Two Pine Trees

"There goes my miracle. Walking away." There Goes My Miracle, Bruce Springsteen Six words, and Bruce Springsteen captured my world.   I always wanted to be a mother. No, strike that. I always wanted to be a Momma. Being a mother isn't hard. You give birth. Being a Momma. Very hard. I wanted children. I wanted the love, the hope, the hugs, the dirt, the work, the chaos. I thought it would never happen for me. People are quick to tell you what your reality will be. People are wrong. Your reality is a combination of your hopes, your dreams, your work, and your prayers with a miracle or three thrown in. What your reality isn't is the words others use about you. Our sons are 21, and 22. They are headed off for their last full semester of college (fingers crossed, and more prayers). Children are walking away from you from the moment they are born. When older women told me it went by so fast, I couldn't see their reality for mine. Mine was clouded with dia...

Just shoot me down now. Apparently I'm a sinner of the worst kind. I am a woman, who has hyphenated her last name. Forgive me my transgression for honoring my husband's family and mine. I will wear my scarlet letter now, but do I put W-H on my shirts for Woman Hyphenator or just the H? I'm so confused. Geez, the British have done it for ages, but a girl from North Carolina, born and bred, I guess I crossed a line much worse than The Mason-Dixon line. Sorry, I didn't mean to hyphenate again, but after 33 years of being an Alford-Carman, it comes easy to me, scarlet woman that I am. Long story short, my husband and I discussed my hyphenation pathology prior to marriage. The man was totally cool with it, having two sisters and an absolute loving respect for his own mother. With our children, we followed tradition, lest we resort to calling everyone "Hey you!" after two generations of hyphenating. I mean, imagine roll call, or attendance with "Maria Alford-...

Ah, vacation with the family. Video's of togetherness and loving moments shared. Places you've explored and people that you meet. These are a few of my favorite things, until dinner time, events, and any sort of "me time" that you might need for the sake of sanity alone. I did more dishes on our last vacation than I've done in most weeks at home. I also did laundry, and while nobody made me do it, I didn't want to come home with a weeks worth of smelly clothes that would trail it's unique bouquet through the car and the house. Mama needs a vacation from the vacation. I may be wrong, but I think most Moms' do. When we were child free, vacation was no hassle, there were no sleeping schedules or feeding schedules to worry about. The hubby and I could meander and explore without the stress of worrying that someone would fall off of Mile High Swinging Bridge, or into the Thames, depending on where we were fortunate enough to be. Baby one came and our car ...

Our house looks like a crime scene in progress. Everywhere you look plastic covers the walls, floors and windows. The painters have arrived, and the DIY bus has left the building. Years ago, I scraped the popcorn off the ceilings in a total of four rooms. The last room I did ended with me looking like the ghost of all DIY projects past, present, and future. I was covered in  a white pile of wet, lumpy, ceiling popcorn in a room hazed over with ceiling dust. Never again. All things considered, it was time to admit defeat and call in the pros. I googled, interviewed, got estimates and picked my painters.  I thought it would be a breeze, but I've spent more time dealing with this current project than any of the other DIY projects I had taken on by myself. Between the research, interviews, estimates, dinners that were late or burned, and the furniture that had to be moved, I was exhausted! The stairs have become my enemy, with countless trips to move pictures, mirrors, lamps and...

The daily uniform is blue jeans with a black tee shirt, call me the walking bruise, which is sometimes how I feel when I get caught between the kiddos and their disagreements. I am going to don a black and white stripped shirt, comfortable shoes and go running down court side, because, well, Mama got skills. I am the referee. Nobody talks about the crazy everyday disturbances in homes across America when siblings flex their will towards each other. Parenting begins with coos and cuddles, and when you're starting a family, no one tells you about your soon to be occupation as Mediator-in-Chief. Yet, once we are there, in the throes of a hissy fit with hormonal teens and in-between, you see the nod from others, as if to confirm, get yourself a whistle and call foul! There are days I truly believe that I am in the middle of a hockey brawl and the penalty box just isn't big enough to hold them all. Gracious! I'd like to be put in the box, or at least go to the bathroom without...

