Nothing New For The Class Of 2013

I could never be a commencement speaker.

First – and most obvious – I’d never be asked. Any two-legged primate with a sign-language vocabulary of 20+ words would receive an invitation before I would.

Second – I don’t have anything to wear. At Carter’s recent high school graduation, I wondered, as I do every time I hear the strains of Pomp and Circumstance, wherever do all those teachers and commencement speakers get those gowns? My own college graduation gown was constructed of fabric so flammable that it likely would be banned from any public appearance in this century. So where to get the goods? Mortarboards ‘R Us? CapAndGownCo? TasselTown? (Poor taste. My bad.) Certainly not at my favorite store, Marshall’s, where I’ve never seen any garment in my alma mater's colors -- garnet and black. (But since we’re on the topic, “How ‘bout those Gamecocks?”)

And third – I don’t have anything to say.

And that’s a shame, because I like commencement addresses. I genuinely do. I'm inspired by those messages of reality and encouragement and energy. But what could I possibly say to 18-year-olds who, by definition, already know "everything" -- or at least, far more than I knew at that age? Nothing more sophisticated than what I preached to my then-toddlers:

Be nice.  Our world is home to some seven billion people – some generous, some powerful, some evil, some needy, some wealthy, some impoverished – and some your future employers and in-laws. You’ll make greater inroads with all of them – not to mention leading a happier, more pleasant life – if you yourself are kind and thoughtful. Indeed, “being nice” is the easiest and most certain way you can make a difference in this world.

Put that down. When you were little, you wanted to lay your sticky little fingers on all sorts of potentially dangerous items. As an 18-year-old, you now know that there are objects with far worse consequences than plastic picnic knives, fireplace pokers, and glass paperweights. You know exactly what I mean, Mister. Put that down.

Take that out of your mouth. Plainly an auxiliary to “Put that down,” this bit of advice warrants its own rule because when you’re no longer under my roof, you’ll have opportunity upon opportunity to indulge and over-indulge in substances both legal and not. You have a choice. Don’t be that guy.

Time for bed. Study upon study proves that sufficient sleep is beneficial to performance at school and at work. It makes us better thinkers. It makes us better drivers. And although you don’t need to know this just now, a good night’s sleep also makes us better parents. As a bonus, when you’re sleeping, you don’t have to consider any of the other rules, because you’re sleeping. This rule also comes with two auxiliaries which you’d be wise to bear in mind: Nothing good happens after midnight, and everyone sleeps better on clean sheets. Never doubt either.

Say you’re sorry. Apologizing doesn’t make you less of a person. Admitting you’re wrong makes you more of a person. But here’s the trick:  You’ve got to mean it. A real apology doesn’t sound as if your mom is making you say it. A real apology never begins with “I’m sorry, but.” “I’m sorry” isn’t some Dixie Cup of a phrase, easily crumpled up and tossed away.  When you say it and mean it, everybody feels better.

Use your words. I guess now is as good a time as any to admit
I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. All those times that I said I knew “exactly” what you were thinking, I was bluffing. Big time. Going forward, if you want people – friends, girlfriends, teammates, professors or employers – to understand what you need, hope and fear, well then, Bucko, you’ve got to communicate. And if “using your words” ends up helping you save your marriage or negotiate a peace accord in the Gaza Strip, all the better.

You can do it. From the time you were born, we always said, “Come on -- you can walk, run, fly to the moon, write, spell, find the cure for cancer, memorize, make friends, make good decisions.” Now that you're 18, dude, you realize that it's a choice. Make the choice. You can do it.

Give me a hug. You’re never too big, and there’s never a bad time. Now, in fact, would be just fine. Five minutes from now would be good, too.

I love you. To the moon and back. Be nice, put that down, take that out of your mouth, time for bed, say you're sorry, use your words and you can do it. Now give me a hug.

What's So Special About 17?

Carter celebrated his 17^th birthday this week, but according to him, 17 is nothing special.  No big deal.  It’s not 16, it’s not 18, it’s just kinda whatever.

I disagree.  Vigorously.  For me, 17 is momentous.

First of all, as Carter himself said to me few months ago, “Look, Mom, I’m not smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.”

Thank you, Jesus.  And please don't take offense, because that’s not blasphemy.  That’s genuine gratitude.  Maybe not every mom would consider herself blessed to have a child with “declining stupidity,” but since I live with two – count ‘em, two – hormonal, impulsive, illogical, unpredictable teenagers, “declining stupidity” sounds pretty darn good.   Particularly in the face of my own hormonal, impulsive, illogical and unpredictable behavior.

Mostly though, Carter’s 17^th birthday reminds me marvel at the man he is becoming.

