Planet Mom

March 18, 2026 · 12:07 pm

What’s the Damage?

When I was young some would say that I was a fairly athletic person, as I participated quite competitively in various sports, both individual and team efforts. As one might expect, I suffered my share of injuries over the years and used a ton of ice and Bengay as therapy. The list mostly included sprained ankles, dislocated fingers and, of course, pulled hamstrings—a sprinter’s lament. I’m not sure how I managed it, but I never tore an ACL or broke any bones back then. Small mercies.

Fast forward to now, when I hurt myself in one way or another, I don’t bounce back as quickly—if at all. It used to be I was laid up for a few days or a week at most, and then I was right back to normal, ready to pull another hammy in the 100m dash.

Once I was pushing 40 however (and now considerably more), it seems the rules have changed—and not for the better. For starters, I can injure myself doing absolutely anything—or nothing at all. I can bend down and pick up a paperclip and wrench my back instantaneously. The twinge is familiar if nothing else and I know I’ll be hibernating on the couch with a heating pad in no time. And why is it that a stiff neck can materialize out of nothingness? I can “sleep wrong” and wind up with utterly debilitating neck pain—the kind that triggers pure anguish over the suggestion of driving a car.

It almost goes without saying that my muscles and joints have aged less than gracefully and I’m sure there’s a bit of arthritis lurking about that adds to my discomfort from time to time—which doesn’t seem fair at all. Who knew that running a full marathon and completing a triathlon in college would ostensibly wreck my knees? Not 21-year-old me. I thought I was invincible.

But what I find completely unwarranted is that the reasoning behind most of my injuries of late have been just plain stupid. Not so long ago, I was out for a walk at dusk enjoying the great outdoors in our neighborhood when I heard a tremendous crash in the woods nearby. Mind you, I clearly heard this crash OVER the music playing in my earbuds—so it had to be deafening. For context, a few weeks prior to this event a very large black bear was seen roaming around our neighborhood. He had broken down a pool fence, torn down one of our bird feeders and had gotten into someone’s trash, destroying the metal can in the process. So naturally when I heard the noise coming from the woods, I assumed it was a BEAR and started running, sprinter that I am, or was, more correctly. In mid-sprint I felt something snap in both of my Achillies tendons, but kept running lest the bear eat me. I then climbed and clawed my way up our hilly front lawn, assuredly tearing my tendons even further. Once I got to the top, I looked back. There was no bear, only an empty street, mocking me. I then hobbled back to the house—a walk of shame if ever there was one. Turns out, a tree had fallen in the woods. Go figure.

Another idiotic event involved taking our tiny dog, Jack, out to do his business in the back yard. He had a habit of wandering forever in circles, searching for the perfect spot. Because, of course, he did. While he was busy sniffing and searching, I inadvertently stepped in a rabbit hole I had forgotten was there. It wasn’t a very big hole, just enough to affirm that I was, in fact, a fool. I can’t tell you how many times we intended to fill in said hole, but didn’t. As a result, I wound up with a hyperextended knee. I Googled it, thereby confirming my suspicions.

Just the other week, I once again felt searing pain—this time in my shoulder/neck/scapula area. I hadn’t lifted a car or anything. Nope. I was just stretching. In the morning. Like a normal person. I wasn’t even out of bed yet. My feet hadn’t touched the floor. But I knew the instant I felt the stab of pain that I would be on the couch with the heating pad in no time, assessing the damage.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (anxiously awaiting my next stupid injury). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Leave a comment

Filed under Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Ode to Embarrassment

Tagged as aches and pains, aging, humor, injuries, sports injuries

March 10, 2026 · 4:13 pm

Still Here in Spirit

I’m sure a lot of people do it—hold on to things that their loved ones used and perhaps cherished during their lifetimes. That’s why they call them keepsakes—something tangible that helps us keep our loved ones close to our hearts even if they’re gone from this earth. In theory, they’re items that hold special significance or meaning because they were once important to the deceased or to the person who ultimately winds up with them. Sad to say, I’ve collected a fair number of mementos over the years. And they all serve the same purpose—connection. Furniture, china, artwork, clothing, jewelry, knickknacks and boxes upon boxes of snapshots that flood our minds with memories the instant we open them. Some of it’s useful, some of it’s not especially.

