Over the winter break, we went to admire the holiday lights.
Since it was dreadfully cold, we decided to do the drive-through lights, rather than walking. So we took the dog and piled into the car.
Of course, the entire world had that same idea at exactly the same time. When we got near the entrance, we saw that the line to get into the park was at least a mile long.
“Should I try to go around it?” Bill asked. Bill has a knack for finding his way and, even if he gets lost, finding the best way.
“Sure,” I said – and he did. And we got around at least an hour’s worth of traffic, and joined the line just inside the park entrance.
I remember when driving through Christmas lights was an idyllic experience. We’ve driven through the holiday lights at least ten times, and I remember it fondly – the kids standing with their heads sticking out of the sun roof, funny light-up animals jumping over our car, Bill and I glancing at each other with laughing eyes, relishing every moment.
But this year, it was different. We turned on the Christmas music and drove peacefully through, but this is what I heard from the backseat:
Listening to Christmas music reminds me of death and murder.
Yeah, I’ve seen too many horror movies.
They should put all the lights together in one place so we wouldn’t have to drive for so long to see them all.
That teddy bear is never going to be able to put the star on the tree. He’s been there for 18 years and he just can’t do it! He’ll never do it!
Oh my God, I hate this song.
Meanwhile, as my teenage boys groaned in the backseat, minivans passed us with nine-year-olds sticking their heads out of the sunroofs – kids who were smiling and waving and eyeing the lights with sheer joy.
“Merry Christmas!” the little kids squealed with delight as we passed.
This sparked a new wave of upset from the teens.
I hate when people say Merry Christmas and it’s not even Christmas day.
Everybody’s just saying ‘Merry Christmas’ and it sounds so fake!
The magic of the season was lost on my teenagers. The joy, the fun, the delight was completely void.
But my least favorite quote of the evening came from the front seat, from my own husband, who was driving the car through all of the sparkling wonder as the kids grumbled and grunted and laughed heartily at themselves.
As I tried to ignore the complaints and enjoy the sparkles, Bill whacked his hand on the steering wheel with a semblance of anger.
Come ON guys! God damn!
Bill not only spoke the loudest and only swear word of the night, but he took the Lord’s name in vain right in the heart of the most joyous Christian holiday of the year.
And it made absolutely no difference to the boys, who may not even have heard him.
I am not sure we will drive through the lights next year.
But I bet, someday, my boys will delight in taking their own kids through those same lights. I envision my boys as adults, waving my grandchildren’s arms high above their heads, singing Merry Christmas! at all the passing vehicles and smiling broadly, with all the sincerity of the Pope himself.
And the little ones will squeal and laugh as the teddy bear tilts and bobs, never quite reaching with the star to the top of that lit-up Christmas tree.
I’ve just had the happiest little New Year’s Eve I can remember.
Dylan took pity upon us old folk, and went with us to karaoke. He sang a song with me, which was so fun for me, since he sings so beautifully. Then he sang a song of his own, which was also especially fun for me. Listening to Dylan sing is one of my favorite pastimes.
But then Dylan was done singing, and we were all sitting around with our dirty dishes in front of us, wondering how long we wanted to wait until Dylan sang again. He didn’t want to sing at all – but he talked us into going home and having our own makeshift karaoke party.
So we did. We sat around and sang songs with the TV karaoke. We sang Jingle Bell Rock and it was really fun – and Shane sang Let It Snow like a pro!
And then we played Game of Things, which we love, and my parents were there, which made it a perfectly wonderful party. We laughed – a lot – and had tons of fun, and before 10 p.m., we were all done with our little awesome party.
Dylan leapt up and left, since he had friends awaiting. My parents went home. Shane went to his room. And Bill and I are sitting down to watch a little TV until the ball drops at midnight. Maybe Shane will join us for the big drop.
It was really a fun night. Happy New Year!
On Christmas Eve I awoke slowly and, while still lying in the center of my bed, opened my eyes.
I nearly screamed. With complete shock, I realized I was falling rapidly – I’m falling out of bed! The entire room was spinning so fast, I thought I might vomit. I quickly shut my eyes, and the sensation stopped.
Vertigo.
It had been years since I’d last felt it – years since I knew what to do to help myself. I couldn’t move.
The short definition of vertigo is that, thanks to an inner ear issue, a sufferer feels like the whole world is spinning. It makes it nearly impossible to stand, walk, bend or even look down. And it lasts for an absolutely indefinite time.
It’s Christmas Eve, I thought. This can’t be happening today.
And it was, by far, the worst vertigo I had ever experienced.
I heard a noise outside my door, so I called for help. Dylan appeared.
