I’ve been saying that sentence, with a little tremulous laugh, since September. Maybe even August. Since marching season. Since Abby went back to her classes at Columbus College of Art and Design and definitely since Ethan started school.

His senior year.

Her senior year.

It’s been a little, “Heh, [...]]]> Don’t talk to me about May.

I’ve been saying that sentence, with a little tremulous laugh, since September. Maybe even August. Since marching season. Since Abby went back to her classes at Columbus College of Art and Design and definitely since Ethan started school.

His senior year.

Her senior year.

It’s been a little, “Heh, isn’t that funny,” thing rambling through our home and through our conversations with people who know our children and are amazed at how old they are. “I remember when you were pregnant with Ethan,” my dear friend Todd has said on numerous meetings as of late.

Yes, yes. So do I.

And tomorrow? The first of May? The first day of that month that I have not wanted to speak of? Well, whether I want to speak of it or not, it arrives.

And on that day, the first of May 2012, my boy, the one some remember me being hugely pregnant with, playing guitar in the front of our church with my body slung to the left and the guitar slung to the right to get around the huge lump of childhood in my gut, turns eighteen.

It’s odd, our numerations and the value we put on years, isn’t it? In normal numbers games, we play around with tens and fives, sometimes the number 7 or 3 becomes valuable, 13 avoidable, but with ages, it’s 16, 18, 21…and then we go to the tens, begrudging ourselves the joy we had at the 16’s, 18’s and 21’s.

So, it’s the eighteenth birthday for my son. And it’s the beginning of a month where we’re measuring all sorts of beginnings and endings and transitions and I’m so completely, utterly overwhelmed I’m actually typing up a blog post. (I KNOW!)

I’m going to confess something of those days some people remember me ballooned with child. I was petrified during that entire pregnancy. Somewhere along the way, first trimester maybe? When they started talking more and more about the hemophilia I might or might not carry because of my father’s more benign variety of the illness, I’m not sure, but somewhere along the way, my inner dialogue had me convinced that something would be horribly wrong with this child.

Now, some of you that know him might be chuckling to yourself and saying, “Well, how prophetic of you. SO much wrong with him!” Tee hee, giggle. And I’d giggle with you. He’s an 18 year old young man – so, so much wrong with him.

But, I don’t mean the wrong that is the plight of the teenage boy. I mean, physically. Or…something. Somehow, I’d lose him. It lived in my psyche for the entirety of the pregnancy and ghosted my thoughts throughout much of his early years.

I shared this with no one, not even my husband, because well…if I had, then I would have been giving it truth and value and importance and then if something did happen! Well.

And, as he grew and it was clear that the only thing wrong with this lovely young man was that he was a passionate, caring, sensitive (oh my goodness, the sensitive), smart, hilarious, flawed human being. In other words, nothing was wrong. He’s fine. In his flaws. In his sensitivities and passions and heart-flipping contagious laugh.

And he’s turning eighteen…actually, I looked at the clock and it’s now 12:01. He IS eighteen. (Although if you want to be very mother-in-law about it, that doesn’t officially happen until 7:41 pm)

An adult, by the books. A young man. The freckles are almost gone from his face. The puffy, rounded cheeks have given way to acne (I’m so sorry, buddy), patchy facial hair (thank your father for that) and blue eyes that come from deep, deep in our gene pool. His sensitivity to loud noises has given way to an affinity to heavy metal music (doesn’t it figure?), his love of construction trucks has given way to a love of writing digital music and playing video games and his passion for righting but that’s not FAIR! has…well…it’s pretty much stayed the same. Now it just dances in civil rights issues, social justice topics and political games people play.

So, the first day of May, the month I don’t want to talk about, celebrates the 18^th year of the last man I’ve fallen in love with. (For those keeping score, the first was my daddy, the second my husband.)

And then, May marches on. (See what I did there? May? Marches?…yeah, I’m a genius at midnight) On May 12, only 11 days after my baby turns 18, my daughter graduates from college. Her debt will be insurmountable, her job opportunities minimal and yet the pride I have for making through a difficult, constantly weeding out sort of art school is indefinable. And, she’s graduating with amazing grades after battling some pretty obnoxious demons and, yes.

May continues and the following weekend, Ethan graduates from high school. Now, school is not “his thing” even though he has the brains for it to be. And that’s been a battleground in our home since elementary school, but he made it. It’s a milestone I’m still misty-eyed about if for no other reasons beyond those I shared about his turning 18.

