Here it is – my super exciting Friday “Game Night!”  I like to call it Where the Hell is the Other Sock!!   Loads of fun for hours but as you can see I am losing.  33 successful matches and 19 singles.  Seriously how can there be another 19 socks just floating around the house.  We have a 1,700 sq .ft. home so we aren’t talking an abundance of space – you would think this could easily be solved with a quick walk through but I have not turned up any abandoned socks hiding around.  I personally have mild texture issues.  If I am correct in my theory, my kids have been wearing mismatched socks.  In my little world that is almost an impressive skill.  I would not be able to drive a car, walk or talk if my socks did not match.  The differences in weave, weight and density would consume my entire brain function.  What am I to do with 19 single socks at this point.  I have opened a delightful Twilight Summer Ale while I ponder my options.  Do I put them aside and wait for the next wash cycle in hopes to recover a whole new load of socks that need a partner?  Do I throw them out and start fresh? (less appealing due to budget deficits) Or should I just stuff them back in the drawer and let the kids live a haphazard life of mismatched socks?  I’m not sure if I can sleep tonight knowing there is an ongoing sock debacle.  I imagine this is too trivial to enlist the requests of St. Anthony, beloved Patron Saint of lost items.  It is better to save those pleas for a bigger crisis….and age has given me the wisdom to know there WILL be bigger crisis.  My competitive spirit would love to win but the averages are bleak.  I am forced to make peace with this loss.  Socks win!

 August 20th, 1921 Alvin and Alma Hogarth were blessed with their first and only child.  A daughter they named Jacqueline Mae.  She was born in the old mining town of Angels Camp located in the Sierra Mountains of California.  The little town was best known for their notorious frog jumping competions documented in a short story by Mark Twain in 1865.  I, on the other hand, remember the town affectionately for the beautiful people it produced.   When I was a little girl, my grandma would take us up to visit my great grandparents every summer in Angels Camp.  My Uncle Louis and Aunt Flossie lived across the street.  This annual day trip will forever be a cherished thread in the tapestry of my life.   

80 years later my grandma would have a great granddaughter with her name.  There was no other name I would consider for my only daughter.  This precious name represented elegance, grace, strength, class, fortitude, excellence, prosperity and great character.  I imagine many would say that about their own grandmothers though my grandma’s existence was almost taken at a very young age.  She was 5 years old and playing with her cousins at her Grandma Jenny’s house.  They were enjoying a batch of sassafras, Jackie was in her party dress dancing and twirling about when a spark from the fire jumped, catching her dress.  In a second she was in flames.  There was no hospital for her to recover from the excessive burns to her body – she was in a coma for several days at home.  The outcome of this was not promising but her spirit was stronger!  Though she awoke, it would be years of healing and reconstruction, with permanent scars to almost her entire body.  Where she was not burned, skin was taken to be grafted.  At one point they had used all the healthy skin from her body that was available.  The doctors in San Francisco asked my great grandpa if they could take the skin from his back to complete the reconstruction.  Without hesitation he shed his shirt so they could remove 100 fingernail size sections of skin while he gripped the door handle.  All but one of the pieces from his back was a success.  This was a sixteen year process of traveling every summer to San Francisco for plastic surgery which would eventually lead her to a career in nursing.  A title she was extremely proud of and rightfully so.   She was a miracle everyday of her life and she knew how fortunate she was.  She loved life fully and respected the chance she was given that day in 1926.

The stories and memories of my Grandma Jackie are held close to my heart.  She was my everything.  With her, I never wondered if I was loved, I knew it without a doubt.  She passed away in 2008.  I had expected her to live to a 100 but she didn’t…  Happy Birthday Grandma, it is not as wonderful here without you but I am sure you are lighting up heaven.   

     Jackie and baby Jackie                                                                                                      Me and Grandma

I do my main grocery shopping late Sunday nights around 11pm.  It isn’t because I like the strung out addicts that are roaming the isles or lack of staff at the store, it’s not for the adrenaline rush of getting to and from my car safely in a dimly lit empty parking lot nor is it for the messy shelves and sparse produce after a big day of shoppers taking advantage of the fresh advertisements.  I don’t do it because I enjoy getting home to a dark, quiet house with no help to unload the groceries while I lug them up 2 flights of stairs and I don’t do it to deprive myself of sleep.  This is really my best attempt at simple economics, if I shop after everyone is in bed the food will last longer.  Sunday nights are another key point because 9 months out of the year they will be in school the next day and no one will be home between 7am and 3:30pm to intermittently rummage through the pantry.  It is almost a labor of love bordering on mild insanity that stirs in my brain.

