The anxiety I feel in these moments, after the rush of emotion, is overwhelming. It takes my breath away. I find myself praying to God to protect them both. I would sacrifice anything to keep them healthy and safe. Those tender moments make me want to keep them to myself and never let go. Letting go will be the hardest thing I ever do. I love them so. And these moments remind me the time is close at hand. Soon we’ll have to make college applications and go on campus visits. Trying to keep track of the youngling is becoming a sport — I have to put GPS on her. She’s making the most of high school and I find myself actually trying to keep up.

My youngest walks in and I don’t even bother to hide the tears. What’s wrong, she asked, what’s wrong. I just shake my head — can’t talk. She is relentless and won’t stop. I refuse to answer and change the subject. What am I going to say, I’m crying because you’re growing up? I miss my babies? I worry each and every day that you’ll be safe? I just keep typing and hope that ultimately she’ll be distracted.

I intend for you both to grow up, complete your college education, in careers that turn you on, find nice boys (nice, nice boys), have the wedding of your choosing (the one I never had — shameless, but at least I admit it; I’ll make sure your wishes are heard and if possible and within reason, honored), buy a house (scratch that) a home, give me grandchildren, don’t give up on your passions and stay true to yourself (keep exploring what that means), be good to each other and always give to others. Then just allow the rest to unfold (fade to blurry sunset). I’ve got it all planned out, preferably in the aforementioned order — now just accommodate me.

I am sending off my youngest to college this fall, and while I’m happy for her and know she’s ready for this next step, I’m wondering how I’m going to handle the “empty nest”? I’ve still got a list a mile long regarding the house. I’ve put off countless pursuits (yoga classes and book clubs and museum memberships and photography classes) in order to spend these last couple of years with the kids. Soon I’ll be able to turn more of my attention to me and I think I’ve forgotten how to actually do that. I know I’ll never stop being a mom, that they come back, that they still need you, but I also know it will be different. Am I still a mom when they’re not here? Who am I? I just want to continue to be relevant and useful to them, even when they’re not here.

I am questioning my career and wondering if it’s time to make a change. I took some career testing which revealed that I’m restless and won’t be satisfied continuing on just with my current work. That I should be publishing and that has led me to blogging as a first experimental step. So I’m exploring my options and allowing myself to consider, for the first time, career decisions, just for me. With two kids in college, I’ll be arriving at decisions slowly, until I know for sure their college careers are financially secured. Initially my thoughts turn to, are you nuts, we’re in the middle of a terrible recession! But I can’t help feeling excited, like I have something to look forward to!

I believe that both physically and emotionally I need to get serious about my weight. As I mentioned in a previous post, the first big step to that is opening my eyes at my physical for the first time in 15 years to see what I really weigh. Yes, that’s right, I’ve avoided looking at the scale for that long. So two weeks ago, I did just that. And I was shocked and deeply disappointed in myself. For about 24 hours I was very angry. But then I asked myself, what’s the difference between yesterday and today? You’re the same person, the same weight. Why do you want to lose weight? So I began thinking in terms of numbers and that set me back. How am I going to lose 30 pounds? The number, the number. Why do you want to lose weight, I asked myself again? To feel better and look better. How do I know what number that equals? How will you know until you try? Firstborn is home for the weekend. I think I’ll have her finally show me how to use the Wii Fit…

In spite of all this personal uncertainty, I really believe there is opportunity in change. It’s all in the way you choose to feel. Sometimes I lose sight of this and am filled with anxiety. But who wants to feel anxious all the time?

Meet the parents were ringing in my ears as I tried to focus on his face. What did that mean? What do you mean, what does it mean? I asked myself. Everyone knows that means something! Doesn’t it?

“Of course,” I stammered. I was embarrassed — where were my manners?

Details were (and are) not his forte. I was lucky to get the exact date and some vague sense of what to wear (he would be wearing a suit). I was single and working and decided a new outfit was called for. I bought a sweater dress, tights and patent leather flats. It was the eighties — big hair, big earrings. I was verging on a dark-haired Madonna.

I can remember being very nervous and not eating all day. When I got home from work I changed quickly into my new outfit, put on more makeup and tried to breathe deeply. I was living at home at the time and my mother noticed my butterflies.

“No worries,” she tried to assure, “How bad could it be?”

Michael picked me up and along the way described his parents home, a 4000 square foot condo with a 4 car garage and a Cadillac in every bay — I couldn’t fathom. At some point during the drive he mentioned that this was a get together for his brother.

“Oh?” I asked. “Is it a special occasion?”

“His birthday,” he replied, absently.

“His, his birthday?… but I don’t have a gift!?” I protested.

“Oh, it’s not that kind of birthday party” he responded.

“Party!?! You didn’t tell me it was a party!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked. If only I had buck for how many times I would hear that phrase over the next 23 years…

“No” I said flatly. “You didn’t.”

I didn’t want to appear petulant but I was really irritated. When he said, “I want you to meet my parents” I didn’t realize he meant, “the family” or should I say “mi familia?”

I was and am kind of shy and I wouldn’t know a soul except for him. I had dated him long enough to know that he was a social butterfly at parties and my mouth was dry and my palms started to sweat.

When we arrived and entered the house, we did so through the garage which led into the kitchen.

