I've Got My Best Shoes On...

This I Know, Little Ones

2012-02-07T06:43:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago, out at dinner in the South End of Boston, I tried to say one of my immutable truths, without choking up. I know of a few statements that always make me teary when I try to say them out loud. Typically I try to avoid the whole scene.

But I took a breath and tried to say, "I know that nobody will feel about my kids the way my husband and I feel about them." And then I teared up momentarily, as I always do. Because we are in this together, this adventure in parenting, and I feel so lucky to have chosen my partner so well, all those many moons ago, when we were both practically children ourselves.

I quickly recovered and gobbled down some delicious apple something with my hot after-dinner coffee, swallowing down the food and emotion.

And so it is with sadness that I learned of the impending divorce of two friends recently.

We are not necessarily close friends and I hadn't spoken directly to either of them in years. Our children are around the same age.We have dined together and enjoyed family barbecues, attended a few play dates and exchanged Sunday brunches. They were at our wedding and we were at theirs, all those years ago, when we were thinner, prettier, physically firmer, assured we knew what we didn't.

I am sad to hear that they are splitting up. I'm sad because I suspect I'll probably never see one of them again. I'm sad for them and for their kids that this family will change in ways that they hadn't anticipated when they started.

However this break came about, as the intricacies and dynamics of a marriage are only truly known to the two players, I know both of them to be devoted, committed parents. I know how they worried and fretted about their premature baby when she arrived early, before a Red Sox game one summer day. They are parents who called 911 when Dad accidentally shot himself - twice - with an Epi-Pen because, for a minute there, a wee one was possibly having trouble breathing.Nope, on second thought, he was clearing his throat. I know the Mother to grit her teeth when strangers touched her baby without asking, or when other children coughed nearby. We laughed knowingly when I admitted that I too, had spent hours in Target simply because I was finally by myself during those long days of early motherhood. I saw Dad hold and caress his babies, walking and pacing for what seemed like hours until they calmed.

Again, I know this truth, to those little ones whose lives are changing: nobody loves you as fiercely as your Mom and Dad do, whether they live in the same house or not.

"I Make Art"

2012-02-03T15:18:00.001-08:00

I realize I haven't posted in a while. And I feel badly about it. This is my olive branch, this Youtube clip. It is one of the funnier things I have seen recently - enjoy!

LMc's Best Reads of 2011!!

2012-01-05T19:07:00.000-08:00

From my corner of the book nook, it has been a banner year for reading.
Granted, most of the books I have read were not necessarily published this year. But that hardly matters on LMc's Best Reads of the Year. My award, my rules!

Thanks to the website Goodreads, I have a whole list of books to-be-read that are recommended by book groups and book lovers, those who love memoirs and historical fiction, as I do. It's quite a find for a bibliophile, that Goodreads site. You can post questions to authors (and they answer back - so cool) and listen to webinars/webcasts with authors. For those who love to turn a page while turning inward to travel to other worlds, beings and experiences, Goodreads is the place to be.

I walked away this year having read some wonderful, wonderful reads. Because the books I am about to describe here were not just good, they were superlative, so beyond what the physical paper and print brings, the words and emotions stay with me long past that final page.

In a word, if you haven't read these books yet: youmust.

Runner Up:
The Elegance of the Hedegehog by Muriel Barbery
Renee, a dumpy, self-effacing concierge, hides her intellectual leanings as a form of preservation. In a flat up a few floors is Paloma, a brilliant but troubled girl who plans to take her life when she turns 13. How these two discover each other and their respective paths out of their self-prescribed confines is a story of beauty.

WINNER #1:
The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
We have been lost to each other for so long. My name means nothing to you. My memory is dust. This is not your fault, or mine. The chain connecting mother to daughter was broken and the word passed to the keeping of men, who had no way of knowing. That is why I became a footnote, my story a brief detour between the well known history of my father and the celebrated chronicle of Joseph, my brother. On those rare occasions where I was remembered, it was as a victim.
So begins the story of Dinah, a girlwoman barely mentioned in The First Testament. Her story is the story of womanhood, in the context of early biblical times.

WINNER #2:
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
This book just devastated me. It is technically a Young Adult book. I'd want to know if my kid was reading this because it is heavy. Narrated by Death, The Book Thief tells the story of a young girl, Liesel, in Germany, as the shadow of Nazism descends just prior to World War II. This girl who loses her first family, inherits an unconventional second family, only to gain and lose more.

There you have it, the best of 2011!

Scenes from 12 - 25

2011-12-25T18:20:00.000-08:00

These guys might be the devil incarnate.

So what do you want to do now? So what do you want to do now? This is what these lumpy, brightly colored beings say: So what do you want to do now? Repeat this 57 times. That is what 10:30 AM sounded like. Somebody shoot me. Thanks alot, Santy.

This is the letter left by a certain 9-year-old last night:

And the response:

It is 9:30 PM. Not a creature is stirring, not even my husband asleep on the couch. The girls are in bed; we have been going, going, going since 7:00 AM and to be honest since about noon yesterday. After approximately 24 hours of nonstop festivities, Youngest Daughter asked if, "tomorrow, can we have a play date?" "No" couldn't have come out of my mouth faster. My house looks like this:

I could lose a kid in there and that would be awkward.

So if you are reading this post, you are probably a pal or a family member, and so you know I have every intention of getting a holiday card to you by New Years. Or St Patrick's Day by the latest. And in the event that doesn't happen, please see here:

Happy Holidays To You And Yours

With love and appreciation,

Moderngirl LMc

What I Did Instead

2011-11-25T08:53:00.001-08:00

Today, instead of attending my High School Reunion, I did the following:
I went for a nice, long run, savoring the unseasonably warm air, the bright sunshine, and the leisure time to do it.

I cleaned my bathrooms, vacuumed and dusted in anticipation of company coming. The smells of bleach, Windex (again!), Pledge comingling, a signal to all that "Company is coming! Company is coming!"

I reflected on yesterday, Thanksgiving Day. I ran a five mile race in my community:

First TurkeyTrot Draws Over 400 Runners

By Lindsay Corcoran

(I am in here! Do you see me? Its like Where's Waldo without the red striped shirt...)

Later on, I ate as much as I wanted and not a bite more. I was sated, satisfied, nourished. I relaxed and laughed with family, young and old. I cuddled my new niece and nephew.

Today, instead of going to my High School Reunion, my husband and I moved the treadmill down two flights of stairs, his latest home improvement project. As per usual, I'm just along for the ride, although today, I was also some of the muscle. Or dead weight.

I read some of my latest book, "Cutting For Stone" and looked at the books on my To Be Read docket. Looking forward to some good reads in the next few weeks, thanks to the permitted pillaging of my Dad's library.

I answered emails, made some plans with a few friends for the next few weeks - coffee with Top Organizer, lunch with College Roomie, a dinner out with the husbands but not the kids with the Lady from NYC. Arranged a few playdates. Referred to the calendar and the upcoming events for the month.

My GoodFriendAndNeighbor came by, dropped her kid off for a playdate, made me laugh with her latest adventure at Building 19.

I looked up my time from yesterday's race (45:20, not too shabby). I downloaded some tunes - the latest "Twilight" soundtrack. Don't hate it until you have heard it. I practiced my guitar, working on some John Lennon right now, specifically "Instant Karma", "Look At Me", and "In My Life" which is technically a Beatles song.

The family and I enjoyed a meal together, all four of us at the table, with leftover pumpkin pie, that soft, nutty goodness, for dessert.

It was a day in the life.
I felt loved, lovable and loving.
I felt forgiving and forgiven.

That is what I did today instead of attending my High School Reunion.

In Due Time

2011-11-18T17:46:00.001-08:00

About three years ago, I left my job.
This action alone equates to about 20 blog posts worth of thoughts and reflections.

I did not take this action lightly. In fact, it was somewhat heartbreaking.
There were many reasons that played into this decision:

My children are involved in the system within where I worked.

I hated the additional, added-on position.

I was crummy at the additional, added-on position.

My husband got accepted into a prestigious doctoral-level graduate program - out of state.

My husband travels.

I felt unsupported at work.

My immediate work culture was not one that I felt especially included in, invited into, or accepted. Neither did I feel a desire to be a a part of said culture and community. My immediate department and I were at loggerheads. This was all a new, albeit uncomfortable, experience for me.

I saw nothing changing in the immediate future. No way out. No where to go or place to transfer.

One of my bosses, with whom I felt support and loyalty, was leaving.

I was burned out. I swore under my breath. I lost my humor. Every morning I would pull into the parking lot and mentally cross off one more day until the end of the year. Sundays were filled with dread.

I thought I was getting an ulcer.

So I left my job.

Upon this, my husband who was getting a fancy-schmancy degree out-of-state and rising up the corporate ladder, travelled extensively, while I stayed home with two young kids, ages 3 and 6. Add 15 blog posts.

Then, my husband was diagnosed with a serious illness = about 15-150 blog posts.

I threw out my back = about 7 blog posts. A few of them are published here.

I took some classes and explored my creative side, a much neglected component of who I am.

I considered not a few new jobs to explore. In no particular order:

childrens performing arts personnel
dental hygienist
medical insurance coder
public health data collector
reading specialist
substitute teacher
unspecified cubicle worker
writer

Some things took some roots. Now I am an acoustic guitar student. My back healed and slowly I started running again. I took graduate-level journalism classes at Harvard Extension school and did some freelance writing and reporting. Hubby is healthy.

Is this a mid-life crisis? Please insert exactly 1 blog post here. Because that is so tired and hackneyed. It would be a long post, however, like maybe 5 chapters. Because no matter the label, it's my only life as far as I can remember.

So the fact that I returned to my former vocation, temporarily covering a maternity leave, was somewhat unexpected. But hey, I was available and could do it and I love to help out a gestating and lactating sister.

The fact that I remembered exactly what I love about this field, reconnected with what I do well and how to do it in a way that is effective and fulfilling, was a pleasant surprise. That I am sad to leave the place and people with whom I have worked for only 8 weeks, is remarkable and wholly unexpected.

Thank you, universe.

I always say, I love a good story about redemption.

Those accrued blog posts? They will make their way to here I've Got My Best Shoes On, in due time.

In Case You Missed Glee Last Night...

2011-11-16T13:46:00.000-08:00

In the event you missed this magical little number, take a look before it gets taken down:

On The Other Side Of Birthday Party Weekend

2011-11-12T10:39:00.001-08:00

As I write this, Hubby is downstairs in the garage, cutting out tiaras with an exacto knife.

This pretty lady is hanging out in my refrigerator:

I just spent $63 on nail polish. This alone is questionable since look at my hands:

I'm a fervent nail-biter. Like I told the guy as I lined up the 8 tiny bottles of garish colors at check-out, "I feel I have to tell you we are having a birthday party."

It's Day 2 of Birthday Party weekend. Last night was for the 9-year-old, tonight is for the Princess-In-Residence, the 6-year-old.

Last night, there was dog collar decorating and a lot of screaming. I am here to say that 9-year-olds scream a lot.

Since I am midway through this particular trial, I'm going to table the discussion about the wisdom in throwing two birthday parties on the same weekend. I can't evaluate it right now beacuse I'm conserving my adrenaline and focus.

Let me remind you, I am a Warrior. I know struggle and challenge. I can muscle my way through two birthday parties.

Turns out, 6-year-olds also love to scream.

Lest you think this whole weekend was work and no play, let me assure you we did take some time out of party prep to work on my Tree Project and I do mean my Tree Project. I know it looks like I already went through third grade but apparently I have to prove to somebody that I can organize a poster presentation and oral report on the Balsam Fir tree.

Eldest Daughter and I have spent about five hours working on this project already. As she finished up her last note card, I told her she could go play because I think she did enough homework for the weekend.

So now I'll cut out and glue the questions on the specified note cards, because I guess I haven't done enough homework this weekend.

Don't get me started on homework - I authored a post in my mind about it while gluing those questions on the note cards.

But look, I am not the only one who worked this weekend. Because Hubby also hosted these two birthday parties and then consented to this treatment:

I don't know, the guy is perfect or something.

What Would Be Funny

2011-11-12T06:55:00.001-08:00

Hubby, while cleaning up the basement for 9 year old birthday party: Eldest Daughter, can you bring me some Kleenex please?

Eldest: Sure!

She comes down with Windex.

Hubby: No. That's not Kleenex, that's Windex. Kleenex - you know, like tissues.

Eldest: Oh! You should have been more pacific!

She

2011-10-29T17:11:00.000-07:00

Nine years ago yesterday, my husband and I raced down route 9 in the blackest, darkest part of night, in the chilly autumn when the day-glo leaves swirled. I felt we hit every possible pothole along the way in our automatic Honda Civic, and I let him know my anger about it in no uncertain terms. Every 3 minutes or so, I yelled, no words actually, but a deep, from the gut, losing my air bellow, "HUUUUHHHHHHH......"

Our baby was on her way. Quickly.

We arrived at the hospital, and as I walked across the parking lot to the Emergency Room, another contraction hit. I stopped walking and let it roll right over me. Needless to say, this was not going according to my Birth Plan, my typed, 3-page birth plan. The plan that specified, by name, the people allowed in the room, like it was a club with a velvet rope and a bouncer with a Do Not Admit list.

After the contraction passed I was very aware that I had just a few minutes until the next one, so I kept moving, right on past the intake desk. Hubby rang the bell and waited at the Ring Bell For Assistance sign, but I swore at nobody in particular and kept on going until some lady put me in a wheelchair and hustled me up to Labor and Delivery. I was a woman determined to not have this baby in a parking lot.

I was also determined to get that epidural that had been promised.

Cut to the chase, eleven minutes later, she, my Eldest precious bundle of energy and effervescence roared into the world.

My life changed forever.
She was not born in the parking lot.
I did not get that epidural.

2 out of 3, not too shabby.

************

Eldest Daughter:
Oh, I love that smell. That smell I'm smelling makes me think we are going to have a party, that lots of people are coming over. Every time I smell that smell I feel like we must be having people over. What is that smell?

Me: Windex.

It's Not A Hill, It's A Mountain As You Start Up The Climb

2011-09-03T07:27:00.000-07:00

The Spartan Race was billed as 3.1 miles of the toughest obstacles one can ever face. Point of clarification: it was by far the longest 3.1 miles I have ever covered. I think it was closer to 4.5 miles, but the mileage wasn't the hard part. The hard part(s)? The barbed wire over puddles of mud and rock, carrying 60 pounds of rock up and down a hillside, wading through a waist high swamp, mud up to my knees, hauling a "pet rock," going over, under, and through walls, and monkey bars made for long-limbed orangutans. And the burpees. Lots and lots of burpees, probably around 150 by the end of the hour and 40 minutes it took me to finish. This is a burpee in 6 steps:

Before the Spartan Race:

After the Spartan Race:

Our clothes before the Spartan Race:

Those same clothes after the Spartan Race:

Sisters running together. If you look closely, you can see one sister obviously took happy pills because she is smiling. The other sister looks p.o.'ed.

And then there is my little Spartan in training. She ran the Spartan Jr. and came in second place.

We will all be back next year.

I've Just Seen A Face

2011-08-29T15:35:00.000-07:00

I've just seen a face, I can't forget the time or place when we'd just met.
"I've Just Seen A Face" by The Beatles

The day my children were released from school for summer vacation, I received word that somebody I loved had passed away from this world.

While the news was expected, and there was in some strange, albeit small way, relief in that she was no longer suffering, it was, and remains, incredibly sad. I am brought low by the reality of her absence, the ripple effect on all those who orbited around her. I miss her humor, her voice, her pretty face, so like my mother's and yet different, angular, fair and light.

Her passing is a loss for my family, individually and in the amalgam.

Roughly 8 weeks later, as summer draws to a close and school is set to open, I went to visit the newest members of my extended family, my brand new niece and nephew, just over a week old.

And there, I saw a face so familiar to me.

The white eyelashes, the practically non-existent eyebrows, the Burke nose like her Daddy, the light downy hair on her perfect, little head.

It is said that we carry those we love in our hearts, even after they are gone.

I am here to say that I suspect we are also carried forth by something else, and when I saw this sweet face, I knew it was so.

This Place About To Blow

2011-08-11T11:19:00.000-07:00

I came home to a scene reminiscent of the wake up scene from The Hangover. As sunlight breaks, illuminating the hotel room in Vegas, bit by bit the remnants of the night prior are revealed, leading the viewer to wonder. Why is there a chicken clucking about? Who is that girl tip-toeing out? What happened to Stu's tooth? Just WTF happened here?

My scene, having left the house for only ten minutes, involved crumbs, paint, two children running around in stages of undress and a strange smell.

I looked at my husband. He was the adult in charge, allegedly, while I ran one Daughter to her playdate. Ten minutes, that’s all it took, for the playdate currently underway to go awry.

“I don’t know what happened," he said as he slinked back to his office, after I fired him.

I really relished telling the mother at pick up time that somehow Susie had lost her underwear, but I was sure it would turn up and when it did, I would drop the underwear off at their house. And also her flip flops were missing, too, but I was sure that they also would pop up. I struggled for explanation beyond "I don't know what happened" and came up with nothing.

I have no expectation that this mother will allow her child over our house again.

There was a time, not too far ago, when I swore no child of mine would own a Barbie doll. Those dolls are sexist, demeaning, limiting, unrealistic. So you can imagine my surprise when I realized this in my living room:

That's a full-on Barbie restaurant.

Honestly, in the time between my initial No Barbie declaration and now, I don’t know what happened.

Doing The Safety Dance

2011-08-03T15:42:00.000-07:00

A safety password is something all good, responsible parents employ.

Back when I was a young'un, my family adopted a safety password. This password was to be used only by us, in an emergency. For instance, if somebody I didn't know wanted to come in the house and said my parents sent him, I was to ask for the password. If said person did not know the password, no admittance.

Back then, in the home of my youth, our password was "Yuggums and Kaputskis."

My father has a silly sense of humor and proposed this phrase, which we were all delighted with because 1) it was ridiculous and 2) it was completely fail safe. Who but us even knew these nonsensical words.

This phrase is burned into my memory, as it probably is for my siblings, much like my childhood address (55 Forestdown Street) and phone number (555-555-5555). When I am 90 years wise and sitting quietly, I will still know, "yuggums and kaputskis, yuggums and kaputskis, 55 Forestdown Street."

30 plus years later and we had a change in camp pick-up plans. My good friend and neighbor would be picking up Eldest Daughter, though we had not discussed it earlier in the morning when Eldest Daughter was present. I called the camp director and let her know. Just in case, I told GoodFriendandNeighbor our family safety password, so she could tell Eldest.

GoodFriendandNeighbor looked at me and repeated the password, with some difficulty, like Balki Bartokomous of "Perfect Strangers" fame, a non-native speaker mimicking meaningless sounds. Raising an eyebrow, she said, "Yug Hims? and Kapootski?"

Later that day, I thought I should review safety measures with Youngest Daughter:
Me: Nobody but Mommy and Daddy pick you up from camp, right?
Her: Right.
Me: Or maybe Grandma and Grandpa. But we will let you know before.
Her: Right.
Me: And they will know the password. Do you know we have a password?
Her: Yes.
Me: Whats the password?
Her: Fruit salad.
Me: Fruit salad? Fruit salad?! Are you sure? Isn't it yuggums and kaputskis?!
Her: I can't even say that, Mommy.

I quickly texted GoodFriendandNeighbor saying that apparently our family password was Fruit Salad and nix the yuggums and kaputskis.

Cut to dropping off Eldest Camper the next day, I spoke with the camp director about the pick-up and drop off plans for the week. I said it would go swimmingly because GoodFriendandNeighbor was appraised of our family safety password. I left out the part that I had substituted my own childhood safety password, the idiotic yuggums and kaputskis, in error.

Camp Director said yes, she knew about the family safety password. "She told me it is 'fruit salad!" said Camp Director with a smile.

I guess I forgot to mention that the family safety password is a secret.

Back to square one.

What, no ziti?

2011-07-22T05:30:00.000-07:00

I accidentally signed my youngest up for a day camp offering that is for older children. Many of the kids in her class were in Eldest Daughter's day camp the week prior. They have taken Youngest under their collective wing. "They take care of me," she reports. Her favorite part of camp? When the older girls give her bits of food from their snacks, like mother birds.

Hubby and I were wondering if she was more independent now, having hung with The Big Kids for a week.

To which my five-year-old said dryly:
"It was freakin' hot today."

Blink.
Blink, blink, blink.
Dude, your daughter just said, "freakin."

So yes, apparently she has picked up some new things at day camp.

One of my favorite scenes from The Sopranos:

Auntie Laurie

2011-06-28T08:22:00.000-07:00

I could work on this post forever, trying to get it exactly right.

I didn't run the Warrior Race this past weekend.

I probably would have been a weeping mess if I had. But do warriors expound about their sadness and loss? No, they don't.

I'll take this opportunity to talk about another warrior, someone I was lucky enough to call my aunt, my auntie Laurie.

Only 13 years older than I, she was beautiful, with an incredible sense of style, her blond hair always flattering, her trendy but tasteful clothes, her nails done well. She was my cool aunt, who wore high heels, noisily banging down the hallway as she readied herself for a date. I was mesmerized and captivated by the eye shadow, the hairspray, the tiny bottles of potions and tints.

I was a junior bridesmaid at her wedding, the week my younger sister was born. And then, years later when I was the bride, Lauren accompanied me for wedding dress fittings (remember that designer's eye and sense of style? It's good to have that when dress shopping.) She delivered the wedding dress on the big day and did my bustle for me. "It's hot under there!" she declared after emerging from under my dress. I wore her hairpiece, made by my grandmother and Lauren then painstakingly beaded the veil by hand.

Her presents at Christmas were coveted.

This was not the aunt who sent a silly bunny suit, oh no. This was the aunt that sent you the exact thing, that sky-blue silk scarf that would look good on you, the current, NOW thing, and even if you weren't yourself so sure, just wear it.

Auntie Laurie was hip. She knew who Sting was. She had a small green car named "Kermie." She loved bluegrass music.

We aged and had babies and became soccer Moms respectively. Now I knew her as a loving, sensitive person, on top of being cool. Lauren sent me pick-me-up cards my lonely first year at college. She called me when my first babe was born and I was struggling mightily with breast feeding.

Lauren was a laugher, who saw humor, good for a joke. A good egg. She was social and sociable and made friends easily.

Lauren taught my mother the value in taking vacations.

My Auntie Lauren could also be a fighter, a bruiser, a gymnast. She was brave and graceful under pressure, never more so than these last few years.

Her memorial this weekend was reportedly one of the biggest the priest had ever seen at the church. It was apparent that many people loved Lauren, in addition to her family. One of her co-workers, her boss, put it this way: Lauren lived an intentional life. Tomorrow is not a guarantee, so live deliberately, as Lauren did. Let that be her legacy.

She had a beautiful life, rewarding work, loving family and friends, purposeful hobbies and interests.

Lauren means victory, as in the laurel wreath.
My name is a derivative hers; she will be with me forever.

Snippet

2011-06-11T09:21:00.000-07:00

College Roomie who is 7 months pregnant with first child at age 38:
I hope to learn how to garden when I am home on maternity leave.

Me:
That's not going to happen. I'm sorry, I'll indulge you in almost anything, but that's not going to happen.

Imagine myself turning to the camera, speaking directly to audience:
Wow. She really doesn't know what she is in for.

Too School For Cool

2011-06-07T10:56:00.000-07:00

We made it.

I submitted my portfolio and made it though my graduate class, Magazine Writing.

Just a few days later, Hubby, both kids, my Mother-In-Law and I headed down to Philadelphia for Hubby's graduation. We took the train from Providence to Philly, a trip that lasted five hours, but a million times better than flying.

The kids in the train:

After the train ride, the kids took some time to relax at the hotel, with two very different methods:

We took in some sights around campus. Here we are sitting with good ol' Ben himself:

And the famous giant, broken button:

And just in case you forget where you are, simply look at the toilet paper and there is a sticker with the school crest!

At the reception after the formal ceremony, the dean spoke to the group, quoted Emmanuel Kant, Spike Lee ("do the right thing") and Public Enemy ("don't believe the hype"). His message was this: you are now charged with doing something worthwhile with this fancy diploma.

The graduates then got to speak and thanked their cohorts for the support as well as family members who supported them on the home front. The stories were moving and heartfelt. One woman has spent time in a wheelchair these last few months due to a chronic illness. One man had to leave for a school week just days after his wife had given birth to premature twins, the babies in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit, two other children at home.