There are several perks to the theory that I have found over the decades beyond my initial economic strategy.  The obvious is how quiet the store is, no fussing kids (this includes mine), there are no lines, I can think clearly while I shop and stay focused on the needs of the house – not get caught up in the desire, I always have a prime parking spot in front, the limited employees are actually happy to see me and despite the extra effort of loading and unloading groceries without my family to pitch in, I would be lying if I didn’t admit I like the calm that comes with this late night outing.  Oh and I also get to pick the radio station, sing all the words wrong as loud as I want with zero criticism. 

There is one thing that always makes it into my cart that no one asks for.  I don’t really know if anyone even likes them, I have never asked.  It is a box of Golden Graham cereal.  I LOVE them.  Really, really, truly love Golden Graham cereal.  Here is the interesting part and probably another indicator of my motherhood induced insanity – I never eat them, not even one straight out of the box.  I don’t think any of my kids could tell you that they have ever seen me eat a bowl of Golden Grahams.  I buy a box because I want my kids to enjoy a cheap bowl of fulfilling happiness.   I am positive if I poured myself a bowl it would never stop.  I would eat the entire box, which could include literally the box!  So I stay away from this obsession but continue to support the brand.  I am mentally saving up for a day when my kids are grown and on their own, then I will go ballistic on Golden Grahams.  It may be all I eat when I reach my 80’s. Until then I have to stay healthy, eat my veggies and do my part to keep them in business to reach this milestone in good form.  It’s you and me Golden Grahams, count on it!

I have been having an issue with my closet door lately.  Luckily all my important clothes are neatly heaped in a pile on a chair in the corner of my room so only special occasions do I resort to rummaging  through the closet.  I must have had some extra time on my side last week because I decided to investigate the source of my closet frustrations.  This is a standard mirror slide door in a 15×20 room so nothing to extravagant – why I willfully battle a door is beyond logic.  I have more time than anything else in the world and yet it has taken me well over 6 months to perk my curiosity.  Sad truth.  

It was a simple discovery and fix.  I started by moving the gold and maroon pom poms from the big high school homecoming game last October and found a set of dumb bells resting on the glide.  I have spent a ridiculous measure of time avoiding my closet at all costs, and then on the rare necessity I have to look for something fresh and new to wear, I open the door as far as I am able, shimmy myself in to flip through the inventory just to realize my problem is 8 lb. weights.  There was a slight bend in the cheap metal glide that I quickly remedied by taking one of the weights and hammering it flush with the floor.  When inspired I am smart and industrious!

Now that these weights have surfaced I kind of feel obligated to put them to use.   I realize this effort to fitness is not exactly CrossFit though it’s a fraction of a start towards good health.   At the very least it gives my carpet a reprieve where the weights have made a deep imprint.  In the last 7 days I have put those babies to work 3 times and completed a total of 54 reps.  It’s an impressive feat for this less than athletically coordinated mid-lifer.  Believe me, CrossFit does not want me.  

Here they are, my family!  The kids that gave me a career in motherhood.  I have seen the controversial headlines over the years of mom’s that are bored by their children, that find parenting dull and unrewarding – some applaud their honesty, others are disgusted by their self absorbed proclaimation, then before you know it, the story fades and the breakthrough interview is a little more than a moment of fame that will settle on the esteems of their children.  My only thought towards the brazen parents (generally moms) is that parenting ISN’T ABOUT YOU!  You were already a kid, let’s see what you can do as a parent.

Either I am very blessed or my kids are because I can proudly announce that I have never been bored of motherhood.   If done correctly it should be an amazing, selfless, thrill to see your kids grow, dream and achieve.  It is your opportunity to be a hero, to make someone else’s life better each and every day.  You get to change your childhood or relive it depending on the circumstances you were raised in.  I agree the first few months of life start a little slow and don’t have an abundance of zest or spunk to it although, those are the best months for getting as much accomplished as possible before they develop their own character and start forming into something great!!  Don’t think for a minute I am claiming to be the patron saint of parenting – my kids will gladly list every error, irrational outburst, bad behavior and illogical decision I have made while raising them.  This parenting gig comes with at least a thousand tough moments but it also has a million great ones and a promise of many more.

I am going to admit that I may have been the last to realize that my first of four children, has cut the cord and moved on.  After attending college in Portland Oregon, he received his degree, moved in with 5 roommates, started dating a local girl and accepted a job working for a hockey team.  All are very clear clues that he may not be coming back home though I still felt it was temporary.  Maybe he would stay there for a year tops….which already passed, then over the weekend any lingering hope of his return was settled once and for all.  He bought his first car with his own money, saved from his own paycheck, with his own credit, registered at his own home where apparently he lives happily as his own man.  Yesterday I realized, I did it!!  I raised a life from conception to adulthood which feels fantastic and was a complete blast despite the challenges that go along with the job!  I am the luckiest mom in the whole wide world – praise God for my family!

