A Different Christmas Season

December 26, 2010

I'd coin 2010 the year of guilt. Not that I'd make Santa's bad list or anything like that. But if I had to rank my behavior this year, it would be around a 3 1/2. When I started this blog about a year and a half ago, my goal was to simplify life. And for awhile, I was darn good at it. But, old habits die hard and they come back from the dead pretty quickly.

To be honest, going back to work after twelve months of unemployment was a difficult transition. Jumping back into work was easy; just like riding a bike. But finding balance in my life wasn't. All of the cards played in my favor. A commute less than two miles from home, my youngest son's school right across the street from my office and a job with flexibility. It was more than I could ask for...near perfection.

Strangely, my entry back into the work force came with an enormous sense of guilt. I was ready to go back, my kids were prepared for me to go back and the checkbook screamed for me to go back. So what was the problem? The fear of losing all that I learned about life and its real purpose.

Guilt kept me real. It allowed me to enjoy a normal work week. It ensured that I'd be there for my kids 100%. And I was...most of the time. Sure there were no more gourmet four course meals at 6:00, but they didn't miss my cooking as I never quite mastered the skill. They were happy with even a frozen pizza, so long as I was there to make it for them. My kids just want Mom. I made sure that I spent time with each of them together and alone.

My writing has suffered since my return to work. It had to take a back seat to life even though it pains me. Its my true escape. The release of my true creativity. My novel sits there waiting to be edited and the hundreds of stories in my head continue to prod me to be let out. Sleeping has been difficult as the characters continue to develop new story lines and lives of their own when I finally let the analytic side of my brain take a rest. I'm committed to placing writing as a priority for 2011.

But this holiday season, guilt has taken its toll on me. Its built like a brick house with one heavy stone layered upon the next. I feel the weight pushing and pushing until it nearly paralyzes me physically and emotionally. Although the weight is so heavy, a simple feather can knock me over. With each time, the tears come to paralyze me again.

The fa la la la la and Jolly ole Saint Nick weren't inside me this year. I heard no Christmas carols even though they surrounded me. I made methodical plans and lists to ensure the perfect gifts for my loved ones. But again, paralyzed at the thought of actually purchasing them. One Friday morning, I sat in the parking lot of the local mall and watched the shopper go in and out with smiles and bags and bags of Christmas cheer. With list in my hand and a day off of work, I sat there in the SUV just staring at the sure madness inside the square, glittery facade of materialism. I couldn't get myself to leave the vehicle. Paralyzed again. There would be no lists checked, presents purchased or responsibilities completed that day.

So you are probably thinking right now...what the hell is wrong with this lady? Should we take her to the looney bin? A question I've asked myself a hundred times. But no. I'm just fine. I've learned to put things into perspective. I'm the mother of a child with a chronic illness. Each morning I wake up and say the prayer, "Dear God, please help me keep my child alive today." and "Dear God, please give me the strength to be a great mom to both my children."

This past week was riddled with two very serious day's attempting to keep my child alive amidst people who "just don't get it." Amidst a society that's measured on wealth and materialism. Although on Christmas Eve this year I wasn't able to participate in the traditional festivities, I had the blessed opportunity to hold my sick child and thank the Lord for the birth of his son, Jesus Christ our Savior.

So while I held my son and ate Chunky Soup out of a can, I had no guilt. The best gift of all.

Nurture your plant and it will grow

Something occurred to me today while I was throwing old coffee grounds into the kitchen garbage can. The grounds landed directly onto a plant that my husband gave to me as a gift for my birthday just a month ago. The plant was dead. Not surprising as I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever owned. For some reason, I paused. As I looked into the dirty smattering of waste, for the first time I realized that for as long as I can recall, my husband has given me a plant for every birthday, valentines day and anniversary. He often gives fresh flowers as well, but always a plant.

Plants are living things that need to be nurtured and fed to survive. It doesn’t take much. Just a little attention, good lighting and water. Yet as hard as I try, I just can’t keep them alive. Is it because of my busy life? Is it because of my dedicated focus to my children…and waking every day with the prayer, “Dear God…please let me keep my child alive today,”? Is it because I just don’t have a green thumb? The questions burned my head as I poked at the brown, wilted leaves, wondering if it had a chance.

The answer is simple. It’s a complete lack of attention.

So what does this all mean? As I look at the dead plant, a chill runs through me. Is the plant is a metaphor for marriage? If you don’t nurture it with a little attention, it will wilt away. Is this the reason why my husband continues to purchase me these lovely living things? A symbol and reminder to focus on nurturing our relationship.

Why did it take me so long to finally “get it”? The next plant will live on…just like my beautiful marriage.

To Be Thankful

Thanksgiving is a time for escape. A kind holiday with little ceremony and expectation. A time to relax, spend time with family and friends, eat way too much fattening food and enjoy football. So as I sit in my cozy home, I reflect on a few things in 2010 for which to be thankful.

Several weeks ago, my new smart phone encountered a small hiccup and all work emails were lost. For a brief moment, I panicked. What the hell was I going to do without 24/7 connection to perceived chaos? Then I remembered, I manage my life…life doesn’t manage me. I remembered one core learning from a year of unemployment: There is no need for work emails while away from work.

The reinvention of Date Night with my husband Jon has turned me into a teenager again. Holding hands on a long walk, dining at great restaurant without having to pay and colorful conversation with my true love makes me giggle. So do the Appletinis, because date night always comes with a designated driver.

A black-nosed, pooping in the house, underwear eating pug puppy has brought calm to a stressed hubby, compassion to a teenager and responsibility to a young boy.

Healing: physical, spiritual and emotional.

2010 began with a new job after twelve month journey of unemployment. Entering the workforce again, I had no expectations, no desire to climb the corporate ladder and a mission to maintain balance in life. What I hadn’t realized when I walked through the door was a refreshing group of real people and work that I love. Yes it sounds corny…but I have a job that pays me, yet I’d do it for free. And a two mile commute.

Just two days ago we met with Amanda, our son’s fifth grade teacher. He is fortunate to have her for the second consecutive year. What’s amazing about Amanda is not only that she is a fantastic educator, but she also has a rare talent of uncovering the unique gifts within her students. I couldn’t help but sniffle when she proudly showed me a short story that Eli had written. “He has a voice. This is something you can’t teach.”

A husband that takes care of me.

The look on my fourteen year old son's face when he made the freshman basketball team and then the look of disappointment when his best friend had not. It was clear, I’d raised a good person not a ball player.

Discarding the Glucogon kit. Expired and unused.

So as I stuff myself with turkey and pie today, it’s easy to think of the big things in life to be thankful. But it’s remembering the small things that really matter.

Vision of yesterday

Could it be a dream? A chance to relive your past. A time where all things are not real. A heart break relived from so long ago. Yet, haunts you today. Why must the past feel so real? So present. Is it because of all of things you wished for that didn’t come true? But, the present seems so unreal. Not quite here and now. Is it possible to step back and relive what was never meant to be?

No.

White snow cold heart.

The glow of new white snow glistened when I looked out of my bedroom window this morning. A bit shocking in fact as my world’s landscape changed overnight. Not yet ready for winter, the beauty was breathtaking so the grief of the long warm fall wasn't so awful. Each year, the cold weather tears me apart like a bad break-up. Winter is not my friend. It takes time to adjust.

The freshness of the air burned my lungs as I breathed in the cold air while taking Bosco outside to experience the chilly, wet snow for the first time. He leaped into the air catching soft white flakes on his pink tongue as if they were doggie treats falling from the sky. The site of a puppy experiencing a winter wonderland for the first time made me giggle. It didn’t take him long to realize that the white stuff was cold and place he didn’t want to endure for long. Within minutes he was scratching at the door to come inside. Reluctantly, I let him in knowing that he will leave his morning gifts somewhere inside the house.

There is something about the first snow that changes people. For some, it’s a chance to get into the Christmas spirit. For others, it’s a chance to take on the Minnesota roads for the first time. For me, the new snow wiped away the painful week I’d experienced. A snowy Saturday morning allowed me to curl up with coffee and a blanket. My mind was still paralyzed by the draining week that included a very sick child, a demanding work week and evening commitments. The snow provided a fog that numbed my reality at the perfect time.

It looks like the snow is here to stay and winter is upon us. It could be so easy for me to slip into an unhealthy mental state. Yet, my imagination will allow me to mentally escape the cold that burdens my soul each year. Let the writing begin.

Small Miracles: My Running Shoes

Eleven years ago, I could never imagine life as it is today. But I do know that the evening that my youngest son Eli finally came into the world he was my miracle baby. And I’ve reminded him of this every day of his life. In fact when I ask Eli, “who are you?” He’ll answer each time, “Your miracle baby, Mama.” I told you about the miracle of my son Eli many times before so today, my son’s birthday, I’ll celebrate some of small miracles that have molded me as a person. It’s so easy for us as human beings to celebrate the big things in life…but it’s the daily events that make us who we are as people. For the next few blog entries I’ll share with you a few of my favorites.

Small Miracles: My Running Shoes
While unemployed, our family made huge life changes as we barely had enough money to pay the mortgage, health insurance, Eli’s diabetes supplies and very basic living expenses. It was a rude awakening to all of us. I’d never balanced my check book in my adult life because money was never in short supply. Jon had always been a good provider and conscious of spending, yet I’d learned to live “high off the hog” with my own earnings. I also had no problem providing our boys with the best of everything. I’d unconsciously passed along my desire for the finer things and brand snobbery to them. Looking back, surely it was my way to ease the guilt I felt from a workaholic lifestyle and far too much work travel.

So just like that…it was gone. The money. The travel. Trips to the mall. Louis Vuitton, Burberry and Nordstrom. Poof…it vanished in a second. As I sat in my lonely home while unemployed the material items that once ruled my world haunted me. Left me feeling empty and sad. I’d worked so hard to gather these things. Yet now, they meant nothing.

What I didn’t realize was how happy I became by the little things in life. Learning how to cook…well attempting to learn how to cook and spending time alone to discover the person deep inside that I used to be and running to deal with my stress. The happy, loving, shy person who laughed at life was back. Like an onion, the layers of attitude and arrogance peeled away. The person God intended me to be was there. And I know now that God intended me to find her again.

