A musical soundtrack for burgeoning adolesence

I always envision this blog to be a forum for me to wax poetic about my observations - both small and grandiose - about life and how I engage in it. And then, life gets in the way, and the sweetest moments that deserve, if not demand, time for savoring and appreciation are gone in a heartbeat. And then we forget, we move on, and plug away.

But two nights ago, one such moment took place and I had the rare opportunity to just sit back and just take it all in. I heard the melodious sound of my son, David, now 13 years old, strumming on his guitar.

David has been studying guitar for a number of years, and he now owns both acoustic and electric guitars. They are happily displayed next to his drum set in our loft. He loves his guitars. Without being reminded to practice, he goes upstairs on his own accord, grabs a guitar and spends quality time with one of his musical treasures. It's like his own meditation or prayer. And, the older he has become, the more intricate and complex his musical musings ... much like, I assume, his evolving personality

So, David' picking up the guitar and playing on his own accord is not new to us. But there was something about the music he was playing two nights ago - its thoughtfulness, its intricacy, something - that stopped me in my tracks. I heard these special musical notes wafting down to the first floor of the house, and I paused. I listened ... not just to the music, but to David's process of working through chords and a melody. It was nothing short of beautiful.

Soon enough, I heard him call down to me, "good night, mom. I'm going to bed. Love you!"

If this is any indication of what David's teenage years will be like, we all will be just fine.

Oh, sweet boy, I love you, too. Everything about you.

Christmas: A bluntly honest consideration of the season

As a mom in 2015, it is difficult, if not impossible, to fully isolate oneself from the materialistic resonance that takes over the holiday season. We are bombarded with advertisements on television, on the radio, on  Facebook, that promise happiness, perfection, serenity and peace so long as we drain our bank accounts on items that likely will provide only momentary joy and satisfaction. Our kids receive the never-ending message that "if only you had ...(fill in the blank)" that they would be fulfilled, self-actualized individuals. And, if they don't find just that one (or two, or three) perfect thing under their Christmas tree or as their families light the menorah or kinara, their families are, in sum, "less than." Clearly, Elizabeth has received the message: you should see her extensive letter to Santa Claus, which includes a request for a "stuffed ostrich." I can't make this stuff up.

Unfortunately, these messages, both subtle and blatant, have made their way into my brain. I am not proud of this one bit.

Earlier this weekend, Glen and David and I sat down to watch the George C. Scott version of A Christmas Carol. It was a spectacular telling of Dickens' classic story. The actors, the adapted screenplay, the costumes and set were, in my estimation, spot-on perfect. And, of course, the message of A Christmas Carol could not be more clear: share your treasure; give to others; love one another; take care of each other; create for yourself a legacy of love rather than selfishness. In one scene, the Cratchet family gathers around their table giving thanks for the small feast that Mr. Cratchet's salary could afford. Mr. Cratchet gives a toast to his nasty boss, Ebenezer Scrooge, acknowledging that the paltry salary he earns from working with Scrooge enabled the family to enjoy Christmas together. Tiny Tim - the voice of wisdom for the ages - is joyful in spirit and heart, despite his infirmity. Just that one scene - in a MOVIE, for Pete's sake - spoke volumes to me.

Then, as I spent time wrapping presents for the kids yesterday, I was struck by a paradox: while I was extremely grateful that our family has the means by which to provide lovely treats for our children at Christmas, I could not help but wonder whether we're setting an impossible bar higher and higher each year. I wondered whether as a mom I'm enabling my kids lose sight of the real reasons for which we celebrate holidays at this time of the year: to be honestly and genuinely thankful for what we have; to be together as a family; to relish our health and our home. Wrapping these presents, I pondered whether we truly are ensuring our children's happiness, or are doing them a disservice, by giving them more and more.

I believe it is true that the happiest and most content people among us are those who truly - TRULY  - are grateful simply for what they have, and don't dwell on what they do not have. Sadly, I know I do the latter, and it's not something for which I am at all proud. Perhaps I can blame the media, peer pressure, family expectations, or God-knows-what else for downloading into my head the message that is looped over and over again: "if you JUST HAD (fill in the blank), YOU'D BE TRULY HAPPY." But it's a message that I've absorbed. It's a hard mantra from which to break free.

