Third Act With Pattie

Category: Wandering Thoughts

  • They Might Already Be Walking As Fast As They Can

    They Might Already Be Walking As Fast As They Can

    Notes from Life After the Bell

    I cannot count how many times I’ve been annoyed walking behind someone slow.

    You know the feeling—
    that boiling irritation when someone is in your way,
    moving at half your speed,
    and you’ve got somewhere to be.

    Today, my husband and I were in a store.
    (Perks of the Third Act—we can do that on a weekday now.)

    He picked up a heavy box.
    The kind that immediately says “we should have gotten a buggy.”

    But instead of putting it back down like a sensible person,
    he just… held it and looked at me.

    I did not ask questions.

    I went to get a buggy
    (which, if you’re not from the South, is a shopping cart).

    And I moved fast.
    Really fast.

    Faster than I’ve moved in months.

    And that’s when it hit me—

    I could breathe.
    I wasn’t unsteady.
    I wasn’t dizzy.

    I was just… walking.
    Like a normal person in a store, not someone wondering if the next step might take me down.

    And I was so grateful I could have cried.
    (I didn’t. Because… public.)

    The poisoning is leaving my body.
    I am clearly getting better.

    And then—because my brain likes to keep things interesting—
    another thought showed up.

    We have no idea why someone is moving slow.

    We don’t know if they are walking as fast as they possibly can.
    We don’t know what their body is dealing with –
    Or what it costs them just to be upright in that moment.

    But we get annoyed anyway.

    We assume they’re in the way.
    We assume they’re not paying attention.
    We assume we’re more important than whatever is slowing them down. And we all know how well assuming usually works out.

    I remember what it felt like
    to want to move faster
    and not be able to.

    To feel unsteady.
    To feel unsure.
    To feel like I was holding people up.

    It’s humbling.

    And… damn inconvenient, if I’m being honest.

    I hope I never forget it.

    Because the next time I’m stuck behind someone moving slow,
    I want to remember— they might already be walking as fast as they can.

    I remember what that feels like.

    And I don’t ever want to forget.

    —Pattie, moving a little slower (on purpose this time)

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

  • The Last S’kiddle Leaves the Nest

    The Last S’kiddle Leaves the Nest

    Last weekend, we helped Middle S’kiddle move into her first place.

    And just like that… our house got quieter in a way I wasn’t quite prepared for. Not empty.
    Not sad exactly. Just… different.

    What is a S’kiddle, you ask?

    Fair question.

    When my husband and I got married, we didn’t just bring two people into a house —
    we brought a whole collection of people into one life. He had three daughters — one in high school and two still in grade school.

    And I came with two grown children, their spouses… and my one and only granddaughter — who at fifteen already very clear about her place in my life and my heart.

    So there were a lot of personalities – and a lot of opinions. And, as it turns out, a real need for creative naming.

    In the beginning, like all raised-right Southern children, they called me Miss Pattie.

    Which was completely appropriate. But also a little much for everyday life… and the occasional tattling.

    Somewhere along the way – maybe when they realized I could be trusted to stay — Miss Pattie quietly shifted into S’Mom.

    (There may have been a trial period. I like to think I passed.)

    I loved S’Mom – but it did leave me with a naming problem.

    Because “stepdaughter” made me sound like the evil stepmother of fairytales, and “S’daughter” felt awkward.

    “S’kid” sounded like I was already annoyed with them…which, to be clear, would come later — just not yet.

    So with a little thought — and a healthy dose of mischief — we landed on S’kiddle. Like the candy, colorful, sweet, and each one a completely differend flavor.

    And once we said it out loud…that was it.

    So they became:

    Senior S’kiddle
    Middle S’kiddle
    and Liddle S’kiddle

    And somehow… those names stuck — and they remain S’kiddles to this day… and probably always will.

    Middle S’kiddle has lived with us full-time since graduation, but long before that, she was part of a life built across two homes, with four parents who all loved her in their own ways.

    That’s just how her story was written. And honestly… it worked.

    She is her father’s spitting image — practical and very determined. Her job is here, and so are her friends.

    Liddle S’kiddle, her mother’s mini-me – is planning to stay very close to her mama’s house for college – her story unfolding in a completely different way, but just as much her own.

    Neither S’kiddle has any interest in trading their lives for lake view and retirement wandering – especially with both of us home all the time.

    Which means…

    Middle S’kiddle will not be joining us full-time in the Third Act.

    And we will be missing our built-in voice of reason —
    and her daily recaps of life as she sees it… whether we agreed with her or not.

    But before any of that really had time to settle in…

    She had been moving things all week — carloads here, boxes there —
    so by the time the weekend rolled around, we were feeling pretty confident.

    Just the bedroom furniture. A dining room table and four chairs. Six blocks down the road.

    How hard could that be?

    Well … let me just say this:

    There is no such thing as “just a few things.” And there is definitely no such thing as a “quick move.” Even when it’s only six blocks.

    (Especially when it’s only six blocks, because apparently that gives you false confidence and bad judgment.)

