A Fresh Look at Leftovers

Does anyone actually eat leftovers or are they just part of an elaborate plot to sell more plastic storage containers?

My family is – at this very moment – protesting indignantly: “We eat leftovers. What are you talking about?”

To them I say: “Ha.” Or, in the style of leftovers: “Ha. ha.” Eating leftovers once every three months is not the same as eating leftovers at least once every week.

In the interest of transparency, and because my family is – at this very moment – preparing to protest indignantly once again, I will admit that I am lax when it comes to eating leftovers as well. However, since I work from home, there is a much greater chance that I will come in contact with leftovers for lunch. Granted, sometimes that “contact” is limited to sliding the leftovers out of the way so I can reach the mayo and lunch meat. But my point stands.

Leftovers were a staple when I was growing up. In fact, I'm pretty sure we ate leftovers every night, which is pretty impressive given that you would think something would have to be a first-over before it could become a leftover.

Whenever I complained about having leftovers again, Mom would tell me about the bad old days when times were tough and money was tight. Back then, she said, the family would have a big roast or ham with all the fixin's for Sunday dinner (roast one week, ham the next), followed by roast or ham with fixin's leftovers on Monday, roast or ham casserole on Tuesday, leftover roast or ham casserole on Wednesday, roast or ham sandwiches on Thursday, roast or ham soup on Friday, and roast or ham leftover surprise on Saturday (Surprise! We still have leftovers!).

Things had improved by the time I came along, but we frequently experienced the 3-day leftover rotation of roast beef, hot beef sandwich, beef and potato hash; as well as the 4-day leftover rotation of baked ham, fried ham, cold ham sandwiches, and last but certainly the best -- ham and potato soup.

My dad, having spent several years as a bachelor, was a master of the leftovers as well. For lunch on Monday, Dad would combine a can of Chef Boyardee beefaroni, a can of vegetable beef soup, and a can of northern or cannellini beans (sometimes branching out to lima beans). This would serve as the base for his lunch leftovers for the rest of the week. Bits of dinner leftovers or another can of this or that were added as needed. Dad always stored his lunch leftovers in the sauce pan, in the fridge, ready to go the next day. He washed down his leftover stew with a glass of iced coffee – which was leftover from breakfast.

I know that eating leftovers reduces food waste and saves money. While I like to think I inherited some of my parents' sense of frugality – my favorite clothing designer is “sale” – none of that penny pinching practicality is left over when it comes to leftovers.

That doesn't mean I don't try, though. Take today, for example. After having hot pulled pork

Being frugal isn't cheap.

sandwiches Sunday evening, and cold pulled pork sandwiches Monday noon, I decided to make ham salad for lunch today. But before I could do that, I needed to replace my grandma's old, hand-crank grinder. While that grinder is one of my favorite leftovers, I'm not sure rust is the best way to get iron in your diet.

How hard can it be to find a small food grinder? Pretty dang hard, as it turns out. Nevertheless, I persisted. Bright, shiny, stainless steel blade grinder in hand (so to speak) I returned home to capitalize on the “economics” part of “home economics.” As I ate my ham salad sandwich I couldn't help but feel a little smug for having saved money by eating leftovers.

And to think, saving money only cost me forty bucks for a new grinder!

Carpe Di-Cave

Early summer descended on Eastern Iowa packing all the heat and humidity usually reserved for much later in the season. In this weather, the corn shoots skyward, and the weak are culled from the herd until only the hardiest Iowa natives are left to complain about the weather.

The Princess and Little Prince had retreated to the cool solitude of their bedrooms, perfectly content to relax and stare at their smart phones in air-conditioned comfort. (“We needs the charger. Must recharge the precious.”) But underneath it all, I could tell they were longing for some quality, enforced family fun time.

It was time for a Mom-tervention.

It was time to pry them out of their man-made, air-conditioned, soft and cushy caves

and take them to some nature-made, naturally cooled, drippy and muddy real caves at Maquoketa Caves State Park. The King declined the opportunity, citing work deadlines (and lack of air-conditioning).

I had been to the caves as a kid – we made frequent trips to the area to visit relatives – but The Princess and The Little Prince had not. This trip was a chance for me to share old memories (which they loved – not) and create new memories (which I loved – totally).

Part of the reward for not selling off your children when they were pre-teens, is having them develop into people you actually enjoy spending time with. While The Princess and The Little Prince can, individually, be mutes, when they are thrown together in a car they become Laurel and Hardy. Their schtick began before we even left the house:

The King (from his air conditioned throne): Be sure to wear sunscreen.

Princess: Did Sacagawea wear sunscreen? Did Herbert Hoover?

Prince: And he became president!

Princess: And had a sport named after him! (http://www.hooverassociation.org/newsevents/hooverball/hooverball_history.php)

For more than an hour, I listed to their constant back and forth, covering everything from family trips (“Hey, remember that time you told The Little Prince it was time to go, and we searched the house for him for like, 30 minutes, because he thought you really meant it was time to go and he was waiting in the car? Good times.”) to my driving ability (“Are we lost yet? Are you sure we're not lost yet?”).

