Whistler's Mother

Let me start out by saying, I will be 50 something in a couple of months. I've been told that I look younger. I chose to believe people when they say that, because I'm always grasping for straws of hope that age hasn't caught up with me yet. But actually it's probably because I don't have that "put together look" that most women learn by now. Anyways, I dress for comfort and warmth.  And I'm feeling and looking old. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of wearing clothes that don't flatter.  I look at my dismal wardrobe and think, "What was I thinking?"

So after watching a mountain of episodes of the program, "What Not to Wear" and several marathons of "Say Yes to the Dress" and rushing home every Thursday to watch my favorite program "Project Runway," I've come to learn the magical powers of the empire waist.  I've learned what an A-line skirt can do for the legs. I learned that wearing baggy clothing to hide your body backfires. I learned that any size woman can find clothes that make her look terrific. I learned the meaning of the flattering silhouette, proportion, styling, and couture.

So after a few months of experimentation, I'm buying things I never would have even looked at before. I went sleeveless for the first time this summer.  I bought my first sandals. Sandals that show my feet and toes. Egads!  I try everything on and if it doesn't look absolutely fabulous on me, I won't buy it. Not even if it is 60% off!

I straightened my curly hair.  It's actually pretty long. My stomach got flatter when I figured out what foods made me feel inflamed and got rid of them. I still need to start an exercise program, but girl, I've been saying that for three, four, five decades.

Compliments are nice to hear again. People ask me if I have lost weight. Not an ounce. But miracle upon miracles, I got whistled at and not by the 70-year-old, old dude down the street.  I haven't been whistled at in 25 years. I got whooped at too.   Hells Bells!

Men, again, look me over instead of look over me. It's a nice nod to my ego, but since I've been working on reaching an ego-less state, the effect was negligible.  Plus for some inexplicable reason, I found I didn't really miss or even want that kind of attention. I forgot what it felt like to be given a USDA meat grade upon inspection. It's disconcerting. I'm definitely not Prime nor Choice. Hoping for the Select cut. But now, I only want to be selected by my one and only man.

I never thought I would get noticed in that way again. I knew the wolf whistling days were way, way over.  Apparently, the key here is flattering clothes and - great distance.  At a distance (at least a half a block) I look effin' hot!

But it's hard to keep it all up. It's easy to go back to the comfort of my sweats or baggy jeans. Been in them again for about a month. But I plan to keep it up and have my eye on revamping my winter wardrobe.

The last guy that drove by and whistled was rather young. He stuck his body out of the car waving his hands. I just shook my head, perturbed that he couldn't tell the difference and yelled for him to get a pair of glasses.

I was old enough to be that whistler's mother.

Father's Day - The Emotional Roller-coaster Ride of Manhood

Go over to the Spin Cycle. Topic is Father's Day.  Enjoy all the great reads.


Father's Day was a hoot. I know of five arguments that broke out that day. Some serious, some not so serious, but it made for a really weird weekend. It emphasized how stressed out everyone is, especially the men in the family.

I feel sorry for guys sometimes. I was brought up in the "knight in shining armor" era, a fantasy held by many young women of my age. While my man was courting me, I fell in love with him because he was funny, brilliant, and talented. He did so many things well. Maybe that's why I thought he could fix anything and everything. Geez, wasn't he a husband and dad, a man ready to take on all problems and solve them.

Men come home to the news that a pipe busted, the refrigerator stopped working, the car broke down, or the sewer backed up. Then all eyes in his loving family look to him to fix it.

"What do you mean you don't know what you are doing? You're A Man."

And if you don't have the extra cash to pay for large repairs, men will get down and dirty and learn by doing, bitching and swearing all the way, coming up for air, red-faced, venting about the hour they just spent trying to dislodge a part that just won't budge.

We learn that they are as vulnerable and as fallible as we are. When reality pushed my fantasy aside, I realized we were in it together.  Together sounded good, fair and even empowering. How fair was it for me to think he could fix everything that went wrong in my life, just because he was the lead man in the family?

