Category Archives: Family Affair

April 14, 2026 · 1:25 pm

I’m with the Band

Since our kids abandoned us and went off to college, my husband and I really miss the noise in our household. Sounds almost inconceivable, but it’s true. They had friends over frequently and we miss their noise, too. Really, we do—because they were delightful. There were countless Halloween parties, marching band sectional get-togethers, musical cast gatherings and just ordinary meetups for snacks and shenanigans around our kitchen island and sprawled across our back deck. I remember a veritable din of music and laughter emanating from what can only be described as a small herd of high schoolers, and I remember wishing it would never end.

I pine for the kids, of course, but mostly it’s the music they created that I long to hear once more. To say that our home was filled with music is an understatement, largely because of the encouragement and tutelage of Aegina and Bobby Leidhecker, Amanda Haney, Lee Saville-Iksic, Donna Elkin, Miki Rebeck, Ryan Bulgarelli, Jared Whitford, Meg McQue and Dr. William Ciabattari. Our twins ended up being music education majors so someone was always singing or playing an instrument at all hours throughout their middle and high school years. I’ll never forget witnessing them playing a riff from “Smoke on the Water” as fifth graders in the middle of our kitchen floor. Seriously. That happened.

My favorites of all time, though, were listening to the French horn as well as vocals accompanied by the strums of a ukelele. I’m sad to say that part of me took this beautiful soundtrack of our lives for granted. Somehow, I thought it would always be there, a constant in the background. Now the house is quiet, and they’re off on their own in the world, adulting, mostly.

Since the “free concerts” we’ve enjoyed inside our house have been egregiously discontinued, my husband and I have had to settle for the next best thing—attending concerts outside the house. Of course, this isn’t exactly a new thing for us, but it’s something we’ve certainly done more of lately. We’ve seen everything from Brahms Requiem at Carnegie Hall, the Philadelphia Orchestra, the Williamsport Symphony Orchestra and Uptown Music Collective to Tom Petty, B.B. King, Smokey Robinson, Fleetwood Mac, the Stones and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Needless to say, we’re music appreciators and we have eclectic taste.

And although we continue to enjoy a variety of music, our priorities have changed somewhat over the years. Earplugs are more important than ever and if we forget them, we wad up tissues and jam them into our ears. Decades ago, we never would have dreamed of doing that. The louder, the better was our motto. Never mind that we couldn’t hear for three days. And now that we’re suffering the consequences of our own actions, we regret not taking better care of our precious ears. I remember distinctly watching an overhead light shatter and fall to the floor during an Alice Cooper concert because it was DEAFENING. And almost without fail, I can feel the music resonating deep within my chest even if it’s not rock ‘n’ roll.

Another change we’ve observed is that we’re not necessarily the youngsters attending anymore. Sometimes we’re smack in the middle of the pack, while other times we’re surrounded by throngs of people who likely color their grays and carry AARP cards. Nevertheless, and no matter the age, it proves once again that music is the great uniter.

That said, we met some lovely people who sat near us at a Collective Soul concert recently and remarked how similar our taste in music was. What’s amusing is how I ended up there in the F. M. Kirby Center on a Tuesday night in the first place. It’s because I held a grudge. For 30 years. I know it’s juvenile, but I couldn’t help myself. You see, my husband invited some friends’ teenage son (who was a musician himself and slightly obsessed with the band) to see them perform in their heyday over 30 years ago. I, of course, was also slightly obsessed with the band, but did not score tickets. Hence, the grudge.

Lo and behold, my husband redeemed himself by gifting me tickets to see the very same band, albeit three whole decades later. Better late than never, I guess.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably listening to music of some kind). Visit me there at www.Facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Dog Years

If we’re lucky, some of the best years of our lives are considered the best because they are spent in the company of a dog. It’s what I think of when I hear the term “dog years” anyway. It’s not how old a dog may be in terms of human aging, but instead, it’s the expanse of time we humans get to bond with, love and be loved by a dog. Important distinction.

Our family has been fortunate to have had three amazing dogs over the years. Four if you count the one we adopted for my dad who was struggling with Alzheimer’s and needed companionship. That godsend-of-a-dog, Bear, is now living out his golden years with extended family since my dad passed away over ten years ago.

Sadly, we lost all three of our dogs; two to cancer and one to kidney disease. But not before we relished their tail-wagging days with us. I even found it ironically heartwarming that Jasper, our black lab mix, made it a habit to follow me into the shower or anywhere else I happened to be going. But like anyone else, we had not-so-fun times, too. Like the occasions that resulted in irreparable damage to our windowsills, being dragged in the street by our 95-pound yellow lab/greyhound mix and the 17-year stint I spent on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors after our Bichon Frisé, Jack, indiscriminately whizzed on them. He never quite grasped the idea of asking to go outside to do his business despite a boatload of encouragement. But I’ll never forget the night we chose him from the litter, an overgrown guinea pig lying on my chest, nuzzling my neck.

