At the risk of sounding hopelessly naive and saccharine, I must confess that every day, before I put my feet on the floor, I lie in bed (and do, please, notice the correct usage of that verb which is becoming rarer than civilized discourse in an election year) and I list the things for which I'm grateful.  The list is long.  There's Himself, of course, who is everything I never used to look for and everything I need.  And even when he snores (yes, dear, I'm sorry, but "facts is facts")  I remember all the years when I lived alone and the house was dead quiet at 3AM and I hated it.  I am grateful for my two wonderful sons, entirely different from each other and each an absolute miracle to me, arriving as they did so late in my life.  I miss them, because as you know, they are away at (expensive) college, but rather than suffer from the dreaded "empty nest syndrome" I find that most of my thoughts of them are full of hope, energy, and gratitude.  They are each getting a wonderful education, and more importantly, turning into the kind of people I would pick for friends were they not related to me.  They are kind, compassionate, talented, funny, and bright.  There is a long list of amazing friends, some of whom reach decades back, who have brightened my life with witty conversation, laughter, warm and caring hearts, and a few escapades that nobody will ever hear about from ME!  There's the house..no, I correct myself.  It's a "home" in all the best senses of that word.  It's dusty and cluttered, but I am not unaware of how many people in the world would consider themselves rich if they had that patched roof overhead.  The list goes on and on, with food, health, vision, hearing. I could go on for days.

The point here, I think, on this very rainy and gloomy autumn day, is that we all have a voice chattering endlessly in our head.  When we awaken we pick the "dialogue of the day" and whether it's positive or negative is largely within our power.  There are things I could choose to whine about...several relatives and friends who died too young, unemployment, the odd creak from..oh let's call it "maturity", shall we?..the election, the way people drive.  You get the idea.  But why would I want to do that?  Nobody would want to come to my "pity party" and that includes myself.  Although every now and then a really good rant that progresses to silly overkill can be very entertaining.  The trick is to carry it to the point of laughter, otherwise it's a complete waste of time.

So if you started today with the wrong tape running in your head, it's not too late to change the track.  Oh dear.  I'm dating myself, aren't I?  Nobody plays tapes anymore.  Well, you know what I mean.  Download the right feed or whatever the heck they do.  Stop right now and look at your life and pick out the things that don't stink.  Start small.  And when you feel the calmness that fills your heart bring it out into the world and spread it around.  Because it's getting a little crazy out there.

We're looking at several rainy days in a row.  In theory, this is a treat.  Afghans on laps (the blankets, not the dogs), books in hand, tea and biscuits on a side table and a fire in the fireplace.  In reality the Guilt Monster bangs on the door and points out the dust dragons in the corners.  They ate the bunnies years ago.  The laundry starts to creep down the stairs to the washer on its own, and the science experiments in the fridge start making muffled noises through the door. It's hard to find excuses enough to go around. The great outdoors beckons not.

The solution to this I hear is to set an old-fashioned kitchen timer for fifteen minute bursts of activity.  Fifteen minutes in one room.  Brrrrinnng.  Fifteen minutes in another room.  Brrrinnng.  Fifteen minutes in a third room.   Brrriiinnng.  Tea, cookies, maybe a nap.  Well, just one chapter in the book I can't put down.  Oh, and I haven't called Jane in a week.  And suddenly it's time for dinner.  I meant to get back to it, I really did.  But who can resist the lure of an autumn day when the rain heightens the contrast between the red leaves and the black bark of the trees?  When the cars make that wonderful ssssssssssss noise as they pass by?  When the pitter patter on the window exactly duplicates the sound my sleep machine is scientifically engineered to make to help me drop off at night?

I say it's more important to pay attention to the sounds and the colors than the dust dragons.  They're always easier to spot when the glare comes through the windows from the fresh fallen snow anyway.  Which reminds me...I suppose I should clean the windows.  Tomorrow.

From the time he was in kindergarten I took great pride in the fact that my older son never had a broken bone.  He played violin, but even this didn't get him beaten up in middle school, because he also had a black belt in karate.  And he was so good at violin that he made money playing at the weddings of various teachers.  He played baseball, soccer, and basketball, and did a fine job at every sport.  There were five stitches in his forehead when he walked into a tree at age three, but other than that not one emergency room visit did we make. He never played hockey or football. We didn't "forbid" it,  but we certainly never steered him in that direction either.  He is now in his second year of college and still has not had one broken bone.  But I know now that it is a matter of time.  My son has discovered rugby.

