Too many words on my mental state at this exact moment.

Dear friends,

I don’t have the right words to describe how I’ve been feeling lately, so I’ll just take a ham-handed stab at it.

Teary. Jittery. Frustrated. Angry. Distraught. Restless. Blue. Pensive. To the tenth power.

I told Mr. Mom yesterday that I alternate between wanting to burst into tears and stab somebody in the face. (Actually, I think if I could stab somebody THEN have a good cry, I might feel a whole lot better.)

At any other point in my life, I might have called this feeling hormonal. (Sorry male readers.) But I’m pretty sure I’m not hormonal.

I’m pretty sure I’m freaking out. I’m pretty sure I’m flipping my lid because the beautiful young woman in the photo above is moving out.  I’m pretty sure I’m melting down because my mother card is being punched for the last time and I don’t get a new one.

I’ve been a working mother for all of my children’s lives. My own mother raised my children until Mr. Mom took over a few years ago. I have always known my days as a pinch-hitter were numbered. But I looked up not long ago and realized my number had dropped from triple digits to double digits. That’s right, Kate moves away in 79 days.

Seventy-nine days and I’m no longer the mother of a daughter who lives under my roof. Seventy-nine days and anything I wanted to be as a mother, do as a mother, is over. Seventy-nine days and my fate is sealed on what Kate thinks and feels and remembers about her time under my wing. I had my swing at the ball and now I have to go sit in the dugout. Forever.

The thing is — when you are a working mother, you can’t think about your expiration date. You do, of course, but you don’t contemplate it seriously because — damn — you’re just trying to get through the days, you know, with some sliver of your sanity intact. Maybe stay-at-home mothers feel this way, too. I would never know. And maybe their guilt and regret is every bit as intense as those of us who go to the office everyday and work too many nights and weekends and take too many business trips and miss too many school plays and sporting matches.

Maybe the lot of every soul born a woman and who later gives birth is to feel sorrow and guilt and regret and to second-guess every thing she ever did, including the pink lipstick that she insisted upon and that infuriated her daughter on dance recital day, as well as the moment she lost her senses and threw the remote control at the back of her daughter’s head and mercifully missed because she can’t hit a target to save her life. Maybe the lot of every mother is to live out her days convinced all she did was fritter it away and screw it up and believe there is surely a special hell for mothers. Especially neurotic, introspective mothers.

All I know is this mother misses every moment she didn’t get to have with her daughter even though she knows made a bargain with her partner and her end of the bargain included earning a living and now feeling this way is selfish and indulgent, like she wanted it all and knew she couldn’t have it all but is still p-o’d about it.

Hey, I didn’t say I was being rational.

And since I’m not being rational, please don’t tell me about how great it will be to transition to the next stage of motherhood. I cannot hear those words right now. I’m still having a tantrum over this stage coming to an end.

But if you want to tell me I’m normal, not psychotic, that would be appreciated. If you want to tell me this feeling, much like grieving, will diminish with time, then that will be appreciated, too. If you want to commiserate and tell me this transition in a mother’s life sucks big-time — whether you are a stay-at-home mom or a working mom — then I’ll give you an “Amen, sister.” If you want to hold my hand and cry with me, then come over soon, please, or at least before I get my ugly cry-face on.

Because let’s not compound the tragedy, okay?

With gratitude {for . . . I’m searching . . . I’m searching . . .},

Joan, who feels a little like Anne of the Thousand Days, only she had 7,000 and it’s still not nearly enough

#greatshot

Dear friends,

I’m one of the those parents who brags about my kids on Facebook. If this annoys you, I’m sorry. I can’t help myself. Consider it a symptom of an almost empty-nester. Maybe I’ll lay off for a few years after Parker moves out, but I’m sure I’ll be a prolific grandparent bragger as soon as the opportunity presents itself. (But please, opportunity, don’t present yourself too soon.)

The good news is I am friendly to other braggy parents and grandparents. I never get annoyed and I almost always leave “Great job!” and “Congratulations!” comments on other parents’ posts. (And I’m not just trolling for compliments. I truly enjoy reading about the accomplishments of my friends’ children and I consider it my civic duty to spread the love on Facebook.)

Anyway, my point today is to level the score between my children. I’ve done an awful lot of bragging about Kate, what with her being a senior and going off to college to play tennis. But I have another tennis player in the house and fair play dictates I give Parker a bloggy shout-out.

I just got his tennis photos back from the photographer. Parker’s wearing his game face rather than the smile I would have preferred, but I suppose that’s what boys do.