We raise our kids to be adults. Good adults. Ones that love people instead of hurt them. Ones that build up the world rather than tearing it down. We want them out there being awesome, but these milestone moments where we’re reminded that they’re leaving us to go do so?

Oh my goodness, OUCH.

And the OUCH this month is tremendous. And the joy. And the trepidation for “what’s next?” But right now? It’s a whole lot of the OUCH.

My month ends, as it has for four years now, with the anniversary of Lisa’s death and if I can just say, pardon my language, a big fuck you to all of that mess. Because you see, not only is Lisa still supposed to be with me when I need to buy new socks at Target, but she’s also supposed to help me find the right dresses for graduation. She’s supposed to be sitting next to my family for these ceremonies. She missed Abby’s high school graduation by a week. So, sitting in that stadium watching child #2 graduate without her there will be…difficult, to use a word that proves how useless the English language is at describing emotions.

So, the first of May. The month of May. I’ve been avoiding talking about it for months. And now it’s here.

I guess it’s a good thing I started talking about it.

It’s a Chili Dump! No, I’m not [...]]]> Back in the days before motherhood, those days when I had full function of my mental capacities, the church I attended had the most amazing pastor I think I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. He had ways of doing things that made the mundane mind-blowing. Potlucks? Psh-aw!

It’s a Chili Dump! No, I’m not talking about our bathroom nightmares AFTER eating chili. Ew. I’m talking about everyone bringing their best, most awesome, multi-generational recipes for chili and? Dump it all in one pot. Together. Stirred, heated and served as one original amazing helping of chili. If you like it spicy, bring in your spicy. Tomatoey? Dump it in, Granny. Bean-less? Carne that asada chili right on in here. With green peppers, without. Mostly from a can, completely from scratch. Whatever your schtick, that day, it all worked.

And let me tell you, I wasn’t much of a chili fan before that event. And now that I love me a big ole bowl of the stuff, I can still say, without a doubt, THAT was the best bowl of chili I have ever eaten. Yes, even better than mine. The seasonings were perfect, the heat was perfect, the meat, the beans the…everything. Everyone brought their best, everyone’s was featured, together it was splendid.

So last night, Mom and I met for dinner. It was a specifically scheduled, “I need to talk to you,” dinner which, whether you’re 14 or 46 can be a bit intimidating. Ends up, Mom just needed to bend my ear about something, get a little external perspective…you know the deal. You know full well what your answer is, but you just need that ONE more person to say, “Hey, why don’t you…” and you’re good to go. My “why don’t you…” involved someone else bringing their chili to the pot. Stirring it in, mixing it with the other recipes she already had and hopefully, ending up with a great vat of stick-to-your-rib goodness. I knew this person had a good recipe for chili. Hopefully, others that are involved won’t just dump an entire box of cayenne pepper into it.

And here comes my point. When Mom and I began dinner, we started chatting about Osama Bin Laden’s death. And not only about his death, but the things we’ve witnessed online as a result of it. The things said about it that have completely baffled us. The fact that much of our bafflement has come from people that don’t normally baffle us in these types of national upheavals. Now, I’m not naive enough to think that something as huge as the world’s most wanted terrorist getting killed, by our nation no less, wouldn’t bring out the baffling commentary. But normally, those aren’t the people that come to chili dumps anyway, are they?

“God hates chili.”

“I worked my fingers to the bone to make my OWN chili. I don’t share the recipe; I definitely don’t share the chili.”

“Chili makes everyone gassy and this is a community activity. Let’s be sensible about this and bring 400 trays of Rice Krispie treats.”

“I don’t like my chili spicy. If you put your spicy chili in the same vat as my mild chili, you’ll ruin the integrity of my recipe.”

Fine, keep your chili to yourselves and go play alone. And normally, that’s how it is – the extreme chili makers just go play in their kitchens with other extreme chili makers who cook (and probably look) exactly like them.

Isn’t that boring? So, I’m more of a middle-grounder on many things, and definitely one that says, “Hey, bring that super spicy stuff on over here.” Why? It mellows a bit when mixed with the mild. Her peppers mix with his ground turkey and together they make beautiful food.

But this time, even the middle grounders, those who I consider to have common sense, an open mind, a pliable heart have come out and are spouting all sorts of things that are just as ugly and judgmental as our extreme chili makers of the past.

“I didn’t see Mildred put her chili in here so it didn’t happen, and without solid proof that everyone’s recipe is in here, then this isn’t even worth eating.”

“I think this is all entirely too spicy and fiery, so instead of bringing my best, I’m going to pour 10 gallons of water into this pot and make it completely flavorless. Since it’s too much for ME, no one gets to enjoy it.”

