Full Moon

We broke the rules.  We knew it was wrong.  Worst part, we involved the children.

It really was out of our hands.  With spring break just over a week away, our original dog sitter experienced a family emergency. So we reached out to two boys in our neighborhood and asked them to come over and spend time with our puppy, Milo.  Sweet Milo is notorious for hiding in impossibly small spaces and refusing to come out - even for food - when strangers call.  Unfortunately, during both visits, Milo was decidedly, embarrassingly, very unfriendly with the boys.  So, when we woke up the morning of the trip, we knew what had to be done.  The baby was going with us to the "No Pets Allowed" vacation house.

And yes, we left the other two, best-behaved dogs, behind.

It was a long ride to the beach, with Milo in self-imposed exile under a car seat. Us humans had plenty time to develop a cover story in case we got busted.  In a nutshell, we decided "the dog is staying with friends on the island, and 'just happened' to be over for a visit" would be simple and believable.  We even stooped so low as to inform said friends so that they would now be complicit in our lies.

When we at last arrived, it was agreed that we would all take turns escorting Milo outside to the bathroom, every hour, to ensure no indoor accidents.  That night, he slept in his crate in the master bedroom.  Sure enough, in the wee hours, he started crying.  Hearing my husband snoring next to me, I decided to take one for the team, and I hustled Milo outside.

The wind was literally howling, which spooked us both, but Milo still managed to do his business by the light of the full moon.  I was feeling the call myself, and so, being cold and barefoot, in just a t-shirt and pajama pants, I was eager to get back inside.  Once I saw him do his slow little "back leg kick", I raced him up the steps to the house. I grabbed the door knob, turned it, and ... it didn't budge.

Sh*t.

Immediately I began a frantic run around the property, with Milo happily frolicking at my heels.  I tried every door I could find.  Locked, locked, lockedity, locked.  Panic began setting in as the winds rose to a fevered pitch and the temperature plummeted. I banged on doors and called out my family's names, but it was no good - my hands and voice turned raw as the screams of the night air drowned me out.  With hypothermia slowly setting in, I suddenly realized that my 45-year-old body, which had birthed two large babies, could no longer hold "it", and I needed to pee asap.

Yes, dear reader, there were two full moons that night.

After a humiliating and quite chilly squat in the trees, I resumed my self-rescue mission.  I next considered climbing.  If I could get up to the balcony off the master, I could wake my husband. But without shoes or a ladder, shimmying up a pole promised splinters in very bad places.  I did throw a pine cone up there, but pitifully, it barely cleared the railing.

Finally acknowledging defeat, I moved into survival mode. It was time to build a shelter. 

Milo and I investigated a screened porch on the ground floor, and lucked on to some accent pillows.  After a quick search of a utility closet (which was too small for me to get into  --- yes, I tried) we hit jackpot with a lounge chair cushion.  So, we created a fort, pressed up against a glass door looking directly into the warm foyer, shielded from the monsoon by nothing more than a screen and a prayer.

You learn a lot about yourself trapped in the wild.  You discover just what you're made of; if you have the raw strength to survive.  And ultimately, you hope your family won't feel too guilty when they find you petrified under a table with a yippy dog licking your frozen tears.

I eventually grew tired of feeling sorry for myself and watching Milo press his little paws up against the window. So I decided to recommit to a last-ditch effort at salvation. Making a mental map of the house, I grasped at straws and hoped that there might be another door on the upper deck that I didn't try.  Throwing off my pillows, I roused Milo and we made a final attempt to get back inside. 

We raced up the steps to the deck.  I found a door!  I grabbed the knob, turned it and ... EUREKA!!!!!!!!  WE WERE SAVED!!!!!!

Just as we triumphantly entered the bedroom, I heard my husband's cell phone ringing.  It was my daughter.

Me: "I'm fine, I'm fine, tell her I'm fine."
Him: "What?" Hello?"

 - pause -

Him: "I don't know."
Me: "I got locked out.  I'm fine now."
Him: "She got locked out ... I don't know how.  Go back to bed."

 - snore -

I looked at my cell phone and it was after 4:30 a.m.  I had a text from my daughter at 4:00 a.m. "Why are you calling me?"