It's probably our fault.  We used to take him and his brother to England to visit friends fairly often when they were little.  The only thing I know about rugby is that I like the shirts that L.L.Bean makes by that name.  My friends now inform me that it is basically football with no padding.  Great.  I understand that the equivalent of a touchdown in rugby is called a "try", and that he was responsible for one this past weekend.  I get a weekly text to let me know that he survived the game and the level of his bruising.  He started on some safe position off in a corner somewhere, probably the "left field" of rugby, but was so enthusiastic that he is now in the thick of it.  They are going to break my baby, I know they are. 

He is almost twenty, and although I share this with you, I don't worry him much with my worries.  Of course, he will read this and then he'll know, but he won't be surprised.  We know each other pretty well.  The plan is to go pick him up at school in October for his fall break and bring him home for a week or so.  But we'll have to wait for him to finish his home game.  That's right.  I have to watch him get pummeled.  So we'll drive through the autumn glory, watch the game (I should look up the rules first, huh?) and then pick him up.  I just hope it won't be with a squeegee!

One of the paybacks for the pain of childbirth, years of cramps, and mood swings is the ineffable joy that only women (well...and a few cross-dressers) experience at the end of the day when slipping out of pantyhose.  It is a bliss that dwarfs the best chocolate in the world.  This is probably one of the real reasons that people bemoan the end of summer.  The sandals go on in May and come off with a crowbar around the time chilblains are forming on the toes.  So when I needed to get "dressed like a grownup" for a job interview I had to try to remember what I had actually done with said instruments of torture at the beginning of spring.  Not one clue.  I put on the suit, the tasteful earrings with matching necklace, the heels, but my legs were bare.  And then it dawned on me.  I had read an article that the Duchess of Cambridge ("Kate" to her friends), had "revived" the trend to wear hose.  I was a little surprised since I was never aware they had gone out of style.  Just my rotten luck that I had missed the fad I'd been waiting for since I was thirteen.  And now it was over.  Or was it? 

I seemed to remember that there was a discussion about how "old fashioned" it was to wear hose and how surprising it was that the Duchess was going that route.  OK.  If it's old fashioned, maybe I could get away with being "with it" by being "without it" and not bothering.  I felt absolutely racy, but I was running short of time, so off I went.  All the way to the interview I held the debate in my head.  "Should I? What does this say about me? Does it say I'm on top of the trends or down on my luck and can't afford L'eggs? (Do they still make L'eggs?)"  This was a burning issue.  With ten minutes to spare I stopped at the grocery store and picked up a pair of Sheer Energy in nude (if you wear them, they HAVE to match your skin tone) and stuck them in my purse.  I asked the opinion of the cashier and her bag boy.  "Do people wear pantyhose anymore?"  Heads shook from side to side.  "Can I get away with this?"  "Well, what are you wearing?  Is that the outfit?  C'mere!"  I got the once over and was gratified to receive two thumbs up.

I made it to the interview in plenty of time.  I don't know if the panel noticed that I wasn't wearing hose.  They were busy watching me scramble when my telephone screamed a message from my purse that the nursing home was calling me for the second time in two years.  I tried to ignore it, but they insisted that I take it. Things went rather well, other than that, or at least I think so.  The whole day was quite an education. And by the way, have you tried to buy a slip lately?

I've heard about the "sandwich generation" who are torn between taking care of elderly parents and taking care of their children, but I haven't felt the intense pressure of it until now.  My mother is 89 and has Alzheimer's.  I won't say she "suffers from it" because for the first time since 1967 she seems at peace and charming.  That was the year my older brother died in a car accident after returning from Viet Nam with a Purple Heart, and my mother hated the world and everyone in it until she had a fall in her bedroom almost two years ago and broke her hip.  I don't know who this new lady is, but she is much easier to deal with.

