The Rapture

Some believed last Saturday night would be The Rapture. On Friday afternoon Kate, always thinking and seemingly quite serious, asked if the world really should come to an end did I think she could take her cat and her computer with her. Her cat and her computer? Really? Does she think Heaven has WiFi? Maybe she is right. She is after all completing her confirmation process this week. Perhaps she has been taught something I just missed somehow. I have to confess that I, too, have wondered if my pets will be there. I suppose we each have a picture of heaven that is uniquely his or her own.

I must also confess, rather sadly in fact, that Kate didn't seem concerned if her dad, her mom, Drew or for that matter anyone would be going with her. She just wanted Landen and a laptop. Hmmm.......

I am still trying to gauge the significance of this revelation. As is often the case with Kate, she stopped me in my tracks with her question. Just where are her priorities? I suppose I find a degree of comfort and satisfaction in knowing I am the person to whom she turns with some of these thought provoking questions. I think that is a good thing. That joy is tempered significantly however with the knowledge that her picture of heaven may not include me. Oh well, no one ever said a thirteen year old daughter would be easy!

Back to Kate's list...her cat first, her computer, would I possibly have been next?

Twenty Seven Dresses......And Counting

Kate's confirmation is this Sunday, and for our family, clearly another moment in time is upon us. While I will be the first to say that what Kate wears is far from the most important aspect of her big day, it is important. Today I brought home our eighth, ninth, and tenth dresses respectively to vie for the approval of the Divine Miss Kate. Thus far, we do not have even a hint of consensus. (Can you say Teen-Age Diva?)

I have a good eye for clothes and also a great love for them. All evidence is that this strand is somehow inexplicably and completely missing from Kate's DNA make-up. How can that be in my daughter? But give Kate jeans and gym shorts, and she is set. It gets worse....Kate adores wearing her dad's sweatpants.....uggh!

I remember being a fashion tweener, and I know it is not easy. Although only thirteen, Kate looks older than her years by several. Barely a teenager but finding herself in a young woman's body, it's really not surprising that she is struggling to find a fashion sensibility or that we are experiencing a confirmation dress dilemma. Ah yes, the dilemma.....

Kate and I began our odyssey searching for a simple white or cream dress. Doesn't sound hard, does it? That plan soon went out the window, as I began to fear we would not in this decade find an appropriate one that Kate liked. At this point, purple with pink polka dots seems a viable possibility.

Am I wrong that on this upcoming and particularly momentous day, I want my daughter's appearance to be in keeping with the magnitude of the moment, her moment? I want her to recognize even through her attire what a special and wondrous time this is. I would rather prefer that she not look like she is attending a teen club event at the beach....or, dare I say, worse. Where does she get the idea that she should dress like Britney Spears for her confirmation in a very (and I do mean very) traditional Methodist Church.

So it's strapless....no....unless with a jacket or sweater. Spaghetti straps...I'll consider. Short...okay. Too short....no way. V-neck....possibly within certain parameters of acceptability. Sleeveless....maybe. Low in the back...don't think so. Sheer or thin summer fabric....no! Through it all I am finding comfort in older motherhood and knowing that I may be in a nursing home by the time Kate is selecting a wedding gown. Happily, one of my younger sisters will likely be aiding in that selection. I so hope it is Size 4 Banker Sister, who has only sons and offers no sympathy whatsoever for predicaments such as my current one. Today, the voice in my head is most assuredly Size 4 Banker saying, "Don't worry what Kate is wearing. It doesn't matter in the least." May I just say to you with all respect and love, Size 4, "Everything is different with girls."

With my head spinning with joy and pride for Kate's big day, with thoughts of new listings and work going undone, with family coming in for the week-end, with a terribly messy house since I have lost my housekeeper of 12 years, it's a dress dilemma of the thirteen year old variety that has me truly in a tiz. Dear Lord, give me understanding, strength and patience and, if it's not too much to ask, a reasonable dress for Sunday.