Gramma Anna at the caves, 1936

For the record, we weren't lost (yet), although I never did find the little wooded, copse my Grampa liked to point out as the spot where my Gramma Anna once hiked her skirts (literally) to answer nature's call. That historic location seemed to move each time we traveled those roads, but Grampa's delight in telling the story – and Gramma's adamant denial – never did. There's a slight chance hyperbole runs in my family.

Eventually we did make it to the park. I didn't remember it being quite so popular, but that day it was overrun with 20-something year-old hikers and rock climbers (“I think they're high on more than nature.”) and families with little children.

At times I watched wistfully as the parents held their child's grubby little hands, or boosted them up onto some of the small rock formations, arms outstretched to assist if needed, but giving them the chance to explore their independence.

Meanwhile I panted, trying to keep up with my little angels, letting them lead the way over rocky trails and trees, and cringing as they insisted on climbing to the highest points they possibly could. Every so often The Little Prince would scout out a trail, only to 

tell his sister it looked “a little sketchy.” They would silently lock eyes for a moment, then The Princess would smile and shout “Parkour!” and off they would scramble over mossy boulders, muddy logs, and loose rocks. This is why we say that when The Princess becomes the voice of reason, you know you're in trouble.

Still, there were times when the littlest hikers out parkoured us. While The Royal Procession picked our way cautiously across the creek (again), tottering on the slippery rocks, one intrepid 8-year-old sloshed right past us through the ankle-deep water. (In our defense, it was muddy, it looked much deeper, and it was cold.)

Fat Man's Lament

In between the daredevil feats of climbing, tentative spelunking, and creek fording failures, The Princess and Little Prince turned their comedy routine to a variety of topics:

The beauty of the park – “You know you're from Iowa when you learn to pronounce methamphetamine, but not aesthetic.”

The natural features of the park – “Fat Man's Lament? I thought they said Bat Man's Lament!”

Philosophy – “We have to cross the river again?” Me: “It's a creek.” “It has potential!”

In the end, the joke was on me:

“Why didn't you tell us to wear old shoes?” “Why didn't we bring flashlights?”

Me: “Because I didn't think I'd be able to get you out of the car.” Honest.

(Sharing an incredulous look.) “Why not? This is the best place ever!”

Parkour!

When the Face on the Milk Carton is a Milk Carton

When I got home from the grocery store yesterday I decided to have some Oreos and milk to reward myself for remembering all the things on my grocery list. Things like Oreos… which I had forgotten to pick up the day before, when I went grocery shopping.

Except... we were out of milk.

I just got home from my second trip to the grocery store in two days, and I needed groceries.

The story of my life.

If only... I thought.

If only there were some way for the milk carton to let me know that it was almost empty and that I first trip to the store, but the children and the husband have been on a cereal-for-breakfast kick lately and I hadn't factored in the increased milk usage when I made out my shopping list.

should probably think about picking up more the next time I was at the store. I could swear I had checked the milk before my

If only... I thought.

If only someone who had – oh, I don't know – used almost all of the milk had told me “Hey, we're almost out of milk.” Or if only someone who had – oh, I don't know – actually used the last of the milk had told me “Hey, we are now actually out of milk.” Then maybe I would have remembered to add milk to the grocery list, and maybe I would have picked up milk either the day before, when we were almost out of milk, or yesterday, when we were actually out of milk.

I say “maybe,” because I have, on occasion, been known to forget to pick up items that are on my grocery list. And I have, on occasion, been known to forget to put things on my list thinking “Oh, I won't forget to get that, because that is totally the only reason I am even going to the grocery store.” And that is why I usually call or text my family while I'm sitting in the grocery store parking lot to ask them if they've thought of anything else I need to pick up.

That's when I thought “If only someone would invent a little microchip that you could put on a milk carton to remind you it's time to get more milk.” Then, when I'm writing out my grocery list and I shout “Is there anything else I need to get when I'm at the grocery store?” the milk carton could beep, or somehow reply “Why yes! You are almost out of milk! Please remember to put milk on your list and pick up milk when you are at the grocery store.”

Although I have to admit, hearing a voice call out from inside the refrigerator would be a little weird.

You know what wouldn't be weird? Having my children or my husband reply “Why yes! I used almost all the milk this morning on my cereal (even though I didn't actually drink the milk that was left over after I ate my cereal and basically wasted a whole cup of delicious, sugary-sweet, vitamin-enhanced milk by pouring it down the drain). Please remember to put milk on your list and pick up milk when you are at the grocery store.”

And then I thought, “If only that little microchip in my milk carton could send me a text message or just call me up when I'm at the store and say 'Hey! It's me, your milk carton. I know I wasn't almost empty when you left to go to the grocery store, but I am now, so could you please pick up more milk while you are at the grocery store?”

Although, expecting a microchip in a milk carton not only to have that kind of self-awareness, but also to know my shopping schedule would be a little weird.

You know what wouldn't be weird? If, when I text or call my family and tell them I'm sitting in the grocery store parking lot about to go into the store and I ask them if they have thought of anything else we need, like milk, they would actually go to the refrigerator, open it up, check the milk and let me know if I need to get more.