Yesterday, Parker’s team won the first round of competition in their district tournament. Parker lost his singles match, but he and his partner won their dubs match handily. I took the day off so I could spectate and be a mother, which included making sandwiches for the team and tweeting about Parker’s four aces.

Did I mention I also brag on Twitter? If you can’t use social media for self-and/or-family-promotion, what’s the point? I mean really?

Besides, there was hardly anybody there to witness the match so I had to tweet about it. (As did Kate.)

The sole spectator is me. Despite the loneliness of being a high school tennis fan in this part of the country, new media has helped create a virtual crowd. (At least three likes on my “fourth ace” Facebook post seemed like a crowd.)

School will be out soon and I promise to move on to other topics besides my kids. #ormaybenot

With gratitude {for a Monday better than most},

Joan, an equal opportunity gasbag, braggart, blatherskite, boaster, windbag, bigmouth (and Thesaurus-lover)

For two interesting views on Facebook bragging, read this post by Yoonanimous and this post by Glennon Melton. Yoona made me laugh (and think Oh God, I do that!) and Glennon made me pause (and think Oh God, I do that!).

Enrolling we will go.

Dear friends,

I got home Sunday evening from a week-long work marathon that flat wore me out. I didn’t even unpack, as I turned around Monday afternoon for a 30-hour road trip to enroll Kate in college.

At least I’m getting two trips out of one packing hassle.  You gotta look on the bright side.

Meanwhile, Kate got dinner on the road at her favorite chain — a place nowhere near the town we live in now and highly reminiscent of our former life in Okie-land.

According to Kate's Tweet, "You have issues if you order anything but tea at McAllister's."

Better yet, we discovered last night that Kate’s new college town boasts her favorite ice cream and burger spot (known as Braum’s, for my homeland readers).  While I’m starting to freak out about my oldest child’s impending departure (90 days is impending in my book, folks), she’s already licking her lips for tastes of home.

You know, it just occurred to me that if we went to visit her (as opposed to her coming back to see us), our family could stop at all of our favorite Oklahoma haunts and eat our way through a lifetime of happy culinary memories.

I just love it when karma works this way.

With gratitude {for Oklahoma barbeque, Tex-Mex, chicken fried steak, hot hamburgers, sweet tea and so many other culinary favorites},

Joan, who refrained from spoiling her “clean eating” record of late on this trip home but knows similar restraint will be impossible in August as she says goodbye to her little birdie

Pro-cras-tin-ation.

Dear friends,

Source: Primitives by Kathy

I’ve been singing the Heinz Ketchup “Anticipation” song for a while now, only I’ve been substituting the word procrastination in the melody.

Pro-cras-tin-ation. Pro-cras-tin-AAAAA-AAAAA-tion.

Sorry. Anything to take my mind off the actual task for which I’m procrastinating.

I’m not usually a dawdler. Truly I’m not. I did my taxes in February and pocketed my refund a long time ago.  But the task I’ve been putting off is more annoying  than taxes.  And worse, it has a tongue-twisting acronym.

Have you heard of the FAFSA?

As in, “Oh, god, I HAVE to do the FAFSA?” Or, “Have you DONE your FAFSA?” Or, “What the HECK is the FAFSA?” (Pronounced just like it looks: faf-suh.)

I’ll tell you what it is — it’s a torture device for parents of college students. It’s a stupid electronic form that you must fill out if your child plans to attend college. It becomes “available” on Jan. 1 of every year. So I’ve managed to put it off for exactly 107 days.

Kate and I are headed to her college of choice next week to enroll and sign up for financial aid. I happened to mention this fact yesterday to a friend who’s a financial aid director of a university. And she immediately asked, in an urgent voice, “Have you done your FAFSA?”

I uttered a mild expletive. Then I answered “No.”

“Do it tonight,” she urged. “Otherwise it won’t be processed by the time you enroll.”

So that’s how I spent my Monday night. Reading instructions and cursing and looking for tax information. Creating log-ins and passwords and PINs. Entering field after field of personal information. Like my net worth.

Do you know your net worth? You know what, good for you if you do! I think if I knew my net worth (or even thought about my net worth), my net worth would be higher.

After I got most of the way through it, I realized I had filled out the wrong year’s form. (You have to choose a year. I know it sounds simple, but it’s more confusing than you might think.)

So I had to “clear” the form and start all over.

Then when I got to the end again, it wouldn’t let me electronically sign and submit the form. I was desperate for help, so I opted for the live web chat. It’s not really live by the way; it’s delayed by several minutes.

A woman named Siera Pink helped me. Isn’t that a weird name? You’d think they’ve give their customer service folks fake names, like the Pakastani fellow named “Albert” who took my CitiCards call the other day. No way in the world he was named Albert. And Albert is such an odd choice. If I were in charge of the fake names, I’d use lots of Jacks and Janets and Beckys and Toms. Easy stuff that’s not weird. Albert is weird.