Thank you, God, for Dylan.
With his help, I sat up. He walked me to the bathroom – and back.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re just old,” he said.
Eventually I remembered that I might need a doctor to do the Epley maneuver – a tried-and-true approach to removing crystals from the inner ear canal. It worked beautifully, but I couldn’t do it alone.
Bill was at work, but Dylan could drive me to the doctor. So I called the Ear, Nose and Throat specialist who saved me from this exact condition many years ago.
“We can’t see you today,” said the receptionist who obviously just didn’t want to talk to me. “We close at noon. You can just go to the hospital.”
As if the hospital – any hospital – would be the place to go for the Epley maneuver.
I wanted to shout at her: It’s Christmas Eve! I can’t get out of bed! And you’re telling me you won’t even TRY to help? But I said, “Okay,” and hung up.
I sat in my bed for a long, long time. Bill came home and tried to do the Epley maneuver based on the internet description, which definitely did something – meaning I definitely had vertigo – but it didn’t fix the problem.
I did the Foster somersault next – many, many times – also from the internet. I could do it alone, and YouTube claimed it was the best. But by the time the Christmas Eve candlelight service rolled around, I was barely able to brush my teeth, let alone get up and go out.
I missed church. I was a damper on the Christmas Eve festivities with the family. I couldn’t make the salad – my only contribution – for dinner.
I did Foster somersaults many times in the middle of the night, to no avail. And I prayed for a Christmas miracle. But on Christmas morning, it was only a tad bit better. I could walk around, as long as I didn’t move my head, so I just focused hard on each boy as he opened his presents.
And then I made sure I had a wall near my left shoulder whenever I walked, because I was likely to fall over if I didn’t.
It’s two days past Christmas now, and I am better. I am not well, but I can turn my head slowly and I fed the dog today without help. I don’t know when the residual effects will go away.
But I am sitting up and able to type. So that’s a step in the right direction – and I’ll take it.
And God bless us, every one.
Two days before Christmas is a terrible time to shop. That’s why I try to be finished shopping by Halloween.
But this year, I promised to make a salad. I wanted my salad to be fresh and full of delicious vegetables, so I had to go to the store today. And, since I was shopping anyway, I decided I’d make a few other things as well.
Hoping to find gluten-free lasagna noodles along with my fresh vegetables, I headed out to Trader Joe’s.
I got an unbelievable parking space, considering the crowds. It was a sign of good fortune ahead.
Inside, the store was packed but there was a camaraderie between shoppers, hopping this way and that, helping each other and moving out of each other’s way. I joked with the guy stocking bananas. I heard a man sharing recipe ideas with his fellow shoppers.
I saw a Trader Joe’s staff member lying on the floor with his head on a bottom shelf. As he stood up he said, “The last one!” and gave a bag of something to a customer. Then he bounced off to help someone else.
Moments later, I asked that employee about gluten-free lasagna noodles – but alas, they don’t have them.
He happily raced to show me where I could find gluten-free cookies, though. I think he was auditioning for Employee of the Decade.
At checkout, the Trader Joe’s cashier lamented the lack of gluten-free pasta products and suggested a brand of chickpea pasta. She smiled through the entire checkout process and by the time I left, I was nearly dancing with holiday glee.
Then I went to Giant.
There are a few items Trader Joe’s doesn’t sell, most notably a fried onion delicacy that is normally reserved for green bean casseroles. So I wandered through the grocery store, picking up things here and there, keeping an eye out for the elusive fried onions.
Remembering the staff member at Trader Joe’s, I took a chance and spoke to a young man stocking soup.
“Hi!” I said, trying to be festive. “Do you have any idea where the fried onions might be?”
He looked at me as if I’d disturbed his sleep. “Huh?”
“Fried onions? In a package? Like for casserole?”
“Salads?” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Put ’em on salads?”
“I guess, yes!” I said, still trying.
“Aisle 11,” he harrumphed, turning his back to me.
I looked around. We were in Aisle 10, so Aisle 11 wasn’t hard to find. I walked the fifteen steps to the salad toppings, then stopped and scoured the shelves.
There were no fried onions.
An older woman who looked like she knew how to make green bean casserole stood debating over dressings.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where the fried onions are, would you?”
She looked at me, somewhat startled that I’d spoken. “Oh! I just saw them!”
After much ado, and some confusion on my part, she directed me right to the fried onions.
“I get a dollar off!” I squealed, peeling my coupon and showing her.
“Oh that’s good,” she smiled.
My self check-out experience wasn’t as positive. The machine kept telling me to “Remove your item from the bagging area” and then “Place your item in the bagging area” ad nauseam.
