Baby Ben is driving.

Have you ever been sorting laundry and you have your pile of regular wash and your pile of delicates and you get mixed up half way through and you start putting delicates with your regulars and regulars with your delicates and so you accomplish nothing and need to start over? Then you sigh with frustration, begin to re-sort, zone out half way through and mix them up again? I do that a lot. It makes me feel old. I can't even concentrate for the duration of a two minute task.

I marvel at Edy who remembers intricate details with ease. She corrects me often and patiently reminds me when it's pizza day at school or when library books are due. I write frantic notes on post-its everywhere. So many post-its. Her brain is sweet and sponge-like. My brain is old and full. Not of beneficial stuff either. Pop culture details mostly. Like the name of the dog on Hart to Hart. Freeway. I'm a little savant-ish about it. I watch a lot of tv. Always have. Always will. But lately even my best friend the boob tube has conspired to make me feel extra ancient.

Just the other day I was watching the Friends episode where Ross' son Ben is born. I did a little math to come up with Ben's current age. Holy crap! That baby is 16! (I'm old.)


Then I was uber excited to see My So-Called Life on the Sundance Channel. I loved that show when it originally aired in the early 90's. So much teen angst. The hot, dumb crush. The wild best friend. Flannel tied at the hips. I couldn't wait to watch it. But you know what? I related better to the parents. The kids were ultra melodramatic. Lighten up! (I'm old.)

Still love the opening theme. But seriously, those kids need to lighten up.

So to recap, what makes me feel old? Inept laundry sorting, early episodes of Friends and the "too deep teens" from My So-Called Life.


What makes me feel young? Running regularly with no major injuries, my sweet baby Bea and Betty White's resurgence in popularity.


What makes you feel old? What makes you feel young?

Tennis with Steve Jobs.

I went to the beach with my sister on an annual ladies’ trip she takes with her church friends. I needed to get out of town. Even if it meant daily devotionals and sharing a bathroom with nine strangers. It would be my first night away from Bea. I was apprehensive. For about a minute.

What a thrill it was to pack for just me! Turns out, I need surprisingly little to get by. But the real joy, besides the bonding time with Gwyn and the free gelato samples at Grottos, was the two plus hours in the car each way. I’m not joking. I listened to satellite radio and laughed heartily at adult content. Not the Playboy station (Playmates on air = unnecessary), just raunchy talk shows. I cruised along, didn’t flinch at the constant cursing, and silently reclaimed a piece of my soul.

On the drive home, one show was discussing each individual’s ideal heaven in a matter-of-fact and silly way. One person mentioned seeing loved ones and another thought tennis and a pool would be nice because what do you do after the reunion, when all the hugging is over? I like tennis. Tennis would be good. My game should improve by the end of eternity.

I guess I always assumed/hoped that family would be there to greet me. Probably from all the near death-themed programming I seek out on tv. If someone’s coming back from the brink and talking about it, I’m tuning in!

(This, by the way, is the very last kind of show Jon would choose to watch. I know I’m always pointing out our many differences and, yes, here’s another. Crime shows, ghost shows, not his thing. If there's a corpse and/or a tunnel of white light, I'm transfixed!)

My grandmother spent many decades caring for my grandfather who rarely left the comfortable haven of his recliner. He would smoke a pipe and listen to the police scanner all day and night. And watch Wheel of Fortune.

Pop Pop and Granny, for whom Edy is named. 

With each year I age, her leisure dresses look more and more appealing.

When Pop Pop died, my grandmother’s health rapidly declined. She ended up in a nursing home because her body didn’t work, though her mind remained sharp. She read books all day. Tore through books. Book after book. Being stuck in that place without dementia must have been torture. My friend’s great grandmother was in a nursing home and she thought it was a beautiful and well-run cruise ship. Fun!

One evening I asked my father if he’d visited Granny that day. He hadn’t but his sister had and reported that my grandmother was possibly starting to lose it. I admit to feeling a sense of relief – for her sake. When my aunt asked my grandmother about her day, she casually mentioned that Pop Pop, who was long dead, had been by. Senility was knocking. Hopefully on the door of her cruise ship cabin!

She died later that night.