When he was just a toddler, and I was pregnant with Julia, a friend remarked, “I am SO glad you’re having another baby!”  Then, she shared this insight, “Now you’ll realize that you don’t get to take all the credit for what your child is or does.  And you don’t have to take all the blame, either.  They are who they are.  They just come out that way.”

They do.  For 17 years, I’ve tried to guide and shape and nurture.  I’ve tried to teach and encourage and motivate.  And I’ve tried to predict.  Lord knows how I’ve tried to predict.  Carter used to devour books:  English would be his favorite subject!  Until he was four, he wouldn’t poke a toe out of bed until I came to get him:  He would never be a risktaker!  He loved whole fruits and vegetables:  He’d never succumb to fast food!

Riiiigggghhhtt.  Or actually, wrong.  Wrong, wrong and wrong.

He's not crazy about English, he's well-acquainted with risk-taking, and more often than not, he'll drive through, rather than drive by, a Chick Fil A.  But I'm awestruck as he makes his way toward becoming the man he chooses to be.  He’s bright and funny and irreverent and opinionated.  He’s mellow and outrageous, devil-may-care and fiercely devoted.  

He just came out that way.  Or, he just chooses to be that way.

Either way, I don’t get to take the credit.  I simply get to appreciate the person he is.

Happy birthday, son.  Being a parent to you at age 17 is something special, indeed.

New Year's Traditions: Dick Clark, Hoppin' John And A Plunging Pickle

I'm a fan of holiday traditions.

I always watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve – although I’m not entirely averse to channel-surfing now that I recognize so few of the featured performers. (Sorry, Nicki Mirage, er, Bling-Blaj, um, Minaj. Does your mother know you left the house wearing that outfit?)

I always have Hoppin’ John (for luck), collards (for money) and ham for New Year’s dinner.

I always bet on the bowl games. (However, given that I make my picks based on teams in towns I’d to visit, or teams at schools I wish my kids would attend, or teams wearing any color other than orange – take that, Clemson -- I can’t claim much success. Although all that would change if I just ate enough collards.)

Indeed, I’m so bound to holiday traditions that the kids often use it against me.

     You never make us listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving!
     You always let us open at least one gift on Christmas Eve!
     You can’t go to bed early! We have to go to the 10:30 p.m. service – it’s tradition!
     But we always have sausage bread Christmas morning!

With 49 years of tradition behind me, it’s hard to consider embracing another, but for “The Pickle Drop,” I just might. That’s right, “The Pickle Drop.”

Don’t know how I hadn’t heard about this before, but it turns out that for the past 13 years, Mt. Olive, North Carolina has hosted the New Year’s Eve Pickle Drop at the corner of, no kidding, Cucumber and Vine. Partygoers feast on hot chocolate and pickles (provided by the Mt. Olive Pickle Company, natch), before watching the lighted, three-foot pickle descend a flagpole. Again, just to be clear, no kidding.

And did I mention that big event occurs at 7 p.m.? That’s right. Seven-oh-clock in the evening, which means that, provided you don't over-indulge in pickles, you get a decent-night’s sleep -- on New Year's Eve.  I’m thinking Mt. Olivians are my kind of crowd.

Maybe my rigid, tradition-based mind could be a bit more flexible. In fact, I’m thinking I’ll add one more item to my New Year’s menu – this comforting corn chowder, crusted with bacon crumbles. But no pickles. At least, not until next year.

Jalapeno-Lime Corn Chowder

Four slices bacon, chopped

1 medium Vidalia onion, chopped
1 small jalapeno pepper, seeded and ribbed, minced
1 large clove garlic, minced

3 tablespoons flour

 
1 large baking potato, peeled and cubed
1 quart chicken stock
Juice of ½ lime
Corn cut from three cobs (or one 10-ounce frozen package)

1 cup heavy cream
salt
pepper

In a large, heavy, lidded skillet, sauté bacon over medium-low heat until crispy.   Remove browned bacon bits, to be used as a garnish later.  In remaining bacon grease, sauté onion until translucent, stir in jalapeno and garlic.  When vegetables are tender and fragrant, sprinkle with flour.  Continue stirring until flour is well-combined and slightly browned.  Stir in chicken broth, potato, lime juice and corn.  Bring to boil, then, reduce heat to low, and simmer, lidded until potato is very tender -- about 20 minutes.  Stir in cream, season to taste and serve hot, garnished with reserved bacon bits.

Losing It In 2011

It’s Day Two of 2011 --  a.k.a. the “Year of Loss” Chez Wiles --  in which I’ve resolved to lose weight, bad habits, and mental stressors.

I lost it, all right.

