​Middle-aged Facebook users, well Facebook users, are posting their high school senior pictures to support the Class of 2020, who because a moron President ignored a global pandemic, have had their spring sports seasons, concerts, Senior pranks, and graduation celebrations canceled. 

​Most high school and college seniors, who haven’t been on Facebook since their Bar Mitzvahs or quinceañeras, had no idea that the older generation was making this heroic effort. “Maybe they just like pictures of themselves when they don’t look so old,” one 17-year-old suggested.
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A 22-year-old man, alerted to the Facebook campaign by this reporter, said, “Wow. I was really feeling down. My job prospects are in the toilet and I’m in hock to the tune of $50 grand, after getting a degree in Hospitality Management, which I guess is no longer a thing. But seeing my Aunt Bea looking like an awkward version of all the girls I’m not going to get turned down by for my fraternity formal, totally inspired me. I guess I’m ready to hop back on Linked In. Hey entry-level jobs that require 5 years’ experience, here I come. Thanks, Facebookers.”

I want to tell you a story about my Mom. But you need a little background. She had her three children in the late 1950’s and early 60’s — a day and age when a lot of women didn’t breastfeed. The prevailing wisdom seemed to be that formula was best. ​

From the moment my mom met my son, a few hours after his birth, she was crazy in love. Every coo, every glance, every burp was commented on and discussed. He was so beautiful, so obviously intelligent. As a new mom I spent hours at my parents, where she and I would hold him, care for him, diaper him ... watch him sleep.

When he was about three months old, my husband and I went out to dinner for the first time without him. My mom and dad babysat. This was before cell phones. Yes, he’s that old. I am that old. 

When we returned a couple hours later our son slept soundly in my mom’s arms. But the evening had not been that smooth. He had cried, she told me. He worked himself up from sniffles and whimpers to sobs and the kind of howls that start deep in a baby’s tiny belly. My mom said she’d tried everything, the bottle of milk I’d pumped, giving him a pacifier, changing his diaper, but nothing had soothed him. And so, my mom said, after she had completely run out of ideas, she sat down with him, lifted her shirt, undid her bra and offered him the chance to nurse. 

You may be thinking a woman who last gave birth over thirty years ago is not going to satisfy or comfort a hungry three-month-old. In all likelihood, it would probably frustrate him more. And you would be right, technically. But I was dumbstruck by my mom’s devotion to my son. I wrapped my arms around her and thanked her for loving him so much. 

A week ago yesterday my mom passed away at eighty-nine. She spent the last twenty-four years of her life fiercely loving her grandchildren. And they loved her just as much as devotedly as she loved them. ​

I’ve never known a world without my mom and my sons have never known a world without their bubbie. But we have our memories and our stories that we will share and retell and we have the knowledge that we were all fiercely loved. 

Ask.
 
Yep, that’s about it. Much like high school, my Friday and Saturday nights are basically free.

Truthfully, there is no greater joy for a writer than hearing readers discuss the story you’ve written. How fun to have my characters -- these trespassers, who have rummaged through my brain for years – traipse through other people’s thoughts.

Last night at Book Club, my fourth since the book was published in February, I listened as these wonderful women discussed who had done what to whom. It fascinated me to hear what parts of the book surprised them and what parts satisfied them.  (Page 204 was a big hit – FYI.)

A couple people have asked me how much it costs for me to come to a book club. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I don’t know if other writers charge, but I can’t imagine asking for money for this much enjoyment. It’s like someone saying,” tell me all about your kids,” then having them kick back and listen.

Thanks to Skype and Google Hangouts we don’t even need to be in the same city. And while we won’t get a great selfie like this one, we could always try Photoshop. ​

If you'd like to read Available to Chat and have Jacy come to your Book Club, email her at jacysuttonauthor (at) gmail.com. 

It’s easy to spot a great dresser. They’re the ones who pair the Target sweater with the Gap jeans and look like Blake Lively.

Great readers are harder to spot.

It’s not about quantity. (Although that helps.) But, I have a wonderful friend who goes through romantic paperbacks like a preoccupied adolescent left alone with a bag of Doritos.

It’s not about genre. (Although that helps.) Personally I’m a fan of diverse reading, but I think there are enough classics in any category to keep a person occupied for a lifetime.