I realized that most men are really just the boys their mamas and daddys raised. Men need their women just as much as women need their men. In the beginning, we are all just inexperienced grown up kids before we become wise old farts.

Father's Day is usually a very nice day with events celebrating all the dads in our family. This weekend was an exception. It was a very weird weekend.

My brother-in-law picked a fight with my sister because, well, it was Father's Day.

My other brother-in-law picked a fight with my other sister, because, it was Father's Day.

My mother-in-law and her son, my husband, exchanged a few heated words. It was about to become a full emotional blow out but luckily cooler heads prevailed when the subject was changed. They let it go.

I thought I was going to have an argument with my hubby, when I told him he should apologize to his mum. But he would have nothing to do with it. He refused to budge on his position and I really couldn't argue with him, because he was basically right. Argument averted. Yeah.

My brother-in-law tried again and decided to pick a fight with the rest of his extended family via email accusing us of not doing enough in the care of our elders. We did not take the bait.

As my generation gets older, new responsibilities begin to emerge. As our parents age or pass away, sons everywhere are endowed with the title of Head of the Family. It's is a hard one to resolve sometimes, I suspect. I also suspect that the enormity of that bring men in any family down.

For some, this is the first year without their dads.

Several with mothers with latter stages of depression, Alzheimer's, and lung disease. Without adequate funds and no females family members, it's sometimes hard to cope emotionally with the highly personal task of caregiver and all that the job entails. They are stuck and want to escape, but can't.

So Father's Day, a day celebrating men and fatherhood. This particular Father's Day was a day full of problems with the women in their lives. They don't want the title of being patriarch of the family, that belonged to their dear departed fathers. There is a lot of guilt, stress and melancholy when dealing with their moms. They have to step in and take over the roles of their fathers, becoming their mothers' advocates, care-giver, financial advisor, and sometimes, her companion.

Stressed out fathers? Yes.
Feel like celebrating Father's Day today.  No.

Mother #3 - Just Doesn't Count

This week's Spin Cycle is all about Mother's Day.  A day I have coveted from afar.

I've been a mother for 23 years come September. And I can tell you that it hasn't been enough.  I've been bemoaning my rather "dormant" status for a few years now. Beloved, a grown person, has grand plans for the future, and they unfortunately have very little to do with his parents.  **sigh.**

Mother's Day - My vision.

The sun streams through the window and illuminates the ivory satin sheets on my bed.  The smell of coffee and bacon wafts under the bedroom door which serves to rouse me further.  The sounds of breakfast are coming from the kitchen.  I hear my husband's voice kidding with the kids (I wanted three) as they make breakfast makes me smile.

Soon everyone is in the room showering me with kisses and lots of "I love you mommy" hugs.  After breakfast we laze in bed together talking and deciding what we will do to commemorate this wonderful day.  I look forward to a Sunday where I get to do and enjoy whatever I want.

I'm running through a field of wildflowers with my children. A picnic lunch is set up ahead in a clearing under a tree.  Ice cream will be involved at one point.......

Screeeeeeeech!  Snap!  Flip, flip, flip.  Stop the film.  Editing!  **sigh**



Ladies and gentleman I am what you would call a third mother.  In a family dominated by strong women and a few weak ones, a mater hierarchy has been established.

Numero Uno - My Mom.

Deux - My Mother In Law

Third - Me.

Mother's Day is a Sunday like any other.  Take my Mom to church.  Run home pick up hubby and child and return to my Mom's for loving big family get together to honor our mother, then off to my mother in law's (an hour drive) to honor her motherhood.  A very long day.

In the past, I have warned both these women that one Mother's Day, I will stay home all day to celebrate my motherhood.  But it was a bluff.  I never did it.  I no longer care about my position on the mother totem pole.