“HE came up with this idea? I mean, it’s a great thing we’re doing, but I’ll be damned if I take part in it b/c HIS name is all over it. He wants credit for everything. Our great people made this chili, not him.”

“What do you mean, there won’t be a chili cook-off? This church deserves to choose whose chili is best before we go mixing it all up together.”

Are you getting my point? Have I hit any nerves? I hope so. I am so frustrated with the dialogue of our nation. Today, yesterday, 3 years ago and before. If all you can add to the conversation is pointless sarcasm (because well-thought-out sarcasm can be divine), bigotry, hatred, judgment!!!!!!, name-calling (oh my goodness, the name calling – what is wrong with us??) and ugliness, then please, please. Don’t come to the chili dump.

Better yet, look at what you’re bringing to the mix. Is it your absolute best? It is a great recipe? Or, is it a big ole vat of water, destroying all the nuances of flavor? Or is it an industrial sized bottle of cayenne overloading the balance with so much fire that no one can taste anything? Or, are you so determined it’s going to be horrible that you’ll just sit there, judging everyone else’s recipes, yet not adding to the pot yourself because this whole activity is so far beneath you?

Come to the chili dump. Really, it’s politics anyway, and doesn’t that give everyone gas?

And now for one more challenge – post your favorite chili recipe here, on my facebook page, wherever. If I get quite a few, I’ll post them. I dare you to try someone else’s recipe.

Happy birthday. You lucky son of a gun, you never had to stare 46 in the face. It’s on that downward slope to 50 and I’m not so sure I’m enjoying it, but…I’m only a week into it, so we’ll see how the year goes. Maybe this year will be a year of upward [...]]]> Lisa,

Happy birthday. You lucky son of a gun, you never had to stare 46 in the face. It’s on that downward slope to 50 and I’m not so sure I’m enjoying it, but…I’m only a week into it, so we’ll see how the year goes. Maybe this year will be a year of upward movement for me, huh?

It’s our birthday week, Lisa and this is the third one I’m facing without your sleepy birthday phone call, without frantically trying to find you a gift and of course, without our insane string of phone calls trying to find time to go out and celebrate together. It hits me every year without warning – how could I forget this week is so difficult to bear? But, I do. I get weepy and am unable to breathe. It happened Wednesday and I didn’t know why.

And then, I figured it out. And my eyes dripped the rest of the day. I left work early, unable to concentrate, just needing to be home. What is it about being home that somehow calms the grief monsters? I guess I can let all filters go and just be. Swim in some memories, stare a little longer at your picture, snuggle my kitty a bit tighter and go outside and take pictures of your tree.

2011 has had entirely too much death so far, Lisa. Every one of them brings me right back to the moment Frank called me. The moment I looked in that blasted velvet-lined box at your body, your beautiful curls straightened out by the idiot mortician who obviously never knew you. The moment I had to walk out of the mausoleum with nothing more than a daisy in my hand.

But, you know, you were life to me. You were sick and yet, you were life. Fighting, strong, courageous life. Health crises kicked you down and you put up your fists, said, “I DARE you,” and you kept fighting. And when you couldn’t fight anymore, we were left to fight for you. You’re why I’m finally working. You’re why the diabetes section of my classes is longer than protocol dictates. You’re why I’m teaching today, on your birthday, when I’d really rather be listening to you order your margarita.

On the rocks, no salt. Oh, and could you bring about 3 extra dressings for my salad? My lettuce has to swim.

Life. Grief. Courage. Daisies and salad dressing.

Happy birthday, Lisa
Heidi

Wow.  Let’s review, shall we?  Here’s the list and how things went:

In 2010, my dearest 2010, I expect:

(Okay, so why Gene Simmons? I wanted to blog, I couldn’t think of a title and the night I mentioned my dilemma [...]]]> I know. It’s disappointing and would probably be the only good excuse for the 6 month silence on the blog. I don’t even have a bad excuse to offer you. Or Gene Simmons.

(Okay, so why Gene Simmons? I wanted to blog, I couldn’t think of a title and the night I mentioned my dilemma online, I dreamt that Gene Simmons lived in my home. Based on my dream, I do not recommend him as a house guest…in case you were wondering.)