My wallet, that is.  Along with my cool, sleep and patience.  (You might think the stress would also cause me to lose my appetite, but that would make it the “Year of Wishful Thinking,” not the “Year Of Loss,” much less the “Year Of Lose Five Pounds By Skipping Dinner And Sharing A Pitcher Of Beer.”)

I don’t mean to whine.  But "shap."*  It’s not that my wallet held much cash.  $40 altogether -- although it was all in $10 bills, which are my very favorite.  (Think about it.  How often do you see a $10 bill? $5s and $20s are much more common.  It somehow feels unfair to spend the under-circulated $10s.)

It’s not even that I’m now without a driver’s license, which can’t be replaced online because the NC-DMV site is down.  It’s not that I’m so distressed about losing my American Express and MasterCard.  I’ve checked online (obsessively) and it doesn’t appear that anyone is partying down on Four Lokos, Slim Jims and Funyuns at my expense.

What’s keeping me up at night and causing me to lose my train of thought before I can key in a complete sentence is all the “extras” that were in the wallet.  My insurance cards.  My Costco card.  My well-worn Starbucks card.  My Taco Mac Brewniversity card.  Christmas receipts.  Doctor’s appointment cards.  And my ex’s Visa card.

Cheri, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

It’s one thing, of course, to tell friends and family of my foibles.  It’s another thing altogether to have to ‘splain them to my ex.  Particularly when the credit limit on that single card is likely higher than all of mine together.  Plus a year’s worth of mortgage payments.  And a weekend’s spending at Costco.

Of course, it is the “Year Of Loss,” so it’s entirely apropos that – along with everything else, including my mental faculties -- I should be losing face.

To be fair, he took it well.  He even offered a replacement card.  Which makes me feel like, well, a loser.  Which, considering that I have no idea where my wallet is, I guess I am.

Shap.

So it probably goes without saying that I’m not including a recipe today.  Yes, I had a great photo of a surprising Sauteed Brussels Sprouts.  And I’m very happy with my new Bison Chili Recipe.  And I just know folks will love my Cranberry Spinach Salad  Recipe.  But at this moment in time, I can’t lay my hands on any of them.

You win some, you lose some.  Welcome to 2011 Chez Wiles.

*"Shap."  "Crap" with an "sh."

Hitting The Books. Naming The Boat.

It's exam week Chez Wiles.

So instead of boating –our new favorite pastime -- everybody’s studying.

That doesn’t mean we’re laying low.  Far from it.  Studying Chez Wiles is no quiet, introspective restrained activity.  It’s aggressive, expansive and territorial -- more Alexander the Great than Henry David Thoreau. 

Each kid, naturally, staked out his or her own room first.  Then, Son took over the dining room table.  Daughter claimed the sunroom -- floor, futon and bookshelves -- and set up a whiteboard for math problems.  Son’s study materials sprawled from his bedroom floor, into his bathroom, and onto a corner of the kitchen table.  DD took over some of the stairs and a kitchen counter.  On occasion, she even taped notes to the glass shower door.  At this point, the only household surfaces not yet encrusted with index cards, review sheets, notebooks, textbooks and eraser crumbs are, mysteriously, their desks.  And the cat.

Not that I’m complaining.  To be sure, studying – in whatever form -- is better than the alternative, which in our house is watching Glee, Facebooking, playing the guitar, ripsticking, playing basketball, ripsticking while playing basketball, or putting the cat in the dryer.

Through it all, my role is to grease the track.  Make sure the laundry is done.  Make sure the pantry is stocked.  Make sure each of them gets to their various exams on time (and on the right day, which could be the greater challenge).  And make sure I don’t serve a single meal that could prompt the suspiciously asked, “What’s that?”

So -- no new recipes today.  Instead, we’re all about comfort food – family favorites like Not So Dirty Rice, Waffles of Insane Greatness, and the beloved Sausage Pasta.  Hmm.  Looks as if all three of these meals involve the kids' favorite food group -- sausage.  I'll have to try to do better.  But not this week.

Next week, though, game on.  Fish.  Vegetables.  Anti-oxidants.  Whole fiber.  And very likely, spinach parading as parsley.  Plus, we still have to name the boat.  And maybe, just maybe, learn to drive it!

The Power of the Network. And Darling Daughter. And Scotch.

Yesterday afternoon, I made one of those absolutely necessary, but embarrassingly-infrequent circuits of the house, checking the exterior paint, security lights, gutters, etc.  (Really, which kid do you suppose penciled in a monster face on the wood siding?  And when?)

As my inspection reached that side of the house least seen (and every house has one, right?), I saw that a towering pyracanthas bush against the fence had been tethered to our home by a ropey, six-foot strand of spider silk.  It tickled me to think that this favorite shrub, which I rely on year 'round for foliage cuttings, floral filler and seasonally decorative berries, had been assimilated into our actual home.  The bush was now, officially, Chez Wiles.