But the miracle came when my oldest son Owen was rubbing his swollen feat one afternoon. I could tell that he was in pain. “Honey, what’s the matter?” I asked. “My feet hurt, Mom,” he said quietly. I’d just bought him a pair a few months ago and he’d already grown out of them. He knew that the purchase of those shoes was difficult on our budget. He wasn’t going to tell me he needed another pair. I’d been running for months with a pair of shoes with holes in the bottom of the sole. “Mom, I don’t need new shoes…you do,” he said sadly. My heart sunk. “Yes you do, honey. We’ll be okay,” I told him.

That afternoon we went to the discount store to purchase him some inexpensive shoes. I could tell he still felt badly about the purchase. That evening he sat next to on the couch and gave me a huge hug. “Mom, I love you,” he said. Then he pulled out a bank of quarters. “Mom, I’ve been saving change for a few years. I think there is enough here to buy you a new pair of running shoes,” he said. My eyes welled with tears. “Let’s buy your shoes tomorrow,” he hugged harder. “Thank you, honey. We will,” I wept quietly. Just one small example of the act of kindness can feel like a miracle for a lifetime.

Welcome Bosco. Newest member of the Grayson Family.

For several years my husband Jon has begged me to have another child. He is the best Dad in the entire world and loves his boys more than anything. I and numerous doctors, on the other hand didn’t think it was such a good idea for me to carry another child. It took several attempts and a long, long time for me to have my youngest son Eli, so I just couldn’t handle the likely disappointment of trying to have another child. Instead Jon felt we should adopt a child from another country. A wonderful child that could have a happy life in America with a family who would love him or her with all of their heart. And we would have. Yet, something in my heart told me to wait.

I know now that ‘the something’ was an illness that would consume our lives. And it did. When Eli was eight, he was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. It was a disease that would turn our family upside down and consume most of our free time for years to come. And, for Eli’s entire life. I took a year off of work, thanks to the poor economy and a great severance package from my employer. This time provided me with the opportunity to learn the ‘ins and outs’ of parenting a child with T1. I was able to take the months off of work to train to become a nutritionist, biochemist and psychiatrist…at least for my son. My own psyche was more than bit messed up…but that’s another story for another day.

After a beautiful year off of work, I was able to learn how to care for my diabetic son and obtain a life changing insulin pump. The pump is a beautiful invention. Thank you Medtronic for all you do for my son!!! The pump gave me the confidence I needed to go back to work full time. Even though the midnight and three am blood sugar checks did not go away, I felt that my son was safe and the pump gave him and me the independence that we needed to go on with life.

Two and one half years later, I read about a remarkable organization that trained dogs to become DAD’s, Diabetic Alert Dogs. Strangely, Jon and Eli met a DAD pug when they were visiting family in San Francisco this summer. When they mentioned the Pug, I immediately researched the possibility of obtaining a DAD for Eli. We adore Pugs. So yesterday, for Eli’s birthday, we purchashed a lovely black pug for him. His name is Bosco Amica “Brave Friend”. He is a spunky little eight week old Pug with lots of energy and personality. We will love him as one of the family. Most importantly, we will train him methodically for the next two years to learn how to alert us when Eli has hypoglycemia, life threatening low blood sugar. Through scent training Bosco will become familiar with Eli’s ‘highs and lows’ and alert him to test his blood sugar. If Eli is unresponsive he will bark. It will take some time to train Bosco, but he will be an integral part of our family for years to come.

Although we never had that third child that Jon wanted so badly, we will have an incredibly happy life with a new baby, our DAD pug. Welcome dear Bosco to our family. We will love you dearly and you will love us even more!!!

Carnival Man

I entered my first Flash Fiction writing contest today. Wish me luck. Below is my story.

The hot sun beat on the back of my neck as I held his hand. Sweaty from head to toe, the July heat approached 95 degrees. My long wet pony tail tickled the back of my neck as we swung arms back and forth. It was a rare opportunity to spend a Sunday afternoon with my six year old son. He begged me to take him to the small carnival located in the city park.

“Honey, carnivals are full of germs,” I explained earlier that morning. The last place I wanted to take my sick son. As we neared the carnival I tightened my grip on his hand. My heart panged still aching from the loss of my husband six months ago.

“Mama, look!” yelled my son. “It’s a bungee jumper just for kids. Please can I go on it?” he asked. My heart pounded as I looked at the make-shift attraction. It wasn’t the cords or the rusty metal contraption that pulled the children up and squeaked on the way down that scared me. It was my son’s weak heart that sent chills down my spine.

“Looks dangerous,” I said, clearly not wanting him to embark on a ride that would surely make his blood pressure rise. I slowly walked my son to the ticket booth to investigate.

“How old do you have to be to use the bungee?” I asked the scraggly haired teenage girl at the window.

“Old enough to walk,” she said sarcastically unaware of my fear as a mother. I sighed and looked at my son. His sad eyes plead.

“I’m not sure about this,” I told him now pulling my arm in desperation. Tears began to well in his big brown eyes. It was difficult to think that this may be his last carnival. ’Let go,’ I thought. ‘Let go and let him live.’ I smiled at him and paid the young lady.

Moments seemed to take hours before my young man decided it was his turn. My stomach churned and I felt vomit slowly moving its way up my throat. ‘No,’ I thought to myself. Still holding onto his hand, we approached the front of the line. Tears now formed in my eyes as I wouldn’t let go of his small hand.

A middle age man, whose difficult life was written over his face, looked at the two of us and held out his hand to my small son. He was tall with sun bleached greasy hair and very thin. He was unshaven and unattractive with crooked yellow teeth.

I didn’t let go of his hand. How could I possibly take this risk and leave my son in the hands of a carnie? The tall man looked directly at me. His brown eyes pierced through me as he stared into my soul. He knew my pain. My heart beat and I could feel every breath now.

“Let him live,” said the carnival man with a small wise smile. “Let him live.” There was something familiar in those brown eyes; in that smile.

I immediately let go of my sick child’s hand and guided him to the strange man. Holding his hand now, the man led my son to the nearest bungee and strapped him tightly. “Go, little man,” he whispered to him. “Fly like an angel.”

As I watched my young bird, jump, twist and turn, a deep calm set in me. A calm I’d not felt in years. The carnival man gazed at me the entire time my beautiful son soared through the air. Tears now streaming down my face, I stared back. The strange carnival man had freed me. For five minutes I had no fear. I watched my son sail through the air like an angel. He was on God’s wings for those few moments.

He was unstrapped, lifted to the ground and ran towards me. We hugged tightly as my young man said quietly, “I was in the arms of Daddy.”

Princess for a Day

When I was a young married lady at the young age of 23, I had my life’s plan all worked out. I was to be a grand career woman and would have one beautiful daughter by the age of 30. Well, I was able to accomplish more than a great career and I had my first child by 28, but he wasn’t a girl. He was a boy, Owen, and I loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him. He was and still is…the most beautiful child in the world. After I had my first beautiful child, I knew that he needed a sibling. It just wouldn’t be fair to this extraordinary young man to not have someone to experience life with. At age 31, my second son Eli came along. Since then, I’ve had two beautiful boys and I wouldn’t change it for anything!!!

Since my two boys came along, I never had a desire to have a little girl. My two boys and husband were all that I needed. I wouldn’t change it for the world. My hubby, on the other hand, would have a dozen more children and would give ANYTHING for a little girl. But to his dismay, God has made the decision that I should only have two children. Although we’ve considered adopting a little girl for many years, we’ve just decided that our three men and one not so young lady were all that we need.

Life with two boys and a lovely man is all that I know. I married my wonderful husband right out of college and lived at home until my wedding day. All that said, nearly my entire adult life has been surrounded by men. And with my laid back nature…the men rule the roost. I don’t mind…. Yet sometimes, just sometimes…I wonder what life would be like in a household with another female.

There are days when I crave non masculine attention; wishing that my court of men would notice that I am different, a real lady. It’s hard to put my finger on what this all means…because I really don’t know any other way. One thing that I can say is that there is nothing pink, flowery or remotely feminine in my house. Sporting goods, pool table, video games and smelly shoes are scattered about my household. It doesn’t bother me. Again…I just don’t know any better.

When the invitation addressed to: Princess Kristy Grayson came in the mail I nearly held my breath. It was a beautiful invitation to a Princess Party for my lovely friend Jen’s four year old daughter Lillith. I was so touched that my friend completely understood that I had never attended a young ladies birthday party. I’ve never experienced wearing a crown and frilly clothes to an all girl party. I’d looked forward to the event for weeks.

The best part of preparing for the princess party was the shopping trip focused on a four year old girl. Believe it or not…I’ve never shopped for a young girl. It was heaven. I could barely refrain myself from purchasing a cart full of pink and purple goods. But I settled on a pink frilly princess dress, pink pumps that light up when one walks and a pink puppy veterinarian kit. Because every princess deserve a great career, right?

The party was amazing. All of us were wore lovely dresses, crowns, boas and lots of bling. We danced to eighties music and ate PB&J sandwiches. For three hours, I was in another world. A world that I’d never experienced. Since I wasn’t ready for the party to end, I proudly pranced around my home the rest of the day in my princess bling as if I were the Queen. And my boys just giggled. Someday…they’ll get it. One can only hope.

Tribute to Brett Favre

A lousy piece of writing

Forever my foxy Farve you’ll be;

Although you’ll retire eventually;

Vikings front line won’t fall on their ***es;

Rice will come back to catch your passes;

End the game not needing a field goal and please take us to the Super Bowl!!

Mom Again

I realized how much I truly love my boys during the nearly one year sabbatical (that’s what I call unemployment now) that was forced on me. At the time I thought my life had come to a near stop. My adult life was consumed by the desire to be an executive, make more money than necessary and have the lifestyle of a true Hotel Snob. I was snowed by corporate prosperity.

I am so blessed to have a job that I love. A job that makes me wonder how on earth I get paid for doing the work that I’ve only dreamt about. It was worth the wait. It was worth the year long anxiety of not knowing where I’d land. But now, it seems that I couldn’t ask for a better working experience. There are clear reason why I believe God placed me in my current employer, but I’ll save that story for another time.

