Birthday Wishes, Courthouse Blues

(google image via scentofmyheart.files.wordpress.com)

It’s GB’s birthday today. He’s 35, although he says he feels a whole lot older. We have plans to celebrate with my family tonight, and the boys and I are taking him to breakfast this morning. On Thursday, though, I canceled my noon meeting and met GB for lunch so we could celebrate his big day by ourselves.

As we scanned the menu, I of course spent a minute or two teasing him about The Big 3-5 in a shamefully uncreative way. “This is your last year to check the “21-35” box on forms, you know.” I said. “You’ll be out of the youth market. Beer companies won’t want anything more to do with you.”

He grinned ruefully. “Remember how, when I first started my job, the marketing team took pictures of the lab, and I was in one of those pictures? Since then, my 23-year-old self is on posters around the building. I walked past one with [Mr. Company President] a few days ago, and he told me I’d aged a lot.”

“He did?” I said. I tilted my head and tried to survey my husband objectively. To me, he didn’t look like he’d aged much at all. I could only see the same smart, preppy, smirking kid I married all those years ago.

~*~

It’s April 9, 1999. I’m at the Franklin County Probate Court, waiting to sign a marriage license for the wedding that is just two weeks away. I left work early and arrived at 3:45 by myself. Now it’s 4:19, the office will close in 11 minutes, and GB has yet to walk through the door.

The receptionist eyes me sympathetically from behind the desk. I avoid eye contact as long as I can. When she does catch my glance, she says, “I’m sorry, sweetie. It looks like he’s not coming.”

“Oh, he’ll be here!” I say in my most chipper voice. “I’m sure he’s just running late.”

She nods encouragingly and returns to her crossword puzzle.

Meanwhile, I try to decide how best to retaliate for being stood up on marriage license-signing day: If I get home first, should I pack up all his things and then wait for him, or should I change the lock, spend the night at my parents’ house and leave all his crap on the back doorstep? The first could work, because the yelling would be cathartic. But the second would be better; I’m already humiliated enough.

“No matter what,” I tell myself, “I’m keeping his CDs. He’ll have to pry them from my cold, lifeless, broken-hearted fingers to even think about getting them back.”

The clock says 4:21.

I fumble around for my cell phone. In my head I leave him a message full of furious, unbridled obscenities. Instead, I mumble this into the phone: “GB, I’m at the courthouse. Where are you?”

Then I slink back in my chair to stare at the ceiling.

At 4:23, the door swings open, and there he is. His tanned face is all smiles and apologies. I burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks in wide-eyed surprise.

“I left you messages! Why are you so late?”

“I got caught in traffic,” he says. “Then I couldn’t find a parking spot. I drove around forever. You know I wouldn’t stand you up.”

The receptionist pretends she’s not paying attention. She pulls a calculator out of her top drawer and starts poking the numbers with her pencil eraser.

GB exhales an exasperated sigh then collapses into the seat next to mine. “Now, are you going to learn trust me?” he says. “You know me well enough to know I would never let you down like that.”

The clock says 4:25.

“Let’s sign some papers,” I sniff.

For once, the government does two kids a favor and stays open a little late. We leave the courthouse with our license in hand, and say our vows in front of friends and family two weeks later. We spend the next decade sharing CDs that eventually turn into MP3 files, in an apartment that eventually turns into a house, that we own as a couple that eventually turns into a family.

~*~

From this safe distance of nearly 12 years, I can say GB has kept his promises. He has never let me down, not once. I think that’s why I can’t see if he’s changing. He’s never made me question him, so I’ve never needed to take a step back, reassess, or see him for anything other than the person I know him to be.

“Did you buy me the anti-balding shampoo for a reason?” he asked me yesterday morning.

I snorted. “I bought you anti-balding shampoo?”

“I thought you were trying to tell me something,” he said.

I laughed as I squinted at his full head of hair. “You know me well enough to know I’m not that subtle.”

(Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope it’s fantastic. – M.)

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Love Advice for Preschoolers

I’m spending extra time this week on work related things. In the meantime, here’s a repost of an early 36×37 piece. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

~*~

Love Advice for Preschoolers – April 29, 2010

H is embroiled in his first love triangle. If you think I’m kidding, check out the angst-ridden back story.

