40th Birthday + Thanksgiving = Most Awesome Two Days Ever

I have two children but have often considered having four or six. If anyone were to ask me why, I would say, "I just want lots of people around the table at Thanksgiving." Clearly, I was thinking too small. A big Thanksgiving involves way more than one table.

This year at my Aunt Mary and Uncle Mark's house in Texas, there were 31 people around multiple tables--in the dining room, at the breakfast nook, in the hallway, at the bar, outside on the deck. As we said grace as a group and drew numbers to see who would go first in the food line (Grandma, almost 90, got dibs), my eyes filled with tears. I felt the immediate urge to offer someone one of my kidneys. I love these people--all of them, even especially the crazy ones. Obviously, you don't need to birth a bunch of kids to have a good Thanksgiving. You just need food, hospitality and a few wild cards to keep it fun. Wine helps, too.

Whenever I visit my dad's side of the family in Texas, the time always goes too fast. I stay up late and wake early, worried that I'm going to miss an inside joke, a grocery store run, a life-changing conversation or a cocktail. Every time I leave the room, I want to say to everyone, "Don't do anything or say anything until I get back."

The day before Thanksgiving, we celebrated my 40th birthday. Breakfast started with mimosas and a quick trip to the antique store with Aunt Van, who bought me an awesome cowboy girl hat. Then lunch under the trees of La Hacienda with my dad and stepmom who drove in from Houston. We then hurried to a pre-party at my Uncle Phil and Aunt Daria's house, which made us late for happy hour at my Aunt Chrissie and Uncle Mike's.

If you've never had 30+ people singing "Happy Birthday" at the top of their lungs while your grandma sits on one side and your daughter stands on the other, you're missing out. I wish I'd thought to videotape it, but in a way I'm glad I didn't. Sometimes, you just have to live in the moment and drink it in.

Before we knew it, the party had moved back to Aunt Mary's where we were all spending the night. At 1 a.m., my cousin James said, "We should change your flight, so you can stay longer!" Kinder words were never said. I want to remember them, so I can use them the next time I need a to hand out the perfect compliment. We stayed up till 3, solving all the problems of the world and texting our other cousins.

Here are just a few highlights from this quick trip:

I love that my Uncle Phil pours beer the exact same way my Granddad did.

I love that walking into my grandma's retirement home made me happy instead of sad, because it's the kind of place where they bring alpacas to visit the residents.

I love that we have a family who brings kegs to Thanksgiving dinner.

I love that when I say "Old Guard picture!" to my cousins, they know to sit on either side of me.

I love that my Aunt Jackie wears shoes like this:

And that my Uncle Kenny wears boots with his name stitched in them.

I love that Aunt Mary and I both love to shop in Fredricksburg. "We are so much alike," she said proudly.

I love listening to my dad and my Uncle Phil talk about anything. I also love that they can't help but look cool even when they're just standing in front of a random tree.

I love that cousin Tommy totally rocks that Graham Parsons shirt

I love that Aunt Chrissie bought a chili pepper skirt at Goodwill and--out of all the people in the world--I was the one she thought should have it.

I love that my cousin Jack played tag with Lila even though she's six and he's 21. Jack's dad, Uncle Kenny, used to do the same with me when I was her age.

I love that Grandma and Billie (my Uncle Mike's mom) are the cutest matriarchs I've ever seen:

I love that cousin Mick fell asleep, giving me and James the opportunity to decorate. I also love that when James got excited about TCU beating UT, he screamed and woke Mick up, sending pumpkins flying everywhere.

I love that next year we'll do it all over again.

Pride

When I got home from work today, Lila hurried me upstairs where she'd spread her school papers across my bed. She couldn't wait to show me she'd won an award. The school mascot is a lion, so students can win these P.R.I.D.E (positive attitude, respect, integrity, diversity and excellence) awards. The paper had the "D" circled with a note that read "Lila always makes sure everyone is included in the game or activity that they are doing." She also got a lion pencil as part of her prize.

"That's wonderful," I told her, my mom pride swelling over a simple pencil and a slip of paper.

I remembered years ago that Marshall's first-grade teacher had said something similar about him, something to the effect of "He so nice--to everyone."