Today, I am just so happy to be a mom again. This summer, I decided to take another sabbatical. This time, it meant leaving my sons with a nanny while I went to work each day. What’s strange is that for some reason the laid back lifestyle of my kids (which I wanted…and they deserve) this summer, left me with a hole that I wasn’t a good mom. Our nanny, who is wonderful, took my place as mom for the summer. I didn’t need to worry about activities, car pool and entertainment. She took care of it all…in a superb manner. She even took great care of my son with Type 1 Diabetes….not an easy task. With her caring for my kids, I was able to let go.

Now that summer is over, life is back to its complicated self.

Just yesterday, I drove to and from the High School three times for my Freshman son. Soccer for my little guy. The orthodontist, etc… I’ve made lunches, elaborate breakfasts to ensure that my little men’s tummies are full for the day and packed snacks to ensure the teenager doesn’t pass out from lack of food. Although I am exhausted as heck…I feel like a real mom again.

I love my kids. I love my husband. I love my life.

It truly is the simple things in life that mean so much. I’m thankful to have my title a “Mom” back again.

How can my baby be in high school?

Fourteen years ago I could scoop him up with one hand. He was three weeks early and has never been a minute late to anything in his life. Tonight, watching my six foot one inch son lay on the living room floor checking his Facebook page, I can’t help but tear up. What happened to my baby? In less than a split second he’s all grown up.

I pour my sorrow into writing as my huband nests. Tiding up the Owen’s room, organizing his clothes into fits and doesn’t fit piles. I know watching our son enter high school pains my husband even more. The only time I’ve ever seen my husband cry is the day he placed Owen on the school bus to go off to Kindergarten. Seeing his little buddy grow up is truly unbearable for him. They spent the entire day alone together. Therapy for the two of them.

As I watch Owen, I’m so proud of the incredible young man he’s become. Although he inherited his laid back and shy nature from me, he has the passion and energy of his father. He’s an amazingly caring person and a protective big brother; a young man that often has to take back stage and second place in a not so simple household.

Owen, we won’t be putting you on the bus tomorrow, but I guarantee that Daddy and I will be with you in your heart. Live your high school years with dreams for the future, love for today and lots and lots of giggles.

I love you puddin’ boy!! Mama

Minnesotan in NYC, part 2

It took me about twenty minutes in the budget hotel room to realize that this woman does not do well just sitting around. Especially in the city that never sleeps. I just had to get out. But I was warned by the cab driver that the particular streets in Flushing I was about to explore may not be safe to walk alone, particularly in the evening. My stubborn nature did not want to listen to him, even though his words kept popping into my head. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t make it back to Manhattan by cab. I was really aching for some authentic Italian food and great wine but Mulberry Street wasn’t in the cards this trip.

Ignoring the cab driver and the young woman in the lobby, I left the hotel in search of an adventure. About a block away were hundreds of Asian stores and markets. I was in a fascinating new world. Strolling down the street it was difficult not to stop every few blocks and take in the sounds and smells of a completely different culture. I stopped at several small Asian restaurants and couldn’t read the menu. It was a bustling Friday night and I was clearly out of place still in my pumps and skirt. I’d changed into a comfortable cool tank that was proper fashion for an evening in NYC. Problem was…as I walked a few more blocks the vibe of the streets became a bit more precarious. There were clusters of young Asian and Hispanic woman dressed similar in high heels, tank tops and skirts as well. It dawned on me quickly that these were professional woman…yet not a legal profession.

“Holy Crap,” I thought. I better get out of here quickly. Not wanting to make a scene, I gently turned around and headed back toward the hotel. By now, I had to be at least a mile away. I turned on my hotel snob confidence, looked straight ahead and walked briskly. I could see the building about a block away so my breath quickly came back. At the next corner I spotted what appeared to be a small Italian café. It was almost as if God had placed it mysteriously there just for me. Yes… and I was ready for a glass of wine. As I walked through the large glass doors there were six small tables draped in beautiful white linen. Each had a small vase with flowers and a lit candle. A large mahogany bar sat there so lonely, so I decided to give it some company as I pondered the dinner menu.

A sharply dressed elderly Italian man slowly strolled behind the bar and gave me a grin. He had to be nearly eighty years old. I imagined that he was either the father or grandfather of the owner. “Beverage for the lady?” he asked in broken English. I smiled at him kindly and asked for a glass of Pinot Grigio. He opened a new bottle and filled the very large glass nearly to the rim. The first sip of wine was fantastic. I could finally relax after my long day. There were only a few couples in the restaurant as I sat by myself at the bar and watched the people pass by on the busy street.

The glass of wine hit me like a ton of bricks, so I decided it was time to eat. I must have pursued the menu for a half an hour as there were so many Italian delicacies to choose from. I hadn’t realized that Grandpa poured me another glass of wine while I was studying my dinner choices. I peaked at the glass and then looked at the man. He winked at me and I giggled out loud. I settled on a Frise Salad and sweet sausage fettuccine Bolognese. Far too much food, but I decided even a few bites of each would be well worth the price. And it was…homemade pasta that nearly melts in your mouth. What more can I say?

Throughout my meal, four generations of Italian men sneaked out of the kitchen to catch a glimpse of how I was enjoying my food. The cook was an amazingly beautiful piece of Italian Eye Candy, yet he was so busy with his creations that he only stepped out a few times. After several slow bites of the amazing meal, I was completely stuffed. The second generation Italian popped out of the kitchen and looked at my plate. “Too much?” he asked. “Yes, too much,” I giggled. “But thank you…it was wonderful,” I told him with a big smile. As he cleared my plate, Grandpa came back to me and asked, “Can I buy lady another glass of wine?” “No thank you. Next time,” I replied.

The men were in no hurry to provide me the bill. All four came out of the kitchen and nodded at me. I smiled at the kind men. Grandpa escorted the Eye Candy out of the kitchen to greet me. The two men poured three shots of homemade Limon cello. They lifted their glasses to me and the three of us downed the sweet drink. “Grazie,” I said.

Another wonderful adventure in NYC. I can’t wait until next time.

Minnesotan in NYC. Not the Best Hotel Snob Moment.

It takes a crafty business woman and noted Hotel Snob to make the most out of 24 hour trip to New York City. It’s the city that never sleeps and I rarely sleep on a business trip anyway, so I was determined to take in the sights, sounds and tastes of this glorious opportunity.

My ten year old had a grand illusion that I’d make my way to Canal Street to buy him a white pair of knock off Oakley sunglasses. He begged me the night before. He said, “Mom, with the glasses I’ll command the respect I deserve.” Ughhhh. I’d deal with this drama another time. I didn’t promise anything but the 14 year old got us to Chinatown a few weeks ago with only a smart phone app. How hard could it be?

My loving husband drove me to the airport at 5:00 am to catch my flight for a noon meeting in Manhattan. I’m all about cutting it close as a hotel snob. I’ve conquered far tighter business travel schedules. Arriving to the meeting was no problem as my travel companion arranged for a car at LaGuardia. This painless process gave us plenty of time to enjoy the sites as we made our way through the city. My heart stopped as we drove past Bryant Park. I quickly made friends with my colleague who also had a love for both fashion and anything aired on Bravo. Better yet, our business meeting included real showbiz types that were funny, energetic and made me laugh. All fans of the “Real Housewives of Anything.” The meeting was productive so I was on my way for a real adventure.

This time, I was all alone to find the way to the discount hotel located near the airport. (This was a business trip. No five star hotel this time.) According to my calculations, I could grab a cab to the hotel, change and find my way back to Manhattan for an evening of fun. I assertively walked to the busy street near the venue. Cab after cab passed me by regardless of my assertive wave. Finally after fifteen minutes of dozens of cabbies zooming past, one stopped. I jumped in immediately and told him Flushing, where my hotel was located. “No Way,” he said. “Too far. It will take us hours to get across the bridge. Get out or I take you to subway.”

"Subway?” I thought as the cab driver made his way through the heavy traffic. “You take F to Queens. I take $10,” he said. I slowly handed him the bill…no tip for him. The subway was packed as it was the height of commute time. F it would be. I forced my way onto the busy train and rode for several stops. It dawned on me about five stops into the ride that I didn’t know where the hell I was going or what stop I’d depart. I pushed my way toward the map and noticed an airplane with LGA. Phew..not so bad. I’ll go to the airport and grab a taxi to the hotel. Smart hotel snob!!! Smart.

The Subway took me directly to CitiPark, home of the Mets. My love for baseball lured me off the train to take a peek at the new ball park. I jumped off the subway and made my way to the stadium. Surely there would be a cab by the stadium that could take me to my hotel. There was a game that evening. If it weren’t for the business clothing and two inch pumps, I would have stayed for the game. Surely there would be a cab by the stadium that could take me to my hotel. This was NYC, correct? After my short walk around the stadium, I looked for a cab. None to be found. I did find a police officer. He told me that I closest place I could find a cab was five blocks away. “Ugh…what to do now?” I thought. Back to the subway. I asked the attendant how I could get to the airport. “Next window,” she crabbed. The tired man at the next window told me I needed to take a city bus.

Exhausted…I’d taken a plane, car, taxi, subway and now a bus??? Just to get to a budget hotel. I dragged myself onto the city bus name “LaGuardia Airport”. Guessing this would take me there eventually. In the heart of our country’s melting pot, I stuck out like a sore thumb in my business attire. I had “lost traveler” written all over my face. I sat up front as we traveled through some of the roughest streets I’d seen in a long time. Finally we arrived at LGA. I hopped on cab and the taxi driver took me to what he described as the “real” Chinatown. “Don’t leave the hotel…Miss” he said kindly. I left the cab never so happy to see a hotel lobby.

Check in later for the rest of the story.

Little Italy. Big Imagination.

I have a strange secret. Ever since I saw the movie The Godfather dozens of years ago, I’ve been intrigued with the underworld of Italian culture. Okay…the mafia. Yeah, I know it’s weird. I’m not sure why the attraction, but when my hubby got me hooked on The Sopranos, my imagination began to run wild. What would it be like to live in this lifestyle? At times, I’d watch the series for hours just to escape into a world so different from my own.

I have to admit that I’ve been attracted to Italian men ever since I was a teenager. Tall, dark, handsome and charming of course; nothing resembling the ‘real’ Italian men I encountered in Italy who were far shorter than me and often grumpy. Imagination is great, yet I’d never trade-in my Scandinavian husband.