But until microchip milk cartons – or helpful family members – become a reality I'm stuck making frequent trips to the grocery store. Even if that means going to the grocery store three days in a row. Or sometimes going to the grocery store three times in one day.

And so this morning I made a special trip to the grocery store just to pick up a gallon of milk. Then I came home to have Oreos and milk. I knew we had Oreos at home because I had just bought them yesterday.

Except I hid them.

And I don't remember where.

If only... I thought.

“If only someone would invent a little microchip that you could put on a package of Oreos to remind you where you hid it.”

  

The New Normal

It's not the same.

The world did not stop when Mom died and sometimes that just seems so unfair.

Instead life kept rushing forward and I tried to keep up, tried to pretend nothing had changed. But of course it has.

Something – someone – is missing.

There is a hole in my life – bigger, deeper than before.

This is the new normal.

But every day is a new normal.

Things change, in big ways and in small, all the time. We adapt. We change. We accept.

Eventually.

When Mom first started to fail I would get so angry.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” I would think, all full of Dylan Thomas and daughterly angst. “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

My rage was big, and loud, and physical, and angry.

And exhausting.

And useless.

Now I realize she did rage.

But her rage was small, and quiet, and peaceful, and accepting.

And a blessing.

Her rage wasn't a fight to avoid change like I wanted, but a fight to accept change. To face the end with dignity and grace.

She raged against the dying of the light by accepting the limits of physical change, but not letting it change who she was inside.

She made the most of what she still had. And she could still make people happy.

She could care. Smile. Laugh.

At her burial, as the minister said those last few words, as we said our last good byes, we accepted the physical change in our universe – her passing would leave a big, black, sucking emptiness where her body used to be. (Was her ever-shrinking body supposed to make that empty spot smaller? It didn't.)

But the emotional change, the emptiness in my heart, how could I accept that?

An ice cream truck approached from down the hill, the familiar notes of “Turkey in the Straw” ringing cheerfully across the quiet cemetery.

The air under the funeral home's tent, stifling with heat and sorrow just a moment before, changed, vibrated with barely suppressed giggles at the absurd juxtaposition.

“Dorothy would be the first one at that truck, buying us all ice cream,” said my friend-family-sister Sue.

We laughed aloud in recognition and relief.

And acceptance.

Because that is exactly what she would have done.

Exactly what she would want us to do.

Make the most of what we still had: each other.

Make people happy. Care about them. Ask about them. Listen to them.

Smile.

Laugh.

Buy them ice cream.

Accept the new normal.

Find a Penny, Pick it Up

I found a quarter on the road the other day as I was finishing up my run. That brings my total change found to 62 cents over the past couple weeks.

Yes, I am one of those people who pick up change wherever I find it. Parking lot, sidewalk, coin return slots, heads up, tails up... it doesn't matter, if I see it, I'll pick it up.

'Cuz you never know, you know?

Well, that's not really the reason why.

Dear Abby calls them “pennies from heaven.” The Queen Mother used to say “Oh, your father's been here.”

It started when I was a little girl maybe five or six years old. Every summer we'd drive to Valliant, Oklahoma, to visit my paternal grandmother. Gramma Ava. That was our family vacation for the year.

It was a long, long drive from our little hometown in Eastern Iowa to that little hometown in South Eastern Oklahoma. Especially back in the days before everything was four-lane highways with 65-mph speed limits. Dad was always on the lookout for road-side attractions and rest areas to break up the monotony.

All the gas stations down south had some sort of home-spun attention getter – a pen of deer, a pond, a cave, rock collections, a forest observation tower – or they could give you directions to something spectacular just up the road. These were a lot easier to find when you had to take the narrow, curvy two-lane roads through all the small towns. And I do mean all the small towns.

One time we pulled off into an unremarkable little rest area to stretch. They refer to them as “primitive” rest areas now. There was a gravel lot, picnic tables, trees, an outhouse or two. Absolutely nothing to entice a bored little girl to climb out of her nest in the backseat of a Ford LTD land barge. I was cozy, enjoying my books and snacks, curled up on the floor, resting my head on the warm hump formed by the transmission bisecting the car.

Why would I get out for a gravel parking lot or (shudder) an outhouse?

I wasn't budging, and neither was the Queen Mother.

“Hey, look at this,” Dad called from the other side of the small parking lot. “Here's a penny. And another. And an....”

He never finished “other” because I was out of that car so fast I nearly ripped the door off its hinges.

I found a penny! And another. And another.

Pretty soon my excited squeals coaxed the Queen Mother out of the car.

She started finding pennies too! And nickels and dimes! There were so many coins my pudgy little hands couldn't hold them all, so I gave them to Dad for safe keeping.

That's when Mom realized Dad was taking the change from me with one hand and tossing it on the ground in the other direction when I wasn't looking.

I'm not sure how long this went on. Just long enough to get the road kinks worked out. Long enough for us to get over our reservations about using the honest-to-goodness wooden outhouses. Long enough to settle us down until the next road-side stop.

Long enough to convince a little girl she was rich.

I was hooked. Others might turn up their noses at a penny on the sidewalk, but I knew better.

“Dad's been here,” I would say.

Right after Dad's funeral, when Mom and I were cross-eyed from writing thank you notes, we decided to take a day trip to get away from everything. We planned to get a real lunch at a real restaurant, a break from the sympathy casseroles filling the fridge.

This was when I had my first migraine. When I found out that Red Lobster didn't serve (at that time) anything other than seafood. And that I really, really don't like seafood.

And then, in the parking lot, I found a penny.

“Your Dad's been here,” Mom said.

So I like to attribute my recent windfall of found change to Dad. It is Father's Day, after all.

“Dad's been here,” Mom would say.

And I feel like I've really dropped the ball in taking care of Mom lately. She's slipping further and further away, and there's nothing I can do. So maybe this is Dad's way of letting me know he's watching over her, too.

Dad's been here.

Carpe Birthday

I wanted to make my 49th birthday special and -- boy howdy! -- was it ever! I started celebrating by preparing a bribe for Billy Joel and ended up on stage at a concert.

But first, the backstory.

I realize 50 is supposed to be the milestone year, but I figured why not celebrate everything leading up to the milestone? It’s like celebrating Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, or TGITh.

Forget carpe diem. Carpe anum!

In that spirit I began celebrating my birthday, which officially occurred Sunday, on Thursday. How else to kick off a big celebration, than by baking nearly eight dozen cupcakes and almost as many chocolate chip cookies? Those treats were the key to my brilliant plan: Operation Bribe the Students to Bribe Billy Joel.

Carpe Piano Man.

I figure Billy Joel might be able to ignore my request for an autograph, but how could he ignore a bunch of junior high and high school students writing him in support of their teacher's request? In exchange for a cupcake or a cookie, I asked students in my classes (and any random student who happened to wander by) to write a short note to Billy Joel explaining what makes me so special and why he should send me his autograph.

What I wanted was an autograph. What I got was a day as one of the most popular teachers in the school (who doesn’t love cupcakes, cookies or the person who gives them to you?), and a bunch of complimentary notes that made me feel warm and fuzzy. 

Carpe Sugar Rush.

Not everyone who took a treat wrote a letter, but that’s ok because the smiles and thanks (and puzzled looks of disbelief) they gave me were a gift, too. I had almost forgotten how much fun it is perform random acts of kindness.

Carpe Pay It Forward.

The down-side to my brilliant plan is that kids are already asking me if there's been a reply yet. Obviously I didn't think this through. Some how, some way, someone's autograph is going to have to be hanging on my wall by May.

Carpe Snail Mail.

Flash forward to Sunday and the concert.

After I managed to not embarrass The Princess at the One Direction concert this summer, she graciously invited me to a concert for my birthday: a concert she wanted to go to, but couldn't convince any of her friends to go with her (or they couldn't convince their parents to let them go, not sure which).

Carpe Cool Mom.

And that's how I wound up at a bar in Iowa City on my 49th birthday with a bunch of 21-and-youngers at a concert by hip-hop artist Huey Mack.

I'm going to give you a moment to let that soak in.

I'd like to say I was offended by the language. But let's face it, I'm the woman who gives up swearing for Lent. Every. Year. (Or as they would have said at the concert, “every mother f****ing year.”)

Carpe Potty Mouth.

I'd like to say I'm appalled by rap and hip-hop lyrics. But let's face it, as an English major and writer I admire the story-telling and that poetic ability to create rhythm with words.

Carpe Mad Writing Skills.

I'd like to say I didn't like the music. But let's face it, I was jumping up and down and waving my arms just like everyone else.

Carpe Dance Shoes.

I'd like to say I didn't get a kick out of it when Huey Mack said “We've never had a Mom in the audience before. Come on up here!” But let's face it, I did.

Carpe Are You Kidding Me?

I'd like to say I didn't chug a beer on-stage with a 22-year-old hip-hop artist. But of course I did.

Carpe Budweiser.

I'd like to say going to a concert with my daughter, laughing and dancing with her, and having her think it was cool that I was on stage with Huey Mack was probably one of the best birthday presents I've ever had.

Because it was.

Carpe Birthday.

Tied Up in (Forget Me) Knots

Hi, Mom! How are you doing?

It's so good to see you!

It's good to see you, too. I know it seems like it's been a long time since I've been here at the nursing home, but it was just.... Well, never mind. I've been busy. But I've been thinking of you. I'm always thinking of you!

I stopped in a couple days ago, but you were sleeping. I tried to wake you, but you kept dozing off. I talked anyway. You probably don't remember, huh? I knew it wasn't an ideal time of day to visit, but it was the only time I could get away....

It's just so good to see you!

It's good to see you too. We've been pretty busy. Of course there's not really anything exciting or memorable to tell you. Just the ordinary, everyday stuff that eats up time before you know it.

It's not much of an excuse. It's just so hard to get away sometimes. Even for a little while.

It's so good to see you!

I know. You too. Anyway, today I just had to shuffle schedules and come see you. Even if I don't have much to talk about, we can just sit here and hold hands. And I'll talk. About everything and nothing. Anything but what's really on my mind.

It's just so good to see you.

Do you remember Sue? They used to live next door? She said to say hi. So... hi.