Numero Uno and Deux are getting up there in age and the Mother's Days with both of them are becoming more and more dear to me. So off I go to buy a corsage for mom to wear for church and a miniature rose plant for my MIL.  Have a great day you mothers.

So go to Sprite's Keeper for more spins about the whole Mother's Day experience.

Will the Real Me, Please Stand Up, Please Stand Up

It's supposed to be about ME.  Jen at Sprite"s Keeper assignment was to write something about myself.

Well after years of living with me, I've finally realized a few things.  I can tell you who I was.  I guess I'm pretty much the same person, expect a little wiser, a little more retrospect, a lot less angst.

ME, ME, Me, Me, Me, me, me.  


See that little me there at the end of the line.  That's the me I like to be.  Hopefully no one will notice me.  At least not too much.  It rare to be the middle me, but that is who I play most of the day. The big me, no way, no how. Okay, maybe when I'm really mad, then big Scary ME comes out.  But is there a big vivacious ME? No.  I like the middle, balance you know.

I'm a lazy woman but only when it comes to housework.  Give me a project, work assignment, a job doing for others, cleaning someone else's home and I'm a dynamo. I'm an overachiever. I'll go beyond  the call of duty. I'll think of every contingency, complete the task in lightening speed, stay until its done or obliterate every speck of dust.

Apparently I am in need of a lot of approval.  I guess I do need to be noticed, and I get it through the work I do.  It seems I need people to say good job, great presentation, the house never looked better. See that, I redirected your gaze at my work, not at me.  Good job.

Here is one example of things I won't do for myself but will for someone else.

Like most women my age, I should lose weight.  I should get more exercise.  I want to be a healthier, a stealthier me. But will I do that for myself?  No, it's not convenient right now.  I don't feel it right now. I don't have the motivation the drive. All the excuses or permissions I give myself not to work out.

Well now I am dog-sitting Smokey.  And guess what?  Smokey usually lives with my 80 year old parents, so I know he doesn't get the exercise he needs to burn off  extra energy or to keep healthy.  So in my quest to do a great job, to do for someone or something else, to prove that I am the best dog-sitter in the world, Smokey walks every day for a mile and a half and we walk fast.

Every. Single. Effin. Day.  And we both reap the benefits.

So me apparently needs to be needed to be the best me I can.

Now give yourself a hug and go to Sprite's Keeper to read more wonderful ME stories

Aging - One Lemon, One Lemonade

One Lemonade:

I've worn glasses since the first grade. I'm very nearsighted and my eyesight has progressively gotten worse over the years. My range of vision has gotten shorter and shorter that I feel more comfortable taking off my glasses and bringing whatever I'm working on right up to my nose.

But aging also means that now I need bifocals. Stupid aging. I hate you. I can't bring things right up to my nose anymore. I loathe the whole bifocal experience. But when I remove my glasses, my range of clear vision is now at a range of only 5 inches to 10 inches from my face.

QueenMaker is farsighted and also needs reading glasses. But because of that stupid aging thing, his range has diminished quite a bit as well. His range of clear vision is from 24 to 30 inches.

After hugging me the other day, he extended his arms and held me far enough away so he could see me clearly.


Me: You mean you can't see me clearly?

QM: Nope, can't see you at all. I mean I can see you, but not clearly.

Me: You mean that you can't see my face. It's blurry?

QM: Right. You have to be at least two feet away before I can see your face clearly.

Me: You mean no matter how old I look, you can't see the wrinkles or lines on my face?

QM: Right. Not up close at least. And really, not far away either because at 24 o 30 inches your facial features aren't as prominent at that distance. It's like you have a soft filter on your face.

Me: You mean like in the movies? That means you will always see me in your mind's eye as I was, not as I am. I will always be youthful and beautiful, with a soft glow. 

QM: I guess that's true. 

Me: Yahoo! What a perk. That makes me so happy. I could be an old hag, with a giant pimple or wart on my nose and you wouldn't know the difference would you?

