Friday, May 30, 2014

Packin' it in....

Lately I feel like I've been experiencing a sort of..."forest/trees" phenomenon...when it comes to Operation NC Relocation. What I mean is: sometimes I feel like the days are just creeping along, with nothing much happening. Other times--oh, today, for instance--I glance at the calendar and go "Holy Time Warp, Batman, it can NOT be June already!" But then I pause for a moment to ponder the Big Picture...which involves the fact that this little scheme of mine was hatched in April 2013...when I decided that Team WestEnders should pick up and move to California. Since then, Plan A was researched, given a vacation-test-run...and ultimately scrapped. Next, Plan B was created, investigated, implemented on a trial basis...accepted, and finalized. And all of the above transpired in the space of approximately 14 months. Whew!

So, that just about covers the "woods" part, now for the...shrubbery...ahem...The settlement meeting for our southern residence will take place a week from Monday, which means that in my hyper-control-freak fashion, I've been packing for weeks. In fact, since there wasn't that much random "stuff" to load into boxes in the first place, it's gotten to the point where...I can't put away anything else yet, because...we're still using it. I think I've even started to worry the children. I asked each of them to go through their room and clear out any unnecessary or unwanted items. When he was finished, Derek led me on a tour of his closet--which now contained somewhere in the neighborhood of...four objects--and earnestly explained to me why these things must remain exactly where they were for the time being, and not disappear into the black hole of temporary storage (aka "the basement"). I swear he's petrified that I'm going to sneak in and make off with his...underwear...or something. (Which I totally wouldn't do...unless I left him a couple of pairs...)

In the course of all this possession...wrangling...I realized I may have crossed the line into...crazy anal behavior. I mean, I was on a roll, checking off delightful tasks such as: delivering a carload of stuff to the consignment shop; donating a bunch of other things to the thrift store; calling the water, gas, electric and cable/Internet providers to arrange service; and (my absolute favorite) disassembling the hundreds of cd cases accumulated over the years by my darling spouse, and driving them (in TWO trips, mind you) to the recycling center to be disposed of in a responsible manner. (Yeah, it was definitely as much fun as it sounds...) I even corralled all of our pictures and photo albums and stacked them neatly in a corner, ready to drive down in my car when I go to sign all of the papers. (Rather than the alternative--smothering each one in bubble wrap and trusting they won't get damaged in a big old moving truck. That's not nuts, that's smart, right? Right? But my family complains--and I will concede--that it does kind of make our home look a little sad and bare...like we've already vacated the place...but we're super-organized, so that's the really important thing, yeah? Okay, just allow me my delusions...)

Then one morning I wanted to cook some eggs for my breakfast....and I couldn't for the life of me locate the spatula. (I know, I know, it's ridiculous that we only have one of those...note to self: buy more spatulas in Chapel Hill...) I improvised by turning my eggs--meant to be fried, but ending up more scrambled than anything else--with a handy...spoon. Since I seemed to recall Husband using that particular utensil last, I asked him later that evening if he knew where it was. He just stared at me, bewildered. "Um...no?" he finally managed, then added, "Where would I have put it?" That was a valid question...for which I had no answer. However, a few days later (when my brain was apparently functioning a little better) it occurred to me to just go check the one carton of kitchenware I'd already stowed downstairs. Here's where being overly-efficient actually becomes useful: I was able to go straight to the correct box...and reach immediately into the corner...where I triumphantly retrieved the rogue spatula.

So...yeah...I clearly need to take it down a notch on the whole "pre-emptively packing up the house around us"...thing. It's either that, or everyone is going to be forced to hide their socks and toothbrushes from me...(Although the good news is, I'll most likely remember where I stashed 'em...no, don't fret, family, I'm only joking!)

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Riding in cars with (my) boys...

Memorial Day, you know what that means: grilling, chilling, and...at least in our case, road tripping. With all of the mayhem in our lives--recent past, immediate present, and near future--this was literally the only time before we move that we could make the journey to Husband's childhood borough of Pittsburgh. The last several times the Male Posse has made the pilgrimage, I've had other plans. So this westward weekend would truly be a family affair, for the first time in years. Of course, we've logged many miles in cars together, but it turns out that there was one little tradition--specific to this excursion--of which I was unaware. It seems that when the Boys Team travels to the Steel City (typically a 5-ish hour jaunt) they stop only once, briefly, at the Traveler's Rest in Breezewood. There they...ahem..."use the facilities"...and comb the aisles of the convenience store for snacks that can be eaten in the vehicle as they continue down the highway. In other words: not a break of any substance, and no real "meal".

