Calendar

Mine. Yours. Ours. I’ve been using an official planner to keep myself organized. There was a time when my lesson planner was enough, but those days are gone. One kiddo is adulting and the other is smack dab in her teens. Hubby’s work schedule changes frequently so I have to keep track of that, too. I took a break from having said little boxes tell me what to do, but that week is over, so back to the boxes I go.

I could use the ones in my phone that will give me notifications, but said notifications get ignored. I’m a paper planner type of person with a side of phone calendar. Dates are transferred to the official keeper of time.

Keeping work at work, I focused on personal & family dates for the rest of this quarter and the next one. That takes us into summer break, and hopefully, a summer vacation. My niece turning fourteen two weeks ago launched us into birthday season. For March, it’s two friends, an aunt, a niece, and two nephews. There’s also a wedding I missed, an anniversary, and everything Lent related from our church calendar.

In April, it’s two nieces, a nephew and his mom, my sister-in-law (both on the same day), an uncle, my dad, two cousins-I might have lost count. Add Mother’s day in May, a niece’s birthday, a quinceañera, all of the extra celebrations, end of the school year shut down the library frenzy, and my parents’ anniversary.

Oh, and there’s testing. So much testing!

To plan ahead for S.’s appointments, I take a look at her testing calendar. AP exams. Uh-oh. AP exams. When are they scheduled? I poke around on the school’s testing website and find them. I pencil them in their proper calendar cells.

Then I get sucker punched to the gut. Wait. I did pay the registration for AP testing. Or was that last school year‘s World History test? Uh-oh. I check my inbox and search. It’s gotta be here, I rarely delete important information.

Sure enough, I have the testing confirmation and receipt. Calm down, heart, don’t jump out of my body. I jot down the two dates in May.

Returning to my inbox, I see the subject line: Important Info for S’s Senior Year.

It’s from the school’s photo company. Senior portrait session appointments are available for booking next fall. I start filling out the form and stop in the field to add her phone number for notifications. I don’t know her number and I’m not in the mood to check. It’s the last chunk of March. I’m working with the end of this school year’s dates.

I’m not ready to go there yet.

Almost

Back to the ghost mall today. She calls to make sure what she needs is in stock as promised two days ago. A bout of insomnia last night means a late wake up for me and that means getting ready for the day long past noon.

“Are you ready?”

“Almost!”

I pick up snacky lunch dishes while she gets ready.

“Are you ready now?”

“Almost!” Antsy, I’m ready to go and return home for doing all of the things that need doing. If we don’t go now, we’ll get stuck in traffic on the way back.

“Let’s go!” I holler impatiently.

“I’m almost ready!”

“You said that two almosts ago!”

#lifewithateen

Why can’t she just answer the question with a simple yes or no?

The Good, The Bad, and the Ominous

A little before I settled in for writing, running through a mental of list of zero topics, one dropped into my phone. E, my 23 year old, started the conversation. He loves pulling pranks on me, making it difficult to know whether he’s serious or not.

He drove through The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Gotta love how builders select names for subdivisions and stick to the theme. Stories manage to find their way into every part of our lives. I read about a Friends themed subdivision being built a few years ago in a nearby town. Friends in Texas.

Today may be a good day to hunker down with a good Western.

As promised, I’m tagging his tumblr post here. *language alert

Small Parts

She struts on stage with small quick steps, wearing a snug black long sleeve shirt, high-waisted turquoise and navy polka dot capris that zip up the back, black kitten heels, and bobby socks. Another girl accompanies her, stage giggles and conversations over a menu summon empty red drink glasses from a waiter. They take their drinks and move from a table to a diner counter, backs to the audience, continuing their conversation.

The plot continues across the stage until the end. Cast members, hand in hand, take center stage. Bow. Applause.

We stop for ice cream on the way home.

A late night for a Thursday. Time to decompress. The dog sniffed us all, reassured of our presence. She’s gone her way. Myth Busters keeps my husband company. I’m tapping away at my laptop. Her backpack sits in her chair at the kitchen table.

Strewn across the table, a yellow envelope holds notes of encouraging words from her directors. Yes, I read them. Two white long-stemmed roses rest next to a long plastic nose.

Cyrano ’26 is written on one side of the nose, Sophie on the other.

I take the roses, sniff their scent, and fill a white bud vase with water.

Are You There Judy? It’s Me, Ally

Hey Judy,

How do you mend your kid’s broken heart?

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.

Sincerely,

Ally

Sweet Spots

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

#Milestones: That First #Concert

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?

If we do go, what in the world do I #wear?

She’s Talking

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

You’ve Got (Snail) Mail!

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 MY NAME 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.”

“You’re gonna get it!”

Texas Bluebonnets & Pie

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.

	Alice on This One Isn’t Hand…
	Alice on This One Isn’t Hand…
	Alice on Not Today
	Alice on Whimsical Spring
	Alice on Blank Canvas, Blank Page