    Because this wasn’t just helping her set up her new place. This was the last S’kiddle leaving our home.

    And here’s the part nobody really prepares you for:

    It doesn’t feel like a big, dramatic ending.

    There’s no music playing. No slow-motion goodbye. No moment where everyone stands still and says, “Well… this is it.”

    Instead, you carry a box, adjust a chair debate where the couch should go like its a life-altering decision… and somewhere in the middle of all that, life changes.

    She’s only six blocks away. We’ll see her all the time. Northing is really ending.

    And yet… everything is a little different now.

    Because this — this right here – is what the Third Act looks like.

    Not loud. Not dramatic.

    Just a quiet shift from raising a life… to watching it go live on its own.

    And the truth is…this moment doesn’t belong to just us.

    It belongs to all of the parents who helped shape her —in both of the families that became one.

    And honestly?

    She’s ready.

    (But I would like the record to reflect that having someone around who kept us grounded
    and occasionally made more sense than we did was very convenient…and will be deeply missed.)

    And just in case life felt like it was getting a little too quiet…

    Senior S’kiddle is getting married this fall.

    So I’m fairly certain this is not the end of the stories —
    just a brief pause before the chaos resumes.

    If you’re still smiling,
    pull up a chair on the deck…

    We’ll raise a glass,
    watch the water sparkle,

    and see what happens next.

    – Pattie

    🐾 Sassy Says

    Again… nobody asked me.

    I am really going to miss Middle S’kiddle.

    I like to mess with her and bark every time she comes home – like I don’t have any idea who is breaking into the house. She doesn’t realize i already know her car, her footsteps, and her smell without even looking.

    So she always comes in with hugs and love… to calm me down. (It works Every time.)

    I am a Wonderdog like that.

    She comes home at lunch with chicken most days. She eats on the couch — where I can properly supervise — and she always leaves a little bit behind.

    I know she does it on purpose.

    What exactly am I supposed to do now?

    Lower my standards?

    🐾🍗🍿

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.

  • They Have Lost Their Doggone Minds Two Houses. Three People. Zero Good Decisions.

    They Have Lost Their Doggone Minds Two Houses. Three People. Zero Good Decisions.

    Y’all…
    it’s official.

    They have lost their doggone minds.
    Both. Of. Them. Completely.

    I heard them talking yesterday
    about leaving the lake house
    and going back to the city house.

    Excuse me??

    I was having an excellent time at the lake house.
    The weather was nice.
    The birds were active.
    The squirrels were bold.
    (A mistake on their part.)

    I had a full schedule.

    As usual…
    nobody asked me.

    Then I watched them carry out
    a whole bunch of stuff
    and load it into the truck.

    Seemed like a bad idea.

    I mean, we are supposed to be moving
    TO the lake house.

    Not… practicing leaving it.

    Mama and I drove back in the car.
    Daddy drove the truck.

    He got there first.
    Which is not surprising.

    Mama is a slower driver.
    Not bad…
    just… deeply committed to taking her time.

    We walk in the house
    and Daddy says:

    “We have to go back.”

    Mama and I just stared at him
    with wide open eyes.

    (I taught her that look. She’s improving.)

    Before either of us could respond,
    he says:

    “I left my wallet at the lake house… I think.”

    Sir ???

    We just got here.

    Mama and I looked at each other.

    I don’t know exactly what Mama was thinking,
    but I’m fairly certain
    it involved some words
    I do not use.

    Because,

    I am a very good girl.

    After a long discussion
    (where I was, once again, not consulted),
    they decided:

    We would stay the night
    and go back in the morning.

    Daddy said we had to leave early
    because of spring break.

    Spring break.

    You know who’s not on spring break?

    Me.

    I’m on “get in the car, Sassy.”

    Mama did not seem nearly as concerned
    about spring break
    as she was about her sanity.

    Next thing I know,
    it is not even light outside
    and I am being loaded into the car.

    Again.

    Let me explain something:

    It is a long, long, long ride
    for a dog.

    And since Mama had to drive,
    we took her car.

    Which means—

    Daddy sat in my seat.

    My seat.

    Without discussion.
    Without permission.

    I was moved
    to the back seat.

    The unacceptable seat.
    The seat where you cannot see out properly.
    The seat of poor life decisions.

    After a very long time,
    we got back to the lake.

    Mama let me out
    to “handle my business.”

    Which I did.
    Efficiently.
    Like a professional.

    We went upstairs,
    went inside…

    and then…

    we were there
    for about five minutes.

    Five. Minutes.

    I hadn’t even finished
    smushing down my bed.

    (Another thing humans do wrong—
    they just sit down
    without preparing the spot first.
    It’s chaos.)

    Daddy found his wallet.

    In the clothes hamper.

    In the pocket of his pants.

    …This is exactly why
    dogs do not wear pants.

    Or fully trust people who do.

    Then we went
    right back downstairs,
    right back into the car.

    Mama is now in my seat.
    I am once again
    in the terrible back seat.

    For another
    long, long, long ride.

    I did not ask
    to participate in this adventure.

