Muse and Vent

Schooling

2011-12-02T07:00:00.001-06:00

Back in September, my 12-year-old, a seventh grader, camehome after a rough evening with a friend—an evening during which his friend’smother criticized him for cheering too loudly at an event and for covering hishead with his hoodie because he was cold, and during which his friend literallypointed and laughed at him while her mother’s head was turned.

Taken alone, the evening might not have been such a badexperience for him. But if followed on the heels of a not so great first twoweeks of school during which time some older boys had been targeting my son inthe locker room. (I’ll save my post on middle-school gym classes for anothertime.) He hadn’t mentioned any of the school troubles to me because he wantedto handle the situation himself . . . or simply hope each day it would go away.Lunch wasn’t much better for him. Kids he’d been friends with for the past fewyears couldn’t gather up the nerve to defend him against another crew of eighthgraders intent on hassling him. So he found himself more or less on his own ata new school, trying to navigate his way around all the social mazes thatsimply left him, well, a little lost.

And even these issues might have been more bearable if they,too, hadn’t followed on the heels of a tough few months at the end of sixthgrade. During those months, the pack of popular boys—and several girlsdesperate for their approval— had turned against him. But he remained strongthrough that time, and at the end of the year, when each sixth grader was askedto write what they’d learned in elementary school, he wrote, “I learned that Ilike who I am, and nothing anyone else says or does can change that.”

But come September, his first month of junior high,everything had just piled on him to the point where he, as we euphemisticallyput it when other parents ask about our decision to pull him from school, “neededa break.”

So we gave it to him. He’s been taking math and French atschool, coming home afterward, learning a bit of science, social studies, andEnglish with me, and then going back for afterschool activities: theater andchorus. He’s also been going three early mornings a week for concert band andjazz band. It’s been a busy few months, not without their own set of challengesas we’ve worked together to figure out this homeschooling thing, and it’s beenimmensely rewarding for me personally. I’ve loved our time together. I’ve lovedthe bond we’ve forged. I’ve loved learning withhim. I’ve loved his company. I’ve loved seeing him in new lights and gaining awhole new appreciation for the person he is and the person I know he’s going tobe one day.

But we’ve also—my husband, son, and I—decided it’s time forhim to go back to school full time. He’s made some really great friends throughhis extracurricular activities. They love him. They “get” him. They let him bethe goofy, nerdy, hyper, random, loud kid he is. He has a girlfriend. He hasthe support system he lacked just a few months ago. And, I have to add, he hastwo principals who really do care about their students. They’ll be payingattention.

Sending him back, however, has been in many ways a harderdecision than pulling him in the first place. I’ve straddled this line betweenwanting to protect him from the world and wanting him to be strong enough toface it. And he is strong enough. Butif I don’t “let” him go back, how is he going to believe that himself? He’sfaced a lot of challenges—physical and social—in his 12 years, and he’s gottenthrough them more or less intact. He doeslike who he is. He knows his family loves him. More important, he knows we like him. I don’t for a minute think it’sgoing to be all smooth sailing for him when he shows up at school full timeafter the Christmas holiday, but I do think this break has done him a lot ofgood. It’s done us both a lot of good. I’ve learned about a lot more than theU.S. Constitution and Isaac Newton and manatees and Napoleon.

When I started writing this post, I wanted to talk aboutbullying in general. I wanted to talk about the accountability of parents, notjust of kids. And I will next time.

But my focus has strayed to the reminder that we need tobelieve in our children so they can believe in themselves. We need to, yes,nudge them from the nest so they can try their wings. But that doesn’t mean wecan’t now and then spread our own wings just a bit so we can wrap them aroundour kids, even if only for a little while, before we let them go again. I’llmiss having him at home much more than he’ll miss being here.

Fear or discernment

2011-10-06T18:20:00.000-05:00

I got an email today from the principal of my kids' elementary school. Actually, the email went out to all the parents. It was a "stranger danger" email--advising (aka warning) parents about an "incident" after school today that involved a man who looked "like Santa Claus" giving a coin to a child and then getting in the passenger seat of a car and driving away. The parents and child were alarmed, and the administration felt we should all be aware of what had happened.

My reaction wasn't alarm. It was sadness that this is where we are: suspecting every kindness that comes our way, suspecting every kindness that comes our children's way, and having to base our every action on the assumption that people have ulterior motives for every good deed they do.

My mom has a picture of me eating ice cream while sitting on our kitchen counter. I'm two, and I'm looking straight at the camera, my face covered in chocolate. Standing next to me is a large man, and he's looking down at me, smiling, proud, as if I were his own child. His name was John, and he was a good friend of my father's. And my mother tells me John adored me and would spoil me with candy and ice cream and whatever else it took to keep my attention for a moment or two. I don't have any memories at all of this man, but judging by his expression in that photo, I'm sure he did adore me.

When I wasn't much older than I was in that photo, my mother headed out to do laundry with my grandmother, leaving me in my father's care. When she got home, I was gone. Panicked, she and my father began running around the house and yard to look for me, when there I appeared, walking hand in hand with a young man as we headed toward them. A pick-up truck followed close behind, crawling along slowly as I led the way home. I'd apparently wandered off and had ended up on a rickety old bridge, much like the bridge in the well-known painting of two children with an angel watching over them.

The young man explained to my parents that he and his father had tried to get me to climb into the cab of the truck so they could take me back to wherever I'd come from, but I'd refused. So the young man had no choice but to get out, take my hand, and help me find my way back.

When I was about seven, my family lived next to an elderly couple, the Harveys. I'd often go over to their house, and they'd give me ribbon candy and let me play with their yellow lab, Ginger. Mrs. Harvey died before Mr. Harvey did, and still I'd go visit, and still he'd have that bowl of ribbon candy ready for me.

I do my best to teach my kids about "stranger danger." But I don't want to teach them to be afraid. I want to teach them to be discerning, to follow their gut instinct, their heart, the Spirit--whatever you want to label that little voice telling you, "This is a bad one" or "This is a good one." I want them to be discerning in all things and in all relationships. My nine-year-old daughter trusts everyone. She loves all of her teachers. She loves all of the kids in her class. She doesn't see the bad in anyone, and sometimes she really, really should. But this is how she's always been; it's how she was born. I've had a lot of talks with her lately about the importance of understanding that just because someone likes you doesn't mean they're likable. I certainly don't want to teach her to hate or to go through life with a wall up around her, but I do want her to learn to make good choices in her friendships and to gain better judgment . . . and then use it well.

A customer used to come into my parents' bookstore years ago who took a liking to me that made my mother very uncomfortable. He was a minister--an older man though by no means elderly--and he'd wait to talk to me until my parents weren't around. He offered "private counseling sessions" if I ever felt I needed them, and he brought me lunch on occasion. I was quite happy at the time, doing just fine, and every time we spoke, he tried to make me believe I wasn't as happy as I thought I was. This wasn't about religion. He never brought up God or faith once. I was polite. I turned down all of those offers for private counseling sessions. And then he abruptly stopped coming in. I found out much later that my mother had told him to stay away from me and to stay out of their store. She told him she didn't trust him, and that if he ever came near me again, she'd sic my father after him.

I was 22.

As a mother of four and as a daughter of a very protective mother, I get wanting to protect your kids from all the baddies out there. And there are a lot of them. But we should no sooner be teaching our children to fear every stranger than we should be teaching them to trust every man with a gentle voice who offers private counseling.

Discernment. Everything else is just fear. A gift in its own right, but not what should guide us or them.

I got a follow-up email not too long after the initial one, by the way. The matter was resolved after the police department determined this wasn't a "stranger danger" situation after all. There are bad people out there, and I ache for every parent whose child has ever been a victim of one. But there are good people out there too, and maybe our kids need to be aware of them as well.

More Than . . .

2011-08-21T19:00:00.001-05:00

One morning last year, I sat my youngest child on the counter so he could watch me make his egg. He said, "Mommy, I wish you weren't already married to Daddy, because I want to marry you." I said, "Oh, trust me. As much as you love me, you'll love your wife someday even more."

I hated admitting that to him.

He gave me a hug and said, "I'm in love with you."

Of course, five minutes later he was in love with his shirt, his shoes, Curious George, his scooter . . . whatever could hold his attention. But if I rank up there with a monkey and his favorite mode of transportation, I'd say I'm doing okay.

He just headed outside with his helmet so he can ride his bike around our driveway for a few minutes before I call him in for bed. He's singing and making up the lyrics as he goes along, standing up on the pedals to show off to his sister, and then swinging his bike around in the other direction for a new set of lyrics. And I have to say I'm in love with him, too--in love with all of my kids--even more than monkeys, scooters, applesauce, and diet wild cherry pepsi.

That's always been a common game my children and I have played when they're still young enough to gush over me: "I love you more than . . ." And "anything" is always the shortest and most honest answer, but it's cheating as far as the kids are concerned. According to their rule book, you have to really think about what you'd be willing to do without if you had to choose between them and the next best thing.

I don't feel I gave up anything when I chose to be here at home with them. It was the right choice for my husband and me, and I'm grateful it was a choice I actually got to make--that circumstances haven't dictated my decisions in this regard.

Yet recently I've been thinking a lot about the role of a SAHM in 2011. We have it easy in so many ways. Come on. Admit it. Don't give me, "Yeah, but mothers 50 years ago didn't have to worry about the X, Y, or Z." At the very least, we have it easy as far as the actual work required of us is concerned. I don't know about you, but I don't have to wash my clothes by hand. I don't have to beat my rugs outside. I don't have to scrub my dishes in a dry sink with water I hauled up from the creek and then have to take outside to empty when I'm done. I don't have to grind the wheat for my bread, bake the bread, pick the beans, dry the beans, cook the beans, slaughter the pig, and hang it to cure in the smokehouse. I don't have to sheer the sheep, dye the wool, spin the wool, and make my own clothing. And all of that before breakfast.

What I do have to do is figure out how to let my kids head out their own without circling above and over and around them. I have to figure out what "stay at home" means when I've had the luxury of defining "home" as the place I get to be with my children. I have to figure out how to give them--my kids--up to the big scary world because I love them. I have to figure out how to make my life as meaningful from 8:00 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. as it is from 3:31 p.m. to 7:59 a.m. I have to decide how much of what I do is about making our home into a home and how much is about making myself into someone they can call "home" just as I call them "home."

I'm in love with them all. I love them more than anything, even myself. That's the easy part. The challenge is making the "even myself" mean something.

Fearless

2011-08-14T21:42:00.002-05:00

When Ivan, my youngest, was four, he took swimming lessons not so he could swim in case he fell in the pool (which yeah, that's important, of course) but so he could swim when he dove in, did flips in, cannonballs in, belly flops in (intentionally), all of which he'd been trying even without knowing how to swim. And he was four. Four! Sure, I was proud of that tenaciousness. But I was also a little scared of the fearlessness this kid showed--and still does. He jumps into the pool, into trouble, into a crowd of kids, into life without worrying about how he's going to swim back to the side after he gets there. Daily life with him is unpredictable and erratic and frustrating and exhausting and insanity-producing . . . and exciting and wonderful and gratitude-inducing as well.

Not too long after starting those swim lessons, however, he showed a moment of fear. Ron took him to the deep end of the pool and, with the lifeguard's approval, let him onto the diving board. Now, Ivan had dived into a pool before, but the diving board was much lower than this one and fewer people were watching. Ivan got to the end and froze. He looked around, saw all of the eyes on him, and started to cry. He turned around and headed back for Ron, who assured him changing his mind was fine, and the two of them sat down for a few minutes before Ivan looked at the board and then back at Ron and said, "Daddy, I want to try again." So Ron took him back, Ivan headed to the end, and jumped in without hesitation.

More than his fearlessness without thinking of what will happen next, I admire this kid's willingness to do something he is afraid of. That was not me at four or six. That was not me in elementary school or middle school or high school or college. I still don't think that's me. Part of my refusal to try is my unwillingness to fail. Failure scares me to death. And I know that confession shows off my immaturity, my self-consciousness, and in turn my vanity. Because that's what fear of failure is, really, isn't it? The fear that someone else is going to see me as less than I want to be and the admission I'll have to make to myself that I have yet one other weakness, flaw, or area of complete ineptitude.

One of my favorite books is Moby Dick. Yes, really. I read it once in high school, once in college, and then again after graduation. I didn't like it at all the first time, tolerated it the second, and loved it the third. I was determined to like this book, and it became an obsession for me. One of my favorite lines is delivered by Starbuck, the first mate: "I will have no man in my boat who is not afraid of the whale."

We so often think of fear as paralyzing, which it can be and which it has been for me in many respects throughout my life. Lack of it, however, is recklessness. So how do we acknowledge our fears and learn to overcome them, use them to our advantage, without ignoring them completely and putting ourselves and others--whether physically, emotionally, or spiritually--at risk?

Ahab wasn't afraid of Moby Dick. Ahab hated Moby Dick. He wanted his revenge on Moby Dick. We all have a great white whale in our past that has beaten us, even ripped our leg off. Do we go after it again and again until it destroys us and those we love, claiming courage rather than stupidity and megalomania? Ahab said, "Ignorance is the parent of fear." He claimed to KNOW the whale, and therefore had no fear of it. So does knowledge shield us from ignorance? Yes. But stupidity? No.

This is where I am in my parenting lately. I want my kids to be courageous. I want them to tackle what I never would have dreamed of tackling at their age. I want them to ignore what people say they can't do, even ignore what their fear is telling them they can't do. I want them to have huge dreams and I want them to do what it takes to make them come true. And I'll help as much as they let me. But I don't want the whale--that uncontrollable aspect of nature and human nature--to beat them. I don't want them to get out on that dinghy and think, "Crap. Mom should have told me I didn't have the right life vest on for this one. And she should have told me that freaking whale is a lot bigger up close."

School starts here in another week. My oldest starts high school. My second oldest starts junior high. My daughter starts fourth grade--the first year she'll get actual grades and not "shows improvement" or "needs improvement." And my fearless six-year-old starts elementary school where he'll mix with the big kids instead of being king of his own little castle at the kindergarten. It's a scary year ahead.

So the most I can do right now is agree with them that the diving board is more frightening than the kiddie pool. Then I'll cheer them on to get back up there anyway, and keep my fingers crossed that nothing in the water is going to surprise any of us.

Feeling It

2011-08-03T22:49:00.001-05:00

I've kept a journal on and off (mostly off since getting married) for the last . . . let's just say since I was in sixth grade. Only it wasn't a "journal" then. It was a "diary." Journals are for record-keeping and for passing on to your children's children. Diaries are for burning before anyone else can find them and decipher the bubbly letters and the various initials of the boys you were madly in love with from week to week.

Oh, yes . . . I had a diary. And I wrote in it faithfully. Important stuff like, "He didn't even look at me today," and "I got a new haircut. I wonder if he'll notice." Or there's my very favorite: "All hope is forever lost." That last one was an entry in and of itself--no clues as to why I felt hope was lost, why ALL of it had to be lost, and why ALL of it was lost . . . FOREVER. But I'm pretty sure the hope was concerning the boy who didn't look at me and probably didn't notice my haircut.(You know who you are, SW!)

Last summer, I looked up from my driveway and caught my youngest (five at the time) tearing a hole in his screen window with some piece of hardware that had ended up on the ledge. Ready to lay into him for destroying our house, I took the stairs two at a time up to his room. And there he stood sobbing, looking out at the other kids playing in our backyard. He was completely oblivious to my impending rage--too caught up in his own sorrow.

So I took a deep breath and knelt next to him on the floor. He glanced down at me and then crumpled, heartbroken, into my lap.

He'd been betrayed by his sister and her friend. Of course, he didn't put it quite like that. It was more like, "They dared me to pee in the pool and then I did and then they laughed at me and said they were going to tell on me." And it wasn't the "telling on me" part that upset him. It was the realization that the three of them weren't in on the fun together: it was them against him. They weren't laughing with him: they were laughing at him.

I didn't have the heart to punish him for the hole. I realized while he cried and cried, and it had "only" taken me thirteen years as a mother to get there, that my feelings are no more valid than my child's. Perhaps they're even less valid at times, because they're complicated by logic and a facade of maturity and the need to be the adult.

I've worked a lot over the last year to slow down my "reaction time" a little. I've tried to be six and nine and (heaven help me!) twelve and fourteen when I'm dealing with my kids' emotions. I've tried to take the steps one at a time instead of two. I've tried to take more deep breaths and to imagine what my children would write in their journals about who didn't understand them or notice them or simply listen to them.

When I was in high school, I went on a huge Richard Bach kick. Jonathan Livingston Seagull wasn't enough for my sixteen-year-old self. I had to read everything he ever wrote. (Weaker teenagers would've collapsed under the weight of my microcosm.) And one of my favorite quotes of his was "Not being known doesn't stop the truth from being true."

