Category Archives: parenting

Broken

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Broken

Sometimes you stumble your way through the dark on an unfamiliar path trying to  discern the next right step. In my experience, these paths are riddled with emotional land mines. You anticipate the boogeyman when he jumps out in front of you. When you hear the creepy music, you don’t have to turn your head to know someone is behind you. Then there’s the stuff that blindsides you and takes you to your knees, the unexpected hits you never saw coming. I’ve had a week of those.

The days are blurring together and feel oddly suspended as they do when things get awful. Some slow motion version of life settles in as you try to adjust to the new normal, which is anything but typical. On Wednesday, I went to visit my father in the hospital and they were talking about discharging him. Then on Thursday morning, he went into cardiac arrest and he’s been in a coma-like state ever since. The prognosis is grim and now we wait for things to change in some new direction. Waiting for milestone hours to pass; 24, 48, 72 and we continue to wait, and wait and the days feel like weeks and every so often the physical/mental/emotional exhaustion comes over you like a tidal wave. It feels a lot like drowning, minus the water. I’ve been dry drowning.

This situation is awful enough on it’s own and yet, there’s more. Five decades of an on again/off again father-daughter relationship, half siblings, a beloved twin who is far away, a history of family tragedies and what can I say, it’s complicated. I’m the oldest of seven, one of the two from the first disastrous marriage. The other siblings are from my father’s second marriage. His second wife died in a car accident in 2000. His youngest child died by suicide a handful of years ago. The pain this family has experienced is enormous and I feel like a ghoulish outsider with unfettered access.

As I’m getting older, friends and loved ones have lost parents. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like for me when the time came. I no longer resent my father for what he did or didn’t do when I was a child and yet, we aren’t especially close. Not a conscious effort to stay separate, it just became easier to chose other priorities. I’ve also tried to insulate my children from the dysfunction of my childhood. There is a lot of my personal history that they don’t know yet. As they are getting older more is coming to the surface but not everything.

I’m a strong person, been through plenty of my own shit and always came out the other side on top. I’ve beaten odds that no one could’ve predicted. If younger me was a horse in a race, no one in their right mind would have bet on me and yet I placed. I found my way into the winner’s circle, against all odds. I thought I would be somewhat disconnected when dealing with my father’s mortality, I was wrong.

Yesterday I felt hallowed, a husk of a human who had their innards scraped out. An emptiness that was dark and consuming, a black hole from within. It took me by surprise and I had to yield to it. I could not leap through this particular ring of fire, I had to stand in front of the flames and watch it burn. Eventually I had to accept help and let my husband and kids join me at the hospital.

In the middle of my pain, I imagined myself as a plate made of fine china with an intricate pattern. Seemingly intact, functional and somewhat pleasing to behold. Upon further inspection a hairline crack is discovered, the kind that can cause the plate to break if it is not handled in a delicate manner. If you feel the edges on the backside the chips reveal themselves and you know this plate has been compromised. It makes me wonder if the damage is visible to an outsider. From a distance, it looks good but up close, you can see it’s damaged and on the verge of being broken.

 

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Writing Prompts

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Writing Prompts

When you feel vulnerable everything is a writing prompt. Sometimes the thoughts just swirl in my head, marinating until they become a somewhat tasty morsel that spills onto the screen. Not enough for a meal but, with any luck it leaves you hungry for more. Most times though, those prompts just wither on the mental vine. Here are some seeds that are lying on the bare ground, waiting for neglect or nurture to determine their fate.

Backstage Pass

My father is in the hospital again. He’s been in several times this year for various illnesses. We aren’t close and that’s not likely to change. He was out of my life from when I was 9 until sometime in my 30s. Too late for strangers with nothing in common to cling to – I say that with sadness, not hostility. We’ve both made attempts to bridge the enormous obvious gap, we just haven’t found the right the platform.

I find out about his health via group texts from his longtime partner. She’s devoted to him and very kind, which is comforting. It’s just awkward. The man had 7 kids from two marriages. I’m the first born but last in the pecking order. When I do get informed, it’s like having a backstage pass for an act you don’t know.