And then my Hubby spoke and said that we, as a family, had earned this degree and he thanked us for our sacrifices. I cried a little bit.The spouses even got their own diploma. These grads know which side their bread is buttered.

And then Eldest Daughter leaned over to me and whispered, "I have been wiggling my ears this whole time!"

It has been a season of accomplishments, big and small.

Shooting Down The Walls of Heartache - Bang! Bang! Sing It Patty Smyth

2011-06-01T08:11:00.000-07:00

I wonder how to train for The Warrior Dash, the three "hellish miles" race replete with assorted obstacles, like fire, tires, and trenches that I am registered to run in about a month?

Luckily, I found the answer on the website:

Question: How do I train for Warrior Dash?

1.Day one: run as far as you can. Go home.

2.Day two: do the same thing.

3.Find the dirtiest pond in your neighborhood and snorkel in it - in your slippers, without goggles.

4.Practice your climbing and crawling skills at your local jungle gym. Ignore the small children and parental glares.

5.Do not shower or shave for weeks in order to obtain a true Warrior look.

Seriously though, your best bet is to do plenty of running leading up to the race.

I think I have found my people.

Running A Road Less Traveled

2011-06-01T07:12:00.000-07:00

Some runs are like this:
At the end of the day, as the sun sinks low and the world is awash in grey tones, the air is warm, less sticky than just a few hours prior. I run the road less traveled, with fewer cars to interrupt my thoughts and invade my peace.

My feet, however heavy and tired from the day, fall into a rhythm, the soft sound of gravel grinding under sneaker, small tendrils of poison ivy and small shrubbery reach out in front of my path, some long enough to brush against my ankles as I plod along.

I smell grills and hot dogs. There is the fragrance of cut grass, wilting lilacs and other blooms just opening up and a symphony of birds, crickets chirping and pigeons? mourning doves? what? cooo-cooo in the distance.

Tonight, I ran Oak road, and realized that a little brook traverses the road, runs underneath, just at a particular point. I heard the gurgling water and found this little flow. I never knew about this small outlet before but tonight while running, I turned off my tunes and ran my road less traveled.

So On

2011-05-19T17:33:00.000-07:00

Oddly enough, it was my pediatrician who turned me onto this.

At Eldest Daughter's annual check-up, my pediatrician and I compared upcoming running races. She told me about the Warrior Dash.

It's "3 hellish miles" the website boasts, with wooden walls to clamber over, mudpits, a scrapyard and other sundry obstacles to navigate, a forest to traverse and then at the end, a fire pit to leap over.

It is so on.

The waiver I signed was unlike any other waiver I have signed before. I had to promise not to dive headfirst into a mudpit. I had to sign to assume the risks associated with barbed wire.

Folks, I am a'leapin' over fire.

I want to do this race, as illogical as it is, so I tried to assemble supporters. But who on earth would do this? It's a short list. This race is kind of crazy.

After emailing other like-minded she-devil runners, I received the response from my fave Little Sister:
"I'M ALREADY DOING THIS!!"

Cut from the same cloth, we are.

How To Make Your Kids Sick Without Really Trying

2011-05-03T06:30:00.000-07:00

Hubby made it through his doctoral defense last week. After so many years of classes and week long trips to Philadelphia, hours of reading and writing and studying, (a cancer diagnosis, working full time, two kids and a wife), he is getting his doctorate. I couldn't be prouder and I think I speak for many, another post for another day.

Getting this degree was a team effort in some respects so we all got presents.

We surprised the girls with a trip to Disney World scheduled a few months from now.

You know those commercials where the kids get surprised with a trip to Disney World, the "when you wish upon a star" lullaby gently tinkling in the background, the kids laughing, hugging their parents, so grateful and happy with innocent joy? Mickey! Minnie! It's enough to bring a tear to my eye.

Well, it didn't go like that, exactly.

Eldest Daughter got excited and I mean excited like a Shaker at a Bible revival. She erupted in physical and verbal spasms, "I REMEMBER...I WANNA...CAN WE...I'M SO EXCITED!!" her little body shaking, jumping such that I thought she might actually throw up. I think this news might distract her for the next few months. Her teachers will love us for this early present.

Then Youngest Daughter then burst into tears.

"Do I have to leave Kindergarten?" She folded into me, crying quietly.
She doesn't understand. She doesn't remember Disney World.
"I don't want to be without Big Sister."
"Where will we sleep?"
"How do we go?"
"What do we do?"

These dueling styles are what makes a horse race. Or a family.

In Search of the Elusive EB

2011-04-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

This is the layout prepared by Eldest Daughter, age 8, in anticipation of the Easter Bunny hopping into our home last night.

Let me break down the components. First a plate of carrots, complete with a napkin and a fork, for his chomping pleasure:

Of course, the decorated eggs:

Here we have a little card for EB. Eldest Daughter traced her hand, labeled it with her name, then traced Youngest Daughter's hand, and labeled that. On the opposing page EB is requested to trace his paw, a polite way of seeking evidence of his existence, I think.

Eldest Daughter was thoughtful to leave a towel for EB to wipe his wet, dirty paws:

When I went to check on her last night, I found a little bunny scene erected just behind her door:

And then, this morning, we came down to find some Easter baskets brimming with books, jump ropes and chocolate. Eggs were hidden all over the first floor. But how we really knew EB had visited was the evidence he left at Eldest Daughter's place setting: a muddy paw print, some stains on my nice white towel, tufts of bunny fur and chewed carrot remains:

Thank you EB, rest up now. You worked hard last night. We'll see you next year.

Who Is With Me?

2011-04-13T17:31:00.000-07:00

I just found out the John Butler Trio is coming to Boston and I am stoked! I want to go see the show...who is with me?
Watch this and BE AMAZED:

And because this is exactly what I needed to hear, I share it as well:

In Pursuit of The Perfect Run

2011-04-10T17:43:00.000-07:00

Goodbye boots...

Hello lover!

There is a run that happens when I am neither too warm nor too cold. No muscles hurt. On this perfect run which occurs infrequently, gravity pulls less on me. I have buoyancy. Like Neil Armstrong on the moon, I leap over curbs, around bends, through bushes. My breathing is even and strong, my arms pump like a metronome. I am balanced, lithe, fast even, like Victoria in the "Twilight" series.

I.Can.Not.Be.Stopped.

On this Perfect Run, every song on my iPod is Exactly Right, Exactly What I Want to Hear.

I occasionally sing when I run, when the mood strikes. Today I sang the Warbler's version of Maroon 5's "Misery."

The Perfect Run is why I slog through so many imperfect runs, a good many that cluster around the early spring, when I try to get my legs back after a winter. Indoor running and skiing can only do so much in fighting fitness regression. Though still exercise, 57 laps around the indoor track or 57 runs down the minuscule hill that is our local ski bump does little to maintain fitness for outside running where the rolling terrain and elements challenge.

This weekend, I took the skis out of my car. I organized the ski boots, put the snow shoes and poles in a corner in the garage. I folded up the snow pants, packed away the bag of mittens and hats, put the puffy jackets in the basement.

Several soccer balls and a lacrosse stick now reside in the back of the car. The cleats came out of the closet, the pogo stick and bikes moved from the shed to the garage. I dusted off my roller blades and tested my boundaries with them for a few passes, much to my daughter's consternation: "I'm so scared for you Mom! Mom, be careful!"

Spring is a state of mind, a state of physicality and activity and I have waited so long for her. Welcome.

A Little Fish In A Little Tank

2011-03-29T04:55:00.000-07:00

Photo from Wikipedia

Goldie, our pet goldfish, had been on shaky fin for some time. About two weeks ago, she started to look really sick, blackened fins and lips, a cottony film growing over her eyes. We cleaned her tank, bought new tank materials but the symptoms persisted. After some internet research, Hubby diagnosed the likely culprit, a viral ailment called Pop Eye.

He announced this to the family over breakfast. "Goldie has a sickness, so don't freak out if her eyes pop out," he told us. Two little faces, ages 5 and 8, looked at me with outright alarm. "Oh, Dad is exaggerating," I said, trying to tamp down the panic starting to pulse around me, "Right, Dad? Dad is exaggerating." I sent him a "What on earth is wrong with you?" face. He reciprocated with an innocent "Who? Me?" face.

Goldie began the long downward sink. We think she went blind about a week ago and started swimming against the corner of the tank continually.

I was worried she would starve. Force feeding a two inch goldfish is not very easy, as it turns out. I put some flakes on the top of the water and made mini waves with my finger, trying to forcefully float the flakes in her direction, with minimal success. I researched Pop Eye and found a website with directions on getting medicine in the eyes of goldfish. I expect that task is even more of a challenge than the force-feeding. Hubby went to the pet store to see if there was anything to be done for poor Goldie. He asked the man about goldfish ailments and then proceeded to have the man call three other pet stores to see if goldfish medicine existed. This was a dead end, so to speak.

She seemed to rally over the weekend only to crash Sunday night. The water filter in the tank started to overpower her and she began floating around belly up. Then she got stuck in the fake plastic weeds. I sensed the end was near. Eventually, Goldie swam out into that great body of water in the sky.

I defer most of the kids' questions about God and religion to Hubby. He has a much more solid education in religion and a firmer faith. My answers tend to be filled with, "Nobody really knows," reflecting my own ambivalence. This is not helpful for young children who need absolutes, especially when it comes to concepts like death and God.

Do pets go to heaven? Where Is heaven? Is God a boy or a girl? How do you know when Goldie is dead? Will people come to her funeral? These are the questions of a five-year-old.

Today, the girls and I buried Goldie in our backyard, in a little green jewelry box. We each said a few words:

Me: Thank you God for our pet Goldie. Goldie, you were a great fish and you lived a good life. Thank you for being our fish. I'm glad you aren't sick anymore.

Eldest Daughter: Goldie was brave.
Me: How was she brave?
Eldest Daughter: Remember that time we went on vacation for 7 days and we didn't feed her? She was strong and brave and still lived.

Not sure we needed to remind God about that slip, but anyway...

Youngest Daughter: Goldie. Even though you are dead, I still love you.

Neither a big fish in a little pond, nor a little fish in a big pond, Goldie was a little fish in a little tank but an important vehicle for learning about life, death and God, and for that I am most grateful.

Me and Rachel, To Those I Didn't Meet In Amherst

2011-03-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

Photo from TV.com

I recently found out that Rachel Zoe, the celebrated stylist to the stars, and I were both students at the George Washington University at the same time. Back then, she was Rachel Rosenzweig and I had the same name I do now. According to Wikipedia, so it must be true, she met her husband, Roger, at a restaurant in DC while they were students.

I attended GWU for just a year during that same period. It is fascinating to me that we could have seen each other at a basketball game, or shared a carrel at the library. Maybe she worked at the TGI Friday’s that I frequented.

I have trouble picturing Rachel Zoe Rosenzweig at GWU because from what I saw, there wasn’t much of an artsy crowd at GWU. I can’t imagine her friends, where she would have hung out and what activities she would have done. I didn’t fit in well there either so maybe we could have been outliers together, though this is improbable because even back then I had the same lack of style and lack of interest in fashion that I do now. She was reportedly a rich kid from New York, so in this regard she would have fit right in at GWU, but who knows? Maybe we would have been buddies had the winds of fate blown us down a similar path.

After my year in DC, I took some time off to work and then headed to Amherst, Mass., where my fashion sense was much more appropriate and appreciated, with my hiking boots, plaid flannel shirts, Birkenstocks and baseball hats.

Amherst is where I didn't meet Corrie.

I recently had tea with Corrie, a woman whose personal course flew close to my orbit years ago, but is not Rachel Zoe. Our four girls, ages 3 – 8, were downstairs in the basement having a raucous playdate, with sanctioned jumping off the couch and screaming. Corrie was in Amherst when I was there. She was the “nacho bitch” (her words, not mine) at The Pub, a restaurant and bar that I went to about a hundred times. She also worked at the Spoke, one of my favorite bars. Every Friday, after work, my colleagues and I would have a beer, or two, or nine at The Spoke. And as it sometimes happens for the college-aged, the Friday afternoon sometimes turned into the Friday night.

We drank our green tea during the uproarious playdate, amused at the serendipity, over the sounds of an automated toy horse neighing and squeals of our girls, punctuated by the thumps and bumps of play downstairs.

“We’ve probably been drunk together!” she said and we laughed, clinking together our mugs of steaming green tea instead of beer, late thirty-year-olds so far from those days in Amherst, a sober toast to who we were then and who we are now.

The Parent Teacher Conference

2011-03-08T06:31:00.000-08:00

"So, she is, you know..., " begins her teacher, the two of us adults somehow folded into little, child-sized chairs facing each other over a rhombus-shaped table.

It is parent conference day in October, the first time we meet formally to discuss Eldest Daughter and her transition to second grade.

As a School Psychologist, I been involved in probably hundreds of parent teacher conferences. This one, however, is different because this time I am in the role of "Mom." As such, I don't have a read on how this conference is going to go. I have my list of questions and know this conference, sandwiched in with 20 other conferences for the teacher today, can only last 20 minutes.

The teacher starts off with, "So, she is, you know ..."

What? What? She is what?

I don't know.

A chattterbox? I know, she is social and easily distracted, that has been her gift and vulnerability since she was a baby. Just like her Dad here, she has trouble not engaging.

Learning challenged? I have thrown this around for some time. Learning to read was no fun, her phonics aren't as strong as I would like. We work on this, really we do. Honestly, we do homework every night, without fail, I can't drill her any more than I do. Is it time for a formal Special Education evaluation?

A sweetheart? I think so, too. She is a very kind-hearted little gal. It is her essence and something to love about her. But still, I worry.

Too silly? Loud? An ADHD candidate? Here come the judgements. Her lunch isn't healthy enough, she doesn't read enough, she talks too much, the kids don't like her. Why isn't her homework perfect? Why doesn't she do the extra credit?

She is my biggest project, the thing that I work hardest at, my pride and joy, my first born. Tread carefully, the Momma Bear prowls.

"...a student."

She is a student? She is a student! A student! That's what she said, a student! Meaning she works hard and is attentive and serious, invested and participatory, all those things we have tried to instill and...a student!

My daughter is a student. Phew.
I knew it all along.

A Dumb Thing

2011-02-16T08:12:00.000-08:00

The snow boulder

"Don't do dumb things, " I said by way of advice as I prepped my daughter, then age 5, for an unchaperoned playdate. I tried to review the complete list of dos and don'ts, like do flush the toilet, do say please and thank you, don't jump on the furniture. After about ten minutes of this exhaustive discussion, I summed it all up with a broad stroke, "Don't do dumb things." This pearl of parental wisdom covers most of the bases.

If only I would follow my own advice.

That mighty smiter, the town snowplow, once again dumped a pile of snow at the end of my driveway, effectively boxing my car in the driveway. Again. One of the deposits from the snow plow was an enormous chuck of snow, which I thought I could just roll out of the way, rather than try to lift with the shovel.

Alert! Alert! This is a dumb thing.

The phrase "snowball effect" is accurate. When one rolls a snowball over snow, the snowball grows exponentially.

By the time I rolled the giant snowball out of the driveway, it had grown to the size of a boulder, the kind of boulder highway departments put out to prevent cars from going down a closed road. It was roughly the size and weight of the snow blower I wasn't using to remove the snow from our driveway.

I rolled the snow boulder until I couldn't roll it any further. Now it was too heavy to lift onto the shoulder-high snow banks that line the walkway. So there is has stayed, an icy relic of this winter and my lapse in judgement, my Sisyphean snow boulder.

If I put a tablecloth on it, does it count as Yankee-style decor?

A Snowday, Groundhog Day, Again and Again

2011-02-03T15:37:00.000-08:00

Cavorting With The Enemy

This was originally a draft I wrote back in the beginning of January. I revisited and reworked it again today as the setting was eerily similar.

Today was the ~~first~~ sixth snow day of the school year.

I woke at about 5:30 when my cell phone rang alerting me to the closing of school. My first thought was to email back with a "Nooooooooooooo....!!!" but I sincerely doubt the school central office will get the humor. And the email says DO NOT REPLY.

There was a sea of white outside my window. An overnight storm blanketed every surface with a thick cover of fluffy snow. Again.

I fear there is no way my car is getting up our driveway today!
If I knew then, when we bought this house with the steep, not-up-to-code driveway, what I know now, which is our driveway swallows vehicles whole, I wonder if we would have done something differently.

The kids were already downstairs catching up on their cartoon watching. The kids did go to school yesterday for a whole day. They totally need time to relax.

Oh, the magic of a snow day. Making cookies, going sledding. It's all so ~~New England~~ boring bologna by snow day #6.

We had reading hour, where I curled up with the kids to read books. You have heard about the dreaded summer regression of skills? We now have snow day regression to contend with. Two days of school, one day off, two days of school and then the weekend, second verse, same as the first. It's no way to learn.

After lunch (or small mealtime number 5), the kids went outside to play. Youngest Daughter can't move in the snow, it's up to chin. Eldest Daughter made a series of tunneled out tracks for her to walk through. I think I might have spied the body of Sir Edmund Hillary encased in the mound of snow and ice that rises over our mailbox. Or all that orange might be my six missing newspapers that have been shoveled from the driveway. I'll know better in March when things start to thaw.

I wrestled with our gf&;#$%! snowblower. Again.

When we come back in it's calls for hot chocolate! Small mealtime number 6!

We played at least 20 games of Uno. I think I left my body at about round number 17.

Before you know it, the snow day has come and gone. And I just got an email from the school warning of the potential for a delayed opening tomorrow. Really. Really.

And yet, a pang of sadness hits when it's time to drop Eldest off at school this morning after 2 consecutive snow days home, the huge piles of snow towering over the school staff as they help usher the kids into the building safely, from my small, little nest to a larger, more raucous nest she flutters.

I'll miss you, sweet thing.

I keep quiet knowing she must go and learn and that I'll see her this afternoon. And that's just what I say, "See you this afternoon!" Separation worries aren't just for kids.

And round and round we go, our winter of snow days has been a winter of Groundhog days.

Time, A Movement in Three

2011-01-24T09:44:00.000-08:00

It’s hard to believe, but my little family has outgrown Dora the Explorer.

There is nobody in our house who sings, “Backpack, backpack, backpack, backpack!” or squeals, “No swiping!” Dora, her cousin Diego, Swiper and the rest of that gang from Noggin, all of whom were long time fixtures in our family, are no longer welcome. The plastic Dora plate, dull and worn from use and age, is not the popular dinnerware it once was around here. It remains in the cabinet, unused, for weeks at a time, coming out only when there is no other available plate for one of the kids.

It is now difficult to buy feetie pajamas for my girls, ages 5 and 8. Those fluffy, fleece PJ’s with attached booties that sound a scratchy, “skuff, skuff, skuff” on our floors, the droopy, baggy backside, nothing says, “little children” quite like feetie pajamas. But feetie pajamas are generally unavailable in the sizes my children are now.

We don’t have sippy cups anymore.

We can do afternoon activities because nobody requires a naptime during the hours of 1 – 3 anymore, unless you count me.

No sooner did I adjust to having young children and they changed again.

****

Here in the northeast, we have had our fair share of snow fall recently.

So far, we have had three snow days and one delayed opening due to snow. January isn't even over yet. Thus, we have had a lot of family time, me and the girls. A LOT. Which explains the lack of posts here on I've Got My Best Shoes On...

Also, I have had a lot of face time with my nemesis, the monstrosity of a snowblower we keep. A LOT.

Unfortunately, the indoor time has meant that I have also watched more than appropriate amounts of terrible TV, including The Real Housewives on Bravo.

I have never seen any of those real housewives snowblow.

Reason #8726 that I will never get on that show: I can and do snowblow. Barely.

Reason #8727 that I will never get on that show: I don't use botox, with laugh lines to prove it.
Reason #8728 that I will never get on that show: My snowblowing causes more laugh lines.

My nemesis

****

The countdown to the 1:00 playdate started roughly 2 hours beforehand.

“When is she coming?” asks my daughter.

“1:00.”

“Is that in a long while or a short while?”

“In about 2 hours. She will be here after lunch.”

Now press repeat 20 times and you have an idea of what the day sounded like before the playdate, a loop of , “What time…?”, “Is it time…?”, and, “ When will it be time…?”

At about 12:45, I changed my answer to “soon”, the guest would arrive, “in about 15 minutes.”

Eldest Daughter perked up. “I know how long that is,” she says, “It’s when the long hand that moves goes all the way around the clock fifteen times.”

She goes in to the kitchen to watch the clock.

I tell her "a watched pot never boils," time will pass whether she is looking at the clock or not. I tell her wouldn’t she rather play for the 15 minutes rather than stand and just watch the clock? I tell her that time will be gone no matter what you do, you might as well enjoy it.

Smart girl that she is, she decides to design a habitat/fortress for her mechanized gerbil in the remaining 15 minutes.

You might as well enjoy it.

Thumbing our nose at winter

Our skiing cherubs

Stronger Than You Know, Down The Psychic Freeway

2011-01-12T15:58:00.000-08:00

If you are soon about to give birth, you want to skip this post. You might also want to not read "Midwives" by Chris Bojahlian. Come back to both later.

You are stronger than you know.

When I know someone is currently in labor and delivering a baby, I put on a smile and say something socially acceptable like, “I can’t wait to hear what she has.”

In truth, I try to send my entire reserve of positive karma and good energy towards that mother. I imagine a freeway between us where I can send my strength while absorbing her exhaustion, fear and pain, like the diagrams of osmosis, a molecular exchange of positive for negative. I imagine a sea of women on this freeway, doing the same, taking what load they can from her shoulders, holding her up. They are not cracking jokes, they are not minimizing or blasé because women who have been there in the place of birthing know the truth about it.

This woman’s work that Kate Bush sings about is like no other. It struck me as about as close to death as the living can get to and still make it back on a routine basis. In my case this was entirely true.

The breathing I learned in that prenatal class didn’t really work. The 2-page birth plan I wrote was left in the car, forgotten in our panic. Planning in general was an illusion. The medical community overall was dismissive and lackadaisical until they weren’t, and I was rushed on a gurney, doctors and nurses running me on my back through the hallways of a hospital.

Birthing is serious business.

It is beautiful and messy, it is necessary and a miracle, every time.

I tried to find some laboring prayers or chants, mantras that can be used when a woman is releasing a new life, a life she has been painstaking producing for the last 9 months. I tried to find words for those waiting in the waiting rooms, or patiently checking their Blackberries and email for word of a new person’s arrival and the mother’s condition.

So far, I haven’t found any prayers or chants that make sense to me. So I made my own and it is what I send down my psychic freeway:

Sister, I am with you.

You are stronger than you know.

You are stronger than you know.

You are stronger than you know.

My new nephew:

LMc's Best Read of 201o

2011-01-02T06:46:00.000-08:00

The advent of the new year means an update of LMc’s Best Read of 2010. 2010 is not necessarily the year these books were written, but rather, the year I read them.

Honorable Mentions:

“Tinkers” by Paul Harding

I love the story behind the story. Paul Harding, a local writer and writing instructor who has taught at Harvard University, including mine own Harvard University Extension School among other places, hadn’t yet published a book. His debut novel, “Tinkers” was eventually published by a tiny publishing house, Bellevue Press, without fanfare. The critics were wowed, though not everybody was aware of this small punch of a novel. The New York Times book blog Papercuts didn't review "Tinkers" until it won the Pulitzer prize for fiction. “Tinkers” tells the story of a man deliriously reflecting on his life and childhood as he shuffles off his mortal coil. The small physicality of this book is deceiving as it’s filled with poetic language and rich description. Harding’s artful composition of words is simply masterful. This is not a quick read.

“Freedom” by Jonathan Franzen

Ten years after “The Corrections” (and a public tiff with Oprah) Franzen came back with this masterpiece, “Freedom.” “Freedom” tells the story of a marriage, how it came to be and how it manages on despite the almost intentional sabotage by various players.

Franzen’s gift is painting full character evolution, including the present through which they generally blunder. You never question the author’s choice or a character’s motivation. Like a good friend you have known for years, every turn in the plot is understandable in light of elaborate historical detail.

Runner-Up:

“The Other Hand”/”Little Bee” by Chris Cleave

This book is an amazing story that begins with the protagonist, Little Bee, detailing the ways she would kill herself if “the men” ever came back. She wants to end herself before they do. She is now a refugee in England looking for asylum from her war torn country, in search of an English couple she met on a beach years ago when a deal was brokered. This book is breathtaking and a beautiful testimony to the plight of refugees, as well as what it means to be fortunate versus privileged. The voice of Little Bee is not to be dismissed, she looms in my head still as she imitates the language of the monarchy and astutely learns the social ways of the West.

