Hockey Skates and a Not-So-Lucky Cat

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There are moments in marriage when you look at your significant other and remember why you got hitched in the first place. Of course, there are also moments when you wonder, “Who is this person, and why on earth did he just do that?” The best moments are a bit of both: His actions take you by surprise but in a way that makes you see him as you once did.

I never thought I’d find my husband of 16 years more attractive in a pair of hockey skates, but it happened two Sundays ago in Chicago.

School was about to resume after a two-week break, and everyone in our family was dreading Monday’s arrival. A friend suggested dim sum in Chinatown, and it sounded like the perfect beginning of a winter-break last hurrah. It was. We spent an hour at Phoenix Restaurant stuffing our faces with mostly unidentifiable but delicious steamed and deep-fried dumplings. Dim sum, like marriage, requires a leap of faith.

As we sipped our tea and patted our bellies full of heaven knew what, we decided the next leg of our journey would be shopping in Chinatown, followed by ice skating at Millennium Park. My 13-year-old wasn’t interested in shopping or skating, but I promised him an overpriced hot chocolate at the Park Grill and he kindly acquiesced. My 11-year-old wanted some panda paraphernalia for her collection, and I was dying to find a “lucky cat” (a.k.a. maneki-neko) to add to my tchotchke trove. Five (more like 10) stores later, our daughter scored a panda coffee mug, and I settled on a bright-eyed mama cat with a full litter of kittens, figuring all the babies made her extra lucky. With our dining and shopping needs satiated, we headed to the rink.

My not-so-lucky cat

My not-so-lucky cat

My new cat may have been cute and fertile, but she didn’t seem to have much going on in the luck department. We spent at least 30 minutes trying to find parking, and when we finally arrived at Millennium Park, the wait for renting skates was an hour. My daughter brought her own skates, which meant she could hit the ice immediately. But what fun would it be to skate alone? When my husband saw the dejected look on her face, he donned his super hero cape and hatched a solution. All we had to do, he said, was hop a cab across town to the nearest Sports Authority and buy him a pair of skates. It was an impetuous, overindulgent and completely out-of-character move, and it thrilled both my daughter and me.

Thirty minutes, two cab rides and about $65 later, Super Dad was slipping and sliding across the ice in a brand-new pair of hockey skates. I enjoyed the warmth and libations of the Park Grill with my son, both of us laughing as we watched our super hero try to keep up with our figure skater in training. The man had no clue how to skate, but he knew how to make his daughter happy.

I’m not banking on my not-so-lucky Chinatown cat winning me any lottery jackpots, but she makes me smile every time I look at her on my living room bookshelf. She reminds me of a day when I remembered why I love my husband so much. And so do those hockey skates in the garage.

Super Dad and the figure skater

Super Dad and the figure skater

***

P.S. Thank you so much for all the supportive comments on my post about quitting smoking. I’ve been smoke-free for 21 days now, and I feel great. It truly helps to know you guys have my back.

I Quit

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I don’t remember my first time, but by high school I was doing it pretty much daily. I was underage, I knew I could get in trouble, and sometimes I did. But I didn’t care. The risk and danger were part of the appeal. I was a teenage rebel without a clue, and I thought smoking was cool. The ignorance and arrogance of youth excused my behavior. I told myself I’d quit when I was older. It was no big deal because I wouldn’t do it forever.

James Dean made it look so cool.

James Dean made it look so cool.

Yet, here I am, a 45-year-old mother of two justifying inhaling toxins into my body and risking lung cancer by saying “I only do it on the weekends” or “I don’t smoke around my kids.” I know I’m deluding myself. I can’t rationalize shaving years off my life in the name of instant gratification and a nicotine buzz. I no longer have the years to waste.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to cut back or quit over the years. In fact, it was easy to stay smoke-free during both my pregnancies. The smell of smoke nauseated me, and I had my unborn children’s health to protect. But after my babies were born, and only my own health was in question, smoking became my secret vice, my mother’s little helper. I’d sneak a smoke while the kids were napping or slip outside after dinner while my husband was playing with them in the living room. It was my own unhealthy version of “me time,” a twisted yet comforting way of staying attached to my pre-mom self by indulging in an old, familiar vice.

