Beautiful

I am beautiful.

Does that sound bold to you? It is a bold thing to say about oneself. For a long time I would never have said it for fear of sounding conceited, egotistical, vain, self-important.

Delusional.

My trepidation doesn't change the fact I am beautiful.

I know mine is not a conventional beauty, the kind reflected in Barbie dolls, fashion mags, music videos or in leading ladies on the screen.

I am unique. Damaged. Vulnerable. Imperfect.

Yet, beautiful.

You might disagree with me and that's ok. What you think of me is really none of my business. You might be appalled at this straight-forward acknowledgement. I don't care.

You might only see the fullness of my face and think, "She's fat."

You're right; I am fat.

I am also tall, funny, intelligent, talented, sarcastic, generous, caring, impatient, over committed ... a lot of working, shifting parts.

None of which detracts from my beauty.

Mine is a life lived fully. I eat a slice of cake on birthdays, have a glass of wine with friends, indulge in Christmas cookies, share meals with my family at holidays, have a beer with my husband on a Friday night. I built this body with every bite, every choice. This body made a family.

It bears scars, visible proof of pain and survival. I am not ashamed of that.

I am beautiful because of it.

While I make the bold statement about my beauty, please understand I do not always feel it; don't always see it. I still have insecurities and some days feel more lovely than others.

Yet that doesn't change the fact that my beauty is true. Every day.

My journey to self-acceptance has been difficult. Maybe I haven't reached it quite yet. There have been many along the way who have sought - and still seek - to convince me that I am somehow inferior on the outside and inside. Those voices can ring quite loudly.

Sometimes the loudest voice has been my own.

More compelling, however, is love and acceptance. You see, my son deserves a mother who is confident and assured. He deserves a positive female role model who doesn't shrink from the challenges of this world, even if those challenges are her own insecurities. He needs to see real women as they are; not as society would have them be.

And I have a husband, a lifelong partner, whose opinion matters and deserves to be respected. He loves me just as I am. He neither wants nor merits a wife who wishes she were living in a different reality than the one we have created together. I don't pine for past youthful perfection or some future envisioned improvement. He gets the here and now, and it is wildly imperfect.

And beautiful.

On the flipside of conceit is how truly humble I feel. Regardless of what anyone thinks - positive or negative - is this ultimate fact: I am a child of God. I am beautiful by his grace and love. It is His voice that rings truer than all.

And it tells me I am beautiful.

It also tells me you are beautiful, too.

I don't even need to see you. Maybe I've never met you. I know in my heart you have beauty from within and without.

You don't need to post selfies in hopes others will validate you. Don't fish for assurances to the contrary when you sheepishly declare, "I'm so fat." Or, "I wish I still looked like I did when I was 28."

Just know it. Accept God's love and grace for you just as you are, right now at this very flawed, ridiculous moment. Live it; feel it.

It is a thing of beauty.

"I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well." - Psalm 129:14

Enough

When my son was 5, he came home from a playdate with a perplexed look on his face.

"What's up, buddy?" I asked.

"Mommy, are we poor?"

"Why do you ask that?" Truth is, I already knew exactly why he was asking.

"Well, Such-and-Such* said we are poor because our house is so small and we don't have a flatscreen TV, and we don't have a pool, and we don't have a basement. Is that true?" he asked, those big brown eyes staring up at me intently.

*Not his real name. Also, it was 2004; flatscreens were not as common or inexpensive as they are now.

I wanted to explain socioeconomic class stigma to him. I wanted to talk about those among us who truly face abject poverty without a home, medical care, enough to eat or decent clothes to wear. I wanted to talk about material possessions versus spiritual gifts. I wanted to reveal that external appearances are not always as they seem; happiness does not equal fancy. Poor does not equal bad. Comparing yourself to others is a game with no true winner.

I wanted to express my indignation at having been judged by Such-and-Such, though in reality, that attitude had more than likely trickled down from the adults in his life. It was not much of a leap to assume it was the grown-ups who had expressly or inadvertently deemed our outlet mall wardrobes, little house, domestic vehicles and nonprofit-sector careers somehow lacking; inferior. Their 5-year-old had picked up on that and conveyed it back to my own ... you know, just so my son would know where he belonged.

But looking at my son's sweet face, I could only summon: "Well, he's kinda right."

Now that little nose was scrunched up in a manner that indicated my answer was not making any sense.