Okay, so that one doesn't really have a lot to do with the point I'm trying to make here, but, like I said, it was one of my favorites. However, he also wrote, "The simplest things are often the truest." And what's simpler than a child's emotions? Kneeling down on the floor next to a child in the midst of a tantrum--his or yours--is the best and fastest way to figure out how to calm the heck down.

The hole is still in the screen. Unlike the little boy who made it, it's small enough to be inconsequential.

What Happened

2011-07-15T08:45:00.000-05:00

This is a hard post for me to write. My heart is pounding a little faster than usual, and I'm thinking about stopping and just never writing this at all. Because I've done a really good job for the last 12 days of not thinking too much about what happened. That's what I call it: "what happened." Or "the accident."

But things are slowing down a bit: fewer doctors' appointments, fewer hospital visits, fewer headaches, fewer vomiting episodes. But also fewer hours of sleep each night because no matter how tired I might be, depression and anxiety have been known to keep me relatively sleepless for months at a time.

First, she's better. That doesn't mean she's fine. She's nearly back to her normal self, and if you didn't know "what happened," you wouldn't know anything had at all.

Second, my nine-year-old daughter was hit by a car on July 3 while crossing an intersection with my 14-year-old son.

She'd walked with my son, husband, and in-laws to go watch fireworks at a nearby park. Originally, I'd said no, it's too late, the kids need their sleep, fireworks aren't even a novelty anymore, so why bother. But they were all in such a good mood and I thought, fine, it's summer, even if they don't sleep in we can survive a day of them being a little tired. Then my 12-year-old wanted me to drive because his ankle had been hurting him. I said okay, and then my six-year-old wanted to ride in the car as well.

I dropped my older son off at the park then headed to look for parking. I found a spot on a street not quite a block away. I took my youngest's hand and walked a few yards before remembering I didn't have the chairs. So we went back to the van, unlocked the back, and I grabbed them. Then off we went again.

Then as we neared the intersection, I saw a little girl get hit by a car and fall to the ground. I got out my cell phone and started dialing 9-1-1. As I watched the street, I saw someone try to pick the girl up, and I yelled for them to leave her where she was, to wait for the paramedics. Then I heard a man shout and run to the girl. The street was dim, but I could see it was my husband. I thought, good, he'll take care of the little girl. Kneeling next to her, he was holding his arm out and shouting for cars to stop.

And that's when I finally realized that little girl was my little girl.

My husband moved her to the yard at the other side of the intersection. Because there were no police on the scene yet--and hundreds of people milling about waiting for the fireworks to start and cars still looking for parking more than they were looking for pedestrians, let alone children lying in the street--keeping her where she was would have been more dangerous than picking her up.

By the time I got to her, I was calm enough to try to calm her. She was crying and scared and had no idea what had happened that day, why she was lying on the ground, why her head hurt so much, or what the boom of fireworks in the background was all about. The paramedics eventually assured us there were no external injuries aside from the abrasions on her arms and legs, but, of course, they were worried about her head b/c the driver's side-view mirror had hit the back of it hard enough to spin her around and throw her to the ground.

Once she and I were in the ambulance, she began screaming at me to wake her up. And then she began screaming for her dad to wake her up, even though he wasn't there with us. She was convinced she was dreaming. And I realized at that moment how completely helpless I was. Holding her hand and shushing her gently and talking to her and singing to her--none of that helped. She just wanted to be woken up.

She had a concussion and was kept overnight in another hospital for observation. Her memory came back over the next 24 hours. She now remembers it all, unfortunately, and has nightmares. But at least I can wake her from those.

She also has/had a small subdural hematoma--too small for surgery. For the first five days, she couldn't keep anything down except enough liquids to keep her hydrated. She was given a blessing that fifth day, and by that night, she was finally able to really eat something. She's only improved since then, although she has double vision, which the pediatric ophthalmologist says should go away within the next six months. We're waiting for word from our doctor's office about a referral for a pediatric neurologist. We hope to get her in either today or early next week.

It could have been worse. I'm no polyanna when I say that. I'm not sitting here at my laptop shrugging my shoulders and saying, "Phew." I'm saying: it could have been worse. And how worse is what keeps me from sleeping. It also could have been better. I could have said no, we're not going. I could have insisted she ride with me. I could have left the stupid chairs in the van and gotten to the corner in time to hold my daughter's hand myself and crossed her myself. She could have been my responsibility that night instead of someone else's. Which is why I don't blame my son for walking her across at the wrong moment. And I don't blame my husband for not having hold of her himself. I'm the safety freak in this family. It's my role and it's one I've generally been pretty good at.

But it's not guilt that digs into me or makes my heart race or my hands shake. It's the tenuous hold we all have on life. It's the alternative realities any one of us might be living if even one event had played itself out the tiniest bit differently.

I was telling one of my sister-in-laws that sometimes you have to believe in miracles because otherwise you have to believe in good luck. And if you can believe in good luck, you can believe in bad luck. And good luck has to run out eventually.

The first few nights after the accident, I waited until she was asleep next to me in bed (she won't sleep anywhere that isn't beside me) to cry--from relief, fear, visiting those alternative realities for too long. And to bring myself back to the sound of her breathing, I had to chant to myself, "I have her. I have her. I have her."

I still do keep that mantra running through my mind. I have her. I have my other three children. I have them all. They're mine. They're here. And for all of this, I am incredibly blessed/lucky/grateful. I do know how much worse it could have been. And when I'm not aching over the thought of not having all that I have, I'm aching over the thought of all those who don't have what they once did.

We're not all the way to fine. But we will be.

In My Most Humble but Strong Opinion

2011-06-24T16:02:00.000-05:00

My dad was known for being an opinionated man. He didn't mince words, but he did manage to mince a few relationships along the way. I always admired that about him: his ability to feel strongly enough about something to speak up and then not regret a single word he spoke. I have a nephew just like him whom I admire quite a bit for that same reason.

Me? I try to be diplomatic. I weigh virtually every word before it comes out of my mouth. I have a filter through which you could strain the finest of teas. Do I pretend to approve of something when I don't? No. But I do hold back more often than one might imagine.

Getting to my point: a friend sent me a link to this article this morning. He knows I write young adult (though "publish" isn't part of the definition of "write" for me quite yet) and, more importantly really, that I read it.

Now, I'm not quite as plugged into the YA writing community as I was even a year ago. I won't get into why because it's irrelevant. But I did forward the article to a good friend of mine, Brigid Kemmerer, who is coming out with her own amazing YA novel in May of 2012 (and I can't tell you how excited I am because it would make you all sad, honestly, to understand the level of my vicarious living). She replied to tell me she'd read the article already and that quite the hubbub was brewing over it. I hadn't heard a word about said hubbub ([1] see above line re: being unplugged, and [2] I feel about 112 when I say the word hubbub but can't seem to help myself).

And my response to her is below. This is my opinion. But it's a strong one. You can blame my father.

I just don't have the energy to get worked up over much these days. What's the point?

And all writers prey on their audiences. It's the nature of the business. You go after the readers you want. These particular authors were just pointing out how going after teen readers might seem a little icky, but at least they (the authors) are appreciated there. If anything, the writers were ragging on literary fiction.

It's also all about reliving high school. Not a single YA writer out there (myself included) can say they're not thinking about being a teenager when they're writing about teenagers. To go back and do things differently--to be different--is virtually everyone's fantasy, and that's where the obsession with the paranormal comes in. Wanting to do it all over again is, by definition, fantastical. I mean, come on . . . people have been obsessed with youth since time began. We're just writing about it more now, and the thought of a bunch of 40-somethings out there doing this is comical in a pathetic (pathetic in the best possible way, of course, because those who write YA also read YA!) sort of way. I can admit that. These authors are admitting that. They're laughing at themselves, not the industry. They're being self-deprecating, not insulting.

As for the authors' assertions that the story is what matters and not the writing, of course that's what matters! No one is calling Stephenie Meyer a literary genius. No one is calling J.K. Rowling that either, for that matter. Teens are much more caught up in their story, not how their story is told. It's a selfish audience being written to, so you write what they want to read. They want to focus on the angst of being them and on the necessary microcosms they build for themselves so their drama can continue to matter more than the impending apocalypse. If you're a good writer on top of that--on top of creating a great story--then so much the better, b/c then you'll get the reviews and the adult audience as well.

The people getting worked up over this article simply have misplaced priorities, in my opinion. In a world where most teenagers can't afford to buy a book or eat lunch before reading one or even read at all, getting upset about someone saying something that might possibly be interpreted as insulting to those writing for teens is absurd in the most selfish sense possible. If you're able to write and to publish and simply do what you love, then god bless. Seriously. Maybe these are the authors who write YA not because they want to relive high school but because they never really left it in the first place.

In Case Anyone Is Watching . . .

2011-06-13T19:44:00.001-05:00

I would make a terrible nurse. It's not the blood and various other bodily fluids and broken bones that would get to me; it's my impatience with complaints about stubbed toes, hangnails, splinters, slivers, and minor cuts, scratches, and bruises. Sure, nurses don't have to exactly deal with these sorts of complaints on a daily basis, but it's the thought of having to deal with any molehill of a problem blown into a mountain that would show my lack of bedside manner and get me fired if not sued.

My six-year-old just came in a few minutes ago to whine about his finger, which had apparently been attacked by a small stick earlier today. I sent him back outside with a brusque wave. My daughter, 30 seconds later, started into hysterics over . . . what? I don't know. I stopped her from finishing her sentence. She's outside playing now too. That, or she's up in her room composing a letter to Santa to ask for a mother who knows how to ooh and aah in sympathy more regularly.

Let me tell you about how sickness was handled in my house growing up: Quarantine. Any of us got sick? We spent the fevered period in our bedrooms. With the door shut. When I was a junior in high school, I got a terrible sore throat. My mother's solution was (and I quote), "Stand in the hot shower with your mouth open. The steam will make it feel better. You're going to school." This routine went on for three days until Mom relented and took me to the doctor. I had strep throat, of course.

At 19, I had a lump removed: pre-cancerous. If my parents were concerned, I don't recall them letting on. I'm not saying they weren't concerned--only that they didn't fawn over me or coddle me or make me feel like the world was going to end, and I didn't mind the lack of attention. I didn't want it, honestly. Had they been more alarmist in their reaction, I would have, well, felt more alarmed.

About a year into my marriage, my husband caught on to my feelings about "in sickness and in health." Just because I'm all for sticking by him in times of sickness, I don't mean right by him. I mean in the next room or farther down the hall or downstairs while he stays upstairs and only calls for me when he really, really, really needs something. He was a little shocked at this revelation. In fact, he kind of panicked.

"Please," he said. "Please tell me that when we have children and they get sick, you'll take care of them."

I laughed. "Of course, I will."

He didn't laugh. He went a little paler. "I mean it. You need to promise me."

I laughed again. "Promise you? Do you really think I wouldn't take care of them?"

He still didn't laugh. "Promise me. Promise me you'll take them a cold wet washcloth and make sure they're okay."

So I promised.

My twelve-year-old had some serious kidney problems for seven years before doctors finally diagnosed him correctly. And I was the vision of empathy night after night while he lay in bed next to me, vomiting for hours on end. I was furious and frustrated and just wanted to find a way to make him feel better, which meant I also felt helpless, which, really, is no way for any parent to feel. He had surgery just over two years ago to finally fix the problem. I still look at him in amazement sometimes, immensely grateful those days are over and that he can just be a normal kid now.

When my dad was diagnosed with cancer seven years ago, I felt that same fury, frustration, and helplessness, which is no way for a child to feel either. Surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments didn't fix his "problem." He died after ten months of fighting the good fight--but, really, what's good about any fight that ends like that?

I chased my daughter out of the house before I let her finish that sentence a few minutes ago because, as I told her, "You kids are healthy in every way. There's no reason at all for you to complain about the little things in life."

I'm not trying to raise stoic children. I'm not trying to raise children that lack compassion or that are afraid to cry when they fall off their bike or trip up the stairs. I'm trying to raise kids that are grateful for the bruises, scrapes, splinters, and slivers that show they got to spend summer evenings playing in the backyard with each other and with their friends. I'll give them that wet washcloth for their heads or their bloody elbows. But then I'm sending them back outside to play, because they get to go back outside and play.

So in case anyone is watching or listening: I do care about my children's well-being. I care a lot.

A Kind Word

2011-06-08T14:58:00.000-05:00

A fellow parent called me this morning. She's the kind of parent I say hello to at social events, but we never speak for more than a few minutes. Our daughters (9 years old now) are in the same grade and they were in the same class two years ago. They're also in Brownies together. Otherwise, their paths don't often cross.

So I was surprised by the phone call. She started with, "I just want to bring your attention to something that happened yesterday during the Brownie field trip."

And those of you who are parents can probably imagine what I thought: "Oh, no, what did my daughter do?"

Now, my daughter is a good girl. Truly. She's kind and sweet. She thinks the best of everyone around her. She loves everyone around her, even the mean girls who tell her she's fat or make fun of her for still loving Hello Kitty. She's big on giving people second and third and millionth chances. She wakes up at 6 a.m. every morning because she's excited about what that day holds, even if there's nothing special on our schedule: to her it's all special. She skips down the sidewalk, tripping over her two left feet most days. She laughs until she cries. And she gives hugs because she figures everyone needs them as much as she does.

Still, I braced myself to hear what she might have done yesterday that would warrant a call from another parent, because that's our instinct as parents: to believe the best but to be ready for the worst, because we need to be able to defend our children against the world and to be prepared for our children to have been the one doing the wrong--because that's what we're used to having to do.

It's so easy for the world to spoil kids, to take something wonderful and pure and then slowly or suddenly damage it--to teach them words at six that we didn't hear until we were sixteen, or even to teach them too-common words that make them reassess themselves and others, such as "stupid" and "shut up" and "idiot" and "hate." And there are the actions and attitudes the world teaches them as well: hatred, bigotry, revenge, boastfulness. So we're always on our guard, trying to stifle the parroting nature of a child and begging them and God and whomever else might be listening, "Please, please, let my apple-cheeked daughter stay apple cheeked and innocent." And also, "Just in case she doesn't, help me know how to teach her the right things over and over, again and again."

This mother said, before telling me what happened, that she knows too often she focuses on what her own daughter might be doing wrong. And I felt guilty instantly--guilty for, in spite of knowing how wonderful my daughter is, not praising her enough for her kind heart, guilty for doing the same thing this mother does and the same thing parents everywhere do, whether it's silently or loudly criticizing our children for not working hard enough, not studying hard enough, or not simply trying hard enough.

The reason she called was to tell me how gentle my daughter had been with a friend who was struggling during yesterday's hike. She wanted to let me know she'd seen my daughter doing something good and decent and kind. She made time in her busy morning (I could hear the doorbell and the chaos of kids in the background) to look up my number and to call me. From one mother to another, she wanted to let me know she understood how much we want to know our kids are okay and are doing right, even if our instinct is to fear the opposite.

Our children aren't perfect. And I'm grateful they aren't because then they'd expect us to be as well. But I'm also grateful they have moments of perfection, moments when we can see the clean spots the world has missed and we can be reminded to notice those clean spots and moments more often.

The Graduated Eighth Grade Fairy

2011-06-06T13:20:00.000-05:00

Still on the topic of my 14-year-old . . .

I went to his eighth-grade graduation ceremony last week. The auditorium was packed--standing room only. Parents, grandparents, siblings, and who knows who else filled the place. I told him on the way that I was the first of my own siblings (there are eight of us) to go to her high-school graduation. To the others, the event was less of an event and more of a reason to stay home and avoid the great hullabaloo. I don't recall much about my graduation except how strange I thought it was to see my classmates crying. I was so happy to be done with high school and so eager to move on to the next stage of my life that my eyes remained completely dry the entire night.

As I sat watching my son on stage, however, tall and handsome in his blue gown, I felt a couple of tears coming on. But I stopped them from actually falling because I realized that if I let myself cry or get emotional over every landmark, big or small, in my children's lives, I'll be a sopping mess by the time my youngest gets married. I decided last week to save my tears for my oldest's high school graduation, and even then, my emotions and I will have to negotiate how much I'll allow. This isn't to say I'm not an emotional person in general. I just have to pace myself. It's about staying sane.

Last night, my son told me his good friend had gotten his graduation gift--his junior high graduation gift: an iPad. I told him that was insane. "Mom, a lot of my friends got gifts like that. iPads, iTouches, $100 bills." I asked him if they'd asked him what he'd gotten. "Yeah. I told them I got a milkshake." And that was true. After graduation, my husband and I asked him if he wanted anything to eat. He wanted McDonald's and all he wanted there was a strawberry milkshake. So he got it, he shared a little with us, and we headed home.