For me it’s about reflection. I don’t want to casually discuss books, I want to dissect them. Don’t tell me you enjoyed it. Tell me what shocked you. I don’t want to hear you couldn’t put it down, I want to understand what made you bristle, what reminded you of a long-lost friend, what forced you to rethink values you’ve held since you were a kid.

​When I find someone who wants to delve into the pulp of fiction, I tend to latch onto them. Meet my new book friend, Nina. She’s a writer’s reader, cataloging past reads with Pithy Reviews that pull you in and convince what to pick up next and what to shelf.
See for yourself HERE.

And (full disclosure) I’m thrilled she’s currently reading Available to Chat. And, while I enjoy reading her insights, in all honesty, if she were to simply say, “I couldn’t put it down,” I could live with that.

​Cost-wise that quantity ruled out a destination party like Chuck E. Cheese. And activity-wise it ruled out anything where the kids were allowed inside our home. 

​My youngest son’s birthday is January 18. We live in Minnesota. So, for parents of lesser constitutions it may have been a quandary, but our hardy family planned an outdoor party: an hour and a half at the park. We had the guests’ parents pick-up and drop-off there, so no wet rubber boots or sopping wet mittens would pass our front door.

My husband and I, as any good executives would, delegated the party-planning to our two able-bodied older sons. At 14 and 16 they had years of crazy, fun, active summer camp experiences and a keen ability to boss younger children around. 

After days, well hours, of planning (all done during NFL games) the older brothers settled on one long game of Capture the Flag. You divide the group into two teams and hide something stealable like flags. The brothers chose white lacrosse balls, which we had in bulk all over the house. Their color led to the happy accident of making them tough to find in the snow. During the game players can be caught as they try to steal the treasure. When they are they are put in jail and their team needs to tag them inside enemy lines before they can escape back to their own territory.

We met the guests at the park then watched as the older boys separated the teams
and showed where the boundaries lay for each territory. Not surprisingly the fourth graders voiced varying opinions on the rules and the territories. My husband and I silently observed as the guests and our unpaid party planners negotiated.

Once the action began,​ the two of us who were old enough to vote returned home to make gallons of hot chocolate. Not having enough thermos bottles, my husband filled his 54-quart Coleman cooler with the hot, sugary liquid. We returned lugging the heavy cooler and carrying along marshmallows and graham crackers. 

Later that evening at home, the thawed-out birthday boy said he’d enjoyed the party and I assumed the guests had too. So I was surprised when a Mom called the next day. “I wanted you to know what Isaac said about the party.” I heard a catch of something in her tone and I did a quick rewind in my head. Had something happened with her son when we’d left to make the hot chocolate? Was the boy unhappy and I hadn’t noticed when we returned? 

“Isaac,” she continued, “said the party was complete chaos.” (A big word for a little kid I thought, but the young man has now proven himself via ridiculously high ACT scores.) “Pure chaos,” she repeated. 

I tensed.

​“He said it was the best birthday party he’s ever been to.” 

In school one of my boys studied the ancient Mayans. At dinner he told us stories of their deadly ball game, Pok A Tok, where lore says the losing team was sacrificed. The biggest Mayan Ball court in the world is at Chichén Itzá, a couple hours inland from Cancun.

Chichén Itzá may be best known for the Temple of Kukulcan, an ancient pyramid and a mathematical and archeological wonder. Built between 800 and 900 AD, the design captures the edge of the sun’s shadow on the fall and spring equinox, leaving one side in total sunlight and the other completely in a shadow, creating the optical illusion of a snake slithering down the massive castle steps.

​A few years back, when our spring family vacation to Cancun fell over the equinox we couldn’t wait to visit the ancient ruin with our easy–going, little travelers, aged 9, 7 and 4. (Ha!)  

