Senior Moment No. 2: "Seventeen Come Sunday" (with apologies to Ralph Vaughan Williams)

Note to reader: This is one of an occasional series of postings chronicling my son Greg's senior year in high school. The above photo was taken on Greg's 10th birthday, July 26, 2002. ("Seventeen Come Sunday" is the first movement of English Folk Song Suite by Ralph Vaughan Williams -- one of my favorite pieces!)

Greg will celebrate his 17th birthday this Sunday, July 26, 2009. He doesn't want a big party -- just the usual family cookout that we've held for most of his birthdays. And, of course, Steve and I will take him out for dinner later to his favorite Japanese restaurant. Saturday night he's going to a show (his favorite bands are playing), which will complete the birthday weekend. No "friends" party this year -- he's really beyond that stage now. No, this birthday is decidedly more . . . grown up.

I have to confess, though, I kind of miss the birthday parties with friends, even though they involved a fair amount of work and were often expensive! Plus, it was a real challenge to come up with an original theme. Most of Greg's friends' birthdays were earlier in the year; by the time his rolled around, the kids were already burned out on bowling, mini-golf, and pool parties. Ditto sleepovers (not recommended, by the way, if you want to keep your sanity). Oh, let's just admit it -- a lot of those parties were a great big hassle. And yet, I still miss them, if only because they gave me an endlessly fascinating window into my son's world.

Having grown up in a family of women (I have one sister, no brothers; all of my cousins except one are girls), I have been continually amused and bemused watching my son and his friends interact. Having a couple of friends over to play G.I. Joe was a case study in "boy-deology"; a birthday party was an anthropological graduate thesis! I truly believe, as a result of spending the last 17 years observing the behavior patterns of boys, that I have a much greater understanding of men in general. It has been quite an education! Case in point:

Exhibit A: Laser tag. This was the popular birthday party venue of Greg's junior high years. He attended several laser tag birthday parties and hosted three of his own. But, if I do say so myself, Greg's laser tag parties were the coolest. I mean that in the literal as well as the figurative sense. Thanks to Uncle Dan and Aunt Linda, we discovered Jaegerz Laser Tag & Paintball, just east of I-435 and 210 Hwy., on the north side of the Missouri River. It's located in "the caves," mostly owned by Hunt Midwest and rented out to businesses for warehouse space. Being in a cave, Jaegerz is climate-controlled year-round. Our first visit there was for Greg's 12th birthday. Put six 12-year-old boys in combat gear, give them each a laser tag gun and cut them loose in a dark room furnished with large barrels and other obstacles to hide behind, and they're in heaven! In fact, Jaegerz was so popular with Greg and his friends, we made two return visits.

At this point, I must acknowledge -- right here and now -- that yes, boys are pre-wired to play war-type games. We do not own firearms and have never once encouraged Greg to play with toy guns. But that did not deter him one bit. From an early age, he wanted a toy gun. We granted his wish only on the condition that no toy weapons that came into our house looked like real weapons. This was not always easy to enforce, especially when the coolest guns that "everybody else" had looked, well, real. We stood our ground. Nevertheless, he went through several years of obsession with soldiers and military history. Of all the "superhero" stages he went through -- Power Rangers, Batman, Ninjas, Star Wars -- G.I. Joe lasted by far the longest. The upside is that, around age 8, Greg began watching the History Channel to satisfy his appetite for all things military. I'm proud to say that last school year he was a straight-A student in his American History class!

My favorite of all of Greg's birthday celebrations occurred on July 26, 2002. Super Session weekend ( a rock-'n-roll reunion show that Steve played several summers at the Lake of the Ozarks) happened to coincide with Greg's birthday weekend. The show itself was a mini-vacation for us -- a weekend at the Lake with free lodging, and Steve even made a little money. Making it even more special that year, it was Greg's 10th birthday -- the first one in "double digits!" Greg decided he wanted to "turn 10 IN the lake." We rented a boat late in the afternoon and putted around the lake. Around 5:00 pm we cruised into a cove and cut the motor. Greg jumped into the lake. Steve and I watched the time and, at 5:22:50, we began counting down. 10 - 9 -8 -7 -6 -5 -4 -3 - 2 -1 . . . at exactly 5:23 pm CDT (the time of his birth), we snapped the photo at the top of this post! Oh, to have a summer birthday!

