Month: March 2019

The other day I saw a handsome older man scurrying down the aisle at Harris Teeter. I’m guessing he was in his early 70s, but his thick white hair and fit body made him look a little younger. As he walked away, I wondered what he looked like when he was younger. Then I thought it would be super cool if we could wear age decoder glasses that allowed us to see people at different ages in their lives. I’d love to see my parents as teenagers, and I’d love to see my 5-year-old self decked out in my Partridge Family-style suit. (Oh how I wanted to be a member of that family.) My guess is that the older man I saw at the Teeter was a fox in his younger days. 

            Before you even think it, I know I’m turning into a geriatric stalker, but there’s a two-pronged reason that I notice senior citizens more these days. First prong, I constantly compare the health and wellbeing of random old people with my parents and my husband’s parents. Sometimes the comparison makes me thankful for the shape they’re in, other times it leaves me jealous. 

            The second prong is that I’m at the halfway mark in my life, and I often wonder what I’ll be like when I’m old. I want to believe that I’ll be the 80-year-old woman driving to the Y in a convertible every morning donning a white ponytail and cool exercise clothes. I’d love to be the one that all the young women point to and say, “I want to be like her when I’m old. Just look at her legs.” 

            That’s the goal, but you never know what life is going to throw at you, and the older I grow, the more I realize that I can only control so much of the throwing. (Note, if I have any say in the matter at all, I will have a convertible in my golden years.) Now, back to my geriatric friends. 

            Most people try to sugarcoat getting older, and of course, there are some great things about it. First of all, you’re not dead. Second, most likely you’re wiser if you’ve paid attention. Third, and best of all in my opinion, you can say all sorts of things, and if some or all of them are offensive or crazy, the general public will just write you off as a batty old person and go on with their day. It’s a free pass to say all of the things you’ve always wanted to say. I can’t wait for that. 

            However, a lot about growing old is heartbreaking. Losing the ability to do the things you love has to be excruciating. I’ve only dipped my toe in these waters, as I can’t pull off a good cartwheel anymore, and I rarely stay up past 10:30 p.m. But what happens when you can’t drive or dance or walk down the stairs anymore? It’s hard not to mourn that loss, and it’s even harder not to be angry about it. 

            My parents are in their eighties. Three years ago my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, a bastard of a disease, and though she’s holding on as best she can, she is slowly fading away. As for me, I try to connect with her, but I’m doing a lousy job. She can’t hear well, and I end up screaming at her out of necessity, not anger. We both end up frustrated and wishing things could be the way they used to be. 

            As I try to think of ways to connect with her, I find myself paralyzed by the present and the future. It’s hard not to imagine what the future will be like for her. My grandmother died of Alzheimer’s, so I’ve seen this before. 

            What does make me happy is the past. I relish it more now than I ever have, and I find myself discovering more memories by the day. Either my children will do something that reminds me of being a kid, therefore being with my mom, or I’ll just remember something on my own — like the time my mom grounded me for jumping into the neighborhood lake in February. 

            Those memories feel like a hot bath, as they take away the chill of right now. I think of all of the times my mom drove me to dance class, to cheerleading, to play practice, to piano, to voice, to Girl Scouts, to wherever I needed to go. I think about how she used to surprise me with dresses from Neta’s, our hometown boutique that just recently went out of business, for special occasions — my baccalaureate, my high school graduation, my first real job.             

            So many times people find pain in the past, but for me, there is so much goodness when I think of my mom. Though I hate so much that she has Alzheimer’s, I wonder if I would cherish these memories as much as I do if she were cognitively okay. I can’t answer that, but part of me thinks I would take them for granted. All I know is that remembering helps me deal with now, and I hope somewhere deep down inside of her, she remembers all of the good times, too. 

Being surrounded by people who know what you need before you know ranks right up there with hearing your favorite song while eating pizza outside on a sunny day. I’m lucky that I’ve experienced this more than once in my life, and I can only hope that I’ve done the same for others. 