When I started running five years ago, I shifted to more of a social smoker, lighting up only after a few cocktails when I was with friends who smoked. The intense training schedules of long distance races made puffing on a cig less desirable, but I never managed to pack away the ashtray for good.

During stressful times, smoking is like the bad boy I couldn’t stop dating in my twenties: I know it’s wrong for me, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’m addicted to the ritual: lighting the cigarette, inhaling the smoke, even stamping out the butt. Whenever I’m around someone who’s smoking, the urge and nostalgia envelop me. Before I can consider the consequences, I’m doing it again.

I hope things will be different this time, though. After a particularly bleak year, when I started buying packs of cigarettes and smoking more than socially, I think I’m finally ready to end this dysfunctional relationship. In a snap but sober decision on New Year’s Eve day, I signed up for the 2013 Chicago Half Marathon. After wimping out of what would have been my second Chicago Marathon last year, I thought I was done racing. But it’s a new year, and things seem a lot brighter. I think I have at least one more race in me, and I’m excited to get healthy and start training for a new personal best time.

I know I can quit smoking; I did it twice for nine months. But this time I’m doing it for me. Sometimes quitters do win.

Happy New Year, peeps! I missed you over the past two weeks but enjoyed a fun, relaxing holiday break with my family. I hope you did the same.

It Really Is a Wonderful Life

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Source: RKO/NBC

The first time I watched Frank Capra’s magnificent film “It’s a Wonderful Life,” I was a single twenty-something living in Dearborn, Michigan. The movie made me sob, first and foremost because I am a gigantic sap. But also because it made me think about how much value each of us has and how many other lives we touch, whether we know it or not. It made me think of my future and the place I wanted for myself in the world. It made me realize I wanted to matter to someone.

I’ve watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” every Christmas since then (the black-and-white version, of course), and each time it says something new and different to me. There was the year I watched it for the first time in a Chicago apartment with the man who would be my husband, and he loved it just as much as I did. There was the year we watched it in our first house, a 1920s’ bungalow in Chicago, and I understood exactly why Mary wanted to fix up and live in the drafty, old Granville house. There was the year we watched it for the first time with our kids, neither of whom liked it all that much, and I cried extra hard when George found Zuzu’s petals in his pocket. There was the year we watched it after my husband lost his job, when Mr. Potter seemed extra villainous and George’s victory celebration was particularly poignant.

This year, the line that resonated most with me was Clarence’s inscription in the copy of “Tom Sawyer” that he leaves behind for George: “No man is a failure who has friends.” It has been a tough 12 months for me (parent’s death, job loss), and I don’t know what I would have done without the strength and support of the friends who buoyed me through it. I’m also very lucky and grateful to be married to my own George Bailey, my best friend and the richest man in town.

On this Christmas Eve eve, I am happy and thankful to be exactly where I am. I wouldn’t change a thing. The bad times only make the good ones mean more. I guess I don’t need Frank Capra to tell me it’s a wonderful life, but I do enjoy the reminder.

Wishing you all the happiest of holidays with those you love the most in your own wonderful lives.

The ‘I Love You’ Rule

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My husband is not a morning person. When our children were babies, I envied his ability to sleep through their crying, something my bionic mommy hearing wouldn’t allow me to do. A decade or so later, long past the years of late-night feedings and baby monitors, he still dozes peacefully through my 6 a.m. alarm until his own clock starts buzzing an hour or so later.

Since their father is rarely up before they leave for school, it surprised and pleased our children to see him heading downstairs at 6:30 yesterday morning. They were already bundled in their coats with backpacks in hand, waiting for their ride to band practice. My husband settled in next to me on the couch, and we all cuddled together for a few minutes.

As the kids walked out the door, we told them we loved them as we always do when we say goodbye. It’s an unspoken rule in our family to say “I love you” whenever we part ways or end a phone call. I never coached the kids to say it; they just did, and still do.