In many ways, this one is as much a milestone as the birthday in the lake. It's the last one of childhood; next year he will be legally an adult. So, Happy 17th Birthday, Greg! May it be as much fun as laser tag and as satisfying as a dip in the lake. Enjoy this last year of being a kid -- it doesn't get any better!

Weighed Down

I've hired a personal trainer. Not exactly a "real" one -- actually, it's a software program online. You enter all your personal information, e.g. height, weight, resting heart rate, your activity level (check one: superhuman/active/sort of active/depends what you mean by "active"/can't bend over without being short of breath/never-could-bend-over-what-are-you-talking-about/sedentary). I also had to indicate what kinds of medications I'm taking and how many push ups I can do without stopping. For the latter, I had to actually drop to the floor and do some (if you must know, it was 20 -- not too shabby, I think). I figured I could go ahead and count those push ups as my exercise for the day. The online trainer then creates a diet and exercise program tailored to your goals and lifestyle. Each day you download your exercise plan and menus for the day. Anyway, at $39.99 for three months, I figured what the heck? If I actually lose some weight this time, then it's money well-spent; if not, then I'm not out all that much.

Because, believe me, I've spent a lot more in the past. I spent a small fortune on Weight Watchers -- three times! And yes, I lost weight, but it always came back -- and brought some friends with it. Having given W.W. three attempts, I've pretty much decided it's not the program for me. I'm not knocking it -- I know that millions of people have lost zillions of pounds on Weight Watchers and kept it off. Most of them went to work for W.W. as group leaders, as far as I can tell. But my W.W. experiences weren't so convincing.

The first time I joined W.W. it seemed like the answer to my lifelong battle with weight. And I have to confess: I have been overweight since childhood. About age 8, to be exact. The last time I was thin I was 7 years old; being fat has been my way of life almost as long as I can remember. So Weight Watchers seemed like the logical choice for a 26-year-old newlywed who had just received a bitter dose of reality looking at her wedding pictures. I signed up and went to my first meeting. The group leader was fantastic! She emphasized exercise and portion control, and I started to see some results. Although I wasn't thrilled about the public weigh-in, I nonetheless looked forward to meetings. Well, the leader was so good, she was promoted to an administrative position in the organization. Enter her replacement, a woman so dull and monotone, it was difficult to stay awake during her presentations. How in the world did someone so uninspiring get to be a group leader? Mercifully, my work schedule changed, forcing me to switch to another group meeting. And that was my downfall. My new group leader was primarily focused on food -- how to use low-fat cheese in the au gratin potatoes, how to measure 1 tbsp. of ranch dressing, how many calories in one slice of strawberry cheesecake as opposed to the whole thing. Exercise? Never mentioned it. Every "lecture" was about food, food, food. Small wonder that each weigh-in I was seeing the scale go up instead of down. I finally reached my breaking point. The topic that day was "Binge Eating." Now, I've never been a binge-eater (portion control was my biggest problem), but guess what I did? Yep -- I went home and polished off just about every snack food in the house within reach.