So, what have I been doing to fill the 6 month time frame since typing words in this space? Well, I have been knitting furiously. I’m learning that yes, I’m pretty darned good at it, (get the pun? Darn? Knit? I KILL me!) however, planning ahead for projects needs some work. No matter how far ahead I plan, I’m still never done on time. In other words, if any of you were hoping for a big honkin’ afghan for Christmas, you might want to pull an old blanket out of your closet. It ain’t happenin’ by December 2010. But Julie, you will get your baby gift before your unborn child is potty trained. I can promise that. (Probably)

And in the big news portion of my life, I have a job. Yes, after 10 years of licking my wounds from my last painful work experience, I’ve pulled myself up and gotten a job. The really interesting thing about it is it’s a paid training and community service opportunity more than anything. That’s a good thing for a 40-something broad who knows all of her previous years of training aren’t going to make her a happy camper. All that wasted time is largely what paralyzed me in moving forward with working again. Well, it’s what publicly paralyzed me. The private stuff is only for my therapist to know, god love him. I don’t know how he wills himself to come in on my appointment days. I am the Queen Jackwagon of Mamby Pamby Land.

At any rate, this job. Anyone heard of AmeriCorps? No? How about Peace Corps? Ah, now we’re talking. Yes, AmeriCorps is, for lack of wanting to write a 5 million word post, the domestic Peace Corps. Here, let’s quote their own web page, shall we?

AmeriCorps State and National provides funds to local and national organizations and agencies committed to using national service to address critical community needs in education, public safety, health and the environment.
Each of these organizations and agencies, in turn, uses their AmeriCorps funding to recruit, place, and supervise AmeriCorps members.
After successful completion of their term of service, AmeriCorps members earn a Segal AmeriCorps Education Award that can be used to pay for college or graduate school at Title IV schools, or to repay qualified student loans. Full-time AmeriCorps members also receive a modest living allowance, health care benefits, and child care assistance.

What does this all mean? Double rainbows!! No, no. No double rainbows. Put your Mary Wanna down. What it means is, The American Red Cross is one of these “agencies committed to using national service to address critical community needs in education, public safety, health and the environment,” and the day…I kid you not, THE day I showed up to work in my own county’s office for The American Red Cross, I was offered this opportunity.

I had worked a few blood drives for the Columbus area and found them to be, sadly, not particularly appealing. I did, however, like working for a non-profit like The American Red Cross and didn’t want to give up that end of it. So, late one night, I started digging around their website and low and behold, Pickaway County was in need of some volunteer clerical help. Bingo. Before long, I was in the office, numbering 558 ducks for their first annual Duck Drop fund raiser.

And away they go!!

Then, before I’d washed all the duck cooties off of me, it was time to get down and dirty with the Annual 3 on 3 Basketball Tournament.  I made phone calls to obtain sponsorships, knocked on a few business doors, kept records of teams and sponsors and even put together the program for the event.  No one checked my resume to see if I had experience in any of these things – they just trusted when I said, “I can handle that,” that I could.  And I did.

And then we worked outside on the hottest day of the century

In the midst of fund raising, I’ve been taking classes and now, I’m teaching them. Need First Aid or CPR training? I’m your girl. Eventually, I’ll be doing presentations around the county, teaching care giving classes, babysitting, emergency preparedness, and doing all sorts of educational roles for The American Red Cross in Pickaway County.

I’ve learned more about this community in the past 5 months than I ever did living in it the past 10 years. I spent so many years with Lisa as my community, my cause, that I have quickly found that I’m not balanced and complete without one. Now, I can serve my community in a health and safety capacity, similar to, although not the same as, what I did with and for Lisa on a day to day basis. My service and devotion to her and her memory have lead me down this path and I intend to honor her in every thing I do.

The lady standing across from me in the above picture is my director, Bea, and she is one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met. I’ve also been given the pleasure of getting to know the gal who I’ll replace, Angela, and a great friendship is budding from the experience. We love to laugh together. A lot. Poor Bea had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.

Whatever Bea got herself into, I’m grateful. My official start date is September 13, but even without the paycheck giving it financial validity, I’ve been at the job since March. I love it. I love the people. I reluctantly admit, I even have come to love this crazy county. And, I love what The American Red Cross can do – blood services, disaster services, military family services – they change lives.

They’ve changed mine.

Although, if they ask that my next service project be housing Gene Simmons, we might have to have some serious discussions. There are limits to my devotion, you know.

By the way, thank you to Pam Blum, Red Cross volunteer extraordinaire, for the second picture posted. You’re a peach.

It all was an innocent whim. Last year, Abby’s boyfriend bought her arm warmers. Being the non-trendy [...]]]> I sort of swept by this new little addition to my life in my last post and really, I have intended to mention it since I picked up that first skein of yarn about a month ago.