That night, hours after my completed inspection, I was on the phone with a Charleston friend who likes to be referred to as Cougar Bait (CB).  (Honest.  He's 23 days younger than me.  This is just the beginning of things not fabricated in this blog post.) As I babbled about my day, Darling Daughter (DD), who'd been upstairs getting ready for bed, came down to notify me that the lights were on in my car.  It was 9:30 at night and raining.  I was irritated that I had to go outside and see which door was ajar, so I could get the lights off.

Long story short, I disrupted a car break-in in progress.

First, no worries.  We are fine.

Second, it turns out that 12-year-old girls are pretty darn powerful because what happened next was like a scene from a horror movie.  Still on the phone, I went outside, opened the driver's side door and was ticked off to see the glove compartment door gaping wide.  At the same time, DD, who is home with the flu, was watching me from an upstairs window and saw a man ("no hair, about 30, red shirt, red umbrella, about as tall as my mom," as she later told the police) crouching on the other side of the car.  Despite being nearly voice-less a few hours earlier, DD summoned the energy to frantically and loudly alert me, scaring off the perpetrator.

Terrifying?  Well, let's say I may have found yet another target market for Depends adult diapers.  And not just 47-year-old female crime victims.  Thirty-something-year-old crime suspects, as well.  In the words of Mr. T, "I pity the fool" who crosses a pre-teen who thinks her mom is in danger.  DD's siren-like warning penetrated that second-story, double-paned glass and sent the would-be burglar scrambling.

That's when the strands of my network began revealing themselves.  I quickly hung up on CB to call 911.  Unbeknownst to me, CB -- who'd heard DD's shrieks over the phone (did I mention she was loud?) -- quickly called Dear Friends (DF) who live nearby.  At my request, DD called CB to assure him that we were OK.  DF pulled into the driveway minutes later.  Two police cruisers followed shortly thereafter.  DD and I each gave our statements.  With police escorts, we inspected the property -- just as I had earlier in the day.  And then, a mere 35 minutes after the break-in, DD and I were on our way to DF's for a sleepover.

Thirty-five minutes.  No fabrication.

As news spread over the next 12 hours, my network continued to emerge. Friends, family and neighbors supported us -- offering advice, cell phone numbers, resources for improved security, unrelenting love and lavish praise for DD's quick thinking.

Our network turned into a virtual "net"  -- a comfy hammock holding, supporting, comforting and cradling us -- something we very much needed, even though we were perfectly fine.

DD took a five-hour nap this afternoon, recuperating, I think, as much from the flu, as the night before.  I've answered countless e-mails and phone calls and even shed a few tears out of sheer gratefulness.  I've also offered my undying gratitude and assorted favors to Cougar Bait and Dear Friends -- the starter strands of last night's network.

I can't say I've got much in the way of a recipe right now.  Between the flu and the napping and the network, DD and I haven't broken bread together today.  The most memorable thing I had last night was a stiff Scotch while unwinding at DF's last night.  Talk about an easy recipe.

But first, how lucky am I?  Yep.  The answer is "amazingly" -- thanks to DD and our powerful network.

Scotch On The Rocks

As served by DF and as consumed while on a late night call to CB.

One hefty, cut-crystal double-old-fashioned glass

An abundance of crushed ice

Lovely, fragrant, smooth, calming 15-year-old single-malt Scotch (I prefer Dalwhinnie, which, serendipitously, can be found in DF's liquor cabinet)

Water

Fill glass to rim with crushed ice.  Pour Dalwhinnie over ice until glass is 1/2 full.  (Really, it's not that much when you think about it. Remember, ice is frozen water, which makes it an ingredient.  When you think of it that way, Scotch is only the second of three ingredients.)  Splash some non-frozen water (the third ingredient) on top.  Sip slowly as you recount the tale of your evening.  Decline, when offered, a second Scotch (and Dear Friends always offer a second).  Sleep well, knowing your network is stronger than any spider's web.

I'm A Mom. I Can't "Just Chill."

This post ran as a guest column in the Moxie section of The Post & Courier (Charleston, SC), Friday, September 11, 2009.  (Click here for the column.)

When we were growing up on James Island, one of our great summertime thrills was when somebody's exhausted and pestered parent would cave in and drive us across the old Cooper River bridge (an adventure in itself) to the Super Slide in Mount Pleasant.

The Super Slide was, in fact, just that: A "souped-up" old-fashioned metal slide -- on steroids.

To my 9-year-old eyes, it looked to be about 10 stories tall, but more likely came in at two or three, with what seemed like about 20 lanes, but again, was more likely five or six. After paying the attendant, we'd traipse up the stairs, each clutching a square of carpet to sit on, Aladdin-style, for the all-too-quick ride down.