I attempted Weight Watchers two more times -- the "Personal" version, which was a knock-off of the Jenny Craig program, and the "At Home" version in which I paid roughly the same amount of money that I would for the group meetings, only I didn't have to go to meetings. It was worth it just to avoid the meetings. I was never comfortable sharing such personal information with a roomful of strangers. And I really resented the "testimonials": I lost 20 lbs! And I know it was ONLY 20 lbs., but it took me a LONG time to lose it, and I feel SO much better! I can fit into my skinny jeans again! (Squeals with delight)And if I can do it, YOU CAN, TOO! Oh, get real! Did you notice the rest of us rolling our eyes? Most of us have 50+ pounds to lose -- do you really think you have a clue what it's really like being fat? So you lost the baby weight, well congratulations! By the way, what size are your "skinny jeans?" Mine are about a size 14; somehow I don't think they qualify. It's all about perspective.

Okay, I did lose weight -- but each time I only made it to about 35 pounds down before I hit the dreaded "plateau." Ah yes, the word that strikes fear in every dieter -- plateau. It's a rather elegant French word meaning "an elevated and comparatively level expanse of land; tableland." But, in the dieter's lexicon, it means "You have hit bottom. You will lose no more weight. In fact, you will start gaining it all back plus another 10-20 lbs. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200." You've heard of the glass ceiling? Well, to those of us desperately trying to lose weight, it's a glass floor. We can see those "skinny" jeans down there, waiting for us to lose enough weight to squeeze ourselves into them. But we never quite make it, and the skinny jeans get snapped up by someone . . . skinny.

By the way, I want to declare right here and now that, as someone who has been overweight all her life, I've never owned a pair of skinny jeans! I don't even know what skinny jeans look like! And what, may I ask, is a "bikini body"? I've never worn a bikini, either. Never will. I find it personally insulting that the covers of so many women's magazines -- including the so-called "health and fitness" mags -- are graced each month by airbrushed photos of celebs in bikinis . . . even in January! Unless you live in Florida, Hawaii, or California, who the hell wears a bikini year-round? For that matter, who wants to? I used to have subscriptions to some of those mags, but I dropped them. Quite frankly, I don't care how Jennifer Lopez, Madonna, and a parade of other celebs keep their butts, abs, and arms in such great shape. They spend several hours a day working out, and they have personal chefs to make lots of delicious meals they can upchuck later. And they get paid to do it -- it's their job to look good. And, if they don't look absolutely perfect, there's always photoshop.

But I digress. The real issue here is my body and the fact that I've been trying to get down to at least a reasonable weight for most of my adult life. Admittedly, my motivation used to be looks -- I've always been, well, ashamed of what I look like. But now I have the health issues to deal with that overweight people inevitably have to face: I have high blood pressure and high cholesterol. And I'm on medications to keep them in check, but, as my doctor is fond of pointing out to me, I need to lose the weight, too.

Believe me, I know. I. Am. Well. Aware. Of. The. Risks. Of. Obesity. I have a long family history of heart disease and diabetes. Both of my parents are on heart meds; my mom --like me -- is on blood pressure and cholesterol meds. I'm almost the same age my dad was when he had his heart attack (49, if you must know). I think about it every day. I arrived at the ER one night where my mom, complaining of chest pains, had been taken . . . only to find my dad in the bed next to her, hooked up to heart monitors (which resulted, I recall, in my dad having a pacemaker installed). I know. The only advantage I have right now over my dad is that I'm more active than he was at age 49, and I've never smoked. But otherwise my risk factors are way up there. So don't lecture me about how I need to exercise more, eat more fruits and veggies, cut down on fat and salt, cut out the soda, and on andonandonandon . . . . Believe me . . . I KNOW!

