Tag Archives: sentimentalities

Time to Cry Tuesday – On Doors Closing and Opening


I always loved the phrase: When one door closes another one opens.

Last week I experienced an uber (no, not that Uber) example of those proverbial doors. I tried my very best to keep my emotions under the drama bar and go with the flow. This, by the way, does nothing more than exhaust you beyond description and is simply a control freak’s illusion, but I seem most comfortable in this state.

As with most of my life, the sequence of my doors were reversed. But this saying made for a nice thread for this post, so let’s go with it.

On Thursday, a door opened. Big time. The one to my daughter Jana’s new apartment. The apartment that she will be sharing with the love of her life – the young man who she has spent many long years waiting to live in the same city with, let alone under the same roof. In reality, the door to this apartment made it a challenge to get a queen-sized box spring through it and up the stairs to her bedroom, but this was the small stuff. (Rectified, btw, by sofasurgery.com. Quick plug for an amazing service that solved the problem in less than 2 hours from call to completion).

The opening of this door was one to the beginning of a wonderful life together and the joy I feel for them is beyond description. (And contrary to those who question this, his mother and I will not be living with them)

On Friday, a door closed. Big time. After many months of listings, contracts, deals, stops and starts, boiler and oil tank replacements, clean-outs, boxes, yards of bubble wrap, sorting, reminiscing, sales, dumpsters, tears, laughs, one broken toe and one tennis/schlepping elbow… we closed on the sale of my childhood home. With each stage of this process, no matter how much stuff we took out of this house, it still felt like the home of my childhood. My family is embedded in the walls of this place. Even that very last day, the one when the house was completely empty except for the bottle of Stoli in the freezer that we toasted one last time to my mom with, we could not help but feel that she would somehow come walking out of that kitchen.

The closing of this door? Well it certainly carries with it a bag of mixed emotions. I walked out of that closing (both the real estate deal and the door) with an odd sense of calm coupled with an overwhelming exhaustion. I certainly have said my goodbyes to that house, that life, that anchor. I am happy to be rid of the process. But there is a lingering phantom pain surrounding never being able to ‘go home again’.

Ok, so maybe I crossed over the drama bar for a moment.

The net of all this (other than my overuse of cliché and devices)? I am a women who loves signs and juxtapositions. I thrive on the meant to be and the alignment of stars. To close on 10.10 at 10am at 1010 Northern Blvd. rang that bell big time. And it was my grandfather’s birthday to boot.

But nothing rang the bell more than the site of my girl in her beginning as I was tying up an ending.

One door opens and another one closes… maybe it is ok to reverse that saying, after all.


Filed under aging parents, childhood, cliches, doors, family, sentimentalites

Time to Cry Tuesday – Buckaroo

I am not one of those moms that pines away for the days when their children were little. Don’t get me wrong, I loved raising my kids. And though sentimental by nature, I am not one of those ‘oh-where-have-my-babies-gone’ types. Each stage had its joys and its challenges and I loved them all. Some were more trying than others, but as a package, motherhood has been a great gig.

But every once in awhile something hits me. I am innocently cleaning the closet in my office (yes, I am still on the office project) and buried in the pile of quilting fabrics (yes, I was a quilter) was this tiny pair of cowboy motif pajamas.

Not just any pajamas, but the ones that had to be washed constantly so that my son could sleep in them yet again. They are threadbare and soft as can be, with faint stains of what is probably maple syrup from the 1,000 waffles he ate at that age. Just the sight of them gave me that tight feeling in my chest that I get when a piece of my past comes crashing into me.

Perhaps when he wore these is when we started calling him Buckaroo. We don’t use that name often, but when we do he tolerates it probably for the same reason we say it; it brings us back to little boy time we both loved.

I took this shot and texted it to my now 19-year-old son with the caption ‘Bucka-f’ing-roo’.

Sometimes you have to know your audience and tailor your message. Know what I mean?


Filed under moms, Time to Cry Tuesdays