Therefore, as we approached their oasis of choice, the kids began rhapsodizing about the bottles of Powerade and bags of Chex Mix they planned to snatch in their rapid-fire race through the junk food mecca. I, on the other hand, was somewhat...horrified...at the prospect of scarfing down salty substances during a 2-minute respite from being behind the wheel. "But...but...what about some lunch?" I tried to reason with the rampaging testosterone-fueled hordes (yeah, all....3...of them...) Their response? They actually scoffed at me...as though sitting down and eating nutritious food in a civilized fashion is an activity that is so far below the dignity of Real Men as to be absolutely unworthy of consideration. Sigh. However...the emporium they hold in such high esteem was actually quite impressive. There were the usual energy bars and trail mix options. But it also boasted fresh fruit, a veggie wrap, hard boiled eggs, and pre-cut carrots and celery sticks from which to select a wholesome midday repast. (Okay, I concede victory to the boys on that one...)

Then when we arrived in the 'burgh, we squeezed in some family visiting time (and an actual dinner...Chinese food) to round out our evening. The next day (which brings us up to current events) we planned to wander around Station Square for a while with an old high school friend of Husband's; we needed to kill some time before our date at PNC Park to see the Pirates take on (coincidentally) our hometown Washington Nationals. We meandered along the river, enjoying the landscape that included a brilliant blue sky, sunlight sparkling on the water below, and soaring metal structures belonging to various bridges, which swept majestically over our heads.

When the hour approached for the baseball game, we headed to the stadium with fingers crossed. You see, it was a giveaway day, and we hoped that we would be in time for each of the kids to pick up their free set of Andrew McCutcheon NL MVP wristbands. But first we had to go through security that rivaled--I'm not kidding--TSA-level scrutiny at any major airport. There was required bag emptying. There were buckets in which to place one's keys, cell phone, and camera. And for the coup de grace: you walked through one of those stand-up metal-detectors. Jeez! Who knew we were attending a baseball game in the 'hood?

When we finally passed the "we swear we're not bringing any weapons into the ballpark" test, we were rewarded with...wristbands! Yesssssss! After that, there was nothing left to do but soak in the energy of the extremely enthusiastic Bucs fans, admire the jewel of a stadium...and virtually ROAST alive in the sun. Holy Spring Heatwaves, Batman--after a long, frigid Winter, 78* under a cloudless sky feels craaaaazy hot! I mean, we even needed sunblock, for goodness sake! Unfortunately, the home team did not complete their sweep of the visiting dignitaries from the Nation's Capital....although this did not put a damper on our fun in any way whatsoever.

To cap off our Saturday, we had dinner with another old friend (and the portion of his family that was NOT in Cincinnati for a travel baseball tournament). And...after all that socializing and sporting and....whatnot...now it's B-E-D-T-I-M-E. Gotta rest up for the final day of the Whirlwind Tour...

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Inmates running the asylum...what could go wrong?

As a parent, each milestone your kids reach is special, and a cause for celebration. But there's one moment that you wait for, practically from the second the precious little darling makes his or her entrance into the world. Of course I'm talking about that most awesome of occasions: the first time you can leave them by themselves and go out to dinner like real adults again.

Now, technically our boys have been old enough to handle this for a while. But Husband and I aren't really foodies, and don't go to the movies very often...so we hadn't tested them out on the old Home Alone situation yet...until this past weekend, that is. Some friends of ours wanted to have an "adults-only" restaurant night before we move, so we put the kids on notice that they would be in charge of feeding themselves and going to bed while we were gone. The teenager, naturally, was completely blase about the whole thing. I believe his actual response was to give a little shrug and say, "Eh, okay." Riley, on the other hand, expressed a bit of...nervousness...at being left without his customary level of parental supervision--even if only for a few short hours.

We did our best to dutifully prepare them for the trials they might face--you know, potentially terrifying ordeals like, say...microwaving their own hotdogs for dinner. Then I asked each of them separately what time they planned to turn in for the evening. They each passed that particular quiz by answering with the appropriate, Mom-approved hour for a school night. Next I made them some couscous to go with their franks, saving them from having to deal with any actual cooking...we reviewed the nuking procedures one more time, just to be safe...we made sure they had each of our cell phone numbers...and finally, there was nothing else to do but (cross our fingers and) head out the door for our grown-up fun.

