The gifts of maturity are many. Having lived a generous number of years means I can look back and say “I lived through that, I can live through this.” I’ve learned to be easier on myself, though I’m sometimes ashamed of how hard I am on others. The alternatives to aging aren’t attractive anyhow, and fighting it can look pretty silly—Joan Rivers comes to mind.

That said, let me begin my rant: Oh my God, these hot flashes are killing me! “Night sweats” is the same kind of misnomer that morning sickness was for me; this has become an all-day and all-night affliction. Right now, I’m rolling on roughly 3.5 hours of sleep, and have been up since 3:30 a.m. Forgive any typos.

I’ve said I’d never do the hormone replacement thing, but that's maybe because I’m so confused about it. A few years ago, the word was that HRT is good for a woman’s heart. Oops! Turns out it’s bad for a woman’s heart. Admittedly, being a life-long smoker always made it sound like a bad idea anyhow. And, of course, I thought I had all the time in the world to get up to speed on the issue. Hah!

When the flashes started a couple years ago (and in case you get the wrong idea about my age, I was very, very young when they began), I rushed right out and bought an over the counter, herbal estrogen replacement. I never noticed any improvement, but then again, the box said it could take up to 10 weeks to notice a difference. Yeah, like I’ll manage to take that six times a day for 10 weeks just in case it works.

Ah, but I was young and impatient then…and the hot flashes weren’t nearly this bad or this persistent. Out of desperation I’ve developed a couple of coping mechanisms of my own. For instance, putting my head in the freezer brings almost immediate relief. And, when driving, shoving an icy cold Coke down my shirt works—the seatbelt holds it in place, and I can sip from the straw without taking my hands off the wheel.

The one thing that has sustained me (and made it possible to keep my clothes on in public during an attack) has been the knowledge that these hot flashes won’t plague me forever. While I can’t look back and say I’ve been through this before, I can say that millions of other women have been through it, and if they could take it, I can too.

But I talked to a woman the other day who looked to be in her early 60s. She said her hot flashes started at about the same age as mine. Then she went on to say that although it’s been 10 years since her last period, she’s still having hot flashes. I’m telling you, I felt like stuffing my head inside a major appliance!

So tell me: Is it hot in here? Did somebody re-light the pilot on the damn oven?

I warned my readers early on that I might rage a little bit about the war(s), and here it comes. Even if you think opposing the war(s) is unAmerican, please read on and reply. And, Liz, you probably don't want to.

My nephew originally signed up with the army as a chaplain's assistant. He felt it was God's work and God's plan for him to serve the spiritual needs of soldiers in a war zone. Unfortunately, he was later informed that the US Army is at 108% of their quota for chaplain assistants, so he is now working as a combat engineer. His job is to be the lookout for improvised explosive devises, IEDs, while he and his crew are out on patrols.

Duing last year's tour in Iraq, he saw all the IEDs in their path and kept himself and his crew safe; his base was regularly under mortar attack, but he was never injured.

But this year he's in Afghanistan. Remember Afghanistan? The war we're fighting for a reason. The country that served as a base for Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and the Taliban. Remember we went there because of the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon? Remember we had support from our allies?

Unfortunately, the Bush Administration soon lost interest, and against the better judgement of our allies, focused military efforts and personnel in Iraq. The weapons of mass destruction rationalization is now known to be a PR ploy, as is the BS of Saddam Hussein's participation in 9/11. But thousands of American soldiers have died in Iraq, our allies have abandoned us in Iraq and Afghanistan, and there is no end in sight.

As tragic as this war is for America, the "liberated" Iraqis have suffered the deaths of tens of thousands of civilians, and their infrastructure is now almost totally nonexistent. I agree with the Bush administration only in their assertion that Saddam was a barbaric psychopath. But he certainly wasn't the only psychopath in a leadership position on this planet, and it could be argued that there were and are many who are worse and causing greater suffering for their people. This was not a humanitarian war.

This past week my nephew didn't site the IED in his path. Men with him were badly injured, perhaps mortally; miraculously, 120-pound Jimmy wasn't physically injured. There isn't much he can say about the incident on Army phones or computers, but we do know that he phoned in the helicoptor and performed emergency first aid until they came. I am tremendously proud of him for this.

My nephew was a gentle young man who joined the Army to serve God and country. But war changes people; he told his father the other day that he wants to kill all the Afghans and let God sort them out.

The number of US soldiers killed in Afghanistan surpassed those killed in Iraq in the past month.

Pray for peace and wisdom.