There's no need for me to go into detail about the things I covet, the things I think will provide happiness and real contentedness. But suffice it to say that Glen, my sainted husband, has heard all of it. ALL OF IT. And for him, it's truly not fair. Glen is the most balanced, grateful and self-actualized person I know. I hit the jackpot when I married him. When I grow up, I only hope I can have half of his common sense.

Don't get me wrong: I am humbled by and grateful for the bounty and blessings with which God has provided to me and my family. I treasure having a home in which to live, a bed in which to sleep, and a kitchen in which to feed my family. Glen and I have wonderful jobs. Our children attend an amazing school. We have many, many dear friends. Our families love us.

And yet, the materialistic messages stay in my head. It's awful. I'd like for them to go away, please. I mentioned Elizabeth's letter to Santa earlier. You know what David keeps saying he wants for Christmas? "I want everyone to have a nice Christmas," he tells me. David, my old soul, gets it.*

And, yet, in the spare moments that I can grab with the kids and Glen - to hug them, bury my face into their soft hair, feel their arms around me, plant kisses on their cheeks - I have a moment of repose from these messages. I find peace. I feel joy. And, briefly, I truly have enough.

A work in progress? Yep.


(*Okay. He did add that a new amplifier would be nice, too.)

And so it was this morning that David, my newly-minted 6th grader, was all set to embark upon his class's three-day retreat at Pali Institute.

He was worried that, with all of the excitement, he'd have difficulty falling asleep last night, but this was not the case. He conked out like a trooper, but awoke with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

Once I returned to the second floor of the house, after having fed the puppy and tried, unsuccessfully, to get him to pee and poo in a respectable area of the back yard, I found David dressed and ready to go. His sister, of course, needed a bit more encouragement to get up.

On cue, David crawled into bed with his little sister, and threw his arm around her. And for one split-second, I relished one of the sweetest moments I've seen in a long time. Elizabeth snuggled up to her brother, safe and protected by his presence, and they stayed there together for a few seconds.

And, just as quickly, the moment was over. Elizabeth got herself dressed (as did I), and we returned to the kitchen for breakfast.

Try as I might to recapture - on camera - the tender moment between these two cherubs, I was not successful. But here's a sample of their well-meaning attempt to look like well-behaved children:

And here is what they did for pretty much every other photo:

Double-Fisting

Do normal people double-fist Diet Coke and coffee first thing in the morning?

Probably not. But, then again, I am not normal people.

Our little family of four is now well into our fourth year of the long-distance commuter marriage arrangement upon which we embarked back in November 2010. I will be the first to gladly report that, with each day that passes, it gets easier to manage a household when flying solo and without the man-on-man defense that naturally comes with two-parent households. David and Elizabeth are (sob!) getting older and are much more self-sufficient. Once they are awake, they are self-starters in the morning. Sometimes, they even remember to make their beds.

I know grown adults who do not function with as much decorum and independence as these two kids do.

But, still, the morning routine is ... tiring. Both kids have inherited my penchant for hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock and/or attempting to negotiate (in a groggy stupor), for "five more minutes." Someone has to feed the dogs. And the cats, for that matter. Someone has to make certain that the alarm system is disarmed before we release the hounds into the backyard so that they can do their business. Oh, yes, and there is also the matter of getting dressed (which, I can report, the kids also do quite well on their own ... as do I).

Once I get to the office at Foothill Country Day School, I've usually sucked down about 50% of what I refer to as "Diet Coke #1" of the day. I set the offending beverage on my desk, grab a mug, and march directly to the Keurig coffee maker in the staff lounge for "Coffee #1 of the day." I return to my desk and begin the ritual of "double-fisting." This ritual continues for the better part of the morning.

Amazingly enough, this does not throw my pulse rate into tachycardia. Well, not always.