And the Winner of this year’s LMc’s Best Read of the Year, after much consideration and debate, goes to….

“Bound” by Sally Gunning

"Bound", which came out in 2009, is a historical fiction piece written by a local historian and writer, Sally Gunning. It tells the story of a White, European girlwoman, Alice, who is sold into indentured servitude to pay off her father’s debt incurred while sailing to America around the time of the American Revolution. Most of the story takes place in Massachusetts and is based on a real court case. I loved this book for teaching me parts of American history I never knew, things that existed right here in my own back yard.

There you have it, my favorite reads of the year. 2011 beckons and I have to get cracking for this current year. Take a look over at the sidebar as to what I am reading now. I know, it's a problem.

Any recommendations for this coming year, send me an email or comment. I'm always on the prowl.

The People I Come From

2010-12-26T11:33:00.000-08:00

Inspired by the poem "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon. Thanks to one of my people, my aunt of crafts and aloha, I now know who to properly attribute this to!

For as long as I can remember, I have spent Christmas Eve with My People.

We have our traditions: a yankee swap with a $40 price point limit, a used book swap and now a charity bowl, where the winner gets to donate the bowl contents to the charity of their choosing.

The volume of stocking stuffers is great and most are joke-based. A stuffed chicken hat, a leather bustier, glowing teeth, a book of Dan Quayle's worst quotes, a musical nose flute - these are just a smattering of the offerings in the stocking challenge with my people.

Someone always forgets the rolls or salad.

The people I come from are loud.
They are serious, intense and well-read.
They will not let you get too big for your britches.
The people I come from are smart and quick and achieved.
Bring your A - game if you visit.
They have a way with story-telling.
You are guaranteed to laugh.
Sharp wit but rounded elbows prevail.
Everybody is at the ready with a joke.
You can't fail with this crew covering your back.

My people consist of: a few teachers and educators, a planetary physicist, a musician, an international non-profit public relations writer, a retired toilet salesman, a still kicking hose salesman, a real estate agent, an insurance manager, a lacrosse coach, a couple of graduate students and one undergraduate. There is a handful of young children now, too, our little people.

But really, if you want to know about the people I come from, look no further than this picture we took on Christmas Eve. It sums things up pretty well:

Ultimately, we are a clan of clowns.

So Over This Month

2010-12-20T08:29:00.000-08:00

I am so over December.

Today, only five days from Christmas, I am studying for a final exam. I still have presents to buy and wrap and holiday celebrations to attend and coordinate. Hubby's birthday is today. So far, all I have bought him is a package of Hanes undershirts.

My kids think December is the best. Their joy, while sweet, contributes to my overwhelm.

I am so over this month.

I'll Be Here All Week

2010-12-12T07:44:00.000-08:00

There is a particular move in pilates that my instructor is fond of, one that involves “peeling” my body up and over my toes, vertebrae by vertebrae. After a few of these, my pants are inevitably down my hips, with my ample rear in sensible undies exposed to the whole class.

I decided to invest in a pair of proper pilates pants in the hopes that I would stay clothed throughout my class. I think everybody in my class will think that this is a wise and thoughtful investment.

Unfortunately, those in charge of pilates fashion have deemed that in order for my pants to stay on, they have to be made out of unflattering stretchy material that tightly adheres to my every nook and cranny.

This is not a good look for me.

So I returned those pants and then found my new favorite thing: my black fleece pants with a drawstring waist. They drawstring elasticized waist means my pants are more likely to stay on, and I have officially moved into Momfashion purgatory.

I showed them off to Hubby.

Me: See my new pants? Aren’t they great?

Him: Oh, yeah. Nice.

Me: Aren’t they great? I can wear them anywhere.

Him: Well, they are fine. But you can’t like wear them everywhere.

Me: What? They are great for everything!

Him: They are nice and I like them…but they aren’t, like, stylish.

Me, indignant: I just got them, this season. Full price. At Target.

Full price, this season, at Target. Who can argue with that logic? What’s he know about style anyway? He has about 50 shirts all the hue of rust.

I thought it was impossible for me to move farther down the fashion ladder, but apparently pilates has brought me to a new, but comfortably soft and comfy, low.

The morning after a pilates session I am sore. I must have done something. I’d like to think that something was healthy, since it literally pains me to lift my head. Pilates is an interesting workout because it's just a slight variation on rest.

Resting

Working Out

The only thing that can possibly make me feel better when I am this sore is my fleece pants. And since I went ahead bought a second pair – this time in grey – I think I’ll be up in no time, because that’s what a soldier of pilates does.

We are HARD CORE.

That’s a little pilates humor, you’re welcome, I’ll be here all week.

The Dancing Girls

2010-12-05T17:09:00.000-08:00

There is something so impossibly sweet about little girls dancing. They join hands and jump together, break apart and twirl, small dervishes of frothy tulle in sherbet ice cream tones, the sparkles and petals flashing by with each turn on a toe. The squeals and tinny taps of small shoes on the dance floor are audible despite Kate Perry’s music loudly pumping in my ear. The abandon, the lack of pretense or self consciousness is all so precious when little girls dance, lost in the fun with each other.

I get to watch this kind of fun at a local benefit this weekend, the proceeds of which go to fund research on Angiosarcoma, an unbelievably rare cancer, so rare, very little research has been conducted on it. The unlucky person gets the diagnosis but little else, as the medical community knows so little about it. One of only 300 in the world will get this diagnosis each year.

And yet, despite the odds, one mother found another mother and they in turn found more. An organization was born, a Facebook page made, a blog posted and then a full-on patient-driven initiative, where one of the Angio fighters actually helps in designing a research project to look at this cancer. They find an established lab at Memorial Sloan-Kettering in New York and contract to get the project going.

To fund this program will take money, lots of money. Federal funding and grants won't cover this type of research because it is so rare.

A benefit is scheduled. It will be one of many events and efforts to drum up these important funds and infuse hope.

Which is where I find the dancing girls in dresses and dramatic face paint, a crew unto themselves complete with a "rainbow tiger", trailing a most courageous boy to be caught among all this pink. He too, sat patiently and now bears a terrifying blue ghoul face thanks to the make-up artist that volunteered his day to be at this benefit.

There is a DJ and good food. There is laughing. There are balloon animals, a comedian, a clown, raffle tickets, door prizes. There is a beautiful performance. Tears, a group hug, in the nucleus is the 14 year-old singer-songwriter who just preformed.

And there are little girls dancing.

I don’t know what you expected but this is living, folks. This is living.

To find out more, go here:
http://www.angiosarcomaawareness.org/

Trust

2010-11-24T06:55:00.000-08:00

I swear I can hear munchkins sing that chirpy, "You're out of the woods, you're out of the dark, you're out of the night, step in to the sun, step into the light.""
The mammoth blue, boxy building comes jutting into view.
We have arrived.

IKEA, the Valhalla of Stoughton, Massachusetts.

By L McWilliams

I have heard the aisles are paved in gold.

It took us a month of Sundays to get here. Of the many talents and gifts Hubby possesses, directionality is not one of them. It has taken me seventeen years to finally come to the realization that I can never leave the house without knowing, myself, fully, how to get somewhere.

He doesn't know where places are in relation to other places, like say south.
He uses a lot of indistinguishable landmarks, "you know, it's right by that place where you got coffee that time? There's a parking lot?"

But what really causes issues is the disconnect between what he thinks in his head and what he says with his mouth, i.e., he takes I95, but says, "It's off of I93." He says he is going by way of route 140, but 140 doesn't go to Providence, his destination. He means 146. Most of the time, I can fill in these blanks.

This method of me figuring out what he means to say goes to pot when I myself get turned around and lost. I'll ask him where to go and he starts saying things he doesn't mean. I express disbelief then he gets confused by my questions. Then I get huffy. Then he tries to get his Blackberry to help him out, which involves passwords and downloads and all I want to know is SHOULD I TAKE THIS &*^#% EXIT?! You can see how these trips go.

The truth is, I don't trust him when it comes to getting from point A to point B. GPS has made this better, but barely so. And I think this brain glitch is genetic because his brother is actually worse.

We get to IKEA eventually.

For you to know:
IKEA on a weekday is 1000 times easier than on the weekend. Plenty of parking. Available sales people. Open tables at lunch time. Bathrooms are manageable, and you can actually stop at displays without the force of people piling up on your back like a line outside a ride at Disney World.

We go up the escalators, following giant arrows, like lemmings I think, or a scene from a Pink Floyd movie. We wind past the bedrooms, the couches, the chairs and tables.

And then before us is OUR kitchen, the one Hubby is trying to replicate through will, patience and hard work.

I watch as Hubby goes into mental computation overdrive. His eyes narrow in concentration, like a matador, swirling around the kitchen. He whips out the bright orange tape measure, measuring dimensions with a flick of the wrist. Step, swivel, measure, snap! the tape zips back into the orange case. Ole'! Step, swivel, measure, snap!

I stay out of his way, convinced I could lose a finger to that snapping measuring tape.

He has now solved whatever the issues were. Before we go to checkout, he asks me to check his figures and logic. I try but really, there is little need.

He will do it correctly, I know he will.
If he doesn't he will find solutions.

I trust him completely.

Rant

2010-11-21T17:18:00.000-08:00

If you will allow me a rant.

This won’t be funny or entertaining.

I just have a few things on my mind, if you’ll give me this opportunity to get this off my chest.

Several recent news stories have bolstered my concern about children who lose their parents.

There are those who have been dealt a most unjust, tragic hand – sickness and accident, not of their doing.

And then there are those who make choices that simply allude me. A recent case, close to where I live, where domestic violence…no, NOT domestic violence, a person - chose to end his own life after violently taking his wife’s life first. He affixed a note to the front door, instructing his now orphaned children to go to a neighbor’s house and call the police. Or the case from several months ago, close to where I grew up, where the man killed his wife and then his own children before cowardly running from the scene. And finally, a few months ago, a man here in town allegedly beat his wife to death – while his two children were in the home – and then he and his sister cleaned the house before calling the police.

What in the hell is going on?

Do not talk to me about how gay marriage and using condoms are the ruin of society. Please, spare me how financial pressures, due to any political parties’ platform and history, is our undoing. No, the family courts and the ease of divorce are not allowing this to happen.

People do this. People who make choices, who believe…what? Women are expendable? Nobody will miss them? Wives and children are a commodity? That they are better off dead? Or that you are just pissed and people must pay for your rage?

Somebody, help me make sense of hurting and killing the mother of your children, of hurting your offspring directly or indirectly.

THAT is what will do us in as a society, THAT is without moral justification, THAT is the sin no matter what you call your God.

A Brief Musical Number Break

2010-11-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

I interrupt the IKEA kitchen saga with a number from last night's "Glee."
Just watch this number, Kate Perry's "Teenage Dream", led by Darren Criss - he is one to watch.
The actual voices are Tuft University's very own Beelzebubs.

Lesson #4, The Party

2010-11-05T17:54:00.001-07:00

Fourth in a series

IKEA Life Lesson #4:
If you build it, they will come.

Hubby pulled it off, as per usual.
Here is where I could detail multiple times he has done a last-minute-Lucy routine, much much to my consternation and angst, frequently when we were in college, but elsewhere as well.
Fair to say, the guy works well under pressure.

He completed what he could, then moved every one of those blasted IKEA boxes from the basement so the birthday party could commence.
Also, the kitchen was pieced back together, as much as possible, for the night.
And, because he is a peach of a Dad, he was completely hands-on present in cutting pizza, doling out cupcakes and clean up.
This guy even developed a scavenger hunt with clues.
Like I said, he's a peach.

And the 8 year olds had a swell time:

At bedtime:
Me: Did you have a good time?
Eldest Daughter: I had a greeeeaaaaaat time!
Me: Remember this moment. (Kisses) Remember this as a moment of happiness. (Realize I can't move) Are you biting my necklance?
ED: No.
Me: (I still can't get my head away from hers, I am stuck somehow). Are you biting my necklace? Why can't I move?
ED:I have your necklace under my chin! Ha ha!
Me: Leggo. Leggo. Leggo!
Remember this. Some day, you will be asked to write about this moment, tell about a happy memory, and you can say, when I turned 8, my party.
ED: Why?
Me: Because sometimes you have to do that.
ED: Why?
Me: What am I, a future teller?

This is how it goes.

IKEA Lesson #3: Know When To Walk Away, Know When To Run

2010-11-04T14:44:00.001-07:00

Third in a series, Go to the first post.

The guy is messing with my nest.

We are well into the IKEA kitchen renovation, complete with 50 boxes of kitchen.

Coincidentally, we are supposed to have eight little girls over tomorrow night for a faux sleepover birthday party. This is what the kitchen and downstairs look like currently, not exactly Studio 54:

I know Hubby will will pull this off and in the 11th hour, get everything put away. Just don't open the closet, because it will all come crashing down on your head. I have faith he will get things in order before the girls arrive to tear the place apart. I have the faith because he always does. So I try my hardest to keep my mouth shut about the state of this house.

But he is messing with my nest.

Nothing is where it should be. I can't find a pen, I can't find the little clock I use to help Eldest Daughter with her homework. I do find mail strewn all about, crumpled receipts from Home Depot, pieces of paper with crude markings and measurements. This unkempt state of mind is contagious and the girls have adopted similar behaviors.

With the nest in disarray, I can't cook, which frankly, is no great loss for me except my baby birds do like to be fed.

I'm trying to be flexible. Let it ride, I tell myself, it'll all work out in the end. But this guy is messing with my nest, making it disorganized, inefficient and untidy, which makes this Momma Bird a little grouchy.

Grouchy enough to go for a run in the dark, cold raw rain and wind today?
Yup, just about that grouchy.

Life Lesson #3 From IKEA:
I quote Kenny Rogers and that's a first:

Know when to walk away and know when to run.

Life Lessons by IKEA: Day 5, Expect Bumps in the Road, Know About Toggle Belts

2010-10-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

Second in a Series, Go To The First Post

The first few days after the mammoth delivery of 50 IKEA boxes of kitchen went pretty well. Hubby put together the ‘bones’ of two large cabinets with relative ease. Here are the fruits of his labor, still in infancy:

We were pleased.
But it can’t be this easy.

Today, after dropping the kids off at school, I heard Hubby calling me before I even opened the front door. I started to say, “I’ve barely opened the door…” (I’m no morning person) but then I caught sight of him holding up a 7 foot tall cabinet, like Superman battling the heaviest force field, bearing down on him at a steep 50 degree angle.

It seems that while I was shuttling the kids to their respective schools, Hubby was trying to put all of our foodstuffs in the barely built cabinet. The weight of the unsupported gigantic cabinet with canned goods was too much and the front “feet” came off. The cabinet went into severe tilt, very nearly on top of Hubby.

He was lucky I didn’t go to Dunkin’ Donuts after dropping the kids off, or some other errand. Who knows how long he would have stayed there holding the cabinet up.

Looooong story short: We did get the cabinet down, with minimal damage to the hardwood floors. A drawer or two broke. There was some general swearing.

We had a little talk about safety. I suggested perhaps a helmet? Keeping the cell phone charged and within an arm's distance? Maybe hold off on the big stuff until I am home?

Then we went to our separate corners (office spaces) to do our work. Hubby came back later with a solution, which includes toggle bolts.

IKEA Life Lesson #2 Expect Bumps In The Road, Reinforce For Future Bumps

There is no way this kitchen in 50 boxes adventure is going down without a major glitch or two. Or 20.

Just like life. You can live in fear of what might go wrong, you can even prepare for the What Ifs. But nobody gets out of here unscathed. So anticipate the bumps and learn how to deal, with yourself and your other.

Then, reinforce for future bumps. Specifically, consider toggle bolts.
These are used to for heavier reinforcements, especially when holding to dry wall. They require a larger hole and cannot be re-used.

Ta-da!!

Life Lessons by IKEA: Day 1, A Kitchen in Boxes

2010-10-28T05:11:00.000-07:00

First in a Series
As you can see from these pictures, our new kitchen arrived today.

Our kitchen arrived in no fewer than 50 boxes. Some assembly required.

This is Hubby’s new undertaking.

A few weeks ago, he started playing on the IKEA website and designed a few hypothetical kitchens. Then he ran some numbers and started surreptitiously measuring. He played some more on the IKEA website and bought another measuring tape because he lost his last one.

Eventually, Hubby designed THE new kitchen for us, increasing our storage area, maximizing our space, updating the look and functionality of the kitchen.

He made his pitch.
I got to pick the handles.

Last weekend, Hubby trekked out to the promised land in Avon, Massachusetts, home to our area IKEA, and bought our new kitchen.
Today it all arrived.

We have some dates in the near future that serve as benchmarks of sorts. These upcoming event will be significantly impacted if we are without a kitchen or underneath an avalanche of IKEA boxes and tools:

In 5 days: Halloween, visitors with children will be here
In 2 weeks: Eldest Daughter’s birthday party
In 3 weeks: Mother-in-law staying with us after her surgery
In 4 weeks: Thanksgiving
In 8 weeks: Christmas

Oh, and Hubby is in the middle of writing his doctoral dissertation while working full time. The timing here is not optimal.

As I took pictures documenting this latest escapade, I realized that the IKEA kitchen process is going to teach me some very important life lessons. Those who might be considering penning their own wedding vows, take note, because it's all here.

IKEA Life Lesson #1 Insofaras Possible, Do Not Harsh On Your Beloved’s Bliss.
You and I might see the clutter of 50 large boxes and untold hours assembling cabinets. But look at Hubby’s face.

I know this smile. While 25% of this smile is There sure are alot of boxes! 75% of this smile is PROJECT! With power tools! I don’t necessarily share the bliss but how can I be upset at his child-like glee? It’s all part of the adventure.

If he can let me get giddy over musical numbers, read the Sunday newspaper over 2 long hours, watch “Wedding Crashers” at least fifteen times and still laugh at the same parts then surely I can let him knock himself out assembling cabinets. We’ve all got our quirks.

I might even get a new kitchen out of the deal.

All I Said Was "Go Get A Clean Shirt On."

2010-10-21T15:46:00.000-07:00

About 40 minutes before a scheduled pediatrician's office visit, I realized the patient, Youngest Daughter, had not brushed her teeth, had no socks or shoes on, her hair wasn't done, her pants were on backwards and her shirt was too small.

I immediately prioritized, and settled on teeth, socks and shoes, a clean shirt that fit. Everything else was extra.

If you only knew the lengths I went to when we visited this same pediatrician when Eldest Daughter was first born. Getting ready to go to the doctor's office was my entire day's plan. 8 years and 1 kid later, we have slid quite a ways down the slippery slope of slovenliness.

I gave the orders:
Go brush your teeth.
Get socks and shoes on.
Go get a clean shirt on.

About 15 minutes later, Youngest Daughter was ready to go. Imagine my surprise when I went by her room and saw this, what she herself labeled "a pig disaster":

I thought I handled myself pretty well, until I came across some of her artwork a little while later:

A picture is worth a thousand words.

Thanks. No really, I mean it.

2010-10-14T10:02:00.001-07:00

To the parent who gave Youngest Daughter the finger paint kit for her birthday, I can't thank you enough. No, really, I have just spent 25 minutes cleaning up after using the "Neat and Tidy" set with "Washable" finger paints. "Washable", "neat", and "tidy," apparently, are relative terms.

If only I could remember who you are. Youngest Daughter's birthday was six weeks ago, so this reminds me to get those thank you notes out ASAP, before Christmas this year. That's the goal I have set for myself.

From the bottom of my heart, thanks for the finger paint set, although I suspect it was a regift. Because nobody really want finger paints in their kitchen. It reminds me of my friend whose in-laws gave her 2 year old daughter a 200 piece ball pit. Boy, was she happy.

As a token of my thanks, I have sent you a drum set for your wee one. You can think of me and my gratitude every time you hear those drums.
Right back 'atcha.

Like Youngest Daughter said, "Finger paints might be messy, but they sure are beautiful."

Happiness Hit Her Like A Bullet In The Back

2010-10-08T15:50:00.000-07:00

I am in the mood.
I am in the mood to talk musical numbers.

I could post some clips from last week's "Glee", a special on Britney Spears/Brittanny S Pierce, featuring the one and only Heather Morris. I daresay, Heather did it better than Britney. So good, so very, very good. Do yourself the favor and go watch the whole episode on hulu.com. You won't be sorry. And while you are there, watch this week's "Glee". You'll thank Grilled Cheesus.

Take a look at this number from the recent VMAs. This is Florence and the Machine, from the UK. This particular number was choreographed by Travis Wall, a personal favorite. Florance's voice is a-maze-ing. I hear Grace Slick in there or maybe Siouxsie from The Banshees, and I like it. This song is on the Eat, Pray, Love soundtrack. Another Florence song I am loving is "I'm So Heavy (Heavy In Your Arms)" from the latest Twilight movie soundtrack. I dig it all - the heavy drums, the belting vocals, the drama.

2010 MTV Video Music Awards

Another great take is Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon rapping their way through the history of Hip-Hip. So talented. They both have uncanny mimicry abilities. The Roots play back-up.

Late Night with Jimmy Fallon - A History of Rap: Jimmy Fallon, Justin Timberlake & The Roots - Video - NBC.com

And this final clip is not all that current, and it doesn't have any music. It is a hilarious take on the BP spill, courtesy of UCB comedy.

There! Talking about musical numbers is an itch I have to scratch sometimes.
Now let's cuddle.

I Thought There Would Be More Plumes

2010-09-17T06:13:00.000-07:00

"I thought there would be more plumes, " says Pippin in the Sondheim musical that bears his name. Pippin joined his father's army, but after witnessing war and plunder, he is disappointed by the life of a warrior. He expected more hoopla, more celebration.

The girls are outside, playing with Youngest Daughter's brand new, hotter than hot pink soccer ball. There is no such thing as too much pink for my little girlie girl. She might not appreciate sweating and exertion, but if she gets to accessorize with hot pink, then sign her up.

Within 5 minutes of kicking the ball with her sister, I hear wailing. Eldest Daughter leads Youngest Daughter in, who is awash with despair, crying loudly, tears streaming down her face.

"MY BALL!!!" she wails. "IT'S GONE!!"
Eldest Daughter further explains, the hot pink ball of loveliness has been unceremoniously kicked out of bounds, down the embankment that is overgrown forest next to our house.

I can fix this. I can. I can be the Hero, a role I rarely get to inhabit. Especially with my girls, I am usually the Nag, the Caretaker, The Wicked Witch of Alexander Lane. But today, I can dry her tears, demonstrate strength and courage, and bring back the hot pink grail.

I put on my cape, or jacket, and brave the wilds.
"Keep talking," I shout to the girls. I need their voices to stay oriented in the dense overgrowth. This might be the suburbs, but the forest next to our house is thick with waist high pricker bushes and thorny things. Brambles and branches hold on to my clothing as I forge my way onward.

Must.
Get.
Pink.
Ball.

I keep my hands over my face, lest something pointy or buzzing get too close. I peer through my fingers, searching for the ball. In the distance I can hear one little voice, "I see Mom!" She sounds impressed. "Keep coming," encourages another voice. Finally I spy a swatch of unnaturally occurring pink. I lean my body in that direction, tamping down the brush. I trip, I fall, I groan and slide. I persevere, keeping that pink ball in my sight.

Eventually, I emerge from the bush, victorious, with the pink ball.
"You did it!"
I grin, toss the ball towards my two champions.

"C'mon!", says Eldest Daughter, now that the drama has concluded, "Lets go scooter!"

I thought there would be more plumes.

And when I finally haul my dirty, bramble and thorn lanced self in the house, I realize that this little adventure has now made us all late.

I settle for the plume of parenthood, a second cup of coffee, before heading out to the next gauntlet run, school drop off. That is another post for another time.

Quotes of Note

2010-09-10T05:19:00.001-07:00

Quotes of note running through my mind today:

What you don't have you don't need it now
What you don't know you can feel it somehow
What you don't have you don't need it now, don't need it now.
~U2, "Beautiful Day"

And if I need a rhythm,
It'll be to my heart I listen
~ Roisin Murphy, "Ramalama (Bang Bang)"

I first heard this banging song on So You Think You Can Dance a few years ago. Here is a clip of the number, which is one of my all time favorites. Wade Robson choreographed it and performs here. Travis Wall performs here as well. Of course it has that whole zombie/undead theme that I find so oddly appealing. Enjoy!