Flashback to last Friday night. The boys have been in daycare all day. It’s a temporary arrangement while their nanny is on maternity leave, and for all of their complaining, I think they secretly don’t mind it there. They never want to leave, they come home exhausted, they’ve made a handful of new friends and…

“I think I wike a girl, Mama,” H says quietly.

“Oh really?” I say. I’m not shocked; he said the same thing earlier in the week, but until now, he’s been light on the details.

“Is it someone at preschool?” I ask.

“No. She’s at my daycare. She won’t tell me her name.”

“Well H, honey, maybe she’s just shy…”

“Nah, she’s not shy. I don’t get it. At preschool, I get the girls to wike me by making funny faces ‘til they waff. But this girl doesn’t wike that at all.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I should try to be nice to her.”

“Good. And to C, too…” (C…another little girl at school.)

He rolls his eyes at me.

“Have you asked your teachers to tell you her name?”

“I don’t want to. They scare me.”

“Maybe your friends know.”

“They don’t.”

One of two things is happening here. Either this girl is H’s imaginary sweetheart, or she’s wise beyond her years. For the sake of this post, let’s say she is real. Her aloof, noncommittal approach totally gives her the upper hand! It’s the cruelest strategy there is, and it almost always works. I want to tell H to move on. I want to tell him he’s too smart to fall prey to petty mind games. But I don’t. I don’t! Because he’s five. And I’m not about to dispense love advice to a preschooler.

Especially not to one who is still my baby.

~*~

Who am I kidding. H is no stranger to The Blow Off. He has already perfected his own version. Exhibit A:

It’s last Friday morning. As I walk H and O to their daycare classroom, two small, pretty faces appear in the doorway. The first one whispers, “There he is!” and the second one giggles quickly. Suddenly, the first little girl stands before us.

“Well, hello” I say. “What’s your name, sweetie?” She tilts her head archly, and says, “I’m C!” Then she tosses her ponytail and looks at H. “Did you guys get haircuts?” she asks. “You look so handsome!” When she takes a step forward, my boys step back.

So this is C. H has complained about her all week. She wants to sit by him at lunch. And circle time. And on the playground. She won’t leave him alone.

Me? Well, obviously, I’m smitten. C is adorable. She’s what I’d want my own little girl to be: sassy and bold and not at all intimidated. Meanwhile, H isn’t so easily charmed. He regards her coolly, then grabs O’s hand and turns away.

C’s little face drops. Her tiny heart is on her pretty, ruffled sleeve, and that prompts my own heart-on-sleeve self to butterfly stitch and bandage her hurt feelings. I want to tell her she’s going about this all wrong, because—Rule #1—smothering never, ever, ever, EVer works. I don’t say so because she’s five. Because she’s somebody else’s daughter. Because I have a son I need to lecture later on.

~*~

It’s Wednesday. I’m standing in the kitchen with my brother, SC. He’s leaning against my countertops while his soon-to-be ex-wife is at home, packing up her things and moving out. The split has been “amicable.” They signed their papers in the quietest manner, and SC won’t say a word against her. He says he understands now that they aren’t right for each other. He has stores of strength I didn’t know he had.

SC slides two packs of Star Wars stickers across the countertop and into the hands of two eager little boys. “These are from Aunt ____,” he says. “She saw them and knew you guys would like them.”

O peels the Anakin Skywalker sticker off its backing and slaps it triumphantly across the front of his shirt. H studies SC’s face. “How’d she mail these from so far away, Uncle SC?” he asks.

“She hasn’t left yet, buddy. She’s leaving next week.” SC answers calmly.

“Will you be sad?” H asks.

“Yes. I think I’ll be very sad.”

My heart squeezes tightly with sympathy. When I look at my brother, he doesn’t look back.

~*~

I want to explain to H that sometimes love just doesn’t work out, even when you give it everything you have. Sometimes you need to let go because it’s best for both of you. It hurts, but maybe it doesn’t have to be awful. You have free license to start over. Start fresh. Dream big, then dream bigger, and in the end, just be proud of who you are. As proud as I am of my brother.

And so I do explain it. Or at least I try. He’s only five, after all.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Luv Songs.

(via static.technorati.com)

Love: Hard to describe.

