Small moments add up to big changes in our children’s lives

It happened overnight, without warning. Our 11-year-old daughter’s feet grew one size bigger than mine. When she told me she needed new shoes we went to have her feet measured, and when the woman announced the size I immediately told her that she must be wrong. (Bless her heart … she has to put up with crazy moms like me every day, I’m sure.)

I was completely caught off guard. When did this happen? Just at Christmas she was wearing a size smaller than me, but in a few short months’ time she now surpasses me in shoe size.

It wasn’t the fact that her feet grew bigger than mine that got to me; it was the fact that I didn’t realize that the day before was the last day she’d be smaller than me in every way.

There are so many events in our lives as parents that are milestones, and their celebrations mark their passing: birthdays, graduations, driver’s test, a kid’s last summer home before college…

But there are equally important milestones that come and go without fanfare, which makes the passing a little harder for me to handle. I think it’s because they lack a sense of closure, a rite of passage.

For example, I still remember the evening not long ago when I realized that our sleepy seven-year-old daughter was too big for me to carry from our bed to her own bed. I wish someone would have caught me the time before that and whispered in my ear, “This is the last time you’ll ever carry her in your arms like a little girl again. Enjoy every minute of it.”

On Mother’s Day a few years ago we went on a hike up the Umpqua Trail. In each family picture that day, our son had his arm around the top of my shoulder, forcing me to admit that he was officially taller than me. And yet we don’t throw a party and bake a cake celebrating “The day Nathaniel reached 5’8”!”

I truly believe that the less our kids need their father and me as they get older the better job of parenting we’re doing. All I’m saying is that I wish there were an early warning system in place that would notify me, “This is the last diaper you’re ever going to change because she’ll be fully potty trained tomorrow” … “This is the last day with training wheels because he’s going to learn to ride without them after dinner” … “This is the last bottle you’ll ever prepare because she’s graduating to a sippy cup” … or “This is the last time you’ll read ‘Goodnight Moon’ (even if you’ve already read it 4,520 times) to this little person on your lap who calls you ‘mommy.’”

Time marches on and in between the hours great changes are occurring in our children. I simply want to learn to embrace those in-between moments more, because I don’t know if they’ll ever come around again.

I love what C.S. Lewis wrote in his book “The Four Loves” and I think it’s applicable to the love I feel toward my kids: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken."

So, as I move forward with birthdays, holidays, violin concerts, family vacations and high school graduations, I hope and pray that my heart stays soft, even when it feels like it might break at the loveliness of it all. Carpe Diem … seize the day.

Please pass the pepper down to Cellblock 99

In an attempt to become even more organized than we already are – which is hilarious because I can NEVER even find the scissors - Craig decided to organize our file cabinet which holds all of our documents, taxes, letters, photos and operating instructions from the last 21 years of marriage. I agreed it was a good idea, as long as he was the one organizing while I read a book on the back porch. Drinking a cold soda. And napping in between.


Which is exactly what I was doing last weekend while he and 11-year-old Lily were upstairs sitting amidst a huge pile of papers, organizing.

I’d come in periodically to get a drink and overhear, “Is this a LOVE LETTER from you to mom? Ew, gross!”

Or “Did you really dress like that when you were a teenager?”

But one conversation took me completely by surprise. I had slipped in quietly and my presence in the kitchen below was unknown to either of them. Here’s what I overheard.

“When was mom arrested?” Lily asked.

“What?” asked Craig, in a voice that was, I’m sad to say, not startled in the least.

“Why does mom have a mug shot?”

“Oh, that’s from mom’s darker years during her time in jail.”

WHAAAAAAAAAT?

I instantly ran to the bottom of the stairs and screeched, “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

Craig, laughing, yelled down, “Lily found your ‘before’ picture from the orthodontist – you know, the one they take so they can take the ‘after’ picture when you get your braces off? Well, she thought it was a mug shot. She knows I’m joking.”

Does she? DOES SHE?

Because now I’m wondering how many other “stories” this man has told our children over the years when I’ve truly been out of earshot.

They already know the embarrassing parts from my own self-deprecating story telling:

• Mom was once a singer in a garage band in high school. (We actually practiced in a converted car port, but it’s not very cool to say, “Yeah, I’m a singer in a converted car port band,” is it? Not a lot of street cred there.)

• Mom had Pat Benetar hair in high school.

• Mom once asked her own mother if she could legally change her name from Eileen to Pepper after the main character on “Police Woman,” Angie Dickinson. Because Pepper is most definitely cooler than Eileen, right?

• Mom was once a member of the Tiger Beat Scott Baio fan club.