There, on the kitchen table, was Vic’s birthday cake.

A cake shaped as a pair of breasts…with cherries on top.

At first, it didn’t register. Was that? Are those? I stood there, staring, stunned, not knowing what to say. I knew very little about his family, his siblings. I looked over at Michael who was trying to suppress a chuckle. Upon seeing my face, he quickly recovered and shrugged and suggested we move along. I reluctantly followed.

I was introduced to several people on the way down to the lower level where I met his father and mother. Michael’s father (who he is named after) was an imposing, burly Italian with a drink in his hand. He wore a pinky ring. I felt like I had met a member of the Rat Pack or a Corleone. My surroundings certainly re-enforced that first impression as well. It read like a kind of rumpus room with a bar, a painting of his doberman and formal portraits of the family.

I heard his mother before I met her — a high, boisterous laugh. It was so distinctive. There was no missing it, like a cartoon laugh. From there it was his grandparents, both sides, and all of his siblings and their respective spouses. I even met the first grandchild, Joey, held in his mothers’ arms.

To say that I was overwhelmed was an understatement. I wanted to run for the nearest exit and phone someone for a ride. I don’t know if Michael sensed this, but he asked if he could get me a drink. I nodded and he asked, “how about a martini?”

I replied, “I’ve never had one before.”

“Let me make you one, I think you’ll like it.”

So off he went, while I tried to chat with his sister-in-law and his brother Joe. Turns out Joe and I were in the same grade at the same junior high. I knew that we had attended the same school and I remembered him, but we did not hang in the same circles. I was a shy, wall flower of an awkward girl in junior high — braces, glasses, zits and big early-blooming breasts. Awkward doesn’t begin to describe those miserable years.

Joe, on the other hand, was a “hood,” a bit of a trouble-maker with long hair, wearing a jean jacket, a desperado baby mustache, bell bottoms — dangerous.

He looked much different now, with a wife and baby. Very respectable. But there was something mischievous in his face as he excused himself while Judy and I began talking about baby Joey in her arms. Michael’s mother and grandmother joined us to chat as well.

Joe eventually returned to our conversation, holding a yearbook in his arms.

Our junior high yearbook.

A yearbook with a very, very unfortunate picture of me at 13.

Could I die? Could I crawl under a rock? It was one thing to be thrown into an uncomfortable situation (boob cake, the entire, extended family, etc.) but to be humiliated like this? In front of Michael’s parents while his brother had a good laugh at my expense? I looked over at Michael who was fetching my second martini.

“Look, honey, he’s got our junior high year book…” my eyes were BEGGING him to intercede.

“Hey, let me see that,” was his response. My heart sank. Obtuse.

Judy excused herself to feed the baby and Joe and the yearbook disappeared only to be replaced by a tall, leggy blond who introduced herself as Barb. Barb was a lingerie model. Divorced with a child, turns out Barb and my boyfriend used to date. The evening was in a death spiral and the only thing that was going to soften the blow was another martini. What the hell?

Without warning, she reached over and grabbed Michael’s crotch.

“What does she have that I don’t have?” she asked him.

“Me,” was Michael’s sarcastic response. In true Michael fashion he looked around, impressed with himself and his pithy comeback. Again, obtuse.

“Oh dear,” commented his mother, trying to pretend she hadn’t seen anything.

I put my drink down and headed for the stairs.

“Wait a minute,” he grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “I didn’t know she was going to be here, she is a family friend and I didn’t know she would act that way.”

I opted not to speak my mind, “with friends like that what should I make of your family?”

I was trapped with no way out. Had I been a stronger, more determined sort, I would have walked. But I felt more helpless than anything else. Michael’s brother Frank decided music was in order, just in the nick of time, and so we danced. Beatles. My saving grace, really, “Twist and Shout.”

Turns out there was no food at this shindig, really, it was a cocktail party. So, after all the trauma of the evening, the martini’s and the lack of food, I was zonked, not drunk really but sooooo tired I could barely stand.

The party had dissipated and Michael and I volunteered to clean up. We said very little to each other. I was trying to clear my head of alcohol and to process what had just transpired. We sat down on the sofa in the pool room for a little respite.

Fast forward to 3am.

Something woke me. It was a ringing. A telephone ringing, ringing, ringing. I was vaguely becoming conscious when I realized I had fallen asleep with my contacts still in my eyes… my hard contacts. I kind of freaked. I had injured one of my corneas previously by doing just this, so I ran to the bathroom with my purse and put some drops in my eyes.

As I was looking at myself in the mirror and squirting my eyes, I slowly put two and two together:  the ringing that had woken me was likely my father, because I had a sinking feeling that it was an obscene hour and I was in deep shit.

I ran into the pool room and grabbed Michael by the collar and shook him awake.

“What time is it?” I demanded.

He was groggy and non-responsive.

“For god sake, what time is it?” I shook him harder and he opened his eyes and looked at me.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Oh my God!” I screamed, looking at his watch. “It’s 3 o’clock in the morning.”

“Someone’s been calling. I heard the phone ringing over and over. I’m sure it was my father. He’s going to kill me.”

Then I looked at Michael and he read my mind, “He’s going to kill you!”

We grabbed our coats and raced to the car. All the way back to my house Michael was reasoning with me.