When Owen and I decided to take a trip to Canal street on our third day in NYC, I knew we’d have an opportunity to slip into the life of an Italian for a few hours as Little Italy was only a few blocks from the “hot knock-offs” that Owen was determined to purchase in Chinatown. After my entrepreneurial son negotiated a sunglass purchase with some shady men selling goods from a garbage bag we were ready to slip into our alter egos. (As if this experience weren’t crazy enough for a mom with her 14 year old son.)

Little Italy is nothing like Rome, Venice or Milan. But it is quaint and a wonderful tourist spot. The four blocks are lined with lovely restaurants. However, as a lover of Italian leather bags, shoes and fashion, I was extremely disappointed when I didn’t stumble upon a row of extraordinary shops. My pocket book and my husband were not let down when arriving home empty handed. I’d have to travel back to 5th Avenue for the good stuff.

Owen declared starvation as I delicately perused each menu and ambiance of various restaurants to pick the perfect place to escape for lunch. It had to be the ultimate Italian experience. I’d been spoiled by authentic Italian food while in Italy. After five minutes of listening to my son’s grumbling I was lured into a small café by a handsome young man that had a beautiful smile. He looked right at my son and said with a thick accent, “You need to bring this lovely lady inside for a wonderful lunch.” Sold. I’m such a sucker. He likely got paid for every naive 40-something he lured into the small café.

The eight table restaurant was lovely and bright with crisp white linen table cloths and a large mahogany bar in the back. I imagined myself sipping wine at the bar all afternoon admiring the handsome Italian men, but the eye candy had to wait for another trip as I was with the 14 year old. Three friendly Italians waited on us explaining the delicacies with their beautiful accents. One young gentleman did nothing but fill my glass with water each time I took a sip. Ah, the good life. For a brief hour, hotel snob slipped into character taking in every moment of this tremendous experience.

On vacation, I promptly ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Got to love the NYC life..no need to drive anywhere, which made it completely appropriate for me to drink wine in the early afternoon. Just as we finished our insalata, Owen said, “Hey mom, look at that guy over there.” He was standing in the corner next to the ornate bar. The man was tall, muscular and dressed head to toe in black. He looked straight ahead with arms crossed. We tried not to stare at the man as he stood as still as a statue. “Who do you think he is?” Owen whispered.

“I don’t know sweetie,” I said looking at him out of the corner of my eye. “Maybe the owner."

“Do you think he’ll break our knuckles if we don’t pay the bill?” he asked squeamishly. My bad for watching The Sopranos in front of the kids.

“Don’t worry. I got it covered,” I shot Owen a smile.

Owen forgot all about the dark dressed man when his plate of Penne arrived. It was the most tasty lunch I’d ever eaten…even better than Rome. Impressively, we took our time enjoying the lunch and the ambiance. Both stuffed full of pasta and bread, we had no room for dessert. Not even a second glass vino. It wouldn’t be wise to ride the subway in a drunken state, so I stopped at one glass. After our plates were cleared and beverages finished, the man dressed in all black slowly approached the table. He had something behind his back but I couldn’t make out what it was. He bent over slightly and turned Owen. The eyes of the14 year old bulged with anxiety.

“Young man. You taking care Mama? Paying for lunch, right?” he asked in broken English pulling his left hand out from behind his back. He placed the bill on the table and smiled at Owen. The young man looked straight at the tall man and nodded. “Well son…someday you will pay for Mama’s lunch.” Off went the man in black. I quickly stuck two twenties into the folder as we walked out of the place giggling again.

Our experiences in Little Italy: Were they real or just imagination? We may never know. Walking down the streets of NYC with my teenage son, I longed for that moment to last forever. Someday he will pay for my lunch. And someday I can only hope that he will have a similar experience with a child of his own.

Empire State of Mine: Day Two

As true baseball fans, we knew a summer trip to NYC wouldn’t be complete without catching a Yankee game at the new stadium. We are NOT Yankee fans, but were interested in checking another major league stadium off our list. It’s just un-American not to attend a major league game while visiting another city. It’s a great way to get a pulse on the people and various cultures coming together. Refusing to wear the obligatory Yankees garb, Owen proudly sported his O’Dawg Twin’s shirt. We stuck out like typical tourists, but we didn’t care…it only made the game even more interesting. The New Yankee Stadium isn’t nearly as impressive as many of the small market stadiums we’ve visited. It was a gorgeous sunny Sunday afternoon and seats were empty and fans were quiet; expecting a win.

Although the game was boring, the adventure to the stadium was exciting. Its amazing what one can accomplish in a large city with a 14 year with a smart phone. Owen explained quickly how we catch the train at Grand Central Station and take the North Metro directly to the stadium. Who’da thunk? I’d traveled years for work and never had the luxury of a hand held ‘walking’ GPS. The most difficult part of the trip was finding which train to take once at Grand Central. With my cutest Midwestern charm, I pranced up to the information booth and politely asked the forty-something gentleman in the booth where I could find the train to the Subway. My bright smile didn’t warm this man. “Take a right. Buy yourh ticket in the subway. That’s it!” he snapped at me. I shyly moved away from the booth and looked right at Owen. My son giggled at me, waved his finger and said, “That’s it.” We laughed and laughed on the train ride to the stadium.

Now that we were in full command of the subway system we decided to travel around the city by train. And we traveled!! One word to the wise…it’s not smart to wear an authentic Lebron James Miami heat jersey in NYC. We couldn’t figure out why so many people were staring at us. In my typical hotel snob persona, I thought my cute little outfit must’ve made me look hot. (Yeah right….what was I thinking?) It was the six-footer with the new NBA jersey that caught the attention. A bit too much attention. In fact, it was clear we needed to make a quick stop at the hotel to remove the piece of clothing that was a bit attractive in the NYC hood. No need for a mugging on this special day.

14 year old diet for the day: Breakfast: Misc. Carbo load from the continental breakfast bar; Midmorning Snack: Hot Dog & 18 inch cheese pizza; Lunch: Fried Oreos; Dinner: Family sized plate full of cheese ravioli, salad, chocolate fudge Sunday for two.

Mom enjoyed another evening of free champagne, cheese and crackers.
Later that evening, we found ourselves cruising the streets of Broadway. Miles of walking, laughing and paying far too much money for goofy trinkets.

Empire State of Mind: Day One

This week, I encountered one of the most fulfilling few days of my life. Four one-on-one days with my 14 year old son, Owen. The last summer before he enters high school. One of the last mom and son experiences I’m sure we’ll have for some time. A dear friend of mine told me that there is a bond between a mother and her first son that can’t be explained. My friend is a first son…so I have all faith that he is correct. I love both of my sons equally, yet in very different ways, because they are such different people. Its strange, with Owen, we can sit together for hours and not say a word. Yet for some reason we know each other so well that words don’t need to be spoken. A simple smile or laugh will do.

My son is a tremendous person…and I’m not just saying that because he’s my son. I know people. I have amazing intuition and insight into souls. My son Eli has a soul of a ninety year old. And he’s experienced more in his ten years of life than most ninety year olds. Owen has the soul of a wise teenager. Oxymoron….I know. Much like his mom he loves to laugh, smile and experience the intricacies of life and the people around him. Life is short; what more do you need?

Our journey to NYC started with the crazy taxi. Of course we held on tight and giggled the entire way to our destination. Hotel Casablanca, just steps from Times Square, and they were not fibbing. Of course hotel snob did her homework. Two thumbs up for the boutique hotel. Free champagne…a dream for a girl who hasn’t had a day off of work in over seven months. Look out vaca...here come the Graysons.

To my surprise, the 14 year old had the stamina to walk at least ten miles a day. I knew my running routine would come in handy at some point in my life. I had no problem keeping up with the teen. The first evening included a hilarious show. We enjoyed the talent and antics of Blue Man Group. We were showered in toilet paper and freaked out as the blue people walked toward us. Thankfully we were not pulled on stage as we politely sat in the poncho section, surely not a good look for camera.

The Astor theatre resided in cute little neighborhood near NYU. Although I couldn’t convince the teen that NYU would be a wise choice for college, he immediately informed me that NYC doesn’t have quality sports teams, so I could just scratch that one off my ‘wannabe’ list. He did enjoy the people watching.

After a wonderful evening with my son, we decided to take advantage of the NYC nightlife and enjoy an eleven p.m. dinner. Still watching the waist line, I settled on my typical bird food; a light salad. My six footer chose a New York style pepperoni pizza nearly the size of a hula hoop. To no surprise he ate the entire pie. With full tummies, we walked back to the residence of hotel snob and retired in our 800 thread count Egyptian sheets. Lights out. More to come on Day two.

The Case of the Missing Lawn Mower

It’s a beautiful summer night in Minnesota. One of the rare occasions where one can sit on the deck with a glass of wine and no mosquito repellent. As I ponder the great day I had with my 14 year old son Owen, it occurred to me looking at the weed ridden lawn that I’d struck a deal with the young teenage boy.

“Hey Owen,” I said to him in my motherly voice. “It’s time to mow the lawn.” There was a mild grunt..but just a quick one this time as he remembered our pact. Just two weeks ago he picked out the absolutely had to have LTC HD2 smart phone with a required monthly internet fee. Ah yes…the catch. He had to mow the lawn twice per week to keep the phone and the internet service. Yes…I get it. I’m a big push-over…but that’s another story for another evening.

So off went the 14 year old with an ever so slow intention of moving the lawn. Still sitting on the deck with my glass of wine and my novel (still editing for those of you that care), I see Owen pacing from garage to back yard up to the front yard back to the back yard. Then he sits on the comfy deck chair. Lawn mower’s gone,” he says without worry. “What do you mean the lawn mower is gone?” I respond. “Yup…no lawn mower the garage. No lawn mower in the back yard. Guess I get the night off,” he smirks.

Of course my first instinct is to contact my husband who is in California with my youngest son. No answer on his ‘smart phone’. So as I sit here on the deck with a weed filled lawn and an unresponsive 14 year old. Where in the Hell is the lawn mower?

Tune in for more….

P.S. Jason…don’t freak out…I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation of the missing lawn mower. Call my hubby’s cell phone. He just may pick up for you. Ugh…

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Isn’t it funny how we wish for what we can’t have. For me, it’s often time alone. No work. No commitments. No car-pool. No boys… Simply time to decompress.

