Many Happy Returns

Last Sunday, my son accomplished something his father and I never had: he graduated from college.

The weather was picture-perfect, the diploma was secured, and we spent the day basking in the glow of our son's achievement. It was a day for the ages.

The next afternoon, I was at the house my son and five other college students rented. My mission: to help pack up and clean out. I decided to work on the kitchen. I gathered up plates and glasses, pots and pans, many of them slightly sticky to the touch, and realized all would need a bath after they arrived at our house. I enjoyed a happy reunion with several of my travel mugs that had migrated. And I was pleased to learn that we had acquired a Keurig coffee maker and a toaster. Both would also need to be cleaned.

Then I moved on to the foodstuffs.

First, I disposed of anything that had been opened. A few boxes of cereal. A bag of flour with a plastic bag halfheartedly draped across the top. A little pasta.

Next, I tossed anything that had expired.

Finally, I sorted the boxes and bags and cans into two groups: things I was willing to take home and things I would donate to the hunger center at the local church. Falling into the latter category were the gigantic package of Ramen noodles, two boxes of macaroni and cheese, some Hamburger Helper and the like.

I peered cautiously into the refrigerator, and reminded my son that we would not be transporting the hamburger that had been aging ungracefully in the freezer. Also not making the journey was the 80-pack box of freezer pops and a 12-pack of light beer.

In the pantry I found bags. Hundreds of them. Plastic and paper and canvas. A lovely coaster with a peace sign on it. And some bean bags from a corn-hole set. As an added bonus, at the bottom of one of the bags I discovered packages of paper plates and plastic utensils.

I still don't know how long the green Skittle was stuck to the floor. Or why one of guys left a term paper behind the microwave. It will forever be a mystery why there was half a jug of dishwasher pellets under the sink in a house that has no dishwasher. And we may never figure out how and why that pop tart landed on the top shelf, in the back, so forlorn. It could tell no tales and obviously didn't make the trip.

The next day, the rest of the house was packed and ready to move. Thanks to a good friend of our son's, a truck was made available and the contents schlepped in two trips. There were casualties. The bed didn't come home. It's an old mattress and box spring set, and no one had the stomach for a third trip.

Let me say, I am grateful, as was the landlord, that the house was left in reasonably good condition -- certainly far, far better shape compared to the previous tenants. I was also pleased to hear that the police didn't find it necessary -- even once -- to visit the place. But I could feel my son's sadness in saying goodbye to his first non-dorm home-away-from-home. Living with us again will certainly be less expensive for him, but also a little like moving backward in time.

But it's awfully nice having him around until he flies the coop.

I give him six months.

Not For The Birds

Bird cams have become quite the thing.

A number of wildlife preserves, in an effort to satisfy the voyeuristic cravings of bird watchers, have installed "cams" over the nests of certain species.

The problem is that, well, birds will be birds.

This week, there was an article in the paper about a pair of osprey that were in the eye of the camera. Everything was just hunky dory until the mother became mommy dearest, alternately ignoring and abusing her offspring.

That's when the watchers turned into vigilantes. They emailed demands that the chicks be rescued. They threatened to take matters into their own hands.

Imagine Marlin Perkins and Jim Fowler prowling the wilds of Africa. Marlin is speaking in hushed tones to Jim, explaining how the lion has hunted and is now snacking away on a zebra it has captured, encouraging Jim to go in for a closer look. Suddenly, an angry viewer appears in front of the camera, raving about how cruel Marlin and Jim are for allowing the zebra to be killed.

It's like that. Some bird cam addicts seem to think the cameras are filming for Disney. That birds should behave like they do in the highly edited version. Trouble is, these cams capture everything. And nature ain't always pretty.

Ultimately, the osprey cam was turned off. And the watchers found another camera in another state on which to view their bird porn. And the osprey were left to do whatever it is they do without surrogate helicopter bird-parents swooping in and making their demands.

And we've proven once again that bird brains aren't only found in species that fly.

Picture (Not) Perfect

"You know a witch's head isn't shaped like that."

