Age Before Beauty - Who Came Up with That?

Just how old am I anyway? I promise you, I don't know the answer to that question half of the time that it is asked. Why you ask. Because, on my fortieth birthday, I made a vow to myself, to never, ever calculate, nor acknowledge my chronological age again. Now, sometimes, this causes me problems, like when the doctor says, how old are you and I, look with a completely blank stare and say, I think, well, uh, let me think about it. No, I'm not crazy, I just figure, if I don't acknowledge the number, I cannot do what I am refusing to do. What am  I refusing to do you ask? I am refusing to get old. I just cannot.

Aging has undoubtedly got to be the scariest process I can imagine. The control freak in me is determined to control this process. Everywhere I look, I am reminded that for some reason, I am supposed to be aging, gracefully, nonetheless. I think I own or have tried every anti-aging product that the industry has to offer. I have pealed, steamed, wrapped, you name it. I will not be overtaken by the hands of time, or sands in the hourglass.

Speaking of the hourglass. Do you know what has to happen to maintain that figure that used to be so easily maintained? I remember the freshmen 15. But come on now, must I blow air kisses and eat celery sticks in order to maintain my curves. And now, who knows the name of a good surgeon? I need one. Yes indeed, as my granny would say, I need a little work. There's no shame in my game, nothing a little botox can't fix, a little lift and a little tuck. You see, keep on living and gravity is no ones friend. Mind you, sit-ups and leg lifts, they help, but, the skill of a good surgeon can speed things up just a bit. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I do not know who is looking back at me. Surely, that person is someone else, what's that, is that a gray hair? Wait, I see a little line underneath my eye. Oh Dear Lord, but wait, "Black don't crack" isn't that how it goes.

Oh, what to wear? I am a self proclaimed fashionista. I love all things fashion. However, at whatever age I am now, I find it difficult to decide what to wear. You see, I tend to have a fascination with clothing in the Juniors section, call me Betsey Johnson. Or, the fashion I like may be a little on the pricey side and thus, not fit to spend time on the factory floor. So, what to wear, what to wear? If I wear the ripped up jeans, that will surely point to me trying to return to my youth. If, I wear the Ralph Lauren blouse with the tailored slacks and my Prada shoes, that's probably overkill. Maybe, Gap or Old Navy, I'll go there, shop in the junior's section and then run over to the adult fitting room, yeah, that's what I usually do! I have actually pretended to be shopping for my daughter and then ran over to the Women's fiting room.  I know, pitiful, just pitiful. 

My daughters just informed me that I am not allowed to have plastic surgery! Did I tell you I borrowed a sports bra from my 11 year old? In their complimentary way, they said, "Mom, you don't look too old." By the way, were t.v. shows in color when you were a kid? 

Tales of a Middle School Mother

Tales from a Middle School Mom

“Oh my God mom, this is 2013, you don’t flippin know what you’re talking about.”  Yes, this is my new life.  I had always heard about the drama of the tween years.  I even thought that I had begun experiencing little glimpses of the drama.  But now, since I clearly know nothing, I understand that I am the mother of a middle school girl, A.K.A., Sybil, sometimes also known as, No, You Didn’t, Middle Name Stop, Last name It, you get the picture. 

Middle school began with the ending of elementary school.  We had the beautiful end of year celebration.  The awards celebration, saying good-bye to friends and hello to summer.  We even got the chance to visit the new school, the Middle School.  Our visit was a two-hour introduction to the rules and overall structure of the school.  The highlight of the overview was the fashion show.  The fashion show was an attempt to show parents and students what the students were not allowed to wear to the new middle school.  Thank you Jesus!  That was my answer to the “Go back upstairs and change that outfit” But oh no, not my sweet child.  She declared, what is this, a school for the Amish?  “I do not want to go to this school.”  “This school is horrible.”  The selected fashion models paraded on the gym floor showing us a variety of outfits, no sleeveless shirts, no holes in clothes, no lace, no see through clothing and our favorite, the FLAMINGO test, All shorts, skirts, etc. must touch your calf when you stand on one leg and lift the other.  Now, mind you, my 5’7” sixth grader may have a little difficulty, but I am willing to take one for the team! 