I realize it makes no sense to hang on to my dad’s wedding band. It’s currently stuffed in a tiny box in a dresser drawer. I sometimes get it out and slide it on my thumb, trying to remember how it looked on his hand. I suppose I could have it made into another piece of jewelry, but I don’t want to change its integrity. It just doesn’t feel right.

My mom’s and my grandmothers’ rings, by contrast, I decided to resize so I could wear them. Not every day, but more often than I thought I would. It sounds weird but I’d like to think that when I put them on, they’re still with me, at least in spirit. They’ve come along to our granddaughter’s birthday parties, to special dinners, to holiday celebrations, to my aunt’s and uncle’s funerals, to our oldest daughter’s wedding, to one of our twin’s musicals as a choral director, to our other twin’s engagement and to their college graduations and recitals (they were both music majors). Again and again, as I glanced down at my mom’s diamond ring, it’s as if she were sitting right there in the seat next to me, experiencing the music, the performance, the ceremony or whatever was happening at the time.

By the same token, my brother, who I lost to suicide 20 years ago, has been “attending” numerous events that I thought he might appreciate. I wear some of his shirts like a warm hug and if the occasion presents itself, I tell people that I do it because I’m proud of the man he was and that he needs to “get out and about with me.” Occasionally, I’ll open the bottle of cologne I saved just to remember, and it’s as if he’s right there. Likewise, my husband occasionally visits some of his mother’s clothing we’ve stored in the attic and swears he can still smell her perfume even though it’s been almost two decades since we lost her. It’s a way of connecting to his past and I surely understand.

I suppose the weirdest keepsake to date is a plant that my mother-in-law loved and cared for as it sat on a windowsill over her kitchen sink for the longest time. It was an African violet and we kept it alive close to 15 years—no small feat given our less than impressive track record of houseplant survival.

My dear friend, Pam, makes it a habit to say “Good morning” and “Goodnight” to her husband’s urn so that she might better function throughout each day. She also sleeps in Bill’s favorite T-shirts as a rule, helping her to remember him and the occasions when they were purchased. She kept his wedding band and has a gold heart imprinted with his unique thumbprint. Not surprisingly, she has a wealth of pictures and mementos of their times together and she still has a few of his voicemails, so that she won’t ever forget his voice.

Another dear friend, Ann, shared with me that she still has the duty assignment cards that were her aunt’s, who was a volunteer Red Cross Driver during WWI and WWII. That same aunt personally witnessed the Hindenburg explosion in 1937 in New Jersey and Ann wound up with the newspaper clipping from that day. She also kept some dishes and handmade furniture from her great grandparents and poems written by her uncle. Generations of family history were also preserved and passed down to her—something she values beyond measure. Ann also suffered a heartbreaking loss of her teenage son and has kept the model ship he built among a host of special mementos.

I truly understand why people like me keep the keepsakes. It’s so the connection remains and the grief is temporarily replaced by feelings of comfort and remembrance.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably wearing one of my brother’s shirts). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Leave a comment

Filed under Family Affair, Gratitude, Love and Loss

Tagged as coping, family, grief, keepsakes, loss, love, Love and Loss, mementos, remembrance

March 3, 2026 · 9:46 pm

Hot Mess

It may sound a bit strange, but I have a slight obsession with snowmen. The indoor décor variety, more specifically, designed to be displayed throughout the house—several of which were handcrafted by my daughters in grade school. That makes them even more special, I think. I realize that spring is just around the corner and that most people have probably stowed that sort of thing away already. But not me. I can’t bear to banish them to the attic with the rest of our holiday decorations. Call me crazy.

When our kids were little and even a little biggish, we spent countless hours building snowmen, snow forts and snow furniture together in the yard—sometimes with neighbors, sometimes with grandparents and sometimes after dark. I’ll never forget the night we built two gigantic snowmen at the edge of our property facing the street so that our bus driver, Helen, could see them when she arrived in the morning. I think she was pleased. Without question, those times spent in the snow represent some of my favorite memories harvested from parenting. Maybe that’s partly the reason I keep the snowmen around—a little reminder of the good days that were had.

Or maybe my shrine to snowmen (and cutout snowflakes for that matter) has more to do with the fact that my love for winter has grown exponentially since the advent of menopause. I used to be a “summer person.” Not so much anymore. Hot flashes are no picnic. Neither is weight gain, brain fog or night sweats. I’ve had them for ELEVEN YEARS and counting. That’s longer than we’ve endured Trump—which is really saying something.