Crafty New Blogs

2010-09-07T08:04:00.000-07:00

This week, I bring some new blogs to check out.

New Dress A Day is a blog where an inspired woman constructs a new dress from a used and worn dress, for under a dollar a day. Every day! She works this magic every day! New Dress A Day

Another new fave crafty blog is Craftastrophe.net. This blog highlights truly heinous crafts. Art is supposed to provoke and elicit a reaction. Are crafts art? That question has been bandied about for some time. This website, however, confirms that not all art and/or craft is good. Just like bikinis, just because you can doesn't mean you should.

Here is our own submission to craftastophe. The horribly funny repurposing here consists of pliers pilfered from Dad's tool box, Care Bear band aids, a flower taken from our bush outside, and a few stolen unsupervised minutes. Submitted by Youngest Daughter.

I Hope I Pass

2010-08-27T17:28:00.000-07:00

The new light blue lunch box from Land's End is packed, sitting in the refrigerator.

Are we ready?
You bet we are.

The little whales on the reading log have been colored in, reading minutes have been recorded and tabulated, appropriate blanks have been filled in by a cooperative seven year old. "My favorite book this month was___________________because_________________."

The math packet sent home in June has been completed, dated accordingly.

The book package, the eighth such package of the summer, has been sent back, via US Mail at the post office as per instructions. No books were lost, the accompanying sheet has been completed and signed.

The two-sided Parent Questionnaire describing my child as a learner has been completed, with care, love, and spellcheck. The Student Questionnaire sheet has also been completed and colored.

The school supplies have been purchased, all 63 dollars worth, including the markers (package of 20, washable Crayola brand, as per request) the glue sticks (6, not 12, as per request), the all of it sits in a plastic bag on the bench by the door, waiting for departure tomorrow morning.

The medical form has been updated, online, using my assigned password and PIN.

The Assigned Reading sheet, delineating the actual books selected, has been filled out and signed.

The new shoes have been purchased, the new navy blue dress that balances "I'm ready to learn" with "I'm stylish but in an age appropriate way" lies on the chair.

The note detailing the manner in which Eldest Daughter will be dismissed is tucked neatly in her backpack, next to the fat envelope stuffed with all the other forms requested.

We are ready.

Tomorrow is the first day of a new school year.
And, I think, I have done all my homework.

To B (minor) or Not To B (minor)

2010-08-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

Bar chords happen.

To be clear, the B minor chord happens all over that sweet ditty "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I am learning how to play this song on acoustic guitar. I am a newbie at guitar, a beginning intermediate, not anywhere near prime time or performance level. At a bonfire, I should be at least second guitar to someone who really knows what they are doing. That is to say, I absolutely should play second fiddle, without the fiddle.

The B minor chord, like many bar chords, involves stretching a finger across the entire finger board, across all six strings, and pressing down across those strings with enough force such that notes sound, rather than a dull thwap. One finger braces across all the strings and then other fingers also stretch and press. It's not easy to do and so far, my attempts have had acoustical repercussions bordering on painful.

Until now, I simply avoided any song with a bar chord, like a B minor chord or an F chord, which is a mini bar chord. It has nothing to do with the little refrigerator in a hotel room. It just means one finger spans more than one string.

But here is the thing: while avoiding frustrating practice sessions, uncomfortable positioning and hurting fingertips, there are a lot of quality songs that I miss out on. By limiting my repertoire to only those songs that are devoid of bar chords, there are many, many songs I can't learn, I can't play. If I continue on this path, there are a lot of songs with bar chords that I will never sing my little heart out to, which was the point of learning guitar.

At my guitar lesson tonight, Steven, my ultra-cool though perennially taxed guitar teacher broached a topic I had been avoiding. Since I want to learn how to play that song I so love, "Home", he said, "it's time to learn a B minor chord."

While I knew this moment would eventually happen, I had been in denial. Deep down, I know I have got to master this albatross. There are too many songs that require this skill, these crummy bar chords.

Yes, it's an analogy. Use it as you want.

And here is another. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to see baby snapping turtles emerge from their buried nest. There were about 15 little turtles. A few burrowed into the dirt, unready to face the world just yet. These are the slow-to-warm turtle babies, they need a little more time to cook apparently. A few took off, quick as could be, across the expansive sidewalk into the unknown wilds. A quick turtle is a relative thing, an oxymoron. I am here to assert that speedy baby turtles exist, you'll know one when you see one. Many of the babies took their time, with moments of inactivity, followed by moments of slow crawling. There appeared no organization to this activity as they were moving in all different directions. To nonturtles such as myself, it was impossible to understand just where they wanted to go. Towards water? Away from water? Towards shade? Or cover?

One man came by and decided to 'help' the turtles, by gathering some up and bringing them down to the nearby creek. I have previous experience with snapping turtles and I know a few things about them. Firstly, you are not supposed to touch snapping turtles. Also, it is practically impossible to dissuade a turtle from going where it wants to go. When a whopper snapping turtle appeared in my driveway a few years back, I erected an elaborate wall of household items, including chairs and a snow shovel, to keep the turtle from crossing our busy road. I was worried about his safety and trying to help. That turtle waited me out and proceeded to circumvent my wall and crossed the busy street when my back was turned. So I chose not to assist this man in his misguided 'help.' Turtles are going to do what they are going to do, as mysterious as it is to an outsider. For all we know, that man did more harm than good.

These analogies, the necessary but difficult bar chords and the confounding baby turtles intersecting with the confounding helper man seem apt to me.

There is a lot going on in my home and in my mind. Some of my loved ones are on the brink of some momentous changes. Change is hard, we all know this. Change is also necessary and unavoidable, if we are to grow. Platitudes aside, I am learning that I can not save my loved ones from the ways of the world, from change and challenge however mightily I desire to insulate, prepare, practice or intervene.

But I can practice my B minor chord. And I can marvel at baby turtles in all their new-born complexity.

Summertime, circa 1982, A Mother's Perspective Imagined

2010-08-21T15:10:00.000-07:00

Part Two In Series
To go to the beginning of the series, click http://moderngirl-lmc.blogspot.com/2010/08/summertime-circa-1982.html

The following is what I imagine little LMc's mother wrote about those visits up to New Hampshire. The twin gifts of time and experience have provided me with perspective on these weekends I simply didn't appreicate when I was young.

Every summer we make a few visits up to New Hampshire to visit my parents.

4 adults and 2 children make for very close company in a tiny trailer. I have to send everybody outside when I make dinner, because otherwise we'd step on each other, figuratively and literally.

It's a wonder that I am even awake to write this because I didn't sleep the whole weekend. Frank and I share a bed that is a miniature slab of wood not fit for a 7 year-old. I'd have him find some other place to lie his head but there simply isn't another place available for him to go. We kind of grab on to each other to keep from falling on the floor and try to sleep.

For the love of money, my father can snore until the shutters rattle, car alarms go off and the neighbor's awaken. He snores until my mother hits him with her broom. For this sole purpose she keeps a broom by her side. They must repeat this snore - hit - yell - deny - sleep - snore pattern 5 times a night. I don't know how they ever get any proper rest. Between his snoring and her broom swats, I hold my breath that the kids don't wake up.

If it isn't a sunburn, a trip to the bathroom, a book falling off the bunks, Snore Wars or some other crisis, somebody is always awake in this trailer.

My two little buggers get up at the crack of dawn and the chorus of "When do we go swimming?" starts.

Everybody loves these long weekends. The kids are thrilled and my parents love to have the grandkids up. I think we are making wonderful memories up here that we all can enjoy for years to come. I do hope the kids remember these visits with family.

Boy, am I bushed.

Say My Name

2010-08-15T17:23:00.000-07:00

My name is something that I feel particularly passionate about. My first name, Lorette, a derivative of "Lauren" means "victory", as in "laurel wreath." When I was younger, I desperately wanted a name like the other girls in my class, preferably a name that started with "K" or "C." Apparently, those names were popular in the early seventies, as my class had multiple Kims, Kerrys, Kristins and Christinas. Eventually though, I came to love my name. It's French, somewhat unique but pronounceable.

Family lore is that I was named after my grandmother, Kathleen Lorrette. As the story goes, my parents accidentally misspelled my name on the birth certificate. In the event you actually meet another Lorette, it is highly unlikely that she will spell her name the same way I spell my name.

You might be surprised to know there exists some interesting Lorette trivia. There was a famous vaudevillian actress named "Laurette Taylor" back at the turn of the century. Tony Randall's daughter was named Julia Laurette. There is a place, Lorette, Quebec in Canada.

Lorette is also a term. It means a woman who unapologetically lives off her lovers and does no formal work. I only recently became aware of this term. I far prefer the 'victory' connotation and hope you forget this little fact immediatly.

When I was in college, I saw a speaker who delivered a moving talk about her struggle with alopecia, an autoimmune disorder that causes hair loss and baldness. Despite the nature of this deeply personal tale, I was most taken that she had the same first name as me! Another Lorette in my midst, so close, so very close! It was like finding your long lost identical twin. I tried to push my way to the front to shake hands with her when class was over. I never made it to her, which is probably just as well. "Your name is Lorette? MY name is Lorette! You have a terrible autoimmune disorder that has caused you psychological trauma and pain, social isolation and debilitating anxiety? MY name is Lorette!"

Yeah, I like my name. When I got married, I saw no reason to change it. My name is my name, it suits me, it's who I am. I haven't regretted this decision ever, not for a moment.

Recently, a group of girlfriends and I were playing around with the common algorithm in declaring your 'Porn Star' name. It's a complicated formula, involving the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on.
"Happy Hilldale!" squeals one woman.
"Tiger Oxford!" reveals another.
This is fun! Until I figure mine out:
"Blackie - Whitie Woodside."

This is possibly the worst porn star name ever conceived, one for the Fail Blog. Nobody would ever want Blackie-Whitie Woodside on tape or otherwise. This ridiculous name is but one reason of many that I did not become a porn star. Blackie-Whitie Woodside has no sense of victory or laurel wreath about it. The Blackie-Whitie part is tragic in it's own right.

I try my second pet's name to see if that would improve the situation - "Bert Woodside". This too is a terrible name for a female porn star. I actually have to use my third pet's name and my second street name to assemble a halfway decent name: Ginger Glen. I think I'll stick with what my parents named me way back when, misspelled as it is. So far, it has worked out for me.

Summertime, circa 1982

2010-08-11T17:04:00.000-07:00

First In a Series

I am going to tell you about my summer.

In the summer I go to Oma and Opa's trailer in New Hampshire. There is a lake and everything. It's the best! It's called Silver Lake because when the sun sets on the lake it looks all silvery on the top of the water, but its not silver, it's just water. That is called an "optical illusion."

We drive for hours to come here to visit Oma and Opa. Hours! The drive is so long I always have to go the bathroom at least two times. And my brother throws up. It takes forever to get here, just about.

There are 6 people in this trailer: My Mom and Dad, my little brother, my Oma and Opa. And me! I am eight and I am the Big Sister of this family. This trailer is so much smaller than a regular house but we still can fit our family in there! Everything in this trailer is teeny-tiny, like elves live here, or gnomes. My parents sleep on the kitchen table! The table turns upside down and becomes a little bed for them. Like a magic trick!

The bathroom is really small. I can touch the both sides of the bathroom just lifting my arms. There is no bathtub or shower, we just get clean when we swim in the lake. No soap needed! The toilet is a little seat, and you sit on the seat and do your stuff. And then there is a little step you step on and it slides out so your stuff falls down under the trailer. Its gone! So long stinky stuff! You can't use much water. I don't know why. It just trickles out of the faucet, like a little stream.

We swim every day. When we wake up, the first thing we say is, "I want to go swimming! When can we go swimming?" We ask this and ask this until the answer is right now! I put on my suit and I get to use my Auntie Laurie's cream that smells like coconut that keeps away sunburn. But it never works! I get sunburned anyways, but I love that sweet coconut smell.

Our trailer is way at the top of the hill. You have to walk all the way down the hill and try not to stub your toes when you go swimming. It feels like a long climb up the hill when we go back for lunch.

There is a raft out in the deep part of the lake. I can swim to the raft, if my Dad comes with me. You have to be careful because there are razor shells on the bottom and they can cut your feet - like a razor. That is why they are called razor shells. I saw somebody's foot bleed and bleed and bleed once, from a razor shell. So I try to swim and kick up high and not put my foot down on the bottom of the lake. Some people even wear their shoes in the lake. Those silly adults just stand out there, by the raft, not swimming or splashing or playing. Just stand out there in the water, talking.

There is also a dock. Its hard to keep your balance on the dock. The dock is like a chain of rafts that shift and yank when you walk. I like to catch minnows with my pink pail. I chase those minnows and they turn and swim so fast, like they know where I am going before I even do it!

My brother likes to fish up here. He wants to go fishing as soon as he wakes up, even though it is dark, he wants to go fishing. As a treat, my parents will buy him a little styrofoam canister of worms. He goes through that canister fast! Can you imagine?! A canister of worms. Who puts those worms in there, I wonder. Is there such a thing as a worm hunter?

My brother and I get to sleep in the bunk beds in the trailer. We sleep right above Oma and Opa. Opa snores like a machine, it wakes everybody up. But not himself, he just stays asleep, snoring away until Oma hits him with the broom she keeps next to her. "Huh??!! What??!!" he says when she pokes him. "Turn over!" she says, like an Army guy, real mean and serious. And he does. But then he starts snoring again, in like 10 seconds!

When we wake up, my brother and I make faces at each other and try to be quiet but we giggle and giggle. And then I have to pee! We try to wait as long as we can but we have to pee when we wake up and somebody has to take the side down from the bunk bed and make it into a ladder so we can get down and go pee. It takes forever for the adults to wake up. I wait and wait until I can't hold it any longer and then I say, " I have to go to the bathroom!" and somebody lets me down. In the morning we can read our comic books, I read Archie comics with Veronica and Brendan reads the Hulk. This is a treat, we don't get comic books at home. But it's vacation up here in New Hampshire, so we can read comic books.

At night, when my shoulders and back are sunburned red and hot to touch, I whine and cry. I whimper like a dog and Mom puts Noxzema on my back to take away the burn. It works wonders until it wears off and I whimper again. Sometimes I whimper in the middle of the night when its still dark and everybody is sleeping.

When we do the laundry, we have to take it down the road to the machines. You need coins - certain coins, and you need soap. And then my Mom hangs the wet clothes on a clothes line for the clothes to dry. But once when my Mom did this, it started to rain. So Mom and I went running over to the field to get all the laundry. Too late! We got wet and the laundry got wet. The clothes lines have wooden walls around them, like a little room with no ceiling, like a clothes line garden. The wooden walls are deep maroon and there are grape vines all over them. It smells like jelly in there. The grapes are big and dark purple, so purple they look black. And the grapes have seeds, like three seeds in every grape so I don't like to eat them. But I do like to smell them.

The laundry room is green and hot as a oven. Its so hot, I don't like to go in there, so I wait outside and practice my cartwheels in the field outside. The ceiling is green plastic, with little rows, maybe to let the rain run off? I don't know, but it is not like the roof at my house. Or any house I have ever been in. The roof makes the whole room green. And it is hot, hot, hot! Hot as a oven. Hot as a fire.

Sometimes I run through the field to get to the laundry room, just like Laura Engalls in "Little House in the Prairie." I love that show.

Also, there are books in that green laundry room and you can take them, I mean borrow them, and bring them back when you are done. There are no kids books in there but I am a good reader so I can read the books. There are lots of love books, with pictures on the front of a lady and a man hugging in the wind. My Mom doesn't like me to read those books but sometimes I still try to because I am a good reader and I can read adult words. There are also books that are mysteries, with bloody knives on the front, or letters that are bleeding. I don't borrow those but I wonder about the stories. You can borrow magazines, but they are old, like from 1980. I was in first grade in 1980! But I can still read them. My favorite is "Can This Marriage Be Saved?" I like to see whose side I am on, usually the lady's side. My Opa likes to read about cowboys. Those books are not interesting to me.

I wish we could stay here at the trailer all the time!

By LMc, second grader

Tell Me Again What I Am Not Supposed To Do

2010-07-29T08:32:00.000-07:00

I have been in search of myself, specifically, what I am going to be when I grow up.
Since I left my last job as a School Psychologist, which coincided with a rather dramatic international economic meltdown I have sent out many resumes, resulting in a few interviews.

I have Skype-interviewed, which was a tad unsettling. I have phone interviewed. I have had follow-up interviews, all of which, so far, has been for naught. I have to think that I used to be better at this. I knew the game. I played it well, down to the natty conservative outfit and perfectly pat answers to perfectly pat questions.

What is my weakness? Well, I have high expectations for myself, of course. I demand excellence from myself and others and can get bitterly disappointed when falling short of that expectation. Next question, please.

But now, ten years later, I find myself at a crossroads, trying to figure out my next professional move. In an honest attempt to authentically represent myself during interviews, I started to answer interview questions honestly, organically, formulating my response right there, in a present, mindful way. Understand, I am looking to work in a place where I am happy, where the work is meaningful and fulfilling and the people are respectful and interesting. But in the process of being honest and authentic, I took my eye off the ball. I forgot about the game. To wit, the following actually occurred recently:

Question: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Me: Oh! Oh, that's a good one! I actually think about that a lot!
If effervescent enthusiasm alone could land a job, I'd be employed by now for sure.
Well, lets see(I turn to The Big Boss) I definitely don't want to do what you do!(I indicate toward the Little Boss) And I don't want to do what you either! (I turn towards the Daily Boss) I have considered doing what you do, but I don't know! (Facing the whole interviewing committee) I have thought a lot about writing! For maybe NASP? Or work at a think tank? I really enjoy education policy and education research, but its hard to break into. And I miss working with the kids.

In summary, my answer was essentially:

Where do I see myself in 5 years? Not here!

I had a few other humdingers like this, but this was probably when my neck my met the axe. Not surprisingly, I didn't get this job.

Maybe total and complete honesty is not the way to go when interviewing for a new job. Maybe I should get the job first, and then be my colorful, varied self. And maybe, I was more than a little conflicted about the whole thing - was this system a good match? Was this in any way exciting or new compared to what I have done in the past? Would I be able to coordinate all the variables? Would we have to move? Do I want to move? Can I arrange appropriate child care? Why is nobody smiling or looking happy? Why has nobody asked me about working with kids during this interview? Where are the kids, anyway?

The quest continues. Let me know if you find me before I do.

Wave of Mutilation

2010-07-27T15:51:00.000-07:00

My recent trip to Maui exposed me to some new experiences. For example, for the first time in my life I had lemon grass foam as a side dish. While tasty, foam is hardly filling, as I came to find out. Also, I am pretty sure that I can make foam myself. Foam is an essence, not a meal.

I also got exposed to the Maui ocean, where the waves are big and strong, far bigger and stronger than New England seacoast waves to which I am accustomed.

I enjoyed immensely watching a tender young thing, a newlywed I suspect, get pulled under, only to resurface several yards away, drenched. She and her beloved were holding hands when the wave hit. There was a flash of hair, then an ankle swiftly floated by. He ran to her, her wet hair plastered to her face, breathless. He pulled her to her feet, tenderly, walking her towards the beach, shielding her from another attack. I also particularly enjoyed watching a Japanese tourist get smacked by one wave and just when she staggered to her feet - BAM! - another one leveled her again. When she again got back on her feet, and looked behind her to see more cresting waves, she took off at a dead run, for the safety of the beach. I actually had to submerge my head underwater because I was laughing so hard.

Karma does not take lightly it's mission. Karma does not take a vacation.

So while I was laughing away at these poor souls battered by the waves, Karma decided to whip it's righteous tail.

A wave, an errant, unpredictable rouge wave came out of nowhere and bitch-slapped me. Worse than my worst date, this wave left me akimbo and broken, bruised and dazed. When it was all over, my bathing suit top was askew such that more than appropriate portions of me were entirely visible (a 'twofer' if you will - I'll leave the image for you to conjure on your own time.) My sunglasses were lost in the tussle and I had sand everywhere possible, for days. This wave didn't even have the decency to call me the next day. I don't even know this wave's last name.

To hear Hubby tell it, "One minute you were there, the next minute you just disappeared." He almost had to put down his book to come save me. But this was our ten year anniversary. We are not newlyweds. He knows I can handle my waves. That one wave had me licked, but only momentarily. I went back for more, and more, and more.

When Jet Lag and Dissertation Writing Meet

2010-07-19T18:09:00.000-07:00

When some wicked jet lag and dissertation writing sessions meet, a sound nap in the middle of the day can occur. And if this nap occurs in the living room, where forts are often erected, one might wake to find himself a load baring wall.

Places I Have Been

2010-07-16T06:10:00.000-07:00

I'll admit, I wondered if it was all worth it.

Cleaning the house, getting clean sheets on the beds, vacuuming and dusting because there would be overnight guests. Get out the guest towels, go grocery shopping, get enough food for the house for a week. Remember ice cream for my mother, Sanka and Sweet and Low for my Mother-In-Law.

Decide I need to get another gallon of milk, and loaf of bread, just in case, you never know.

Hubby and I are going away for 6 nights for our 10 year anniversary. We have enlisted three sets of relatives to cover child care. Prepping for this trip involves nearly militaristic planning.

The girls will be spending two nights away at Uncle R's and Auntie C's house. I pack an overnight bag, make sure to include sunscreen, bathing suits, towels, changes of clothing and underwear, toothbrushes, toothpaste and hairbrush. Pull out the air mattresses and sleeping bags. Put car booster seats by the door.

Tape Hide-A-Key to appropriate place. Email to all parties a document that lists out our travel itinerary, as well as all emergency contact information and general daily schedule. Print out map of the area, find girls' medical insurance cards (just in case), and pool membership card. Printout manual for using our TV, show Eldest Daughter where the fuse box is, just in case. Put out house key.

Is this worth it?! I ask myself rhetorically.

I pull out suitcases, pack for the week. I buy little bottles of shampoo. I buy big bottles of sunscreen. Pile in enough underwear to last me 2 weeks. Try to find enough clean and presentable clothing. Curse myself for not having enough clean and presentable clothing for a vacation. Struggle with whatever else I should pack JUST IN CASE, i.e., flashlight? Aloe Vera? Antacids?

Fret about sunstroke. Fret about regular strokes. Fret about shark attacks and heart attacks. Pack aspirin, just in case.

Get up at 3:30 for flight out.
This better be worth it.

A funny thing happened on our travels to Hawaii. There were no hiccups. That is, I boarded my scheduled flight, departed and arrived at my intended destinations, with all of my luggage.

That never happens. No, seriously, that never happens.

We land in Maui.
We eat at the finest restaurants. I eat nothing but fish and sushi the whole week, save for fresh fruits and vegetables, all locally grown, usually organic.
I drink some sweet, colorful drinks with little umbrellas.
We go to the top of a volcano.
We hike into a tropical jungle and find waterfalls which we swim in.
We have a number of full, adult conversations, uninterrupted.
We talk about when we were young, newly married. We talk about the future, what we might be like when we are 60.
We sleep through the night, with no interruptions.
We go to bed when we want and wake up when we want. Nobody tells me they want waffles for breakfast.
I drink Kona coffee each morning, with my yogurt.
I go for a run, cooled by the sea breeze, along the ocean drive. Then I cool down in a hammock.

I hike around the water's edge.
I remember some things from my lone semester as a geology major. Rocks can be cool.
I read three books.
We go to a luau and eat poi.
I see a silversword plant (rare) and a gecko (rare to me).
I swim in the ocean a lot and swim in the pools just a little.
I find new places to get sunburned (behind my ears) and get reminded of unusual places that I have been sunburned previously (little moons of skin near my arm pits, my scalp).

I have a moment, while riding the waves and smelling the sweet, warm, tropical air, where I think, I will die knowing this moment of happiness. This moment has nothing to do with anybody else.

I get assaulted by a rogue wave, lose my sunglasses and modesty in the process. Then I go back for more.

This was so worth it.

We return home, anxious to see the girls.
The reunion is sweet.
Replenished, I have reserve patience in the tank, so when a bucket of beads crashes on the floor during dinnertime, I barely blink.

So worth it.

You Know What I Am Talking About

2010-06-28T06:56:00.001-07:00

1 week down, 9 to go.

If you are a parent of school-aged children, you know exactly what I am talking about.

Steve, Part II

2010-06-24T17:55:00.000-07:00

Steve plugs in my newly cleansed iPod.
"No comments about the 'Glee' songs," I caution.

