Not long ago I was kvetching to a friend about how much I’ll miss Kate when she moves away to college, about how time is slipping away, about . . . oh, you know — that thing that mothers do.

And my wise friend, who has been the source of many good ideas and advice over the years, suggested I needed to plan a girls’ trip with Kate — a week’s getaway after she graduates from high school, just the two us, as a kind of rite of passage/celebration/cementing of the mother-daughter bond experience.

I was all over the idea and mentioned it to Kate immediately. I told her we would go anywhere she wanted to go (within reason of course, which my girl is nothing if not reasonable) and to think about it.

A couple of nights ago I followed up with her.

Joan: Have you been thinking about where we might go for our girls’ trip?

Kate: Anywhere is fine, Mom. Wherever you’d like to go, I’m sure I’d enjoy it.

Joan: No, no, no. I want you to pick. It’s your trip.

Kate: Well, I was talking to a friend and I was thinking how fun it would be to go to Hoboken.

<insert screeching tire sound>

Turns out, guess who is in Hoboken?

Photo credit: hddavila2007

Our favorite baker ever, Buddy of Cake Boss!

Kate started her confectionary odyssey before I did. In fact, she’s the one who inspired me to take up baking. Long before I was spending my Sundays making multi-layer, filled cakes from scratch, Kate was creating and selling these little delights:

So Hoboken it is! And while we’re in the neighborhood, I suggested we ought to drop in on the Big Apple. Because there’s just a few things we might enjoy over there, like hanging around outside 30 Rock and stalking Tina Fey.

I’m so excited, I’m tingly! I’ve been to NYC three previous times, in 1976, 1987 and 1999, but Kate has never traveled there. The last time I was in Manhattan, I went to the top of the World Trade Center for the first time. Kate and I both want to see Ground Zero.

If you’ve been to NYC more recently than 1999, would you do a girl a favor and drop me some suggestions? Where should we stay? Where must we eat? There’s so much to choose from, I need a carefully edited itinerary and would welcome your input.

With gratitude {for the anticipation and excitement of planning a big trip},

Joan, who in her secret dreams believes she could have been a real-life Carrie Bradshaw, pink tutu and all (except for the Mr. Big part because she is clearly more into the Mr. Moms than the Mr. Bigs)

After months of consideration and thousands of miles traveled, Kate has chosen a college to attend next fall.

Hooray for Kate! Hooray for her parents!

We ended up right where we started. Exactly where I figured she’d be. But since Kate’s first choice wasn’t her parents’ first choice, we thought the process of considering options was important.

And so we encouraged her to apply to no fewer than seven or eight universities. All were within a three-state area surrounding our home (Kate’s preference, not ours). And all offered women’s tennis programs at the NCAA Division-II level (the most important factor for Kate, who we never imagined would become the family jock).

We drove thousands of miles to make six campus visits over a four-month period. We poured over stacks of printed materials, surfed countless web pages, and exchanged emails and phone calls with many university faculty, coaches and administrators. Mr. Mom, Kate and I discussed the pros and cons of each school ad nauseam. In other words, we conducted a really typical college search.

In the end, my little chickadee proved herself to be a homing pigeon, choosing a regional university not far from our former home in Oklahoma – a school that offers both her academic program of choice (dietetics) and a first-rate tennis program.

Because I won’t be a bit surprised if Kate changes her major more than once before settling in, I focused less on degree programs available at our prospective schools and more on the quality of student life opportunities. In the end, however, it was tennis through-and-through that sold Kate.

Her school of choice boasts a tennis program that has competed in the national championships 17 out of the last 20 years and has produced six first-team All-Americans. The coach, as you might imagine, is old-school — tough as steel, demanding, and no-nonsense. He told us his regimen is rigorous and that his players cry regularly. He told us Kate won’t be a scholarship player and, in fact, she likely won’t compete for the team during her first two years. But the coach – who has won both National Coach of the Year and Conference Coach of the Year many times — promised Kate that if she’d commit, he’d make her the best tennis player she has the ability to be, and that’s the golden ring my girl is reaching for.

So the first part of our work – the agonizing over “where will she go?” – is done. I feel mightily relieved to have that part of the puzzle solved.  There are plenty more riddles to ponder, but I’m leaving them for another day.

For now, I’m celebrating a hard-fought victory – a family search for their daughter’s future that didn’t involve drama, acrimony, ultimatums, false pride and/or hope, or unspoken hurt feelings.

