figured it was time for her to confront her 12-year-old self, to see if she'd lived up to her expectations.  

. 

It was a busy day for her. After working from 9-5, she rushed to the theater where a new play, The Lion in Winter, was opening. She plays Princess Alais, the mistress of King Henry II. 

I hoped that we could all gather after the play for cake, presents and the opening of the letter. 

A sophisticated bar downtown with great windows overlooking the city might be a good place to gather, I decided. 

But as the play ended at 10:30, suddenly everyone was too tired to contemplate going out. We instead stumbled back to our house where we set out the chocolate bombe from Pistacia Vera, a lovely chocolate mousse cake, and we liberated a bottle of red wine from the basement stash. Grace's boyfriend Jack was there, along with her friends Dave and Taryn. Plus Spencer was home, busy studying for his insurance exam. 

I handed her the letter first thing and she slit the envelope open. 

"It's just a list of who my friends are," she said as her eyes slid over the paper. "It has our address and says that Rosie (the dog) and Buddy (the cat) are alive."

Grace gave a laugh, "And it says Elizabeth was my friend until November but she isn't my friend anymore." 

We speculated on what might have happened between Grace and her friend Elizabeth.

I admitted to being disappointed. "I thought it would focus on all of your passions."

"Instead, I was just a 12-year-old gossip girl," she said. 

Another mystery solved, but without a satisfactory ending.
If it was a novel, I'm not sure which I'd have preferred, to learn that she had remembered all of her passions, tackling them with strength and vigor, or for her to be disappointed that she hadn't met her expectations. Then, as a character in a novel, she'd have to set out to become someone that 12-year-old could be proud of.
No matter what she wrote in that letter, I think she'd be pretty proud of the 25-year-old she has become.  

Catching Up With My Family

Now that everyone has heard enough about my husband (see previous 12 posts), its time to reassess what is going on with my family.

The holidays have luckily stretched out for us with college not starting again until tomorrow for Spencer. He'll head out into the snow to his university an hour and a half away. I've firmly told him that I want him to leave in time to drive in the daytime. The road is a nice 4-lane highway for most of the way, but once he gets to Athens, the hills and dips in the road might make things treacherous.
I'm trying not to get too excited, but Spence met a girl his first week home at an ugly Christmas sweater party and they've been dating since. She's his age and lives not too far away. She does go to another college, but we'll see how they balance this once they're both back at school. Generally, he dates a lot of different girls, but this one seems different. I've long suspected that a steady relationship would be good for him, so we'll see.
As for Tucker, my 19-year-old has once again decided not to go back to his college. Instead, he'll stay home and take classes at the nearby community college. He think he has a major he's interested in -- sports videography. So he's taking classes in videography with a sports management degree. I hope he stays excited about it. He could have continued at Ohio University with a degree in journalism, but I was paying $4000 for three classes, along with $2000 per semester for his apartment. I still have to pay for his apartment even though he isn't living there, but the cost for classes, 5 classes, will be less than $2000. Plus, he is already back working at his previous job as a delivery driver for Jimmy Johns. He's working five or six days a week.
The drawback of course is that 19-year-olds generally aren't that pleasant to live with. Hopefully, we'll all be busy enough that we don't trip over each other. And his long-time girlfriend, he's been dating her for a year and a half, which is nearly a 10 of his life, lives here in Columbus and has her own apartment. That should help too.
Grace continues to enjoy her job and has health benefits now, along with a free gym membership, paid vacation. She's thrilled about that. She's rehearsing for a show now How to Succeed in Business Without Even Trying, where she's in the ensemble, but it's a producer with good connections so she's trying to cement ties with him so he can help her find jobs in the future. She was asked to audition for a paid show, and she tries out tonight. She also sent in her resume for an independent movie that is shooting in Columbus and got asked to audition for that -- a female serial killer.
The more engaged my children are with their lives, they happier they seem, so I'm all for busy schedules as they spread their wings. She's also been dating one guy for nearly half a year. The drama in my house reduces greatly when everyone has a steady boyfriend or girlfriend.
The kitten which Earl rescued in November has finally gone to a new home. Tucker's girlfriend took him in. The other cats are starting to trust that the kitten is gone. They slowly start to sleep in the living room or bedrooms again rather than cowering in the basement.
The kitten, who is now called Thomas, had to visit on Friday. His apartment was being sprayed for bugs. The kitten remembered everything about living here, and, unfortunately, the cats remembered the kitten. Our house was full of hisses that day until he left.


