Stepping Back

We moms are always ready to spring into action. When we see or hear something concerning, we jump. We aim to meet the need, right the wrong, soothe the heartache. This becomes who we are FOR LIFE. We don’t ever graduate from being moms. The role stays with us, forever.   

So when my friend called the other day because she was stewing over a conflict her daughter shared, I could feel her distress. She was not only upset for her daughter but her maternal instinct to get involved was ignited. Isn’t this what we moms do?

But the reality is times have changed. Going to her daughter’s aid would have been a no-brainer 30, 20, even possibly 10 years ago. My friend’s daughter is in her mid-30s. She has a job and along with her husband supports their family. She owns a house and a car. She herself is a mom.

It would have been the most natural act in the world for my friend to work her magic in an attempt to manage the situation. She even offered to make a phone call on behalf of her daughter, who politely but forcefully told her to stay out of it, because “I’m an adult and it’s my life.” Ouch. That stung, but my friend understood and respected her daughter’s point of view.

And so she called me, because she knew I’d get it. Learning how to transition to this period of watching our kids from the sidelines – after decades of guiding them through life – is not an easy feat. We are proud to see them successful and are happy they have become independent. We are glad they want to figure out life on their own, as we did.    

Yet, that instinct to parent doesn’t go away. We still care about them as we always have. The fact that we know the expectation now is for us to step back doesn’t change our innate reaction to wanting to do something to minimize their discomfort or help solve a problem.    

I’ve been in my friend’s shoes, as have all of us. There’s not one mom I know who has not had to grapple with keeping silent when she felt compelled to say or do something. We are not trying to meddle; we are just doing what comes naturally. Our kids may not fully understand this now, but they will when they reach our phase of life. Until then, we will do our best to wait until our assistance is requested.

Indigo Girls

Every time I go to a live music performance, I struggle with the same question: Should I? or Shouldn’t I… buy a T-shirt? 

It’s kind of ridiculous dilemma given I may have only bought one concert shirt in my life that I can  recall, and that was in the 1970s when I vaguely remember an orange T-shirt from either a Chicago concert at the Spectrum or the Stanley Cup parade on Broad Street. At last year’s Dave Matthews Band concert, with the biggest selection of T-shirts I had ever seen at a show and a line of fans to match, I decided I was done wasting time thinking about the T-shirt, picking one out, deciding I probably wouldn’t wear it anyway and then leaving without one.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see the singer-songwriter duo Indigo Girls - Emily Saliers and Amy Ray - for who knows how many times, with my girlfriend who had never seen them before. David turned me on to this band some 25 years ago, and I’ve loved them ever since. Their voices are strong and mighty, their harmonizing so pleasing to my soul and their lyrics about life, love and the state of the world powerful and beautifully expressed. For me, they have it all, and I listen to them constantly in my car. In the days leading up to the concert, my friend played thier music to familiarize herself, and her son mentioned they were the lesbian band of the 80s when she said she was going, which was hardly news today but surely was back then.  

Before we got to the concert, I reminded myself NO SHIRT! I felt liberated to be among fans enjoying the anticipation of the show without getting caught up in the marketing hype. However, once we found our seats, my friend announced that SHE wanted to buy a T-shirt! 

I laughed to myself thinking thank goodness I am over this, but of course I walked around with her from kiosk to kiosk to find the right shirt for her. We found a selection of 3 shirts she could choose from: 1 – black with a cobalt blue design, 2 – eggshell colored with sketches that I couldn’t decipher without my glasses and 3 – a gray tank-style shirt with Emily and Amy’s faces which would fall where her breasts would be, so I vetoed that.

As we stood in line talking about which of the shirts she liked most, I found myself wavering, once again…Should I get one too? It would be so fun to have the same shirt…I've always been drawn to the whole "twins" concept. And then I did it. I succumbed to the urge…and walked away from the kiosk with the black and blue one in hand, just like my girlfriend.  

I don’t know why this concert was different - why I finally bought a T-shirt - but, for some reason, I didn’t overthink it; I just went with my gut: I want to bring this T-shirt home. 

When Emily and Amy took their places on stage, I sat back in anticipation, grateful for the opportunity to soak in the sheer delight of hearing their voices in person once again.

And then something unexpected happened. When Emily started to sing that first song, "Power of Two," her voice sounded unsteady. Off. At first, I thought she needed a better warm up, to clear her throat, or maybe take a deep breath if she struggles with stage fright. But with every second, I knew something was not right.

I did what I usually do: I texted David about it. And he did what he usually does: he googled it and saw she was recently diagnosed with 2 incurable movement disorders that impact her voice: cervical dystonia, which causes involuntary neck shaking, and an essential tremor, which prevents structural vocal control. 

After the initial shock, I listened to the music with different ears and a different heart - not with the joy of the past - with more compelling emotions. I felt sadness for Emily to have lost her ability to rely on the voice that was once so robust and likely tied to her identity, amazement at her bravery in continuing to perform despite enormous challenges, and gratitude for all those glorious concerts I got to see.  

I was certain there was a reason fate drove me to buy the shirt, and when I read David’s text, I knew why. And I've already worn it twice.

Mother's Day 2026

I cherished the relationship I had with my mom – most of the time. One of her traits that I appreciated most when I was young was that she was very honest. I always knew where I stood with her. If she liked something I said or did, she was all in. If she didn’t approve, she let me know. Although we disagreed in certain situations, only my short bouts of teenage craziness caused a breakdown in communication.

When I reached my 20s, we began to experience more substantial issues and differences of opinion. While we would talk about them openly and honestly, these exchanges often left us in a weird space: one with air that was thick and with feelings that could not be resolved quickly. Our once harmonious dynamic changed and our disagreements became standstills. I struggled so much when we weren’t in sync because I was a mama’s girl. I was trying to navigate my life my way while at the same time longing for us to get back to normal.

Part of the problem, the way I see it now, was that our pattern of communication was all-or-nothing. We’d either talk about the matter, or we wouldn’t talk at all. My mom would get so focused on the conflict(s) that there was no room for casual dialogue. And because we lived an hour apart, both worked and I was raising children, we didn’t get the opportunity to see each other one-on-one or to clear the air.    

There were instances when we wrote letters to one another, but I often lacked the words – or a clear understanding of my own emotions, or hers – so I’m not sure those letters helped as much as we had hoped and may in fact have been harmful.

At that point in my life, the fragility of relationships didn’t enter my mind, nor did I realize that a tender touch in the midst of these rough periods could be reassuring and meaningful. It wasn’t until thinking about Mother’s Day this year that I started to replay some of those memories when my mom and I didn’t talk much because neither of us knew how to find our way out of the maze of hard feelings. It makes me so sad to reflect upon it now, because she was my favorite human in the world, and I didn’t tell her when she needed to hear it most.

