Observations from 46 2/3

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During my run the other night, it occurred to me that I was 2/3 of the way through my 46th year.  The realization prompted a few thoughts…

I find myself with increasing frequency wondering if an article of clothing is “too young” or “too short.” This is not a bid for compliments, just the reality of my desire to grow older with grace.  Does one just know when to put away those short shorts or that skirt that could reasonably be defined as “mini?”

My runs feel challenging, almost every single time.  If I remind myself to run from the strength of my core, I forget how much my hips and glutes hurt. And another thing – why must people drive so fast in residential areas?  This is Albany.  Where are they rushing to be?

My children can be wildly inappropriate. Case in point: #2 was concerned about his older brother traveling to NYC unaccompanied.  He suggested a t-shirt with a handwritten message, something offensively defensive, like, “Ask me about my raging case of syphilis.” That is funny as hell, to me.

I love a thunderstorm!  Being in bed, feeling the wind blow and watching the sky light up, is an awesome sedative.  I just wish Cassidy, my 12 y/o black lab, had a bit more tolerance for the thunder – maybe doggy ears make the claps too intense?

I am getting so excited for summer and the promise of adventures and travel!  The only thing reining in my enthusiasm is my awareness that two summer holidays make the 10-week break go crazy fast.  Before the mockingly sympathetic comments come in, yes, I do know how fortunate I am to have such an extended summer vacation.  What I can’t understand is how people live a full life with only a couple of weeks of vacation a year.

No matter how high the number goes, I still feel the same as I did when I was half my present  age – open for adventure, enthusiastic about the future and blessed by the presence of people I love and who love me in return.  It’s just a number.

Smooth operator

A recipe for you, courtesy of Quinn Lilly, for a fast breakfast treat for the whole family.  Here’s the “list*” of ingredients:

Lacking punctuation – it’s ice, milk not ice milk

Place together in blender and push the button.  Simple!

The chocolate mustache tells the tale.

Seeing as how we’re (finally) done with foil-wrapped chocolate Easter eggs, I imagine we’ll be modifying this recipe.  What will remain consistent is the absolute joy this boy gives to me.

*Some may call it a recipe, but Q prefers list.

Three times a mother

I shared an essay of Anna Quindlen’s Mother’s Day thoughts over at Moms@Work, but here are some of my own.

It’s late as I write this.  I should probably pick up my book as a reliable prelude to falling asleep, but I have a coupon for a nap that I can cash in, as necessary.  The coupon, stapled together with a half-dozen others, was one of my Mother’s Day presents.  I’ve already used one.  I went with the “Mother’s choice” and requested a little assistance with vacuuming. Apparently the coupons are valid because it (he) worked and I returned from my run to find the vacuum out and plugged in.  It may even have been turned on.

It’s been a sweet weekend, kind of watercolored feeling.  Friday was my Griffin day – lacrosse, fried chicken, a new favorite movie, his physical self present in each of those activities.  Like the two brothers he is sandwiched between, he has his own personal refrain which has inspired me to nickname him “It’s not my fault.”  Like the eye-roll he mastered at age 11, he uses his mantra a bit self-consciously, knowing his lack of responsibility only confirms his position as man-boy.

There was a late morning soccer game, in a rain that didn’t relent until the kids were sodden and soaked with their own ability to tough it out.  My little guy, Mr. “I’m lazy,” ran that slippery field like nobody’s business, a constant smile on his face.  When he finally gave in to sleep, much, much later, he did so with happy satisfaction.

And Herr “I don’t know,” the oldest of the Lilly boys, finished the weekend with a solo trip to NYC, conceived and planned by himself.  He promised not to talk to strangers and despite his thoughtfulness, I asked him to not travel to Bleeker Street to get coffee for me from my favorite place.  The surprise of a dozen roses, prior to our departure for the train station early this morning, was evidence enough of his ability to plan.

My three sons, I don’t know, It’s not my fault, I’m lazy.  I’ll keep ‘em.

Done with Mother’s Day

Yet another benefit of drinking – flower boxes!

Screw Hallmark – as far as I’m concerned, May 5th was my ideal Mother’s Day. No matter what happens next Sunday, I will cherish the day I had, from the scandalously late start to the fortified-with-an-afternoon-nap late ending – perfect! Let me be a little more specific…

Saturday night, I shot a SEEN gallery down at Prime 677.  The occasion was a fundraiser for the Huntington’s Disease Society of America and it was a lovely event.  The food was spectacular and the folks at Empire Wines rallied the troops to put on an extraordinary wine tasting.  It’s been noted by some astute Times Union readers that whenever an event involves wine, I’m usually there.  Guilty as charged.

