Just for You, Shannon

*I asked for Dainon's permission before sharing this story.

For many years, I've had to share a bathroom with the family. What does this mean? It means I can never just sit down on the toilet without taking a really good look at the seat. It means my makeup gets desecrated by artists and my beauty tools disappear. Sniff.

It was tough.

But following a cataclysmic flooding event last year, a remodel was in order. And I got my own bathroom. It's not quite finished. My new bedroom that adjoins it still has no pad or carpet. It's still very much a construction room; but my bathroom, my inner sanctum, is beautiful.
One day I was enjoying my new double headed shower (I can rinse both armpits at the same time!) while Lewis was painting in the bedroom. Dainon poked his head around the door.
"Don't come in here!" Lewis warned.
Dainon just assumed he meant that there was wet paint and decided to walk in anyway. Just as I was stepping out of the shower.

Our eyes locked.

He screamed.

I howled with laughter and shouted, "BEHOLD THE HOTNESS THAT IS YOUR MOTHER!

He dashed from the room and cried out in anguish "Burn this image from my retinas!"

I grabbed a towel and collapsed in giggles.

And now, he always knocks.
True story.

Dainon needs a teenage Bill of Rights.

Last night our front room was a war zone. Dainon is almost 14, and really feeling it. He needs a lot more freedom. He should be able to blast Linkin Park and Disturbed throughout my house. MY HOUSE. The very walls that usually shimmer with folksy bluesy peaceful vibes. I listen to him defiantly making his case and the scene blurs before my eyes. I see two girls of a similar age writhing in agony as their father plays 'easy listening' on the stereo of their yellow station wagon. We won the right to blast Pour Some Sugar on Me, A Little Respect, Boys Don't Cry, and Will Smith's Parents Just Don't Understand.

Remember these guys? Ahhhh, those were the days.

We reached a bit of a compromise. He turns the music down, or changes songs when I go into fits on the ground. He's not fighting to play anything evil, just testosterone drenched noise.

We've declared an uneasy truce, so we've moved on to bedtime.

9 o'clock is way too early to have to go to bed. It's practically abuse. NO ONE, not a single soul at his school has to go to bed so early.

I smile and explain to him that at 9:01, his father and I strip down and walk about the house totally naked. If he wants to stay up and see that, he's sick.

He doesn't buy it.

He takes his case to the internet, and consults ask.com. He saves the answer to my desktop, offering it as damning evidence against the wisdom of our parenting skills.

"Your getting a little "old" for bedtime. 9 o'clock was my bedtime when I was 8 years old. Id say at 13 your have to learn to take care of your own daily resigme to learn to mature. If your parents keep telling you to go to bed at a certain time, then you will need learn to take responsibility for your own sleeping paterns."

(emphasis added by a mom who hates spelling errors)

Hmmmm..... Teens offering advice on parenting over the internet. What do you think, guys? Did it work on you?

My Private Memorial Day

One of the great things about living where I do, is its connection with my past. I was raised a nomadic Air Force brat. There was a home base, though, and it happens to be the house next door to mine. The house my mother was raised in; the house where my grandma still putters around making things bloom. It also is just a two block walk to the cemetery where my 'people' are buried; my grandpa, three cousins and my sister. Just before Memorial day, is the anniversary of her death. I don't always make the walk on that day, but it never goes by without some contemplation.

This year I was more aware than usual of the day approaching. It was going to be on a Sunday, just like the year she died. Saturday evening I slipped away by myself to the cemetery while the rest of the family played. As I walked, I was immersed in memories, flashes of feeling and snapshots from that time. Twenty two years ago is forever. How can it have been that long?

My feet crunched on gravel, and I remembered the shock of hearing that Sara was sick; my naive assurance that everything would be fine. (Isn't everything always going to be okay until it's not?) Those ten days of uncertainty, prayers, tests and overheard conversations with unfamiliar words like: tumor, malignant, stage 4, chemotherapy. I remembered the awkward visit to the university hospital. What was that tube in her wrist, with the halved Styrofoam cup keeping her hand level? We hadn't seen her since the day we found out she was sick. How different would my goodbye have been if I'd known it was the last time I would see her until her funeral?

I found her grave, and sat on the cool grass. I have no memory of being there on the day she was buried. I do remember the surreal feeling of excitement for my first ride in a limo, my abstract curiosity at the viewing; the alternating sensations that she was just on a trip and the crushing weight of loss.

I didn't understand at the time, but in the intervening decades this event has begun to make sense. I see the pattern that was still being woven back then. Sara took one for the team. Her death was the making of me, probably of all of our family. In taking her early exit, and I do believe that was part of her mission, she put the steel in my spine that gets me through hard times today. It cemented my own, personal faith.

I talked to her as I plucked the grass. I wondered aloud what her days are filled with. (Are there days in heaven?) I tried to imagine her grown, but I couldn't. She remains in my mind a newly-five blond pixie with mischievous eyes and a crinkly nose.

