Rocky Roads

By the time the wifi connection thawed out and kicked in at Starbucks this morning, it was time to pack it all up and head for spin class. By the time my legs thawed out and kicked in at spin, it was half over and I gave up to go home and eat some breakfast. My jaw seems to be the only part of me that never freezes.

Now, as I sit in Caribou (which is warmer than my Starbucks, at least when you sit with your back almost right up against the fireplace), I'm connected, and at the same time bombarded by all sorts of inspiration. My coffee cup runneth over with pithy bits of wisdom: marshmallows have no nutritional value, and that's okay; be the first to apologize; life is short, so stay awake for it. All very nice thoughts, as long as you're not in as shitty a mood as I'm in today. Frankly, I don't think marshmallows have any redeeming qualities, except when they're slightly frozen in the midst of a scoop of rocky road ice cream. I seem to always be the first to apologize, and let me be the first to apologize for the fact that I don't intend to do that anymore. And yes, life is short, and I freak out about that on a daily basis, the closer I get to the end. But sometimes I just don't want to stay awake, and if life is so short, why do the days sometimes feel so damn long.

There are only two shopping weeks left until my mother's surprise eightieth birthday party, which I was surprised to learn yesterday is no longer a surprise. My brother and I had a long chat about how my mother, once (okay, and still, to some degree) a royal pain in the ass, has become able to listen to our tales of woe despite her deafness, and has become surprisingly able to offer up support, good advice, and, most startlingly, unconditional love. I suppose it was always there, but not so easy to find.

My mother, with all her shtick, has evolved into a worthy matriarch of sorts, and she has been able to give me perspective, especially in the past year, when it seems to elude me. She is even able to laugh at herself, so my brother and I don't have to laugh alone. It would be nice if she were a bit beefier so I could crawl into her lap and let her tell me everything's going to be all right, that none of this will matter, in the end.

It doesn't seem fair that my mother is turning eighty, although I suppose it was less fair that my father died at seventy-eight. I need to know my mother is there these days, and "eighty" can be a frightening number. I know it is for her. It's why my brother and I have opted not to have everyone make loving and admiring speeches about her at her birthday dinner. Not just because she won't be able to hear them, but because we don't want this to be the equivalent of a "lifetime achievement" award at the Oscars; we all know what that means. I prefer to think of this as a celebration of a new phase for us -- for me and mom. One in which we will savor each other, because, as my Caribou cup reminds me (in the context of kids), we should spend time together; tomorrow, we will both be a day older.

My favorite bit of advice from my wise cup of Caribou: spin the globe then pack your bags. A nice thought, but then what. I have yet to see a Winnebago with wings. Or rudders. I do have my daughter's tote bag though, so what the heck -- I can still pack, and I can always dream. And I can always find a way to pop in and visit my old mom.