Spending the Night

I am packing my bag for a sleepover; I'm headed to Granny and Grandpa's house to spend the night. Thinking back, it's been at least 20 years since I spent the night there. Thirty years ago, spending the night with my grandparents was a treat. Twenty years ago, spending the night with my grandparents was a hassle. Ten years ago spending the night with my grandparents was unheard of. Tonight, spending the night with my grandparents is an honor.

I am the designated driver in the morning. Granny and Grandpa don't need or necessarily want me to spend the night, but the family consensus is that someone should. Granny has told people she and Grandpa can do this on their own and she's right. Grandpa is more relaxed about the sleepover and calls me moral support. Secretly, this is selfish--I am stealing time, time that is frighteningly short. Grandpa has minor surgery tomorrow morning. However, a minor surgery isn't minor at 84. Although I don't expect anything to go wrong in the morning, life offers no guarantees.

Over the weekend a 17-year-old student lost her father. His death was sudden, unexpected, and tragic. This student told me yesterday she wishes she'd taken more pictures--her most recent picture with her father was at Christmas. She talked through her tears about memories. Not extravagant gifts or overseas trips. Not that perfect shirt her father bought her. Her memories were of knowing her father, knowing that he loved her horse and dog, and that he was quietly proud of her talents. What she is unlikely to ever forget is that every time she got in his car, a CD she had recorded was playing. Her voice, his ears, their love. She will send that CD with him tomorrow when she tells him goodbye, but she won't forget what it meant.

Just as she can't go back and fill her memory card with pictures, I can't go back twenty years and enjoy the time I spent with my grandparents. I was a teenager and thought I had better things to do. For a chunk of my life, the family I now hold so dear was not a point of focus. There were years in my life I devoted entirely to myself, unwilling to share my time with others and unaware that my time was all too short.

It is a well-established fact that I screw up frequently and sometimes seriously. I am not a good example of much and am too impulsive for my own or anyone else's good. I have a big mouth and say what I feel. The upside of saying what I feel is that my important people--my family and my few close friends--know how precious they are to me. I can't go back. I can't undo the hurts I caused. I can do my best to get it right from here on out, though, and part of getting it right is treasuring this time.

I'm spending the night doing things I wouldn't choose. I'm packing for a sleepover that elicits feelings that I, with my solid vocabulary, have no words to describe. I don't know if I'll sleep tonight, and I don't suppose I care. I'm going to the visitation for my student's father, and from there I'm heading to Granny and Grandpa's. I won't be taking pictures tonight, but I'm certain I'll remember nonetheless.

Not So Big and Bad

I went to Schuy-Rush Park yesterday to pick up some things I couldn't fit in my van Sunday night. Although I knew it would happen yesterday and shouldn't have been surprised, my first glimpse of the stage when I came over the hill was painful. The set was gone. The beautiful backdrop, colorful chairs, and bedazzled judge's desk were gone. The laughter and lawn chairs were gone. The result of our hard work was gone.

What isn't gone, though, and what I hope never leaves, is this new album of memories.I hope I never forget Kristina's crazy expressions and uncanny ability to turn something funny into something hilarious with her perfect timing. I hope I never forget that Sarah channeled Marisa Tomei and turned the Evil Stepmother into a Jewish Princess. I hope I never forget that Ashley is good with a wand and full of ways to make her character her own. I hope I never forget how many young people came out of their shells this summer and enjoyed themselves in the process. I hope I never forget.

I spent much of my summer reaping the benefits of years of work by two good friends--two women who have an unbeatable combination of talent and experience. I ventured out under the guise of being on my own but had my invisible posse with me all along. I had six weeks of laughter and dreams, stress and sweat, trial and triumph. And now it's done. The park shows no signs of the time spent there and we are all moving on. I'm counting the days until I leave for vacation, but I'm still laughing and smiling at the big bad show.

Freckles On My Everything

I have bug bites on my ass. I'm not sure how to put a positive spin on this one. They aren't even little bug bites. They're the big suckers that demand to be scratched. Fairly evenly distributed on my ass, too. What I'm thinking is that the bastard bug got in there and tried to chew his way out. I don't know how else to explain it. It seems that he visited the north side of the big girl buffet, too, because the bites aren't limited to my lower half. I hope these bites miraculously heal overnight, because scratching certain areas in public is unseemly.

And I have a sunburn. Only on the areas that yesterday's white trash tank top covered but today's left uncovered. It doesn't really hurt right now, but then again, I'm wearing pajamas. We'll see what tomorrow's bra straps do to today's exposed skin.

On top of the sunburn, or perhaps beneath it, I have a surplus crop of freckles. When I was a child I hated my freckles, but I'm over it. They are just a part of me. Maybe they are the part of me that says I really can be the parent of two red heads. My only complaint with the freckles is their growth pattern on my upper lip. I don't know if it's my upper lip or not. It's the space between my mouth and my nose. Right now, that space is particularly easy to spot because of the moustache formation my summer freckles take. I know if that were hair I could bleach it, but didn't Jan Brady try bleaching her freckles? I don't think it worked out. I think she had to wear glasses and dye her hair, all because she tried to bleach her freckles.

Just a side note, while I'm discussing sun damage. I understand the freckles, although I refuse to overthink the sun-stache. What I completely fail to understand is how age spots can develop on areas that don't see the sun. I may wear tank tops in the summer, but I ALWAYS wear a shirt outside. I just don't understand how those spots got there.

Anyway . . . I love summer. I always have. This summer is different from any I've had because this year I'm directing a children's musical. If you know me at all, and you must know me to be reading this blog, you know that I love this summer. My favorite things are together. The sun. The warmth. The show. The friends. The wonderful tiredness that comes from hard work. The occasional beer. If I could figure out a way to direct this show from my hammock, life would be nearly perfect. So I have bug bites on my ass and age spots on my boobs. I also have freckles on my everything and a smile on my face.