Like our favorite girl, we tried to be sensible and respectful in our deliberations. We started out with three different notions of what Kate’s future should look like and managed to come together for the first, critically important choice. Indulge me, please, if I give us all a pat on the back.  We just accomplished no small feat without a hint of resignation or regret, best I can tell.

The rest of the details, I hope, are all gravy.

With gratitude {for a family that has always managed to make me proud},

Joan, who would like to ask the universe for one more favor, please, which is the sale of her home in Oklahoma before the first tuition payment is due because two mortgages + college = oy!

Source: Allposters.com

Last night I was busy being a mother to children who needed me.

And so the post that was to be, wasn’t.

I know you’ll understand that I spent my time doing the thing that was needed most and that I always consider my highest calling, instead of composing a few pithy thoughts to share with you.

With gratitude {for the honor and joy of raising the two dearest souls I know},

Joan, who would like to offer you a few words on mothering she wrote in 1999 but are still as true to her heart today as they were all those years ago

On being a mother

I am a mother and that is all I know.

My children run through me like blue through a river and I cannot remember me before them.

Before little hands snapped necklaces off my neck in a shower of beads as sudden as a summer storm; before the bluest eyes I have ever known searched mine for traces of anger or love; before four dirty, bare feet raced across the backyard to be the first to greet me on a day when the office made me indispensable and made me late; before the sweet skin of my children became the only perfume I craved; before ten cold toes invaded my warmth at 3:00 a.m. and I awakened only to long for ten more; before I knew my dream could be a freckled girl and a sandy boy who take my breath when I watch them sleep; I did not know anything.

My babies crept inside me in ways I cannot shake. I delivered them into the world in crying, surgical fits and though they escaped my body, they imprinted my soul with a code I cannot crack.

They are me and I have forgotten the world in ways beyond theirs. I interpret meaning through routine and, as we march through days, I sometimes stop to listen to a rhythm that reminds me why my heart beats.

When my son asks me to sit beside him on the porch, only to climb onto my lap and describe the boundaries of his universe while his cheek is warmed by mine; when my daughter alters her path to take my hand and walk alongside me; when two small voices rise in pitch until they crack and tumble into the bath water amid soapy waves, I know that grace envelops me.

When my daughter says “I just want to make you happy” after I praise her for eating all her peas; when my son’s quiet song makes itself known only to me; when my daughter’s gift is a picture with the words “my mom is a great mom”; when my son grabs my neck and holds on as if I was leaving his life instead of his bed, I know that nothing I can do is worthy of their hearts or as precious as their love.

I know that the beauty of life is in small moments, not large, and that very precious, very small moments are to be unearthed every day by a mother’s hands from the roughest clods of her life.

I know that a child’s voice is the purest, and that no amount of noise can drown its innocence and love.

I know that wisdom is not in what may be had but in what may be shared.

I know that dreams are not discovered until a child enters your life.

I know that hope is unending as long as I am a mother.

I beg for your forbearance.

I’m adrift in a sea of unrestrained nostalgia. It all started with this post and the photos of my kids I took last weekend before the Sweetheart Dance.

After creating that post, I spent a couple of hours wading through the hundreds (thousands?) of photos we managed to recover after my computer crash.

You know that beautiful 18-year-old girl who looked so grown up in her party dress and sensible Toms?

Yesterday, she looked like this:

I promise it was yesterday. I remember it like it was yesterday so it had to be yesterday.

And that 6’4″ handsome boy in the shirt and tie? He looked like this last week.

I bet you won’t be surprised to hear I cried — big ol’ weepy tears — on the day Parker insisted on cutting off those curls. It broke my heart and I’ll never be the same. (I’m praying for a grandson with curls. It’s my only hope for emotional redemption. Once you’ve lived with beautiful-boy curls like those, you never want to live without them.)

Oh, and I found this photo:

It’s the best photo I’ve ever snapped on the best family vacation we ever took. This photo was taken on our mountain. Our mountain that I don’t talk about anymore, lest I cry. Someday . . . someday I’ll tell you the story.

And just look at this little slice of heaven:

I grew a wildflower garden in my backyard for several summers in our old home. It made me happy every single day of the growing season. And it’s the only old photo that didn’t make me want to cry . . . because I can’t make my teenagers babies again, but I can plant another wildflower garden in our new place. You can bet I’ll be getting on that as soon as the last freeze is safely past us. I should warn you, though, if I’m successful, you might be seeing a lot of wildflower photos on my blog this summer.

