CrankyCats

My favorite things

2011-12-31T07:47:00.002-05:00

The kitchen is covered in a fine layer of flour and sparkling sugar. The scents of cinnamon, cocoa and vanilla hang in the air. It's the week before Christmas and I've been baking.

This is one of my favorite times of year. I get to stay up late and sip a little brandy or port (ok, sometimes it's bourbon), listening to my favorite music - on headphones so I don't wake up the girls. Over the course of the week I make batch after batch of cookies:

-Fig and walnut biscotti
-Lemon rosemary shortbread
-Pecan crescents
-Drunken fruit and nut bars
-Chai spice balls
-Cappuccino shortbread
-Mexican chocolate balls
-Spritz

The list grows and changes each year.

The purpose of baking all of these cookies is not to eat them myself - in fact I rarely eat cookies while I'm baking them. No, these are to give away to friends and family. Part of the fun during my week of baking is the time I spend poring over recipes after putting the kids to bed. I dig through cookbooks and web recipes, I find notes I've scrawled onto scraps of paper. I make my preliminary list of what I will bake. I try to create a balance - some cookies have fruit, others have nuts or strong spices, and there is always chocolate.

After the list is complete and I've made sure I have all of the supplies I will need, I am ready to bake. I love the stillness of the house as I move through my kitchen, creaming butter, adding sugar, flour, cinnamon, and cocoa. I love shaping the cookies. Each one is a little different. To me, they are beautiful.

While I do love to bake alone, I also make time to share the fun with my girls. I save the spritz cookies for an evening when we can bake together. They love to sprinkle the formed cookies with sparkly sugar and non-pareils. They help me tint the dough green and red to punch out mini Christmas trees and flowers. Often when I bake with them, we make sugar cookies that they can decorate with sticky icing. Those never make it into the gift bags - my girls have no qualms about eating the cookies when they are done baking.

Baking all of the cookies is a big part of the fun, but cookie delivery time is just as wonderful. First, I have to pack up all of the cookies into bags or takeout boxes - it's quite an assembly. Everyone's package gets labeled. Some of the deliveries I do solo but what I most enjoy is to pack the girls into the car and drive around town, looking at holiday light displays and stopping in to visit with friends. We probably stay at each house for only 15 minutes or so before heading back out into the cold to our next stop. Sharing something as simple as a gift of cookies and good cheer with our friends - this is truly one of my favorite things. No fancy presents needed.

And, if you are wondering, these may have been my favorite cookies this year - a new recipe for me - Cappuccino Sails from Judy Rosenberg's cookbook. They are a coffee-laced shortbread cookie dunked first in very dark chocolate and then coated with toasted almonds. Yum.

Power. What's the point?

2011-09-29T20:40:00.006-04:00

Power. It's a complicated thing. In my work, I have power in what I think of as small ways. I have access to money and I've built relationships across the campus where I work. I try to use this particular power to do good by our students. On some days, being able to wield this power is very rewarding but oftentimes just having the power and desire to help is not enough.

Today it was rewarding. I was able to help a student with an emergency scholarship so that she won't have to worry about how she will be able to pay the rest her bill. I like this student. She's smart and she's got that spark that comes from being a quick study in new situations. She will be a leader someday. In fact, I'm sure she is already. I was psyched to feel like I was investing in her future and our collective future.

On other days, having the power to help just frustrates the hell out of you. Last semester I got a call from someone in the college where I work. She told me that she knew of a student who was living out of her car because she didn't have the money to repair it and she lived too far away to make the drive back and forth every day without the fear that she would get stuck somewhere. The staff person who called me explained that the student was very private and had a difficult time reaching out for help.

Well, here was a problem I could fix. I immediately sprang into action. I called my colleague in residence life to see if we could find the student a room. I called my colleague in financial aid to see if we could get her a little more money. I was able to find some scholarship money in one of our funds to supplement the additional aid. Everything was in place, the student just had to call and ask for help.

I waited. She didn't call. It was finals time. I couldn't even imagine the stress of living in a car while trying to study for finals. Days went by. I called the staff person who originally told me about this student. I asked if she'd seen her. She told me that she tried to convince the student to ask for help but that she had decided to "tough it out." I told the staff person that I'd hold onto our plans and set the funds aside for the student and whenever she was ready, all she had to do was call. She never did.

I was so perplexed. I realized how invested I'd become in helping this student whom I'd never even met. I thought I could make everything better for her. I knew who to call. I had a little bit of scholarship money. It could all work out exactly as I planned. I really didn't expect to have this offer of help ignored.

It was an interesting lesson for me. I thought I had the perfect fix. I didn't count on it not working for the student. I realized that it's not enough to have a little power if those you want to help don't want any part of your assistance. I haven't learned not to get too invested in the students but I am trying to understand them better. My way is not always their way and I am not always right. Like most so-called adults, I think I have all of the answers but I don't. All I have is a little bit of power and the desire to help.

March is the bitterest month

2011-03-06T08:04:00.004-05:00

The month of March hits me like an errant wave. It buckles my knees, knocking me down. It threatens to roll me under, sucking out my breath. Each year I find myself struggling against the undertow to get to my feet again.

At least February, despite the ferocity of the cold and threats of blizzard, is the shortest month. You can hold your breath and soon you are on the other side, shaking your head to clear it and holding out hope for the warmth of spring. But instead you find yourself in March, with its 31 long day, some of which are tauntingly warm – maybe even a balmy 55 degrees. But then, to make sure you don’t get too comfortable in your longing for spring, the following day will be sure to drench you in freezing rain, or pile another 6 inches of snow on the tired-looking and dirty snow dunes that still flank all of the roads and driveways.

To be sure, this winter has been especially harsh, making March an even more miserable slog. Our bodies are weary from holding them rigid while we walk through the blowing winds, trying not to fall on the ever-present ice that lines the walkways. Complexions are pale from the want of sunshine; foreheads seem permanently creased in concentration. Even our eyes have adjusted to the dreary palette of white, gray and brown that marks winter. Once March arrives, we are longing for bright colors and gaiety.

We long for something to lift our spirits so we begin to plan. My daughters scour the landscape for signs of spring – a patch of dingy grass, the first snowdrop or crocus. My gardening friends have been scrutinizing seed catalogs, comparing the brightly colored photos of various varieties of produce. For myself, I begin to plan our summer trips – a long weekend at the Cape, a camping trip in New Hampshire, maybe a week on the Rhode Island coast. We don’t have to travel far. We just need a change of scenery, some time by the ocean or in the mountains.

When I start to plan these trips, my spirits finally allow themselves to lift. I begin to imagine a time when the sun actually warms my body, when I don’t have to shrug into a heavy coat and sensible shoes. My toes wiggle in anticipation of digging into soft sand and putting on flip flops. For me, the visions of summer vacation ground me and help me manage to get through another long day in March.

Two Hours

2010-09-08T22:26:00.000-04:00

Today has been a long day. It started when I got up at 4:30 am. Work-related stress has been giving me insomnia this week. Sometimes it's just better to get up and do something rather than lie there thinking about all of the stuff that needs to be done. So, I got up. I made a to do list for work and then I edited a report that needed attention. When the members of my household started to get up, I turned to the task of getting them ready for the day. Lunches and breakfasts were made. Everyone was dressed. Then it was time for day care drop off, which, for a change, went pretty smoothly.

From there I was off to work. I knew I only had a few hours before I had to go to a meeting so I tried to get through as much of that to do list as I could. I also knew that I would have to leave work after that meeting to bring my mother to a doctor's appointment. All morning I was troubled by this feeling of being inconvenienced. I have so much work to do and yet I had promised to go with my mom to any of her doctor's appointments if she ever needed me. She asked. I had to say yes, even if the timing felt bad. You can't say no to the woman who gave birth to you, right?

