Friday, January 28, 2022

Big Events Kick-off the New Year



By Pat Newman

It’s Jan. 9, 2015, and the memories of a heart-warming Christmas still linger…the smell of evergreens, sparkling lights, Baby Jesus in the manger, bourbon-infused eggnog, and the of warm hugs of my children home for the holidays.

Yes, it’s all here and more, including my two adult children. Unfortunately, the third child couldn’t make it home for our cozy reunion as she is in South Korea. I never knew two young men could kill so much time fishing and watching back-to-back episodes of Arrested Development on DVD.

Then, there are always informational pod casts and texting to fill those empty minutes. Who has any time to dismantle the tree, pitch the eggnog and wash a few spoons? At last count, there were approximately 15 dirty spoons submerged in the stinky water in the sink, and two clean ones remaining in the drawer.

Of course, I love having them around. What parent doesn’t wish for extra bonding time with their offspring? Don’t answer that; it’s a rhetorical question. But, the issue remains that children and parents revert back to their traditional roles whenever they are together. Even worse, a parent’s aging mannerisms and afflictions prompt children to suggest that maybe you should get that hearing test and cut down on your Cabernet consumption.

“You think I’m fearing death, and need cabinet construction?” I asked in disbelief. My sons swear I am as crazy as a loon. I tell them that when you’re 60 and holding, you’ve reached the age of entitlement. So what if I like my Ah Bra more than my Victoria’s Secret push-up model? Who am I trying to impress? My former boyfriend wore Velcro-fastened sneakers and a Life-Alert pendant.

My house is strewn with crafts from my children’s school years, pictures from birthdays and greeting cards galore. My kids revel in looking through all this junk, and recalling anecdotes of our fun times together.

“Mom, remember when you got into the wrong gray car at the Minit-Mart, and the lady passenger thought you were a hijacker?”

“Ha, ha!”

“How about when we boiled those rancid deer hooves on the stove to make rattles for the Cub Scout spirit stick?”

“And who can forget the time we drove around the beach for two hours looking for the Thai restaurant you swore you saw?”

Ah, those were the good old days — three kids seat-belted into a Ford Focus for a six-hour road trip and no DVD player. Memories are the fabric of our lives, or maybe that’s cotton?

Anyway, tomorrow is the first day of my new year. The kids are partially packed; the wanderer is due to phone-in tonight, and because they know how much I’ll miss them, the two departing children are leaving a few items behind for me to remember them by. These include a dead Ford pick-up, two boxes of half-used bath products, three cartons of law books, four computer printers, five Little Debbie Christmas Tree cakes, six bags of clothing, seven empty pizza boxes, eight dirty coffee cups, nine miscellaneous electronic cards, ten mismatched socks, eleven unopened pieces of mail and twelve fresh cold ones in the fridge.

God bless them.



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