Moments like this make me think about the role texting might have played in our relationship. I know she would have appreciated “reminder” messages during the dark times we experienced that said, “Thinking of you, missing you, let’s move on or I know things are tough between us right now but they will get better.” Or maybe I’d have sent emojis with hearts or flowers or the sun or photos of her grandchildren.

Back then, there was no easy way to stay connected other than calling one’s landline, and I don’t think I’d have braved the loud silence to say, “While we work through this, know I love you.”  Even now, that gesture feels awkward to me; however, sending cheerful images feels natural. These texts wouldn’t have been a replacement for conversation, but they may have brought warmth to those difficult stretches and served to bridge the gap until the situation between us softened. And, I know they would have lifted my mom’s spirits because beneath her strong exterior, she was very sentimental, gentle and loving.

Hopefully I will incorporate what I’ve learned about my relationship with my mom in a beneficial way with all the important people in my life.

I Remember When

Driving home from my workout last week, an intense desire to gorge myself came over me. I wanted an Italian hoagie, a big steak and a million chocolate covered almonds. David was out of town, so I could have had any or all of those treats without fear of judgment. But, since I just came from the gym, I decided on a healthy, high protein, immediately accessible option: a rotisserie chicken from Sprouts.

The aroma of the rotisserie chickens was heavenly from the second I entered the market. I couldn’t wait to dig in. I envisioned placing the whole glorious bird on a plate in front of my seat at the kitchen table, with a fork and knife that I might or might not use. Call me a scavenger but so be it; I’d be a happy one. My pescatarian husband being away was a relief; I had no desire to witness his reaction to my uncivilized attack on the chicken in its natural form, which I knew he would find extremely distasteful.  

As I opened the front door of my house, I was suddenly transported back to life with SheaDoggy. The smell receptors in his nose were off the charts when I’d walk in with a rotisserie chicken. He would turn into a crazy little man, a demon doggy – and while I couldn’t even walk to the kitchen without his jumping on me a dozen times, pulling at the shopping bag, running in circles, squealing and carrying on, I got such pleasure seeing that precious furry child of ours so joyful.

Sometimes I wanted to put the whole chicken in front of him to let him have a go at it, but I was afraid he’d make himself sick, and then I’d end up in the doggy ER. Instead, I’d stand at the sink, cut it up and drop it in his bowl as quickly as I could so he wouldn’t start freaking out again. Initially I sat down to have the meal with him, but that was a ridiculous expectation on my part that he would stay calm while I planned for us to enjoy the meal together. While I liked treating our pup like a king every now and then, this frenzied routine was a relief when it was over; however, the memory of it many years later made my day.  

Good memories are wonderful gifts. They replay ordinary, everyday moments – not especially significant at the time – and, with the right trigger, allow us to remember, to laugh, to relive that feeling once again.    

 

 

Hello, Stranger!

When my granddaughter Zoey and I were at the local library one day after school, I saw a woman standing with a little girl, who I assumed was her daughter. Since the girls looked around the same age, and were shyly checking each other out, I introduced myself to the mom as the grandmom (no kidding) and she told me her name. Turns out the girls had seen each other in school, so they went off to play and mom and I sat down, a couple of seats apart, to keep our eyes on them.   

In times like this – 2 strangers within speaking distance – I often weigh whether it’s OK to make conversation or it’s NOT OK and better to assume the other person would rather be left alone. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with the quiet; it’s that I see the opportunity to chat with someone new and possibly make a connection, which is always fun for me. Sometimes I hear David’s words echo in my ear: “Why do you always feel you have to talk to ‘random’ people?” which makes me think twice but usually I proceed anyway.

On this day at the library, I decided to do what I wanted to do – after all, it was my birthday!  I asked mom if they visit the library often, since I had never seen them before. In a way, it sounded like the infamous pick-up line: “Do you come here often?” but it was an appropriate question given the scenario. Her response was so pleasant, and she was very happy to talk. She said they had recently moved to this area from Oregon and didn’t know many people but both she and her daughter love the library, especially on the monthly Book Club days. I had no idea that this library had a Book Club for little ones! She then filled me in on all the details and told me to sign up online if interested. I decided to talk to Zoey and her parents about it later.      

Zoey seemed very excited. When the next Book Club day came, I received an email that the leader was sick and that day’s meeting was cancelled. I was sooooooooo disappointed and knew that Zoey would be too.

As I was on my way to pick her up from school, my girlfriend called to wish me well on my special day. Given how consumed I was at the moment with letting Zoey down, I proceeded to tell my friend about the situation. When I was done, she said "I understand," quickly pivoting to "Your library has a Book Club for kids in elementary school?”

A retired elementary school teacher who gives me great book recommendations for kids that are always a hit, she seemed so impressed! She didn’t think her library had this activity but said she was going to check. When I got home, I sent her a link to my library’s “Events” page, where the Book Club and other programming was listed by date.

Meantime, I picked up Zoey and when I told her the news about the cancellation, she held up her hands in exasperation and said, “Why did we do all that reading then?” I don’t like letting my grandbabies down. That felt so wrong. I wasn’t sure how the next hour would play out, but she rebounded quite nicely, thank goodness.

Just two weeks later, my girlfriend texted me: “I am so excited! I spoke with Mr. Tate from your library about the Book Club and…I am going to start one!” WOW. She wasn’t messing around. 

I have been marveling over this for weeks. I am so happy for my girlfriend, who seems genuinely thrilled to create her library’s first children’s Book Club – and what lucky kids! This came to be, at this time, as a result of my talking to a “random” woman at the library who told me about it, and then sharing that information with my girlfriend who happened to call me to say Happy Birthday while I was ruminating over Zoey’s reaction to the cancellation.  

You never know where a chance conversation with a “stranger” might lead, and/or how it might impact someone and, in this case, my friend, too.  

I also learned that the library mom’s daughter is a “Daisy”…en route to being a full-fledged Girl Scout (which I was and loved)…most importantly, I now have a direct connection to Girl Scout cookies!

Summer of '79

The summer of my 19^th year was filled with memorable firsts. I spent Memorial Day through Labor Day with girlfriends in Atlantic City, I got a taste of independence from my parents, I drove a tram on the boardwalk, I met lots of new faces from all over the country and Ireland who came to AC to work, and I fell in love.      

A quaint outdoor shopping center filled with boutique shops had recently opened near the tram facility called Gordon’s Alley, so my roommate and I checked it out on our first free day. We were giddy with all the trendy, fun stuff we saw that spoke to our sense of style and whimsy. I was truly in my glory there, surrounded by all the things I was obsessed with at the time: tie-dye, bell bottom embroidered jeans and…leather.

That’s where IT happened: at the Frye leather shop, where I found the look, feel and smell of leather absolutely intoxicating. It was love at first sight for me, when I eyed the most perfect pair of boots. They were a gorgeous “banana” color, with leather on the upper and suede on the shaft. The heel was about 2” and had a slightly pointed toe that varied from Frye’s iconic square style.