So maybe loved ones greet you, but then what? Personally, I think it’s something we can’t begin to wrap our simple minds around. I remember telling Gail that. When she was semi-conscious. Heaven is just answers. The absence of wonder and worry. You know everything and everything knows you. And it’s a good feeling. (Especially after cancer when we were constantly waiting for test results, hoping, praying, not knowing why or when or how.) 

I can’t imagine what our spirits do all day, or if “days” even exist, but as I type on my Mac and dream of the iPad Santa is bringing, I bet heaven is extra cool since Steve Jobs crossed over. 

What are your thoughts on the after-life?

P.S. I considered asking Lu and Edy their opinions on heaven, but decided against it. 

Lu would stress out, start asking me about the exact ways in which someone her age could die and the statistics involved. I would field each question carefully and dodge the stuff that’s impossible to grasp, as an adult let alone a child. She would seem okay, then bring it up again at least ten more times in the next three days and twenty additional times over the next year.

Edy would say it’s GREAT! Dance around a little to get the point across. Then request a snack and move on.

Historically accurate fruit.

There is a certain divisive matter that separates the masses more than religion, politics, culture, or age. And it isn't a soft drink preference or a sports franchise.


It's how you choose to decorate your house for the holidays.


On one end of the spectrum, you have your giant displays that encompass the entire lawn and feature moving objects - usually elves with hammers - and lots of inflatables. Forget the incredible computer generated special effects our society is capable of producing (and our children are entirely accustomed to), a sleigh that rocks back and forth, all halting and wobbly-like, on a neighbor's front yard is pure magic! 


Then you have the houses with an excessive amount of glow. Just lights, but oh so many crazy lights. They may even flicker in time with music. If you knock on the door, the man of the house could quote a wattage figure.


Moving along the scale we find the reasonable houses. These perfectly practical people hang a perfectly practical number of lights, typically white, and a wreath on the door with a velvet red ribbon. Maybe a pair of grapevine reindeer. Maybe a three foot wooden toy soldier and a seasonal flag. Nothing crazy.


Then on the opposite end of the spectrum is the house in which I grew up... and several pounds of historically accurate fruit.


A little background: My mother liked old things. Traditional and all-American. Think folk art, hanging baskets and fife and drum figurines. If you're about to Google "fife and drum," you will never truly understand. 


Our house was packed with antiques and always smelled like cloves. There was lots of brass and impractically small chairs with cane seats. We had wallpaper in our hallway that featured blue and white toile sketches of Philadelphia landmarks while the hip of the world, circa 1988, decorated with pleather sectionals and neon accents.


We spent a couple of Thanksgivings in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, an 18th century reenactment town. While I would surely love it today, it was terrible as a kid. I remember lots of driving, and sulking, and reenacting, and a waitress at the Ye Old Something serving us extra cornbread because she thought my dad was Walter Matthau.


So not surprisingly, every Christmas we did it up Colonial style. There were candles in the windows and fruit, fruit, fruit. My dad took a giant board with nails and impaled apples, oranges, lemons and a pineapple, then hung it above our front door, which we never used. To be honest, I thought all that pretty produce was a yawn-fest, totally.


Until a decade later when I had poor Jon on a ladder trying to secure our very own board of fruit above the door of our very first house. The door we used every day. The only door we ever used. For the entire month of December, pineapple juice rained on our heads and made for icky, sticky shoes. But it was classy. And pretty. And completely worth it when we won the coveted neighborhood garden club award. That congratulatory stake in the ground filled me with an embarrassing amount of pride.


And then we bought our second house and had a few kids and the dripping pineapple seemed less charming. 


Now we are rapidly heading backwards on the spectrum. We passed simple white lights and have moved on to colorful, blinking bulbs and lit up plastic candy canes. 


In another few years, you can expect those elves with hammers.


How was your childhood home decorated for the holidays? Describe your current holiday decorating style? 

Black Friday is my E.T. ringtone.

I feel compelled to write about being thankful. That's what most bloggers do this time of year. And being new to the blogging game, I want to follow the rules. I am a rule follower.

But then I decided to put my own spin on it. State upfront that, yes, I am thankful for my family, my health, my abundance (so true, but so boring), then launch into a bunch of random things I am thankful for, like my first gel manicure. Simply revolutionary. Especially for someone who messes up her smoothly polished fingers before I make it home. Usually fishing keys out of my purse and always after letting them dry twice under the (absolutely, positively covered in lethal amounts of nasty bacteria) handy hand dryer. 

