He's a Strange Beast

Recently, I was fortunate enough to buy a new car. Well, it’s a car that’s new to me. I like to refer to it as my “mid-life-crisis-son-going-to-college” car.

Why mid-life crisis? It’s a red convertible, I’m somewhat in a crisis, and I’m mid-life if I were to only live to 60. Yeah, yeah, you got me; pants on fire! So, the “son-going-to-college” part of the car is that it’s a 2007 with 40K miles on it. Perhaps someday, I’ll get a new one after Iz graduates from college when I’m…okay, let’s not go there.

I bought a VW EOS, which is the "new" VW Cabrio. In 1996, I bought a used 1995 VW Cabrio; by the way, it’s very true that history repeats itself. Peasant blouses were trendy in the 1940s, 1970s, and now for the last year. (Okay, I had to put in my fashion two sense there, and yes, I meant to spell “sense” like that.) By the way, never throw out clothes; put them in the attic, and in 15-30 years, they’ll be back in style, I promise!

Anyway, I sold my VW Cabrio in 2000. (If Nathan were to hold a grudge against me for anything, it would not be because I called him “Bear,” my pet name for him, in front of his friends at his eighth birthday party; it would be because I sold the Cabrio. When my Dad died, he left two Toyota RAV4s; my brother took one, and I took the other one, which was less than a year old with only 10K miles on it.

At the time, I felt that if I were a good parent, I’d have a car with a backseat that could hold three passengers. The backseat of my Cabrio only had two seatbelts. I wondered how I could drive all of Nathan’s friends around if I were a seatbelt short; in 2000, I was out of my first mid-life crisis, and, by the way, if history repeats itself, so does the mid-life crisis evidently!

I wanted to be a good parent, but I was hesitant, because I loved my car. I had never loved a car in my life before, and the VW Cabrio was the first car I ever truly loved. I reluctantly put a “For Sale” sign in the car and then reluctantly put an ad in the Want Advertiser, which wouldn’t run for a week. Phew, I had time to put off being a “good parent.”

The evening after I put the “For Sale” sign in my car, my doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw my neighbor’s 16-year-old daughter standing there. She said, “Hi!” and then asked, “So, your car is for sale?” Knowing she didn’t even have her permit yet, I chuckled to myself and said, “Yes. It is.”

She then said, “My Dad’s going to buy it for me.” I asked, “Really?” She said, “Well, I can’t drive yet, but it’ll be mine when I can drive.”

Her Dad seemed to love cars, because he had about six of them in his driveway and at least one was a VW. I stood there somewhat amazed. I wasn’t amazed that she couldn’t drive yet; I was amazed that she was getting a car before she could even drive. When I was 16, I think my parents gave me a sweater vest!

The next day her Dad called. He wanted to buy her my car; I emphasize the “my,” because I was still wondering what I was doing. A voice said, “You’re being a good parent,” and I listened to it over and over when I signed the title over to him after he handed me a check for $6000.

When Nathan found out that I sold my car, he was upset. I tried to explain my whole “good parent” thing to him, but it was said again and again to deaf ears. Ironically, during that whole post-Cabrio time, I was never driving Nathan and a bunch of friends around; back then, Nathan was a shy kid with Connor, Ellen’s son, being his best and pretty much only close friend. "Carma" (yes, I meant to spell it that way) is indeed a bitch!

Believe it or not, my 1995 VW Cabrio, though somewhat rusted on the driver’s side door, is still being driven by my neighbor and his wife to this day. I saw his wife drive down the street in it this afternoon, and I’m always glad when Nathan isn’t around to see this. When he is, he looks fondly at the car, glares at me the “good parent who is really an idiot for ever giving up that car,” and then he sighs.

It was all very painful in that “bad parent” way, though I have learned my lesson. After I bought my “new to me” car, I promptly handed over the keys to my 2000 Toyota RAV4 with 180K miles on it to Nathan. He was elated.

I somewhat felt like I had been forgiven for my past VW sins. It was like I had given Nate the keys to a Ferrari. Of course, it was half the size of “Big Red,” the Suburban he crashed last Fall; so, in hand-me-down car terms, the RAV4 was a Ferrari!