So hard, in fact, that the Greeks have four different words for it: Storge (love of family); Philia (affection between friends); Eros (sexual attraction) and Agape (unconditional love).

That linguistic breakdown helps, but it still doesn’t get it quite right. Love is too large and nuanced to divide into simple quarters. Each relationship would need to pick and evolve its own title to represent itself fully.

Consider: How is your relationship like anyone else’s? It isn’t. Therefore, let the writers in the room line up and shoot me for saying this: Words are too pedestrian to do the job.

That’s where music steps in as the great, bold communicator of the heart. With the right lyrics, composition and requisite bass drum, it can trap you in an emotion like you’re seated in a room, thinking eerily: “I’ve been in this place before. I’ve been here, and everything is exactly as I left it.”

So. On this great Hallmark Holiday of love, I give you a Valentine’s Day soundtrack of the most universal “rooms” I can think of. (We’ll stick with the Eros/Agape wings of the house today—after all, they’re the fussy little architects behind the strange confection of February 14.) May you find a room that suits you so you can sit for a while. Then may you stay put or move on as Cupid dictates.

~*~

Hopeful risk taking

Or, sullen denial

Elated discovery

Wistful Longevity

Unraveling

Getting the bad news

Stunned heartbreak

Low-down, busted dejectedness

Obstinate resolve

loneliness, longing and regret

Moving on

(Happy Valentine’s Day to All)

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Love and Idiocy (Or, What NOT to Give on Valentine’s Day)

(google image)

It’s February 13, 1993. I’m 19 and finally ready to acknowledge the crush I have on that Sigma Alpha Epsilon boy I’ve been talking to. We’ve been on a few dates, had long late night phone calls, met up at bourbon-soaked parties…clearly, things are going well. I don’t yet know about his long-term girlfriend or the furious embarrassment I’ll endure when I find out about her later that spring, so at this particular moment, all systems are “go.”

I bum a ride from a friend, and together we head to that shining beacon of light we small-town Danville, KY, Centre College students call “Walmart” to hit the candy and card aisles as hard as we can. I buy lovely amounts of chocolate—some for me, some for the boy—and pour his share into a glass jar I’ve tied with a festive curl of red silk ribbon. Pièce de résistance: the painting of his name across the front of the jar, followed by the spraying of perfume so I can wave his Valentine’s Day card through the falling mist. (Oh, le sigh.)

On my way to cheerleading practice, I stop by the campus post office and hand my gift (and all my pride) to the postmistress. She looks at the name on the jar and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You don’t say…” she says and smiles knowingly as I wave goodbye.

I spend the next 24 hours in fits and knots of anxiety. The phone rings, and it’s never for me. My campus mailbox is empty at dinner time. I cover my head with my pillow and commence the practiced art of indignant sulking.

At 9 or so, the telephone rings, and it’s the boy. My roommate winks and discretely leaves the room.

“Did you send me a jar of chocolates today through campus mail?” the boy asks without saying hello. He sounds like he’s smiling, but I can’t quite tell for sure.

“Maaaybe,” I say. I hope I sound coy enough to disguise my dripping, crawling, aching swirl of nervousness.

“Did you also maaaybe spray that chocolate with perfume?” he asks.

There is only the slightest pause. And then, at least five males erupt with laughter on the other end of the phone line. I picture them all, yucking it up at my mortified expense.

“Whatever scent you wear,” I barely hear him say, “It tastes a lot like bug spray.”

~*~

And so: Valentine’s Day was not always my favorite holiday. There are many, many disastrous stories akin to the one above. You’ll either have to serve me a few shots of tequila and cross your fingers or wait until next Valentine’s Day to hear more.

In the meantime, let’s just leave it with this public service announcement: Don’t be an idiot on Valentine’s Day. It’s only a few short days away, so be sure to come to the breakfast table prepared to woo your sweetheart. It’s up to you to make sure he or she is pleased (rather than poisoned by 1990’s-era-“Rapture”-by-Victoria’s-Secret-coated chocolates) on Monday morning.

CNN.com posted Time Magazine’s “What NOT to Give” guide, and for the sake of preserving your own pride and embarrassment, I’m posting it now.