This lovely new process still requires you to insert your fingers into a gadget, but it's more like a toaster oven where the polish then cooks onto your nail beds courtesy of UV rays. The safety is questionable, but you leave with shiny color that won't chip even if you drop your keys in a big bucket of razors and sharp rocks! (This hasn't been proven.) It is amazing, or was amazing until an entire finger's worth of polish peeled off in an eerie and unsightly way. I was able to push it back down and it seems to be staying for now. But it has me on edge.

So I've changed themes. 

It's Black Friday and I just don't get it! The last place on earth I want to be is surrounded by nutty shoppers trying to get a deal. I would rather pay a premium for just about anything you could name to avoid a store on Black Friday.

We were driving to Gwyn's for Thanksgiving yesterday. In my opinion, Lancaster is the perfect distance. You get the feel of trekking somewhere far off without reaching the point of total backseat breakdown. Satellite radio helps. For part of the ride we listened to Radio Disney, which I unabashedly like. A lot. To a point. Then we turned on the 80s on 8, which has a quick between song bit that features sounds like an arcade game and E.T.

Lu hates E.T. I know hate is a strong word. I think if she saw the movie for the first time today, it would be different. But she saw it several years ago and was traumatized. She didn't like the look of him and she really didn't like or understand the dramatic climax where he nearly dies. Hate is appropriate here.

Every time they played that bit with E.T.'s voice, she flipped. So I asked her, if we were to buy you an iphone so you could call and text like a frantic almost tweener would love to do, BUT only under the condition that your ringtone would be E.T.'s voice reminding you to phone home, would you take the deal? No way, she said without hesitation. No way.

Black Friday is my E.T. ringtone. No deal is good enough.

My shopping habits are haphazard. I try to look for a sale, but I don't really seek it out. Unlike my husband, I am not a coupon clipper. It's not the cutting that I can't handle, it's the juggling of coupons in the store when I'm trying to get in and out with a 1 year-old who desperately wants to climb from the basket and be free! But only after taking her shoes and socks off and throwing them somewhere in the cereal aisle.

In my defense, I will choose the product that's on sale if there's a choice. But I'm brand loyal so in some cases that doesn't apply.

Okay, I'm a terrible shopper.

My memories of shopping are pretty dim. I remember going to the Clover on rt. 73 with my mom and hoping against hope that she'd buy me a soft pretzel and slushy on the way out. 

In the spirit of holiday shopping, I remember going downtown with my family on the train and shopping in Santa's Secret Workshop at Wanamaker's. My parents would pay some unknown amount of money so I could take a mini cart through a makeshift "store" and buy things for my siblings. Lots of combs and stinky perfumes. They'd wrap it at the "check-out" and my Christmas shopping was done! Easy!

Maybe that's why I like easy. I'm a big online shopper. My latest purchase was for Beazy and I love it. Love, love love. To tie this random post together, I am grateful for the opportunity to shop from my kitchen rather than brave a crazy, crowded store where I might get pepper sprayed. And I really appreciate clothing that is handmade in this great country and doesn't require me to thread flailing baby limbs into small armholes. I am thankful for purple ponchos.

What are your shopping memories? How would you describe your shopping habits?

Move over, Kim K.

It's my tenth post and I'm giving away prizes! Just kidding. How would I do that?

Have I convinced you to start documenting your life? Have I helped to make it easier with fun questions? I sure hope so. I'd hate to think I was wasting my time with all this blogging nonsense.

After Gail died and Know Me Journals was a reality, my sister Gwyn and I had a great plan. We would fill out a journal and answer all the questions for Gail, since leaving a record of herself was such a priority during her final days and was ultimately the inspiration behind the books. 

Then we would give it to her kids and everyone would cry (we cry A LOT) and knuckle bump, which I try to avoid in most circumstances.

Genius!

We carved out some time to sit down, a miracle considering our different schedules, then we cracked open a journal to fill it with words. Lots and lots of important and meaningful words. After all, we were both close to Gail and, of course, I wrote all the questions in the Know Me Journal. Between the two of us, it would be so simple and special and aren't we the greatest aunts ever!

(Screeching brake sound.)

It was hard. Really hard to answer for someone else. We didn't get very far.

So there you have it, on this, the occasion of my tenth post, another reason to start writing. Because no matter how well you think people know you, they really can't "speak" for you. 