The price tag of the boots was steep: they cost in the upper $80s or $90s. That equated to more than one week of work, paid at the minimum wage rate at that time of $2.50 per hour. This was a lot of money for me to spend when the expenses of the summer were just getting started and were entirely on me, with no help from mom and dad. I could not give up a week’s pay – how would I go out to the bars after my shifts ended with my tram crew if I did that?

I was, however, intent on getting these boots, even though I knew that my mom would think they were a waste of money. She would say that I already have a pair that I don’t wear much, but those were my sister’s old lime green go-go boots, and I didn’t get them until she outgrew them, when they were no longer fashionable.

My mom had given me a credit card and said to use it only in an emergency, and I knew that buying these boots was not that, although there was no way I was going home on Labor Day without them. Back then, layaway was a popular and very smart option to manage the cost of expensive items so that no debt was accrued. The Frye store arrangement was that I’d come into the store once a week for about 6 weeks and pay off the boots. That could have been risky if every time I went in there or to any of the other shops I’d want to buy something else, but I kept my other impulses in check, thank goodness.

By the end of the summer, my boots and I went home together, and we were inseparable.  I was happy as could be. I wore them for years and years until there wasn’t much left of them. I have bought other boots since, none of which were Frye, and none compared to my love for my very first pair. About 20 years ago I bought a Frye handbag which I still enjoy today, but it’s way too heavy to use on a daily basis; it actually feels like luggage. Still, it fills me with memories of my carefree existence way back when, and that is surely worth some shoulder discomfort.

What was your first love?

OMG…Am I the Grinch?

 A week ago, I was rushing around with some last-minute Hanukkah shopping. I had stopped by Banana Republic and was the second in line to make a purchase when the system went down. The manager announced that the whole center is out of commission due to the volume of transactions but that it should be up again in a few minutes, based on a similar occurrence earlier in the day.    

A tall, husky man in line ahead of me started talking loudly, expressing his joy about the holiday season and how these glitches make the shopping experience more fun. I thought he had to be joking, but he didn’t appear to be trying to make people laugh. Then I thought he drank too much at lunch – maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, or maybe this was just him. He seemed genuinely jolly, like slap a beard on him and he could be Santa.  

He then turned to me with a big smile and asked, “How are you doing with all of your holiday shopping?” I said that I was doing well until this delay, and I don’t have the time to leave and come back. When I heard myself say this to Santa, I felt ashamed. This gentleman doesn’t know that I’m actually a pleasant person most of the time (or am I?) He replied, “My Dear, this is life. Anything can happen at any time!” I felt like Santa was trying to teach me a lesson, like lighten up and get into the holiday spirit for goodness’ sake.    

When I got home, I reprimanded myself: when someone is friendly, be friendly back! Don’t  be a negative presence just because I’m agitated at the time.    

The next morning, I had to stop at a local market for a large lunch order. I was waiting and waiting and waiting some more while the people working there talked amongst themselves without any regard for those of us who were standing in line. I noticed one of the women looking at me and when we locked eyes, she asked, “How’s your day going?” The positive side of me would have said something like “life is good…how is your day going?” but no, I said instead, “It’s impossible to shop at this place. They are so disorganized and slow.” She said, “but they are better than they used to be,” which made me think she’s either the mom or wife of one of the men behind the counter, because who else would say that?  But that wasn’t the point.

What was important was that she probably saw I was frustrated, and she wanted to brighten my mood. How kind! I could’ve redeemed myself from the day before at Banana Republic, but I didn’t; however, I did recognize this repeated pattern in my overall mindset, and I didn’t like it.  

As for my New Year’s resolutions going into 2026, I’m going to try not to be a curmudgeon, especially during the winter season when it can seep out…but no promises!  

Oh Deer!

As I strolled around the clothing store Old Navy last week, a memory took me back nearly 50 years, clear as day.

Once upon a time, I had a boyfriend named Jim who celebrated Christmas. Each year for at least 3, I asked, “What do you want under your tree from me?” His answer was always the same: “A sweater with deer on it.” “Why?” I asked that first time. “Because I want to wear it,” he said, which essentially told me nothing.

I was surprised that this tough guy who rode a motorcycle would be drawn to this kind of sweater. What was the appeal? Was it… a macho move? holiday-themed apparel that he’d wear to his family’s Christmas gatherings? the start of ugly sweater phenomenon?

The question I wanted to figure out was twofold: Who would wear a knitted replica of an animal on his or her sweater...and why?

The answer may have been simple: a deer hunter, that’s who. Jim, his dad and all his buddies hunted deer. Traditionally they’d go to the mountains on multiple fall and winter weekends and return home animated, with stories galore, clearly having had a lot of fun. They spoke about the appearance and personality of the deer: their grace, resilience, reaction to fear, quick running time, and so on. I didn’t want to hear their strategies of hunting them and how delicious the fresh deer meat was.

When I asked Jim how he could care so much about deer and also hunt them, he said that it was necessary to prevent them from starvation and a long, painful death out in the wilderness, competing with large numbers of deer with limited food resources that could not sustain them all.

He was not talking my language, or I didn’t want to hear what I viewed as an “excuse” to have fun, when it took the life of something. I was a city girl, he was a mountain boy, and as you’d guess, our upbringings were very different. Spending time with each other’s families meant being exposed to a new world: Hunting deer was a big topic in his house, with décor including a stuffed deer head in the dining room, while Philadelphia problems and the political landscape were forever on the table at ours. I was pretty sure that my mom, who loved the mountains more than anything, would not be happy to know that her daughter’s boyfriend targeted beautiful deer and then put one on display.

One night, his mom invited me to join them for dinner. She said Jim told her I like meat…his family of 5 and I sat around the dining room table – I was facing that deer! I helped myself to a slice of meat, somewhat unnerved because it was quite dark and not what I was expecting. All eyes were on me when I took a bite…and then when I realized I was chewing on venison (deer meat)…I spit it out!  

That was in the 1970s…another lifetime ago. It wasn’t until my recent sighting of a sweater with deer that I wondered if I would still be shopping for one every year if we were still together. Would I have been OK with a stuffed dear head in our dining room? I highly doubt it.

When I got home from Old Navy, I asked David if it made sense to him that Jim would have wanted to wear a sweater with deer on it. He seemed to appreciate that doing so may have reflected his pride, like a badge of honor; high regard for the sport; a conquest of sorts; and endearment for the deer. All of these emotions could co-exist in this scenario.

I can finally put this question: Why did he want to wear a sweater with deer on it? to rest.

I didn’t understand the notion of sentiments co-existing when I was a teen, about deer or anything else for that matter. I also needed to evolve in my thinking to grasp the notion that perhaps hunting small numbers of deer is OK as an effective strategy in wildlife management.

We’ve had deer in the woods behind my house for many years, and I often think about how they survive. I hope they are OK back there, not only for their sake but for mine, because catching a glimpse of them always brings me peace.

