The Calm Before the Sh*t Storm

My day had started out with a really nice workout.  I was using an Indo balance board. It looks like a flat wooden sled on top of a foam cylinder.  From what I understand, the idea is to stand on it and not fall on your face.  After several tries, and almost ripping my trainer's thumb off, I got it.  There was a very brief moment when I was balancing when I was completely calm, almost zen-like, and the angels sang and I thought I had found the secret of inner peace that people who meditate brag about all the time. It lasted almost 2 seconds.

I left the gym feeling a bit cocky of the inner peace I had discovered.  I opened the windows and felt the air and thought, today is the day. The day that I can share the love and inner peace with my family and friends.

When I entered the house, I found a child trying to climb out of the refrigerator holding a gallon of milk. My kung-fu-panda-self-caught him just before he and the milk crashed to the floor.  I saw that Don had made coffee, and it was brewing.  There is something about a man who knows exactly what his wife is going to need, and I appreciated that mine knew I needed coffee.  I took a shower and fantasized about wrapping my hands around that warm mug filled with godlike aromatic substance.

I asked the boys to get ready and surprisingly they listened. I was convinced that it was my inner calm was projecting onto my children  and they appeared to have turned into perfect cherubs.
And then... a tidal wave of crap hit. Of course, I'm speaking metaphorically..mostly.

You see, last night my two oldest were playing the longest game of Monopoly ever played.  I'm pretty confident that they choose this game for the specific reason that it was going to prolong bedtime. When they finally made it upstairs to bed, they agreed to finish the game the next day. As I was wrapping myself in a towel,  I heard an argument brewing and by the time I had reached them my oldest son had flipped the board and all the monopoly money on the floor.  As I watched the houses and every other piece fly up into the air, it was only a matter of time before it came to fisticuffs.

Fin threw the first punch; then Parker did a cross right back at him.  I thought a few things.  First, I hope I don't step on a game piece because I'm not wearing shoes. Second, how can nobody even notice I'm only in a towel and dripping wet standing in the middle of the living room? Next, where did they learn to box like that, and lastly,  haven't we explained a million times that they should not hit each other? Clearly, they have been hitting each other for some time because it came about so organically.

By the time I broke it up, there were two ring side assistants commentating.  All of this commotion was upstaged by Wally, who couldn't take the stress and puked up his entire breakfast at that very moment.
Everything stopped, and each of my sons ran to Wally's aid.  They were so concerned, but not concerned enough to clean it up.

I told everyone to get in the car, and I would be there after through on some clothes, slapped some make up on my face and most importantly, I got my solace coffee, my one saving grace to reverse the negativity that had just been thrown at me.  As they made their way out to the garage, I made my way to the coffee.  It was then that I discovered that Don had taken all of it, leaving me a thimble amount to last me the rest of the day.

Trying very hard to not from completely lose my shit, I comforted my bruised soul with the promise of buying myself a coffee once I got to work because I certainly deserved it.  Except, I couldn't find my purse.  I frantically texted Don to 1. thank him for drinking all the coffee and 2. ask him where my purse was.

The boys have now been sitting in the car for 5 minutes when I discover that half of their backpacks were still in the house, and the reason I could see this was because all of the freaking lights were on.  My husband, the one that was on the top of my list had now made his way to the very bottom. I think it would be faster to crawl to his place of work, scratch a message in the sand and wait for him to stumble upon it than to receive a text from him.

I got in the car and said to my oldest heavy-weight champion, that I didn't appreciate the fact that he didn't turn the lights off upstairs.  To which he responded, "that is not my job, it's yours."  And this around the time that any calm or inner peace I may have earned in the morning, was gone and possibly never coming back.

I lost it. Put the car in park, turned off the engine and decided to wait there until someone, anyone, apologized.   The younger boys didn't know what to do, except repent for anything they have done wrong in their life.  "I'm sorry I dropped your toothbrush on the floor," said Oscar.  Wait, when?  Jack chimed in an apologized that he didn't buckle his seat belt. Finegan apologized for winning Monopoly and finally Parker apologized for being born.

I accepted their apologies, turned the car on and began our commute to school.   Yes, even Parker's because he is 12, and he thinks he can shock me, but he has no idea. I can't be shocked.

Once they were all out of the car, and on their way to Grandparents day at school I watched them as they walked into school. You would never know that they almost killed each other this morning.  They looked like they were eager to go to school and move on.