My version of "Blue Boy"

This was the proclamation made by my middle school art teacher one day after she surveyed my Halloween-themed creation.

She seemed to take it as an affront. I couldn't decide if it was because she was so serious about art or because she was a witch.

I never said I could draw. But I already knew that.

Years earlier, my fifth grade teacher, Sister Theresita (aka Sister Tear-Your-Seat-Off, aka "The Beak"), had assigned us to draw a girl with a watering can and color it in. Though I sincerely tried, mine was a Dali-esque version, the watering can resembling some sort of Loch Ness Monster trying to attack the unfortunate water bearer. The worst part was, we had to write our names nice and big on the front of the paper, which was displayed alongside all of the other girls with watering cans, each of them a better depiction than mine. (Curse you, Kelly Holland, teacher's pet.)

Nowadays, in our "all kids are special" mode, the teacher no doubt would have struggled to say something positive to stroke my delicate psyche. Unfortunately, I came of age in the era of "if you suck, I'm going to tell you so."

I decided to stick with writing.

Once again, my timing was off. These days, in my profession, words are a necessary evil. Unlike days of yore, when full-page ads were full of words, nowadays we are told people don't read. They want to look at the pretty pictures. So we get two or three words to tell a story. And have to wrangle with designers to make sure all of those pesky disclaimers are included, at the proper type size.

Good times.

In a way, I'm glad I learned early on what my strengths are. I do sometimes draw a little this or that, particularly for this blog. But I have no illusions about going pro -- and I know I'll never see my work hanging on a wall anywhere. I have fun with it, and I let it go.

And I guess that's what it's really all about, anyhow. Letting go.

Anniversaries and Suchlike

A little research revealed that Alexandria's Hazardous Waste Collection Day no longer exists. In 1988, it was the same day we wed: May 7th. I'm not going to draw any parallels, but you are welcome to. (Insert winky face here.)

I think he was lobbying for the biggest slice.

Also, as we did 28 years ago, we will share our day with the Kentucky Derby.

As if all this wasn't special enough, this is the weekend on which Mother's Day falls, as it did the year we married. Which was not a big deal then, when motherhood was nowhere on my map of future destinations.

It kind of sucks when your special days are lumped together. I always wondered if kids who had a birthday in December felt robbed. Did they get fewer gifts? (This is for your birthday AND Christmas.) Did anyone want to eat birthday cake with all of those Christmas cookies at hand?

And what about siblings who have birthdays a few days apart. Did they feel cheated because they had to share the spotlight? Did they get less goodies because it was such a budget-buster?

I was thinking my mom had planned this pretty well, then I remembered that brother #2 and brother #3 were born two days apart. The fact that there was a 13-year difference between them probably helped. Also, I'm confident that my mother, who was excruciating fair and who planned to the penny, certainly had this worked out.

So, back to me. I'm wondering how this anniversary/Mother's Day thing is going to go. Mr. and I will be dining at a swanky steak place to celebrate the day of our wedding. No party tray this time. I am tempted to bake a devil's food, just for old time's sake, and top it with the wedding cake toppers that I still have in my china cabinet. But I will not...this time, there aren't six other people around to help us eat its chocolately goodness. On the other hand, we could get some champagne, and I could drink myself silly after dinner and pour some on the carpet. Then we could get up tomorrow morning and drive to Cape May. Or not. (It's a few hours further away than it is from Alexandria.)

As for Mother's Day, I suspect that celebration is going to be postponed. My kid has other obligations tomorrow, and anyhow, it's hell trying to get a seat in a restaurant for breakfast on Mother's Day. I believe I'm going to take matters into my own hands and make it my day, anyhow. Mr. and I will go shopping at Barnes and Noble. We'll walk around and buy stuff. Maybe take a walk in the park. Pick up something for dinner -- I'm not cooking tomorrow. But I will be thinking about my mom, whom, I hope, will be smiling down at us.

As for the rest of you, whether you're mothers of babies or children or cats or dogs, Happy Mother's Day to all of you.

Celebrate well!