Do Not Disturb

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I kicked off my slippers and melted onto the queen-size bed in a pool of new-mother exhaustion. It was mid-afternoon, and I had just laid down my six-week-old after nursing him for the fourth time since dawn.

Or was it the fifth time?

The only thing I tracked accurately without pencil and paper in those early weeks was the number of hours until my husband would return from work. I longed desperately for some time to myself, adult conversation and, more than anything, undisturbed sleep.

I’ll just lie down for a few minutes while he naps.

I had never been very good at napping, but the more experienced moms I knew told me to try to sleep when the baby slept. The chores can wait, they said.

As I sprawled out guiltily on top of the peach-flowered comforter, I thought of all the things I should be doing: scrubbing dishes, folding laundry, writing thank-you notes.

This is a waste of time. I should get up and accomplish something while he sleeps…

But the whir of the air-conditioning unit in the window was a soothing lullaby, even for a Type A mother with countless chores to cross off her list. I drifted into a deep sleep, bobbing in and out of consciousness with the occasional sighs and rustlings coming from the nearby baby monitor. Upon each brief awakening, my head felt heavier, the room seemed darker.

Is it dusk already? How long have I been asleep?

I looked for the clock on the bedside table, but it wasn’t there. I lay there in my haze, searching the room for a buoy of wakefulness. I needed to get myself together and check on the baby. The pale mocha walls seemed fuzzy as I watched the ceiling fan spin round and round overhead. Suddenly, a large shadow in the doorway appeared in my peripheral vision. My eyes darted in its direction, but it was gone.

What the hell was that? Is someone in the house?

Panicking, I tried to sit up. But something was holding me down, a weight so heavy I struggled for breath. The dark, giant mass covered my entire body, and I was completely immobile. I could see nothing through the blackness that enveloped me, gripping me with terror. I felt the insurmountable pressure of it bearing down on me, pushing me further into the pillow-top mattress. This thing, whatever it was, was trying to suffocate me.

I screamed again and again, but my constricted throat couldn’t expel the sound. I strained to move my limbs, to push the thing off me. My breath grew shallow; my body felt limp.

And then, as abruptly as it had appeared, it was gone; the weight, the darkness, lifted.

I rolled slowly onto my side, panting with fear, my muscles still flaccid and weak. I looked through the doorway and down the hall to my son’s room.

Nothing was there.

As I dragged my sluggish body from the bed, I noticed bright light streaming through the cracks of the blinds. I scanned the bedside table for the missing clock and found it right next to the baby monitor, where it always was. It was 3:02 p.m., just 20 or so minutes after I had put the baby in his crib, and nowhere near dusk.

I crept into my son’s room and found him fast asleep. I shut his door and wandered foggily through the house checking the doors and windows. They remained locked, the house quiet and untouched.

I didn’t sleep well that night. And it wasn’t because of the baby.

"The Nightmare" by John Henry Fuseli

 

My Failed Facebook Dry-Out

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If this one sounds familiar, that’s because it originally ran March 28, 2012. I edited and reposted it for this week’s Yeah Write Challenge.

I gave up social media for Lent this year, and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me that it didn’t last. Let’s face it: I am a Facebook junkie. I like to “check in.” I like to “like” things. When I go a day without updating my status, people text me to make sure I’m OK. That last part probably sounds like an exaggeration, but sadly it is true.

Inspired by my husband, who gives up alcohol every year for Lent, I decided to try some clean living of my own. For 46 days (actually 40 because Sundays don’t count during Lent), I would give up Bejeweled Blitz (I am embarrassed to admit how much time I spent matching and detonating jewels); checking in (how would anyone know about the fun places I visited?); and updating my status (almost unthinkable for someone who has as much to say as I do).

Since I am not Catholic, I figured I would make my own rules and start Lent early. On Feb. 8, I announced my intentions publicly, via status update, of course. My friends wished me well and offered words of encouragement. One went so far as to send me a sympathy card the first week. No, I’m not making that up.

Somehow this perpetual Facebooker managed to quit cold turkey. For an entire week I did not take a single peek at my page or anyone else’s.

All was well until I realized that an email address I desperately needed was only available to me on Facebook. I knew I’d be cheating if I ventured back to the dark side and, although I may not be Catholic, I am prone to overwhelming guilt. So I signed on, got the email and admitted my lapse in a status update. I also said a quick hello because Lent hadn’t officially started and the temptation to let my 416 friends know how much I missed them was more than I could bear — even if most of them probably had no idea I had left Facebook in the first place.