At 1:00 I rushed out of my office and I rushed halfway across the state to pick her up. I was late, even though I had budgeted in an extra 1/2 hour of travel time. I faced road construction and a closed street right at my usual shortcut, and I must have hit every red light I came across. By the time I got there to pick her up, I felt terrible, I had let her down. As it turned out, I didn't have to worry.

Not only did we make it to her doctor's office with fifteen minutes to spare, but the doctor was running behind so we didn't get to see him at the scheduled time. In fact, we had a two hour wait before he could see us.

Despite the delay, her doctor was lovely. He apologized profusely for being so late. Then he got down to business. He spoke words that I'm sure he's spoken so many times. "There's a mass. We dont't think it's malignant but we have to be sure." I sat there calmly throughout the appointment. I asked appropriate questions. I took notes. After the appointment, we went back to my mom's. Her friend was waiting for her there. I rehashed the entire appointment. "There's a mass. It's probably not cancer but they have to take it out to make sure that it's not." The words felt reassuring.

On the drive home I kept thinking about the two hours we had spent waiting for the doctor. I knew I was supposed to be annoyed that it took so long for him to get to us. He had several family conferences lined up that day. He apologized. I know I was supposed to be annoyed, but really I wasn't. Not at all. We spent the time together talking and laughing. I had a chance to really listen to my mom - not the way I sometimes do, halfheartedly, when I'm on the phone with her and I'm checking my email and the kids are pulling on me. Then I don't really get a chance to listen. But really, it was great, a luxury even, to get to sit with her and talk about our family, what my kids are up to, and even what she's watching on TV.

Before that long drive home, as I got ready to leave her house, my mom slipped me ten bucks. "It's for the gas," she said. "Mom, I don't want this," I replied. But she insisted, so I put it in my pocket. You aren't supposed to say no to your mother, right? I will find a way to slide it back to her. I know it's her way of paying me back for those two hours. But I don't want her money and I wouldn't trade those two hours for anything. Two hours is not such a long time.

Life (or something like it)

2010-08-18T00:33:00.005-04:00

We've decided that on the day we leave for vacation, we won't rush to get out the door. Being in a rush does no one any good, it just makes us more stressed out than we need to be. So, now we have a leisurely breakfast and take our time packing up the car. The girls help put clothes into their suitcase. They choose books and stuffed animals to bring with them. And I don't freak out that the house isn't spotless for our ten year old neighbor who watches the cats while we are gone. These small changes have helped us to ease into vacation.

So, this was the state of things on the Monday in July when we started off for our week at the RI shore. I had dumped the compost before I left, but I completely forgot to deal with the bunch of parsley I'd stuck in a glass of water while I was cooking over the weekend. It stayed on the table all week, the glass now drained of water, the parsley getting yellower and yellower until our return on Saturday.

As the spouse was unpacking the car, I noticed the parsley and was about to dispose of it when a brilliant splash of green with speckles of black and gold caught my eye. There was a big caterpillar among the dried out leaves. I immediately called Nina over to see it. She's very fond of caterpillars, having adopted Jimmy last Memorial Day. She was thrilled at my discovery and went to go get her bug house.

We put the caterpillar inside and I went out to the garden to get some fresh parsley leaves. Nina named this caterpillar Jimmy 2 and we made it as comfortable as we could. I thought it might be a butterfly caterpillar but I wasn't sure what variety. We really had no idea what might happen with this creature that found its way into our house. We've never had good luck keeping fish, so who knew what to expect. We replenished the leaves and cleaned out the poop (and this little guy pooped a lot!) for almost two weeks, at which point we noticed that Jimmy 2 was spending a lot of time hanging out upside down on the top of the bug house.

One morning as we were getting ready for our day, I noticed that Jimmy 2 had entered the chrysalis stage. I was truly surprised when this happened, despite reading Eric Carle's Very Hungry Caterpillar on MANY occasions. I didn't have any idea how much time it might take for the beautiful butterfly to emerge but we were all eagerly waiting to see if it would actually happen.

It's amazing what will work out if you just let things be and don't try to rush them. After a week and a half it happened. I was at work, on the phone with Paul. He had just gotten home with the girls and we were probably talking about what to do about dinner when all of a sudden his voice changed. He sounded genuinely surprised and excited. He said, "Oh my god! There's a butterfly! It's right here on the counter. It's so pretty!"

Whenever I replay this conversation in my head, I smile. It's not often as adults that we let ourselves experience wonder in this way but there is almost no other response I can imagine after witnessing this miraculous transformation.

By the time I got home, the girls were really excited and wanted to help let Jimmy 2 go free. We went to get the neighbors so they could watch. We all gathered around the little bug house. I not-so-gingerly cracked the top off (since Jimmy 2 was now too big to go out through the corked entrance). The lovely black swallowtail butterfly had to be coaxed out of his house. He seemed a bit confused as he sat among the greenery.

Soon he figured it out, spread his wings, and was off into the neighbors' yard before we could even get a photo of him in flight. We watched him go and comforted Nina that we would see him again -- we do have a butterfly garden, after all -- and then we continued on with our lives, although we are not quite the same as before.

Lucky

2010-07-15T08:37:00.006-04:00

This morning I cracked three eggs into a blue ceramic bowl and discovered that two of them had double yolks. Must be my lucky day.

As the girls and I ate breakfast, I told them they each could make a wish because of our lucky eggs. I tried to get Nina to tell me her wish but she knows better than that now. The last time she made a wish, it didn't come true and I told her that some people believe wishes don't work if you say them out loud. So, now she has a second chance and she’s not going to say a word to me about her wish.

This whole incident started me thinking about luck. What is luck and how do we get it? Do we make it for ourselves? Are we born with it? Or is it just about how we view the world?

I hear that advocates of The Secret, that much-touted, Oprah’s list book, believe that if you merely think positively – if you just wish hard enough – then all of your desires will be realized. It’s like the ultimate get-rich-quick scheme (and it seems to be working for the book’s authors). At the same time, these people also believe that you can give yourself cancer with your negative thoughts.

If you want my opinion, this is just bunk. Luck is all a matter of perspective.

One of our family traditions each summer is to spend a weekend on the Cape. We head out towards the end of June when hopes for summer weather are high, but the hotel rates have not yet risen to match them. The girls really look forward to this trip and I’ve written about it before. We always leave our house with high expectations for our long weekend adventure but reality sets in about an hour into the journey. There is something about vacationing with small children that is very challenging. So while we are building really great memories with our kids, we are also trying to keep our sanity while driving four hours in our car and then sharing a small hotel room for three or four days.

Each year, as they get older, the trip will get a little easier. Perhaps one of these times, they won’t flop themselves into the ocean fully clothed within the first five minutes of seeing the beach. Maybe they will eventually learn to use an indoor voice in the hotel’s common breakfast room or maybe I will just ignore the looks I think I’m getting from other guests.

As the mother of these two lovely and rambunctious girls, I typically spend part of the weekend feeling annoyed and frustrated. But this year, just as I was beginning to feel unlucky, we met the family staying two doors down from us at the hotel. There was a single mother with two kids, a boy and a girl. It was clear that the son had some developmental issues and was hard to deal with. But this woman was doing it alone, smiling and patient the whole time. To me it seemed as if she had figured it out, even though you could tell it wasn't easy to deal with her energetic son. She was amazing to watch – calm and loving, where I would probably have been tense, anxious and cranky.

Maybe we do only get as much as we can handle in life. Maybe good luck and bad luck are just flip sides of the same coin. Maybe in those moments when I start to feel unlucky, I should remember to pay attention to the beauty around me.

Watching the girls as they run and play together on the beach, seeing the excitement in Nina’s face as she watches the waves (usually with her mouth open), and the wonder in Rita’s eyes when she figured out that the “statue” in downtown Provincetown was actually a real person (she couldn’t take her eyes away). These are the moments I need to pay attention to. I like to listen to them as they tell each other stories or play pretending games. They are much more relaxed and fun when we don't interfere with a correction or shushing. These two little girls are such a treasure and we are lucky that they look out for each other and love each other so much.