I'm teaching five classes this semester, but one of the colleges where I teach doesn't begin until next week, so I still have more down time. Yay! Another of the colleges where I teach started last week, so I'm easing into my new schedule. I've been in a down period as far as writing goes, but I'm planning to buckle down this week and get Paris Runaway revised.
As for me and Earl, remember that things aren't perfect, but we enjoy spending time together and we have a countdown clock for our move to France: One year, 131 days and the hours count down.

Wayward Children

Even as I write this, I can see the humor of my heartbreak; I know that someday I will laugh at the situation. And let me warn you that logic does not work with an angry 19-year-old.
"I don't even believe you're my parents anymore!" my 19-year-old son yelled as he raced down the stairs.
This was the second time he had walked away from the conversation, and the first time he slammed a trash bag against the door frame until it burst.
You might wonder what caused this outburst.
I told him that we wouldn't pay for his apartment while he attended college unless he passed his classes.
I'll just wait a minute while you re-read that last sentence. Let it sink in.
As parents, we were insisting that this boy, who went to college last year with scholarships in hand because of his high test scores, attend class and pass the classes, if he wanted us to pay his rent.
Many teenagers or young adults might be happy if their parents paid for their college. Others might be thrilled if parents paid their rent, but apparently we went too far in agreeing to pay for both if he received good grades.
If you are trying to understand this logically, give up.

Last fall, my youngest son left for a 4-year university. A perfect storm of illness, wisdom teeth infection, a girlfriend at home, and a room full of four guys convinced him that college wasn't for him. He only passed one of four classes he took.
He moved home in January and attended a local community college. Again, only passing one of four classes. In May, before we knew he hadn't passed the classes, we let him move in with a friend. The two of them started a business, which blew up, along with the friendship in July. We never liked the roommate, so were happy to have him move home. He had talked about getting a house with three other guys, one of whom went to high school with him.
This past Saturday, we scheduled my son's classes for the fall. He has decided to take a two-year welding program. That's fine, but we don't really see him sticking with a trade job. He has never been a hands-on kind of guy, the kind who likes to get dirty or even play with Legos.
While scheduling classes, I asked him to pull up his class from this summer, and he hadn't passed it, just by a small amount, but still.
The next day, I asked my son to join me for breakfast. He didn't have time. On Monday, I again suggested we go somewhere to talk. No time.
On Tuesday, I saw him in the kitchen and attempted to bring up a conversation about the possibilities for him this fall. He could return to the 4-year university and live in an apartment with his brother while taking a few classes to explore what he wants to do.
His eyes went blank, as if he'd pulled down shades, like a character from a cartoon.
"Why do you do that?" I asked. "You aren't even listening to anything I say."
"Because you always second guess me," he said.
"When have I done that?" I asked.
"Now," he said.
And that's it. Just this one time that I thought he might not want to be a welder and knowing that he hadn't succeeded in the class he took this summer.
On Thursday, he decided to make peace and let me know that he and his friends had found a 4-bedroom house to rent.
That's when I released the bombshell that we wouldn't pay for an apartment until he passed his classes.
"So I have to live here until December?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded.
He couldn't possibly do that. Living here was impossible! He didn't even want to go to school at all.
The situation didn't improve, and when he stormed out the door to go to work, I was left wondering if he would quit school and simply move out.
It's not what I want. I want to help him succeed at college, and I think I'm doing everything that I can toward that.
He came home last night after I was in bed. No one has talked about what will happen, what his future holds.
Right now, we're all kind of waiting to see what happens.
I'm sure I broke my parents' hearts when I was his age. I was rude and entitled. I traveled to faraway cities to live a couple of times.
To adults, it seems silly that he wouldn't take the offer of college and get a degree to be whatever he wants to be.
Last night, I was talking to a student, probably in his mid 20s, who told me he is having trouble getting to class because he has to take care of his 1-year-old daughter, and the girl's mother wants nothing to do with her. We talked about how difficult it is to go to school while raising a family and working.
He told me his 17-year-old sister thought she didn't want to go to college, and he was trying to convince her to do it now.
"You know," he said, "there's some people who can't learn from watching other people. They have to make those mistakes themselves before they learn."
And that rang true for me.
In the midst of my broken heart, in the midst of standing fast to the rules we've set, in the midst of loving my son in spite of his misguided path as he grows up, I know I have to let him make his own way and hope that I'm around when he's ready to ask for guidance.