Hoping it would be an isolated slip-up, I climbed back on the wagon. Again, I lasted about a week. This time I felt the overwhelming need to brag about my options guru husband, who had made an appearance on Fox Business News. It was a really big day for him, and he is not one to boast about his accomplishments. Someone had to do it for him, right?

By the time Fat Tuesday rolled around I knew I was in serious trouble. Giving up Bejeweled Blitz was nothing. It was going without the social interaction that was doing me in. So I deleted the Facebook app from my iPhone, and I deactivated my account.

I did pretty well initially. I logged in on two separate Sundays (the Catholic Church says they don’t count, remember?), but I deactivated my account before Monday, when Lent resumes.

Then I was faced with the mother of all tests of my addiction: My daughter, a fifth grader, won an essay contest. As her mom, I would have been proud of this regardless. But as a professional editor and on-again, off-again writer, I was thrilled. I had to let my friends know. I just had to. So I signed on to my dog’s account (yes, my Yorkshire Terrier, Rosebud, has her own Facebook page), and I sang my daughter’s praises. Rosebud only has 38 friends on Facebook, but, hey, it was something.

It was a Friday, not a Sunday, and I was on Facebook posing as my dog. I knew I had reached a true low point, so I gave up and reactivated my own account. Lent, for me, was officially over two weeks early.

Our dog, Rosebud, unsuspecting victim of FB identity theft

Am I embarrassed that I couldn’t last the full 40 days? A little. But I’m proud too. Although I’m a miserable failure at making Lenten sacrifices, I did accomplish what I had set out to do during my Facebook sabbatical: I started this blog.

After months of thinking and talking about it, of agonizing over putting myself out there and writing again, I did it. And I’m pretty proud of myself, broken Lenten promise or not.

I’m not sure where this journey is going to take me, but I’ll be sure to keep everyone posted in my Facebook status updates. Oh, and for the record, my husband is still happily on the wagon.

The Dating Game

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I didn’t date much in my early twenties. Dating was for girls who wanted to settle down, get married and raise children, and none of these things was part of my plans. I would rather dance the night away with my friends at some seedy new wave club in downtown Detroit than spend an evening that most likely would go nowhere with some guy I barely knew.

Dating was not my scene.

Nevertheless, at 22, I found myself in an audience of young, single women on a Detroit morning TV show. The men on the “Kelly & Company” stage had been voted Michigan’s 20 most eligible bachelors out of a pool of 1,000 applicants, and we, the audience, were their potential dates for a group luncheon cruise on the Detroit River.

Unlike the other women in the audience, I hadn’t chosen to be there. I didn’t buy a ticket or win a seat. I was the assistant editor of the magazine cosponsoring the event, and my boss had requested that I go. It was my first job out of college and, even at my most idealistic and militantly feminist, I knew I was lucky to have it.

So there I sat in the studio audience, hoping desperately that none of the bachelors on stage would notice, let alone pick, me. I had abandoned my loud, funky post-punk wardrobe that day for a modest paisley blouse and long skirt, borrowed pearls, and sensible navy blue hose and pumps. I was dressed for a job interview, not a date. My goal was to blend into the walls of the television studio, and I thought I was doing a fine job.

Meanwhile, in the seat next to me was another young woman from my office, a sales assistant in a short red skirt, her shiny black curls and pink lips glistening under the studio lights. She hooted and hollered as the guys chose their dates, while I nonchalantly slumped further into my seat. I was sure all eyes would be drawn to hoot-and-holler girl or any of the other brightly dressed, heavily lip-glossed women surrounding me. I was safe, I thought.

But then something terrifying happened. One of the men on stage made eye contact with me. At first I thought I was mistaken, so I quickly looked away. When I glanced back, he was staring directly at me.

“I am a photographer,” he told the show’s cohost, Marilyn Turner. “And the eyes are the windows to the soul.”

My cheeks reddened and my heart pounded, but it was not out of newfound passion.

“Holy crap,” I mumbled to hoot-and-holler girl, praying he was looking at her and not me. She started to squeal, and I sighed with relief. It was like going to a concert and thinking the lead singer is singing to you. Only this time I was really happy he was singing to my friend.

Hoot-and-holler girl shrieked again suddenly and grabbed my arm. “He picked YOU, Kathleen! He picked YOU!”

And she was right. He was pointing directly at me, the sensible feminist in borrowed pearls and navy blue pumps. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, he really needed a pair of glasses.

I went on the group date with Picture Guy, and it was predictably painful. During the limo ride to the Detroit River, he bragged about his photography and made worrisome comments about his living situation. A man who took himself too seriously and lived with his parents was not on my personal list of most eligible bachelors. Did I mention he liked pop music?