10 Ways to Say \”I Love You\”: The Most Ridiculous Valentine\’s Day Gifts on the Market

(Personally, I’d be fine with a chocolate Smart Car. The Snuggie-sutra is good for a laugh, but that’s probably all. Too much cotton-blend.)

Now, tell me: What’s the worst Valentine’s Day gift you’ve ever given or received? Sound off in the comments below. Let the embarrassing stories fly!

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Songs of Snow and Heartbreak

 

(google image from tinyfarmblog.com)

Snow is falling again on Columbus. It has been all week, in a quiet, steady flurry from sky to ground. I’m breathlessly glad to see it, because this time of year, every year, I fall head over heels in love with Snow. I don’t mean for it to happen, it just does.

And so Snow and I rekindle an annual affair that lasts through January. We spend cozy nights at home watching movies and sipping cocoa while I gaze at it adoringly. I don’t notice at first that Snow is cold and unresponsive. Love is blind that way.

Finally, though, I do notice, and by February, I am done with Snow—done!—because by then, it has grown slovenly and gray. It stops being romantic, and it won’t clean up after itself. I ask it to leave and it won’t. Things grow sour when I tell it to stop tracking itself across the wooden floors, and in March, it disappears altogether. I’m glad to see it go, and I forget all about it…until December shows up again on my doorstep.

~*~

Snow must have its way with everyone, because it keeps popping up in some of the songs I love. My iTunes alone have nine songs that feature Snow as a lead character, and every one of those tracks is about unspeakable heartbreak, longing and loss.

So. I’m banking on something. I’m banking on YOUR affair with snow. It’s alright to admit it—I know how Snow gets around. That’s why I’m posting these songs today: so we can commiserate.

Bon Iver – Blood Bank

Basically, this song boils down to two people who have a strange conversation at a blood bank and end up making out in a car—that is covered in Snow! (I’m not surprised.) The track is gorgeous, and the instrumental end is absolutely devastating.

Winter ’05 – Ra Ra Riot

This song is about a man standing on the bank of a frozen river, crooning about a long-lost lover. The strings lend an undeniable warmth to the track, which makes me think Ra Ra Riot’s affair with Snow isn’t as conflicted as mine is.

In the New Year – The Walkmen

I had to post this, mostly because it’s one of my top-five favorite songs of all time. It’s about a man who tries to rally from heartbreak by telling himself—unconvincingly—that next year will be better. The ending lyrics are what get me the most: “My friends and my family–they are asking of me: “How long will you ramble?” But how long will you stay with me? Snow is still falling. I’m almost home. I’ll see you in the New Year.”

Winter – Tori Amos

I’ve said before that I’m not a crier, but I can’t make it through this song without feeling weepy. It’s about a daughter facing the loss of a parent, and Snow is a metaphor for death. Honestly, I don’t know how Tori can make it through even the first verse without breaking down completely. Best get your hanky ready. (It’s ok, I’ll wait while you find one.)

Furr – Blitzen Trapper

Finally!—A song that offers you Snow in all its December charm, rather than as the dysfunctional jerk we’ll see again in February. (I had to end on a high-note.)

This is just to say: We don’t always love what’s good for us. And so Snow, I’ll relish you while you’re here, and I’ll do so without apology. But please don’t think me unkind when I flee to Florida in January. It’s just that this year, I need to take matters into my own hands. I hope you’ll understand.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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10 Questions I Really Should Ask My Mother

(courtesy of Pink Sherbet Photography)

My mother has a knack for building traditions.

When I was small, she’d wait until the first weekend in December to decorate for the holidays. Then slowly, over a period of two or three days, hints of the season would begin to appear. Garland on the banister.  A wreath on the door. Christmas music boxes and pretty handmade Santas she bought from a local craftsman. Eventually, we would trim the tree together, and she’d weave quick and cheerful remembrances as we hung the ornaments one by one.

She’d host lavish Christmas parties for the neighborhood and insist on doing all the cooking herself: homemade sauce, hand-rolled manicotti, spiced nuts, beef tenderloin, antipasto, red wine. When I was older, she let me invite my friends; we’d act as servers, passing trays of hors d’oeuvres and hiding the homemade candy so we could sneak snacks over gossip in the middle of the night. The next day’s leftovers were fantastic.