It all was an innocent whim. Last year, Abby’s boyfriend bought her arm warmers. Being the non-trendy crew we are, we’d never seen such a thing and were instantly both intrigued and obsessed with finding more of these warm, cute fingerless gloves for her. We found a number of pairs for Christmas 2008 and got a few more this past Christmas. While looking at a black and gray striped pair she is particularly fond of, I got the insane idea, “You know, I bet I could make something like this.”

Now, it’s important to note that I hadn’t a clue how to knit. I knew knitting took two needles while crochet took one. I knew I preferred the look of knitted items over crocheted ones and I also knew both my mother and mother-in-law were knitters. My mother-in-law, particularly, was always knitting something – Mom did it more when I was a kid. I’d even asked Doris years before to teach me, but she, as a strong left-hander, assured me, a strong right-hander, that we’d kill each other with the needles before she could teach me anything. Instead, I relished in the hand-knitted items she made for my daughter…fewer for my son, as her eyes were starting to go wonky, and left the craft to her fine-tuned hands.

Even as her eyes begin to give, she never stopped knitting. She’d knit stuffed balls, thumb-less mittens, little sweater sets, etc…all for unknown infants whose mothers and grandmothers would buy them from her United Methodist circle. While she was hospitalized this summer and fall, she frequently would request one of us to stop by the house, pick up certain colors and needles and bring them to her. I even made a special trip to their home to deliver an all important $1 set of tapestry needles…$1 of which she insisted paying me for.

So, back to my whim. Once the thought came to fruition, I remembered that Doris would most likely have a stash of yarn, needles, patterns and the like to help me get jump-started. After a quick phone call to father-in-law, I was set. He was happy to have someone using the materials and I was thrilled to have her with me in this special way. My impatience won though, and I rushed to the store to buy one skein and one set of needles.

And the practice began.

And stalled. And knotted. And slipped. And pulled out. And began again. I learned casting on just fine and the two basic stitches, knit and purl. But, errors kept showing up and I couldn’t figure how to fix them without ripping everything out and starting over. Needless to say, I didn’t get anywhere.

A few days later, Alex arrived home with a plastic box full of yarn. On top of the box were two plastic bags filled with various pieces of projects – what she’d worked on in the hospital. I found one, lonely thumb-less mitten and an un-knit skein of matching yarn moping in a bag that also included the tapestry needles I’d just purchased for her. Right then I knew. I had to get this down. I had to learn.

I had to make that lonely mitten its pair.

Her stitches are always so perfect

So, I pulled out a skein of her yarn, not the blue yet, and started practicing again. Fewer mistakes. Fewer slipped stitches. I decided to buy a nice, thick yarn to see what I was doing better and before I realized it, I was on the road to making a nice scarf for my son. It was there I figured out how the stitches work, how to fix mistakes without ripping out the entire project, and even more importantly, how to shrug off a little mistake that ultimately wouldn’t matter anyway. In about a week, I was done, and he wears that scarf every day.

Handsome bastard, ain't he?

I quickly stitched up a single arm warmer for myself – a very simple, if not boring pattern, but it again gave me the confidence to finally grab that blue yarn.

Which I did. I stitched ribbing. I stitched a little lacing pattern. I stitched the stockinette stitch (look at any sweater you own…that’s it) and then I even…*gasp*…decreased stitches so the mitten would close on top.

I did it.

Okay, so it’s smaller than Doris’. Either my gauge is tighter or she used a bigger needle. But, it “matches”. Now that I’ve done even more knitting, I think I’m going to try again with a bigger needle and see if I can’t make them match this time.

Abby investigated and asked a very simple question. “Mom, what are you going to do with these now?”

And I wasn’t sure. I could give them to the United Methodist Women’s group. I could save them. I might be a grandma one day. And it would be a shame for that grandchild to not know the loving care their great-grandmother put into hand-crafted love. So, I’m saving them.

And I’m saving a piece of her. For me. For my kids. For their daddy.

It’s funny…I feel like I know her better now than I ever did before. All because of a little yarn, a little twist and a little needle. Knitting takes patience. It takes dedication. It takes concentration. And it takes love, especially when you’ve fouled up the 65.5th inch of a 66 inch project. You take a deep breath, you stitch backwards and you try it again. And when you’ve conquered the tough spot, the slipped stitch, the rough edge, the twisted yarn, you smile in relief, knowing that next time, you’ll do even better.

It’s a good skill in life, and I’m grateful that she’s whispered in my ear and taught such a valuable lesson.