Growing Up

On Sunday last weekend, Spencer took the bus home from college through the snowy countryside. We had about six inches of snow on Saturday that made the roads quite a mess.
Spencer came home so he could attend the visiting hours at a funeral home for one of his basketball coaches. The basketball coach was 46 and died of colon cancer. He wasn't the head coach, but an assistant who focused more on teaching the boys how to be honorable men rather than only on winning. He wasn't aggressive enough for some of the hard-core parents. But once high school basketball is over, the lessons he taught are much more important.
Spencer called from the car when Earl picked him up at the bus stop. "Will you have some food ready?" he asked. "I haven't eaten all day."
And, of course, as he does at school, he's lost about 15 pounds this semester.
So I had two plates, one of breakfast, pancakes and bacon; and one of leftover dinner, spare ribs and mashed potatoes.
As he settled into eating, he turned to me and said, "What is his family going to do now that Coach Hall is dead?"
I explained to him about insurance and the teacher's union, and his wife probably has a job.
But that wasn't what Spencer was asking. He didn't focus on the finances of taking care of a family.
"Yeah, but those kids don't have their dad any more," he said.
It broke my heart and made me proud of him all over again.
We live in such a materialistic world, but Spencer saw the important parts.
When he went to the funeral home that night, Grace went with him and she said he made a point of talking with his coach's son, a freshman in high school. Spencer talked with him until he got a chuckle and a little relaxation in his shoulders after standing beside his dad's coffin all day.
I complain about my kids sometimes, but I need to remember that even when they fall off the track of finishing school and getting good jobs, they're good people growing up to be people I'm proud of.

Saturday Snapshot -- Growing Up Swimming

To participate in the Saturday Snapshot meme, post a photo that you (or a friend of family member) have taken. Then leave a direct link to your post on West Metro Mommy. Photos can be old or new, and be of any subject as long as they are clean and appropriate for all eyes to see. How much detail you give in the caption is entirely up to you. Please don't post random photos that you find online.
I'm spending this morning at a swim meet. Swim league championships. This is my 7th year in a row to go to high school league champs at the same pool. I know exactly where we will sit so we can get good pictures. But, this is my final year because my baby boy is a senior.
Here's a picture of him being adorable.

This was the age when he used to walk down the stairs, one foot at a time holding onto the rungs under the railing, and when he got to the bottom he'd say, "Here's Tucker!" Oh, what I would give for that kind of excitement now.
And here he is a few weeks ago in his manly hairiness and a Speedo, which really looks good on no one.

When I was looking for a swim picture of Tucker, I found this one from when he was 11. 

Compare it to the one of him a few weeks ago. 

 He still pushes the goggles up to his eyes as a nervous habit. 

Hope you all have a warm and fun weekend. 

Saturday Snapshot -- Growing Up

To participate in the Saturday Snapshot meme post a photo that you (or a friend or family member) have taken then leave a direct link to your post on West Metro Mommy. Photos can be old or new, and be of any subject as long as they are clean and appropriate for all eyes to see. How much detail you give in the caption is entirely up to you. Please don’t post random photos that you find online.

My  youngest became a high school senior this year as he finished exams for his junior year. It made me a little sentimental, so here are a few photos of him much younger. 

And then here he is ready for prom this year, posing with the cat in his own tuxedo.

Hope you are having a glorious weekend.

Saturday Snapshot -- Family

To participate in the Saturday Snapshot meme post a photo that you (or a friend or family member) have taken then leave a direct link to your post on Alyce's blog At Home With Books. Photos can be old or new, and be of any subject as long as they are clean and appropriate for all eyes to see. How much detail you give in the caption is entirely up to you. Please don’t post random photos that you find online.
The only photo I should be thinking about is an English Comp essay with marks from my red pen since I have to finish grading lots of essays for Finals Week, but I pulled out an old family photo we used on our Christmas letter in 2008. Four years doesn't seem that long, but when I look at my family, it's a long time.

They've all changed so much. We've all changed so much, especially those two on the end -- the kitten and Tucker.
I don't have a decent photo of the whole family from this fall since the oldest two have been at college, but here's one from this summer before Spencer left for college in Florida. But, I'm not in the pic cause I was taking it. (I really hate photos of myself lately anyway!)

Oh, and here's the kitten all grown up. He never takes a bad photo.