The carpet square served several purposes. One, it maximized the glide. Two, keeping our feet and hands on the carpet helped us avoid friction burns with the slide, which even the littlest kids knew would be far more painful than the "Indian burns" we inflicted on each other's arms at home. And three, well, for the love of St. Philip's, we were in Charleston. In the summer. With no shade. And the slide wasn't that high-tech, stay-cool, molded plastic that's used today. It was metal. You know. Like the bottom of an electric iron.

The metal slides in our own backyards were blistering hot and unusable.  What made anyone, particularly an adult, think an even higher, longer slide would be preferable?  With a little bit of Pam, every single egg at the Piggly Wiggly could've been fried on that scorching piece of sheet metal. Bacon, too.

I sometimes think of that slide when my kids demand explanations for my parenting decisions. Plainly, it would be safer, and usually smarter, not to even begin the descent. The rule is the rule. Make your bed. Put away your clothes. Walk the dog. Because I said so. Now.

But the kids are 12 and 14 now, so I can't always get away with that.

Older Child (OC) recently laid into me: What can't you just relax? Why can't you let things slide? What difference does it make if I put away my clothes? Why can't I eat in my room? Why do you care how late I'm on the phone? Why do you get to tell me when to go to bed?

And finally: Why can't you just chill?

Are you kidding? I can chill! I'm the chillest mom around! I'm so cool ...

Um. Did I say that out loud? 'Cause there's no way I can win the "cool" point.

In fact, I am decidedly not cool -- in any sense of the word. But I am an adult. I pause. I take what feels like a lung-bursting breath. I know that once I get on this slide, there's no stopping -- at least not without incurring serious injury, either to our relationship or my own ego.

It'd be so easy to get burned.

I consider walking away, giving both of us a chance to cool down and avoid the possibility of medical intervention. But oddly, OC seems to be expecting a response.

I dig deep, trying to think of an answer I can give that's honest, worth giving, worth hearing and, most importantly, won't sear the skin off of either of us.

"Because," I offer hesitantly, "you're in training.

"I don't expect perfection. You're a kid. But you're a work in progress. The point isn't for you to get everything right. The point is for you to eventually emerge from training as a thoughtful, contributing, informed, decent human being.

"But that won't happen automatically. That's why I can't just chill."

I stop talking. I wait. I try to read OC's face, but I can't tell. Did one of us just get burned?

"OK, Mom. Whatever. Can I finish watching this show now?"

Phew. I deflate my lungs. That wasn't so scary. Looks like we both made it to the bottom of the slide with hands, feet and egos intact.

I suspect I'll be traipsing back up those steps again in no time, though. He's 14, and his training's only begun.

What a ride.

A Time To Celebrate -- And A Time To Cry

Tomorrow marks my son's last day as a middle school student.  He'll cross an auditorium stage clutching a certificate, and just like that, he'll be a high school student.  I'll be seated, in one of those uncomfortable auditorium seats that flips up noisily if you shift too suddenly, clutching a Kleenex.  And just like that, I'll be the parent of a high school student.

Although my parents would report, accurately, that I cried nearly every day -- about something, everything, nothing -- from the age of 11 until about 14, I don't cry readily nowadays.  Nevertheless, I'm forecasting a 100% chance of waterworks tomorrow.

On his first day of kindergarten nine years ago, my sweet son clambered confidently onto the bus (and when you're only five years old, that first step is a doozy) for the 10-mile ride to school.

He never looked back.  Good thing, too -- because I lost it.  I don't mean I cried.  I bawled.  I heaved.  I blubbered.  


I could scarcely breathe between sobs.

Quite the spectacle.  My then-husband, never entirely comfortable with tears, was at a loss.  He glanced quickly at his watch and offered the only solace he could summon.  "I've got to get to work," he said, "but why don't you call the realtor and go find a house closer to school?  Maybe a house where you can actually see the school.   If you find something you like, call me.  We'll move."

What?  Just like that?  Move?  Buy a house?  Now, if he'd told me to buy some fabulous bejeweled earrings -- with a killer necklace to match -- I might've done that.  But buy a house?  His over-reaction put me and my over-reaction back on kilter.  We didn't move, of course.  I'm far too entrenched in my neighborhood.  But thus began the cycle of my tears as the kids make their way through these entirely foreseeable milestones.  I see the changes coming.  I know they're for the better.  But the tears still leak out.

At the end of that kindergarten year, my son was at odds.  Well-meaning adults kept asking if he was excited to be completing his kindergarten year.  Asking whether he was ready to be a "big first-grader."  Asking if he was looking forward to summer.  