After they left, I asked my husband why he was up so early. Was he worried, as I was, about them going back to school after what had happened at Sandy Hook Elementary? He said no. In the same way he can sleep through baby monitors and alarm clocks, he can push tragic events to the back of his mind. When he finds it too painful to think about something, he doesn’t. It may have been a coincidence that he was up early, but our kids still received an extra hug, kiss and “I love you” from their father on a day when these things especially mattered.

It was comforting to have my husband take part in our morning goodbyes yesterday, but I don’t mind being the one who gets up with our kids. As they grow older and the world in which we live becomes less certain and more frightening, I embrace the chance to connect with them before they leave the safety of home and family. While they eat breakfast, I help pack their lunches and we talk about their plans for the day. Some mornings they are talkative, others they don’t say much at all. But I am there if they need me, and that makes it easier to watch them go.

My husband may not be a morning person, but he has no problem handling bedtime. He has always been part of the night-time ritual, helping with baths and reading books. As our kids grew older, I eased myself out of the routine, letting him take over the night shift. Even now, at ages 11 and 13, they still ask him to tuck them into bed, and I do it when he isn’t home. Before we leave their rooms, we kiss and hug them goodnight, and we say “I love you.” It doesn’t matter who says it first; one of us always does. We know the rule.

Image source: Fireside-Home.com

Happy Birthday to You, Mom

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Today I am remembering my beautiful Aunt Thelma, the woman who raised me, on what would have been her 93rd birthday. She was a loving daughter, sister, wife, mother, aunt, grandmother and great grandmother who touched so many lives. To me, she was a mother, a hero, a role model and a dear friend.

Thelma was 51 and had already raised her own two children and multiple foster kids when she and my Uncle Lincoln welcomed me into their home. At that point in life, some women would not have been so giving and selfless, but that wasn’t how Thelma rolled. Her brother’s wife was dying, and he needed her help. All he had to do was ask, and she and my uncle were setting up a crib for me in their house.

My aunt said it was a seamless transition, me moving in with her and Uncle Lincoln. She said I slept peacefully in my new home on the very first night. I was only 2½, but I believe I sensed the love in that house and felt safe. I was exactly where I belonged.

No one was a stranger in Thelma’s house. She welcomed everyone. In fact, her kitchen was kind of like a 24-hour diner: You never knew who would show up. From my dad, to his friends, to all my “aunts” and “uncles” (which was how children respectfully referred to their parents’ friends back in the 1970s), there always seemed to be someone different sitting at her table. My aunt was a great cook, for sure, but she was an even better friend.

Happy birthday, Mom. Thank you for everything you gave me, for your love and friendship. Thank you for showing me what it takes to make a happy home and marriage. I would not be the person, wife or mother I am today if it had not been for you. I was, and continue to be, blessed, and you are the reason.

Thelma, my beautiful aunt, mother and friend. RIP 12/14/1919 - 12/21/2011

Santa Puppy: Yes, We Dress Up Our Dog #IPPP

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Meet Rosebud, the Santa who sits on my lap. Rosie B, as we affectionately call her, came into our lives two holiday seasons ago. We stopped into the local pet shop a few days after Christmas, and immediately fell in love with her. Well, the kids and I did anyway. Their dad was a tougher sell. Strangely enough, he is now the one most attached to RB and proudly walks her through the neighborhood in her pink argyle sweater. Yes, it’s true we’re those people: We dress our dog. Disclaimer: She only wears holiday-specific or cold weather attire. That makes it OK, right?

Rosebud would love to know what you want for Christmas. She doesn’t care if you’ve been naughty or nice; she’ll sit on your lap either way.

I’m linking up with the awesome GFunkified and Mamamash again this week for iPPP. Click on the link below to join us for some iPhone photo phun. 

GFunkified

What Happens in Vegas

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As a little girl, I didn’t dream of walking down the aisle in a white satin dress while Prince Charming waited worshipfully for me at the altar. I didn’t imagine him carrying me off into the sunset on his white steed to a castle where we would live happily ever after. While my Barbie dolls sometimes wore the wedding gown my mother made from her own dress, they preferred the stewardess uniform. My favorite Barbie, a brunette like me, traveled the world with Pilot Ken. They went on dates during layovers in exotic places, but they never discussed marriage. Brunette Barbie had other plans.