Then I had some trouble with cream cheese and Giant staff was nowhere in sight. Eventually someone appeared, waved a card at my scanner, and then left. I finally figured out what she’d done, and then trudged halfway through the store to get new cream cheese before I left.
And that’s why I shop at Trader Joe’s.
Having Dylan home for the holidays was supposed to be wonderful. Instead, we started arguing on the very first day. We argued on the second day, too. And the third.
At the end of every (ridiculously emotional, drawn-out) argument, we both realized that we were only arguing because we were too much alike, and that we both just wanted to hang out peacefully. We just couldn’t seem to make it happen.
The other people in the family weren’t affected. Just me.
By the fifth day, during a particularly emotional moment, Dylan screeched: “Nobody else does this to me!”
Nobody else tells him he should be on time or work on his resume. Nobody else tells him to eat, PLEASE EAT, when he hasn’t had a bite in seven hours. Nobody else tells him to get out of his darkened bedroom after 17 hours. Nobody else tells him what he should be doing next, or reminds him that he hasn’t done what he said he was going to do.
And I was forced to admit: “You’re right.”
Of course nobody else does this to him. Nobody else is his mother.
But I don’t have to be like this. I don’t have to say anything at all. So I wrote him a nice, long letter, reminding him that I’m his mother and that this is how I’ve been with him for 19 years. That this is just who I am, that I like to plan ahead, that I am trying to help.
He hates when I try to help.
I also told him that I would do my best to not badger him, and that he is welcome to live however he likes. I was fine with him sleeping for the first week of his (three-week) visit. But I would also like to see him, to spend time with him, to be with him – preferably without his cell phone in his hands, distracting him, as it always does.
A few days went by, including Dylan’s 19th birthday, and we had a lot of good, upbeat, quality time together. But we also had all that tough stuff to get through.
So when it was his last day to spend at home alone with me, and he still hadn’t done his Christmas shopping, I texted him about – at least – getting Shane’s gift today, since today is Shane’s last day of school before winter break. And, surprisingly, Dylan agreed to go and shop.
Only then did I recognize the error of my ways. So I texted him:
I am reminding you to shop because you forgot to shop and now you are going to shop. Does this mean I was right to remind you, or am I being a bother again?
Dylan responded:
I was actually thinking earlier today that I should shop either today or tomorrow. I didn’t forget.
Several minutes went by. There were about two hours left before Dylan was supposed to pick up Shane at school and take him out for ice cream (also arranged by me). Fifteen minutes later, the badgering started.
I just want you to be back in time to pick up Shane from school.
and (several more minutes later)
You really only have two hours to shop and eat lunch today. Is that going to be enough time?
Then I stopped badgering. ANOTHER fifteen minutes went by, and then Dylan left – taking my car – and went shopping.
I am sad to admit it, but I think it will be okay when Dylan goes back to college. I love him so, so much. And he is much happier without me.
After three weeks without any therapy, and another two weeks to go before his “follow-up” session, I asked Shane, “How are you doing without therapy?”
This is something I actually have to ask, because OCD isn’t something that shows itself, in his case. It’s either really bothering him, or it isn’t – but with Shane, I would never know if he were bothered.
He held up his hand and shook it, making a “meh” motion.
“You’re not okay?” I asked. “Do you want me to get you another session sooner? I can do that!” I wasn’t taking any chances.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? Okay! Well, let me know. Would you like to go next week? I could probably get you an appointment by next week.”
“Let me think about it,” Shane said.
“Okay, but let me know as soon as you decide.” I didn’t want to wait a minute if Shane needed help. That’s my job, as Mom.
Three days went by.
“Do you want me to make another therapy appointment?” I asked one day, rather out-of-the-blue.
“I’m okay,” he said.
And that was the end of that. We waited, instead, for his one-month follow-up appointment.
One day, I was in the driver’s seat, sitting in a parking lot, and I leaned over to get something out of the glove compartment. I still had my seatbelt on and leaned as far as I could to my right, but I could barely reach. I am short.
So I leaned way, waaaaay over, my ribs shoved into the arm rest as I leaned, and suddenly I felt a kind of pop – which was quite painful – right in that rib area.
My first thought was, I think I cracked a rib!
And instantaneously I thought, I can’t be old enough to crack a rib while in a sitting position!
But maybe I am.
Maybe I am now that old. Maybe my bones are so old and brittle that I actually have a broken rib. (I don’t know if it’s actually broken; I do know that healing a rib doesn’t require a doctor’s oversight.)