Mechanical And All That Bull

Drew attended a hometown street festival with a friend last Saturday. Of course, when he returned, I needed the scoop. I always do. It's a Dee thing. I asked what he did. Drew responded that he rode a mechanical bull. When I asked how it was, Drew deadpanned that he thought it would have been better if they hadn't put a plastic seat on it for him. A plastic seat.....really???? That struck me as so funny...and sad. As my mind and I tend often to do, we together formed a picture of Drew on a massive mechanical bull..... with a plastic seat. What would you call that anyway....a bull seat? A safety saddle? What a...... how shall I say.....buzz kill!

Here was Drew, ten year old testosterone (is there such a thing) pumping, his lean (that's super lean) mean machine 60(maybe 55)pound body ready for his first go at a mechanical bull. What a "he man" moment in time. And someone has the nerve to put a plastic safety seat under his manly (or not) tush......Come on!

I have tried to teach Drew that sometimes it's not such a bad thing to fall off.....to even get a wicked bump or two. He has not yet completely mastered that lesson. But, don't save him with a safety seat. Knowing my son, I am surprised he rode that bull. You don't give Spiderman a safety net. You don't tug on Superman's cape. You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger....admittedly, I am getting carried away.... but you don't give Drew's mechanical bull a plastic seat!

Contrary to the way I may feel on some days, I don't want a guarantee that I will not fail. Not in real estate....not in life. I want to be given the ride of my life, my best shot. I might fall off. I'll get back up. I always have. I don't want someone (or something) protecting me from failure. Where is the accomplishment in that?

Drew, had I been there, My Guy, you would have had your ride.....on a naked bull. And, had you fallen off and gotten hurt, your mommy would wipe those tears and get you ready....for the next time.

Grandmommy's Hands

In the fall of 2010, just months before my mother passed away, my daughter did a school project that she named Grandmommy’s Hands. Kate interviewed her grandmother, my mother, with various pre-selected questions about Momma’s early life and her memories of her teen-age years. I was present. The interview was rather eye-opening, almost eye-popping, as I may share in a later post.

My mother had any number of skin problems. In one of life’s cruel and enduring truths and as so many things do, her skin problems worsened with age. With Mother’s advancing years, regressing health, and at least one documented stroke came bangs, bumps, bruises, and falls and the corresponding wear and tear on her skin, particularly on her arms and hands.

Today, as on most days, I spent countless hours at the computer keyboard. I at some point inadvertently glanced down at my hands. With dismay I thought, “Oh no, I have ‘Grandmommy’s hands.’ This is horrible. Suddenly and unexpectedly I have old hands.” Almost immediately I heard the recently ever present voice in my head, “They may be the most beautifully ugly hands you could ever have imagined. They are, after all, your mother’s hands."

Again, in another and the smallest of ways, I carry her with me. I find myself wondering if that could also have been her voice……

Hat Girls

I love, love, love hats! I so wish American women would rediscover the amazing functionality of hats! No time for shampooing....grab a hat! Haven't shampooed in a week? All the better....wear a hat! Pony tail day....pop on that hat! Suddenly your style looks totally planned. Young, old, or in between, there is a hat out there for every head.

I was hopeful the Royal Wedding might inspire a hat renaissance here in the "colonies." I'm still waiting. (Patience may not be my strong suit......I believe the Royal Couple is still honeymooning.) Love the tiny "fascinators"....they should be worn for the name alone..... that Princess Kate has made famous. Love the wide brimmed hats you might have seen at the Cannes Film Festival last week. Love the beach hats you'll see on most any shore. I even love baseball caps on Sunday afternoons.

I wonder if many women are simply afraid to make hat mistakes. There is most definitely the opportunity for chapeau faux pas, as the world saw with the daughters of Fergie at the Royal Wedding. Did they not harken back to a story of wicked step-sisters? Yet, even those horrible hats had people talking. And maybe that's another fear that could potentially ummm.....decapitate my hat wearing revolution. We want to fit in, not stand out. Why is that?

A local friend of ours each spring hosts what she calls her "Mad Hatters" Brunch. What fun....her breathtaking garden party my once a year opportunity to sport a hat and not feel stares of disapproval. There is a stunning lady in our church who rather frequently wears hats. They are beautiful. I have, however, on occasion heard the buzz and seen the shaking Methodist heads. I may break one out just to profess my hat solidarity with her.