I had an out, though, and thankfully it didn’t involve swimming to shore from the cruise ship. Since I worked for the magazine cosponsoring the contest, I was obligated to talk to the other bachelors, or at least that’s what I politely told Picture Guy.

Too bad Lenny and Squiggy weren't on the boat.

After lunch I wandered around the ship, drank champagne and made awkward small talk. I had no expectations; I just wanted to get away from my boorish date. To my surprise, I met someone remotely interesting as I made my rounds. Lawyer Dude was as apathetic about the contest as I was and mocked it openly. He was sarcastic and had a sense of humor, and he was a music fanatic. When he asked for my number, I didn’t say no. But I was sure not to slip it to him in front of Picture Guy, whose calls I already knew I would never return.

We went out a few times, Lawyer Dude and I, but there was a generation of musical distance, not to mention life experience, separating us. During a heated discussion of the Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds,” for example, he championed the album fervently while I, who had never even listened to the whole thing, wrote it off as dinosaur rock.

Sometimes age makes exceptions for youth. In this case, it never called her again.

It was OK, though. Youth was quite happy dancing the night away with her friends.

Looking for a nurturing, supportive group of writers who blog and bloggers who write? Come join me over at Yeah Write. You will love these folks.

Happy Anniversary to Us, Blog!

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Note: After writing this post, I realized my blog and I celebrated our sixth-month anniversary on Sunday. Cheers to you, blog! Thanks for always being there, even when I think I don’t want you to be.

It has been three weeks since my last confession blog post. Sorry, guys (I realize I’m making the huge assumption that you actually noticed my absence). I do have lots of excuses for not posting, though. Here are just a few:

  1. My kids started school four weeks ago, and it has taken me some time to get back in the groove, to remember how to wake up at 6 a.m., pack lunches, sort out schedules and police homework. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve been falling asleep on the couch at 8 p.m. most evenings. Sometimes I wish the kids would put me to bed.
  2. I started a research project two weeks ago that consumes the majority of my free daytime hours (the ones where the kids are at school and I can actually think without constant interruptions). It’s been an adjustment trying to carve out time for other things during the day — although I do still seem to find lots of free hours to watch mindless television in the evenings. I have my priorities.
  3. I’m still looking for a full-time job. It’s only been two months since I was laid off, and I know it will take time before the right position comes along. But this job hunting stuff is pretty demoralizing challenging.
  4. My husband was away on business last week, leaving me all by my lonesome to handle two curriculum nights, a band concert, an ice skating lesson and a birthday party. Four days felt like 14. As always, I bow my head to you single parents out there. You are far braver and stronger than me. Could one of you come over and help me next time he leaves?

Obviously, I have been extremely busy and just haven’t been able to find the time to blog, right? Wrong. The truth is I haven’t had anything to say — at least nothing I thought you would want to hear.

I’m not going to blame “writer’s block” because, frankly, that would sound pompous and pretentious coming from the likes of me. It’s not like I’m Jane Austen or anything. Heck, I’m not even the grammatically challenged author of “Fifty Shades of Grey.” (What’s her name?) I’m just a woman/wife/mom who likes to spout off about her family a variety of topics, and this is where I do it. Here, on my blog, my forum, my safe haven, my analyst’s couch.

It’s not like I’m Jane Austen or anything.

Only lately my blog and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye. In fact, I’ve taken to avoiding her. She just doesn’t seem to get me anymore. I sit down to talk to her, and I feel like she’s not listening. Even worse, she’s been a little condescending. She may not say it outright, but there’s this undertone of: “Hey, snap out of it already. You lost your job two months ago; would you stop feeling sorry for yourself?”

Unfortunately, I haven’t been ready to snap out of it. And it really ticks me off that she pressures me to do so. Every time I sit down to write, I feel her mocking me, shaking her head. “You’re not going to write about how hard it was to lose your job again, are you?” “You know, there are a lot of people with far worse problems out there than yours.” “You really need to get over yourself.”

Thanks, blog. Thanks a lot.

Apparently she doesn’t realize that when you’re feeling sorry for yourself, the last thing you want is for someone to list all the reasons you shouldn’t be. I guess that’s why I’ve been keeping my distance from my blog. I wasn’t ready to stop wallowing. I didn’t want to buck up, cheer up, put on a brave face or any of those other clichés about positive thinking in the face of adversity. And her silent judgment was just more than I could handle.

Still, I knew that at some point I would have to put her in her place. I mean, she’s MY blog after all. Am I really going to sit back and let her keep pushing me around?

So I’m posting today, guys. No more excuses. I still don’t feel like I have anything important to say, but the “woe is me” cloud appears to be lifting. And that’s something. Maybe if I let my blog in on what I’m thinking and feeling, she might be able to help me through it — or at least give me the kick in the rear I need to keep moving forward.