Besides, does Craig really want to go down the path of telling stories on one another? Because I have a mullet, VW van and a pierced ear that says he doesn’t.

The most disturbing thing is that this occurred while I was at home, albeit outside. What happens when I leave town for work for a few days? He could be telling them all kinds of tales.

What if I come home from a trip and Lily eyes me suspiciously before asking me if I’ve ever been friends with a band of pirates?

I think I’ll just answer, “Oh sure … when I was in prison.”

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Forecast calls for mild droop in nether regions

The late Bette Davis once said, “Old age is no place for sissies.”


Amen, sister.

I have come to the realization that I am officially middle age. I frolicked through my 30’s, buoyed by the fact that I wasn’t yet “middle aged.” Then I turned 40 and started spouting such nonsense as “Forty is the new thirty.”

And then my body systematically began to fall apart, and I am now willing to admit that I am middle-aged.

I know this because of my kneecaps.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a middle-aged woman in possession of a failing body must be in want firmer kneecaps.

Or something like that.

I woke up one day last week, startled by the realization that my kneecaps had started sagging south. This epiphany hit me like a ton of FiberCon (which I highly recommend, by the way).

I foolishly thought that perhaps I was suffering from some gravity disease where my body was being pulled toward the ground in an unnatural way and all would be set aright when I woke up the next morning. Couldn’t it be that it was just a blip in time that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, like a Kardashian sister?

But the next morning, I awoke to the same kneecaps. I searched Google for inspiration and found this quote from Satchel Paige: “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?”

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe as old as it takes start losing control of your kneecaps? Call me crazy, but I don’t know any 25 year olds who have runaway kneecaps.

And let’s be honest here folks, it’s not just my kneecaps. Oh that it were.

• I’ve noticed that routine checkups have turned into “procedures.” Many of these procedures require sedation and a responsible driver to get me home, so I’m not feeling all springy-in-my-step in that arena.

• I have no idea what color my hair is anymore. None. And to be honest, I don’t think I want to know.

• I’ve started telling stories about my childhood like my parents did. “This snow is nothing, kids. I used to walk a mile to school EACH WAY in the snow. We didn’t get rides to school from our parents. We just TOUGHED IT OUT.” (And yes, the ALL CAPS are because I’m typically yelling that part.)

• I’m strangely drawn to The Weather Channel, and find myself watching it for far longer than necessary.

• Nowadays, when my husband and I have an argument, we get tired halfway through and forget what we’re fighting about. And then we start laughing. Surely this is the early signs of something.

• Naps have become a religion unto themselves.

• I can’t see a darn thing. I wave at people at Costco because they wave at me, but I have no idea who they are. True story.

• I can’t see a darn thing.

• I start repeating myself.

But it’s not all bad. Growing old has afforded me the pleasure to simply not care what people think anymore, something my teenage self would have never understood. In fact, one of the quotes I came across by baseball player Chili Davis nailed it: "Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional."

Amen, Chili.

So I will press on, sagging knees and all.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives in Winchester, Ore. You can reach her at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Flying the not so friendly skies

Did you happen to read about the bomb scare at the Eugene Airport last week? No? That’s because the TSA agents were on top of their game at 5:30 a.m. and intercepted me before I could do some real damage.

Let me back up.

When I travel, I make sure that I wear the perfect outfit for skating through security. I usually wear sweat pants so I don’t slow down the process by being forced to take off a belt. Then I have a long-sleeved t-shirt on without a jacket (I’ve already thrown that in my carry-on bag which is being scanned at this point because I’m a ninja packer). I keep all jewelry in my suitcase so that my huge diamonds don’t set off any alarms (kidding … I meant to say sterling silver).

And to top off this outfit, I usually wear flip flops so I can slip in and out of my footwear before you can say, “Ma’am, can you please take off your shoes?” Have I mentioned I’m like a ninja when it comes to airport security?

But not last Tuesday. Last Tuesday was entirely different.

Let me back WAY up now to my birth.

I inherited a head with a ton of hair atop it. I’m not just talking a good amount of hair; I’m talking circus freak proportions of hair. Just ask my hairdresser, who is regularly thinning it out for me just so I look normal (okay, somewhat normal). Left to nature, my hair resembles Rosanna Rosanna Dana on a bad hair day. As a result, my flat iron is my most important hair tool.

But a 6 a.m. flight doesn’t exactly constitute a flat iron kind of morning, so instead I threw my crazy hair in a messy bun atop my head and was off.

I checked my luggage, got my ticket, and headed to security where I would glide through as usual. Just as I was sending my flip flops through the scanner, I heard, “Ma’am, can you please come over here? We need to pat down your hair.”