            One time in particular that I remember this happening was eight months after I graduated from college. I was living at home and had just wrapped up an unpaid internship at an advertising agency. I was desperately trying to find employment and still had that entitled-recent-college-graduate attitude. I couldn’t believe that ad agencies weren’t fighting to have me on their creative team. How could they not need my fresh, new ideas? I would be a complete asset for them. (Drop the last two letters of that word, and that’s what I was in those days.) 

            Let’s also keep in mind that this was the mid-90s, and although we were all enjoying watching Friends on Thursday nights, the job market was dismal. I sent out resume after resume only to hear crickets. The rejection (or lack of rejection rather) began to get to me, so one day my parents decided to get me out of the house and take me to the zoo. 

            My parents have taken me on lots of trips, but this one will always stand out for two reasons. One, the motivation for the trip was pure love, and two, a baboon mooned my dad when he got too close to the exhibit. 

            The other day, my husband showed me that same kind of love (with the exception of the baboon). I’ve been down lately, more than down. We’re talking about the crying, not sleeping, feeling nauseous all the time kind of down. I’m worried about my parents, my kids and my sanity. And although I’m not the most religious person in the world, I’ve also been down about some weird and hurtful things happening at our church. So instead of allowing me to be engulfed in a wave of self-pity, John planned a hike for our family at a state park a little over an hour away from our home. 

            A little context here — John and I constantly joke about me living in a bubble. He commutes 40 miles (each way) to work as an engineer for a German company. I have no idea what he does, but I know that he works with real people because I’ve met some of them. As for me, most everything I do takes place within five miles of our house. Sure, it’s convenient, but it can also be suffocating. So even though I often resist exiting the bubble, it is indeed a healthy thing to do — if only to realize that everyone does not wear Lululemon and have Carrera marble countertops. 

            So yesterday we made our way to Bakers Mountain Park in Catawba County. The 189-acre park features six miles of trails and a gorgeous lookout at its peak (1,780 feet above sea level). At first I didn’t have a great attitude. My allergies were bothering me, and the beginning part of the trail was super steep. But once I got into a rhythm, I remembered how much I enjoy hiking. I love the strategy behind each step when walking over roots, and I love the ease of speeding up when the trail is flat. The constant back and forth demands your attention, so you have no choice but to focus. 

            By the time we reached the summit, I felt good, not great, but good, which is a heck of a lot better than I felt when I woke up. We crossed a gurgling stream on our way back down, and I took a minute to just listen to the water. Caught in the wonder that it was going to keep continuously flowing long after we were gone was comforting to me. I made a point to stamp that moment on my brain so I could pull it up later. 

            As we drove back into the bubble, I was grateful that John pushed to take us on a hike and just be for a few hours. Sometimes that’s all you need, just to be. I’m so glad that he knew that because I didn’t have a clue. 

Sometimes (a lot of times, who are we kidding?) things get under my skin. If someone doesn’t wave when I let them in my lane, I’m offended. If people don’t smile back at me when I walk in a waiting room, it ticks me off. If the gas pump doesn’t flash a “thank you” across the screen after I fill up, I get angry. But cheaters are the worst of all. I can’t stand anyone who breaks the rules to get what they want. I simply can’t tolerate it.

So while I try not to get wrapped up in the news of the day because that’s just a quagmire of stress that unfortunately I have little control over, I’m mad — furious actually — about the college admission scandal that broke this week. You know the story, a bunch of super wealthy parents paid to have their children admitted to prestigious schools and falsified information, including test scores, to do it. It’s despicable, and it hits a big nerve for me.

When I was in fourth grade, I made the decision that I wanted to be a journalist. I also decided that I wanted to go to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill because it was one of the best J-schools in the country. It was also in my home state (in-state tuition), and they had a kickass basketball team. Ever heard of Michael Jordan?