Our girls donned hats a couple of times on our recent New York trip. One word. Fabulous. I wished I had packed one. My family's next generation....could they be "hat girls?" Time will tell if they continue to find opportunities to experiment with hat couture. Maybe they will champion my planned Hat Renaissance.

I had Kate in hats continuously when she was little. Although some may call them fascinators, Kate most definitely found them aggravators. As soon as her coordination would allow, she was reaching up, plucking them off, and throwing them as far as she could. The more I adored them, the harder my daughter fought against them. (If only I had been astute enough to realize then this may be a sign of my life to come......)

I'm not sure I always loved hats. One of my earliest hat memories involved one with elastic under the chin and an Easter Sunday worship. Throughout the service, I popped the elastic against my neck. Boiiing.....boiiing.....boiiing......certainly loud enough to be a distraction for anyone sitting nearby. Needless to say, my mother shortly and strongly reminded me that such hat shenanigans in church were totally unacceptable. Suddenly, my neck was not the only body part experiencing a painful reminder that the elastic popping was not such a good idea. That day I must have hated hats.

As my sisters and I plowed through our mother's things, among her treasures we found some incredible hats. They would have all been mine, except for one literal little detail. My mother had a tiny head and thus tiny hats. Sadly, I have neither. So our beautiful cousin, definitely a hat person in her own right, was the recipient of some of the best of "Pat's Hats." I know those will be worn in style by one who most decidedly earns the esteemed designation of Hat Girl. Wear it and them proudly, My Love!

The Kentucky Derby provides an American hat day of the highest order. Closer to home, the Carolina Cup brings women in wonderful hats to the beautiful and elegantly equestrian town of Camden. But why only once a year? Ladies, we must do more! The very existence of hatdom is in peril.

Functional, fashionable, fanciful, fabulous, fun hats....borrowing from Shania Twain, Let's Go, Girls! Whether fascinator or fedora, floppy or...... my alliteration fails me as I run out of fitting "f words".....find (there's one) and wear the hat that says you!

Hippies, Graffiti, and Kate

I have long known, and I think anyone who knows my daughter knows, that Kate marches to a different drummer. I like, dislike, and wonder about that all at the same time. Kate never ceases to intrigue me with her surprising slant on.....well, on everything!

On a recent New York subway adventure, Kate brightly commented, "Don't you love graffiti? The colors, the bubble letters. The walls look so pretty! I love it!".....Not always the words themselves, of course, but something in Kate sees past those. She sees....I don't know....art. One less imaginative (like her mom) might see....perhaps vandalism.

A few weeks before our trip, Kate commented about a particular adult saying, "She's a hippie, Mommy." When I cautioned Kate that her comment was in my humble opinion rude, Kate responded, "Why? Hippies tried to save the world!" That's not the way I remember it, but that's Kate.

Kate makes me laugh, she makes me cry. I think most especially, she makes me think. I love that about her....the unpredictability, the dry wit and not so innocent Kate-isms. She is an old soul in a teen body. In many ways, she gets it. In many other ways, I hope she someday will.

The other day as Kate started out the door, I called after her in what I thought was an oh so obvious tip of the hat to Star Wars, "May the force be with you." Kate never hesitated a moment. Looking back, she immediately responded, "And also with you." Those confirmation classes are really working, aren't they? Does this mean I am R2D2 and she is Methodist?


Interesting that it was most recently our New York City trip that reminded me again of Kate's saucy smarts and savvy. I worried a little when she grabbed a subway pole and seemed to know exactly what to do with it. (She tells me pole dancing is a great exercise....something else I did not know and certainly not at age 13.) I miss her ruffles and little girl lace, I miss her hats. I miss her little girl ways. They've been replaced with jeans with holes and almost constant tees and, yes, a little too much sass at times. She is music video; I am a good book. She is mustard (spicy brown, of course); I am mayo (Plain Duke's). She is Bieber; I am Buble. I wish she had stayed little a little longer. Fate and circumstance have forced her to grow up fast. But we still find moments when Kate is just my little girl, and I am just Mommy. Those are among my favorite moments in time. Those are moments I treasure.