"Look, Such-and-Such is right: we don't have all those things. We don't have all that stuff that he and his family have. So to him, I guess we do seem poor. But let me ask you this, kiddo: do you have everything you need? "

"Yep."

"Do you even have some of the things you want?"

"Yep."

"Do you feel loved?"

"Yep."

"Then I guess we have enough, huh?"

"Yep." And he went on his way, satisfied.

That was 10 years ago. We still live in the same little house in an area noted for its affluence. We still drive modest vehicles. We still dress without pretension. We still work hard. We still have bills.

We still have enough.

Enough love.

Enough laughter.

Enough compassion.

Enough friendship.

Enough beauty, inside and out.

Enough to eat and even to share.

Enough to get by and even to save.

Enough to remind us who we are, where we came from and not lose sight of where we are headed.

Our house is clean enough.

Well, mostly.

Our house is happy enough.

We are happy enough.

Perfection is not a goal, nor is the accrual of materials items. That's not enough for us.

"For where your treasure is, so your heart will also be." - Matthew 6:21

I'm happy to report no other kids have been as direct in pointing out the material differences like Such-and-Such was. Sure, those differences are still there and they are obvious, at times. Thankfully, I have somehow managed to raise a teen who isn't particularly materialistic. He is easy going and content. He is happy.

Recently, I picked him up from a friend's house. It was the first time he had been there and as he got into the car and we backed away from the big, beautiful house in the upscale neighborhood - the garage of which would swallow our relatively dinky cottage whole - I said with a wink, "We still have the smallest house. Reigning champions."

And then my son pointed out, "Yeah, but we have everything we need and a lot of things we want."

And that's more than enough.

Friendship

"If friends were flowers, I'd pick you." - Albert Camus

I've seen that phrase on coffee mugs, embroidered pillows, greeting cards, plaques, paper weights ... the list goes on. It certainly lends itself to the adornment of gift items and it is difficult to fault savvy marketers who capitalize on an upbeat, appreciative, timeless sentiment.

Though I haven't ever purchased an item with this quotation for a bestie, I can say without hesitation that my many friendships over the years have enriched and enlivened my life.

We tend to compartmentalize our friendships: best friends, work friends, childhood friends, neighborhood friends, school friends, guy friends. Doing so in no way diminishes their importance in our lives; it merely enhances our many facets.

My girlfriends, especially my closest circle of friends, are my support group, my therapists, my secret keepers, and companions. They are a truth-banner-waving focus group for hair styles, fashions and home decor. "Um ... no. Just no. That looks terrible on you," one girlfriend said bluntly in the dressing room when I tried on a poorly executed pair of skinny jeans.

[Note to denim designers: You can call them what you want, but if they come in my size, they are not skinny jeans.]

And while my girlfriends might - upon request - judge my fashion choices, they never judge me as a person. They are my audience for rousing tales and rants. My back-up singers. My diet crashers. My cheering section. They are my taste testers for new recipes, which can be a thankless, gag-inducing job.

They make me feel needed and appreciated in their lives - for carpool, opinions, evening walks, lunch dates, shopping, craft projects, perspective, a hug, a laugh. Their needs are not a burden, but an honor. My life is made more purposeful in giving.

Friendship is essential to our happiness, but we must never forget that it is optional. Like any kinship based on love, trust and respect, it requires give and take; a balance. We've all had those life-sucking relationships, so let me give you permission to put a stake in it: vampires quickly move on to other, more willing, givers. Sincerity is the hallmark of the bond, so if you ain't feelin' it, let go.

And sometimes friendships run their course. They fade because of time, distance, changing interests and shifting priorities. Those lost relationships, however melancholy, are part of the ebb and flow of life.

Some complain the meaning of "friend" has diminished in this Facebook age, when all your contacts are labeled "friends." After all, you can now be "friends" with hundreds - thousands - of people, including that guy you haven't seen since elementary school who is apparently still sporting a mullet (and not ironically), and that bitch who bullied you in middle school ... you know, now she can see how awesome your life is via post after post after post.

Social media hasn't taken anything away from my view of friendship. I readily profess my love and admiration to those I call friend. I offer my heart, my attention and my time to them. In return, they get one of the most sacred gifts I have to give: the unfiltered version of me.

