I’ve always loved Christmas. But that hasn’t always prevented the whirlwind surrounding it from robbing me of the best part – the joyful anticipation leading up to it. More years than I’d like to admit the holiday spirit hasn’t taken hold until the big day itself, and then it’s over so quickly I’ve ended up feeling totally cheated. But not this year; this holiday season my heart has been full of Christmas cheer for weeks.
Of course having more free time to embrace the season has contributed to my bliss. Decorating, connecting with friends, dropping off gifts in those big blue barrels around town, watching dozens upon dozens of Hallmark Christmas movies . . . wait, what? Yep, you heard it right. This year I’m hooked on those all too sappy tales with over-the-top holiday settings and the expected happy endings. If you’ve wondered why I haven’t blogged lately, it’s simple: I’ve been glued to the Hallmark channel.
Continue reading “May Your Days be Merry and Bright…”
From the beginning, I was adamant that fishing was not my thing. Despite repeated attempts by my six-year-old grandson to entice me to join in his new passion, I was steadfast in my refusal to even pick up a rod. I’m sure Caleb thought it odd, since I’d always been such a willing sidekick to every adventure he cooked up; all he had to do was mention it, and I was game. But not this time; not fishing. I encouraged him to seek involvement from others, as I was sitting this one out. 
Every baby has a birth story. And so, do their moms and dads. For some, the story is nine months in the making. The luckiest parents cruise through an uneventful pregnancy with only the typical discomforts. For others, the journey starts with years of struggle… to get pregnant… to stay pregnant… and they pray every day that they will make it to that blessed event so many seem to achieve without extraordinary effort. Whatever path brought them to the big moment, when the time comes, they all share one desire… a healthy baby. 
How can you not love summer? The days are longer, the colors are brighter and life moves to the great outdoors. For many, summertime means the frantic pace of their everyday existence slows a bit; kids are out of school, people take vacations, traffic is lighter, and everything seems just a little easier. For me the opposite is true. Right about the time everyone else is taking that deep breath to welcome the summer respite, my life is speeding up. From May through August the pace is intense, my workload peaks and despite it all, or maybe, because of it all, I’m my happiest self. 
We fell in love with our adorable little fur ball the moment we met him last October. That’s the thing about puppies, they’re so damn cute they hook you before you remember the upheaval a baby of any species causes to your life. But by the time we drove the twelve hours from Erie, PA to Knoxville with the little guy, it was coming back to me. Still, I wasn’t too worried because my husband, Tim, had always taken the lead with our dogs. I did kids, he did dogs. That was the deal with the first pup, and I never saw a reason to change it. 
Every summer has a beat. It varies from year to year, but once it kicks in we all march to it. Some years I pick it up by Memorial Day, other years it takes a little longer to resonate. To most casual observers and our Facebook friends I’m sure each of our summers appear the same: weekend gatherings of our summertime family joined by an interesting array of guests with a backdrop of water, sun, boats, food, drinks, laughter, music, hugs, and smiles… Good times always rule, but trust me, each year has a distinct beat all its own. 
Seeing a sold-out summer blockbuster on opening day is not something that would have crossed my mind before I retired. But now I love having outings to put on my calendar that don’t have anything to do with doctors, financial planners or the grocery store, so when my daughter and I saw the massive Wonder Woman promo billboard in Times Square a couple of weeks ago we immediately made a date.
This trip was years in the making and like most weekend jaunts, just as we picked up the pulse of the city it was over. But then I never have enough time in New York City. Fortunately for my daughter, Stephanie, it was everything she had dreamed it would be and since this getaway had one specific purpose – to celebrate her thirtieth birthday – having it live up to her expectations was all that mattered. 
I rolled over and looked at the clock: 3:52 a.m. The grumpy stomach and foggy brain that awakened me Monday morning was unmistakable; it’s a hangover. . . a food hangover. It doesn’t take long to realize going back to sleep is not an option; my head is throbbing but it’s mostly because I’m pissed at myself for ruining the start to what I expect to be a very special week. 
“Hey, Mom. You got a minute?” That’s how most of our conversations started. Maybe it was incredibly good timing all those years, but I never remember her saying she’d have to call me back. I always had the same mental image of her topping off her coffee and settling in at the kitchen table as she replied, “Of course I do, honey. I’m glad you called.” I can remember her words so precisely, but sadly I can no longer hear the sound of her voice saying them. I’m not sure when it happened, but my vivid memories have become a silent film and I’d give anything to hear her answer that phone one more time.