“You’re 23 years old…”

“I know, but I live at home and there are some house rules. It’s not the time, really. I can stay out as late as I want, but I always check in and let them know! So they won’t worry. And I didn’t call.”

Unbeknownst to me at the time, not only had my father called Michael’s father demanding to know where his little girl was, but he also tracked down Michael’s room mate demanding to know where I was. Both were mystified and did not have any idea of where we were. Both had thought we had departed long ago and didn’t realize we were still in the basement.

We pulled up into my driveway and all the lights in the house were on. In spite of all his apparent confidence, Michael ran me to the door, pecked me on the cheek and left me there. Abandoned me to face the fire alone.

Duly noted.

I walked into the house, into the kitchen where a fresh pot of coffee had been brewed and drunk, with maybe an inch left in the pot. I slowly made my way into the family room. Earlier in the evening I had imagined sharing the awful details with my mom who would surely offer me comfort and sympathy. No way in hell would there be a soul left in my camp now. I found my mother and father, in their robes and pajamas, both holding coffee cups, sitting on the hearth.

It was obvious Mom had been crying. “You’ll just never know until you have one of your own…”

Dad on the other hand was grinding his teeth, his famous vein throbbing down the side of his head. Like a child I felt like dropping to my knees and begging for forgiveness.

I mustered up some courage and I said, “I’m really sorry to have worried you. We fell asleep after we cleaned up the basement, honest. I had no idea it was 3am until I heard a phone ringing. Nothing happened. I usually call. It was unintentional, but I can understand why you’re upset.”

“You fell asleep?” my father repeated, incredulous. “Where is your date? Why didn’t he come in?”

I had no answer for him. Between the horrific night I just had with his family and my parents, sitting there exhausted and ashen, my big “meet the parents” moment couldn’t have been any further from my fantasy. There was nothing left to say. In trying to make a good impression with his family, I left my own family with a horrible impression.

And with that I went to bed.

I found myself planning a luxurious summer vacation — reserving ten days, not the usual seven. Not this time. There was a little extra cash in the kitty, so I opted for a ritzy condo complex with all the whistles and bells; a towering white stucco building with aqua blue shimmering pools both indoors and out.  It so happened that my youngest, Erica Rose, would be celebrating her birthday while we were there. I was able to shop, wrap and ship the gifts down in advance of her big day as well as order her birthday cake from a local bakery. Oh yes, I was in the zone. The MOMMY ZONE.

Feeling smug, I packed for the trip. We even brought our babysitter along. Who’s the man? I’m the man.

Tiffany was a twenty something elementary school teacher whom we adored. She arrived on our doorstep, having answered an ad we placed in the local paper for a sitter. She was quite devoted to our girls. The idea of a summer vacation in the sun was more than appealing to this single, working girl and she gladly accepted our offer to vacation with us.

I always feel like a kid, even at the ripe age of 46, on that first early morning of vacation. When my father would roust my brother and I out of bed, but we were already awake, too excited to sleep. I’m still the same way and so I was already up on our first day of this vacation helping Michael, my husband, get the troops settled in the car just before dawn. Cara, our oldest, along with Erica and Tiffany, piled in still wearing their pajamas and debated where our first Starbucks stop would be on the way down.

The car, an SUV (smirk, 8 years ago), was packed to the gills as we headed down to the Gulf of Mexico (which sounds lavish but who am I kidding, we were headed to the Redneck Riviera). Nonetheless, I was blissfully content.

The trip down Highway 65 included stops at my favorite haunts on the way: Calhoun’s in Nashville for the best ribs ever; the famous Foley farm market, Burriss’s, where I stocked up on all my favorite produce, like juicy, fresh-picked strawberries, green beans, and peas. Satsuma’s, my all-time favorite fruit of the south, unfortunately are only available in the fall. I had to forgo their pleasure this trip, for it was June. Only a minor inconvenience, I reasoned.

We arrived at the complex; the condo was perfect. Why? 3 beautiful bedrooms on the Gulf of Mexico with all the amenities we could want. The girls were enthralled with their surroundings. The babysitter had her own bedroom. All was right with the world. We were the Jones’s.

The next day I picked up the cake and we celebrated Erica’s birthday with royal reds, deep-water shrimp indigenous to the area and tasting like lobster. It is truly one of our favorite meals when we vacation in the south.

The following day we welcomed Michael’s cousin and his family to the condo. They lived in Mississippi where Billy was stationed as an Army recruiter. We went to the pool and beach, had dinner and ate the cheesecake Danella had baked and brought especially for us. It was delicious. However, the youngest of Billy’s children had not been feeling well. A spider bite we were told and Billy and the family headed back to Biloxi a little earlier than planned.  We turned in for the night.

The next day we headed out to the water park. Once again, another first for us, but we were determined this would be a vacation in which we indulged ourselves. I am not the great adventurer when it comes to amusement parks, so Tiffany and I headed to the lazy river while Michael, Cara and Erica headed for the inner tubes and the big, twisting slides.

After a couple of hours of drifting in the warm sunshine, we all met up at the wave pool. Now I must admit, I really enjoy wave pools. I guess it’s because they mimic the rhythm of the ocean, but I was really having a good time, giggling with the girls with each rush of water.

After a short while of drifting with the waves I got a very strange feeling; the kind you can’t explain. I don’t know if something happens during childbirth, but I truly believe mothers have a sixth sense when it comes to their kids. And something just wasn’t right. The hair on the back of my neck was up as I turned around to see my oldest, some several feet away, and the look on her face said it all.

She was about to blow chow and I had to get her out of the pool before she cleared it on her own.

Try running in a wave pool some time…

I barely made it to her and told her to hold on. Actually I believe my words were more along the lines of “suck it up.”  She could not, would not throw up in that pool.

I don’t know where I found the strength to lift her up and out of the pool but I grabbed her and ran to the public bathrooms. I got her there in the nick of time.

What erupted in that stall defies description.

I was alarmed and extremely grateful we had made it, but the occupants of that bathroom beat a hasty exit. It was just the two of us, talking thru the door. Eventually she let me in. By that time she was sitting on the toilet and shaking but she thought the worst was over. I moved her to a chaise lounge in the sun and covered her with a towel. Too much sun, wave pool and corn dogs I reasoned. She was white as a ghost and lay very still under the warm beach towels.

One by one the other members of our vacation joined us and after a while we determined it was time to head back to the condo. Cara was not improving and she needed to go to bed. We got to my beautiful Jeep Grand Cherokee with black leather interior and piled into the car. All the while I was talking to Cara and reassuring her that this situation would quickly pass.

Once in, and with everyone belted, Cara began complaining again of not feeling well. Michael looked up to see her pale face in the rear view mirror and then turned his head to say something to her when without warning she vomited so forcefully that the ensuing projectile literally blasted the sunglasses right off his face! He was speechless and drenched. Can something be shocking and funny at the same time? I tried not to laugh. I didn’t want to appear insensitive to Cara. Needless to say my leather interior was never quite the same again.

“Not to worry,” (I was, after all, supermom this week), “We’ve got plenty of towels,” and with that I got out and went to the back of the car to retrieve one for her and another for Michael and the car, too. By the time we got to the condo parking lot Cara requested that we just leave her in the back seat to die.

Michael picked her up and carried her in and then went to take a shower. The next couple of hours were horrible for her. I’ve never seen so much (or so little, eventually) erupt from every orifice of a young person. Could food poisoning really do this? I was getting concerned. In between bouts in the bathroom I gave her spoonfuls of water or Gatorade, hoping that some form of hydration was better than nothing. She dozed on and off.

I sat down at the kitchen island and tried to relax. I called a girlfriend to chat. We were catching up about the usual odds and ends when out of the corner of my eye I saw a head of red hair flying by me. Tiffany had covered the full length of the condo in seconds, ripped open the bathroom door and began violently throwing up.

At that very moment, I knew, with great certainty, that we were all in trouble — deep, deep trouble. For, it occurred to me that it was not the corn dog Cara ate, no, this was something else entirely. And with an overwhelming sense of foreboding I ended my phone call.  “I gotta go Jeanette. I’ll call you back later,” and I tried not to panic. A little self-doubt was creeping in to Superwoman’s psyche.

I went to check on Tiffany. Now Tiffany is always a “glass is half full” kind of person. In fact, the glass is just plain full, or even overflowing. She brushed her flaming red curls from her forehead as she rubbed a wet washcloth over her face and proclaimed in her usual cheery voice, “I feel much better now, really.”

If I heard that once in the coming 24 hours, I heard it 27 times — for Tiff and Cara kept their doors open and actually kept score. No sooner had Tiffany proclaimed her wellness, than she fell to her knees and threw up again. This went on and on, always with the same response or denial depending on how you chose to look at it (I am clearly in the camp of “the glass is half empty” kind of person.)   “No really, I feel much better now,” she would say with a grin.  Two of our three bathrooms were now occupied and Erica said, “Mama, I don’t feel so good.” Michael, who had been conspicuously missing walked into the room.

Now panic was rising in me. I grabbed him by the collar.  “Get out while you can. Go to the store and get as much Gatorade and Saltine crackers as you can. This is about to get very, very ugly. GO!”   He looked around at the events unfolding, grabbed his baseball cap and left.

I began taking inventory of the situation. How many clean towels do we have? And sheets? Ice chips, washcloths, and clean pajamas. I speculated out loud if we would even get our security deposit back at this point…

While Cara and Tiff were making sport of the situation, calling out to each other their status, Erica was sitting on the sofa trying to watch television and ignore her stomach. I began wondering, what was taking Michael so long. The grocery was, after all, right across the street from our condo. It occurred to me he might be avoiding the return trip.

What seemed like hours later, Michael walked in, eating a Whopper from Burger King. He said nothing. He poured himself a great big glass of milk and pulled out a bag of Oreo cookies and began eating them and drinking the milk with gusto, like a guy on death row eating his last meal. In fact, he inhaled a significant quantity of food right in front of me. I was horrified.

Didn’t he understand what was about to happen to him?

“Where have you been for God sake?” I yelled.

He proudly announced, “I just put out a fire in the parking lot!”  “What?” now you need to understand, over the years I could send Michael out for a gallon of milk and he would come back 2 hours later with a microwave, no milk, and a ridiculous explanation of his absence.

“Seriously, some of the shrubs in one of the concrete islands dividing the parking lot had caught on fire.  I ran into the lobby and told them to call 911, grabbed an extinguisher and put out the fire” he was beaming, so very proud of himself. While mayhem was exploding in our condo, he was putting out a brush fire.

As I watched him swig down the last of his milk, I finally asked, “Are you crazy?” to which he responded, “I figured this was going to be my last meal for a while, so I might as well make it a good one”  I stood there, incredulous.

Erica started complaining loudly about her stomach, and Mr. Sensitive but his soda cup down on the coffee table in front of her and said, “Here, throw up in this.”  She looked up at him in disgust and got up and ran to our bathroom and the round robin began in earnest. All three bathrooms were now in full rotation and I was exhausted. I lay down in our bedroom and willed myself not to succumb to my stomach.

“What can I do?” Michael asked.

“Go stay with the girls. They’re both weak from this, they may need help,” I was whispering at this point with a washcloth on my face.

“What? Are you serious?” subtext: “I didn’t actually mean it, I was just trying to sound, you know, supportive.”

I pulled the washcloth off my face and looked him dead in the eye, “Am I serious?” I said in a low, menacing voice, “yes I’m serious. I need a break.”

“Where should I? How should I…” He was at a loss for words. A caregiver, he was not.

“Lay down in between the twin beds on the floor. Maybe the three of you can get some sleep,” I suggested.

“Okay” — but his facial expression read like I was sending him to the gas chamber. Because, dear reader, what you don’t know is this: Michael has a hair trigger gag reflex. If he so much as hears someone vomiting, he’ll lose it. So I knew what was going thru his mind.

And sure enough, I wasn’t horizontal for more than a few minutes when the bedroom door burst open. There was Michael standing in the doorframe breathing deeply.

“Cara is (gulp) throwing up (inhale) in her bed! And I (swallow, hard)… can’t… take it!”  With that he dropped to all fours, crawled to the bathroom, threw up repeatedly and passed out cold on the floor. A 250lb Italian stallion with the wherewithal of a mama’s boy had played nursemaid for all of 30 seconds. I sighed, standing over him, shaking my head. I went to go help Cara.

It was the middle of the night before Cara had begun drinking Gatorade. Tiff refused assistance and Erica was in the middle of the violence. I was up and down. I could hear the constant rattle of ice as Tiff scooped it into a cup from the ice machine. Yes, we even had a state of the art ice machine. She sucked on the tiny cubes all night long.

As I lay there in the dark willing my own self “to suck it up” I wondered how I was going to explain all of this to Tiffany’s parents? I needed to make sure she didn’t aspirate in the middle of the night. She seemed to be sleeping when I walked into her bedroom to check on her. I leaned over her face. I just needed to make sure she was breathing. Unfortunately, she opened her eyes to find a stranger in the dark just inches from her face. Of course, I succeeded in frightening her so badly that she fell out of bed, screaming.

I checked on Michael, still on the bathroom floor. He too was breathing. I threw a blanket over him, turned out the lights and lay back down, talking to myself and ignoring my symptoms. The last man (woman) standing. How could this have happened to my perfect vacation? There was a heavy air of irony enveloping the room …

As dawn broke, I found Cara eating a cracker in her bed. A good sign I thought. Tiff wanted nothing to do with food. Erica was still visiting porcelain but at least she was slowing down. I got Michael up off the floor and gave him some crackers and Gatorade. He seemed stunned. I sat him in the great room in front of the television and gave him the remote control — I thought the familiar would be comforting to him.

As everyone began recuperating the next day, I gave myself permission to get sick. Of course, I was sicker than all the others, enduring a cold on top of the stomach flu. While the rest of the family was on the mend and visiting the zoo, I was visiting the doc and ordered to stay in bed. Seems I had a touch of vertigo to boot. The elevator put me on the floor and to add insult to injury, I couldn’t go anywhere near windows or the balcony. I couldn’t even enjoy the view of the ocean. Of course, it had occurred to me that I had earned this — my penance.

Michael put in a call to Billy to let him know what had just happened in the event they too might have gotten sick. It turned out the ride home was more like a bad horror movie only unfolding in slow motion with almost everyone but Billy, the driver, throwing up in the car during the 4-hour drive. Strike that, throwing up in their skirts, diaper bags, anything within reach. I can’t bring myself to disclose the other expulsions; it’s too graphic and disconcerting.

I imagined everything that had happened to us only in a very confined space with no plumbing.  When Billy finally pulled into the driveway, he fell out of the car and allowed himself to throw up. He declared he would have to condemn the van for no amount of cleaning would make it habitable again.

For it turns out, dear reader, it wasn’t the spider bite after all.

To this day, we greet Billy and his family with hospital masks.  We left our vacation early, seven days, not ten and headed home in silence. Perhaps I should have titled this, “Pride Goeth Before the Fall…”

Cut out the easy carbs and fats and try to focus on nutrition. So main meal will be a protein, some veg and a complex carb like whole wheat sobu noodles or quinoa. Fruits and nuts for snacks. Smoothies consist of fruits, veggies, nonfat yogurt. For soups (not cream based) I’ve chosen homemade chicken & rice soup, french onion soup, Italian Wedding soup, and butternut squash soup and tortilla soup.

We’re two days in and I feel no ill effects and have a little more energy (could just be psychological relief that this is do-able.) My husband though isn’t doing so well — portions. I came home last night to find out he had eaten my dinner as well as his own. He asked this morning, “what’s in the smoothie — anything of substance?” So his withdrawal is more acute than mine.

For those of you that might be participating, I’m one week behind the program as it’s being introduced and emailed out — took me a little longer to get on board and get everyone else on board as well. Temps outside will be near 30 today so I am walking! So far so good!

So, I’ve gotten into a positive frame of mind and I’ve counseled myself on no extreme changes, but a gradual transition. In addition to the Wii Fit,  I thought I’d add walking and yoga. But where to start? I know, I know — I need to weigh myself, but I’m thinking I need to psychologically build up to that. I’ve made an appointment with my internist for a physical and I think I’ll actually open my eyes for the first time when they put me on the scale (end of January). I may take someone with me for moral support and then drink heavily afterwards. But I digress. As I was contemplating this resolution,  I got an email newsletter in December about this program, the Whole Body Action Plan and I thought I would explore (not necessarily committed at this point, but exploring).

First up that’s practical and do-able for me is the Fitness Assessment. There are four suggested components to the assessment:

1. Cardiovascular Endurance
2. Arm Strength
3. Core Strength
4. Flexibility

Let’s see how I did: I began with the cardiovascular test which is basically 3 minutes of stepping up and down (12″ vertically). I chose my first step of my stairway, grabbed my iPhone with the stopwatch feature and away I “climbed.” Upon the 3 minute mark, I took my pulse and looked at the chart to compare my results. I was at the bottom of average for age 47 and encouraged to shoot for the high end of average by the end of the Action Plan. So far so good, off to a decent start.

Next, Arm Strength. I’ve always had questionable upper body strength so I assumed this would be a total flop, but I was pleasantly surprised. I fell once again into the average category, easily doing 12. Onto Core Strength! I’m on a roll! I’m fitter than I thought!

I have no core. I mean, the middle of me is a morass of floppy muscle and flubber that couldn’t sustain any of the required positions for an average length of time. I repeat. I have no core. I don’t know where it went. I don’t know how to find it.

Flexibility was last and apparently I am rigid if not brittle. Sitting with legs slightly spread apart, bend forward and reach out with your arms, hands touching the floor. (I even unbuttoned/unzipped my jeans in the event they would impede my progress — note to self, yoga pants next time.) Goal is to reach 4.5″ beyond your feet! I’m at -6″. Or as the feedback indicates, those exceeding -3″ need to “keep trying.”

Okay, a split decision. Probably a decent snapshot. So what next?

I live in the Midwest and as I look out my window snow is falling at a pretty good clip (6″ today — wow that number, oh, this one is a positive 6″) and I have anticipated inclement weather by purchasing adequate footwear for walking, even in the winter! I’ve signed up for a Yoga 101 class which begins the first week of February. I would begin the Wii Fit, but it will weigh me before suggesting a series of routines, and I’m NOT ready yet. So I think I will walk and begin reviewing the “detox” portion of the program. Liquids for breakfast and dinner (smoothies and soups), with a main, healthy meal at lunch. I’ll report back on this in my next entry.

It helps to set the scene for New Years, though. To say we were tired, frazzled and disappointed would be an understatement. So you can imagine that when my friends, sisters Michelle and Katie, who were also commuter students to Butler University, called to plan a New Years Eve “on the town” adventure, I was more than a willing participant.

What to wear, where to go, could we get in, who would drive, were all questions we girls enjoyed answering and we threw ourselves into the planning. Because we were commuters, we didn’t have the built-in social life a dorm or sorority would have provided. In other words, this was exciting stuff.

On the big day, I had my hair done, bought new makeup and a new outfit just for the occasion. This was pre-cell phone and since we were all living at home we needed to keep the ‘rents informed of our plans. Michelle would drive. It was damp and drizzly out, not snowing per se, but a definite chill. The dress coats, hats, scarves and gloves were in order for such a night. Big mall hair would have to have extra spray in order to hold.

It was the norm for them to be late. I sat in the living room looking out the window waiting for the platinum blond (think Madonna) and brunette (who always wore red lipstick) to arrive. As I saw them pull into the driveway, I jumped up and made a beeline for the door. I waved to them as I made my way down the walkway.

I went to open the door to the back seat and realized it was locked. Katie twisted around in her seat to unlock it and then subsequently open the door. Just then I realized I had forgotten my gloves.

“I’m going to run back in and get my gloves!” I shouted through the crack in the open door.

I shut the door and turned to run back down the walkway to the front door.

All of a sudden I heard screaming. I turned to see Michelle reaching around toward Katie. Both were facing the back of the car and Katie was screaming bloody murder. I really didn’t understand what was going on, but I did notice that the car was still in drive, Michelle’s foot was not on the brake and it was rolling toward the house.

I started running down the walkway, screaming and pointing to the house. Michelle was screaming and pointing to Katie’s hand which had gotten caught in the door when I went to run back into the house. By the time I reached the back door to relieve Katie, Michelle had crashed into the house, specifically the garage, demolishing the door. In fact, she was basically parked in the garage by the time her foot hit the brake.