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Wardrobe functions

In case you are wondering what that is pictured above, I can confirm that it is in fact, not the world's saddest hand puppet.  It's a dingy, hole-y sock. With my hand in it.

The saddest thing about that sock?

It's on my foot right now.

In the lottery of late-in-the-week clean clothes, this guy and its mate (equally hole-y, by the way) are the winners.

They are the king and queen of the sock drawer prom.

I would like to mention in my defense that the gross dinginess of these socks may be attributed to the fact that I have worn these outdoors without shoes already this morning ... and not solely due to my lackadaisical housekeeping.

A little bleach and they will be good as ... well, they will be bright and clean.

Before you tell me to go get some new socks, for Pete's sake, let me tell you about another incident this week: 

I was speaking at a work-related gig to an audience of about 30 or so professionals when I felt the slightly distracting creep of my pants' zipper heading south. My part at the podium was brief and so I discreetly tugged at my sweater set (of course!) to cover any possible offending revelations and stepped away. But make no mistake: the barn door was open.

You see, my fly had been inexplicably doing that all morning. A check in the ladies room revealed that one of my two trouser buttons had gone missing, thus making way for the repeated opening of said barn door. These were my favorite black slacks; the ones that go with everything and look great on me. They fit great (loose at the waist!) and so I would be determined to save them. Thankfully, I still had the other button to hold my dignity in its proper place.

Until I didn't.

That remaining button flew to destinations unknown as I stepped out of the car at lunchtime. The only things holding my pants up at that point were my child-bearing hips.

... Which brings me to my next point ...

My teenage son has grown about 10 inches in the last two years. He's pushing 6' 2" and still moving upward. Last Saturday evening, his dad and I raced out to buy him a new pair of black slacks to wear to honor band the next day when we saw the ones he was wearing to a church function that night had popped up to the top of his (new, larger) shoes. Just two weeks earlier, those pants had fit him just fine.

At some point this weekend, father and son will go tux shopping for the kid's required concert band attire.  That nice suit I bought him last year? Ridiculously small now. That goes along with a steady stream of jeans, shoes, and socks right now flowing through our house.

And so, Mom (and Dad) will make do in the wardrobe department in order to make room in the budget for more urgent needs. 

That's what parents do.

Back to my black pants ... I got through the remainder of my day thanks to a safety pin. The zipper was actually broken and so they had to be retired, and other black pants I already owned called into active service.

As for my sock situation ... I was at the doctor's office recently in socked feet and mentioned that I was embarrassed by the worn condition of my footwear (though not nearly as bad as the ones pictured above). The doctor laughed, kicked her right shoe off to reveal her big toe peeking through a hole.

"I have kids too," she said.

20 years

Note: If you've landed here from Pinterest, welcome! You'll find the 20 Things I Love About You pin info here. For newer blog postings, check out the Home tab. Thanks for visiting! - LM

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be ..."

That's from the poem Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning. I had that printed on my wedding program. Today is the 20th anniversary of that wedding. As I mentioned in a previous post, this year is kind of a big deal for us.

And it kind of isn't.

We celebrate a lot of silly, fun things (yes, Christmas in July is one of those things), but we generally don't make a fuss about our wedding anniversary. Usually it's just dinner out and sometimes, it's all three of us, kid included - not even a proper date. He brings me flowers. We exchange cards.

We would just rather hang out together than go to a lot of fuss. We are happy to just be together.

After 20 years, that's pretty good.

In fact, we decided this year we wouldn't even exchange gifts. Hubs would be working in the evening, so there wouldn't even be a date. He'd meet me at my office and we'd have lunch. That would be it.

I assumed he'd bring me flowers - he always does - and so I thought I would break the no-gifts agreement just a little and surprise him with a gesture of some sort. It had to be simple and inexpensive.

Here's what I came up with:

A bucket.

More specifically, a bucket filled with 20 Things I Love About You.

20 Things I Love About You 20th anniversary gift bucket.

Instead of a card, I wrote him a letter, explaining that I loved him in a million ways (true), but that, in observance of our 20th wedding anniversary, I would list only 20. I really thought about who he is and how much I appreciate him - and the things he does for me and for us as a family. And then, I hit the dollar bins and picked up little items he would actually use. I tagged them based on the list and put them all in a bucket (simply because it's another thing he will use).