Before it was even light we climbed aboard the bus leaving behind our all-inclusive paradise filled with ridiculous amounts of food, all the drinks you could slosh down and free kids activities and babysitting.
We calculated we’d be at Chichén Itzá by about ten in the morning. We figured it wouldn’t be too hot yet and we’d have plenty of time to explore the ruins, an area slightly smaller than Central Park in Manhattan. Guess someone should have told the tour company what we were thinking. Three times on the way there, and twice on the way back, the bus pulled into ingeniously designed rest stops.
To reach the baños (bathrooms) you maneuver through an open air market filled with peddlers selling souvenirs — jewelry, plates, carved wood masks, tiny El Castillo pyramids. It’s all charming, and not things you can buy at home, except possibly at Pier 1 (which I’ve been known to do since it’s so much easier then lugging gifts back from vacation along with all your dirty laundry.) When you exit the bus, the driver closes the door behind you and you’re parked in in such a way that the only place to stand is in the middle of the souvenir stands.
Of course, the boys all wanted something. My 7-year-old begged the hardest. I tried to distract him but he was adamant. Finally he said, “But they just want to sell us something really, really badly.” That was true. They really, really did.
We stopped for lunch at a sit down restaurant. The kids typically eat quickly and are ready for the next activity, but lunch for 60 bus patrons was followed by nearly an hour of guitar music. Lovely, but we really wanted to see the ruins. When we asked the tour guide why such a circuitous route, he said because of the equinox they had to stagger visitor arrivals.
As we neared the park, the bus line snaked on for miles. It easily took us an hour to travel the last kilometer or two.Then there was a line at the park entrance. The boys were restless. We were restless. The day was beginning to feel like a mistake.
Finally about three in the afternoon, we stood at one of the wonders of the world. It was beautiful and historic and amazing. And packed. Everywhere you looked were tourists, families and lots of new-age, free spirit, love-in types celebrating another journey of the earth around the sun. There were extra restrictions at Chichén Itzá on the equinox because of the huge crowds. No running up the stairs of the ancient pyramid. And because we’d arrived so late in the day, we weren’t able to see as much of the park as we would have liked.
But the boys loved hearing about the ruins we did see and we got to go right up to the ancient ball court. And even though we were all hot, tired and a little crabby, no one was sacrificed.
The guide led us to the pyramid just before the shadow snake began his descent. Although there’s not a bad seat, the crowd mentality had us jockeying to get closer, elbows and shoulders brushing against the thousand other visitors. I hoisted my 4-year-old on my shoulders, the 7-year-old on my husband’s and the oldest stood on tiptoes.
And then…it was the moment. The snake shadow slithered down the stones. My husband grabbed my hand, and pulled me close so I could hear him. “You know,” he said. “It would have looked a lot like this yesterday.”

Read the rest of my blog on Writing and other things I don't want to discuss with my children at  ow.ly/XLVk6 

I’m not sure how old my son was, it’s been two decades now, but we were at the pediatrician’s for a well-baby check with our oldest - then, our only. My husband met us there. At this point of relative calm in our life, although we didn’t see it for that then, he made it to every appointment related to the little tyke; light years different than our busier future. (I remember one school spring carnival during my middle son’s fifth grade year. My husband met up with me in the gym and joined my conversation with a young woman. After she left, he asked who she was. Our son’s teacher.​)

But back to the pediatrician with our, let’s say 18-month-old. After the usual height and weight measuring my husband turned to the doctor and said, “He has a set of plastic blocks with Sesame Street characters on one side and numbers on the other.” My husband then launched into a fairly elaborate story about games they’d play with the blocks where my husband would ask for a character and my son would hand the correct block to him. My husband was sure our son recognized the numbers, too. During this now-lengthy description of my son’s capabilities the pediatrician listened carefully and nodded. When my husband finished the doctor paused a long moment and said, “Well, he doesn’t have a lot else on his mind right now. It’s not like he’s trying to keep track of pin numbers, right?” 

The great thing about Badger football was that it didn’t matter if we won or lost -- and at that time we lost a fair amount. Games were always a blast. If it was pouring rain, we’d stomp in the puddles on the bleachers and shout, “It just doesn’t matter.” 

After, win or lose, fans stuck around for the Badger’s unique 5th Quarter. Fifteen more minutes of dancing, singing, jumping-Badger fun. Then we’d follow the band back to the Humanities building, careening behind them as they played for probably their sixth hour straight. That may have been a bit over the top, even for a normal Badger fan, but my roommate dated a trombone player.

So I knew Badger football. Kinda. I remember for one victory the guys in the dorm seemed more hyped than usual. I think Fifth Quarter that game lasted as long as the first half and the players got to stay out on the field. 