Anyway, Siera Pink is weird, too, but she helped me find my mistake and get the whole thing submitted ONE HOUR after I began.

It was hard to be terribly appreciative on a Monday night when the last thing I wanted to do is the FAFSA. But I did it. And I guess the good news is Kate can go to college now. Hooray for us!

With gratitude {for Siera Pink who kept me from throwing a brick at the computer screen},

Joan, whose customer service alias would be Beth Parker (which is a combo of my favorite girl name and my favorite boy name; nothing weird; easy to say and spell; see how easy this is? I really should work in Customer Service)

The Js.

Dear friends,

Three sweet daughters in their matching outfits before they got old enough to just say no.

Every summer for a very long time, I’ve gone on a trip that I look forward to more than most anything else in my life.

Girls’ Weekend!!! (The exclamation points indicate a squeal.)

I know plenty of women who kick up their heels together on a girls’ trip. Heck, I think they made a movie about it — a little picture called “Bridesmaids.”

But my particular girls’ trip is more awesome (awesomely better?) than anybody else’s because I go with my childhood friends. And my childhood friends happen to have daughters who are childhood friends — and we bring our daughters on our annual trip. So we’re a group of BFF mothers with a group of BFF daughters, all having the time of our lives together every single summer.

The women in my life most dear to me are known as the Js. I don’t why the stars aligned in this way, but at age 10 when my mother moved us to our hometown, I became fast friends with Jamie, Johnna, Julie and Janet. We are the 5Js and we’ve remained close friends to this day. Until a year ago when I moved away, four of the five of us lived in our hometown.

In the early years, only three of us (and our daughters) traveled. Along the way, another one of the Js was able to join our summer trips. Our first trip was in 1993, only a few months after Kate was born. She just turned 19, so you get the idea how long the Js and our daughters have been doing this.

In the early years, we went to a lot of amusement parks and water parks in every major city within a day’s drive of our hometown. Our exotic destinations included spots like Wichita, Kansas City, St. Louis, Branson, Oklahoma City, Dallas, Tulsa, and San Antonio. In recent years, we’ve spent most our time shopping and eating in those same cities — and always staying up late and laughing ourselves silly in our hotel rooms. We laugh at old stories we love to tell every single year (our daughters — two of whom are now in college — never seem to tire of hearing about the J’s high school adventures), and we tell a few new stories in our lives by way of catch up.

In the early years, we bought our daughters matching outfits and dressed them alike for our outings. I don’t remember at what age they declared “no more,” but I can’t help that I miss the sweet young faces of our daughters in their matching outfits gracing our trip photos. These days, we tend to buy matching t-shirts at one place or another.

This year, the girls are coming to my house because they haven’t yet visited me in my new place. We plan to hit a nearby outlet mall and take a float trip on the river. I’m going to cook something really yummy for them and show them the sights in our scenic new home, and I’m sure the seven of us will camp out in my den until the wee hours laughing and being girls.

In keeping with the new age we live in, I planned this year’s trip by text. And without fail, after the date was agreed upon yesterday, I got texts from all my girls saying things like I can’t wait! I miss you!!! Love you!

I love my girls and their daughters and I can’t wait to see them, too.

With gratitude {for friends who know the name of the first boy I kissed, who shopped for prom dresses with me, who hold a grudge against the boy that broke my heart in college, who stood by my side as I married Mr. Mom, who diapered my babies, who cried with me when my mother died, and who would turn heaven and earth upside down for me if I needed them to},

Joan, who can’t imagine what life would be like if her name didn’t start with J

Traces.

Dear friends,

Not long ago I was helping Mr. Mom clean house and, as I dusted the family photos around my desk, I lingered on the tiniest one — a black and white photo not much bigger than a postage stamp in a pink frame.

The young woman in the photo is both achingly familiar and long lost to me. In my mind’s eye, she is who I am. In the mirror, only traces of her remain.

I thought about my mother — about how much I miss her, about how I have stacks of photos of her at about age 5 right up until her death a little more than a year ago. And, yet, when I think of my mother, I instantly visualize her as she looked in her early 40s. The photos I have of her from that era are the ones that most say “Mom” to me.

Perhaps it is because that’s the age she moved us “home.”  I was 10 and my mother was 43 and she moved us from the city in which she had always lived to the place I call my hometown. I lived there until I went away for college; she eventually left, too, a few years later. But the pull of the place was so strong I moved back to my hometown 25 years later — with a husband and two kids and a passel of pets in tow. And, somehow, I think the way my mother looked when she moved us to that town — that town that became my true north — is how my mother will always appear in my memory.