Come on, blog. I’m counting on you.

I’m hanging out at the Yeah Write Speakeasy this week. Come on over and check out this great community of writers who blog and bloggers who write.

Rome if You Want To

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I don’t have fond memories of early travels with our children. I recall long, stressful car trips from Chicago to Detroit, one of which included a detour to the emergency room, and a particularly grueling weeklong “getaway” to South Haven, Michigan. During the latter trip, which was peppered with temper tantrums — both ours and the kids’ — I learned that when babies and toddlers are involved, vacations can be more work than the regular life you intend to escape. No matter how long the trip, we returned exhausted rather than rejuvenated, and the piles of mail and laundry that awaited us quickly erased any small moments of pleasure we had enjoyed while we were away.

Back then, if someone had told me things would get easier, I would have given him or her an earful that included a string of profanities.

Based on the trauma of those early trips, my husband and I decided to wait to take a major (i.e., extensive and expensive) vacation that involved plane travel until the kids were 4 and 6. We figured these were reasonable ages because they would both be out of diapers and nap-free, and, we hoped, old enough to remember something of the vacation.

Do they recall anything from our first family trip to Disney World? Our daughter, then 4, remembers the teacup ride, which terrified her. The kind operator of the ride stopped it after the first go-round so my hysterical, non-spin-friendly child could escape. Our son, the 6-year-old, recalls the luau and fire dancers at the Polynesian Resort, the teacups (for obvious reasons) and the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Oh, and he liked the pizza at Pizza Planet.

I guess it’s a good thing we took lots of pictures.

Epcot, which the kids and my husband hated. Good thing there was wine and ice cream.

Did my husband and I enjoy the trip? I, for one, could have done without pushing that rented double stroller, with a combined 80 pounds of kids, for five days and through four amusement parks, while listening to endless whining, fighting, and begging for overpriced snacks and souvenirs. But watching their sweet faces light up with first-time Disney joy at least partially compensated for their sometimes not-so-cute behavior.

Despite our early bumps in the road, our family became fairly well-seasoned travelers in the years that followed. We flew to visit family in Florida and Los Angeles — with a stop in Disneyland, of course — and we even ventured to my favorite U.S. city, San Francisco. We took a marathon road trip several spring breaks ago to Philadelphia; Washington, D.C.; and New York City. And one summer we caravanned with a family we barely knew on a two-week trip across the country to Yellowstone National Park. After surviving a week together in a shoebox-size cabin, we were travel buddies for life.

Yellowstone National Park: Our best road trip ever.

This summer our son turned 13, and we decided it was time for another family travel first: Europe. My ecstatic husband became obsessed with planning his dream trip to Italy. He learned Italian with Rosetta Stone — the kids halfheartedly joined him for the first couple of weeks — and labored over every detail of the vacation. We had 12 days, and he wanted to cram in as much as possible.

The beauty of this family trip, however, was its relaxed tone and spontaneity.

We each had a passport, a plane ticket and a piece of carry-on luggage. We arrived in Rome, traveled all over Tuscany and flew out of Venice. The kids trekked through airports, from hotel to hotel, and in and out of taxicabs, trains, water buses and gondolas. Together we learned to order food in Italian, to navigate the country’s maze of a highway system in a clown-size car, to respect cultural traditions, to appreciate ancient art and ruins, and to enjoy long, leisurely meals and relaxing afternoon siestas.

Tuscany, especially the tiny village of Semproniano, was the hardest to leave.

On our family trip to Italy, we guided and our kids followed. But in some cases the opposite was true, and they taught us something. In one situation, my son, who can read a map better than anyone in our family, got us back on track when a wrong turn took us three hours in the opposite direction of our destination.

Were there other snafus? Many. Every family vacation has them, and it was our first trip abroad together. But despite the things that went wrong in Italy, we discovered just how easy and enjoyable traveling with our kids had become.

My husband’s trip of a lifetime turned out to be the family’s as well — at least so far.

The Long Way Home

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I drove the 260-mile trip home to Michigan countless times over 20 years. In the early nineties, just a few months after I moved to Chicago, I brought a nervous new boyfriend home to meet my family. Two years later, we ventured back as an engaged couple, clinking blue-stemmed champagne flutes with my father and stepmother. In another several years, we took our infant son there for Thanksgiving, two overwhelmed first-time parents, cringing as our baby wailed for what seemed like the entire four-and-a-half-hour car ride.

Sometimes, pre-kids, I made the trip home alone and stayed with friends. Post-kids, we went as a family and stayed with my aunt, who had been a mother to me when I was young, or with my dad. We planned our visits around holidays, so they were equal parts stressful and joy-filled. I wanted my husband to help me wrangle our two children, but even more than that I needed the cushion of his emotional support.