I don't know if it's kids or men, or just not me; that can move over a hurdle and not look back. Don and I can have an argument in the morning and at 5:15 PM I haven't missed a beat and will continue the argument like we hadn't had an 8 hours in between. He won't even know what I'm talking about. In this situation he will pick me up.  Literally. He does that when I'm getting negative-heavy and my emotions start weighing me down. He lifts me off my feet and it's impossible not to laugh.  The boys are used to it, I guess he does it a lot.  He lifted me in the checkout line at Costco once and it was very embarrassing.  But it worked.

There I was, in my car, feeling the aftershocks of anger despite everyone else involved in the exact same situation had clearly moved on.  Clearly there are things to be learned from our children. In this case, the tsunami had hit, washed away all the damage and by all accounts the sea was calm again.  Except within me. Everyone knows in a tsunami, you try and make it to higher ground, to save yourself from being swept away.  I had to make my way up to the higher part of myself that could see past the horrific morning.

Right before I got out of the car, I received a text.  I have friends that will just text a simple Good morning, and rather than responding with a list of why it wasn't, I took inventory as to why it was.  I mean, before it went bad, it was actually quite good. This text was my chance.  I could respond with a generic emoji smiley face or I could respond back with all honesty.  I typed back, Good morning and I decided at that moment to believe it.

What a White Pumpkin Means to Me

I love the Fall.  I live in an area where the season change and the cooler temperatures are welcome. I squeezed every last drop out of the summer and don't get me wrong, I loved it. But there is something about Fall that focuses my attention inward.  A natural compass that points back inside to reflect on things that I have neglected over the past several months.

Without even trying, we have made it a tradition to return to the same corn maze each year.  Like a magnet, it pulls us in. It is a little farm house off of a less traveled road close to Michigan.   As we pull our car onto the dirt driveway, we can see the same goats, and the same hokey wooden scarecrow directing us to the pumpkins.  It's wonderfully cheesy and nostalgic at the same time. In my mind, I can see our boys. At first just one, only about 3 feet tall trying to grab the goat's face.  The next year, there were two boys, and I nervously protected them. Sanitizing their little hands after they touched dirt. In the years to come, we would add two more sons and as if by magic, they all stand in the same spot eager to feed the goats we have named Betty. (All of them).

After the Betties have been properly fed, we collectively take off toward the corn maze.  I have lost several children in that maze, but each year they eventually come out.  This year, I'm less worried than previous years but more anxious than ever to get in the corn maze.

Perhaps it has something to do with growing up in Indiana, but the corn fields have a healing quality about them, especially in the Fall. I have always retreated to nature when I feel overwhelmed.   When I was little, I would walk into the woods next to my house and within minutes feel peaceful. I spent hours trying to get lost, but never could. I always found my way out.

Before long my family of 6 is separated throughout the corn maze, and I can hear the laughter, screams and footsteps of the boys running along hitting the solid dirt. Don likes to hide and scare them around the corners.  I usually just take my time in a soulful stroll, trying, sometimes successfully to get lost. Even though the corn is dead, it is still tall, and the wind blows through the stalks making a hushing sound, that has a natural calm to it.  And just like the trees next to my childhood house had,  the corn has power to untie the anxiety that has been in knots on my insides.  Even though I can't see any of my family, I know they are there, even the ones we have lost.

Returning to this enormous field I feel taken care of. The tall stalks cover me in a big familiar hug. The soil remembers my step and rises to greet me.

October has always surprised me with the unexpected.   Just when I have felt like we are settling into a new routine, a huge gust of wind rises and blows the dust into my eyes and I can't see without a little pain. We have several birthdays in October, but we also have had a few significant deaths.

But in that field at that very moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of wholeness. I already have everything I need.  When I return home to all of my things,  I'm overwhelmed with all the miscellaneous stuff that I have spent the majority of my time working for. All the warranties, contracts and appointments I have to keep.  That is when I feel the knots tighten, sometimes in my stomach, sometimes around my neck.  But, at that moment in the field however, I'm completely isolated from mainstream reality. If I lost all of my material possessions, I would be okay.  I already have more than I need. I would walk home with only the clothes on my back and enough hands between Don and me to hold all that is dear to us.

Within moments, I heard the familiar footsteps of Oscar and without thinking I reached my hand out to have it met with his.  Don jumped out and took a picture at that exact moment.  It was as if someone knew I needed to capture that moment. A rare moment when I was happily lost in my environment, and my heart felt full. I can reflect on it and remember the feeling when I wasn't overwhelmed or consumed with clutter. Clutter of my mind and of possessions.

