Celebrating, With or Without You

My dad, my giant personality in a giant body Dad, should be celebrating his 80th birthday today, but he's not. We will celebrate, we will raise a glass (and if it was warmer Jack would smoke a cigar but it's freezing outside and that stinky thing is an outdoor activity), and I will tell my girls stories about their grandfather, ones they have most certainly heard but ones that give me comfort and make me laugh and allow me to feel, just for a bit, that he is a part of their lives in a way that is not just stories but real day to day grandfather stuff.

Several nights ago my sister and I went back and forth via text, hashing out dates and years and time frames that all led to the demise of Bill and Sharie's once promising life together. Ashley was 8 (I think), I was 16. Maybe, I know I could drive because all I wanted to do when they told us was leave and go to a friends' house, which they did not allow. I actually thought they were kidding, several of their good friends had recently made the same announcement; I thought it was a Keeping Up with the Neighbors kind of joke. It was not. I realized that the specifics, now over thirty years later, didn't really matter at all. Our lives were changed forever, the ripple effect of their decision still in play today.

Dad moved to an apartment just a few minutes walk from our house. In no time he had married his secretary but just stop right there. Dad's secretary was 10 years his senior, not smoking hot, and a bit bossy, in a matronly kind of unpleasant way. She vehemently disliked both my sister and me; her first direction as the new Mrs. Lang was to change the locks on the apartment that was now theirs. Interesting way to cozy up to the stepchildren, she continued on this charming path for most of their 19 year marriage. When Dad died I think she was genuinely surprised at our grief, and it was clear to me, that even after 19 years, she had no capacity to understand just how much Ashley and I loved our Dad. I felt a tiny bit bad for her. Tiny bit.

The stepmother died a few years ago. I had remained in contact with her as she had been very interested in my children and had, uncharacteristically, been very kind to them, always remembering them at birthdays and Christmas. She said once she was doing what Dad would have wanted and I appreciated that effort, even though I knew that there was little anyone could do to represent what my father might have meant to my children.

Mom and Dad worked hard to maintain a very friendly relationship. My sister, still very young, benefited greatly from their willingness to work together. It wasn't perfect and while I went off to college, she took the brunt of the saga of the divorced parents. It's never easy but I appreciate so much that they tried. They had been friends since high school, and they continued, in a new and unique way, to be friends until Dad died.

Yesterday, on the phone with Mom covering the Mother's Day things, she was quiet for a minute and then said, "your father would be 80 years old tomorrow". The quiet was now on my end. Mom just turned 79, she was a year behind him at Hillcrest High.

"I know Mom, I know."
"Your dad would have done 80 so well."

Sitting at the island in our kitchen, the same island that came from Mom's house, on the phone with my mother while one daughter bakes a Mother's Day cake and the other sets the table for the dinner, I imagine what life might look like if there were two more places set at that table, if our downstairs guest room was full of grandparents and love and laughter.

"I always loved your dad Allyson, I always did."

I know that too Mom. 
Happy birthday Dad, we all miss you so very much.

Merry Christmas She Said

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English.

It was after 11:00 pm and I had spent the past six hours making a two hour trip, weather delays trapping me on the ground in a city I did not want to leave. There were no more than five of us on the plane, the last flight from Kansas City to Chicago, on Christmas night. It was snowing, in both places, perfect for Christmas, unless your Christmas is to be spent flying from one winter wonderland to another.

My dad took me to the airport. Even with an early dinner we had to leave before Nana's Christmas cake, a brandy soaked tradition. It was to be the last Christmas for my 90 year old grandfather, the year he repeatedly asked where he had tied up his horse. It was a Christmas that all seven kids had made it home, when my grandmother was still able to cook, my dad still able to carve the turkey and a family all together for one last precious time. Waving good-bye was like leaving the ghost of Christmas everything; taking me away from my family on Christmas is unthinkable, stepping onto a plane scattered with strangers, like torture.

Frustrated that I drew the short straw, that no one else, not even the other clerks and paralegals who weren't traveling, offered to be there on the day after Christmas, I moped and pouted with the time I did have with my family. I was angry at my horrible boss, the one who removed his glasses and used the end piece to clean his ears whenever we met to discuss medical records or boring depositions. The one who callously said "you know I'm Jewish, I could work on Christmas day" when I asked if I could at least come in late the next day; my need to repeatedly quote him not really enveloping the spirit of Christmas.