No boys! What am I thinking? I’m sitting here alone in a quiet house while my husband and youngest son are taking a boys-only vacation to northern California and my oldest son is at basketball camp. I fool myself into thinking how peaceful it will be to lavish myself with a bottle of wine and the remote control. Cable TV with no Sports Center. A chick flick purchased On-Demand. Yet I sit here alone… clearly alone.

And what am I thinking about? I think about my boys…. I think about my husband sitting next to me playing with my hair. I think about my little guy who wants nothing more than to hug me. I think about my teenager who loves to grunt at everything I say to him.

I think about how blessed I am. How I take for granted the three gifts that God has given me. The text I receive from Owen before he signs off for the night makes me smile. The sound of Eli’s voice telling me the intimate details of how Daddy almost drove off the cliff into the ocean. The sound of Jon’s voice so calm and loving when he sighs, “I miss you Bunny.” The man who loves me more than anything in the world. I am blessed. I am so blessed.

The light shined on a rainy day.

It rained yesterday. Fitting for a day of mourning the loss of a young life. The showers continued throughout the funeral, burial and the gathering at the family’s home. Ironic, as the young girl hated rain; a brutal reminder of the deep despair she was holding inside for so long. But although the sky bled its cold, wet tears on those who grieved, glimpses of sunlight abounded throughout the day.

Not surprised by the hundreds, perhaps over a thousand, people that came to pay their respects to the family at the First Baptist Church in downtown Minneapolis. Not surprised by the many young people, mostly high school students who knew and loved the young lady. Not surprised when my oldest son grabbed and hugged his dear friend, the brother of the young lady who took her own life.

The first glimpse of sunlight was apparent while I noticed another friend of my fourteen year old son enter the massive sanctuary, dressed in trousers, an oxford and shiny black shoes. One couldn’t help but smile at this sports-minded young man all dressed up for this sad occasion. But it wasn’t his choice of clothing that touched me; it was that he was alone. This young man chose to attend a funeral of a young lady who took her own life, with no parent or adult to support him. He was dropped off at the church with instructions to call his father when he was ready to be picked up. My first instinct was to be angry at his parents for doing such a thing…but as we spoke to him after the service it dawned on me that he was sent by the Lord as a light of hope.

It was still raining heavily when we arrived at the family’s home to pay our respects to the young ladies father, who had not attended the funeral, customary to tradition of their culture. We slowly entered the large home, finding hundreds of friends and relatives crowding the rooms and hallways. We were greeted by a lovely aunt. She walked us directly to the father sitting on the couch; clearly exhausted and distraught by the death of his lovely daughter. The aunt, still holding my arm, her touch felt like an angel. Her beauty shined from the inside out; so grateful that we were there for her family. My husband placed his hands on the father’s shoulder and prayed for him in front of his loving relatives. My husband, my light, my sunshine, shared his gift of comforting words blessed by the Lord at a time needed most.

But finally, a mother’s heart was touched so deeply, when my son escorted his friend upstairs as he was afraid to enter his own room. He hadn’t been home since the death of his sister. It was too painful. But it was my son that walked with him up the long sprawling staircase to help confront his sadness and fears. Completely unknown to Owen, the Light of the Lord shined through him and gave him this strength.

I’ll never understand the pain of this family, the pain my son’s friend will have for a lifetime. But I saw sunshine on a rainy day, from those that have blessed my life. So I leave you with these words today…as tough as life may seem look for the light in those around you. It is there. And it is remarkable.

How do you talk to your 14 year old about suicide?

I know that I’ve said this before…that writing is a form of therapy. But I question tonight what therapy can truly be. How can you explain to your fourteen year old son, the reasons behind suicide? Two of his friends have taken their lives in less than six months. One…just last night.

I look at my children and pray that I can be the best parent to them. God gave them to me as gifts, right? Owen is my “angel sent from heaven” when I never thought I’d have children. Eli is my “Miracle Baby” the second child that I prayed for each night and took so long to have. For so long, I’ve walked on egg shells, just hoping to be a good mom. But tonight, I struggle. I have no words to console them. How can this be? I am supposed to be a writer. God has given me the gift of bull-shit, and trust me…I’ve used this gift to my fullest advantage. But tonight….I have no words. I only have tears.

I think about my friend who lost her son months ago…and lives with the agony every day; while the world around her moves on. Now, I think about my son’s dear friend whose sister is now gone. We will spend the next several weeks, mourning their loss. But with even the worst pain, we’ll move on. While the family will remain in deep sorrow.

For the second time in six months, my husband and I sat our two young children, age 14 and 10, down to discuss the loss of a young life. A life that was taken needlessly. They sat in our living room and we tried to explain to them about choices, expressing their feelings, the gift of life that only God provides. We explained that God placed them on this earth for a reason…and that we need to sometimes dig deep into our soul to determine what that purpose is supposed to be.

So what is the answer? How do you explain these tragedies to your children? I just don’t know. But, I’ll guarantee that there will be a long car ride with the fourteen year old tomorrow. It seems the only place where he truly opens up to speak his feelings. For the ten year old, we’ve already spent hours talking and hugging.

Talk to your kids…even when they don’t speak back to you. Hug them...hold them...every day!

Venice

Guest writer continues....Jon Grayson
We left Rome and off to Venice
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The Ryan Airlines waiting area was pretty nondescript, evidence of the dirt cheap fares. We were touched by a son who accompanied his elderly parents to the gate, and waited until they were safely through security before he left (we hope both our boys are as loyal). We decided to adopt them and stood by them when we rushed into the long line to board another bus that would take us to the plane (we wondered just what else low overhead might mean in the way of safety or pilot inexperience). The crowds of Italians are not polite in any fashion, even toward elderly people with canes, and I caught my adopted mom as she was nearly pushed out of the bus.

Arriving in the tiny airport in Treviso, we walked all the way past security and the baggage claim, and had to sneak back in just to get our luggage.

The bus ride to Venice was relaxing, but I was nervous that nightfall would mean a tougher maze to the hotel (but still determined to take public transportation). The vaporetto (water taxi) ticket salesman was another big grump, and then I asked about our stop, thought he flipped me the Italian bird (the big #1), but I called the hotel and they did confirm it was indeed stop #1. Still, the dark night was confounded by a misty fog, which I remember in Shakespeare’s description of many nights in both Othello and The Merchant of Venice. Not to mention, it was eerily quiet and few had departed at stop #1. There are few lighted signs in Venice and it was too dark to decipher any of the other signage, which was minimal. We found a hotel near the stop, and thank goodness, the smiling clerk looked Scandinavian and gave us some easy directions to the Foscari Palace. I have never been more relieved, and wondered if our hotel was any better. And boy were we surprised. It blew me away, and I welcomed they bell boy to carry my bags and appreciated the orientation to our room (with two balconies, no less, and a full fruit basket compliments of the manager—hotel snobbery does have its privileges). The next evening, we were invited to the wine/cheese party, which included a harpist.

There were so many wonderful things about Venice and our hotel, but the best was a nearly quiet street with just the bump of a gondola, but no blaring police cars. The morning was a great awakening to everything we imagined, and more. The only complaint I can think of is that so many people smoke, but it is not allowed inside stores/restaurants.

Leaving Venice was a bit easier, but I wanted to take a different route and we had time to kill. So we took the train, despite Kristy’s grumbling (I told her to cheer up, that the Italian scowl was growing on her). I should have listened, as the conductor chewed me out for not validating the ticket on the time machine. Now I was glad we were leaving Italy. The only restaurant open in Treviso was McDonald’s and that suited us well. The town was shut down as most towns are on Sunday, so we went to the airport and read our books. It was another long, pushy line into the waiting area, followed by another pushy line into the bus which took us out to the plane. But we survived.

Novel is Complete

I have some great news to share. Tonight, I’ve FINALLY finished my novel. Each one of you has touched my life in a special way. Whether you are aware or not, you’ve been an inspiration to me. Thank you!

For those of you that have painstakingly endured this long journey with me, I give you great thanks. As you know, my life during the past eighteen months has had a series of ups and downs that cannot be explained. My writing was therapy; and you’ve touched my soul.

For those of you that I’ve inadvertently hurt with my words on paper, please forgive me. Even though in so many ways you’ve influenced my writing, my words are fiction…a complete figment of my imagination. And trust me….sometimes my imagination has pushed me close to the edge, often slipping into character. I’ve heard this is a sign of a good writer…but none the less, it’s very scary.

All that said, I’ll be editing for awhile. Then searching for a good agent.

I love you all!

Who has touched a star?

By Eli Grayson

Who has touched a star?
Neither I nor you.
But when you look up in the sky
They sparkle white and blue.


Who has touched a star?
Neither you nor I.
But when they look so beautiful
I wish they all were mine.

Mother's Day Poems by Eli

Haiku

Platinum, Silver, Gold.

All the moms enjoy their day!

They all shout "Hooray!"

Cinquain

Mother

best in the world

couldn't ask for more, Mom!

nobody compares to you, Mom!

Kristy!

Free Verse

This is my mother

she is very nice.

She doesn't like it

when there is mice!

Turning 40...The Grumpy Italian Way

Its been very difficult for me to keep up my blog posts as I've given myself a goal of finishing my novel. As a bulldozer, its hard for me to ignore that particular challenge. That said, I'd like to introduce you to an amazing writer and even better friend. My guest blogger for the next few entries is my husband Jon. I've selected some of my favorite stories that he's written. Beginning with the "Hotel Snob" 40th Birthday present for Jon. It begins in Rome. Take the journey with us in his own words.

******

Turning 40 hit me like a ton of bricks. Or at least it tasted like a ton of bricks, and will take me a year to digest. So why is a ton of bricks any different than a ton of sausage (or ice cream or stoopewaffles or any other delicacy)?

Travel is not just reaching a destination, it is a journey. All allegory aside, we embarked on a personal journey that would not only open our eyes and hearts, but our mouths as well (gosh, the food was good and I have a waist line to prove it—it can’t be the wine or beer, so it must be the tiramisu and schnitzel). How nice it is to have healthy and willing grandparents to come and parent our boys for ten days, not to mention paint our walls and fix our drains and furnace.