The summer lingered on.  There were a variety of camps and activities and a testing of boundaries.   I learned new signals, the rolling of the eyes, the huff, the foot stomp and the door slam.  The door slam did not end well.  I cannot say which of us was Sybil that day, but I can say there was one door slam too many.  I geared up, like a soldier going into battle.  I focused on each stair as I went down each stair cautiously.  Next, I opened the door to the garage and began searching in the toolbox.  Next, I made my journey up the stairs and as I reached the last stair, I stared at that door that had been slammed once too often.  I stood on my tiptoes and I did what I had no previous experience in doing before.  I unscrewed every screw that held that door in place and prayed it did not fall on me.  I knew that if that door fell, someone would be singing, “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”  Finally, the last screw out, I drug that door into the hallway and laid it against the landing, the door would not slam again for 7 days!  My point was made.

Now, there would be moments of my sweet child.  We would lay together in my bed, talking about what middle school would be like.  We talked about how exciting this all could be, and then, she found out that her best friend was returning to daycare!  Life was good and she was happy.  Next it was a trip to Gatti Town, where the middle school little person played like the little girl I used to know.  Next there was the incident, where I got a phone call.  A very sad girl was on the other line.  Her American Girl doll was broken and I needed to get it to the hospital.  “What happened, I asked?”  “Mom, there was a string in the back of head and I cut it off.” “When I cut it off, her head fell off.”  “What?”  I informed her that I would call the American Girl Doll hospital and get her a room.  I did just that and called the E.M.T.s better known as U.P.S. to take the doll, A.K.A. Sage to the hospital.  My little girl wanted to know if my insurance was paying for all of this.  “Yes, I said, my insurance is taking care of her injuries.”  Yes, I said to myself, not all grown up yet. 

Vaccinations

"Please mom, please, can I have amnesia for the shots, please?"   "Amnesia, what, do you mean Anesthesia?"   "No, you cannot." " You would have to get a shot for anesthesia too."  And so it began, the pleading, the tears, the attempt to hold back a tween who was having none of the vaccination process.  The nurse looked at me and I at her.  I looked at her as if to say, you chose this profession, I, did not choose to give shots to anxiety filled tweens on the verge of middle school.  As the Turtle man would say, "This is Live Action!"  Well, we made it and down to the car we walked, a little worse for the wear, but we made it.

Next step, Middle School orientation. 

This process is a three -hour process where the parents and children are separated into groups to go through a lifelike simulation of the middle school day.  We learned about tweeting teachers, trips to Greece, Gym class, on-line homework and much more.  My daughter, learned about freedom.  She is now free to make a lot of choices.  She became very excited about Math and Science.  She was very excited about seeing all of her friends again.  There was just so much information. 

Next, the shopping trip.  

This was a six-hour journey into the mall abyss.  I had both tweens with me.  Both girls have completely different styles, neither, which are my styles completely.  I love to shop, but this took my love of shopping to a new level.  It tested my inner fashionista.  For the love of Louis Vuitton and Ralph Lauren.  We returned home with multiple bags from every designer under the mall rooftop.  I mistakenly thought all of those beautiful clothing items would be hung up nicely in the closet and placed neatly in the drawers.  I was incorrect in my assumption.  I spent the next weekend rearranging drawers and closet space, trying to organize closets and drawers and imagining what I would have done, if my back to school shopping trips would have been so elaborate.  I do fondly remember my trips the mall, but mostly it was Target and then home.  I do remember, once I began earning my own money, I was able to purchase a great deal more of the items I so dearly desired. 

In between some of this drama was the bike ride.  This is the child  that declared, “I don’t want to learn to ride a bike!”  And learn to ride, she did not.  Until one day, I looked out my window and saw my youngest saying come on, you can do it, you can do it, and to my surprise, there she was, Ms. Determined, coming down the street, flying on the new 10 speed that my youngest had received for her birthday.  The tween had decided that she wanted to learn to ride a bike that day and ride a bike she did.  She’ll make a great leader one day, determined, stubborn and clear about her goals!  A leader and not a follower, that’s my girl.  If I could just get her to follow my lead a little more. 

The week before school drew near and I mentioned that my tween would be riding the bus with her friends to the new middle school.  This provided me with a reaction I was not expecting.  “You’re not taking me to the first day of school?”  “No, I didn’t think that would be acceptable in middle school, I said. “  Keep in mind; this is the child that would not let me be seen in the halls of her elementary school, once she reached the 4^th grade.  Yes, another sign that childhood still exists.  “Ok, I’ll take you, don’t worry, I will always be there for you, I reassured her.” 

Next, the adventure begins.  