The funny thing is that in all this time of seeing the deer, I hadn’t once thought about Jim and his sweaters until my walk around Old Navy.    

Robert Redford

He was a striking man, that Robert Redford, no doubt about it, especially in The Way We Were, which I have seen over and over again. I can recite both his and the lovely and amazingly talented Barbra Streisand’s lines – and facial expressions – without hesitation.

Facebook posters gave him a lot of attention when he passed. One such headline, “Robert Redford was a stunning man,” left me wondering how the public would respond. While I agree 100%, I was sure that the naysayers would trash him since that’s what people do nowadays. Even the most innocuous post can turn sour, with people intentionally spewing negativity to stir the pot.

I glanced down at the comments and saw that there were over 2,000. I wondered how long it would take to get to the contrary nature of the replies. I guessed that by the 10^th comment, someone would say that Bob (Robert) was a jerk, that Paul Newman was better looking, that he had no talent, that he was arrogant, that he had body odor...you name it.     

I got to the 10th comment and n o t h i n g! No harsh remarks! In a sick way, I was almost disappointed! What’s going on here, I asked myself. Surely by the 20^th comment, someone would have to criticize him for something. By the 50^th, I was more confused than ever: compliments multiplied. The guy loved nature and advocated for environmental causes; he created the Sundance Film Festival, where independent filmmakers had a voice, were seen, and advanced; he was a mentor to many actors; he was a caring and compassionate friend, father, grandfather and so on.  

Even though a total time suck, I indulged myself in another 20 minutes of scouring the comments. I became obsessed with what I’d read next. I was determined to find cruel words that would feed into my assertion that no subject can be complimented without some kind of disagreement and then a barrage of personal insults. After about 100 more, I gave up. No unkind or dark commentary. WTF??? Maybe people aren’t as predictable – or as nasty – as I had come to believe.  

No one I know personally knew Bob, so it’s impossible to know what he was like behind closed doors. But, after reading all this praise, I felt pretty good about this heartthrob.

Fast forward to yesterday. I was reading about actor Michael J. Fox’s new book, Future Boy.  I adored him when he was Alex P. Keaton in Family Ties, before his Back to the Future trilogy. Unlike his prior writing where he shared his life as a man with Parkinson’s Disease, this book focuses on his acting roles and experiences breaking into the world of show business.

Turns out that Bob made a lasting impression on him too. Michael said that before he was in Family Ties, he wanted to play the role of the young boy in Ordinary People, a movie that Bob was directing, and he auditioned for it, with Bob present. However, it didn’t go as Michael had hoped. He said that Bob was clearly unimpressed with him, flossing his teeth throughout the interview, which suggested to Michael that he was not being taken seriously.  

I guess Bob wasn’t perfect after all…but almost.

Don't Ask, Don't Get

My girlfriend, who is in her early 60s and a longtime divorcee, texted me the other day, saying that she wanted to talk. My first thought was Oh No! because all too often that’s code for Help!

I told her to call, and she did right away, so I assumed something was wrong.  

However, her voice didn’t reflect that. She sounded hyped up, like she just consumed an extra cup of coffee. She then proceeded to say that she had taken a friend of hers – a much older gentleman – to do his errands and, on their way home, out of the blue, he began to reflect on their friendship.

“We have been friends for a long time,” he said…and “I’ve been thinking about this for awhile…if you ever want to cuddle, I’d be happy to do that.”

He went on to say that he is sure she misses the closeness she shared way back with her ex-husband and that he isn’t suggesting they be intimate but rather that he could provide comfort for her.

Maybe he simply expressed what his heart felt. Maybe he was so appreciative for their bond that he wanted to do what he could to soften the loneliness he perceived she felt. Maybe HE missed the cuddling, etc. since his wife passed over a decade ago. Maybe his proposal was a smokescreen for let’s just start here and see what happens. Maybe he was moved by the compassion he felt for his friend at that moment and surprised himself by saying it. Anything was possible.

At the time, she was speechless, as much about his boldness as his intention. In the moment, she wasn’t put off by it, but she also wasn’t interested, primarily because she couldn’t picture herself with a man who was a good 20 years her senior, but that feeling was about her, not him.

If the request was about what HE wanted, she and I agreed that it was pretty impressive that he put himself out there like that, just going for what he wanted.  What admirable chutzpah! I guess at his age, he’s figured out that If you don’t ask, you don’t get.  You don’t live that long and not learn that lesson. I’m sure he knew it was unlikely that she would take him up on his offer, but if he was going to wait for her to make a move, that definitely wasn’t going to happen.   

And if the request was solely about her, he truly is a good friend, and she feels very lucky to have him in her corner. Hopefully the two will move forward enjoying one another’s company as they always had, despite the possible contrast in feelings.

I ran into her a couple of days later and asked how it felt being the object of desire. She then asked me if I thought he was her target demographic now…should she be expecting to attract more 80+-year-old suitors?

Either way, she was smiling.

Young and Old

Most of the time, I’m living the quiet, relaxed empty nester senior citizen life with David. In the weeks leading up to summer, our days included at least one of these categories: doctors’ appointments; checking up on Medicare claims; discussing our new aches and pains; planning meals in accordance with voiding needs; discount shopping on Senior Day at the local supermarket; and so on.

Don’t get crazy now; this isn’t all we do. We each have things we enjoy together and apart and work hard to keep our days fun, productive and full.  

Starting in June with a 6-week visit with our Morocco family – including our 2 youngest grandchildren, ages 5 and 2 – I became keenly aware of the dichotomy of life as a senior when we are on our own vs. with the sustained presence of little ones.

During our time together, our familar home environment changed as we became immersed in the kind of children’s world that I haven’t experienced since my kids were toddlers. While it is true that there have been other long stays and we see our three local grandchildren often, this last visit impacted me on a different level: it left me more energized than I have in a long time.

There are 2 events in particular that may have led to this feeling. One weekend, we went to an amusement park – all the kids and grandkids, 14 in all – and after initially saying “No, I’ll pass” on a roller coaster that I hadn't been on in 40 years, I quickly changed my stance when I saw that our 5-year-old needed someone to ride with or she wouldn’t have been able to go. How could I refuse? I pulled myself together, didn’t overthink, and off we went. When I was afraid of how high we were, I looked at her smiling and I smiled, too, for the rest of the day….week…month.

Some time later, a handful of us went to a very large indoor playground and again one of our 5-year-olds wanted to climb to the top. This was the LAST thing I wanted to do, but her mom was busy with her 2-year-old sister, so I had to step up. She caught on pretty quickly that her MomMom is a wuss, but she ignored it and started to climb, knowing I was behind her. She cheered me on and encouraged me to go higher until she said she was ready to get down. I asked, “You sure?” as I breathed a sigh of relief. I was so proud of myself. 

What I realized during the visit was that there was no space free during the day – or night – to obsess about ourselves and to identify as old folks the way I know we do, when we are alone.  It was an exhilarating reset.