When I took Iz for her first spin in my “new to me” car, she, not one to mince words asked matter-of-fact, “Mommy, since Nathan got the black car, I get the red car when I am driving, right?” Iz already staked out her vehicle territory. When I wasn't thinking “That’s my girl!” I was thinking, “Good parents drive fun cars and pass the fun cars and the love of them to their children.”

Anyway, there comes a time when driving your child everywhere becomes a total drag. You worry about them driving your car, but then you worry about your sanity when one child is already asleep and you have to pick the other one up from his job. After fighting off the antiquated “Well, I didn’t have a car until I was 22,” you think, “I’m going to be good to myself as a parent, and I’m giving him my car!” It’s the new parent math -- being a good parent to yourself!

But, there’s a downside to the child with car keys; it’s called “abandonment.” You don’t abandon them; they leave you, BUT this only occurs when they have gas money from you and you've paid their car insurance. Yes, a big HELLO, you contribute to their deliquency to abandon you; um, parenting is also a bitch!

Last Friday, I was texting with Nate about his plans for the weekend. As usual, he drops a bomb in a text message rather than in an actual conversation. He said, “Oh, I need to talk to you about Strange Creek, which is next weekend.”

I replied with “What creek?” He didn’t reply, so I knew it was something big, something that surely involved my money and my car! They think we parents are totally clueless, but if they only really knew who the clueless ones were, it would make our lives as parents a lot easier!

After I put my cell phone down, I immediately went to my computer to google “Strange Creek.” It was a music festival over two days where concert attendees would camp. Can you say, “Woodstock?!?!?!?!”

I was sitting in my office chair thinking, “No way. Not my son. Not my car. ” Of course, it seems that as I have aged, everything I did back when I was 18 was okay, because I knew what I was doing. It seems that Nathan has the same attitude, but I can’t accept it because I’m 40-something and he is 18; again, history repeats itself, because my Mom and Dad probably thought the same thing back then.

Tonight, I thought it was time to discuss the concert with Nathan. So, I asked, “So, you’re driving out to Greenfield and camping?” He said, “Uh, well, no. First, we’re driving up to Burlington, Vermont on Friday, seeing Ray Lamontagne, and then driving to Greenfield to meet up with about 15 other people from school.” WOODSTOCK, WOODSTOCK, WOODSTOCK!

I said, “Um, I don’t know about this.” Then I defaulted to the “bad cop” parent by asking, “So, what does your Dad think about this?” Nathan said, “Well, I think he’s okay with it,” and then he added “Well, more or less.”

I laughed and asked, “So, what does that mean?” Nathan said, “Well, he’s a strange beast.” I then said, “Nathan, we’re not strange beasts. We’re parents!”

Am I worried about this road trip? I am. Will I fund this road trip? I will. Would I prevent him from going? I won’t, because at 18, 28, 38, or 48, or 58 (if I’m that lucky), I will always worry; it’s comes with the “good parent” and “strange beast” territory, understanding only now that my parents were good but very strange beasts, too. ♥

Who are You? Who, Who, Who, Who?

In February of this year, the company that laid me off in 2009 hired me back. It seems that my company, not unlike others, had outsourcing remorse, which led them to hire many people back. While I was not keen when they outsourced me, I was glad to see that they tried it but didn’t end up liking it as it applied to some positions within the company, especially mine as a technical writer.

Before I was rehired, the company rehired a few engineers that they had laid off. I remember feeling a bit miffed that people who could write code were being welcomed back before people who could write a complete sentence and remember to put a period after it, but then I reminded myself that this was high technology. As long as the software worked, who cared if no one knew how to use it?!

A few weeks ago, I was in the bathroom washing my hands. I happened to be speaking to someone when a woman rounded the corner from the bathroom stalls. She took one look at me and exclaimed, “Hi, Jean!”

It would have normally been a positive experience; however, I took one look at her, and I had no idea who she was. Now, I’m one of those people who is very good with names and faces; I can directly attribute it to my many hours of CSI and Law & Order TV viewing. I scanned her face again hoping I could channel Lenny Briscoe or Sara Sidle, but alas, I could only channel a tabula, and it was rasa; I had no idea who this woman was!

The situation was made worse by the fact that her “Hi, Jean!” was said with an “I have known you since Kindergarten” type of familiarity. I said, “Hi!!!’ hoping my many exclamation marks would make up for the fact that I could not append a name to “Hi.’ She told me that it was good to see me, and taking her lead, I said the same thing back; right then I should have said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name, “ but she knew me so well, I knew I’d feel like I was in Kindergarten by saying that.