QM: No. But I'm sure someone would warn me or something.

Me: Yahoo! Just think of it. You can't see me aging and I can't really see you aging either. That takes a load of my mind. I will from this time forward be timeless.


I danced merrily out of the room to look for a mirror.



One Lemon - When lemonade gets turned back into sour lemons, the flip-side.

My 49 year old sister who SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER, decided to go sledding with her 11 year old daughter. Everything went well the first five runs down the hill until on the sixth, when her sled hit a giant bump. She landed on her tailbone and compressed three of her disks. She is in agony.

Apparently it is a common injury that could have been very serious, in some cases causing paralysis. After some research on the internet, she said, "I should have checked the internet first before I went sledding."

Shouldn't we all check with the internet before we do anything?

Seriously. As a middle aged woman, shouldn't she know that speeding uncontrollably down a hill is never a good idea? Doesn't she remember that summer when her rollerblades caught the edge of a driveway and sent her hurdling forward, cracking both elbows? She had to wear casts that rendered her helpless. She walked around with her arms in a perpetual, "This is a hold up! Hands in the air!" kind of position. She couldn't feed, dress, or wipe herself for weeks.


Remember people. The body hates impact. It will make you pay.



So if you’re into high impact or prefer softer speed bumps, sled on over to Keely’s, oh sorry, I mean Bitchin' Wives Club, for some high speed and invigorating Random Tuesday Thoughts, but put your glasses on first.

Silly Me. What Middle Aged Tween Years?

For the last two years, I have been grappling with the Mom Missing It stage and finally started embracing my Middle Age Tweeness, you know, between mom and grandma. I am only fifty years old after all and still young enough to enjoy many new things. I was looking forward to a carefree, rediscovery of myself. I thought I had all the time to pamper myself, renew old hobbies, rejuvenate connections with friends and sisters, and throw in a little travel. How naïve am I?

Little red warning signs started popping up. The first flag appeared about six months ago, nothing to really get worried about, just a sign of things to come years in the future. Or so I thought. But now they appear monthly. Although my role of Mom is on hold or on permanent hiatus, and my role of grandmother doesn’t seem to be coming around anytime soon, I still have one role that I had been taking for granted lately, a role that seemed fairly carefree and easy thus far, the role of daughter.

I’m finding out that the Tween years also means between children and parents. My parents are 78 and 80 years old and are still independent. They were always highly active people and are just now slowing down. They try to avoid driving at night and mom is showing signs of real fatigue because of her asthma. Luckily there are five children in our family, so we share in keeping them occupied and entertained.

Queen Maker’s 75-year-old mom has COPD, and her husband is 71 years of age. Both have been inactive for years becoming feeble fast and increasingly need of help in running a household. Last week, my mother-in-law ran into the lid of the dishwasher when she was loading it. It tore a huge gash in her leg. Because of the steroids and medications she takes for her condition, her skin has become very thin. It doesn’t take much for her to sustain a wound and unfortunately her wounds are always major ones now.

Her husband called us in a panic around nine o’clock in the evening. He couldn’t help her to the chair or to the car to take her to the hospital. Queen Maker told him to call 911. But hearing the panic in his voice, we drove the hour to get to them, fretting the whole way. She managed to stop the bleeding, and they were debating and unsure on whether to sit three to four hours in an emergency room and asked us to make the decision for them. I looked closely at her leg and realized I was looking at fat cells and muscle. No question we should go.

Before making the trip to the hospital she needed to refill her portable oxygen tank. It of course decided not to function. Taking her without her oxygen was out of the question. The alternative was to call an ambulance, but then afterwards, how would she get home without her tank. She was adamant that she couldn’t go without her oxygen; that sitting in an emergency room for hours was stupid and besides the bleeding had stopped. Then she realized that she couldn’t sit with a lot of sick people because of her COPD. She was in full panic attack mode.