I needed it more than ever as we made our latest trek to Michigan, to my cousin’s house in Brighton. Our previous trip there had been to visit my bed-ridden aunt, whose frail, 92-year-old body was unable to bounce back after a bitter bout with pneumonia. She died shortly afterward.

Now, eight months later, we were on our way to her memorial.

On that early Saturday morning in our atypically quiet car, my husband focused on the road, the kids on their iPod games, and me on the prospect of keeping it together in front of my relatives and their friends. This wasn’t a funeral; it was a celebration. It was no place for tears, mine or anyone else’s.

As we passed the exit signs on our journey east on I-94, landmarks we usually pointed out went unnoticed. Not even the Climax, Michigan, sign, which normally elicited a dirty-minded snicker from my husband or me, seemed to register. When we finally reached Brighton, we missed my cousin’s street. I noticed my marker for it — a strangely constructed, half-underground house — but forgot to tell my husband to make the turn. Nothing felt familiar. Everything had changed.

It’s sad and strange to go home when the people you loved the most are no longer there.

I reminded myself that everyone at the memorial had lost my aunt, not just me. When we arrived at my cousin’s house, I forced a smile on my face, hid my sad eyes behind Ray-Bans and headed into the party. My aunt had taught me as a little girl to always say hello to everyone who visited us. So there, at what used to be her home, that’s what I did.

After an hour or so of small talk with relatives and friends, a few of my cousins and I gathered in my aunt’s living room to watch some old videotapes of family parties. My aunt, the matriarch, had dominated our family get-togethers. I felt her presence as we watched the videos, even when she wasn’t on the TV screen.

My beautiful aunt, our family’s matriarch

When dinnertime came, we all felt her presence — in the menu. We dined on the foods she had served at family gatherings: beef brisket, ham, potato salad, cole slaw, cucumber salad and butter tarts. We shared a toast after the meal, each of us raising a shot glass of watered-down scotch with an ice cube in her honor. My aunt had loved her scotch and water — every day at four o’clock and even in her nineties.

The guests departed gradually after the toast, but my husband, children and I stayed well into the evening. We sat in my aunt’s living room with her children, my older cousins, trading stories and catching up on one another’s lives. Their company was familiar, soothing. I didn’t want to go because leaving would mark a conclusion. How could I place a period at the end of the last sentence of such an important chapter of my life?

We did leave eventually, as parents of tired children must. We said our goodbyes and drove up the gravel driveway. That’s the point where I would normally burst into tears after visiting my aunt, sobbing and shaking until at least the end of my cousin’s street. I hated leaving her. I hated being left.

This time I hadn’t cried, which I didn’t realize until we reached our hotel. The memorial had been a good thing, I told my husband. It gave us all closure.

When I woke the next morning, I felt an overwhelming desire to run, fast and far away. I had my closure, and I needed to leave Michigan, my ghost town of memories, and return to my present.

I rose quickly, showered and packed before waking my husband. “I need to leave,” I told him. “Now.” He understood.

We made a quick stop for Coney Island hotdogs — a Detroit-area tradition — on our way out of town. At our table in the diner, I watched my children scarf down pancakes and bacon while my husband and I noshed on our Coneys. My tension ebbed.

The past was painful, but I didn’t have to run from it. I had punctuated the end of my Michigan sentence long ago.

We finished our food and began our 260-mile journey home to Illinois.

***

P.S. My cousin, the talented blogger behind The Three Under, shares her thoughts on the memorial party and growing up in Brighton here. 

Working Girl Me

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When I signed on to my computer that morning, an instant message popped up from my boss: “Please call me as soon as you get to your desk.”

He was not given to chitchat or small talk. We both worked remotely and when we communicated, it was via email or instant message. Before I could consider why he wanted to speak to me, my phone rang.

“This is going to be a difficult conversation,” he began.

Fifteen minutes later, I was unemployed.

It didn’t matter that I was being laid off because of a corporate restructuring at a foundering company or that my boss said he had pushed hard to keep management from eliminating my position.

I had lost my job and, along with it, a crucial chunk of my identity. What if I couldn’t get it back? I needed working girl me. She kept me sane. She was confident, self-assured. She paid the mortgage and car payment. She provided her family with health insurance. She showed her daughter the importance of working hard, being respected and standing on her own. She was the me I wanted to be.

I had willingly given her up once before to stay home with my young children. I thought I would be happy without her, that I would find the personal fulfillment I needed in being a mother. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted her back. Slowly, I worked her into my new life as a parent. I did some freelance writing and editing for a few years, and when my son started kindergarten I took a part-time job working from home.