And we did, indeed, have a fabulous time. There was lively conversation (without any need to edit at all)...there were adult beverages...there was no one requesting to share food! Ahh, soooo relaxing and enjoyable. I did receive exactly one text from Derek during the course of the meal, inquiring as to what he should do with...the empty pot. (Um...put it in the sink? How about those real-world problem solving skills, huh? So...not quite ready to be out on his own yet...oh well, he's still got plenty of time...) When we arrived home, they were snugly wrapped in their beds, and the house looked pretty much exactly as we left it. We gave each other a parental high-five and called it a successful outing.

The next morning over breakfast with Riley, I asked him how he thought it had gone. "It was fine," he began tentatively. Then he paused before adding, "But I was a little lonely." I was admittedly confused. "But...your brother was here..." I said quizzically. "Yeah, but he was doing homework," Riley replied. Okay, still perplexed. "He told me he was finished with his homework." Riley explained, "He was getting ahead on some projects that aren't due yet." (Um...you'll have to excuse me a moment while I get a little sniffly at the delightful surprise of my teenager...acting all unexpectedly mature and responsible and whatnot...okay, I'm better now...) While I was still processing this stunning piece of information, Riley continued, "But he stopped early and came out of his room, because he knew I wanted to hang out with him and not be by myself." (Wait a minute, what? Now he's being...sensitive...and thoughtful, too? What's gotten into him?) And then came the final word from little brother, "And he tucked me in, too, even though he didn't have to!" (Okay, that's it, clearly he's being possessed by...something...who the HECK are you, and what have you done with my son? On second thought, what am I saying? I'll keep this version, please!)

Anyway, apparently the experiment worked out just fine, if the reports are any indication. Being left under their own care strangely seems to bring out their best behavior. And you know what that means: Husband and I can go out and act like our pre-kid selves--for a couple of hours at a time, anyway--more often. Whoo hoo!

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Westward...halt!

My kids' elementary school has a longstanding tradition of staging an annual Westward, Ho! field trip. During this journey, the entire 5th grade class treks 6 miles--across meadows full of waist-high grass, along rustic wooded paths, and through bubbling streams--to simulate the early United States' expansion from its eastern settlements toward the unknown frontier...on a sort of mini-scale, of course. And let me tell you, it is a HUGE deal. The students get assigned "families" with whom they'll collaborate to try and ensure a successful...migration. They toil together to "build" their wagons. (Team WestEnders donated our solid Little Tykes vehicle to the cause...and it will be proudly making its second excursion, having survived Derek's trip of 3 years ago...) There is teamwork for cooking of authentic-ish 19th century foodstuffs. And, there is the bane of all 10 and 11 year olds' existence: the dreaded...square-dancing.

But the preparations didn't just happen during school hours. Oh, no--we had to sign up to provide supplies and tools, when lists came home detailing what the family needed to complete their tasks. Even more...demanding...and potentially difficult: the intrepid adventurers were supposed to outfit themselves as realistically as possible--to truly look the part, if you will. That's just fine and dandy...except that my child loathes wearing jeans...and thus doesn't own a pair. I was at a loss for how to solve this dilemma, until a fellow bus-stop-mom suggested the thrift store in town. (Duh!) Soft, broken-in denim, size 14 (gulp!) for (ready?) One. Dollar. Score one for...Little House on the Prairie Mom! Add a plain tee (which I also had to purchase...Men's Small...since when did my baby turn into a...small man? So very, very not okay...) a button-down shirt from his closet, and hiking boots, and we're done. Whew!

So, everything was in order for the Great Wagon Train of 2014...except someone forgot to order good weather. The night before the planned sendoff, it poured. Buckets. I mean, torrential amounts of water dumping down from the sky. Obviously, this would make the trails a muddy mess. But even more importantly, the sweet little creeks--which the kids would be wading into and then working cooperatively to lift their wagons across without losing any critical supplies (read: LUNCH)--would be much deeper than usual, and behaving more like raging rivers. Now, I'm sure the actual hearty westward-marchers scoffed at the danger--they probably just gritted their teeth, tightened their belts, and dealt with the hardships in the tough American pioneer way. But the modern school system tends to frown upon subjecting youngsters to, oh, conditions ripe for one of the citizens being swept away and possibly drowned.