Here's my list (in no particular order):

• You're a good kisser - Chapstick (he steals mine)
• Your face still lights up when I walk in the room - flashlight
• You wipe my tears - travel pack of tissues for his car
• You always know when the cookies are done - spatula (he never, ever burns cookies)
• You make things brighter - paint brushes
• You're smart - Smarties candies
• You stuck with it, even when we were just scraping by - electrical tape and ice scraper
• Your love keeps me going - batteries (for the flashlight)
• You do your share - cleaning sponge
• You're handy - work gloves
• You sew on my buttons - mini sewing kit
• You're handsome - a hand mirror (he was using what was basically a jagged shard of glass as mirror)
• You're kind to animals - treats for our pets
• You have a nice smile - floss (again, steals mine)
• You're nutty - peanuts
• Your faith holds the family together - Super Glue
• You're level-headed - a level
• You're a good dad - wallet-sized photo of our son and him
• You're sweet - mint M&Ms (his favorite)
• We're a good match - box of matches

You get the idea.

He was genuinely moved by the gesture and just loved the surprise, cracking up at the bucket stuff and the correlation to the list.  He admired my creativity and appreciated the thought, time and effort I put into it. Plus, he really dug all the goodies. (Another level? Yes, please!)

Let's face it, folks: I rock.

He gave me roses, as expected. There were 20 red ones, representing the 20 years of our marriage, plus five white ones for the years we dated. Just gorgeous and they made my office smell incredible.

And then he handed me a simple, dainty diamond anniversary band.

That? Not expected.

So let's recap: 

• He gave me diamonds.
• And I gave him ... a bucket.

Look, marriage is like that: it's give and take - and not always an even give and take. Still, it really is the thought that counts. A thoughtful gesture can let the person we care about know he or she is understood, special and loved.

And another thing about marriage: just when you think you've got a person all figured out, he can surprise you in the biggest way, and make you wonder what other tricks he has up his sleeve.

"The best is yet to be ..."

Indeed.

28 again

Recently, a colleague guessed my age at 28.

28!

Seriously, 28. He guessed my age at 28. I will be 45 on my next birthday in March. That puts 28 a pretty good distance in the rear view mirror of my life.

And then, a week later, a delivery man guessed my age at … yep - 28.

28!

What's my age-defying secret?

And good genetics. And I stay out of the sun. And I have a fat face, which doesn't tend to show wrinkles (thank you, cupcakes).

No one will accuse me of being vain or youth obsessed. But I am middle-aged and I am not going to pretend that it's not a compliment to be told I look younger than I am. I like it. Say it some more, please.

It's a double-edged sword as well.

I've been in my profession for more than 20 years and, personally, have been through some serious stuff, and so when I offer carefully considered advice and heartfelt counsel based on my experience and best practices - personally or professionally - I expect to be taken seriously. But those adorable dimples and batty lashes don't always convey maturity.

Plus, I'm kind of a goofball anyway, so maybe that shines through in a bigger way than I care to admit.

Still, I admit that it's fun to get carded at the liquor store (Even more fun when my husband, who is a few months younger than I am, doesn't get carded. Ever). The clerk is so just so adorable when he checks out my license and then does the math in his head and figures out how old I really am, getting all embarrassed and "Aw shucks, ma'am." I just want to adopt him … because I am old enough to be his mother.

This happens kind of frequently (especially lately) and I just laugh at it, knowing that it's fleeting, as the years and weariness will surely change that supposed number. That's okay. While it's fun to look 28, I would not want to go back in time and actually be 28 again. 

I'm a don't-look-back kind of person (which makes me a terrible scrapbooker, by the way). I always look ahead. I believe that, as blessed as my life is at this moment, my very best days are still ahead of me.

And I look forward to growing into them.

I leave you with this article: America’s favorite age? It’s 50, new poll says.

And this:

"Aging is not lost youth, but a new stage of opportunity and strength." - Betty Friedan

**PS: Please don't forget to take the holiday spending survey**

 

Love ain't so blind

This is what my husband wakes up to in the morning.

Woof.

Retainer, Breathe Right nasal strips, wrinkles, tousled hair, bags under the eyes … it's a perfect combination of age, fatigue and weariness. And I'm not even wearing my dorky glasses.

The thing is, my husband has looked at this morning spectacle for nearly 20 years of marriage.

And he loves me anyway.

