Dear reader I married him's Open Salon Blog

What Are You Crying About?

Wed, 29 Sep 2010 08:09:14 -0400

I am a crier. My sons smile and shake their heads. They’ve seen me cry over dog food commercials, especially when the moon was full and the hormonal tides were in their element. But this time I am determined to keep a stiff upper lip and not dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. Why the lachrymosity? Because we are taking number-two-son off to university.

We did this last year with our eldest so I am experienced at pushing fledglings out of the family nest. In fact, I felt a bit smug after leaving the first-born a week ago at his student house. I left dry-eyed, with a cheerful wave and the creeping certainty that the bag of cleaning products I had left him with will still be there, untouched, when he moves out next summer. But now, just two hours before the next boy in line is due to leave, I’m feeling it all afresh.

Another milestone approaches. Although son number two is only going to be two hours’ drive away and he’ll probably hop on the train home in a few weeks, it won’t be quite the same. From now on when he comes back he will be “just visiting.” The welter of emotions accompanying these thoughts hits me as I step into the shower and I let myself slip over the sentimental cliff edge I’ve been avoiding.

I think back to the red Thomas the Tank Engine shorts, and the Thomas the Tank t-shirt, and the Thomas pyjamas he liked to wear (it was a lifestyle choice for him), and then of his face smiling up at me saying “peease” and “fank you” and I start blubbing like an idiot as I shampoo my hair. On a roll, I allow myself to remember even further back to when he was tiny, curled up on my shoulder like a little monkey, his breath against my neck. I think about his warmth, his milky smell, his sweaty head, and I let myself sob quietly, shoulders shaking and tears washing down the drain.

Eventually I stop crying because I’m not sad, not really. How could I be? I’m grateful and happy for the person he is and because he is here. I know it is part of a process. Life moves on and that’s how it has to be.

We load up the car and deliver him and his stuff to his dorm and watch him sign in, pick up keys, and do what he’s supposed to do. It is his responsibility now. Other parents pass us back and forth, laden with suitcases, pillows and desk lamps, their faces fixed in controlled expressions which I imagine mirror my own. We’re all a little shell-shocked. Perhaps it is the anticipated loss of impending good-byes but maybe it is more than that.

Maybe we’re all beginning to realize that the opportunities from here on are not just for our children. I feel a sense of uncertainty but also excitement about what the future holds for us as parents whose offspring are leaving home. We might not be responsibility-free, knocking back beers in the student union but we too have come to a milestone in life. We too can choose a new direction. Watch this space.

I managed not to cry until we got back to the car.

The Ten Best Things on Earth--Mark Trost's Open Call

Thu, 16 Sep 2010 13:09:29 -0400

Mark Trost's open call for the ten best things on earth seems like a great opportunity to think pleasant thoughts. It's tough to narrow it down to a top ten and I'm not putting them in any particular order here. I can't honestly say that these are definitive but here goes:

1. Laughter

Scientists tell us we live a lot longer if we laugh every day. I know that life is a lot more enjoyable when there is laughter. To carry this even further, I read somewhere that when you are smiling, your brain thinks you are happy and starts making "happy hormones." The other day I was out running on my own, up hill, very slowly, feeling like crap, and I decided to try to fool my brain into producing some of those happy chemicals by smiling. Did it work? No but I frightened a few passers-by. One lady nearly jumped in a ditch to put some distance between us.

2. Love

Love, all kinds, not just romantic. Should include love for family, friends, and chocolate.

3. Children

Cliche maybe but true. Children cut to the chase without the bullshit. We adults need them to call us back from the brink of being set in our ways, boring, selfish jerks. Includes your own, other people's, and if we're lucky, some recollection of our childish selves.

4. A good book

Stimulates the brain, takes you away, informs you. I suppose it could be an electronic book in a pinch.

5. Good Wine

Sometimes even average wine

6. Good Gin

See number five.

7. Travel

The world is a big place. It's nice to think you can always expand your horizons and see something you've never seen before. It's the promise of possibilities.

8. Kindness

Nothing like the warm glow generated by an act of kindness, whether you are the recipient or the perpetrator. It's nice to see that the human race can be a force for good.

9. Music

I think I will cheat and include dancing because our bodies naturally move when we hear music anyway. As long as I'm cheating, I might stretch it really far and add in "fun."

10. Crisp, fresh sheets

I'm a simple creature and I like my comforts.

It Looks Like Fun!

Wed, 8 Sep 2010 08:09:17 -0400

I walked into the hall after paying my admission fee and signing a waiver which basically said that if I was crazy enough to volunteer for what was to come it was nobody’s fault but mine. I was unconcerned, having already overcome my biggest health risk in putting on my gym pants with the cruel holding-power of a pair of Spanx, guaranteed not to spark in the event of inner thigh friction.

The murmur of female voices echoed off the gymnasium walls as I found myself a space near the front, staking my claim with carefully placed water bottle and towel. Being a novice, I felt a little nervous and hoped that I wasn’t accidentally usurping a regular’s place but I knew I would need to see the instructor’s feet if I was to have any hope in following along.

Swigging from my water bottle to stem my excitement (I was about to join the world of Zumba® after all) I surveyed the crowd for friendly faces but I seemed to be the only person unaccompanied. Never mind. I was confident that bonding would take place once the class got underway and everyone was sweating and samba-ing.

