I’ve called for those check ins only a mom can make. Two weeks in and it’s better. Plans are made to move on. There’s a lilt to the voice that wasn’t there before.
Invitations to come home for dinner are still left unanswered, but home is here when it’s needed. We’re only a short drive away.
What do you do other than hope from afar that everything will be okay? We all know it’s a growing experience. It’s wading through the muck where the learning happens.
Summer Moon Coffee's 1/4 Moon, hot those jeans that go with everything and always fit dress them up dress them down reliable chilly air between season transitions Babies, all cuddly and squishy Childhood no tantrums no attitude all fun Teens when they have a good speak with you day Adult kids stopping by just because contentment enough ups enough downs to make appreciation stick
My soon to be #sweetsixteener hit me up for a #birthday gift. Three months ahead of time. Important items of discussion typically happen at the #lastpossibleminute, but here we are. On the bright side, her skills are improving-ish? Not only does she ask me three months and a week in advance, she does so during my afternoon walk. Via #text. Can Novio Boy tag along? Oh, and it’s in San Antonio. #minordetails
The door hasn’t even shut behind me when I walk in and she #hollers “Ma-a-a-h-m…did you get my message?” She emerges at the top of the stairs. Then she hops down. Must be important.
“Okay, #hearmeout…”
I stop and let her flow.
“…there’s this concert, you’ll hate the music, but maybe not?”
My questions addressing all of the things she hasn’t considered, never mind she described it as a midwestern emo band (what is that?), are rising to the top and bubbling. I have to turn down the heat so they don’t spill over.
Tickets are cheap. #redflag. They’ll hit you with #fees. It’s at 9:00 in the morning. #weird and #anotherreadflag. Can Novio Boy come along? #redflagandsirens. It’s at a place called Paper Tiger.
I look it up. It looks like a #divebar #ohhellno
I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. #researchmode. I can’t find it on the ticket apps I use.
“But I got the link to buy tickets on #spotify!” her two-year-old self peeks out for a few seconds before she stuffs her back deep inside.
“Hold on, I’m looking.” Dallas, Houston, L.A. …”Oh, I see, there’s the fine print, TBA, so even if it says 9:00 a.m, they may still be in the planning stages. Listen. This isn’t a big venue. If it was at the Alamodome, it would be different. I have to check out this Paper Tiger place. It sounds like a bar near St. Mary’s campus. If it’s a bar, you have to be over 21 to get in.”
“But how is it that I can buy a ticket if…”
“The same way you opened up your Instagram and Snapchat accounts that you aren’t supposed to have. Guaranteed, if it’s a bar, they’ll check your ID to get in.”
“But even if I have tickets?”
“Chica, you first have to be 21. Give me time to check it out. Have you looked at the venue?”
“What’s that?”
#sigh
It appears minors must be accompanied by an adult. There is a bar #yayme It’s small and frequently hosts live bands. Reviews are positive. I know nothing about the band. #lighbulbmoment
My #livemusicguru friend! I send her a message asking about the venue. Yes, she has been there and enjoyed it. Yes, it’s safe for teens, but it’s best to go with her. There are restaurants and other bars within walking distance.
“Can I pay you to take her?”
“Lol! If it’s a band I like I’ll go with you.”
It’s still a little early and I’m not ready to purchase tickets. There may be a music festival going on which explains the 9:00 a.m. show. I feel #awkward tagging along, but I also don’t want to leave her there without being on the premises. I promise I’ll hide in the back somewhere.
Why is it that an adult can take their kids to most places, but if teens take parents, are they #weirdos or do they have #coolparents?
About first loves, her middle school self "She's so cute but needs a big booty, a big booty-licious butt!" Endless ribbons, all colors and textures resemble tangled spaghetti at one end of the table buttons fill a small Mason jar nearby today was meant for cleaning messes not making them, but crafting wins–at least she's off her phone "The first person you date isn't necessarily the one you love..." "Umm...hmm.." I've learned to nod in agreement Listen No need to comment No need to disagree Just listen, while draft ideas struggle to be written She's quiet now, concentrating on re-stuffing a critter she's making from unworn socks The washing machine whirrs through it's Saturday load of laundry Why must weekends skip through time in such a hurry? She stitches the project closed, the one with the big, booty-licious butt "Our school has a confessions page..." "There's this influncer..." Laundry needs drying We save daylight later tonight but didn't the day just begin? She sews I draft She's talking again
Small town life puts a special bubble around you. We didn’t get out much as kids, except to run errands with our mom in a larger, but still small-ish town. Orthodontist appointments, groceries, Pizza Hut buffet, and if we were lucky, a visit to the music store.
Contests from cereal boxes, Columbia House subscription forms, magazine inserts for free Banana Republic catalogs, and addresses from Teen Beat to swoon-worthy heart throbs were our way to connect to the world. Except, we weren’t allowed to send any Columbia House cards, ever. Don’t you dare was warning enough. I filled out my selections and address anyway, but it never went in the mail. I’d imagine life with endless cassettes.
Any letters that were exchanged were slipped to friends between classes in that fancy 80s wrap around fold. If we sent anything, it was lost forever, but it was fun imagining winning a lifetime supply of corn flakes. Little Debbies. Willy Wonka candy.