Because my father flew frequently, often three or four days a week, he was familiar to almost everyone at the American Airlines counter in Kansas City. Having Dad deliver me to the airport meant a seat in first class as they often extended this courtesy to his daughter when available. On this night, given that I was one of five people flying, my seat in row 3 was secure. He waited with me until they finally boarded, the two of us sitting in the lonely and cold airport, the bar closed and the place deserted. I encouraged him to go home, but secretly hoped he would stay, scared to be alone and wishing that maybe they would finally just cancel this flight and strand me, helpless and unable to get to work. The plane had to be in Chicago, the flight would go, even if we had to wait all night.

Two hours later they called the few of us remaining to board. Leaving home was difficult, saying good-bye to my father who was my Christmas constant, horrible. The plane was de-iced, we pushed back from the gate, and O'Hare closed to incoming flights. We waited. I buried my head in my mixed nuts, not at all interested in small talk with the nice flight attendant who was probably not exactly where she wanted to be either. I questioned all the decisions: grad school away from my family, the terrible job at the hideous law firm, the one that made me cry almost every day as the bus approached my stop. My dad suggested I quit, find something else, but I knew I was learning, more about what I did not want to do than what I did, and the miserable pay was better than nothing at all.

After almost two hours of waiting we took off. I cried when the wheels left the ground.

O'Hare was deserted, as quiet as I had ever seen it. My lone bag spun on the carousel, as lost as I was. I threw it over my shoulder and made my way out, heading to the taxi stand rather than the train as Dad had given me cab fare, not wanting me to spend the remainder of my night on two trains and a bus getting home. I stopped in the restroom before leaving.

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English. Merry Christmas said the woman who had spent her Christmas cleaning restrooms at the airport, away from her family and friends, working at a job I have always considered to be among the worst imaginable. My day of self misery was over; "Merry Christmas" I said to her, and thank you.

NorthSideFour Plus Russell

Three years is a long time to wait, even longer when you're ten years old and three years accounts for just under one third of your life. But wait three years they did, and their patience and diligence has paid off in one big furry reward named Russell.

This summer they worked in earnest, presenting their case early with a well written persuasive essay outlining the benefits of dog ownership, and making clear their plan to meet and exceed all expectations regarding care. They searched online for a suitable pet, initially setting their sights on a young beagle named Tiny Dancer who was available at a nearby shelter. Their informative paper written about Tiny Dancer included this line, "I'm sure we all agree that we will want to change Tiny Dancer's name immediately", but alas, Tiny Dancer was adopted quite quickly by a family perhaps better suited to Elton John admiration. The girls were disappointed but undeterred, the search continued.

It was Jack who needed convincing and yet it was Jack who found Russell, a five year old Beagle/Jack Russell mix who was surrendered to a nearby shelter when his family moved to Ireland. He was confused at the shelter and wanted little to do with us, by evening he was sound asleep in my lap. He slept until almost 10:00 the next day, earning a place, if not yet in Jack's heart, at least in his good graces. He is happiest with Mary and Kate, finally eating, and working hard on his chase the tennis ball skills. He is the perfect dog for us (although I am campaigning for a name change: Rousseau, Roosevelt, Franklin). Good work girls, patience and diligence do have rewards, you did a fine job, and so did your Dad.

Welcome home Russell.

Three years ago our beloved beagle Eleanor Roosevelt died, the girls and I have been campaigning for a dog ever since. 

Ten Going on Interesting

These people are now ten.

Not today, this entree into double digits happened months ago, but we are now hurling towards 18 faster than I thought possible. Many days I mourn, this loss of small childhood, the loss of unrealistic possibility and wonder. And because I work in a school, when I see my towering 10 year old children standing next to tiny kindergartners I realize just how far they are from where they used to be, what seems like only months ago.

And then my perspective shifts and there are times, like this past weekend, when I am able to see this not as something to walk away from, but something I'm waiting to embrace, this new found quasi adulthood.  Saturday night, as I made dinner, Kate worked along side me, making chocolate chip cookies. My help required just to reach the hand mixer in the cabinet, something only necessary for the next month or so, as she is now barely 4 inches shorter than me. Mary sat in the living room working on a blog post, writing so well about her love of real food.