Therefore, to everyone's great disappointment, the leaders were forced to implement Plan B. First, the brave explorers would get to experience...crafts...indoors while the rain finished doing its last little spiteful dribbling. Then (after the clouds cleared and the brilliant sunshine took over, wouldn't ya know it...) they would enjoy their noon meal, picnic style, outside. Finally, they would finish Part 1 by dazzling the parents with the aforementioned square-dancing demonstration. Part 2, on Monday, involves an abbreviated hike during the school day. Thus, Husband rearranged his meetings and such at work, so he could still go on the "cross country" portion. And I got to do the "eating and entertainment" activities. (Boy, did I luck out, right? All fun, no work: yay, me!)

When I arrived, Riley's teacher welcomed me to the festivities and informed me that there was even a separate pot of vegetarian stew--those are some progressive pioneers, yeah? So I got a lovely bowl of chili, a tasty biscuit, some delightful applesauce, and a positively yummy oatmeal cookie...all lovingly created by the 5th grade chefs. (Um, with tons of adult supervision, I'm sure...) And for the Grand Finale...I had the unique opportunity to see my son swinging and do-si-do-ing and promenading and alemand-ing with his classmates...some of which of course were GIRLS. Seriously, it was absolutely adorable. (And no one really looked too traumatized...even when I was videotaping...but I must say they did all look utterly exhausted when it was all over, as though the very idea of frolicking with the opposite sex...in front of their parents, no less...took it all out of them.)

Fortunately, they all survived these preliminaries, and now have all weekend to rest up for the Main Event...which will go forth as scheduled....good Lord willing and the creeks don't rise...(LITERALLY--ha!)


Wednesday, May 14, 2014

The Beginning of the End....Before the Next Beginning?

I've been running on system overload, since...oh, I'd say just about exactly when we returned from Chapel Hill last month, having purchased a house. What followed in the ensuing weeks can only be described as a furious flurry of phone calls and emails. There was scanning and sending and signing of...stuff...to facilitate such thrilling endeavors as...getting the loan process underway (ooh, too titillating, I know)...and reviewing the Inspection Report..(Contractor Legalese...what a rush...) and finally, overnight-express-mailing the required deposit check so that it would arrive by 5 p.m. on the deadline when the Due Diligence period expired (Lawyer/Banker intrigue...don't ask me...)

In the midst of this drama, I've been doing my best to keep up with my full-time job. (You know, the one where I perform such mind-boggling feats as..."grocery shopping"...so the ravenous hordes--um, "my family"--can continue to chow down in the manner to which they've become accustomed. Somehow, no matter what else is going on, they never seem to lose their desire for meals...sigh...) Oh, and my part-time gig--the one where I dress up like a (semi) professional, go to my place of employment, interact with other adults, and actually get paid.

So, suffice it to say that certain things have been back-burnered in my brain lately...like the fact that tomorrow will be my very last day at the community college where I've worked since September 2011. Gulp. I can't even begin to wrap my head around that particular piece of information yet, but just the acknowledgment of it opened a floodgate of other realizations...like the fact that I just enjoyed my final appointment with the massage therapist who's been treating me regularly since my rotator-cuff-repair surgery in 2007. (Holy guacamole, that's a lotta...muscle manipulation...) And Derek just had his last official yearly checkup with the pediatrician who has been watching over him since literally the day he was born. (For the curious, that would be: birth stats--5 pounds, 18-1/4 inches...age 14--133 pounds, 5 feet, 9-1/4 inches. And yes, that does seem ridiculous...but remember what I said about the whole "love of eating" thing?)

I suppose, in all the excitement of relocating to a brand new place, and looking forward to lots of "firsts", I forgot that we'd experience the bittersweet feeling of many "lasts" as well. And then, right on cue, the moving company I hired on Monday sent over the promised shipment of packing supplies:


And, well, I'm completely, constitutionally unable...at the very core of my being ...to ignore the siren call of empty boxes, begging--nay, exhorting me personally by name--to be filled. So while the Male Posse was at soccer practice, I got down to business and stuffed a few of those suckers. It was gratifying...even if the tribe wailed and protested upon returning home: "Oh nooooo, she's already packing! What if we neeeeeedddd that stuff?" (Um, yeah, you let me know if you have an insatiable urge to use your Winter comforter anytime soon...) Anyway, they needn't work themselves into a lather just yet, as this is the sum total of my progress so far:


That's right, baby--3 cartons down...dozens more to go? Whew, I'm exhausted already. I'd better take a nice, long break...and maybe have a fortifying snack...and rehydrate...before I attempt any more of the crazy moving preparations. After all, this pile-o'-fragile-items (all pictures and photo albums) is what I've also gathered...to stow in my car and deliver when I go back to North Carolina for the settlement meeting. Anyone know what kind of treats to leave out, when one wants to attract....House...Moving...Elves? Wait, I'll bet they just love (ready?) PACKING PEANUTS! Ha! Okay...forget the sustenance...clearly I've crossed over into the realm of "loopy", and I'm going to bed! More boxes in the morning!


Friday, May 9, 2014

Just one of oh-so-many examples why "oy" rhymes with "boy"...

Men have been known to lament the fact that the opposite sex can be complex, complicated, even downright...incomprehensible...creatures at times. Okay, I'll grant that. But I would argue that the male species can be just as much of a mystery...in their own testosterone-fueled way. Or, since I obviously haven't ever experienced firsthand exactly what kind of...stuff...goes on in a boy's noggin, maybe it's just that I wish I'd been presented with a handy dandy Instruction Manual when my oldest son joined the mystical ranks of those known as "teenager".

So, here's the latest puzzling incident: I entered Derek's room to gently remind him it was time for him to start his extensive nightly "get ready for bed routine". He had been lying on his bed peacefully listening to music, but in a sudden outburst of energy he immediately sat up and declared, "There's a bee on my screen, and it won't leave!" I just stared at him, momentarily perplexed by this seemingly random information, so took the opportunity to continue, "I've been trying to decide what kind of bee it is, but I can't tell." (Ohhh-kaaay. Still not sure where this is going, son...)

But it turned out that I didn't even need to respond just yet, because he was gaining enthusiasm for his tale. "I got close and tried to see where its stinger was." (Uh-oh, this is not heading in a generally reassuring direction...) Aaannnnd, here comes the kicker: "I thought about (Are you ready for this? Brace yourself) LICKING it to see what would happen." Wait, I"m sorry, WHAT THE HECK did you just say? At this point I'm standing there, slack jawed in unfathomable disbelief...and not a little bit of horror. Meanwhile, he's laughing as if he recognizes the absurdity of what he's just confessed...or the sheer stupidity of his "plan"...or perhaps he's just amused by my expression. Then he glibly carries on, "But then I thought about how that would cause a lump on my tongue...and I wouldn't be able to EAT...so I didn't," he smugly concluded.

Oh. My. Goodness. (Slapping hand to forehead and groaning...) Can someone please explain to me what in the name of all things sacred goes on in the mind of an adolescent male? I can't pretend to even begin to understand how their thought processes (such as they are) operate. I guess I should be grateful that he explained the reasoning (ish) behind this particular almost-incident. And of course...that he didn't actually go through with licking the damn bee. These sorts of things are just not covered in parent-education books or magazines. And I do not ever want to go to the Emergency Room with that kind of ridiculous story--"Um, I'm terribly sorry, it's just that my child is...well, a bit of an idiot, at times..." I'll bet you, though, that the hospital personnel would probably give a shrug, a knowing smirk, and a blithe, "Eh, teenagers, whattya gonna do?" And then, along with the bill for their services, I fervently hope they'd hand me a copy of What to Expect When You Have a Teenage Boy ....volumes 1-3. Now that would be worth the trip...almost...

Sunday, May 4, 2014

Showgirls...sort of....

This morning I got up at 5:00 (sadly, not a typo) to put on a faceful of makeup, do my hair, drive to Baltimore, don a glitzy costume, and participate in a dance competition. Now I'll just pause right here for a few moments for everyone to process the overwhelming amount of ludicrous information in the previous sentence. Those who know me will recognize that there is not ONE component of that list that sounds plausible...or even makes the slightest amount of sense in the context of who I am. Yet...it did truly happen...quite possibly because it was so freakin' dark...and early...that I couldn't mount an effective protest against the diabolical plan that I'd been sucked into back in September. You see, my dance teacher--a formidable woman of approximately 5-foot...nothin'--informed us that my classmates and I had just better wrap our heads around the idea that we would be performing...because she went to a competition last year, and (according to her) our dance was much better than the other offerings in the adult category...and she wanted a trophy, doggonit! She impaled each of us with look of steely resolve as she delivered this message...and she actually shook her finger sternly to emphasize the gravity of the situation.

