Chaperone

So... The teens. All the friends. They're adorable. They've been around for years and years. I know them.  I love them. I've coached them - sometimes even off the field.

I pride myself on being the fun mom.

And, I am.

As long there are no shenanigans.

Want me to rent a super fun trampoline on the lake for all your friends to jump on in the sun?
-Here's my credit card.

Want to go to the latest Marvel movie?
-Yep, I'll take you and buy popcorn.

Want new Jordans for Christmas?
-I'm on it.

Want chocolate chip cookies?
-Done.

Want to have a kitchen dance party before dinner?
-Let's do it! I'll bring the dance moves.

Want blue highlights in your hair?
-Totally. Let's go to the beauty supply.

Think you and your friends are going to sneak around in this house? You think 'Seven Minutes in Heaven' is going to happen here?
-Nope.

You all turned 13 over night. Literally a blink of an eye. I might be 40 but I was 13 not too long ago. Two blinks ago, in fact.

I know how your little hormonal brains work. You are outmatched. At least at this point. 

My job is to teach you (all) to be grown up(s). My job is to make it hard. I know you're going to be in the backseat of the car... my job is to make that a challenge. Don't even think that I won't be out there with a flashlight. That's my job. I'm the mom.

I am fine with Truth or Dare when the dare is 'sniff these socks' or 'eat a dog biscuit' but when I hear the office door close... I'm on it. Like a bloodhound. Or an eagle.

You think that going off together in a dark room is a good idea... but those rooms have windows. I thought of this.

Because I am not 13.

Always watching.

Tribe, etc

Tribe, group, gang, clan, squad... whatever term works. Find them. Love them. Hold onto them until they beg you to stop and quit returning your calls.

I have written about my reliance on Functional Friendships. Every one has them, not everyone calls them that. It's essentially your circle(s) of friends, how they overlap or don't and how they fill important areas of your life.

Squad sounds so much more fun than functional friendship...

"Wanna hang with the squad this weekend?" is a lot more inviting than, "would you care to join my functional friendship for dinner?"

As I am now pushing on 41 (holyshithowdidthathappen) and going through some pretty significant life situations, my reliance on friends grows. Just knowing that I can make a call, even if I don't, is very powerful and comforting.

I grew up watching my mom with her circle. Her functional friendship was called, French Club. In all the years, I don't think they ever learned anything French, except wine labels. Beer on sunny afternoons, wine in the evening, chatting, jumping in and helping out.

This is nothing new, this is women over the ages. We come together, we help, we support.

Over the last few years a number of friends have lost a parent, divorced or gone through something equally traumatic.

This is middle age.

Sitting at a table yesterday, with friends, after a funeral, it all becomes clear:

We've got each other.

No matter what.

Lucky 13!

Oh. It's happening. The boy is soon to be a teenager. Sigh. Thinking back to 13 years ago, the excitement of labor crushed by the fear of complications. The urgency of the C-section. Listening to the heart monitor. Willing him to cry. Joining him when he did.

Always little to me.

My big boy. My son.

What an adventure.

His bright blue eyes. Now behind glasses. His teeth wrapped in metal. His big puppy feet. His silliness starting to dull. Some days it feels like everything is changing.

He walked into the kitchen the other day, sighed, rolled his eyes and said, "Mom. Your hair."

I had been so bold as to wear it in its natural curly state.

"It looks so much better straight."

At least he speaks to me.

We're moving from 'tween', also known as asshole, to full on teen. Not sure what that actually translates to. Likely worse than asshole. He's growing. He's maturing. A little.

He's still my sweet little boy much of the time.

His sense of humor is maturing, his jokes are better. He's better at sarcasm, he can drop a nice dig.

He used the term gold-digger properly the other day. In a complete sentence, even. Yes. Yes, I'm proud.

I'm also terrified. He'll soon be ruled by hormones and bad decisions. Not that I want him to be perfect. I don't. I want him to make mistakes and learn. Just not such large mistakes that they alter the course of his life or someone else's.

Looking for just enough for a solid grounding and quality time spent in his room.

Here's to 13, buddy! Cheers!

And, you're grounded.

I'm sure there's a reason.

That'll have rum in it before I know it.

Drop Off

Let's talk about drop off. Drop off is not a hard concept. I have a strong need to understand why drop off is so completely difficult for drivers. Why? Why? Why?

I'm looking at you Forest Grove parents. You couldn't quickly complete drop off if your lives depended on it. If it was 'drop your kid off quickly or your car explodes' the enrollment at FGSD would drop dramatically. We'd have small class sizes and efficient drop off. I, a pacifist, am in support of exploding cars at drop off. That's how insane drop off in the Grove is. I literally want minivans and SUV's to explode. LITERALLY.

My kids are professionals at drop off. As we near the school, they have one hand on their back packs, one hand on their seat belts. I stop, they bolt. The 'Iloveyouhaveagreatdayrockthemathtestbekind' takes a millisecond.

I am on my way.

Or, I should be. But I can't. I'm boxed in. Because of you, lady. Lady in the red minivan who gets out. Opens the door. Unhooks the kid. Walks the kid to the sidewalk. Adjusts the backpack. Hugs the kid. Goes back. Unhooks second kid. Repeats process. Seriously. And, as much as I would love to pin it only on the red minivan mom, I can't. Because there are more of you. Many, many more of you.

Meanwhile, cars back up out of the parking lot and up and down B street.

I want to honk and give the finger. To the mother of the small child. I feel like this is how she'd learn. But, I can't do that. Not in front of a million small children. I do have standards, after all.