We decided not to adopt another rescue dog for a myriad of reasons, chiefly because we didn’t want to say goodbye after a life that would never be long enough. But it’s not as if we’ve sworn off dogs entirely. We still interact on a daily basis with the ones that live in our neighborhood and with those we encounter in our travels if the occasion presents itself. Not surprisingly, we get our “dog fix” if we’re permitted to pet said dogs and talk to them as if they were children. They really are children—just furrier. Most of them love the extra attention, and the tasty treats my husband always carries in his pocket. If, for whatever reason, we can’t pet them, I always smile. Dogs know your smile was meant for them.

What I find funny is the fact that I’ll often remember the dogs’ names before I recall the owners’ names. And I most definitely know which dog belongs with which owner—just like my kids’ friends; I always knew which parents were connected to which kids, but I didn’t necessarily remember the adults’ names. Sorry, parents of my kids’ friends. It’s a character flaw I’m not especially proud of.

Likewise, I’m hoping the people I happen upon in the neighborhood aren’t offended because part of me is really more interested in their dog. I’ll take note if he or she has a new collar or leash, has just returned from the groomer’s or is absent from his/her human’s side. Of course, I’ll ask why the dog is missing, hoping it’s because of a fun field trip and not due to illness—or, Heaven forbid, their passing. What’s more, my husband and I try to remember to send a card expressing our condolences to the people who have recently lost a dog. I know the cards we’ve received have meant so much. Our good friend, Denny, even went so far as to gift us money so that we might buy something to memorialize our dear Luna, the aforementioned 95-pound lab/greyhound mix. Thankfully, our vet made sure we had paw prints cast in plaster of all our dogs and a nose print and tuft of fur from at least one of them—something tangible that helps us remember the ticking of their nails on the floor and the cool, wet smooshiness of their noses. I often find myself picking up the prints and rubbing my fingers in the indentations of their toe beans, memorizing every curve, recalling their warmth in my hand.

In lieu of that, I still have the trove of neighborhood dogs I pass on my walks, their fuzzy heads destined to be patted, not to mention the ones I see hanging their heads out of car windows, their pink tongues flapping in the wind, smiling broadly in the sun because they know, like I know, dog years are the very best years.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably petting a dog). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under Doggie Diamonds, Love and Loss, Family Affair, Gratitude

Tagged as family, love, dogs, pets, rescue dogs, Love and Loss, dog years

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.

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Filed under Family Affair, Gratitude, Love and Loss

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

February 15, 2026 · 1:32 pm

If the Sock Fits, Marry It

I’ve been married some 27 years, 19 of which to the same wonderful man. In that span of time I’ve come to the conclusion that a successful marriage doesn’t have as much to do with an abiding love as it does with an ability to tolerate a disordered sock drawer.

That said, my husband’s socks are in a pitiful state of disarray much of the time. Again and again, I’ve tried to bring a sense of order and uniformity to the unruly heaps in his dresser by employing a variety of tactics (i.e. ditching the socks with holes, pairing those without mates and grouping them according to style or color), to no avail. Somehow the huddled masses return in a less-than-tidy fashion, yearning to breathe free. And because I’ve grown to understand the psyche of the disordered male, egregiously flawed as he might be, I’ve become a more compassionate mate.

By the same token, my husband accepts my flaws, and the fact that my sock drawer is a ridiculously organized space—complete with separate compartments for sweat socks, woolen socks and dress socks, nary a rogue in the bunch. The only thing it lacks is a coordinated cataloguing system inspired by Dewey Decimal. Needless to say, I recognize how difficult this must be for him, coming to grips with the sad reality that he lives with a closet neat freak. Of course, no one knows I’m a neat freak because there are no outward signs, unless you happened to be present on the day I purged our linen closet, hurling a disturbing number of blankets, towels and obscenities into the yard during a brief yet memorable fit of rage. Most of the time, however, I suffer in silence, allowing the tide of paraphernalia that comes with marriage and a family to consume me.

Admittedly, since the advent of children I’ve drifted from my well-ordered life and neatnik tendencies, much like growing apart from the distant relatives we stumble across at a funeral, decades later, squinting hard to try and remember who they are and how they once fit into our lives.

That said, everything in my world used to be neat and tidy. There was a place for everything, and everything was in its place. Even my food was logically aligned, tallest to smallest, labels facing out. To this day a tiny part of me dies whenever I peer inside our supersized refrigerator, the contents of which rest on shelves indiscriminately, as if they had been violently launched from a cannon across the room. But I digress.

Getting married and having kids changed everything. After years in the field, I’ve determined that about 90% of parenthood involves finding lone socks in obscure places. Plus there are even more sock drawers to deal with. Indeed, there is more stuff in general—stuff that is piled in our attic and garage, beneath beds and atop closet shelves, in cedar cabinets and the musty basement. Stuff that has no business being stuffed where it gets stuffed. Apparently appliance garages aren’t just for blenders anymore. They’re for lunchboxes and dog vitamins, too, leftover popcorn and tubs of butter that may or may not be encrusted with the remnants of a week’s worth of toast. And let us not forget the crumbs that gather there en masse. The ones that no one wants to clean.

