In 8 days my grocery bill will triple.

In 8 days my laundry will double.

In 8 days the noise in this house will move from silence to regular conversation.

In 8 days I will have to share the computer.

In 8 days I will have to consider his desires when choosing something on TV.

In 8 days he will make me laugh.

In 8 days he will tell me about his summer adventures.

In 8 days my joy will double.

In 8 days the love in this house will triple.

In 8 days he will hug me, if only reluctantly.

In 8 days, my boy comes home.

And then he drove me to the campus. And we got to see the golden dome.

And the Touchdown Jesus.

And he didn’t even know I’m a fan of Charlie Weiss and the Fighting Irish.

We love to go to the lake.
We’ve been to three different lakeside towns searching for our favorite beach. The water has been cold, too cold to entice us in for a dip, but we dip our toes in and watch the sunset and in between we talk for hours about nothing and everything.

Just a walk, side-by-side along the water, can do wonders.

We’re always amazed at the one-legged seagulls. (It’s a joke.)

God’s artwork in the sky.

Smiles and laughter.

(How come he’s exponentially more photogenic than I am?)

It’s selfish, I admit. But on most occasions when I miss my mother, I wish she could be back here with me, if only for a short while. I don’t wish her to be here suffering from cancer. I don’t wish her back if it means being in pain. But I wish her back. I want to introduce her to LM, to Birdy to George. I’d like to talk with her, hear her laugh, feel her hug.

Incomprehensibly, today marks the fifteenth anniversary of her death. Fifteen years. It can feel like yesterday and a lifetime ago all in the same blink.

But for the first time, the only time, that I’ve longed for her companionship like this, I don’t wish her back. Ever since my grandmother joined my mother in heaven this past January, I can only imagine the joy that abounds between the two. Finally reunited, physically healed, the laughter, the joy, the peace, must know no bounds. How could I ever wish that away from my mother?

For as much as I have missed my mom, I know she has missed hers. And her mother has longed to see her daughter again, just as I know my mom longs to see her children again – down the road.

Today, I celebrate that reunion in heaven. And I look forward to the day when I can join both of them in heaven, never to be apart again.

seems to be missing. I spoke with LM last night (you remember LM, right? My boy? The one who left for the summer just slightly taller than my sister and will return a whole foot taller than me? The one who has spent his summer reading books like “The Grapes of Wrath” and “Gulliver’s Travels” for his gifted class this fall? LM, the boy who forgets to call his mother for a week and then calls only to find out what razor number we use to buzz cut his hair? Yeah, that one.) I spoke with LM last night. And during the conversation I learned that his dad is currently working 14 hour days and expects to for the remainder of the summer.

So, can someone tell me, WHY ON EARTH IS MY SON THERE?!? Why didn’t my ex choose to have his son at the beginning of the summer (when LM was in Pittsburgh with my ex’s parents instead?) when he wasn’t so busy with work? Why is my son, the son I ache to see, spending his time with my ex’s PARTNER instead of with his mother?

There is a logic here I cannot follow. And a note I will definitely make for next year. Maybe it’s just because I miss him so terribly much. Maybe it’s because I got used to seeing him every single day. But this news, this information, just makes the ache that much worse. Of course, I cannot really say anything. When I moved LM out of state, I agreed the summers and vacations belonged to my ex so that he could spend time with his son.

This just isn’t what I had in mind.

It came yesterday; the first email to discuss plans to bring LM home. I’ll admit, my heart leapt just a little. While nothing is firm, and no official date set as of today, the end is beginning to come into light. It’s been 56 days already (but who’s counting?) and will be at least 70 or more before I set eyes on my more-than-likely-now-taller-than-me son.

But he’s coming home.

Soon.

It was easier, twenty years ago. This whole dating process was simpler although perhaps more dramatic.

It was enough, then, to know that he occasionally attended church. Now, I want to know which church, what beliefs, how strong is his faith, does he pray. It was enough then to know he wanted children – someday. Now I see him with his kids. I am witness to his parenting. I can see how it differs from my own.

It was enough, back then, to know he had career ambitions. Still working on his degree, his idea of a job was something that earned pizza and beer money. Now I want to know what has he been doing with his knowledge, where is he headed in his career aspirations. Has he planned for retirement?

It was enough, then, to hang out at all hours. To get together at 2 am for a donut run at Five Points. To eat a week’s worth of calories in one stop at Whitey’s Ice Cream. To be up all night playing Euchre, or sitting in the lounge watching late night TV. Now I’m accustomed to my own time, my own space. I have my own habits and desires. I want time to get ready and then time to be on my own. I want time together but balanced, measured. I still want my life. Apart.

It was enough then to not know who we would become. To sit in the hamster wheel at the park across the street and talk philosophically about the future. To know that we would grow and change and to simply believe it would always happen together. To not know what challenges the future would bring, what obstacles would be placed in our path. We were naive, and that was just fine. Now, we can see the battle scars. The fears from our past are tangible and present. We have become the people we only wondered about twenty years ago. For better and for worse and now we must face our own identities, our own shortcomings, our own disappointments as well as our successes.

It would seem an advantage now, to know who he is now, to see his career, his balance with family, his parenting. It would seem to answer all the What If questions from back then. But it doesn’t feel like an advantage. It feels like too much data. It is more difficult to know what information belongs on the scale and what doesn’t matter.

It is more difficult now, to know what is enough.

I feel in love with a man I barely knew 20 years ago, a man who barely even knew himself back then. When neither of us could have foreseen the future or our departure from each other. Now, love isn’t so easy, so straightforward, so basic. Now, love doesn’t feel so much like a blind fall, it feels like gradual steps, taken cautiously, carefully, with eyes wide open and hearts zealously guarded.