And so, I am begging you. The staff at the schools are begging you. They just can't drop F Bombs like I can... (at least in public)  If your child needs you to assist - park your car. If you need to talk to them for minutes before they get out - park your car. If they require hugs and extra love - for the love of God and all that is holy - PARK YOUR DAMN CAR.

The Narrative

I'm learning something.

I don't fit the narrative any more. It's a weird space for me. Not fitting into the box. Not being the favorite. Not being universally liked.

I've always been pretty loud and opinionated.  If you didn't think I was, you weren't paying attention. I'm not quiet. I'm not particularly shy. I try to be thoughtful. I do. I really try to think before I speak. And, what I speak is generally well thought out. I don't go into decisions without all the information and I don't take unnecessary risks.

I'm watching my friend numbers drop. Which shouldn't worry me or make me sad, but it does. In the grand scheme of things does the number of friends on social media really mean anything? On my death bed will I worry about a like? I'd like to say no...

I assume that the loyalty and love I give is reciprocated. Turns out that isn't the case. Turns out I should have learned this a lot sooner than 40 years old.

With my new sentimentality and fresh soft center, this is a challenge. And one that will be hard to master.

But, I will.

New mantra.

Sentimental

I hadn't really ever thought that I was very sentimental. Until it was pointed out to me. Recently.

Delicious. 

I'll admit to being a traditionalist. As, over Christmas break I made all my cookies using my grandmas cookie cutters and my aunts cookie recipe. Same cookies for pretty much my whole life. Prepared the same Christmas Eve dinner I've had for the last 30+ years. Ham, corn, Christmas Eve potatoes (yes, you can have the recipe) and rolls. I know there were some other dinner menus when I was really little but I have no memory of them. This is what I remember. This is what I eat.

Once I do the same thing a couple times, I just keep on doing it. Christmas Eve dinner for instance. It's locked in.  And, no, I'm not interested in changing. Why would I? It works.

But holiday traditions don't necessarily mean I'm a sentimental sap. I mean, I'm pretty tough. I'm not all squishy. Well, at least I didn't think so.

Until I started cleaning out a closet. I have a storage closet in the house. It's where a lot of stuff ends up. It's big. Almost as big as a bedroom. It has a lot of shelves. Full of stuff. For a couple years I've referred to it as a craft closet. It had scrapbooking stuff, perler beads, painting projects, etc. I needed to clean it out. Like a lot. It was stressing me out. Having all that stuff. So, I started going through it all. Bins. And bins and bins. Turns out it wasn't all craft stuff. Some of it, a lot of it, is mementos. Little notes, kid art, movie tickets.

I called in help. My organizer friend. She's helpful plus addicted to label making. And, ruthless. If it doesn't have a purpose or bring you joy, it's out. Quick decisions. Felt so good to make progress. She laughed at some of the stuff I had held onto for years and years. Then she came upon a prom picture. Framed. She raised her eyebrows and said, "you gonna put this up somewhere?"

Yes. I still have the dress.

Well, no. It's just been framed for 20+ years... I took the picture out and put it in a folder of pictures to keep, the frame is gone. Kept sorting through things. Wondered aloud about why I had kept movie tickets for 20, 25 years. For movies I don't even love or remember. Before she left she remarked that she was surprised at how sentimental I am. I hadn't really thought about it. I just keep stuff. It was easy to get rid of and clear out so much... I'd really like her to help me again with some more...

But, then she'll see that not only did I keep the prom picture framed for 23 years, she'll see that I have all the corsages from proms, Snoballs and fraternity formals.

In another bin. In another room.

Oh, and the dresses themselves... also in a bin. In the basement.

Sentimental. With a tendency toward sap.

Damn.

Leland Cypress, Rest In Peace

Nice View.

I come from a small town. Very small. All small towns have the obligatory small town cemetery.  At the top of a hill. (Somehow cemeteries end up with the nicest views.) Our small town cemetery, affectionately known as 'boot hill', is at the top of a steep hill where it is always dusty. Even in the rain. Always dusty. Windy too. The road is narrow and the hill is so steep I prefer to walk as I'm convinced I'll accidentally roll my car all the way to the bottom.

All the local families have plots. All of them. At nearly every funeral we go to, and we go to a lot of funerals, someone talks about where they want to be buried. It's totally morbid. They confirm where they'll fit. And as there is no official undertaker or plot map, it's up to us, the younger generation to remember where they are to be put in the end. As we'll likely be the ones digging, we are pretty well versed in the area, the plots, the space needed.

So, you can imagine that when a mysterious headstone appeared a couple weeks ago, at the end of the Roberts row, there was quite a small town commotion.

No one had called. Usually when a funeral home does some work up there, they call my mom as she's pretty in the know. More than not calling, it was an unrecognized name. No one had ever heard of Leland Cypress.

RIP, Leland.

There are sadly, a number of baby graves up there. If you were born 120 years ago out in the middle of nowhere, it wasn't a guarantee that you'd make it. Maybe this is a new marker for some old baby grave?

There was conversation amongst people in town. Who is the Cypress family? No one had ever heard of them. Although, there were always railroad workers with families passing through back in the day. If it was a baby grave marker that some family member had brought in it's possible that no one really ever knew Leland or his family. Which is terribly sad, isn't it?

Some grave, somewhere. No family, no anything.

So odd at the placement, as it was in the Roberts family plot. They didn't know of any relatives named Cypress. No distant cousins or anything that they could recall.

After weeks of conversation and questions no one really had any answers.

Just another lonely grave in a lonely old small town cemetery.

Except its not a headstone.

It's a tree identifier.

Leland Cypress. Is a tree.