Um, no reason.

Sliding under the sheets, with the sensation slowly coming back into my feet, a feeling of immense relief washed over me, and I was finally able to go back to sleep.

There are a lot of important lessons I learned from my near-death experience, the most impactful one being that my family has no compassion and they think I'm a complete idiot.  Such fools - they just haven't reached enlightenment like me and Milo.

Until next time, keep crowin' and always know your key code!


P.S.  We did get busted with the dog, but the property manager bought our story and he and my husband came to a "bro code" agreement!

The Dog Universe

After a roughly 20-year hiatus, I decided to revive my tennis career.  I was missing the sport, and the exercise, and the socialness of the game.  I was also, apparently, missing my body from 20 years ago.  Because immediately following my team’s second practice, I had to send my racquet back into hibernation, after going for a forehand and hearing an unmistakable “crack” inside my right shoe.

As luck would have it, this mishap coincided with my family’s upcoming spring break trip to Edisto Island in South Carolina. I certainly couldn’t tell my two kids that the beach was cancelled, and I was getting tired of rolling around my house in an office chair, so I had to get creative.   After a few sketchy searches on the internet, I eventually met up with a man in a McDonald’s parking lot in Woodstock, who rented me a wheelchair from the back of his pick up truck.

Once on the island, my husband had the unenviable daily task of getting me down the long stairs of our house, wheeling me up the bumpy street, pushing me over the unyielding sand walkway, dragging me backwards over the broken oyster shells that lined the beach, and then parking me far enough away from the tide so that I didn’t rust my borrowed chair.

One day, as I entered about the third hour of ennui while watching my kids play in the water, I saw a man come buzzing along the shore on a golf cart. Seated next to him was a cute little dog, clearly enjoying the ride, despite the fact that it had an enormous cone of shame around its head. This unusual, unexpected scene gave me a much-needed chuckle.  Surely, the universe was reaching out to pat me on the head and tell me that I was not alone in my pitiful state – that I had a kindred spirit in this fellow injured soul.

So imagine my pure delight when, a few minutes later, the little cone dog came trotting back down the beach, exploring his domain like an upside down martini glass.  As he drew closer to my family, I could see he was taking an interest in the kids’ activities, and then -- his sights turned to me.  My hopes rose as he approached me without fear, no doubt sensing our common bond.  I spoke to him lovingly, his eyes met mine, and then ever so slowly, without leaving my gaze, he lifted his leg, peed all over me, and then sauntered off.

Turns out, the universe was giving me a pinch, not a love pat.

I really wanted that dog to like me.  I really wanted him to jump up in my lap and let me scratch his tummy and then settle in for a cozy afternoon nap. I wanted him to put his cone head up to mine and give me little dog kisses.  I really wanted us to be soulmates.

Maybe it was because my kids were having a great time without me, and I was feeling lonely and sorry for myself.  Or, maybe I was disappointed that my injury had not earned me some well-deserved good karma.  Regardless, my ego was crushed, because let’s face it, if a cute puppy comes for you, then you have probably hit rock bottom.

Somehow, though, I managed to survive the humiliation and enjoy the rest of the trip, despite the fact that we met another animal during our stay --- one that goes by the name of lice. 

Fast forward to today - all of my bones are currently intact, but I find myself relating back to that “broken Alison.”  My two kids are now teenagers. My daughter is about to graduate high school and move far away.  I officially have begun the stages of empty nest syndrome, because even though my kids are still physically in the house, mentally, my daughter is like that Eagle’s song – “already gone.”  And my son, while just a freshman, has decided that there are some things he definitely no longer wishes to discuss with me.

That’s where my dogs come in.  I have three of them of varying size, age and personality, and I really need them to like me right now.  I really need them to jump up in my lap and let me scratch their tummies and give me dog kisses so we can all settle in for a cozy afternoon nap.  I need the universe to just chill for a minute, and send me a sign that despite the fact that soon I will be once again observing my kids from afar, I am going to be ok.  I need to know that I can pick myself back up, wipe the pee off my leg, and keep on wheelin’.  And once my nest is actually empty, I am probably going to need another dog.