As I'm writing this, Jack is out by the koi pond catching tadpoles. We're going to pick up our new aquarium after his haircut, and then, when we get home we'll transfer his tadpoles from the styrofaom cooler they're in now to the new aquarium that will go on the table next to his bed. I'm praying that they live long enough to become the frogs he want to keep as pets. For right now I'm more concerned that they'll die, but later on I'll worry about what to do if they live

Jack's dad brought him here directly from summer camp at the YMCA. Apparently the ice cream truck came today, because Jack has gray streams running from his hands to his elbows. His shirt is spotted with pink and blue. He says his ice cream cone was lollipop flavored. He's sunburned, so I know he didn't use the sunscreen that's in his backpack. His shorts are wet, so I know he was too modest to take off his underwear when he changed into his swimsuit.

I gather all these clues to piece together a picture of the day he spent apart from me.

Like many other chronic illnesses, Alzheimers has a mysterious rhythm of good days and bad, but gradually what you used to consider a very bad day becomes the norm. The good days are now a pleasant surprise, but Mom's not able to string many of them together anymore.

I've read a few books--memoirs, mostly--about Alzheimers, and I've had a few friends who have gone through it with family members, but I've never known of anyone who was affected in the same way Mom has been. I think, to a large degree, the disease has just magnified my mom's worst personality traits. As I've matured I better understand how some of those traits came into being -- long before Alzheimers wrote them so large in our lives -- but that hasn't really made this part of our lives together any easier to bear.

The hardest thing for me is that there are so many times now when I cannot muster compassion for her. I can only imagine how awful it must be for her to live with the belief that her family members have stolen money, jewelry, coin collections, sheets, towels, clothes and address books from her. She believes it when she tells one of her children that another has said horrible things to her, things like, I wish you were dead, You've never done anything for me, or, I don't want to see you anymore because I'm afraid you'll kill my child.

My heart goes out to her husband whom she accuses of adultery, thievery, cruelty, alcoholism and impossible sexual acts. (Bless his heart, he's 87, has at least two kinds of cancer and a history of strokes, yet he dotes on my mother and cares for her with patience and tenderness.)  I can imagine how awful it must be for her, but I can't do anything about it.

There's no sense trying to talk her out of these beliefs. We have all tried desperately to relieve her of the pain her paranoia causes. The thing is, if I try to assure her that Carl's not having an affair, and not stealing her money, she accuses me of siding with him and betraying her. The arguments could go on forever; each point raised in defense of the accused seeds another evil imagining in the mind of the accuser. Anything said to convince her these things can't possibly be true becomes ammunition that her sick brain uses against us both.

With that realization I've quit answering the phone. I cleared most of the 42 messages from my machine this morning. And then at lunch time, when I meant to be checking in with a friend who had left two of those messages, my own brain conspired with my dialing finger and called Mom instead. I told her I was just calling to tell her that I loved her.

I know there will probably come a time when she doesn't remember her children, but already she's forgotten who we are.

I overslept this morning, but was out of bed with coffee in hand by 6:00. I had my boy up, fed, bathed, dressed and walked to school by 7:35. By 7:45 I was home again, and getting ready for work. Again this morning I tried very hard to get to work by 8:30 instead of 9:00, but 8:50 was the best I could do.

Because I'm a vain, aging, girly girl, the process of getting ready for work entails more than you might think, and certainly more than it used to. As you read on, please try to imagine the time and money associated with the process. 

Once in the tub, I use a two-step microderm abrasion product on my aging, sun-damaged, wrinkling, sagging face. After applying the microderm abrasion activator, I gently massage the microderm abrasion beads over my face one more time, finally rinsing the two-step microderm abrasion mess off of my face with a washcloth.

Hair is washed with special shampoo for colored, damaged hair. Moisturizing conditioner is applied and left on hair while I wash the rest of me using a moisturizing body wash applied to a net bath sponge for the exfoliating benefits. Once moisturizing body wash is rinsed off, I rinse moisturizing conditioner from hair, and then apply red-tinted hair glaze to help cover gray and prolong expensive salon color job. That stays on while I use moisturizing shave cream with 3-blade Venus razor on legs and pits.

When I'm done shaving and have rinsed off moisturizing shave cream, it's time to go at my feet with pumice stone. Now I can rinse red-tinted hair glaze from my graying hair. That done, it's time to get out of the tub.