Downstairs, I found Marshall sitting on the edge of his bed in his room, a rarity for that time of day. It's the in-between week between football and basketball season, and I wasn't expecting to see him. He told me his girlfriend had just broken up with him. Lila was hovering in the doorway, so I told her to go play. I gathered as many details as he wanted to give and then launched into a different kind of mom pride--"You are awesome and talented and smart and so nice--to everyone--and, hey, are you hungry?"

I tried to remember what a high school break-up is like. If memory serves, my 11-grade self spent the evening in my room eating Snickers bars and watching the VHS version of "Beaches."

And, even though it was a school night, I let him go hang out with his best friend, who would build up his confidence in a way that I couldn't. He took his math homework with him, left for a couple hours, came home early, showed me the completed worksheets and said, "I need to go change my relationship status on Facebook."

And I tried act all casual and said, "Oh, OK, cool."

But, I wanted to say, "Hurry! The first person to change the relationship status on Facebook after a break-up wins! Way to go, son!"

I also wanted to tell him that I was proud of him for seeking the company of friends during a tough time (circle the "P"), for texting me while he was out to let me know he was OK (circle the "R"),  for refusing to say an unkind word about his ex-girlfriend (circle the "I") and for doing his homework (circle the "E") tonight. This kid deserves a few lion pencils.

Old Guard, reunited in 10 days

Last year, when my Aunt Mary got married in San Antonio, the whole family--from Texas to Georgia to Pennsylvania--turned out for the wedding. We Whalens are a big Irish-Italian group with overlapping generations and an endless supply of kids and grandkids and uncles and aunts. As we left the reception and headed to the after-party, I stood there in the elevator with my two cousins, Mick and James. We're the eldest grandkids, so I made what I thought was an obvious statement:

"Look at us," I said, "We're sorta like the Old Guard."


Old Guard, right before the Sharpies came out



And something clicked. We paused and gave each other that look, the one you give when you know history has just been made. When you know nothing will ever be the same again. It will only be infinitely, more amazingly better. What ensued was an evening of high-fives, endless toasts and a round of "Old Guard 4-life" neck tatts written in black Sharpie (Gothic font). As the night wore on, we categorized the rest of the family, so everyone would know who was who:

Elite Guard:
our almost-90-year-old grandma
Nothing and no one can trump Elite Guard. She drinks wine and grew up with Sinatra. Top THAT.

Old Guard: duh, that's us--me, Mick, James
We're second in coolness only to Grandma, obviously.

Color Guard: my dad, his five siblings and all their spouses 

Our aunts were wearing bright-colored shirts, so this seemed like a logical name at the time. Too late to change it now.

Young Guard: the rest of the cousins and subsequent generations

No matter how hard they try, they will never be as cool as Old Guard. This does not stop Old Guard from giving Young Guard lots and lots of advice on everything.

Ink Guard: a catch-all category

This includes anyone in the family who wants to admit to having tattoos. See Color Guard, Young Guard, et al.

And all that nonsense stuck, as if we'd been saying it for decades and decades. Now when I send my cousins a text, I have to remember to look in my phone under "O" for Old Guard Jamed (sic) and Old Guard Mic (sic).

In 10 days, I fly to San Antonio for my birthday and for Thanksgiving. Old Guard will be back together, and all will be right with the world. And I'm bringing my Sharpie.

The no-good, craptastic day

Sometimes, you have one of those days that just spirals into crappiness for no good reason. Little stuff piles up and becomes big stuff. Today was one of those days.

You ever walk up to a group of people and they stop talking? And you KNOW they were just talking about you. My first thought is, "Oooh, maybe they're planning a surprise party for me!" but then my second thought is, "Crap. This ain't good. What'd I do now?" That happened to me today--twice.

Throughout the day, my allergies flared up, and I started sneezing. I bought some soup at lunch and planned to power through the rest of the afternoon. But, my medicine wasn't working. I ran out of tissues. Finally, I just chalked up the rest of the day to sick time, so I could be gross in the comfort of my own home.

 Lying on the couch in my robe, I called up a friend to tell her about my craptastic day. Maybe I caught her at a bad time, but I got the brush-off, sort of an "Eh, what are ya gonna do?" response. When I hung up, I felt crappier than before.

And I couldn't shake it, the indifference from several women in one day. Normally, I could count on the hustle and bustle of our family within our home to cheer me up instantly. But, the house was empty. The kids were at school. My husband had driven a friend to Maryland for a cancer treatment. On any other day, I would relish a couple hours to myself.