My work is in learning to let go of - or at least loosen - my expectations and be okay with the fact that things are not always going to go exactly as I think I want them to. I have to try to find the beauty in what comes instead of always trying to control it. And, I have to remember that I am lucky.

Snuggle Time

2010-07-02T00:02:00.000-04:00

It's 7:15 a.m. There are dishes in the sink, unfolded laundry in a basket by the chair that we pile the folded clothes onto before we decide we want to wear them, and cat hair tumbleweeds blow freely across the floor. My husband is making the lunches but breakfast still needs to be prepared and I am sitting on the couch under the comfortable heft of my three-year old, while her older sister sits beside me, holding my arm in a vice-like grip. She's trying to train herself to stop pinching me but it's slow-going. They are drinking milk. It's our morning snuggle time. I try to forget about all of the things that aren't getting done around me as I sit, tethered to the couch. I try instead to inhale the smell of my daughter's hair and enjoy the cozy warmth of their little bodies.

This is how most days start at our house and I've learned that when we miss our morning snuggle time, things don't go quite as smoothly as when I surrender to it. Someone eventually starts screaming or refuses to get dressed or brush her hair. These are alternatives that I can do without. It's hard enough to get all of us out the door on time in the morning when things go well.

Despite my knowing that morning snuggle time is the key to peacefully starting our day, it is not in my nature to sit like this. I constantly work at it. I am a chronic putterer. I do my best thinking and problem-solving while meandering around the house putting things in order - doing dishes, folding laundry, sorting socks.

To the casual observer, it may appear that I am simply performing mundane tasks, but in reality, I am solving the world's problems. Okay, that's not true, but I am considering the various predicaments under my jurisdiction at home and at work. My puttering time is typically when creative solutions pop into my head, so I relish it. Besides, when I spend time this way, there are definitely fewer cat hair tumbleweeds in the house.

However, I also know just how important is to make sure that I take the time to really be present for these strong-willed, bright, funny girls. Making space for them to talk and letting them lounge on me without my being distracted is the best gift I can give them, but sometimes I find it so difficult to do. My mind will be racing along at top speed, working on who knows what, and I'll abruptly be pulled back to the present and realize that I have two kids climbing all over me. When I do give them all of my attention, the payoff is so great. Everyone feels happy, heard and valued. Isn't this what we all crave? Why do I struggle so much with giving this gift to my girls? Each day, I have to set an intention to do this small thing because I know it is what really matters for them in the long run.

Sensitive

2010-06-15T08:37:00.025-04:00

The bruise on my forehead is an ugly patchwork of blues and yellows. It will be a week old tomorrow but it's still sensitive to the touch. I try to hide it behind my hair because otherwise people tend to gape and ask questions.

I almost wish I had a more dramatic story to explain what happened because the truth is a bit humiliating. It was raining. I was at the store and wanted to get into the car quickly. I whacked myself in the head with the corner of the car door. Instant swelling. Ugh.

By the time I got home, I had a bump the size of a small hen's egg over my left eye. I'll never forget the look on my husband's face. He was horrified. "Just get me the ice pack," I said. I didn't want the girls to see it because I knew I looked like a monster. But really, how was I going to hide it from them?

At dinner both of my girls had to see the "boo-boo" on my head. Rita, who's three, looked up at it with her mouth wide open. "I can kiss it, Mama," she said. She looked so scared that I had gotten hurt. It was upsetting to see her this worried, and it brought me back to a time when I saw my own mother get hurt and I was equally afraid.

I was probably 12 or 13 at the time. My mother had decided that she wanted to start exercising more regularly, so she took a ride on my sister's ten-speed. Only five minutes later she was back and it was clear that she was hurt. She had been riding along the side of the busy road that ran close to our house. For some reason she was looking over her shoulder and she rode right into a telephone pole. She hit it full force with the side of her face. It was swollen and bruised and she was crying.

I remember feeling very scared and worried. What if she had really done damage? Should we bring her to the hospital? I called my friends down the street and spoke with their mom. I told her what happened and I fully expected her to come down and make everything right, but instead she laughed at me. "She'll be fine," she said. In hindsight, I’m sure she was right but at the time I was really angry at her reaction. My mother was crying and I needed someone to fix it.

Maybe it was because my mother has always been so careful about not showing her emotions, but I was totally freaked out to see her so hurt and upset. It was out of the ordinary and I didn't know what to do with it. I was convinced that she needed to seek immediate medical attention.

So, now I know where my first instinct came from, the one that said that I shouldn’t show my girls the giant bump on my head. It's ingrained in me not to show my kids things that may make them uncomfortable. In the end, it was probably better that they did see it. And, they saw me put ice on it to bring the swelling down.

It seems that the lesson for me here is that it's okay for my kids to see that occasionally one of the grownups in their life may be hurt - physically or emotionally - but that we can (and do) make it through the pain to be okay again. God, who would have thought it would take 40+ years to figure out something that seems so simple?

Going Round and Round

2010-06-08T20:45:00.012-04:00

Work! I'm doing work right now. What is the matter with me? It's my writing night but because I won't be in the office for the next two days, I'm tidying up a bunch of email. This is not what writing night is all about. I am supposed to be sitting here, thinking about witty things that I can write short essays about. And, truth be told, I have a backlog of unfinished posts that I am having trouble finishing. I'm not sure why this is.

My semester as a grad student is finished and most of my big events at work are wrapped up until the fall, but I seem to be spinning my wheels here. I was hoping to spend time this summer writing for fun and maybe trying to publish something (while trying not to get my hopes up on this - plus, I that means I would actually have to finish something and submit it). I have set aside one night a week as writing night where I get together with a friend who is on deadline to finish her dissertation. I also get up early to write three pages of whatever comes to me in the morning.

For the past two weeks, I have been unable to complete anything concrete. I scribble in my notebook or I surf the web. Maybe I am still coming down from a very intense time and I just need to give myself a break. But at some point, I think I just have to write and finish something - and here I was about to go on to say, "or give up on this dream" but then I literally stopped myself and deleted those words before they were finished. I mean, who cares if I don't finish a thing? If I don't create a single, coherent written piece? I just like the act of writing, of choosing words and phrases that go together and linger in my head for a while, that I can see on the screen or on the page.

The act of writing helps me to process things differently than I do when I am just in my head without pen and paper or keyboard. I often end up in a very different place than I imagined I would when I started. It's like somewhere in my brain there's a path I have to follow and it feels comfortable and familiar but I don't know where it leads until I get there - and then when I do get there, I realize that there is still a lot more path ahead. I guess this is my roundabout manifesto on why I need to keep pursuing this act of writing, without judging how or where it's going.

Weaning Myself off Distraction

2010-03-01T23:59:00.003-05:00

I'm trying something new and it may take me a while to get it right...

Between my job and my doctoral program, my workload is at a tipping point. I feel like if I add one more project I will be completely paralyzed and not be able get anything done. At the end of the day, I joke to a colleague, "Well, I'm going to put this wedge under the boulder I've been pushing uphill all day and just come back to it tomorrow." I know that if I miss one day, or lose even an hour or two, it might destabilize the pile of work that I imagine is balancing precariously on the very corner of my desk. One wrong move and it will spill to the floor in a heap.

Thank god I'm not dealing with matters of life and death in my work. I mean, I hope that I'm making some kind of impact, but honestly, if I disappeared tomorrow, things would go on (but I think people would be really pissed that I wasn't there to finish what I started).

Anyway, I digress... The problem here is that I have to modify my work style. For too long I have been able to work more-or-less effectively by multi-tasking my way through the day. I constantly have my email open so that I can respond quickly to any messages. I might be chatting online with someone while proofreading a report, or checking the local news while reading scholarship applications. People constantly stop by my office to gossip or chat about our latest crisis. When I am home reading for class or writing a paper, I always have email and Facebook open. This is no longer working for me. The truth is that I have to get rid of some of these distractions and start tuning out unnecessary things out so I that I can focus on what matters.