When I was a preteen, my plan was to leave Michigan once I turned 18 and relocate to California or maybe New York. Next I would travel to Europe and possibly settle in London. My roadmap grew sketchy after Europe, but I was certain I’d stay single wherever I landed. I didn’t want kids, so there was no point in getting married. I wouldn’t even think about settling down until I was old, like 40 or something, and had seen the world.

At 18, my plan went decidedly south. I wound up living at home with my dad and his wife while I went to the University of Michigan-Dearborn and then moved out and took a job in nearby Birmingham when I graduated. I promised myself I’d only extend the deadline for leaving Detroit by a few years and that I’d be on my way by age 25. Two months before my 26th birthday, I quit my second post-college job, sold my car and moved to Chicago. Six weeks later, I met my future husband.

The prince of Lincoln Park (and later Bucktown) and I lived together for two-and-a-half years before he proposed. I was fine with that, happily focusing on my career and enjoying our big-city lifestyle. Marriage remained the “m” word for me, and the idea of planning a wedding held no appeal. Still, I knew that if I were going to embark on the journey down the aisle and into the unknown, he was the one I wanted beside me.

During a visit to Michigan to celebrate our engagement, my father and his wife tried to sell us on getting married in Livonia. We politely agreed to check out some locations with them, but we never made it past the first generic reception hall or the talk of which of their friends should be on the guest list. The prince wanted a church wedding, but suddenly my crazy idea of eloping to Las Vegas looked good to him. Or at least it looked better than a bunch of my parents’ friends doing the chicken dance under a disco ball.

The prince and I were married in a gazebo at the Island Wedding Chapel of the Tropicana Casino by a minister named “Hap,” which, as he explained, is three-fifths of happy. I had wanted a drive-through wedding performed by an Elvis impersonator, but we compromised. Twenty friends and family members celebrated with us, and a handful of us partied well into the night. I think we rode the rollercoaster at the top of the Stratosphere at 3 o’clock in the morning, but I can’t be sure.

Sometimes what happens in Vegas is only the beginning of the adventure. The prince and I have been to both coasts multiple times in our 16 years of marriage, but we decided the Midwest is where we belong for now. This summer we took the two kids I swore I would never have to Europe for the first time. It seems the plans I made when I was a little girl didn’t change, although the order of them did.

I guess Brunette Barbie just needed to find the right copilot.

The prince and I celebrating our 15th wedding anniversary in November 2011 where our adventure (or at least the marriage part) began: Viva Las Vegas!

How Lovely Are Your Branches

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I don’t remember placing a single ornament on our first ever artificial Christmas tree last year, not even the ones I bought for each of my children. I don’t recall shopping for gifts, wrapping them in patterned paper and shiny bows, or placing them under the tree. I have no idea what we made for the family dinner we hosted on Christmas Eve. I’m certain we did these things. I have the photographic evidence to prove it. But I have no memories.

Last year my aunt, who raised me and was a grandmother to my children, died four days before Christmas. She had been ill with pneumonia since Thanksgiving and passed away shortly after her 92nd birthday. Given her age, frailty and poor health, her death was a blessing. But that didn’t make it any easier for her children, grandchildren and all those who loved her to let her go.

The weeks surrounding my aunt’s death were a numb blur, and the holidays became something to endure rather than enjoy. I can see it in my glassy eyes and forced smile in a photograph of my husband and me that I don’t recall being taken on Christmas Eve. It appears that I put on the “happy mommy” show as best I could for my family, but it was as phony as our new tree.

After the holidays, we packed up the 12-foot, pre-lit tree, which my husband hated and hadn’t wanted to buy in the first place. He swore we’d get a real tree next Christmas.  I don’t remember caring too much one way or another about the tree being artificial. I just didn’t want to look at it anymore.

As the weeks and months passed and took us further away from Christmas, my numbness faded. It may not be the nature of grief to release us entirely, but it does slowly loosen its grip. The darkness gradually lifts, and the good days, so fleeting initially, grow more frequent. The ghosts of our memories move to the outskirts of our thoughts, and we focus on those who remain before us. We remember to feel, we remember to live, and we desire to do both.