I wonder how my children will think of me when I’m gone. Surely, it won’t be as the young woman in the pink frame that they never knew. The photo was taken in my mid-20s. I was unmarried. Shy, but confident enough to smile at a photographer. Happy, at having just presided over a successful professional conference (thus, the banquet table). Full of hope for my relationship with Mr. Mom and all that I dreamed a future family would bring.

I wonder — will my children think of me as the young mother of toddlers, a brunette usually sporting a pony-tail and who was perpetually harried? Or will they think of the mother of their middle-school years, the thinner red-head who dressed a little more stylishly but was no less harried thanks to graduate school? Or will they think of the mother I am now, the one who uprooted them from the town they loved growing up in as much as I did, but who was in search of a distinctly unharried, integrated life and who insisted they come along for the ride? Or will they remember me as a mother I am yet to become, who neither of us really knows yet but is somewhere to be found within the woman in my mind’s eye?

What will they say is the essence of the mother they remember, the one they loved and hated, clung to and pushed away, idolized and vilified?

Perhaps it is a fool’s chore to ponder these questions, but I can’t help myself. Mothers must pine for immortality because we raise children and look longingly into their eyes for traces of ourselves.  Do we glimpse the best of ourselves or the worst? An amalgam of contradictions as confounding as our own?

Truly, I hope they remember a bit of my mother in me. After all, the woman in my mind’s eye is but a derivation of the mother I remember, the kind I strive to be, one so loved her absence is felt every day despite her frailties and failures, one whose heart spilled over with love for her children and the promise of their children.

One who reached toward every day with the knowledge the day is never enough and yet all there is to be a mother.

With gratitude {for today},

Joan, who knows missing her mother this much is a kind of a gift

Love is in the air.

Dear friends,

Tennis season started yesterday for our high school boys. We’re a tennis-loving family, so we couldn’t be more excited to see this important spring milestone arrive.

That's Parker serving and his partner at the net.

Parker made the varsity team. He’s playing in the #4 singles spot and the #2 doubles spot — and fighting hard to move his way up. That kind of competition is good for all the players, as well as our team.

Mr. Mom loves tennis, too, especially now that he’s not coaching. He coached both Parker’s and Kate’s tennis teams in our former town. He enjoyed it, but he’s glad he’s no longer responsible for being a dad and a coach to kids who can’t always make the distinction between the two. He delights in sitting courtside and watching a match unfold with no responsibility for its outcome or his child’s performance.

Kate is serving as the boys’ team manager. (She played the #1 spot on the girls’ team during the ladies’ season, which happens in the fall in our new state.) She’s excited that she could play in the fall and manage in the spring — which includes the opportunity to hit with the boys — to keep her tennis skills sharp between now and when she joins the tennis team at her college. The great news for me is that I get regular text updates and photos because she travels with the team.

One of the things I have most appreciated since our move is the regular opportunity to attend my children’s tennis matches. The long commute I endured in our former home made it all but impossible to see many matches. In our new town, the high school tennis courts are so close to my office I could walk there if I wanted. And I have the scheduling flexibility to slip out of the office and attend many of the matches.

Plus, tennis is a much bigger deal in our new town. It was rare for a parent to attend matches in our former home, but not here. We have a booster group that provides food and beverages to the players and families, so the competitions are a social outing as well as a sporting event. I know this is nothing new for many sports — football and basketball have long enjoyed that kind of parental support at many schools.  But it has been rare in my family’s tennis experience, so I’m savoring every moment with my kids and every opportunity to become a part of our school community.

By the way, Parker won his singles match today 8-0, giving new meaning to the phrase “love is in the air.” He and his partner won their doubles match 8-4. Those two wins helped his team cinch the competition 6-3, which is a great way to kick off the season.

With gratitude {for kids who love tennis as much as I do and who play it far better},

Joan, who is crazy enough about tennis that she 0nce played four matches on a July day where court temperatures exceeded 110 degrees, which she learned is hot enough to melt the polish on pedicured toenails and fuse them to cotton socks

Bam!

Dear friends,

My baby, my first baby, will turn 19 in two days. I don’t know how it happened. I went to bed and she was six, and I woke up and she was 19. Life is funny that way.

Thirteen years ago when she turned six, I was so discombobulated by it I wrote a story. She had been my baby right through five, then bam! Six was entirely different. My baby was gone, replaced by a young girl.

This week as Kate passes another milestone that feels like a bigger bam to her mother, I thought I’d remind myself I survived the last one. Not without a few tears, but I survived.