One day, there was a surprise. I arrived home after school, dropping my backpack on a chair at the kitchen table. Everyone else gathered around the buzz of the kitchen, willing dinner to be served, hot tortillas flying off the griddle and onto a cloth dish towel to keep them warm.
“You got something in the mail,” Mom mentioned between the rolling pin sliding across the counter, flattening balls of dough.
“Me?” I looked through the stack and found something with my name on it. I didn’t request anything. Perplexed, I flip the envelope over and retrieve a letter. Brochures I ignore are stuffed in the envelope, but I place them on the table in favor of the letter.
It’s addressed to me and I start reading aloud.
“…bedwetting is not a problem you should be ashamed of…”
“BED WETTING?! I don’t wet the bed!”
“Bed wetting?” Mom asks.
I look at the brochure full of resources to rectify the problem. People of all ages…
“Where did this come from and why does it have MYNAME on it?”
I hear giggling. It gradually grows into full-blown laughter. My younger sister can’t contain herself. “It was me; I did it!”
“What did you do?” Mom asks.
“I filled out the card,” hysterical laughter.
“At the orthodontist’s office, when you had an appointment. I didn’t think they’d send anything!”
“Thanks a lot!” I scream only like a first-born annoyed by a sibling teen can scream. And then I started crying of embarrassment. Someone, somewhere, sent me mail because they think I’m a bed wetter. How humiliating.
Everyone else laughed. Mom kept making tortillas and brushed it off. “Throw it away, it doesn’t matter.”
There’s a pie baking in the oven. Nothing fancy. Not even homemade. It’s a frozen Marie Callender’s Razzleberry pie, a family favorite. Hubster planned on baking an apple pie for Easter Sunday dessert.
Are you set on apple pie or are you open to suggestions? Are you making it or buying it? I sent him a message yesterday while he shopped for today’s lunch. E and his roommate are joining us. I holler at S. to ask to get her opinion.
“Umm, isn’t that more of a fall dessert? I will not eat it. Ask him to do something with berries. Berries are good right now, apples, not so much. But I’ll eat ice cream.”
Coconut cream, he replies.
Okay. Not arguing. She won’t eat that either, but most of us will.
We have lunch and make our way to take pictures in the bluebonnets. Some families are good about taking pictures in them every year. We like the idea of traditions, but sometimes we can’t keep up. Like the one year the rattlesnakes were bad and I didn’t want to chance it. Other years, they weren’t as showy. Then 2020, when bluebonnet pictures were the last thing on people’s minds for fear of getting sick. We skipped them. Not in the mood. Attended Easter service online. One year, the Texas Snowpocalypse ruined them. Followed by another freeze. Then one of those, we’ll get to it, we’ll get to it, but we never got to it.
In the meantime, the kids have grown. E has his own apartment. S. is in high school. It’s been a while. Was it actually ten years? Really? I look at social media posts and I think it’s correct. Wow. Ten years of putting it off.
We had lunch and headed out. It’s the sweet spot of the season. They’re popping and in a week or so they’ll go to seed. There will be some places where they’ll last a little longer, but soon they will make way for other flowers to have their turn. There’s no sense in driving out to find the perfect place when there are plenty nearby. We take our Chihuahua mix, Reeses, and Dipper, our newest addition.
Family pictures are hard enough. Add two dogs, one being five months old, along with zooming cars on the highway, and we remember why it was such a chore. We got a few good shots with many bad ones, but that’s where the fun lives. The outtakes of those bad photos are where memories seared themselves into our souls.
The pie is cooling. If we cut into it too soon, the filling oozes out. We can wait though. The kids took the dogs to a dog park and just returned. My Polaroid camera sits next to my laptop. I have 5 pictures left to take. One came out over-exposed, but E. is keeping it anyway. That’s how pictures turned out back in the day. You’d take what you could get, saving film for important moments, we explain. Special moments. Memory making moments.
Taking time to document days like this, in picture-words, brings life to seemingly mundane days. It’s in the mundane where life happens. In the ordinary where we experience the extraordinary. We take slices out of our lives and savor them. Some days, we slice right in. Others, we need to wait, that’s what makes it good.
I like pie! I hear E. announce as a seven year old. We pick up where we leave off. Go back to the bluebonnets to take pictures. Pick up those moments we somehow allowed to escape us, bringing the pieces back together.
There is pie with ice cream, ready to eat. And a new set of bluebonnet pictures, documenting the changes in between.
I woke up this morning, with a pep in my step. My favorite dress was clean, the one I like to wear with my short brown boots and jean jacket. I added a sparkly strand of beads. I couldn’t tell it was going to be a terrible, no good, very bad day.
It started well. Observation scheduled for noon. Three classes before that, I got to work out the kinks. It went well. Students understood tasks and it was time for lunch. Except it wasn’t.
A student came in, one of my favorites. Lunch had to wait. Can’t leave a student unsupervised. I took a break to check emails and I got a message. Then a phone call. I could tell where it was going from here. It felt like it would become a terrible, no good, very bad day.
A phone call followed. I made arrangements for my last class of the day. Signed out. Drove to the school for an early pick up. Things will get better when we get home. Except they didn’t.
I called to make an appointment. “We take walk-ins, if you leave now we can see you right away.” There’s a plus. We go straight there. Traffic is starting to get heavy, but we’re just ahead of it. Barely.
We arrived and I completed forms. Wait a few minutes until it’s our turn. Get to the room, except something is missing. I call home, there’s something I need. No answer.
Text message.
Call.
Text message.
Call.
“How far do you live from here?”
“About fifteen minutes, but traffic.”
I could tell she’d say no. “Go get it and let them know when you come back, I’ll see you as soon as you return.” It has become a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Back in the car. Traffic is thick. Thirty minutes later, I get what we need and go back to the car. Drive back, trying to stay calm. When will this be over?
We check in again. Call us back. Everything is fine.
Back to the car. Back home. On the way, I get a call, “What do you want for dinner?”
It wasn’t planned to get take-out, but today I’m making an exception. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Prom season is my favorite. Not my favorite as a high schooler, but it’s my favorite now. When people I know post pictures of their kids in their prom dresses or tuxedos, I imagine I’m a Hollywood entertainment personality commenting (silently) on each outfit.
I even give imaginary awards. Best Overall. Classiest. Best Two-Piece. Best Tux. Most Unique. Favorite Dress/Tux Combo. Best Friend Group. Best Formal/Chuck Taylors combo. Dumb little awards I make up, but have such fun deciding on awards.
My niece, a high school senior, went prom dress shopping. Of her four choices, she chose one of my two favorites. One, a white form fitting, low-backed floor length dress with a sequined overlay was on of the lucky dresses chosen for the occasion. It’s gorgeous on her. The second was a royal blue floor length dress with criss-crossing back straps and glittery overlay. I’m partial to sparkles. Lucky kid, she gets to attend two proms this year. I’m sure she’ll have the time of her life.
I wonder if S. will go to prom? Will she want to attend? Will she go to one of those popular un-proms? What color dress will she choose? Will she go with a friend group or solo? Will she decide to go with her bff from kindergarten, who is like a brother, but better because they aren’t really siblings so it doesn’t count?
It’s coming too soon. A memory from Facebook popped up last week. She must have been in second or third grade, but there she was, pictured next to one of her favorite dresses in a department store. The same one where my niece found her dresses. That’s when she liked all things fluffy, princess-y, and of course, sparkly.
I’ll gladly wait for prom dress shopping day. Unless she dumps me like she did for homecoming dress shopping. I didn’t even get to take her shoe shopping for that either. I’ll lower my expectations and hopefully be pleasantly surprised. It sure would be fun going prom dress shopping again.
Until then, I’ll pour myself a bottle of bubbly rosé, kick back, and re-watch my favorite John Hughes film in honor of prom seasons past and present, Pretty in Pink.
Sunday morning communing with pen and notebook three pages, one is done
she bounds downstairs only in the way a teenage girl can bound bending down loving on the puppy resting at my feet
like a puppy switches her brain switches in an instant "Okay, hear me out, just hear me out"
I don't know what's coming a feral cat hiss with a puff of fire breathing dragon flames?
she continues her philosophical and theological conversation asking questions confirming views questioning others
"I feel closer to God... (or is it GOD or god?) now that I've distanced myself I mean, how can someone commit to something so important and life changing when they're so young? this is a big thing, more important than college or marriage and we have to make this kind of decision when we're young?
She steps back, surprised I didn't jump in
"I'm cooking! I'M COOKING!"
Yes, yes you are keep at it, feisty one keep at it
24 minutes before my normal 3:00 a.m. wide-awake-can’t-go-back-to-sleep time. The microwave door slams shut. Beeps. The door opens and shuts again. Whirs. Beeps. Open…
What in the world is she making? Clatter continues in the kitchen. Reeses barks. The back door opens. Shuts. He’s running around outside barking at whatever it is that called him out there.
I kick the covers off. Why didn’t I turn on the fan last night? Flipping the pillow over to the cool side, I put it on top of my head. Turn to my left side and hug it instead. There goes the microwave again.
Walking to the kitchen, the light is on. There’s a jar of Nutella on the counter. She’s still in her clothes from yesterday. What are you doing?
Stupid question. She’s clearly eating.
“I’m hungry,” she exclaims as she wrestles the plastic seal off a new tub of chocolate ice cream. Her makeup still looks fresh.
You sound like Grandpa warming his coffee when he comes to visit. You will NOT do this again. Be sure to clean up because I don’t want to walk into a messy kitchen when I get up in a few hours.
“I will, I will, I was just a ‘lil hungry,” she reassures me only as teens do.
I go back to bed and summon sleep. Come back, please, I wasn’t done with you yet. Another toss. Slow breathing. No covers except for tucking in my feet.
Bark! Bark-bark!
I must be the only person in the house hearing Reeses asking us to let him in. Waiting doesn’t help. I get up once again. The kitchen is dark. He pads back in but I’m not nice enough to let him upstairs to cuddle with her.
Nerds Beget Nerds 