julierichmond

Last night was Halloween, and we were lucky. Milton, Massachusetts wasn’t forced to cancel it like many of the other towns in our area.

Katy went dressed up as a pirate. This was her third time wearing her nautical ensemble and I am proud to say, Wednesday afternoon all pieces of her costume were intact. (I seriously doubted that the eyepatch would make it longer than a day.)

Colin is twelve. Last year was his last year trick or treating. The year before that, he made the same announcement. Last night, before donning his hat, more Indiana Jones than Freddy Krueger, he announced that this was definitely his last stroll around the streets in search of candy and quarters. He went out with a gang of friends before I even made it home from school. (This was the first time he had made the promise via text message. I will save it. Forever.)

I took Tue and Katy out, this is probably the last year I will lurk in the shadows next to a dancing dog, watching them trip up stairs. Every other house, “Don’t forget to say thank you!”

We finished at about 8, I charged the girls about 3 kit kats apiece and I don’t even want to remember how many Reeses. About fifteen minutes later, another knock on the door. Colin was there, surrounded by five or six other boys, all wearing vague costumes that relied heavily on rubber masks and sweat shirts. I held out our plastic pumpkin, offered what was left of the candy to Col and his friends.

Fifteen minutes later, Colin came rushing in. “Mom, that was so great.” “You had a good time?” I asked. I’m studying interpersonal communications at school, getting quite good at conversation. “You were the best mom we saw tonight.” “Thanks, Col-” before I could continue building on my meaningful dialogue with my son he interrupted- “You didn’t embarrass me at all.”

Oh, the glow I got. And it wasn’t from the full moon.

I was in my bathroom, thinking about my nose, it’s too short, and my eyelashes, also too short, when I noticed… in the bowl with our toothbrushes and toothpastes, there was one singular tube where before there had been at least two or three. Katy doesn’t brush with Dora Gel, Colin no longer uses the extra flouride bubblegum goo; they are both brushing with my Crest.

This brought me to thinking about all of things that we, as a family, have started to let go of. Chicken nuggets are a thing of the past, we have chicken, baked chicken, chicken and pasta, oven fried, and chicken tacos, but no more nuggets. In my car, no more car seats, haven’t had them for a long time, but also no juice boxes tucked in the pockets, or highlights magazines on the seats. No ziplock bags of snacks stuffed in the console, no cheerios on the floor.

Mostly, these days we like the same movies and the same ESPN. When we go for walks, they don’t shadow my steps, asking every six minutes if we can stop and look for snakes. When we go out for dinner, they are the ones that keep me from letting the waitress bring one more bowl of popcorn before dinner. “Mom, do you really need it? Really?”

Colin is twelve and Katy is eight. When I want to go out for a while, I don’t look for a sitter. I don’t make those phone calls “Danielle, would you mind if my daughter…”  Colin stays home with her.

We have seamlessly transitioned into a family of four instead of one that defines itself as two adults and two children. Yes, my kids will always be my children, but I no longer have to worry about snacks, or remind them about homework, or buy 3 tubes of toothpaste because Katy will only brush with Dora, Colin likes bubble gum. We all like Crest.

I’m not sure when it changed. Maybe it was around the time I outlawed Barbie movies, or Burger King, or food in the car. It’s made shopping easier and it’s a helluva lot nicer to hang out with them. I just wish I could remember the exact moment that our lives moved into this phase. We have conversations instead of exchanges that used to weighted heavily with whining and/or speeches, (by both sides!)

I don’t miss the car seats, ambiguous poultry, and little kid habit of watching the same movie 62 times in a row. I do miss always having to take Katy to the bathroom after dinner to wipe off her chin, sticky with ketchup while she looked at me with an expression that told me that  she truly believed I was the only one in the world capable of cleaning her face. “Thanks, mommy. I’ll try not to do it again.” And we’d both laugh, knowing that Katy, with her unparalleled love of the stuff, would definitely do it again.

She doesn’t do it anymore. At age eight Katy decided she was giving up the dipping method in regards to burger condiments, so she is no longer stained by dessert. I guess the only thing I do miss about those days was that look . II’d glimpse a variation on her face when she watched me pop corn on the stove- “Your the only one that does this, Mommy. Everyone else just uses their Microwave!” I’d fined that expression in Colin’s eyes when I helped him with a paper, or laced up his skates- “Mom, how do you do that so fast?”

But today I got a new look from Colin and Kate. They were hovering over my shoulder while I was on the computer taking care of some studying. Colin asked if he could see my grades. So I showed him what I’ve gotten so far. Straight A’s. (Two of my professors actually haven’t put any of my homework grades on line, those A’s were just for showing up to class.) “Wow, mom,” Colin said quietly. “Wow, mom!”, Katy said not quite so quietly. “You’re doing so good, we didn’t even help you study!”