First, I dumped Twitter. I hardly ever used it anyway, so this was easy to do. My next step will be to close my email and limit myself to checking it only a few times a day - I know this will be very difficult for me. I am addicted to being online and reachable. Facebook is another distraction and it is one of those things that I know I could live without but I would miss hearing what my punk-rock friends in Providence are up to. I know I can't completely abandon it, but at least I can have rules around when I am on.

Keeping these distractions to a minimum is much harder than I ever thought. I have become used to the instant gratification that comes with our digital lives. I need to know now who is sending me email and who is commenting on my post. When did this happen? It makes me wonder whether I have always had a short attention span or if this is a side effect of trying to do too many things in this life.

I know that if I want to be more thoughtful in my work and with my family, I have to find a way to focus on what is really important. I'm trying to see if I can use my online distractions as a "reward" for staying focused for longer periods of time. But really, this is a slippery slope. It's so easy just to spend half an hour or an hour surfing through the latest non-news posted by my closest 300 friends, leaving witty comments here and there. I've tried to narrow down my friend list but it's harder than you'd think. So, here I am back to square one, trying to find a way to focus on what is important while simultaneously justifying my online addiction...

Perhaps I'll give myself a month to try cutting back on the online distractions. If at the end of March I am still just as sidetracked by the virtual world, I may just give it up in favor of live-only interactions. Of course, I'll still have to keep email, you know, for work...

Sit with it

2010-01-25T22:53:00.008-05:00

Here's a little nugget of wisdom that I need to remember. When events are not going my way or I'm upset, angry or uncomfortable, I have to be able to sit with that experience.

Just like New England weather, if I give it enough time, it will change.

I have difficulty with stillness. I should sit with that...

Overcoming Inertia

2009-12-30T18:55:00.020-05:00

I took some time out this week to go away overnight with a couple of my girlfriends. These are women that I have known for most of my life -- my oldest and dearest friends. We had been thinking about going away for a while and it just worked out that we could all meet for a couple of days during the week between Christmas and New Year's. We all had the same thought that if we had a good time, we'd try to make it an annual adventure. The funny thing is that we all were hesitant to announce this until it was clear that we were going to have a good time -- and we did. I can't remember when I've laughed so much.

So, what does this have to do with inertia?
This adventure with my friends was an example of letting go and being in the present moment. Particularly when you have small children, it can be difficult to feel that you fully live in the world. At least for me, a lot of time is spent worrying -- worrying that they will get hurt, that I am not doing the right thing, that they are being somehow ruined by something that I am doing as a crap parent.

Recently it occurred to me that I have not really been present much in my own life. I've been hovering on the edges, going through the motions and spending time in my head thinking about what could go wrong without really feeling fully integrated in things. I had forgotten how to listen to music. I was afraid of stupid things - like driving into Boston or letting my kids walk on the sidewalk without having to hold my hand. These are little things. I don't want to be afraid of life and I certainly don't want to raise girls who are afraid to live.

Anxiety and fear hold us back. They cause suffering that could be avoided if we could just let go of them. This is what I'd like to try for the new year. I want to be brave and embrace life more fully. I want to live.

But, it's never that simple, is it? We go along in life, following these well-worn grooves that we are accustomed to -- despite the fact that they might feel bad or uncomfortable. We do the same things over and over again because it's what we know. There's a great poem by Portia Nelson, called "Autobiography in Five Short Chapters" that talks about finding a new way. I think I'm on Chapter Three. My goal is to get to Chapter Five sometime in the future.

But, until I am able to find that other street, I am going to focus on living more, moving more, singing more and trying to let joy happen without focusing on doubts and fears.

The Christmas spirit is flagging...

2009-12-13T20:16:00.012-05:00

"Can we try to be thrifty for Christmas this year?" I asked my spouse as he thumbed through the Red Envelope catalog. The truth is I don't know if I can work up the energy to do much in the way of shopping. I'd much rather spend a whole day baking Christmas cookies with the kids than go to the god-awful mall to look for yet another piece of plastic crap that has no meaning.

I usually love Christmas, especially now that I have kids. But, for some reason, this year I am having trouble getting into the spirit of the holidays. Personally, I don't need or want anything. In fact, I'd prefer to get rid of things this year. I've been thinking a lot about how to live life more simply. I would like to subscribe to my friend BJ's philosophy of the gift of nothing but I have a feeling that most of the other people in my life won't understand why I'd want to do this.

I'm not a total scrooge. Santa will visit my house. My daughters have already made their lists. Rita says she wants, "some toys." and Nina tells me, "I placed an order with Santa for a My Little Pony movie." I had no idea that was possible. But, still, I'm going to try to do a little less this year. They are so young and will get so many gifts from all of our extended family, they won't notice if Santa doesn't bring a ton of presents. I hope they will only remember the joy.

A few years ago, when I only had one child, I found the energy to make a bunch of my dad's favorite meals, which I then froze in individual serving containers and presented to him in a big cooler with a bow on it. That was one of the best gifts I've ever given. How can I compete with that this year, when I am exhausted from finishing up all of my course work for the semester on top of everything else?

Maybe I'll get some of that energy and spirit back -- and maybe I won't. Maybe it's time for a change of holiday traditions. If it were entirely up to me, I'd focus more on spending time with the people I love instead of purchasing stuff that they probably don't need or want. Maybe I'll broach this subject with my family on Christmas this year. There's a chance they might feel the same way, right? There's a chance that we can all consider embracing the gift of nothing.

Balance is an illusion

2009-11-08T20:00:00.005-05:00

I know that probably sounds like a cliché by now - a forty-something year old woman complaining that the work-life balance goal is just a fantasy. But, here I sit, at the kitchen table with Rita next to me, playing with Playdoh, while I slog through a stack of reading for my class on Monday night.

It's official, I now work full-time, go to school part-time and try to manage a household containing two little girls and a spouse. There's no 50-50. There are no breaks. It's hard as hell but, at least on some days, I am excited to make it work.

It's true that you have to let some things go when you are trying to do too many things. So, friends, if you were offended by my messy house before, you may want to avoid dropping by now. My Monday babysitter took pity on me last week and folded all the clean laundry that had piled up - now all I have to do is put it away - HAH! - more likely, we'll just pick out what we want to wear from the neat pile on the chair and put it on.

A couple of weeks ago, I felt such dread at the thought of having to finish a paper before class the next day that I told my husband I was going to quit the program. "Okay," he said. This was not a helpful response but he was probably just tired of hearing my gripes. Luckily, I have other friends, those in my doctoral program and others who have finished already and they remind me that I can do it. That it's best not to take things too seriously, to get as much done as you can without freaking out (and papers do get done better that way). To them I say, "Thanks!" To the spouse, I say, "Put away your own underwear!"

Sadness and Love

2009-07-16T23:10:00.010-04:00

The other night I was putting the girls to bed and I was singing them a song I had made up. I sang about how cute and sweet they are and how much I love them. Then I added a line about how sad I'd be if they ever went away. Nina asked me to keep singing to her, so I did. After a few minutes, she looked over at me with her eyes full of tears and her face about to crumple. I stopped singing and asked what she was feeling. She said, "When you sang about how sad you'd be if we went away, it made me so sad. Why did it make me so sad?"

We talked about how sometimes when we love someone so much, it makes us sad to think about not being together. We also talked about the fact that we don't cry just when we are sad but sometimes we even cry when we are happy or because we love someone so much.

This kid is getting so big and she asks these questions that are difficult even for grown ups to understand. All I can do is look on with love (and usually with tears in my eyes), answer her questions as best as I can, and hope that she never questions how much I love her.