In my previous job, I had worked on the release notes for three major products. On a weekly basis, I interacted with 40 to 50 software engineers; this was almost entirely done by e-mail. It used to amaze me that I worked with one sixth of the employees in my building, who were only a floor away, yet I knew them only by their e-mail addresses.

Between you and me, I had formulated ideas of them. There was “engineer who never responded until the last minute,” “engineer who was most appreciative that I could take something incoherent that he wrote and make it a complete sentence with a period after it,” “engineer who always wrote grumpy replies,” and “engineer who always went out of his way to help me.” I had profiled most of them even if I didn’t know them, and I had Criminal Minds to thank for that!

Occasionally, I might have to call an engineer to actually “talk” about an issue or prod one to review something I wrote two hours before a deadline. I’d access the employee directory to look up a phone number; it was only then that I might get an idea of what the engineer looked like due to the picture in the directory; however, the employee photos were about as good as those FBI mug shots you see in the post office.

You could look at the picture of the fugitive for 5 seconds, walk out of the post office, pass the fugitive on the sidewalk, and never know it was the person in the picture. Like most pictures, they captured you at a moment in time; from perusing some of the photos, people had lost hair, gained weight, and grown older. Though, I was comforted by the fact that when I roamed the hallways at work, the engineers that I didn’t know were only wanted by me most days and not by the FBI.

After two minutes of basic chit-chat, my CSI and Law & Order TV viewing started to kick in. While trying to converse, as if I knew who she was, my Lenny Briscoe voice said, “Try and look at her badge.” Everyone in the company had a badge; you were supposed to wear your badge at all times, and sometimes, according to corporate regulations, it seemed like it was more important to wear your badge than clothes as in “Hey, nice belly button ring, but where the heck is your badge?!”

I hated my badge. I was never one to be a huge rule breaker, but I tried to get away without wearing it as often as I could. Truthfully, I was not James Dean for doing so; frankly, it was just because I felt the badge didn’t go well with any of my outfits! Yes, I admit it; I was transparent when it came to corporate security.

While trying to remain focused on our conversation and share my “I was laid off and hired back too” story, I glanced down at her pants. I saw her 2x4 inch badge dangling from her waist. Unfortunately, it was flipped over showing me only that she was as white as a ghost and I couldn’t even call her Casper!

When the conversation came to its natural conclusion, I skedaddled out the bathroom door with a “Yeah, it is really nice to see you, too!” When the door closed behind me, I walked back to my office wondering who she was. I knew everyone in my life; I even knew people in my life that I didn’t know like the man who serviced the ATM machine at the supermarket and the woman who booked my ferry ticket to Nantucket!

I arrived back at my office and pondered how I had let this person slip through my life. I didn’t know where she sat, so I couldn’t do a “walk by” and read the name plate on her cube. I could try and point her out to someone, but I’d feel rather silly saying, “Hi” to her and then asking a companion, “Who the heck is that?”

With so many other things on my mind, I decided that I’d have to file her away in a cardboard storage box in my mind and watch more episodes of Cold Case. I knew I’d see her again, and I’d still be in that awkward position. For now, I’d just have to settle for my exaggerated “Hi!!!!” until I could figure out the mystery.

Today, my life unfolded as an episode of CSI, Law & Order, Cold Case, and maybe a bit of the Brady Bunch; that would be the Brady Bunch episode where Jan gets a tape recorder and secretly tapes her siblings’ conversations.

I had a chance encounter with the woman who knew me but who I don’t know!

I was leaving the bathroom.

I saw her in the kitchen waiting by the microwave.

I didn’t need to go into the kitchen.

Two steps down the hallway, I said, “Oh, I’ll get some tea.”

I didn’t need tea, but it was an opportunity to try and read her badge once again!

I walked into the kitchen, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I had just walked by the kitchen and think, “I wonder if Jean’s coming in here to try and read my badge, because she has no clue as to my identity, the poor dumb thing.”

She smiled at me.

I smiled back and said, “Hi!!!!!”

I stood there for too long of a moment, and then I realized, “Oh, yes. I need tea!”

She looked at me, and I know she was thinking, “Jean looks confused. Perhaps I should call Security.”

