The Boy is Finished with High School

I can hardly believe that my son Henry is finished with high school, graduated with honors and headed toward Gonzaga University in the fall. Good Lord. As they say, Where the hell did the time go? I am beyond proud of this young man and grateful for our relationship. He is charming and funny and joyful and intelligent, a tiny bit lazy which can also be interpreted as good-natured and has been the light of my life. And then there's his good looks. Good Lord.

I will miss him so much when he leaves us in late August, but I trust that our open and warm relationship will remain intact until he's an old man, and I'm a very old woman. That means I will always be right, of course, as well as wiser.

Here are some pictures from the weekend.

Henry and my mom at the Baccalaureate Mass

My dad, Henry and my mom at the Baccalaureate Mass

My dad and his mini-me

Mom, Me, Henry and Dad at the Baccalaureate Mass

Trivia: Do you know who that dashing young man is behind my father and Henry above? If you guess, I'll give you a prize. He's a classmate of Henry's, and it was quite thrilling to meet him and his family at the Baccalaureate Mass the night before graduation. During the "Peace Be With You" in the mass, I shook his hand. Hint: the arm attached to that hand pitches a 100 mph ball.

My friends Dorie and Johanna -- our three children went to preschool together and have remained friends through high school. It's been an honor and a privilege to watch them grow up, and damn -- I'm lucky in friendships.

The view from the bleachers

See Henry? We buy leis for our graduates -- I think it's the coolest tradition!

Bird's eye-view of Henry receiving his diploma from principal

The family (minus Sophie)

I love him a lot

Henry and his gorgeous girlfriend 

My dad, Henry and Uncle Tony (my father's twin brother)

I love this picture because they're not fighting

Me and my mom (we seem to have the same chin)

Post-graduation brunch

Cupcakes and peonies for our Taco Toast Graduate Party on Sunday

Saint Mirtha is also an incredible chef

It's a wrap.

During my absence here on the old blog,

my parents were present for four days. We had a lovely time, catching up, visiting LACMA, the beach and just hanging out.  I had probably one of my top five star sightings at LACMA where we visited the Robert Mapplethorpe and Reigning Men exhibits. Look who was walking out of the Mapplethorpe:

I locked eyes with her and then proceeded to get all fluttery and goofy. She walked away, and I begged Oliver to give chase and take a photo. He came back with the proof. I then had to sit on a bench and explain to my parents who she was, what she did, why I was acting so goofy. It's Patti Smith, ya'll, looking exactly like Patti Smith.

I don't know where to start as far as catching up. At risk of too much shameless self-promotion, here's an interview I did with Amy Silverman on her wonderful blog Girl in a Party Hat. Amy is the writer who I am meeting with (or with whom I am meeting) to "engage in conversation" this Friday night at our local independent bookstore. She's written a wonderful memoir titled My Heart Can't Even Believe It. She's so generous to have promoted me on her blog by asking me some questions about blogging and my own writing.

Speaking of. My own writing. Lordy lord. I have got to get going doing it. I'm in a distracted slump. I've got short story ideas piling up and the manuscript that I worked on over the summer on my Hedgebrook residency is languishing, to say the least. The thing is I am distracted. Some of the distraction is heavenly and some is just plain laziness. My job at Marijuana.com has come to a grinding halt, too, so I really, really need to drum up some bizness. If you can think of anything, let me know.

Here are some photos that I took over the weekend. I'll be back with more words soon.

Post Gratitude

The weekend passed in a blur, really. The boys, Sophie and I drove up to northern California and met my parents at my aunt's beautiful house near Palo Alto. My aunt is very old and very frail, and of the four sisters, only the youngest (my mother) and oldest (Aunt Yvonne) are alive. My Uncle Charles, who lives in Mississippi is also quite old and fragile. My own parents are still so vibrant, and I know that I take this for granted. Our relationship has its ups and downs, but I'm so grateful for their active presence in my life, for their support and for their love.  There's a terrible melancholy in leaving them, seeing how tied they are to my children and my children to them. The relationship between grand-children and their grand-parents is truly a love affair.