Fortunately, he saw the whole graduation experience as a little nuts. "Why are we celebrating something we should just be expected to do? Graduate from 8th grade." And although I'm sure he'd love an iPad, an iTouch, or a few $100 bills, he doesn't expect any of that--which is a good thing since he won't be getting any of that.

I don't think we're creating a happier generation of children. In fact, I'd go along with those who believe we're creating a more depressed, a more easily disappointed, a more insecure, a more lost, a more confused, a more impatient, a more unsatisfied, and a more frustrated generation of children who will become adults carrying those same "mores" around with them into the work world and into their marriages and families. We're creating a generation of children who appreciated the Tooth Fairy well enough, but now also expect the Skinned Knee Fairy, the Cleaned My Own Room Today Fairy, the Managed To Shower This Morning Fairy, and the Graduated Eighth Grade Fairy. We're rewarding what should be the reward in and of itself. We're telling them that the parent-child relationship is about expectations they can have of us but not the reverse. The chore list on the refrigerator is now ours, and the "I know I disappointed you" admissions are ours.

Which leaves them with what?What do they get to claim as their own?

I'm sure his friends see my husband and me as the mean, stingy, unsupportive parents. And I'm okay with that, since I've never been one to give into peer pressure, whether as a kid or an adult. And if any of his friends' parents make their way here to my blog (which is doubtful) then I hope they're okay with me expressing my (albeit strong) opinion. I'm not saying I'm a better parent, which is good since this isn't a competition. I simply think that, as with our emotions, we need to slow down and pace ourselves before all of us--parents and children alike--end up as one big sopping mess.

Ready or Not

2011-05-27T20:24:00.002-05:00

I don't want to name names-- Wait. Stop. I do want to name names. But I won't. I'm bigger than that, I think . . . or I hope. Or maybe I'm not bigger at all and just want to say I am, which will make me seem bigger, but really I'm quite small and only want to seem bigger, which makes me that much smaller by comparison.

My point:

My son, the 14-year-old who wants to make things right after making them wrong, has one particular girl at school with whom he most definitely does not get along. It's gotten ugly in the past, though just how ugly, I don't know since he is a teenager and therefore by law and nature is not allowed to tell me everything (and sometimes not anything). I just know it's gotten ugly enough (and I'm talking arguing here and personality conflicts, not abusive name calling or bullying) that this child's mother felt the need to scold my son loudly and angrily in public in retribution for an exchange my son and her daughter had had weeks earlier. As my son told her, "I'm sure you want to believe everything she told you, but there are two sides to every story. I'm sorry you don't like what you heard." And he hasn't spoken to this girl since.

Now, I didn't find out about this public scolding until a couple of months after it happened. That's just how my son rolls: he sees no reason to involve me in issues like this because, in essence, they're non-issues for him. But he knows they won't be for me. And then the non-issues become issues for him, because, as a Mama Bear, I have a very hard time seeing straight when it comes to my children being humiliated or simply hurt in public. My parents protected me and defended me and never for a moment thought to question whether they should, whether I was to blame in part or whole. And their protection and defense of me made me want to always be protection-worthy and defensible. It made me want to be a better person.

Because my son didn't want this non-issue-now-an-issue to become an even bigger issue, I held tight and simply told the mother that in the future, I hoped she would come to me about any problems she or her daughter had with him.

That was several weeks ago.

Tonight, my son's school is in the midst of a big graduation party for its 8th graders. (A post on shooting for mediocrity will follow at a later date, because, really, when did graduating 8th grade become such a huge celebration? And if we celebrate 8th-grade graduation with a prom-level party, what are we going to do for prom? Still, I admit I got suckered into the hubbub.) And he found out yesterday that this same girl was holding a pre-party party for all of her friends . . . and all of his. Obviously, his name wasn't on the invite list. Nor were ours, since the party was for parents as well. Was I offended? Not at all. As I told a friend, I'm of the belief that people can only give offense if you're willing to take it.

But was I upset? Oh, yeah. Because, I wonder, aren't we, as adults, supposed to set an example for our children? Aren't we supposed to be teaching them about kindness and making peace with each other and second chances (or 3rd or 70 times 7)? Why do we too often model that exclusivity is acceptable and that whatever is self-satisfying is sufficient?

My son was fine about it all, of course. I was the one with the headache that wouldn't go away until he came home from playing football with his friends after school, happy and looking forward to the dance. Still . . . this was wrong. Pure and simple wrong. The wrongness wasn't in not inviting my son. The wrongness was in making sure he was the only one not invited. Fortunately for him, he didn't feel excluded.

I spent several hours at the school this morning getting the gym ready for the dance. More parents spent all day yesterday decorating. More were expected this afternoon. Parents also helped out with chaperoning, providing food, and volunteering to clean up tonight. Many of the girls bought new dresses for the night. Plenty of moms and dads were surely doing what I was doing an hour before: ironing shirts and making sure our sons had belts on. I can only imagine (because I don't feel like actually calculating) the number of collective hours the parents of these 8th graders spent in making sure their kids would have a good time tonight and making sure they were "ready" for the party.

But I think, perhaps-- No, I think, definitely, that it wouldn't hurt any of us--me included--to spend a few more hours making sure they're ready to be presented to the world, loaded up with generosity and kindness rather than hairspray, makeup, and matching socks.

The Chance to Make It Right

2011-05-17T10:29:00.001-05:00

A couple of months ago, my oldest son told me that I tend to "freak out" over little things. I was shocked. I told him I'd always made a conscious effort to be calm about grades, friends, forgetfulness, messy bedrooms, long hair, and every other minor teenager issue that can be blown completely out of proportion. So I've made an even greater effort since then because, above all else, I don't want my kids to ever be afraid to talk to me. So last night I asked him if he felt I'd been "freaking out" a little less. He kind of shrugged and said, "Sometimes, if we mess up on something, rather than letting us fix it, you say, 'Never mind. I'll take care of it myself.' You don't give us the chance to make it right."

Example: Last week, he spilled quite a bit of milk in the fridge. I was sitting nearby and as I got up, he said, "I'll take care of it." I groaned and said, "No. It's fine. I've got it." Then I cleaned up the mess instead.

I explained to him last night that me cleaning up the mess is my way of letting him know I'm not angry even if I'm frustrated. I've always felt not that he's incapable of making things right, but rather that I don't mind making things right so he can move on.

But I told him I was sorry and that in the future, I'd back off and let him clean up his own messes.

Obviously, I've thought about this conversation a lot, or I wouldn't be writing about it now.

I'm a mom. You can throw any other labels on to me that may fit--wife, editor, daughter--but the one I've fought for the hardest and struggled with the most is "mom." And I take that label seriously. I agonize over my kids and over making the right decisions about and for them. And although my oldest is 14 now, I still have this overarching need to protect all of them--sometimes from the world and sometimes from myself. I've been doing this for so long--preventing messes and cleaning them up--that I haven't realized that they're trying to prevent and clean up their own as they get older.

And they need to. For several reasons. I know that. They need to see they can't always rely on someone else to do it for them. But more importantly, they need to know they're capable of this--of screwing up and recovering and moving on. They need to be able to make things right or they'll never feel it's okay when make them wrong in the first place.

Ragtime

2011-04-11T10:35:00.000-05:00

I've played the piano since I was eight years old. My teacher during most of the time I took lessons was a woman named Ruth Sweeney, and I adored her. She was (in my memory) tall and beautiful with perfect bone structure and creamy skin and strawberry blond hair, and she let me simply love playing. I played a little classical before she and I both realized that wasn't my forte and never would be, and she introduced me then to ragtime. That was my "fun" music. She also taught me how to be a better sight reader--how to play a piece through without stopping, even if I made mistakes. Just keep going. And then start all over again. And keep going all over again. Sight reading helped me immensely when I decided I wanted to be an accompanist for the school's show choirs and musicals. I was in my comfort zone behind the piano, and although there was much about high school I didn't love, I did love playing the piano.

Mrs. Sweeney moved out of state when I was sixteen, and I started lessons with a new teacher, fresh out of college. Rather than being enthusiastic, as a new teacher should be, she already seemed old and tired and beaten down by life. She had an entirely different approach, wanting me to focus more on classical music and on memorizing my pieces and on perfecting my pieces. Piano stopped being fun for me: I didn't like practicing or playing or recitals or receiving numbered scores for how well I did at competitions. How do you get a 97 for playing Schubert? How do you play a piece almost perfectly but not quite, not 100%, just 97%? How do you do anything in life outside of a math test or a multiple-choice exam and get a 97? It just seemed wrong to me: being graded on how well I did something that I only wanted to do because I enjoyed doing it--or used to enjoy doing it.

So I quit. But I didn't quit playing. I still played for school, still played for church choir, still played for myself. Even today, sitting at the piano and banging out (gently banging out, that is) my frustrations is therapy. I have a couple of Chopin pieces that hit the right emotion for me at times. But Ragtime is still my go-to music: Scott Joplin, Joseph Lamb, Tom Turpin. I like the syncopated rhythm, the freedom to hit a note off the beat rather than on it. I like that it's supposed to be "ragged"--a little imperfect, a little like jotting down the notes you hear in your head while watching someone who just wants to shout or dance or spin around without knowing the notes ahead of time. I love that people played ragtime for years before bothering to put it down on paper. You didn't read it or try to get it perfect. You just played until it felt perfect.

Most of Joplin's rags are in four movements, and the third is always the hardest. But he was kind enough to give us two shots to get the feel of each movement, as they all repeat once. The first time I sit down to play after being away from the piano for too long, I tend to stumble a little through each movement, and then something clicks as I repeat. I don't perfect the piece, but I get it "righter."

And "righter" is enough for me, because that's where life is enjoyed: in doing what you want to do for the thrill of it all and not for the 97% score.

Sprains

2011-04-02T08:24:00.000-05:00

Fifteen or sixteen years ago, while working at Yale University Press, I sprained both ankles sliding down some steps at work. I was wearing jeans and leather Keds and was hurrying down to give something to somebody--papers, a book, I don't remember. Humiliating enough on its own, right? But add to that humiliation the fact that I landed at the feet of (a) the director and (b) the chief editor of the press. They helped me back to a standing, head-hanging position, and I swore to them I was okay, limped to my destination, and then returned to my desk, where the chief editor met me with an ice pack and lots of advice from his doctor wife about how to treat myself for the rest of the day.

I ignored the advice and went to the movies with my husband that night: "Jefferson in Paris." I don't remember much about the film, only about my ankles throbbing so badly throughout that I was nearly sweating. But I didn't want to leave the movie. We were on a tight budget, and leaving for any reason would've been wasteful.

I had to miss work the next day because I couldn't walk. Five days later, I finally went to the health center to get an x-ray. My right foot was swollen and purple and hideous. But it was "just " sprained.

A week later I re-sprained it going down the same stupid steps.

Two years ago, I sprained the same foot going down the steps of my house while carrying my youngest son. I went to the ER the next day, sure this time it was broken, but it wasn't. I did learn through that x-ray, however, that I had broken my foot at some point in the past and the bones on top had healed on their own.

Yesterday, heading down the back porch steps, wet from an afternoon of rain, I slipped and fell again. My foot isn't sprained this time, but it has a glorious lump and bruise on top and a scrape along the side.

I have a weak foot. It's time to admit that and act accordingly. I have to be more careful, more aware of what I'm doing.

A couple of days ago, an ex contacted me to ask why I'd unfriended him on Facebook. We had a non-completely-unpleasant exchange in which I explained why, we wished each other well, and then both went on our merry ways.

We all have weaknesses--weak parts--that we have to take into consideration in our daily routines. We can try to strengthen them through exercise, but sometimes exercise isn't the 'cure' and avoidance is. A fall down the steps might not result in a sprained or twisted ankle, but it can remind us of that sprain or twist through a bruise or a scrape or just embarrassment at our clumsiness and carelessness. We don't need to avoid the steps, but we can always watch our footing.

Little girls and bikinis

2011-03-28T09:40:00.000-05:00

I was watching the news this morning and saw a clip about how Abercrombie and Fitch is marketing padded bikinis to girls as young as seven. The two experts on the show both disapproved but neither of them said what I would have said, expert or not. So here goes: girls as young as seven shouldn't be wearing bikinis. Girls as young as ten shouldn't. Girls as young as sixteen shouldn't. And if anyone reading this is now offended because your daughter does wear one, hear me out.

I think a three-year-old in a bikini is adorable--her back still swayed enough to make that little toddler belly stick out, her little dumpling knees and pudgy thighs so sweet you could just squeeze them. No harm in a bikini at three, right? Or even four. Five?

My daughter was six when we moved to our current neighborhood. And I was mortified when she came home one afternoon asking me what "sexy" meant. Some boy had called her this, and she needed to know if it was a compliment or an insult. I don't think even the boy knew, but he'd heard it. And I'm sure that now that they're eight, they both have a better idea of what it means.

She got in a huge argument with one of her friends earlier this year over who was the fatter of the two. The fight landed them both in tears and a talk with the teacher. For a week, my daughter wanted an apple instead of cookies in her packed lunch so she could "prove" to this friend that she wasn't fat.

Whether my daughter is overweight or not isn't even the issue. The fact that she feels fat is. The fact that she thinks her weight is more important than her health or her friendships is. The fact that she was self-conscious enough to give up her cookies for a week is.

If my daughter had worn a bikini last year, would she want to wear it again this year? Or would she be noticing for the first time that her stomach still pokes out? That her body hasn't quite evened itself out yet in the weight to height ratio? And if not this year, what about next year? Or the next? Or when she hits puberty and her body changes a little more (or a lot more)?

Girls (and boys!) should be able to do one thing more than anything else in a swimsuit: swim. They should be able to dive, to do flips, to race laps--not obsess over how well they fill out the scant top and bottom of a couple of pieces of lycra. They shouldn't be worried about how sexy they look. And neither should anyone else.

I want my daughter to love her body and what her body is capable of doing in and out of the water. I want her to feel attractive because of her strength and her joy and her kindness. And I may not be able to remove all of the distractions along the way to her becoming a confident young woman, but I can limit them. I can say no to a bikini--padded or not.

What to do, what to do . . .

2011-03-26T12:35:00.000-05:00

I started out having a productive morning. Got up early enough to make the kids waffles with strawberries and whipped cream (the spray stuff doesn't count, I know, but today it does, okay?). I washed the dishes (more or less: more, meaning they're in the dishwasher or are drying on the counter; less, meaning . . . meaning the exact same thing as more) and then headed out by 9 a.m. for a couple of errands. Oh, and I was dressed and showered as well, though not in that order.

Then I got home and by 10:00 my productivity ended. The kitchen now looks like this:

And my six-year-old just annihilated me in a game of Mancala. His exultation was great and only slightly humiliating. But it beats playing his father. My husband, love him to pieces and bits though I may, is the most competitive human being I know. We used to play backgammon when we were newly married--until I realized we would never be more than newly married if we continued to play together. The game is now hidden under lock and key and we never speak of it. Ever. We also never speak of the time he played Trivial Pursuit with my family and just wouldn't give my sister credit, for crying out loud, for "It's a Mad Mad Mad World" when the answer (yeesh) was "It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World."

I digress. No surprise there.

I hate a messy kitchen. I can't think straight in a messy kitchen. I want to live in a magazine of a kitchen and not the reality of one, filled with dirty dishes and things that don't have a place because I can't think straight in a messy kitchen and figure out what sort of place those things should have! (Yep. That's a panic attack coming on. Thanks for noticing.) (And that 2-liter of Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi you're looking at probably isn't helping the nerves any, is it?) (Don't answer.)

I want to throw away most of what you see: the leftover waffles, the grapes that are just too sad looking today, the half-eaten banana (WHY oh WHY is an entire banana just too much for a person to eat? Please tell me. Seriously. It's a BANANA, not an entire buffet of fruit. A--one--single--banana!! Just eat the whole thing. Please.), the yellow eco-friendly cloths I bought that have been the bane of my existence because one they dry, you can't get them wet again without soaking them in hot water for what seems like days, those curtains. Ugh. Yes, even those curtains. Whoever lived here before us had them specially made, and I loathe them. I took down the ones that hung over the windows in our breakfast area, but I've never gotten around to taking these down. Why? Because. Okay. That's why. I'm easily distracted. Fine. I'll do it today. Enough with the nagging. Why do I hate them? Why such a visceral reaction to harmless, innocent curtains? Because they have pomegranates and pineapples on them. And big concord grapes and cherries. They annoy me. I can't explain it beyond that. I have nothing against fruit as a rule (except half-eaten bananas!!!!), but I already have fruit in my kitchen. I don't need fruit on my curtains. And they're pointed--pointing down to the sink, reminding me I should be there working and not here babbling. It's rude.

I know I should be cleaning the kitchen, but here's the thing: it's 12:30. My husband and two of my kids will be home any minute now, and they'll be eating lunch. And the kitchen will be torn apart again. Yes, I know this is what life is about: cleaning up the same mess over and over and over again. Okay, maybe life is about more than that, but it certainly involves repetitive clean-ups.