Those parties were social—always fun-filled and merry. But more than that, they were open-hearted and generous. People loved to attend, because they adored my mom. They left feeling well-fed and well-loved, energized and ready for the bustling remains of the season.

~*~

That’s where my love for tradition began. In my house, we launch the Christmas season the day after Thanksgiving. The boys watch The Polar Express and sip hot cocoa while we deck the tree and wrap a tidy electric train around its base. We spend our days baking cookies, decorating ornaments, writing letters to Santa, assembling Lego advent calendar pieces, and attending and hosting parties.

I love it. But try as I might, I can’t replicate my mother’s knack for celebrating a holiday. Now that we’re under different roofs, I miss the days we slipped aprons over our heads and laughed together with wooden spoons in our hands.

That’s why I kicked off a new December tradition a few years ago: holiday brunch with my mom. She picks the place, and (for once) promises not to fight me for the check.

~*~

I’ve wanted to try Rigsby’s for ages. When it opened 20 or so years ago, it almost single-handedly pulled Columbus out of the chain restaurant doldrums and into the realm of fine dining. I’m excited, but I’m nervous, too, because there’s something I should admit: This year, I have ulterior motives for brunch.

A few years ago, I found a list CNN.com reposted from Real Simple Magazine: 10 Questions to Ask Your Mother. That list is in my pocket this afternoon, and I’m planning to blurt out every last question. They’re all things I’d love to know about the woman sitting across from me. I can’t even guess what her answers will be.

1. What’s the one thing you would have done differently as a mom?

2. Why did you choose to be with my father?

3. In what ways do you think I’m like you?

4. Which one of us kids did you like the best?

5. Is there anything you have always wanted to tell me but never have?

6. Do you think it’s easier or harder to be a mother now than when you were raising our family?

7. Is there anything you regret not having asked your parents?

8. What’s the best thing I can do for you right now?

9. Is there anything you wish had been different between us — or that you would still like to change?

10. When did you realize you were no longer a child?

We order the risotto, and I have no idea what we’re talking about. I just keep thinking about the list, the list, the list, and I scold myself for stalling. This shouldn’t be a problem. I should be able to ask these questions. What if I don’t want to know the answer to #9? But also, what if I do? I…don’t know. Maybe I should skip it?

I look up and see my mother’s beautiful eyes and kind face. She’s telling me about a great aunt who is getting ready to celebrate a milestone birthday. The risotto appears, and it’s hands down the best thing I’ve tasted. Ever. In my mind, I fold the list and file it away for later.

~*~

It’s funny how little we know about the people we love best. I could interview my parents for hours and never quite scratch the surface. After years of prying with an inquisitive mind, and always getting an answer, I still just know basics. The names of their childhood friends. What their houses looked like. Their favorite subjects in school, the times they caused trouble, the way they met. Bits and pieces of their shared and individual histories.

If they were to sit down for hours and write every facet of their lives they can remember, I still wouldn’t know everything.

Parents are mysterious. That’s just how nature works. They are ornaments in our minds’ eyes, pulled from boxes, held up to the light, displayed in our fingertips so we can recall bits of our shared stories: the way their kitchen smells like spices, how my mother’s face changes when my dad makes her laugh, and all the other little things I’ve observed and recorded in the capsule of my memory all these years. I touch the glass of those memories and think, “that is my mom.” When really, there is so much more to her than that.

I’ll hold on to the list. I’ll memorize it so I can weave it into some thread of a future conversation. But today isn’t the day. We have risotto to eat, and an afternoon to just enjoy being together.

But you know the questions now, Mom. So get your answers ready.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Side Story: Behind Door Number 1

courtesy of http://www.ors.act.gov.au

November 10, 1995.

I’m 21 years old, nursing Day 10 of a heartbreak. My friends—already exhausted with sympathy and bored of my moping—offer to set me up with a guy they know. “He’s just about the nicest boy in the world.” Kim says encouragingly. “He’s funny, too. I really think you’ll hit it off.” She nods in a way that says, “And so it shall be.” I sigh and brush my teeth.

So. Kim and I stand in the hallway outside Erika’s dorm room. The Guy and his friends are on the other side. I can hear their muffled joking. A deep bass. A few softer tenors. They laugh quickly over loud music. Someone changes the CD.