From then on I did everything in my power to make sure I was accepted to Chapel Hill. I was the editor of my high school newspaper. I went to writing camp. I went to Governor’s School. I did a zillion extracurriculars, and I had good grades with the exception of math (and chemistry). Heck, I was even nominated for Miss Senior, which was an actual thing (and honor) at my high school. But then there was the SAT, and I completely bombed it. I’m a terrible test taker and knowing the stakes involved with this particular test did not help matters at all.

I was wait-listed at Chapel Hill and eventually denied. I found out that I didn’t get in the day I returned from my Governor’s School reunion, where I learned that all of my other friends had been accepted. I was so upset that I kicked a slit in my bedroom door. Even though mom had the door painted, the slit is still there.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt disappointment like that since. Sure I’ve had my heart broken more than once, but this was different. I had done my best, and my best wasn’t good enough for my dream.

That fall I sucked up my pride and enrolled in my safety school, determined to transfer to Chapel Hill. I employed the same tenacity and rigor that I did in high school, and two years later I was a junior transfer at Chapel Hill. Other than my children, this is the accomplishment I’m most proud of because I did every bit of it myself.

I called counselors at Chapel Hill while I was at my other school and asked for advice on what courses to take. I did that, not my parents. I studied. I made the grades. I did that, not my parents.

Did I have an awesome GPA at Chapel Hill? No, but I learned a hell of a lot, and those lessons serve me well to this day. As painful as it was being rejected as a freshman, it turned out to be a wonderful thing. It gave me time so grow academically so I could handle the workload of the journalism school. It also taught me the value of hard work and never giving up on your dream.

So when I hear of super wealthy parents who already have the means to give their children every legitimate advantage in the college acceptance game grossly crossing the line of what’s right and wrong, it infuriates me. No matter how much money you have, we all know what’s right and what’s wrong. Falsifying test scores and doing elaborate photo shoots of your child pretending to play a sport they don’t play is inherently wrong in anyone’s playbook. Because you’re wealthy doesn’t exempt you from the rules — or the punishment.

We all love our children, but the biggest gift you can give your kid is allowing them to fail. I’m grateful that my parents paid for my college education. There were no loans or scholarships. And I’m grateful that they encouraged me and supported me, especially when I called home in tears because I didn’t do well on a test. But I am most grateful that that’s where their involvement with my education ended.

My parents didn’t write my papers, bribe my professors for good grades or donate a wing to the library so I would be accepted to the journalism school. I wrote the papers. I made the grades, good and bad (economics was a disaster), and I got myself into the journalism school. It is a gift that keeps on giving, and I’m so proud my parents gave it to me.

Yesterday morning I was in a dozing bliss, trying to snag any extra minutes of sleep I could in retaliation to Daylight Savings Time. I was being extra greedy while my husband, who always gets up early on the weekends to be “productive,” piddled around in the kitchen. A few minutes later he came into the bedroom to announce that he needed to take Hamilton, one of our beloved tabby cats, to the vet. 

“He’s not acting right. He’s limping, and he’s making that fighting sound that he makes when he fights, but he’s not fighting.” He walked into the kitchen, and a few minutes later, I heard him mumbling. I eventually deciphered that he was talking on his cell phone, and then I figured out he was talking with my dad because his southern accent grows stronger when he talks with him. 

I soon learned that my parents had gone to the emergency room the night before. Mom was having chest pains and wanted to get things checked out, and the doctors opted to keep her overnight. Suddenly a Sunday filled with catching up on work and taking The Tots to a birthday party morphed into triage for two family members — one furry, one not. 

Dad told me I didn’t need to come, but my parents get confused, and they’re not getting any younger. A hospital isn’t the best place for them in terms of communication skills, so I knew I needed to go. I’ve gone alone before, but I really wanted to be with John and The Tots as much as possible, so they drove me over to my hometown to the hospital where I was born, 45 minutes from our front door. 

John took the kids to the mall next to the hospital while I tried to gather information about what had happened and what was going to happen next. Mom looked good when I walked into her room, and Dad was reluctantly glad I came. (My father hates to cause anyone any trouble, and he hates asking for help more. As my parents age, this isn’t making anything easier — for any of us.) 