Consider yourself forgiven if you haven't kept up with the challenge of this blog. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, check out my first post.) Or perhaps you just follow my rantings because it's better than returning work emails or folding underwear. 

But keep in mind, writing even a little bit, one story or thought every now and again, will give you a deep down feeling of validation. If you consider yourself a sucky writer, don't sweat it. Maybe just make lists, like three highlights from the last week. Even the somewhat mundane/small/boring events of today will be fun to recall tomorrow.

I've been reading Little House on the Prairie with Edy. We take turns. I read a page, she reads a page. She likes that it's Laura's voice, the middle of three daughters, and that Laura is naughty compared to uptight Mary. I like how it shows the challenges of pioneer living 130 years ago. Those kids work! And share a bed and own one dress. At Christmas, all they get is a tin cup, but boy are they thrilled! Santa really delivered! I asked Edy if she'd be happy with a tin cup. She was horrified.

More than the content, however, I love listening to Edy read. She has a speech impediment that is slight enough to be adorable without the need for intervention. And she has a distinct way of reciting sentences that end in an exclamation point. Halfway through, she realizes the need to emphasize the words and the sudden enthusiasm is so darn cute. I've tried to get it on video, but when she's being filmed, it's not the same.

So that's my small thing that I KNOW I will forget if I don't write it down. Especially because we're almost done the book and Edy just turned 7. She'll probably smooth out her delivery by next Wednesday. Time roars on.

Describe one thing about your life right now that you want to remember, but you know you'll probably forget. Maybe it concerns your kids, or yourself, or a coworker, or your pet. Something sweet and small that doesn't stand a chance in your brain full constantly evolving activity schedules and the latest details of the Kardashian divorce. 

Happy Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for my 14 followers. And so, so, much more!

Look at me getting topical.

I've led a pretty boring, unglamorous life. No complaints here, just stating a fact. I have a few good stories I save for parties, but nothing real thrilling without a drink or 6. Given recent events, I thought I'd share one here. So grab a cocktail. 


My brother was an excellent athlete and student in high school. He was heading to West Point when a last minute medical "weed out" disqualified him. A history of asthma and allergies were his downfall. With much excitement and a little relief, he headed off to Penn State.


Because MacMurrays tend to ignore the realistic (a good quality, in my opinion), my brother tried out for the football team as a walk on. And he made it! Which is a big deal. But he never got the chance to suit up and play. My mother was very angry. She didn't understand the purpose of a walk on program if you weren't going to let the players walk on. The recruited, scholarship athletes were clearly favored. So what did she do? She wrote a letter. I'm sure it was harsh.


This is where I (lazy, teenager) capture some of the glory of this story. Walking past a ringing phone (connected by a squiggly cord to the kitchen wall) I decided to answer it.


It was Joe Paterno! Calling to speak with my mother. They talked for a long time and by the end of the conversation, she was so impressed. Impressed with his explanation of the system. Impressed that he called our home. It was a love-fest from that point on.


Unless you are still without power after the freak October snow storm, it's obvious what made me recall Joe Paterno. Honestly, I feel very removed from all the drama in Happy Valley. I didn't go there. I'm not a huge fan. I don't really get the "Rah! Rah!" mentality of a giant university. I chose a small college. It's hard to pronounce let alone cheer for, everyone knew everyone's everything (the good, the bad, the highly embarrassing), and you could cross the entire campus in a matter of minutes. Quicker if it was raining or MC Hammer was playing on the mix tape in your walkman. I'm pretty confident I could have made our football team. (Sorry, Neill. I am insulting one of my few followers.) 


The whole "I bleed blue and white!" or green or purple or whatever is so silly to me. Except for my school's color is red so it literally makes sense. But I wouldn't chant it or wear it on a t-shirt.


A lot of the Penn State scandal is still unfolding. I'm hoping it unfolds in a positive way for Joe Paterno mostly because he was nice to my mom. Though if it doesn't and there was a massive cover-up of perhaps the worst of all possible crimes, then boo on him. The whole thing makes me very sad. Guilty or not, a defeated old man with saggy pants and super thick glasses is just plain depressing.