I made my bed this morning. That counts for something, too, right?

Yep. They're home now. Good thing I opted to babble instead of clean. I'm sure they'll all appreciate it.

As did you.

My point? I didn't have one. I'm gearing up for a week of having all four kids home with me during spring break. I needed a little manic stream of consciousness. Carry on. Enjoy your first full week of spring. And perhaps spring cleaning.

Apron Strings

2011-03-11T13:14:00.000-06:00

I loved bedtime when my kids were babies--and not just because it meant having a few hours of quiet. I loved it because I'd get to sit in the dark with them and sing. I sang "Sweetheart Tree" and "The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond" and sometimes a little John Denver or even Laurel and Hardy ("Trail of the Lonesome Pine"). They're the songs I haven't sung since. They grew out of them before I said it was okay for them to. They didn't ask for permission.

I also "wrote" each of them a lullaby. My oldest, now 14, got embarrassed the other day when I mentioned this to him. No, thanks, Mom, you don't need to sing it for me now:

Baby laugh and baby smiles
Baby steps toward grownup miles
So let me hold your tiny hand and keep you safe while I still can.
Let me come now when you call.
Let me catch you when you fall.
While apron strings still hold you near
My love can wipe away each tear.
Baby laughs and baby smiles
Baby steps toward grownup miles.

Nothing brings out the sap in me like my children, especially when I think of how different life was for us all when they were still at that rock-able age.

My 11-year-old son got in a fight at school this week, if by "fight" you mean another kid shoved him around for standing up to him and then hit my son in the face before running off to tell the teacher my son had hit him (not true, by the way; witnesses concur). But he was fine--completely unfazed. In fact, he didn't even mention the incident to me until more than an hour after he got home from school. He laughed it off, said the kid is a jerk but doesn't worry him. I think that kid worries me more. I wanted to call his parents, hunt the child down myself and have a few words with him, show up at school and haunt the halls and playground until June. But my son doesn't need me there. He's taken care of the situation . . . and he's stronger for it.

I was talking to my sister about this today, and she said that as much as she wants to fight her kids' battles and take away everything that might make them sad or afraid or alone, she knows she can't and shouldn't. I agreed. It takes more than love and protection to make a child happy: it takes a sense of empowerment. The kid who hit mine isn't strong and he isn't happy. My child is.

I'm not entirely sure how he got that way. I'd like to take the credit but it's not that simple. He's always been his own little person, as I put it. He's never cared what others think of him, never tried to impress anyone. "I know who I am," he told me that afternoon. "That's all that matters."

My 8-year-old daughter isn't quite as empowered as he is. I hope I can say "yet." I'm working on the "yet." She's constantly caught in a tug of war between one group of friends or another. She asked me the other day which of two of her friends I liked better, because, she said, they were making her choose. "Don't choose," I said. "Find other friends who won't make you." I don't know if I helped. That's how parenting goes most of the time: Did I help? Or did I just make matters worse? Did I say too much? Too little? Her grades have dropped recently, and her teacher thinks it may be because the social situation at school is preoccupying her. I want to jump in and fix things, but this is only third grade--only the beginning of the minefield that is the social life of a pre-adolescent girl. I can't fix things. I can only help, whether that's by listening or by agreeing with her that, yes, her friend was mean or by continuing to do what I can to make her feel strong in other areas of her life.

I truly had no idea as a young mother how much as a not-so-young mother I'd want to keep catching my kids and coming when they call--how much I'd want them to "let" me. And I had no idea how hard it would be to see the strings unravel--because they have to--and then hold my breath while they find their own footing.

How Bad Does It Have to Get?

2011-02-19T09:59:00.001-06:00

In the 1700s, James Lind came up with the theory that adding a ration of fruit to sailors' diets could eradicate scurvy, a disease that had killed millions (it dates back to B.C.). Tens of thousands during this era were dying during sea battles and campaigns from this disease alone. Captain Cook's ship remained scurvy-free throughout its 3-year voyage (1768-71) in the South Seas with a ration of lemon juice and sauerkraut for his men. Still, the Admiralty didn’t believe such a fatal disease could be cured so easily. They wanted an elixir, preferably one with a complicated name and many ingredients. (Who doesn't?) Lind died on February 14, 1794--the year a naval squadron finally put his theory to test, thereby fully vindicating him. But another ten years passed before it became standard daily issue in the navy.

I have had these little red marks on my right hand--only my right hand--for a couple of months. And they haven't itched or even hurt necessarily unless I brush up against something, and then it feels like I have slivers stuck in my fingers. Not really pleasant and not horribly unpleasant, so I haven't done anything about them, figuring they'd just go away eventually.

But they've gotten worse the last couple of weeks, gotten painful, and since even annoyances are worth getting rid of, I finally looked into the problem last week. I finally decided, after reading a hundred or so posts on a chat page, that the marks were caused by either (a) cold weather (thus the reason they're only on my right hand; if it's a circulation issue, my right hand is farther from my heart than my left) or (b) too much sugar in my diet.

I love sugar. I'm worse than my kids, honestly. It goes beyond chocolate. I'll eat crap sugar: Airheads and Laffy Taffies and Nerds. At least dark chocolate can offer me a speck or two of anti-oxidants. Smarties? Not so smart. I know that.

But I cut it out. Not all the way out. I'm not that faithful. I've still been eating my cinnamon-toffee almonds from Nutty Guys. I had a few bites of cake Wednesday night. I stole a piece of my son's Valentine's candy last night (though he denies the candy was his, because then he'd have to tell me who gave it to him, all of which is a post for another time). But I cut way way down.

And my hand is SO much better after only five days of making this one little change in lifestyle. And it was easy--so easy that I wasn't sure it would be enough. But I was feeling desperate enough.

I didn't mean for this to be a medical post. I've just been thinking about how human nature so often holds us in place--in bad relationships, bad health, bad financial situations, bad jobs--all because we're unwilling to make a change until that place gets so bad we'll try anything. And why is this? Is it stubbornness? Laziness? Pride? Exhaustion? Fear? Anger? Denial?

Sure, making a change so I can have full use of my right hand again isn't the biggest accomplishment--or the most necessary--of my life. But I know I've stayed in situations for all of the above reasons more than once. I've known a little citrus might be the solution but I've still said, "Nope. Not big enough. Not important enough. Bring me the magic elixir, and then we'll talk."

Love Someone . . .

2011-02-14T09:25:00.001-06:00

My friend Brigid Kemmerer is sponsoring a contest for stories of your worst Valentine's Day ever. So if you happen to be here on my blog before 5 a.m. tomorrow morning (the 15th), head over to hers and tell her aalllll about it.

I was going to tell her my story, but then I thought, "Hey, I'm happily married, and since my worst Valentine's Day involved my husband, who is wonderfully good and kind to me (not to mention patient), how much can I really capitalize on my so-called sob story? I have it good."

I will say, however, that my disappointment that particular Valentine's Day was over failed expectations. And, okay, so I know that's what the very definition of disappointment is: you expect something and things don't work out that way and--ta-dah--disappointment. Really, when you think about it (and it doesn't require heavy thinking by any means), all unhappiness in general derives from failed expectations.

And Valentine's Day is the perfect time for many to reflect on those failed expectations: "I thought I'd have someone to share today with."

Or "I have someone to share today with. I expected that to be enough."

My three sisters and I decided this past Christmas to make our gifts for or only spend a small amount of money on each other. We're all old enough (well old enough) now and with families of our own--old enough and independent enough, that is--that token gifts are "enough." We don't "need" and we don't "expect" the extraneous array of . . . stuff.

My oldest sister gave me a beautiful handmade scarf. She didn't make it, but someone did, and it's beautiful: lots of bright colors, and even when I don't wear it, I have it laying across a chair because just looking at it makes me happy. My older sister made me felt mittens and a felt hat with a felted daisy on it. She's ridiculously talented with her creations. I can't even call them "crafts" or what she does a "hobby," because she does so much and does it all so well that, cheesy as it sounds, she's an artist. My younger sister, who has the best sense of style of anyone I know (though AngryBaker kicks some serious fashion tush too), gave me a short-sleeved sweater and a long-sleeved t-shirt to wear underneath it. Any great outfits I wear were either hers originally or contain pieces she gave me as gifts. I have her to thank for getting me out of the 90s.

It was a nice Christmas.

Oh . . . what did I give them? I hand stitched felt ornaments and made them wooden bracelets, each with a quote that reminded me specifically of them. And then I made myself one:

"Love Someone Who Doesn't Deserve It."

It's easy to love someone who does deserve it--like my sisters . . . and my brothers and my parents and my husband and kids and other family members and friends. But to let go of the expectations you demand of others--sometimes those you thought it would be easy to love or think it should be easy to love--is, well, just a lot less fun. But it's also very liberating because it takes away the burden of failed expectations: unhappiness.

I'm wearing my bracelet as I type this. It's Valentine's Day after all. And I do a much better job of loving my husband on a daily basis than I do of loving that neighbor who yelled at my son the other day.

Besides, who of us really deserves the love we have in our lives?

Mindless Wonderings/Wanderings

2011-02-11T14:25:00.000-06:00

I've felt like crap most of today. Not looking for sympathy here--just surprised at myself. I don't get sick often. In fact, I rather revel in my usual health and ability to repel even the most aggressive bugs. And what I'm feeling isn't "sick" so much as "in pain." But this isn't about my medical symptoms and my refusal to go to the doctor until I have to be carried there.

I was clicking around my toolbar--hopping from Dictionary to Chicago Manual of Style to Hulu--and I decided I'm curious: What's in your toolbar?

Here's my list (because I know you're dying to know, and if you're not, don't tell me you're not, because remember? I'm in pain already. So, okay, maybe I'm looking for a little sympathy, or at least enough for you to not openly mock me.):

Gmail--I'm on gmail almost always. I sometimes miss writing longhand and give it a shot, but then my hand cramps up and I remember why USPS is having troubles these days.
Yahoo!--My news page.
Facebook--I don't spend hours on this, but I do check in regularly just to see what old and distant friends are up to. I saw the movie, by the way. I thought it was really good but not Oscar worthy. Actually, I can't remember the last time I saw an Oscar-worthy movie.
Google--I'm there more than I'm on gmail or Facebook. Who isn't?
Thesaurus--It's an editor's friend.
Dictionary--See Thesaurus.
All Recipes--I've gotten rid of most of my cookbooks over the last few years. The ones I hold on to I hold on to for sentimental reasons. (Can someone be sentimental about a cookbook?)
My blog--I go here to check out my blog roll, which I think I need to add to, by the way, because I'm not wasting nearly enough time stalking strangers.
Twitter--I should really delete that one since it's been months since I've tweeted. Spending time there depressed me, made me anxious and uptight. It felt too TOO much like stalking, and I found that 140 characters is just enough for people to succinctly gripe and kvetch and mock (none of which I ever do, of course).
Amazon--Yes, I love independents. Two of my brothers own independents, one of which (the independent, not the brother) used to be my parents'. But I also have a little crush on Amazon.
Calculator--Hm. I guess it's just easier than looking for a physical one.
New York Times--I think my husband put this one on. I need to remove it since I never look at it.
Pandora--Love!
Wunderground--Because I need to know just how much snow Chicago is going to get before spring finally shows up. And then I need to know how much rain to expect. And then just how hot it's going to get before fall rolls around. And then how long I have until the whole snow and cold thing starts up again.
Chicago Manual of Style--Again, it's an editor thing.
Chicago Tribune--Ron, stop adding to my toolbar.
PowerSchool--This is how I gather the info necessary to nag my kids about their grades. Poor things. And I'm so glad my parents didn't have this when I was in school.
Hulu--I won't even mention his name again, as I know you're sick of hearing it.

Gee that was fun. ~sigh~ And really: what's your toolbar like? Because once I get rid of a few of these, I'll have some room for more time-wasting sites to entertain me (which kind of contradicts the "time-wasting" descriptor . . . kind of) while I tell myself I'm feeling better and better all the time.

Off to Hulu now.

Take It down a Notch

2011-02-07T09:05:00.000-06:00

My kitchen is a mess and it's distracting me a little bit. I usually can't get anything done in the morning before it's clean, but I'm trying to get my bearings again here after a week of being more or less housebound "thanks" to the blizzard (seems a little silly to me to call what we had here a blizzard, but who am I to argue with meteorology?) and a sick five-year-old who's been housebound with me. He's back at school today, as are two of my other three kids. The oldest is upstairs with a stomach ache. Ah, germs... How I resent you.

Where was I? Distraction. 'Kay. So I can't stop thinking about last night's episode of "Glee." (It's better to think about that than the Super Bowl; I'll just say so I can get it said that the Packers earned the win. They did. They played a better game with a better quarterback and a better offense. My black and gold is put away, salt-free, no tears shed.)

"Glee." It means happy. Joyful. And, I realized after however many weeks of not watching it (I only watch reruns of "The Office," "Buffy," "Angel," and "Firefly"), it means yelling. Lots and lots of yelling.

I've worked really hard the last year or so at subduing the yeller in me. She isn't very attractive, and she sounds like a crazed banshee (as opposed to the sane ones). That's no one you want to introduce your children to. I don't like her very much, and she's completely ineffective. So we had a chat, and I told her she wasn't welcome around here anymore. She still tries to sneak her way in, but I'm a good fighter.

And with all of my kids in school all day now (except when germs sneak in through those same cracks the banshee tries to squeeze through, perhaps), I'm used to quiet days. I don't listen to a lot of music when I'm home alone because (1) I can't concentrate on my editing when I'm humming along with Jim Croce and (2) I'm prone to feeling really lonely when I listen to music, regardless of the song style. So I live a quiet little existence here from 8 a.m. to 3:15 p.m. Monday through Friday.

Then chaos erupts when the kids pour in through the front door. And it's a nice little chaos. It's good to have them home, hear their happy voices, see their happy little faces.

For a few hours.

Come dinner time, I'm holding my head, my elbows propped on the table, begging them to please, just, shhhh, don't yell, I'm right here, yes, you can have more milk, here, just, shhhh, please keep your voice down, stop yelling, holy cow.

So it struck me pretty hard last night how LOUD everyone on "Glee" is. Sue's yelling (and I love Sue!). The football team is yelling. Rachel is yelling. Coach Beast, Will, Fin. They're loud and scowling and grumpy and . . . I didn't like it. It made me uncomfortable. Maybe 9:30 p.m. is just too late to watch the show. Maybe it was WAY past my noise-tolerance time.

But, darn, we're a yelling society aren't we? When did this start? Is each generation, as my husband suggested, used to raising its voices to be heard over the previous generation's voices? Is the debate culture getting to us? The need to interrupt each other in Bill O'Reilly fashion? With common politeness comes reasonable decibel levels. Throw out politeness and we all end up, sooner or later, with ruptured eardrums.

Go ahead. Pay attention to the TV shows you watch this week, whether it's reality TV or news programs or sitcoms or dramas. And then tell me people aren't yelling way way WAY more than they did in the good old days of "Three Is Company" and "Fantasy Island" and "The Love Boat."

Now I can clean my kitchen. In silence.

From Caveman to Vampire

2011-01-29T08:40:00.000-06:00

I was watching CBS while getting ready this morning, and the show had a panel of experts on male behavior discussing the best way to communicate with a husband/boyfriend. The man talked about (of course) evolutionary behavior--how men traditionally only looked each other in the eye during confrontations and how women were used to looking someone in the eye when communicating with them, because their role was to raise the children and you have to look babies and children in the eye all the time. So, the expert went on to say, if you want to ask a man to do the dishes, you can't look him in the eye or he'll feel threatened.

Okay, I'm still laughing. True or not, it's ridiculous, isn't it? And I'm also feeling that maybe it's time to start getting past all of our cave-dwelling issues.

Another expert said we women need to talk in sound bites because men can't focus for the length of a "real" conversation. Sound bites, ladies. But I just can't . . . I can't give in to this piece of advice. It's time to move out of the cave no matter how comfy it's been all these millennia.

My talented friend Brigid Kemmerer posted this video yesterday. I'd seen it before, but I still laugh every time I watch it.

That's not my husband. My husband just made breakfast for me this morning, in fact, and didn't burn it. And, okay, so he may only listen in sound bites, but I can look him in the eye when we talk without worrying about him grabbing a club and challenging me to a duel when he gets back from hunting the stegosaurus that's been trampling our grass. Still, the video is hilarious because it's depiction, not truth.

Anyone who knows me knows I love Joss Whedon. I'm not a fanatic that's reached the join-his-cult stage quite yet. But I do enjoy the heck out of his shows (except for "Dollhouse," of course). I love "Buffy" (even if I'm not a Sarah Michelle Gellar fan) and love "Angel" even more because . . . well, because of Angel. I'm disappointed, of course, that David Boreanaz cheated on his wife, but not nearly as disappointed as she was. I imagine she was hoping for a little more Angel and a little less Throg the Philanderer.