A lot of people ask about you. They say they see you when they're here visiting their own parents. I tell them the same thing. Somehow it seems to make us feel a little better. It's our way of recognizing that unspoken, shared guilt we have. The feeling that we can never visit often enough, or stay long enough.

They say you're looking good. They tell me they said hi, but they're not sure if you recognized them or not. And really, why should you? I mean, we don't look quite the same as we did back in school. But that's how they remember you, that's how they remember their folks. I'm the same. In our minds you're still the Little League coach, the club leader, the chaperone at the dance. Or you're taking us out for dinner at college. Or dancing at our wedding. Proudly holding our babies.

It's so good to see you!

Then they ask the tough question: “Do you think she recognizes you?” And I say yes. But I hesitate. And I wonder if they're thinking the same thing I am: Do I really believe this? Do you really recognize me? And what will I do when....

Because they aren't really asking me about you, they're asking themselves about their own parents. They're asking “Do you think my mom still recognizes me?” That's what I'm doing when I ask how their parents are doing. We can't ask it outright. We can't share our fears so openly. But we know. Without speaking, we know how afraid we are that you will forget us.

So. I don't visit as often as I'd like because I'm busy.

But I'm also afraid.

And I feel guilty about not visiting more often. And I feel guilty about taking time away from the kids, my husband, my job to come here and visit with you. And I feel guilty about feeling guilty. But you know that, don't you?

I remember how you struggled to find time to visit Gramma without shortchanging me. At the time I thought that I was grown up and you didn't need to worry about me. Now I realize I might not have needed you to worry about me, but you needed to worry about me. And you needed to worry about Gramma. It's the challenge of being caught between two generations.

It's just so good to see you!

Speaking of the kids, I've got to be getting home. But I promise I'll visit again soon.

I promise.

Look at our hands. I tell everyone I have your hands. But who's hands do you have? When did they get so thin, so fragile? Sometimes I worry I'm holding yours too tight, that I will hurt you. But I don't want to let go. I'm afraid you'll slip away. Because you're already slipping away. And I don't know how to ask you to stay, much less how to let you go.

I love you.

Don't forget that (you know me).

I won't forget that (I love you).

I promise.

Disc-go Golf

Hot on the heels of our successful family canoe/paddle board outing (I left with two kids, returned with the same two kids) we headed out on another family favorite summer fun activity: disc golfing.

Disc golf, for the un-initiated, is an ancient Greek term that means “exercise in futility.” It is also a modern Collegiate-Greek term that means “drink beer in the woods.”

Disc golf is similar to traditional golf in that you start at one point (“tee off”) and count your strokes/throws as you make your way to a goal (cup/basket). The difference is that instead of chasing a little white ball hundreds of yards towards a hole in the ground with a skinny metal club, you try to throw a flying disc (similar to a “Frisbee” but not trademarked and twice as expensive) hundreds of yards towards a metal basket without beating yourself senseless with a wooden club (also known as a tree).

Between the “tee” and the “hole” the challenge is to keep your throws on the “fareway,” or cleared, semi-maintained and designated area. It is in your best interest to avoid natural hazards such as trees, oceans of deep grass, creeks, deer, giant rabid squirrels, drunk college students, ticks, chiggers, mosquitos, gnats, poison ivy, and stinging nettles, all of which produce force fields that suck your disc into the “rough,” also known on Eastern Iowa area disc golf courses as “ravines” or “gorges.”

The biggest advantage to disc golf is that is is less formal than traditional golf. Which is not to say that disc golf players don't take their game seriously. They do. Serious disc golfers warm-up by stretching and practice their “putts.” They carry a multitude of different discs, each specially weighted and shaped for long distance, middle distance, approach and/or putting. And they use them. Each of them. At the correct time.

We don't. Do any of that. At the correct time. And we yell a lot.

We do usually start our games with some traditional golf etiquette. We take turns on the first tee, complimenting each other on our first shot – even if it rebounds off a tree, landing behind the tee box. This has happened. More than once.

First shot out of the way, we fan out to help find the discs (on the off chance one of them has gone farther than 20 yards), because it's hard to see where your disc went when you're laughing so hard you're doubled over. And we stand behind the other players as they make their next throw.

This is a key rule of safety, etiquette and support. No one likes to have to ask the other players to move so you don't hit them with your disc. Especially when they know, and you know they know you know that there is no way you could possibly throw it that far.

Our first time out this year was particularly ugly. I'd like to say our skills were a little rusty after a long winter and wet spring, but the truth is we didn't have any skills to begin with. In a true show of group effort, the three of us combined for a record high seven tree hits. On one par three hole. That does not include “leaf-burners” (throws that ripped through the canopy) or discs that rolled up to hit a tree. Let's see Tiger Woods top that!

Like traditional golf, a disc golf course typically has either nine or 18 holes. Unfortunately our limit is 12 holes. It take those three extra holes to prove to us we aren't getting any better and that the longer we play the longer it takes to find our lost discs. This also get us as far away from the parking lot as humanly possible.

The last time we played at Turkey Creek I exercised Mom Authority and we packed up after the front nine. It was slightly after noon, the college boys had woken up and it was getting crowded (they were all playing faster than we were: play a hole, let they boys play through, repeat). At first it was OK. The boys were polite and helpful, offering to help look for our lost discs while they played through. Then I realized they were really only trying to help The Cute Teenage Princess (in shorts and a tank top) look for her disc. The Prince and I were just two more natural hazards to avoid.