Until next time, keep crowin' - and find a cute puppy to love on!

Thank you to Story Sisters Live for letting me share this "tail" in front of a lovely audience!

The Perfect Starbucks

It's 2018, and people around the world are making resolutions, pledging to do better, be better, in this new year.  There are a lot of things I could put on that list, but they would all pale in comparison to what I achieved on December 29, 2017.  On that date in history, I found the perfect Starbucks.

I wasn't looking for it - but good things often happen when you least expect them.  It wasn't even my goal to achieve.  My daughter has been on this quest all year, driving from east Cobb to east Atlanta to find her little cup of heaven and just the spot to set up her laptop. I would ask her, often, why she was driving 15-20 miles for a Triple Berry Hibiscus, when she could practically walk to one of the four Starbucks within two miles of our house for the same drink.  Her response was always, "You just don't get it.  They aren't the same." 

She was right - I didn't get it.  Why venture out so far when what you want is right in front of you?

And then like a sunbeam breaking through a storm cloud, or the hallelujah of a celestial choir, the truth was revealed to me.

It was a cool, bright Friday morning in downtown Atlanta.  My husband and I had just celebrated our 21st anniversary with a staycation in Buckhead, and were taking a detour so he could do a site visit before we headed home.  He had been tasked with inspecting the Peach Drop set up at the Flat Iron Building, but it was a restricted area, so I had to wait for him outside.  We walked together to the building, joined by a parade of pigeons who were clearly expecting a treat.

As luck would have it, there was a Starbucks right across the street. It was tucked in a corner, part of a larger office building.  The outside was made up of a long expanse of windows, painted with festive holiday images.

I walked in, sunlight everywhere, was greeted warmly, and ordered my usual chai tea latte.  I then found a seat at a high bar, facing the window and the street. I could feel the sun on my face, see the trees rustle in the wind, watch the people walking by - and the pigeons still looking for their breakfast. It was quiet and peaceful. I pulled out my cracked Ipad and a story I had been working on, and reached for the latte. 

It was at that moment that I noticed the name printed on my cup.  "Alison".  A miracle.  A-L-I-S-O-N --- my name, spelled absolutely correct.  Not Allison, or Alyson, or Allessin, but Alison.

And that's when I knew.  This place was clearly special - or, dare I say - perfect.  Let's face it, there is something cosmically gratifying about a barista spelling your name right.  Fresh with inspiration, and with a cleansing, deep breath, I turned back to my story, absorbing the sounds around me.  A man next to me was on the phone, talking to someone about sending them a package, and explaining about his legal name change and how he had never met his father.  Two other men came in with delightful British accents, ordering their coffee like proper gentlemen.  I joyfully texted my daughter a photo of my view, pleased to actually be able to speak "Starbucks" with her.  I finally got it.

 

I was so very content, and making progress on my story when my husband suddenly snuck up on me at the window, done way too soon with his site visit.  Reluctantly, I packed up my gear, wishing I could stay longer and keep this feeling going.  But, my life in the 'burbs was calling, and, relaxed and refreshed, I was ready to get back to reality.

Yes, Virginia, there is a perfect Starbucks.  But it is different for each person.  Mine created a zen moment for a chaotic mind, and gave me a chance to center and regroup.  Yours might be a bustling, two story mini-city full of interesting characters and a few chummy regulars.  Whatever it is, make 2018 the year that you step out and create those spaces for yourself, somewhere you can regain your footing and discover something new.

Until next time, keep crowin' and - treat yourself to a venti!

Poop in the Pool

The following post was a story I told at a "Listen To Your Mother" event earlier this year.  So, just imagine it with hand gestures. ;)

When my son was 4, I enrolled him in swimming lessons at the same time as his older sister.  It was a small class, taught by an energetic, one-legged young man whose personality filled the room.  He would get distracted talking with the other parents while the kids swam, so it was bound to happen that one day, my son took one too many laps, and just got plumb tuckered out. When the instructor pulled him out of the pool and saw a tint of brown mixed with the water running down his leg, he immediately screamed, “That’s poop!”