I'm thinking that our fascination with vampires as leading men has a lot to do with the fact (disclaimer: I know vampires aren't real; I'm talking literary fact) that vampires can be hundreds of years old and therefore have had the chance to evolve individually much more than the average Joe. Once you know he's a vampire, nothing else is going to come as a surprise. He'll still bring you flowers. He'll still put the lid down on the toilet. He'll still put his bowl in the dishwasher. He'll still listen to your entire conversation and not just the one- and two-syllable words. And he'll smolder through it all.

Life of Leisure

2011-01-20T08:31:00.000-06:00

I don't like having nothing to do. And that's a ridiculous phrase anyway, isn't it? Nothing to do? I've talked here before about one of my mother's mottoes: "Only boring people are bored." So I don't mean I'm bored. I can always find something to do; the issue is whether it's worth doing.

I never watch daytime TV. I'm just throwing that out there at the outset. Notice I said that in the present tense. In our old house, the kitchen opened onto the TV room, and while I cleaned the kitchen or cooked or baked or whatever else I might need to do around the stove, sink, and oven in the course of the day, I would often put on the TV for "company." I hated the arrangement. In our current house, the kitchen is separated from the TV room by a living room, and that's how I like it.

My point (I try to always get there eventually) is that I had the TV on for a few minutes yesterday and "Let's Make a Deal" was on. The studio audience was clothed in ridiculous costumes and wigs, all hoping for the chance to win a vacation or a shopping spree if Wayne Brady would just notice them. I got the same "ick" feeling I get when I see people waiting two hours in line for a 3-minute roller coaster ride. The "ick" feeling is this: Really? That's what we have time for today? Our lives are so easy and our need for a thrill so intense that we have to seek it out in a sweaty line with 200 other people in need of the same thrill? We're so desensitized to what used to pass for joy that we have to come up with new means of feeling that way?

I'm reading At Home by Bill Bryson. It's a short history of the house--how various rooms came to be--and it's fascinating. It's also a reminder of how little "real" work we need to do these days. Preparing a meal, doing the laundry, staying warm, staying cool, getting from point A to point B--these are all things we hardly think about anymore. Or at least those of us fortunate enough to live above the poverty line, which, face it, is most of us in the U.S.--don't have to think about them. So what do we think about instead? And how much do those things really matter?

I read a book a number of months back called Monique and the Mango Rains. The author, a member of the Peace Corps at the time, writes in the beginning about how women in Malawi don't have a favorite dress or a favorite food. They have a dress to wear--one--and they have food to eat . . . whatever might be available to them and not a cupboard full of choices. And, really, they're happier than we Americans are in many ways because (and this is me talking now) they don't have to manufacture happiness.

I love my warm house and clothes and food when it's snowing outside and the windchill is below zero and my "work" for the evening is loading the dishwasher and giving my kids a bath. That's a good life. I don't want to give away all but one dress or live on tomato soup. I just want to make sure that whatever I'm doing in place of struggling is worthwhile. And I want to be grateful. And I want to be happy and to teach my kids that happiness is available all around them--not just on game shows and roller coaster rides.

Red Boots

2011-01-04T09:17:00.000-06:00

I had a pair of tall, red vinyl boots when I was a kid. They were probably called "patent leather," but leather doesn't squeak like those used to when they brushed up against each other. I wore them everywhere, all of the time, and with every outfit: shorts, jeans, skirts. It didn't matter. They're the one article of clothing I remember from childhood. They had little heels--maybe half an inch--and I walked on the sides of those heels until the shoes became deformed looking, twisted and stretched . . . but more comfortable. See, I was a tomboy up until I hit middle school and really, truly discovered boys. And the boys I liked didn't care so much for girls who could out-tree-climb them or who didn't like brushing their hair, even for school photos, or who spent hours in the woods, imagining they heard Bigfoot or saw the remains of fairy rings.

I'd outgrown my boots by then. I switched to "baby doll" shoes--the black, canvas, Mary Jane ones. More practical. But I never loved them. They didn't feel like "me." Middle school is like that: three awkward years of not feeling like "you" and wondering if it's your shoes . . . or your hair or your clothes or your weight or your family's awful orange VW van with Ziggy painted on the side. (Yes, seriously.)

High school isn't a whole lot better and in many ways it's worse. I'd gotten rid of my baby doll shoes by then and envied the other girls' Tretorns and K-Swiss and Reeboks but tried to find my own "style" so theirs wouldn't "fit" me. I wouldn't want what they had because it wouldn't "match."

College? I borrowed my roommates' shoes a lot. Also their clothes. I was kind of amazed--in a very sad, pathetic sort of way--to realize after college how few of the clothes in my wardrobe I liked. So I started over, putting myself in debt (not obscenely so, though my husband may disagree) in an effort to "find myself." It didn't work.

It took a long time, which it does for most of us, for me to find the shoes that fit me again rather than the me that fit the shoes. I'm comfortable with the skin I'm in. It's a good place to be.

Last night, I was taking my daughter to ballet and passed a children's shoe store that is going out of business. I sent her up to the studio and went back to the store. The first pair I found? Tall, red patent leather boots--in my size, not Emma's. I got her a couple of pairs of shoes, too, but the red boots are mine.

Trying the Domestic Thing

2010-12-30T15:59:00.000-06:00

I've never been any sort of domestic goddess. I like cooking, but it's been a long process of "becoming." The first meal I ever made for my husband tasted, as he so kindly put it, like Lysol smells. I liked it, but chicken deep fried in lemon pepper batter with lemon rice on the side obviously wasn't his thing. I never made it again. My landlady at the time did her best to teach me to cook "real" dishes. She was Italian, and for three and a half years I was her pet project . . . and a disappointment.

Something clicked between then and now, and most meals I make are edible at the very least and often pretty darn good. Just don't ask me to make beef of any sort because I get lost in that section of the meat department. I really don't know one cut from another and I get frustrated and end up serving beans to my family that night instead.

For 17 years of marriage, however, I have never really tried the sewing side of domesticity. The idea of making curtains and duvet covers and pillowcases and clothing of any sort? I just can't take myself there because I have flashbacks to my childhood and the polyester t-shirts I wore--the same pattern in varying material (but always polyester)--for several of my formative years. "Traumatized" would be a strong word. "Shell-shocked" would not.

~shudder~

This Christmas, however, I took the leap. Ron asked what I wanted, and I confidently said, "A sewing machine." The excitement in his voice was sweet . . . a certain air of innocence there, like a child who can't believe his good luck at getting the toy he always wanted but never hoped for out of fear of being disappointed.

Here's the one I picked out. (I needed a beginner's, and even this one is a little advanced for me. See that knob on the right? I've spent two days trying to figure it out.)

And here, apparently, is what I'm supposed to be wearing while I sew. And another reason the idea of sewing has always frightened me a little. Am I required to wear slippers? Obviously not. But after a few months at my little machine, will I resort to slippers and a housecoat as my go-to outfit? I've decided I have to have faith in the friends I have who sew and get dressed every day.

Also to ward off the slippers and housecoat, I've decided to not make a single curtain, duvet cover, pillowcase, or article of clothing until I have mastered these:

Okay, so that was my first. His name is "Thump-er" and he's a love bird. Those are wings (misshapen, yes, but perfectly functional in his world) and eyes wide with love.

I started this today and don't know yet where I'm going with it.

Finally, to keep myself entertained while making monsters, I watch monsters. That's "Angel" in case you can't tell--as in David Boreanz, as in Joss Whedon--because nothing makes a home a home like a few vampires and demon hunters.

I sense Ron's childlike enthusiasm fading quickly.

Good thing I made beans for dinner.

A "Good" Education in Brief

2010-12-23T08:25:00.001-06:00

I was watching a segment on the Today Show this morning about a Florida school run, in essence, by the students. It's about democracy and helping kids figure out early on what they want to do with their lives--what their "callings" are.

The interviewer asked an educational "expert" what she thought of the school. The woman called it "part home schooling, part anarchy." She disapproved of the fact that the school never tests its students. She went on to say, "Without tests, how do they know how good they are doing?"

Hm... Perhaps by watching themselves being interviewed as adults on national TV and seeing just how good those grammar lessons worked out?

Losing It, Part II

2010-12-20T16:24:00.000-06:00

I found the glove. We're very happy together again, and just in time for the wicked weather on its way tonight here in Chicago. I'm all stocked up on milk and Christmas cookies, so no worries.

We did, however, lose a Christmas stocking last week, and initially that loss hit me harder than the glove. I bought three felt stockings when my 13-year-old was a baby. I paid $7.99 a piece for them at TJMaxx. I didn't buy the "extra" two for Ron and me. I bought them for the two kids I knew I'd be having after the first. Of course, we went on to have three more kids, but I didn't want to get too far ahead of myself all those years ago. The fourth one (the stocking, not the child) doesn't match the others very well, but it was the best I could do at the time.

But I digress.

I let said 13-year-old son take one of the stockings to school with him for a French project. Why? Because I thought I was being over-protective of the stocking when I said no the first time he asked. This was on Monday. On Friday, I sent him a text to remind him to bring the stocking home with him so it wouldn't be stranded at school over the two-week vacation.

He came home and confessed: he hadn't been able to find it since the presentation. He'd been looking for it all week, checking with the teacher daily, checking the lost and found daily, scouring the halls, his locker, asking other kids if they'd seen it. All to no avail.

My reaction was to go back to the email I was typing at the time. I couldn't respond right away to him because I didn't know what I'd say when I opened my mouth. He apologized over and over and said he'd buy a new one. "It's not about the money," I told him as I headed upstairs to find a door I could close. "It's the sentimental value."

So I cried for a few moments--less over the stocking than over the realization that my kids are growing up and Christmas is a bigger reminder than birthdays are of that fact. I liked things how they used to be. I like them how they are now. So it only makes sense I'll like how they'll be tomorrow and next year and the next, right? But "sense" doesn't always come into play for me, especially when it comes to my kids.

I went back downstairs, where he was sitting on the sofa waiting for me, visibly upset to have disappointed me. And then I felt bad for making him think he'd disappointed me. We talked for a few minutes. I assured him I wasn't angry. And then I told him I had to head out to buy another stocking. He asked if he could go with me. The talk and the time at the store with him more than paid for the "loss."

I'd read an article earlier that day about depression and the holidays and how the depression generally arises from this sense of loss so many people feel, whether it's the reminder of lost loved ones, lost dreams, or failed expectations. We anticipate so much over Christmas that we're bound to find the reality falling short of the plans.

On the drive to TJMaxx, where I found a perfectly suitable replacement stocking for $7.99 (13 years later), I assured my son that nothing matters more than my children do, and that I don't ever want him or the others thinking that my memories of being with them are more important than being with them in the present.

As long as I can focus on the present, without an ache for the past or a concern for the future, I think we'll all have a merrier Christmas.

Losing It

2010-12-09T13:32:00.000-06:00

I lost a glove today. I know, I know . . . good thing it's Christmas and now I can tell my husband exactly what I need, right? A new pair of gloves.

But I don't want a new pair. I want the other half of the one sitting all lonely like on my kitchen counter.

I got the gloves more than 10 years ago when we lived in Connecticut. They're a cream knit with a shearling (fake, I'm sure) lining and a leather palm. They're warm and comfortable. I wear them when I'm driving and when I'm just out for walks. I wear them to shovel snow, to go sledding with my kids, and when I'm sitting in the car waiting for them to hurry out after school. They're dingy and stained in spots from where I thought picking up leaves with them would be just fine. They've been through a lot with me and have held up--the dinginess and spottiness notwithstanding--remarkably well.

And I could honestly cry over the loss of one. I even went back to the store two hours later just to see if anyone had turned it in. I left my name and number with the floor manager just in case someone sees the sad little thing and realizes it must have a home and an owner who misses it.

Christmas is a time for holding on to things--of not wanting to let go. It's nostalgia, sure, but it's even greedier than that. It's more than the wistfulness of fond memories. It's the clutching at them and clinging to them and throwing iron chains around them in an effort to make them stay. We can call it "tradition," but that's just shorthand for "please, oh, please, let's not ever change a single thing about this moment, because I can't bear to let go." My oldest child already knows he's getting a guitar for Christmas, and he asked the other day if he could just open it first. I almost screamed at him. "No! You can't open it first. You have to wait until the end, let the anticipation build. I want to see you excited about all of your gifts--even the $10 t-shirt from Target--not just the 'main' one!" I'm clinging to him, throwing my iron chains around him, wanting to keep Christmas the same even if I can't reduce his 5'10" frame and make him the little boy he used to be at this time of year. If I let him change then how will I ever keep the three children that follow him from changing?

So I didn't scream at him. I said, "No. That's not how we do things." Much more sane of me.

When I was a kid, my grandmother had this plastic gumdrop tree. She preferred the spice drops, which weren't at all tempting to me, but the chance to decorate the tree? The very definition of Christmas to a seven-year-old. I can still recall the way the plastic pricked if I pushed too hard. I can feel the squish of the gummies between my fingers and the sugar they left behind. My husband and I somehow ended up with one after we got married. We used it once. It just wasn't the same. Most things aren't.

Now I have to go drown my sorrows in a bag of Cadbury Christmas Balls, which are supposed to be the same thing as Cadbury Mini Eggs, but they're not. Really. They're not the same at all. I prefer the original. It's just how I am.

A Cupboard of My Own

2010-11-18T11:16:00.001-06:00

I had a "discussion" with my husband the other night over my need to have a room to call my own. No, I don't mean in the Virginia Woolf sense. I'm not looking for a space where I can sit and lock out the world and create paragraphs and stanzas that will set the masses a-swooning. I just mean a space where I make all the decisions--where I decide the color of paint on the walls, the kind of furniture to tuck into the corner, the books to arrange on the shelves, the hangings on the wall. And then I don't want anyone touching anything or making complaints or suggestions or rearranging or saying, "Hmm.... I was thinking maybe . . ." No. I just want something that's mine all mine all mine.

The "problem" is that this isn't my house. It's our house. And I have a husband who has opinions--often very strong ones. And I can't say, "Well, that's just too bad. Just close your eyes when you come in here from now on."

I was telling my mother about this, and she said she completely understood. And she also understood how it's an "and never the twain shall meet" sort of situation.

When my oldest son was little, he once asked me, "Why is everything in Grandpa's house brown?" I looked around and realized he was right. My parents' house was decorated in shades of brown thanks to my father's collection of antiques--most of which my mother gave away or sold after he died. It wasn't that she was trying to erase all memories of him. It was that those had been his things, his idea of home decorations. Hers? The delicate little cups and saucers she'd accumulated from various antique shows over the years. Only you didn't see those cups and saucers because the butter molds and trenchers and hog scrapers overshadowed them. Mom knows what it's like to have one spouse fill the house while the other sits by and shrugs and says, "Fine, whatever."

"That's what my purse has always been to me," Mom said.

And I finally got it.

When I was a kid, my mom would go ballistic on any of us kids who dared open her purse for so much as a mint. "That's mine," she would growl.

Just last week, I did the same to one of my kids. "I just wanted to see if you have any mints," he said. "Then ask me," I told him. "That purse is mine."

I also have this cupboard. I've told all of my kids there is no reason ever why they should feel the need to open it.

And it's mine all mine all mine. I have my Jolly Ranchers on the top shelf. (I hardly ever eat them, but when I want one, I want one right at that very moment.) I have my candied ginger on the middle shelf--two containers, in fact. I have a few work folders (more organized that it may look to you). I have my index cards, my index file, Christmas receipts from last year, my mini Boggle game, my incense sticks, school calendars.

Okay, so it's not a room of my own. But I do own what's in there . . . just like my purse. And as long as I'm sharing a house with someone--five someones, and I'm grateful for every one of them and wouldn't trade a mansion of my own for the absence of any of them--a cupboard and a purse will do just fine.

Do you have a space of your own? If not, how do you manage without one? If so, what is that space?

Truth or Consequences

2010-11-17T14:04:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid and my friends and I would play Truth or Dare, I always chose Truth. In part, I was a chicken . . . afraid to embarrass myself in a dare. But I also didn't have anything to hide. Never have. I'm the proverbial open book. If you know me, there isn't much you don't know about me.

Which means I'm nothing like my mother. Sure, I look like her. Our senior pictures are eerily similar. Of her four daughters, I'm the only one that ended up with her green eyes. We're built alike. We have the same voice, both singing and speaking. And as I've gotten older, I only look more like her.