Kristy and I never had a desire to go to Europe, only a mild curiosity. But brother Pete has always spoken so highly of Germany that we finally decided to just go before we changed our mind. Honestly, if we hadn't gotten the passports, we would have never decided to just do it. Sisters Pam and Jen had a very detailed, painstaking plan that we admired, but upon hearing about their journey, we decided we needed a vacation instead of an education. And since Rick Steeves slighted Heidelberg, I joined forces with Kristy and became a hotel snob. After all, that is the American way and birthright!

It was easier leaving home as the cold weather arrived just in time for my birthday. The flight over was almost painless, now that the transatlantic airplanes now have personal TV monitors with the ability to choose your own movies/shows/tunes (note, IPods are no longer a necessity, so I sold my Microsoft stock before sales decline—I guess that isn’t such a problem since traveling adults and not the only market for MP3 players). Even the Northworst meals were not too bad, better than the $10 meals you have to pay for on domestic trips. The big surprise when entering the Amsterdam airport was how modern it is, with McDonalds, Sbaro and all the comforts of home. With three hours to kill, we were pleased to find the overstuffed reclining chairs, and agreed that if we ever got stuck for a day, Amsterdam would be better than St. Louis or Sioux Falls.

The KLM/NW flight from A-dam to Rome was a breeze, and included lots of interesting, free food (for a flight under 2 hours) and friendly crew. Once in Rome, however, the smiling faces were over. Kristy’s view of grumpy Italians come from What About Raymond (an episode with a mean Italian uncle), while mine from the Sopranos. Lack of sleep impaired our judgment, so we took the first cab we could find, which probably cost us an extra $20. That was the last time I’d be rooked. After that it was only public transportation, baby.

When we got to Hotel 47, I was determined not to let a bellboy help us with our bags, so we left them strapped to our back. Well, that was a mistake, ‘cause then we missed out of the tour of our room, which would have included a lesson in the latest in European security. So we had to figure out how to turn the power on, which is needed to unlock the safe, metal window shades, as well as the lights and TV. But even stubborn Americans can figure things out, eventually. I finally noticed a slot near the light switch that looked like the key card entry thing at work. You have to insert your room key to get any power. Now that that was behind us, we crashed (against the advice of many relatives). Waking up past 7 p.m., we wondered if we’d even find a restaurant still serving dinner. Upon reading the guidebooks, we found we’d be lucky to find a good place open BEFORE 7, which was right on. But first we had to learn how to cross the busy Via Della Rosa (the crosswalks are a joke in Rome. Even we, fast walkers that we are, were barely into the street when it turned red. We felt bad for the old and frail). Maybe that’s why we saw so many grumpy faces, or maybe we just had to let the effects of wine set in before we could relax. Because of the many political signs posted about, we realized there must have been some elections in process, because there were signs of grumpy-faced politicians in a contest to look the grumpiest.

As fast moving as Rome is, the hustle bustle did not bother me much as we were on vacation, but I think it would exhaust me as much as any large city. I am just glad I did not have to be in a hurry because traffic sometime inches along. After dodging the fast moving cars, busses, Vespas and bikes on the busy road, we thought we were safe on the narrower streets, until we were nearly run over (note to self, it’s a good thing the boys were not along). Dinner was great, and wine good and cheap. The bottle water, with “gas or no gas” was more expensive than the wine!

Next morning, we set out for The Vatican, and the bus stop was just down the street. The driver did not even look at me when I tried to pay him, just kept driving. Then we noticed people validating tickets on a time clock, but it was too late to jump off. Kristy looked and me and said “I’m just along for the ride” so we just enjoyed the tour. Arriving near the Vatican, tour guides offered English speaking trips, but we are more of the fast and furious types. So we went it alone, and followed a large Asian group. For awhile, I thought we had somehow gotten a free ride, but then realized St. Peters is free for everyone. Once inside, we were amazed at the incredible workmanship and beauty of such intricate detail. A silent side chapel beaconed us in, but once I smelled in incense, I knew we were in trouble (and I could not cope with Kristy’s possible week long migraine set on by some lousy incense). It we sensed God’s presence in this chapel and left after a short prayer and donation to the union of some holy order or another.

Being off-season, we wondered just how busy the Vatican and Sistine Chapel must be in the summer. There were no lines of people to speak of, but could not find any signs to the Sistine. I then figured it must be part of this exhibit just outside St. Peters, which was virtually empty, so we paid and entered. OK, we’d been rooked again, but not to worry. This time, we followed the map and crowds to the Sistine, which was busy but nothing like a regular summer day. Still, I clung to our camera and money, mindful that the pickpocks are in the big crowds. But the bigger crowds yet awaited us at the Metro station. I thought Kristy would enjoy yet another form of public transportation, and had read that the reason the Metro does not expand is because more ruins would be uncovered, which would halt the process (which is true).

After a short Metro ride, we found the Coliseum and Avenue of the Roman ruins themselves, while beautiful in the night lights, does little for us in their historical context. To appreciate the rise and fall of a great empire, I find it much easier to read historical fiction and have purchased (but not yet finished) two books.

Leaving Rome behind was easy, as we were in no hurry, or so we thought. We know holidays are frequent in Europe, but we were not sure if the parade was a celebration or a union/political rally. In any event, it sure slowed traffic down, and we wondered if we should ditch the slow-buss-in-traffic option or take a taxi. Then I remembered the Metro has a connection to another bus line that left the airport. It worked like a charm.

Bulldozing is for Bullies

One of my goals while unemployed last year was to stop and notice my surroundings. It took awhile, about four months to be exact, but I succeeded eventually. I’ve spent most of my adulthood bulldozing my way through life. Although I now see it as a toxic existence, once it was all I knew. Driven to the core…in everything I did. As a bulldozer, I’d plow through the terrain not noticing anything ahead except to the path I was about to destroy.

I started noticing my surroundings with the change of seasons, while on my daily running ritual that started when the snow began to melt. Bulldozing my way through the route each day was how it began. The routine was set for a mission of getting back to the hot body that I had in my twenties. But a strange thing happened when spring came, so did the buds on the trees, the green grass, delicate chirps of the birds singing in the morning. How couldn’t I’ve noticed these subtle changes in my life before? It was so beautiful. The sounds, the smell of the flowers, the rustling of the squirrels in the leaves.

The awakening of my surroundings continued through summer, fall and winter. I’d completed four changes of seasons before returning to work. Each with its own beauty and uniqueness. Now that I’m back to being a working girl, I’ve vowed to continue my quest to notice the beauty of simplicity. My husband catches me slipping now and again, “Honey, you’re dozing again,” he reminds me. And not because I’m sneaking in a nap!

I have to admit that I’m still a bulldozer. What can you expect? It takes a lot of effort to change completely. But now, I’m not dozing for power, prestige and money. I’m bulldozing to be a better wife, mother and person. My drive is now focused on a vision of doing the right thing.

Novel coming to end.....

It’s strange. The notion of finishing my novel is crazy to me. Partly because the characters in my head are so real and vivid. It seems like finishing the novel is like killing off a part of me. This is a concept that most people don’t understand. Although I lead a completely normal life, my imagination can get the best of me. Thank goodness I have my writing. An outlet to let the characters in my head come to life.

Good news is that due to some great counseling of friends and my writer’s club, I have a sequel ready to be written. Thanks to all of you who have read my work and provided feedback. For many of you, it’s been painful; hard to decipher the difference between fact and fiction. Please know that my writing is fiction. Loosely based on my life’s experiences, but completely a work of my imagination.

Once my novel comes to a finale, hopefully in the month or two, I’ll begin the painstaking process of getting published. My goal is to fund my boys’ college education. I’ll count on you and your friends to make this a reality.

Sincerley,
Hotel Snob (BTW…the name of my sequel.)

A Mother's Thought

A beam of light entered the room this afternoon. A fourteen year old with a dream fulfilled. A quiet young man glowed from inside out.

My heart beamed joy back to him. Hard work took its course.

Its an amazing gift from God; to love our children unconditionally more and more each day.

Could the young man possibly know just how much I love him; ambition or not? A feeling that words cannot describe.

Back to the Windy City

Chicago is a city that tugs at my heart. Although I’ve traveled there dozens of times for fun and work, each visit is exhilarating. The bustle of the city alone gives me chills as a Hotel Snob, but it’s the memories cemented in my mind that draw me there again and again.

This past Sunday I pulled out the well used TravelPro from the top shelf of my closet. A strange feeling came over me as I took the small, empty suitcase out again. Although I’d only be gone for one night, a familiar emptiness filled me. It would be my first business trip in almost a year and a half. Strange as I once was on an airplane frequently, some points in my career nearly every week.

The emptiness subsided surprisingly quickly. I could feel the Hotel Snob adrenaline slowly increasing as I packed the items into the case. Envisioning the airport, flight, bustle of the city and the independence of travel made my heart race.

What’s so appealing about the Windy City? The sites maybe…but I think it’s the memories:

• Tripping down Michigan Avenue with my broken leg, cast and crutches. Enjoying the falling snow and Christmas lights with my loving husband. He desperately wanted to hold my hand, as I desperately held onto the crutch.
• My first trip to Burberry. The home of “if you have to ask how much it cost, you can’t afford it.”
• Navy Pier with the boys. Watching them grow larger year after year. Still wanting to hold onto their childhood.
• Wrigley, Wrigley, Wrigley. The highlight being Joe Mauer’s home run against the Cubs.
• Riding the L to the White Sox Stadium, the four of us dressed in Twin’s garb. Big Mistake!!!
• The day before Eli was diagnosed with T1. The frightful airplane ride…to and from the city.
• The rewind return trip exactly one year after Eli was diagnosed. The ‘do over’. The celebration trip.

Although my business trip was less than 48 hours, the memories came back in full force. Just not quite the same without my three men. The emptiness wasn’t there. I made it through my first business trip since my transformation. And it was just fine.

Dear Mr. Pool Table

Dear Mr. Pool Table,

One would think that as the only woman in a household of three men, I’d be some kind of princess surrounded by my court of loyal subjects. On the contrary, my laid back nature has allowed my court to slowly turn our home into a bachelor pad. As a result, there is nothing remotely feminine in any square inch of our house. (Even my master bathroom has been taken over by an array of 14 year old hygiene products. The lingering smell of AXE body spray seeps into what used to be my only retreat from the testosterone filled dwelling.)