I got my cup and I glanced over at her pants to see if I could catch a glimpse of her badge.

She flashed an uncomfortable smile, and I know she was thinking, “Jean’s checking me out. Perhaps I should call Human Resources.”

I quickly grabbed a tea bag when I noticed that…

She wasn’t wearing her badge.

Damn!

She took her food out of the microwave and left the kitchen, and I know she was thinking, “Jean’s really strange. Perhaps I should tell the CEO at the next company meeting.”

I came up with a plan, I saw that she was not wearing her badge, and I conquered, well, not much of anything other than proving to her that I might be a tad odd. No matter, I think Lenny Briscoe would be proud of me. I do believe that figuring out who this woman is could be my entertainment for at least the next six months; I suppose I could just be brave and ask her what her name is, but where’s the Law & Order fun in that?! ♥

Brenda: Thanks for help me get my writing groove back and for always inspiring me. ♥

Shall We Dance?

Do you remember your prom? I remember mine. I went to my Senior Prom with my friend, Doug.

When I was in high school, the prom seemed like a big deal. Unfortunately, I never had a boyfriend in high school, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. My last attempt at boyfriendom was with a boy named Eric.

Eric was a tall curly-headed brunette who played hockey and lacrosse. I didn’t even know him, but I saw him as sweet, tall-like-me, and somewhat resembling a teddy bear. I guess I knew he was out of my league being that he was a popular guy and I was an unpopular girl; somewhere between 16 and 17, I threw caution to the wind and subliminally wooed him.

This was pretty wild for me back then, because I was not the outgoing and talkative individual that I am today. Believe it or not, when it came to boys, I was stupefied. Okay, I still am stupefied, but back then I had no idea what I was doing; today, I still have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m older, so that must count for something -- like legally driving but still driving blind!

I had a plan of woo attack. Whenever Eric walked by me in the hallway, I was going to look him in straight in the eyes. I was no General Eisenhower in my plan of woo attack; I had no idea if my plan was working, but deep down, I liked to fantasize that I was winning the Battle of the Beers.

Just when I was about to give up, I was waiting for the late bus after winter track practice. Eric wandered into the hallway where we all used to hang out to stay warm and wait. He leaned up against a wall, saw me, and said “Hi.”

Immediately, I said, “Hi” back. No, I didn’t. Years later, I still wished I had eeked out a “Hi.”

I stood there in shock. I kept thinking, “Eric talked to me. Eric talked to me.” And, in a moment, the buses arrived, and it was too late to say anything.

A few weeks later, I was working at my part-time job at First National supermarket. I was a cashier. I was a dinosaur cashier, because it was before we scanned bar codes; I punched in the $1 key, the 90-cent key, and the 9-cent key for $1.99!

(By the way, why did it take us so long to scan those bar codes? I remember my Mom shopping, bringing home groceries, and me asking, “What are these lines on the back of this?” She said, “Someday, they will just wave a wand and the cash register will know the price of something from that.” I’m sure my jaw dropped and then I asked, “Really?” Of course, the sad thing is that this was 10 years before I became a cashier at the First National.)

One afternoon, I was working my cash register when I saw Eric and his Mom get into my line. I was excited yet horrified at the prospect. I rang their order, bagged their items, and then turned back to my register to see what had happened to my woo gun in this surprise heart attack.

All of a sudden, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was Eric’s mother. She said, “Hi!”

Once again, I froze. My woo gun went off in the pocket of my First National smock and stunned me. I said nothing and just glared at her; she smiled, turned around and walked out with Eric.

I stood there waiting for an emotional rescue; however, nothing came to me except five more customers in my line. I fretted thinking that I blew it and by now Eric’s Mom must be saying to Eric in their Ford station wagon, “Are you sure she’s not an exchange student from another country who doesn't quite understand the English language yet?” A few months later, I found out that Eric had begun to date one of my sister’s friends; my woo had become a big boo-hoo.

Anyway, when it came time for the Senior prom, I was Ericless. I wanted to go, because I’ll admit that I wanted to be a princess for a night. I asked my good friend, Doug, and he obliged me. In hindsight, I couldn’t have asked for more; I was with someone who loved me dearly, even if we were just friends.