But my mom is a private person. She doesn't like talking about emotional issues. She doesn't like confrontation. Heck, when my husband and I have an argument (and I mean over something as benign as which TV show to watch), she hurries from the room like she might get dragged into having to choose sides if she sticks around. She's never offered me parenting advice--even when I've asked for it. She's never suggested I lose weight, gain it, wear something different, change my hairstyle, or try less blush next time. She figures my life is my business and hers is hers. Frankly, I find it all rather . . . quaint. Cute, even. She makes me laugh.

Sometimes, though, her tendency to keep everything quiet brings me up short.

A number of Christmases ago, I was telling her I hadn't gotten a card from my Aunt Ruth, who had been sending me a card every year for as long as I'd been married. Mom said, "Oh . . . didn't I tell you? She died." Months earlier.

Then just a few years ago, we were talking about twins, and she said, "Y'know, you started out as a twin." What?!?! "Yes," she went on. "But then the next time I went in for an appointment with the doctor, it was gone." Yep: two heartbeats one visit; just one--mine--the next. Apparently, either Mom or I reabsorbed the twin after it died, and I went on to be just fine.

I wonder a lot about that twin. How would my life be different? Would we have gotten along? Would my parents still have had my younger brother and sister if he/she had survived? It's not something I obsess over or that upsets me. It's not as if I feel part of me is missing. I just wonder, y'know? Same as I wonder where different paths in my life could have taken me.

I also wonder what else my mom hasn't told me--not because she's hiding things but because she just hadn't thought to tell me already.

As for me? My kids probably wish I told them a little less. A happy median may have been nice. I bet that would've been my twin.

Cruisin'

2010-11-13T09:13:00.000-06:00

My family and I went on a four-day cruise to Mexico this past spring. I loved visiting the Mayan ruins and I admit the food on the ship was pretty darn wonderful at times. But otherwise? I'm just not a cruiser. My in-laws love cruises. We have neighbors here who love cruises. My husband's close friend from high school feels it's the best money spent on a family vacation. Most of the time, I just felt like I was in a redneck bar on the waves--not that I have anything against rednecks, having grown up in southern Virginia and having been labeled a redneck a time or two (or twelve) in my life. Still, it wasn't my cup of herbal tea or near beer or whatever. I felt claustrophobic most of the time, and I think seeing a literal boatload of inebriated people in their swimsuits (and entirely too many of those were Speedos!) for the better part of the day is just, well, less than appealing.

Obviously, I'm not a commercial for Carnival.

So when the news broke this week that a Carnival ship was stranded off the coast of California, I felt a little for the passengers. A little. Not a lot. And then when the reports came in about the people having to eat Spam and Pop-Tarts . . . ? I have to say my sympathy pangs dropped off completely.

Look, I hate the stench of a backed-up toilet as much as the next person. So, yeah, that aspect of the cruise-gone-bad surely sucked. Then again, I grew up about half an hour from a paper mill. Ever smelled one of those? Even the thought of it can still make me sick to my stomach.

As for Spam and Pop-Tarts? Heck, some college kids live off those things. My brother, bless his earnest soul, ate hotdog buns with ketchup for dinner many a night when he was putting himself through college. He worked at a convenience store, and that was as nutritious a 10-cents meal as he could come up with. And I've eaten a tin or two of Spam in my day (see the above paragraph about my roots) not because my family loved the taste but because it was cheap. And Pop-Tarts? We couldn't afford them. When we did eat something approximating them, it was the cardboard store brand. Even then, who's complaining? Not me. It was still a treat. I also had my share of Velveeta and Miracle Whip and cube steak (I challenge you to find a cheaper cut of red meat)--none of which you'll ever find on a cruise ship.

Cruises are for privileged people, whether it's an economy cruise on Carnival or a first-class cruise on Crystal. I know that. Redneck or not, that bar I was on was on the ocean, for crying out loud. And someone else was making me my meals and cleaning my room and even babysitting my kids a few hours a day. I may not pay for all of that again, but it wasn't exactly the worst experience of my life. To utter any kind of complaint, really, is the equivalent of saying the seat-warmer in my make-believe leather-interior luxury car is a tad too warm on my equally make-believe well-toned, personal-trainer-trained gluteus maximus.

And had I ended up stranded for a couple of days, without air conditioning, and with only Spam and Pop-Tarts to eat? Well, I'm pretty sure it still wouldn't have been the worst experience of my life.

Look, we all have reasons to complain. And we all have reasons not to. I'm just saying perspective is a lot healthier than getting drunk off free alcohol and then complaining the beer wasn't cold.

Whatever Gets Me through the Day

2010-10-18T11:12:00.000-05:00

I'm not a perfectionist. Yes, I like to do things right if I'm going to do them at all, but I don't believe there's one right way to do things--even in editing. Sure, there are rules I'm rigid about. Others, like ending a sentence with a preposition, don't rile me up much.

I also like to be a better person--healthier, smarter, kinder, more patient. Not healthier, smarter, kinder, and more patient than the next person . . . just healthier, smarter, kinder, and more patient than my natural self.

But now and then I get tired of it all. Don't you? Tired of trying to excel, tired of smiling when you just want to bark back at the dog, tired of pretending. It's not the same kind of tired that turns me into a miserable old hag that no one wants to be around (I hope; though I do tend toward that personality occasionally as well). It's the kind of tired that makes me say, "Y'know what? Not today. I'm me. This is it. I'll try harder tomorrow. Get off my back."

And on days like that--on days like this, I require certain things (not necessarily all at once or on the same day--to just get me through:

1. Diet Wild Cherry and/or Diet Lime Pepsi over ice with a straw. I don't need two liters. A glass will do. I know the caffeine isn't good for me, and the acidity is even worse. I've gone weeks without one, so I know what life is like without my soda. I can survive without it. I just don't really need to at the moment.

2. A Mounds bar. I don't know what most people in the world have against coconut. I take offense on the coconut's behalf. And draped in dark chocolate, it's 230 calories, 13 fat grams (10 of them saturated), and 5 minutes of well-earned and over-too-quickly bliss. I have a brother who is trying to only put good things into his body. He drinks kale for breakfast. Drinks it. Kale. He blends it with blueberries and then holds his nose so he doesn't have to smell or taste it. Why? So he can add another ten years to his life in which he'll get to drink kale for breakfast, snack on it for lunch, and then saute it with garlic for dinner? I'm not an eat-drink-and-be-merry kind of girl. Never have been, never will be. So I get the idea of taking care of yourself--just not that well. I'll do the dinner portion with him a couple of times a year. That's my compromise. In the meantime, it's the occasional Mounds for me.

3. A nap. I have a friend who schedules a nap into her day. I hope she still does since I count on her every time I close my eyes for more than two minutes. I don't recommend combining the nap with the Diet Pepsi or the Mounds, however. More than a nap, I like a good night's sleep.

4. A Battlestar-Galactica (or Buffy or Firefly or Dexter) marathon while I fold laundry . . . or just sit there and pretend I'm doing something vital like catching up on old magazines so I can recycle. Recycling is important. Or sometimes I pretend I'm crafty, and I'll make something out of felt and thread and ribbons and buttons, give it a name, and set it on one of my kids' beds. "Really, I sacrificed my afternoon for you. Battlestar Galactica was just something to play in the background while I sewed love for you into every stitch."

What do you do when you just need to get through the day? What are your indulgences, your guilty pleasures that you know you deserve?

Needing

2010-10-13T10:37:00.000-05:00

I adore my children--so much that I sometimes ache just thinking about them. I volunteered in my son's kindergarten class yesterday and was tempted to take him home with me after my hour there. I'm the one with separation anxiety, not him.

There are moments of mothering, however, when you feel like you don't like your own children. They're not pretty moments or proud ones. They're not ones I advertise regularly or admit to very often. But they're there.

Yesterday afternoon, my daughter's Brownie troop needed carpool drivers. I volunteered. And that was a mistake. It's not the three hours of my day it used up that was the issue; it was seeing a side of my daughter that made me wonder how I could have raised a child who could act like that. Is she like this more often than not, and I only see the sweet and loving side of her because I'm blinded by my love for her? How much is fair to expect of her? Is she a typical eight-year-old? If so, heaven help all of us mothers of eight-year-olds. If not, have I screwed up? Do I have time to fix her?

I recently gave up demanding thank yous from my children. It wasn't helping any of us, and I read somewhere that kids need to learn real gratitude, not just when polite society requires a show of gratitude. So I didn't expect a thank you from her. I did, however, expect more kindness from her than I received.

I've been thinking about this a lot, obviously. I even had a hard time sleeping last night because I couldn't let it go, this notion of my children being unaware of what my husband and I do for them. I don't expect, as I said, constant thank yous and "Mom, you're the greatest" and "Wow, I'm so lucky you simply gave birth to me!" But shouldn't kids be at least somewhat cognizant of the fact that they're parents do a thing or two for them in the course of the day?

But here's the realization that is going to help me get some work done today and then sleep better tonight: I don't want my children to be aware of everything I do for them. I don't want them to have to bear that kind of burden. And I mean that completely seriously.

When people do something nice for me, whether it's a family member or a friend or even simply an acquaintance, I'm often overwhelmed by the selflessness of their actions. When my father died, I was blown away by the food that filled up my mother's house. I still get choked up thinking about it. When my now-eleven-year-old son had surgery over a year ago to correct a medical problem he'd had since he was three, a new friend I had hardly even gotten to know yet brought me a care package of chocolate. I had another friend recently offer to help drive my kids around if there are times I can't manage everyone's schedule this fall. If I had to stop and be fully aware of everyone doing me a kindness in the course of a day, I would be an emotional wreck.

And young kids need those kindnesses more than anyone. They can't drive themselves. They can't provide their own food and clothing and shelter. They can't pay for their piano lessons or acting or dance classes. They depend on their parents for 100 different things every single day. By 9:30 this morning, I had made 5 lunches, dropped off one, taken two kids to school at two different times, cleaned their breakfast dishes, emailed one of their teachers, filled my car up with gas so I'll be able to take them to their activities after school, and then ordered a couple of gifts. Their dependency lessens as they get older, but it never really goes away. At least I hope it doesn't.

I want my kids to need me, and I don't want them to feel guilty and beholden to me for all of those needs. I don't want them to feel they're taking out loans they can never pay back, because they're not.

So I'll probably be a carpool driver again. And I'll probably (definitely) be disappointed at some point again in how one of my children treats me. But I won't remind them of all I do for them. That's not one of the things they need.

Going Back

2010-10-01T12:43:00.000-05:00

I got to chaperon my daughter's field trip today. The weather was beautiful, the setting perfect for fall, the timing good for my work schedule. A perfect morning, really. I even learned some things I didn't know before. And when I say that, I don't mean, "Wow! What a surprise! There are still things I don't know!" I mean that the type of field trip it was is the type of vacation I took many, many times as a kid with my family: back to the 1800s.

1800s. 1700s. Even a little of the 1600s once you hit Jamestown.

I often feel I grew up in several different time periods. I can thank my parents' supply of antiques and their insatiable curiosity about history for that feeling. When I walk into a building or room housing handmade farming tools or patina-touched porcelain dolls or braided rugs or chipped ceramic bowls, I feel like I'm home. It calms me more than anything else I can think of, and I want to shoo everyone else away so I can just sit there for a while and pretend that's not a plane I hear overhead or telephone wires I see outside the warped-glass window.

I don't romanticize these bygone eras. I know they were dirty times, ugly times, dangerous, sweaty, and hard times. I don't wish someone would take away my dishwasher so I can use a dry sink instead. I don't wish someone would turn off the power and let me light a lamp. I don't wish for a high child mortality rate or tuberculosis or the re-emergence of petticoats and shoes that had no right or left. I just feel that as we've gained the advantages of inoculations and paved roads and indoor plumbing, we've managed to give up our need for our neighbors and the pleasure of aching muscles that come with work rather than working out. More importantly, we've given up the joy of sharing a room--and not just a house--with our families at the end of a day.

I don't want to go back to 1800. I simply miss it.

What We Owe Our Kids

2010-09-22T17:49:00.002-05:00

You may have seen or at least heard about the Florida father who stormed his daughter's school bus to yell and swear at (and threaten) the kids that were picking on her. He's now facing charges--and rightly so--for his outburst. So I'm not going to defend him. What he did was wrong. But it was also a little understandable, and I'll admit to many moments in my years of being a mother when I have wanted to throttle a child who has hurt one of mine. And each time, I've taken as many deep breaths as are necessary to calm down, and I've reminded myself it's not the child's fault completely; it's also the parents' fault.

I watched the video today, followed by an interview with, as she was labeled, the "mother of one of the accused bullies." She said that she didn't speak to her son that way, so it was upsetting to see this man do so.

And here's what I thought: "Maybe you should have spoken to him that way. Maybe that you never have is the problem."

Now, I'm not an advocate of screaming and swearing and threatening to kill your own child (or anyone else's), but I am a fan of discipline, which comes in all sorts of varieties: punishment, consequences, etc. And I'm an even bigger fan of making sure my kids have received that discipline at home so they won't have to hear it from strangers on a school bus. I owe it to them.

Because that's one of my roles as a parent--protecting them from the bullies on the bus.

I read an article today about how it's become popular to not just not have children but to, as the author put it, "hate" children. Seems a pretty strong word, doesn't it? So I followed several of the links the article took me to, and here's what I found.

1. Childless couples are tired of feeling pressure to have children.
2. Childless couples are tired of feeling overrun by ill-behaved children.

And I'm okay with their gripes on both counts. I think if more people felt less pressure to procreate, we'd have fewer unhappy children. And as a mother of four kids, I'm no more a fan of a screaming child in a restaurant than someone without any kids is.

And for those people who do simply hate children? Well, then I suppose we simply have to agree to disagree. I won't take offense at your opinion and I won't offer you mine. And if my child's mere presence is upsetting to you then we can both be grateful we have our own homes to return to at the end of the day.

But I digress.

What that article and the story about the Florida father have got me thinking about today is how we're too often afraid of our own kids. Afraid they won't like us if we ground them. Afraid they won't speak to us for a few days if we take away their privileges. Afraid the neighbor will gasp in horror if our raised voices carry over the fence and into her backyard. Afraid we won't be cool anymore. Afraid we'll be inconvenienced if they can't go to a friend's house, because that means we can't go out to dinner after all. Afraid we'll have to spend some of our precious and dwindling energy on figuring out how to deal with them. Afraid to admit they didn't come out perfectly in spite of their rich gene pool. Afraid of the possibility that their love for us doesn't extend to a desire to please us in all things always. Afraid--and this is a big one--someone will think we don't love our children if we sometimes can hardly bear to be around them.

I'm not begging for a return to the age of kids being seen but not heard. But I am begging for a return to the mentality that said it's okay to expect something from children--and from ourselves--regardless of how hard we think it might be. Because it's only going to get harder for all of us.

Just Trying to Help

2010-09-20T16:40:00.000-05:00

My eleven-year-old son is a bossy little thing. I'll take part of the blame for that and not necessarily because I'm bossy but because I ask him now and then for help, like, "Can you go make sure the kids (meaning my eight- and five-year-old children) are brushing their teeth?" or cleaning their rooms or getting their cereal. So he's learned to believe he's an extension of me. If he thinks I would or wouldn't want the younger kids to do something then he'll step in and take over: "Put that down now. Put. It. Down. NOW!" or "Why aren't you wearing shoes to ride your bike? You know you should wear shoes. Put them on. Put. Them. On. NOW!" And he always uses my mean voice even when I wouldn't use it. But that's because he's a child of extremes, which I don't take credit for at all. He was born with that little personality trait. He's a good kid--a helpful kid. Just perhaps a little too helpful at times.

This afternoon, the 5yo asked for a juice box. Within two minutes, my older son and he were yelling back and forth at each other. I begged them to stop. "But I'm just trying to help him put the straw in!" the 11yo said in near tears. "Did he ask for help?" I said. "No. But I was just trying to help!"

When I was around five, my brother that was fourteen at the time had a moped bike. One afternoon, he tied a rope to the bike and tied the other end to my red wagon. Then he told me to get in. Being five and seeing only the free and fast ride I was going to get down the road (rather than the inevitably bad and abrupt ending to that ride), I did as I'd been directed to do. I climbed in. Danny started the moped and off we went. He picked up speed. And then my body met the graveled pavement. I slid and flipped and ended up with scrapes and cuts all over my arms and legs and face. It wasn't fun for either of us, although I know he just wanted to help me have a good time. He wasn't being cruel or bossy. He was being a big brother.

I try not to be an advice giver. My mother doesn't give advice, even when you ask for it. Opinions? Sure. But advice? Not so much. So I've always tried to take after her in the restraint she shows. It's become harder as I've gotten older and, in my opinion, much wiser. I have very sage things to share with those who will listen, so why would I want to keep such precious pearls to myself? Surely I can enrich the world if it will only open up its ears and wait for my next quotable moment.

