I have two older sisters. K is ten years older than I am, and M is three years older than K. What this means is that I was four when M went to college, and eight when she got married. I was eight when K went to college and 12 when she got married. I had the experience of being an only child for much of the time from the age of eight on. I had holiday and summer sisters.

Despite the age difference, or perhaps because of it, I have learned much from my sisters. From K, I learned how to be creative. She, in effect, taught me to color outside the lines. It was no surprise to me that she became an elementary school teacher. From K I have also learned how to become part of your husband’s family, without losing the connection to your own. Without realizing it, I’m sure, she also taught me how to be a mother, as I saw her often with my oldest nephew when he was very young. K is patient and kind and from her I have learned what that looks like, and aspire to it.

From M I learned how to be opinionated, to pave my own path. I learned to have the courage behind my convictions, to speak up, and to write my own major in college (something she did, and so did I.) M, also a writer — a print journalist, in fact — has always encouraged me with my writing but also demonstrated how to dedicate your life to work that you love, while being a dedicated mother, too.

My sisters are both incredibly generous and caring. My sisters are thoughtful and artistically gifted. My sisters often know just the right thing to say.

My sisters are, and always have been, beautiful. I wanted to be just like them, alternately, at different times in my life. They are so different, it’s impossible to want to be just like both of them at once. They were the ones from whom I stole blush and lip gloss, whose Danielle Steele novels I read, whose wedge espadrilles I wore, at their chagrin, as soon as my feet were as big as theirs. I tried my sisters on like dresses, to see which one I would turn out to be.

I’m sure that many of the lessons I learned from my sisters, I also learned from my parents, or my sisters learned from my parents and passed down to me, the little sister. But that’s another post.

This one is about my sisters.

In last week’s Newsweek, Katie Couric contributed an article about the condolence cards and letters she received when her husband died ten years ago. When Jay died from colon cancer, my mother sent Katie a card. I kind of scoffed at that, the way we do when our mothers do something we don’t quite understand, and reading Katie’s article, about finally sharing all those notes and cards she’d saved these ten years with her daughters, I thought about the difference in me then, the one who scoffed ten years ago, and me, now; the one who’d be just as likely to send a card to someone I know just about as well as my mother felt like she knew Katie Couric.

My mom felt Katie’s pain, and having had breakfast with Katie for the many years she was on the TODAY show, felt like sending a card was the right thing to do. It was validating to learn that Katie did indeed, read and save those cards and letters. They meant something to her; even the notes from people she never had, and never would meet.

Ten years ago, I didn’t understand because I’d had yet to lose someone close to me. My brother-in-law had not yet lost his battle with cancer. Ten years ago, I didn’t have a friend with breast cancer that has spread to her bones, her lungs and her liver. I had not yet become a blogger, an activity that has made me feel as if I do, indeed know people I’ve never met and might never meet. There are blogfriends  to whom I would certainly send a condolence card if they lost a loved one. I’d not yet learned how to say to someone, “I’m sorry for your loss,” in a way that is comforting and did not make me squirm. I get it now, and although it’s belated, I too extend my condolences to Katie Couric.

A few weeks ago, I wrote the most personal post I’ve ever written since I started this blog. I was touched by the outpouring of support, from frequent readers and those I didn’t even know had discovered this space. It’s true what you, my friends, have said; I am not alone. It felt good to read that, and to get together with one friend for coffee and another for lunch, to talk about what’s been going on in my head and be faced with someone nodding and saying, I understand.

I had moments of regret after that post. It was hard for certain people in my life to see me “pouring out my soul” on my blog. But that’s what a personal blog is, and while I do keep in mind the effect of my words on others (I purposely do not tell stories that are my husband’s, or my children’s to tell) some things are about me, and I share them in hopes that they will help another working mom, or another reader of ANY kind with what they may be facing in life. So the good outweighed the bad, and I’ve shelved that regret along with my bikinis; I’ll not consider either again.

What the post did, in addition to freeing my mind, was help me have the conversations I’d been wanting to have, with members of my family who, without benefit of seeing me or talking to me often, had no idea how I was doing. It forced me to make those calls, as hard as they were.

