It's been a while since I've hit the computer feeling a burst of creative energy (though as those who know me will attest, I am never at a loss for words). However, as Mother's Day is fast approaching so is the accelerated guilt I must be feeling in not being able to physically be with my mom this year.  After 2.5 hours on the internet having exhausted a search I went to bed. And, I had a dream. Not your Martin Luther King inspirational message type such as "mom the world, particular mine, is a better place because of you" but rather, "damn, FTD jacked up the price again, now what do I do?" sort of dream.

Truthfully, there's a few other reasons I've not been hitting the keys like one side effect of Menopause; translation - proofreading is far more challenging and thereby typing far less appealing. Though I have plenty experiences worthy enough to fill at least another few chapters; herein I'll try to condense to a rather short and somewhat amusing tale dedicated not only to my mother, but also my fiance (the man of my dreams and occassional nightmare, who has a birthday the following Saturday).

Early Spring's Night Conclusion by Sheryl Rosen, Copyright May 8th, 2011. All rights reserved.

Dedicated to my Mother, my most consistent fan, and my fiance, my spare when my mother's not available.

Last night I had a dream. I was brought back to the time when my parents were about to sell their comfortable Long Island 2 story, center hall colonial home, which I had dwelled in for the 15 years prior, in order to move to the country club life of Florida allure. I was just barely 20, in this dream, and wore a stunning white haltered, cotton dress, and they in summer garb (same sort of clothing I prefer to forget, particular the sandals my mother insists on forever wearing after having brought them back from a carribbean vacation. Why she to this very day feels compelled to wear those sandals, the ones found on a flea market rack with flees still intact, I will never understand especially when you consider her own Main Line Philadelphia upbringing coupled with a masters degree from Columbia University which she graduated from before hippies and beatniks existed; she graduated wearing the flip). 

I have sisters but they are no where to be found in this dream (a likely state back in those years probably cause I was still in college at the time and no doubt home for summer vacation while my sisters, teens then, typically drove around with their local crew).  Anyway, I was walking up a particularly woodsy street somewhat ahead of my folks holding a white styrofoam cup. And in this cup was a frog. Yes, a frog, about the size of a quarter (you know the kind you could get back in those years in pet stores for a quarter when a gallon of gas cost about the same. Ok, this is not a piece about the economic value of the price at the pump vs. the value of a little frog but I must add to the French the frog's legs are a desirebale delicacy once they are fattened up to the size of a cup of gasoline at which point the scale has tipped the other way). If the frog had a name, as all endearing pets do, it would have to have been Fred cause every frog I've ever met has always been named Fred. Then again this one most likely belonged to my sister, second in pecking order, so perhaps it's name was Louis  (she always used regal names for her pets. She once had a lizard named Henry the V111, a parakeet named Queen Elizabeth, and for a very few days a baby chicken named Charlegmane - we did the egg hatch gig so we had baby chickens residing in a cardboard box until my mom realized along with e-z access chickens comes a lot of chicken poop).

Though another sympton of menopause is lack of memory, mine is keenly intact, at least thus far, therefore I can not blame the many digressions on it. Simply put, I always have a lot to say, mostly interesting so I've been told by my mother and/or fiance (who know better than to be frank).  In any case the frog's name is not Frank, at anytime in any of my stories;

Suddenly the little frog jumps from the cup and lands on the grassy lawn beneath (and alive which is the miracle segment of this dream). It hops away from me and I am compelled to chase after it (after all the frog belonged to one of my sister's who had entrusted me with it thereby it was encumbent of me to bring it safely home). There I am chasing this little frog, on a neighbor's lawn, who as he jumps further away shrinks smaller and smaller while the lawn gradually turns into a forest with pine needle on the ground covering the grass. Within a few minutes the frog, turned tadpole, turned smaller than a waterbug dissappears under some of the pine needles lost forever. I have no choice but to return home without an empty styrofoam cup cause I have tossed it before I began the mad chase (littering laws hadn't been adopted yet and if they had it didn't factor in this dream).

Emtpy handed, I enter a screen door. What I see are my parent's guests are swimming in our pool (we didn't have a pool, but that doesn't matter, it's a dream). I have no idea who these guests are but cause my mom plays hostess a lot, even at her current country club, this is a typical Sunday event and apparantly not a significant factor. The guests are splashing about while my mother is in the kitchen on her hands and knees trying to clean up some sort of spill. She calls out to me in a highly annoyed tone, "Well thanx for helping. Where have you been?" And so as has always been the case (though with maturity I've learned to curb my tongue and vent most of my hostility on a keyboard) I open my jovial mouth and out comes, "In the bathroom taking a poop. Is that OK with you?" (for those who don't already know, constipation is a chronic problem during menopause and lately appears in much of my waking conversation). 

Dream over, I'm awake. I guess my parent's were right. The dream had to end there cause once again I "had to have the last word", except I tell my fiance about it this morning. I ask him what he makes of it. He laughs and tosses it back my way, "What do you think Freud would say the shrinking frog represents?" "Ha, your pernis," I cleverly reply.  Thankfully, he's still laughing (I'll edit out his response to my penis comment) and states, "you're having problems with eyesight".

Oh yeah, thanx for the reminder and happy mother's day which I much prefer over my birthday lately cause Mother's Day does not include age numbers. It's not like my kids or Hallmark cards say, "Happy 22nd Mother's Day".

None the less, Happy Mother's Day to all especially my own and an early Happy Birthday wish to the man of my dreams even if he wasn't the frog in this dream; you know the one I kiss who turns into a prince (that dream already came true!).
XOXOXO, Sheryl