Not surprisingly, I’ve purchased special (very expensive) “menopause pajamas,” read tons of books and articles on the subject, talked with numerous doctors about my sufferings, tried various medications, both over-the-counter and prescription, and have come to the conclusion that I’m doomed. Or maybe it’s just that God hates me. Probably both.

Thankfully, I was gifted two personal fans to help with my miserable situation, in the event that the batteries wear out and I need a replacement. One of them is ideal in that it’s small, lightweight and designed to be hand-held. Plus, its fan blades are really soft and flexible so that when they hit my face, I don’t take an eye out. The other one is super quiet, has three speeds and is actually wearable—for my insufferably hot neck area, of course. When I switch one on, my husband instinctually moves away from me, because obviously, the last thing I need is his body heat adding to my inferno.

I’m sure that man just shakes his head when he finds me lying on the tile floor like a dog. In my defense, I knew our dogs were on to something. Cold air sinks and central air-conditioning can only do so much in the stifling heat of summer.

What’s more, I set the bedroom temperature at a cool 67 degrees and sleep with a ceiling fan on even in the dead of winter. Yes, my husband hates it. But he loves me (I think) and takes one for the team every night. While he’s burrowed beneath the blankets, I’m flipping my flipping pillow over to the cool side umpteen times a night, ripping the sheets off and hanging one leg off the bed so that, for at least a moment, I can catch a breeze from the aforementioned ceiling fan that’s just trying its best. Sad to say that a lot of nights, spooning is out of the question. In lieu of that, he sometimes retrieves a spare fan out of his nightstand and holds it over my face in the dark. Not to worry; the blades on that one are soft and pliable, too.

What’s weird is that I can be minding my own business, completely comfortable with the air temperature around me and then out of nowhere I feel a wave of heat so intense I’m sure it came from the depths of hell. It then rises from the base of my skull, eventually enveloping my entire head and body. As an added bonus, my glasses fog up and I sprout a tiny sweat mustache. Talk about a hot mess. That’s an understatement.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably building a snowman in the lawn). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Leave a comment

Filed under Captain Quirk, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as hot flashes, humor, menopause, parenting, snowmen, winter, women

February 24, 2026 · 3:39 pm

Sunspots

My indoor cats know where it’s at—basking in the sunspots throughout the house. Those warm and welcoming havens where the sun streams in through the windows and pools on the floor and furniture below are especially inviting on these cold, wintry days. They’re no fools. They know it makes perfect sense to curl up in a place where heat is literally raining down from the sky, warming their bodies through to the bone.

I can tell just by looking at their furry faces how euphoric this makes them. The way they turn their heads toward the source and slow blink as if to say, “Don’t bother me; I’m in a zone.” What I find hilarious is watching said cats squabble over what is apparently prime real estate—a two-foot square expanse of hardwood flooring in a corner of our living room that is bathed in sunlight nearly every morning. If I could fit there (and if I got up earlier), I’d be hijacking it myself.

I’m like a house plant, only less photosynthesis is involved.

It’s not as if we set the thermostat below a reasonable temperature and we’re all freezing to death. It usually hovers right around 70 degrees. It’s just that the sun streaming in feels so ridiculously good—especially on bare feet. And if it’s a blue sky type of day, the sunspots appear on the northwestern side of the house in the afternoon too, providing even more opportunities for lounging in the warmth.

So I guess it’s not the least bit surprising that I, much like our cats, follow the sun in winter. Housebound, I find myself seeking out the shafts of light pouring in and soaking it all up before the clouds close in or night falls. If I didn’t look like a complete idiot, I’d be tempted to sprawl out on the floor just like the cats and devour every sliver of sunlight to be had—charging my batteries so to speak. It’s no wonder almost every vehicle I ever owned came equipped with a sunroof, lest I be deprived of a solitary photon.

For what it’s worth, there’s an amusing YouTube and Instagram video about northerners enjoying February sunshine on a family vlog and blog called Story of This Life. It’s created by Thad and Esther Anderson and I highly recommend you check it out (with the volume on) for a good laugh. The woman in question practically transforms into a cat as she slinks over furniture, stairs, walls and flooring to absorb every available ray of sunshine in her home. These past few months she has become my spirit animal.

What’s more, I sort of identify with the solar panels we had installed on our roof last summer. They love the sunshine, but have been more than a little frustrated by the snow and ice still covering a good portion of their surface. Let the melting begin.