I’m equal parts nerves and reluctance. Plus, I’m three days into a Midterm-inspired insomnia. I wonder if Kim will notice if I retreat from the hallway and back to the sorority house so I can curl up under my covers and go to sleep. But Kim has made a promise to the boy behind the door.

I look at Kim and shrug my shoulders. “Now what?” I ask.

“Well, knock,” she suggests. So I do.

At 9:00 PM on a Friday, I see my husband for the first time, and that’s how it all begins.

~*~

Most people mark their wedding day as the date to start the clocks—the moment in time when two lives pull together and everything changes. For 21 years, I assumed that was how it worked.  

But it’s not. It starts with a hello and a smile, and it builds, one kindness on top of the next, one moment after the other.

You hear about love all the time: those angst ridden songs about heartbreak, reams of paper blurred, seas of tears spilt, all for the sake of longing and loss. For 21 years, that’s what I thought romantic love was.

I didn’t know it could be laughter, cozy mornings over coffee, happy strolls through the grocery store, cheering each other on. What a gift that is. That it could be so easy, warm, uncomplicated and lasting.

To you, November 10, 2010, is probably just a day. The sun goes up, the sun goes down, and it’s tomorrow. But to me, it’s the 15-year anniversary of the day my clock kicked off. It stopped and started when I met an incredible person. He smiled, and I smiled back.

(P.S. –  GB, this is in lieu of a card.)

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Side Story: Wait…That’s Not Magic!

image via eliteentertainment.nl

I had the most unexpected weekend.

Our friends, Katy and Jamie, asked us to join them on a trip to Granville, OH, which isn’t far from here. Our plan was to book some space on a campground, let the kids wear each other out, roast hot dogs and talk about grown-up stuff. It sounded lovely—Ohio in October and the great outdoors—and it was, it was just different than we’d planned. 

The weekend started well. And it ended well. And a whole lot happened in between. Today, you get a magic show, a hay ride, and a kindergarten love story. I’ll tell you the rest over the next few days.

~*~

I’ll start by stating flat out that Katy has sprained her ankle. Oh, an ugly sprain, too—the kind that immediately swells and turns purple and is agonizing. It happens as my good-hearted friend walks toward the creek to lure her kids (Madeline, age 5, and James, age 2) and my own precocious five-year-old H away from the water. She steps in a hole, twists her ankle, then falls in a pile of leaves.

I’m not there when Katy goes down. Instead, I’m in our cabin with O, trying to coax him out of his Halloween costume. When we arrive at Katy and Jamie’s camper, she is sitting with her foot wrapped in ice. Pain is etched all over her beautiful face, but when I sit down with her, she is nonchalant.

“Are you going to the ER?” I ask with a wince.

“What would they say. It’s a sprain. They’ll tell me to wear an air cast and use crutches. I have all of that at home.” And she does. She sprained this ankle five years ago when she was pregnant with Madeline.

In the end, she goes, because she cannot walk. GB helps Jamie settle her into the car, then the three head out toward the hospital.

I wave goodbye with the kids. When I look down at them, I see four worried faces, so I try to distract them. “Wanna go on a Spooky Hay Ride?” I ask.

What a silly question.

~*~

It’s dark, and we’re standing in line with 100 strangers. The guy behind us is making a lot of noise to get the kids’ attention. He’s trying magic trick after magic trick, including one that involves wearing fake thumbs that light up at the fingernails. Each thumb turns on or off when he squeezes his hands, making it look like a red ball is bouncing from one thumb to the other. “It’s going in your ear, it’s coming out! Now it’s in your pocket! Now it’s going in your mouth!”

He performs these tricks on my four charges, and I’m irritated, because who knows—this guy could be some kind of freak show. But we’re surrounded by other families who are cheering and laughing. And the kids? Utterly enchanted. So I put on my game face and joke around with the rest of the crowd.

Eventually, the guy gets tired of himself. “I’m going to switch to a new trick now,” he announces. “I’m going to open this beer and make it disappear. I’ll let you know when the trick is over.”

I sigh and scan the road, thinking, Come on hay ride tractor. Get us the hell out of Crazy Town.