Steve, whose recent cigarette smoke break suffuses the 8 by 10 practice room we work in, looks through my music collection on my iPod. Well, I work in this room. Steve gently guides and instructs his inept, struggling adult client in this room. Steve is my guitar teacher.

"That's cool," he mutters, "My special friend watched "Glee" last night. I get why people like it." A nod towards the populace.

I can't contain myself.
"I love it!" I gush. Myself, with the gushing. I wish I would stop it already.

"So..., "he shuffles through my music. I hope he sees the Thom York. I hope he notices Ani Defranco. I hope he respects the Billy Joel, and accepts the "Chicago" soundtrack. Because I can justify every one of those selections. He picks, of course, the Pixies song, "Where Is My Mind?", which we talked about last week.

Because he is an actual musician, he transposes this song right in front of my very eyes. I am so amazed and excited, I giggle. So uncool, so Pixies uncool. I totally and completely love this song.

We agree that Francis Black/Black Franics is a genius. Yes, I saw the Pixies, way back in the day, at the Orpheum. "Cool," he declares.

Steve does not get my humour, just yet. I resort to translating myself.
"You know, handing over one's iPod...it suggests....it requires a certain amount of trust."
"Yeah, I know. Its cool."

All right then, we are cool, Steve and I. Steve is of an undefinable age, I can't tell how old he is. He has a teenaged child. He has travelled around the world. He has a special friend.

I say, "I took off all the Phil Collins songs."
Blink, blink, blink. Wow, he really doesn't get my humor.
"That's a joke!"
"No, that's cool."

I mentally opt not to debate Phil Collins songs.

Its cool. You know?

Home Is Wherever I'm With You and My Quiet Joy

2010-06-19T19:40:00.001-07:00

There were days - she could remember this - when Henry would hold her hand as they walked home, middle-aged people, in their prime. Had they known these moments to be quietly joyful? Most likely not. People mostly did not know enough when they were living life that they were living it. But she had that memory now, of something healthy and pure.

Olive Kitteridge from "Olive Kitteridge" by Elizabeth Strout

The end of the school year is frantic, exciting, exhausting. Still, I feel quietly joyful, as described above, despite all the commotion. There is quiet joy in my heart. Here are some reasons why:

Early evening runs in the setting summer sun, followed by a shower. The warm, sweet air, the chirping crickets. This is the good stuff, people.

Pedicures and bright colors on my oft-peeping toes makes me happy.

A report card from school that reflects she is at grade level in reading and made gains in all subject matter. She is a daughter who is valued by her teacher for the special little person that she is.

A passing reference from the pre-school director that my other little she is so empathetic with others, now talking freely. She now has friends. As a parent I cannot begin to express the gratitude I feel for the teachers and others who nurtured and guided my wee ones this year.

End of the year performances where I can see how much they have grown over the year. I do love my girls, in all their incarnations and presentations, and seeing them in this capacity, frilly and polished, fills me with pride.

A year ago we were wrestling with radiation, doctor appointments galore, surgery, a cancer diagnosis. This year, we just returned from a week of actual true vacation in the Caribbean. Hubby just had his one year check, with nothing but good news to report. Blood tests and scans remain clear.

And if I haven't convinced you yet of my quietly joyful heart, watch this performance on David Letterman. I love this song "Home" by Edward Sharp and The Magnetic Zeros. But it's the band's performance that is so joyfully infectious. The fact that there is an audience appears incidental to these musicians. They just love what they are doing, and I bet you will too (Alabama, Arkansas, they sure love their Maw and Paw):

Pictures

2010-06-13T15:38:00.000-07:00

Summer has not even begun and I have pictures to share as we have been a traveling family as of late. We just got back from a week in the Caribbean. The weather was fantastic. We were at the beach pretty much every day.

I realized a couple of things on this trip. I learned it is perfectly OK and even advantageous to have children on a trip, so you can shift concern. For example, I could say, "the kids are waaaaay too tired and hot to hike up that mountain in 90 degree Caribbean heat." Now it's all about the kids, and only slightly about me not having any desire at all to hike a mountain in 90 degree Caribbean heat wearing flip flops and a beach dress.

I also learned about Body Glove shirts. They are made of the same material as swim suits. They have built in UV protection. While a little pricey, they are a sound investment to keep sunburn at bay.

I am a fair skinned lass. I don't tolerate sun very well. After seeing how well the Body Glove shirts worked for the kids, I bought one of these shirts for myself. Again, it was a very sound investment and one that I recommend. But I learned that the Body Glove shirt is not a good look for me. Push comes to shove, I will wear the shirt and save my fair skin.

Here are some other recent pictures, from a recent family hike and a recent bike ride with Eldest Daughter. Eldest Daughter tried to take a picture of yours truly but as you can see, a vital body part - my head - was cropped accidentally. Again, not a good look for me.

Steve: An Introduction

2010-05-26T18:37:00.000-07:00

"So, what kind of music do you like?"
This is my cigarette-smelling guitar teacher, Steve. He is cool, a real musician. He shuns authority, digs rock and roll, and wears dark, grungy clothing. He saunters when he walks, in no hurry, scuffing his feet like his mother probably told him not to when he was a kid.

This is our first lesson together. Steve has already checked out my acoustic guitar and declared it "acceptable". Which is exactly what the cool musician type at Daddy's Junky Music Store told me when I bought it. The unassuming, unintimidating Mom card has it's perks, if you play it the right way. In this case, I have some money to spend on this hobby. I am an easy, quick sell, just point me in the right direction. If you don't do right by me, I will come back and find you, I will wag a finger in your face and take my business elsewhere.

Though grateful that my guitar is "acceptable", for obvious reasons I get instantly nervous about his question. What kind of music do I like? Old, farty, middle-aged lady music. I am not cool. I smell like sunscreen dutifully applied.

"Aimee Mann. Death Cab for Cutie. Jonatha Brooke. REM."
He stares blankly. I think he thought I was going to say Phil Collins. But I didn't! I swerved, I ducked, I dodged that one!

"The Beatles?", he asks.
"Of course!" I say, "Who doesn't love the Beatles? Has anyone ever said no?"
More blank staring. He chuckles like Beevis.

"What's on your iPod?" he asks.
Oh. Lots of new downloads from "Glee" are on my iPod. For every Radiohead song on my iPod, I have three showtunes, a song from "Wicked" or "Moulin Rouge". This is not going to help me in the coolness domain.
"Uh....lots of stuff." I try to sound nonchalant.
"Anything heavy?" Is U2 heavy? Probably not.
"...like ACDC?", he asks.
"NO." I don't really like 'heavy'.
"The Pixies?", I say hopefully, though expecting more staring. The Pixies are from the 80's and 90's, and as heavy as I get.
"Yeah," he says nodding, "Yeah."

Wait. He's nodding, as in APPROVINGLY NODDING. As in, he knows and appreciates the Pixies. He can't think of what song, but he says he taught a Pixies song recently, and get this - he will teach me, too.

This is too cool.

"Bring in your iPod next week and we'll go through your collection."

Aw geez.

Have It Your Way/Proof

2010-05-26T17:48:00.000-07:00

Eldest Daughter's bedroom is a kidcave in need of some serious TLC. She is a prolific artist and displays many, many, many of her masterpieces in her room. She is also an ardent animal lover - this is a whole other post - and the menagerie of stuffed animals that reside in her room borders on "Hoarder" level. There is also all of the hair doo-dads, tights, clothing, dolls, books and other accoutrement of girlhood. Her prized disco ball. A towering pile of baby blankets. A collection of miniature dog figurines and painted rocks.

I gave her a plastic bag and instructions to please cull through her possessions and throw away what is no longer needed. She needs room and space for her newer masterpieces and animal memorabilia. She went in her room and emerged after 3 minutes, with exactly 3 items in the bag, including a band-aid. Obviously, we needed to bring the operation to the next level.

We went in together. "This?" I say, holding up an octopus made of yarn and a toilet paper roll.
"Keep it."
"This?" I say indicating towards a pile fuse beads creations, hearts, squares, and snowflakes.
"Keep them!"
"All of them?"
"Yes!"
So this is going to take a while. I have underestimated the pull of sentimentality. Her pieces are her babies.

I spy a piece of Kleenex taped to the wall.

"What's this?" I ask.
"Tissue." Ask a stupid question, Mom, get a stupid answer.
"Why is it taped to the wall?"
"Because I wanted to." Again, ask a stupid question, Mom, get a stupid answer.
"I think this can go?" She agrees. The Kleenex is removed and disposed of.

In short order, we cleaned up and cleared out her room, whereby we were both satisfied. I learned that giving Eldest Daughter an empty box so she could store all necessary and important items without justification, was an important strategy. She retained her valued pieces, but in a confined way. I could walk and move around in her room again.

Really, what do I know about this anyway? I am a gigantic glass house and should throw no stones when it comes to decluttering. I showed up to an Organizing Group meeting in my pajamas back in January. I have had the same organization/decluttering goal, to clean out the kids' playroom, since September.

To bring it all full circle, today was our last Organizing Group meeting for the year. Remarkably, I had something to share. Specifically, we did clean out the kids' playroom. It only took me 9 months to nail this down.

Here is the proof:

I count 11 bags here, 2 or 3 are in the barrel.

Impressed? Now see this. Proof I am loved:

This was my Mother's Day present from Eldest Daughter. She sewed, by hand, this hot pink, fleece pillow for me. I'll take this imperfect creative clutter any day of the week.

I Actually Said This

2010-05-18T18:44:00.000-07:00

Today, after what must have been the 57th time I heard, "Mom?...", I had an out of body experience. I opened my mouth and out came the following:

"Lets just listen to nature, OK? Let's do that."

I think I was channeling my mother from when I was younger. I don't actually recall her ever saying that, but it fell out of my mouth far too easily. Its amazing the compassion and understanding I feel for my mother now that I am part of the club.

The Myth of The Balanced Life

2010-05-12T19:06:00.000-07:00

Hubby has been traveling for the better part of the month: a Great Unbalance.
We do as well as we can.

My mother-in-law comes up to stay with us on Mondays. She stays with the kids while I travel into Cambridge for class.
Taking a graduate level journalism class: a balance attempt.

I study all weekend, including Mother’s Day. The kids leave with Hubby so I can digest as much as possible for this final push towards the end of the semester; the scales tip totally in the other direction, again unbalanced.

Hubby leaves Monday, for a short trip. Unbalance resumes.

Monday, after I drop the kids off at their respective schools, I take the two hour final online. It is not an easy exam, but fair and I feel I did reasonably well. I did not phone it in, I did not give up, I have finished this class and did as well as I could. My exam ends at 12:00. I need to pick up youngest Daughter at school at 1:00, but leave the house at about 12:45 for travel time.

In a gesture meant to help restore balance, I allow myself thirty minutes to go outside and walk. I choose to not go for a run because though I should, right now, I am denying The Shoulds. Besides, I only have a half an hour. I am going to allow myself some peaceful time, out in the bright sunshine, to walk and move and reflect on what I have just accomplished, modest as it is.

It’s a little bit breezy, and so I dress in fleece, old running shoes, a baseball hat and an old grey fleece jacket with my husband’s place of employment stitched on the front. I have become, somehow, one of those people who continually wear clothing from their husband’s place of employment and/or institution of higher education.

My wardrobe: Unbalanced

I bring my iphriend to listen to some tunes. I desire balancing tunes, like The Shins or The Decembrists. I am on my way to balanced bliss.

After a few minutes out on my walk, I look at my iphriend to check on the time.
Its 12:46.
ITS 12:46!
Unprintable expletive here!

Balance is thrown out the window, stomped and squashed to a pulp. I am in full on panic mode, running like a crazed woman, towards home. I fleetingly think of tweeting, “Is anybody near South Street? Please pick up the crazed woman running up the hill in a fleece outfit!” But it would take too much time to tweet. I am sweating buckets in my fleece by the time I get in the car to drive like a bat out of hell to Youngest Daughter’s school.

The moral of this little story? (With a touch of alliteration);
Balance, apparently, is feasible but fleeting (especially in fleece).

Word To The Mothers

2010-05-05T11:19:00.000-07:00

To all the mothers out there, I wish you a messy, disorganized house. This is not a hex. Give me a minute to explain.

Today, while outside running, I happened by two elderly women, equal in white hair, and frail, stooped shoulders. They were out for a walk, around our local pond. The day was warm and sunny, the flowers in blooming brilliance, the birds and bees abuzz. They might have been sisters, or long time friends as their body language, heads bowed and angled towards each other intimated that they were close. I imagine that on their laps around the pond they talk about family, their children and husbands. I imagine they trade a few gossip items about people they know in common, who is ill, whose partner spends far too much time out on the golf links, whose grandchildren might be stirring up trouble and appeared in the local police blotter. I imagine that they talk about how their bodies are breaking down, the latest ache, pain and test result. After this pitter-patter, I imagine that they then touch upon the latest book one might have read, or movie they saw. There might be a story from the good old days. They might lament the loss of the local coffee shop, or the all too frequent blue language, or the fact that newspapers are disappearing because of this thing, The Internet.

Today I enjoyed a walk with my good buddy, Tagged Penguin. We too talk about friends and family, health and books, some philosophy, religion and politics for good measure. We've got aches and pains too, but also some projects on the horizon, as always.

When I dropped my Youngest Daughter off at Preschool this morning, she immediately fell into her gaggle of classmates, exchanging who is wearing tights, who is wearing butterflies on their shirt, who has new pink shoes. After the wardrobes were analyzed, the little girls begin the daily and necessary discussion regarding who is sitting next to who at lunchtime. These talks can be tense. I will hear the results of these diplomatic maneuvers when I pick her up. Every day, I hear who sat next to who. Even at the tender age of four, it all boils down to outfits and relationships, like a miniature Sex and The City episode.

Such is the social lives of women. From cradle to grave, we chat, we squawk, we squabble, we cry and laugh with each other.

Earlier this week, I had the good fortune of having Top Organizer and her three children over for a pizza night. Both of our husbands are away on frequent business trips, and we try to huddle together when we can, to give each other some well deserved company during weeks of solo parenting. Also, during my walk with Tagged Penguin we saw a wild animal off in the distance, a coyote or fox, we couldn't tell. While in the process of pulling a large branch from off the side of the road to be used in the event of an attack, we were discovered by another friend. She was kind enough, after hearing of the reason behind our roadside antics, to not laugh directly. I was wielding a small bottle of vitamin water and Tagged Penguin had a large branch, so if she did laugh it was understandable. No, she kindly drove slowly down the road, as a look out, to make sure the coast was clear and to swoop in and rescue us should the wily coyote/fox reappear.

During this third week of solo parenting, my Mother-In-Law was generous again to come up this week to spend the night, allowing me some escape to drive into Cambridge and attend my semester's end class. She also got some quality grandmother/granddaughter time with the girls, went out to eat at Friendly's, played four rounds of Memory and graciously lost to Youngest Daughter.

This too, is the best nature of women. We nurture and rescue, tend to the nest and look out for each other, generation after generation. We can build each other up or tear each other down because a woman knows what is wounding to another woman.

I make a promise to all the mothers and women out there: I will never disparage or comment on the disorder of your home if you'll do the same for me.

When I think about my girls and my hopes and dreams for them, having an organized spice rack, or perfectly decorated bathroom is not anywhere near the top of the list. I model that part - the domesticate neurotic failure - quite well. I hope my girls are fulfilled in whatever creative and purposeful pursuits they chose. I hope that they find a partner who appreciates them and treats them well, cherishes them. If they want to be mothers, I hope that will happen for them, in whatever way the fates decide. Never do I think about the physical home that they will tend.

I hope that this Sunday you can celebrate and enjoy the woman or women who brought you to fruition, the mothers. I also hope that you do not alphabetize your spice rack, or go grocery shopping, or change the sheets or iron. Because a clean house can only bring so much fulfillment and for you, I wish for more.

Post Script: If you are interested in a more organized living space and live in the area, drop me line because I have somebody to recommend. She is on the brink of something great, I believe.

And Like That, To My 18 Year Old Self

2010-04-30T18:39:00.000-07:00

And like that, a spark of inspiration from one blog to another.

To My 18 year-old self:

1. Go with your gut on the cute city boy with the funny accent. He is quality and every bit the father you had hope he could be. He can be and will be.

2. Please relax. And just wait it out. All your angst and anxiety, depression and darkness, it all passes. And you should remember this later on because it comes and goes.

3a. Think about a career that is fulfilling. You are going to need stimulation and room to grow. You don’t know it now but you will want more than the fairytale.

3b. You are soon going to have an epiphany that children's' mental health and education is your calling. While I applaud our initiative and intentions, the jury is still out as to whether this is always going to be our path. We are still working on this, sorry to say.

4. Your body and face will never look as good as they do now…so stop agonizing over your thighs, stop sucking in your stomach and hiding in pictures.

5. Make the time to learn all of Oma’s crafts, including sewing. You are going to try to learn later on and its hard. You’ll kick yourself for not doing this when she was alive. Also, take care to get all the information about the family from your grandparents. Tape and videotape all their stories so you can catalog your family legacy accurately. Again, you will kick yourself for not doing this when they were alive. Actually, since you are 18, Oma is the only one alive, so the kicking of ourself has already begun.

6. Please relax. If you are 5 minutes late to work or don’t please everybody all of the time…you will survive. People pleasing is overrated and a fool’s errand. Criticism will not kill you.

RELAX. BREATHE IN. BREATHE OUT. If you could brush up on the breathing and relaxing now, as an 18 year-old, perhaps we will have this mastered by the time we get to 37. Just a thought.

L

And then, due to some strange cosmic undulation, my 18 year-old self wrote back! It was snail mail, so it just arrived in my inbox today. Imagine my surprise when I read this:

Hey 37 year old self:
Wuz up? (This is how I began everything at 18).
So if I am to understand you correctly, that cityboymanchild I met at Theater Guild is a keeper? Rock on, he is cute! We are going to see the Counting Crows at Smith College this weekend, and some other band will be there too? Dave Mathews somebody? I wonder if he is any good.
Dude, I love music.
And theater. And writing. And reading. And running. And being outside, and environmental and social responsibility and consciousness. And my friends are the BEST!! Except those wankers who wallpapered our apartment with porn when we subletted. Those I can do without. WORD. And Dude, I seriously like going to school. 37 year-old self, you should make sure to keep all those things in your life. You dig creative endeavours and people, don’t forget that. Also, those who are thinkers and readers are key. It will sap your soul dry if you live in a vacuum.

I take an exercise class every semester. I find it does my mind a world of good to sweat.

But DUDE, my thighs are sooooooooo big compared to everybody else. It’s so unfair!
And my hair! It’s so frizzy and uncontrollable. Hopefully I won’t pass the frizzy uncontrollable hair gene on to my kids, if I have them (this is cosmic irony, my Youngest Daughter has this exact gene). I bet I have a truckload of boys, if I even have kids (the cosmos chuckles again).
Will I be a mother? Will I get married? What should I be when I grow up? Should I go to graduate school? Where should I live? Should I transfer?
What should I do tonight? What should I wear tonight? Um, I can't breathe! Too much to think about!

TTFN – I just saw that in a movie, “Sleepless In Seattle” it was called, cute, no?
L

This is what I would have written if I were going to write a fluffy bit. But the more I got to thinking about truly where my 18 year-old self was, this would be more accurate:

Dear 18 year old self:
Spoiler Alert!
I don’t want to give too much away, but in 2 years you will meet some fantastic people.
You will shuck off a ridiculous notion and go to a state school and it will be the best decision you ever made. You will find a place to be involved in everything: social causes, environmental and physical activities, theater, beer. You will meet some of the best people who can appreciate things about you that you don’t right now. They will laugh at your jokes, let you be quiet when you want, let you be loud and raucous when you want, and oh yeah study with you. You are not the most lefty-liberal, touchy-feely hippy at this place you will arrive in 2 years. You will realize that you sleep walk/talk thanks to astute observations and hilarious impersonations. You will almost burn down your house, which will require an intervention of sorts. “L, you have to stay in the kitchen when you cook.” Some of these people will be lifelong, soul-replenishing friends. You will see some of them get married, have kids and become the achieved, compassionate, awesome people you suspected they were. You will even marry one of them. Which leads me to my first piece of advice: keep your eyes out for a cute city boy wearing a Providence College baseball hat. He has kind, brown eyes and a funny accent.

But before you get there, you have to go through here.

Go to that therapist, cry your eyes out, and get your shit together.
I know things feel dire now.

In truth, you won’t feel this way forever. Your moods will come and go, and challenges, people, disappointments will as well. These situations cannot be avoided. But things won’t feel as dire as they feel right now.

You might want to cool it with some of the boys. Just a thought.
L

Dear 37 year old self:
Wuz up? (See? Very authentic salutation to the 18 year old self)
Things are dire.
I think I will die alone.
I have done some bad things.
If I disappeared, nobody would notice, except my mother.
I hate my thighs and hair.

A cute boy with kind brown eyes, huh? Cute boys are my fave! I loooooove cute boys!!
Talk 2 Ya soon! Love Ya!!
L

It is nice to see that I have gained an authentic voice since the 18 year old mark. I no longer liberally sprinkle my utterances with exclamation marks, or puffy hearts over the i’s especially when I don’t feel that way. Reconciling my inner voice with my outer expression was something that I learned to do at around 18. That I have gained wisdom over the years is comforting and not unexpected. That my 18 year-old self had some things to say back to me, to remind me of that awakening and blossoming that was me all those years ago, that is me now today, was unexpected. I hear her all these years later, singing my tune, writing my lines, dancing my steps. The question is, where has she been?

Marathon Monday

2010-04-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

I just returned from the Boston Marathon and I am tuckered out.

No, I didn't run the marathon. I watched from the sidelines about at about the midway point, in Natick Center. I watched the throngs make their way eastward, towards Copley Center. And now I am pooped - from watching other people attempt to run 26.2 miles. Phew! I will sleep fitfully tonight after spending hours outside in the Spring air, watching people run. You probably think I devote a lot of time in training to do this cheering and watching, but you are wrong. I guess I am just naturally good at the spectator role. Sometimes I clap, or give an occasional "Whoo-hoo!" in admiration. Its tiring alright, but I feel a sense of duty and obligation. Hydration is important, as is sunscreen, which I learned the hard way a few years back.

I even wore my UnderArmor shirt and fleece socks because I didn't want to get too cold out there, exposed to the elements. UnderArmor sort of implies that one will be active. In my case I am watching others be active. I still think its important to dress appropriately. I wouldn't want to be caught unawares.

The Space of Now

2010-04-18T08:28:00.000-07:00

Hubby has been traveling recently. I am here to say that single parenting is tough. My hats off to all that do it. Rather than go into a detailed deposition of how and why single parenting is a challenge, or give some cute tidbit of why is all so worthwhile, or try to understand why I get so stuck in my own head sometimes, lets leave this as an example of the space I am in now:

Hubby walked in the door after his own grueling week at school, a Sunday morning through Friday evening trip. I promptly told him, "I am hereby punching out." Mentally I did just that, although physically I remained sitting at the dinner table, looking and feeling like something the cat just dragged in. At 7:30 I moved to my bed, with a book. At 8:30, I fell asleep. I woke up at 9:30 and declared, "I am going to bed." I then fell asleep and did not awaken until 8:30 the following morning. I slept almost twelve hours straight.

While sitting at Eldest Daughter's soccer game in the cold rain/sleet yesterday, I mentally improvised a haiku. I am no Basho, but it amused me plenty, enough so that I temporarily forgot my frozen appendages. This will be be my next post, A Day in the Life through Haiku. But I need to rest up, get my tank back in equilibrium.

Until then....

Nit Picking

2010-04-02T16:08:00.000-07:00

A friend reminded me of this...

They say the truth shall set you free, so here it goes: We have survived a bout with head lice.

When you bring home that sweet little babe from the hospital, and they are so wee and sweet smelling, you never think, although you should: some day this baby will have head lice. Some day in the not so distant future, this baby will have head lice and this baby’s mother will discover it in a remote restaurant in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, roughly three hours from home, and about an hour away from the expected debut at Storyland. The mother will look down and count FOUR bugs crawling in her child’s hair, in one hot second realize all of the above, and practically swoon in the bathroom of the Applebee’s.

And yes, the little sister is also afflicted and must also be treated for a roaring head lice infestation.

I am here to say for those who have not yet trekked this trail, that head lice is absolutely the inconvenient and intractable childhood affliction that you have heard. It takes weeks of daily combing, maybe even twice a day combing. And the laundry, oh the laundry! Bedding and towels, clothing are laundered with near constant frequency, vacuum rugs every day, and sequester stuffed animals for weeks until the lice furor dies down.