Even so, I don't think any of us took her very seriously at that point. But she continued to revisit the topic frequently throughout the year, until finally it was time to (gulp) commit to the event. What could we do? We gritted our teeth, said "Yes, ma'am", and (reluctantly, fearfully) agreed. What followed was a rehearsal schedule that increased proportionally with the upwardly spiralling level of panic as D(ance)-Day approached. We went from just our usual Thursday session...to two nights...then last week we convened for three marathon meetings in a row. We ran the number over and over, trying our darndest to get stage-prepared...or at the very least appear as if we all knew what the HECK we were doing, both individually and collectively. (Yes indeed, it was a daunting task for a group of very game, but nevertheless 40-something women...)

Finally, our grace period--I mean "practice time"--ran out. I went to bed Saturday night feeling as though I knew this routine so well, I could do it in my sleep (which was a doubly-good thing, since I might need to, at 0-dark-thirty). So after the "fixing up" at home, I met my carpool ladies and popped into 7-11 for some caffeinated courage. And let me tell ya, I felt absolutely ridiculous... glammed up in more face paint than I EVER wear, waltzing into a convenience store as the sun was coming up. I had the almost irrepressible urge to assure everyone there that I was not, in any way, shape, or form, a...ahem..."Lady of the Evening" returning from work. As it turned out, I needn't have worried--the only other patrons at that hour were an older lady buying lottery tickets, and a Mom-ish type picking up bags of ice. (Don't ask me, this is definitely not my normal scene...)

Anyway, we piled into the car to wind our way to Goucher College in Baltimore, where we'd be uniting with the rest of our class for our 7 a.m. call time. (Again: UGH! No matter how many times I say it, it never sounds any better...) Immediately upon our arrival, our spunky teacher took one brief glance at me, smiled hugely and proclaimed, "You need more makeup." "But...but...I have on a TON!" I sputtered indignantly. (And soooo eloquently, yeah?) She tilted her head and favored me with an "Oh, honey, please" expression as she said, "That's day makeup." "Oh, of course," I nodded as though I understood and completely agreed...while in my head I rebelliously added, "Sure it is, for a STRIPPER!" (Which, to clarify, I am distinctly not...not to say there's anything wrong with that...oh, never mind...) So I obediently added more eye shadow and eye liner and mascara and lipstick (all of which I bought last June, with the exception of mascara, especially for our end-of-the-year Showcase...thank goodness I hung onto them) and returned to an approving nod from our taskmaster--um, "teacher".

Then it was time to shimmy into our sequiny dresses and--you guessed it--practice some more. And would you believe, I found myself blanking on the steps? I swear I'm not even exaggerating when I say that we've run this baby hundreds of times. But I was actually a bundle of nerves, unexpectedly, and it was affecting my concentration...which was making me even shakier. Then I remembered something crucial: I hadn't eaten anything yet in the 3 hours I'd already been up. (Yep, running on coffee fumes...Oops...) After retrieving the banana with peanut butter that I'd brought along in my bag for just such an emergency, I miraculously came out of my fog and felt much better. It was around that time that I started to notice the...attention...we were getting. Why was everyone staring at us? Ohhhh...we appeared to be the ONLY adult group dancing in this part of the program...no wonder the 8-year olds...and teenagers...and their parents...were sneaking us looks that seemed to me to consist of equal parts "Whoo hoo, good for those brave souls" and "Holy guacamole, what are those nutty ladies thinking?"

At long last--and yet also far too soon--our time arrived to sashay onto the stage and take our turn in the spotlights. At that point the advantage of being the only..."mature"...performers became obvious: we got a LOT of support from the crowd. There was enthusiastic cheering. There was yelling of encouragement. There was even whistling and clapping. What a rush! I think I even remembered to smile periodically, but I'm not really sure, since it was all a total blur. I do know I messed up once (How is that even possible? Did I mention the bazillions of hours of practice? Jeez Louise...) but I "danced through it" as our teacher had wisely and repeatedly counseled us to do. However, the absolute best part, the memory I'll take with me and treasure forever, is when we walked off stage after finishing, and the large crowd of girls waiting to perform all greeted us with cries of "Good job!"  and "You guys were great!" I have no idea whatsoever how we actually looked out there, but that was awesome.