We exit the maze and like a symphony join in at just the right time together and make our way over to the pumpkins.

We get nine pumpkins.  Each of the boys chooses one that they can lift, they collectively select one for Wally, our dog, one for me and one for Don which equals 7.  The last two are for the two souls that never were born.  The boys don't know, and maybe they never will.  I'm not even sure that Don realizes the significance. People mourn in different ways.   Some people remember the babies they miscarried with tattoos, some with footprints or sonogram photos.  I find comfort in two little pumpkins every year.

Only one miscarriage happened in October, but this is the month I choose to remember both. The entire month, with two little pumpkins that only I know their significance.

When we returned home, I watched as the boys placed them on the front steps.  I watched how they carefully put each of their prized pumpkin in the best possible spot along with Don's, Wally's and mine. And in the foreground, the two little white pumpkins that only I love.

I stood there and looked at the display.  It is complete and whole and brings me more joy than pain. It is a perfect representation that makes me feel more than ever that I already have more than I need.

What a White Pumpkin Means to Me

I love the Fall.  I live in an area where the season change and the cooler temperatures are welcome. I squeezed every last drop out of the summer and don't get me wrong, I loved it. But there is something about Fall that focuses my attention inward.  A natural compass that points back inside to reflect on things that I have neglected over the past several months.

Without even trying, we have made it a tradition to return to the same corn maze each year.  Like a magnet, it pulls us in. It is a little farm house off of a less traveled road close to Michigan.   As we pull our car onto the dirt driveway, we can see the same goats, and the same hokey wooden scarecrow directing us to the pumpkins.  It's wonderfully cheesy and nostalgic at the same time. In my mind, I can see our boys. At first just one, only about 3 feet tall trying to grab the goat's face.  The next year, there were two boys, and I nervously protected them. Sanitizing their little hands after they touched dirt. In the years to come, we would add two more sons and as if by magic, they all stand in the same spot eager to feed the goats we have named Betty. (All of them).

After the Betties have been properly fed, we collectively take off toward the corn maze.  I have lost several children in that maze, but each year they eventually come out.  This year, I'm less worried than previous years but more anxious than ever to get in the corn maze.

Perhaps it has something to do with growing up in Indiana, but the corn fields have a healing quality about them, especially in the Fall. I have always retreated to nature when I feel overwhelmed.   When I was little, I would walk into the woods next to my house and within minutes feel peaceful. I spent hours trying to get lost, but never could. I always found my way out.

Before long my family of 6 is separated throughout the corn maze, and I can hear the laughter, screams and footsteps of the boys running along hitting the solid dirt. Don likes to hide and scare them around the corners.  I usually just take my time in a soulful stroll, trying, sometimes successfully to get lost. Even though the corn is dead, it is still tall, and the wind blows through the stalks making a hushing sound, that has a natural calm to it.  And just like the trees next to my childhood house had,  the corn has power to untie the anxiety that has been in knots on my insides.  Even though I can't see any of my family, I know they are there, even the ones we have lost.

Returning to this enormous field I feel taken care of. The tall stalks cover me in a big familiar hug. The soil remembers my step and rises to greet me.

October has always surprised me with the unexpected.   Just when I have felt like we are settling into a new routine, a huge gust of wind rises and blows the dust into my eyes and I can't see without a little pain. We have several birthdays in October, but we also have had a few significant deaths.

But in that field at that very moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of wholeness. I already have everything I need.  When I return home to all of my things,  I'm overwhelmed with all the miscellaneous stuff that I have spent the majority of my time working for. All the warranties, contracts and appointments I have to keep.  That is when I feel the knots tighten, sometimes in my stomach, sometimes around my neck.  But, at that moment in the field however, I'm completely isolated from mainstream reality. If I lost all of my material possessions, I would be okay.  I already have more than I need. I would walk home with only the clothes on my back and enough hands between Don and me to hold all that is dear to us.

Within moments, I heard the familiar footsteps of Oscar and without thinking I reached my hand out to have it met with his.  Don jumped out and took a picture at that exact moment.  It was as if someone knew I needed to capture that moment. A rare moment when I was happily lost in my environment, and my heart felt full. I can reflect on it and remember the feeling when I wasn't overwhelmed or consumed with clutter. Clutter of my mind and of possessions.

We exit the maze and like a symphony join in at just the right time together and make our way over to the pumpkins.