Just three short weeks ago, you, “Mr. Pool Table”, were invited to join our family. The most recent addition to the Grayson Family Amusement Center. Yes, your newness and intrigue have left the Xbox 360, Wii, RockBand, 50” cable equipped HDTV, basement and backyard basketball courts, knee hockey rink and the newly formed spring training baseball field located in the formal living room in the dust.

As you know, your new home is located in what used to be the large wood floored room that was originally intended to be a family room. Yet was coined, the “world’s largest mud room” and holy dumping ground of sports equipment and on average at least twenty pair of sneakers. Although assembling you, Mr. Pool Table, is a story in and of itself…I’ll just leave that one alone.

Over the past three weeks, there has been a strange transformation with my men. When a pool cue enters the hand of a young gentleman, suddenly, even the quietest man becomes a pool shark. Full of confidence and swagger. The crack of the balls banging together induces some kind of adrenaline rush within them. It also induces the well known “Mom, we’re hungry” request.

Alas, the princess now comes to the rescue of the four to five 14 year old billiard men to take their order. Three large pizzas, wings and the dreaded request for a case of Mountain Dew. In thirty minutes or less, the loyal subjects are happy again. At the end of the evening, the princess is left with empty pizza boxes and dozens of half consumed cans of soda. Time to turn off the hip-hop music streaming from the iHome and say goodnight for yet another day.

Mr. Pool Table, there are some benefits of living in an all male household:

1) I don’t clean toilets. My handsome prince hired me a cleaning lady after our second son was born. Literally, this saved our marriage. I highly recommend it.

2) Something as little as making a sandwich for a loyal subject turns them into a puppy dog. They know I’m not a gourmet chef, yet these tough men turn into Jello at the sight of ham and cheese.

3) There is no price that a mom can place on the sounds of young men giggling and having fun.

I truly hope that your novelty lasts for many years and that you do not quickly become another piece of furniture that collects sporting equipment in the world’s largest mud room.

Sincerely,
Hotel Snob

Miss Independent - Another preview to my novel.

OK. OK. I've heard it loud and clear....you want me to finish my novel. Well its been difficult as my new work life and personal life has interfered with my writing. So... here is another snap-shot from Olivia's senior year in high school.

“Livvy, you should marry a doctor someday,” said mom the morning of my high school graduation.

“Why’s that?” I asked back annoyingly as any teenager would.

“Your spending habits are out of control. Look at all of these clothes,” she screamed while waving the new blouse I just purchased.

“Why a doctor? Can’t I just marry a rich man,” I responded to her cleverly.

“A doctor is rich, intelligent and doesn’t have time to cheat,” she uttered snidely.

“Don’t worry mom, I’m not going to marry a cheater.”

“You won’t have those looks and that body, forever honey,” she went on.

“So what are you really getting at mom?” I finally confronted her about this ridiculous conversation.

“Just be careful with boys. Don’t get too serious too fast. Go to college and make something of yourself. Be independently wealthy and don’t rely on someone else to take care of you,” she warned.

“What the hell is she talking about? Is this her way of approaching the ‘sex’ talk with me?” I thought. I grabbed the new blouse from her hands and stormed off to my room.


Pondering the conversation that I had with my Mom twenty-two years ago, I began to think about my life and the quest for how important being an independent woman was to me all those years ago. Although I wouldn’t admit it then, my mother’s words did have a profound effect on many of the decisions I made in my young adulthood.

At the time, little did mom know that I was currently semi-dating a pre-med student from the University of Minnesota. She had encouraged me for months to date boys other than my boyfriend, Ben, who had been away on an exchange trip to Europe during my entire senior year of high school. As a typical teenager, I wouldn’t give my mother the satisfaction of knowing I’d been dating other guys the entire year Ben had been away.

I met Christopher, Dr. Chris, as Amanda called him, the night of the contest. Amanda stayed overnight at my house to console me after I didn’t receive the star rating from the asshole judge that made a pass at me that terrible day during my senior year of high school.

“We need to party tonight,” said Amanda as she went through my closet to pick out a sexy outfit for me.

“Tonight, we’re in search of mature men. College men,” said Amanda.

Amanda worked at Target which was a frequent stop for many U of M students. She received an invitation the night prior to attend a party at Phi Gamma Delta (FIJI) from a guy named Tom. Unlike my job at the boutique, Amanda’s job at Target was a goldmine in providing us with an endless stream of dates and party invites. Tom told Amanda to meet him at the fraternity house at 9:00 pm. We told my parents that we were going to hang out at our friend Jackie’s house that evening to watch movies. We begged my mom to let us stay out until 1:00 am. Thank goodness, she consented.

Amanda drove us to the fraternity house. Like other parties at the U of M, it was easy to find the house, but not as easy to park. After looking for a spot for about twenty minutes, we parked about five blocks away from the house which made it a very long and cold walk for a March night. Once we reached the house, we opened the front door and went inside. The fraternity house was dark and crowded with college students. The music extremely loud. The bass rumbled from the stereo located in the basement where the bar was setup. Amanda said, “How are we ever going to find Tom?” Just then we were immediately greeted by two guys.

“Hello ladies how are you this evening?” one asked.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“Yes,” said Amanda.

“We are meeting Tom Johnson tonight. Have you seen him?”

“Sure, I’ll go get him for you,” said a tall, thin blonde guy. Before the blonde could come back to us, we were greeted by a few other guys. They were armed with cold beers for the two of us.

The two guys were very cute, but I knew that Amanda did not want to irritate Tom by flirting with them. I noticed one of the guys staring at me. He was tall with dark wavy hair and striking blue eyes. When I looked at him, he smiled. I smiled back and looked away in my typical shy manner. Then, Tom came over to greet us.

“Amanda, I‘m so glad that you made it,” said Tom. Very politely, he introduced himself to me.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Olivia. I’m glad that you could come tonight.” Tom turned to his friends and introduced us to them.

“This is my younger brother, Christopher,” he said.

“Fraternity brother or biological brother?” I asked as I smiled Christopher. He was the young man that was staring at me.

“Both,” said Christopher.

After the introductions, Tom asked us, “Would you like a tour of the house?”

“Sure,” said Amanda quickly. Tom took her by the hand and led her through the crowded living room.

Christopher placed his hand on my back and said, “After you?”

*****
That's all for now. Comment if you want more....I need a push to keep writing.

Personal Mission...or Not.

It’s funny. My life was all planned out at the young age of 26 as I read the personal mission statement created in 1994 for my first MBA graduate course. Although it was clear that my mission in life as a Working Girl was to have a successful career, I laugh now at what I read. My plan included a successful career in information management. HA! What was I thinking?

With a clearly mapped out career path in the document, I was to soar up the corporate ladder and retire at the age of 55. Funny thing was, all of my personality tests indicated that I was to work in creative field such as marketing or advertising. Tests don’t lie. In fact, as I reviewed the Myers Briggs, Strong Campbell and variety of other tests, I was ‘off the charts’ intuitive…not cut out for the geeky field of computer science.

An INFP is what the tests indicated. A quirky little personality type that represent only 5% of the population. Now that explains it!! The description describes intuitive, creative, in love with life, loves all people and despises details. Career path recommended: Social worker – no; Acting – maybe; Musician – closer; Inventor – hmm just like Dad, Writer – not an option at that time; Marketer – right on! The very next semester I dumped the field of IT and changed my major to marketing. INFP’s follow their gut…it wasn’t a hard decision.

Even funnier was the account of how I mapped out my personal life. I would only have one child. And SHE would be born by the time I was thirty. This was scary to me at the time considering that was only four years away. The real story was that HE was born just two year after the document was writen…and HIS brother was born 3 ½ years later. I still received my MBA in marketing and don’t regret for a minute that I didn’t have a SHE.

The craziest thing as I read the professor’s comments sixteen years later. “You engaged me throughout the document. Forget the MBA, you should be a writer.” Why did it take me so long to listen??

My Valentine

I can thank a boy named Brian Miller for helping me find my true love. It was his high school graduation party where I first met my husband, Jon. June eighth to be exact. A beautiful summer evening. Like most weekend nights, my best friend and I were on the prowl for boys. We left my house around seven o’clock that evening. Outfitted in a pair of tight cropped pants and a pastel oversized, belted blouse. The ensemble was reminiscent of Flashdance and I looked as hot as Jennifer Beals. My stick thin legs and tiny waist were complimented by my flawless long, brunette locks. Even before we got to Brian’s party, I had turned many heads that evening.

We scoured Como Park for our targets that night. Parked in the lot next to the lake, my friend and I sipped our two liter of Peach Wine Cooler. It was warm, but we didn’t care. It was the effects we wanted. Earlier that evening, we convinced a thirty something man to purchase our alcohol. Parked in the lot of a small liquor store on Rice Street in St. Paul, I rolled down the window when a man opened his car door. “Hi,” I smiled at him.
“Hello,” he smiled back.
“My friend and I are wondering….” I said to him with a seductive glance.
“What would you like?” he asked without the need for me to have finished my sentence.

It didn’t take us long to attract attention. A car-full of boys pulled up beside us. “What’s up tonight, ladies?” one of the boys asked us. “Not much.” I replied trying not to look desperate. A boy in the back of the car said, “We are going to a great party tonight. Want to tag along?” He asked. I asked the boy where the party was and he said just a few blocks away. Since it was not that far, we felt that it wouldn’t be too much of a waste of time should it turn out to be lame. “We’ll follow you.” I answered. “But we have another commitment, so I’m not sure how long we can stay.”

We arrived at the party. It was at a small house a few blocks north of Como Lake. Interestingly, when we followed the boys into the backyard of the party, they ignored us. Apparently there were some young ladies in attendance that would not approve of them hanging out with two knock-outs from Roseville. I whispered to my friend, “This is a strange party. Why are there so many old people here?” It quickly became apparent that we were at a high school graduation party and we had never met the graduate. Plus, we stuck out like a sore thumb as we knew no one. Although there was no shortage of cute guys at the party, we felt out of place. Right before we were to make our quick exit, a boy approached me. He introduced himself, “Hi, my name is Jon.” I was not immediately attracted to him; yet he was with some very good looking guys.