Michelle sat there, dumbfounded. Katie was in pain. And I was vacillating between the absurdity of the situation and having to explain it all to my father. We had not even left the driveway and our big night was over. To further add to the irony of the situation, Michelle and Katie’s dad happened to own an insurance agency. He was not amused.

“Where are you?” he asked Michelle.

“I’m at Cate’s” she repeated. He was clearly confused.

“No. Where in town did you have the accident?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you Dad. I ran into Cate’s house…” (oh boy)

“What do you mean, you ran into her house?” he asked, incredulously. “You just left!”

I felt badly for him. You just can’t make this stuff up.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Dad. Katie’s hand was stuck, and I was trying to help her and my foot came off the brake and we ran into her house.”

“No, Dad we haven’t been drinking…there hasn’t been any time…”

As Michelle heard herself, she started to laugh. It really was funny.

“No, I know it’s not funny, Dad. I’m sorry, it’s just that, well, it is kind of funny. It was actually comical.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Katie said tersely.

“I am sorry, Katie,” I said, “about your hand. I had no idea I had shut the door on your hand…”

My dad stood there in disbelief as well. He had come up from the basement (man cave) at the sound of all the commotion. We were collectively reluctant to put both dad’s on the phone together. But it had to be done. Additionally, we knew we would never hear the end of it from our brothers. And we never did.

Postscript: I know most people worry about getting home on New Years rather than getting started. After reading my cautionary tale you might be tempted to stay home, but if you do elect to go out, be careful, drink responsibly, designate a driver, and girls, watch what happens to your drinks and who serves you. While we rarely go out, we do try to stay up for the ball drop, a toast, and phone calls from distant family and friends. Have fun ringing in the New Year!

My earliest memories take me back to Philadelphia in the 1960’s. My parents had moved us to Indianapolis but made the road trip back to Philadelphia several times a year. My mother wanted to maintain close ties to her family and wanted us by extension to understand and enjoy those bonds as well.

It was basically the Brady bunch of Philadelphia, 3 boys and 3 girls along with an entire neighborhood that would move in and out of this massive house or show up for dinner un-announced. This was unheard of to me, but there was always room at the table for an extra plate and always food for one more.

My uncles entered my life — larger than life through my young eyes. Uncle Dick, the younger of the two, had a very old large house on Gowen Avenue, 3 stories high, the kind you might read about in a romance novel. I spent a lot of time on the third floor, sort of a hen’s nest, learning the ways of the world from my cousins.  For instance my cousins taught me how to shave my legs, how to use socks instead of curlers for my hair, how to shop for separates, and much more. What my brother was learning one floor below I dare not ask.

This house was a wonder in size and nooks and cranny’s. It was always filled with people and a lot of food and laughter. And if the front porch was always the designated meeting place, the back stairway was always the source of the best information.

Until my first visit to this house I had no idea homes could have two stairways. The very nature of it amplified any number of conversations going on in the house, especially the kitchen. So at night, after we were supposed to be in bed, we would tiptoe down the hallway and creep carefully, halfway down the stairs and sit together in our pajamas listening to the adults carry on about “family secrets” and suppress giggles about our discoveries!

Uncle Bill, the oldest, has dark features, a tan, irascible but charming at the same time, definitely black Irish. He and his family lived a little further out of the city, almost the suburbs. I spent a lot of time with the youngest cousin, Annie, since we were close in age and in temperament. We would walk down to the local drug store and get penny candy during my visits and stay up late gabbing about everything.

Uncle Dick, the quiet one, has always been a man of few words but deep convictions and a life demonstrating the care and well-being of others. He is always there for someone in need. Deeply devoted to his faith, he became one of the first married deacons of the Catholic church in Philadelphia, ministering to others as he career with the railroad wound down. Trains have been one of his passions and his railroad sets would always come out each Christmas. And we, as kids, found endless fascination with the very intricate layouts he would construct.

So my childhood memories of my Philadelphia trips are filled with love and wonder. Big city, big personalities, opening up a big universe to me.

As I got older, we traveled back less and less. My life and interests didn’t include those ties to extended family and while I wouldn’t say we lost touch, the relationships definitely changed as we all grew up and tried to find our way in this world. But every once and a while one of the unc’s or cousins would pop up unexpectedly.

For instance, Uncle Bill would write to me, faithfully, while I was living in England for a semester during college. He is an excellent writer and I really enjoy our conversations. I don’t always agree with him, but he’s very articulate, forceful, and you always know where you stand with him. I could not believe he would take time out to write to me and I really looked forward to his letters, so far away from home. Filled not only with family news, but observations of his time and travel throughout Europe and advice about experiences I should have. I have kept them to this day.

My cousin Betty Ann, who stayed with us over my long wedding weekend, was front and center during the unfolding disaster and rallied the troops to plug up all the holes in the day that continued to spring forth leaks. (I never tell prospective bride’s about my wedding day. It’s a cautionary tale.) Betty Ann also knitted my firstborn a beautiful baby blanket, that again, I have kept. And the list goes on and on. Despite the distance, family obligations, and just life getting in the way, we have remained in touch.