We get nine pumpkins.  Each of the boys chooses one that they can lift, they collectively select one for Wally, our dog, one for me and one for Don which equals 7.  The last two are for the two souls that never were born.  The boys don't know, and maybe they never will.  I'm not even sure that Don realizes the significance. People mourn in different ways.   Some people remember the babies they miscarried with tattoos, some with footprints or sonogram photos.  I find comfort in two little pumpkins every year.

Only one miscarriage happened in October, but this is the month I choose to remember both. The entire month, with two little pumpkins that only I know their significance.

When we returned home, I watched as the boys placed them on the front steps.  I watched how they carefully put each of their prized pumpkin in the best possible spot along with Don's, Wally's and mine. And in the foreground, the two little white pumpkins that only I love.

I stood there and looked at the display.  It is complete and whole and brings me more joy than pain. It is a perfect representation that makes me feel more than ever that I already have more than I need.

Hello Jealousy

Once in awhile I will be walking down the sidewalk, and a group of college girls will pass me.  I work on a college campus, so this happens often enough.  Their herd usually swallows me up and spits me out as they pass. I walk at a much slower pace than they do.  Mostly because I have been wearing heels all day, and I'm carrying a load of baggage.  Most of it mental.

Sometimes I get so lost in thought that I actually stop walking.  As a writer, these things happen.  I start writing in my head.  Then I think of the perfect song to go along with my thoughts, and I search through my playlist because I have to listen to that song at that exact moment.  As the girls passed, I found Natalie Merchant's album Tiger Lily and hit Jealousy.

It bothers me that these girls probably don't even know who Natalie is, but the sound of her voice can take me back to that very moment, when I was their age.  A college girl in Tucson Arizona, wearing a little sundress and laying out on the U of A quad scribbling in one of my many notebooks filled with all my writings.  That particular summer I was dealing with some jealousy issues.

A boyfriend had cheated on me when he was in Spain for an exchange program.  He had told me about it, and surprisingly I had forgiven him.  Although I would have told you we were serious, I knew he wasn't the man I was going to marry, so it didn't bother me as much as it should have.  What bothered me the most, was the thought that he chose someone over me.  What did she have that I didn't? Was she prettier? Sexier? Skinnier? She was probably smarter. I was convinced that was it. But I became consumed with the idea of a girl that I had never met and never would meet.  Never stopping to consider that he was a 20-year-old guy, alone for the summer.

The amount of time I wasted thinking about this girl is time I can't get back.  She was one of many to light my jealousy flame.  For a green monster I hate so much, I certainly spend a lot of  time feeding it. I have an entire playlist on my phone dedicated to the emotion. With songs like Mr. Brightside from the Killers to Alanis Morriset, (of course). But I'm married, with kids and a house and a job, I shouldn't feel this anymore right?

Wrong. So wrong.

I must feel comfortable in jealousy. It is such a familiar and ugly place that I find myself there often.  As I age, however, the things I find myself jealous of are getting more complicated.  Back then,  when I was jealous of another girl's body I would hit the gym harder. But I find myself getting jealous of things now, that I can't control. For example, I'm jealous of people who are super motivated.  I'm jealous of the amount of money that all the young couples have on House Hunters to buy their first house. I mean, whose range is $800,000 - $1,500,000 to buy a first home?? I'm living in my first home and I have to share my "master" bathroom with a 5-year-old brushing his teeth every morning.

I'm jealous of women who have followed their heart no matter what, and not their brain.  Women who have had the courage to follow their passion where ever that leads.  Do I know any of those women? No. But social media is full of them drinking coffee in a small coffee shop they own in Nantucket while their yellow lab named Hudson, sits in the background.

Maybe I'm even a little jealous of the woman I was going to be and turned out to be something completely different.  I get swallowed in these thoughts as I stare at my computer from my office where I drink Maxwell House and the only dog in the background is in the form of a photograph. But also in that photograph loving the dog are my four boys.

I know how lucky I am, but luck isn't always enough to calm the jealousy.

My second son hates running, in fact, he hates most physical activity.  So this summer, we took a daily walk.  It was going to be a daily run, but we both decided that walking was more fun.  I was preparing him for the Fall, where I planned on signing him up for cross country.  He reluctantly agreed to participate in his school's cross country team.  And by reluctantly, I mean he didn't really agree, he was told he was going.

After the first practice, he came home and said that he was the worst runner there and that he couldn't even finish.  He said he wished he was like every other kid, who could run and not feel like they were going to puke.  He said he was jealous of the kids who were good at sports and he wished he was like them.
I couldn't believe he wished to be anyone other than who he is.  I mean, to me he is perfect, and I told him that.