(By the way … He? Doesn't look any more glamorous than I do. And yes, I love him too. Very much.)

You might come to the conclusion, based on the evidence presented, that love is blind. After all, it was Shakespeare who gave us that phrase hundreds of years ago and it has stood the test of time.

You've heard your girlfriends proclaim it as the root of a shattered relationship: "I was blind" ... to his cheating, lying, stealing, ___ [fill in the blank].

You hear it over and over in movies, books and plays. My favorite use of the phrase is in the 2003 movie, Under the Tuscan Sun, when Mr. Martini (the wonderfully understated Vincent Riotta - swoon!) comforts brokenhearted Frances (Diane Lane) by saying it in Italian - "L'amore e cieco" - and she responds, "Oh, 'love is blind.' Yeah we have that saying too." He tells her, "Everybody has that saying because it's true everywhere."

Oh Mr. Martini, how I love you. But I gotta call bullshit on that.

(pardon my profanity ... there's just no other way to say it, folks)

I do not believe that love is blind. Love - real, true, mature, honest love - is not blind at all.

Love sees.

Love sees us, the real us. It is about more than surface attraction. It sees right through our games, lies and facades. It glares through the walls we build around us. It stares unblinking at our pettiness, our crabbiness, our inner ugliness.

Love sears into our souls, straight to our vulnerabilities, our insecurities, our fears, our hurts, our failures and disappointments.

Love takes in our beauty. Basks in our laughter. Cheers at our victories. Forgives.

Love is about acceptance, endurance. It is only with eyes wide open that we are able to fully and completely accept one another in love. We see the imperfections and love one another anyway.

Yes, we sometimes choose to look away when we suspect someone we care about could hurt or wrong us. We turn away from ugly truths. We lie to ourselves. Ignore reality. We swim in a river of denial, choosing to jump in muddy waters, rather than wade deeper through the muck toward the truth. These are choices that we make to protect ourselves. That is not the same as being blinded by love. 

And sometimes our loved ones hurt us, lie to us, deceive us. Devastating truths are revealed. Being blindsided is not the same as being blinded by love.

"Love is not a feeling; it's an ability," young Marty (Felipe Dieppa) to his girlfriend's father, Dan (Steve Carell), in the 2007 movie, Dan in Real Life.

Marty's right. To love one another - truly love one another - is a skill. It is something we are not always going to get right. But we must practice and master it with open eyes, open minds, open hearts and open arms.

Before I go, I will leave you with two things:

A less scary version of me.

And my source material for this post.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8: Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

The under-achieving makeover

Oompa Loompa.

The Gene Wilder version, not Johnny Depp.

That's the best way to describe it. My face looked like that of an old-school Oompa Loompa. Actually, my face was the color of an Oompa Loompa.

Let me explain.

I've been in the mood to punch up my personal style a bit because I've been in a rut. My hair has been as stylish as a bird's nest and my make-up - or lack of it - reflects an un-me meh attitude.

So I got a haircut early yesterday morning with a new stylist at a salon I'd never been to before. Yes, I cheated on my regular stylist. It's not her, it's me. I haven't been communicating well with her. I haven't been trying to keep the magic alive. I put my personal needs above our shared needs. And I hate to admit it, but I liked the allure of someone new. I wanted to see what it was like.

... ahem ... Anyway ...

I brought in a picture of what I had in mind: I wanted to go short. My hair was a drab medium-length I-don't-know-what-I-want-so-let's-do-this boring middle-aged mom cut. And I was ready to be bold; to pull back the curtain that my hair was allowing me to hide behind and put this face front and center.

I kind of look like a boy now.

Okay, not really, but it was shorter than I had expected. But I like it. As does my husband, judging by the way he keeps kissing my neck.

Too much? Sorry.

Anyway, part 2 of sprucing up my look was to involve some make-up upgrades. So yesterday afternoon, I approached the make-up counter at a retailer and asked the saleslady if she could recommend a neutral-ish eye shadow for me, explaining that I don't wear much make-up, but would like an everyday shadow.

An hour and a half later, I looked like a native of Loompaland.

And I had spent $113.

Ouch.

Though I never mentioned being in the market for foundation, she immediately asked, "Is your face always so red?"

Um, no.

I suddenly felt self-conscious and I let her cake a thick coat of dark spackling paste all over my face. And the thing is, it looked good in the mirror ... in that lighting. So I let her work her magic.