Once out of the tub I brush my teeth with a special whitening toothpaste. Next, I apply moisturizer with alphy hydroxy to aging, sun-damaged, wrinkling, sagging face; this product promises to remove sun spots and fine wrinkles and to firm up my sagging skin. For special sagging skin, fine wrinkles, and dark circles around the delicate eye area, I apply a serum created specifically the delicate eye area. Next, I apply baby powder, and antiperspirant. Body lotion with sunscreen is applied next to the rest of my body, except for my legs. My legs are pale and ugly and require special attention. They receive a layer of moisturizing self-tanning lotion with sunscreen.

While the self-tanning lotion dries, I smear two kinds of styling product into my hair. One of these contains silicone to smooth my aging, frizzy, graying hair.  This is followed by three or four minutes of blow drying with a vented brush, and a couple more drops of silicone. Some days, if I'm not already running late, this is followed by two minutes with a curling iron, which is then followed by a two-minute search for aloe gel, because I invariably burn myself in my haste. If I'm still not running late after the four-minute curling iron torture, I apply a concealer to dark under-eye circles, and then a light layer of foundation.

Now I'm done in the bathroom and can get dressed. Nothing fits because I've quit smoking for health reasons, but have gained enough weight that it's a health concern. I put on something that doesn't fit anyhow, and smear a little more specialty lotion on my feet before I put on my sandals. As I do so I think for the hundredth time that I really, really need a manicure and pedicure.

If any more makeup is going to be applied, it will have to be done in the car. It will entail eyeshadow--lighter overall, darker under browbone to camouflage sagging upper lids. Then it's the eyeliner and mascara--each applied only to upper lid and lashes to camouflage sagging upper lids. Finally, some lipcolor followed with a moisturizing lip gloss containing sunscreen to make aging, thinning lips appear fuller while simultaneously protecting my aging, thinning lips from the damaging effects of sun exposure.

Now, here's the thing: After using 25 products and eight tools, I still look like hell. I look like a middle-aged, overweight, mother of a six-year-old boy, who's been up since 6:00 in the morning (Whoo-hoo! Did I mention I got an extra half hour of sleep?), who's on her way to a full-time job. I'm stressed out because I'm running late for work. I've spent about a million dollars on products that, at best, work only slightly, but mostly not at all; superstition and marketing genius compel me to continue using these products. That, and the fear of what I'd look like if I didn't.

Everytime crude oil prices have increased, I've taken it in stride. I've even been optimistic that higher fuel prices would mean more environmentally responsible auto choices and reduced energy consumption.

At the same time, I've felt sorry for all the Americans who cannot absorb the added expense. In this region ,the outlying counties have a lot of poverty but don't have mass transit systems. And we all know of people who commute from as far away as Panacea, Perry or Bainbridge GA for low-paying state jobs in Tallahassee. Having worked with impoverished families, it's not a vague concept for me. I associate names and faces with the hardships caused by increased gas prices and the high grocery prices they contribute to, and it saddens me.

But now I'm mad. This week the big oil companies announced their first-quarter earnings, and the numbers are flabbergasting! Exxon Mobil's profits are up 17% compared to first quarter 2007. Chevron's profits are up 10%. BP's profits are up 63%.

"Marry in haste; repent in liesure." This from my sister, my confidant. I won't go into all the gruesome details, but having adult stepkids is hard, hard, hard. The fact that my husband raised them alone for 13 years after his divorce makes it harder. Eight years into our marriage, they still cling desperately to each other like Titanic survivors. Nuff said.

Now for the bright spot: it's my sister. She gently counsels me, and helps me laugh at myself,,,and anyone else I'm pissed off at at the time. I don't know how I'd make it without her, and frankly, I'm amazed that I did for so long. We were always so different. She's been married to the same man for 32 years; I'm on my third marriage. She had her boys young; I had my boy at 41. She stayed close to home; I wandered...a lot. She was the good one; I was the wild one.

In fact, a few months ago, my mother, who's 84 with mid-stage Alzheimers, was commenting on what an easy teenager I was to parent. (What?! I was an absolute horror show, and I swear to God, if my own child turns out to be like I was, I'll hold him under till the bubbles stop!) Thinking I'd go along with Mom's soft-focus  memory, I said "That's right, Mom, I was always the good one, and Liz was always the wild one." My mother hesitated briefly as a tiny region of her muddled brain sputtered to life, then she replied: "I never should have told you I have Alzheimers." All these years, and all the damage to her brain, and THIS she remembers!

My mother's decline and dementia has been heartbreaking, infuriating and guilt inducing for both of us. It's a horrible thing to still want and need your dead mother, without ever being able to grieve her protracted passing. At the same time, we have to continue making nice with the accusatory, paranoid, irrational, shrew of a woman who animates the corpse's body. The only gift in my mother's illness has been the new, improved relationship with my sister.