It turns out that mom probably has some cartilage arthritis in her sternum. There’s a fancy word for it, but I don’t remember it, and I sure as heck can’t spell it. Reflux was probably another reason for the pain. Luckily, she scored well on all of her heart tests, so there doesn’t appear to be a serious problem. 

As we sat in the hospital room waiting on doctors and nurses to do what they needed to do, we had some tense moments. I didn’t have a great attitude, and mom and dad were tired and confused. My mom has Alzheimer’s, so being somewhere new is difficult and understanding the rules of a new place is equally hard. She kept wanting to take out her IV because it hurt. I didn’t want her to be in pain, but I also know nurses are supposed to take the IV out for a reason — they know how and when to do it. Both of them were confused about which day it was, a common occurrence among the older set, and neither of them were happy with the room (seniors!). 

I took breaks from the situation by texting John and checking with the nurse at the desk. The Tots were fine. Margot found a unicorn/rainbow bracelet (standard issue for a 9-year-old girl) at Claire’s, and Graydon was browsing the bookstore. John was struck by the fact that there’s a small fenced-in graveyard adjacent to the mall. I hadn’t thought about that graveyard in years, and it never struck me as strange. Didn’t every mall have a graveyard? John was amazed.

During one of my breaks at the desk, I confided in the nurse that it’s hard helping aging parents, especially when they don’t want it. Regina, with long dark ringlets framing a beautiful face, told me she understood. For 25 years she was a social worker, then she had to start taking care of her grandmother, so she knows the perils of trying to help older folks. She shared a story about giving her grandmother a bath.

When she told her grandmother that she needed to bathe, her grandmother balked. “You have to make it fun,” explained Regina. “I made it a bubble bath.” When her grandma got in the tub, she just sat there, so Regina began washing her back. Tears filled her grandmother’s eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Regina. 

“No one has washed my back since I was a little girl,” said her grandmother. And right then, Regina decided to become a nurse so she could help people feel special. 

Most people these days don’t select a line of work for that reason, and they certainly don’t switch streams mid-career to do it, but Regina did. We went on talking about kids. She has three, including a 21-year-old daughter with special needs. “She is just right for our family. She’s such a joy,” said Regina. 

Soon my mom was discharged with a simple prescription of OTC Zantac to remedy her chest pains. As she sat in the mandatory wheelchair, waiting for her papers to be printed, she crossed her legs and combed her hair. Regina explained that mom had expressly asked for a comb before I arrived. That made me so happy because despite what Alzheimer’s has taken from my mom, it hasn’t taken away her desire to look good. I laughed and told her that she looked cute. 

I probably would have never crossed paths with Regina had my mom not gone to the ER Saturday night. I don’t usually hang out at hospitals on Sundays (or any day for that matter), and Regina doesn’t usually work Sundays, but she had volunteered for this Sunday shift. I’m glad she did because she shined a light on a dim situation — a light I desperately needed. 

Help! I’m still battling this stupid cold. I thought I was better, but I’m not. I’m still weak and congested and gross. Feeling like a walking germ ball doesn’t leave a lot of room for goodness, but it’s there. It’s there because being sick allows me to rest and alter our crazy schedule just a little bit. Regardless, I’ve still got a case of the “Mean Reds” as Holly Golightly (from Breakfast at Tiffany’s) would say.

My condition is the result of a combination of factors. One, the weather. It’s either raining all the time (and I mean all the time) or it’s so cold that my skin resembles a reptile’s. Two, my cold. For almost a month, I’ve been feeling “fiddly.” This is a word my friend made up years ago to describe the feeling when your body is just not right. When I put it like that, it might be more than a month. Three, the recent invasion of Murphy’s Law in our household — being double charged for a newspaper I never received, being overcharged for a flu test that revealed that I did not have the flu but was instead “fiddly” and a mysterious leak in my precious Honda Odyssey (say what you want about minivans, but I love mine) that floods the floor with water. Who gets a water leak on the floorboard of their car? It’s not beach property. Enough.