Knowing me, I wouldn’t have listened before anyway.

Which is [...]]]> Yes, I’ve been putting off blogging this largely because I can’t think of a decent title. When I was writing fanfiction, I was that way, too – couldn’t start word ONE of a story without a title that made me smile. This could actually say more about me than I’m ready to say.

Which is actually a good segue into this post. I originally wanted to talk about how 2010 and I are starting off on the right foot, even though my last post was snarky and entitled. Truth is, I’ve put some effort into 2010 so far – teaching myself to knit, hooking up with a health coach through my husband’s insurance, heading out to my first volunteer job with The American Red Cross, and, starting next week, seeing a therapist to get some of these “issues” I’ve been carting around for 10 years out of the present and into the past. But, there. I just talked about those things, so now it’s time to say, 2010 – I’m feeling a kink in the link here and it’s only February.

The kink has a name. Her name is Anxiety.

We all have it in some fashion. Some of us deal with it gracefully, some of us seem almost propelled by its presence in our lives. I remember having some anxieties as a kid and I remember being embarrassed by them. One was fire. I don’t know from whence it came, but I do remember in maybe 2nd grade, sitting in our gymnasium watching a fire prevention movie with the entire school. I completely freaked, ran out, ignored the mean teacher telling me to SIT BACK DOWN!!! (there always is one, isn’t there?) and went to the office where I found my previous year’s teacher, curled up to her and calmed my little 7 yr. old body down.

I remember having anxiety over people being sick to their stomachs anywhere in my presence. That one has never gone away, or really improved all that much. If my kids became ill, husband had to come home and take care of them. There were even days when they were younger where if the kids only ACTED like they might be ill, I needed hubby to be home just in case. Fortunately, he always could be, but still, as a mom, it’s a horrible feeling knowing you have to run away from your sick kid.

My mother struggled with the same, going downstairs to sleep when I had the stomach flu. Daddy would care for me, curl up in bed with me and I never wanted for attention. I never resented Mom’s inability to handle such a health crisis, but I still secretly wonder if my kids resent mine. Strep, colds, respiratory illness, broken limbs, etc. I can handle just fine. I even do blood okay. But start bringing up the contents of your stomach and I’m out of there and off to another corner of the house having an anxiety attack. Tremors, hot flashes, upset stomach…it’s awful. And, it’s embarrassing.

My daughter never really showed much on the anxiety trail until she had to start speaking in front of classmates at school for projects. We both believe there is one particular teacher to blame, but blaming her doesn’t calm Abby’s paralyzation with public speaking. She is also a skin picker, which we just marked up as a habit, but later have come to see it’s a symptom of anxiety. Driving is her most hated activity because of anxiety. I hate it for her. And yes, smart or not, I feel responsible for it. It’s the Mom thing to do, I suppose.

My boy always was a little high strung. At first it was loud noises that would freak him out, even as an infant. Bless him. When he got older, it was bad weather. Dark clouds, burgeoning winds and the word “warning” coming from a newscaster’s lips sent him into a dither of epic proportions. His first time reading aloud to us was when he was 4 and looking over the weather forecast in the newspaper. I do believe “thunderstorm” was the first word he read. No time for this “Dick and Jane” garbage. But, it comforted him to be able to follow the weatherman, see what was going to happen, even if the predictions weren’t always 100% accurate. He still freaks out when a bad storm approaches, but he’s better.

He’s added to his anxiety now though to the point where I’m confused. He has given me permission to write of this, btw, as have my daughter and mother. During Christmas break, Hubby took the kids to see Avatar. All was well, until about 10 minutes to the end. Ethan had a fight or flight sensation like never before and fled from the theater. Alex followed and in short form, Ethan ended up in an emergency squad outside of the theater receiving oxygen and being monitored by the paramedics.

He’d had a full blown panic attack. He knew he was going to die. Nothing could calm him. He was scared for his life.

In time, he did settle and the paramedics talked about panic, ensuring that no, nothing was physically wrong with him, but that anxiety had taken over, making adrenaline take over, making common sense disappear into the air of Pandora. He was a bit skittish the rest of the night, but after that one event, he seemed to settle. Another one hit about a week and a half ago and it’s been cycling ever since. We know how to handle them now without the use of a medical team, and he’s spoken to his guidance counselor, our family doctor, etc. for coping skills, but damn.