By 11:00am this morning I had only managed to get up for a cup of half decaf coffee and to eat the frosting off the cake.  I actually got out of bed twice just to visit my friend the frosting.   I like to tell myself on these type of days that I am fine, dandy, wonderful – though my actions would not convince anyone.  During this time frame of contemplating making my way out of bed for a third trip to the kitchen or getting in the shower, I received a text from a friend, “How did it go last night?”  

I responded “A big fat goose egg”……..

After several minutes my phone rings.  It is her but I am not ready to be soothed.  I am feeling pretty good about my misery and a pep talk would interrupt this grand pitty party so I let the phone go to voicemail.  I hear the ding indicating a message however I wait quite a while before listening to her kind encouraging words and then decide I should be appreciative enough towards her thoughtful effots to at the very least, and I mean least, send her a text in reply.  “I have only gotten out of bed to make a cup of coffee and eat frosting.  Doing great”   The next call comes in quickly.  I grunt while she starts in “911, what is your emergeny?  Heroine, frosting, heroine, frosting!!  At least your fix is frosting”  She laughs and is completely understanding of my grief.  

This year has been a constant roller coaster with sharp, thrashing twists and turns.  I needed last night to be a success.  I invited 43 people and NO ONE showed.  Not even an RSVP which means you have to be ready for anything.  I cleaned house, wrote a $78.58 bad check to the grocery store for food hoping it won’t clear for 2 days, I chilled wine, made a fantastic meal, 2 desserts, put my heels and skirt on applied an extra couple coats of mascara and a pop of color on my lips.  30 minutes ticked by beyond the start time when I saw my kids curious faces.  They asked me all the obvious questions “are you sure you sent the invitations”, “did you tell them to RSVP”,  “where do you think everyone is”….  I am humiliated in front of them.  I want to be a success, I need them to feel secure in our very fragile life and I am supposed to be their fearless, strong leader.  I prayed for just 3 – any 3 guests to show up.  I realize it is summer time, families are busy and it is hot out.  Who truly wants to be looking at my fabulous fall clothing collection?!  I hold my head high, plaster on that smile that takes every ounce of energy so they won’t worry and I announce “well the house is clean and we have a great dinner!  The next show will be great!”  Of course I am not confident about that even as the statement rolls out of my mouth but I have to say something, hope is free which is all I have to work with at the moment.

My friend listens to all of this with a sympathetic ear and as I talk it out it washes away my fear, my sadness, my loneliness.  She reads to me a timely and perfect blog post from Anne Lamott, author of “Help, Thanks, Wow.”  In it she is talking about eating frosting which settles me even further into coping.  I love when the rythms of life sync like that.  It feels like God telling me He sees and knows I am fighting the best fight I can.  It assures me that I am not the only one eating frosting to get by.  That is all I needed and before you know it I was committed to a shower, the fresh start of a new day.  

I have always been the driving force behind our weekly attendance at church.  When Dave was living with us, he accepted a strong roll in getting everyone to the car for mass in a somewhat orderly fashion.  It was a rhythm that I appreciated since the hour between waking up and actually setting foot in the church was usually quite the event at our house.  If we didn’t check on the kids progress every 10 minutes you could be sure at least one would fall back to sleep, throwing the entire effort of going to church into a complete shit show.  Every Sunday is like the first time ever for them.  My kids still don’t grasp on to the routine even though I forewarn them the night before so they can be prepared.  You would think they would save themselves the aggravation and just accept their fate for one hour each Sunday.   

Some weeks, such as today, I leave them home.  There are times when I don’t want to hear them talk in church, squeeze each others hand during the Our Father until one of them drops to their knees, or argue with them all the way to and from the car about why we have to go to church and which kids in their class do and don’t have to go.  I don’t want to apologize to the people around us for whatever mishap they can create when they are supposed to just sit quietly in the pew.  I would rather go peacefully to start the week with a positive mind and full of enthusiasm.  However I won’t let their attendance slide regularly.  No way!  Once in a while is good, enough for them to feel like they have victory but not so much that they get comfortable on Sunday mornings.  Life is such a balance and when done correctly everyone feels like a winner.  Today I enjoyed mass with no interruptions.  It was perfect!  Next Sunday we are back to the routine – pray for me!