I try to get to the nursing home about five to six days a week and I always come at meal time.  There is nothing to discuss besides food and how sleepy she is.  She calls me a "Deah"  and a "Dahlin" (this is Boston, after all) and some days I think she knows I'm her youngest daughter, but most days I think she thinks I'm a REALLY attentive aide.  "Why are you so good to me?" she asks at least twice a week.  "Because you're my Mama and I'm your baby girl!" I reply.  The answer is usually, "Well, I'll be damned!"

Watching her fade away a little at a time is strange.  I still have my mother, but I don't.  There has to be a bubble of protection around me when I visit or the sadness will crush me like a bug.  She had her hip repaired, but has been in a wheelchair since January of 2011 because she's too afraid of falling.  She has gone from regular meals to ground food, to puree.  I ask sweetly which lump she'd like to taste first, the green one, the beige one, or the white one?  Sometimes there's gravy.  None of it looks appealing.  She takes a mouse-sized nibble of each and then announces that she's full.  She has been on a gastric feeding tube overnight for a long time.  The coughing is starting, even though I always remember to put the thickener in her coffee.  She always wants her coffee.  They tell me that once she forgets how to swallow (and it's coming) they will rely on the gastric tube for all her nutrition, and then eventually her body won't be able to process that either.

Knowing what to pray for is getting more difficult.  I feel guilty if I want the end to come more quickly.  Part of me really doesn't want to be an orphan, even if I am 60.  But she doesn't participate in the music, or the "activities", because she is legally blind along with everything else. It doesn't seem fair to pray that she hang on for this life.  The next one is bound to be an improvement and she deserves the rest.  For the moment, I'm glad that she is not in pain, either physical or emotional, and that she has no clue that she is in a nursing home.  Because if she ever figured it out it would kill us both.

Summer's back would appear to be pretty much broken.  While there might be an 80 degree day hiding around the corner, autumn has arrived.  The edges of the day are cool and require a sweater, and the mornings arrive later and later, while the nights sneak up on me earlier and earlier.  I'm not a beach bunny and never have been, so it's not as though I'll miss "summer fun".  The closest I get to a tan is when my freckles all come out at the same time.  But this time of year always makes me wistful.  The ghosts of first days of school, my own and my sons', come back to haunt me, and I have an uncontrollable urge to go out and buy new notebooks and pencils in spite of the fact that we could supply a small country with what we already have in the desk.  Reason plays no part in this.

There is something poignant about autumn.  The trees are tired of being green and are getting ready to put on their big show before November strips them bare.  And to tell the truth, I think I'm tired of them, too.  I'm ready for something different.  Still, I am not altogether happy about the fact that the boys have another summer under their belts, that my mother is that much frailer, that my hair is that much grayer (or "silver" as my younger son, the diplomat calls it) or that so many of my friends have joined what I euphemistically call "the advance team".  I'm missing people and times gone by.  For some reason many of my friends have decided to take their leave of The Big Blue Marble during the month of September.  Then there's 9/11 to think about.  All in all, it's becoming one of my least favorite months.

I'm listening to Thomas Moore's "Dark Night of the Soul" in the car these days.   There are some interesting observations about the positive aspects of dwelling on "the dark side" and most of them involve personal growth, which I believe happens far more often during times of sorrow than joy.  I don't want to become a permanent citizen here, though.  I'm already planning my escape from the doldrums.  I think I'll start by planting a sea of daffodils for the spring.  But first I'm buying myself a new notebook.

Tomorrow I will do something I haven't done since Jimmy Carter was President of the United States.  No, not "wash the kitchen floor," although that was a good guess and I can see where you might come up with it.  I am going on a job interview.  That's right;  after sending out fifty resumes and pleading cover letters, I got a call.  Actually, I got two calls, one for next Tuesday.  The interesting thing is that they are in two completely different fields.  This is the time in life where I get to re-invent myself.

For thirteen years I've been juggling piano and violin lessons, soccer tournaments, karate classes, and basketball, not to mention the gruelling schedule of the high school musical (both my boys love the stage and they're both great).  But the nature of work has changed significantly since I left the wacky world of local television.  There is no such thing as videotape anymore.  Everything has gone digital.  I don't want to go back to television anyway.  But since I had been in "the biz" for 22 years, everything from finding leads to how to write one's resume has changed.