Just hours after they left, and we went back to looking at each other and saying Now What?!?!?, I could feel us sliding back into our patterns as we picked up where we left off.

At breakfast the next morning, the quiet echoed so loud without the voices of the kiddies talking and squealing and laughing. I was busy scrambling eggs when I noticed that David was focused on my pajama bottoms. He looked confused, then entertained, with a ghoulish grin on his face. I glanced down at my PJs expecting but fearful of some kind of nasty stain but saw nothing. I twisted around to see the back of them and there it was…a tail of toilet paper.

I had an immediate flashback of a similar scenario with my mom over a decade ago, but she was…96!  And here I am, 30 years younger, wondering what went wrong with me in the bathroom...and is this the new normal?!? It took me a couple of days to rebound.

All this to say that I realize I'm going to have senior moments from now until the day I’m no longer here. That’s the reality.

But – also a reality – I still have it in me to feel young and do youthful things!

 

Coincidences

There are run-of-the-mill coincidences that are haha funny, like seeing someone at a restaurant and then the next day at the farmers market, after not seeing him or her for years. It’s weird, and maybe you wonder about it for a minute or two but, in the scheme of things, who cares?

Then there are other coincidences that are so impactful in evoking emotion that it’s impossible to imagine that these two happenings were unrelated and mean nothing. NO WAY.  

As you might expect, David and I don’t see eye-to-eye on coincidences. You can probably guess which one of us believes coincidences can be meaningful in contrast to always being random.

I called David on my way home from running errands one day this past week, and we had the usual conversation that 2 retirees who are home together every single day all day might say to one another as we approach the lunchtime hour: “What should we have?”

Unlike most days, when I called this time, he said he needs to get out of the house (code for something’s not right), so let’s think of a place to sit outside for lunch. Once I got home and we started the 5-minute drive to Honeygrow, I asked what was bothering him. He told me that his former colleague’s wife had just died. She was just 59 years old.

Hearing about this woman’s passing and imagining the sadness of all those left behind transformed David’s serene state of mind after working outside on a perfect weather day into a very sad one with an endless plethora of memories and emotions about his beloved Matthew.  

I was glad that David suggested going out, knowing that more time outdoors on this sunny day would do him good.  

Just as we were ready to sit down in the dining area outside, a man called out: “David Minches?”

Turns out he was David’s former neighbor who he hadn’t seen for some 25 years, so after a warm greeting, the two started the catch-up conversation. Then I heard the dreaded question: “How are the KIDS doing?” Kids, plural. Ugh.

David brought up Lauren first, and said she and her family are living in Morocco…and I held my breath. I hoped the neighbor would somehow get distracted and forget about this family talk and that somehow the conversation would be redirected to something – anything – other than where I feared it was going. Instead, when David took a breath after talking about Lauren, the man asked, “How’s Matthew?”  

This guy still lives in Cherry Hill, where we live, and he has sons whose ages are aligned with Matthew’s. How did he not know – or forget? He likely blocked out the horrid information many moons ago.

And there we were, at Honeygrow of all places, to change the downward spiral of emotions that David was experiencing, counting on more fresh air and a change of scenery that would allow him to refocus.  

I didn’t know what he’d say, given that this is a question no one in David’s shoes would want to answer. He told his old neighbor that Matthew passed away 15 years ago when he was 20, and the neighbor was, as you might expect, speechless. My guess is that this man will never ask a question like this again to anyone he hasn’t seen for a long time.

We will never know if and how the 2 happenings an hour apart were somehow connected in some crazy way, but me being me believes there is meaning to be had.

To David, it was just a bad coincidence on all counts, except for reuniting with his very kindhearted neighbor.

I Can See Clearly...Now

This week I went to see my eye doctor for a long overdue “annual” checkup. I have seen the same woman for almost a decade and always enjoy my visits, other than during the eye pressure exam for glaucoma, which makes me nauseous.

After our usual chit chat and exam, I was feeling relieved and pretty darn pleased with myself, thinking I was going to get out of there without anything to obsess about, or even write about in my blog post.

Just as I was getting ready to go, she said the C-word. Now when I say THAT, I so fortunately do not mean cancer. And I don’t mean the 4-letter word that is my least favorite in the entire English language.

So NO to cancer and NO to a word that rhymes with Hunt.

But YES to…Cataracts!

“Nothing to worry about yet,” the doctor said. “It’s in the early stage. We can talk about it more next time,” she said. That’ll be in the summer of 2026. Perfect! Should I have this appointment before or after my colonoscopy?

Add this to other age-related nuisances, such as my current bout with Arthritis, regular use of a stool softener, all sorts of creams – firming cream for the sagging on my neck, two face creams – one for the morning to and one at night, with a pair of readers nearby so I don’t mix them up, which I’ve done a few times, and so on.

I am aware that many peeps need surgery to get these little cataract buggers removed, so I know I’m not unique; I’m not going to make the history books with this issue. But – you know me by now – I’ll likely write about it along with more of the whole aging thing.

Obviously the longer we live, the more that will go wrong that we will have to deal with, and hopefully we will manage OK with whatever comes along.

As David’s former boss who always had catchy phrases for important situations used to say, “the alternative is worse.”

I am counting on that to be true.

Packages

Who doesn’t like coming home to a package with your name on it? Kind of like a birthday party all year long!  I always get a kick out of how easy it is to find something on the internet that I want / need / can’t find anywhere else, execute a few clicks, and get it delivered to my door. But, I often forget what I ordered and/or lose track of what is expected when, so it’s an especially fun surprise when I get it.  

Generally, David opens my packages to simplify the process for me. If I don’t want him to do that – always around his birthday or Hanukkah – I tell him in advance to leave my packages, unopened, on the dining room table.  

Some of you might be wondering… Why is David opening Judy’s packages at all? What kind of woman would allow this breach of privacy? Frankly I am glad he does this because I have a lazy approach to boxed items that require scissors to open them. I don’t feel like being bothered and don’t see the rush to do so. I’m fine letting them pile up until I need them that second, trusting of course that they’ll be there. Once I left a whole box of goat soaps unopened so long that I forgot all about them and almost placed an order for them a second time. That hasn’t changed my habit, unfortunately. David, on the other hand, always has his utility knife ready to open whatever comes our way.  

The other day, after I had gotten home from running errands, he said he put something on the dining room table for me. I got all excited, thinking Ooooh, what did I get today?!??!? And there it was, like it or not, shouting at me YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF. It was Voltarin Arthritis Relief Cream. I glared at it for a moment, wishing instead that it was some beautiful, soft yarn for my next project instead of what it was, but that’s how I got into this mess to begin with…

The issue is that I had crocheted fast and furious for a period of time – as I recovered from my abdominoplasty – and ignored all the flashing red lights, because I was determined to reach my goal. I had wanted to create one scarf or baby blanket every couple of days, which I would then donate to a local organization. I first hoped to crochet 100 items but then I cut it down to 50…then 25…I think I had to put the crochet hook down at about 10.