When I became mom to three sons, sports became the conversational currency in our home. The best way to get close to my sports-loving, statistic-quoting, fanatic-fan boys was to chat about the Big 10 or the NBA.

So now, thanks to my son who plays college football, I know what a first down is. And why I need to care. Because of the son who graduated from University of Kansas, I can discuss where the Jayhawks will be come March Madness. (In the lead!)  And I watch 30 for 30. I actually cried during the episode where some rich KU guy spent more than a million dollars to buy the original rules of basketball penned by the inventor of the sport, James Naismith. (Those 30 for 30 documentaries are manipulative. Be warned.)

​A couple years ago I was watching Badger football with the boys. It was a big game and a huge victory. We listened to the post-game talking heads. One of them said, “That’s the first time the Badgers have beat the #1 team in the nation since 1983.” And finally, I got it. That’s what the dorm boys were excited about back then.   

An excerpt from Available to Chat

“Look, my Mom talked to me exactly three times about sex and marriage. The first time, I was in fourth grade and Nina Murman told me that boys put their penises in girls’ vaginas. I’m not sure she used the correct anatomical terms. Anyway, I didn’t believe her, so I went home and asked my Mom how babies were made. She handed me a book and I read the first two pages, which were so spectacularly dull I knew immediately Nina must be right.

“The second conversation was at the end of the four-hour drive to college my freshman year. We had just pulled up to my residence hall. I was going to point out a parking spot, when my Mom, sitting in the backseat, said, ‘Olivia, whatever you do, don’t get pregnant.’ That was talk number two.

About marriage, she said, ‘It’s nice to get a three piece ensemble for the dance. Hiring a DJ looks tacky.’”

“Did your family have religious parameters?”​

“No, it was the eighties. There was no such thing as Sex in the City, yet.”

My youngest son and I just got back from a visit to Cornell College in Iowa. At this fascinating school they uniquely teach one course at a time. So you study only Physics for 18 days or just Philosophy. 

Students have only one course to focus on. Likewise, the faculty have just one group of students, never more than 25, to mentor and teach. Cornell will tell you this is learning at the speed of life. I first heard about this small liberal arts college from the book, 40 Colleges that Change Lives.​

In 1996, Loren Pope, a writer and independent college placement counselor, profiled schools he claimed would "do as much as, and perhaps even more than, any name-brand schools to fully educate students and to give them rich, full lives.” 

I’ve become a big fan of the book and believe it’s a must read for all parents and students considering higher education. I’ve lent my copy to many friends. 

Recently, I was talking with a young woman who was a freshman at a small liberal-arts school out East. She told me she loves her school. We discussed her major, her roommate, the food at the cafeteria. As we finished up I asked her again the name of her school. It sounded so familiar that I said, “Is that one of those colleges that change lives?” 

She looked a bit surprised and answered, “I sure hope so.”

With us, I pop in the turkey in the oven then run to catch up to my sons as they jostle each other toward the park tossing a football as they go. The boys and my husband always play a game of touch football on Thanksgiving. When the kids were little it was necessary. Leaving the house for an hour, even on a blustery November day in Minnesota, prevented head injuries from bored hours of roughhousing indoors. Now, the game serves as a counterpoint to my sons’ general inertia. But jobs and intense hours of college keep them busy most days, so a few days of lethargy are well-deserved. Anyone who is around is welcome to join my husband and sons. The Brittany Spaniel and I hike circles around the game. The dog randomly runs through plays just to say hello. Scores are not kept. Most everyone scores a couple touchdowns. 

We always get back to the house later than expected (Wait! One more set of downs) leaving not nearly enough time to prepare side dishes or set the table. Often we’re still stirring and chopping as our first guests arrive. But that’s okay.  Friends and extended family can sip wine and chat with us as we finish. Because for my sons, Thanksgiving is touch football at the park. Just last week I overheard my youngest son on the phone with his brother listing off televised games as they searched for the window when they could get in their own game.   ​

I am thankful for friends and family. Thankful that our family traditions include a casual enough dinner that we can celebrate family togetherness at the neighborhood park gridiron. ​

​The first time I saw my house, in a real estate ad, I fell in love with the sweeping yard and wrap-around porch over the walkout basement. But when my husband and I drove up to the home to tour it, we felt turned around. What we’d assumed was the backyard was actually the front. Our house is like that. Unexpected. ​