It is now eleven o’clock and ignoring their protests (they hate to bother anyone), I immediately call the oxygen company. I got a human being. Amazing. She connected me to a tech in the field. Hope. Ignoring their protests, I call her doctor’s office and found out the office was open the next day, Saturday, for emergency care only. Great. So the decision was made. The tech would bring a machine in the morning (or I would hunt him down like a dog) and my in laws would go to her doctor’s office in the morning instead. I bandaged her leg to cover the wound, keeping my worries about infection to myself.

Because I was so worried, I chastised them. First, I told them, they needed to create a larger support group. They may need the immediate help of neighbors, especially if my father in law can’t help his wife off the floor. In a real emergency, swallow your pride and enlist the help of neighbors if need be. Secondly, my father in law’s daughter lives much closer than we do and works at Beaumont Hospital. Although their relationship is not as close, it was no excuse. Make her part of your support team. It would make driving that hour less stressful. Thirdly, I looked at my father in law, who lately is refusing to exercise, or walk, or do anything to keep his vitality, most likely due to depression over the deteriorating health of his wife, and told him, “Exercise.” He should at least maintain his strength to be able to help her the two feet to a chair for goodness sake! He was their first line of defense and he should be ready for it.

This event shook me to the core. My eyes have been opened. I saw what old age was going to be. It could be like my parents or like my husband’s parents and it was only a mere twenty years away. I am guilty of inactivity, of laziness, of constantly saying I was going to do something about maintaining my own strength. This has motivated me to start core strength training now.

I also realized that my time as a Middle Aged Tween was highly limited. I was fantasizing about all the time I had. How silly. Life’s reality has a way of pushing fantasy back to where it belongs. I see it coming. In the near future, I will be devoted in maintaining and caring for our parents’ home and health and eventually taking care of them full time. Actually for some people there are no Tween years, just moving from children that need you to parents that need you.

I got a big reality check, but I will endeavor to enjoy my teeny, weenie, Tween year as long as it lasts.

Middle Aged Tween

Check UnMom for some totally Random Tuesday Thoughts.

Since I recently discovered that my life is beautiful and that I am happy, I find that I want to do everything. I want to have contact. I want to see places. I want to go out to lunch. I want to go to go see the Grand Canyon. I want to visit my son at his job, an exquisite little tearoom on top of a bookstore, and have tea and crumpets. I want to take my elderly parents on a trip they would enjoy. I want to go to have a party. I want to hang out with the women I know. I want to start a club. I want to talk to my sisters and brother, hang out, and eat pecan sandies. I want to help Queenmaker reach his goals. I want to help Beloved reach his goals. I want the new nieces and nephews to know who I am. I want to learn to play the piano. I want to write a book. I want to take pictures. I want to feel. I want to experience. I want, I want, I want.

I feel like a Middle Aged Tween. Tweens dream a lot and want a lot. That’s where I am today. I am between being a mom and a grandmother. At first I was a little down about it, the fact that I don’t hear the word Mom as often as I want. I suspect I have about five to six years before I’m tagged as a grandma. But my attitude has changed, a paradigm shift has happened. Here is an opportunity of a lifetime, an opportunity for a lot of me time. A new chapter in life is afoot. I should be going nuts.

Is this the time for me to wear outrageous outfits, wear clothes much too young for me, get a younger haircut, and shed those pounds and work on strengthening my core? Is this the time that I finally get my own style, my own rhythm? I should travel and explore the world. If only I had the bucks. Aaah, there’s the rub. Just like tweens, I want a lot and dream a lot, but usually we’re stuck in between some thing and some place and can’t get anywhere.

Time is getting short people! I need to get on the move now. I’ve got five years or so before I become Grandma. The young woman still in me needs to bust out. I need to move. I need to grove. I want to be a diva!

Wait, Queenmaker is informing me that it’s called a mid-life crisis. No, I am not in a crisis. I am in discovery. So, I’m renaming it. I’m a Middle Aged Tween.