56° and raining

2009-06-24T20:27:00.038-04:00

Since March I had been planning a family getaway to the Cape. We were to spend a long weekend in mid-June enjoying the sun and the beach - before it got overrun with tourists. Everything started off well, we began our trip at Edaville Railroad in Carver, MA, where we took a ride on Thomas the Tank Engine. This is the third year in a row that we've done this and it's always fun. We had a great day for it, the sun was shining and the girls were happy and well-behaved. We rode the train then went on some of the other rides at the park. Just as the sky started to darken, we decided to head out for the rest of our weekend on the Cape.

As planned, Rita slept in the car on the drive to the outer reaches of the Cape. We had booked a hotel room in Provincetown for the next three nights. Once we arrived, we decided not to tempt fate by walking around town with two tired kids after an already-full day, so we ordered a pizza and ate it in our hotel room.

The next morning we woke up to gray skies and cool weather. Luckily, I had packed coats and long pants. After breakfast, we spent time wandering around in Provincetown, checking out the shops. We took a walk down to the water just as it started to mist. We were lucky to make it back to the hotel before the heavy rains started.

While the two-year old took a nap with her Papa, Nina and I spent an hour and a half at a coffee shop in town, where I taught her to play bingo, checkers and crazy eights. I was so glad I decided to bring that 7-in-1 game pack along!

The next day we weren't so lucky, it felt cold and it was definitely raining -- not just misty -- and the wind threatened to turn our umbrella inside out. Paul and I joked that the thermometer in the car was broken since it had read 56° since sometime the day before. Still, we were determined to do something with our day; the idea of being stuck in a small hotel room with two little kids was unbearable. So, we struck out for Pilgrim Monument. Completed in 1910, the 252 foot tower marks the spot where the pilgrims (those of the Mayflower) first stopped in their trek to the New World. As we all know, they quickly decided to move on to Plymouth instead, where they are commemorated with a much less impressive ROCK instead of a tower, but there you have it.

Paul and Nina decided to climb all the way to the top of the tower while Rita and I waited in the relative comfort of the museum and gift shop. At first, we did try to go up with them but the wind was howling and blowing rain in through the open windows and Rita put on her best fierce face and said, "No!" I couldn't agree with her more, so down we went. When they got back from their climb, both Paul and Nina said that the wind was so strong at the top that the rain was coming in sideways and Paul had to hold onto Nina so she wouldn't fly out the window.

We also visited the Whydah Pirate Museum for a little while. It's interesting but not enough to hold the attention of two little ones. Although, Nina was fascinated by the rotting pirate in the cage that had been previously hung over the side of the ship. Okay, this one was a reproduction but still, it does capture the imagination.

After lunch, we took a drive so the girls would take a nap. Then we decided that we'd try to go to the beach and at least look at the ocean that we weren't going to get to swim in. We pulled into the lot and parked alongside some other brave souls in rain slickers who just wanted to take a quick walk on the beach. We all got out of the car and started to head towards the path that leads to the shoreline. Once again, Rita decided that she was NOT going to be out in this awful weather. The rain was coming down and the wind whipped so hard that it elicited four-letter words from me unbidden. We headed back to the car. Paul and Nina made an attempt to get to the shore but they didn't get much farther. It was not a beach day.

By now we were beaten down. We had tried, really tried to make the most of a crappy-weather vacation. And, while finding this website was definitely helpful, we really did not have a restful vacation. I haven't even brought up the fact that every night we had a struggle to get the kids to sleep. Being out of our usual routine sends them to a wild and crazy place when it comes to bedtime. Each night, after PJs, brushing teeth and stories, Rita would continually get out of bed and go to the little fridge, open it, take a swig of the milk in her sippy cup, put the cup back and slam the door. She was so proud of herself for figuring out how to open the door. Now the image of our little refrigerator raider is hilarious but in the moment it was pretty infuriating.

We managed to salvage a few good moments during the trip. Playing games with Nina, having a laugh with Paul in the car while the kids were asleep (over I don't even remember what), mostly enjoying one really good meal (that wasn't pizza or hot dogs) while the girls were occupied at the table with crayons, and finishing a really good book in the spare moments I could find, are among the better memories. And, on our last day on the Cape, when we decided to go to the Cape Cod Children's Museum in Mashpee, I spent at least 30 minutes sitting quietly, watching Rita play all by herself with a toy farm. That is beauty and peace.

The Story of Jimmy

2009-05-29T10:50:00.013-04:00

On Memorial Day we took the kids to the local parade where we joined some friends and their kids. While waiting for the parade to start, the kids were poking each other with sticks and running around - at least until they discovered the gypsy moth caterpillars. Nina adopted one and named it Jimmy. For her, it was better than the candy being tossed out at the parade.

On the walk home, Nina kept up a running commentary, "Look, Jimmy, there's the library. Hey, Jimmy, we're on the bridge." She was smitten. When we got home, I made Jimmy a house out of a plastic takeout container with some holes cut in the top. We lined it with a nice, fresh maple leaf.

Nina spent the afternoon helping me in the garden and of course, Jimmy was right there with us. Every so often she would take him out and pet his soft little body and coo at him. At one point, she dropped him in the grass and when she couldn't find him right away, she started to cry, "Mama, you must help me find Jimmy! Where is Jimmy!" Finally I did find him and she was so grateful.

Our neighbors were outside in their garden when we almost lost Jimmy and Nina had already gone over to show him off to them. They have a son who is ten or eleven so they understand the whole obsession with crawly things. The next thing I knew, they had presented Nina with an actual bug house for Jimmy. I really have the best neighbors.

For the next several days, Nina carried Jimmy around, showing him things, talking to him and narrating his activities, "Mama, Jimmy is eating. Shhhh, Mama, don't be so loud, Jimmy is taking a nap." She even brought him to day care for show and tell at circle time. Throughout the week, I kept explaining to her that her pet would not be able to become a moth unless he was able to go into a tree and build a cocoon. She understood this but the idea of his leaving was too painful for her to contemplate.

Finally, on Thursday night, on our way home from dinner - Jimmy came with us in the car, of course - Nina decided it was time to set him free. When we got home, it was starting to get dark and it was cold and rainy. I put on my serious face and went with Nina to the maple tree in our front yard. She slipped Jimmy out of his carrier and put him on the tree. She petted him and kissed him and told him goodbye. Just as we were giving him one last look, she decided she couldn't do it. She looked at me and said, "I'm not ready for him to go yet, Mama." Then she put him, and his chewed up maple leaves, back into the bug house and we went in to get ready for bed.

She proceeded to have a complete melt down that night. She had somehow decided that if we didn't let Jimmy go right away, he was going to die during the night. She insisted that we go back out into the dark, rainy night and set him free. But at the same time, she didn't really want to let him go. This was truly an ordeal for her. She was sobbing and saying that she didn't want him to die and we had to set him free. Being the mean mom that I am, I did not let her go back outside in her PJs to set the caterpillar free. We did all manage to calm down and get some sleep.

At about 6:30 the next morning, Nina was wide awake and ready to go set Jimmy free. She had made her mind up during the night that it was okay to let him go. After we all had breakfast and got dressed, the entire family gathered around the maple tree in our front yard to say goodbye to Jimmy. Once again, Nina stroked him and kissed him goodbye, but this time she was able to let him begin the long crawl up the tree trunk. We all waved and Paul very seriously documented the whole thing on his iPhone. And, while Nina was happy with her decision, she still mourns Jimmy a little bit every day. She even started to cry out of the blue over the weekend and when I asked her what was wrong, she told me, "Mama, I miss Jimmy!"

What is unique?

2009-05-07T12:44:00.010-04:00

This is still a work in progress:

Earlier this week I was asked to answer the question, "What is unique about you?" This was the third in a series of questions that I was asked to answer before attending an orientation session for the doctoral program I will start in the fall.

My first thought was, "I'm a forty year old, middle-class white woman with two kids - there's nothing unique about me," and I still stand by this initial gut response but in the end, I talked about a previous job I had and how it affected me - and still does to this day.