~*~

The tractor halts in front of us. The crowd surges ahead like it has never been introduced to the concept of a line, or standing in one, or taking turns like a rational group. I tell all four kids to hold hands so we’re not separated by the mad rush. *Poof!* The Magician turns into a teddy bear, saying “Step aside for these little ones!” Then he nods to me with a drunken smile, and says, “Enjoy the ride, ma’am.”

When we settle on the hay bales, I notice Madeline and H are still holding hands. Madeline looks at me with wide, earnest eyes and says, “Miss Mawah, can you move down a little so H and I can have some alone time?”

I do my best not to laugh. Madeline and H were born three weeks apart. I held her when she was only hours old, I’ve watched her grow along side my H, and so I adore her. Katy and I have joked for years that our first-born children are destined to be sweethearts. And now this: Madeline’s imploring expression, plus an unfamiliar goofiness in H’s grin.

“Oh, there will be no aloooone time,” I say with a laugh, wishing Katy were here to see this. They blink back at me in disappointment.

This must be a glimpse into how the teen years will be: the giddy smiles, the handsy playfulness, the exasperation (theirs) and the banishment (mine).  I decide on the spot to control this scene as long as I can, because kids grow up fast, and the next thing you know, they’re asking you to drop them off a block from the school dance, and it’s all downhill from there.

It’s years down the road. Still, I wonder how to prepare for it—the slow passing of the torch from me to whomever my boys choose. I’ve watched my mother do this for my brother and me, and my mother-in-law do the same for her children. I wonder where that sort of open-hearted graciousness comes from. Is it the passing of time that makes us able? Maybe it’s magic? Or is it like an ankle-twist in a hole—you just ice up, crutch up and get on with it?

Madeline stays with us that night to help Katy rest. In the morning over pancakes, I hear Madeline say, “We’ll go to college, and then we’ll move in together. And then we’ll get married, and you will be my husband.”

My sweet boy says, “And my mama will live next door, and she’ll make us breakfast every morning.” He does his funny five-year-old wink at me and laughs. I laugh, too.

And while I do, I make a silent promise not to hold him to it.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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#13 (Part II): Nashville Sips n Strokes

It’s 7:30 in Nashville, and we’ve just arrived at Sips n Strokes. There are six in our party, and five of us seem nervous. 

Kim is the confident one. A friend introduced her to this place a few months ago, and now she’s a bit of a regular. The owners and staff are glad to see her. They chat her up like she’s a local celebrity. If this were a five-star restaurant, I’d half expect the head chef to step out and shake her hand. 

“So how does this work?” I ask as I look around the studio.  I have a crisp white canvas in one hand, and a paint-splotched apron in the other. 

“Let’s just pick a spot at the end,” Kim answers. “I’ll show you where to get your paints. Then we can get settled and wait for the instructor.” 

Sips N Strokes plus some women I don't know

~*~ 

I’m not an artist. Just keep that in mind. I’ve taken my share of art electives and loved my college art history courses, but a painter I am not. 

I’m also not a drinker. I could pretend I am, but you’d see right through me. There’s probably a whole host of issues I could solve by drinking more, if only I could hold my sauce. I just get too emotional. I either laugh uproariously, or sob giant, boozy tears until eventually someone whispers, “How much has she had?” and someone else whispers “One glass of Sauvignon Blanc.” 

I wish I were exaggerating. 

So here are six sorority sisters in Nashville on a Saturday night. One of them (me) is doing two things she’s just not meant to do. But I’m with friends, and that’s what matters. If this ship goes down, we’ll go down together. 

So we take a look at the template… 

The instructor's version

…and resolve to get started. 

“It’s not hard,” Kim says. “They’ll walk us through it.” 

And they do. Step by step. We have a blast. 

Step one: Sketch your shapes

Step two: Fill in your shapes

Step three: Add some "flair"

Final (totally effed up) painting!

(Yeow. 

At this moment, as I’m posting these photos, my face is patched with hot, blazing streaks of embarrassment. But on Sips n Strokes night, after 1 ½ glasses of the Sayval Blanc Kim carefully selected from a local Nashville winery, I thought this painting was perfection. I just kept giggling to myself with tipsy appreciation, thinking, “Oh, painting. You are so pretty! I can’t wait to take you home.” 

