End of An Era

This month, my youngest child will finish elementary school. While we're all more than ready to see him move on up to the middle school, I face the bittersweet end of an era in my life as a mom. You all know that I work full-time from home on the day job. What that means is not all that much happens around here during the day. In the morning, the elementary bus picks up at the end of my front walk and then drops off in the afternoon. For the seven school years we have lived in this house, my day has been framed by those pick ups and drop offs. The bus monitor has faithfully fed biscuits first to Consuela and Roscoe and now to Brandy. In fact, when Consuela died, Dan joked that maybe now Bernice, the elderly monitor who has seen my kids safely to school for seven years and provides AWESOME dog biscuits, could afford to go out to dinner once in a while.

I remember our first year in this house, the only school year my kids were ever in the same school. They squabbled daily over whose turn it was to stand on the rock that used to sit at the end of our sidewalk where the bus picks them up. Last fall when we had our front yard remodeled, Emily asked if I was really going to get rid of the bus rock. I admit that gave me pause, but we did get rid of the big monstrosity! After all, once his sister wasn't there to squabble with anymore, Jake lost interest in standing on the bus rock.

My school mornings begin at 7:30 when I get Jake up and moving for the 8:30 bus pick up. Dan handles the early shift with Emily, which these days consists of a little bit of yelling when she runs late. But otherwise, she pretty much takes care of herself in the morning and has for some time now. Next year, Jake moves to the early shift with Dad, who will drop him at school on his way to work. This gives Jake an extra half hour in the morning that my tortoise desperately needs.

So where will that leave me? Without a kid to put on a morning school bus for the first time in 10 years. I make jokes about what will get me out of bed in the morning if I don't have a kid to put on a bus or a boss expecting me in an office at a certain time. Of course my job will still beckon as it does every day and I will get up and get to it, but my days will begin much differently without that hour with Jake. I'd be lying if I said I won't miss that one-on-one time with him, even if most of it is about me saying HURRY UP will you? Even in 5th grade I have to remind him every day to brush his hair AND his teeth and wash his face with something other than spit on the ends of his fingers. Can you see why I'm concerned about Dad taking over the early shift?

In the 12 years I've worked from home, summer vacation has been the toughest time of the year for me. This year, however, I'm really looking forward to it as both my kids have had their struggles in school this year. We all need a break. But as June 22 approaches, I'm acutely aware of the ending of a era. When you're in the midst of these school years, it feels like they will go on forever. And then you wake up one day and your oldest is in high school and your "baby" is heading for middle school and you know it won't last forever. I'll miss those bus pickups and so will Brandy. But most of all, I'll miss my mornings with Jake.

Motherhood: The Ultimate Paradox

Yesterday, we celebrated Mother's Day. Cynical people like to chalk up these days to just another holiday invented by the card companies to generate sales. I tend to be as cynical as the next gal, but I have to say, I love Mother's Day. I love that we set aside a day in May to honor the Moms and a day in June to do the same for the Dads. I mean who, on this EARTH, gives more to others than parents? And the giving never ends. You give birth, you do your best to raise them into active, functioning members of society, and then you stand back, ready to roll up your sleeves to help whenever your adult children need you. Parenthood never ends, at least it never did/has for my parents and it certainly won't for me. I look forward to everything still to come with my kids. Sometimes I can't believe I was blessed with these two smart, funny, beautiful, sarcastic (gee, where does THAT come from?) people in my life.

On Saturday, I put Emily on a flight that would deliver her to her dad in Indianapolis (he had to go a day earlier—long story). So of course Saturday dawns stormy and dark, and I am a bundle of nerves over the whole thing. Emily tells me to RE-LAX. It'll all be fine. As I watched her breeze through security like she does it every day, I realized she was right. It would be fine. I was the problem, not her. She arrived at the mid-point in Baltimore and called to say part 1 was finished. How was it? I asked. "We experienced some turbulence," she replied in a blase tone. Were you scared? I asked. "Um, no, but you would've been." LOL! Yes, my children know me and yes, they can be sarcastic like their mother. Why am I oddly proud of that?