Sunday morning Kate sat at the kitchen counter, searching for examples of media bias online. Which led us to Anne Coulter and a lengthy discussion of politics, wherein I showed no bias whatsoever. Mary, working on homework in the family room, yelled in intermittently, her opinions on subjects ranging from Israel to the current mayoral race in Chicago. We may be balancing on a tender tipping point, the spot situated directly between looking for answers to anything and knowing the answer to everything, but I'm happy here for as long as we teeter. And if we make the most of this time, perhaps finding our way back will be easier.

Vivaldi on Pandora, pancakes on the stove and two children happy to spend this time with me; for this hour or so, my life in the snow globe of Western Michigan was just as I had hoped to see it one day, the future that I thought was so far away, creeping unexpectedly into my Sunday morning and fitting us all quite nicely.

Take Me Out to the Royals Game

My love of baseball was cultivated in a time when baseball was the star of the game. I am so old that my first games were at Municipal Stadium in Kansas City which was torn down so long ago that a community garden now grows on the site. It was here I chose Lou Piniella as my favorite player and learned what the numbers 1 through 9 signified. It was here that I developed a passion for a summer day at the ballpark, warm and sticky, with 9 innings and a blank scorecard in front of me, in anxious anticipation for the 7th inning stretch. It was here I sat, between my father and grandfather, topped with a Royal Blue ball cap, Cracker Jack in hand, ideally happy for many a summer day.


Once again I am ideally happy. Once again the game of baseball is the star.


In the twenty nine years since the Royals last played in the post season I have grown too comfortable with the idea that the glory days of Kansas City baseball might have passed and that the Royals of my youth, George and Hal and Willie, might just be the only names to remember. My annual visit to Kaufman Stadium became more of an opportunity to share my childhood with my girls than one with any expectations for great baseball. Far too many stories began with "remember when Freddy Patek...?". (No one did.)

I've never been so deliriously happy to be completely wrong.

Playing the kind of baseball that is incredibly fun to watch, putting together runs like puzzle pieces, and behaving like genuinely good guys who are just as excited to be winning as their fans are, the Royals are headed to the World Series. This team that together only hit 95 home runs in the regular season has now swept two teams and won 8 straight post season games, putting together runs pitch by pitch. The team that has not one super salaried star but plays together like they've been doing it since 1985 (even though most of them were not yet born in 1985) is showing everyone what scrappy baseball looks like and why it works. The Royals are making baseball a team sport once again and we are enjoying every stolen base.
 

When the Royals moved from Municipal Stadium to Kaufman, we moved with them, summer days now spent in section 306, third base side.It was here that I announced to my Dad I was too old for the baseball cap he had dropped on my head, here that my grandfather saw his last game, and here that I watched, with my dad, Grandfather and sister, the Royals win Game 7 of the 1985 World Series. My view has changed; Royal blue cap on head I'll watch every game of the upcoming series with three new seatmates, not in section 306 but 500 miles away, remembering how great it is to be a Royals fan and loving every minute of this amazing year.

No Need to Bring a Camera

Into the big tote bag went the old plaid beach blanket, bug spray, hand wipes, and the blanket that is on the sofa, in case it got cool, but not a camera. You can't take pictures of fireworks, I didn't need it.

And so this is my picture, of the four of us on the grass in front of the church, sitting on the bluff above the beach, watching the annual firework display. It's an unseasonably cool night, cool enough that I have on jeans and my favorite gray cardigan, the girls are both wearing striped pullovers over their summer play clothes, and Jack is wearing shorts with a navy fleece. We are layered on top of one another, on the beach blanket: Jack and me on the bottom with Kate to my left, her head on my chest in hopes of muffling some of the sound, and Mary to my right, in between us. She is clutching a bag of popcorn that her dad bought from the Lion's Club tent, just across the grass. The blanket they brought, one given to us at our wedding with my name misspelled on the embroidery, is across our feet.

The old tote bag, that has taken us to the beach and back so many times, is now folded behind my head, a pillow as I lay back, and from my vantage point I see all three of them, the people I like best in the world, as an amazing array of fireworks blows up beyond them, over the water.