Apparently I'm retired. I had no idea! I do six loads of laundry a week, feed the dogs, the fish and the cat, cook dinners, make lunches and beds, clean, go to school conferences, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera! Yep, I'm retired alright. I have so much free time I'm thinking of volunteering my life away. I wish. At least then I might actually get out of the house for more than the 45 minute, weekday pickup process at the middle school. The Mom retirement syndrome does not exist in the world of the older Mom. Three years ago I left the work force for third, and apparently, last time. Shortly after baby one, I stayed home because I couldn't imagine giving one hundred percent of myself at work AND at home. When my daughter was eight, I rejoined the force, again, knowing that I was close to home and with a company that supported the parenting gig. With baby two, I also went back home. Both lifestyles had their pros and cons. Staying home is lonely, exhausting and you wonder...

I'm considering a Go Fund Me campaign. All funds raised will go towards an email and phone call deluge flooding the inboxes and phones of scammers and telemarketers. But the offer of a flight will be sincere. I hear Antarctica is lovely this time of year. If the ice caps are melting, hopefully they can swim. Or not, at this point I really don't care. I'm tired of this crap. So, so tired of not being able to blindly answer the phones WE ARE PAYING FOR with a sweet, pleasant voice. When the phone rings I look at caller ID. Every. SINGLE. Time. No longer can you answer a call which appears to have originated locally. They "spoof" local numbers. They "spoof" the caller ID to show hospitals, the IRS, the police. My mother frequently gets one which shows as the caller ID - CANCER in big, scary capital letters. Who among us doesn't have a visceral reaction to that word? I have resorted to setting up individual ring tones for a number of family and frien...

I don't believe our local Walmart will ever be featured on the web under "The People of Walmart."  We're a "small town mentality" kind of  area where everyone knows, well, everyone. Most of the ladies I know will dab on a little lipstick and make sure they are presentable when they go to the "Mart." You never know who you will run into, and with a cat, two dogs, several fish and two lizards (don't ask), our family tends to be in Walmart at least once every week. The Greeters at the Mart know us well. A couple of months ago, I had to hit the Mart for the aforementioned pets, and I was in no mood to either clean up, or dab on lipstick. Besides, it was past nine in the evening. Most of the Moms I knew would be trying to sit down for the first time in that day without hearing the cries of "Mom!" I however, knew that the hubby was home, and the drive alone would be a quiet comfort. What happened once inside, took me completely off guard....

Ever have the entire cast of Magic Mike enter your living room while you looked like a pale, sweaty, bloated version of your middle-aged self? Magic Mike didn’t actually appear, although my husband’s name is Mike, but the men of the Clayton Fire Department’s hot (no pun intended), calendar models did show up. I may be a middle-aged mom, okay, okay, past middle age, but I still know attractive and buff men when I see them. The problem was, in my current condition, I didn’t want them to see me. THAT is how irrational you can be in the altered state of pain. Who cares if I’m dying, just don’t let ANYONE see me like this. That particular night, I didn’t get to sleep because of sharp pain. I hoped it was a severe case of indigestion, but when it didn’t abate, fear took over. My chest felt tight and my breathing restricted, so I called 911. I politely asked them not to arrive with sirens wailing because I didn’t want to freak out our young son. The Firefighters were the first to respond...

The struggle is real. I swear, if I make a joke about my size, I’m body shaming myself. If I don’t lose weight, I’m not healthy and I apparently don’t care about myself. Can somebody give me a flipping break? I look at it this way, if I’m fine at using laughter because it’s cool with me, what the heck is your problem? As long as I can bend over and not pass out, why do some have a problem with my side-to-side visage? I am not wider than my height, I am not on a reality show about my however many pound life, and I’m not the biggest loser. Believe me when I say we are all our own worst critics and I don’t need anyone else adding to my own criticism, or criticising me about my criticisms. I made a comment after a photo was taken, laughingly asking if the shot got all my chins in, and what happened next was an unexpected moment in purgatory. I was backed into a wall and told that I wasn’t funny,   I needed to stop being so down on myself, that it was a shame that I thought of myse...