My boy. My sweet, sweet boy. 15 is hard. It’s harder now than it was when I was 15, no doubt about it. I mean, yeah, we had to hand write our papers, or worse, type them on manual typewriters, but really – that’s inconvenience, not societal pressure. Are all 15 yr. olds under pressure? No, probably not. Do I feel like I pressure him? No, unless I fear he has an upset stomach and then I’d make the calmest of beasts ready to blow.

Specifically, Ethan’s 15 has been hard. His mother was a cloud of grief for a year and about the point when that cloud lifted, his grandmother became ill, eventually passing away. He and his grandma were buddies. She was not an affectionate woman, unless it related to Ethan. He didn’t particularly like being pampered and babied, but if grandma did it, all was right with the world. Her loss was big.

While Grandma was sick, his sister moved out. They too, are buddies. I love hearing them talk about games and TV shows in the other room while I’m minding my own business eavesdropping on their sweet friendship. Her opinion matters to him. It has since the day he realized someone else was in the room besides me. And her constant presence is no more – another loss for him.

He’s finding his way, figuring out who he is, feeling pressure (from school, NOT us that’s for sure) to decide what he wants to do with his life, feeling out different things to see what fits him best. He has a passion for rock music, an appreciation of what goes into making it, that I don’t see in many teens. He’s an amazing gamer, a compassionate friend, a smart young man flailing about trying to find his terra firma.

No, in the grand scheme of life, these aren’t odd events or situations – they happen to everyone. It’s not cancer. It’s not parental death. It’s not drug or alcohol abuse, or sexual promiscuity. It’s not a myriad of other things that weigh down so many kids today. But, now, the anxiety itself is a weight on him. Not just a response, but an actual issue. It aches me. I can’t fix it on my own. I probably bring more anxiety to the scene anyway, although when he is upset, he seems to come to me for comfort. We count, we breathe, sometimes we read and play a Star Wars Trivia book. (For the record, if ANYONE can do well with that book, you are officially the nerdiest of nerdy nerds.) Then, he settles and I pretend to go about my business.

Truth? That’s when my anxiety starts. It’s a cycle I don’t like. It’s a cycle I want stopped. It’s a cycle that will hopefully stop soon. Yes, we’re getting some outside help. We go next week and I’m both excited and yes…anxious. Writing this post is making me a bit anxious – it’s not a positive bent to my wonderful family. But, it’s our life now. I guess I felt the need to put it out there.

So, I have to ask you. What makes you anxious? What makes the heart race, the skin flush, the tremors to tremble? Do you think it’s fear? Insecurity? Good old uncertainty? And even more importantly, how do you handle it? What calms, comforts, steadies?

I’d love to hear your stories. Maybe, if the ground shakes, by hanging onto each other we won’t tumble as hard.

Pasta what?

Pusties? Pasties? Do you mean pastries? What are you talking about?

This was my end of a conversation I had with Lisa 5+ years ago when I went to her home to help her do [...]]]>

Reprinted from my Live Journal, as dated December 20, 2008. More thoughts at the end of the post.

Pasta what?

Pusties? Pasties? Do you mean pastries? What are you talking about?

This was my end of a conversation I had with Lisa 5+ years ago when I went to her home to help her do some holiday baking. Now, let me be perfectly clear here. Lisa and the kitchen were never meant to be friends. She was a disaster in the kitchen and baking was even worse than cooking. So, when she informed me she was going to bake and might want some help, I can’t stress to you the amount of trepidation swimming through my veins.

But, I was a loyal friend, and one who would take any opportunity for a good time, and imagining Lisa in the kitchen trying to measure brown sugar was enough to get me out there. I arrived after she had started. She was covered in flour. Her curly hair had taken her head hostage, covering it from every angle, in every possible tangle. The kitchen floor and counters looked as though an entire 5lb. bag of flour had exploded, and there were smears of chocolate in odd places – on cabinets, by the cat’s bowl, smudged on a potato chip bag. I held in my laugh because when Lisa was in a dither, as she most definitely was, she was not to be laughed at.

To her face anyway. We all learned to turn aside, sneak out a giggle and proceed with great caution.

So, I did. “Um…whatcha making?”

“Pastashots.”

And the conversation continued as mentioned above. I never could figure out what in the hell she was saying and she just did.not.have.the.time. to explain any of it to me, a poor, uneducated non-Italian. There were pusties to make for her dad and hell be damned anyone who got in the way. Her story was that he liked hers best.

Which? I found really hard to believe. But, she was busy. She was baking. And she was actually pulling out some interesting looking little doo-hickeys from the oven. I wasn’t allowed to touch a thing, always greeted with the nearly screeching, “These are for my DAD!” but I stood by and watched until she finished the things and we could move onto something a little less daunting. Like…chocolate chip cookies. Even a little WASP like me knew how to make those.