In sheer panic, I scooped up my son and raced to the bathroom, where, yes indeed, he had gone #2 in his pants.  He was crying, I was panicked, and the next few minutes were a blur of cleaning him up, watching the evacuation of the pool, making apologies, negotiating with the manager, and sitting in humiliation as my daughter finished her lesson in the now overflowing second pool.
My son and I were completely mortified, and I believe I drank my weight in tears that evening.

And although I tried to put on a brave face, I felt so horrible about what happened, that I never took him back to the swim school, and even today, I still avert my eyes when I drive past it.

Boy, did I feel guilty.  I was supposed to protect him from such disasters, and I let him down.  But it toughened me up for the next crisis, right?

Wrong.

When my daughter was in 7th grade, she became ill and just couldn’t shake it.  So, we went through a battery of tests, which, you guessed it, involved poop.

The doctor wanted to test her “business”, so I collected it, put it in a baggie, and drove it over to the lab.  I hustled to the door, and just my luck, they were on a lunch break.  This meant that I had the distinct pleasure of standing for an hour in front of a locked door with a clear bag of poop in my hand, nodding hopefully at the employees as they came in and out with their sandwiches. When I was finally granted entry, I received a look of horror when I explained what I had (which had now gotten a little warm) – and I found myself, once again, apologizing for my child’s poop.

As my kids have grown up, they have dealt with increasingly larger and more complex issues. Some of them have been typical teenage challenges, like puberty, friend drama, and the pain of first heartbreak.  Others have been completely overwhelming mental and physical setbacks that have taken our family in directions I could never have anticipated nor prepared for.

Sigh.  I miss the poop.

The guilt that weighs on me, and has kept me up every night for the last 16 years, is the difficult acceptance that I can’t bubble-wrap my children to protect them from the unpleasantness of life.  They will often face problems that I can’t solve.  Sure, I can give advice, buy the medicine, get the best books on the subject, but sometimes – well, many times – I have had to confess to them, “I can’t fix it.”
It has been frustrating, to say the least.  But it has also opened up a new chapter in my relationships with my son and daughter.   They are learning, albeit the hard way, how to stand on their own two feet, how to weather a storm, and how to accept the bad but keep looking for the good.  And slowly, vey slowly, I am learning how to support them without taking over, and giving them space to find their own way.  Will I ever stop worrying?  Nope.  Will I ever not feel guilty when I can’t save the day?  Probably not.  But, what I can do is hug them and kiss them, and laugh and cry and yell with them.  And I can stay just close enough so that they know they only need to reach over and my hand will be there, ready to hold, the next time the poop hits the fan.

---------------------

Until next time, keep crowin'

We Came Home

It was the morning of our 20th anniversary trip, 6 months late.  We had been trying to find a free-ish weekend, and my mother-in-law happened to be coming to town, so it was perfect.

I stumbled outside with the puppy to make sure he made his one outside poop of the day.  He refused, and raced back into the house.  I ran after him, lost my footing on the deck stairs, and ripped a few holes in my right leg.

The pain was excruciating, and panic flashed through my mind - what about the trip?  But, after I wrapped my leg in paper towels, and  made sure I couldn't see bone, I resolved that this was not worth cancelling our big weekend.  This was just one little thing.

So, I settled in to my day, and waited for my son to get home from basketball training.  When he walked in, I could feel the heat emanating off of him.

"Mom, I think I have a fever."

Definitely, he did.  This was a larger problem.  I could hobble my way through the weekend, but could I really leave a sick child behind?  My mother-in-law assured us that she was fine with it - he was just going to lay in bed all day anyway. So, this was just a second little thing.  We had not hit the "bad luck three" yet, so we were still good to go.

Thus, with reluctance and a dampened mood, my husband and I set off for the hour-long drive to our little oasis.

We made it about 5 miles.

Cell phone rings. It's my daughter.

"Mom?  We were leaving the restaurant and trying to turn but someone hit us and I need you to tell the EMT that I am fine and don't need treatment."


-----------

We pulled over into a parking lot, where I tried to come back down to earth and have a lucid conversation with an affable, deeply Southern, paramedic. He cheerfully assured me my daughter was 100% fine.  Walking around, talking normally, all good. I made her FaceTime us to show us her actual body.  She told us that everyone was intact, that they were just a little shaken up. She insisted she would feel miserable if we cancelled our trip.