No need to bring a camera, this is my picture. Enjoy a wonderful Independence Day with those you love, and fireworks.

Licensed to Wait in Line

My great aunt Margaret didn't learn to drive until she was in her fifties, after her husband died.  It took her several attempts to pass the test. Her first stab at the driving portion was stopped abruptly when the examiner told her to pull over immediately, "pull over or else I'll be forced to give you a ticket". It took three tries, several coaches, numerous dents to the fender, but eventually she passed and was awarded by the state of Missouri a license to drive a car. The good people of Missouri are still recovering.

I bested Margaret by one shot when I took the initial driving test, having only to suffer through that most harrowing of exams twice. At 46 I have not been asked to drive for a grade since, thank God. But this year, thanks it seems to a speeding ticket received down state several years ago, the state of Illinois thought it best to have me pass the written test just one more time. I didn't read the letter, taking for granted that this was to be an easy, pay the fee and go, process. After a 30 minute wait at the express renewal facility I was handed a study guide and sent to the full service processing office four blocks away. I went home.

This morning I appeared, well rested and having read the Illinois Rules of the Road, not at all confident that I could pass the test. I waited in one line, then another. I was called to the counter and sent to wait in another line, and then one more. In these four line experiences I heard my all time favorite question asked three times by three different people: "are you in line?".

To be clear, this is not a gem reserved only for license inspection offices. I've been asked this countless times in airports and grocery stores, and about once per week at the neighborhood Starbucks. Generally I nod and say, "why yes, yes I am waiting in this line behind this other person who is also waiting in line". What I really want to say is "No. No, I decided this very morning to go out into the world and find a group of people queuing up and just stand there with them with no purpose or intention, other than being close to another human being". Because for some reason, my person standing there is not clue enough, the real crime being mine when I leave any appropriate amount of space between me and the person waiting in front of me. That certainly creates confusion as to my intent, space being so ambiguous in this context.

And so, here in this place where we are all lined up, hoping to pass the test and be sent into the world with the full confidence of the state of Illinois in our ability to operate a car or truck or motorcycle, I think one should be intelligent enough to simply navigate the system. My concern is this: if you can't decide for yourself who is and who isn't waiting in line, can you really be trusted to know the difference between a red light and a green light?

With a picture that accurately reflects the 8 year time span since I last was licensed to drive, I was handed a shiny new drivers license. After six different lines, in which I showed my ability to queue up correctly, I passed the test. Aunt Margaret would be so proud.

Life's Illusions

1969

Everyone at the Kid's Table

Absent anyone from an older generation and Christmas dinner feels a bit like playing house. Five adults, four children, a delicious dinner and a lovely setting but somehow, it still feels like we are all sitting at the kid's table, with the grown ups in the next room.

Dinner at my cousin's beautiful suburban home, served on our great aunt's china but when I'm the oldest one at the table, I find it hard to believe that we can actually pull this off without help.It's getting more familiar, and it's not that we are all terribly young, hugging either side of 40 all around, but even now, it's hard to believe that my youngest cousin is able to throw such a party. Understand, it's hard for me to imagine that I could be old enough to have a cousin old enough to remember to buy hand soap for the bathroom but I am, and she does.

There are no empty seats at our table, we are full with love and laughter and holiday merriment, but there is a candle in the window and always room for one more chair, one more friend, appropriate generation affiliation not required.

On to the business of 2013, happy new year!

The Music of Family

Kate's only complaint, when staying in a hotel room, is sharing a bed with her sister. I sympathize; having been Mary's first accommodations, carrying her for nine months, I too have suffered from the incessant kicks and blows of a slumbering Mary. It's not uncommon to find her in the morning, feet on the pillow, snoozing peacefully, having completely flipped during the night. Years ago, in Dallas, I woke up to find her right foot under my chin, her left foot across my mid section. Frequently she sits up, appears to look around, and flops down, head first, in whatever direction she is facing. Pray that she has not turned to face you in this moment of alertness. She is a lovely and kind child but a wild and reckless sleeper; no one wants to bunk next to that.