But as soon as I joined my husband in the car - in normal daylight - and saw the what-the-heck-happened-to-you look on his face, I snapped down the passenger-side mirror and was horrified. Orange. I was orange.

Oompa Loompa. Except they actually have longer hair than I do now.

I should have known something was terribly wrong when I tried to smile and felt my face crack.

So, I am taking back the unused make-up I bought and getting a big chunk of money refunded. But I am keeping the eye shadow and the blush because they work at about one-quarter the amount she had painted on me. Considering how very little I actually need to use and the quality of the product, I will come out ahead financially in the long run.

The third leg of my spruce-me-up/treat-myself weekend was to involve the purchase of a new outfit. But I thought I would just quit while I was ahead, for fear of what my good intentions might end up costing me, both in cash and in appearance.

Because, while there is nothing wrong with wanting to improve oneself, sometimes we have to know when to leave well enough alone and just be happy. Just as we are.

"A woman whose smile is open and whose expression is glad has a kind of beauty no matter what she wears," - Anne Roiphe.

My only child

It started as soon as we started dating.

"When are you two going to get married?"

Family, friends, strangers all wanted to know when my now-husband/then-new-boyfriend would be ready for that next step. We felt the pressure. We gave in. ... five years later.

So of course, the next question was, "When are you two going to start a family?"

Feeling pinched, we succumbed to societal pressure on that expectation ... yep, five years later.

As soon as we brought our healthy newborn home, the questions rained down upon us. "So when is he getting a little brother or sister?"

Are you freaking kidding me?

Obviously we never gave in to the pressures from others to live our lives on their schedules. We have set our own pace and made our way as we agreed. Just the two of us. And then just the three of us.

And it has remained at three.

That's right: we are the parents of an only child.

An old friend I never see anymore once remarked that, "It's just cruel to only have one child."

Are you freaking kidding me? 

You know what's cruel? A lot of stuff. Stretch marks. Under eye crags. That they made a sequel to the movie Grown Ups. The lack of M&Ms at the bottom of an M&M Blizzard. That Paris Hilton seems classy compared to any one of the Kardashians. That new episodes of The Walking Dead don't come back on until October.

But being the parents to just one child is not one of those things.

Here's the thing: We're not writing The Official Field Guide to the Breeding Habits of Middle Aged Middle Class Mammals and so we don't owe anyone an explanation of our seemingly curious mating patterns. And now that I've gotten old, well, we don't get that question much any more anyway.

"If your parents never had children, chances are you won't either," Dick Cavett, who was being a smartass. Maybe that's why they named him Dick.

Anyway ...

People mean well. I'm being generous there. Because their "good intentions" imply that we are bad parents because we (me) didn't birth a daycare's worth of perpetual playmates for our son. That we are selfish in not adopting children in need. That we are not fulfilling our biblical duty to be fruitful and multiply. That we have denied our child his request for a sibling. (Please note: we do not allow children to dictate the family planning of the grown-ups. Plus, he never asked anyway.) There's a lot of assumption and judgement in there.

Defensive much?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Not only do they question my husband and me, but they ask my kid about it. That. Is. Not. Cool.

"Aren't you sad being an only child?" A woman I had just met asked my son this at a wedding reception recently. I was horrified that he had been put on the spot like that by this nosy stranger.

"Being an only child is awesome," was his not-missing-a-beat answer. "There's nothing sad about it." And that matter-of-factly and convincingly ended the conversation.

Smart one, that boy.

There are those who assume that he has only child syndrome ... you know, "spoiled and bratty." He's not. We are too poor to spoil him and we don't tolerate brattiness. He's articulate and well mannered. If he were an ass, I'd tell you.

He's not. He's cool.

A blogger I follow, Liz Owen, recently blogged about this herself. She is younger than I am and is just starting to field these intrusive questions. Bless her heart.

For us, the quick answer to "Are you going to have more children?" was always no, but it seemed to beg the follow-up, but why? The fact is, we don't need to detail the miscarriage, the high-risk pregnancy, the devastating postpartum depression, the conflicting medical advice, the long-term economic consequences of repeated job losses. Some things are just personal.

What I will say with all sincerity and to anyone who feels utterly compelled to ask is that when we brought that baby home more than 14 years ago, my husband and I both agreed:

This family is complete.

Summer serendipity

"I'm having a good summer."