As the evening unfolded, the pusties cooled and she reluctantly allowed me to try one. Chocolate, god bless her. A pastry, similar to a pie crust, only about 3″ in size filled with chocolate or vanilla custard. How bad could it be?? Not bad at all. It was delicious. Rich, almost too much for one sitting, but delicious. I wasn’t allowed to take any home to share with my family b/c, let me repeat, “”These are for my DAD!” but, I remembered my one and only pustie. Even if I didn’t really know what the hell it was.

Fast forward through time. No more baking fiascoes with Lisa. I never heard of the pustie again. But then, this fall, while thinking ahead to the holidays and wondering how I was going to do it without her, I remembered that night. Her hair. The flour. The chocolate. The passion with which she was making these undefinable treats for her daddy. And I made a date with google to figure out what in god’s name they really were.

They’re really pasticiotti. Simply, an Italian pastry filled with creamy pudding. Real pasticiotta, or pustie for short, are made in pustie tins. Only. No tart pans. No god forsaken cupcake tins. No, pustie tins. That you can only get in Upstate New York.

I had a mission. I was going to make these things. They couldn’t be nearly as hard as Lisa made them out to be and…my idea grew. I’d make them and take a good batch over to Lisa’s dad. I got my tins from a darling restaurant supply place in Utica, NY and spoke with Mr. Flihan himself – the owner. They got those tins to me in record time and Thursday, I began my adventure. I brought down my notebook of letters I’ve been writing to Lisa, began a new one and then, began making custard. I cooked and I mixed. I rolled and I filled. I cooled and then baked and then, with the support of Nathan and Abby, I ate.

You can find a slew of pictures if you click this one.

And I did it. They were perfect. Absolutely perfect. I updated my letter to Lisa telling her all about it and today I went to see her parents. Lisa’s dad can be stoic to say the least, so I was a bit nervous. And if he says So And So’s are the best of something, there’s really no sense in trying to change his mind. But, I thought…this is a special situation. And if I can give him, even with only one bite into that sweet shell and cool, soothing middle, one more moment with his daughter, then I’m going to do it. So I did. And he did. And we visited for about an hour. I got to catch up on all of Lisa’s family’s activities these past months and share with her mother about how hard this season has been for all of us. We laughed, we dabbed away a couple stray tears, but mostly we just reveled in the shared memory of our Incompetent Chef, Lisa.

I’m so grateful I took time out of baking for my family and did this. It was for me, mostly. But, I’m also thrilled I could bring a bit of Lisa’s silliness back into the her family’s Christmas. And, I do have a few I kept here at home. Every time I bite into one, I can hear her screeching in passionate anxiety for perfection, “These are for my DAD!”

Yep, Lisa. They’re for your dad. If you don’t mind, however, I’ll make them for him from now on. He seemed to be really pleased.

A year has passed and today, Nathan and I made another batch of pusties. We burnt the custard the first time and the dough for the vanilla ones has been a bit of a bother. Maybe these really are for her dad, because I decided I won’t be making a delivery this year. These are just for me…but, they’re not going as well. No mind – they’ll be delicious and I’ll commune with her as they bake, as I enjoy and as I fling flour all over every corner of my kitchen. I miss you, Lisa. Desperately.

While digging through the kids’ tree box to find all of Abby’s ornaments so she can hang them on her own tree at the apartment, I found something that took my breath away.

I means nothing to anyone else. [...]]]> I do NOT have time to be posting this now, but I just have to.

While digging through the kids’ tree box to find all of Abby’s ornaments so she can hang them on her own tree at the apartment, I found something that took my breath away.

I means nothing to anyone else. In fact, it was just “an extra” for me, hence it landing in the kids’ box. I honestly don’t even know if I got it from the sender I’d expect or not, but now. Now? This is priceless.

For any of you who knew Lisa, you know why this matters. Why this will never go into a “kids” box again. Why it will never leave tissue and special packing, but for the holidays where it will have a special, and probably aesthetically horrible spot. Because really? Who besides Lisa decorates with Ziggy anymore?

I wasn’t given the opportunity to go through her things…I don’t know why. It’s a “Summa” thing, I’m sure, which means I’ll never understand. All I would have wanted was a Ziggy or two. A Christmas ornament or two. An angel, a snowman and maybe…a pair of her scrubs. Not much. Memorabilia. I’ll not get it.

But, I have this. And now, maybe…just maybe, I’m ready for Christmas.