But knowing what to do and actually doing it are two different things. Obviously I don't have a good track record, or I wouldn't even be writing this! I've tried several different diets over the years and generally lost the same amount of weight, i.e. 30-35 lbs. The problem is, each time I put those same 30-35 lbs. back on plus a few more. I realize that I have to change a lot of habits, but change is hard. To undo a lifetime of patterns is a monumental task. People who have never dealt with weight issues tend to think it's just a matter of putting the fork down and lacing up the tennis shoes. It is, but it's so much more than that. It requires a personality shift --- a "sea change," to use that already overused term. And, above all, it requires a little cooperation from family and friends. Not in the "food police" sense. I don't need people monitoring every bite ("Should you be eating that?"), but I also don't need people pushing food at me ("You should really try the butter crumb cake I made -- it's a new recipe!"). I also don't need a gym coach logging my exercise (that's why I hired a personal trainer). It's quite possible that the reason I didn't hit the treadmill today is that I pulled a calf muscle a little yesterday and I'm prudently giving it a rest so as not to cause further injury. And, you know, maybe you guys should lay off the Oreos, too, and have some fruit instead. It would be very helpful if we didn't have any junk food in the house.

So here I am, embarking on yet another weight-loss plan. I keep trying because I have to. It comes down to this: I'm not comfortable in my own skin. And I'm really scared of developing diabetes or having a heart attack. I need to do something. That's why I hired an online personal trainer. Hope springs eternal.

Savoring Summer

I'm looking forward to summer. All those long, lazy days ahead, stretching beyond the horizon -- all that idle time just waiting to be filled with outdoor fun. Yep, I can't wait for summer to begin. Wait a minute -- it already has?! It's almost the middle of July . . . what happened to June?

Fooled again! It happens every year, you know. As the school year draws to a close, I start to relax and leisurely ease into my summer routine. On the floor next to the bed I keep a stack of books I intend to read this summer. I make to-do lists for painting projects, pencil in concerts I want to see on my calendar, make note of must-see summer movies. I know I planned for all of that, but here's the thing -- it's the middle of July, and I haven't done very much! Oh, I've taught lots of lessons and organized flute choir rehearsals. I've filed music and cleaned out the basement. And I'm almost finished with the book I expected to have read by June 15th! I've seen a handful of movies, and I enjoyed hearing a couple of outdoor concerts. But mostly I've just continued the same routine I keep all the rest of the year; the only difference is I get to sleep later.

So how nice that last week I actually did something truly summery. I must admit, it involved conducting a rehearsal (or "work" as I know it). My adult flute choir gathered at the home of one of the members for a rehearsal/potluck dinner . . . and boat ride! Barb, the hostess, lives on a lake, and she generously offered to host the rehearsal at her house and suggested making it a social occasion. After about an hour of rehearsing, the nine of us sat down to dinner and then, around 8:30 pm, we went out on the lake in Barb's boat. It was a beautiful, calm evening. The water was smooth as glass as we toured the lake under the setting sun, sipping our wine and sharing stories of our travels and favorite vacations. It was one of those evenings when it didn't matter what the time was; indeed, time seemed to stop altogether -- one of those rare moments you actually savor. At least I did.

It lasted only three hours, but, in some respects, the evening seemed longer. I wish it could have been longer. It occurs to me that we don't experience many moments like that. Not because they're rare (they don't have to be), but because we're usually too busy to appreciate them. "Stop and smell the flowers" may be a corny cliche, but there's a lot of wisdom in it. Summer is the one time of year when we have permission to stop and smell the flowers, sit on the deck and read a book, stay up late to write a blog entry about savoring those summer moments. It's okay -- I can sleep in tomorrow. After all, it's summer.

Memories of 4ths of July Past

Independence Day is one of my favorite holidays. Isn't it for most of us? Our founding fathers conveniently declared their independence in the middle of summer, so we can celebrate outdoors with picnics and barbecues and, of course, fireworks. It just wouldn't be the same if Independence Day was in, say January or March. And in the fall it would have to compete with Halloween and Thanksgiving. So it's nice that it falls in July, which means "The 4th of July" holiday has a whole month all to itself.