A few months ago, Nathan was asked to the prom by a friend. She had a boyfriend in college; however, she didn’t want to bring him. When Nathan told me he was going with her, I wanted to say something like “Shouldn’t you wait and see if there’s someone special you might want to ask,” but fearing Facebook deletion and eyeballs rolling Heavenward, I decided to stun myself with my Mom gun.

Last Friday, I received a text message from Nathan. It said, “Can I ask for some maternal advice?” Instead of “Aw, he wants my advice about college,” I was like, “Oh, shit! The prom has come back to bite him!”

I took a deep breath. I sent him a text message back which said, “OMG! I knew this was going to happen. It’s about the prom, isn’t it?” No, I only said, “Sure.”

Within 3 minutes, I had a text message telling me that he regretted accepting the invitation from his friend. He really wanted to go with another girl. He said while he liked the girl who asked him, he knew he’d have a much better time with this other girl who was a close and dear friend.

I took a deep breath. I then immediately headed into the cube of my co-worker, Dave, who had two daughters in their early 20s. I thought he may have been through this before, so I told him the dilemma.

But, before I traveled the four feet to Dave’s cube, I knew I already had an answer to Nathan’s question. I just needed someone to bounce my idea off of. I told Dave that I thought Nate should speak to the first girl, explain the situation, and then go with the second girl.

The first girl had a boyfriend who could take her. Nathan had a lousy time at his prom last year. He wanted to enjoy his prom this year with someone he liked.

Dave agreed. Once I was validated like the parking ticket I felt I was, I went back to my office. I told Nathan to talk to the first girl and explain the situation.

Of course, after I told Nathan what I thought, I then doubted myself thinking he should honor his first commitment. Then creativity struck. Why couldn’t he take both girls?

I sat in my office and texted him my creative prom wooing idea. He texted me back saying, “No way!” And then he told me that his backing out didn't go over well with the first girl and that the girl, who he wanted to go with, didn’t want to go with him, because she didn’t want to create any “drama.”

I knew that girls now went to the prom without men. They went together, which I wish had been popular in “my day.” (Wow, “my day,” I am old!) I wondered why in this day that a man going to the prom with two women was frowned upon; in the 70s, Hugh Hefner was a legend for the very same!

After feeling like a failure in the “maternal” advice-giving department, I went to drown my sorrows at beer o’clock. My barbecue meatballs were a hit, yet I couldn’t help but feeling like a miss all over. After my first glass of porter and surround by six men, I frowned.

One male friend instantly knew why I frowned and asked, “What’s going on now?” I said, “It’s not going well.” Who said women like to gossip?

I then had six men asking me about what wasn’t going well; thus, I explained the whole prom story. Most of the men were amazed that Nate had potentially two women on his arm; however, most agreed with me. He needed to follow his heart not his obligation.

When I arrived home that night, I went to pick up Iz at Ellen's house. I was upset; therefore, I kept quiet. Nah, I told her everything.

She mentioned that she might speak to her son who was Nathan’s friend. It was thought that perhaps he could speak to the girl Nathan wanted to go with who he was friendly with. Meanwhile, I fretted that I had screwed up Nathan’s life forever.

On Sunday, I received a text message from Nathan; I read it and heaved a sigh of relief. He was going to the prom with the girl he wanted to. His friend, Ellen’s son, had acted as Switzerland and had admirably won both their hearts.

Nathan and Ellen’s son had been so close for years. In 7th grade, they had parted ways, and in the last year or so, they had become the best of friends again. Interestingly, they were both so different, but time had shown them that each gave the other one a strength that nature had not given them; as Ellen’s son said, “They would be friends for life,” just like Ellen and I. Our differences had bound us and would always make us stronger…together.

Within ten minutes, I received another text message from Nathan. I noticed that it had been forwarded on to him. I opened it, and it displayed a picture of his prom date's dress; I wanted to text back, “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.”

I told Nathan how happy I was for him. He told me he was happy but; I always knew I raised a good son, but I knew it again in that moment. Despite feeling good about going to the prom with someone he wanted to, he felt badly about the girl, his friend, who had first asked him.

This morning, I worked at home due to a miserable cold, which kept me on the couch most of the weekend. (Yes, I’ve been sick for pretty much the last three weeks. Uncle!) Nathan took the car at 1pm to go for breakfast. At 3pm, I heard the Kings of Leon’s Birthday blaring in the driveway from my car; Nathan was in the house or the driveway as it was.