I was left to celebrate Mother's Day with just Jake, who did a fine job of delivering the cards, chocolate and plants his father had bought for me and to place on my mother's grave. This was my sixth Mother's Day without my own mom, and she would've loved the fact that I arrived at the cemetery just as they were closing the gates at 4 p.m. I went back again at 4:50 p.m. today and discovered they really mean that 4 p.m. closing time. I hope I get an A for effort, but seriously, how much of a loser does this double denial make me? My mother, who loved a good laugh, must certainly be enjoying my cemetery ineptitude. I'll try again tomorrow.

Mothers everywhere know it's the hardest and best job we'll ever do. I remember Bill Clinton once said that being president meant nothing to him when stacked up against being a parent. Love him or hate him, he seems to have had a hand in raising a nice kid. Who among us wouldn't be satisfied to say the same thing? Motherhood, however, can be a journey of soaring highs and crushing lows. I experienced both yesterday. My oldest cousin, Ann Marie, became a first-time grandmother on Mother's Day. I thought it was so cool that her daughter Marissa really delivered a gift that her mother will never forget, and Ann Marie said it was by far her best Mother's Day ever. Then this morning I read with horror on Facebook that an old friend from the Spain days had lost her 21-year-old daughter yesterday in a freak accident, just two days after her daughter graduated magna cum laude from college.

Nothing will raise you up or bring you low quite like motherhood. Welcome to Jonathan Michael Riley, the newest member of my large extended family, and God bless the family of Samantha Cawthorne.

Moments of Magic

I'm in my eleventh year of working full time from home. Some days I'm like a drooling, pajama-wearing, housebound freakazoid who talks to herself and the dog—and swears the dog answers back. But I digress. I like working from home. I like my routine, and I love being here for my kids, who are now 10 and 13, and don't know it any other way. To them, Moms work at home, and that's just the way it is. I put my son on the bus at 8:30 every morning (right in front of my house so no need for real clothes) and get him off the bus at 3:30. Another important aspect of the daily pick up and drop off are the biscuits the monitor gives Consuela. To her, yellow school bus = biscuit wagon.

Since Jake called me out one day to the monitor for still being in my PJs at 3:30 (this was when he was in 1st grade), I make a point of being properly attired before Emily gets home from middle school at 3. Usually, the proper attire happens MUCH earlier than that. Some days, when work is nuts, it happens five minutes before she gets home, which is my own little secret. Well, after all these years of greeting school buses, you wonder if your presence is any more significant to them than say, the sofa or the fridge or the TV. Actually, I think the fridge and TV come in well ahead of me on their significant household item lists, but they would probably say otherwise to spare my feelings. Today, I had to take my daughter somewhere right after school, so Cliff Claven came home early to get Jake (now in 4th grade) off the bus. When I got home, I asked Jake how Dad did on bus duty. "Well," he said, "he didn't hold the door open for me."

I stopped what I was doing and turned to him. "What?"

"The door," he said, exasperated to be interrupted in the middle of a pressing video game. "He didn't hold the door open for me."

I thought about it for a minute and realized that every day, almost without fail, I lean out the front door to thank the monitor for Consuela's biscuit and then hold the door open for Jake. And he notices. I gotta tell you, that struck me right where I live as the mom who is just HERE every day. I mean, who cares? Who notices? Apparently, Jake does, and with that one little comment, he made my day, my month, my life as a work-at-home mom. It matters that I'm here. It matters to him.

Last week, I had a similar moment with Emily. She is dropped off one house up the street. As I've mentioned before, the high school is at the top of our hill, and the high school teams run wind sprints up and down our street after school. So Emily is coming down the hill from the bus stop just as a pack of high school boys come running down the hill. She knew they were there but never turned to take a look. Instead, when she saw me watching for her, she sashayed down the street, playing it up for me. If you'd caught the scene on TV, it would've looked like a pack of boys was chasing my girl. As she approaches the door, she sends me a knowing grin.

"Friends of yours?" I ask.

"Just some people I brought home with me," she replies with nonchalance.