Adapting

My friend Stephanie teared up on Saturday when she talked about her daughter going back to college. She couldn't think about it, much less bear to watch her leave the house and return to the college two hours away.
It's times like this, that I realize I may be lacking in some basic emotions. It's not like I love my kids any less, I'm just not overly emotional about them heading off to college or France or wherever their lives take them.
I've hypothesized before that I'm less emotional about it because I homeschooled them and I feel like I've spent plenty of hours getting them prepared for life beyond home. But I think something else has helped prepare me too.

Three years ago in March, my husband found out that the newspaper was laying off employees. We found out the next day that Earl wasn't laid off, but he was moved to the evening shift. This left him home during the day. Since I am an adjunct college teacher, I'm sometimes home during the day too. We had to learn how to adapt to new schedules and learned how to enjoy time together while the kids were gone to school.
Sometimes we walk downtown to get coffee, other times we venture out for lunch or ride our bicycles. Sometimes, we just watch sitcom reruns. We've remembered what we enjoyed about each other before the kids came along.
I think this alone time together has helped prepare me for the empty nest that is coming. This year Spencer will graduate and head off to college. Two years later, Tucker will follow suit. Then, unless Grace comes home after college, Earl and I will be home alone throughout the school year.
The idea is certainly different. No basketball games or swim meets or musicals or orthodontist appointments. No big shoes strewn across the kitchen floor. No pile of wet towels waiting to be washed. And no one to stretch up to on tiptoes so I can kiss their stubbly cheeks goodbye as they head out the door for school.
I imagine that if Earl is still working evenings, cooking dinner will go by the wayside. I'll probably settle for a bowl of cereal or a salad.
Even as I strain to hear the back door slam with the approach of oncoming teenage boy feet home from school, I don't feel teary at the idea they'll have moved on.
I'm not a martyr taking a stiff upper lip as they move on, and I'm not so selfish that I can't wait until they go. It just feels right that the kids take up new challenges. They live in a college dorm full of other tall boys and girls who dance and watch Disney films. They are busy carving out their own niches now.
And luckily, I'll still have days filled with my husband and dreams of traveling to exotic places.

Cracks of Separation

On my way home today, I looked at the Starbucks coupon for a free cold drink and wondered which child should get the drink: Tucker or Grace.
The idea of buying it for Spencer never crossed my mind. After his initial grounding this summer where he spent a constant week with parents, a week grounded then a week without his car, he has made the most of his freedom. He is rarely home until curfew.
In three months, Spencer will be 18 -- a legal adult.
He is, and always has been, my most social kid. He goes to basketball three days a week, lifting weights with his basketball buddies. He works two or three nights each week, and the rest of the time he is hanging out. Eating at fast food restaurants, cruising, and socializing at the football field take the rest of his time.
Still, it shocked me a little that I hadn't even considered that he might be home, that I could buy him a Starbucks treat. I decided to call him and, if he was home, I'd get him a Frappucino.
"Hey, Mom," he answered.
"Are you home?" I asked.
"No, I'm at Joe T's," he said. "Chillin'"
Ah. No Frappucino for him.
"I was thinking we need to touch base. Get together. Talk about college visits and stuff," I said. "Maybe we could have lunch sometime."
"Yeah, well I already ate but okay."
Well, it was three o'clock, so most people had already eaten lunch.
"I was thinking Friday," I said. "We'll go someplace with wireless so we can search for colleges online."
"Okay," he said.

So now I have a date with my middle child, my oldest son.
I don't expect to have his attention for long.
I know, unlike his sister who would happily have stayed home rather than venturing off to college, he is counting the months until he finishes high school and tries his sea legs on a college campus, eager to see what he can do in a bigger pond.
I still catch glimpses of that little boy though, the one who danced to Riverdance and cried at the Tigger movie because Tigger didn't have a real family.