My son just said that to me. I'm glad for him. It's important that a kid have a good summer, after all. It's a culturally sanctioned break. He gets to sleep in, play video games, read, play golf, hang out with friends, swim, and just kind of bum around if he wants. He has structured things to do, like band rehearsals, chores, music lessons and such. But for the most part, his time is his to spend as he wishes.

All too soon his summers will be about earning money for a car and then for college ... and then his summers will become just another season in a busy, grown-up year.

Like mine.

There is no summer break for me or my husband. We both work and our jobs are year-round. We do take vacation days, but not for months - or a season - at a time. And besides, if given the option, I wouldn't go with a summer break anyway. I'm a fall kind of girl. I love, love, love everything about autumn.

Truth be told, I usually kinda hate summer.

Yes, I said it: Hate. Summer. Me.

I want to like summer - barbecues, flowers, fireflies. But it usually turns on me in a cruel way.

"Ah summer. what power you have to make us suffer and like it," - Russell Baker.

For example:

Summer burns my skin. I don't tan. Nor do I care to. (In fact, it's not 1977 anymore and you shouldn't care about tanning either. You're going to look like a leather purse if you don't stop tanning. For real.) No matter how much sunscreen I apply, my freckles glow after only moments in the summer sun. They're like icicle-style holiday lights left hanging on the gutter of a trailer: they're there all year long, but really light up for the season.

Summer makes me sweat. It gets unreasonably hot and humid here in the summer. As I recall from a meteorologist I talked to in college (which was approximately 110 years ago), the part of southern Indiana I live in, the Ohio River Valley, is part of a subtropical band of weather. Meaning it's crazy hot and humid here in the summer even though it's technically the Midwest. An example: each of the three times I've been to Miami, Fla., it's been hotter and more humid at home than in Miami. Than in Miami.

The oppressive heat pushes me indoors much the same way winter cold does. And so cabin fever sets in twice a year. The crunch of drought-addled grass and prematurely withered flowers is just as soul-crushing as the leafless tree branches of winter.

Summer brings bugs ... and other stuff. Little bugs. Big bugs. Lots and lots of bugs. I don't like bugs. Or snakes. Or lizards. Or spiders ... which I know are bugs, but I'm just reiterating that I'm not a fan.

A front porch visitor from a few summers ago. He was about 3.5 inches in length. Pic was snapped by a shrieking me just before my friend's husband "relocated" the visitor.

I know these critters serve their purpose on this earth. And apparently that purpose is making a run for the inside of my house. Currently there is a lizard that is so big I am pretty sure it's actually a baby dinosaur (the kind that eats meat) that darts in and out of my garage, making for some hurried, horrified encounters as I take trash out through the Jurassic Park section of my mortgaged square footage.

Summer fashions are not my fave. I love Capri pants, but other than that, I prefer the color palette - and layered coverage - of fall fashions. Maybe it's because summer clothes can be generally less than flattering. In the last week, I've been to a water park and a beach. There's not enough bleach in the world to scrub the fleshy images that have been seared into my mind's eye. Look, I'm all about comfort in your own skin - I've said as much - but there comes a time when you have to put the bikini away. That time is sooner than a lot of women realize.

So basically I tolerate summer, much the same way others tolerate winter. Just as they pine for spring each winter, I wish away the summer days for the relief of fall.

Except this year.

Much like my son, I have to admit I'm having a good summer. It's winning me over.

It's not been as horribly hot so far. In fact it's been downright tolerable. I've actually been able to enjoy the outdoors. Even if it blazes in the next few weeks, it still will have been noticeably cooler than the 100-plus-degree temps of this time last year.

It has rained. The last couple of years, we suffered terrible droughts, and this year, not so much. The grass is lush, flowers are thriving and I know farmers are happy.

Nighttime view of the cornfield across from my house.

I went to my happy place. That place is north. For the second year in a row, we went to Michigan and enjoyed the beauty of Lake Michigan. So many people I know head to southern beaches this time of year, but me? I have found my bliss on the soft, cool sands of the great lake. Yes, the water is cold this time of year, but I do not go there to swim (my business does not dip where the fish do their business). I go there to relax, to feel cool air on my skin, to hear the crash of the waves, and dig into a good book.

It only takes us a little more than six hours to get there, and I love knowing it's so close in case I just need to break away and catch my breath.