But, lice are not as disgusting as I had thought. They don’t fly or jump. They don’t ooze or squish. In the annals of parenting, there have been worse, that is to say, ickier, trials in comparison to head lice. My goal was clear: to get the kids lice free in time for the return to school, roughly three weeks away. There was also the enormous embarrassment of it all. While I know head lice is not an indicator of cleanliness, I was loathe to be pariahs in our community due to our new residents. So we just lay low at home for a while until I was sure we weren’t a public health nuisance.

After a few days of compulsive combing, of course, the completely expected occurred – I plucked a little bugger out of my own hair. My father referred to our house as The Fertile Crescent, with three thick –haired females and motley of hair accoutrement awaiting the lucky lice. My husband was spared from the itch. As a friend pointed out, he was practically pulsating from radiation treatment this summer. I suspect the lice did not sense hospitable ground on his head.

The hardest part of the Lice Wars was that I was now at my husband’s mercy. I shampooed and combed my hair, but he had to take the time and effort, every evening, to painstakingly comb through and remove any and all nits from my head. This can not be done solo, it must be tackled by a team.

Safe to say, my husband is not a detail oriented person. He is a dreamer, a big picture thinker. He has folded many loads of dirty laundry, never noticing that they are ripe and flecked with food and finger paint. He doesn’t know whose lunch box is whose, what day Youngest Daughter goes to pre-school. Last week, while filling out a form, he asked me what color his own eyes were. He sees the forest, and rarely the tree, so looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack is not playing to his strengths. Also, he has hands like Fred Flintstone - big, nubby fingers that are not particularly good at grasping singular hair shafts and balancing combs. So with the nightly combing sessions, came also nightly arguments.

Around this time, my husband was asked to officiate his brother’s upcoming wedding ceremony. He was busy writing the vows, but I thought I had a better take on what soon to be spouses should hear before they take the plunge.

Dear Friends, we are gathered here today to witness the marriage of J and A. J and A, you both look beautiful and flush with love right now. But I ask you to think about your future, say about nine years into marriage, when you Husband, will be plucking nits from your wife’s scalp at 9:00 at night. She will have grey hairs aplenty, because she won’t brave the beauty salon at the moment. She will have a very hard time trusting you to do this job properly, and secretly thinks that you are watching the baseball game on TV rather than keeping your eyes on the task at hand. Husband, you would like her to stop her nagging and just sit still.

Husband will implore Wife to BE NICE to him, these little nits are so small.
Wife, you know this too well grooming your own offspring like a chimpanzee for the last two weeks.

And then when Wife looks on the receptacle after a thirty minute nit picking session with Hulk-handed Husband and sees not one nit, and asks him what on earth is he pulling out of your hair because its obviously not nits or lice, and he says You are making me doubt myself! They are so small! You are being mean!

And wife retorts You don’t get to have feelings about my head lice!
She wants to call you Husband, a nitwit, apropos to the situation.
He wants to call you Wife, a nit picker, pun absolutely intended.

This, friends, this is the crux of marriage, loved ones.
For the days down the road when you are not so slim, healthy, and beautiful as you are right now.
Trust, even when its agony to do so.
Take responsibility for the other, even when you are tired and annoyed and they are tiring and annoying.
Love, even when we aren’t looking or acting our best.
Mozel Tov!

Head lice is a tame ordeal relative to all the challenges that couples and families face. But it is one of those bumps in the road whereby people reveal their true colors, as caretakers and care-takers. In short order, I was deemed free from lice, as were my children, just in time to return to school. It took a team approach to get to the scratch-free zone. It wasn’t fun or pretty, but its nice to know that we got there together, where we hunker down until the next family hurdle.

Knitting the Night Away

2010-03-24T17:39:00.000-07:00

For a long time, my Mom had a single document on her computer desktop, just one lone document. It was 152 pages long and titled "letter." It took my Mom years to learn how to open and save new documents. As a result, when she needed to write a new document or document(s), which happens for a preschool Director, she would simply open "letter", scroll down page after page, and begin writing at the end of the document. She did know how to print out the right pages needed, so she didn't print out a 100 page tome each time. When my Mom finally started to open and save new documents, it was like the discovery of fire or the wheel, my Father was so happy. I can just hear the theme from "2001: A Space Odyssey" playing right now. She has a deep seated mistrust of technology, and her method of resistance is intentional ineptitude. I can show her a hundred times how to double click a mouse, or use her new cell phone, but she won't retain anything until she is good and ready. And desperate. As she reminds me on a regular basis, the technological revolution happened when she was well into adulthood, when its hard to learn new tricks.

I am feeling pretty tired tonight. This will come as a big shock, but it isn't because I was out late with Paris, painting the town red. No, the truth is my knitting group kept me up late last night, later then my typical 10:00 bedtime. A loosely associated group of women, we congregate each month to hone the craft of knitting. This was an opportunity for me to learn a new craft, so I joined. I am a newbie.

My learning to knit would make my Grandmother proud. My Grandmother Oma was a five foot tall ball of fire. She wasn't allowed to pilot airplanes in the Air Force, due to her height, although she qualified in every other way, a major display of chutzpah at the time in the 1940's, during World War II. Fit as a fiddle with a sharp brain and tongue, she could knit in the dark. She was a gifted seamstress. She also did ceramics and painted, cross-stitched, crocheted, smocked...and square danced! She was not one to be pigeonholed. She would just love to see me taking up this craft, even though I still bite my nails and wear baseball hats, both of which drove her batty. "Back in my day, the girls looked like girls!", she'd call after me, shaking her head, because I was wearing a baseball hat and gym shorts out in public, egad.

Oddly enough, learning to knit has tightened the familial binds to both my Mom and my Grandmother. Learning something new is humbling and frustrating. Its not always pretty. Similar to my mother's 152 page document scroll of yesteryear, the length of my very ugly and overly large navy blue scarf tells a story, documenting the time that has passed and my gradual grasp of technique.

In the beginning of the process, I noticed a hole in my scarf. I reasoned that it looked like a good button hole and plowed ahead. Then, a few more holes popped up, as though my scarf had been infested by a large and hungry moth. My button strategy is probably not going to suffice, but onward ho I knit. The holes, also called flaws, have largely stopped occurring because I have gotten a little better at knitting and stopped looping out the back, a typical error for a new knitter.

The edges of my scarf look like a topographical map, up and down, round bumps here, little divots there, kind of like a cardiogram printout. In the last week or two, I started to hit my stride and the edge of the scarf is more even. Like a real scarf!

I could just unravel the "beginner" end of the scarf. But I think the scarf is testimony to my learning process. Don't get me wrong, its never going to see the light of day once it is done, but to just pull and make it all go away is to annul my mistakes, like they never happened. Like wrinkles, I earned all those holes and divots, though I'd rather they be for my eyes only. Why be ashamed of the past when its the path that led me here to today?

To Every Season, Turn, Turn, Turn

2010-03-19T15:11:00.001-07:00

In my training and experience as a school psychologist, it became evident very quickly that the time change can be disregulating for children. Once in the Fall and then again in the Spring, we change our clocks accordingly. Even though changing to and fro Daylight Savings Time, an antiquated and unnecessary tradition based on agrarian times, only involves a shift of an hour, a mere 60 minutes, by Wednesday of that given week, many kids are overtired, acting out and regressing. The week of Halloween is a week where not only the time change happens, but kids are pumped up on candy, stay up late, and are excited/stimulated/scared out of their wits by the surrounding culture. Its a doozy week for your local school psychologist, please be kind to them this week of all weeks.

In all my years, I never heard about how the time change can affects adults. Maybe my neurological system is sensitive, but I will say that the hour difference has its consequences, short term.

The official time change occurred in the middle of the night early Sunday. On Sunday, I was tired, groggy, logy all day long. On Monday, feeling unrested and disorganized, I got the kids off to school and hustled home to get ready to volunteer in Eldest Daughter's classroom, which I do every other week. Monday was also a day of torrential rains, flooding deluge rains, the kind that soak the basement. My parents were pumping out their basement for several days. Despite this, I got myself to the school on time. Walking into the school, I felt a strange sense of deja vu. After a little research (looking through the sign-in book), I realized that in fact, I was not scheduled to come in this particular day. But I was showered and I reasoned since I am not going to the gym now, I might as well stay and volunteer anyway. Because teachers love unexpected parent volunteers, right? I gave my mea culpa to the teacher and put in my hour and change, plus an impromptu conference.

At 1:00, when I picked up Youngest Daughter from preschool, she regaled me with a story involving a judge telling her teacher she can't come to preschool anymore. Of course, I immediately suspected the worst: The teacher has been arrested, there is a restraining order, Youngest Daughter is lying to me, and on and on. Until Wednesday, when I found out that the teacher had Jury Duty. Why did I immediately resort to the basest, lowest interpretation? You know the saying that when you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras? I went to zebras - nefarious, ill-intentioned zebras. I'd like to think that exhaustion had something to do with this.

We as a family kind of banged our way through the week accordingly, with dark circles under our tired eyes. One missed school bus, tears about hairbrushes, a two hour commute home and a lot of reminders that got louder as the week progressed, but we got to Friday, we did.

Another thing happens when the clocks change - so do the seasons!

Friday was glorious. A bright, sunny day at a perfect temperate clime, spring is coming right around the corner. I went to Pilate's class happily and sang the whole way there. Then I walked with some friends for an hour outside, taking in the spring air, and saw two cute, little turtles, like a Disney movie. When I realized I still had an hour before I had to pick up Youngest Daughter, I went for a run, clicking my heels like a leprechaun. This day was too nice to waste! Hello little stalks popping up from the earth! Tra la la, sweet birds! I was tired, and slightly dehydrated by the end of the day, but in a fitful, healthy way.

There are some in this country that have this type of weather all of the time. If you are one of them, please do not email me about this. What I just described is your Everyday. We here in New England earn this weather, through every dark January morning wrestling with a grumpy snow blower, and every shocking sprint from the car to the house in February. While I possibly overdid it today, it was worth it. I have made my first deposit in the Springtime Sunnies. Tomorrow might bring a nor'easter, but today will hold me content. Like a camel after a long drink, I can bank and subsist on the nourishment.

Time Is Not My Own

2010-03-11T06:44:00.000-08:00

I have been Missing In Action from I've Got My Best Shoes On. It's not for lack of ideas but rather lack of uninterrupted time to sit down and write.

I had my mid-term this past week. The effort to fit in time for focused study can be challenge at this stage in my life. I have two young children, a traveling husband, a house, and some side interests and projects.

Last Saturday, I ushered the troops out the door so I could study undisturbed. I bid them farewell as they leave for the library and lunch out with Dad. I figure I have a good hour and a half, at least. I pour myself a cup of coffee.

I force myself to ignore my running shoes, who mock me when I don't use them during unchaperoned moments. "You could be running," they sing to me. "You will gain five pounds today. You will get sick from diabetes, heart disease and cancer because you aren't exercising." The chorus grows louder but I am resolute. I must study now because I haven't any other time to do so. "Your next run is going to suck the life out of you," they threaten, "You will be in a bad mood all day." Like the bullies that they are, they settle down when they realize they won't get a rise out of me. Not today. I don't have time for sidebar discussions, I have to study.

Just as I settle down in front of my notes and computer, I happen to look up and notice that it has obviously been an age since I last dusted the chandelier. Suddenly, this takes precedence, I find it down right impossible to study with the cobwebs dangling overhead.

I dust the chandelier. And while I am up, I might as well empty the dishwasher and throw in another load from the never ending laundry pile. Guess I'll do a light pink load. Before I had kids, I never did entire loads of pink, or separated my light pinks from my bright pinks.

I go back to study, read a page of notes and try to remember what I just read, to no avail. My aging synapses have left me high and dry, nothing is going in.

I pour myself another cup of coffee and hope the caffeine jump starts my system. I decide to check my email while waiting for the coffee-induced metamorphosis. Then I head over to bravotv.com and read up on the Real Housewives blogs. Very cerebral, intellectual stuff over at bravotv.com.

I email my good friend Old Soul, who is also my classmate, and complain about the futility of studying.

I pour myself my third cup of coffee and to my horror, realize that I am shaking. I feel jumpy. Is this nerves or something more sinister? Because I am a hypochondriac, I immediately Google "shakiness". And after a short perusal, I put down my coffee cup, realizing that three cups of coffee within an hour is most definitely a good way to get the shakes.

I decide I need a change of scenery so I take my laptop and notes and drive over to a local cafe. While driving over to the cafe, I get an acute case of "The Shoulds". It starts off innocuously enough, maybe just a fleeting thought of "I should go to the grocery store." Soon these thoughts multiply uncontrollably, with all the things that I should be doing with this sliver of free time. I should call my parents. I should email my college roommate to schedule a date to see the other roommate's new baby. I should get Eldest Daughter ski gloves so her fingers don't freeze, I should send my resume out, I should eat healthier, I should visit my brother,IshouldlosefivepoundsIshouldIshouldIshould.

I should be studying. I grip the steering wheel, determined to get to the cafe and study. Those insidious Shoulds almost derail me but I am steadfast. At the cafe, I do not have competing demands, its just me, my computer, my notes and my green tea. This used to be easier, this student thing. I used to retain my learning. I could study whenever I wanted to for as long as I needed. Since I have had children, my time is very rarely my own, but then again, neither is my heart.

I finish studying and complete the exam to the best of my abilities. Then I return to my life, take up whatever duties and messes remain, a kiss on the cheek here, tie a shoelace there. It is yet to be determined how I actually performed on my midterm. I don't think it was my best demonstration of knowledge, nor my worst. It was the best I could do at the time and that will have to be good enough. I'd love to evaluate it more, but I simply haven't the time.

Scenes From a Long February Vacation

2010-02-23T10:28:00.000-08:00

It all came back to me today, like a rush of chilled air; the cold, crisp air, the bright sunlight, the gnarly hotdoggers shushing past too close and too fast. Then, unmistakably, I hear Carol King playing over the loudspeakers.

Just like that, I am sixteen years old again, cold and crammed in the back of our family’s maroon Ford Taurus station wagon, while we drive an hour north to Sunday River Ski Resort. Its probably 7:00 AM, dark and wretchedly cold up in Maine where my family has a modest little house for family getaways. We are a family of five, and as the oldest, it falls to me to lie in the ‘back back’. This was before seat belt laws, and I am literally lying down on my back, stuffed among the family ski gear including skies, ski poles, ski boots, a duffel bag of lunch and snacks, jackets, hats, and gloves. The car stereo speaker is directly above my head, and a good 20 decibels louder to me than everybody else. Sometimes it was Carol King’s “Tapestry” playing as we rode our way to Sunday River Ski Resort. Sometimes it was The Police, or The Beatles, or “Goodbye Jumbo” by World Party. One memorable time it was Nine Inch Nails, a special request of my brother’s. My toes were solidly frozen before we even reached the mountain and I was barely conscious due to the unreasonable hour. My father was bound and determined to get every penny’s worth of the ski ticket, meaning we arrived at the mountain as early as possible and didn’t leave until the mountain closed down. It was a long day and I found the whole to-do unreasonably irksome.

Maine, at the time, was hopelessly isolated, particularly for a sixteen year old in the late 1980’s. We had one phone with sketchy reception. It was in the center of the house, not conducive to privacy. Our television had three channels, and reception was particularly persnickety. My father would have to stand in the kitchen touching the stove and others had to wave metal clothes hangers for reception to be clear. One summer we were convinced that the electric static that built up from walking around in the living room, while holding the TV, was the only way that it would work correctly. So every evening my father would walk around the living room with a 25 pound television before turning it on, and we all waited patiently. There was nary a mall, or pizza joint, within a thirty minute drive. I never once saw a cute boy in Maine, but I had heard about one who lived in Westbrook. And so it was here, in the backwoods of Maine with my family, that I would find myself stranded for ski weekends.

I was sixteen, with a boyfriend, or boyfriends depending on how you looked at it, and a circle of friends with enough soap opera antics to keep me more than preoccupied. I had bigger, better things, more important things to do than ski with my lame- o family, don’t you get it?! (insert melodramatic eye roll here). But I was kidnapped every now and then for a weekend by the people who loved me despite myself.

Because my brother was a daredevil with an immediate affinity for skiing and snowboarding, he left us for the day, resurfacing briefly at lunchtime when he scarfed down at least two sandwiches and then again when it was time to head home (another fantastic trip for me, lying down in the rear of the car with all of the ski gear and music blaring inches from my delicate noggin). My sister, the baby, would be rotated among family members throughout the day. By the end of the day, she had accrued about 15 hot chocolates and maybe 10 minutes of actual skiing. More often than not, my father and I would ski together. In my mind, I felt I was being held hostage on ski lifts with my father, teeth chattering, toes and bottom numb. I might grunt in response to him, a periodic chuckle. But I was largely mute, unresponsive, sullen and self absorbed. In short, your standard sixteen year old, a real gem to be with for a day. I’m not proud of myself when I was sixteen, I don’t know how or why he skied with me despite my less than delightful attitude. Except maybe I do.

Eldest Daughter has begun ski lessons at the local hill. She has taken to it like a fish to water.

Prior to her first lesson, I gave her some pointers, which sound suspiciously like warnings or foreboding. “Remember, don’t jump off the chairlift…you wait and calmly, slowly ski away. Also, you need to learn how to stop, you don’t go as fast as you can. And no flips!” I feel, once again, I am the personification of Marlin, Nemo’s father, who tells his son, “You think you can do these things, but you JUST CAN’T!” Eldest Daughter does not always look before she leaps. This fills me with anxiety, as we are on a ski run with jumps and she wants to do flips like she sees on the Olympics. Looking before leaping is prudent in this situation. After a few minutes, I go back to the lodge and invest in a helmet for her.

She loves skiing and won’t stop doing it. She goes up on the rope tow, then down the bunny slope. For hours, in an endless loop she goes up and down, up and down, while I sit watching – outside, in the elements – at a picnic table.

“So, what do we both like?” asks Eldest Daughter.
“I think we both like skiing!” I reply.
“Yep, we both like skiing!” She is looking for affirmation that we are connected and similar, so that’s what I say.

What I don’t say is this: Well, I like skiing and love you enough to do it again, despite the cold toes and nose. I love you enough to hold you hostage on ski lifts, so that some day you will know someone loves you enough so you won’t sleep with that wrong person, won’t stay in that bad relationship, won’t try that poison, won’t rebel too much that you can’t find your way back, know that somebody loves you so much that you shouldn’t punish yourself too much, beat yourself up for so long for all the mistakes you are bound to make. Somebody in the world loves you so much they will suffer through the stony silences on the interminable ski lift rides, and spend weekends with you because they love you, even though you are practically impossible to enjoy. Yes, little one, I love you so much, I will sit at the base of a local ski hill for over two hours, freezing all appendages, in the hopes that we can solidify this new love of skiing. I love you so much that some February vacation I will totally overcompensate and schedule four play dates, at our house. Little one, you are loved, don’t you ever doubt it. Now put on your helmet.

I guess torturing the ones we love is a family tradition, one I intend to pass along to my kids. Along with my Carol King tapes.

100 Comforts

2010-02-09T17:26:00.000-08:00

For those with young children, the 100th day of school can be exciting. It's February, cold and dark with little going on, so we might as well celebrate the 100th day of school. On the 100th day, the kids bring projects in to school using 100 pieces. This year, Eldest Daughter had the additional task of assembling a piece of clothing made with 100 constituents. This felt like an assignment for Moms and Dads, which is annoying since we all already went through first grade and have a solid conceptual understanding of "100". Myself, I have a solid enough understanding to know that sewing on 100 buttons or ribbons is going to be time consuming, especially since we also had the 100 Day project and class valentines to complete. There is also the problem of not letting your child go to school dressed funny, a rule I try to follow. For example, my initial idea was to attach 100 pieces of yarn on a shirt. After further analysis, I thought it might look like chest hair, so that idea was nixed. One friend left a voicemail message that she was tempted to write "100 curse words" in opposition of this assignment. Of course, this was in jest. I misunderstood her message and thought she was going to write "100 comforts" on her child's shirt.

What a great idea! To be swaddled in 100 comforts is appealing to me. A fight with a friend or a bad test grade? Just look down at your shirt and instantly you are soothed by 100 comforts. I had visions of Stuart Smalley from Saturday Night Live wearing phrases, "You are good enough", "You are smart enough" and "Gosh darn it, people like you!" My shirt would be tailored to my personal needs, "Size 10 petite is good enough". It made me think, can I identify 100 comforts? What soothes me in time of stress?

My hundred comforts, in no particular order:

1. The words, "No, honey, you sleep in"
2. Warm, high quality, comfortable socks
3. Merrill shoes in the winter
4. the written word - reading, writing, blogging
5. Thoughtful, funny conversation
6. High thread count, at least 500, bed sheets
7. Seat warmers in cars
8. New sneakers, NewBalance brand, 1063
9. Wicking fabric
10. Pandora.com
11. Iphone (iphriend to me)
12. Musical numbers
13. Girlfriends - my good girlfriends are the best and salve for my soul. I won't name them here, but I hope they know who they are. Chances are you are one of them if you are reading this.
14. Air conditioning
15. Sweating/endorphins
16. White wine
17. Tea
18. Coffee
19. Sushi
20. Doughnuts
21. Bravo Tv/Bravotv.com
22. Hearing nice things about my kids
21. Hearing nice things about my husband
22. Those who laugh, laugh, laugh with me. Really, its all funny.
23. Unless its not funny and its deep. Those who delve with me.
24. Stories about redemption.
25. Stories about legacies.
26. Anything yellow, sunny, sunny yellow.
27. The smell and taste of ginger or lemon
28. Aimee Mann
29. Alice Walker
30. The color names of paint, nail polish, etc.
31. Sleep is very very important to me. Lack of it crushes me. Getting quality shut eye restores me.
32. 80's alternative music
33. Pilates
34. 70 degrees, not too warm, not too cold, low humidity
35. Size 8/10 petites, short length, but not narrow
36. Sunlight and fresh air
37. Good nutrition
38. FLEECE FLEECE FLEECE - ANYTHING FLEECE, no such thing as bad fleece
39. A self fixing car? A self making dinner? A self cleaning home? Is this possible? Ok, anything ibot in the future that I can imagine
40. Bathing suit cover-ups comfort me when I need it the most, that is, when I am in public in a bathing suit
41. Baggy clothes
42. Running, hiking, biking outside
43. Pedicures
44. Citrus smells
45. A good haircut (alright and foil highlight)
46. The Internet
47. Weather.com
48. Newspapers, magazines, books
49. Original thought, things that make me go hmmmmmmmm.......
50. Artistic people
51. Slapstick, physical comedy
52. Sarcasm, my preferred medium
53. Musical theater
54. When a household chore gets done without my management or reminder(s)
55. Commercials when the baby mouth is computerized and says funny adult things like "its not the venue" or lip synchs.
56. Lambs, cats, dolphins
57. Learning something new
58. Fruits, vegetables and vitamins
59. When Hubby comes home early, or when Hubby goes in to work late
60. Museums
61. Classes and courses
62. Jogbras
63. Thinking back to Times When I Nailed It
64. 100% cotton, white, men's undershirts - I wear to bed every night
65. Vicks Vaporub
66. Silence
67. Libraries and bookstores
68. Clever or provocative (in a thoughtful way) song lyrics
69. My Little Sister
70. Auntie Kathie
71. Watching the tiny successes and accomplishments of my children, and I think, "They are going to be ok"
72. Youngest Daughter singing and dancing
73. Eldest Daughter's general nature
74. Thanksgiving with my extended family
75. People who get my humor
76. A shoveled walkway and plowed driveway
77. Hubby, because he gets me and makes me laugh
78. My Mother, in her own way
79. My Father, in his own way
80. My Mother-in-law, in her own way. Its true, I am lucky.
81. Small earrings
82. Wrap-around sunglasses
83. "The test results came in - everything looks fine"
84. Sunset/dusk roughly April through October
85. My GPS
86. References - dictionaries, thesaurus, maps, wikipedia
87. Anything 2 in 1; Sunscreen in my moisturizer, shampoo with built in conditioner
88. Blooper reels
89. Any meal prepared by somebody else
90. Memories of my grandparents - I knew them all and they all totally loved me. Sometimes I think they watch over me protectively still.
91. College campuses, Harvard Square, UMass/Amherst
92. Soundtracks
93. Playing my guitar (beginner) or my violin (rusty)
94. Shiny, pretty buttons and beads
95. Most of my childhood memories, in my old house, with my family
96. Friends that have known me a long time and require little 'backstory'
97. "You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and stars, you have a right to be here."
Desiderata by Max Ehrmann.
98. A bargain
99. A trip to Target or Whole Foods by myself
100. A Saturday of solitude, just a Saturday is all I need and then I am back in the game

There you have them. Some comforts were not included. I reserve the right to change these comforts as appropriate and necessary. You'll notice some themes. Its good to know that I have 100 comforts. It was comforting just to write them all down. Give it try and send them to me.

