One of the last things I did for the first time, aside from riding a train to New York City, was making a paper doll. One of my sisters, we call her Spidy, wasn’t able to join us on this trip. Disappointed, she made a suggestion that could work.
“Maybe you can turn me into Flat Spidy!”
So we did.
Angie brought construction paper and markers. I planned to make Flat Spidy the night before departing, but it became impossible. So there I am at our Airbnb scrawling out my most second grade looking drawing of Spidy, flattened so she could join us while riding in my bag.
Join us, she did. At the train station, Danny, our funcle asked a guy named Eddie about tickets. He tinkered on a machine others were grateful he was fixing while he gave us travel tips. In Texas, we pretty much only drive everywhere. We chatted about visiting places that aren’t conducive to urban hiking and public transportation. Great guy. Once I pulled Flat Spidy out of my bag, he about lost it.
“Whaddya mean? Of course I’ll take a picture! This story just keeps getting better. I’ll even let her wear my hat.” A die-hard Deadhead, that’s exactly what he did.
Her company added an element of playfulness we didn’t expect. Taking care not to get her soggy in the rain, we missed some photo ops, but it was one of the best ways for her to be present. In the evenings, we sent updates of her travels. Next time, we hope none of us need to become flat versions of ourselves to take that sisters trip we’ve been trying to make happen.
Here we go!Grand Central StationEmpire State BuildingCentral ParkTimes SquareSullivan’s Country MarketThe gazebo in New MilfordMystic
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.
Escape rooms. I did one as a team building activity one year with our campus leadership team. We had a great time, but it’s the only one I’ve done.
I purchased one for the hubster’s birthday. Rather than giving material gifts, we’ve started gifting outings. This would be a first for everyone else. I made the reservation and consulted my 22 year old about which one to choose. The level of difficulty ranged from 7-10 with different themes.
“Choose a 7, we want to be able to get out and make Dad think he got us out of there.”
Based on availability, I went with Lost Cities, an iteration of Raiders of the Lost Ark. We’re mostly intelligent and should be able to bust out, but together, we’re kinda dumb. Way too much bickering. No one ever listens to me anyway, so in this setting, I kept my mouth shut. None of us tried working together. I kept reminding everyone the point of this thing is working together and helping one another.
E kept hitting the button for hints. S was trying to figure things out, which was great, but inside the temple with a face staring at us, non-glowing eyes inactive because we couldn’t figure out the code, the kids transformed into 7 year old S and 13 year old E. They butted heads with sibling rivalry right in the middle, cramming them together. Bam! Bam! Bam!
I thought they’d outgrown it, but it still manages to sneak in.
I wanted to take everything in and work the clues to unlock the codes. The time crunch adds urgency. Divide and conquer doesn’t work well in this setting. We weren’t cleaning the kitchen after dinner, we needed to solve some puzzles.
With seconds to spare, we entered the last code and the door opened.
“We escaped!” exclaimed hubster.
“Dad, they practically gave us all the answers,” E reminded him.
“Yeah, I muttered, no thanks to you asking for clues every two minutes. Didn’t even give us a chance to think.”
It was a good time despite the bickering. We didn’t break the code of conduct and our language stayed clean. S and E went back to their teen and young adult selves, and sibling rivalry stayed behind to wait for the next contestants. We took our photo and parting goods–a printed wristband printed with We Escaped Lost Cities!–and continued with our weekend.
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
March slicing is challenging. Spring break is typically my week for reading and replying to more posts and responding to comments. This year, after many years of staycations, we decided to take a much needed spring break trip.
We’re having a great time despite the lack of sleep and an early flight.
Routines are off the table for a few days, so slicing is a struggle.
Plans took a turn when Migraine packed her bags and arrived at 5:00 a.m. Who invited her? I booked a whole separate room for her and hopefully she’ll stay out of my space.
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.”
For the third week, I meant to remove nail color and re-do my pedi. DIY. I don’t have time to mess with appointments. Too many touch-ups to count because late at night, I’m in no mood to inhale sharp nail polish remover fumes before turning in for restless slumber.