I took a course on interviewing.  There is a wonderful non-profit group in the Boston area called "One Life At A Time" which helps people who are re-entering the workforce to catch up with what the world has been doing while they've been elsewhere.  I re-wrote several forms of my resume, I did mock interviews which were recorded and critiqued, and I learned the culture of searching on-line for job openings.  A dear friend of mine even gave me a three-piece suit for my birthday so that I could look professional on interviews.  Luckily, it will be ready at the tailor's today.  I told you I was short.

Now all I have to do is figure out what I want to be when I grow up.  Substitute teacher?  Concierge?  Town official?  Office administrator?  Writer?  Voice Over actress?  The number of possibilities before me is almost enough to paralyze me.  Another one of the gifts from my dear friend, Flanagan, is the sudden realization that I don't have all the time in the world to live my life.  None of us knows how long he has.  So I'll dust off my sensible shoes and go see what the world has to offer me and try to make them realize that I am just the right fit for whatever it is.  Because once they meet me they have to love me...who wouldn't, right?  But it's tough to get your foot in that door.

I'm off to research the companies I'll interview with (that's very important, I'm told).  But first I think I'll go wash the kitchen floor, because you were right.  It really is time.

It be "Talk Like  A Pirate" day!  There be many annoyin' varmints who be talkin' all day like a parrot be sittin' on their shoulder and they be deep in the grog, and by noon I be makin' them all walk the plank!  Oh good heaven, that's enough of that nonsense!  I was first introduced to TLAP Day by my children who find this endlessly entertaining.  I feel really sorry for their professors today, because I'm not sure either of them will be able to turn it off just because they are going to (very expensive) college.

Pirates have a long history at our house.  It started when Son Number One was three and Santa brought the Fisher Price Pirate Ship.  Then came the Castle.  The next year Santa brought Son Number Two the new and improved Pirate Ship.  Then the new and improved Talking Castle.  All of this, along with more toys than Macy's has in stock for Christmas, filled what would be a den in a normal house. Walking through the room was interesting, because the chance of getting hit with a flying plastic cannon ball was very high, and it didn't matter if you were family or honored guest, you were a target. At one point Himself and the boys made "pirate hard tack", which were disgusting cookies or biscuits or something made to the actual recipe that the pirates used.  Happily, they left out the maggots which usually took the place of sprinkles that adorn better tasting cookies.  They turned out interesting rather than tasty, and were tossed into the trash after one information seeking bite.

The ships and castles are in the attic waiting for the boys to get apartments and lives of their own.  The population of little pirates and ghosts and dragons and knights are tucked into plastic boxes awaiting the next generation.  There are still two small pirate flags on either side of the bay window, and my husband's toy box from his childhood, covered with 1960's pirates and ships and flags, is serving as a coffee table. We still call it "The Pirate Room". 

It's another day when I miss having the boys at home.  Himself is working at home today, but he doesn't have the pirate knack.  His brother, who lives in Alaska, is an expert, but he's not here.  So I be talkin' to meself today and missin' the bairn (who be all grown up) and realizin' how important be tradition.  I be surprised every day at the silly things I be missin'!  Arrrrggghh.

I am not ready for the 21st Century.  I drive a standard shift car and write with a fountain pen when given the opportunity.  When I take notes at meetings I use a yellow legal pad.  Himself loads my iPod with songs to listen to at the gym.  And he bought me the iPod.  So when my birthday present last month was this laptop computer I had some very mixed feelings. 

We have a long-standing rule around here that presents cannot be practical and have electrical cords.  This rule came about when he gave me an electric toothbrush for Valentine's Day about twenty years ago, thus earning him the title "Captain Romance".  I told him the next gift with an electrical cord would find said cord wrapped around his neck while he slept.  And I guess he believed me, because this is the first time he's dared.  But it's growing on me.  I've given her a name (I'm keeping it a secret because my sons already think I'm strange).  She has made it vastly easier to start doing this blog, which I'm enjoying more than I thought I would.  But most importantly, she has enabled me to Skype.  As the kids on Facebook say, "Best. Present. Ever!!!" 