Music To My Ears

2010-02-05T06:20:00.000-08:00

Its no secret that I enjoy music and I share this love with my children. My neighborhood certainly is aware of our love of music because one can feel the pulsating bass before my car comes into view. Recently my children have taken to asking me about lyrics.

They might just enjoy watching me squirm.

I'd like to thank Britney Spears for making her music almost wholly prohibited. She has the right to express (exploit?) herself, and I have the right to refrain from awkward, embarrassing conversations with my kids while they are still young. Almost every song Britney has out contains a repetitive phrase I don't want to discuss yet with my children, ages 4 and 7. There are songs about threesomes, being a "slave", and seeking Amy (which sounds like spelling out a curse word). These subject matter are too mature for my children's delicate ears and minds. I gave it the old college try, suggesting that perhaps Britney is asking for more broccoli, albeit impolitely, when she sings, "gimme gimme more, gimme more, gimme gimme more." Sadly, Britney Spears is unlistenable for us.

I'd also like to thank Lady Gaga for allowing me to have some of my more frustrating conversations with my children. What in the world is she saying? I can make out about every third word. Is she speaking French? Is she speaking Teletubby? Can I call her Lady BlahBlah? Unfortunately, the one phrase Youngest Daughter can understand and sings clearly is, "I don't want to be friends!" This sort of thing is hardly sanctioned at preschool.

I can not tell you how many conversations I have had with my kids about the song "Its Too Late To Apologize". "Why? Why its too late?" they ask. Mastery comes from repeated exposure and practice. Despite this adage, our conversation persists, as we have yet to master and understand why its too late, its too late to apologize. That song is at least two years old and we still are not at peace.

Remarkably, my four year old has an uncanny talent for hearing any and all Kelly Clarkson/Rhianna/Jonas Brothers/Hannah Montanna/Taylor Swift songs within 20 feet. Its like a dog whistle, these songs are in a frequency that uniquely calls to her. It keeps me on my toes, this talent she has.

I have learned how to reach over and turn down the volume at certain points of certain songs, like right before the refrain, "My life would suck without you", or "Damn girl! She's a sexy chick." But do this switcheroo on the downbeat, or Daughters will protest. I channel hop at a rapid pace because the "unlistenable" songs, or parts of songs, are in heavy rotation, on every channel it seems. Eventually we land on some oldie station playing a Beatles song and I can give my channel changing finger a break.

And while we are talking music, lets talk musical numbers, my favorite.

The Grammy awards were broadcast this past week. It goes without saying, I loved the Green Day number, "Twenty-One Guns", with the cast from the musical AMERICAN IDIOT. Am I the only one who found it funny to watch the band members growl at the cast members surrounding them? Billy Joe and company seemed to say, "Look, we might both be music geeks but step away you circus freak...stop being so dramatic." The sound was great.

The Lady Antebellum number was nice, too, save for the slight scrim mishap when it fell on the lead singer's head. She didn't skip a beat. Scrims can make a number, but they are unpredictable. I wouldn't want to be the scrim guy the next day. Scrim guy's head is going to roll, I suspect.

You could say we are singing an old song, these battles over pop music. I can remember clearly when my mother outlawed "I Want Your Sex" by George Michaels. As is natural, this banishment only made the song that much cooler to my ears. No, I'm not ready for these conversations with my kids just yet. But I know a scrim malfunction can be a great distraction when unleashed at the proper moment. Don't think I won't try it.

Groundhog Day

2010-02-02T05:28:00.000-08:00

This time last year, I was in a bad way. I injured my back, grievously. As a result, I was in constant pain. I trekked to Physical Therapy on a weekly basis and made small, incremental, at times, questionable, progress. I could do no physical exercise, a significant crimp in my day to day life. Making dinner and giving the kids their baths gave me such pain, I had to rest immediately upon completion. I had multiple medical tests and procedures in efforts to pinpoint the elusive back pain culprit.

This experience gave me new found empathy for those with chronic pain.

I am happy to say that I eventually recovered, after many months. It was a long haul. Now, I take no medications, exercise regularly, and live a typical life. I am also happy to report that so far, 2010 has been vastly better than 2009. Its only February, but I am still happy to count my blessings.

As a result of what occurred last January, I have some new habits. I now drive my car and sit at the computer with a back support. I attend pilates classes regularly. I steer clear of the StairMaster and the snow blower, as I am sure they both contributed to my ordeal. I'm a little gun shy about weightlifting, or doing anything that might re-injure me. Similar to how some major league baseball players become OCD-like in their praying, non-shaving, chalk-caked helmet ways and become a mass of superstitious rituals, so too I am captive to what might have hurt me in the past and what may have helped me heal. My behavior is likely due to either to intermittent reinforcement or the placebo effect, both are quite powerful.

Another habit I picked up is sleeping with an inordinate amount of pillows. Initially, the pillows propped me in a comfortable position and like a bird in a nest I nestled in for the night. Because I had some success with this pillow propping procedure, I accrued more and more pillows. I brought out my old body pillow from my previous pregnancies.

Things started to get out of control. At night, Hubby and I no longer had visual confirmation that the other was present as there was a ridge of pillows dividing us, like the Continental Divide. We lobbed "Good night!" over the ridge each night.

I don't have any pain anymore, sleeping or waking, so I don't really need the avalanche of pillows that now adorn my bed. But they remain, multiplying like rabbits.

Here is how dire things have become:

Hubby was actually in the bed when this picture was taken. He is camouflaged by all the other fluffy accoutrement.

Things came to a head last night. I literally couldn't find my husband in the mountain of pillows. This is quite the feat. "Honey?" I called, "Honey? Are you in here? Where are you?"

I heard a muffled something, which sounded like maybe, "I'm in here!"

"Where?! Honey?!" I was getting a little worried now.

"I'm in here!" he said a little louder. At this point I knew his airway was clear, which was a relief. And then, just over the crest of blankets and pillow, his dark haired head poked up, not unlike the raccoon at the local Bugaboo Creek restaurant who emerges from a barrel, looks around, and then retreats again.

Apparently Hubby saw his shadow, because just like Punxsutawney Phil, he went back down for 8 more hours of sleep, quite appropriate given today is Groundhog Day.

Somehow, I have allowed myself to get so wrapped up in injury prevention and pillow protection, my dear Hubby is in danger of suffocating. And I won't even be able to see his limp, lifeless body for all pillows! I am no longer hurting and I should amble forth in that manner. This scenario begs analogy but most immediately now, I've a new organization goal: I am going to try to cull through the pillow situation and see if I can clear away some of the extra puff I no longer require.

Happy Groundhog Day, all.

A New Low

2010-01-20T11:56:00.001-08:00

Its our third week of Hubby traveling and this morning was a little bumpy. This sister is running out of steam, I'm afraid. My dear friend, the Top Organizer, was kind enough to have me and my girls over for dinner last night. She then hosted the monthly Organizing Group meeting this morning. So this morning, when I arrived in my comfy fleece pants, I was also wearing the same shirt I wore the night prior. Yes, its a new low showing up at the monthly Organizing Group wearing essentially the pajamas that I just slept in. Top Organizer is not easily fooled so I suspect she was on to me rather quickly. Being the good friend that she is, she didn't mention it. It was a walk of shame not unlike the kind you might have in college.

We went around sharing what our personal organizing goal is for the year. Mine was pretty lofty given the circumstances: My personal goal is to be dressed appropriately the next time we meet. As far as my house is concerned, there are a number of projects that I can tackle in the name of organizing. There so many, like Oreo cookies, its hard to choose just one. Every closet, the basement that houses years worth of toys, cull through the linens and towels, clean out junk drawer #3, the one in the butcher block. Its like Sorcerer Mickey Mouse and the magical brooms that keep coming with the buckets of water, my organizing to do list is an endless stream I have no hope of truly stemming.

Its clear to me, regardless of my organizational challenges, I needed to be there today. This gal needed a little time with the ladies, even if it was to laugh at the sad state of affairs that was me. Or talk about the tragedy unfolding in Haiti, the panic when your house alarm goes off in the middle of the night, the joys and heartbreaks of parenting as best as we can every day. Oh yeah, and organizing, we talk about organizing and cooking, fitness and nutrition. Ultimately, because I have so little to offer by way of organizing, I ended up sharing my very embarrassing story that makes me laugh so hard I can't talk. Long story short: I have strong evidence that leads me to believe that when threatened, I have more fight in me than flight.

Every group needs their black sheep, the wanna-be who thinks by just showing up, some transference of said quality might occur. I'm holding out hope. In the meantime, I like to think I am the comic relief, the foil for our group. You might think you had a bad morning, but I am guessing you didn't show up at an Organizing Group in your PJs.

In other news, I am pleased to report that after all of my complaining, my new hero, Johnny the Snowplow Fairy, snowplowed our formerly bedraggled driveway. So as far as my neighbors are concerned, I'm already improving.

The Snowblower Chronicles

2010-01-19T07:50:00.001-08:00

Despite the fact that it is snowing AGAIN today, I am not going to complain. Nope, not me. I am not going to complain that once again I got that grandaddy of a snowblower to start, but now it spews rust colored puffs of stinky exhaust and sputters helplessly. It rides on top of the snow, blowing nothing away, leaving a solidified path of crusty, icy packed snow that won't melt until March. That $2000 debacle that is my snowblower has once again failed me and serves as a reminder that the next time we should really take care that the person who is going to use the snowblower should be able to use it without risking life and limb. Also, it should work consistently in the snow. I know, I have high expectations, but I do believe if the one single thing you are called to do in your existence is blow snow, and you fail to do that, then you are a big, fat, (expensive) letdown. Kind of like the toilet that doesn't flush solid waste, which my family has up in the vacation cottage in Maine.

I'm not going to complain that anybody who looks at my driveway has no question that a single woman here has clearly struggled to clear the absolute minimum. I'm only single a few more days, but my driveway will look like this for at least a few weeks, until a thaw comes through.

No, I'm not going to complain because who wants to read that?

Not That Kind of Post

2010-01-18T11:54:00.000-08:00

I bet you think that I am going to complain that we had 5 more inches of snow dumped on our driveway, while Hubby is away, leaving me to try to cajole our persnickety snow blower to help this girl out to no avail. Nope, this is not that kind of post.

Even though we did get some snow, we managed to get out and visit our dear buddies up the street, thus allowing the kids to play and the Moms to talk. This was just what I need on this, week 3 of January travel for Hubby. During our visit, Eldest Daughter managed to spill a glass of milk on both her head and the floor, as she was clearing her space after lunch and tried to balance several items on her head. That incident notwithstanding, we had a delightful time, and nobody was bent out of joint over the spill, thank you Tagged Penguin for your even-keel. Milk makes your hair and skin soft, I was told. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, and likewise, when life spills a glass of milk on your head, call it a milk bath.

This post is going to be about how suddenly important I have become. I know that I am important because in the last three days I have received phone calls from some really important people, like Scott Brown, Joe Kennedy the libertarian (not to be confused with Joe Kennedy the liberal, two very different people), Martha Coakley, Curt Schilling, and my personal favorite, Bill Clinton. I could listen to Bill Clinton read a User's Manual for a dishwasher, he is almost hypnotic. I also received some phone calls from lesser important people, like Aila Brown (Scott Brown's daughter) and "Lisa". Sadly, I did not receive a phone call from Barack Obama, but a friend reported that she did. Everybody, it seems, wants to tell me how to vote.

We here in Massachusetts are on the cusp of an election for state Senator to replace Ted Kennedy's vacancy. Massachusetts is considered a Democratic stronghold, and the current race is tight. Additionally, given how vital the Senate is in terms of getting current initiatives through, like healthcare reform and government bailouts to name just two, this seat is most certainly hot. Both Barack Obama and Rudolph Giuliani have stumped in state for their parties' respective candidate.

I have received so many phone calls in the last few days, its gone straight to my head.

I want to make decrees and pass laws. I want the center of the meat, cushions on the seat, houses on the street where its sunny, as the song goes. And yet, I know this power trip will be short-lived. After election day, me and my opinions will be cast aside, and my phone will stop ringing. This must be what it is like for those in New Hampshire. Every four years they are courted, told their opinions are of the utmost importance, only to be dropped like hot potato until the next Presidential election. Its tantamount to a political one-night-stand. Do I think Martha Coakley will stay and cuddle after I cast my vote? Unlikely, she doesn't strike me as the cuddling type. The same goes for Scott Brown and Joe Kennedy the libertarian not librarian. Love 'em and leave 'em makes me want to pour a cup of milk on somebody's head.

Too Good To Not Share

2010-01-14T17:25:00.000-08:00

In the last few years, specifically during the last seven years since I became a mother, I have taken the following classes, in no particular order:

Grant writing
Web design
Tap dancing
Guitar lessons
Bargain window treatments
Education Policy
Silk knotting, jewelry making
Wire work, jewelry making
Intro to jewelry making
Introductory Sewing
Sew a jacket/sewing convention
How To Get Published

Suffice to say, I like to learn. Also suffice to say, I have varied interests, so varied in fact one could make the argument that I am a tad scattered, without a real focus. The above classes are in addition to whatever professional conferences and classes I have taken in my vocation as a School Psychologist. The third and final conclusion here being, I have spent a lot of time in classrooms and schools, as a student and as a practitioner.

I am about to return to the classroom again, this time taking a class on Journalism and the Constitution. Returning to the classroom as a -ahem- mature student, after several years out of school is an experience. It takes equal parts gumption and naivete. Sometimes, during moments when I possess both of these qualities, I sign up for a class.

In the event that you or someone you know might return to school in the near future, I offer the following tip as it is too good to not share. My good friend, and soon-to-be-classmate-again!, Old Soul, tipped me off to this fantastic website,textbooks.com.

I ordered two textbooks for under twenty dollars. One of these textbooks was originally 130 bucks! But at textbooks.com, I got a used version for just over 8 dollars! Just click and order, easy as pie, books are delivered in less than a week. This website would have made things so much easier and cheaper back when I was in school. After I walked three miles in the snow, uphill both ways, I would have been able to buy and sell textbooks (although we used charcoal and slate by candlelight at the time) for a fraction of the cost and headache that it was back in my day.

Apparently Amazon has a similar service, which I have not yet used, so I cannot comment.

Not everybody walks a straight path on the journey towards what you want to be when you grow up. Some might take a winding path, or turn down a way unexpected. Where exactly I am heading, I can't say, but I hope to know it when I get there. I'll keep you posted, with little helpful tips like textbooks.com, in case you too are a work in progress.

Going Green

2010-01-05T12:19:00.000-08:00

I was at Border's bookstore today, looking for some of the books that I will need for my upcoming Journalism class. One of the books required is the classic "Elements of Style" by Strunk and White. We actually own this book, as Hubby was an English major in college, but I can't find it anywhere, so I need to invest in a new one. That last sentence is completely predictable.

While visiting Border's I was approached by one of the salespeople who asked if I would like some assistance finding something in particular.

"Um, sure....I'm looking for Strunk and White's..."

That's as far as I got, at which point the salesman grinned, turned happily on his heels and verily chirped, "Right over here!" Notwithstanding that his last name might also be either Strunk or White, he seemed unusually pleased in my selection. When we reached the aisle, he handed me the book, chuckled and said, "I wasn't expecting you to ask for this!" Then off he went, before I could indulge him, and myself, in what he thought I was going to ask for. I think the following were more in line with his expectations:

"Where are the Oprah Book club picks?"
"Where are the cookbooks/decorating/craft books?"
"Where is that book, Tearless Toilet Training?"
"Where is the self-help section?"

I was decked out in my usual practical Mom sporty look, with baseball hat and ample fleece, so perhaps he thought I'd be interested in a book of hiking trails? Or perhaps What Not To Wear books?

Regardless of what he was implying, I felt oddly complimented. I'm not always what I look like! I'm the unexpected!

Later, I felt less complimented, though after some reflection it seems to me he was simply judging this book by her cover: a thirty something woman with a child in tow, obviously not professional at that particular moment.

To be fair, my conversation with this man was brief, and who knows what he was expecting? I might be reading all sorts of unintended sentiments. Call me sensitive.
Sometimes I AM looking for Oprah's book selections, or self-help books, the completely expected. I can safely say, however, that I never ever look for cookbooks, but that is unique to me and my culinary ineptitude commingled with genuine disinterest.

This past weekend we as a family went to see one of my most favorite musicals, "Wicked." The show was great, and our seats were spectacular. Most spectacular was that our children, ages 4 and 7, stayed seated and quiet throughout the entire production. This was not children's theater, and only one hairy eyeball (mine) was required.

One of the big songs in "Wicked" is "Defying Gravity", a song that brings me to tears every time I hear it. Idina Menzel, the original Elphaba, can hit notes that just reach down and ring my very soul. My wedding song is actually a song from the musical "Rent", in which she originally starred. We go way back, Idina and I.

I listened to "Defying Gravity" almost every day in the weeks and months leading up to my departure at a certain job. There were many reasons that I left that job, and I don't regret the decision as painful and complicated as it was. This song speaks to shirking off what hold you back despite expectations:

"So if you care to find me
Look to the western sky!
As someone told me lately:
"Ev'ryone deserves the chance to fly!"
And if I'm flying solo
At least I'm flying free
To those who'd ground me
Take a message back from me
Tell them how I am
Defying gravity
I'm flying high
Defying gravity
And soon I'll match them in renown
And nobody in all of Oz
No Wizard that there is or was
Is ever gonna bring me down!"

I have been humming this song again recently, both because of seeing the show again and because I've had some time to reflect on my job status. 2010 is my Year of Hope.

Also I want to go back to Border's and levitate right there in front of the salesman and sing this for him so he knows that "Defying Gravity" is not a song about certain body parts after a certain age, although that's a comical interpretation. Its about the fact that you can't assume what book a person is interested in without listening to them first. Liberation from arbitrary expectations can be at once scary and necessary for a happy spirit.

One of the reasons I love my lime green shoes is because I feel I am actually channelling Elphie, in all her witch green strength. All I need is a broom in the Western Sky.

Below is a clip when Idina sang live and in costume on Dave Letterman. The sound isn't great, but her voice is so much better here than in the Tony clip available on Youtube:

Defying Gravity on Dave Letterman

What's Left In Pandora's Box

2009-12-30T16:03:00.000-08:00

Tonight, our family will be going over to a friend's house for their annual New Year's Eve Party. The kids wear their pajamas and watch Scooby Doo in the basement while the parents toast to the new year upstairs. The family lives in our town, so the travel is minimal, and everybody is home by 9:00 PM. It's safe, family fun. This year, we are trying something new at the party: Trivia. Hubby and I have selected the Literature category. We need to devise five literature-based questions that are neither too easy nor too difficult to present to the party. In researching our questions, I came across this little gem that seems so appropriate this day:

Q. What was left in Pandora's box after she released misery and evil?
A. Hope

As 2010 dawns, I read that home sales, in our state, actually increased last month. Joblessness is slowing, possibly even declining. H1N1 isn't nearly as terrible or contagious, buying us all a little more time to tighten up on the Pandemic Health Crisis Plan. Closer to home, Hubby is healthy, my good buddy Tagged Penguin is on the mend and practically bionic thanks to her gussied-up heart. Eldest Daughter has started to read, really truly read. I am going to take a Journalism class this Spring and see my other good buddy, she whom I call Old Soul, on a regular basis at this class.

There are a million other things to make me smile, giggle, sigh contentedly today, not the least of which are my new kicks I got from LL Bean thanks to some strategic returns. Behold:

They are from El Naturalista, a brand that you can really support. They are an environmentally friendly, socially conscious company. These clogs are super comfy and best of all - lime green. Who has lime green shoes? Nobody but me! And I love them! I think they put the hip in hippy.

Want to chuckle with me? Look at these two goofballs palling around the mall, after a trip to the American Girl Cafe for a little birthday visit:

I had many good reads this past year. I am hereby announcing my favorite read of 2009. It doesn't necessarily mean that the book was released in 2009, but that is the year that I read it. The last three years of LMc's Best Reads is now its own little box on the right.

My favorite book of 2009:
Those Who Save Us by Jenna Blum

Jenna Blum is a local writer, that is, she teaches in Massachusetts (Grubb Street and Boston University). Her novel tells the story of Anna Schlemmer, a woman who lived in Nazi Germany around World War II. How she and her young daughter, Trudy, made it through the war and eventually relocated to America involves a legacy of secrets that Anna hasn't uttered to another soul in the fifty years that have passed. Now an adult, Trudy interviews her mother to learn more about German survivors of the war. Are they Nazi sympathizers? Opportunists? Are they amoral? Immoral? Frightened? Ignorant? What will happen if Anna finally speaks the unspoken, and what does it mean for both Anna and Trudy to hear her secrets?

There are some tough scenes in this book - Nazis do not make for light reading - but it is a wonderfully written story with embedded German culture, language and history.

I'm no literary critic, not in the formal sense, but there you have it.

I'm thinking that 2010 is the Year of Hope, what's left in Pandora's box after 2009. That's the feeling I get from this vantage point, looking at the year to come before it even starts. The audacity of it all.

Birthday Boy

2009-12-20T16:10:00.000-08:00

Today is Hubby's birthday. That's right, his birthday is five days before Christmas, and despite the fact that we have been together for 17 years, his birthday upsets my applecart every year. I'm not sure when I am going to start coping better with this month. You'd think I would have learned how to do so by now.

The main reason is that tomorrow, December 21st, four days before Christmas, I am back to square one for his gifts, as I just gave him all the gifts that I had accrued so far today, his birthday. Its impossible to get ahead.

Also, we have to make sure he gets his due, which he deserves. We take care to wrap his presents in birthday paper, not Christmas paper, and decorate accordingly, have special birthday dinner and proper birthday dessert, the whole works, in the midst, the very week that Christmas descends.

Here is the birthday boy:

A giant snowstorm came through today, and he was home to snow blow. That never happens! You'll notice that the photographer (me) is warm and toasty inside when taking this picture.

The girls and I made some birthday cookies in his honor. Eldest Daughter used the cookie dough like clay. Julia Child's maiden name was McWilliams, something my family loves to declare. The irony is obvious:

In the afternoon, I went snowshoeing by myself. It was heavenly.

For Hubby's birthday outing, we took the kids to the Yankee Candle flagship Shoppe in Deerfield, Mass. It's lovely, and a nice holiday-inspired trip for the family around this time of year, without too much commercialism and hype.

I let Eldest Daughter take a picture of us on the thrones. I call this, "I only got half of you, Dad."

And then the girls took a turn. Eldest Daughter is pretending to be a portly King, Youngest Daughter is acting like a demure Queen. This is what happens when two theater geeks mate.

In the end, I ended up loving Hubby's birthday this year. He has been home for the last few days, which as made my general attitude much improved.

But also, he had his six month follow-up check this week. Both ultrasound and blood testing indicate that there is no thyroid nor cancer remaining, and the likelihood of cancer recurrence is extremely low. It's a day to celebrate indeed.

Mammary Lane

2009-12-16T18:34:00.000-08:00

I eyed my nemesis, menacingly I hoped, as I circled the behemoth, lest it suddenly lunge. I want it in my eyesight, in my cross hairs.

So my worthy opponent, we meet again. Heheheh.

I swivel, careful to keep my back to the exit, and my eyes on the enemy before me.

Its been awhile since we have tangled, and I don’t always emerge the victor in our skirmishes. Nay, I have walked away from this monster injured and defeated before. I knew this day would come when we would have to dance again.

Lets make this clear: I don’t like you, we are not friends. You hurt me.

I don’t believe your hype. You are too imposing, unreasonable, surly. I dread you and all that is related to you. I avoid you whenever possible.

I performed this mental soliloquy twice this past week. The first time was on Wednesday, when the first snow storm of the season blew in and left over seven inches of snow in its wake. The kids were home because it was a snow day, and Hubby was out of town, leaving me to single handedly clear our driveway with the dreadful snow blower. Last year, under similar circumstances, I tried to snow blow our driveway with our 150 pound unwieldy, uncooperative beast of a snow blower. Loyal readers might remember this because I ended up throwing my back out and endured a subsequent visit to the local Emergency Room at 11:00 at night and months of physical therapy. I also almost took out my next door neighbor, crashed the snow blower into both my mailbox and my car, and succeeded in shooting freezing snow into my own face multiple times. It was not a pretty picture.

