Running Red Momma

In one of my favorite tv shows of all time, News Radio, the very smart hyper prepared Lisa Miller can't do a word jumble. She wonders if she is losing her smarts: Lisa Miller: Well, it's finally happened. Dave: What? Lisa Miller: I'm becoming stupid. Dave: You don't say? Lisa Miller: The brain starts to deteriorate after age thirty. Dave: Where did you hear that? Lisa Miller: I don't remember... See? See? Her solution is to eventually retake the SATs to prove to herself she is not stupid. The episode also involves arcade games and a sandwich machine...but I digress. Ever since I had the fourth kid or the "I turned forty, wow even", I have been noticing leakage. My brain is just weird. I'll be talking to the kids and lose my train of thought. I am not in the middle of a college lecture. Nope, it is more like "how did that sucker get on my butt. We really have to.....what was I saying?" I recently read a story (fiction) about a famous prof...

A few days ago, my son asked me if AIS was a swear word. Feeling I was in the moment of teaching and openness, I said, "No, son. A-S-S is a swear word." Guess what my son wrote in big caps with giant chalk and lots of glee? Drrrrr.

It is late at night, but life is like a sitcom. My husband has a buddy at work. They get along great. So, we have a first date tomorrow night. He sent me a link of the wife's blog. I immediately found out she is crafty. Not like has some fun hanging and making stuff. NO! She designs pillows, quilts, repaints things and makes them cuter. Picture after picture of gorgeous designs like you see on design mom and itsy (or whatever that thing is that is sooo not me.) My husband then tells me she can program software. My response "great, not only is she crafty, she is smart." I've got nothin'! No hand. My fall back is usually claiming I am smart. Really, it is a back up to the fact I have no other talents. It is like a big smoke screen. But, if you ask my kids--well, husband is funny and I am good at having kids. Yes, stop,slow it down. I am good at having kids . I noticed they didn't even assign me gender typical talents of cooking, cleaning or nurturing ...

Although my children are getting older, I still like to sneak up and cuddle them while they sleep. I watched my five-year-old fall asleep as I cuddled him. I couldn't believe how big he is becoming. These were the same hands I held each night when he was in NICU. The dimpled, fat hands have been replaced with mud, cuts and nails that need clipping. If a genie lamp had been there at that very moment, I would wish to hold each child as a young baby for one more long time. As I sat there pondering the brevity of it all, I got weepy. I have tried to relish my time as a mom, yet it can be so fleeting. Tears were quietly falling on his blanket as I looked at him. Suddenly, he turned gave me his firecracker smile and started picking his nose. Did he know just what I needed to stop crying? Yup, I got up, removed my hands and got on with my life.

My brother sent this picture around to my family last night. He then explained it was how I (me) would look if I had been raised by red-necks. After a tired week of kids, I got a big horse laugh from it. Some family members were concerned I would be hurt by it. But, if you knew me in my glory of youth, I did have a mangy beast of crazy hair. One friend called it a brillo pad. The look was complete with glasses and braces. Yes, I did bring science fiction novels to dances. Bring on the jabs of my looks a long time ago! I earned it. Thank heavens you can have a good chuckle at your past. It makes me feel a little more mellow and self-confident. If only my 40 year-old-self could come talk to me as I stood against the wall at dances. Now, I just need the 80 year-old -me to laugh at my 40 year-old and to remind her to get over the small stuff and take each day easy.

I have been cleaning while listening to a cd about babies. The author explains how his wife never looked as beautiful as she did while giving birth. As Mother's Day was here, I thought I would be obtuse and ask my husband if he held the same sentiment. Really, why do we do this? "Does this make me look fat? How do these pants make me look?" Or, the best, "Do you like this haircut?" So, I pushed and pulled wondering how my husband perceived this day. " Maybe husbands need to see their wives looking different to look beautiful. I always find you radiant," he said. And on it went, until in a nutshell, it really was more like "you looked like hell and totally relieved to have that baby out of there." I realize I was stupid for placing my husband in one of those dammed if you do and dammed if you don't scenarios. I just wanted the truth. I got it. We laughed at how ridiculous I was--yet I think I was definitely looking for the lie. I...

A few weeks ago, I was tired of the pinching crap nursing bras I owned. I decided to march on over to a speciality store. I figured I would receive helpful assistance in finding the perfect bra. I had started running again. Although I am not huge, I am still not used to the actually bouncing of my breasts while running. So, I was looking for an excellent running bra as well. I went in; the host of the store seemed pleasant enough. Yes, she insisted on marching in and checking the fit. I will explain she was of the larger variety. Hence, a few inches probably weren't even observable by her. When she measured me, she squeezed the tape tightly and gave me the same number as my pre-pregnancy self. "No", I assured her. "If I had that kind of measurement, I would just need a thin shelf of lycra and I could be on my way." "Well, you are a small one." "Measure again!", I requested. She then went up one cup. I decided to humor her and trie...