    I could have stayed home
    on my section of the sectional.

    In peace.
    In dignity.

    But no.

    Nobody asked me.

    They never do.

    And that is exactly how I know…

    they have lost their doggone minds.

    🐾 Sassy the Wonderdog

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    I will allow it. —Sassy

  • I Confess… I Did This To Myself

    I Confess… I Did This To Myself

    Turns out “retired together” is not the same retirement.

    I’ve made mistakes before.

    Big ones.

    But none of them stared me in the face all day.

    Okay… I may have pushed my husband to retire.

    I did this to myself.

    Completely.

    I’ve been retired – well, semi-retired – for over a year now.

    By semi-retired, I mean I work from home… in my pajamas… on my own schedule.

    It’s a very civilized system.

    I earn a little extra money when I feel like it.

    And when I don’t feel like it – I simply don’t.

    During the last two months of chemo, I took exactly zero assignments.

    Turns out chemo brain and legal drafting are not a winning combination.

    But overall, I’ve really enjoyed this semi-retired lifestyle (minus the chemo option.)

    So much, in fact, that I decided my husband needed to retire too.

    He was terribly stressed out.

    Which is understandable.

    A wife on chemo and a fast-paced, time-draining job he loved would give any man gray hair at an alarming rate.

    If the man had hair.

    Mine does not.

    So in the way that good wives often do, I patiently helped him realize that it was completely his own idea to leave the rat race and come home to enjoy the good life.

    And for the first few days?

    It was lovely.

    I would walk past him sleeping in his chair in the middle of the afternoon and smile.

    Look at him, finally resting.

    What a thoughtful wife I am.

    Then he woke up.

    After a few days of rest and observation, he apparently came to the conclusion that I had somehow lost the ability to perform basic household tasks without his expert insight into:

    • best practices
    • improved efficiency
    • and the optimal dishwasher loading strategy

    In fairness, he really was just trying to help.

    No one asked him to.

    But still.

    Turns out “retired together” is not the same retirement.

    This guidance was provided daily.

    Sometimes hourly.

    Occasionally continuously.

    Clearly, I needed to fix this.

    So, being the supportive wife that I am,

    I once again helped him arrive at a brilliant idea that was entirely his own.

    He needed a different version of semi-retirement.

    One where he could apply all those negotiation skills and efficiency strategies somewhere other than my kitchen.

    Once he came up with that idea on his own, he really ran with it.

    He did research.

    He made a proposal.

    He negotiated terms.

    And just like that, he created a position that allows him to work:

    from home
    in his pajamas
    on his own schedule

    What a genius.

    He does have to go to the work site one day a week.

    And I’m not saying I look forward to those days…

    …but I have noticed the coffee tastes better,

    the lake looks calmer,

    and retirement feels a lot more like mine again.

    If you’re still smiling, come back and stay awhile.

    Pull up a chair on the deck. We’ll raise a glass – or two.

    –Pattie

    The water’s sparkling, the dog has opinions… and this Third Act is just getting started.

  • I Hate Hemming (But That’s Not The Real Problem)

    I Hate Hemming (But That’s Not The Real Problem)

    I call myself a sewist.

    It sounds respectable.
    Capable.
    Like someone who makes actual clothing that people wear out in public.

    You know –

    from fitting the pattern to hemming the garment.

    But the truth is…

    I don’t make clothes anymore.

    Because I hate fitting.

    Hemming too –

    Which is unfortunate,

    because at 4’10”, I have never met a pair of pants that didn’t need hemming.

    Not once.
    Not even in theory.

    So instead, I quilt.

    More specifically, I paper piece.

    Give me a pile of crooked little scraps,
    lines on a piece of paper,
    and permission to sew things together in a way that makes absolutely no sense at first glance…

    …and I am completely content.

    There’s something about it.

    The wonky angles.
    The unexpected shapes.
    The way it all looks slightly chaotic until suddenly — it doesn’t.

    Those pieces feed my soul in a way the traditional blocks just don’t.

    They’re pretty.
    They’re orderly.

    But they don’t feed me.

    Right now, though, my sewing room is disappearing.

    Or at least, it feels that way.

    It’s being packed up piece by piece as we get ready to move,
    and I have discovered something I probably should have expected:

    I cannot pick up a single thing
    without going down memory lane.

    And at my age, memory lane is not a quick little walk.

    It’s more like a slow, winding scenic route with frequent stops.

    Very frequent stops.

    So for now, there’s not much sewing happening.

    But there will be.

    I’ll be sharing the process as I reinvent my sewing space in this next chapter —
    what stays, what goes, and what finally earns a place in the Third Act.

    And in the meantime, I’ll start sharing some of the pieces I’ve made —
    the ones with stories stitched into them.

    Because every one of them has one.

    And apparently…

    I have time to tell them now.

    Maybe that’s the point of the Third Act –

    Finally having the time to take all the wonky pieces

    And see how they fit together.

    — Pattie

    🐾 Sassy says: That room better come back with a proper dog are – including the rug Mama made for me.  I do not forget these things.