She was back, and I was happy. We all were.

Then my husband lost his job. I was able to expand my position to full time, which helped, but it was still a frightening, stressful period for us financially. At the same time, it made us refocus on our family and our marriage, and it brought us closer. It also motivated my husband to start his own company as he had always wanted to do. Out of what he had perceived was failure came success. She, working girl me, helped make it possible.

And now she was gone.

How could I tell him? Could we get through this again, without her this time?

As I climbed the stairs to the master bedroom where my husband was dressing for work, I felt like a child coming home with a bad report card. I had failed, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. I was afraid of what he would think, what he would say, how he would see me — the me without her.

I saw the shock in his eyes, the fear, but he was there for me. It was his turn to be supportive, and he was.

“We’ll get through this,” he told me, as I cried into his T-shirt. “You’re good at what you do. You’ll find another job.”

I didn’t believe him. But she did.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Not for Just an Hour, Not for Just a Day

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I sat alone by the pool, listening to the mix tape he had handed me at Detroit Metro, right before I boarded the plane for Florida.

“They’re just some songs I like,” he had said, in his usual flippant tone. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

I listened to the tape anyway. Belinda Carlisle sang, “Never-ending love is what we’ve found,” but The Pogues countered with, “You took my dreams from me when I first found you.”

He was right, I thought. It doesn’t mean anything.

I turned off the Walkman and headed back to my family’s mobile home. As I walked the path I had taken so many times as a child, the streets, homes and palm trees seemed smaller than I remembered, almost miniature.

They hadn’t changed. But I had.

I had just graduated from college and was about to start my first full-time job. The weight of responsibility loomed, and I wanted, needed, to relax with my aunt and uncle, my second parents, the people who loved me unconditionally.

It wasn’t a typical spring break for a 21-year-old. My aunt and uncle were Michigan snowbirds who spent the colder months at their mobile home in Lake Seminole Resort, a retirement community in Pinellas. Instead of keg parties on the beach, I visited the local flea market with my uncle, played bingo with my aunt at the community hall and caught early-bird dinner specials with their retiree friends.

After dinner we would sit on their screened-in porch, and my uncle would tell stories about their early years together. They met at the dime store where my aunt worked in downtown Detroit. My uncle, who managed a theater nearby, was immediately smitten and kept trying to get her to go on a date. She finally agreed.

“I found a million-dollar baby in a five and ten cent store,” he sang, with a big grin. They had been married 50 years, but it was as if they had just met.

Toward the end of my visit, my aunt and uncle surprised me with a trip to the Salvador Dali Museum. I was a big Dali fan and had no idea my 70-year-old aunt even knew who he was.

As we drove to St. Petersburg, I remembered the other tape in my purse, Patsy Cline’s “Always,” which I had brought to share with my aunt.

My love for Patsy began when I was a young girl living with them. A family friend used to sing her songs at parties, and I knew my aunt would enjoy reminiscing to “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home” and “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

When she popped the cassette in the tape deck, my uncle took her hand in his and began to sing along to the title track:

“I’ll be loving you, always. With a love that’s true, always. When the things you plan, need a helping hand, I will understand, always…”

That’s what I want, I thought. I want it to mean something.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

From Barry to The Bishop: One Groupie’s Journey

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If this one sounds familiar, it originally ran March 30, 2012. I’ve edited and reposted it for this week’s Yeah Write Summer Challenge.

Ohhhhhh, Mandy!

My first concert was Barry Manilow. It was 1978 and my college-age babysitter, Mary, took me to see him at Pine Knob Music Theatre in Clarkston, Michigan. I was 10 years old, apparently too young to know or care how uncool Barry is by most people’s standards. Even worse, I had a huge crush on him. I distinctly remember running down the hill on the lawn at Pine Knob singing, “I am stuck on Barry Manilow, but he ain’t stuck on me” (to the tune of the “I am stuck on Band-Aid” jingle, which I later learned Barry wrote).

While my love for Barry waned, at least slightly, my love for music never did. Through my sister, the disco queen, I became a huge Donna Summer fan. My brother, the rock-and-roller, balanced things out with some Hendrix and Zeppelin.

My brother is also responsible for my love of The Doors, which reached its height in my 20s. Apparently, it began much earlier, however. I’m told that my aunt and uncle took preschool-age me to church with them one Sunday and got a big surprise. When everyone stood up to sing a hymn, I burst into a resounding version of the chorus of “Light My Fire.”