Last Time

The problem with the last time something happens, unless it is scheduled, we probably don't notice it's the last. I know the last swim meet, the last basketball game, the last show in a play. But so many lasts with my kids I don't recognize.
This morning around 6, I heard the floorboards creak then someone shuffled into a door. Next the word, "Mom" came from the darkness.
"Yeah?" I responded.
Then Tucker stood beside the bed stretching six-feet tall now, his shoulders broadened from this last season of swimming.
I scooted over so he could sit down.
"I had a bad dream," his hand rubbed at his eyes. He sat on the bed then lifted up the covers and climbed in.
I moved over more toward Earl as Tucker turned on his side.
I rubbed his back a few minutes while he slipped back to sleep.
As I lay there, sandwiched between my husband and son, I remembered that this used to be a common occurence. Tucker would seek out our bed. Once he had fallen asleep, I would get too hot from all the body heat coming from those guys so I would get up and sleep on the couch.
Now I can't remember the last time Tucker came to our bed. Probably a couple of years.
Odds are good, this time on Feb. 13 may be the final time that one of our children climbs into our bed after a bad dream. There might be plenty of other times they wake us up in the middle of the night though, and the problems may not be as innocent as a bad dream.
At 14, Tucker can be a handful. When he was two, he would run ahead then look back to see if I was still there watching him. Now he may talk a good game about all the ways I could improve myself, but in the middle of the night, he came to see if I was still there for him.
I am.

Growing Up

My intention was to write more stories about my adventures in France, but the weekend got away from me and today I have three doctor's appointments that I have to ferry people to, along with teaching.

I was at the doctor with Spencer this morning and he lopes along in front of me with a hoodie that proudly proclaims Basketball, but I doubt that anyone who sees him would think he isn't a basketball player.
His black Nike high tops are untied and his navy sweat pants sit low on his hips. He's tall and gangly. When he sits down in the doctor's office, his knees jut out taking up the space of the two adjacent chairs. I tap his big shoe with my foot, telling him to pull in those long legs.
Other parents are at the pediatrician with their little children. The kids play with the little beads that travel along metal tracks up and down and around in circles. They hum songs to themselves. Spencer texts his classmates and checks his Smurf village on his iPod.
Not that long ago, that was me at the doctor with my little kids, afraid they would pick up more illnesses from playing with the toys in the doctor's office.
Watching a little boy turn into a man is astounding. It feels so different from watching Grace grow into a woman. Maybe because it's so foreign to me.
That little boy who nursed at my breast, that little boy so curious about everything that he needed to touch it and smell it, that little boy is now a lumbering man, still not sure where his body ends and the world begins.

Seasons

My Uncle Don died this week and my mother, having just returned home to Florida, returned north for his funeral. She didn't get to see him on the last trip because he was in intensive care after a botched surgery.
My mom is the youngest of nine children. Her oldest sister Lula died when Grace was young, and her sister, Lorena, the eighth child, died about four years ago. Now her brother Don, who is the seventh child has died.
Unlike the rest of his brothers and sisters, Uncle Don did not leave his home state of Kentucky, so he always sounded more southern than the others. His voice was a high tenor. He also went bald early. I don't remember him not being bald, while the rest of his brothers still have thick heads of hair as they journey through their 80s.
When I think of Uncle Don, I remember visiting there as a child and the time he had the three-legged dog named Rainbow.
My mom and Uncle Don fought when they were children. They grew up on a farm in the hills of southern Kentucky and Uncle Don was the brother who tortured her, mostly because the others were grown and moved away. Uncle Don knew my mom was afraid of pigs, so he would hide and make pig noises to scare her. He knew it would always get a rise out of her.
The other story I remember is about Uncle Don's military service. He was in the Navy during the Korean War. I sat down with all of my uncles a few years ago and videotaped their reminisces about their military experience. Uncle Don pulled out a card the size of a drivers license. It was a mini certificate for crossing over the Prime Meridian while in the Navy. My Uncle Clarence, who fought during World War II, hurried over to his car and came back with a full-sized, wall certificate that he got for crossing the Prime Meridian. His certificate dwarfed Uncle Don's. They laughed at the way the certificates had shrunk as crossing the Prime Meridian became less of a feat.
The question I asked Uncle Don about his military service was whether the rumor was true.
"Did someone else take your swimming test for you?" I asked.
That was the story I had heard. To be in the Navy, Uncle Don was required to take a swimming test, but he wasn't able to swim, so he had someone else swim for him.
Now, just a few years later, I can't recall what his answer was. I'll have to search for the videotape to see what he said. But that's how I'll remember him, a man willing to get on an aircraft carrier and cross the Pacific Ocean while unable to swim a lick.
Uncle Don always wore a hat, not a baseball cap, but more of a tractor or trucking cap with a bill. He always spoke to me at the crowded family reunions and asked how my family was. He raised two sons who now have wives from the Phillipines, one of whom helped care for him while he was ill.
Today as she mourns his passing, my mom doesn't think about the ways he teased her as a child, but the relationship they built as adults.