My husband and I sat in the parking lot debating what to do.  We called his mom to tell her the news.  Within minutes of hanging up, our son texted us:

"That was number three."

There's an old story about a man stuck on his roof as the flood waters swirl around him.  A rowboat, motorboat, and helicopter all come by, but the man refuses, saying that he was praying to God, who would save him.  Well, he drowned, and when he got to heaven and asked God why He didn't come to his aid, God explained to the idiot that he sent three pretty big signs of help.

Despite knowing this story, and The Rule of Three, my husband and I took a deep breath and continued our trip.

I know we shouldn't have.  I know we should have turned around and gone home. But with the assurance from both kids that they were fine, we made the selfish choice.  We never have date nights, we never go away together, and the next opportunity wasn't even on the horizon. So we went.

It was a lovely little modern dwelling, courtesy of AirBnB, set amongst a green, organic, artsy-fartsy, farm-to-table settlement.  We enjoyed a drink on the porch, and a delightful dinner at a charming restaurant.

Then we came back to our love nest.

The first sign of trouble was dog poop on the walkway.  Then, upon opening the door, we discovered that the unit above us was now inhabited by some type of monstrous creatures, clearly engaged in an angry ritual dance that likely involved dead bodies.

I contacted our host, who was super sorry, who had received complaints from other visitors, and who had now updated the listing, and said - I quote - "But that doesn't really help you, does it?"

The noise died down that night, but picked back up again with an impressive fury the next morning at 7:00 a.m.  I complained again, and received an auto-notification of a partial refund.

My husband asked me, "Is this number four?"  To which I replied, "No, we have started back over, and this is number one."

We called home and turns out, the kids weren't fine.  My son still had a fever, and my daughter confessed that she had lied, that the accident had been very traumatic, she actually had to help pull the driver from the car, another friend might have a broken bone, and she was sore and scared.

We weren't going to wait for number three this time.  We left immediately.

But not before I bagged up all the dog poop and left it in a Kroger bag on our neighbors' steps.

After the dust settled, and my kids were on the other side of these setbacks, I needed time to process everything.  I was very disappointed in how the trip turned out, and in myself for even going in the first place.

But then I realized, this is exactly what it means to share a life with someone for 20 years. It can be messy and stressful and the hits just keep coming, but my husband and I can take a look at these two decades and feel extraordinarily lucky that we made it through together.  And we can remind each other of the happy stuff too --- our kids are in good places right now, we just had a wonderful family trip out west, and my husband and I still love each other.

The anniversary may have sucked, but this life does not.

Until next time, keep crowin' and watching for signs!

Pink Toes

The boys are away at a basketball tournament this weekend, so my daughter and I decided to get our nails done.  She said she "knew a place," and after a bit of a wander (typical Carolyn, saving that for another blog post), we found it. We walked into the biggest nail salon I have ever seen, but were greeted within minutes and sent to our respective stations.  I was matched with a lovely man for a pedicure, but no sooner had I sat down than I realized the lady sitting next to me was engaged in a loud conversation via headset.  

"Mark, you told Steve you didn't want primary custody.  Are you telling me now there is a disconnect?  very brief pause  "But you don't do all the technical things with the kids - Lori does all that.  Are you going to start doing them?  very brief pause  "Well then you can't leave the house if you want primary custody.  Do you understand what that means?  Mom and Dad and I have talked about this."  very brief pause  "Mark, I can't hear you.  It's not you, it's me.  I have mitts on and can't turn up my ear buds. Ok, bye."

Deep breath, and peace was restored.  I reminded myself of the importance of being patient and empathetic with my fellow human beings. That lasted for three minutes, until MARK CAME INTO THE SALON.

He walked up, his sister invited him into "her office" and he sat down on the swivel chair in front of her. They proceeded to discuss the terms of his custody arrangement, Lori's credit card debt, the fact that he was much older than Lori and now had a girlfriend, how karate wasn't working out for his son, how his daughter needed counseling, how Lori had grabbed Mark during an argument, and the fact that their father played racketball the morning of my new pedi friend's wedding.  This conversation was made more difficult by the fact that Mark appeared to be hearing impaired, so his sister had to be loud enough, and enunciate well, so he could understand her.