No one asked if he'd be sad to leave his darling kindergarten teacher.  No one asked if he was nervous about moving to the first-grade "hall."  No one asked if he was sad to be leaving his friends for the summer.

As the final days of the year dwindled down, he wasn't sleeping well.  He had nightmares.  He was moody.  I had a glimmer of how he was feeling, but was losing patience.  One afternoon, after a particularly unexpected outburst (on his part), I blurted, "I don't understand what's going on here!" 

To which, my sweet six-year-old, eyes brimming with tears, exclaimed, "I have mixed feelings!"

Mixed feelings.  Eight years later, that's me.

I'm proud of his accomplishments since that kindergarten year, and I look forward to the ones to come, but I'm sad to end this chapter.  I've enjoyed it.  I'll miss it.

Still, it's time to move on.  My now-14-year-old and his friends are so grown that they scarcely seem to fit in the middle school hallways.  Their hormones are fully ramped.  They tower, sometimes menacingly, over the sixth graders.  My own son has been taller than me for quite some time now.

I've already warned him that I anticipate springing a leak tomorrow.  At first, he was incredulous.  Then, he urged me not to wear makeup.  The streaked mascara look, he reasoned, would be too embarrassing.  But then he consented that if I was just dabbing at my eyes, makeup would probably be OK.  Little does he realize that it's far better for both of us if I cry with makeup than without.

He'll get his certificate.  I'll get my Kleenex.  And we'll both move on.

It's Over When It's Over.

I found out today.  I am divorced.

Not a shocker, I know.  My (now) ex-husband and I separated over a year ago.  We submitted ourselves to three excruciating days of mediation seven months ago.  We (and by "we," I mean the royal "we" -- our lawyers) finalized and stamped the necessary reams of paperwork a few weeks back.

Then, the way it works (at least here in NC), you can send everything to a judge.  You don't have to show up in court.  Bizarre to think that marriage, which begins with so much fanfare and publicity and adulation, can, after 23 years, end with nothing more than the quiet scratching of a 79-cent Bic pen by a grown man wearing a robe.   A week or so later, you get a notice in the mail.  The end.

Better, of course, than pointing fingers, pulling hair and gnashing teeth in a courtroom.  But still.

Frankly, I'm not sure how to feel.  My friends don't know what to say either.  "Congratulations" doesn't sound right.  Ending a marriage -- particularly one that includes two amazing, beautiful, articulate children -- is hardly the occasion for a party.  Even if that party includes sangria.

But my friends and family know that, after enduring and supporting me these past many months, "I'm sorry" isn't appropriate either.

Maybe the one thing I most want to hear is, "I'm still here."  True, the need is no longer urgent.  The kids and I have adjusted and acclimated and agree that we're much better now than we ever could've imagined a year ago.  We have routines.  We have friends.  We have fun.

As one similarly divorced friend put it, "It's OK.  Just different."

Still, our emotions seem to have the flickering consistency of a candle on a windowsill.  But how much of that is this and how much of that is that?  After all, we're all hormonal in this household.  The kids, in their pubescent ways.  And me, in my, well, hormonal way.  It's just life as we know it.

This week, as I awaited the news, has been unexpectedly difficult.  I've not been my best self.  Fortunately, there were few opportunities for me to act on the emotions I was trying to wrestle.  Had circumstances been presented differently, I could've been that mom -- you know, the one who is told by the ump to leave the baseball game for bad behavior or the one who backends the other mom in the carpool line.  Lucky for me, I made it through.  I don't know how I could've explained jailtime to my kids.

And although I'd never want to go through it again, I learned a lot this past year.  I honestly never realized how many remarkable friends I have -- or how strong and supportive and intuitive they are.  I'm somewhat embarrassed that it took a crisis for me to recognize their depth and perceptiveness.

I learned that my kids are more fragile and vulnerable than you'd ever imagine.  And they learned that they are more resilient and resourceful and capable than anyone ever knew.

I learned a couple of new words, "malaka" and "skatouli" -- both very handy when you need to express yourself explosively, without offending bystanders (as long as those bystanders are not Greek).

And I learned, not necessarily proudly, that I can drink an entire bottle of wine on my own in a single evening.  No problem.  (Or no problem that Advil can't help solve.)

In the end, though, we're OK.

There's no recipe tonight.  The kids are with their dad, and after the revelations of the day, I'm craving something I learned to make when I was eight years old -- tuna salad.  Lots of lemon, lots of pickle and chopped celery, some minced onion, barely any mayo, and absolutely no boiled eggs.  Don't forget the salt.

I also put a bottle of champagne in the fridge.   Not that I'm celebrating the divorce.  I'm celebrating that I'm still here.  And doing just fine.