This reminds me of most outings with the Princess lately. I've noticed a distinct increase in customer service from young men (plentiful in a college town) when accompanied by an attractive young girl. I've started to think about renting her out when speedy customer service is required, but I think there's another term for that.

I could tell the kids were loosing interest in the match when they cheerfully announced we were adopting Street Rules: a  literally no holds barred phase of the game. There was anarchy before, but now it was perfectly legal to distract the thrower by any means – yelling,jumping, hitting them with your disc and full-body tackling. It was also acceptable to deflect any throw and to defend the basket at any cost.

Forget loosing a disc, someone was in danger of loosing a tooth or and eye.

In other words, another typical day at our house.

Happy-mother's Happy Mother's Day

The other day I read a magazine article about some male professional athletes and how they adjusted to being the fathers of girls – and only girls. Or maybe it was about some female celebrities who were mothers of boys – and only boys.

Whichever it was, the point of the article was how wonderfully challenging and ultimately rewarding it was to be the parent of children who were not the same gender as you. Wasn't it amazing that this big, burly, studly-stud athlete could put aside all that testosterone, pull off the helmet and put on a tiarra to enjoy a tea party with his little girls? How marvelous that this petite, delicate-flower of an actress could stow her estrogen in a Dooney and Burke bag and risk nail breakage just to play race cars with her little boys!

Give me a break.

In our little family microcosm, it doesn't matter how many X or Y chromosomes match. It doesn't matter if they share more than 50% of your DNA. It doesn't matter if they're from Mars and you're from Venus.

Because in our family, I am from Earth and my children are from an entirely different galaxy. A galaxy that is far, far, far away and completely, totally, 180 degrees different from mine.

I used to dream about raising mini-me's – not just in looks but in interests and hobbies. I know it happens. I've seen the Christmas card pictures. The family who sings together. The family softball team. The family on stage together, on the race track together, in the orchestra together, on the hunt together, in the kitchen together, at the pageant together …. (Oh, wait a minute, that was Honey Boo Boo. Never mind.)

In short, I imagined my kids and I would share a multitude of interests. In fact, not so much.

In practice, not at all.

When the Royal Progeny were young I shared all the things I love with them. I took them to plays, musicals and concerts. We visited museums, libraries, and historical markers. I schlepped them through quilt shops, kitchen stores, garden centers and book stores. I hauled them (not exactly kicking and screaming, but certainly sighing and whining) to piano lessons, swimming lessons, dance classes (Princess) and tumbling (Prince). One summer all three of us took tennis lessons (and played a couple awkward games of two-on-one tennis).

None of it stuck.

And I was OK with that. Except for the swimming part, which I consider more of a safety thing than anything else. But what can you do?

I learned to see it from their perspective.

Instead of spending my Saturdays at speech contests, I spent them at volleyball and softball tournaments.

Instead of seeing Billy Joel live and in concert, I saw Iron Maiden.

Instead of the Chicago Museum of Art, we go to the Museum of Science and Industry.

Instead of a piano recital, we play disc golf.

Instead of Garrison Keiller, I get roller skating.

Instead of quilting, we lift weights.

Instead of the antique shop, we went paddle boarding.

Instead of sitting poolside at the aquatic center, I sit ramp-side at the skateboard park (and cringe).

Instead of Spamalot on stage. I get Iron Man on the big screen. Instead of Les Miserables on the big screen, I get Netflix on my laptop.

Instead of swooning at a Billy Joel concert, I will be reeling at a One Direction concert (I'm noticing a disturbing musical bias here).

Instead of raising mini-me's, we've raised mini-thems.

And I'm OK with that. (Well, except for the not seeing Billy Joel part.) But what can you do?

Because being a mom to these two alien life forms has been wonderfully challenging and ultimately rewarding.

And I've learned so much.

And had so much fun.

And they make me so very happy.

Here's to a Happy happy-mother Mother's Day.

A Little Something for the Birthday Queen

The Queen Mother was 72 when my little Princess was born. Mom started slowing down soon after that, so the “Gramma” my kids know is a different person than the “Mom” I remember. I love my mom, and I'm lucky to still have her, but sometimes I just wish she had her old spark. That's why I tell my kids stories like this about the person I wish they could have met.

When I was a sophomore in college Dad died. Mom found ways to keep herself busy, and increased her visits to me and my brothers, who lived in nearby towns. I went to a small college, where pretty much everyone knew everyone else – and their parents. I was lucky enough to live in the dorm with the same group of girls all four years. When I say Mom visited me, I really mean she visited all five of us.

Visiting parents were always a big hit on campus because they meant we got real food! I don't think anyone's parents ever managed to have a private dinner out with just their own student. We were a pack, and we hunted like a pack, always finagling to bring a friend to dinner with us. Even if the visit didn't include a meal, it usually included a trip to the grocery store (with goodies to be shared among the pack) or maybe even homemade cookies!