While the arthritis cream is just one part of the overall plan for my situation, my OT instructed me to get it and massage it in as needed. This is in conjunction with warm water massage, ultrasound treatments and a couple of custom-made hand splints which I’ve been wearing non-stop. All this because I didn’t stop my crocheting when I felt the discomfort; instead, I thought that plowing through it was the way to go, until the pain went away for good. What I have learned since, however, is that in one state or another, it is here to stay.

My first session with my OT was very long, about 90 minutes. As we scheduled my next visit, she asked if I had any questions. After explaining to her that I only really have 2 hobbies, I asked, “How long will it take to get me back to crocheting?” Her response left a lot to be desired.

“It’s time to find a new hobby,” she said.

I don’t plan on completely abandoning my love for crocheting, but I do realize that I need to be a bit smarter about it and may need to find other avenues for my creative endeavors.

As long as I can find something that utilizes lots of colors and textures, is relatively simple, and I don’t easily tire of the process…and which enables me to order supplies that can be delivered right to my door…I am open to it. 

Any ideas?

Once A Mom, Always A Mom

For those of us fortunate enough to have experienced the love of an adoring, supportive and caring mom, we must thank our lucky stars, because there is absolutely nothing else like it.    

I have a girlfriend named Bobbi and amazingly, at 67 years young, she still has both her mom (90) and dad (97).  Until about 8 months ago, her parents lived in the house where Bobbi and her 3 siblings grew up, about an hour away from where she lives now. They then moved into an independent senior living community that is only about a 10-minute walk from Bobbi’s and her sister’s homes.    

This new place has been a wonderful change for Bobbi’s parents, as they now have an easier, more relaxed and enjoyable way of life. Their meals are prepared for them, Bobbi’s mom plays cards and socializes with others in the building, and she likes her freedom to utilize the complex’s transportation services so that she can get around town without asking for additional assistance from her local family.

Topping the list of what her parents appreciate most about this move, I’m pretty sure, is living in such close proximity to two of their four adult children, grandkids and great grandkids.

About a month ago, I was taking a walk with Bobbi and asked what she was planning to do that afternoon. She told me she was going to visit her parents, because “My mom has a hard-boiled egg waiting for me.” This took a moment for me to digest, especially given the fact that I had just made a half dozen that morning…and then, thinking I misheard or misunderstood something, asked…WHAT?

She semi laughed and said her mom called to tell her that she put a hard-boiled egg aside – an egg that she brought up to their apartment from the community refrigerator (before the price of eggs soared) because she knows how much Bobbi likes them. I laughed, thinking WOW! Who else but a mom would do this?

A couple of months ago, I asked Bobbi how her parents were doing. She said she had just seen them, and they were good. I asked whether there was a particular reason she went to visit…in jest, I asked, “Another hard-boiled egg?” This time, she is the one who laughed. She said her mom had put cut-up fruit aside for her because she knows how much Bobbi likes it. I said “Oh, how nice that she made it for you,” but then Bobbi explained that the fruit was from her mom’s meal – left over from her dinner plate – but she didn’t eat it because she wanted to save it for Bobbi. Her mom then called to suggest she come over ASAP to eat it while it was still fresh. Bobbi obliged.

When I told her how special I think it is that her mom does this, and how these gestures show how much she is thinking about Bobbi, she added that her mom often calls her when fresh cookies are baked and still warm – daily – and placed in the community kitchen for all to have.

I don’t know what brings her mom more pleasure here – absconding with food to give to Bobbi or when Bobbi comes over for it.

While there is some element of Bobbi’s mom luring her daughter to visit with the promise of her favorite foods, this scenario is such a genuine act of true love between a parent and child.

And even though Bobbi is a grandmom herself, she still seeks the companionship of her mom in much of her life and is so comforted by her as well. This has been a beautiful reminder to me, 10 years after my own mom’s passing, that I once felt this way too. 

There is something so pure, so tender and so unique about a mother’s love.

I was so lucky to have one…and to be one.

 

Karen

A month ago, I received a text from the lovely Dorothy Monkovic, the beloved sister of my dear friend Karen Ciccotelli, who passed away in February 2023. In Dorothy’s note, she invited a handful of women – family and friends – to meet on the anniversary of Karen’s passing.

Initially I panicked, thinking it would be hard to see Dorothy, because she looks and sounds so much like Karen. I was pretty sure I’d tear up, and I did. However, I also felt comforted by her, as well as being with some of Karen’s loved ones, including her daughter-in-law Amber and her close friend Lisa, who I’m happy to say has become my friend too.   

We laughed, cried, shared stories about our relationships with Karen and I think we all learned something new about her. I didn’t know some of the silly stuff she did with Lisa, for example, like stuffing her bra with Dots candy so that when Karen and Lisa, also a personal fitness trainer, would work out together at the gym, they had a Dots stash to nibble on. Who does that kind of thing?!?!? Karen, of course!

That’s the thing about Karen. She was a character in the best, most authentic way.

I met her almost 40 years ago, in 1986, when we were in our mid-twenties and had just moved into a new development in South Jersey within a few months of one another. She lived across the street, two homes over. Each of us had gotten married about 2 years prior and neither had kids yet.

I can still remember when I got my first glimpse of her. I thought to myself WOW, this chick is glamorous – and this was after her overnight shift as a nurse. She was statuesque, very tan, wore cropped tops and short shorts that showed off her rock-hard abs, sported a trendy hair style with her black, silky hair that enabled her big, gold earrings space to shimmer, and she always had long painted hot pink nails and make-up that she didn’t need, to highlight her beautiful face. She had well-defined, muscular arms and legs; it could have been my imagination, but she often appeared to be flexing. The first time she caught me checking her out up and down, she said “I’m from South Philly,” with this hearty laugh that made me crack up, which made her howl, with joy I think, that I was so captivated by her.  

It wasn’t until we had our first babies six weeks apart, in the summer of 1987, that Karen and I started to hang out. We didn’t have much in common other than the fact that we were both from Philly (albeit opposite ends), we came from large families, and we drooled over our little marvels, so impressed with ourselves that these little guys came out of our wombs. We spent many afternoons in her backyard or my front lawn, often with the other new moms from the neighborhood. Having “the village” to share in the joys, transitions, exhaustion and everything else that came with new motherhood was better than I could have imagined.

Over time, Karen’s and my conversations – in person or on the phone – morphed from entertaining chatter and commonplace topics to digging in deep, mostly about our kids. We found that we reveled in learning what pediatric experts like T. Berry Brazelton would say about this or that. We’d run these thoughts by our pediatricians and kids’ specialists and continually seek to find answers that made sense and could guide us, and we’d discuss with one another until we exhausted the topic – until the next time we spoke. We had this kind of arrangement going for years – maybe as many as 10 – and I am certain that my approach to parenting was greatly influenced by the collaborative effort that kept Karen and me aligned, sane and on our toes…always striving to be the best parent or advocate for our kids that we could be.  