At his first meet, he came in last.  I mean dead last.  But he crossed the finish line. I wasn't there to see it. I was working, but when we got a chance to talk he was beaming with pride.  He said he started in the front, but during the race little girls passed him, kids with injuries, a kid with one shoe, every single kid in the race, including his brothers, left him in the dust.  He also said he got hungry during the race and picked an apple off a tree.  (The race was on a farm if you were wondering).   He said instead of feeling pain, apparently in all forms, hunger, running cramps, emotional,  he decided to make the most of it, so he did.

The difference between us is that when somebody told him he was perfect just the way he was,  he believed it.  He didn't waste much time being jealous of others.   A lesson that I hope sticks with him.

I have always loved Oscar Wilde, so much so that I named a child after him, yet my favorite quote of his just registered.

Kids just get it.  It just takes some of us longer to figure out.

Butterflies in My Brain

My oldest son starts junior high next week.   While this isn't a huge milestone, it seems to be a new right of passage in our house.  Maybe it is because we have never crossed the junior high threshold yet.  We have indeed seen a glimpse of junior high tendencies, however.

Parker is a good kid. He loves dogs, pigs, football and his brothers. Probably in that order too.  He also likes sarcasm, sucker punches, and Youtube fail videos.

Its not like he is going to a new school. In fact, his junior high classroom is about 25 feet from his 6th-grade classroom.  But as his mom, I feel like he is crossing over to the bridge from boyhood to young manhood.  And I'm going to be honest, I'm nervous.

I have butterflies in my brain.   They haven't reached my stomach yet. That will be in a few years when he crosses the street to the high school.

I suppose my nerves come from the only place they can, my past experiences. Junior high was rough for me.  My body matured faster than my brain.  My feelings have never been more crushed than in those years.  I felt every emotion with a magnitude of 9.9 on the Richter scale.  Sometimes all at the same time.  I hated my parents; then turned right around and loved them. I liked, okay, (loved) boys. Obsessing about them more than I probably should have. I hated my body, my face, my life. I had more friend drama than a Shakespeare tragedy.  I hated my coaches, and teachers, yet cried at the end of the year when I left them.  I knew everything on the outside and nothing on the inside.  I thought that Madonna was the only one who understood me. And not the mother of Jesus Madonna, the other one.

Last night after Parker took a shower and did his hair for the 2nd time that day, he sat next to me on the couch and asked me if I had any advice for him in junior high.

I wanted to tell him all the stuff I wish I had known that took me 25 years to figure out. Like, the first time someone laughs at you or makes fun of you is going to feel like the apocalypse, but it's not. Your body is going to do some really weird things; it's normal.  Your teachers don't hate you.  I don't hate you; your dad doesn't hate you.  Your brothers might hate you, but that will pass when you are older.

But I didn't.  Mainly because his attention span isn't going to tolerate a long story about how his mother dropped a tissue while giving a speech in social studies class that sparked a 3-year rumor that she stuffed her bra.   Which wasn't true, but she obviously couldn't prove it.   Secondly, because talking to my twelve-year-old son about boobs is just going to make things even more awkward.

Instead, I just told him the first word that came to mind. I told him to have pride.   Something I think is lacking in a lot of people.  Take pride in his appearance, his name, his family. His word.   In the environment. Take pride in his reputation.  Take pride in taking the high road.  Take pride in knowing that he already possesses everything he needs to survive and then some.  Be proud enough to not take the easy way out, but humble enough to ask for help.   Be proud enough of his body, to not fill it with junk, the same goes for his brain too.  Be proud of who you are, because you were not an accident.  Take pride in real life achievements and not on the number of "likes" he has. You were deliberately put here for a reason.  Take pride in other's differences, don't shame someone because they are not the same as him.   Have enough pride to shut his mouth and open his ears.

As my critical five minutes of uninterrupted attention was running out I reminded him how proud I was of him, just for everything he has done right and even the things has done wrong.

I wish I could keep him in elementary just a little bit longer. I haven't felt this way since I dropped him off on his first day of daycare. But back then,  I relied on someone else to care for him, now I know he is capable of taking care of himself.

I realized that the same piece of advice I was offering him was just as applicable to my post junior high self.  Especially as I slowly approach the end of my 30's and drag my feet over the threshold known as 40.

We will cross our bridges together.

Mama Mantra

Deep down I know I'm a good Mom.  Way deep down, beneath the layers upon layers of doubt.  Past the scar tissue of insecurities and the almost never ending sea of guilt when I stumble upon my heart.  After I had children it no longer was beating for me, it was all for my boys. Every single beat.