Since I believe in full disclosure, I must also admit that I had a brief obsession with Shaun Cassidy, the Justin Bieber of the late 1970s. His poster was on my wall, and I played his eponymous first album relentlessly while singing along to his picture on the cover. I may cringe at the sound of a Bieber song today, but I can’t judge too harshly given my love for Shaun. Thankfully, my 10-year-old daughter has far more discerning taste in music. Her iPod is loaded with Adele, The Beatles and Death Cab for Cutie.

The musical accompaniment to my junior high and high school years was predominantly punk rock, new wave and alternative in nature, and my angst was only outweighed by the ridiculousness of my haircuts. I have a shoebox full of concert stubs from all those late nights in smoky clubs. Echo and the Bunnymen was one of my favorites. I showed my adoration by sporting the same hairdo as the lead singer. There was a lot of teasing and Aqua Net involved.

Fast forward to age 44: I’m married to a guy who loves music almost as much as I do, and we have two talented musicians for children. My husband plays bass, my daughter plays trumpet and piano, and my son, the musical phenom, plays guitar, alto saxophone, piano and ukulele.

My husband’s band, The Bishop, plays gigs regularly in and around our small town and in Chicago. Even though I’m a working mom who’s expected to behave maturely on a daily basis, I still get to indulge my groupie side one or twice a month.

It’s been a long journey from Barry to The Bishop. Thank you, Mr. Manilow, for lighting my fire (sorry, Mr. Morrison).

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Growing Pains and Purple Teeth

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In case you missed my guest post on The Three Under blog, my son went away to band camp for the first time last week. It was his first taste of independence, and he couldn’t wait to go.

I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. How would he do on his own? What if he got homesick? What if he became ill or was injured? These questions began to plague me as soon as I signed him up for camp in March.

The thought of dropping him off two hours away from home and then spending a week without him made me crazy. To make matters worse, his 13th birthday was the same week. It’s a huge milestone, and I dreaded the idea of him celebrating it away from home and without his family. Obviously, camp was going to be a challenging step for me in the “learning to let go” department, and I knew I needed a distraction.

The rock star (not really, but he is in a band) and I talked about it and decided it was the perfect opportunity to plan the trip to Napa we had always dreamed of. A close family friend even volunteered to take care of our 11-year-old daughter. How could we not go?

Drop-off at camp was just as difficult as I’d imagined. I was anxious and agitated all morning and struggled not to let my son see it. I cried for a solid 15 minutes after leaving him (the rock star says it was more like 30). Later that evening we dropped our daughter off with our friends — a far easier experience, since we knew she would be staying with people we love and trust. And the next morning we left for Napa.

I had a lot of doubts about being so far away from my kids, especially since one of them was two hours from home himself. The plane ride was turbulent and stressful, a perfect metaphor for my state of mind.

Things took a turn for the better when we arrived in San Francisco. The rock star and I were both born and raised in the Midwest, so the breathtaking scenery of the West Coast — the mountains, the valleys, the ocean — leaves us awestruck every time.

Before our Napa adventure began, we planned to stay one night at The Triton Hotel in Union Square, less than a block from Chinatown. If you’ve never stayed at a Kimpton hotel, it’s a unique boutique chain that offers guests a lot of quirky, personal touches. Check out the mini bar at The Triton.

Triton minibar: Rubber duckie, anyone?

We spent a fun evening in our favorite city, meeting an old friend and his girlfriend for sushi and then drinking martinis at the Top of the Mark. The next morning we ran from Chinatown to the bay. The hills in Chinatown were brutal for two Midwestern runners like us. But the view was worth it.

The rock star during our run by the SF Bay

It’s about an hour’s drive from San Francisco to Napa Valley, so after a quick Thai lunch we hit the road. We arrived at our hotel, the River Terrace Inn, in the early afternoon and decided to hit a few nearby wineries before dinner.

Our first stop was Del Dotto Historic Winery & Caves, which we later learned is nicknamed “Del Blotto” because of the extremely large pours. We decided to share a tasting since it was our first winery of the day, and that was a wise idea: Our new friend Luis gave us about 10 different wines to taste. (One we found especially interesting was the rich, smoky 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon.)

Our introduction to Napa did not disappoint. In fact, we struck oenological gold at the majority of wineries we visited in Napa and Sonoma. I have to credit the rock star for this. He did his homework before the trip, and we received a lot of great tips from wine-loving friends at home and knowledgeable folks we encountered in Napa and Sonoma.

Our next stop was Jarvis Winery, where we took a cave tour. (Del Dotto and many other wineries offer these too.) The entire wine-making and business operations of Jarvis are contained within a 45,000-square-foot cave, complete with a stream and waterfall running through the center. For those of you novices like me, a cave is optimal for winemaking because the humidity levels are high and the temperature is constant.