The answer is that most people can figure out how to skin their knees and face and elbows on their own. And they can get that straw into the juice box on their own . . . eventually. And because my idea of 'helping' might be your idea of 'interfering.'

And I know it's hardest to remain restrained when the advice you most want to give is the advice you most need to keep to yourself, and when the person to whom you desperately want to give that advice is someone you love. But if you end up making the rope too long or too short or you don't take into account the potholes or the rocks along the road, you won't be helping. You'll be hurting. And not all wounds like that are going to heal.

I'm just sayin' . . . and I'm just trying to help.

Waiting

2010-09-12T08:58:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking lately about how much of motherhood is about waiting.

Waiting for him to be born.

Waiting for him to sleep through the night.

Waiting for her to take her first steps without me holding her hand.

Waiting to hear her first words.

Waiting for her to learn to read.

Waiting for him to start kindergarten.

Waiting for 3:30 so I can see him again.

Waiting for her to come sit with me so we can read together.

Waiting for him to talk to me and tell me how his day went.

Waiting for her to walk beside me again and hold my hand.

Waiting for him to get home so I can fall asleep, knowing he’s okay.

Waiting to remember what it was like before they were born, to remember what my hobbies are, to remember how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve potty-training techniques or immunizations or how to get them to clean their rooms.

Waiting to be a little less sad about watching them grow up—something I’ve been waiting for and also dreading.

Family Writing

2010-09-08T11:32:00.000-05:00

My mother recently sent me a box of old family letters, documents, and photos. And I mean old old. Some of them date back to the mid 1800s. I've been going through the box slowly, because that's what old handwriting requires: patience. And the authors more often than not wrote in pencil. Not sure why. Cheaper, perhaps? Easier, as now, to correct mistakes? But the result is faded messages that often involve a lot of guess work and reliance on context.

Here's one of my favorites:

February 18, 1898
Mr. Givens,
Dear Sir,
Could you inform me if any of the friends of John Givens want the clothing he left here? There is not very much of value, but I think it would be well to have some disposition made of them, as the last time I looked to them the moths were at work in them. Has anything been done about removing his body? May I hope to hear from you soon?
Very kindly yours,
Mary E. Persons

My cousin, who knows much more of our family history than I do, said John had died young--in his 20s--and had been staying at Mary's boarding house not too far from his family's farm. I don't know how he died. I don't know what ever became of the body. I don't know what poor Mary was doing with it in the meantime. At least it was cold that time of year in upstate New York. Perhaps John had a spot on the back porch while waiting for someone to come get him.

I found an old dance card from 1886--no names filled out on it. Makes me wonder why not.

There's a letter my grandmother wrote to her mother:

Nov 8 1907

Dear mamma.--

I though I would write to you to let you know that I am well and hope you are the same. we are going to bucher the 20. and I wish you could be hear to eat sausage and buckweatcakes. we would have a good time. grandpapa bought me a winter cap though I tell you it is a good one I can pull it way down over my ears in winter I can wear it. grandpapa is going to get me a pair of rubbers for my felts. I have a good pair of felts. all that I need is a pair of rubbers. Our well has lots of waters in we don't have to go up to sams any more. am I glad of that. grandma did not help me write my letter. I can write my letters alone now I go to school every day. I like my teacher. I will soon be in my fifth reader. I am in language the teacher said If I would she would put me in the a grammar to.

There was no envelope for this one, so I only know my grandmother was in Locust Ridge PA--no clue at all where her mother was. And I wonder why they weren't together. I'm sure my grandmother missed her, so I'd like to know the story.

I'm glad to have the bits and pieces now at least. It's wonderful to touch the fragile paper, look at the pictures of people I don't recognize, and to know we're all connected.

I was going through some of my own old papers yesterday and came across a notebook from third grade. It was a science glossary I'd had to keep and then a bird journal. All of it was in cursive--same as the letters my ancestors wrote. I showed my daughter the notebook when she got home. She's in third grade now . . . and she couldn't read it because she hasn't learned cursive. And chances are she won't--at least not much.

One of my kids' teachers this year said that this year's freshman college students are the first class that will not have been required to learn cursive in school. It's a lost "art" now, no longer necessary in the age of emails.

Knowing that and then going through these old family records and even my own homework from grade school has made me realize that not only are we losing touch with each other in this era of technology--an era that's here to stay--but we're losing touch with our past. If my daughter can't read my handwriting, how would she ever manage that of her great-great grandparents, aunts, and uncles? And what will she be leaving behind for her own great-great grandchildren, nieces, and nephews? A hard drive?

I read an article this morning that asserted that children who do practice their handwriting even for ten minutes every day before they begin work at school are calmer, more focused, more ready and able to learn. Maybe it's a limited pool the study draws from. Maybe it's not a large enough study to warrant the attention of public elementary schools. But what can it hurt, those ten minutes of writing?

My daughter has been wanting to "do" something besides soccer and Brownies and piano this fall. So now I know what that something will be. I'm going to teach her cursive, because I refuse to be the last generation of my family that knows the previous generations.

Back to my dusty old box.

What lost arts do you miss or that you have made an effort to not lose in the first place? And why?

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

2010-09-07T10:28:00.001-05:00

I hate bugs. I know they serve their purposes. I know they're necessary to the ecosystem. I know some of the ickier ones do their best to eradicate some of the ickiest ones. I get it. It's nothing personal. I just hate them.

I've become SO much more girly over the years that it's embarrassing. As a kid, I spent as much time outdoors as indoors--and I'm including the hours I slept. I made forts in the woods and in the snow. I tramped through brush and leaves and vines without thinking twice about what was crawling on me: ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, Daddy Long Legs (or Granddaddy . . . take your pick). I had zero awareness of the dirt under my nails, the bites on my legs, the grass stains on my knees. I didn't even bother brushing my own hair until I was eleven. The difference between my fifth and sixth grade pictures is a testament to this fact.

By eighth grade, I was hesitant to let even my friends see me without mascara. Okay, so I've gotten a little less self-conscious since then. But not much.

Bugs, however? Hate 'em.

Although I'm okay with ladybugs. They're pretty and delicate. And come on . . . they're LADYbugs. They behave. They have manners. They don't skitter across your path or crawl across your face at night or bite you (don't contradict me if that last one isn't true, by the way; I couldn't take the news). My husband asked me recently if I'd feel different about them if they were called what they are: beetles. Yes. Yes, I would.

One of the bugs I hate the most, and my heart is palpitating just thinking about them, are house centipedes. I'm going to be brave for a second and show you what I'm talking about in case you're not the house-centipede-aphobe I am.

Ack! These bugs do NOT behave. They're sneaky and fast and flat enough that they slide under a cabinet or through a crack in the basement wall before you have the chance to grab a shoe--a really big shoe. Or a boot. Even better.

Honestly, though, if someone started to call them Feather Dusters, I might be able to take it. Daddy Long Legs don't freak me out. But call them vibrating spiders--another name for them--and all bets are off. Vibrating? In a bug? It's just wrong!

Roly poly bugs are okay, but I won't go hunt for them with my kids. Have you seen them up close? REALLY up close?

Yeah . . . not so cute and cuddly anymore, are they?

Same with worms. I know how irrational it is to be creeped out by them. They're not exactly going to sneak up on me or crawl up my leg. But they're gross. So I'm a little prejudiced there. Sorry.

Inch worms? Okay, so those are cute. Maybe my affection for them stems from my love for Richard Scarry's books. I know Lowly Worm is an earth worm, but he looks like an inch worm. And he smiles all the time. What's not to love?

Speaking of names (and not bugs here), my in-laws had a name picked out for my husband before he was born: Dylan. And then when he was born, so the story goes (so they told me, and if you're reading this, Mom, feel free to correct me), they decided he was so ugly he needed a tougher name--a truck driver kind of name. So they dubbed him Ron.

He turned out quite well, I have to say--quite far from the ugly baby he once was.

Before he and I met, my sister described me to him as "cute and perky--like her name." If I went by Roberta instead of Bobbie, who knows? He might have seen me as a beetle instead of a ladybug. Names can make all the difference in the world.

Aaahhhh

2010-09-06T20:31:00.000-05:00

Ron and I spent Labor Day weekend putting our yard back together. A few months ago, we had twenty feet of sewer line replaced, and finally the ground settled enough that we could put the walkway along the side of our house back in and then . . . the landscaping. I mentioned in an earlier post how much I dread gardening because the pressure of what goes where is just too much for me. So we went to a nursery for a little professional help.

By the end of Saturday, my entire body was aching. Sunday morning I needed ibuprofen just to get out of bed. But we got back out there and finished the job today. It's been one of the most satisfying few weekends I've had in a long time, because there is nothing like the feeling of accomplishment.

And that's a feeling we don't get to experience much these days--we, meaning society. Us. People. The economy stinks right now, but even those with jobs don't love them. At least most of them don't. Sure, they might appreciate them--might appreciate being able to pay rent or to buy groceries or have a little leftover to put into a child's college fund. But enjoy our jobs? Not so much.

I came across this list of the top 300 jobs with the highest job-satisfaction ratings. Top of the list is "Singer." Okay, so not a lot of professional singers out there relative to the population. So let's skip them. Number two is "Municipal Fire Fighter."

The rest in the top ten are as follows:

3. Aircraft Assemblers
4. Pediatricians
5. College Professors - Communications
6. Education, Vocational, and School Counselors
7. Managers/Supervisors of Animal Husbandry & Animal Care Workers
8. Criminal Investigators & Special Agents
9. College Instructors - Other
10. Therapists - Other

A lot of people-helping-people (and -animal) jobs in there. In fact, the top twenty is crowded with them. And aside from the Pediatrician, we're not talking jobs that pay a whole heck of a lot here. So where are the surgeons? The lawyers? The financial analysts? Hm. Give me a minute as I scan the list . . . doo-dee-doo . . . Sorry. It's taking me a minute here. Ah. There they are. Surgeons: #219. Lawyers: #268. Financial Analysts: #300.

Bus Drivers--that's right Bus Drivers--have more job satisfaction than lawyers. Orderlies have more job satisfaction than surgeons. And tax preparers have more job satisfaction than financial analysts.

So we all know money can't buy love or happiness or even a decent t-shirt from the Gap these days. This isn't news.

But I think it's not just helping people that makes us happy: it's the feeling of accomplishment, of going home at the end of the day and feeling like you got something done--and being recognized for having done something. We need that a lot more than we want to admit.

We hire people to mow our lawns. We hire people to walk our dogs--to clean up our dogs' poop, for crying out loud! We hire people to shovel our 8X2 sidewalk, to wash our windows, to make our dinner, to paint our nails, to bake our kids' birthday cakes. So we can have time to what? Feel dissatisfied because we just spent 8 hours doing something that will never make us feel like we actually finished anything?

So do something this week. And finish it. You'll be happier for it. I promise. Maybe not richer, maybe not able to walk without wincing thanks to those shooting pains in your back from shoveling topsoil for hours . . . but happier.

Apple People

2010-08-30T14:59:00.001-05:00

I went to an orchard in Michigan this weekend--not a pick-your-own orchard, unfortunately; that'll come later in the season and in Indiana. This one was all pre-bagged and ready to go, priced and labeled and just waiting for someone to grab up a bushel or a peck and hurry out the door. The orchard started back in 1865, I was told. The Civil War had just ended and someone came home from battle and started planting trees . . . or seeds or saplings or whatever they might have been called. Now, 145 years later, the fruit trees still stand, all lined up obediently and waiting to be plucked.

Plucked--a fresh, ripe kind of word that feels like what it is and smells of fall harvests, crispy apples, juicy last-of-the-season peaches that you get to eat cut up, a slice of bread and butter on the side, a glass of milk to wash it all down. There's something about the bounty that comes from trees--something high up yet reachable--that makes me feel hopeful. You can have your berries and your vines; I'll take my trees.

When I was a kid, we had two June apple trees in our side yard. I have no idea if that was the real variety name or if it was just a nickname derived from when the apples ripened--not that I paid any attention to when they ripened. No, being no more than eight or nine, I didn't wait until they were ready to be plucked. I yanked and tugged and pried those little things off and then ate until my stomach ached from devouring them before their time. And then the smell of them rotting beneath the tree because the novelty had worn off by summer's end? Not a bad smell at all to me. It's what fall is about. It's a time of decay and dying. It's a preparation for winter. It's nature and natural and the makings of whatever newness the death and decay can bring on when spring needs its nourishment.

The old guy sorting apples at this orchard in Michigan was 92 years old and didn't look a day over 90. But he was there and seemed content and occupied, still being 'useful' as so many people as they age feel they are not. With my four kids all in school full day now, I wonder how soon before I become, as a friend of mine put it recently, an inactive parent--one that's there but isn't needed quite so much anymore. It's a thought that disturbs me, even if it is nature and natural. I'm not ready to not feel useful anymore.

Ron and I were looking over a box of peach seconds--the ones no one wants to buy unless for preserves, because no one wants to eat them, split apart and rotting as so many are. One of the old women working there said, "Kids won't eat 'em. Too many spots." I agreed. Then she added, full of righteous indignation, "Unless they're raised right . . . like I raised mine." The implication was clear in its context: she raised her kids right; no one else did anymore--certainly not me, who had started to walk away from the box at that point, knowing full well my kids would never eat a peach that bugs had found their way into.

So I went back and bought the case. And last night I made peach butter with some of the fruit. Tonight I'll make more. We'll eat some of it, give a lot of it away, I suspect; there were an awful lot of peaches in that box.

My older sister made apple dolls the summer we moved from Arizona to Virginia and camped out at a lake while my dad looked for a job and a house. I was four and she was eleven. I don't remember much except the smell of the slow rot and watching their faces crinkle up and dry out over the course of those summer weeks. I thought they were kind of eerie looking, like little people all shriveled up. My dad bought a shrunken head years ago. Don't know where he got it or where it is now. Not much different from an apple head, really--except the story behind it, which is forever lost anyway.

I wondered as I watched the people running this orchard how long ago some of them stopped loving the fall, at what point it started reminding them too much of their own winter's approach. I wondered whether the old man at 92 had ever resented the smell of rotting fruit or if he still loved the bitter taste of a June apple and simply learned to deal with the stomach aches. I wondered if the old lady in her 70s had her kids around still, or her grandkids. I wondered whether the spring in them refreshed her now and then. I wondered whether the old man, who looked to be her husband and about the same age, had a smile somewhere underneath his severe frown and was just trying to remember how to bring it up again.

Fall used to be my favorite season until I was pregnant with my second child and had morning sickness throughout those cooling-down months. The smell of dried-out leaves and pumpkin seeds still makes my stomach turn a bit. But I'm trying to get over that queasy sensation. I miss how much I loved the fall. I want it back. And I want it back before I forget how useful we can be to each other. Hope is a good thing, after all, and always ripe for the plucking.

A Worst Date

2010-08-26T18:00:00.000-05:00

I worked at Subway in college. Glamorous, I know. But I look awesome in a visor. Trust me. And yellow mustard permanently under my nails? Absolutely fetching . . . just ask the guys who asked me out while I wore my ensemble. Or rather, as the guy who asked me out. Can't help you on his name though. I don't remember it. I think they call that repression.

I said no the first time or twelve he asked. That he was willing to be rejected eleven times and still continue to ask should have reinforced that powerful "no" response in me. But it didn't. I finally sighed. "Fine. I'll go out with you."

We went for pizza. He sat across from me. That's all I remember from the dinner. (Though, in case you're interested, that restaurant is also where my often-boyfriend's roommate's girlfriend worked, the same girlfriend who would become my ex-often-boyfriend's wife a couple of years later.)

Then we went for a movie. I don't remember which movie. Why? Because I was too freaked out the entire time to notice anything except the exit signs and the overly intense attention of my "date"--in quotes because . . . well, because without the quotes, date seems too intimate a term for the guy who sat next to me for two hours staring at my profile. When I dared to turn to face him and ask what he was doing, he answered, "Just looking at you." Obviously. I got that much. "Why?" I asked. He'd just shrug.

Then he wanted to know about the ring I was wearing. It was a small emerald my parents had given me when I was sixteen. I told him as much. He called me a liar. A liar. So I shrugged.

"Your boyfriend gave it to you," he said (movie still rolling on the screen; different movie entirely now rolling in my head).

"I don't have a boyfriend," I said.

"You're lying. That ring is from you boyfriend."

Were his eyes bloodshot and wide like he'd been up all night casing my block? No. He thought he was joking. At least I think he thought he was joking. But seriously--two hours of watching me instead of the movie? Beyond creepy.

He took me home and as I stepped inside my apartment, he moved in for a kiss. I closed the door.

And locked it.

And bolted it.

He called me at work (I wouldn't answer his calls at home) to ask me out again. And again. And again. I said no over and over and over. He finally said, "Okay. I get the hint." "Good," I answered.

And I never heard from him again.

Phew.