I also found this shot, one of a series of photos of our former home I took one evening at sunset. I had seen a similar photo in a magazine and desperately wanted a shot like that of my home. A photographer-friend gave me tips on using a tripod and a long exposure — and two hundred photos later, I had a handful of photographs that perfectly captured a summer evening at our home.

I’ll never forget that evening, or that view of our house on my hometown’s brick-paved streets.

I’ll never forget any of these moments, actually. They are treasures all, entwined around my heart so tightly it takes my breath away.

With gratitude {for a lifetime of mostly happy memories, many of them captured on film},

Joan, who loves her words, every single one of them, but knows these photos say it all

I spent a good part of Saturday unpacking art and craft supplies and making a workspace for myself.

In our former home, we had a large and light-filled sunroom with a southern exposure. I co-opted half the room as a crafting area and gave it a formal name — the Magpie Dream Studio (Magpie, after my former blog moniker). I miss it.

In our new home, I’ve spent 10 months pondering where to set up shop. Should I decamp in our basement (spacious, and the mess is hidden)? In the laundry room (huge, with oodles of built-in cabinetry and a desk)? In the back-entry alcove (tucked away, perfect size for a desk, and near a large pantry)?

As it turns out, the basement got filled fast thanks to Mr. Mom’s workbench and the kids’ ping pong table. He also co-opted the laundry room. I know it sounds like a strange place for him to hang-out, but our laundry room is a gigantic space. It’s filled with light, and because of the built-in desk, it’s a perfect place for our large iMac computer. With both a computer and washing machines handy, the laundry room has become Mr. Mom’s Man Cave. And the back-entry alcove — my final choice for a crafting space — has been consumed with jackets and shoes and boots and bags. It’s just waiting for me to hire a carpenter to build a mud-room type bench and cabinets.

So every single space I contemplated has been otherwise occupied. There was only one other possible location — an alcove in our master bedroom. It wasn’t really on my list because — I don’t know — it just seemed like a mixed metaphor, of sorts.  But, upon further reflection, the idea began to grow on me.

Our bedroom is plenty large enough. Like the rest of the house, it’s light and bright, and the alcove is near a large window. I have an easy chair and side table near a television in our bedroom, which is situated right by the alcove, so I could go back and forth between my new crafting corner and my reading/TV corner. And, best of all, it’s one of the quietest spots in the house. All it would take is some shuffling of furniture.

I started by moving a bookcase that had been nestled in the alcove to another location in our home. Then I scavenged a work table (my grandmother’s antique oak table from my former Dream Studio), a shelf, a slip-covered chair, a pin board, and a lamp from other rooms — and I was almost in business.

Here’s what it looked like before I got organized.

Photo by Instagram, 1977 filter

That stack of family photos had been hanging on the wall above the bookcase before I moved it. I took them down to make room for the new set-up, not sure what I’d ultimately do with them. But once I got everything organized, I realized they’d look just fine (and provide inspiration) hung salon-style back where they began.

It looks like this now:

Here’s another view:

The green shelf is part of a two-piece bookcase that’s been unused since we moved. It makes a perfect cubby for organizing things.

Remember my friend Maridel, the collage artist I introduced you to in this post?  Here’s a couple of shots of her creations, strategically placed to inspire me.

Did you know that shells and stones . . .

and tiny vases could be such lovely works of art?

I’m itching to make my own, along with a collaged greeting card series I’ve got percolating in my brain.

After almost a year on hiatus, I’ve got just the place I need to get creative. Not as large as the space I was used to, but quite lovely nonetheless.

With gratitude {for a quiet place to dream},

Joan, who must leave this post to run to the kitchen, her other dream studio, where some peaches are calling out to be made into pie

Here’s where I spent Saturday evening:

I didn’t go there to eat. I went to see the young man in the white shirt sitting at the counter.

And this group of girls.

It was Sweetheart Ball night in our little town. Remember the girl who sent this clever invitation to Parker? She’s the one in the silver dress on the far right.

They look pretty spiffy, don’t you think?

Parker and his date accompanied the other four girls to dinner at the Waffle House, then to the dance. (Apparently, it’s a popular thing here for girls and boys to go in groups, as well as in couples. I arrived late at the Waffle House and made the mistake of asking the other girls where their dates were. I’m not allowed to talk anymore.)

I was really disappointed I didn’t arrive in time for a waffle. Waffles make great Saturday night dinners. But I was busy snapping photos across town where Kate and her date and six other couples had gathered for a spaghetti dinner, hosted by the parents of Kate’s date.