Older gentleman at swings, "I'm getting my colonoscopy next week." Daughter, "Is medicare paying for it?" "I don't know, I'm just trying to get everyone off my ass," he sincerely said. I waited for the wink, the guffaw. Finally, I wanted to shout over the din of playground noise, "so to speak, har har." Really, if you swear all the time you miss opportunities for great fun.

Last year, as 39 crept into the door, I purchased an internet deal on facials. No big deal. I was feeling the quiet tickle of old-age on my face. Chemical peels seemed to be the answer. One year later and I had finally got around to redeeming the specials. I hate wasting money more than age spots. Having done this before, I was looking forward to a dark room and pleasant smelling stuff on my face. At the time, it did not concern me that I had a different esthetician. Sure, it burned a little more. It was probably working. During the weekend my face went from red like a sunburn to "who drug your face behind a skateboard?" I hunkered at home like a pimply thirteen-year-old. That Sunday, I was in charge of getting the children to sing loudly for Father's Day. No sweat, they always sing so cheerfully for me. In addition, I knew my local gathering of church goers was going to realize I was pregnant. (Yeah, did I mention I was pregnant?) This perfect storm of s...

Driving along the road, an older American car pulled up along side of our car.  There sat a younger man delighting in his cigar.  Smoke tendrils curled around his contented face while he sat waiting for the light to change.  Looking through the haze, I noticed a long twirly-ish mustache which seemed to match his cigar but not his decade.   As he stretched back in his solitary delight, one could observe the decorations of his castle.   There on the rearview mirror were two peach fuzzy balls.  What on odd color and shape for an ornament one at first thinks.  However, as one kept looking, the deeper pink centers and general atmosphere of the car give the obvious a-ha! He's got ta-tas! Nothing says personal style like boobie balls.  This folks is why I love cars, people and America.

My son has been learning to count.  He gets the teens but not the weird twelve.  Today, as we watched kids line up for the bus, he wondered who was a teenager.  I explained what a teenager was by the number of their age.  He looked at me and said it was the tight pants.  Teenagers wear tight pants.  Yeah, I guess that works.  Much better than my definition of snarly and disaffected. 

My daughter and I went to the ballet to see Romeo and Juliet. As I watched the ballerina, I was reminded of how much I had wanted to be a dancer when I was younger. Sadly, I couldn't jump rope without killing myself. Jumping Jacks were undoable. I wondered which way was it? Did the clear lack of coordination stop me from ballet? Or, could have ballet been the teacher to create more grace on my part? Yes, I was the kid in gym no one wanted on their team. Don't act surprised now. As I watched her hands/fingers help her dance, they told a beautiful story. They expressed: gratitude, delight, sorrow, regret, joy, beauty, longing and pain. Do you know what my hands can say? They can say stop that, shut-up, you are bugging me, or I'll give you something to cry about. Compare those two lists. Hmmmm. Do you think I could increase my vocabulary? Maybe if I knew how to dance, I would have nicer things to say.

As my sister and I have headed toward middle age, we have wondered how it is all going to work as we get older.  When do we wear elasticized pants?  When do we wear comfortable tennis shoes?  When can we eat ice cream for lunch because it doesn't matter?  Frankly, I'm looking forward to some of that stuff right now.  We arrived at 70.  We thought that would be the next era for us.   Along with that, as I thought about relationships, when does one put away the (close your eyes if you don't like frank talk)...well when does one stop wearing the thong?  When does your marriage embrace tasteful nightgowns?  I really couldn't see myself prancing out into the bedroom when I was much older.  My sister and I thought you must just hit this time where you put it all away.  I thought, it has to be around 50.  That sounds reasonable.   Yesterday, I found a woman way past that mark who still embraces all of life.  Guess, I gotta reset my clock.  

Each person you meet has a struggle. There are those that struggle with exercise, overspending, or temper. I struggle with clutter. Just as some may have a public goal which declares exercise, I would benefit with an open goal of "getting it together".  Sadly, I am the person who loses keys, school forms and yes--sometimes important mail. I don't like living this way. I declared defeat and went to my favorite place, the library, to research my problem. I checked out four books on organization. One was from the cute guy with the accent: Peter Walsh . I got excited to read "How to organize just about everything."  It begins with obvious concepts of making a to-do list or dealing with mail.  All of it was helpful.  As I continued to peruse, I came upon some titles of this form: Become a brain surgeon, get into an elite law school or become a talk show host.  The broad sweep of topic spurred me on and I continued to read. Nestled between family calendars and...