Back to NYC, my "grown-up" daughter disappeared briefly on our trip (she had no idea there was any reason to be concerned), only to return with a Mother's Day gift chosen for me at a shop around the corner. With all her quirks...notice I said her quirks...... with all our total and absolute disconnects at times, this is a quite undeniably a uniquely special person in the making, a person I want to understand better.


Kate talks about "coincidinks" (pronounced co.ink.ee.dink...no idea how it's spelled. Of course, in the world according to Kate, "Spelling only matters if you are in a spelling class....the important thing is if you are communicating." What???? My English teacher pedigree will beg to differ.) A coincidink is when the stars align in such a way that something interesting or surprising happens....sort of a merger of coincidence and something meant to be. What a great word, even if I can't spell it! It almost sounds like what it is. I wonder if it's a coincidink that Kate is mine. Whether yes or no, thank you, God.

Empire State of Mind and Body

This Mother's Day I find myself not yet able to blog about my mom. Maybe next year. But Mother's Day did bring a wonderful trip for my sisters and me and for the next generation of girls in our family. We decided to take a bite out of The Big Apple. This trip was a new twist on a traditional trip for us. The big girls (my sisters and I) have made an annual pilgrimage to New York for years. But taking two tween girls was....shall we say enlightening.

So much to do and so little time, but we tried to squeeze in as much as we could. The younger girls wanted to see the Empire State Building. Saying "no" to the girls didn't seem to be an option on this trip, and I realized I myself had never been, so off we went! The iconic structure is truly beautiful. The day was truly beautiful. Lines were manageable. Cost was reasonable....yes, we could do this! As the Empire elevator reached the seventy something floor and the doors opened, a polite attendant, surely making note of the excellent physical condition of our little group, recommended that in order to avoid waiting in line for another elevator we take the stairs for the remaining six floors to the main observation deck. Again sure that she noted how young, vibrant and in shape we looked, we decided to follow her suggestion. After all, 5th Avenue shopping was calling. Time was getting away!

Too late we learned the six floors were actually twelve substantial flights of steps. By the third flight, three sisters were, to put it crudely.....sucking wind! How could a size 0, a size 4 and a size 6 be so unbelievably out of shape? The tweens, showing no mercy for their mothers and aunts, more accurately trying to act as if they had no idea who we were, guffawed and continued their race to the observation level. Size 4 (The Banker) quickly did the math...."Is it closer to go back down or continue up?".... Third flight.....From Size 6 ....."They do serve margaritas up there, right?" Fifth flight...."Are there medics on staff?" From Size 4, "I think I twisted my ankle." From Size 6, "My shins hurt. Are these my shins (Picture pointing at the throbbing front area between knees and ankles)...I can never remember." Really, an anatomy lesson now? Seventh flight...."Whose idea was this, anyway?" Tenth flight... the ugliness of blame truly setting in, "Who cares what Central Park and The Statue of Liberty look like from eighty some-odd floors up! I didn't sign on for this. All I wanted was a pair of cute shoes." From somewhere up above, tween giggles drifted down toward us.

We climbed and climbed and found stairwell corners to throw blame and catch breaths. We climbed and climbed and quietly cursed laughing patrons jaunting past us. But then, finally....mercifully.....the door from the stairwell flung open. Not sure how, I know my sisters and I had far less than the requisite strength to open it. But there before us....this sprawling, amazing, breathtaking city in all its glory. My heart was racing, my breathing labored, but now for another reason. Bathed in shimmering sunshine, this site of tragedy and heartache now the site of immeasurable pride. The target of a madman's dagger's blow, now the site of inconceivable resilience. The object of such inexplicable hatred, now burroughs of amazing strength. As fate and timing had collided just days before our trip, this city found some measure of closure in the killing of Bin Laden. But today was the day for soaking in the majesty of this city's unbelievable buildings, the incredible beauty of a park's green, "centrally" nestled among concrete and skyscrapers, the lady whose torch welcomed generations to a new life, the mighty rivers flowing all directions. The sight took our breaths....again. What are the lyrics from the country song, "Life's not the breaths you take but the moments that take your breath away." I wonder if George Strait realized those could be one and the same.

My out of shape sister and her out of shape sister and our little sister had this Mother's Day week-end climbed to a point so high we could nearly touch our mother. That also took my breath away.