To combat the “feeling sorry for yourself” blues that are just as big a part of my colds as a hoarse voice, I decided to practice a little “self care” last night. Before you roll your eyes, I get it. Self care is a super overused, self-indulgent, extremely millennial term that people who already live better than most of the people on this planet use. However, there was a reason this term was invented, and it’s the same reason it’s been so well received. We’re killing ourselves, people. 

Between work, advanced parenting, fitness and everyday life stuff (think errands, groceries, coffee runs, Sign Up Genius), we’re doing ourselves in. Not a week goes by that I don’t think about what my mom and her fellow moms were like in the ‘70s. My mom was more hands on than most, and she still managed to sneak away for hours to read Danielle Steele novels while sipping on a tall glass of Crystal Light (lemonade was by far the best flavor).

This is not a parenting blog because we all know that there are plenty of those. It’s a blog about goodness, and as a parent, a lot of the goodness in my life comes from my children and what they bring out in me. Taking care of my kids is my favorite thing to do, and it’s also the hardest thing I do, which is why I’ve spent the last nine years being exhausted.

Back to self care. I take a hot bath most nights just to spool down from the day. A few months ago I started using this awesome bubble bath that has a eucalyptus scent. It reminds me of when John and I ventured to Muir Woods in California on vacation pre-Tater Tots. Eucalyptus trees made a tunnel over the curvy road, as their scent trickled down into the car . This is not a bad memory to have after a hectic day.

Anyway, I took my bath up a notch by lighting three candles that had been sitting by our bathtub for months wondering what their purpose was. I didn’t turn the lights off because that seemed like too much, and I didn’t want to freak the cats out. (The last thing needed in this scenario was a cat catching on fire.) Instead, I relaxed. It’s a simple word, but it is incredibly hard to achieve, but I came close, and that’s good enough for me.

Drawing a bath and lighting candles are tiny things, but they did wonders for me, and you can bet, I’m going to do it again.

Last night I started coughing that annoying dry cough that makes you feel like you’re a smoker when in fact you are not. I pulled myself out of bed to get a glass of water after several rounds of coughing. As I gulped water in the bathroom, I heard some rumbling around our bedroom. I walked in to see my husband, John, filling our Hello Kitty (how can you not love Kitty?) humidifier. My heart melted.

If any of you reading this are young single girls, this is the kind of man you want. As soon as he heard me coughing, he thought of something that could help me, and he got out of bed and took care of it. Falling back asleep, I watched the glow of our humidifier and felt so loved.

We often think goodness has to be something grand, but the smallest gestures have the biggest impact. I saw another example of this tonight when we had dinner with my parents at a local barbecue joint they frequent in my hometown. It’s a casual spot that attracts older folks because it’s familiar and inexpensive. It’s not my favorite place, but it brings me back to reality when I go there, plus the hush puppies are to die for. Tonight was no exception.

Our waitress was so patient and kind with our order. (Graydon asked specific questions about the mac and cheese, and my parents couldn’t decide on whether or not to split the special or which salad dressing they wanted.) Another lady was helping her. I later learned that she was the water and tea lady, as her mission was to make sure no one’s glasses were empty.

When dad was paying the bill, he asked the water and tea lady if she relied on tips. She explained that she didn’t because she was a minimum wage employee and that the waitresses made $2.50 an hour, making tips crucial to them.

Needless to say, it’s hard to make a living with a wage like that, but that’s a blog for another time. What touched me was when my dad asked if the water and tea lady could accept tips. She said that she could if it was handed directly to her. Dad proceeded to hand her some rolled up dollar bills.

My parents aren’t perfect, but they’re good people. They struggle with various health issues, but they still deliver Meals on Wheels to folks who can no longer leave their homes, shut-ins we call them in the country, and they manage to visit people in nursing homes. I don’t need to tell you how much that means to people and their families, how much it means to me.