After that, we could release our mutually-held breath, relax, and enjoy the other acts. I wasn't able to stick around for the Awards portion of the program, but I left my ladies with explicit instructions to text or email me with our "score". So I found out a few hours later that we'd been granted (by evidently gracious, kind, and generous judges) 4 out of 5 stars...and we each get a commemorative pin as a souvenir. Well, I'd have to say, given that this was my 1st, last, and ONLY dance competition of my life, that's just like the ultimate...Icing on the cupcake? Sparkle on the tutu...Or some such nonsense. Now I can retire, having completed my "dance career" by successfully going 1-for-1. That's right, pirouetting out of here a winner...now please excuse me while I head off to remove this dang eye makeup...before someone asks me for a pole dance, or something...

Saturday, May 3, 2014

I'll Take "Conversations with Teenagers" for $1,000, Alex

As a parent, there are certain routine conversations you expect to have with your kids in the normal course of everyday life as a family. I'm talking about stuff like "what would everyone like for dinner?"..."what time are we leaving for the soccer game?"..."quit antagonizing your brother and go to your room, right this instant!"...you know, the usual. Then there are times when you're done having an exchange with, say, your child, and all of a sudden you shake your head at the utter absurdity of what just came out of your mouth. For example: Husband is currently preparing to fly to the UK on a business trip. Derek asked me, "Does he have a passport?" I gave him a quizzical look, as he should know full well that his father does, of course, have one...since we've all vacationed outside of the U.S. together on multiple occasions. Reading my incomprehension, he clarified, "Well, we haven't left the country for a couple of years." Then he paused for a moment--apparently to reflect upon this stunning revelation--and added with mock distress, "Jeez...we've really been slacking!" Then he brightened and tacked on, "But we'll need them if we make it to Costa Rica next Summer!"

Yes, that's from my 14-year old seasoned traveler...who has no earthly idea how crazy it seems for someone his age, who belongs to a distinctly NON jet-setting family, to be in possession of a passport at all. Now, I'm not saying we're globetrotters, by any means--in fact, we've mostly used our official documents to visit our friendly neighbors on the North American continent. But I had to remind him that I didn't obtain a passport until I took myself to Europe as a well-deserved reward for surviving graduate school. And Husband didn't get his until we planned our honeymoon in Ireland. So, right...that was one of those slightly surreal dialogues that occasionally happen around here.

Then there are the somewhat expected--if not always welcome--"chats" one has with one's beloved offspring. Like Friday morning, when this charming text back-and-forth happened:


Evidently Derek had either remembered or been reminded by a buddy (we're dealing with Teenage Boy Brain, so either one is equally unlikely...who knows how he was prompted to get in touch with me) that this needed to be done. Keep in mind, I had neither heard of nor laid eyes upon this mythical, elusive "permission slip" of which he spoke. But out of the martyred goodness of my parental heart (and given the fact that I don't work on Fridays this semester...and didn't have any burning time-sensitive appointments or errands on my schedule...making him one lucky boy) I agreed to bail him out. After grounding him, you'll notice. (Yeah...that's a running family joke when one of the boys does something mildly...stupid, usually...so he knew better than to take me seriously. Heaven forbid he ever does something that actually warrants such a punishment--we'll probably all keel over in shock...) And the "preferred child" thing? Sometimes that switches on an hourly basis, depending on who's being more annoying...or who's being more compliant. So basically, I don't get a whole lotta mileage out of my empty threats. Sigh.

Because he's never pulled this particular forgetful act before, he didn't even know the proper procedure to follow. He SHOULD have left the paper in the Main Office, so I could slip in, scribble my name, and be gone in seconds. But nooooo, he kept it with him in his binder, requiring that he be called out of Algebra to come downstairs to the front desk. On second thought, I can only hope that there was a modicum of embarrassment and shame involved with being singled out...but this is Derek we're talking about, so I'm sure he was completely and totally...undisturbed by it. Oh well, at least by confronting him face to face, I did get the satisfaction of leveling him with my best Mom Glare...and whacking him ineffectually with the flimsy, rolled up sheet of paper in front of all the secretaries (as he grinned at me sheepishly). This unexpected opportunity actually made the whole incident thoroughly entertaining...much more so, in fact, than my next stop...boring old Target...

And with only 6 more weeks in the school year, hopefully this delightful little scene will not need to be repeated. Or believe me, someone's gonna get grounded...