In addition to my brief exchange with Paterno, my only other celebrity run-ins include:

1. Weird Al Yankovic circa 1987 in the parking lot of the Mann Music Center after an evening of underage drinking on the "hill." At least I'm pretty sure it was him. 
2. Dinner with news anchor Charlie Gibson in 1992. One of my college professors knew him personally. It should be noted that Charlie Gibson was, at the time, on tv and somewhat relevant. 
3. A whole bunch of mooching celebrities at various Super Bowls I attended when Jon worked for the Ravens. There was a Baldwin brother in Miami, a Backstreet Boy in Atlanta, and the entire Survivor cast staying at our hotel in Tampa. Yes, we went to a lot of Super Bowls. Pre-kids, pre-recession. Excess was totally acceptable and the only person I had to feed every day was myself. Oh, 1999, how I miss your casual ease while loading chicken nuggets in the toaster oven!

Here's this week's question. Don't worry, I'm not asking for your opinion on Penn State. Have you ever had a brush with fame, met a celebrity, or been on tv?


P.S. Someone in my family is going to read this and remind me of the summer I walked George Clooney's dog. I feel most certain that I am forgetting something. It's been a long week!

Lesson learned. Again.

Exactly one year ago, I was a giant, round mess. I had awful heartburn and a pinched nerve that caused alternating bouts of numbness and shocking pain in my left arm. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. But I asked for it. Boy, did I ask for it. Fortunately, it would only last for five more days. Then Beatrice Gail was born and all was good in my world.


When people notice the age difference between Edy and Bea, they ask if she was a "surprise." I'm not sure how to answer that question honestly. Yes and no. That's the truth.


I always wanted three children. I came from four, a nice even number, but my mom started much younger. She had me, her last, at the same age I had my first. Plus I like odd things. Something about three seemed right. For me at least.


One and two came about with hardly an effort. "I'd like to have a winter baby. It will give me some time to bounce back before bathing suit season." Lu was born in January. "Let's wait until Lu turns two before trying for another." Edy was born ten months after Lu's second birthday.


So again, without questioning our inevitable success, we decided to try for #3. It was spring 2006 and Gail's disease was progressing fast. In a very sad case of history repeating itself, I thought a baby would be something positive for the family. Gail had the same thought when our mother was very sick. Before passing away, my mom knew Gail was pregnant, but she never met the twins.


I got pregnant the first month, but it was clear something was wrong. We had just moved to Philadelphia and I didn't have a relationship with a local doctor, so I drove down to Baltimore for care. I found out it was ectopic as Gail found out she had little time. Honestly, I was more devastated about the inconvenience than the lost baby. It was so surreal to sit among cancer patients and get a shot of chemotherapy (the treatment for an ectopic pregnancy) while my sister was dying of cancer in another city. I cried, a lot, as the nurse consoled me with the upbeat message that we could always try again.


For many weeks following the shot, I needed to be monitored - locally, luckily - to make sure the treatment worked. I was getting in my car after my last blood draw when I got the call that Gail had died.


In my grief, we waited a year before even thinking about #3. It wasn't such a breeze this time. Seven months later, I suffered another ectopic. Before heading into emergency surgery, my doctor sent me to the office of a fertility specialist who had sensitive ultrasound equipment. His parting words, "Come back. I will help you."


So I did. Because I wasn't getting any younger. And because I only had one tube. And because we had excellent fertility insurance, which I soon learned wasn't nearly always the case. On more than one visit to the clinic, I waited to check out behind someone putting a few thousand dollars on a credit card. All for a dream not at all guaranteed.


Several years of escalating procedures culminated in three failed IVF attempts. The frustrated doctor explained that for some women fertility slowly wanes. For others, it plummets. I guess I was the plummeting kind.


We were out of insurance money anyway and I wasn't about to compromise the future of my currently thriving and happy children to chase the elusive specter of #3. I said goodbye to the clinic and started to train for my first half marathon. Time to reclaim my body, my energy. Time to be grateful for all I have.


I didn't think I needed another lesson on how precious life is, but this was a big one. I will forever be changed after witnessing, and experiencing to some degree, the lonely and shameful heartbreak of infertility. I was already a mother. There wasn't so much on the line, but it still hurt like crazy.


And this is where I became the person someone knows who knows someone who experienced a miracle. We gave up and then we got pregnant. And the gift of Bea was not only the baby birthed, but the new perspective gained. I wouldn't want to do it again, but I'm glad it's part of my experience here on earth.


This week your question is: What major life events have you faced and what lessons did you learn?