I spent many of my childhood July 4ths in Kennett, MO, my parents' hometown. My dad was in the military. Moving around as we did, we seldom saw our grandparents, cousins, or other relatives. My dad would plan his leave time for a couple of weeks in the summer and the week between Christmas and New Year's. We usually spent those weeks with our relatives in Kennett. In the summer, we typically arrived a couple of days or so before the 4th and stayed at my grandmother's house. My cousins (this is my mom's side of the family) lived two streets over, and various aunts and uncles lived either across the street or around the corner. At this point, I should explain that Kennett is the county seat of Dunklin County in the "boot heel" (not "boot hill") of Missouri. For those unfamiliar with this part of the country, the inhabitants have much more in common with their neighbors in Arkansas or Tennessee than they do with the rest of their own state. To borrow from one southern state's tourist slogan, "It's a whole other country." I don't think "Kennetians" (as my sister and I used to refer to them) even consider themselves Midwesterners; they definitely identify more with Southerners. Just ask Sheryl Crow -- she grew up there. (Note to readers: NO, I don't know Sheryl; I didn't grow up in Kennett. But my cousins did; they knew her in high school. My parents know her parents, and that's as close to her inner circle as I get).

Anyway, the 4th of July shindig would take place mostly on Grandma Anita's driveway. She had a table set up under the carport for the food, and Uncle Ted usually brought a cooler the size of a small boat stocked with sodas (not "pop" -- remember, this is the South, not the Midwest!) and beer. The aunts brought the side dishes, usually sliced tomatoes from the garden, corn-on-the-cob, and potato salad. Now, in the spirit of the day, I want to -- once and for all -- declare my independence from potato salad. I hate potato salad! All potato salad! I don't even like my mother's! (Sorry, Mom!). It's nothing personal -- I just don't care for potatoes smothered in mayonnaise. I prefer my potatoes baked, roasted, french-fried, and -- very occasionally -- au gratin or mashed (but only at Thanksgiving). I have tried numerous times to convey my preferences to various family members (mine and my husband's), but it seems to have fallen on deaf ears. Certain family members (who shall remain nameless) still express incredulity if not complete shock when they pass me the potato salad and I just keep passing it. Listen, people, some of you don't like tomatoes -- which happens to be one of my favorite foods -- but I'm certainly not going to ridicule you for only eating tomatoes in the sauce on your pizza! So can we retire the potato salad issue now?

Back to 4th of July in Kennett -- after dinner, the "old folks" (well, to a 9-year-old, they seemed old) would sit in the lawn chairs with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other while the kids played badminton in the yard. As soon as it was dark enough, my dad and Uncle Ted would take the empty soda bottles (Grape, Orange, and Strawberry Ne-Hi!), set them up on the end of the driveway, and light bottle rockets in them. My mom and Aunt Kay would light sparklers and hand them to us kids. Now, at the time, it was pretty cool, but now that I'm a parent myself . . . what in the HELL were they thinking??? There we were, little kids standing there with a burning sparkler in each hand and our dads firing off bottle rockets just a few feet away. Not to mention the fact that some of those bottle rockets landed on the grass, not the street! Of course, Uncle Ted was ready with the garden hose. And Grandma Anita had the phone number for the fire department posted by the phone inside the house. And what if one of us kids had been burned by a sparkler? "Well, go stick your hand in the ice down in the cooler, Silly!" Geez, we're so spoiled now. Our parents took things in stride and kept the first aid kit handy, just in case.

Most of my adult July 4th celebrations have been spent watching organized fireworks displays (although I'm married to a closet pyro, who seems to have passed the fireworks gene on to our son). And one year, Steve and I played a wedding on July 4th: the infamous "Farm Pond" wedding. The wedding took place at 5:00 in the afternoon on a farm outside of Gardner, KS. Our quartet had been hired to play the ceremony. The ceremony was to be on an "island" in a "lake" on the property. The couple would cross a bridge connecting the "island" to the "mainland"; they would say their vows under a specially-built archway on the island. How romantic. We asked, since the wedding was outdoors, if there was a contingency plan for rain. "Oh, never say 'rain'!" the bride cheerfully assured us. Okay, then, how about heat?