I got home from the party working at about 10:30 only to find my little guy desperately upset that he had been denied a ‘s’more from the neighbor’s party, a situation I was able to correct with a soothing shower and some ice cream.  Tucking him in at such a late hour gave me the first gift of Sunday – he slept until 10:00, which gave me an incredibly quiet morning.  Soft music, strong coffee and the paper comprise my personal morning bliss trifecta.  So far, so good.

After the boys departed at noon for their Dad’s, I got busy in the front yard with mulch and some annuals.  The sun was glorious, birds were chirping and the simple joy of getting a little dirty made my heart sing.  I had a mid afternoon visit from the person I most love spending time with and the day moved along at a pace that was completely enjoyable.  I accomplished some other chores, including eating a fantastic lunch salad, and punctuated the afternoon with an indulgent nap on clean sheets. But, wait – there’s more.

Caesar salad with shaved Romano and grilled asparagus

As the day cooled down a bit, I tied on my running shoes and hit the streets for a 5-mile lap through the neighborhood.  I had intended to go a bit further, but contented myself with not pushing myself too hard and tried to just enjoy myself.  Done.  A shower, a quick visit with the neighbors for a glass of wine and then home again for finale of the only reality show I would ever want to be on, The Amazing Race, and I was in bed by 10:15, thoroughly relaxed and satisfied with my day.

There weren’t any tulips or handmade crafts, but nonetheless it was a lovely day with a wonderful mix of boys, friends, productivity, relaxation and good food and wine.  Mother’s Day 2013 is a done deal, as far as I am concerned.  Any additional gifts are truly unnecessary, although I do have a fondness for the imperfectly made card along with a hankering for a French lilac bush.  Just saying.

14 Things I want Griffin to know (in honor of his 14th birthday)

1.  Birthing you was one of the most satisfying experiences of my life.
2.  Acknowledging, and acting upon, the fact that you’re not the only person in the universe will only make you a better man.
3.  You can do anything.  Anything.
4. Being able to do anything doesn’t eliminate the reality of life that you will still have to make choices because you really can’t do
everything.  At least not simultaneously.
5.  Cool hair and charm will only take you so far.  Maybe it will be far enough, but that’s a big maybe.
6. Your braces should be considered a very expensive gift – not a punishment.
7.  You remind me of me, which is why I am watching you ever so closely.
8.  I can’t wait to go to Ireland with you this summer.
9.  When you finally get a j o b, you don’t have to pay me back for things I’ve bought for you.  Those were gifts.  You do, however, owe me
$14 for those library books you lost.
10.  Speaking of books, I am so proud that you are a reader and love talking about books with you.
11.  Your (nearly) lifelong concern with your clothing and what you’re wearing makes you fun to shop with.
12.  Watching you play with little kids – and enjoy it, makes me smile.
13.  You’re growing up too fast.
14.  You’ll always be the little boy who liked to whisper “hi” in my ear.

Happy birthday, Griffin Hudson Lilly.

April Moms@Work & Women@Work catch-up

My byline snap

Notice I said catch-up instead of catsup or ketchup.  We all (or those of us who hang on every word of dialogue in Mad Men at least) know there’s only 1 ketchup.

I digress – anyway, here are some blog posts from my other spot out here on the internet, Moms@Work.

• Would you do it all again?  (“Probably not” was the impression I apparently conveyed in this one.)
• Travels in parenthood (Includes a nifty picture of me doing a ringer of  Molly Ringwald impersonation.)
• Tests of spring  (Where I talk about the NYS math assessments, but don’t acknowledge that I can’t do 8th grade math.  I saved that for FB and Twitter.)
• What do you think about a “good enough life?” (Even if you don’t read my post, read the one which inspired it.  Please.)

Also, excitedly enough for me, the print edition of the May/June issue of Women@Work is now available in all sorts of lobbies and waiting rooms around town.  Grab one, why don’t you and read my piece on page 59.  Don’t forget to linger over my name on the page listing of contributing writers!

My youngest son is obsessed with John Lennon and related dilemmas

Image: @yokoono/Twitter

Quinn asked me to load some Beatles on his iPad recently and I finally had a moment to do it this morning.  He has been really into Here Comes the Sun and chose this song as our first tune of the day.  Not a bad way to start a Sunday, I’d say.

As the music was playing sweetly, Quinn mentioned that every day he thinks about George Harrison and John Lennon being dead and he gets angry.  Well, as he said, not really about George because it wasn’t his fault that he got sick, but the thing about John?  That made him really upset. Why did that guy have to shoot him?

Quinn asked me when John was killed – what year?  I’m sure that 1980 sounded like a million years ago to my boy, but I continued my remembrances of that time (freshman year of high school) by telling him that the man who shot Lennon was still in prison for committing that crime.  He was outraged – “Why wasn’t he executed, Mom?  How could he have done that to John Lennon?”

How do I respond to that?  How does one explain the precarious relationship between the emergence of sunshine, the death of an idol and a life spent behind bars?  Oh, Beautiful Boy, where would I begin?