"Bereavement in their death to feel
Whom We have never seen --
A Vital Kinsmanship import
Our Soul and theirs -- between" -- Emily Dickinson

Boy to Man

My oldest son, my second child, turns 17.
I snapped a picture of him, still bleary-eyed, straight out of bed this morning, before I left for work.

I figure that someday when he's my age, he might want to look back at that picture and be amazed at the outline of each muscle.
He works out every day, playing basketball, lifting weights, running around the track. Then he comes home and drinks milk sprinkled with protein powder and two peanut butter sandwiches. He is trying to put on weight, to add more bulk to the figure that crouches under the basket ready to rebound.
Some people say they hate to see their boys changing into men. I'm amazed.
How could that chubby, curious boy in velcro tennis shoes turn into this muscled man?

And I wonder what he will become.
I wonder if he'll be obsessed with exercise like my older brother, continuing to work out and eat protein-rich foods.
I wonder if he'll be obsessed with sports, like my dad who plays golf five days a week and watches every other sport on TV.
I wonder if he'll find a career he loves that answers his philosophical questions and gives him the chance to explore things with his hands.
I wonder if he'll find a wife who appreciates how fiercely he loves.
For now though, I fetched Long John donuts and chocolate milk for a sugar laden breakfast. I let him open a present that he might want to wear to school. He can never have too many Ohio State shirts.

We'll meet him and Tucker at the local burger joint for hamburgers and shakes before Earl rushes off to work. And this evening he'll head to the gym again for basketball practice, hoping each jump stretches him out just a little taller, each lope with his long legs adds a bit more muscle.
Happy Birthday, Spencer.

Changes

My daughter is averse to change. It sends her into a tizzy, and many times, I think I'm not the right kind of mom for her. I have inadequate amounts of patience for her angst.
So the beginning of a new year with the beginning of a new decade were traumatic. Around nine o'clock New Year's eve, she was preparing to leave the party I was at and go to another party. She hugged me and said, "I'm not ready for 2010."
"Well," I said, taking a sip of my pina colada, "you've got another three hours to get ready."
See, probably not too comforting.
2010 is the year she turns 18 and joins the "adult" world. She must picture me with a big pair of scissors cutting the knot between us. She will become adrift in the adult world, forced to make every decision for herself. My mother tells me she hated turning 18 too, so maybe it's genetic.
2010 is the year Grace will graduate from high school and go off to college. These are things to embrace, but she clings to her life, afraid of what may come.
The next morning she was bemoaning that a whole decade had passed. I suppose she may have been old enough to remember New Year's of 2000 when she was 7, almost 8.
"Look," I told her. "You've accomplished so much in the past decade."
Her big eyes looked up, begging me to list her achievements.
"You kept trying out for parts at OperaColumbus until you landed one with the children's chorus. You're in Singers. You do solos at all of the performances. You got a big part in the play and in the upcoming musical. You learned to Irish step dance and continued ballet until you were 12. You can ride a horse and jump the horse, plus you won ribbons for it."
Grace and her dance partner perform at the Ohio Statehouse.
I continued to think of all the things she'd done in the past 10 years. Sailing and swimming and geography bees. Switching from home school to high school was painful, but she has succeeded.
"The only time you need to look back on a decade and regret that it's gone is if you are still in the same place you were when it started," I said.
"If you are sitting at the kitchen table in front of our laptop the morning of 2020 then you need to rethink your decade," I said, looking at her in front of the smooth wood table.
She smiled, a wry smile.
She seemed not to hate the new decade as much and I hope eventually she'll be able to embrace changes, at least the good ones that move her life forward inch by inch.

Careful What You Wish For...

The day before Thanksgiving, I was nearly in tears. Our holiday was going to consist of me, my husband and our three children. Earl had to work. I would do the cooking with the kids help. It didn't seem like much of a holiday. So I called my mom in Florida on my way to work that Wednesday.
"Please won't you and Dad come up for Christmas?" I begged. "I can't stand another holiday without family."
So they came up to Ohio. And my nephew in the Navy came home from Seattle. Then last week, after a flurry of phone calls, my older brother in Texas drove to my grandmother's house in Kentucky. He brought along his teenage daughter and 21-year-old son. Grace and I made the four-hour drive on Sunday morning to spend the afternoon celebrating my grandmother's 92nd birthday. Here's our whole family, minus my boys and husband.