Whodawa?

So after standing with arms akimbo over my head while they electronically scanned my bladder, pancreas et al, I had to have my hair “patted down” by a gloved TSA agent who has no respect for hair self esteem.

Never before had this happened.

Just days before the country was freaking out over sequestration, which would surely result in cuts to schools, governments services and airport security. Well, let me assure you that the Eugene TSA members are no worse for the wear at this point. In fact, they seem to be upping their game.

Looking for a little sympathy after my harrowing experience, I texted my husband: “You know you have big hair when you get pulled aside by the TSA agent for a ‘hair pat down.’”

His response? “Did you have the hair bomb on you or is it still at home?”

Everyone’s a comedian.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives, writes and straightens her hair in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Welcome to the family Angus the wonder pup

After our unsuccessful attempt at dog ownership with our last dog, our daughter Lily has been doggedly after us to get another. We’ve held her off for three years, setting impossible targets that we couldn’t imagine she’d ever meet in order to get the dog. One target we set was that she had to save up the money to buy the puppy.

At the time that we set this target she was seven and spent money just as fast as she could get it. There wasn’t a stuffed animal or lollipop that she could say no to. We were safe … until she caught on to use and actually started saving money. I’d go into her room to clean and find dollar bills stashed in her jewelry box, a wad of cash that grew and grew with each passing week. Finally at Christmas, after getting some grandparent money (thanks grandparents), she came out with about $200 dollars and said, “Now, can we please get a puppy?”

We spoke to our teenage son and he too admitted that he’d wanted a dog since the day we gave our last one away.

We were frankly not in the position to bargain any more. Plus, both kids aren’t getting any younger. My husband and I finally said, “Look, our kids are only going to be home for a few more years, so let’s buck up and get a dog.”

Enter Angus, the wonder pup. He’s a purebred Scottish terrier, black with a little brindle sprinkled in, and he’s stolen our hearts.

As a result, I have become one of those “dog people” that I have always made fun of, until now. A picture of Angus is my screensaver on my computer and my cell phone. I take pictures of him sleeping, eating and running and post them on Facebook as if the entire world is richer for knowing how my dog spent his day. In short, I’ve become that crazy pet lady.

But in spite of my own personal unraveling, there are a few things I have discovered about owning a puppy:

1. The joy that a puppy brings to a family is unmatched.

2. When the puppy is asleep next to me I can feel my heart beating slower, my blood pressure lowering, and my good cholesterol increasing. I have no scientific proof of this, but I have a pretty good hunch that it’s true.

3. There is nothing cuter than a puppy dreaming. Nothing.

4. When the puppy licks my face I am surprisingly not disgusted.

5. A puppy loves you unconditionally and is incredibly demonstrative in that love.

6. A puppy is the only member of my family who can pee on the carpet and get away with it.

I’m sure there will be those days when he will make me want to pull my hair out, but for now, we couldn’t be happier with our wonder pup.

And Lily, I’m so glad you pushed us to make our lives better by adding him to the family.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives, writes and walks her dog in Winchester, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

In defense of a love that is found in surprising places

It’s the season of valentines, and to be honest, I kind of don’t care.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of love. It’s just that my understanding of love has evolved over the years to the point that Feb. 14 is just another day.

In my elementary school years, love was getting that special valentine from the boy who sat next to me in arithmetic. Those were the days when we created mailboxes to sit on our desktop, and we’d walk around the room and put our valentines in each box. My mood would rise or fall based on what that certain valentine did or did not say.

Teenage years weren’t much better as I eagerly anticipated receiving a mixed tape with all those great love songs of the ‘80s (they seemed great at the time). Plus I watched “When Harry Met Sally” and “Say Anything” which pretty much set me up for years of unrealistic expectations when it came to love.

College years were all about scorning traditions with snarky sarcasm, declaring Valentine’s Day as just another way for “the man” to keep us down through the marketing ploys of Hallmark.

Then I met Craig when I was 23 and once again love became pure, made up of walks in the woods, gazing at stars and sharing an ice cream cone. The simplest activity seemed to carry all sorts of meaning, further convincing me that I was indeed falling in love. And Valentine’s Day? It was the most significant of days.

Fast forward five years to Valentine’s Day 1996. Craig and I had been married for four years, and we had just given birth to our first child two months earlier. We were averaging about four hours of sleep a night (in two-hour chunks). During that season of life, taking a shower equated to “really tackling the day.” Put simply, my bar was pretty low when it came to Valentine’s Day.

So when Craig woke up in the middle of the night and said, “Let me give the baby a bottle and you sleep” it was better than receiving a four-carat diamond from Tiffany’s.