Sometimes my sister is the only thing that keeps me sane (though others of the husband persuasion might argue to the contrary). Not only do we share each other's grief, we laugh about it...and then we cry some more. But mostly we laugh. We may go to hell for making fun of a demented old lady, but at least we won't go to prison for homocide!

It's my sister's birthday today, and I've never in my life celebrated the day of anyone else's birth with as much feeling and appreciation as I do hers. Love you, Lizzy, because I know that you know how close I am to tears as I write this. Have a good one.

The ongoing saga of Jack: It really did seem cruel to deny Jack the Mommy time we'd planned, and sometimes I think backing off all the punishment and allowing for a time to be close again does more to improve behavior than all the denied privileges. Do I sound like I'm making excuses for myself? Well, maybe I am. The thing is, I'm conflicted. Here's what I know:

• We had a great time, and laughed together for the first time all week.
• Jack was a sweetheart, with lost of nice manners and I-love-you's.
• Jack's behavior at home and at after school has improved; He was on green Friday; earned his white belt Saturday morning, and allowed to watch an hour of cartoon Sunday.

So far, so good. A special thanks to those who advised and encouraged me.

Is parenting this hard for others, or am I lacking the gene?

Jack's on red again! This time the little yellow note says when all the kids were lined up to go to their karate class, he got out of line and sat down at one of the computers. When he was told to get back in line, he said that was the only place he was allowed to play computer games, and refused to get back in line!

HELP!

I have some stuff to do this afternoon down at the coast, and I was going to pull him out of school a few minutes early so he could go with me, but that's out now. He's still begging and crying. I'm crying too, but only in the car where he can't see or hear me.

Any ideas? 

Jack's in trouble again. This time the little yellow note from his after-school dojo says he wouldn't stay in his seat, but usually the notes say he wouldn't stop talking, or clowning around. I think it's all pretty typical 6-year-old boy stuff, but a couple weeks ago we freaked out when we got one that said he punched another student; follow up with the teacher confirmed what Jack said all along--the other kid did punch him first.

His infractions aren't usually very serious, but lately there seem to be a lot of them. The dojo uses a green-yellow-red chart to track behavioral problems. For yellow, we take away TV and computer privileges for the night. This time, because he was on yellow Monday and on red Tuesday--and because we're seeing at least one yellow note a week--we also took away his GameBoy, and he doesn't get any of these privileges back until the weekend--if he stays on green for the rest of the week. We're keeping our fingers crossed.

Jack went to bed last night crying and screaming "It's not fair!" This kind of battle takes so much out of all of us. We've tried spanking, but finally figured out that if it makes Mommy and Daddy cry, we need to find another way. We're all worn out from the battle.

I was still drinking my coffee this morning and watching the last seconds of the story about the plane crash in the Democratic Republic of Congo on TV when Jack crawled into my lap. I turned off the TV, and Jack asked if people had died in the crash. I told him yes, at least 40 people had died. After a second he asked how many people lived. When I explained that they don't give that information, he asked "Why don't they say how many people lived? Why do they only tell you the bad stuff?"

All those little yellow notes aren't really all that important.

I know it's still early on a dreary Monday morning, and happy people can be a little hard to take at this hour. So, if you're not in the mood for Miss Merry Sunshine, you are hereby advised to avoid me till you've had more coffee, 'cause I'm just back from a terrific weekend.

Besides getting to take two naps, I got to spend time with my son at a wildlife festival on Saturday, and at a six-year-old's birthday party on Sunday. My two-year-old granddaughter spent the night Saturday night; now that my boy is too grown up and way too cool to give out many hugs and kisses, having a baby around who's so generous with her affections is a blessing.

My old friend, Kathy, was in town for the weekend, and we met up with her at the festival.  Last night my husband and I had dinner with Kathy and Jeff, another good friend, and afterward Kathy spend the night at our house. We sat up till after 1 AM, talking about everything from home decor to neurogenesis--an indulgence I'll pay dearly for later in the day.

We're enjoying a kind of renaissance in our marriage right now, and we've been married long enough to appreciate these good times, knowing that they don't last forever, but will come again. My husband and I don't get many date nights these days, so a night out with grown ups is a really big deal for us. And, because neither Jeff nor Kathy has ever been married or had children, it was kind of nice that our conversation wasn't limited to talk of our kids.