And yet there I was, the night before Thanksgiving, in a beautiful downtown Chicago hotel room, wide awake while Wild Mary thrashed next to me. In the next bed lay Kate and her father, peacefully sleeping, completely unaware of the scene being played out in our lovely and very dark room.

By this time the street outside had quieted, the sounds of the city taking a break before the big day. But in our room the music was just beginning: from Kate, whose 11:00 pm nosebleed had landed me in the bed with the Wild One, a deep and loud breathing, forced from the earlier nasal incident, all from her wide open mouth, breaths more like exhausted sighs. And in the horn section, her father and his rhythmic snoring, accompanying Kate's breathing as if they had been playing together for years. Next to me lay the conductor, orchestrating this great movement with madly waving arms and legs, a rhythmic feast for the senses, assuming those in the first row were wearing protective gear.

Two days later I was home in our kitchen, cooking our second, but first at home, Thanksgiving meal, when I realized that I was singing along with Snow Patrol, "This is All I Ever Wanted From Life".  Having just celebrated the day when I am told to count my blessings, it occurred to me that perhaps this was it: awake in a stuffy yet well appointed hotel room at 2:00 am, listening to the symphony of my family, with Mary's foot in my ear; was this all I ever wanted from life?

You know I believe that yes it is, that and a little bit of sleep thrown in here and there.

The Game of Life

Always a late bloomer, I was the last of my family to be married, my little green car making its way around the game board, one lone pink peg at the wheel. In the game of Life, I was a bit behind. Mary, Kate and Jack had all found true happiness and prosperity, I had adopted a dog and found work as a mechanic, opting initially to bypass college. While Mary won fame and fortune on a television talent show, I paid taxes and worked hard to support myself and my pound adopted dog at the car repair shop.

I bought my first house, missed a turn, and finally, after several passes, landed on the space guaranteed to bring me ever lasting happiness: Get Married. While everyone else was already happily betrothed to the opposite color peg, I found an opportunity to show the girls that there are choices and not everyone wants to spend their life with a blue peg. I announced that I would like to marry a woman and asked for a pink peg to join me in my green car. Kate looked up, "oh, mom married a woman. My turn!".

We continued round the board. Peg, Pound Dog and I were happy but falling into debt. When I had the chance to go back to school I took it. Several spins later I graduated and found work as a veterinarian, allowing me to pay off all our debts, diagnose all ailments acquired by Pound Dog and eventually move into a much more suitable hip penthouse apartment. But there was something missing, Peg and I had no children. While Jack, Mary and Kate filled their cars with small pegs, and then basked in the generous monetary gifts required after landing on a child space in the game of Life, Peg and I continued on, just the two of us. True, we didn't have to pay for college like everyone else, but our car seemed empty and we wanted more.

Our lives were about to change, my next spin offered me a choice: either the more direct route to retirement or a trip down the family path. Commonly known as Fertility Doctor Lane as three of the six spaces guarantee you an offspring, I embraced the chance. Hop, skip and a jump, I missed all three, and ended my stressful fertility treatment childless and behind everyone else on the board, my detour costing me time and effort not necessary for those with full cars. Defeated Peg, Pound Dog and I spun again. We adopted another dog, missed the last chance for a baby space, confusingly became grandparents and survived a tornado which threatened to destroy our high rise home. Adversity brought us closer. We didn't win the game of Life, that honor went to the singing physician Mary, but we enjoyed ourselves in the short time we were married. We prospered, we faltered, we missed opportunity and we grew about 30 minutes older together.

The irony was not lost on Jack and me, although Mary and Kate barely noticed my rainbow flag waving childless green coupe as it trailed along behind them. A greater victory, children oblivious to what might seem different to others, that counts as a win for me.

Breathing But Confused

Jack's Great Aunt Wilma died today. She was a spunky gal, one of his family who was always willing to jump in and one who made me feel welcome from the first time we met. When, at a family softball game, I crashed racing around third and somehow scraped a nice chunk of skin off one foot, Wilma took me home and poured whiskey on the incredibly painful wound, wrapped it up in bandages and sent me back off to the dusty diamond. I hobbled across the street to my permanent seat on the bleachers.