This time, once bitten and twice shy, I grabbed the snow blower by the reins and took to the driveway with as much courage as I could muster. Despite my misgivings and worry, I was the only way out of this mess. I looked my fear in the face, and refused to blink.

Its just you and I, mano a mano.

After a few passes, it became clear that the mighty snow blower was not going to matter much, the snow was too heavy and thick. The snow blower just rode on top of the snow.

The mighty have fallen.

I returned the snow blower to its resting place, grabbed a shovel and cleared a path from the door to the car and from the car to the street. If I am going to throw my back out this winter, it will be the old fashioned way. Last winter I was afraid of looking like a helpless person incapable of clearing their own driveway simply because the man of the house was unavailable. This winter, I don’t care if my driveway looks inhospitable or unkempt. There are worse maladies than a jagged and ragged driveway.

On Friday, I had encounter with another old adversary, the fear inducing machine of modern technology, the mammogram machine.

Again, I jousted with my enemy, my fear.

Hello again. What? Not happy to see me again, my dear? Well, the feeling is mutual. I loathe you.

In my mental drama, I am Luke and this enemy is Darth Vader. I am Harry Potter, and before me is You-Know-Who. I am David, it is Goliath.

Prepare to meet your doom. (I do a little ‘flick-flick’ like come hither you fool, a la “The Matrix”).

Cancer has taken a lot from my family of origin. Indeed, cancer is as much a part of my family legacy as are freckles and story-telling. If I am honest, I’ll tell you that cancer sits on my shoulder, waiting.

Cancer has stolen some family members before their time. It plagues other family members now, those with children still young and needing, those who have loved ones and friends who would be adrift and bereft without them. Cancer visited my home this past year, as well as friends of friends, aquaintances.

You scare me. You terrify me. But I will not submit.

So again I looked down the barrel of this particular gun, swallowed my fear and allowed my mammaries to be squashed flat and x-rayed. Again, I refused to blink in the face of fear, knowing that the only way to the other side was through me.

I sat in a humble waiting room in a drafty hospital johnnie, knowing that of the six women that were also waiting with me, at least one of us will eventually carry the diagnosis of breast cancer. We are called in by the technologist, to either repeat the procedure, told to follow-up with our doctor, or if we are lucky, get a reprieve until the next time - a reprieve, a pass, a golden ticket.

Take that! And that! HIIII-YAHHHHH!!!! (Imagine me levitating/running/scaling the wall with kicks and hits like they do in "Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon." Imagine light sabers, too).

There are ways to manage these visits. I employ my two favorite coping mechanisms, denial and humor. Firstly, I just ignore the date etched on the calendar. I simply do not allow myself to think about these checks until about 24 hours beforehand. For humor, this past visit I brought an old book by Bill Bryson. It is impossible to not laugh when you read Bill Bryson, even sitting in a drafty hospital johnnie.

Also, I have silly internal monologues with inanimate objects, projecting my hostility and fear elsewhere.

Until the next time.

Don’t knock it until you have tried it.

Believe You Me

2009-12-06T06:48:00.000-08:00

According to the Federal Trade Commission guidelines, effective 12/1/2009, a blog author must disclose any and all goods, services, freebies, and the like received as payment.

Allow me to declare once and for all, I receive not one red cent, no goods, no services, nothing for this or any other blog with which I am connected.

As I am completely untethered by any remuneration, it stands to follow that my endorsements, as many or as few as they are, come from the heart. Nobody owns my opinions but me, and I owe nothing. So when I say that the movie "Milk", starring Sean Penn, based on the life of Harvey Milk, the first openly gay elected official, later assassinated, is a Must See picture, you just have to believe me.

When I tell you that the American Girl business and business plan is nothing short of brilliant and amazing, I beg of you, please just listen. Lord knows I got nothing for free from my recent visit to the American Girl Store and Bistro, except for a picture I shot of about 40 people standing in the rain, waiting for the doors to open. You have heard it from me: We should pool our meager funds together and buy some stock in this brand because its got to be making a pretty penny. Believe me on this.

When I tell you that 2/3 of all US businesses report that they research potential employees on the Internet, and thus, people should be very very careful as to what they post, as well as what is posted in association with or can be connected to them, you just have to believe me. Its not hard to find people on the Internet, and so if you post pictures or words that might not be savory, please be forewarned. Someday you might find yourself haunting yourself. I'm a Big Sister, and so I tell you this for your own well being and protection. I might not be your Big Sister, but I look out for you nonetheless. Feel free to forward to others who need a Big Sister. I've always been a Big Sister, and yes it can be tiring and thankless but I don't know any other way to be.

Big sisters love their younger sisters very much, its a steely, intense bond. When a younger sister suffers, the big sister also suffers, and viscerally, mightily, from the depth of their being they suffer. Eventually, the little sister will take care of the big sister. That's the way the world is supposed to work. When this assumption is turned on its head, and for some reason the world doesn't abide by this truism, its unnatural and devastating. I'm thoroughly grieved by this specter tonight. Believe me.

When I relate that you shouldn't put Crocks shoes in the clothes dryer because they shrivel up like raisins, please don't ask how I know this. Just accept it as truth.

In my next life, when I get my MBA, I will study the amazing brand and business in-depth, The American Girl. And if I happen to make some money from my thesis "How To Make A Wholesome Buck And Then Some", I will have to post it on this here blog, apropos of the regulations.

Until then, you just have to believe me.

On Day 26/28

2009-12-02T06:36:00.000-08:00

When Hubby says, “Why don’t you go for a run?” this is code for: You are driving me crazy, go get some endorphins and Zen, will you already?! We have been married for almost ten years, and so one must honor and respect the little strategies that keep this boat afloat. “Why don’t you go for a run?” is one of those strategies that work for us.

For kicks lets just call this Day 26/28 and I am begrudging of all. The house is messy, the kids are loud. I am grouchy, slogging. It’s cold outside, wet, darker than I prefer. So I gear up to go out for a run, but on Day 26/28, I’m not happy about it. Its like a booster shot that I know I need but I still don’t want it, pout, stomp.

My head is heavy, but my feet have to follow where it goes, so down the hill we all trot, including the little black cloud that seems to follow me on roughly Days 21-28/28. Because its Day 26/28, my mood is black, and I can only focus on desolate and desperate lyrics, “please take me away from here.”

I bang a left, bang a right, my thoughts are traveling, my mind is rearranging, and I’m at my local park, surrounded by fresh air, by nature. There are other people there and we nod to each other, people running, walking, sometimes skating, playing basketball, people with dogs and children, people strolling hand in hand with their paramour. I’ve seen a father comfort his distraught teenage son in this park. I rescued an elderly woman who fell in a snow bank and couldn’t get up in this park. I love this park.

I decide, like I always do, to go around the park one more lap.

There is where my kids play at the park, there is where we went kite flying last Spring. I hear birds now, and I think I know how to finish that last piece of writing I was working on last night. I rehash “New Moon” – again. I choreograph, in my mind, if I was in the next episode of “Glee”, what song I would want to sing, what story line I would employ. Who should be the next guest star, Taye Diggs or Christopher Walkin? Why hasn’t Rosie O’Donnell been on “Glee” yet?

And now, as I return home, about 25 minutes into my run, a funny thing has happened. That song I like, the one I heard when I started this run, is playing on another channel. And now, I barely hear please take me away from here. Now I hear all the other parts, the quirky synth, the funny lyrics,

I get a thousand hugs, from ten thousand lightening bugs!
I’d like to make myself believe, that planet earth….. turns….. slow…..ly….., its hard to say that I’d rather stay awake when I’m asleep, ‘cause everything is never as it seems.

Did you hear that neat chord change? I should give that a try on my guitar. Maybe I’ll sing and play my guitar when I’m on “Glee”!

I’m home, in front of my little house, and one of my little sweeties is peeking out of the window looking at me, happy, happy that I have returned, like I always do. “Hi Mom!”, she yells out the door.

Running: cheaper than Prozac, quicker and easier than a vacation.

Owl City - Fireflies
Uploaded by UniversalMusicGroup. - Watch more music videos, in HD!

The Right To Be Ridiculous Is Something That I Hold Dear

2009-11-22T13:44:00.000-08:00

I seem to have been bitten by the vampire bug.

I went to see "New Moon" this past weekend. Its truly amazing how much time my friend, the Tagged Penguin, and I talk about this story, with sidebars about politics, religion, archetypes, gender roles and stereotypes, romance versus love and how all those elements relate to the Twilight series. We are two women of a certain age, married mothers who are too old for this sort of nonsense I tell you.

After the movie, I start to pick apart the elements on a feasibility scale, like why didn't they just swim to Italy? Swimming across the Atlantic and Mediterranean oceans has to be quicker than flying by plane, I think. If you are a vampire.

Oh right, this is fantasy. Feasibility is hereby suspended.

But did Bella pick the right one? My friend persists with this question, no answer apparently sufficient, which leads us to discuss only if she mentally and emotionally stops aging when she is transformed into a vampire at age 19. Its unclear in the books, but we think that if her mental age continues to mature, then she should have left the vampire for the werewolf. They can grow older together.

See? This is embarrassing.

And now I'm on a roll.
Edward, why do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Edward, mi amore, watches over his beloved while she is sleeping. She gets her full 8plus hours of shuteye while he makes sure nothing interrupts her sleep. I am so envious of this, sleeping while somebody else does the watchful waiting and worrying. Edward totally protects Bella, and for an anxious person in anxious times, protection fantasy is AOK and completely attractive. This vampire is so cool and yet he falls for decidedly uncool, lesser attractive quirky girl, something most of us can relate to in some fashion, I like to believe that anyway.

I heard recently that the obsession with vampires is akin to getting the baddest hickey from the baddest bad boy. If this is wrong, I don't want to be right!

So, in this the week of gratitude, let me say unequivocally that I am grateful for Edward Cullen, who reminds me of young love and heartbreak, who is so cultured and educated, moody and mysterious. I am grateful that I grew up and married an educated, kind-hearted, even-keeled man who has a regular appetite for regular food, and sleeps next to me at night, rather than hunting for blood in the shadows of darkness. I am grateful for books that let me escape. I am grateful for friends who accompany me, escort me, even encourage me in my strange overthinks, who can go tit-for-tat in ridiculous, topic-jumping conversations.

Movie #3 starts filming soon!

Nanowrimo Update: Halfway Point

2009-11-17T05:54:00.000-08:00

The Nanowrimo contest just passed the midway point, meaning that I should have at least 25,000 words down in order to make the 50,000 word goal at the end of November. Sadly, I am currently somewhat below that benchmark, just around 17,000 words. I am happy to report, however, that my current word count is 17,000 words more than I had on November 1!

I don't think that this will be my year to fulfill the Nanowrimo mission, but I'm not ready to wave the white flag of surrender just yet either. I'm going to keep going and see where I land with this little story, even if it is below 50,000 words.

The process of writing a novel is, well, novel for me. Its been interesting to see how the pieces come together. Occasionally, the minute I wrote a bit, I thought Oh, so that's whats going to happen.

Hindsight being 20/20, I now realize that November is not the best month to try to write a novel. In my school system there are five extra days off from school, including the Thanksgiving holiday. That translates to five extra days that the kids are home from school. That alone is not conducive to prolific writing. My writing group has bit by bit dropped out, for various personal and valid reasons. I haven't made it to one "write in" session, mostly because I am typically accompanied by a four year old during the scheduled times.

Other things get in my way of just sitting down and banging out a few thousand words. Like the visitation of H1N1, or close relative, early in the month. Sometimes I feel compelled to feed my progeny. They require care and attention, like drives to gymnastics lessons, visits to the dentist, assistance with homework and the like. Furthermore, they talk a lot, and make noise which really interrupts my flow. You might be surprised how listening to the repeated chorus of "B-I-N-G-O" can deflate any intention of writing the next great American novel. Additionally, if I have some free time, I don't necessarily write. I visit other blogs or read the newspaper or this month's bookclub choice. More often than not, I will try to get outside for a run, or practice my guitar, another fledgling interest for me. My F chord is so tragically bad and my C chord is laborious, but I keep plucking away. Improvement is just around the corner, I can smell it, and soon I'll hear it too.

I don't have the life or temperament to be so singularly focused for a task such as Ninowrimo, it seems. Again, I'll keep plucking away.

To that end, thanks for inspirational song lyrics forwarded by folks. My story is at a standstill and I could really use something - anything - to get it moving again. What's your current muse? If you care to share, let me know.

Now I Have Seen Everything

2009-11-11T17:09:00.000-08:00

Today, I can officially say that I have seen everything.

I have been to the pantheon of modern day culture and flabbergasted doesn't even begin to convey my feeling when I saw the lunacy that is the North American suburban mall.

My first stop was the American Girl cafe. A friend of mine, the Top Organizer, agreed to show me just what I have been missing, and I am sure that my facial expression was worth the trip for her. While we all think we are in a recession and people are scraping to get by, the volume and size of bags leaving this store suggests otherwise. I saw adorable girls, decked out in adorable girl-sized Uggs, with their American Girl dolls. These dolls are at least 100 dollars. There is a plethora of accessories for these dolls - like party shoes, bunk beds, and so on. And its all for a price, and a rather steep price at that.

On the second floor, I saw a long line of girls and their respective adults and dolls, the que snaking along until it reached a long counter. On top of the waist high counter were four or five miniature chairs, like what you would expect to see at a hair salon for leprechauns. In each chair, there was a doll being serviced by a doll beautician. I saw dolls getting their hair styled, brushed and cut, as well as, I kid you not, dolls getting facials. These doll treatments cost about 10 - 12 dollars.

I want to remind you that these are dolls. They are not living. Thus their hair doesn't really grow, their skin doesn't really get blemishes or age or sag.

There is a sucker born every minute, and I am guess I am about to become a member of that club because Santa is likely visiting the American Girl store this year. But not before he also hits the Build-A-Bear store, where you can outfit your over-priced bear with a cell phone, wristbands, or a wheelchair.

To be fair, there is a whole lot of stuff you won't see at these establishments - no belly shirts, no hypersexualized anatomically impossible ideals, no bears with guns or bombs.

Just when I was about to finish this sandwich of cynicism and American consumerism, I remembered its Wednesday night, which means my favorite show, "Glee" was on, and this did not disappoint. It was one fantastic episode that included one of my most favorite songs of all time , "Defying Gravity", from the musical "Wicked." Nobody sings that song like Idina Menzel, but there were some interesting tones to the song's meaning when sung by two characters who are not witches. The acoustic version of "Dancing With Myself" sung by Artie, the boy in the wheelchair, was touching too, and the subplot regarding Jane Lynch's character and her disabled sister just brought the whole story home.

These characters on "Glee" aren't real either. Just like American Girls and Build-A-Bear, they are fun diversions and maybe I should just accept them for what they are - good, clean, albeit a little pricey, fun.

A Brief Nanowrimo Update, Week #1

2009-11-09T05:14:00.000-08:00

A brief Nanowrimo update:
As you can see, I have gotten past the 10,000 word mark in my Nanowrimo writing contest. To review, the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel within the month of November. Technically, I should be farther along after the first week, like 4,000 words beyond what I have already. I am about 20% of the way through, with only three more weeks to go.

10, 000 words felt like a lot to write. Unfortunately, as I found out last night when I reviewed everything that I have written, 10, 000 words is a pittance to read. Its nothing, a mere essay. So I have my work cut out for me in that regard. Also, the vast, vast majority of what I have written is quite bad.

I did however, find a way to include that character that I felt thematically fit well, her voice was needed. And now she is in fact a part of the story.

I broke my rule of not writing, "blah, blah, blah", but truly, it was appropriate and related at that juncture. Some rules are meant to be broken.

I personally find a lot of inspiration from song lyrics. If you have a writing prompt, something that will propel a character or plot, please forward to me. Maybe you know a song lyric that will help the cause, and if so please forward. You can either leave a note here on this blog or write me at my personal email address. Lets see if that can help me towards the next 10,000 word mark.

Another Fine Mess: Nanowrimo

2009-11-03T06:25:00.000-08:00

I have had some lapses in judgement recently, one of which was allowing myself to get persuaded to get my hair done with my youngest daughter in tow.

I just went in to make the appointment, but I heard, "We can take you right now!" The stylist beckoned, and since the salon was totally empty, I thought I'd take advantage of this opportunity and squeeze in a haircut. I have never taken one of my children along when getting a haircut, mostly because a haircut requires the client to sit still for a period of time, not something easily done with children. But since this was obviously going to be quick, like I said, the salon was totally empty, I thought we'd give it a whirl.

Almost two hours later, I was still in the chair, getting my haircut. This is not my usual experience. Apparently, this stylist is new, and extremely precise. Every hair on my head was inspected during the process. During my epic haircut, Youngest Daughter received a full manicure with little flowers on each tiny princess finger, a lollipop, four drinks, and a trip to the bathroom. She was pleased as punch other than the two hour confinement. Finally, in almost a full panic state, I extricated myself from the chair, hair still wet, because I had to pick up Eldest Daughter from the bus stop. We ran out so quickly, we had to return to the salon afterward to pay for the service.

"Can you come back tomorrow so we can blow dry it and see the color?", The stylist asked.

I gave it a quick thought and opted for honesty: No, I am sorry. I don't have that kind of time.

And really, who does? Who has time for a two hour haircut?

Another fine mess I've gotten myself into is going to last the entire month of November. I am formally registered for the annual Nanowrimo contest. A friend in my writing group suggested it and I just had to do it too. The gist is that each entrant writes a 50,000 word first draft novel during the month of November. No excuses, no exceptions. You just write your novel organically with no editing. This requires a daily commitment to sit down and write a few pages. I don't have this discipline yet, but I covet it. I also don't have much of a plot yet, so this is going to be painful. So far, this is how things have gone:

Day #1: The day after Halloween, the time changes, and we have a family member visit for the day. Eldest Daughter runs a fever and coughs. Yup, H1N1 is also visiting apparently. The homestead is feeling needy, and not conducive to writing.

Day #2: Eldest Daughter stays home from school due to H1N1 visitation, my malaise lingers.

Day #3: Both kids are home because its a conference day for our school system. Inertia sets in.

This is not looking promising. But no excuses, I tell myself, no excuses! My plotless novel of pabulum will take shape this month, oh yes it will.

Writer, know thyself. I know I will try to wiggle out of this, so I have devised some personal rules. Rule #1 I will not write the words, "Blah, blah, blah", because that doesn't really count. Rule #2 I will not write song lyrics, because that's not really in the spirit of the thing either. Rule #3 I will not copy bus schedules or cooking recipes. The words must be tangentially related to the novel.

And finally, because public humiliation is so particularly motivating, I will keep a word count on this blog to keep me accountable. Wish me luck, and hope for no further lapses of judgement in the month to come.

Two Moms Went Out On A Hike

2009-10-26T12:20:00.000-07:00

This is not the beginning of a bad joke.
Two Moms went out on a hike, in the real honest to goodness wilderness of Northborough, Mass, altitude nothing, attitude everything! We both had some precious free time available, and chose to turn our collective backs on the umpteen piles of laundry and postpone the grocery runs until the afternoon. We chose adventure! We were properly attired, and had provisions (water, baby aspirins, and cell phones). We threw caution to the wind and tried a trail that neither had done before. The map at the trailhead was rather useless, but we reasoned how big can Northborough really be? We were on an adventure...within reason. I needed to be back by 1:00 for preschool pickup, and my worthy accomplice had a child that might or might not find his way to the nurse's office at school. So this was a modest foray.

My worthy accomplice:

This is my own version of a Rorschach test. Please look at the image below and tell me what your first thought is:

My first impression is that of a boogy woogy sperm, but thats just me.

Actually, its a trail marker with the purpose to keep hikers from getting lost. Its supposed to tell you to stay the course. The wavy line suggests indecision, like, you might want to go this way or maybe you might want to go that way, whatever, both might be good. This is not exactly what I want to see on an inaugural hike. I felt I must wiggle on down the road to abide by its directive, and that just made me look silly.

But thats ok, because pretty soon we came across this ultra unclear marker:

North is <---> thataway. Questions? Just keep walking.

Snapshot

2009-10-23T06:31:00.001-07:00

I haven't posted recently, for no reason in particular.

I'll give you a snapshot of our lives.

Eldest Daughter's birthday party is this coming weekend. She is turning seven. She and her Dad made a list of the activities to be included in the birthday party, one of which is making balloon animals. Hubby then invested in a balloon animal-making kit, and has been practicing in anticipation. He is getting pretty good. But he doesn't want to be limited to balloon animals. No, he wants to be a balloon artist and have a menu of balloon creations. In fact, I have heard him watching Youtube videos with balloon creation lessons. Presently, our living room is a menagerie of balloon animals.

This scene is what greets me as I bump down the stairs this morning, where I then wrestle/encourage/goad/cheer/nag two little girls into their clothes, brush their teeth, do their hair, put on their shoes and eat breakfast. I am in no way a morning person and I operate on autopilot until the caffeine kicks in, usually sometime after nine o'clock. Those balloon animals did not help my mood.

This morning, as I was sipping my first cup of coffee, I looked up at the clock. Oh no! Its 40 minutes past the hour! We have got to hustle down to the corner to catch the bus in time, which comes at 45 minutes past the hour. Youngest Daughter has a short stride, and elongates all of our excursions. Also, she is a sweet young thing and doesn't have it in her to rush and muss herself up. Thus, we require ample travel time and this is going to be cutting things a little too close for comfort. I call to the girls to hurry, we've got to get a move on! We quickly zip up coats, put on hats and mittens, get lunch boxes in respective backpacks, and scurry out the door and down the street.

Its eerily quiet at the bus stop. This is unusual, because we live close to the neighborhood school and typically we encounter various neighbors walking to school with their kids. But it looks like we are so late today that we have ultimately missed the bus and thats why there is no activity on the street. After waiting about ten minutes, I tell the girls we have missed the bus and we are going to have to quickly pile in the car to drive Eldest Daughter to school. So we jauntily travel back up the street, pile in the car and get on our seatbelts. I have to run back inside to get a quick coffee refill.

While filling my second cup of coffee I realize that its five minutes before the hour, gosh, we are going to have to rush to get Eldest Daughter to school on time and this detour will almost certainly mean that Youngest Daughter will also be late to school. Wait. I do a double take. Its five of eight o'clock. That can't be right. I check another clock and indeed, its five of eight which means I am a whole hour early.

This explains the eerily quiet street, and lack of bus.

It also means that once again, I have done something ridiculous in full view of my neighbors. And for sure it means I had better have another cup of coffee before I go and let the girls out of the car.

Because These Moments Happen Too

2009-10-09T14:16:00.000-07:00

It is often said that misfortunes happen in threes. I have had times in my life when misfortunes exceeded this number, like sixes, or nines. I guess its the overachiever in me.

The last week and a half has had more than its share of good news and good fortune. If these had all been negative things, then I would have been blogging relentlessly about them. I aspire to be an equal opportunity chronicler here on I've Got My Best Shoes On, so I will share a smattering of the good stuff, too.

Sometimes it takes a bit for me to remember that good things happen too, I just need to know where to look, and to recognize them when they happen.

Eldest Daughter learned to ride a two wheel bicycle this week, and is thrilled. She wants to ride all of the time now. Right after she mastered this new skill, I heard her trying to teach her younger sister how to ride her bicycle, in the sweetest, most supportive voice and manner possible. Moments like that are all I could ever hope for them as siblings.

Youngest Daughter has learned to swim without a bubble. Her teacher, Mr. Donald, has quite a bit of body art, and loves to joke and tease. Her father, also a Donald, also has great capacity for frolic, so I think she feels right at home.

College Roommate had her baby girl, and everybody is healthy.

Younger Sister ran her second marathon, and finished successfully.

The wedding pictures from a recent family member's wedding were posted and they are, without a doubt, the most beautiful wedding pictures I have ever seen. Like Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston wedding pictures, hardly a bad one in the whole package.

Hubby has been home all week.

I saw U2 a few weeks back and once again, they delivered a fantastic show. Also, I started my guitar lessons, and can rock out to Baa Baa Black Sheep like nobody's business.

Because there are sometimes moments like this:

My two sweeties waiting for the school bus.

I'm feeling grateful to see these moments and notice them when they happen.