This year my husband tried to convince me to get a real tree, but I wanted to give “Tree-hemoth” a second chance. I even managed to talk him into putting it up the week after Thanksgiving, which is early for last-minute holiday non-planners like us. The door of my home office stays open all day so I can admire my glimmering fake fir.

I am feeling festive without pretending, but I haven’t deluded myself into expecting a picture-perfect holiday. I know there will be stress, and some things will go wrong. I will miss my aunt and everyone else who is no longer with us or cannot be here. But I’m ready to make new, happy memories with my family. My smile in this year’s photo will be real.

#iPPP Sunday Funday

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While you were home watching “Boardwalk Empire” (no spoilers, please; I still haven’t seen that episode), here’s where I was Sunday night.

The opening act: Everest. These guys just got off the road from a tour with Neil Young. We’ve seen them a bunch of times. Super talented band and all-around nice guys to boot.

Co-headlining act: Alabama Shakes. Our first time seeing them. Brittany rocked it with that powerhouse voice of hers.

Co-headlining act: Band of Horses. I can’t say enough good things about these guys and the stellar performance they gave. Really. Check ’em out, folks.

And here’s my best little buddy, Rosebud, all snuggled up in the place I didn’t want to leave Monday morning: my bed.

I’m linking up with the awesome GFunkified and Mamamash for #iPPP. Come hang out with us.
GFunkified

Beautiful Girl

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Always smiling and laughing, then and now.

When I had my son, and for the next almost two years, I thought nothing could compare with the experience of being a mother to that sweet little boy. Until I saw my daughter’s platinum blond hair, hooded hazel eyes and tiny button nose for the first time. The song playing in the hospital suite when she was born couldn’t have been more perfect: “Beautiful Girl” by INXS.

Before I had you, my beautiful girl, I thought I could never love another baby as much as your brother. You proved me wrong. Here are some of the countless reasons I love you:

  1. One of my favorite early memories of you was the first time you let out that sweet, infectious belly laugh of yours. Don’t ever stop laughing like that. It’s priceless.
  2. You may only be 11 years old, but you are one of the most fearless people I know. When you were a toddler, we called you “Danger Girl” and for good reason: Your chart at the doctor’s office was three times as thick as your brother’s. As your mom, I sometimes worry about your risk-taking nature, but I’m in awe of it as well. I hope you will always take chances.
  3. You are a loyal, loving friend. It gives me so much joy to see how many of your peers adore you and treasure your company. You seem to intrinsically know how to make and maintain friendships, and that is something your far less social mom really admires about you.
  4. You don’t gossip or speak ill of others. I have never heard you say a bad word about anyone (well, except your brother, and you said it to his face). You remind me so much of my grandmother in that way, and my dad. Don’t let anyone change that about you.
  5. You have so much self-confidence. It astounds me how you just jump into things without hesitating. If you have any self-doubt whatsoever, you never let it show. I want to bottle your confidence and save it for later in your life. My hope is that you won’t need it.
  6. You are self-sufficient and independent. I don’t know if it’s because I was working part-time from home when you came along, but you have always been able to take care of yourself and find ways to stay busy. I think that’s at least part of why you are such a happy, well-adjusted person.
  7. You are creative and talented. From the time you were a toddler, you were always making things. It used to be finger paints and Play-Doh; now it’s cupcake baking and duct tape art. I hope you will explore and expand your creative side throughout your life.
  8. You are a great conversationalist. You definitely, and thankfully, take after your father in this department. You know how to talk to people, and you truly listen when others are speaking.
  9.  You don’t worry about what other people think. You are my little spitfire, full of fun and goofiness. You know how to have a good time and you always do. Life is way too short to worry about looking silly. I hope you never will.
  10. Your capacity to love is endless. You welcome and enjoy everyone you meet, and I couldn’t be more proud of your huge heart. Never stop letting love in, sweet girl. It’s what makes life worth living.

Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). It was my first time participating, and blogging daily for 30 days was a pretty crazy experience. But I did it, darn it! And there’s the badge below to prove it. Cheers to all my fellow NaBloPoMo-ers!