Explaining death to children is not easy. They struggled to understand this concept when my grandmother died two years ago; Bonnie was 97 and for Mary and Kate, her body lived a very long time and was tired, and that was enough to make sense. But now, with the wisdom that two years of living affords, they want more details, more explanations and more answers.

Wilma had been sick for some time and at almost 80, her body was not able to fight back the way that young bodies can. We punched the air, fighting off germs and bugs, and then talked about getting older and living wonderful long lives, but losing some of the ability to punch back with gusto. Kate needed more, and being two minutes younger than Mary, was convinced that she would live two minutes longer.

"You die when you don't breathe. You have to breathe to live", explained Kate.

Long pause.

"MOM! I forgot to breathe!" shrieked Mary.

Further discussion needed, difficult to explain when it's so hard to understand.

A Day Without a Holiday

I'm thankful, really, I am. But also a little cranky, morose and sober. And jealous, always jealous which I am perfectly comfortable admitting. Thanksgiving just wasn't Thanksgiving this year, not at our house.

Although it was at my cousin's, where the bird I brined Tuesday night was roasted, the stuffing baked, the potatoes mashed. And all the people I love, save the three who live with me, gathered to celebrate and be thankful for being together. We were at home with a very sick child.

Wednesday night, as I pureed the pumpkin, cut the bread for stuffing and snapped the beans Kate announced she was not feeling well. And that was it, I knew, Thanksgiving would not be at our house this year and my precious child, who loves the idea of a home full of people she loves, would be spending her day under a blanket on the sofa. Given my paranoid fear of childhood illness and my incessant need to clean my children, I have often wondered just what I would do if one of the ladies was attacked by ilk the day before a holiday or party or other large gathering at our home. And now I know, unfortunately.

Thursday morning my cousin's husband drove in from the suburbs to pick up one 24 pound freshly brined turkey, two bags of groceries and one large casserole of stuffing. He took one look at Kate and knew that moving the celebration to their house was the right decision.

Once we had our refrigerator back it was easy to forget that elsewhere people were basking in the warm glow of family and friends, and waddling in the smell of roasting turkey. We watched the parade, napped, cleaned and ate nothing.

And when it was quiet, once the girls had gone to bed, I found the time to realize that this wasn't just another sick day at home, this was Thanksgiving. This was the day that keeps me on my feet for hours, makes our home smell like home and allows me to embrace the loved ones that gather annually around our dining room table.

Thankfully we have the opportunity to miss. That there are friends to toast, feet to hold me up and children to keep me busy; for the husband who is far better at taking care of a sick child than I ever will be, and for the child who is almost back, for all of this I am very grateful. Today I understand that it could always be worse, one rotten day will not ruin the holiday season. There is always next year, just 364 days away, thankfully.

Birthdays

Getting older is so much nicer when you are lucky enough to spend your days with these people. Old, certainly, but blessed with friends and family who made turning 40 something you might want to do everyday.

Comfortable Memoires

My cousin and her family spent Memorial Day with us, as did my sister, bringing the total to five adults and four children, all inside thanks to a day long rain that halted most, but not all, of our outdoor plans.

Always a nice reminder, the ease of family and the lack of pretense involved when they come to spend the day. I cook, nothing extravagant, in fact yesterday I cooked the entire life out of a pot of potatoes, deciding to pick up the playroom while they steamed. But rather than rush out to buy more I knew that both Katie and Ashley would arrive with delicious food and not be at all bothered by the potato mush I would serve them. The mush, tossed with arugula, stood bravely by as delicious orzo with asparagus and tortellini with feta stepped up to offer a non cooked beyond recognition side dish option.

I'm happiest with people who know where we keep the water glasses, and don't feel the need to ask if they might use one. Help yourself, there is nothing we don't use, no towels only for display.

As Mary ran screaming into the kitchen, her younger cousin Liam in hot pursuit, wildly waving a golf club, Kate announced "MOM! I stepped in goat cheese!", and in that moment I thought just how much our grandmother would enjoy this madness. And that, for me, was the perfect Memorial Day.

All I Ever Wanted

For my sixteenth birthday he handed me a lovely box, neatly wrapped and with a card. He was four years older, I had hardly expected a gift, much less something with a bow. With everyone curiously watching I tore off the paper and screamed when I saw what was inside.