My dad thinking to tip the lady who usually isn’t tipped, but who made sure I had hot water all through dinner for my dry throat, is goodness. Her cheerful demeanor, despite the wrap on her wrist for carpal tunnel, is goodness. The other waitress offering to make me hot chocolate for my throat is goodness. My husband stumbling through the night to find the Hello Kitty humidifier so that I could sleep is goodness.

I’m happy to report that my coughing is going away and that I’m sounding less like Demi Moore and more like Lori. I hope to sleep soundly through the night, and if I do, I’ll know it’s because of the doses of goodness I was given today.

I love music, and I often look to music to give me direction. It’s like an audible signpost pointing me the right way. This week I needed my soundtrack more than ever. It’s been a terrible week because I’ve been sick with a terrible cold. I’m now enjoying the dry cough phase of my cold, so I apologize to anyone who has shared a public space with me today because I’m certain you heard me hacking.

Needless to say, I’ve needed some winks this week, and after looking really hard, I found them. Exhibit A, yesterday, when I was driving to pick my kids up from school, the theme from the Rockford Files came on the radio. This is a priceless soundtrack gem, as it immediately transported me back to the days of black and white TVs sans remotes, 45 records, and sun-sensor glasses. I texted my husband as soon as I parked at the school. “Things are looking up — just heard Rockford Files theme,” I wrote. He texted back a picture of James Garner (Rockford) with some fashionable ’70s chick. Enough cannot be said about a husband who gets your kitsch sense of humor (future blog post).

In addition, I’ve heard ABBA’s Dancing Queen more than once this week, which is my official diva-kick butt-I’m awesome sauce anthem. When I hear it, I feel like there’s nothing I can’t do. I remember dancing to this song at my wedding reception with my matron of honor’s baby. He’s now 16, but I’ll always remember him as the only dance partner I’ve ever had to carry. He’s also the only dance partner I’ve ever had who wore a light-blue jumpsuit and a diaper. (That may change when I become a senior citizen, but for now that’s how it stands.)

Then today while driving, I heard a favorite Buffett tune I had not heard in ages. A little background here, Jimmy Buffett is a therapist to me. This man has written a song about every emotion you can have, and his lyrics are genius and fun, which is a hard combination to pull off and not be annoying, but Buffett does it beautifully. His music has guided me through some of the toughest times in my life — infertility being one of them (we’ll get to that in another blog post). Needless to say that in my book, there’s nothing a Buffett song can’t fix.

So today as it rained, yet again, (seriously, if this doesn’t stop, everyone is going to grow webbed feet, begin quacking and pooping on each other’s driveways) I heard Buffett’s song Good Guys Win. I cranked it up and began smiling because this is the kind of song you should hear in a movie when the David character is about to kick the Goliath character’s butt (lots of butts today, folks). It’s a song for anyone who tries to do the right thing and adhere to life’s basic rules (in particular the golden one), and it would also be perfect for any After School Special (that’s for you Gen Xers).

The second verse goes as follows:

“Trouble all around us.
Dirty tricks at every turn.
Seems that we historically
refuse to live and learn.
You start to wonder if all hope is gone,
you would be wrong.”

Someone give this man a pulpit, because he is preaching the truth that we need. I know that things seem bleak in this world, especially if you read, watch or listen to the news. I know that there are days when winks of goodness are hard, nearly impossible to find, but we have to believe that they’re there. We just have to.

There will always be jerks, liars and haters in this world. Our job is to rise above those jokers and do the best we can. We’re going to make mistakes, and that’s okay. It’s okay because we’re living and learning, just as Pastor Buffett says we should do.

Though I’m grateful that this is the song that ended my week because the way things were going, it looked like Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb was going to be a better bet, I’m even more grateful that I listened for it. I was open to hope, and it came to me.

Good guys (and girls) do win. It’s hard, but it does happen “just when you think it won’t happen again.” Thanks, Pastor Buffett. Amen.