Birthday

I am turning forty-five today.

I have noticed a few gray hairs. And there was that fateful afternoon last summer when a friend asked me what was that on my face? (THAT was the deep vertical pillow mark that runs from my right eyebrow to my cheekbone and seems to be taking longer to disappear after each nap). I have gathered a couple of pounds around the waist. Nothing dramatic, my sweetheart thinks I look “gorgeous baby, just gorgeous”, but it bothers me nonetheless.

I am writing off the joint aches to too much knitting and walking. I am not ready for Geritol.  And I went to dinner last night in my pink platform shoes and flower pants.

- “Are these pajamas?” my son asked.

- “They are happy pants.”

I need as much happiness as I can reap.

Sunday will be the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. With middle age comes the reality of losses. My parents sent a card and money from the sale of my grandparents’ garden, a bittersweet gift. My grandparents’ house and garden were a big part of my childhood and what I consider “home”; I have trouble grasping that they are gone.  I dread giong back to Dunkirk and being unable to ring the doorbell of my grandparent's home - or worse ringing the doorbell and finding a house full of strangers.  And what will happen my parents go away? Where will “home” be then?

This year also marks my twenty-third in the Unites States, meaning that I’ve now spent more years in this country than I have in France. I speak, dream, write and think in English. I get anxious about making mistakes when I speak with my new French friend Karine.  I secretely consult the French dictionary for words I learned in second grade.  I eat tacos and burgers more often that I taste camembert.  The Americans think I am French but the French call me “The American”.  Who am I really?

I am middle-aged in search of "home".

Spring Sprint Rumor

Spring isn’t much to look at in Houston, but our family has its own rewarding rite of renewal: the bi-annual negotiation of our cell phone contract. My daughter awaits the event with the fervor of an Icelander awaiting the first glimpse of sunshine over the North Pole.

She starts shopping for a new phone around Thanksgiving. By mid-February I am receiving weekly reminders from both her and the cell phone company. This year, both agreed that I should be buying twin Rumor phones with handy little keyboards that can easily handle the 7,000 or so text messages that my daughter sends and receives every month. (We signed up for unlimited text messages sometime right after the stone age of unlimited Sprint to Sprint calling. From then on, our life – and my daughter’s thumbs – have never been the same.)

I didn’t want a Rumor but I had no choice but buy two identical phones for the ridiculously low price of $49.99. My beloved Stan was beside himself:

- “I’ll be able to text you. FINALLY!”

- “I don’t text.”

- “Oh, but now you will. Here, let me show you.”

And he gratified me with a handy thumb-typing tutorial.

- “This is awkward.”

- “You’ll get used to it.”

By Saturday, I had used nine of my monthly allotment of 100 text messages. Six messages were to pledge my undying love to Stan, three were to arrange a meeting with a friend.

On Sunday, I discovered that God had gifted humanity with text messaging as a failsafe device for parents to communicate with their teenage children.

- “I forgot to buy ice,” I told Stan that morning while preparing Easter dinner.

- “Ask Isabel to bring some.”

- “She won’t pick up. She’s having breakfast with her dad.”

- “Text her.”

- “You think so?”

- “That’s the only way to talk to kids these days. They won't pick up but they'll always text back. Just make sure you use abbreviations. They hate it when you spell every word.”

I cringed: “ It’d be gr8 if u could pls bring 2 bags of ice with u. Luv.”

Within ten seconds, a pleasant female voice announced that I had a message: “O.K. but only if you start using correct grammar and spelling.”

I immediately sold my soul to the excesses of unlimited text messaging.

So what if I end up a thumb-cripple three years from now? Small price to pay to have my children talk to me. Plus, by the time our contract comes for renewal, some clever cell phone engineer will have invented the automatic nose-activated text messaging system. So many body parts to sacrifice, so many things to say.

Colorado snow

I have just returned from a college trip with Emilio to visit the University of Colorado at Boulder. This was our first mother-son trip ever, and the first time since September (when he got his driver’s license) that we spent a full 48 hours together.

And we didn’t even yell at each other.

Not when he told me I drove like an old lady out of the Denver airport (I get nervous finding my way at night). Not when he flipped through twenty nine radio channels before settling on an “Indie-rock” Boulder station (I knew those meditation sessions would pay off someday). Nor when I realized I had left our itinerary at the rental car counter and didn’t have a clue what hotel we were staying at (By the way, you can park outside any Starbucks after closing hours and flip through 2038 deleted e-mails to find your reservation. Thank you T-Mobile.)

In fact, we had a lovely time, the best part of which was to ditch the Friday afternoon program and go look for snow.

- “I’ve never seen snow.”

- “Yes you have. You were five. We went to central France for Spring break and it snowed that one night. We made a snowman and went sleigh-riding the following day.”

- “I don’t remember.”

Fair enough. Why dwell on the distant reality of college life when very cell of my son’s teenage body was crying for a snow ball? We needed to heed the unmistakable call of a young life and head for the mountains.

The cold took our breath away. Without gloves, coats or proper gear, we lasted five minutes outdoors at 9,500ft. Just enough time to throw a couple of snowballs at each other’s backs and take pictures. Then we got back in the car and blew on our hands until we could feel our fingers again.

That night, we ate at a fancy Italian restaurant. Next to us was a young couple with a baby.

- “It’s so odd to think that seventeen years ago I was pregnant with you, wondering what you would look like. And here you are: all grown up, driving, and about to go to college. It all went so fast.”

- “Are you sad?’

- “A little.”

- “I’m not going for another year and a half.”

- “A year and five months.  Feels like tomorrow morning to me."