Once our eldest kids reached age 10 or so and we found we had some breathing room to focus on ourselves, Karen decided she wanted to become a personal fitness trainer. She went through a certification program, shared what she was learning with me regarding nutrition and exercise and pointed out all the ways she could “help”…Ahem!…transform me. She recommended I buy a book about viewing food as fuel and said she’d assist me with meal planning. What she was WAY more excited about was getting down and dirty in the gym. She said we’d work on my posture (OUCH), tone up my arms, legs and abs (another OUCH) and make me look and feel strong (AMEN). All I had to do was be ready for her to pick me up at the ungodly time of… 4:40 a.m. two mornings a week. Hopefully showing off our partnership in the gym would lead to some paying clients. Then, she said, I’d be off the hook.

All at no cost to me. How could I refuse? The least I could do was to help with that goal after all the time and energy she was willing to put into my well-being. So, I agreed. For the next couple of months, she pulled up to my house on her way home from her shift at the hospital, with rap music blasting, and the only light outside was the moon shining in the dark sky. As her schedule filled up, I was freed – but hooked – and I continued to go. Looking back, I’m grateful that Karen introduced me to the gym because I’ve stayed with it ever since.

A good 6 years later, David and I made plans to marry which naturally meant converging our families. Rather than have all 7 of us live in my rather small house, we felt it best for my 3 and David’s 2 to move into a “new” place. This meant I had to leave the house across the street from Karen, which I couldn’t even picture doing after all those years of living just 200 feet apart. I was so relieved that she eventually got on board with my decision, even though she rallied against the move when I told her.     

Five years after David’s and my kids moved in together, David’s son Matthew got sick with a soft tissue cancer. I shared this news with Karen and leaned on her for the months to come. At some point, I told her that David and/or I would have to start administering shots to him every day that he was home – between treatments. It never occurred to me to ask her to help us or to do it for us; she was working 2 full-time jobs – one, ironically, in hospice. And then she said those magic words that kept us from unraveling: “I will do it.” When I protested due to her busy schedule, she said, “David and you should not have to do that.” When I told her that the shots must be given at the same time every day and she’s not usually home from work by then, she said, “I will make it work.”  The magnitude of this generous gift cannot be overstated.

She became his nurse at home and also his buddy, confidante and an integral part of our family. She’d go to his room, shut the door, administer the shot, and they’d hang out. Sometimes it would be quiet in there, other times I’d hear talking – I just couldn’t make out the words (yes, I admit, I sometimes tried) but I could hear the soft tone of both their voices – and laughter too.  

One afternoon, she told me that she asked Matthew If you could have one wish, what would it be? Forgive me if I have shared his in a prior blog post, because it’s hard to believe I wouldn’t have…He told her he wanted a doggy, and she looked my way, waiting for me to respond. I told her “No, I can’t handle one more thing,” and she softly but forcefully told me that this is something I must do. We did bicker about it, but I knew she was right. After I freaked out about it for a week or so – with her asking me each day when we were going to bring one home – we added Shea Doggy to our family. It was the best thing we could’ve done for Matthew – and, honestly, for us.

David experienced Karen’s enormous heart firsthand. Not only did she care for Matthew, but she helped us care for him too.  What she did for all of us at the worst period of our lives can’t be described with any words in the English language.

Karen struggled with her own health for a long time.  At the point when I realized that she was not going to recover, I shut down, as it was inconceivable that she was not going to be in my world anymore.

Once she passed, I was unable to drive down our old street, the way I habitually did for a good 18 years since I had moved away, honking as I passed her house and then texting her, “Did you hear me?”  just so she’d know I was thinking about her. There was really no reason for me to go down the street once she was no longer there, but for some reason I kept telling myself to do it. I thought it would help me to manage my grief and feel close to her at the same time. Yet, I couldn’t do it for the longest time.

Just last week, however, I was able to drive down E. Partridge Lane…It was a bittersweet reminder that once upon a time, I had an extraordinary friend named Karen.

A Personal Reveal

This ends better than it starts...

Due to a medical issue brought on by 3 C-sections decades ago, I decided to have an abdominoplasty (tummy tuck) this past October.

Most women signing up for this procedure are far younger than someone like me who is now on Medicare. However, I was assured that while everyone recovers at a different pace, I am in good health and would likely experience the typical recovery of about 4-6 weeks.

Unfortunately, one month from the date I had the initial procedure, I was admitted to the hospital due to a variety of issues: abdominal swelling, cellutis and a reaction to antibiotics. One of the causes was that my lymphatic system could not handle all the fluid brought about by the surgery. Initially I wasn't aware of the functions of the lymphatic system, which was rather embarrassing when I realized how little I know about how the body works. My doctor recommended a procedure to insert 2 drainage tubes into the swollen areas, as guided by a CT scan in interventional radiology. By Day 2 in the hospital, the drains were in place and that, in conjunction with IV antibiotics, began to calm the perfect storm brewing within.  

While lying in my bed night after night - 6 of them - at the hospital, I tried not to worry about anything. I had a team of doctors and nurses attending to my health concerns, a dining room with pretty good food and snacks available to me anytime between 7 am and 11 pm, my hubby, family and friends keeping me company and calling and texting and honestly…what more could I ask for?

Yet, I could not relax. I was freaked out. Those first couple of nights, I could not concentrate enough to read, write, watch TV, or even shop online. I had lost interest in everything and had no energy for anything. With nothing to do but ruminate about the situation, I felt sad and sorry for David, who was the most amazing caregiver, and I was also mad at myself for causing him such angst. I was also afraid that the life I once lived was gone and wondered if maybe I had taken too much of it for granted.    

After the nurse came in with medication on that third night, I was in such a tizzy that I closed my eyes trying to tune out the world...but found myself dreaming instead. I imagined earlier times when I was happy, laughing, driving my car, walking on the boardwalk, even showering before bed with my delightful goat soap. These uplifting images lasted well into the next day.

I was only in the hospital for 7 days, but when I came home, I was marveling over all that was commonplace before I had gone: What a cozy home! Wow, there’s nice fresh fruit in the refrigerator! Boy those deer behind my house are beautiful! My car rides so smoothly! The cold water is so delicious! And of course, all the people in my life. 

It's now almost 2 months since my hospital stay, and all is good. My appreciation for everyone and everything in my life has continued to grow, and I am so very grateful. 

AI

David’s daughter Lauren, her husband Anas, and their two little cuties stayed with us for a nice long chunk of time this summer. One day, Anas saw me sitting at my laptop and asked why I haven’t written any blog posts recently. I told him I have a lot of ideas but that after a few sentences, I don’t know where to go with them.