Yesterday afternoon I got to see my younger son in his dorm room in Ohio.  And he got to see me.  And we talked.  I felt like Jane Jetson.  This was our third time on Skype since he's been away, so it wasn't a total shock, but this was the first time that he actually looked happy.  He teased me and had the old twinkle in his eyes, and for the first time I heaved a sigh of relief and thought, "He's going to be just fine!" which was worth whatever Himself paid for this thing. Because the telephone is one thing, and notes are fine (oh who am I kidding...no college kid writes notes!), but a mother needs to see with her own eyes what the real story is. It only takes a look, but we need that look.  It wasn't as good as a hug, but I must confess that maybe the 21st Century has a couple of things going for it after all.  Good job, Captain Romance. 

I had the insurance money all spent this morning.  Himself went for a run.  Sundays are his "long runs" and I should know that.  If I make it through two miles I pat myself on the back and celebrate with a doughnut, but his long runs tend to be between fifteen and twenty miles.  On purpose.  Really.  But when he wasn't back in two and half hours my stomach started doing that "top of the roller coaster" thing and my breathing was getting painful.  Because the worst part about getting older is that you are in on "the secret."  Bad stuff does not just happen to other people.  Good people are not always protected by angels (at least not the way I think they should be).  And people we take for granted will always be there just won't.  I had pictured cars, heart attacks, and killer dogs.  I had police on the way to the house because they couldn't break such news to me over the phone.  Have I mentioned that I tend to be dramatic ?

Some of this comes from the recent loss of my darling friend Flanagan, who added so much joy to my days with his Irish fire and fury and fun.  Some of it comes from losing other people I love...young people..much younger than I am now.  Intellectually I have always understood the fact of human mortality.  I just didn't believe in it.  By the time you hit my age, however, it's rather difficult not to.  So no one (please believe me on this...NO ONE) leaves this house without a kiss and a hug and a prayer.  OK.  Maybe the Jehovah's Witnesses who interrupt my movie, but that's it.  I hug shy people, priests, gay people, poor people, rich people, people who need a bath (remember, my husband is a runner!), I hug them all.  It's not just that I am ridiculously friendly (although that is the rumor).  The reason is that I know as sure as I know my name that any goodbye could be the final one.  This sounds gloomy and depressing.  It's really not.  Think what the world would be like if we all remembered this every time we parted with someone we loved.  Think of all the stupid arguments we could avoid and the silly minutia that we could overlook.

So the worst part of getting older for me is the loss of the illusion of invulnerability.  My boys still both think they can fly and walk on water.  I envy them their ignorance and it worries me, too.  At the same time I am grateful for the knowledge, because it makes me pay attention almost all the time.  My motto is "Life is short and so am I."  It's only partially a joke.  Although I love to horrify people by telling them that if I were any shorter my hair would smell like feet.  But every day really is a gift.  Today's gift for me was the sound of the key in the lock when a very sweaty runner came through the door.  And if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go celebrate with a doughnut.

I don't indulge myself all that often.  I went through the entire summer with embarrassing toes peeping through my sandals, but yesterday I so needed a little pampering.  So while Himself was at work and after visiting my mother at the nursing home and trying to spoon in her lunch (whatever it was) I decided to go for it.  The immediate result was toenails that are a deep rose and look rather fashionable with my black sandals.  It was the feeling surrounding it that took me by surprise.

Like most women of my generation, I have  habit of putting myself last on the "to do" list.  The family comes first.  Himself, and the two boys, my mother, my mother-in-law, the local church, whatever.  They all seem to get my attention long before I do.  So when I actually got around to sitting down in the big chair with the massaging rollers making their way up and down my back and having the sweet Vietnamese teenager gently massage and tend to my feet I was a little surprised to find myself in tears.  You'd think it would be a pleasant experience, wouldn't you?  And you'd be right.  Except I realized that I'd been traveling at warp factor six away from the things that were bothering me.  I tended to them.  I took care of them.  I just didn't think about them.  When I stopped for a moment there was a massive highway pile up of stress.  I'm nervous about finding a new job.  I miss my two sons who are away at fabulous (expensive) schools.  I'm not nuts about watching my mother fade like a picture left on a windowsill too long.  And Flanagan went and died on me without saying "See ya!", the jerk! There's a lot going on and I need some tender attention from myself.  Flanagan always admonished me to "put my own oxygen mask on first" so I could take care of everyone else and I always waved away the suggestion with a "yeah, yeah, I know", but the truth is I need someone to remind me because I forget.  We all need to take care of ourselves first. 