I know I'm a good mom when I look in the review mirror at a tightly secured child in his car seat knowing it may have been a struggle, but I put him there.

I know I'm a good mom when taking a walk, I reach my arm down and extend my hand in a blind reach knowing it will be met with a tiny hand reaching up.

I know I'm a good mom when I know very well that a Happy Meal is not a real meal, but will make someone very very happy.

I know I'm a good mom when my son is the only boy picking dandelions during a soccer game and I take a picture and post it all over on social media because I'm just as proud as if he had scored a goal.

I know I'm a good mom when I check on them long after they have fallen asleep just one more time to make sure they are breathing.

I know I'm a good mom when my son looks both ways when he crosses the street on his own.

I know I'm a good mom when my oldest says I have ruined his life and still kisses me goodnight.

I know I'm good mom when I can sleep with my eyes shut and my ears open.

I know I'm a good mom when my son’s laughter can cause me to smile even when it's not funny.

I know I’m a good mom when I know the difference in a ninja fight between “ wahpicht and paching”

I know I'm a good mom when I get excited to have them away at camp but after the first night I feel like I have an empty nest, and I want them back again.

I know I'm a good mom when my child can wipe himself…thank God.

I know I'm a good mom when I feel like I'm not.

I know I'm a good mom when I not so patiently wait for my son to put his shoes on when we are already 10 minutes late.

I know I'm a good mom when I step out of his way when I know he is going to make a mistake.

I know I'm a good mom because I will wipe his tears whether the cause is physical pain or emotional.

I know I'm a good mom because I will keep telling myself this until I finally believe it.

If you are here, listening to this, you are a good Mom too, or maybe you know one.  You care enough to support another woman who is just as protective, vulnerable and completely head over heals in love with her child. Whether that child is at home, has moved far away, or just spent a short time with you on this Earth.

You are a good mom because you know that when you dig deep down, your heart will always beat loudest for the ones who were once closest to it.

Flying – told from my iPhone

Turbulence. Up next to death, this is by far my biggest fear.  Although turbulence doesn’t lead to death, it could be the beginning of the descent down to your death, therefor; this is why it is by far my biggest fear.

I’m typing this on my phone and if you are reading this, then either I landed and posted it, or I haven’t landed… but please excuse the typos.

It is safe to say I am not a good flyer.  

“ There is a colonial woman on the wing. There is something they’re not telling us. She was out there churning butter. She was churning butter!”

-       Bridesmaids (2011)

That quote is both true and terrifyingly accurate.

I start fearing turbulence weeks before my flight.  I have nightmares about it the night before and then on the plane.  I spend the majority of my time on the flight waiting for it.  The slightest bump on in the air send me into a complete panic grabbing my arm rest and in most cases, we haven’t even taken off yet.

My brother was on a flight once and told me that that the turbulence was SO bad the air masks came down and people were puking and screaming.  I have never been on anything that bad, but thanks to him I now have a vivid description burned into my brain for reference.

My first flight was when I was 15.  There were several occasions that my parents wanted to take me on a flight, but being a child of the 80’s, and having the permission to watch anything on TV my view points on air travel were influenced strongly by the coverage of airplane crashes all over the world.  Meaning, there was no way in hell I was going to get on a plane.

My parents were forced to travel without me. Wait a second….

Anyway the point is that I’m now on a plane and Oprah always said to trust your gut and my gut is now telling me that I’m screwed.  I’m pretty sure this is the end.

Although the clouds look lovely and it is quite scenic there must be an undercurrent, or whatever you call it in the air and it is sucking us under forcing the plane to shift every way its is not suppose to.

If I land I will need to buy a new shirt because I’m confident I have sweat through this one.  I keep looking at the flight attendant who must have had a horrible childhood to choose a profession like this.  She is a beverage serving  masochist.

I wonder if I should wake the man up across from me and tell him we are going down. Is he asleep or did he pass out?  It’s hard to tell.  How can anyone sleep when our lives are entrusted to some guy I don’t even know. Who, if it is the same guy I think it is, looks like he was old enough to be at a Fraternity party last night.

What are pilot’s credentials anyway?  I have a friend who is a pilot and I’m pretty sure he just took an online class. He is always online too. Maybe that is why we are so bumpy. The pilot is looking at pics he has been tagged in last night.