Ah. Wine goggles, I understand you now. ) 

~*~ 

It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve seen some of these ladies. And two walked my old haunts long after I’d pushed off into the glassy seas of adulthood. But when you gather a group of people who love the same places and friends you adore, there’s bound to be an unspoken and lasting bond. 

It makes me grateful that we’re able to create bonds that can sustain themselves. There are old friends to cherish and new friends to be made, and none of us really has to be lonely. 

Our evening ended with hugs and well wishes and promises to join up again in the springtime. I left feeling as though less of me was missing. And that’s finer than any wine I can think of. 

(Special thanks to Kim, DeWana, Carrie, Julee and Michelle for a low-key evening of good music, fun art, and great company. I’d “Oh Pat” you if I could. Let’s do it again soon!) 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: SC and His Lady-friend

Shortly after my brother’s June divorce, he hit the online dating scene. I don’t think he had any real intentions at first, beyond the notion that companionship and an occasional ego boost might be nice.

A few of his other “suddenly single” friends had tried eHarmony, so SC, in a fit of boredom, decided to do the same. He posted a photo of his good-looking self, wrote a bit about his likes and dislikes, and the ladies lined up in clusters. Next thing I knew, he was peppering our conversations with “I have five new matches.” ”This girl says she could fix my car.” Or, “Do you think I’d like dating a knitter?”

~*~

Newsflash: Divorce is awful.

Whether you’re asking for one, or being asked for one, or observing the before-and-aftershocks of someone else’s split, there’s really just no way around how truly terrible a break-up can be. In a span of days, my brother either relinquished or packed away most of the life he and his ex-wife built together: Wedding gift silverware; pots and plates I’d helped to clean after family gatherings; forgotten love notes lying amid old financial statements; treasured photos face down in dusty boxes. She left and took the stuff. He settled back in, holed up for a while and moved on. I felt lonely for his sake, and he was already lonely enough for both of us.

Until one day!

“Will you look at something for me?” he asked casually. “There’s a woman on eHarmony. I don’t know—I think she’s interesting.”

I, being of the nosey variety—and always so “helpful” with the feedback—came fully prepared to assess. I’d already seen some of the other ladies who’d wanted to tap my brother on the cyber shoulder. They were fine, mostly. And then some, decidedly, were not.

But this one was adorable.

Thirty-two. Warm smile. Bright, open face. Focused on family and friendship. A flare for all things dramatic. Personable. Down to earth. Balanced. A lovely girl.

“Wow, she’s great,” I said. “If you don’t ask her out, I will so I’ll have someone to karaoke with me.”  

He laughed, rolled his eyes and made up his mind.

~*~

Which brings us to tonight.

It’s Sunday, and SC is mixing tomatoes and blue cheese. He’s pattying the burgers. He’s shucking the corn. He’s offering me a soda. “I can’t believe this. Of all the nights for me to have to work late,” he mutters. His cheeks are splotched red. He is rushing and nervous.

Meanwhile, I’m grabbing the plates. Only they’re not where I expect them to be. So I look in a different place, and there they are, those bastard imposter ceramics. I sigh and distract myself by dropping a serving spoon into my homemade potato salad, which could feed 50 easily.

I hear a car door close. “She’s here,” SC says. Next thing I know, he’s out the door.

So I sneak a peek through the kitchen window.

And there she is. Thirty two. Warm smile. Bright, open face. Carrying a drum set in case we want to play Rock Band later.

And there he is. Thirty-almost-eight. Beaming face worked over with a smile I’d nearly forgotten.

~*~

In the same way I’m amazed by how callously hearts can break each other, I’m stricken by how earnestly they can solder themselves whole again and resume the search for happiness. If you’ve ever been left behind, you know the sucker-punch to the gut upon hearing it’s over. Not to mention the immutable sadness of dragging yourself through those days of healing. Thank God, then, that the heart is such a stubborn, hopeful little organ. It’s almost worm-like in its make-up: Cut it in half, it grows right back again.

Who knows what’s ahead for SC and his new lady-friend. She’s a sweetheart, I know that much. And SC, having been left behind, and sucker-punched, and sad in the most immutable fashion, is now a bona fide grown up with a sense of purpose and a better understanding of what he doesn’t want.

As well as what he does want. Naturally.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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