Because, folks, it was HOT. Allow me to set the scene: It's 5:00 pm on July 4th. The temperature is 96 degrees . . . in the shade. Did I say shade? What shade? There was no shade! When we arrived, we parked near the house, then walked down a dirt road, instruments and music stands in hand, to a spot on the drive facing the "lake." Which wasn't actually a lake, but a small, scum-covered farm pond. There was a makeshift bridge leading to the "island,"or, more accurately, a mound of dirt sitting in the middle of the pond. But there was, indeed, a lovely archway decorated with flowers on the "island." Oh, and did I mention that we were wearing (as per the bride's request) formal black attire? As in long black dresses for the ladies and tuxes for the men. The guests, by the way, were dressed in shorts, t-shirts, and tank tops. Oh, and they had hats, visors, and beach umbrellas. Our formal-black-clad quartet was seated in four folding chairs on a dirt road under the blazing sun.

We began playing the processional. Now, the bride had informed us that the wedding party would arrive at the ceremony by horse-drawn carriage. What she failed to mention was they would be arriving one at a time! And the carriage had to return to the house to pick up each individual member of the party. Don't ask me how many attendants there were -- all I remember is it took 45 minutes for the wedding party to arrive at the farm pond. After the ceremony, we were invited to stay for the reception (also outdoors, under a tent). We declined. It's really hard to work up an appetite when you're suffering from heat exhaustion. Steve and I returned instead to our apartment, peeled off our sweaty black clothes, cranked up the A/C, and lay down on the bed . . . where we slept through the fireworks display we had planned to attend.

This year Steve will spend his 4th of July conducting High School Musical at The Theatre In The Park. No fireworks, though -- the city had to cut costs this year. Greg has to work and probably won't get to leave until after the Olathe display is over with. Since I'm on my own tonight, maybe I'll take in a movie or watch the "Capital Fourth" broadcast on PBS. But we'll still have barbecued chicken and corn-on-the-cob, tomato slices, and strawberry shortcake. No strawberry Ne-Hi, though. And, mercifully, no potato salad!

Happy 4th!

Senior Moment: No. 1 -- "The Photo"

Note to Readers: This is the first installment of what will be an occasional series chronicling my son Greg's last year of high school (the above photo is Greg at 18 months).

My son is officially a high school senior. What was my first clue? Was it the last day of the school year? The final grade report from said school year? Acquisition of his first car? The designation "Senior '10" on his Facebook page? No, none of the above. It was his senior portrait, which was photographed last week.

The photographs were taken on Thursday; on Saturday the proofs arrived in the mail. Never mind that Greg wasn't thrilled with the yearbook proofs (although he liked the "casuals"). As I stood there looking at the proofs, my son's beautiful smile beaming at me from five different angles (thanks to $4,000 in orthodontics), it hit me -- this is the beginning of my only child's last year of high school. His last year of public school. His last year of childhood. In less than a month, he will celebrate his 17th birthday. In less than a year, he will enter the realm of adulthood.

Now, I'm not going to get all sentimental and cry, "It seems like only yesterday he was a baby!" That's not really true. I've been a parent for nearly seventeen years. And you know what? It feels like seventeen years! But I do remember when seventeen years seemed very far in the future. I used to reflect on that idea a lot when I was giving Greg those 3 a.m. feedings. I'd sit in the rocking chair in his room, my sleep-deprived eyelids drooping as I stared out the window while he nursed. I would imagine what he would be like at different ages -- 2, 6, 9, 10, 13, 16. I imagined what he would look like -- his dad (which he does, but with straighter teeth). I imagined his personality -- cheerful, thoughtful, funny (pretty close, though often goofier than I expected). I thought he would be very smart and scholarly (well, I was half right -- he's very smart, but not very studious). Somehow, I never quite imagined my son as an adult.