In my early twenties, I thought that I wanted to become a family therapist. In order to test this out, I took a job as direct care staff at a local mental health agency. I had two different positions. Part of the time, I worked one-on-one with teens and young adults who had mental health issues but were able to function in the world. I spent time helping them to have "normal" lives...

At the same time, I also worked at a respite facility. I joke that it's the place you go when you aren't crazy enough to be hospitalized or where you go when you are ready to leave the hospital but not quite ready to go home. I met a lot of different people through this work. It was often difficult to tell who was a client and who was an employee. The work brings interesting people to it - all of them trying to figure out who they are. Some succeeded better than others.

There are many memorable moments from those years, but there is one that sticks out in my mind as an example of the kind of pain people experience and also as an example of just how messed up this job was.

Lorraine came to the respite site one day. She was about my age, mid-twenties, a slender, blonde, lovely girl with an Irish accent. It was hard to figure out what was going on with her but it was evident that she was truly sad - the kind of deep sadness that transcends one's whole being. The only time we saw even a glimmer of light in her eyes was when she spoke about her brother.

Lorraine had attempted to kill herself before she came to us but she was judged to be relatively safe when she was admitted. No one would have guessed that she would take off out the door of the house just as soon as she had the chance, but that's what she did. The next thing I knew, my supervisor dumped a handful of change into my hand and said, "Follow her. And, call us when you can." So, without questioning this charge, that's what I did.

I quickly caught up to Lorraine as she headed down the street. I tried to talk to her but she refused. She quickly crossed the main thoroughfare and I followed (this was pretty scary). She wandered into downtown and I followed. The whole time I kept talking to her. Asking her anything that came into my mind - I don't even remember now what I was saying, I just kept up a steady stream of conversation. At one point, we stopped by this little park and I was sure she was going to talk to me but I think she was just getting tired and confused. Finally, we started heading back to where the respite house was and we found ourselves in front of a convenience store. Lorraine had finally realized that I wasn't leaving her side and she seemed to be ready to come back with me. I stopped at the pay phone to call in and was talking to the shift supervisor when I glanced over at Lorraine and saw that she was trying to cut her wrists with some broken glass she had found on the ground. I don't even have words to describe my dread at that sight.

We ended up in an ambulance, heading to the hospital. The rest of the day is a bit murky but I will never forget how awful it felt to see her cutting herself. Eventually, Lorraine seemed to stabilize, maybe with our help, but who really knows. She left the respite and we thought she went home to be well and live a long life. It came as a shock to me when, about a year later, I saw her obituary in the paper. We can never really know what is going on in someone else's head and how much pain they are in. I won't ever forget that sad young woman and I'll always wonder what else I could have done - although I know that there probably was nothing I could do.

In gratitude

2009-02-05T13:58:00.000-05:00

When I was about 3 1/2 I fell off the jungle gym at my nursery school and split my chin open. There were no wood chips on the playground in the early 70's, just asphalt. The gash required a few stitches and to this day I still have the scar.

I don't remember the incident really. What I do remember is being at the hospital with my mother while I got the stitches. The memory is not clear but I can somewhat recall seeing a large needle and thread. Mostly what I remember is my mom starting to swoon and the nurse bringing her smelling salts. I think I remember this part because it really surprised me to see my mom falter, for just a moment, in the face of a crisis. I always thought of her as perfect.

Now that I'm a mom, it seems amazing to me that this was one of the only times that I can recall seeing my mother drop her guard. She always seemed so certain in her parenting. Of course, now that I am an adult I can see that this really wasn't the case and we talk about what her fears and anxieties were (and still are). But back then, I was convinced that this woman could fix anything.

I remember my mother always being available to us when we were little. She was one of those mothers who embraced the idea that family always comes first. She and my dad raised us to believe that there was nothing we couldn't do if we worked hard at it. We were all expected to behave, do well in school and go to college. I'm sure my mother had to work hard to keep the five of us in line but it never really seemed that way. She is one of those people who is unfailingly loving and accepting of people. She will recognize a person's faults and accept them all the same. She is a true giver who is always taking care of others, often at her own expense. And, she will never admit when she is hurt or upset. She rarely shows a negative emotion.

I used to think these were all admirable qualities but now that I am an adult, I see these great gifts of my mother's as characteristics that also hold her back. I truly appreciate that my mother has this need to care for everyone and to make sure that she is never the cause of their hurt or sadness. But, I also know that these are qualities I don't want to have -- or to pass on to my own daughters. I don't want them to feel like they have to sacrifice themselves completely so that others can be happy. I have tried to do this, because it's how I was raised, but when I attempt to ignore my needs, I end up feeling angry and resentful. I know that I have to take time to do things that are important to me and this self-care will help me to be a better mother. Although, I will admit that I am still working on not feeling guilty when I take time out for myself.

We are all heir to such a jumble of traits from our parents -- no matter how much we try to fight it. I'm convinced that the best we can do is to recognize what we've been given and try to make it work in our own lives. I love my mother for everything she has given me, for the lessons I've learned from her, and for what I choose not to inherit.

You want to do what?!?

2008-12-12T13:37:00.005-05:00

The application has been sitting on my computer's desktop for two weeks now. I look at it every day and contemplate filling it out and submitting it. I think about what I will say in the statement of purpose, why working towards this additional degree will change my life and how the work I intend to do will contribute to a larger goal. But, do I want to do it? Do I want to, at 40, go back to school again?

The last time I went back to school, I was on the cusp of 30. I got a master's degree then and while it was hell doing school full time, I really enjoyed it. Those were two of the best years of my life. Now, here I am ten years later thinking that what I really need is a doctorate. Is it insanity? Is it a midlife crisis? Is it just the nature of working in higher education?

I deal all the time with people who have PhDs. They aren't ALL eggheads living in an ivory tower. Some of them are actually my friends and they assure me that, yes, I'm definitely smart enough to do it. It's really more about stamina, commitment and persistence. Do I really want to commit so much time and energy to getting another degree? Why would I want to do it?

In the class-driven society in which I work, having a doctorate is definitely an asset. It opens the door to more career possibilities. It certainly makes it easier to deal with faculty if they realize that I've had to write a dissertation too. But, to the outside world, where most of my work is focused, it really makes not one bit of difference.

On the other hand, I love school. I've always loved school. In an earlier post I talked about begging to go to school when I was three. I truly enjoy learning, reading, discussion and writing. After I got my master's I worked at a number of jobs while scheming how I might come back and work at the University, because this is where I feel most comfortable. And, if I came back, I would be able to take classes for fun. But I've been working here for close to five years now and I've never taken a class for fun. Instead, I'm thinking about applying to a formal degree program.

Isn't it enough for me to work full time in the midst of all of this learning, taking a fun class every now and again? I mean, I do work full time plus I have two small children. If I take on one more official responsibility, will I just lose my mind?

To help me decide whether to fill out the application and set this whole process in motion, I took a class this semester in the program where I would be getting this doctorate. Overall, it's been a lot of work and a lot of juggling to figure out how to get everything done. There were weeks when I dreaded it and didn't know how I was going to get all of the assignments finished - not to mention finding time to do all of the reading for the class. On the other hand, I really enjoyed the way it made my brain work. It was exciting to think about this subject matter and to see how it applied to things that were going on in my life and work. It was exciting to see the possibilities of doing more research in this area.

Yesterday was the last class of the semester. I turned in all of my assignments and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I came home and made lists of things that needed to be done because I had neglected them all semester. Last night I slept like the dead. And then this morning, I was right back at it. I started checking the spring schedule to see what class I might want to take next. I couldn't even help myself. Looks like I'll have to take the plunge.

Holy Wow!!

2008-11-04T23:37:00.003-05:00

What an amazing gift to my girls and their generation that they will not grow up thinking that a person of color can't become President of the United States.

The Pizza Box

2008-09-05T21:05:00.012-04:00

This summer, my family spent a long weekend on Martha's Vineyard. Traveling with small children is always stressful and this weekend was no different. We had spent the night before the ferry ride at my brother's house in northern RI. We had ordered pizza for dinner and there was a lot left over the next day.