And if you're reading this, then I thank you.  I couldn't have done it without you.

xxx ooo

Counting My Blessings

Today started with a crash.  My daughter's 4' x 6' corkboard, crusted with the mementos of an 11-year-old life, fell to the floor, waking us all.  Which turned out to be a blessing, as I'd overslept, and this wasn't a morning for lounging.   It was the last day our priest of 10 years would be serving our parish -- our last chance to bid a fond farewell before he is called to another congregation.

The temperature was plummeting, and it was raining cats and dogs.  Snow -- an anomaly anytime of year here in Charlotte -- is forecast.  I point out to the kids that we need to dress accordingly.  Frantically throwing on clothes so we can get to the 8:30a service, my son finds he has only two pairs of pants.  Not two pairs of CLEAN pants, but somehow, in the entire house (including hamper, backpack, washer, dryer and under the bed), TWO pairs of pants -- and they're both lying damply in the washer.

Now, any parent of a teenager can tell you that the wardrobe is limited -- not only is there a finite number of items they'll wear, but there's an even smaller number which fit their ever-stretching bodies.  But still, TWO?  Last week, there were at least half a dozen, but that can't be addressed now, because we're late, we're late, we're late.

On the way out the door, I realize we haven't seen Lionel, our year-old (indoor) cat, but again, we've got to scoot.  The service begins at 8:30a.  We arrive, soggy, shivering, irritable -- and mid-sermon.  My bad.  The early service began at 8:15a.

Taking our seats in a back pew, I listen with half an ear to the service I was determined not to miss.  As my heart rate returns to normal, concern for the cat sets in.  I try to think of when we last saw him.  Losing Lionel is not an option.  We lost our dog in September.  The cat is a necessity.

After the service, we all say our goodbyes and I drive home, telling the kids that I think Lionel is missing.  We come up with a plan of action.  But first, we've got to change out of our church clothes.  It's freezing.  It's teeming rain.  I try to calculate our odds of finding Lionel in this soggy mess.  As my dad would say, there were two chances -- "slim" and "none."

I send the kids to change, but I run outside, holding my jacket over my head, calling Lionel, looking anywhere I think he might be.  No good.  Eyes brimming with tears, I run upstairs to change, so I can lead a more thorough search.

Just as I'm tugging on dry jeans, I hear my daughter scream -- or is that a squeal?  Her brother, the one who claims to hate the cat, has just climbed the stairs, in waterlogged church clothes, and bearing an even more drenched cat.

My hero.  Time for a well-deserved favorite meal -- corned beef.  No recipe necessary.  I can just offer up that, for some reason, corned beef is always better (not too tough, not too mushy) when prepared in a slow cooker.

Perfect.  All that slow cooking gives me ample time to count my blessings.  Which are many.

Lenten Dilemma

When I was a kid, I had no concept of Lent.  My parents didn't go to church, and if Lent was ever mentioned in the Presbyterian Sunday school classes we kids attended, I don't remember it.  Easter was king, marked by colossal chocolate bunnies, frilly new dresses, patent leather Mary Janes, and occasionally, shiny purses to match.  Lent, well, wasn't that the stuff Mom was always insisting I scoop out of the dryer trap?  ("Yes, after every load!")

Now, I actually look forward to the calming and contemplative season of Lent, which is the 40 day period before Easter.  I appreciate the deliberateness and thoughtfulness during this period.  After the indulgences of Christmas, I'm soothed by the simpler church services of Lent.

Parts of it, though, still confuse me.  Take today's Ash Wednesday service.  I'm always grateful to attend this mid-day service at my Episcopal church.  I'm touched, and somewhat honored, when the priest administers ashes in the shape of the cross, on our foreheads, as a sign of repentance.  As I exit the silent church, though, my dilemma begins.  To keep the gray smudge on my forehead or to avail myself of the Handi-Wipes safely stashed in the car?

A reverent Christian, I think, would keep the mark, right?  Or does that come across as boasting?  ("See, I'm a good Christian, I went to church today and it's not even Sunday!)  Not wiping off the mark also invites the following remark -- at a minimum, 347 times --  "Hey, you've got something on your forehead."  And I can assure you, at some point, a really good friend will try to wipe it off for you.  What then?  "Hey, keep your fingers off my ashes!"?  What's the protocol here?

And what about the tradition of "giving up" something during Lent?  If I give up chocolate, does that sufficiently represent self-denial?  Or is it actually self-serving, because it might help me lose weight?  A few years ago, I gave up caffeine, resulting in the most miserable Lent my family's ever experienced, culminating in me dragging them all to the sunrise service Easter morning, solely so I could sooner race to my neighborhood Starbucks for the venti non-fat, two pump, sugarfree vanilla latte I'd been craving.  Which (and this is a true story), I then promptly upturned in the car, requiring hours of cleaning on Easter Sunday.  Yep, message received.