Thank goodness, most of my fellow participants looked nothing like the Zumba® enthusiasts I had seen on the internet: gorgeous, with a carefree sense of cool, wearing tiny tops that exposed their toned midriffs and of course, young. I was relieved to see that at fifty, I was not the oldest person in the room. All my classmates, mostly 35 plus, weren’t bronzed and beautiful, and were too modest or lacked the muscle tone for a cropped top. We smiled at each other, sharing camaraderie, aspiration, and a moment of female solidarity, solid being the appropriate word.

And that was it—with a blast of Shakira, we were off. The hour that followed was fast-paced cardiovascular fun to a Latin beat, punctuated by the peripheral view of our petite instructor, a pink-clad blur with super-human abs who danced the rest of us out of the room. Mercifully, the gym had no mirrors, but I think I understand why she had a big smile on her face throughout.

What we looked like, I don’t know, and I don’t think any of us cared. Once we settled into the routines, we felt we were shimmying like pros and when she called for the move known as “The Beyonce,” the entire room shook with our enthusiasm. (My enthusiasm was a little sore the next day.) By the end of the class we were all convinced that we had found our inner hot Latina selves.

So tonight I’m going back for another Zumba® class in a different sports hall. I’ll be going for a place at the front again—even if they’ve got mirrors!

Summer Breaks

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 11:08:37 -0400

Seems like I've been away for ages although I've tried to keep in touch with some of the people I enjoy reading on OS while on vacation in the States. Still, I've only managed a few. My intention is to catch up but is that ever really possible? Maybe it would be if everyone stopped writing for a day but there are a lot of prolific people on this site.

There was something liberating about being away from all access to the computer for a week at the beach. A complete break with routine refreshes the brain like nothing else, not to mention sea air and a school of dolphins swimming past in the morning.

I'm back in England now with the usual assortment of emotions. Will this, my home of the last twenty years, ever feel like "home?" The weather, grey and in the fifties, makes the Charleston steam a heady memory. We build a fire in the stove to offset the shock while this, our "labor day" weekend in the UK, promises to be a wet one. My "Carolina walk" gets left in the dust. It's back to hunched shoulders, head ducked, hurry up. Diagnosis: it's the post-vacation blahs.

The sun, the sea breeze, those busy little sea birds who don't like to get their feet wet. The she-crab soup, the iced tea, the smoked pork butt and did my sons ever order a meal without wings? Visiting with my mother over a sweating glass of Hendrick's Gin and cucumber, sitting around the table with all the family, laughing, eating, and telling the old stories. The dry, clean smell of the long-needled pine trees that occupy the sand hills around my parents' house and the shrill cicadas that are the chorus of late summer. Time to put them all away. For now.

Allow me these paragraphs, please, to just wallow a little, before somebody gives me a verbal slap. It won't take me long to buck up, get over my jet-lag, and remember how very lucky I am. One more...sigh...that oughta do it!

Coming Home and the Forbidden Fruit

Fri, 30 Jul 2010 09:07:57 -0400

Months after booking it, a trip home is imminent. We go on Tuesday. We're all getting excited making lists of foods we're going to eat, things we're going to do when we touch down on Carolina soil.

Never mind that we must catch a 3:35am train to Manchester Airport. This journey will be easy compared to those in past years when I made the crossing solo with three toddlers. Not only do I not have to schlep a diaper bag full of formula powder and boiled water (it was allowed back then) these days my son will be carrying his own golf clubs. That's progress.

One memorable year we travelled through Atlanta where we had an encounter with a local sniffer dog, another experience I can guarantee I won't be repeating. There he was with his earnest little beagle face, his perky ears, that efficient nose, wearing his dayglo doggy coat emblazoned with "U.S. Customs," snuffling amongst the hand luggage of those of us waiting by the baggage carousel. He was cute until he stopped by my diaper bag and did the beagle version of pointing, which indicated to the very polite customs lady holding his leash that there was something forbidden in my bag.

I couldn't believe it. It had been at least fifteen years since I had last touched an illegal substance, yet I had a ridiculous moment where I felt like that canine was onto me. He was so sure of himself. I had to be guilty of something. I recall the customs lady was impeccably polite, calling me "Ma'am." ( Nobody calls anybody but the queen Ma'am in England.) She asked me if I had any food in my bag.

Of course, I said I didn't, having fed the boys the last bribe bag of teddy grahams somewhere out over the Atlantic. She looked at me with some scepticism, was that my final answer? Did I not have any food for the children in the bag? Then I realized that I did have two things that the boys had deemed unworthy of consumption: an apple and a banana.

I confessed, feeling oddly relieved to have figured out that I was guilty and why. (Catholic school) As my eyes flicked towards a nearby trash receptacle she had to advise me not to dispose of the contraband. If I did she would have to "detain" me. Thoughts of rubber gloves snapping and other horrors related to a full body cavity search flashed through my mind (Catholic school again) as I assured her I would not. Instead, I handed over the apple and the banana, as requested to the man at the customs desk. Then I waited with my three sons who were beginning to lose interest in me being arrested and wanted to go find the customs dog again.

After a suitably nerve-wracking wait, the lady and her dog returned. She handed me the banana, "You can keep this." Apparently the apple would have to be destroyed.

On subsequent trips I knew to leave any uneaten apples on the plane. Eventually I gave up on packing anything like fruit for the boys in the first place.