Fast forward to 2006. My father died after a long bout with non-hodgkins lymphoma. Who arrived at my mother’s door but my two uncles carrying support and Tullamore Dew? Within the year, we would return the favor. Their wives died within 24 hours of each other and they are now living the lives of widowers. They spend more time together as do their families and somehow, have found time lately to spend time with me.

I have made the trip back several times in the last couple of years. I have been drawn to their family stories and I’ve been capturing as much of it as possible. In part, because I’d like to get it into some type of historical context for all of us but I’m also inspired to write and some of that inspiration has found it’s way to my blog, Bashful Bard, in the form of short childrens stories.

They recently visited Indianapolis, driving the distance in two parts. Somehow they managed to stay in one of the few dry towns in Ohio. They were not amused. It’s a serious matter for two crusty Irishmen, footloose and fancy free, not to be able to enjoy a whiskey in a bar.  But they perservered and made their way back to us, where we celebrated their arrival and cooked and shared great conversation.

Uncle Bill had learned that I was interested in fly fishing and surprised me with an old fly rod and reel he had had for a long time. He has always been active and the outdoors is where he would prefer to be, hunting and fishing with his sons. So much to my surprise, we went to the local fly store and he outfitted me with some supplies and gave me a few lessons in the back yard. I was deeply touched.

He asked me, “why fly fishing?” and I told him I thought it would be a great way for me to enjoy the outdoors and I also think it would be, contemplative. I could tell he was taken by surprise by my response. “Contemplative?” he replied slowly. He looked down, rubbed his chin and then acknowledged, “that’s a great way to look at fly fishing. It is indeed time for contemplation.”

He seemed pleased, almost as if he was passing along a gift. A rod & reel? A hobby? A family tradition? I’m just happy for the time spent with them.

Stocking Stuffers:

• EcoTools Bamboo Brushes: I love these brushes! They’re bamboo and natural bristle, inexpensive, and environmentally friendly. I found these at Target, and they feel GREAT on the skin. If you or someone special you’re buying for is into mineral makeup, EcoTools has a set of kabuki brushes as well!

• Makeup sets are always a hit especially when they’re pinching pennies, going to school and working. There’s something a little decadent about getting a set at Christmas and some of their favorite brands (MAC and Clinique) always come out with something fun (last year they got false eyelash kits!)

• Roll-on perfume: growing up in the ’70s I remember roll-on fragrance and now it’s back and sooo convenient to keep in your purse. How about something like… Juicy Couture’s Couture Couture available at Sephora?

• Rosebud salve, their lips are always, always, always chapped and I can’t keep them in lip balm. Smith’s Rosebud Salve has been a staple for pretty much every stocking and Easter basket since they were little.

• Earrings, studs and hoops are always needed and I stock up on the basics especially in silver.

• Inkjet cartridges: I know this doesn’t sound glamorous but inkjet cartridges are expensive and one of my daughters is a design student so, she just might get cartridges in her stocking.

• Phone covers, fun and something they wouldn’t treat themselves to and practical. Check out these funky covers from SwitchEasy

• Knitted laptop sleeves, like the ones I saw on Etsy! Awesome, and I thought, OMG, how cool, and then I wondered if with a beginning skill set in knitting I could pull these off — stay tuned,

• Gift Card’s from Starbucks, Target, Anthropology, iTunes: all of these come in handy throughout the year and give them the feeling they can shop without dipping into their savings. My husband feels these are impersonal, but the girls LOVE getting them.

• Magazine subscriptions: these are relatively inexpensive and offer up a nice break once a month, a little treat that once again they wouldn’t purchase for themselves.

• Eyebrow and lip wax, a perennial favorite from their preferred salon.

• And a specific request this year, fleece: jackets/vests. I’d like to investigate good quality jackets at a reasonable price point. Will look at Lands End, but are there others I should consider? GAP?

I suppose, given the broohaha of the last few months and all the feelings stirred up by the FTC, I must fully disclose that to date, I’ve made nothing, nada, zip, zero on my blogs. I’m just getting started and I’m stretching my gray matter and I just want to concentrate on writing. So, this is not a sponsored review.

Okay, here goes — I really love my Dove Go Fresh Collection in Cucumber & Green Tea — shampoo, conditioner, lotion, soap, deodorant and body spray. I’ve gotten more compliments and “what are you wearing?” and “you smell good” from this combo than any expensive perfume I have ever worn. Now when I think about it, I can honestly say, we’re in belt-tightening mode. Both my husband and I are self-employed, trying to ride out this bad economy with one in college and one on the way. Bring on the Dove…

But the truth is, I started using this combination long before the recession hit and I have to say, I love the smell and the freshness. It’s relatively inexpensive and yes, I’ll say it several times, it’s GREEN, a trend you’ll see in my favorite things as it’s always been my favorite color. I have no idea if it’s green in terms of the environment. GoodGuide is rating this product line at 7.1 compared to their best entries in the high 8’s.

And I have to admit, there’s some kind of psychology in buying a suite or “set” of products. It feels luxurious regardless of its price point. I seem to remember they offered travel sets which would make awesome stocking stuffers. I will link out to the product line in the event you want to see what it looks like. I imagine they are sold in drugstores and grocery stores, nation-wide.

This may not be the most inspiring first entry and certainly not the latest and greatest discovery by a frugal mom, but hey, they are my favorite things right?