Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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#midlife

Midlife Cabernet: Blending the Family Frappé

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Organizing an event with blended families requires the logistical coordination of air traffic controllers with the precision of a computerized dispatcher and the help of a licensed counselor. Uniting yours, mine, ours, and theirs becomes a calculated strategy that turns dates on the calendar into targets for negotiation. There’s a reason we never saw the ex-families on the television show The Brady Bunch.

I grew up in a small community during a time when couples married, had children, and stayed married until they died. Our family gatherings often included more than 30 people – and done were divorced. There was minimal tactical planning required to schedule an event. Times have changed, and sometimes I feel the pressure to make sure everyone is happy. I need to get over that.

At a recent family dinner, we arranged for the step-grandkids to join us along with the step-children and assorted step-grandparents. When most of the grandparents and parents have been divorced and remarried, it’s time to stop with the titles. There’s no more “step” because “family” will do just fine.

Both my children married spouses who already had children. That made me an instant grandma, a position I enjoy and welcome. I have been divorced and then married a man with grown children who became new members of the family. At our children’s events, the other parent is often involved. At my step-son’s high school graduation, I sat next to his mother. At my daughter’s wedding, her father and I both walked her down the aisle, even though we were divorced. We do it for our children. Even the receiving line was fun because our daughter’s happiness was most important.

No one is advocating divorce, but it happens. I admire those parents who negotiate joint custody arrangements using common sense. Holiday and birthday parties are less stressful if the parents coordinate plans and speak without assaulting each other. And, what child wouldn’t want to be spoiled and adored by one of eight different grandparents?

Midlife Cabernet: My Life as a Buffoon

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Yesterday I attended an important strategy meeting at an upscale restaurant with two other businesswomen. During the meal, I accidentally knocked over a glass of wine, soaking my papers, my Ipad, the tablecloth, and the menus. The women continued to discuss the agenda as we calmly moved to another table. My inevitable clumsiness came as no surprise.

I don’t intentionally plan to cause havoc, mayhem, and disruptive behavior, but I’ve been cursed with the exceptional ability to stumble, sprain, break, bruise, and choke my way through life with consistent proficiency. A few true examples show pathetic proof of my accident prone existence:

I broke my foot a few weeks before my son’s wedding so I had to wear a huge black boot. So I covered it with jewels and danced all night.

On a business trip to the east coast for Boise Cascade, I sprained my ankle and tore ligaments and the injury required a visit to the emergency room so it was reported to Workers Comp. My boss was furious because the accident impacted our department’s safety record.

Once I threw a stick to a dog and a splinter impaled a nerve in my finger. My hand swelled and turned black and I needed regular transfusions to battle the ensuing infection. My arm had to be tied above my head on my bedframe, and now my finger remains crooked.

In 2000, I was the Commencement Speaker for the University of Idaho. On the day of the speech, I developed laryngitis. My voice sounded like James Earl Jones doing phone sex.

I was gallantly attempting a high impact exercise class with women half my age and I tripped over some hand weights, resulting in more torn ligaments.

I was the keynote speaker at a large banquet but right before it was my turn to speak I choked on a piece of chicken. The audience waited patiently while I coughed up the offending food, caught my breath, dried my watering eyes, burped, sneezed, and then stood to speak.

One late afternoon when I was skiing at Sun Valley, I flew off the side of a steep trail and landed in a tree on the far side of the mountain. By the time I could unstrap my gear and crawl down, the lift was closed. I had to catch the employee bus into town and then take another bus back to the ski resort where my friends and the Ski Patrol were frantically searching for me. My friends never skied with me again.

Instead of focusing on the negative reality of being awkward, I try to appreciate the positive aspects of surviving any day without calamity or an accident. I have another important business event this weekend and my goal is to go 48 hours without some catastrophe. If I can make it, my friends will be so excited they’ll bring me some wine – in a sippy cup with a lid.

Today’s blog was fueled by a Sabastiani Cabernet, a robust wine from Sonoma County. It’s about $55 a bottle at Bonefish Grill in Boise, and it’s embarrassing and painful to spill a glass. Next time I’ll bring a travel mug.

Midlife Cabernet: How Did My Children Grow Up So Fast?

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Just when you figure how how to be a good parent, the kids grow up and move away. There is no chance to do it over. You can only hope that they don’t write a tell-all book about their horrid childhood.

Every other vocation requires education, study, and aptitude. With a baby, it’s on the job training with no salary, 24 hours a day, and you’re under pressure to be Parent of the Year. In reality, you look at the tiny bundle and mutter, “What do I do now?”

In past generations, young families were surrounded by grandparents and extended family members who could help. But with a mobile society and jobs in various locations, young couples often don’t live near their parents. Grandma can’t pop over to babysit or demonstrate how to swaddle or provide encouragement for breastfeeding. The best alternative is to find groups of other novice parents and share tips, childcare, and wine, if necessary.

After raising two marvelous children, I can look back and realize what I did right and wrong. The best advice I can give is to pick your battles. Once my three-year-old daughter threw a major tantrum because she wanted to sleep in her party dress while I tried to cajole her into her pajamas. In hindsight, I was the silly one. It would have saved a lot of drama if I had agreed and tucked her in bed, frilly outfit and all.

I’m fortunate to live near my grown children and their families, and I’m in awe of their amazing parenting skills. My daughter’s first daughter is spunky and creative, just like her mother. I predict some interesting times in the near future. My son dotes on his baby girl, and it’s fun to watch them together. I would allow her to sleep in a party dress any time she wants.

It sounds like a cliche, but kids do grow up too fast. Another amazing reality is that now we’re all about the same age. I couldn’t possibly be old enough to have grandchildren.

Midlife Cabernet: You’ve Always had the Power, My Dear

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I recently hosted a women’s writing retreat at my cabin in the Idaho mountains, and I was under pressure to organize the perfect experience. Just past midnight on the second night I was working in my bedroom when the power went out. This is a normal winter occurrence but I had guests sleeping in other bedrooms. I feared horrible calamities would result from the lack of electricity, including no morning coffee, no blow dryers, or perhaps death by freezing. All these were major problems.

I bundled up in my flannels and piled quilts on the bed, trusting that the other women would do the same. I didn’t sleep much during the night because I was planning how to cope with the problem the next morning. I couldn’t move my car out of the garage to go get coffee because the control on the electric garage door was too high to reach. I thought about calling a friend who owned a nearby yurt, but I didn’t know if he had a generator. I worried that my paid attendees would demand a refund to pay for frostbitten fingers and toes.

Early the next morning, I took my flashlight and tiptoed out of the bedroom. That’s when I saw the glowing lights from the kitchen appliances. The power was on in every room except mine. I hurried to the garage, found the correct breaker switch, flipped it back and forth, and discovered all the lights were on in my bedroom. All that worry was for nothing.

It reminded me of Glinda the Good Witch in the classic movie The Wizard of Oz telling Dorothy “You’ve always had the power, my dear. You had it all along.” I plugged in the coffee pot, feeling relieved and powerful.