Standing in my kitchen, I whipped out my phone and sent a Facebook message to four of my friends, women I've known since junior high in Georgia. I told them I was having a bad day and asked for some prayers. All four responded within minutes.

Prayers going up!

Take a bath, drink a cocktail!

 You are so loved!

 And know that you are loved dearly all the way down here in Nuberg!

That last one made me smile because you don't have to know where Nuberg is to know that it's a long way from there to my house in Pennsylvania. That's a lotta love. It made me think of Li Po's poem "The River Merchant's Wife" (translated by Ezra Pound) where the narrator writes a love letter to her husband who has been away traveling for several months:

If you are coming down through the narrows of the river,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fo-Sa.

You don't have to know where Cho-fo-Sa is to know it's a haul.

Tomorrow's another day, and I will remember my friends' kind words: I'm loved. All the way down in Nuberg. And as far as Cho-fo-Sa.

Why I still hate high school

Friday, I left work early and picked up Lila from kindergarten. Then we walked the two blocks to the high school to attend a parents' dinner with my 16-year-old son Marshall and the rest of the high school football team.

I was actually looking forward to a chance to hang out with my kids and eat a catered meal. Lila and I walked in, found Marshall and put our stuff down. Marshall and two of his friends were already eating. They laughed when they saw us. I thought it was maybe because Lila was wearing her giant backpack with 10 clip-on hand sanitizers dangling from it. She is pretty funny with her backpack on.

As we got our food and sat down, the boys were still giggling but trying not to. They glanced at me and giggled again. What the hell was so funny? I did a quick check of my clothing. Buttons were buttoned. My skirt wasn't tucked into my pantyhose. Sitting at that cafeteria table, I instantly remembered how much I'd hated high school (so much so that I'd skipped my senior year and began college a year early). In the time it took to pick up my fork, I became an awkward 14-year-old around a group of football players, the popular guys. Not that they ever would've let me sit at their table back in the day.

And you know what's silly? In that cafeteria, I looked for a familiar face. Not a familiar face from my current group of friends, but a familiar face from high school--my high school hundreds of miles away from 25 years ago. I looked for my friend Rodney from the academic team. I looked for Patti, Mert and Tanya. None of us were cheerleaders and we didn't make the homecoming court, but there was no one else I wanted in my corner more at that moment. I took a deep breath, focused my attention on opening a bottle of water as slowly as possible and willed myself not to cry. Maybe I'd had a crappy day at the office, maybe it was hormones, maybe I was sick of taking Claritin for my allergies.

As I sat there in front of my untouched food, I knew, logically, that my almost-40 self could cut these 16-year-olds down to size. The big sister part of me wanted to say, "Got your learner's permit yet? Yeah, well, I can vote, buy beer and rent a car. Boom." Emotionally, however, I was reduced to a girl without a date to the prom. If Lila hadn't been with me, I would've left, just slipped through the side door while Marshall had his back to me.

Feeling like a teenager while sitting there with my own teenager provided lots of conflicting "Freaky Friday" emotions. Finally, the adult part of me prevailed and asked, "So, uh, Marshall, are you going to introduce me to your friends?" What I really wanted to say was, "Can I talk to you outside for a minute?"

And just when I thought I'd had enough, the coach announced, "I'd like each parent to stand up and say how proud you are of your son." Seriously, coach, now you want this 14-year-old girl to do some extemporaneous speaking? Although I'm very proud of my son 95% of the time, I wasn't proud of him in that moment. I don't remember what I said, but the popular boys giggled throughout. And, because I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his friends and because I didn't want to ruin his last game of the season, I saved that "Can I talk to you outside for a minute?" conversation for the next day. And I did allow myself to cry then. And I did accept his apology.

A couple years ago, I heard a comedienne say, "All of us are trying to get over something that happened to us in eighth grade." Sitting in the audience, I laughed in agreement. Then I stopped to listen. Everyone else was laughing, too. How did they know how awful eighth grade was? Maybe some of the parents in that cafeteria felt just as uncomfortable as I did. Several moms sat together while their boys ate several tables away. Maybe a couple of those dads who got choked up talking about their sons did so out of sadness instead of pride. Maybe we were all just acting like a bunch of eighth-graders.