I asked her if she's okay. I know she is, everyone in heaven is, but it would have been nice to really FEEL it right then. I collected myself and stood to leave. I took one last glance at her grave and caught my breath. There, peeking up at me from the rose bush beside her marker, was a single pink bloom. Just one.
I picked it, and brought it to my nose. Sweet, but peppery too. Just like Sara. I walked home with a smile on my face, knowing she's just fine.

Bliss

I'm usually the kind of gal that doesn't branch out gastronomically. If I'm eating at the Olive Garden, I get the Tuscan soup and a hazelnut cream Italian soda. If it's Taco Bell, it's the 7 layer burrito with nachos belgrande; my favorite Mexican restaurant, Roberto's Tacos (where all the Mexican's eat- Taco Bell doesn't count as Mexican) has the best chili relleno washed down with icy horchata. Unless it's a burger and fries, that is the extent of my dining comfort zone.
I had a hot lunch date today, we ate here. I was a little nervous at first, but I went with the flow. I've been on an 'Office' kick, and last night Ryan mentioned Pad Thai, so I took a leap and ordered it.
Oh.
My.
Bliss.
It hurts my heart to not have known that it existed before. I will never be the same. It was tangy, limey, with peanutty crunchy goodness and a hint of cilantro.
So we sat, ate with chopsticks, and made googly eyes at each other. We did have to switch spots when Liam got spaghetti sauce on Lewis' dress shirt, but other than that, it was romantic.

LOSERFACE- My new nickname

What would you do?

I opened my email this morning and found an e-vite for a trunk sale from a man who is a slight business acquaintance. The note was addressed to Melissa LOSERFACE. Apparently, he had saved my name that way in his contacts. Oops! How embarrassing for him.

I spent a while this morning analyzing our few contacts. He organized an event where I was one of the speakers. He emailed, me as part of a group, the program. (That must have been the point where I was saved in his contacts with that delightful moniker.) I replied that his plans sounded great, that I was sure his event would be fantastic. The only time we've ever been face to face was a brief handshake- nice to meet you- conversation backstage before the event. Both were cordial and professional. So why the LOSERFACE? In all caps, even.

It's a mystery, my friends.

I'm thinking that I must have some mysterious power to repel total strangers.

This could be very useful when I'm in long lines at Disneyland.

I replied to his e-vite, but I'm curious, how would you handle this?

*An explanation- OR IS IT?

I got another email from the guy, and it was again, addressed to Melissa LOSERFACE. He was so flustered and apologetic. He couldn't find that adorable name anywhere in his contact list. He sent a different test email, it was still there. He insists he has no clue how it got there. I'm inclined to believe him. We spoke, and he was all apologies. I mean, come on. Does anyone over the age of 18 save a professional contact with the name LOSERFACE? I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

this is what happens when you dont sign out!

you see mom it isn't very smart to walk off without signing out. think of all the embarrassing stories i could post about you, that you haven't posted about yet. dang blogging is harder than it looks, i cant think of anything to say.

Shame

"It wasn't my kid, was it?" I asked, searching the faces of my fellow Cub Committee members. A few cast sidelong glances at each other.

"Do you really want to know?" Kristy could look me in the eye, her kid stories could top mine any day.

We were discussing the Spaceship Derby a couple of weeks before. It was a loud, overstimulating affair. There were so many little children running around screaming, it was the perfect birth control ad. I'd spent a few precious minutes of quiet helping in the kitchen. Apparently, I'd missed out on some action. Some punk kid (cough) called 911 and hung up. Of course the police came. They always come. The Bishop rounded up all the kids and tried to discover the culprit. No one came forward. He didn't want to humiliate anyone, so he asked that whoever did it come to him privately.

As I heard what had happened, my heart clenched. My pupils dilated. My nostrils flared. I expect all kinds of hi jinx from my boys, but some things cross the line. Mouthing off, being disrespectful, or lying to an adult that is not your parent carries a heavy punishment. I had a vague memory of some kid coming to me to tattle that Dainon was the one on the phone. He's almost 14, so the idea of him being on the phone wasn't particularly disturbing. I asked him about it, and he gave me an explanation so mundane that I completely forgot about it. Until that moment at the table.

I stewed.

Was my child on a path riddled with crime and disrespect to elders?

Could he, in fact, withstand the "please just confess in secret" line from a loving Bishop?

Hell in a hand basket, my friends. In a hand basket.

I stewed some more.

The more I thought about it, the less it sounded like him. It would have been pure idiocy to involve the police in your doings with your father in the next room.

As soon as he breezed in from school, we had a little chat.

"Um, Dain, I was at a meeting today, talking about the space derby. They said someone called 911 and the police came. Did you call 911?"

"Sure." He said, "But don't worry. I dialed it, but I didn't press send."

"Babe, it's not a cell phone. All you have to do is press the numbers. You did dial the police. They came."

"They came?" He asked in surprise. "I never saw them, I was outside." He missed the whole thing with the Bishop too, and was only too happy to explain to him how it had all gone down.

Whew!

Not so shameful after all. It was actually pretty funny.