This lasted through the entirety of the best pedicure I have ever had, hands down.  The man gave me a neck massage that changed my life.  He insisted on scrubbing my callouses.  And he pretended not to notice that I needed to shave my legs.

Mercifully, the embattled sibling duo finally got up and left the salon.  At which point, I involuntarily blurted out to my pedicurist, "Oh my God!  Talk, talk, talk!"  

And then, deliciously, he nodded enthusiastically and said, "Yes, she start talking the minute her foot hit water."  At the same time, an impeccably dressed young woman, seated nearby, who had been very attentively overseeing the mani/pedi of her elderly mother came over to me "I felt so bad for you!  I was just hoping that you were ok!  I mean, some people come here to relax!"

It was a connection that completely made up for the disruption.  I sat down next to the dutiful daughter to dry my toes, and we talked about being "stuck" in awkward situations.  Then we talked about her mother and how she brings her to the salon once a month, and makes sure the technicians know not to give her a massage or rub her feet, and which colors she likes. We parted ways wishing each other well, the pedicurist gave me a loving pat, and I knew I had had a moment.

Should I have leaned over to the Mouth Of The South and said, "Please excuse me, but I am afraid I can hear your personal business.  I hope you don't mind waiting until I leave so you can have some privacy."

Maybe? Probably? I don't know.  The entire section was held hostage by this woman's personal drama.  I have never heard of divorce mediation taking place in a massage chair, but perhaps they were oblivious.  Or, perhaps they were just obnoxious narcissists who assumed we were all on bended ear.

There were two types of people in this story.  Those who spoke without listening, and those who listened without speaking.  Mark and his sister failed to hear how their noise was disrupting the silence of the salon, and my fellow sufferers and I failed to tell them to shut up.  

We can't change people, but we can change how we react to them.  I am glad I didn't make a scene, and I am equally glad that my pedicurist, the good daughter, and I turned that mess into a truly human moment together. That is what we should seek out --- connection, not conflict.  

Until next time, keep crowin', and treat yourself to some pink toes like I did!

Alison Paul

Listen to This

I hear a car pull up the driveway, and soon the kitchen door slams.  A familiar voice calls out to me.

Daughter:  Mom, listen to this.
Me:  (deep breath as I swivel around in my chair)  Tell me.

There are three things I know when it comes to my daughter:

1.  Never take my bra off  - she hosts guests without prior warning.
2.  Always have cash - there is usually an immediate, dire need.
3.  When she says "listen to this", be ready for anything.

Sometimes, what she asks me to listen to is how she got a good grade on a test she thought she'd bombed, or the latest shade on Instagram.  Many times, however, it is bigger, heavier stuff, so I have to be on my toes.

Listening is easy.  Hearing is much harder. 

When my daughter talks to me, sometimes she is drowned out by the dialogue going on inside my head, "We need to get a tutor ... she can never speak to that person again ... I'm calling the doctor ..."

I have to constantly remind myself to really listen - to receive the information before I notify the authorities and the local news.

There is a proper way to listen to a person, to hear their words and find a way to connect, appreciate, and communicate back.  And I had the most profound opportunity to listen with that type of purposeful intent this afternoon.

It was my first rehearsal for Listen To Your Mother, a show where 13 women from all walks of life will take the stage and open a brief window into their world.  I got glimpse of that world today --- and the energy, the emotion, and the pureness of our time together deeply affected me.  Of the seven readings given, all I can say is this - I heard you.  I heard the deep, expansive, deafening cry of women as single mothers, adoptive mothers, daughters and aunts.  I heard the struggle of women trying to connect with mothers long passed, or mothers whose choices were a mystery until we were old enough to understand.  I heard the pain of raising children in a world that can be volatile and cruel.  And, I heard the joy of memories that comfort us on tough days. 

And that was just part of the group.  I read last, and let me tell you, I was completely intimidated, but at the same time, honored to share the same energy with these beautiful women, and for them to hear my words. 

Listen.  Let someone hear you.  We all have a really good story to tell.

Until next time, keep crowin'!