It went on like this for years. Eventually we became related, and then unrelated, and now distantly unrelated but still connected. He offered me a Long Island Iced Tea, I spit it across the table. He had tan arms, I was speckled with freckles. He rolled his eyes, I made fun of his glasses. He heckled boys, ridiculed my hair and badgered my girl friends. I offered to take him shopping, certain that he wasn't serious, going out in public in those shirts. Impossible to embarrass, he always made fun of himself before I had the chance, or worse yet, reveled in the very things I found ridiculous. Thankfully he provided ample material for both scenarios.

We grew up. We conspired against the others, made each other laugh, and found our commonality. He got new glasses, I gave up any hope for tan arms. His kids went to high school, mine were born. We grew apart, we found our way back. Five hundred miles apart, I think of him whenever I wake up with a pimple.

To think, all I ever wanted was an older brother, and a tube of Clearasil for my sixteenth birthday.

Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

When faced with two hours alone with my husband in a somewhat quiet yet very public space, a man I have had but three intelligent conversations with in five years, it seemed, to both of us, that the very best use of this precious time was to select our lifelines should we ever be chosen as contestants on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?". The fact that neither of us has any idea if this show is still on television is completely irrelevant.

In my case it was an audition. Jack is very specific, and knows exactly what his shortcomings might be, should he be called upon. Pop culture, he is certain that he would need some help in that category. Until I admitted that I thought Lady GaGa might be the RuPaul of 2010, a comment that apparently disqualified me immediately, I thought I was the perfect pick. For this he chose my cousin Trey, a man with an amazing amount of knowledge on a bizarre and far reaching assortment of subjects. Trey knows Lady GaGa, although I have no idea if he likes her, or him.

Jack confidently allows that he can handle science, math, and finance without backup. He would add my aunt Lynda to his list but is concerned that her great wisdom could become buried under what might best be called the inability to hear the clock ticking; while she quite likely knows the capital of Yemen, she could chose this time to discuss the chicken she is roasting. As I imagine this phone call:

Regis: Well hello Lynda, you are on Who Wants to be a Millionaire!
Lynda: Hello! Who is this? Regis!
Regis: Lynda, your nephew in law needs some help today; Jack, can you ask her the question?
Jack: Lynda, what is the capital of Yemen? A, Sporto, B, Tubadi, C, Sanaa, or D, Toledo?
Lynda: Jack! How are you? How are the girls?
Jack: All good Lynda, what is the capital of Yemen?
Lynda: Hmmm? Let's see, it certainly is...oh, there's the timer, I've got a chicken in the oven!
Jack: Lynda, Yemen?
Lynda: Don't you love a good roasted chicken on a cold day?
Jack: Love it. Lynda, Yemen?
Regis: Tick Tick Tick
Jack: Lynda, time is almost up...
Lynda: Did you say Yemen? Isn't that funny? I was just reading a book about the treatment of women in Yemen, in the capital city of Sanaa...

She's in, clearly the benefit outweighs the risk. Should the questioning turn to history or cooking, I'm on the short list. And possibly politics, he thinks he could turn to me if faced with the name of John Kennedy's press secretary (Pierre Salinger), but there remains one great problem, we'll call him Erik. We have crossover knowledge, but he can also cover sports, law, philosophy, Tibetan umbrella etiquette, and ladies fashion. On these I am lost, and my ability to list the components of a classic Bearnaise sauce is sadly trumped by his insight into post World War II hosiery trends, not to mention a 2 second turn around time on the winner of the 1972 Superbowl, an event that happened before he was born.

Preliminary auditions are held annually on Christmas night. After a round, or two, of limoncello someone pulls out the Trivial Pursuit. Immediately we divide, Erik, Lynda and Trey forbidden from the same team. Never chosen in the first round, reliving the agony of going late in the Dodgeball picks of sixth grade, I am none the less armed and ready to play. I jump in on the yellow questions but oddly enough, occasionally find the answer to things completely out of my repertoire. A few years ago I actually knew what MP3 stood for; right now, on the train, my best guess would be Magic Player the Third, and I would suspect that to be not exactly right. It's the magic of Christmas, or possibly the limoncello.

"Pardon me nice flight attendant, might I have a shot or two of limoncello and your latest copy of the Tibet Daily?"