Why aren’t we allowed to ask any questions? I have had my hand in the air for the past  23 minutes and nobody has called on me. She probably knows I’m going to ask the hard questions like, “Are we going to die?”  Or “ Is this the end?”

Maybe if I close my eyes and pray this will get better.

Nope.

I think I’m having a heart attack.

Seriously, why can’t we read up on the pilot before we get on the plane.   It reminds me of the guy at the fair who buckled me in to the zipper ride before propelling me into the air in a steel cage, only to toss me around and make me sick.  I’m not seeing much of a difference, except at the end I don’t get an elephant ear. I don’t get anything. Not even a bag of peanuts or pretzels.

Or maybe, it’s not the pilot, it’s the plane, its’ a lemon!

The lady in front of me seems suspiciously calm. If she wants to read about Bruce, I mean Caitlin Jenner in her final moments then fine by me.  I can read over her shoulder, but I’m not going to like it.

Why did the Wright brothers think this was a good idea? I mean, can you imagine what their mother must have felt when they told her they were going to fly?  Just yesterday Oscar thought it would be a good idea to try and pole vault over a log with a twig. I didn’t encourage that.

Maybe it would have been a good thing if we all stuck to ground transportation.  We would still see regional dialects.  Those are pretty much null. Why? Because of air travel. Disease is spread, How?  Through air travel.

When I was a kid we traveled by motorhome. (Thanks to my obnoxious and paralyzing fear of flying.) And it was safe. Except for the time that we were cruising down the interstate and the Hell’s Angels bike gang surrounded our motorhome. I remember is my mom screaming, “Kids just look straight ahead!” Don’t look them in the eye!” And we all did, and they passed us. Although I gave one grizzly guy the side eye and I swear he winked.

I would do that 100 times again than to be stuck in this coffin in the sky.

Did our pilot just hit the breaks? What. The. Hell.  Are we actually traveling backwards or does it just feel that way?  IS there a drivers Ed program for pilots?  And if so, are we unwilling participants?

Okay, I see land.  It is so beautiful. Well, it’s NJ, but to me it looks like Heaven.

And we are on the ground.

After an eternity trying to get off the plane I have to wonder why people put their luggage behind them in the overhead compartments. I mean, if each person is allowed one bag, then that should mean you put it over your head. Now this guy is forcing everyone to the back of the plane because he has to get his stupid bag.

4 aisles behind where he was.

I’m off.

What every happened to travel companions? I need one.  I’m a mess. I followed an old man into a corner looking for my terminal.  He said he doesn’t like this airport either and that he would help me find my gate.   A senior citizen heading to Florida is helping me find my gate. I need help finding a Starbucks first.

They don’t have a Starbucks, but something that kind of looks like that. Caffeine is probably not what I need, but Phil said he could go for one too.

After a nice conversation and a shuttle ride that only a sign that only a person who can read brail could find, Phil cut the cord.

His Florida gate isn’t close to my Baltimore gate, but he wished me well and dare I say, he looked worried when we parted.   Where is my best friend when I need her?  My mom recently admitted to putting me on a leash when I was a kid as we toured Washington DC. Now I know why I have attachment issues. But I would give anything to be tethered to someone right now that knew where he or she was going.

As I was walking a nice looking middle-aged woman came up to me smiling.  “Where did you find Starbucks?” she desperately asked. I told her it wasn’t Starbucks, but a lackluster imposter, located in a land far away in a place called concourse A.

And now I wait.  Wait to board a plane to go through this all over again.

According to Joe, who just came up to me to ask my name and ask how I was doing, and me answering him asking for the wifi code,  Newark International Airport, along with Laguardia are the only airports in the US without complimentary Wifi. Hence, typing on my phone. And another reason not to fly. 

If you are reading this, I’m still here. But let it be known, that I will never fly again..after my layover. Except on Sunday, when I go back home.. unless I rent a car.  We’ll see.

Age Discrimination Does Not Apply to Heros

A new friend of mine who recently found out I have four sons and one big kid in a husband's body asked me if I was going to the comic book and entertainment expo in Chicago.   I hadn't planned on it because I didn't know about it.

Politicians have been using this tactic for years.  They don't want to know information because once they know it, it is harder to lie about knowing certain information.

But since I knew about it, I felt obligated to share it with the boys and Don over dinner.  Parker exclaimed "What!?" and the excitement snowballed down to Oscar who was screaming but didn't even know why. We decided to go on Sunday since it was kids day and tickets were $5.