Mom had access to UPS pick up where she worked, so she was a great one for sending cookies. Our mail was delivered to tiny post office boxes in the dorm's main lobby. If you received a package larger than a matchbox, you had to ask the front desk worker to get it for you. It was impossible to keep cookies a secret (and all boxes were assumed to contain cookies)! Mom wouldn't have wanted me to hoard them, either. She made cookies to be shared.

I know she took us out to eat several times, but there's one dinner in particular that I will never forget. My friends and I met Mom at this little Mexican restaurant in a town that was no more than a blip on the road between home and school. El Charro's was just this side of rundown, but they had the tastiest Americanized-Mexican food around, the servings were huge, and the prices were low. The tables didn't match, the chairs didn't match, the plates didn't match, the utensils didn't match, the plastic glasses were scratched and didn't match, and the chips and salsa were the best I've ever had. And they were always crowded.

It was a long(ish), narrow restaurant, just wide enough for the bar and a single row of tables. A few more tables filled in the open space between the end of the bar and the kitchen. After a short wait the six of us managed to grab one of the tables across from the bar. People stood behind people sitting at the bar, leaving a narrow path for the waitress (she must have been 105, but was as spry as a 25-year-old), who dashed from the kitchen to the front of the restaurant and back again.

With six of us, and the kitchen struggling to keep up with the orders, it didn't take long for us to finish off our chips and salsa. We tried several times to get the waitress' attention, but she flashed by so quickly it was impossible.

That is, until Mom balanced the empty chip bowl on her head.

Whoosh, the waitress was there, whoosh she was gone, and whoosh we had a full bowl of chips! We were all laughing so hard we could hardly eat them.

I don't remember anything else about that night, but I can still see Mom sitting there with that woven wood bowl perched on her curly, grey-haired head, behaving like nothing was out of the ordinary.

A quick Google search turned up a source for those “retro” bowls. I may have to put one on my Christmas list. Maybe I'll take it out and balance it on my head if I ever need a reminder of how things used to be.

Call Me, Maybe

Guess who has a smart phone and doesn't know how to use it?

That's right, I am now the proud owner of a smarter-than-me phone. But I'm in good company. According to a recent study, 50% to 75% of people age 30 and older who have a smart phone don't really know how to use it (“A Recent Study,” June 2013, Center for Completely Fabricated Statistics).

Now I can make and receive calls any time, anyplace, get directions, check the weather, and research surrounding landmarks, restaurants and gas stations. All from the comfort of my phone.

In theory, that is.

The fact of the matter is that it would probably be quicker for me to make my call from home (we are one of the 5% of Americans, according to the CCFS, who still have a “land line”), check a map for directions, look out the window to see if it's raining, and just drive around cluelessly until I happen upon my destination.

I got along just fine with my plain old, slow, boring (but reliable) cell phone. But I've been plum 'et up with jealousy since the first time I saw someone access Accuweather on their phone. Watching my dear husband get directions on his phone turned me green with envy. Listening to the Princess snicker whenever I tried – and failed – to use her smart phone just about drove me insane.

But I stuck firm to my Luddite beliefs that a cell phone should be just that: a phone, not a hand held computer. Being able to make or receive a call in a car at will (within reason) was technological marvel enough! Accessing the internet from the passenger seat was just too much for a mere mortal to aspire to! Icarus, watch out for the sun!

In the end, I fell victim to creeping technology-itis.

Texting was my gateway tech-drug. Sending brief messages to the dear husband and our little angels made life so much easier. We could converse phrase by phrase (or word by word) as time permitted, not committing to long, meaningful conversations.

Then the Princess showed me how to access my email account on my old phone. I didn't care if it was almost all spam; suddenly I could receive ads for Viagra no matter where I was! I could surf the web, too, as long as I didn't actually need to read anything on the teeny-tiny screen.

Then there were the Doubting Thomases, whose disparagement only fueled my determination.

“You don't want a smart phone,” my darling husband said, “you'll just get frustrated when you can't get it to do what you want.”

“I had to show you how to work the phone you have,” my darling daughter said.

“If you had a smart phone, you could look up the answer – HAHAHAHAH,” said my darling son.

True, I worked very hard to cultivate an air of technological ineptitude. Perhaps I made myself out to be a little too technologically challenged. But why should I go to all the trouble to learn how to change my screen saver when someone else was there to do it for me? Why should I waste time trying to download the Kim Possible ring tone, when someone else volunteered to do it?

The division of labor in our house is pretty clear cut. If it involves technology someone else takes care of it. If it involves cooking, cleaning or other household chores, I take care of it.

But no more! The revolution is upon us! I am upsetting the balance of power.

With the Princess busy figuring out her own new phone, I took action. After struggling unsuccessfully to add my email account to my apps, I broke down and downloaded the manual for my phone – by myself (En Espaňole primero). I've always been able to read instruction, just too lazy to actually do it on more than a need to know basis. This time I had the need and I wanted to know.

So far I have conquered the email app, deleted and arranged icons, changed the screen saver, managed my ring tones, added and deleted contacts, sent and received texts and used the camera.

There's only one thing I haven't done yet:

 Made a phone call.