Valentine’s Day six years later found me mid-way through a six-week stint of bed rest during the tail end of my second pregnancy. I wasn’t allowed to do anything, and so Craig was doing laundry for the family while making dinner and helping our son with his Kindergarten reading. There were no cards, no flowers, no night out on the town, but the love was an active, living thing that day.

A few years ago, we found ourselves with a free night at home on Feb. 14, and Valentine’s Day became the whole family cuddled on the couch watching “Fantastic Mr. Fox” while sharing a bowl of popcorn. I believe Craig and I exchanged cards that year, but the real joy was in being together, all four of us.

It’s not that we’ve given up on romance. We still have our regular date night, we still take walks in the woods and I’m constantly eating his ice cream. It’s just that we’re discovering that there are many layers to love.

When we were married just a year, an older friend and mentor told me that real love is getting up in the middle of the night to get that person a drink of water when needed. She explained how that one simple act expressed selflessness, compassion, commitment, devotion and love.

At the time, I thought that seemed too simplistic.

But the longer we’ve been married, the more I see that my mentor was right. When you’re looking for love you’ll find it in the oddest places, but it’s there … in the middle-of-the-night feedings, the loads of laundry or the cup of water … and it’s in those moments that happen year-round when we truly have reason to celebrate.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer living in Phoenix, Arizona. You can reach her at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Manchester’s bangles deliver a painful sting

I know we Burmeisters are late to this technological party, but we now have Sirius XM satellite radio in our new car. This service offers dozens of stations catering to every niche interest in music, entertainment and news. Want to listen to news without commercials 24 hours a day? It’s there. Can’t get enough reggae music on traditional channels? There’s a station for that. Imagine: Reggae music … all day … all the time. I know, it sounds like torture to me too, but to each his own.

I wanted to pre-set our six buttons to my favorite stations, but had no idea where to start, so I enlisted our 17-year-old son Nathaniel’s help. What would have taken me 10 hours of reading the manual and still getting it wrong took him five minutes to pre-set all six stations. I tossed him a bone and let him choose his own station on the #3 button. He chose Alt Nation. I think “alt” is short for “alternative,” but I didn’t ask, just nodded like I was cool with that.

My favorite channel is ‘80s on 8. It plays all genres of ‘80s music (where Flock of Seagulls meets Rick Springfield meets Alan Parson’s Project). Let me just go on record and admit that I LOVE this musical train wreck of a station.

But the real test came when I was driving with Nathaniel in the car and our different musical generations were clashing. We were listening to Alt Nation and one of the songs was actually pretty good.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Young the Giant,” he said.

“You mean ‘Young and the Giant?’” I asked.

“No,” he said patiently, “it’s Young the Giant.”

“So you’re sure it’s not ‘Young is a Giant?’ It can’t be Young the Giant because that structure is awkward, and it doesn’t make sense. Is the giant’s name 'Young?' I’m so confused."

Then I switched the station because I’m the mom and, well, who was making the payments on this car anyway?

When we hit ‘80s on 8 a song from the Bangles was on. “Oh, I love this song!” I squealed. “’Walk Like an Egyptian’ is a great song. Now this is how you write music, son.”

We sat quietly and listened to the lyrics … the terrible, ridiculous lyrics.

“Great lyrics, mom,” Nathaniel said, and I could hear him smirk in the dark of the passenger seat.

How could I defend this drivel?

All the school kids so sick of books
They like the punk and the metal band
When the buzzer rings (Oh-Way-Oh)
They're walking like an Egyptian

How did I not really listen to these lyrics in 1985? It was embarrassing how bad this was. I was so relieved when that song ended and The Police came on. I mean, how can you go wrong with Sting?

“Here we go,” I said triumphantly. “That last one was a mistake, but we’re talking Sting here.”

Once again, however, we were on lyrical ride to disaster.

Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break, every step you take
I'll be watching you

Soooo, Sting was a stalker. This was not going well.

Thankfully, Nathaniel was gracious enough to bite his tongue, but he did take the liberty of changing the channel back to Alt Nation, and I didn’t argue.

A few days later, my husband came home from running errands with our daughter and asked, “Have you ever listened to the lyrics Melissa Manchester’s ‘Don’t Cry out Loud’ on Sirius XM?” And then he stated them aloud:

Don't cry out loud
Just keep it inside
Learn how to hide your feelings
Fly high and proud
And if you should fall
Remember you almost had it all

Really, it’s a wonder that any of us reached the ‘90s intact.

Eileen Burmeister is a freelance writer who lives in Winchester. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.