I knew I had locked the front door, and I wasn’t sure if he had his house key. I ran downstairs, unlocked the door, and then peered out the window to see if he was near. I saw him looking at his cell phone and then raise his arms. I opened the door, and then before we even got to say anything to each other, he shoved his cell phone in my face.

It was text message from the girl who he originally asked to the prom. Basically, she said that her boyfriend was taking her, there were “no worries," and she understood why he backed out. I told him that she was a very good friend to have realized that, though Nathan said, “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure she still might want to slit my throat.”

I laughed, but I was optimistic. I had worried about Nathan when he developed this horrible head tick when his paternal grandfather was dying. Now I worried about his prom life.

My friend, Ellen, said, “All the worrying us mothers do!!!” I knew then, like I was renewing a library book, that this wouldn’t be the first time I worried, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. This was my life; this was motherhood, and despite its difficulties, I loved dancing with it. ♥

Do You See What I See?

Dear Goddess,

I still can’t figure out what I see in the ink blot. Is that bad?

Lorraine, Looneyville, New York

Dear Lorraine,

No. That’s not bad at all. Recently, I have begun to think that perhaps the people who see things in ink blots are the crazy ones!

Pattycake!

Dude on a motorcycle!

Playground merry-go-round!

Thumbs up!

Batman!

Corset!

Happy Cat! ♥

I Can Handle Zits

Young men are different from young women. Did I ever doubt this? No, but two weeks ago, I lived it; Nathan was dreading a visit to the dermatologist, and Iz was acting like the orthodontist was God.

My son, Nathan, has always sported a very handsome face; however, like most adolescents, for the last year, it had been riddled here and there by acne. At first, it appeared nothing that Clearasil couldn’t handle. At second, it appeared to be getting a bit worse, but with images of Facebook deletion (once again) dancing in my head, I decided to be a Mom and be mum. At third, which occurred a few weekends ago, I said, “Your acne is getting worse. I’m taking you to a dermatologist!”

Of course, Nathan said, “Thanks, Mom. That would be so awesome.” Okay, I admit that’s what he says in my June Cleaver dreams. In my Jean-So-Not-Cleaver reality, he groans and asks, “Why?”

I say in a very Mom-like tone, “You’re a handsome guy. The acne just takes away from all that.” Nathan meets me in my Jean-So-Not-Cleaver reality by groaning once more and saying, “I’m not handsome. My face is fine.” I then break my Mom-like tone and say in exasperation, “Chicks don’t dig guys with zits!”

Nathan answers, “I don’t like girls anyway.” I laugh and say, “I’m making the appointment.” In my Jean-Somewhat-Cleaver reality, Nathan now sighs and says quite irked, “Fine.”

So, I made the appointment, which took me two tries given Nathan is on his Dad’s insurance. Nathan’s Dad doesn’t think Nathan can handle his own plastic insurance card; thus, I have minimal information to go from necessitating a second call to the dermatologist after talking to Nathan’s Dad. On the phone, I propose to Nathan’s Dad that he give Nathan the plastic card for his wallet, which would save me time and effort.

Nathan’s Dad says that Nathan has already lost two paper copies of his card. I want to say, “Oh, brother. Just give him the plastic card!” Before I speak, I then remember that Nathan has misplaced his car and house key about five times this last year and lost his ATM card once. I then think that perhaps Nathan’s Dad is right about the plastic card, and then I have a great idea for an invention – an implanted chip with health insurance information, ATM access, and remote keyless car entry for teens like Nate!

At 3pm the day of the appointment, Nathan sent me a text message to say that I should be outside my office at 4pm, because he was giving a friend a ride to work. He was basically saying, “Don’t make me late for my 4:15 appointment,” when he was the one who might make himself late, but somehow it could potentially all be my fault anyway. Is there “Teenagers for Dummies” book?

I sent him a text message saying that I wouldn’t be late. He then answered, “You know, I really don’t need to go to see the doctor.” I fiercely texted back, “Yes, you do!”

At 3:53pm, Nathan sent me a text message that said, “Here.” Feeling guilty that he was early and I was now technically late, I quickly shut down my computer, grabbed my things, and ran outside to meet him. I got in the passenger side door and was greeted by some punk-rap-fusion group whose CD only said to me “boom-boom-boom” every minute.

I wanted to say out loud, “Thank God, it’s only a five-minute ride to the doctor’s office.” Instead Nathan asked me how to get to the doctor’s office, and I obliged by saying, “Take a left out of the parking lot, take a right at the stop sign, and take another right into the medical office park.” He drove with a purpose, though I felt it was with the “I so want to get this over” purpose rather than the “I want to have an acne-free face” purpose.

Once in the dermatologist’s suite, I checked in. Nathan crumpled himself up into a chair. I looked at him, and then he said, “Mom, I really don’t need to be here.”

I was at a Mom crossroads. Part of me knew I was doing the right thing. The other part of me was peeved that Nathan didn’t appreciate the fact that I had made the effort to make the appointment and leave work early to escort him.

I doubted myself, and I hated when I did that. I argued back and forth with myself until a voice said, “Hey, you’re doing the right thing!” When the medical assistant called out Nathan’s name, I thought, “Thank, God!”

We walked into an exam room. The medical assistant asked Nathan a few questions, and when she left she said, “The physician’s assistant will be in to see you in a few minutes.”

I looked at Nathan. He looked at me. He didn’t say anything, but he was saying, “Mom, why am I here?”

The physician’s assistant came in and immediately went to work. She examined Nathan’s face, chest, back. I started to feel guilty as she said called out acne terms to the medical assistant; I was so hoping there would be subtitles for this very foreign medical visit!

I felt sorry that Nathan was now a medical artifact; however, he didn’t seem to mind at this point. Between poking, prodding, and assessing, the PA asked Nathan many questions about himself, which I thought was very nice. When she found out he was a Senior, she asked him where he was going to college.

He said, “SUNY Stony Brook.” I laughed, and she looked at me strangely. Last I knew Nathan loved Roger Williams.

It seemed that at just that moment, he had a college break out. I knew he didn’t want to go there, yet I knew he didn’t really know where he wanted to go yet. Sometimes kids think you don’t understand them, but little do they know, you always get them and unlike with milk and yogurt that intuition never expires.

The PA prescribed an topical ointment for Nate and some pills. She wished him well, and Nathan thanked her. When we left the office, Nathan didn’t say, “That was a waste of time.” I knew at that point that he didn't think it was, but I knew he was never going to tell me that.

Just last week, I said, “Nathan, your face looks great.” He had some dryness, and he said it stung. I told him to lay off the ointment for a bit and he said he would.

It appeared that there was better living through pharmaceuticals for Nathan; however, I had felt badly for pushing the issue. I hoped that someday Nathan would say, “Thanks, Mom, “ but I’d never hold my breath on that one. Despite my lack of self-confidence, I knew I did the right thing, and unlike many other things in my life, I’d never change a thing where it concerned Nathan’s handsome face. ♥

Purrspective

Above: I see a happy cat. What do you see?

Today, I went to see my doctor for my follow-up visit post-The-Hospital-Nightmare-Before-Easter. My doctor apologized to me at least three times. I said, “Stuff happens, and it just unfortunately happened to me.”

I went on to tell her that given I had lost my Mom, Dad, and best friend to cancer and that my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago (still cancer-free), I could only be grateful and not hateful that my biopsies came back negative. The real negative was the infection due to one of the biopsies, but to me, given all that could have happened, I deemed it a positive, because I left the hospital healed for an entirely different reason.

She said, “You have such a positive attitude.” I had to laugh. Because when I woke up today, I realized how miserable I had been the last few years; I didn’t kick small dogs, I didn’t throw away glass bottles in the trash when I knew they could have been recycled, and I didn’t intentionally tailgate.

I had been miserable, because I had kept years worth of “stuff” bottled up inside me. I realized that it didn’t matter why someone didn’t like me, it didn’t matter that someone had treated me badly, and it didn’t matter that someone wasn’t there when I needed them. When I woke up this morning, everything looked, felt, and smelled differently.

I had gained a new perspective; I realized that I couldn’t move forward unless I lost all the stuff that I had kept inside me for so long. I had to let go of the bad stuff to make myself open to the good stuff that would eventually come into my life. And then I would never ever look back.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks; however, I don’t believe that. Sometimes you need a challenge to realize how much you need to learn new tricks. Today, I realized it was all about learning new tricks, tricks that made me see my life in a whole new way; it was about letting go and moving on, which for the first time in a long time made me a very happy cat. ♥