Hairy Tale

Got my hair cut last week. Added a little color. Nothing big. A little gray here and there. Just for kicks.

My friends have been trying to get me to color my hair for a long time. I must admit, the gray really "pops" with this cut. And it looks totally natural! If you didn't know better, you might think it came from years of worrying about and looking after kids, a husband and an aging mother.

I think the new color makes me look more mature. And to be honest, I was getting tired of looking so darn young. It was such a hassle being carded all the time. Having to wear the "teacher" badge at the high school so no one would think I was a student. Assuring strangers that the Prince and Princess are my kids, not my brother and sister.

It had only been a couple months since my last style change -- which I loved, loved, loved. But I was feeling restless and, as I'm still afraid of needles, a tattoo was out of the question. An Ahm naw ge-in my tuh pier! Ah doe cahr wah deh seh, you tah fuh-y wih a pier tuh. (Sound it out, people.)

Besides, I enjoy trying out new haircuts. It's a thrilling little battle of wills between me and my hair. I want it to curl this way, or poof up that way. My hair wants to lay flat, or stick straight out at odd angles. Eventually we come to agreement -- meaning I give up and let it do what it wants. Then it's off to the hairdressers for a new cut and a rematch!

My new 'do is supposed to look like pop-singer Rhianna's, although the gray reminds me more of Jamie Lee Curtis's hair. It's a toss up. I could easily be mistaken for either one. OK, I might have to add colored contacts, but then, for sure.

When it's not humid and the nozzle on the hairspray isn't all gunked up and I have beaten my hair into submission, it's kind of "poofy" at the crown with a straight "swoopy" over one eye. This is not to be confused with the mullet, which is "party" in the back, "business" in the front. However, the swoop over the eye does add a "business" element to it, as it reminds my family of Kate Gosselin of "John and Kate Plus Eight." Channeling Kate has really helped me get in touch with my inner bi... I mean, inner assertiveness.

The Royal Family likes the new hair cut. Or they've been too afraid of my inner-Kate to disagree. It's a win-win. His Royal Highness reserved comment, looking at me nervously until I confirmed that yes, I had gotten my hair cut. At least he noticed this time, although we do need to work on his enthusiasm and sincerity.

The Little Prince took one look and asked "Whadup wid' da' hair, Mom?" as he headed off to become a rock legend on Guitar Hero. Who is this little hoodlum, and what happened to my English-speaking boy? Maybe I should see if they have Baroque Hero, or Orchestral Hero for Wii.

The Little Princess didn't get the whole color thing. She suggested I replace the gray with blond highlights.

"Gray is the new blond," I said.

"Wow, you have a lot of blond hair," she said.

Who says blonds have more fun?

Trippin' Over Tripping

I've been planning a short getaway for the Royal Family. I must say, if the allies had spent a proportional amount of time planning D-Day, it would have been called Z-Day and we would all be wearing lederhosen.

We're talking three, four days tops. To Chicago. It's not like we'll be spending a year in Zimbabwe. We don't even have to get passports. Do we? (Note to self, check on passport requirements for Illinois. You can never be too prepared.)

Yes. yes you can be too prepared. I passed too prepared a long time ago. I just didn't realize it until I Googled "Corner Bakery, Chicago" then wished I had done that before booking the hotel. (Looks like the nearest one is a good four blocks away. I suppose the walk might offset the calories from the blueberry muffins.) And I'm not even sure "Corner Bakery" is the right name. I just remember seeing a lot of them, they were all on corners, and they all featured a bakery.

It should not take four days to plan a four-day trip. Especially not when the big attractions are all set: Shedd Aquarium, Museum of Science and Industry, Field Museum, and Michigan Avenue. With the power of the internet at my fingertips, you'd think planning would be a breeze.

And it is. But the internet also makes over-planning a breeze. Each attraction has its own web site showcasing and highlighting and encouraging you to Plan Your Visit! I've taken so many virtual tours, I'm not sure I need to see the real thing.

I've downloaded maps, planning routes through the exhibits I think the Prince and Princess (and His Royal Kingness) will most enjoy. I've saved us valuable museum time that would otherwise be wasted standing around looking lost and arguing over where to go next, or how to find the nearest bathrooms.

Except that you know nothing will go according to plan.

First off, I'll probably forget the maps in the car and not think about them until we've hiked half a mile from the parking lot to the lobby. Oh yes, I Googled parking, directions to the parking lots, and parking prices, too. If I could reserve a parking spot, I would.

I've planned around the permanent, temporary and closed exhibits as listed on the web sites, but it would just be my luck for Sue, the T-Rex, to be out for dusting. Or for me to be the only one excited to see SUE!!! The T-REX!!!

I've used a nearly scientific method of determining the likes and dislikes of the Royals, based on their likes and dislikes for seven-, 11- and 40 some odd-years. But you never know when someone will suddenly develop a previously unexpressed desire to see the obscurest of the obscure. Like a collection of Chinese rubbings. Which is not on my list.

In the end, all my planning may be for naught. We may not face the same hurdles near 12th Street Beach that they did at Omaha Beach, but it could get pretty ugly. Especially if I don't get to see SUE!! The T-REX!!

Of if Corner Bakery isn't within walking distance.