Wear a hoodie to the beach? Yes, please!

This was a quick trip - just three days - but we had a blast together as a family. And we made a point of watching the sun set on the lake each evening.

Sunset on Lake Michigan from the beach in Holland, Mich.

Because for all its faults, summer always comes through with its long days. Days that greet us with an early glow and stretch out, lingering past the onset glitter of fireflies ... days too often spent in the rush and hubbub of everyday, grown-up life. Maybe I've been too hard on summer all along, just focusing on the negative.

All this time, it has offered a fabulous show every evening - over lakes, cornfields, highways, backyards - if only I take the time to stop and watch.

It started with a kiss

This is a landmark year for my husband and me. In October, we will celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. But even before that - in just a couple of days, on July 1 - we will mark the 25-year anniversary of our very first kiss. We consider that the beginning of it all.

Take a minute to look back: July 1, 1988. That was a long time ago. He was 18 and I was several months older at 19. Just kids, really. The local radio stations had Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar on Me (ah, sweet poetry) on constant rotation, though Cheap Trick's The Flame was the number-one song that week. Big was in theaters; Coming to America was just released.

That summer, young folks were wearing acid-washed jeans. Mullets were at their peak (they have peaked, by the way ... so um, if you or someone you love still has one, please remove it). Girls had curly perms, big bangs and bad Sun In highlights.

And I had met a boy.

By late June, we had become good friends. He was painfully shy and I ... wasn't. So on that particular summer night, the first of July, when I'd had a hard time reading him or understanding his intentions, I just flatly asked him more out of curiosity than anything, "Are you going to kiss me tonight?"

"Maybe," he said.

Spoiler alert: He did.

We were opposites personality-wise, and we really didn't have a lot in common. But I made him laugh and he made me feel peaceful. We started dating and, well, a quarter of a century later, here we are: still balancing, complementing ... yes, completing ... one another.

We don't really "celebrate" this anniversary anymore. We'll just kind of take note on Monday, "Oh yeah. That's right." We'll smile about it and move on with our days. In October, we will celebrate our wedding anniversary in some way, even if it's just dinner out together.

Still, it's worth pausing to remember that the little things - a kiss, for example - can have the biggest impact.

And change everything.

Wednesday worries

"Worry is a misuse of imagination." - Dan Zadra

My mind has been racing lately. I've had trouble sleeping; it's like my pillow is made of rocks. Aches are creeping up, pulling at my shoulders, ratcheting my neck, pain searing into the back of my skull. My attention flits and darts like a cat chasing a red laser dot on the wall (which is awesome to watch for entertainment, but hard for a girl to get through the day productively). Focus is difficult.

I try to be positive. I try to be upbeat. I try to show gratitude. 

But sometimes ... not often ... but sometimes ... I worry.

It's all the usual stuff: finances, family, friends, the house, the car, sickness, world peace, projects, the future, the past ... blah, blah, blah. 

Intellectually I know it is useless to worry. I also think it's selfish to worry and I often tell those I love who are worried to stop writhing, wallowing in self-consumption and worthless conjecture. Worry darkens our minds, chasing the light away.

I tell my loved ones to turn their worries over to God.

And I mean it.

Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times in every way. The Lord be with you all. - 2 Thessalonians 3:16 

So why am I so lousy at taking my own advice?

<thinking>

<thinking>

... I got nothin' ...

But I will choose to take my own advice and turn over these troubles -real and imagined - to a higher power.  

I will stop fretting. 

I will instead do something productive and proactive these next few days to add a little light to a world that feels like it is closing in sometimes. I will say a prayer for someone in duress who has been on my mind. I will show my appreciation to someone who has been a help to me. I will give a heartfelt compliment to someone who could use a kind word. I will remind my son that he is awesome. I will kiss my hubs on the lips, even if I am in a hurry to get out the door in the morning. As I pass by, I will stop to scratch a cat - or a dog - behind the ear. I will let someone go in front of me in line at the McDonald's drive through.

Actually, I do these sorts of things all the time without giving them much thought. I'm really a great person. Seriously, I rock.

But now I will make a concerted effort to do these little kindnesses with a purpose. Doing so will hopefully add a little brightness to someone's day. 

And in short time, the darkness of my worries will fade into the light.

"Blessed is the influence of one true, loving human soul on another" - George Eliot