Scrapbooks. . . Part One

Making Scale Blocks

Summer Lessons

Battle of the Books Winner

End of Year Purge

Before. . . 

During. . . 

After. . . 

Banana Boating

Studio Spark of Joy

Mary Picked Strawberries and Made Jam

Ladybug Land

A Great Day's Work

I'm on a four day staycation. At home alone in my own house. Don't hate me.

It was a long road to here and now.

Yesterday I listened to the Eagles while cleaning out the upstairs bathrooms. How is it that I have neosporin that expired in 2012? Along came "Desperado." Time alone can take you back. Back to a first "date" when Sixto Sanchez dropped by my Austin upstairs garage apartment unannounced at 10:30 on a Thursday night with a six pack of Michelob Golden Light. He was the lead singer in the country band I had been subbing with for the last three weekends and it was looking like maybe they liked me and I had the gig. I guess this was my initiation. He had a voice like velvet. I only smooched him once but we sat at the piano and I played Desperado while he sang, which to me was better than what he probably had in mind when he stopped by. I played every song I knew and muddled through a bunch he wanted to sing that I didn't know. It was magical.

That little Thursday night interchange earned me an invitation to the band leaders office the next night after the gig. Dave Ramos's office was the passenger seat of a big old diesel truck, which he ran 24/7. He sat in the drivers seat and noodled on his guitar while casually quizzing me about the "date." I was 26. He was 30. Sixto was 24, or so he told me. It didn't take very long for Dave to explain that did I realize Sixto was really only 19. . . and to debunk a plethora of other lies Six had managed over three beers, one smooch and a couple hours at the piano. At 24 I had never been lied to before.

Really.

It didn't take much time for Six to find some other women to lie to date. In five years and 825 gigs Dave Ramos never made a pass at me. Or lied. I guess there's two kinds of country singers. I still get Christmas cards from Dave's wife.

In between cleaning the bathrooms and the linen closet, time alone tempts you to pick up the baby books and the scrap books. You see, I'm trying to decide if I should finish Calvin's scrapbook before he graduates or actually just spend some time with him this year. Not sure if I can do both. Bill's taken 50,000 photos. There are another 13,000 recital and concert programs. I'm currently up to 4th grade.

What's the kicker of the baby books? My dad. My dad with the babies. He's holding the babies and toddlers like they were lovers. Seems like Calvin and Mary are always almost naked--usually in their diapers. Always eye contact and always hands on. Always his hands holding theirs, or their little fingers wrapped around one of his big fingers. Innocent and sensual all at once. We don't have any pictures of him like that with me. Times were different then.

I'm leaning toward skipping the scrapbook marathon.

It's the summer before Calvin's senior year. I won't blame you if you don't read any blog entries this year. Calvin already told me he's mentally preparing for my "last this and that" drama.

It started today when I ran an errand to Bed Bath and Beyond. They have lists of the stuff kids are supposed to take to college. Too soon.  Calvin will always be sleeping under his Great Northern Railway bedspread in the red bead board bed we bought when he turned three. He does still love trains.

I talked to Casey and shared with her that he's thinking about the University of Iowa and she started to cry 1200 miles away. Heaven help us.

The last ten weeks have been something else. I don't know what to say except that I kinda overdid it, culminating one particularly big meltdown. My goal this summer, on these low key days of solitude, these luxurious times, is to come up with a sustainable routine. To figure out how to be with the people I want to be with and do the things I want to do, and the things that need to be done. . . without losing it. Prayers are welcome.

It's that balance between equilibrium and disequilibrium. The calendar is not a coloring book to fill in. Filling every hour of every day is not sustainable. I've only got five more years with kids at home, one with Calvin. I'd like to do it right.

Like childbirth and the death of a parent, everyone seems to pretty much survive their kids growing up. But, like childbirth and the death of a parent, it's different when it's YOU and not some acquaintance's Facebook photos of dropping their kid, who probably doesn't even like trains that much, at some college in some other state.

I better get off to bed before I'm tempted to pull out the stack of photo albums I spent God knows how many hours on with Linda, Tammy and Michelle. In those days, moms needed breaks from their kids on Friday nights so they went over to friends to put pictures of those same kids in scrapbooks, which we will grab on the way out the door in case of fire. I'm a hopeless historian. Hence blogging about the kids on a Saturday night when they are at the cabin.

I'll probably finish the scrapbooks.