In addition, my aunt, another uncle, a cousin and his wife and their two college-aged children all came too.
The kids had a good time catching up.

Well, I guess they aren't kids anymore. The girls range in age from 13 to 20.
But they caught up with each other like cousins do. They talked and played some music.

My cousin's son Logan is a freshman in college. He has acquired the nickname "The Rooster" but we don't want to know why.
The grown ups (that's me) reminisced about the days when they played Little House on the Prairie, roaming the woods behind my grandmother's house. Then we talked about how they played dress up and how most of them wouldn't fit in my grandmother's clothes now.
I wanted family for Christmas; I got family.
Grace and I drove home Sunday night in a snowstorm. Over the river...

Growing Up

One of my favorite pictures of all time was taken at my parents' blueberry farm in Kentucky more than 20 years ago. My nephew Michael, about two years old, was standing on rocks by a creek with a small waterfall. He was leaning over and swatting at the waterfall with a plastic tennis racket. His blue stretchy shorts cover a diaper. His brown hair stands in curls on his head.
The reason I love this picture is because I know the story of what happens next. My soon-to-be husband Earl was playing with Michael. He stood behind him on the rocks.
Minutes after the picture was taken, Michael fell head first into the creek. What Earl and I still remark on was the silence after that fall, until Earl reached in and pulled Michael out. Then the wailing filled the country air.
This week, Michael came home for Christmas. He is in the Navy and he hasn't been home for Christmas in four years. He drinks a lot of beer. He can drink 12 according to him. He has been married and then divorced when his new bride met his submarine and informed him she was moving in with her boyfriend. He has tattoos. He talks a lot and finds something in common with each of his younger cousins who have grown exponentially since he left four years ago.
He played guitar with Tucker and talked to Spencer about cars. He faked shock that Grace could be old enough to graduate high school.
His mother showed me the awards he had won for being indispensable while working on the nuclear sub.
The kids started talking about jobs and Spencer said he didn't want to be a lifeguard any more because the pressure was too much. Spencer saved four kids this summer and just worried that he might miss one.
Michael didn't bat an eye, but said, "I've saved millions."
We have no idea where Michael's sub goes and he can't tell us. We only know his whereabouts when he surfaces. So we get pictures from Hawaii where he was sunburned after months underwater, but mostly he hangs out in Seattle waiting for the next time he goes on sub duty again.
I watched him open the quilt my mother had made and wrap it around him. He has changed a lot from that impulsive two year old with the piled up curls. But that boy is still there inside him.

Still Growing Up

It's hard to believe that this guy attempting to throw his little brother off Venice's Rialto Bridge is the same tall, silent teenager who strides through our house today.
He is 16 now, and he has brought a lot of joy to my life. He's the kind of kid who thinks deep. When he was in preschool (he went for half a year) he and a buddy tried to drink all of the water in the water fountain. It was one of those white porcelain drinking fountains attached to the wall. They, of course, didn't understand that it was connected to pipes in the wall that would continuously supply water.
He was always the kind of kid who had to stick his hand against the waffle iron, rattle the dog chain, climb a wall that had rocks protruding. He never took our word for anything and he was rarely still.
If he'd gone to school, I'm sure they would have diagnosed him as hyperactive. When he was a baby, he would flip, flip, flip then fall asleep. He could not lie still until he was actually asleep. Now he gets rid of that energy by playing basketball.
As a teenager, he has reined himself in. He's careful about what he says now, always thinking about the kind of impression it might leave. Sometimes he let's his guard down and returns to his old self.
We were going through Wendy's drive through the other day when he said, "Have you ever done fire in the hole?"
"What?" we all asked.
"You know, you go through the drive through, order a drink and then when the window is open, you throw the drink back in and yell 'fire in the hole!' "
We were all laughing by the time he finished. He admitted he had never done it, and I, the mature parent, encouraged him not to do it.
Maybe his deep thinking these days isn't about philosophy or what happens to people when they die or even about his next chess move (which he's taken up again this year). Maybe his brain is full of statistics for fantasy football and basketball plays and remembering which upper classmen will give him a ride to Chipotle for lunch. Someday though, he may come out of his teenage musings and become the kid again who touches and knocks into things just to see what they do.
Maybe someday, as he towers over his classmates at 6-foot, three inches, he'll figure he already stands out so he may as well not try to fit in.