I felt grumpy over most of the weekend, precipitated, I guess, by the near 24-hour care of Sophie. I haven't traveled with her in years, and I know why. I had to be vigilant nearly all night because she doesn't sleep well and would have gone careening off the bed if I weren't there to wrestle her back down. It's difficult to not miss what I insist on calling a normal life when I'm out and about with Sophie. You must know what I mean.

I'm filled with a deep gratitude for my boys, Henry and Oliver. They have never lived a normal life, either, yet they help me instinctually and uncomplainingly. I have worked hard to not let them think they are responsible for taking care of their sister, but the older they get, the more understanding they are toward me, to the strains under which I operate. Sometimes I wince at their aide, wishing that it didn't have to be so. I struggle with that old cliche that well-meaning people dump on us. They're learning such compassion! I worry that one day they'll be on a psychiatrist's couch, wailing about their stunted childhoods, their stressed-out mother, their sister who demanded so much attention. Those thoughts make me falter on the tightrope where I've balanced, for the most part, for nearly twenty years.

It is what it is, is another cliche. I can't do much better.

Other than the Night From Hell, though, Sophie was pretty good. She had few seizures and really enjoyed riding in the car up to northern California and then back home. However much I struggle against it, her identity and mine are entwined. When I surrender to that fact, I really do feel bathed in light, filled with gratitude for having the honor to care for her.

Padded Walls and Cupcakes

This happened:

Remember the foam that my father bought and intended to use for Sophie's walls last Thanksgiving? Please. Read about it again and then come back.

Well, looky look!

There's beautiful upholstered padding all around the room so Sophie's falls and head bangs will be a thing of the past. (Unless, of course, she goes for that nice thin strip of window frame.) Thanks, Mom and Dad! There's even padding on the sills, and over the next few days I'm going to slowly get rid of all the crap we've been using to shield her from injury.

To tell you the truth, I could use some padded walls.

This is happening right now:

Eight dozen cupcakes and one birthday cake for one of my best friend's sons' bar mitzvah tomorrow. I'll post photos when they're all frosted.

What's happening in your parts? (not pants)***














***One of my readers read that question once as "what's happening in your pants?" and I just love that 'cause, you know, I'm Virgo the Virgin.

Family

The last week of five am mornings have found me lying flat on my back in Henry's bed (he, relegated to the couch, my parents in mine), the sun hours away from rising, my thoughts more a mull than a muse, my life displayed in front of my mind's eye without death to make it precious, more terror than melancholy. I have no idea whether it's the season, the fact of having my aging (however terrifically) parents in my bed while I lay low to the ground in my boys' baseball player-postered room, my age, or just the damn facts, but I was hard put to remain composed. All the gratitude was schmatitude in the darkest hour before dawn. Texts to a friend on the east coast buoyed me, her reminder that it was the darkest hour before dawn lulled me back to sleep where I dreamed technicolor snippets, walked through parties in houses with rooms and old lovers behind doors. I woke sheepish in light, drove my parents to the airport, embraced them in gratitude for spinning the web, however sticky, where I'm stuck, ran my hand over Oliver's head and wiped away his tears with my thumb. Why do they have to live so far away? he sighed as we pulled away. We waved as they fussed with their bags, smiled, blew kisses.

There's a black reindeer head sitting on my dining room table, waiting for me to bring it back to the store where my mother accidentally dropped her cane and broke off one of its antlers. She paid for half of it and brought it home so that my amazingly handy father could glue it back like new! In the above photo, just to the right of the black plastic-covered foam sheets for Sophie's room -- the path to hell is laid with the best intentions, I believe Blake said --  is the gift they left: a life-sized Santa who dances and sings a number of Christmas tunes -- in our native tongue and Spanish.

That's my family recap. What's yours, dear Readers?

A Feast of Photos

Thanksgiving menu included turkey, gravy, roasted Brussels sprouts, roasted root vegetables, sweet potato pone, Italian sausage stuffing, cranberry jelly, cranberry jelly slices from the can (a must in our family), mashed potatoes, Manhattans for my father and me, sparkly cider for my mother and the kids, apple pie and banana cream pie. Sophie continues to have an unprecedented string of days free of seizures.

We are grateful.