I don't dislike comic books or fictional super heros.  I dislike conventions.  Which is ironic because my dad built his design business around conventions and trade shows.  I just don't like the red carpet, the people, the booths the lanyards.   Then you add a comic theme to the mix and you have people in costumes.

When we were walking in I didn't know if we were at a Furry convention or a Comic convention.   We were greeted with a huge sign that read COSTUMES DO NOT MEAN CONSENT, KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF. Seriously? I understand a kid wanting to touch a costume, but most kids who can't even read yet know better. This sign was for adults.

Once I got in, I understood why people might be tempted to want to touch something that they shouldn't.  There was a Princess Leia doing circa de sole.  Numerous people wearing underwear as outerwear.   A woman holding a log like a baby. Despite all of this, we allowed Finegan and Parker to venture off together after I wrote my phone number on their arms. I know they know it, but if for some reason they are unable to speak I wanted someone to be able to get a hold of me in case they confronted with kryptonite.  Even though the two younger ones were with Don and me, we wrote my phone number on their arms as well.  It  was legal to tattoo it I would, and never change my number until the day I die. It sounds crazy, but if you have ever lost a child in a crowd it is terrifying. I can't even imagine losing a child in a crowd of villains.

Within 30 minutes Oscar was overwhelmed and underfed and ready to go home.  I had surprised Jack with the promise of meeting his favorite superhero, Stan Lee.  Jack has loved Stan Lee since he was 5. He knows everything about him.  His birthday: Dec. 28, 1922.  His wife and daughter's names.   What he eats for breakfast every day.  When I found out Stan Lee was going to be there, I knew that Jack would love to meet him.

Jack has always been interested in the back story. His favorite website is IMDB.  After he sees a movie, he looks up the actors, director and producers and finds out what year they were born.  After he saw The Wizard of Oz he was shocked to learn that Judy Garland was born the same year as Stan Lee and wondered if they knew each other.

Jack loves the process of pretending.  Stan Lee represents everything he likes.  A creator in the true sense of the word.   So I purchased the opportunity for Jack to get a picture with him.  At age 92,  I wasn't sure how many more opportunities we would have.

We stood in line for 35 minutes even though we had a reservation.  Behind us was a tool shed who kept burping and singing Jimmy Buffet songs trying to impress his girlfriend. I wanted to turn around and tell her to run as far away from him as she possibly could, but I decided to focus on Jack.  In front of us was a family of four who were nervous to meet Stan Lee and rehearsed what they were going to say.  I was drinking a green smoothie out of a mason jar so I'm sure if those people have blogs I'm mentioned as the weird lady drinking her vegetables in line.  Jack was patiently sandwiched between all of us and probably the most normal thing about the entire convention.

When we made our way to the front of the line a woman gave us specific instructions.   No touching, No hand shaking and No conversation.  The family before us must have been disappointed.
As we rounded the corner something amazing happened.  Jack lit up and slowly walked over to Stan Lee.  Stan Lee got up and gave Jack a hug, put his arm around him and asked his name.  Jack told him and they took a great picture, Stan shook his hand and told him to have a fun day.  The only thing Jack said was "Hi!" and "Okay!"  We were then escorted to yet another line to wait for our picture.

As we were waiting Jack got a little teary and said "He remembered me."  I know that sounds lofty, progressive, new age, whatever you call it.  Maybe Jack had a dream that they had met. Or maybe he was thinking that Stan could see him through his computer.  I don't know.  Or maybe at that moment the two of them found a common ground despite the 85 year age difference.

I couldn't help but think of a three-year-old Jack talking to me shortly after Oscar was born.  He asked where Oscar was before he was in my arms.  I told him that the baby was in my tummy.  He then told me that before he was born he was a happy old man, and has always said that even to this day.  The funny thing is, I believe him.  He has an old soul.

I got a little emotional just seeing how happy Jack was and thankful that I was able to give him this experience.   When we were given the picture he put it in his tote and went about his day.  I was wrong about Stan. I don't think he is going anywhere any time soon. This man has more life in him than people half of half his age.

We finally all gathered in our meeting place next to the giant  poster of characters I wasn't familiar with and decided we had had enough.  Oscar was now moving at a snails pace and repeating "Stan Lee" at a escalating pace.  Even though he had no interest in meeting him when we arrived.

We stopped for ice cream on the way home and for a suspended moment, all was well in our galaxy.  I'm glad to have been able to share this experience with the boys even though I did not want to even tell them about it in the first place.

Sometimes it is cool to be adventurous. Try something new and to not act your age, whether you are 7 or 92.