People often say to me, "I just don't know how you do it," usually referring to my single parenting obligations that I maintain throughout the work week. Usually, my response includes any or all of the following disclaimers:

1) I have two great kids, who make my job extraordinarily easy.
2) I am fueled by Diet Coke and coffee.
3) Said ingestion of caffeine does not, in any way, shape or form, impact my ability to nap at a moment's notice, which I also do whenever the opportunity presents itself.

And there you have it. My own hack. The trick up my sleeve for morning functionality.

Let's not, however, go into my life-long love affair with McDonalds. That's a blog post for another time.

Utterly Amazed

I am completely gobsmacked that eleven years can go by so quickly. Eleven years ago, at this very hour, I was strapped up to fetal monitors at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, watching the telemetry machine track every breath and heartbeat of the baby that was inside of me. Eight hours earlier, I awoke to make what I thought would be a routine trip to the bathroom, only to discover that the wee little person taking up residence in my belly was plotting to arrive into the world four weeks ahead of schedule.

Fast forward, at a very rapid pace, eleven years. And that wee little person has evolved into a sweet boy ... or, dare I say it, a very young man.

I am in awe of his kindness, his empathy, and his character. He is smart, funny, and at the drop of a hat can exude physical comedy that would put Jerry Lewis or Jim Carey to shame. He is a musician, an artist, an activist, a jock, and a friend. He loathes being one of the smallest boys in his class, but uses his petite frame to his advantage, especially in flag football and cross country.

I can't believe how much I lucked out. I get to be the mom of David Thomas Hastings. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.

Happy birthday, my sweet David! Thank you for making me the happiest mommy on the face of the planet eleven years ago today. 

So little to report ... and that's actually a good thing

What makes tonight's blog post so extraordinary - besides it being the first in four months - is that it is being written on my brand new MacBook Air. Really, keyboarding on this magnificent instrument is a thing of beauty.

And yet while I take a moment to compose my thoughts for all 12 of my followers to see, I realize that there is both very little and a whole lot upon which to muse. Elizabeth and David finished another year of elementary school. David, my little man who, just yesterday was small enough to pick up with one hand for a diaper change, is 10. I continue to be amazed by the self-assured, kind, easy-going young man he is turning out to be. Elizabeth has rightfully earned the title of Academic Princess Diva; she's whiz in school, a fashionista, and a confident and sparkling little girl. Everyone is her BFF.

For my part, I am a darned lucky mommy, and I'm married to an incredibly smart, handsome man who also has the world's kindest heart.

So, now we embark upon our first summer vacation where I am working at Foothill Country Day School and the kids are on campus with me. The ebb and flow of the summer days just feels more ... mellow, more laid back. Earlier last week I read a wonderful article entitled, "10 Ways to Give your Kids an Honest-to-Goodness 1970s Summer,"and I could almost smell the familiar scent of twilight air that used to blow past my face as I peddled furiously on my little red Schwinn (with training wheels) all around Greengate Street and Locust Avenue. I watched tonight with great contentedness as David and Elizabeth splashed around in the pool of our dear friends (who are getting married this weekend! Yeah for marriage equality!) until way after the sun had gone down, and was so grateful not only for the California climate but also for the relaxed feeling of a Wednesday summer evening.

We expanded our family to welcome yet another kitten (say hello to Eclaire!) who is a miniature version of Grace, whom we adopted in December. I love waking up in the morning to find both cats curled up at the foot of our bed, quite often spooning with each other.

And, of course, there are the sweet dogs.

The simplicity of it all, at least for now, is at it should be.

First blog post of 2014!

I would be more horrified about my lack of due diligence in keeping up to date on my blog missives, but given the fact that I only have 12 official followers, I'm not too embarrassed. Yet.

But, here we are - 2014, and already half-way through its second month. February. The month of the Ground Hog, Presidents, Cupid and, this year, what would have been my grandfather's 105th birthday.

But, let me rewind a bit to muse just briefly on how there is, in our house, always enough love to go around. Consider, if you will, Grace and Remy Hastings.