What’s Normal?

My kids recently went back to school and I feel myself being consumed by my own anxiety for them. I’m outing myself in the hopes that it will get me to ease up a bit. I have two teenagers and I can’t help myself, I think of what I was doing at their ages. Then I wonder, is it normal for parents to do this? If you’re a parent do you reflect on what you were doing when you were the same age as your child? Seriously, this is not a rhetorical question, I don’t know what’s normal.

For the Ladies

You ever get your period and think “Oh that makes sense” as you flashback to the night before when you ate half a chocolate cake and contemplated life with a new identity.

Hospice

A friend asked me how I deal with the mental mind f*ck of caring for people on hospice. This is what I wrote to him:

Hospice is a weird thing. I think what draws me in is the lack of bullsh*t. The small stuff and pettiness that most humans get tangled in tends to fade away when someone has a newfound awareness of how finite our time is here. I appreciate that level awareness and honesty and I get into a – do the next right thing modus operandi. It’s more difficult with people you know versus volunteering for strangers. I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing though, one of the benefits of a dysfunctional upbringing.

There is also a curiosity that pulls me in. I kind of want to know what it’s like at the end of life – I mean, we’re all going to die one day, yet people rarely discuss it. Or maybe my twisted brain thinks…if I am a witness and a helper for so many at the end of their lives, perhaps I’ll be granted a swift departure when my time comes. I don’t want to be subjected to weeks or months of Depends and really dry, chapped lips. So basically what I’m saying is….there is no way to delay the existential head f*ck, you just have to lean into that motherf*cker.

 

 

 

*Featured image used via agreement with 123rf.com image is Copyright of Sila Tiptanatoranin

 

It’s Wine O’Clock Somewhere!

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It’s Wine O’Clock Somewhere!

It’s Wine O’Clock somewhere…or maybe it’s Weed O’Clock, Sex O’Clock, Sugar O’Clock, or some other O’Clock I have not yet imagined. Our collective casualness with dependency is adorable isn’t it? I mean we all need a little somethin’ somethin’ to get through the day, right? I may ruffle some feathers and bunch some panties with this post.

Perhaps I’m sensitive to the topic…after all I was raised by an alcoholic mother (you may now insert all of your preconceived notions about me into your brain) and found myself in rehab at age 15 (insert more of those notions) and I’ve been sober ever since (perhaps that one was unexpected). I have a good grip on the subject of alcoholism, mostly through sober observation. I’m way past the zealot phase of recovery and I have many friends that are social drinkers. I have not been hiding in a sober closet for the last 35 years. That said the “Mommy Juice” culture is getting out of hand.

I recently got invited to a breakfast with other parents who plan to celebrate the first day of school by day drinking the minute their precious kids get on the bus. Mimosas at the country deli, won’t that be fun! Look spiked orange juice, so clever. The festivities start at 7:30am, I’ll pass. I hope they have a designated driver, Uber is scarce in these parts. I wonder if these parents will still be lit later that day, driving through car line which is a cluster f*ck without inebriated drivers.

Do your teens and tweens see these pro drinking posts? Are you buying them beer so you can be the cool parent? When is enough enough or perhaps too much…what example are you setting for formative minds? I know I sound like a cranky Puritan. Truth is I’ve joked about alcohol myself especially when asked why I don’t drink. “My gene pool is polluted” is one of my usual snarky responses. It sounds cooler than the real explanation – I made bad decisions and put myself and others in harm’s way when I drank. And I do have a sense of humor (pinky promise). A few weeks ago I got a good friend a “Shut Up Liver, You’re Fine!” t-shirt to celebrate her birthday. Hmm, I may be part of the problem.