As an update, since you asked, I’m doing well. I’m feeling quite good; great on some days, in fact. I’m having fun, which is still pretty novel, so I’m living in the moment. I’ve also lost about nine pounds, and fitting into my skinny jeans feels good, too. Obviously, I’m blogging again and enjoying that, too. Thanks again to all of you for reading and lifting my spirits. You guys rock.

I have made many jelly rolls in my life. Usually, it’s a white cake outside with seedless raspberry jam in the middle. I like to make them because they are spring-like and lovely.

This year, for Easter, I decided to be adventurous, and try a chocolate jelly roll.

The pressure was on, because the in-laws were here, so I made my desserts and breakfast rolls from scratch. I lost track of things in the middle of the chocolate roll, and it didn’t turn out the way I would have liked.

In fact, it looked, as you can see, like a giant pile of poo.

And so when my family sat down to eat, they stared in horror admired this creation before them, what one christened, “the Easter turd.” “We think,” another said, “the Easter bunny left a little something behind.”

It seems we have a new tradition. It was, after sliced and on plates, quite delicious as it’s filled with chocolate pudding and coated with a chocolate glaze. I may, on the other hand, never make it again.

Ladies and gentleman, we have a winner.

*updated: sorry for the total tease, but for some reason, WordPress is not letting the code for this link stick. It was supposed to go to www.cnu.edu

And now you all know!

I had to chuckle at Blackbird’s post about shopping for Middle for the prom. Shopping for a tux the boy was difficult, but not as tough as what bb had to face . . . the challenges are somewhat different. While both Middle and the boy are skinny kids, the boy is nearly a foot taller, and weighs only, maybe eighty pounds more. After a meal. So we set a record, they told us, at Men’s Wearhouse when we ordered the longest pants, jacket and shirt they had to offer, and will present some opportunities for the on-site tailor to make it all fit.

Now, I leave you with the worst prom photos from St. Petersburg, Fla. Enjoy!

We’re getting really close to a college decision here at Chez Jaggers. And by we, of course I mean, the boy is really close to deciding because of course I have neither influence nor say in this decision and I reserve all of my personal opinions by keeping my big mouth shut. Ahem.

He has summarily rejected my offer to homeschool him for college. Even the promise of free tuition, room and board couldn’t keep him under my roof. I can’t say I blame him. My lectures tend to be a little dry. So’s this campus. (Bah-dum-dum. Thanks. I’m here all week.) I’d be heading out to a four-year myself.

The boy will visit the number one draft pick this Friday for “admitted freshman day” with his dad, who promises not to ogle the cheerleaders who will perform at orientation. Well, ogle, he may, but engage in conversation, he’d better not. We really don’t want him to be that dad. (How YOU doin? What’s YOUR major?). Yeesh. I guess it’s better than having me along, the mom who’d pout if not a single college boy fired on her.

So my guess is, by the end of Friday, we’ll know. The school in question is 161 miles from home (but who’s counting?). The guys will get up early and head out and probably not return until after dinner.

I wait, in suspense.

The boy was away for a long weekend, so we had a preview of what the fall will bring. When he’s not here: 

• There will be no need to buy mayo or ranch dressing.
• Laundry will be easily done in a day instead of three.
• No one will wake me at midnight to say, “I’m home.”
• The trash will not get taken out.
• Bacon, cookies and ice cream will not disappear overnight.
• There will be no thundering footsteps, bounding up or down the stairs.

And, oh joy! I will finally be able to clean his room. Bring on the hazmat suit.

It seems blasphemous in these days of global warming, of greenhouse emissions and Goracle worship that we have acquired another car. And yet, we have. Three drivers, going three directions seemed, somehow, to require this convenience, particularly given that one of us will be driving into the sunset in a matter of months. The boy has inherited our aging (read: long paid for) Chevy Cavalier. Not a muscle car, to be sure, but it runs.

“So, are you going to trick out the Cav, now that it’s yours?” I asked. “You know, paint flames on the sides, install a kick-butt stereo system?” He’s a teenage boy; isn’t that what they do?