I miss the old look I guess, sometimes, when I feel the need for eyes to gaze at me with awe, I was Superwoman, Betty Crocker and Florence Nightingale in one. That was nice.

But during our latest moments tonight I saw on their faces respect and pride. I have to tell you, so far I think I like this phase best.

This morning I woke and the first thing I took note of, after I dealt with my immediate need to pee, was my mouth. My lips hurt, they felt cracked and dry on my tongue. I went to the mirror, the dry air of fall had taken it’s toll. They were almost cracked, looked parched and appeared to belong to a much older woman. I found a pot of chap stick and smoothed it on. I went back to the mirror for one more inventory.

My mouth looked better, but I’d gotten paler than I remembered. It was like I’d scrubbed off my tan with bleach. I was pasty, a resident of the underground, one of the mole people.

I had some time so I went to work. I exfoliated with a exfoliation scrub, moisturized with a lightly tinted moisturizer. I slid lipstick on, the color of wine to make my mouth look  like I’d just eaten a plate full of berries. I patted on blush, just the way someone at Clinique had instructed many, many years ago, b.c., (before children). I curled my eyelashes, not sure why, probably that same woman at Clinique. Next I rummaged around until I found mascara. My eyelashes were looking sparse this morning, or maybe they always do. I was just looking more closely than usual.

Now that my lips were shiny, and my cheeks rosy, my eyelashes dark and curly, it was time for the hair. It’s not my hair. It is a creature in it’s own right with definite opinions and moods that most often have nothing to do with my own. It was not pleased when it was treated to some quality time with the hot iron. After the hair had been straightened it suffered the further indignity of hair spray.

Face, check. Hair, better, I guess. Downstairs I went. I was wearing my skinny jeans to make my legs look longer and, you are so smart, skinnier. There was a special bra tucked underneath 87 unmatched sports socks. I put that on.  My chest, I don’t think perky would be my adjective, but my chest definitely had a slightly uplifted attitude. Shoes, boots, two inch heels. Earrings. Perfume to cover up hairspray;.

It took me about an hour to look tan, berry fed, unchapped, untangled, a little sleeker, a few inches taller, with a mildly assertive rack. There was a lot I could have done in that hour.I could have cleaned one child’s bedroom, packed away my cd’s, started a loaf of whole grain bread, redone my resume, called my insurance company…

The older I get the more effort it takes to look different than I look in the morning. I’m not sure better is the right word, though I guess, now that I remember my first glimpse in the mirror, it is actually, a huge improvement.

I didn’t become a dog lover until I was in my forties. When I want to feel beautiful, and don’t want to make an effort, I say to Sophie the WonderPup,  “let’s go.” If I don’t want to go anywhere, and sometimes I don’t, I say “Sophieeeeeee.”

When I see myself in her eyes, regardless of my hair, or my breath, or my poorly maintained pedicure, I am beautiful. I am a goddess.

I really like people a lot and I am sincerely hoping  pale medium height women over forty  with sparse eyelashes and mindful hair comes into fashion.  Sophie isn’t the most scintillating at conversation, though better than some, and I’m short on time and a little bit lazy.

Today is Katy’s 9th birthday.

It is a gloomy, cold first day back to school after a long holiday weekend kind of day. I have to go to my work/study job so there won’t be any cupcakes delivered at lunch time. When it was time to wake her up, Katy’s dad was already at work and her brother was down the the street waiting for the school bus to Middle School.

So it was just me  creeping into her room at 6:45 singing “happy birthday”. In one hand, I held first morning coffee, in the other,  a partly unwrapped parcel from her grandma and grandpa. She looked happier to see me than she usually is first thing, but I think that’s because she was still in a state of bliss over her newly pierced ears.

I know that in the years to come, hell maybe even by next month, that things won’t be so easy between us. I know that she will begin that process of separating from me by flinging insults at my head and rolling her eyes every time I say anything. I know that doors will be slammed and my name will be whispered like a curse. I know this will all be part of her establishing who she is apart from who I am, and that it might be exceptionally horrid because so far, we have been incredibly close.

So I’m going to write this right now for you, Katy, to read then. Katy, my dear, you are a rock star and a princess. You are magic, and messes, slower than syrup and sweeter than honey. . You deserve a parade and a bouncy castle and the best I can do is spaghetti for dinner and an ice cream cake from Stop and Shop.

I wish for you the best year ever. And know that even when you want to jump on my head, or wipe the smile from my face, or deny that we ever shared a snuggle or a piece of quiche, I’m not going anywhere.