I think my breaking point was the purse that markets itself as a wine pouch. Let’s all hold hands and recite the Serenity Prayer for this gem –

Wine Purses

If you need a purse to carry your medicine water,  perhaps things have gotten a tad out of hand. Look at it this way – substitute green beans for wine, does the behavior still make sense? Are you stashing green beans in different areas of your house for a quick bite when no one is looking? Are you stuffing your face with them in the parking lot before walking into the board meeting, the presentation, the PTA gathering? Are you disappointed when your friends decline green beans because they just can’t take another bite and they need to drive home? Have you recently eaten too many green beans at a public event and struggled the next day with a hangover and the shame of not knowing what happened? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you may have a problem with green beans. Just some food for thought.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credit: Through agreement with 123RF Limited

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Media Type : Photography
Copyright : belchonock  (Follow)

 

 

Eighth Grade, a Movie Review

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Eighth Grade, a Movie Review

Tonight I went to see ‘Eighth Grade’ written and directed by Bo Burnham. I went with two eighth graders so naturally I was sitting in a completely different section of the theater by myself with my mom shield around me. No one got within 10 feet of me, the leg room was amazing and I didn’t have to share popcorn, not all bad.

This is a coming-of-age story in a modern setting. Social media, selfies, the isolation of adolescence are portrayed in a poignant and realistic manner. The movie follows the main character, Kayla (played masterfully by Elsie Fischer), through her last week of eighth grade.

A lot of territory is covered in this movie – the slippery slope of acting like you have more experience than you do, the panic of walking into a party, the social hierarchy of middle school, apologizing for things that aren’t your fault and the tension between parents and teens in this phase of life.

The movie is well done and some of the scenes are so realistic you will cringe. The one bit I had a hard time believing was how nice one high school character was portrayed. Another scene riled up the momma bear in me, opportunists are everywhere.

The part that bothered me most though was the active shooter drill and the shelter in place scenes. As a mother of two teens, that was a punch in the gut. Googling blow jobs, practicing on bananas, being around peers that act like assholes, that’s the normal stuff of adolescence, active shooter drills are a new sad necessity.

It was a great movie and provided a lot of opportunities for talking points (once the friend got dropped off). I recommend it for ages 13 and up, not appropriate for younger kids.

 

 

 

Photo credit: Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_thandra’>thandra / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

Demanding to be Seen & Heard While Wrapped in the Cloak of Invisibility

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Demanding to be Seen & Heard While Wrapped in the Cloak of Invisibility

A recent Facebook post in a group for midlife women asked members to comment with their term for the phase in life between ages 45 and 55. For the record, the author of the post prefers midlife meltdown. Up to this point I hadn’t thought of anything original until I read the post and subsequent comments. I let it marinate.

First I reflected on this phase as a work in progress with more self acceptance than prior decades. Some members were elegant – metamorphosis, renewal and awakening were tossed out like flower petals on a soft meadow. One of my favorite responses was the “F*ck it phase”. I gave it some more thought and landed on the title of this post – “Demanding to be Seen & Heard While Wrapped in the Cloak of Invisibility”.

I recently turned 50 so I am in the sweet spot of the poster’s demographic. I find myself balancing opposite ends of the spectrum – acceptance/discontent, reclamation/ surrender, clumsiness/grace. In short, it’s a mixed bag. I am aware of my short comings, of the finite amount of time we all have and yet there is this spark, indeed a renewal of sorts.

In collective society I have become less visible. This happens to women as the radiance of youth is replaced by the fine lines of wisdom. Once the skin suit we inhabit becomes less appealing to the masses, we blend in until we are barely visible.

Here’s an example, our family used to frequent a local restaurant where they immediately recognized us and would (without asking) bring our favorite appetizers. It was our Italian version of Cheers (everyone knew our name). The same people that owned the restaurant also owned a pizzeria. I would stop in from time to time for take out. The owner rarely recognized me when I was by myself. In fact, it happened so often that he actually acknowledged the oversight. I suspect it happened because I wasn’t attractive to the point where I would stand out or unattractive enough to register in this man’s memory without my family to provide cues. I simply blended into the woodwork.

That never happened in my 20’s or 30’s. It’s a jagged pill to swallow especially if you relied on your looks in your youth. I was aware of the perks of being an attractive young woman but I never fully appreciated the power, I miss it.

Like a lot of women, I fell into a bit of a cliché. I was a upwardly mobile career girl who transitioned into a SAHM in my mid 30’s. When my kids were headed toward middle school the internal panic started.

1) What have I done?

You put your family first, not yourself. That bit about putting your oxygen mask on first in the event of an airplane emergency….you didn’t do that. Tsk, tsk, too late to dwell on it.

2) What will I do now?

Should I go back to school? I already have my BA…what industries are hiring? If I spend X amount on education how long will it take to recoup that and do I have time? Will I go back to school, incur debt and be unable to get a job? What contacts do I have from 2003?

This cycle of self-doubt and reflective reasoning is the stuff of insomnia and panic attacks. It’s painful and no one can walk you through it. People can make suggestions and offer guidance but it’s your brain on the hamster wheel at 3am.

3) Will anyone hire me now?

Maybe, maybe not. Another Facebook group of women were recently discussing ageism in job interviews. One women was considering dying her hair because she thought it would help her odds of getting hired. Others try cosmetic surgery, injectables and most shave decades of experience off their resumes to make the math more difficult for a potential employer. Ageism is real, combine that with a large gap of employment and it doesn’t paint a pretty picture. I volunteered for a local hospital for 10 years and could not even get an interview for a data entry job. Eventually I started my own business because it was that or retail.

Many of us wake up at some point and wonder all of the “what ifs” and decide some changes need to be made. I’ve noticed this in myself and others, there is a certain burst of energy and creativity that comes at midlife. Whether it’s writing, painting, sculpture or throwing yourself into a charitable cause or activism, ladies tend to get revved up in the middle. I don’t know if it springs from a new well or one that was previously blocked by fear and expectation. I suppose it doesn’t matter because I jumped in without knowing the answer. That has been the gift of this phase, the willingness to dive into previously uncharted waters.

 

 

Photo credit: Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_yuliialypai’>yuliialypai / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

Super Cringe

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Super Cringe

My alter ego has an alter ego. Stay with me here. I write under a pen name, so Bryce is an alter ego of sorts. The other day I thought perhaps I should have a character for my blog. Someone who visits from time to time with antics and foolishness to share. And then I thought:

If my alter ego wants an alter ego is that just multiple personality disorder? Asking for a friend (actually several friends…)

I posted that on Facebook and Twitter and to my surprise, no one had any solid advice for me (us, insert audible eye roll).

Left without supervision and zero guidance…I’ve decided screw it, let the alter ego’s alter ego be born. She shall have a name because – alter ego’s, alter ego is a terrible name. Too many words. Introducing (insert dramatic drum roll here)…(still drumming)….(just a smidge more drumming)…SUPER CRINGE.

Super Cringe is not your run of the mill heroine. There are no super powers to cast her for anything by Marvel. In fact, it’s her lack of anything spectacular that caused her existence. She leans into the ordinary.  A dorky, teen-embarrassing run-of-the-mill mom like so many that afflict our children. If you’ve raised humans you probably have some super cringe worthy stories of your own. Hell, even my dog is embarrassed by me sometimes. The husband just pretends he doesn’t know me in public.

Super Cringe was inspired by the fairly obnoxious text I got from my dear daughter a few nights ago. She was texting me on her way home from ski club. This is how it played out.

DD: Love u and it was fun. I went on a few black trails.

Me: Love u 2 my little bad@zz

DD: That was super cringe

And that is how Super Cringe was born, out of my child’s disdain for my choice of words. Stay tuned…visuals to follow.

 

Sketch drawn by the amazing Lisa McMillen of Cica Lisa Designs. Visit her website and prepare to be blown away. http://www.cicalisadesigns.com/

 

Enough

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Enough

It’s amazing how your experiences can come back to tap you on the shoulder (or give an unexpected punch in the gut) decades later. When your life’s foundation is built on a fault line, you never know when the next big earthquake will make it crumble. Hell, sometimes the aftershocks can take it down. Too much stress and the sturdy, seemingly indestructible structure can be fallen by a minor tremor. You never know when it will hit. It’s been anticipated for years, you know it will be catastrophic, you just haven’t nailed down the timing. This is the result of a traumatic childhood, a foundation built on chaos.

Raising kids is the most important work I’ve done and of course it’s the hardest. As a mother, I am all in with these children of mine. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years now  and there are days when I still wish they came with a manual. I did not have a good childhood, I don’t come from good stock and I’ve been winging it the entire time. I’ve done pretty good so far. Both kids are on the honor roll, no one is in trouble with “the law” and they are generally good humans. That’s modest, they’re amazing humans, each in their own way. I’d love to parent brag here but I’ll respect their privacy instead.

There are times when I will reflect on what I was doing at their age, the contrast is startling. Sometimes I lose my patience over minor issues because I get stuck in the long ago realm of my youth and it decreases the length of my fuse. Most of the time I keep it together unless I sense entitlement and then I temporarily lose my cool. If I’ve gone too far, I apologize quickly and we move on.

There have been times when my husband and I disagree on things and he’ll inevitably say that I’m too sensitive. My usual course of action in a heated argument is to leave the room and cool off. I know all the rotten, hurtful things to say to someone to push them over the edge and I choose to disengage. I find it’s best for me to temporarily remove myself from the situation so things don’t spiral out of control. This is a point of frustration for him.

I laugh to myself a little when I hear myself described as too sensitive. I get upset if someone is harsh, I anticipate the feelings of other people and try not to step on them. Is this supposed to be an insult or an observation? The funny thing is I’m not overly sensitive in most areas of my life. There are times though when he’s right and I am too sensitive. The alternative for me is a complete shutdown, that’s the nuclear option.

There are days when it feels like my best efforts are not enough. I get up earlier than everyone in this house, I go to bed later, the hours in-between are primarily filled with doing things for them. Nothing exotic mind you, just the day to day work that no one appreciates until someone stops doing it. I spend the bulk of my hours shopping, cooking, running errands, doing laundry, driving kids and staying on top of the business of raising humans (the forms, the appointments, the scheduling, the shuttling, the social/emotional nuances). The invisible work of motherhood is my primary focus. I squeeze in my small business and writing on the side.

When someone complains that these best efforts of mine aren’t enough, I lose it. I’m so sick of the not enough message. Ladies we are bombarded with this message. Not pretty enough, skinny enough, young enough, smart enough, rich enough, sexy enough, good enough. Not good enough is constantly streaming like the news ticker on CNN or Fox – not good enough is messaged all day, every day. Well, I have had enough.

 

Moms Don’t Get Sick (Yes we f*cking do)

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Moms Don’t Get Sick (Yes we f*cking do)

I’m going to throat punch the next person that says “Mom’s don’t get sick” to me. Right after I cough and sneeze directly into their left eye. I know, I’m cranky it’s the Advil Cold & Sinus talking and no they didn’t pay me to type that. Actually that is the only thing that helps (still waiting for payment, ah-Choo). Here’s that annoying commercial from Dayquil. I know I’m mixing shit up it’s the headache, lack of sleep and difficulty breathing.

Anyway, I know I’m “#blessed” because this is only a shitty cold and not some disease that wants to take me down one deteriorating cell at a time. I just suck at being sick. Forcing myself to rest is difficult. I called out of work today and I felt bad about it. My client is an 80 year old woman and I know she really looks forward to our visits. The risk of getting her or her husband sick outweighed the guilt.

Another fortunate thing for me is my kids are older. Moms and Dads of littles that get sick are really screwed. Scratch that anyone who is the primary caregiver that gets sick is royally screwed when they, themselves get sick. It’s not just parents of littles, it’s spouses of  the chronically ill, caretakers of people with special needs , adult children caring for parents. I see you and I hope you feel better and get the rest you need to take it all on again. As for me, this Momma is taking a sick day.

Observations of a Winter Break (REDRUM)

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Observations of a Winter Break (REDRUM)

The family just got back from four days in the frozen Tundra, also known as New Hampshire. The plan was to spend some quality time snowboarding with the kids and visiting with another family at a mountainside resort. Confession, I don’t snowboard or ski so I basically read and freeze my ass off waiting for them to come off the mountain.

Road trips are painful. Specifically my ass hurts from all the sitting. Just when my coccyx was healing – Boom, 10 hours in the car. I wasn’t the only casualty. My husband managed to poke himself in the eye with an eye drop dispenser. I won’t mention that he was putting the the eye drops in while driving…oops. No worries, I was steering from the passenger seat while this circus act was performing “on the road”.

Our family of four in a hotel room makes me claustrophobic and cranky. I love my family, I do. I just don’t want to be physically tethered to them 24/7. The lack of physical personal space and privacy puts my inner loner on edge. My husband and I each shared a bed with a kid. After years of being physically assaulted by the combative starfish that our children morph into while they sleep, we have devised a system. We use pillows, towels, blankets, anything we can find to create a barrier in the middle of the bed. Sure it takes up valuable real estate in an undersized double bed but, it cuts down on bruising and resentment.

The hotel we stayed at reminded us of “The Shinning”. In fact, rumor has it that Stephen King was inspired by this hotel which used to close each winter. Not The Stanley Hotel in Colorado but the Omni Mount Washington Resort. Who knows if it’s true we just like to tweak the kids a bit, retaliation for the lack of bed space. I may or may not have written R E D R U M on the bathroom mirror when it fogged.

It was cold while we were there, colder than Antarctica during our visit. Antarctica was a balmy near zero while we dipped into double-digit negative temps. I had never experienced those temperatures prior to this trip. It was so cold it made the news:

https://www.boston.com/weather/weather/2017/12/28/mount-washington-breaks-low-temperature-record-for-the-day

The first day we arrived I had a massage scheduled. It only lasted one magical hour. The waiting room was gorgeous with chaises, dim lighting and they had snacks. I didn’t want to leave. I pretended the appointment lasted an hour longer just to soak in the calm and partake in the peppermint tea and trail mix. I foolishly took my phone off of airplane mode and was promptly hunted down by my daughter, rookie mistake. If there’s a next time I’m going to “forget” to bring my phone.

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My not-so-secret hideout for a blissful hour before my daughter tracked me down.

The first full day there the hubs and his childhood friend decided to do a zip line canopy tour. I mean who doesn’t want to dangle on a frozen wire a 100′ off of the frozen ground. It was supposed to be a 3 hour tour. It lasted about an hour and a half because they were the only people “brave” (insert stupid here) enough to do this in -25 temps. When he left, my parting words were “please come back with all of your body parts”…”still attached”. Then I rolled over into the pillow barrier that saved me from countless blows from my daughter (Starfish 2). Starfish 1 luxuriated in having the bed to himself.

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This is not my husband or his childhood friend. Apparently some other fool thought this was a good idea.

While the men were out the moms and kids met up for a historic tour of the hotel. Well, one kid, out of the 4, joined the tour for 20 minutes while the rest stared at their phones while sitting together in the Conservatory. The tour was fascinating and we learned a good amount about Joseph and Carolyn Stickney, the visionary for the hotel and his wife.

Joseph Stickney made his fortune through coal and the Pennsylvania Railroad. He was very passionate about building the Mount Washington Hotel into a grand destination for the ultra rich families that would visit it for entire summers. They broke ground for the hotel in 1900 and it opened in July of 1902. The architect was Charles Alling Gifford, this was his best known structure.  Mr. Stickney hired 250 Italian stone artisans to work on the hotel and some of the artisans family crests still decorate the columns in the main dinning room.mtwash-omni-mount-washington-main-dining-room-interior-overview.jpg

Sadly Joseph Stickney died in December of 1903. Carolyn inherited the grand hotel and became one of the richest women in America. Ten years later she married into French royalty and became known as “Princess Carolyn”.

According to our guide, Princess Carolyn became a bit “eccentric” which is code for rich girl gone crazy. She had a special table in the dinning room. Before entering she would see what the other ladies were wearing from her private balcony. If she felt outdone by a guest she would change, some evenings she changed a handful of times before sauntering down to her reserved table. Once the princess was seated, the dinning room doors were shut and no one was allowed to enter or leave until she departed. I heard this was the inspiration for the Eagles song “Hotel California” – I just made that up do not Google it.

In 1936 Carolyn died and the hotel went to her good-for-nothing nephew. Apparently he was a rich party boy without an ounce of sense in his head. The hotel was shuttered within six years. World War II didn’t do it any favors and the grand property fell into disrepair. By 1944 the hotel switched hands a couple of times and became a host to the delegates which formed the Bretton Woods System for financial trading against the US dollar (which eventually collapsed in 1971). Financial details, blah blah blah the real travesty was described to the tour attendees as the great white paint massacre.

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Prior to the global financial meeting of 1944, hundreds of painters were sent to the Mount Washington Hotel with 50 gallons of white paint per person. The instructions were simple yet profoundly idiotic, paint everything white. The painters dutifully and unmercifully followed their orders as they painted over mahogany columns and Tiffany glass windows with reckless abandon. In 2006, the property was acquired by Omni Hotels & Resorts which, has since poured millions of dollars into the restoring the property and adding some modern perks to keep it viable. It’s a gorgeous property.

Back to our family trip, on the second full day the men and kids went snowboarding (-5 f). The other mom and myself dutifully led our kids to snowboarding lessons like Sherpas. Then we spent the next 8 hours in a crowded frigid ski lodge on the lookout to see if we could spot our kids. How they managed to last that long in sub zero temperatures amazes me. We thought for sure they would be finished after lunch but those fools went outside again until 3pm. We continued our watch and plotted our next family trip, we are both vying for a Southern destination next year.

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I’m pretty sure one of my kids is in this picture. Like 20% sure…nope those are strangers, sigh.

Some how they all made it off the mountain with all body parts intact and no frostbite. Moms breathed a sigh of relief and we all went back to the hotel for a final meal together. This time we ate in what was once Princess Carolyn’s private dinning room. Rumor has it that this area escaped the great white paint massacre because they simply ran out before they got to it. It was a great way to cap off the vacation at the hotel.

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Fun fact the red “Porters Chairs” use to line the hotel’s porch. The hooded top provides shelter from wind. These are replicas. The painting to the left is an impressionist style portrait of Princess Carolyn which she commissioned.

On the road early the next morning, OK 9:15ish that’s pretty good for us. I was up each day by 7am going up and down 192 steps to fetch coffee and breakfast staples. I would also sneak in a few minutes to drink my coffee and stare out the window, not a bad view. That is Mount Washington. The thickest white line is where the cog railway travels to and from the mountain peak. You can read about it here – http://thecog.com/cog_history.php

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You can see the reflection of a light fixture in this photo. Another fun fact is that Thomas Edison attended the Grand Opening to turn the lights on which he designed. On a personal note, I am solidly team Tesla.

Our trip home took a long 10 hours which included a nice lunch in Brattleboro, Vermont. I can recommend the New Englandah at the Whetstone Brewery, the clam chowdah also got rave reviews. The only downer was the state of Connecticut. For some reason they can’t get their sh* together in the traffic department.

I have never traveled through Connecticut without hitting some type of clusterf*ck on the highways. On the way to New Hampshire we encountered several slowdowns due to accidents and rubbernecking, all in Connecticut. On the way back we experienced something really special.

We were traveling on Route 15 and encountered a slow down of magnificent proportion. After about an hour of turtle speeds, we found ourselves near the front of the slowdown where we identified the culprit…a snowplow which managed to take over both lanes of the highway. This was happening to opposing traffic as well. In the twilight, the highway resembled a gaudy necklace with 2 rows each of red and white lights. Here’s the rub, there was no snow on the damn highway at the time. So overtime pay, a bad attitude, drunk on plow power or just mindlessly following orders…we will never know the reason why those plows decided to destroy traffic. It does however, seem like an appropriate way to end 2017.

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Notice the clear roads where the plow can’t reach. This genius was plowing already plowed snow on an 8 inch shoulder tying up two lanes of traffic for miles.

Damn it, Dog

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Damn it, Dog

Last night I had an “aw sh*t” moment on the way to my daughter’s choir concert. I realized that I left a closed pizza box on the counter and wondered out loud if the dog would eat it before we got home. There wasn’t a bet to be had, as myself and both my kids all agreed that it would be gone before we got home. There wasn’t time to turn around.

My husband wasn’t with us because I helped him secure his “get out of jail free card” to avoid this show. I’m pretty sure that makes me Wife of the Year (wild applause, trips on the steps going up to accept the award). Last week the hubs mentioned that some of his work guys were in town for a new project. I suggested that Tuesday would be a spectacular night to take them out to dinner.

“Why” he inquired?

“Because Thing 2 (kidding, I used her name. I just won’t do it here, privacy y’all) has a choir concert from hell that night and that’s a damn good excuse to get out of it” I replied.

Plans were made for a Tuesday Business Dinner lickety-split. I’ve already cashed my gratitude points by booking a Sticks & Stones Massage on an upcoming snow-boarding trip. I’ve prepared a list of acceptable names for the Masseuse to call me (sticks and stones may break your bones but names …never mind either you got it or you didn’t). I do not partake in snow-boarding activities.

I grew up poor, only rich people could ski when I was a kid. I tried skiing for the first time at age 29 with hopes of impressing a guy. I was petrified of skiing and the guy turned out to be a felon but, that’s a story for another day. At any rate, at the precious age of damn near 50, I do not wish to start hurling myself down icy mountains. I will read books and drool while some woman puts me in a trance with hot stones and Mu-Xing therapy (yes, I had to Google that).

Back to the concert, it was pure hell. That critique was unanimous. My daughter is in choir to avoid another semester of robotics so her heart isn’t into it. My son went because he thought there would be some food prize at the end (there was). I went because I can be a sh*t mom sometimes, but I’m not at the level of dropping her off and having her text me when the show is over mom (perhaps next year).

My son and I at least got to watch the show (and scour menus from nearby restaurants), my daughter was stuck in the cafeteria for an hour and a half between performances. The Middle School Choir opened the show with three songs and then they were herded to the cafeteria to await the final number where all participants would sing. This scam is used by schools and all kinds of kid activities – plays, dance recitals, karate, gymnastics. Basically, they have everyone’s kid in the last number so you don’t run from the building like your hair is on fire after your precious child performs. It’s effective, those bastards know what they are doing.

The show lasted over two hours. We got our take out and went home. Upon entering the house, the dog (we’ll call her Bonnie) greeted us with the usual fanfare. My son raced to check on the pizza slice, for which he had dibs. The pizza box was closed. Upon further inspection and much to the disappointment of my son, the box was empty.  “Bonnie” has impressive clean up skills. Not a crumb remained and how she managed to  close the box after the theft astounds me. At least she had the decency to look guilty when we asked about the pizza.

Fast forward to this morning and I am going about my routine. I prepare lunches for the kids so they can sleep an extra 5 minutes. Now, I typically make a sandwich for my son and then place it in the microwave so Miss-Steals-A-Lot can’t get it and I did that. However, when I reheated my coffee I placed the sandwich on the counter and forgot to put it back in for safe keeping. Bonnie struck again when I was distracted and helped herself to a turkey and cheese sandwich.

I blame myself of course, I’m a mom it’s always our fault. Bonnie agreed to wear a Santa hat as penance for her sins. And this is the closest we are getting to a Christmas Card this year. Happy everything to everyone!

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