Maybe I’m so old that my whole body will start to fall apart, and there won’t be anything I can do about it. Maybe my diet and my doctor will help keep me healthy into my later years, but maybe my body will fall apart anyway. Maybe I’ll just be sitting in my car and I’ll break a rib. Maybe I’ll trip over a crack in the sidewalk and break my leg. Maybe I’ll fall down in the kitchen and end up with a broken tailbone. Maybe I’ll twist my wrist the wrong way when I’m typing and break my wrist.
Maybe my bones – which are being supplemented with calcium EVERY day – are just too old to stay solid and do what they’re supposed to do. And maybe my muscles are getting slack from hours on the computer and a non-existent gym membership. Maybe winter’s cold is an excuse for not walking more, or maybe there’s no excuse at all.
Maybe my ailing body will cause me to do less; maybe my healthy-enough body will force me to do more. Which way am I going to go?
I know I’m too old to have any more children and, to be honest, I was awfully old when I was chasing around preschoolers. I remember thinking, “I’m too old for this” on many, many occasions.
And I certainly haven’t taken great care of myself, but I would like to do better in the future.
The question is: will I want to do better enough… to get up and go do better?
I don’t know.
While my ribs are healing, I think I will think about it.
Dylan’s meeting with the Digital Musicianship professor was brief.
“Basically he asked if I knew what music was,” Dylan told me later. “And I said yeah, and he said I could take the class.”
“Well that sounds easy,” I said.
“It was! And this is even better than I thought!” Dylan said. “After I take this class, I’m eligible to take the best class on campus and I didn’t even know it existed!”
“What class is that?”
“Music Composition for Film,” he said. “And that’s what I want to do more than anything!” Dylan has said for years that if he can’t be a world-famous singer, he wants to write music for movies. He’d be phenomenal at that, in fact.
I wondered why I remembered seeing the class as an option, sometime long ago…. So I looked it up, and finally found it in an unlikely place.
Music Composition for Film is offered as part of the Commercial Music program – the same program from which Dylan was rejected about a year ago.
He was rejected because he sang too well, because he was classically trained. And the professor in charge of the classical performance major said, generally, You can’t do what you want to do; you should do what I want you to do, because you’re a really good classical singer.
This was our first hint that Dylan wasn’t going to get a perfect education in the School of Music. And he has, since transferred out of the school altogether, and taken up Music Business.
But Dylan can hardly wait to take the music composition for film class – and then, hopefully, he’ll be able to find an internship in the same field.
So, after nearly a full month of trying to register him for classes, Dylan’s schedule is – hopefully finally – set for the spring semester.
In case anyone thought it might be over… no. Dylan’s course registration took yet another turn.
I was sitting around, being outraged by text book prices (which are, of course, outrageous), when I thought, I could probably find these books online for way cheaper!
In fact, I can find these books online for cheaper – sometimes. The one book that was particularly bothersome was Dylan’s book for The Theatre Experience – the exact same class I’d convinced him to take when he was trying to reschedule his Entertainment Industries class to take “another section,” as instructed by the generic email.
The book for The Theatre Experience cost $78 in its cheapest form – and had to be the most up-to-date version, meaning we couldn’t buy any of the thousands of used texts available because the newest version had just been published in 2019.
For $78, I thought, this had better be the best textbook on the planet. To make sure, I clicked on the digital sample online, to see what the book was like.
It was history.
Or at least, it looked like history to me. As I was browsing, I saw things like “Theatre in the Renaissance” and “Asian Theatre.” I nearly gagged. I kept thinking about Dylan saying, “Is it history?” when he registered, somewhat unhappily, for the class. Dylan really doesn’t enjoy history.
Nearly in the same breath, I started looking for options. There were three classes available at the same time as the theatre class – two of which he would love, but only one that would fulfill any kind of requirement. Not coincidentally, the requirement was a history class.
So I shuffled some things around in my head, and made an additional list of about 16 classes he could take if he just shuffled his schedule.
And then I took my lists to Dylan.
“You can still take Theatre,” I said. “I just wanted to warn you that it’s a history class with a $78 text book.”
Dylan’s eyes were lit up as he stared at one option on the first page – the one option that did not fulfill a requirement, but could be taken as an elective and possibly count toward his minor.
The class is called Digital Musicianship 1.
It’s the kind of class that Dylan has been trying to teach himself for six years. It’s explores digital music techniques and technology, among other topics. But it has one drawback: there was a prerequisite.
“You have to take this other one-credit class, or get permission from the instructor,” I told him.
“I’ll get permission,” Dylan said, without blinking. He went straight to the computer and sent an email.
Three days later, Dylan was enrolled in Digital Musicianship 1.