Kate and her date look pretty fab, too.

You know what else I like about our new town? It’s apparently no big deal for girls to borrow dresses from each other. Kate’s wearing a borrowed dress, as were a few other girls in her group.  You gotta love a group of pragmatic teenage girls. (Of course, there are three big dances a year in this town. We’d all go broke buying a new dress for every dance.)

Kate’s friends are also very pragmatic about their feet.

She and her friend wore Toms (also borrowed).

I’d like to propose that if Toms are suitable footwear for sweetheart dances, they should be suitable for ladies wearing suits in offices. Would you make that a rule, please? My feet would bless you.

With gratitude {for Saturday night dances where waffles and exceptionally level-headed kids prevail},

Joan, who as she wrote this late Saturday night was still craving waffles but, sadly, had to settle for cinnamon toast because her waffle iron broke and she has yet to replace it

Photo by Instagram, X-Pro II filter

What you are seeing is my Valentine’s surprise from Mr. Mom.  He has spent all fall and winter improving things on our acreage, including cutting up and hauling off dead trees and brush. My gift was cut from a cedar stump, so it’s fragrant and appropriately tinted.

It makes me smile. The thought of Mr. Mom carving it up with his chain saw in the middle of his work day while thinking of me makes me smile. And makes my heart flutter. I plan to give it a prominent place of honor on our deck.

Long ago, Mr. Mom carved an Indian head out of a piece of Bois D’arc wood. (Bois D’arc is treasured by woodworkers because it’s extremely hard, beautifully burled, and doesn’t rot.) We called Mr. Mom’s creation Bois D’arc Man and I considered it a lucky totem. We took it with us on one of our many camping trips to our mountain in Colorado and left Bois D’arc Man high on a tree limb to watch over things for us. (I haven’t talked about our mountain on this new blog. It’s a long and winding story, one that started inspirational, turned bittersweet, and we’re not sure how it will end. Maybe I’ll get around to writing about it here.)

Anyway, I missed Bois D’arc Man, especially since we have an acreage to watch over here now. So Mr. Mom gave me his heart instead.

Which is all I ever wanted.

With gratitude {for my sweet Valentine},

Joan, who appreciates her Valentine even more because he spent 16 hours on Friday driving Kate 600 miles round-trip for her fifth college visit

Recently, I’ve been on both ends of a complex equation. And both times, I failed to add it up correctly.

Not long ago, I hurt someone’s feelings.  S/he told me about it via text and I have to admit I was surprised – both at the news I had hurt the individual, and that s/he chose to inform me via text. (Ah, the vagaries of modern life!)

I apologized via text but, looking back, I’m wondering if I did more explaining than apologizing. After all, when a slight is unintentional, isn’t our first impulse to explain it away? The individual texted a conciliatory response to my explanation/apology, so I figured the matter was put to bed.

Then a few days later, I received a note from the individual, apologizing to me and attributing the sensitivity to difficult personal circumstances.  And, interestingly, instead of feeling vindicated, I felt worse than ever.  I had been thoughtless, even if unintentionally so.  Had I also been self-righteous in my explanation/apology, enough so to prompt a return apology?

My association with this individual is longstanding, so I sat down and wrote a letter saying that no further apologies are necessary and that I was grateful for a relationship that had weathered far worse. I hoped s/he found my letter to be as warm and sincere as I tried to make it, and that my reassurance would prompt the individual to release any remaining guilt or worry.

We’ll see.

Not long after that series of interactions, somebody else (actually, more than one somebodys) hurt my feelings.  Instead of saying something immediately, I stewed. I’d like to think I’m tough as nails and rarely get my feelings hurt, but the truth is, I’m just more reluctant to speak up.

However, in this case, my hurt was obvious, so it wasn’t long before one of the somebodys broached the subject. Once the door was opened, I delivered a calm but lengthy analysis of the thoughtless act and of why I found it so disheartening. The listener attempted an explanation, in addition to an apology, but I wanted no part of it.

I can’t say the conversation ended well. It wasn’t ugly, by any means, but I think it’s fair to say we both left with the feeling that the matter was unresolved.

And today, all I can think about is the fact that — in the course of a week — I’ve been on both ends of the hurt stick and each side feels utterly miserable.

I can’t help but notice that in both situations, the perpetrators were thoughtless. But I, as well as the folks who offended me, was far from heartless. And that must be what stings most – knowing that no matter the intentions of my heart, I’m still capable of blundering my way through someone’s life in a way that is hurtful, just as others are capable of hurting me.