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, or it was last week. There were toys in every store, trees in the grand hotels, and everywhere I turned, grandparents visiting grandchildren. The average age in our neighborhood jumps at least 20 years the week of Christmas; at lunch Wednesday I was the only mom alone with children, every other table at Frances was populated with happy grandchildren and adoring grandparents.

It’s a very short road to bitter, self pity even closer. There are no grandparents at our house and at no time does it smack like it does at the holidays. The girls notice and I feel guilty, grandparents being such a vital part of my childhood I ache that I can’t offer them the same. And try as I may, Jack and I are the here and now, grandparents offer children a sense of permanence and a place in the world. Grandparents are fun and silly, and they give us tradition and order, or they did me. Of course I must remind myself that those very traditions which guide me were once nothing more than my great grandmother soaking a fruit cake in brandy, everything has some delicious beginning.

And so this year we created our own Christmas, and it was a wonderful holiday. Thank God for my aunt who comes to visit her daughter, my cousin, who welcomes us all to her perfect Christmas home. But for Lynda, I'd be the oldest at the table, and I'm not ready for that. Lynda teaches the girls that because of her, we are all related, a real life example of what I try to convey to them, that we are bound together going up the tree. At five, I needed grandparents. Maybe the girls don't, but they certainly would enjoy the option.

My Real World

There were two I remember reading, the missing face one and the really good one, you know were the woman had the perfect life which was suddenly racked by tragedy? Right, but this one forced her to make a choice between a life of Bohemic chic in San Francisco and urban grace in New York. This I could relate to, being so torn between my rugged Colorado summers and my sophisticated Kansas City suburban life, I was lost as to my true self. And just when I settled on the wild west I met a non cowboy with a cowboy name, who is not at all rugged, and then I changed his name, married him, and realized that there is plenty of therapy in that statement.

And that is where that Danielle nonsense will get you, confused and crazy. But not Erma, when I tossed aside The Promise and picked up If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, Then Why am I in the Pits?, things started to make sense. Erma taught me to laugh at my real life, and not spend angst ridden teenage years contemplating my imaginary one. Erma knew that the real humor, and joy, was in the mundane, and not the glamour of role playing with big hair doos. Hair dryer, not hair spray, that is what I took to be my mantra.

And on days when nothing falls into place, when the pink eye returns, and the nose sneezes on, and the temperature is 3 degrees, and 110 people are coming to my home where we do have electricity but no sofa, I am grateful to Erma for helping me to laugh at whatever I find at my door each morning.

Thankful for my real life, and my pukey beagle, and handy Jack, meticulous Kate and carefree Mary, because the best things are the real things.

Two Days Plus Twenty Four Years

"Why did they only spend two days with us?"

Which is a question I can't really answer because the real question is, why do we live so far from those who love them so much? Two days with the uncles is never enough, even when those two days are full of Christmas lights and circuses and sushi, it's never enough, as far as Mary and Kate, and their mother, are concerned.

My childhood was full of aunts and grandparents, weekly visits and overnight stays with people who loved me, but Mary and Kate's is not. There are no grandparents here; Jack's family is in another state and not keen on traveling, and my own mother is self adhered to her house with a sticky glue unknown to most. But we have the uncles who think nothing of popping up for a few days spent with the "girlies", their mother and father being a distant afterthought once they arrive. Absolutely fine with me, Mary and Kate couldn't be happier than when perched on the shoulders of two adoring uncles, laughing wildly while being held so tightly that neither mother nor father could pry them away.

As we begin this week of family and friends and thankfulness, I am thankful for these two who come into our lives and remind the girls that families come in all shapes and sizes. While we are blessed with some, we are lucky enough to choose others, and 24 years ago, when Mr. Friendly popped his head into my dorm room, I had no idea that I was making a choice beyond late night study halls, this guy was going to be with me, and whatever else we became, forever.

And so, at the almost end of the circus, when I leaned over and whispered to Mary that we had to step out, that it was time for the uncles to leave, she looked back with huge teary eyes, amid bright lights and flying people, to ask why? Perhaps the answer is that two wonderful days are better than none, and the real blessing is that they will always be back, that you can count on, forever.