And how are YOU doing on that score?  I have rose-colored toenails.  It's a start.

It's happened again.  They sneaked away when I wasn't paying attention.  I distinctly remember June, when I'd wake up at 4AM to trot down the hall (why do I keep having that late evening beer with Himself?) and being amazed at the racket that was coming through the window, absolutely guaranteeing that sleep would evade me for the next two hours.  And it was light already.  At 4AM.  That's the middle of the blooming night.  Since I wasn't sleeping anyway I lay abed and listened for a while, and I was charmed.  There was an amazing array of different songs.  I am always mystified at how such tiny vocal chords (I mean THINK about it) could create a sound that could carry so far.  Then the weather got warmer and I suppose the fans went in the windows, then the air conditioners took over for a couple of months so I could sleep, and now that I need neither I am aware of an eerie silence when I do my wee hour trot (pun intended).  Oh there is the odd crow, and the blessed faithful starlings and sparrows who stick around all year through thick and thin and snow.  There is even the occasional cardinal (non-denominational).  But the rich fabric of the morning has changed.

Those of us "of a certain age" as the French say (they make everything sound sexy) may remember the old Judy Collins song, "Who Knows Where The Time Goes?" which asks the question about the birds, "Ah, how can they know it's time for them to go?" and I often wonder the same thing myself.  Their brains can't be all that big, yet I hear about these incredible distances they travel without benefit of a GPS.  I must say, I am very impressed. But I'm always a little disappointed that I don't notice the transition.  When does the song start to thin out?  Do they post on Birdie Facebook in August "This is it.  Next Saturday.  Stock up on bugs."?  Do they have one last bash in the birch tree outside my window before taking off?  Or do they, like too many of my aging friends, just slip away quietly, one by one until I look around and realize that I'm not living in the same world anymore.  It's still nice but it's different.

Soon it will be time to close the windows altogether because the nights are getting so much cooler, and then even the crows will be muffled and maybe I'll get more sleep (if I knock off the late night brew with Himself), but I must confess that I'm already looking forward to the racket that will accompany the spring.  And this time I'll pay attention!

It's trash day and I'm missing "my staff."  Granted, the trash is a lot smaller when the boys are away at college, and also that I am quite healthy and capable of hauling the recycles and bins out to the curb, but it is still making me sad.  I'm finding that I don't like having less trash.  Or noise.  Or chaos.  I rather liked being the center of the cyclone, and now that it's quiet around here I need to figure out what my days will look like.  There is a loneliness involved in this. 

The fact that autumn is fast approaching is not helping a bit.  Fall is supposed to be the time of new notebooks, backpacks that would make a burro cry, and endless papers and forms to sign.  And it is.  But not here.  Not this year.  I am so excited that my sons are getting a great education at two very wonderful (and expensive...never forget expensive) schools.  People ask me how I am doing with the "empty nest."  I get the feeling that I should either respond to this with a tear in my eye and a quivering chin, or a lurid wink and the impression that my husband and I are chasing each other through each empty room of the house and rediscovering the wild passions of twenty years ago.  Neither one is quite true.  And each is a little true.  It's nice not having to figure out what I'm making for dinner for four and not having to play chauffeur (that's right...neither drives) to various and sundry social engagements that really mess up whatever it is I want to do.  And, yes, it's very nice not to worry about who is going to come bursting through the door when Himself is working from home and we "break for lunch", but the truth is the house does feel empty.  What is my purpose these days anyway, if it isn't to be "Mom"?  I could be cleaning up around here, but that doesn't strike me as particularly fulfilling...or likely.

l guess this is my "back to school" time for a change.  Time to figure out what it is I need to learn.  Learning something new always makes me feel better.  I picked up piano 7 years ago.  Maybe I'll dust off the Evening Programs catalog from the local high school and see what they have to offer.  Because the evenings are worse than the afternoons around here.  The storm door gets locked a lot earlier than it used to, because once Himself is back from work, or his run...we're all in for the night.