This morning, I have to do something. Taking it all off means I have to wear close-toed shoes. It’s a deep shade of red and there will certainly be residual color stains. We’re still at near ninety degree temps, so I’m wearing sandals. Touching up the chipped off parts means uneven color, most of which is now on the sixth (seventh?) coat. From a distance, some color is better than none. Touch-up it is.
I have an hour commute to a meeting downtown. It’s been years since I’ve driven this direction in rush-hour traffic. If you would’ve told twenty year old me how urban sprawl would choke up everything around it, she would’ve laughed it off and said, “Nah, not here!”
I easily slip into a parking space, not bad for being half an hour late. The opening keynote speaker discusses stories. Making connections with people by telling stories is key. It’s Tuesday. I’m reminded to write something tonight. What story will I tell today? The one about why I chose this career? What about my first experience at a library? You already wrote about that. Did I? Telling stories means we become vulnerable. Am I ready to write about a tough conversation I had this weekend? No. Not that. Not yet.
I fuss at myself for not making myself write regularly despite my need for it. Stuck. Blocked. Frozen. Too many unimportant but urgent things needing to get done. But writing is important.
Our closing keynote speaker asks us to discuss the difference between belonging and dignity. That weekend conversation smacks me with meaning. My sisters and I have entered into a space where we’re balancing both, inching our way through whatever happens.
View from 6th floor-Austin Public Library
It’s a warm, beautiful afternoon. From the sixth floor terrace, I see what once was not visible from the ground. Twenty years ago, the space where I now stand was only air. Buildings seem to have appeared overnight.
I’m glad I wore sandals today. My multi-layered pedi looks fresh. I’ve Got the Blues for the Red. It’s a deep, fall inspired shade of red. I’d call it Glass of Merlot. They go together, the blues and merlot. Stories and vulnerability. Belonging and dignity.
Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David...
There was no Spanish birthday song yesterday morning. No serenata from family or even Spotify. No elaborate party to tap in to our culture. It was more “Can I have my phone back? I didn’t get to talk to him all day yesterday. This day is turning out terrible!” There is still much to do for a fifteenth birthday celebration later in the afternoon, despite a plan for something low-key. I proceed to take pup out for a morning walk, carry on as usual.
But it’s not usual. It’s her fifteenth birthday. A decade ago, a decade, we vacationed in Mexico and a mariachi did sing Las Mañanitas. Inside of a McDonald’s. We were getting ice cream for the kids. Our friend found them strolling along the street, so he arranged the surprise. I held her, lanky five year old legs dangling past my knees as I propped her on my hip, her face buried in my shoulder while she covered her ears with her hands because it was too loud.
Last year, she came out on the other side of middle school. An entire 365.25 days (there’s that quarter again) and we’re at 15. One and a half decades of mothering a daughter and I can only think of hollering, “Well at least you don’t have an older sister getting married on your birthday like on Sixteen Candles!” as I walk out, holding the leash with a death grip so bucking bronco Dipper doesn’t yank me out the door. I have to remember though, I’m not fifteen. I keep my mouth shut.
It’s the day of her birthday and there is a quasi-plan. On our way to pick up a friend for a bowling outing, the plan changes. Again. It’s decided to hang out at our house. Stir-fry for dinner at home courtesy of Chef Dad because it’s her favorite and he’ll cook anything for anyone, but especially her. Cake at 7:00 because E is adulting and needs time to get home from work.
My mind races to think about everything fifteen will bring. 2024 fifteen is a long way from 80’s fifteen. Different issues. Different dangers. Too much for me to handle. Too much for her to handle?
On the drive back (then there’s driving!) from dropping off her friend, she says thank you. “The day got progressively got better. I had fun.”
“You’re welcome.”
She puts her phone back up to her ear (earbuds are lost—again) to listen to her music. When we get home, I go to the front yard to take out the black and white polka-dot birthday letters announcing her day to passersby. I realize we forgot to sing when she blew out the candles on her cake.
Nerds Beget Nerds 