This year, my teenaged son is giving up candy, which I'm embarrassed to admit is a significant denial for him.  To prepare, he took a Sour Patch Kid sugar plunge last night that is surely affecting his schoolwork today.  My job today is to purge his room, removing all evidence of Halloweens, Christmas stockings and Valentines past.  As part of the cleansing, incense may be necessary.  And an exorcist.

After much deliberation, my daughter is "giving up" arguing with me.  Now there's a challenge.  This, from the same girl who, last week, declared me unfair and locked herself in her room for 30 minutes because (wait for it) I asked her to take her (freshly washed, dried and folded) clothes to her room.  Never mind that the kids have been responsible for putting away their clean clothes ever since they could successfully negotiate the stairs.  What was I thinking?

And me?  I'm giving up wine, which prompted the following response from my beloved daughter, "Are you giving up all drinking?"  My son gallantly leaped to my defense, "Well, she doesn't even drink beer!  (uncomfortable pause)  Um, do you, Mom?"  Beloved daughter, though, was relentless, "She orders those fancy drinks at Zen!"

Busted.  I do love those ginger martinis.

And so, the solemn Lenten season begins -- sugar-free, argument-free, alcohol-free.  Pray for all of us.

Serendipitous

Kids have lots of favorites.  Favorite blankets, stuffed animals and toys.  Later, they have favorite foods, teachers and friends.  Even on into college, students can name a favorite professor, a favorite spring break destination, and let's be honest, a favorite beverage.

I think I'm too old for favorites.  I'm stumped when the question pops up on Facebook.  There's no way I could name a "favorite" movie or song.  True, a routine channel scan comes to a dead halt if Field of Dreams or Sleepless in Seattle or When Harry Met Sally pops up on the screen.  And An Affair to Remember?  I'll only peel my eyes from the screen to locate the Kleenex.  Still, are any of these "favorites"?  I don't think so.  I'm also a sucker for Animal House, Major League, and to my children's unceasing incomprehension, The Princess Bride.  But to name one movie I couldn't live without?  Can't do it.

A favorite color?  No way.  Not now, anyhow.  When I was three, though, I laid claim to the color "blue" (same as my September birthstone, the sapphire).  My best friend, Nancy, had an August birthday.  That meant she was stuck with green (peridot).  Too bad for her.  Over the next 10 years or so, she'd occasionally suggest swapping colors, but I was resolute:  blue belonged to me.  There was no way I was giving up blue.  Do you remember the jarring lime greens of the late 60s and the murky avocado greens of the 70s?  Huh uh.  Blue was mine.  What happened to those strong feelings of ownership?  Now, my only response to the "favorite color" question  posed by my 11-year-old daughter is, "it depends."  (My bedroom, notably, is now painted green.)

Despite accusations to the contrary, I don't even have a favorite child.  OK, stop.   I know no one is supposed to name one child as superior, but as any mom can tell you, each kid, by turns, falls in and out of favor.  I'd feel guilty, but I think it's mutual.  I know full well when I descend below my kids' "favorite" line.  I just hope it's not so apparent in the reverse.

In practically any other circumstance, I simply can't commit to a favorite.  It limits my options.  It puts me in a corner.  And perversely, I don't want to risk alienating friends by naming a favorite (candidate, ice cream flavor, restaurant) with which they don't agree.

The exception (and you knew there'd be one) is that I do have a favorite word:  serendipity.  I love the way it sounds. -- sleek and smooth at the beginning, and then, dippy and giggly at the end.

And who can find fault with the definition?  Serendipity, noun, 1. delightful coincidence.  "Delightful?"  Are you kidding?  How can you deny any word that includes "delightful" as part of its definition?  Or how about this definition -- "an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident"?  Something great happens without making any effort?  Count me in!

Then there's the actual usage of the word.  While uncommon, it's not a show-off word, like "eponymous" or "erudite."  And it's not goofy, like "bamboozle" or "bodacious."  Serendipity is a word you can actually use (but not too often, as it is fairly memorable).

Here in Charlotte, there's even a "Serendipity Lane."  Can you imagine?  If I lived there, I'd beam every time I pulled into the driveway!  Talk about a mood-setter!

Maybe what draws me to "serendipity" is the sheer possibility.  The possibility of something surprising just around the corner.  The chance that I'll hear a funny joke.  The potential of re-connecting with a long lost friend.  The prospect for unexpected joy.

So when asked which ice cream I like the best, I may fumble.  Sublime, but hard-to-find Cinnamon?  Readily available New York Fudge Super Chunk?  Sweet, savory and lucscious Butter Pecan?

Tell you what.  How about you pick?  And I'll just be happy -- delightfully and coincidentally so!