I thought it would be wise to bring some pizza with us to eat for lunch before we got on the ferry. We would be spending enough money once we got to the island so it would be nice to have a free lunch. Also, my kids often have trouble eating when we travel because they get too excited, but they will eat pizza anywhere, anytime.

We packed the car in the morning - suitcase, diaper bag, backpack with bathing suits and towels, laptop and power cord (what?), extra diapers, Thomas the Tank Engine snuggle pillow, stroller - and then I come out of the house with the pizza box. My husband looked at me as if I'd suddenly sprouted another head, and perhaps the head of a gecko or some alien thing and he said, "What's that?"

"Lunch," I sid, "Then we don't have to stop to buy anything." I felt very proud of myself and confident that this was a great idea.

"I am not putting that in the car! I am not carrying a pizza box to Martha's Vineyard!" said the spouse, suddenly fuming. I don't really get why he is so mad, after all, I just saved us at least $30. I said, "Well, I thought we'd eat it before we get on the ferry so you won't have to carry it to the Vineyard." I put the box in the car and we head for Woods Hole.

The girls were excited that we were going to get to ride on a big boat to an island - okay, the baby had no idea what was going on but the four year old was definitely psyched. She asked a million questions about the ferry and the hotel we would be staying at. She wanted me to tell her, again and again, the name of the place we were going. "Martha's Vineyard," I told her. She repeated back, "Northers Vineyard." Close enough, I figured.

We had decided when we planned the trip a month before that we didn't want to bring the car to the island. We'd be able to walk everywhere or take a bus if we had to. So, we parked at the Sunshine Lot at Woods Hole, where we were to leave the car for the weekend. It was aptly named since there are no trees in sight and the sun beat down on us mercilessly as we waited for the shuttle bus to take us to the ferry .

We got out of the car and began to unload - stroller, Thomas the Tank Engine snuggle pillow, extra diapers, laptop and power cord (seriously?), backpack with bathing suits and towels, diaper bag, suitcase, and finally, the pizza box. My husband gave me that look again like he had no idea who I was or why I was standing next to him. He made a little growling noise in his throat and said to me, under his breath so the kids couldn't hear, "We are not taking that f*ing pizza box." "Sure we are," I said, with a little more confidence than I feel.

By the time the bus came, there were several people waiting to get on. We had to negotiate all of our luggage and belongings - some things went into the storage area under the bus but the rest we had to haul onto the bus with the two children. Of course, the pizza box had to come onto the bus with us and not only that but the spouse had to hold it because, of course, the girls wanted to sit on me. So there was my poor, tolerant husband sitting on the bus, muttering oaths under his breath and looking around, convinced that the other passengers were staring at us because he was holding a pizza box and what sane person carries a pizza box onto the bus that brings you to the ferry?

The ride was a lot longer than I thought it would be and I almost began to agree with him about the pizza box but then we finally got to the ferry and I felt a bit better. Of course, we still had to get the girls, our stuff, and the pizza box off the bus, make sure we found the right ferry, get tickets, and make it to the boat on time. It all worked out just fine and we managed not to kill each other and the kids were so happy to have pizza for lunch. The spouse even ate some, albeit grudgingly.

While we waited to get on the ferry, the girls ran around, chasing birds and checking out boats. The ferry ride was fun - the four year old watched the boats out the window and the baby and I wandered around the ferry checking out people and especially dogs. We got to the Vineyard and managed to get the kids and all of our stuff off of the boat.

Now we just had to find the hotel, which was supposed to be really close to the harbor but then I realized that I left the directions in the car back at the Sunshine Lot. Luckily the spouse has an iPhone so he could look up the exact address. We found the street and began to head down it towards the water, with the baby in the stroller and carrying the rest of our stuff. The streets were packed with cars moving closely past us and the sidewalks were narrow and full of holes. It turned out that we were going in the wrong direction and would have to turn around. By now, the kids were getting tired and hungry and it was really hot. It seemed as if no matter which direction we turned, the sun was shining directly in our faces, blinding us. By the time we finally made it to the hotel, we were all miserable but somehow I managed to maintain some small vestige of humor. As we entered the deliciously air-conditioned lobby of the hotel, I turned to my husband and said, "At least we aren't still carrying that pizza box!"

Can I Get a Witness?

2008-07-15T09:47:00.004-04:00

One day my daughter will be really angry about this post...

I don't know what it is about the bathroom in my house that inspires the kids to want to be in it all the time. It's probably the smallest bathroom I've ever been in; we can't close the door while standing by the tub - we have to get out of the way first. I've already written about never getting to be alone in the bathroom when I need to use it. Unfortunately, the public display does not stop there.

I don't know why this is but whenever my daughter needs to poop, she wants one of us to sit or stand outside the bathroom door to watch her. She will call to one of us - usually me - to please stop whatever it is that I'm doing to come watch. You can hear her call out through the house, "I need to poop!" in her sweet little singsong. Then we are expected to witness the whole ordeal, which for some reason seems to take an inordinate amount of time. The most common time for this event is when I have just laid dinner on the table, I'm ravenous, and I'm just about to take a bite of something while it's still at the intended temperature. Then, I hear the poop call and am required to stand by as things come out.

If I should happen to leave my post at the bathroom door to do something - perhaps stop the baby from choking on a piece of my dinner that she's stolen from my plate while I'm on poop duty - the kid will call out from the bathroom, "Mama, you're missing the whole poop time!" And I suppose I'm meant to be disappointed and also to hurry right back. Another thing, while she is working on her output, she will take a length of toilet paper and lay it in her lap, begin to poke holes in it with her fingers and then she'll tell me, "I'm knitting this toilet paper." I don't knit. I have no idea where this ritual came from.

It's all cute in it's own bizarre way or I suppose that I have to think it is since this is how my kid is and I'm programmed to find her wackiness adorable and amusing.

Kids' Eye View

2008-07-08T10:03:00.007-04:00

I do try to see the world through the eyes of my children - if only to stop getting annoyed when they do things that slow me down. I forget that they are sometimes seeing things for the first time.

Over the fourth of July weekend, we went to the local fireworks display and met up with some friends and their 3 year old and 3 month old. We sat on blankets on the ground in the dark with hundreds of other people. My 4 year old daughter, who was afraid of fireworks last year, had such a great time. She sat in her dad's lap, sometimes covering her ears but watching each explosion intently - with her mouth hanging open. It was fun to watch her. She told me that the fireworks looked like dandelions and I really got what she meant - right when the dandelions go to seed and haven't lost any of their florets they really do resemble fireworks.

Meanwhile, my 16 month old, who is newly walking, didn't pay attention to the fireworks at all. She just wanted to walk around on the blanket and would have preferred to be allowed to walk all around the grounds in the dark where the hundreds of strangers were - every parent's nightmare. But, I managed to corral her and she stayed wide awake through the fireworks.

Our friends' three year old spent the entire show hiding under one or both of his parents. He was terrified of the noise and wouldn't watch the display at all but after the last firework faded and it was clear there would be no more, he jumped up and announced, "That was awesome!" Who knew?

Road Tripping

2008-06-20T22:56:00.005-04:00

Today we took the girls on a weekend road trip and with the four of us in the car, I started thinking about the trips my family took when I was a kid. We could never get away with packing seven people in a car like we did back in the carefree seventies.

In the summer of 1976, just before I turned eight, my family took a road trip from our home in Rhode Island, down to Disney World in Florida. It was the bicentennial for the U.S. and down at Disney, they were building Epcot. I barely remember Disney but I have very vivid memories from the road trip. We were all crammed into the family station wagon. Two parents up front, my little brother (who was just three) either sat in the "way back" with me, on the hump between the front seats or in my mother's lap. I usually rode in the "way back" where we had made a nest out of sleeping bags next to our tan, hard-sided, American Tourister luggage (and where my entire box of Crayola crayons melted into the pleather sides of the back of the car). My teenaged older brothers were too big to fit back there and my sister who was 12 probably split her time between the "way back" and the back seat where she would have to sit between my brothers. We sang "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" and did MadLibs. We identified the cabs of various 18 wheelers by their hood ornaments and logos. We played the alphabet game with license plates and road signs. We are not a quiet bunch, it's a wonder my father didn't drive off the road into a tree.

We spent three days on the road, driving to Florida. My older brothers were 16 and almost 15 and one of their hobbies was collecting beer cans. My dad always says he drank a lot of gross beer on that trip so that my brothers could get rare beer cans from southern states. Besides drinking the beer, there was another way to find cans from regional brews. Every time the sun would glint off of something on the side of the highway, my brothers would call for my dad to pull the car over. They filled the car with used beer cans during this trip (although I have no memory of where they put them). In retrospect, it's really amazing how many people must have been just driving around, drinking beer and pitching the cans out of the windows. America the Beautiful, my ass!

I remember at one point during the trip, my dad, who was a two-pack-a-day smoker (Tareytons - do they even exist anymore?), coughed up this big phlegm ball and just hocked it out the open window. Well, since it was a hot summer day and we didn't have air conditioning in the old station wagon, the back windows were open too. I will never forget my oldest brother crying out in disgust when that glutinous projectile came right back in the window and hit him in the face.

Ahh, summer road trips. They just make me so nostalgic. That was the summer I learned how babies were made too. More on that another time...

A Rest Room?

2008-06-12T10:49:00.005-04:00

Note: This post contains references to bodily functions. If you are squeamish, don't read it...

The bathroom is supposed to be a place for privacy, right? You get to go in, close the door and be alone with your thoughts and bodily functions. WRONG! Not in my house. With two small daughters, I am almost never alone in the bathroom. I cherish the ugly salmon-colored stalls at work where I can actually do my business alone. I make frequent trips to the bathroom when I'm there just so I don't forget what it's like to pee in private.

This morning I was home with the girls - one of them is recovering from a random summer fever and the other has just come down with it. When I went into the bathroom to use the toilet, this was the scene: the baby was sitting on the floor, pulling at the small bits of toilet paper that are always stuck to the empty roll. My pre-schooler is standing next to me as I sit on the toilet, holding onto my left arm, as she often does when she needs comfort or a snuggle. Needless to say this is not the easiest way to get your body to produce its waste. It appeared that this would be an unproductive trip so I stood up to finish my business and discovered that today was the day that my period decided to make its reappearance - after 2 lovely years without it (yes, that's what happens when pregnant and then nursing). What a kick in the pants! Of course the only pad that I can find is leftover from just after the baby was born. It resembles an inflatable mattress. The pre-schooler wants to know, "What's that, mama? What are you doing?"

Even as I write this post, the baby has her head in my lap and the pre-schooler is jumping up and down and singsonging that she needs to poop and can I please come sit outside the bathroom door while she does that? Sigh. There are certainly worse problems in the world than having two lovely little girls who want their mama!

Nursery School

2008-06-08T13:08:00.007-04:00

Some of my fondest memories from early childhood come from the nursery school I went to before I started kindergarten. I was the only kid in my family to go to pre-school and I'm convinced that my mother did it because I was driving her nuts.

It all started because I wanted to be just like my big sister. Everyday she got to leave our house and go to school - totally not fair! I wanted to go to school too, even though I was only 3 1/2 or 4 years old. I stood at the door every morning as my sister left; I watched her go and I cried and cried. My mother had another baby at home to take care of and I'm sure that I was really annoying her. So, she sent me off to preschool.

I don't remember how often I went. I just know that I loved it. I wanted to go to school all the time. We did so many fun things there. I loved my teacher. We called her Mrs. Van. She had a very long, Nordic sounding name and I have no idea what it really was.

For years, my mother kept on her dresser a picture that I made for her while I was in nursery school. It was a cheap plastic frame that we had covered in glue and then dipped into little bits of colored gravel - like the kind you would find at the bottom of a fish tank. Inside the frame was a picture of me washing up in a vat of soapy water. I was smiling like crazy.

I remember taking naps there and I have a clear memory of this thought I had that it was really weird to have to lie down on a mat next to other kids to take a nap. I know I said that I wasn't going to sleep and Mrs. Van asked me to take a little rest - I'm sure I fell asleep - they always trick you with the, "just close your eyes and rest" thing.

I also remember that I learned how to put my coat on while I was at nursery school. They used the same technique that I now use to teach my daughter to put on her coat - we call it "the flip." You put the coat, arms spread open, on the floor. Then you stand at the top by the collar and stick your arms in the sleeves. You flip the coat over your head and voilà, your coat is on - or if you are an exuberant child like my daughter, your coat is on the floor, halfway across the room.

Just thinking about my time in nursery school makes me smile. It was a special place. Even if I did have my first experience with getting stitches while there. More on that later...

Creating Memories

2008-05-31T20:51:00.006-04:00

What does it mean when your first memory is a lie? Can your life start that way without it completely messing you up?

When I was 18 months old, I broke my arm. Until I was 13 years old, I thought that my arm broke after I had fallen off the couch on our porch. In fact, I remembered it happening - I can still picture the tile floor coming closer to my face as I fell.

Then, on the day my oldest brother got married, I learned the truth. My brother is 8 years older than me so he must have been 9 at the time I broke my arm. He was 22 on the day he got married and I was 13, going on 14. My brother had just graduated from college and was marrying a woman whose family was much stronger in their religious faith than ours. At that point he had not completely given himself over to God, like he has now, but perhaps their influence caused him to feel the need to tell me what really happened 11 years before...

The funny thing is that I don't have a clear memory of the conversation that my brother and I had on his wedding day. I just remember that he finally came clean and told me and my mother - and maybe our other siblings too - that he had been carrying me that day - probably I was squirming - and he dropped me on the floor in the porch. I must have screamed pretty loud because he took off running so fast that he broke the screen door off its hinges. He ran all the way down the street. I don't know what happened next. I have some pictures of me in a cast and somehow they feel like a memory but that's where the story ends.

The Idea Is This...

2008-05-31T20:38:00.003-04:00

I've had this idea of writing a book - yes, it sounds cliche - but I have all of these memories, stories from my childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. I would hate to forget them and some of them are kind of funny.

I have scraps of paper all around my house with a phrase or a sentence that I keep meaning to put into some format. Maybe this is the best use of a blog. Then when I think of a story, I can just blog it and then at least I've recorded the memory somewhere. I like this idea. I think it could work. And, probably I'll have to write about the cute and funny things that my kids do...

To Blog or Not to Blog

2008-05-30T14:54:00.001-04:00

Why the heck am I doing this? Who is going to read it anyway? Do I really want people to read stuff that I write? Am I just trying to empty some excess garbage out of my head to make room for something else, and if so, what might I start to collect?

I probably shouldn't be writing a blog. I could get in trouble if I say the wrong things about people - and I am always the person who gets caught talking trash about someone while they are walking up behind me.

Maybe I should be specific about what I will and won't write about here - I won't, for example, blog about people who annoy me at work - it's much too easy for people to figure out that I am talking about them. But, isn't that sort of the point of the faceless blog? You get to whine about whatever you want and no one knows it's about them - until they connect you with the blog and then the poop hits the oscillator...

I just read former Gawker editor, Emily Gould's New York Times Magazine article, "Exposed" and boy does that scare me. I lead a much more boring life than Emily ever will but to put yourself out there completely on your blog - why not just walk around naked? or wearing a sandwich board that tells people what you think of them and how many lovers you've had (and what you really think of them)?

Thankfully, I am insignificant and no one is going to be all that interested in what I have to say about things. So, I should just consider this a writing exercise to sharpen my wit and lose the cliches and not worry so much about who is(n't) watching. I'm willing to bet that if I actually do keep this up and try to write often, I will come back to this post and be really embarrassed by my own self.