I suppose I should take my husband’s advice and use my Miroco Light Therapy Lamp more often, particularly on gray days when it’s not very sunny. It’s a nifty device for people who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (that I, of course, diagnosed myself) that simulates natural sunlight without UV rays. It has multiple brightness settings, a timer and it swivels for convenience. For whatever reason, though, I just don’t seem to be inclined to fetch it from the bowels of our cabinet where it’s housed. Maybe because I know in my heart of hearts it’s not the same as actual sunlight. Obviously, my cats think it’s a marvelous idea to use it in lieu of competing for their precious sunspots.

Little jerks.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably lying in a sunspot, squinting like the cats). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

1 Comment

Filed under Me Myself and I, Normal is Relative, Love and Other Drugs, Unplugged, Gratitude

Tagged as cats, February, humor, Seasonal Affective Disorder, sunshine, sunspots, winter, writing

February 21, 2026 · 4:15 pm

A Sacrilege of Sorts

There are but two kinds of people in this world—those who brazenly read the endings of books before the endings are actually reached and those who would never dream of a crime so heinous. I myself fall with the masses into the latter category, always mindful of the tenets we must uphold: Thou shalt not spoil the endings of good books no matter how dire the circumstance or how great the temptation.

Of course I’ve been so bold as to glance at the last page while contemplating a purchase in the aisle of a bookstore, allowing my eyes to sweep across the fuzziness of passages, to graze but not actually rest on hallowed words, erasing all hope of ever being rewarded for my ability to resist that which is sinfully alluring. If nothing else, I can be proud of that.

However it wasn’t until I was deeply immersed in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Chapter Seven of this scrumptious read-aloud, more specifically) that I became painfully aware of a terrible truth: my children would (and, in fact, had) flipped ahead 20 chapters in said prized piece of literature, to the very last page (gasp!) “…because I wanted to know what would happen to Edward, Mom. I was worried about him. He lives, you know.”

Of course, I was horrified. And profoundly disappointed. I had higher hopes for my progenies—hopes that they would grow to become upstanding citizens, embodying all-that-is-righteous-and-good. Principled people who knew better than to commit sacrilege. Instead, it appears, my wayward bunch has embraced the dark side of life. Even my oldest daughter has admitted to that which is a sheer disgrace—she reads the very last sentence of every novel—as a rule. Needless to say, such a divulgence rendered me speechless and unable to move from the spot where I stood, slack mouthed and struck with horror.

“Why?! Why would you do such a thing?!” I had to ask finally, eyes fixed upon the creature I thought I knew.

“I don’t know. To pique my interest I guess.”

“To pique your interest?!” I shrieked, shaking my head in disbelief. “Good grief! Where’s the mystery in that?! Where’s the long-awaited pleasure that a grand culmination promises?! The delicious sense of satisfaction derived from having journeyed far and wide across the vast and uncertain terrain of a narrative gem?!” I demanded to know.

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What’s the big deal, Mom? It’s just a book.”

Of course, this was wrong on so many levels that I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around the unspeakable horribleness of which it reeked. Nor could I forgive the other two rat finks for having stolen my joy. I wanted to discover for myself Edward Tulane’s fate—to continue devouring the book, page after succulent page, and eventually, to drink in the magnificence of the grand finale that surely awaited me.

But it was not to be. Those devilish creatures continued to fill my ears unmercifully with details of the story, doling out bite sized blurbages just to watch me writhe in pain. “No! NO! Don’t tell me a syllable more!” I pleaded, wondering from whence this penchant had come. I don’t remember anyone bursting at the seams to tell me all about Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood, Chicken Little or even the Poky Little Puppy. Back then, apparently, it was a non-issue. The end was something that would be revealed in due time upon turning the last page. As it should be.

I’d almost rather my heathens wantonly fling caterpillars across the living room and stuff them inside their backpacks (oh wait, they’ve done that!), saturate thirsty bath rugs at will (done that, too!), fill countless drawers with water enough to make hair brushes and blow dryers float (and that!), or plaster the dog with lipstick “…’cause we wanted to give him purple-ish lips, Mom!” than to rob themselves of the parting gift of a fine book.

Sadly, this represents yet one more area of life I cannot control. I must come to grips with the fact that my children will choose friends, careers and eventually mates—almost entirely devoid of my (infinitely sagacious) input. And ultimately they will decide whether to continue as card-carrying members of the Flip-Ahead-to-the-Last-Page Club. Ugh.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom