Quince

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.

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…

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 and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

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.

I sure would like a trip to Australia.

Total Eclipse of the Sun

In two weeks, we’ll be in total darkness. For a little over three minutes, nine seconds, where we live. Partial begins at 12:18 p.m. Full eclipse starts at 1:36:21 and will end at 1:39:27. At 2:58, it ends.

Hubby couldn’t be more happy. He has been anticipating this event for years. He wasn’t able to snag a camping site at Enchanted Rock, to his dismay. Eclipse glasses have been acquired. Plans changed. He’s biking to a nearby park. E. already ordered neon colored plastic framed viewing glasses oozing with 80s vibes. They’re hanging out together that day.

Geekdom at its finest because nerds beget nerds.

Some school districts in the path have canceled school. Ours did not. I’ll be at work, participating from there. Most likely helping wrangle kids so they don’t wander off campus. Or actually look at it. Without their eclipse glasses. I’m sure many of our staff will call in sick, leaving the rest of us to deal with covering classes.

The Texas Department of Transportation estimates high traffic, suggesting against people parking on the sides of roads. Avoid scheduling appointments. Don’t use binoculars or telescopes even if you have eclipse watching glasses. Have a full tank of gas. Refrain from wearing eclipse glasses while driving. The weather, so far, should be clear.

Campus principals are responsible for making a plan. We got that plan today. I wonder how often it will change?

Until then, my husband and oldest will be hanging out, enjoying the show. I’ll be at work, S. will be at school, and we’ll be outside participating for about three minutes.

This song repeats in my head every time my husband mentions it. I’ll work on a playlist to gift him to mark the occasion.

Besides Rocket Man, Weird Science, and She Blinded Me With Science, share your favorite eclipse watching songs.

Prom Season

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.

Crane Flies

“D-A-A-A-A-D!”

She knows better than to holler for me. I won’t budge.

“There’s a BUG in my bathroom and I can’t get ready! They’re all over the place. Help me now, please!”

“It’s just a mayfly, they’re harmless…”

“But they’re ugly, I want it out. Ahhhh, there’s another one, where are they coming from?”

On it goes, back and forth. He gets to her bathroom and they’ve magically disappeared.

“I can deal with insects, outside, where they belong, but inside? They’re awful,” she exclaims.

I’ve been sweeping dead ones that bounce in when we open the front or back doors. They flit and bounce around, looking like they want to come inside. I try to move them aside, but some sneak in regardless. Occasionally, I’ll catch one and put it back out, but two more sneak in.

I mis-identified these insects. They’re called crane flies. We’re in the sweet spot of crane fly season. Resembling Texas-sized mosquitoes, they’re harmless and tickle your arm if they get close. They seem to hover, rather than fly, unsure of knowing whether they want to befriend or scare us. I don’t care much if they come inside, but if I can keep them out in favor of calmer mornings, I shoo them away, letting them live their happy little fluttery crane fly lives outdoors.

Barn Dance

Dancing the Cotton-Eyed Joe was my favorite, not because I could do the simple line dance without tripping over my feet or because I liked country music. It was my favorite because I got to freely holler–BULL-SHIT!–at the top of my lungs without cowering at my little silent angel self who sat on my right shoulder coaching me into possible sainthood.

My little devil self who sat on my left shoulder jabbed her pointed little tail and pitchfork into me in time to the music. And she made me laugh. And told me it was okay to let loose and have a good time.

Little angel self firmly kept little devil self in check that wouldn’t allow her to go past that dance. No beer. No wine coolers. No running around with the wrong crowd after hours. I mingled with some of them, but veered off in a different direction once my dose of fun expired. When the clock neared midnight. Well, 10:30 or 11:00, and long before I had half a chance to lose a golden slipper that resembled a knock off penny loafer, here came my ride. Usually my mom, I saw her car’s headlights coming up the driveway.

First one to get picked up, unless my friend T was allowed out of the house. Her parents were worse than mine. She wasn’t here tonight so there I go, embarrassed at being the one to leave first.

I have to go!

I say goodbye to my friends and the music, just as the fun gains momentum and my confidence started taking off. I look wistfully behind my shoulder heading toward the car, wondering about the stories I’ll hear Monday morning.

I’m Cooking!

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

2:36 a.m.

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.

Back to bed. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Weeding-As in Books

I have a trio of girls who pop in most days at 1:50. Friday, I worked the realistic fiction section. New books arrived and shelf space is tight. Plus, there are titles older than the girls that must go. They asked about the plethora of books spilling over the book cart.

“What do you do with them?”

I explained the process of offering them to other libraries in our district. After that, I offer them to classroom teachers. Some go to our Pop Up Library for summer reading. These three are voracious readers.

“Mind if we take a peek?”

“Go right ahead.”

The pull of the puzzle they had been working on was stronger. “Maybe Monday. We have plenty of books checked out right now.”

We discussed books that were mis-labeled. “Yeah, Mrs. Garza, just look at that cover. It definitely belongs in the romance section.” They continue with the puzzle. I continue pulling books for consideration. Do they stay? Do they go? What’s the copyright date? When was the last time they were checked out? I set aside the mis-labeled books. I’ll get to them later.

Today, I went through the pile. I happened to be working on them when a student from the yearbook class needed help identifying students for the yearbook’s library page. Sure enough, it’s the trio. I confirmed names and made sure each name matched the correct person. Almost on cue, they walked in and I had them check the photo. The yearbook student finished up and went back to class.

“Can we make Taylor Swift bracelets today?” They all nod in agreement.

I’m keeping them posted on the books in question from Friday. I hold up one book with an old-ish looking cover. “Last call. Any of you want to read this?”

“I’ll take it,” one replies.

“It’s on the old side,” I warn.

“It’s okay. If it’s a romance, I’ll probably like it.”

I hand check it out and hand it over. I pull it up to investigate more details about the book, And Both Were Young. “Wait, did you see it’s by Madeleine L’Engle? She’s the author of…”

“A Wrinkle in Time! I loved that book.”

“Really? I’ve broken up with that book so many times. I couldn’t get past the Mrs. Whatsit and all the others. The Mrs. for the characters drove me crazy. Of course, it’s a form of respect for adults, so that’s how people were addressed even if they weren’t your teachers, but I just couldn’t ever finish that book. And the tuna fish sandwich. They make tuna fish sandwiches in the story and I can just smell it, why couldn’t it be a pbj?”

“Mrs. Garza, you didn’t read it just because of a tuna fish sandwich?”

“Well, yeah, I guess so. I tried reading it so many times because people said how great it was. I tried reading it to my fourth graders years ago. They zoned out, so we didn’t finish it. I took my daughter to watch the movie, the one with Oprah, and she wanted a copy of the book. We got one with an updated cover. I started reading it to her and then she just took off with it and finished it on her own. To this day I have yet to read it.”

“You should try again.”

“I think I will. Let me know how that one is when you’re done though.”

They continue with their bracelet making. I pitch another romance book and check it out to another girl. Then I take a look at all of Madeleine L’Engle’s books.

I will try again, maybe over a tuna fish sandwich.