What’s more, it’s been so long since we could park two cars in our garage I’ve forgotten what that even feels like. I suspect it would feel wonderful, much like it would to put china and only china in my china cabinet. Instead it houses prized artwork from my kids’ grade school experience and a decade’s worth of snapshots. Likewise, my refrigerator holds newspaper clippings, report cards and pictures of my favorite people and pets in the world. It holds vacation keepsakes and magnets with phrases I find particularly meaningful, too. Because that’s what families do—they fill their homes with tangible reminders of the love that lives there. And they tolerate the disorder, sock drawers included.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, with way too many socks. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Daily Chaos, Family Affair, In the Trenches of Parentville, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as disorganization, family, humor, marriage, marriage humor, organization, parenting, socks

February 6, 2026 · 1:31 pm

It’s the Little Things That Make Life Sweeter

Valentine’s Day is fast approaching and I can’t help but be reminded of how sweet life truly is on February 14^th as well as every other day on the calendar—with or without the chocolate-covered delectables, mawkish cards and heart shaped hoo-ha. Case in point, my husband used to pack little baggies of food for me each day before he left for work, filling them tenderly with freshly peeled carrots, bunches of grapes or a handful of pretzel bites or cashews. Most days there was a half a turkey-on-rye waiting in the wings for me, too, abundantly dressed with lettuce, tomato and provolone. Its mate could likely be found on the same refrigerator shelf, neatly sliced and ready for instant retrieval.

However, it wasn’t a job for the thin-skinned. There were standards to be met. My slightly specific and less-than-succinct criteria: each conveniently bagged delight had to be flavorful (yet devoid of gassiness), it couldn’t be the least bit drippy or crumbly or, Heaven forbid, unwieldy if food can be described as such. Most importantly, I had to be able to consume it using just one hand—often on the fly or holed up in a chair for God-knows-how-long nursing a grexy baby. Or two.

Needless to say, great care and consideration went into preparing such sustenance for me and I was eternally grateful—both for the man’s diligence and for his abiding tolerance of my changeable mood. After all, it was the finger food that served as my salvation during that interminable stage of parenthood (i.e. the maddening era home-alone-with-newborn-twins, when I would have given almost anything for a hot shower or a real sit-down meal with something as fancy as a fork or idle conversation). But the bundles of nourishment he so thoughtfully provided, though short on style, surely delivered that which I needed most: the feeling of being cared for and remembered each day. It was a little thing that made my life that much sweeter.

I’d daresay the majority of what enriches my world could be categorized by most as something seemingly insignificant or ordinary at best. Something perhaps unremarkable to the masses, but dear to me. Like the little notes and drawings my kids stuff inside my pockets and tape to my computer, knowing that later I’ll stumble upon them and smile. Or that my oldest—beyond all logic and understanding—still confides in me and seeks my counsel. Or at the close of an especially trying day in the trenches of Parentville, when I feel like the most horrible mother on earth because I dumped someone’s special potion down the drain or because I forgot to tell the yard crew not to haul away “…our eagle’s nest, Mom!” or because I screamed at them over nothing or because I failed to listen yet again—I get this amazing and completely undeserved gift in the form of a breathy secret whispered in my ear at bedtime, “Mommy, I wouldn’t trade you for anything. Not even for a worm.”

Stuff like that makes me melt. And I’m that much surer it’s the little things in life that matter most. Like the twitter of songbirds after a long, hard winter. A handwritten letter amidst a sea of emails. A yellow moon on the rise. The brackish breeze, the cries of seagulls and the soothing sound of the ocean after driving forever to get there. The way my kids’ eyelashes curl and the thicket of sun-bleached hairs on the napes of their necks. The way my grandmother traced my ears to coax me to sleep. My grandfather’s firm belief that I was “big enough” to help him feed the cows, steer the tractor and hay the fields. Clunking around a farm in real barn boots. The warm muzzle of a horse. The company of a cat. The affection of a dog. The lullaby of crickets. The tang of autumn. The whisper of pines. The crisp scent of a novel, yet to be consumed. Fresh newsprint. Thistledown. Snowflakes. The smell of rain. Holding hands.

I often stumble upon small wonders, too, in unlikely places—like the special stones on someone’s dresser, harvested from Grandma’s house “…to help me remember her, Mom.” And crumbs in someone’s pocket—the remains of a bit of bread “…I saved for Taylor from my lunch today at school. It got all crumbly when we shared it, Mom.” And heartfelt notes of apology—painstakingly folded and carefully wedged between the pages of a favorite book. “Sorry Sadie. I really love you a lot. You’re the best sister ever!”

Of course, there was the strange but wonderful vine, curiously twisted into the shape of a heart, one of my dandies found while foraging in the garage last week. “Here, Mom; it’s for you.” But it couldn’t hold a candle to the cookie she shared with my husband and me recently—the one she cleverly gnawed upon until it, too, resembled a heart.

Indeed, it’s the little things that make life sweeter on Valentine’s Day and every day.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (and continue to devour again and again It’s the Little Things, by Craig Wilson, USA Today columnist and friend). Visit me at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.