Oh, intellectually, I fully expected Greg to grow up. That's what the last seventeen years have been about, after all -- preparing our offspring to leave the nest. But now that we're in the home stretch, all of a sudden I'm wondering if we've done enough. Have we left something out? Did we forget anything? Parenthood doesn't come with an owner's manual -- how would we know?

I'm beginning to compile a mental list of regrets. They come into my mind at random, so here are a few, in no particular order:

1) We should have bought a camcorder. Who in their right mind -- in this day and age -- spends half their lives raising a family without even once videotaping their kids? We do, that's who. I've always had an aversion to home movies. During my childhood, my dad spent our vacations taking movies of the scenery with his 8mm; the only actual moving pictures were of our backsides walking away from the camera. So I was never eager to invest in a camcorder. Neither was my husband, Steve. Still, it makes me sick now to think of all the missed You-Tube opportunities! Who knows? We could have sold ads to pay for Greg's college!


2) We should have kept the Legos. Ebay. Again -- college money.


3) We should have kept the G.I. Joes -- Oh! Never mind! We did! (Hmm. Ebay.)


4) Should we have made Greg play french horn all the way through high school? The jury is still out on this one. He quit at the end of his sophomore year because he was simply burned out. He never embraced music the way his career musician parents would have liked. Instead, he pursued a keen interest in -- and talent for -- photography and graphic arts. He's passionate about computer art in a way he never was about playing the horn. And yet, he was (is) a natural musician. Seems like such a waste of talent, especially horn -- SCHOLARSHIP INSTRUMENT! Still, we try to keep in mind that Greg is not a carbon copy of his parents. He has his own interests, completely separate from ours. Still, he's a horn player!


5) We should have taken more trips. Our goal, as soon as Greg was old enough to travel without being a total pain-in-the-butt, was to take a trip somewhere every summer. Our first official family trip was in August, 1997. Greg had just turned five; we took him with us to the National Flute Association Convention in Chicago. While I attended the convention, Steve had the arduous task of keeping a precocious, fidgety five-year-old entertained. Everywhere they went, Greg insisted on calling Steve "Batman" (his favorite super hero at the time). He also insisted on being carried everywhere, even though he was really too big for that. At one point, we became so exasperated, we made Greg stand for five minutes facing a corner in the bathroom of our hotel room. After that, he quit asking to be carried; instead, he wanted to ride to all our activities in a taxi.


Ten years later we took our last family trip with Greg. Once again, we included a visit to the NFA Convention in our itinerary. This time, though, we took a car trip to the Southwest. The convention was in Albuquerque; along the way, we stopped in Colorado Springs, Mesa Verde, Monument Valley, and Santa Fe. Greg, now 15, spent most of the trip plugged into his iPod, looking bored. In the years in between, we took trips to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Tulsa, Memphis, San Antonio, Los Angeles, San Diego, and Hannibal, MO. We also spent several summer weekends at the Lake of the Ozarks. Honestly, there weren't very many summers we didn't travel somewhere. But we never made that trip to Yellowstone or Mt. Rushmore, the Smoky Mountains, the Pacific Northwest. And I went to Washington, D.C. for the 2002 flute convention without my family. I can't help feeling a tinge of regret for the trips not taken. We should have taken more trips.


So, back to the photo. As I mentioned at the beginning, Greg wasn't happy with his yearbook photo proofs. Today he did a retake. His hair looked better, and he seemed more relaxed, more natural. I'm confident that this time he'll be satisfied. And so will we. After all, it's his one and only senior year -- it's perhaps the most special year of his life (so far), and the official photograph should reflect that. He got a do-over on the photo, but he won't get one for his last year of high school (or his last year of childhood). Neither will we. This is the only time in our lives that Steve and I will experience that senior year with our child. Of course, being our only child, every year, every childhood experience has been the only one for us. But this year is different. This year is special. That's why I'm going to faithfully record each "senior moment" -- as it happens -- in this blog. And while I'm at it, maybe I'll go out and buy a camcorder.