And explanations and apologies are the just the beginning of putting the pieces back together. Because what really has to happen is that both sides have to muster enough humility to admit one of two things:

I’m not perfect. I am capable of really screwing things up in ways that cause others pain and/or harm. The only way to make it better is to find the courage to admit it and ask for forgiveness. Then I must be gracious and forgive me.

– or –

I’m not perfect. And the people around me aren’t either and when they screw up, I must realize it takes courage for them to admit it. Then I must be gracious and forgive them.

Notice how both situations are resolved with forgiveness? For some of us, forgiveness is found in that region of the heart that is most remote and difficult to penetrate.

Like gratitude, though, forgiveness is free. And it comes more naturally with practice.

So excuse me. I have some practicing to do.

With gratitude {for difficult lessons, patient teachers, and the fortitude to endure both),

Joan, who wants desperately to make an A in Life, but had no idea it takes so much study

Look what I found:

Source: Etsy

For my dear friend who pointed out I have minions in the kitchen, I would suggest to her I’m just following the sign’s instructions.

Take, for example, our Sunday Supper. It was a Valentine’s Day extravaganza, and you can read about it here.  It took Mr. Mom’s help to do all the prep work (read: there was a mandolin and a drill involved), and the kids did all the clean up.

I just made it look easy.

Which is really why it’s so much fun to follow instructions, wouldn’t you say?

With everlasting gratitude {for those minions again},

Joan, who has an adequate collection of vintage aprons but is thinking she needs one of these, say in pink toile

I’ve been telling you about my dogs Ed and Frito lately because I’m back on track with my running and they’ve become my fellow road warriors. (And can I just say how danged pitiful it makes me feel that my Chihuahua with four-inch legs scoots up the road faster than I do?)

Anyway, before I descend into old-lady despair about my declining mph’s, here’s another canine soul I want to tell you about:

Her name is Sweetpea, but I call her Sweetie Petey. She’s Kate’s dog and I introduced her to you briefly in this post. Parker took that adorable photo of her with his iPhone last week after she spent the evening moving from one lap to another, finally ending on his with that look on her face, which no one in this household has so far learned to resist.

And it’s not just us. The neighbors are smitten by her, too. Especially Chet. Chet lives three houses down and Chet has a doggie door for his two Chihuahuas. Chet loves Sweetpea and has apparently told her to make herself at home, which she does regularly, using his doggie door to let herself in and climb in Chet’s lap and give him that look. Then Chet gives her a doggie treat.

Here’s something you need to know about us: we are a very, shall we say, traditional family. How can I say this? Our dogs live outdoors, you know, where dogs are supposed to live. They have a doghouse and we make sure they are warm and well fed and exercised and bathed and combed and loved and doctored when need be, but they are dogs and, in our family, dogs live outside. And there’s one more thing: they eat dog food. And, oh yeah, we don’t have doggie treats.

So imagine our surprise when Sweetie Petey wormed her way into our home. I can’t explain it, but the little Princess now sleeps inside the house, that is when she’s not sleeping at Chet’s house. (Did I mention that Chet lets Sweetpea sleep under the covers at his house?  Folks, when Jesus said Do Unto Others, Chet was paying attention. I’ve never met anyone like him, which is to say I’ve never met anyone that lets his neighbor’s dog sleep under the covers and then thanks the neighbor for the privilege.)

It’s not like we don’t try to keep Sweetpea at home. We do, but she runs away every chance she gets to — you guessed it — Chet’s house. We used to worry endlessly when she disappeared because we live in the country now and some unnamed worrywart named Joan mentioned there might be coyotes out there!  Anyway, I think Chet was worried about our worrying, so now he just texts us “Sweetpea is visiting” and we eventually go and get her (because Chet would never turn her out to find her own way home).

And I don’t really have a point to this post except to say:

1. Sweetpea is the cutest dog on earth.
2. Chet is utterly amazing.
3. I’m starting to feel kinda bad about the inequitable treatment of canines in our home.

But since there’s already a bird named MoJo in our house (a whole other story) and a cat named Sushi (yep, it’s very complicated), I’m not really prepared to let two more dogs in.

I’m so very conflicted. I might need counseling. Unless there’s a pill for this sort of thing, in which case, just email me the generic name and I’ll take it from there.

With gratitude {for the veritable petting zoo that inhabits my yard and house},

Joan, who named her first dog Mary-Ann because, duh, what would you expect Joan-Marie to choose at age 10?