Grace (foreground) and Remy (background) ... and Glen's legs

Grace and Remy were the result of a long-winded discussion that Glen and I had in December. We were mulling over the complications of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Well, actually, we were just asking each other, "what do you want for Christmas?" I responded: "I'd like a puppy and a kitten, please." After Glen realized that I had not entirely lost my mind, he agreed with great enthusiasm. We concurred that getting two babies that have fur and walk on four legs would be much simpler - and much less expensive - than getting the human type. That factory is closed. But that's a blog post for another time.

So, within a week's time, I began searching on the wonderful web site that is petfinder.com. That's www.petfinder.com. This site links families seeking to open their hearts and homes to stray, rescued and fostered pets to their perfect, four-legged companions.

The first contestant to pique my interest and steal my heart: Ricky.

At the time, Ricky was a 12-week old Malti-Poo, being fostered in our hometown of La Verne. To see his sweet face, big eyes, and overall fluffiness was to instantly fall in love. The kids and I arranged to meet him that night. It was love at first sight. We were done for.

The little guy made himself instantly comfortable in David's arms

Yep. I'm irresistible.

After a brief interview with his wonderful foster family, we sealed the deal, and agreed to pick up the little guy the following Saturday.

Then came the matter of finding a name for him. Look at him. Does he look like a Ricky to you? Nah, didn't think so. Do not get me wrong; Ricky, short for Richard, is an adorable name. But not for this fellow.

Lager, of course, was named after a specific beer style. But, a Malti-Poo just doesn't have that "beer" vibe. A Malti-Poo is a bit too ... fluffy ... delicate ... foo foo. And, over Yahoo Instant Messaging, Glen proposed the name: Remy - after the chef/rat character in the food-themed Pixar film, Ratatouille. Done and done.

Here are a few photos from Remy's first minutes at his forever home ... our home. There is little doubt in my mind that Remy was sent to us by Spike, my lovely Bichon who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2012, and whom I still miss to this day (and always will). Remy evokes the crazy, zany buzz that Spike did in his younger years, and it could not be a more perfect fit for the four of us.

Kissing up, literally, to his new big brother, Lager

Instant BFFs

I think I'll like it here just fine.

Meantime, in between meeting Remy, naming him, and bringing him home, my search continued for a kitten. Originally, I planned to look for a white cat - again, evoking the memory of sweet Honey, who was called to the Rainbow Bridge last year. My search on www.petfinder.com yielded a little beauty with the temporary name of Arya. However, this kitten was being fostered just a little farther from home ... in Huntington Beach. Undaunted, the kids and I traipsed out there one weeknight for our first visit with this little sweet girl. Arya was 16 weeks old when we first met her.

Getting comfy

Nose rubs!

Again, it was time for a choice of name. Glen and I could not come up with any food-themed names that seemed appropriate for this dainty little girl, so then we began thinking of key phrases that describe what makes us the most happy, content, and grateful. And, thus, Grace came into being. She brought grace to us before we even brought her home ... and bring her home we did!

Say hello to my little friend!

Two little ladies

Safely tucked in for the car ride home!

My puppy-kitten fantasy included visions of these two little creatures growing up together to be life-long friends. They'd share couch space together, rub each others noses, sniff each others butts, and spoon. They would be such an inseparable mass of fluffiness that it would be hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

Well, it hasn't exactly been that simple. Grace still playfully growls when Remy comes up to her demanding play time. They tangle over bed and couch space. Remy wants nothing more than to be adored by his feline big sister. Grace insists on bonding on her terms. But, over the weeks, Grace's growls have clearly just become "bluff and bluster." She secretly adores playing tug-o-war with Remy's stuffed toys. She'll gladly come up to Lager and give his gray muzzle a soft rub. She remains unconvinced that she and the dogs are friends, but indeed they are.

How, you may ask, is Lager faring in all of this? In short, having two new friends at home has given him a new lease on life, a spring in his step, and an undeniable smile on his face. He adores his companions, as evidenced herewith:

You complete me.

Sorry. I work alone.

Okay, ONE photo. JUST ONE.

Okay, TWO. JUST TWO.