Never once did she look at the boys. Instead, she kept her eyes firmly on me and shared the small, magical moment of total unity and humor at a time when we struggle to see eye-to-eye on anything. It helped me to remember that underneath all the teenaged angst and attitude, there's a girl I adore in there.

They tell me she'll be back some day. I'll be here waiting, and I'll hold the door open for her.

Buy A Book, Save An Author

The book business needs you this holiday season. Like every industry in America, publishing has taken a few knocks lately, so you'd be doing me and all my writer buddies a huge favor if you could include a few books in the gifts you give this season. Books are an inexpensive way to provide hours of entertainment for someone you love. Whether the people on your list love a good scare, a great romance (Line of Scrimmage), a thriller/mystery, or an intriguing biography, you can help me and my friends by buying just one book. I'm not saying you have to go out and buy my book (Line of Scrimmage). Any book will do (but Line of Scrimmage is pretty good, if I do say so myself). And when you and your friends are done with the books (except for Line of Scrimmage, which you should keep forever), consider donating them to your local library. I thank you, and my writer friends thank you!

Today, I ventured into the maelstrom of Christmas shopping madness. I actually made a decent dent in my list on the first outing. While my teenaged daughter and her friend burned through their report card earnings on their own, my son and I trudged through the mall. He was a pretty good sport for a couple of hours. Then he finally looked up at me and said, "This has been fun and everything, but can we go home now?" So we called his sister to say time's up. I had just talked to her, so I knew she was fine, but she didn't answer her phone. So I called back. Still no answer. Can all the parents out there appreciate what goes through the mind of a mom in those five minutes between no answer and her breathless call, full of apologies, didn't hear the phone, etc.? After her friend went home, she asked me if she was in for a "talking to." I simply said what my mother used to say to me—I hope I live long enough to see your kid scare the hell out of you. My mother didn't live long enough, but I'm sure she's up there saying, SEE, it's no fun, is it? As always, Mom was right.

Finally, a moment of silence in honor of the 45th anniversary of the death of President Kennedy. He lived and died before I was even born, but I've been fascinated by him and his family my entire life. If you're ever in Boston, I'd recommend a trip to his presidential library. It's well worth your time.

Characters In All Shapes and Sizes

In the course of eleven books, I've created a lot of characters. With a few exceptions, most of them are good looking, pleasant people that I hope you'll want to spend a few hours getting to know better. Characterization is key to compelling fiction writing, and it's something I've worked very hard at over the course of my writing career. But what I want to talk about here is the REAL character I gave birth to nine and a half years ago. 

I've been blessed with two whip-smart, social kids who are full of self confidence. They both have a sharp wit and can carry on intelligent, well-thought-out conversations with people of all ages. But my son is a true character. Tonight my sister-in-law said, "You have to write some of this stuff down." So, I thought, why not here where he won't discover it for decades? Here are a few Jake-isms from the annals:

• At four years old, he said to a bald man in Applebees: "You must be very sad that all your hair blew out." Did I mention that Jake is loud? So loud it's like a megaphone was surgically attached to his face at birth? Fortunately, the man laughed—as did everyone in a 10-table radius.
• At five years old, he said to his kindergarten teacher: "You wore that same dress to orientation." Later that same day, he said to another teacher, "You're pretty. Want to marry me?"
• At seven, he was singing "The Star Spangled Banner" at the top of his lungs, including this line: "Babe Ruth through the night, that our flag was still there." It's a baseball song, he said, because it ends with the words "Play ball!"
• A few weeks ago, we saw a woman breast feeding her baby at a hotel pool. She had him tucked up under a towel. Jake wanted to know what was going on, and I did my best to explain it to him in terms a nine-year-old could understand. I said it every way I could think of until he wore me down and I was forced to say, "The baby sucks the milk out of the mom's boobs." I wish you could've seen his face. Later, on our way to dinner, he says, "Mom, I'd really like to know more about this whole chest feeding thing." Chest feeding. I almost fell out of the car laughing.

I could go on all night with funny Jake stories. I will post a few more here from time to time. I've created lots of characters, but none can compare to the little man I live with who makes me laugh out loud every day of my life. I just clicked "Save" on this post and noted the time: 10:18, which is Jake's birthday.