“No. I’m going to trick it down,” he said. “That spoiler? Gone. Hubcaps? Who needs ‘em?”

Not a car guy, that one.

My name is Marijean and I’m a promaholic.

In my pre-prom years, those being between the ages of zero and 15, I dreamed of going to the prom. This, in part, I’m sure because I watched as my older sisters primped and dashed off with ruffly-shirted boys beginning when I was three or four years old. I remember, at the age of four or five sliding to the door in socks to greet the tuxedoed date of my eldest sister for her senior prom. I asked him, as only a little sister can, “Are you going to marry her?” Little did I know, as I learned years later, he’d actually asked. D’oh! (She said no.)

The prom trend in the house of my youth would have gone on until I was eight. Then there were my sisters’ weddings, Cinderella affairs that had me dreaming of satin and chiffon.

So I spent my pre-teen and early-teen years poring over Young Miss and Seventeen, eager to choose the perfect gown, sport the most bouffant updo and the dyed-to-match satin pumps normally reserved for bridesmaids.

I went to five proms. FIVE.

As I explained to the boy, aghast at this news (it’s hard to learn your mother had a life before you were born), three boys, five proms, three dresses (I’m getting to that).

Prom #1: Pink chiffon gown, floor length, ruffles down the back and a giant bow across my derriere. Oh yes, and puffy sleeves, what else? Hair poofed and in a banana clip with, (oh, the horror) a giant pink bow in my hair. What? It was 1987. I went to a private girls’ school, partnered with a private boys’ school for prom. The way to get the most prom-milage out of the season was this: date a public school boy. He came to my prom and I . . .

Prom #2: . . . went to his prom at the public school where I wore (get this) his MOTHER’S prom dress, circa 1965. It was pink (my color of choice during this ultra girly phase) and very Jackie Kennedy-esque.

Prom #3: My senior year in high school left me stranded sans boyfriend as he was off gallivanting at the University of Virginia. A close friend and another public school boy was also sans date, so, even though he was short(er) I couldn’t resist the call of the prom, so went to his, reprising the poofy dress at the public school (different crowd entirely).

Prom #4: My college boyfriend returned from college in the nick of time to escort me to my own school’s senior prom. I wore a gown made for me by a seamstress with a pattern for a wedding gown I had made in black satin. It was gorgeous. Because Seventeen magazine told me to, I tipped my long black lashes with blue mascara. I thought it was my final prom-enade.

Prom #5: I was past my prom prime, at the end of my freshman year of college, I realized only too late as I bailed out a friend whose girlfriend dumped him just weeks before my new boyfriend ’s (now my husband) alma mater’s high school prom. Confusing? Fortunately there was no emotion and it was just a goofy good time, with a bunch of us escaping to a carnival to ride the carousel in our finery. I can’t honestly remember which frock I donned for this foolish evening. I only remember running into my soon-to-be husband’s younger brother and suddenly realizing, “Oh lordy, I do not belong here.” I escaped the weekend unscathed and swore off proms for life.

Now, I’d say I’m a recovered promaholic, if only that were true. I’ve purposely arranged dinners out and trips to the mall (or the downtown mall, depending on my geography) to see the high school kids strolling about on prom night. I love gazing at the dresses on the racks this time of year, seeing the fashions change from year to year and being aghast at some of the horrors (last year; no lie; girl in a white strapless with obvious blue underwear and a non-strapless bra. Yikes.)

And of course, I can live vicariously through the boy, whose prom approaches. Last year I grew misty-eyed as he tried on tuxes at the local rental shop. And in four to five years, I get to do it again with the girl (assuming her father will ever let her date). I hope to be around to help my grandkids choose corsages and formals, assuming that the tradition of prom won’t go the way of mall bangs and blue mascara.

I promise though, I won’t attend another prom unless my senior center holds one when I’m very, very old, dancing the night away with the help of my walker.

Did you go to prom? How many? I’m I the biggest prom loser with FIVE under my belt? And please, confess what you wore; I’m dying to know!