As if all that isn't enough, I came into work this morning (to a job I love, by the way) and found an email from another old friend who, after a long search, has just gotten a wonderful job. Even with a master's degree and 15 years of experience in his field, he had a hard time finding a good job; I don't guess we'll ever know how much his physical disability had to do with its being such a long time coming. For the last two years, rather than stay at home wallowing in self pity, Dorohn got up early every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, caught a bus, and did volunteer work at our local HIV/AIDS service organization, where he logged thousands of hours. His enviable faith is such that he says with absolute conviction that it's not God's plan for him to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, and one day he'll rise to his full height of 6' 2'' and walk again.

I know from experience that this much happy talk early on a dreary Monday morning can make you want to puke, but I make no apologies. I'm acutely aware right now of my good fortune to be surrounded by so much joy, love and support from my family and friends.

When we adopted our new dog from the local shelter six months ago, it had been four years since my yellow lab, Jessie, passed away. She was two when I got her, and 13 when I had to help her pass onto the great beyond. I'd had her longer than I'd had my husband, my son, or even my own last name. She was my only family when my earlier marriage ended. Together, Jessie and I climbed mountains, swam oceans, and weathered hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, snow storms, a broken marriage and many changes of residence. Like most labs, she loved children and a good meal. She was scared of cats. She was gentle, mellow, and had a wicked sense of humor and perfect manners. But there came a time when she couldn't control her bowels or bladder, she was almost totally deaf, and lived in constant pain. The day she fell off the ramp and ripped a hole in her side, we knew it was time. We'd already set an appointment four days off for the vet to come to the house to euthanize her, but we couldn't make her wait any longer. So we loaded her in the car, drove to the vet's, and parked out front under a big live oak tree. The vet came outside, told us what to expect, and then gave us a couple minutes to say our goodbye. She took only one more breath after the shot was administered.

In the four years since her last breath, I never stopped missing her. My six-year-old son had no recollection of Jessie, and had been begging for years to get a dog of his own. I'd bought as much time as I could with a tankful of fish and a cat.

Peaches is about a year old, maybe a year and a half. She's a mix of American Bulldog and something else. She weighs about 60 pounds, and she's beautiful, athletic, powerful, and a doofus. Her fur is white, except for her brown ears, a beauty mark next to her right eye, and the bullseye around the base of her tail. Her face and her belly are pink. Through her fur you can see black speckles on her skin that make me think she's got some hound in her.

She loves kids, other dogs, and whatever you're eating, including apples and bananas. She loves to fetch and can play the game for hours on end; my husband and I take turns when we tire out. She loves to chase cats. She loves to snuggle, and she's too strong for me to shove her off the sofa or out of my bed. She loves to watch Animal Planet, cocking her head left and right. If the onscreen animals leave the screen, she sniffs around behind the TV looking for them; failing to find them there, she checks on the other side of the wall in the living room.

She chews books, furniture, candles, shoes, dog beds, my son's toys, hand cream bottles and pretty much anything she can get her powerful jaws around. She's allergic to soy, corn, wheat, fleas and something else we haven't figured out yet. She steals sandwiches or entire loaves of bread off the kitchen counter. She jumps and claws at us when she's not getting enough attention. I have bruises on my arms, legs and feet from her toenails. One of my front teeth is loose from getting bonked in the face by her massive head over the weekend; I'm praying it doesn't become discolored or fall out (my tooth, I mean). If you tell her to do something she doesn't want to do, she refuses. If you're adamant about your demands, she'll usually acquiesce, but she'll grumble sassily about it. If you scold her, she drops her ears, tucks her tail and whimpers. She snores loudly, and sleeps best when our little boy climbs into her bed with her to take a nap.

And I've never loved a dog more than I love Peaches...longer, maybe, but not more.

We've reached a tipping point in our office, and I'm proud to give myself credit for the last and final shove. In response to my recent blogs and forum entries on going green, The Boss has asked me to help make our office a little greener, and I'm mighty pleased to take it on! As we make progress, I'll be writing about it here. I hope you'll let me know, too, about what you're doing at home or at your workplace.

We're starting with recycling, of course. Fortunately, we live in a town that really supports green living, and gives each household what they call a Smart Cart. It's a big, honkin', divided trash can on wheels; one side is for paper, and the other is for plastic, glass and cans. Once a week a special truck pulls up to the curb out front, its mechanical arm reaches out, fits itself precisely into the holes in the side of the bin, and then lifts the bin exactly so in order to line it up with the divider on the truck. Voila! Paper here, and the other stuff there.

Now the fact that we haven't been recycling pro