My brother called last night. It caught me off guard. I haven’t spoken to G in more than a month and had not programmed his new number into my phone so I didn’t realize who was calling before I had already answered.

We didn’t talk. I made some excuse, I told a lie, and I got off the phone as quickly as I had answered.

We’ve had a falling out. A major one. With details far too intimate to discuss on a blog. And the truth is, I haven’t gotten past it. I think I’ve actually forgiven him for his trespasses against me, to be honest. The problem I have, the hostility I continue to feel, is more for the way I feel he is currently still taking advantage of family. For his lack of appreciation. For his arrogance that with all the generosity that has been afforded him (despite the major issues) he is unwilling to do the small things asked of him.

And so there is silence.

I cannot listen to his chipper voice tell me about his job, his golf, his friends. I cannot respond with the appropriate “mmhmm’s” or “really?”‘s when all I want to do is scream.

I know this is my burden. I know it is my heart that has to bend. I know that I have to learn to love him again, as he is. But I get hung up. I get angry at his arrogance, his disrespect, his lack of appreciation, in particular for all that my dad is doing for him.

But a voice, in the back of my head is whispering. Is reminding. Is nudging.

How arrogant, how disrespectful, how unappreciative am I at times, perhaps most of the time, of my Father’s generosity, of His grace? How often is God frustrated with me for my complete lack of obedience, lack of gratitude for all that He does for me?

When I call, does God tell me He is just sitting down to dinner and will call me back?

Grace is receiving something you don’t deserve. A gift. It’s not a reward, it’s not something you could ever earn. It has to be undeserved in order to be grace. My dad is demonstrating grace to my brother.

My Father is demonstrating grace to me.

When will I learn how to demonstrate it to my own brother?

No 40th birthday would be complete without a proper celebration and our day away was not over until we went out for dinner at a local restaurant with a piano bar. Neither of us had ever been, but moments in the door we knew this would not be our last visit.

The pianists (three) were amazing. Putting my own playing skills far to shame they played, sang, entertained. The crowd laugh, gasped and sang along with every classic hit, every familiar tune, every joke they played. With no less than seven bachelorette parties in attendance, we were also entertained by more than our fair share of drunk brides-to-be. The pianists had no mercy for women wearing flashing penises.

We enjoyed dinner and drinks and the music. And when I spoke to the waitress about taking home a piece of cheesecake (TB’s favorite- as his birthday dessert) I inquired about a birthday announcement. She explained the process and told me $5 would get me an announcement and a song played, $10 would get him called up on stage.

I didn’t know him well enough to know which option to choose. I knew myself – call me up on stage and I’ll find the closest exit and hold a grudge for years. But TB? I decided to test the waters. I sat down next to him with the request form and asked him for his favorite song. Unable to come up with a good one for the situation, he finally just suggested anything by Chicago. I added a comment on the card that it was his 40th birthday celebration and walked up to place my request on the piano. It was during the walk up that I had to decide. $5, or $10? Announced or embarrassed?

I put a ten on the piano.

And when they called TB up to the stage, alongside another bachelorette, I started to worry. The other birthday celebrations had been fairly tame, but the bachelorette songs had been downright hysterical, at the expense of the bride-to-be (in each case they were far too drunk to remember it in the morning).

They had TB sit in a chair and told the veiled drunken wonder it was her job to give him a lap dance. TB was laughing and I breathed a sigh of relief that at least he was the passive member of this spectacle.

It was halfway through the song that I realized the trouble I had started. The pianist stopped and told the two on stage to switch positions. It was up to TB to show this bride how a lap dance was really done.

And show her he did.

I do not remember the last time I have laughed so hard. Or the last time I saw someone stand with such penache in a moment that might otherwise be a debacle. He hammed it up. He laughed and danced. He did the white man’s overbite and had the crowd cheering. He was, in the moment, perfect.

And I, I am just happy to have photographic evidence of it all.

Happy 40th Birthday, TB!!

(It should be noted that I have gone to extreme lengths to emphasize to TB that reciprocity, while considered fair play in this situation, will not go over well. I embarrass easily and I hold grudges.)

He had asked me a couple weeks ago, so very early in all of this, if I would go away with him. It had felt too soon, felt like too much, but he didn’t push, he just asked. Would I go away with him for the day, for his birthday?

And so I did.

We left on Saturday morning and he drove. I had guessed where he was taking me, to a place he went to as a child, a place he had been to a year ago but without joy. A place he wanted to experience again, experience together, experience the fun. It was great to talk during the drive, and to enjoy the silence, too. We arrived late morning on the most beautiful of all Saturdays. We walked the streets of the historic town. We browsed the shops and ate lunch on the patio. He held my hand and laughed with me. We walked and walked and with each step we grew closer. The memories he had of the place returned with the same joy.

We wandered around the largest Christmas store in the country. We talked about the holiday, of the importance of faith in our lives, in our children. It was amazing what conversations arose from looking at thousands of ornaments. Do you play an instrument? Have you always lived in this state? Do you decorate with white lights or colored? Nothing of such remarkably signficance, but all pieces of a puzzle that seems to be coming together too easily.

He challenged me to mini-golf, a choice he now regrets. I tried to warn him. I tried to tell him. But he’s a competitor, too. He had to learn the hard way. (I tried. I even played the back 9 left-handed.)

He indulged me at the outlet mall. I only wanted to browse Pottery Barn. Even though shopping isn’t his thing, he indulged me and ungrudgingly followed me into a half dozen stores.

We didn’t stay the night. We decided it was early enough to come back home. We stopped by his aunt’s to pick up his dog and then went out for the night to celebrate his birthday in style.

The day was so casual, so beautiful, so unremarkable that it was, well, remarkable. Thanks, TB, for a gorgeous day away with a great companion.