With gratitude {for the angel who watches over mothers and reminds us we can take the next step},

Joan, whose heart is bursting with love and pride beyond what she ever imagined possible

Six is Wondrous New

A six-year-old girl is a most precious thing. A contradiction, a charm, a sprightly smile of blush and pride.

Even at five, she is a baby, my baby, hand and heart grasped in mine, and not yet initiated into the world of team sports, sleepovers, all-day school.

But at six, she is all about risk and motion, and fields undared, a tumblebug of queries to be posed full speed.

And six is wondrous new.

New challenges, new friends, new dreams, new notions unfold before her, a splendid banquet of awe and fear to be carefully tasted, some savored, some spat. And I in the shadows, waiting to offer encouragement that is rarely required or even asked, ponder her journey and my place in it.

I am not ready to release my grasp, my being, my daughter to the life that is becoming hers. Hers, not mine, in a separate form I can shape but cannot mold.

How do I capture the essence that is her, that is six, that is all my dream can ever be, of a child that is each day new, when I want to hold the moments in my hands forever? Not in my heart, not in my mind, but in my white-knuckled hands where her sum and substance never slip or fade.

And how do I tell her that she is beautiful, and amazing, and strong, and smart without sounding like her mother?  Mother, she might say, making her disclaimer in a tone I perfected.

Independence.  It’s a good thing, right? She runs ahead, skips pages, makes no quarrel with uncertainty, and feels not the qualms I harbor on her behalf.  She stands tall and straight, offering a smile at times most needed, unaware of evil or life’s disappointments more severe than a lost opportunity for ice cream. Her freckles sparkle in the afternoon sun and her toes reach for the sky, outstretched on a flying swing that traces a menacing arc.

She is my poetry, and I struggle to remember full verse. Yet, still I cry at its reading, and it moves me to want another just like her, and another and another and another, as shelter from the dangers of her journey.

But when I go to her at night and reach to share a bedtime hug, she makes me who I am. We lay still, our hearts beating to a matched pace, and she is six forever.

And one time, she holds longer than I, and offers a whispered rhyme as redress for growing up.

“I don’t want to let go because I love you so.”

The post that wasn’t.

Dear friends,

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.

Whip it. Whip it good.

Dear Friends,

Source: AllMovie.com

At age 17, when pressed for a pithy “philosophy” to include with my senior portrait in our high school yearbook, I cribbed a line from Lennon & McCartney: I get by with a little help from my friends.

It was true 30+ years ago and it’s still true today.

I couldn’t be more grateful for the words of wit, wisdom and encouragement left by readers on yesterday’s post.  Let’s just say I was down in the dumps Monday night when I wrote the post. Then Tuesday . . . well, it was a doozy. It was one of those days that knocks you for a loop at work then smacks you upside the head when you get home.

But last night when I finally sat down after 8:00 pm to read your comments and compose this post, I smiled, I laughed, I nodded my head in agreement, and I said a silent thank-you for everyone who wrote to encourage me.

I was most tickled by Doug F’s clever analogy:

Life is roller derby. We’re the blockers, and our kids are the jammers. The jammers score the points. Our job is to whip them forward. This requires them to break away from the pack, at which point our main job is to be happy, pump our fists in the air and maybe gratuitously hip check somebody. Also: After the match, everyone gets beer, so it’s all good in the end.

I’ve known Doug a long time in my real life and he’s always been one of the most creatively talented people in my universe. At the risk of sounding gender-biased, it’s so like a man to embrace his “role” in the game with gusto. (Remember Mr. Mom’s advice about roles in this post?) But underneath that male detachment and clever wit lies a real nugget of wisdom: my job is to help Kate break from the pack by whipping her forward — then cheering her on. Doug, your words were so what I needed to hear and I thank you for putting them in terms that were crystal clear (as well as downright funny). You know what they say: a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down.

Dee and Debbie and Cyrina (who commented on my Facebook page) are from my hometown, women a little older than me whom I admire so much. Hearing their personal stories and knowing “they made it through and so will I” was a much-needed dose of comfort and support from the town and the people I love most.

TexasDeb is a friend who consistently writes more insightful comments than I do posts. And knowing she has also survived the transition, with specific strategies to share, helps me focus on what I can do moving forward rather than wallowing in what I fear I will miss.

Dana is a new reader who encouraged me just by letting me know she’s about to walk my path and she’s fearful, too. Sometimes mothers just need to know they aren’t alone.

With gratitude {for you and the many friends who’ve helped me get by for, lo, these 49 years},

Joan, who would have worn a helmet and pads had she known Tuesday would be so brutal