August 6^th came and unexpectedly, the tween decided the bus would be more acceptable, since her friend would be on it.  I waited all day, anxiously waiting to see how things went, what was this new experience. And well, here is what I learned:

1.     She now has a mature relationship, not one of those immature relationships.

2.     I am no longer needed to cook breakfast; she will eat in the cafeteria with her friends.

3.     I was born a long time ago.

4.     She is more responsible then I know.

5.     When she is sixteen, she is getting a jeep.

6.     She can’t understand why my mother isn’t anything like me

Now, I’ve also learned that I must treasure every moment of the little girl I used to know and the young woman that she is trying to become, maybe a little too quickly.  So, every little hug and every little request for help because there’s a noise in her room, I will answer with a little more enthusiasm. 

Now, does that mean that the continuous eye rolling will not send me over the edge from one moment to the next, no, it will just prepare me for the teenage years, for I hear those might be worse.  I just said a prayer. 

Oh, did I tell you, the school just tweeted, this week, the kids learn about sexting - I'm going to need a lot of Jesus this year. 

God Incidents

"I was on holiday in North Yorkshire, with my friend, Joy, a fellow widow. Joy is a steam train fanatic, thus I found myself on a crowded train, travelling back from Whitby to Pickering, on the scenic North Yorkshire Moors Railway.

The seaside town had been crowded with August holidaymakers and this was the last train back that day. The weather had been good, so everyone had stayed as long as possible at the seaside. So as a result, around 2,000 day trippers were waiting impatiently, from one end of the platform to the other, complete with bags, inflatable toy, windbreaks and cool bags.

Joy and I looked anxiously at each other. We would have to move quickly once the train pulled in, to ensure that we got a seat. Both of us suffer from joint problems, and on top of that, I had my dog with us. Neither of us fancied standing for the two-hour journey back to base. There were many small children amongst the hordes. Hopefully, they would sit on their parents’ knees and free up a few seats for the older folk, like my friend and me!

Ten minutes late, the steam engine pulled up at the platform and folk began to surge forward and press to board. I had to lift my dog and carry her as we mounted the footplate. Glancing round, it was apparent that seats were at a premium, and that the thought that Joy and I would be able to sit together was out of the question. At the near end of the carriage was one unoccupied seat, and likewise, at the far end, I spotted a second. I called over my shoulder

“Joy, you take that one and I’ll sit there”.

So it was that I found myself, dog squashed in on the floor, under the table at my feet, sitting opposite a young man, who told me his name was Gary, and child, Rebecca, -about ten, -and what I presumed was his attractive wife. They were talking animatedly; discussing the events of the day and pointing out to the child things that we passed as the train chugged along.

I can’t recall which little country station it was where we spotted him, but it wasn’t far beyond Whitby, and so must have been Grosmont or Goathland, I guess, but there on the platform with a film unit, was Aled Jones. (A well-known singer and TV presenter here in Britain).

“Maybe he’s filming for one of those daytime shows he presents”, I said. “Or maybe for ‘Songs of Praise’”. I added as an afterthought, “I don’t watch daytime TV”.

“No. Me neither”, the lady confessed. “Do you watch ‘Songs of Praise’ then?”

“Oh yes. I never miss it. It’s one o my favourite programmes”.

The couples’ faces broke into wreathes of smiles. “Are you a Christian too?”

And so followed an avid conversation which lasted the whole journey home and made the two hours fly by in a trice. They told me they were from Cromer, on holiday like me. They worshipped at the Parish Church there, and evidently, it was a lively place, with a vicar who was keen to encourage involvement with those often overlooked or reviled in our society. And when I mentioned that I had a particular calling to prisoners, well, Gary could hardly contain himself, and described two visits he’d made to Africa. He’d conducted worship in a prison there, and encountered a 6 year-old boy. Incarcerated with adult men, many of whom were convicted of horrendous, violent crimes Gary was obviously deeply moved by the child’s plight. And all the more so, when age boy appeared to snigger and the guard immediately approached him, threateningly flexing his evil looking whip.

Gary and his family were keen to hear about my life, both as a visitor in English prisons but more particularly, on Death Row in America and we shared many similar experiences and opinions about life behind bars. When the train pulled in to Pickering, its final destination and the end of the line, Gary and his family invited me to drop in to their church and introduce myself to their parish priest, who they assured me would love to meet me, if ever I find myself in Cromer.

As we parted, I marveled that out of the two thousand souls packed onto that train that evening, I should have found myself sharing the journey home with such kindred spirits. And I just know for certain that it was no accident. Some might call it fate. I call it God’s hand at work. And what a privilege to be part of His plan. Wow! What a day out that turned out to be!"

Across the Pond Penny