Jon was not my typical tall, dark and handsome. None the less, he was cute and very friendly. I connected with him right away. That night was the first of many dates Jon and I would have that summer before he left for a year- long Rotary Exchange program to England.
From the moment we met, I believed that Jon was my soul mate; selected by God purposefully for me. He was the first guy that took the time to get to know me, the real me. To Jon, I was much more than an attractive young teenager with a knock-out body. To him, I was sensitive, smart and a great listener. He understood the real me. The quiet young lady who had a heart big enough for six people and a never ending desire to see the good in all things and people. He was the first man to say he loved me.

We were completely wrong for each other. He was Catholic, I Lutheran. His family was white-collar wealthy, mine blue-middle class. He was conservative, I liberal. He went to private school, I public. I was taller than him. He was blonde, I brunette. He lived in a mansion in the city, I in a post-war suburban rambler. He wore socks with sandals, I wore Gucci. As a young couple, we spent hours discussing our backgrounds, beliefs and values. In an unnatural way, we were a natural fit. It was our differences that fueled our attraction.

Jon and I met by accident – fate I imagine. From the night we met, we were inseparable for two months. My young heart was devastated when he departed for a year- long exchange trip to Europe. A lover of literature, he left me with a long reading list that included some of the most romantic novels written – Pride and Prejudice, Love Story, Jane Eyre. Not only did he love the written word, he was an exceptional writer himself. While in Europe, he wrote hundreds of beautifully crafted love letters and poems especially for me. Terribly home sick, I had the good fortune of being the beneficiary of his thoughts on paper. His words were magical; that he loved only me and imagined us together forever. As a teenage girl, it was a fairy tale romance. But, the problem with finding your soul mate while only seventeen is that the mind and body are not as mature as the soul. But at the young age of forty-two, it is so apparent!

I thank God every day for sending me Jon; to a place where I didn’t belong. I believed it was fate that brought us together. I still believe that today. Six years from the very day we met we were married. It will be nineteen years in June! Happy Valentines Day, honey! I love you.

Real Beauty

My husband asked me to marry him again a few weeks ago. Ring and everything. He’s an amazing man and I often take that for granted. Although we were married very young and had some rocky times, we’ve stood by each other through thick and thin.

We fell in love all over again when our lives were flipped upside down with our son’s illness. Dealing with the daily demands of caring for a son with Type 1 Diabetes can take a toll on even the strongest relationship. So focused on the care of your sick child, and giving what’s left to your other child doesn’t leave much for a relationship…and even less for yourself.

For me, writing is my therapy…a chance to float into a fantasy world to escape my often tired reality. A chance to imagine a simpler life. A chance to be someone else for awhile. I’m blessed to have many people in my life who have helped me through this tough time and I’m very sorry to those that I’ve inadvertantly hurt with my words on paper.

Yes, Jon. I will marry you again! And yes…I’m brave enough to leave my child behind for a few days so you can sweep me off my feet – even if we have to hire a nurse to care for him. And yes…we will sleep through the night without having to wake up at midnight and 3:00 am to make sure our son is safe. And yes…I will prance around in a slinky bikini all day long.

Seeing the tears in my husband’s eyes as we walked our oldest son into the high school enrollment tonight made me love Jon even more. He’s an amazing father. We’ve learned to enjoy our not so simple life. Our relationship is simple and loving. Real Beauty. Thank you honey!!! I’ll never take you for granted again.

Mama, Tell Me about the Coldest Day of the Year

It’s hard for me to believe that I have a fourteen year old. My oldest son’s birthday was this week and it always brings me back to that time in my life when I thought I could control just about anything.

The story begins on Friday, the day before Owen was born. I was thirty-six weeks pregnant…and still didn’t believe I was having a child. Owen wasn’t an accident…I’d been married for nearly five years…but I wouldn’t say he was planned. Just ask Jon. (Yes…I did get married very young. My hubby tied the knot so I wouldn’t run off with the doctor in training. That’s another story.)

Driven, even at the young age of 28, I was convinced that Owen would arrive on my schedule. Working nearly sixty hours a week and attending my evening MBA program two nights a week and Saturday, I was a busy young lady. With the exception of vomiting constantly for the first four months, I had a fairly easy time forgetting that I was pregnant.

The Friday was a snowy cold day. I had a television commercial shoot that I needed to attend for my company. The shoot was located at Hyland Hills Ski Area in Bloomington. We were filming at the top of the hill. The best place to capture the beautiful falling snow. At the bottom of hill, I looked up and saw the small crew. Afraid of heights, for a moment I wondered how the hell I was going to get up there. A small chair lift was an option. There was also a man on a ski-doo traveling up and down the small hill with lighting equipment.

“Hey Sir,” I yelled to the man on the snowmobile. “Would you give me a lift to the top of the hill? I need to be at that shoot.” He took one look at my oversized stomach and said, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Off he went without me. Next I walked over to the ski lift. The lady at chairs said, “Pregnant people are not allowed to ride the lift.” Damn. Now what was I supposed to do? I stood there and looked up the hill. Determined not to disappoint my company…and myself I stubbornly walked up the slick snowy hill. Me and the seven pounder in my tummy.

My back hurt like hell the next day when I woke up. Realizing now it was a bad idea to walk up and down the ski slope, I dragged myself out of bed for my morning Business Law Class at St. Thomas in downtown Minneapolis. It was the coldest day of the year. 25 degrees below zero. Jon was kind enough to take me to class that morning as I wasn’t feeling well. I made it through class and parked my huge body on the sofa for the rest of the afternoon.

Jon, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in hangin’ around the house with his grumpy pregnant wife. (Who could blame him?) He had other plans for the day. St. Paul Winter Carnival plans – surely to include lots of adult beverages to keep warm. Sending him out of the house to have his fun…I armed him with a cell phone and a pager and begged him to be on the look-out for a message from me. He graciously checked in with me several times that afternoon and early evening as I still didn’t feel well.

At around 10:00 that evening, I was starting to have horrible back pains. Instinctively, I knew something was wrong. I called. I paged. I called again. No sign of Jon. Apparently both devices were left in his jacket at the sports bar. He frantically called me at 12:30 when he saw the 30 some odd pages and phone calls. Racing home now, he arrived about 1:00 am.

When he finally arrived, we went to bed and I felt even worse. At 2:00 am, Jon got up to call the doctor and they instructed me to come in as soon as possible. I wasn’t prepared. No packed bag waiting for me, as all of the books I meticulously read instructed.

It was 2:15 am. We sat in our small car at the intersection of White Bear Avenue and County Road E. Not a soul on the road, it seemed forever until the light would change. I looked up into the midnight blue cold sky and saw the brightest full moon ever. It was the coldest night of the year. Now 30 degrees below zero. I could still see my breath in the car as we didn’t have time to warm it up. Van Morrison’s “Moondance” was playing on the radio. The pain in my lower back was excruciating. I was terrified that I wouldn’t make it to St. John’s hospital just a few miles down the road.

We made it to the hospital at 2:25. Owen arrived at 2:45, four weeks early and completely unexpected. The doctor said I was lucky that he didn’t arrive right there in the car at on White Bear Avenue. That early cold morning, life changed forever. Owen taught me that life can’t and shouldn’t be a series of planned events. And he wasn’t an accident. He was my angel sent from heaven!!

The best part of my son's birthdays is the time I have alone with them. I sit them down, hug them tight and tell them about the day they were born. They never get sick of the story. Neither do I.

Three Men & a Grocery Store

It’s an adjustment relearning how to be a working mom again. Although I was never taught how to cook, I enjoyed attempting the art of cooking while out of work. Like most other things in life, I thought if I worked hard enough at it the skills would come eventually. After three kitchen fires, two sets of ruined pans and failed private lessons, it was evident that cooking just wasn’t in the cards for me. I did deduce, however, that it was less a problem with lack of skill and more a problem with my natural instinct to multi-task. One cannot do three things at once while cooking. I learned this the hard way.

Planning meals and on demand shopping became a part of my daily ritual while out of work. The Friday evening weekly grocery run was no longer necessary. The habit of shopping at the designer grocery stores was not an option now that we were on a budget. ‘Bag your own grocery’ chains became familiar to me for the first time in my marriage. With more time than I’d ever had, I slowly strolled the aisles every day with the other ‘at home moms’ and senior citizens. I carefully selected the best produce and meats, ensuring that I would feed my family only the healthiest of meals.

This past weekend was a typical one for our family. Jam packed with the ten and thirteen year old boy activities, including a basketball tournament located on the other side of the city. Managing the weekly grocery shopping was sure to be a challenge. That Sunday, before the final game, I dragged my three men to the only grocery store near the basketball venue. We were on a quick mission to purchase a week’s worth of groceries in thirty minutes. Upon arrival to the Louis Vuitton of grocery stores, I had a distinct plan. I’d take the boys and grab the essentials for school lunches, dinners, healthy snacks, milk, etc. My husband was charged with gathering breakfast items and cereal for my little guy.

I noticed while examining a $6.00 box of Graham Cracker Bears that my boys disappeared. This could work to my advantage or disadvantage. At this point…I wasn’t sure. My youngest son had the attention span of a gnat as he was playing his portable video game. My 13 year old son grunted through the aisles saying, “grocery stores are stupid.” Now that they had disappeared, it was my chance to take fifteen minutes and cruise through the store like a maniac attempting to gather as much healthy food as possible. I have vowed NOT to fall back into the ‘quick fix-fast food lifestyle’.

Once finished, I looked for my husband. Up and down the aisles. Back and forth through the produce. Through the meat. Through the frozen foods. Through the produce again. No sign of the three men. Up and down the aisles again….three times. Still no sign. Ticked off as heck now I pondered, “Did they go back to the car? Did I take too long?” All three boys own cell phones, yet none would answer during my search.

Five minutes left until we needed to rush back to the basketball game. “Darn….where the heck are they?” I thought. I decided to plant myself by the check-out for my final three minutes. Mad as a hornet now, I looked up front. Sure enough, there sat my three men. Two on the iPod Touch and one surfin’ the net on his Smart Phone. “Hey hon, this place has wifi,” exclaimed my not so cute any more hubby. “Oh really? Where’s your cart? I’m ready to check out.” I said shortly. “Over there, beautiful,” attempting to charm me. I looked at the empty stranded cart. No cereal. Ugh….

One thing is for sure…grocery stores and men don’t mix. Next weekend, I’m back to the Friday evening ritual. Alone & happy.