 A couple of hours later, he told me he utilized the AI software https://claude.ai/new, to create a post I’d have written. In order to sound like me, he pointed the software to my blog posts since mid-2020 and provided specific directions:

 “Now that you have all this information about the blogger, her writing style, the topics she tends to cover, even her family and friends' names, I’d like you to write a fictional blog post authored by her. Keep the same tone and typical length of post. I want her to read it and think ‘OMG, I can't believe I didn't write this!’ Make up additional facts as needed.”

 When he read me the post, I was dumbfounded. It surely did feel like something I’d have written. Some of the facts aren’t accurate, but it was pretty amazing what AI could do in a matter of seconds.

 I’m hoping you will find this entertaining.

 

A Surprise in the Attic

Last week, while David was rummaging through our attic in search of some obscure audio equipment, he stumbled upon a dusty old box labeled "Judy's Memories." I had completely forgotten about its existence, let alone its contents.

As we brought it downstairs, I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. What forgotten treasures or embarrassing relics would we uncover?

The first item I pulled out was my old diary from when I was 13. Oh boy, talk about a blast from the past! I started reading aloud, much to David's amusement, about my crush on Bobby Steinberg and how I was convinced we'd get married someday. Little did 13-year-old Judy know what life had in store!

Next came a stack of letters from my college roommate, Susan. I hadn't thought about her in years, but reading her witty accounts of campus life brought me right back to those carefree days. I made a mental note to look her up on Facebook later.

But the real gem was at the bottom of the box: my mom's handwritten recipe for her famous noodle kugel. I felt a lump in my throat as I read her familiar handwriting, remembering all the times we made it together for family gatherings. Lauren has been asking for this recipe for years, and I thought it was lost forever. What a gift to be able to pass it on to her now!

As I sat there, surrounded by these pieces of my past, I couldn't help but reflect on how much has changed. That young girl writing in her diary could never have imagined the life I have now – with David, our blended family, and our precious grandchildren.

It made me think about what our grandkids might find in their attics someday. What pieces of their childhoods will they rediscover? Will they find the questionable art projects I've been saving or the cards they've made for us?

I've always been one to hang onto memories, but this experience has reminded me of the importance of making new ones too. Maybe it's time to start a new tradition with the grandkids – something they'll remember fondly when they're my age.

As for that noodle kugel recipe, I think I'll surprise everyone by making it for our next family dinner. I can already picture Eliana and Ethan helping me in the kitchen, just like I used to help my mom. Some things really do come full circle.

In the end, our trip to the attic turned into an unexpected journey down memory lane. It's funny how a random box can hold so much of who we were and remind us of who we've become.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go call Andrea and tell her about this blast from the past. I have a feeling she'll get a kick out of hearing about my teenage crushes!

Mother's Day 2024

Another Mother’s Day without my mom.

Leading up to the holiday a couple of weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to proceed as though she were still here. This means that as Mother’s Day approached, I went out in search of the perfect card, as I did every other year when we had planned to spend it together. I looked at several places that carried cards without much luck, until I stepped into the new neighborhood Norman’s Hallmark.   

It had never been easy finding just the right card that captured all the sentiments for my mom that I especially appreciated that year. At times I found the task overwhelming, and I always seemed to run out of time having a bunch of runners up but rarely a clear winner. Out of desperation, I would buy what I thought my mom would think was the prettiest one. For her to truly embrace it, the card had to say “Mom,” not “Mother.” 

When it came to her gift, I wanted to give her something she wouldn’t splurge on for herself. For multiple years, we siblings chipped in for an Etienne Aigner purse in burgundy leather or straw, since we were heading into summer. Whether she liked it or not, she oohed and aahed, and I saw her wearing it, too, which made the quest to find a bag she’d want to use all the more satisfying.   

The purse became too heavy to carry on her shoulder in her later years, so I turned to the lightweight Vera Bradley collection. She seemed to like these even more. She was gleeful with the colorful patterns and the plethora of open pockets to keep her essentials, such as tissues and cough drops, easily accessible.  

With a selection of fine options at Norman’s – Hallmark stores never disappoint – I had picked out several cards, 2 or 3 Vera bags and an assortment of tchotchkes that I couldn’t resist. I started sweating over the decision making – Which card? Which Vera bag? Which tchotchke? – until I reminded myself that I am not actually going to purchase any of these items.  

I left Norman’s feeling both happy and sad. While I reveled in my old, familiar Mother’s Day shopping tradition, I was disappointed to go home empty-handed, until I realized that this outing, which fed my need to continue honoring my mom, was also a wonderful Mother’s Day gift I gave myself.  

 

Holy Moly

I’m all for accepting my age and not portraying myself as if I’m going to be 35 and not 65 on my next trip around the sun, but I’m starting to wonder if/how age should play a role in my fashion sense.    

I’m surely not going to sport crop tops, for all those crazies out there who think that’s where I’m going with this, but NO. Absolutely not. What I’m talking about relates to what I wear below my waist.       

When I was a teen, I loved my jeans. I’d taper them to make them skin tight. I added patches, studs, embroidery, and whatever else I could hand sew to personalize them and snazz them up. A decade later – corresponding with life as a mom and longing for comfort above all else – I abandoned jeans altogether and became a leggings-only woman.        

While leggings will always be my numero uno, the fairly new stretch component on most jeans today has worked wonders to lure me back - under one condition: the holier, the better. I have found that my favorite jeans align with the number of holes on them: 1 hole is slightly amusing; 10 holes are a blast. So, if wearing them isn't fun, I might as well wear leggings. 

I didn't start off loving this look. When I first noticed distressed jeans with large holes, I was really turned off by the large portions of exposed skin as well as all the strings hanging from them. I did not understand how someone – anyone – would think these jeans looked presentable, let alone attractive.

One day, I happened to be in American Eagle and, as usual, checked out the clearance rack. Before long, I found myself in the dressing room with a pair, and not just any pair, but one with about 6 or 8 sizable holes.   

Five years later, I have almost as many distressed jeans in my closet today as pristine ones, and I almost never reach for the plain Janes.

With summertime just a few months away, distressed jeans with holes have an advantage: built-in air conditioning.

I have wondered why I rarely if ever see my peers wearing distressed jeans. Curious about who likes them, I took a poll of some 20 women – ages 55 and older – and asked them “Would you wear distressed jeans with holes?”

Most said NO, they would not, for these reasons: "I’d never pay for jeans with holes. What a rip off; They are awful; I give you credit for wearing them since it’s mostly young people I see in them; They don’t appeal to me...You’d never see these in Talbots; They are for the kids to wear." Two were open to them: "I like them but won’t wear them if the holes are too big; I like them but not if I’m going somewhere fancy.”  

The other day, I picked up my granddaughter from elementary school. Out of about 25 moms wearing jeans, I saw a handful of really cool moms - my kids' ages - with some rips in their jeans.

And then a very striking woman with gorgeous gray hair – dare I say another grandmom? – walked by and man...she rocked her holy jeans.