Jarvis Winery cave tour

The wines at Jarvis were exceptional; we particularly liked the Cabernet Franc and the Finch Valley Chardonnay. We also loved the story of Will Jarvis’ Science Project, a wine that started as the eighth-grade science experiment of winery founder William Jarvis’ son.

After Jarvis we headed into town for dinner. A Yelp search led us to Bottega, Food Network Chef Michael Chiarello’s restaurant in Napa. If you go — and you should — order the short ribs. They are smoked and braised, served with whole-grain mustard spaetzle, Sicilian pickles, quince paste and smoky horseradish jus. Unbelievable. I am drooling over the memory alone.

The nights end early in Napa, or at least for us they did. I guess the combination of day drinking and California sunshine was too much for us. Or maybe just enough.

The next morning we took a limo tour of Sonoma with our brassy driver/wine expert, Paula. Our first destination was Domaine Carneros Winery, known for its premium sparkling wines and pinot noir. It was by far the best view I’ve ever enjoyed while sipping bubbly. I am by no means a sparkling wine connoisseur, but these were phenomenal — and also quite affordable.

Enjoying some bubbly, and the view, at Domaine Carneros Winery

Our Sonoma itinerary then led us to Ledson Winery, where we found more wines we loved and what I can only dream will be our next home. While we sipped Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc, Paula set up a picnic lunch for us near the vineyard. If a salami and bacon panini sounds like an odd combo, all I can say is “don’t knock it till you try it.” It was our favorite lunch of the trip.

Ledson Winery: our dream house

A stop we particularly enjoyed in Sonoma was Benziger Family Winery, which practices sustainable, organic, biodynamic farming. We took a tractor tour around the vineyard and learned about how the “green guys” do it. The wine we brought home from Benziger was the Signaterra Sauvignon Blanc, crisp and delicious.

Benziger, a biodynamic winery

After a few other brief stops in Sonoma, we headed back to Napa for sushi at Iron Chef Morimoto’s restaurant (my second favorite dinner after Bottega) and then decided to call it a night. Paula had given us a list of “must sees” in Napa for the next day, and we needed to rest up.

Our last day in wine country began with a run along the Napa River followed by brunch at Oxbow Public Market, which sells local and artisanal foods and wines. If you’re looking for a quick bite or a place to pick up a picnic lunch, check out Oxbow.

We had scheduled a tour at Beringer that day, and in retrospect I wish we had skipped it. If you’re planning to do a tour, I’d suggest a cave tour of a smaller, less commercial winery. The impeccably tended gardens and Rhine House are worth a visit, but we didn’t get much out of the tour.

The Rhine House at Beringer

Lunch on our last day was at Farmstead (another of Paula’s picks), the restaurant at Long Meadow Ranch. Executive Chef Stephen Barber offers a menu of farm-to-table dishes, made using the ranch’s grass-fed beef, vegetables, extra virgin olive oil and honey. We loved and brought home LMR’s Sauvignon Blanc.

There were a few other wineries on Paula’s list, but we only had time to hit one more. We decided on Charter Oak Winery, which Paula had emphatically labeled “you will LOVE this stop!!!” Charter Oak is a four-generation family-run winery that operates out of the home of the original winemaker, Guido Ragghianti. Robert Fanucci and his son, David, run Charter Oak using the 100-year-old basket press, homemade punch-down tools and other wine-making equipment he inherited from his grandfather. Guido continued making wine until he died at age 99, and the family still uses his recipe.

The rock star dabbles in winemaking, and so did his father and grandfather, so this was right up his alley. The wines were outstanding, but my favorite part about Charter Oak was our hostess, Robert’s wife, Layla. The former music teacher turned artist is an absolute delight. We truly felt like guests in her home rather than strangers on a wine tour. After you tour Guido’s cellar and sample the wines, be sure to check out Layla’s artwork. She is as talented as she is gracious.

Layla's artwork appears on some of the Charter Oak wine bottles

Our homecoming was a bit of a whirlwind. We left for Chicago the following day, picked up our daughter that evening and headed downstate to pick up our son the next morning. The look on his face when he saw us was happy and relieved, but I could tell he’d had the time of his life. His buddies had even thrown him a surprise birthday party. Mama bear was happy and relieved too — to say the least.

In the days that followed I noticed some changes. He seemed more confident, more independent. He had grown during his week away.

The changes in him made me think of something one of our Napa wine tasting hosts had said: “Violated expectations are the key to learning.” The host, of course, was speaking in terms of expectations about taste. But his statement also applied to my negative expectations about my son going away to camp and being separated from him.

That week turned out to be a learning, and growing, experience for both of us.