Moral of the story: If you have to say no to a boy more than ten times, there's a reason you're saying no. And if you look fetching in a visor, don't work where you have to wear one. They're just too hard to resist for some guys.

Weeding

2010-08-24T13:34:00.001-05:00

I don't like gardening. I was born without anything resembling that gene. I don't like the stress of figuring out planting configurations. I walk into a warehouse full of potted flowers and greenery and I feel like the world is going to swallow me up. Where do I begin? How many do I need? Can I pick just one or two colors (orange and yellow, preferably) or do I need at least three? Because I'm really not a fan of pinks and reds.

And once the poor things are planted, I'm forgetful and end up with a yard full of parched plants when we're short on rain. Ron will say, "I planted . . . all you had to do was water." And I say, "Do you not understand that, really, that's just asking too much of me?"

We saw some perfectly pleasant fall mums at the grocery store a few days ago and he wanted to buy some. I said no this time, because I know they will be my responsibility. Truly, I can't have another form of life that I need to take care of. Four children and two guinea pigs is my limit, I've realized. And I would rather all of them live than a pot of flowers that I can't hug or pet.

All of that being said, I like weeding. I find a lot of pleasure getting dirt under my nails and yanking out what, to me, obviously doesn't belong in our little garden. I like the feel of strong roots coming loose, and I like the feel of weak roots giving way so easily that a strong wind could have done as much as I do. I like getting rid of the larger, obnoxious weeds, only to find smaller ones below that thought they could go unnoticed. I like pulling stray grass from the cracks in the pavement. I like following the vine of clover for a foot or so to its source. It's all very satisfying to me.

I think it's rather appropriate then that I'm an editor. When I asked my oldest what he wants to be when he grows up, he shrugged. I said, "You could be a professor like your dad, or you could be an editor like me." He gave me "the look" and said, "No. Not an editor." Heaven forbid: an editor.

But what I love about editing is that I get to weed without getting bitten by mosquitoes (generally) and without sweating (occasionally). I get to take what's there and clean it up, make the good stuff shine, make the colors match. I can clear away the big weeds--the glaring errors--and note the little ones lying in wait beneath. And when I'm done, I know I'm leaving a project in better shape than I found it.

Perhaps my inclination toward weeding and editing is also why I like the revising process of writing best. I feel like the pressure of getting it all down and planted is over, and I can focus on making what's there more attractive--give it a little more curb appeal.

And perhaps this inclination explains why I feel more comfortable as the mother of a preschooler on up than as the mother of a newborn. There are SO many ways to mess up when you start from scratch, an empty plot in the yard, impressionable minds to mold. That time in my kids' lives was really stressful for me--and Ron handled it much better than I did. Of course, parenting a thirteen-year-old isn't the easiest thing in the world either, but I can work with what I have there and hope, when I'm "done," the result is presentable and that no one driving by will slow down and say, "What on earth was she thinking? Anyone in their right mind would know azaleas were not the way to go--and look at that: she left the pigweed but yanked the oregano. I hope the garden in the backyard looks better than this one."

Intimidation

2010-08-22T16:11:00.000-05:00

When I was in middle school, I had a gym teach who was a complete and total lech. Picture the early 1980s, the polyester shorts that were too tight and too short. I'd describe him more fully, but I think he still lives in my hometown and I'm not quite ready to demonize the guy should someone who reads this "recognize" him. He doesn't teach anymore, however, and since he didn't do anything criminal, I'll have to hope 12- and 13-year-old girls everywhere are safe.

One day after class, I had headed toward the locker room to change. He called me back to where he stood at the far side of the gym. I jogged back over and asked what he wanted. He smiled his slimy smile and said, "Nothing. I just like the way you look from behind and wanted to watch you walk away again." Twelve. I was twelve. years. old.

He never said anything like that to me again, but I can still recall the way he looked at me, and it turns my stomach. And did I tell anyone about this? Not a word--not a friend, not a teacher, not a parent.

I thought of him again recently when I was at my brother's bookstore in Virginia. I had some editing work to do and had brought my laptop so I could hang out in one of the store's comfy chairs and still feel like I was visiting with family. About fifteen minutes into my work, an old man came and sat across from me. I didn't even look up. I was there to work, not be friendly, and I wasn't interested in conversation. Ten minutes later, I realized the guy wasn't interested in conversation anyway--he was too busy . . . how do I put this delicately . . . entertaining himself. My first thought was, "No way. No freaking way is he sitting across from me doing that." My second thought was, "Bobbie, give the guy the benefit of the doubt. He's 70 if he's a day, and he probably just has an itch." An itch that lasted twenty minutes. My stomach was in knots. I felt frozen in place. Do I tell him to go see a doctor? Do I get up and walk away? Do I throw something heavy at him and tell him to leave the store before I call the police? I did none of those things. Instead, I leaned my head on hand, my elbow resting on the arm of the chair, and tried to focus on my work. Right about then (finally) a young man came and sat in the seat next to me. The old man stopped. The kid stayed for about ten minutes then left. The old man started.

I closed my laptop and got up to leave. The old man said, sounding as chipper and as harmless as can be, "You must be studying very hard. Perhaps working on a paper for college?" I'm 41 and am happy to admit it. I don't look 41 (under most lighting conditions), but I don't look like a college student either. But this guy was old enough that I suppose I could have been mistaken as being quite a bit younger than I am. I said, "No. Just working, and my laptop batter is dying." He directed me to where I could find an outlet, and I left.

First, however, I told my sister--the manager--about what was happening, still thinking I was imagining it all or that I was wrong and he really was just scratching. She sighed and said, "I was afraid of that." No one had ever come to her directly about this guy, but she'd had a bad feeling about him.

I headed off to the balcony, and the old guy followed me up about ten minutes later. I left, not even being nice about it this time, but STILL not saying anything to him directly.

For the rest of the afternoon, I kept an eye on him and realized he was wandering from one seat in the store to another, always sitting near younger women. So the fact that he thought I was in college meant, I realized, he'd targeted me. He didn't sit near anyone older than their early 20s. But with a male employee hovering nearby, the guy didn't start again.

My brother kicked him out. He hasn't been back and won't be back, and if he does return, the police have been notified and he'll be arrested on the spot.

I'm angry about what this man was doing--not because I'm a prude or because I'm even offended. I'm angry because what he was doing amounted to little more than intimidation, and I let him intimidate me! I'm not a 12-year-old girl anymore. I'm a 41-year-old mother of four who would have gone ballistic on this man if he'd done anything like that in front of my daughter or my nieces or even a perfect stranger. But I let him do it in front of me. I wasn't doubting him when I hesitated to say anything. I was doubting myself.

We teach our kids all the time about standing up for themselves, about how to tell the bad guys from the good guys, about how to trust their instincts and that little voice in their heads. And then we--or I--forget to lead by example. When I was twelve, I had an excuse. Now? Not at all.

Intimidation is a powerful tool. But so is my voice. And I should have used it. Next time I will.

Words

2010-08-18T07:27:00.003-05:00

It's been a while since I posted. I've been feeling a little "worded out" the last few weeks. I read somewhere that women say about 20,000 to 25,000 of them a day. As a stay-at-home mom, I feel that number is a lot less for me most of the time. But I haven't been doing a lot of staying home recently. In fact, I just got home a few days ago from two and a half weeks away, every day spent talking. A lot.

But not just talking . . . processing. Family stuff going on, some major and some minor, all of it requiring me to not just babble but to think before I open my mouth. I don't want to offer up my opinion without really, truly considering whether it IS my opinion or just the easiest thing that seems to roll off my tongue. Someone might listen and pay attention, might think those hundred words or so I said have some merit. And then what if my opinion comes across as advice? What if it's really awful advice and I make matters worse? Add to the equation the possibility that what I say to Person A gets back to Person B--either verbatim or approximately, it doesn't matter. I try really hard not to ever say something that can be thrown at someone instead of just shared with them. But when you're speaking 20,000 to 25,000 words a day, there's a lot of room for really screwing up.

My little sister had a quote at the bottom of her email for a while that read, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you make them feel." Maya Angelou said that. And I love Maya Angelou. I've read five or six of her books, her poetry . . . I even wrote a paper about her in college. I think she's brilliant and wise. But I think she's wrong here, because I think people remember all of it: the words, the actions, the feelings.

I used to love to draw as a kid. My older sister gave me an art kit--the kind with the thick, bumpy paper and the charcoal sticks and the white smudge-free eraser and the various lead pencils--and I sat one Saturday morning drawing a duck-pond scene, complete with a barn and animals, hills in the background to reflect the Blue Ridge Mountains just a 20-minute drive away. I recall the red chair I sat on the floor beside in the corner where we once found a green snake. I remember the feel of the beige carpeting under my knees. I remember the quiet. It was a good morning for me.

When I was done, I showed that drawing to my mother and asked what she thought. She said, "Well, it's not as good as good as you sister's . . ." And my heart sunk. She didn't mean to tell me to put away my pencils and paper. The intention behind those words were not "you'll never be an artist." But that's what I heard. I'm sure she wanted to encourage me, to tell me how if I kept practicing I could one day be as good as my sister. But I was a kid and I didn't get that at the time.

While visiting my mom this past week, I was doodling as we were sitting with some other family members around the table. The next morning, she saw my picture--a cartoon man walking a dog--and asked who'd drawn it. When I told her I had, she said, "You're really good." I shrugged it off with a "It's not exactly art." And I didn't tell her about the time I did put away my pencils and paper because I thought that's what she was telling me to do. She doesn't need to feel bad now about something that happened 30 years ago. Those words don't need to come out of my mouth.

People do remember what you say. They may not remember every single word, but they'll remember enough that it's worth a few extra minutes--or hours or days--to hold them in before letting them out slowly, one thoughtful syllable at a time. You can't do much editing once they've escaped.

The Little Things

2010-07-21T21:59:00.004-05:00

My husband has been out of town all week. My two oldest kids have been at scout camp five hours away. And we've had painters in our house since Monday, leaving chaos in their wake for me to return to order: furniture, bookshelves, more bookshelves, rugs. I'd kind of been dreading this week, worried about how I was going to entertain my youngest two while trying to still getting 'things' done. You know . . . things: cooking, cleaning, laundry, errands, editing, revisions. They're all very important things. Until they're not.

The books are on the shelves again. But the cooking has never really happened--neither has the cleaning or the laundry or the errands. Editing? Minimal. Revisions? Not so minimal, but at least manageable as I've realized I don't have a deadline so I don't have to push myself to the teetering edge of despair.

Instead, I've gotten other 'things' done--little things: a couple of library visits, two lunches out, a concert in the park, a night of popcorn and a movie, sleepovers in my room.

It's turned out to be one of the more perfect weeks I've had in a long time.

When your kids start to get bigger than you, they don't just take up more room; they take up more space. They're louder, more insistent, more opinionated. Their emotions aren't limited to the temper tantrum over the wrong kind of juice in the morning or the frustration of trying to figure out how to reach a cup without my help or the anger of being told they can't have ice cream for dinner. They're not only bigger; everything they feel and say and do is bigger.

So I'd forgotten lately how gloriously small life can be with a five- and an eight-year old. I'd forgotten how happy another bedtime story makes them. I'd forgotten how exciting taking the time to pet a strange dog can be. I'd forgotten how beautiful a new wall color can be when seen through the eyes of someone who thinks just about everything is beautiful--especially if it's yellow. I'd forgotten, I'm ashamed to admit, how to be a mom to someone I still have to look down to.

I gave into repeated pleadings this morning and took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's. I took a book with me, thinking it was the only way I'd get through an hour or so of the sound of electronic games and whack-a-mole and an animated mouse singing pop songs. But the second we got there, and I saw how thrilled my kids were to be in what was a giant magic room to them, regardless of what it was to me, I didn't want to miss a minute of it.

When my husband and I were deciding whether to have more children after four, I told him that one of the reasons I wanted to be done was that I didn't want to feel like I'd overlooked any of them as they grew up. I wanted to be able to spend time with each child and not have them hit eighteen and for me to realize, "Crap. I never really got to know that one."

I've missed a lot of moments of my kids growing up. It happens whether you have one or twelve. There's always laundry and cleaning and cooking and work and a paint crew coming in to pretty things up a bit while you stumble around underfoot--all important stuff until it's not. But I've always felt like I've been there for the big things. I'm a stay-at-home mom, even if I work from home. So without having to take time off, I'm there for concerts and plays and doctors' appointments. I'm there when they're sick. I'm there when they walk in the door after school.

But I haven't necessarily been there for the little things, even if I think I have been. Perhaps it's part of being a stay-at-home mom--this surety that "if they need me, here I am." So I don't slow down when I should. I don't look down when I should.

I look forward to having my older sons home again. I've missed them. They're good company. They make me laugh. They seem to like me, too, which is always a plus with teens and tweens.

But I'll miss my time with the little guys, too. I feel like for a week here, I've been able to sneak away into a place where time just kind of held itself still now and then so I could pay more attention to it.

So I'll just have to make sure I keep paying more attention to the little things, because they're the ones I'm going to remember when the kids are all grown up and too big, and when the giant space they once took up is empty.

Hopeless Romantic

2010-07-19T07:09:00.003-05:00

Story time:

When I was in college, I spent a summer working at a little vegetarian cafe in Kapaa, Kauai, Hawaii, called "Decko Gecko Cafe & Bakery." I loved that place. The food was wonderful, my boss was one of the kindest women I've ever met (she runs a granola company now that has THE best granola I've ever tasted in my life), and my coworkers and the customers were so fascinating I could write a book on each of them. Some of my most vivid and colorful memories are of that tiny little restaurant and the people who came in and out of it.

One customer was a man named Martin. He was a 6'4" piece of handsome, with sandy blond hair, light freckles on a tan face, and blue eyes. He was there on business but had stayed over for a week to learn to scuba diva through the shop just a few doors down from us. He came in for lunch a couple of days in a row and chatted me up; he was funny and friendly and from Australia. On the third day, he asked if I'd like to go out for pizza with him that night. I said, "Sure . . . if you don't mind me bringing my boyfriend along." He laughed and said, "I guess I should have asked that question first." I shrugged and smiled back. "Probably."

So we never went for that pizza, but he continued to come in for lunch, sometimes breakfast as well, and before his week was up, he'd asked for my address so he could write to me.

Within my first few days back at college, I got a letter from him, and he continued to write me over the next year and a half--sometimes regularly, sometimes sporadically. And when I was preparing to graduate, he offered to fly me to Australia as a graduation gift. I jumped at the opportunity until I took a minute to realize he might expect a little more in return than I was willing to give. When I gave him my "terms," he rescinded the offer by never writing back.

I wasn't crushed--not by him. I was crushed by my naivete. I felt like an idiot, like a schoolgirl. Of course he thought I'd sleep with him. I was 21 and he was 28. I was single by then and he was divorced. And plane tickets to Australia weren't cheap. Stupid girl. Stupid stupid stupid.

Six months passed, and he called me back home in Virginia where I was living then and working at a newspaper. This time, he wanted to visit me--and get married. He said we'd live in Hawaii so we'd be halfway between my family and his. He'd become a born-again Christian since we'd last spoken, but he said he'd be willing to convert to my religion if I wanted him to. He was making plans. He was excited. Me? I was blown away. I'd only met him that once in Hawaii. Now he was saying he loved me? Wanted to marry me? Wanted to move away from his family in order to let me be closer to mine after we got married? Crazy, right? But he wasn't crazy. I mean, I'd been in touch with him enough to know that. I watched the movie "When in Rome" this weekend, and that's what it was like: I'd picked up his coin in a fountain and now he was under some kind of spell, but not mine.

After a couple of weeks of him calling me and assuring me he was serious--and me telling him that getting to know each other in person might be a good idea first (come on: he was really, really good-looking and funny and kind; I wasn't ready to immediately dismiss his proposal!)--I met my now-husband and started dating him. So I had to call Martin and tell him his visit to Virginia might not be such a good idea. He was disappointed and asked me to call him when I was ready to see him. I never made that second phone call.

My husband and I got married within seven months of our first date, but I knew the night I met him that I wanted to marry him. We only saw each other on weekends because he lived four hours away. In fact, we never even lived in the same town until we got married. We got to know each other primarily through phone calls and letters.

Crazy, right? About as crazy as seeing someone at lunch for a week, writing to them for two years, and then proposing.

Maybe even crazier.

Four kids and 16 1/2 years later, I can say it's good to be a little crazy sometimes--good to take a risk, a leap of faith. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained" and all that.

Though I'd still like to visit Australia some day. I have some fond memories of that place.

Screens and Screams

2010-07-16T15:05:00.003-05:00

I've realized the last few weeks that everything my four children do is done in anticipation of how much media time they'll receive in exchange. "I played outside for an hour. Can I play the Wii now?" "I read five chapters this morning. Can I play 'Lord of the Rings' now?" "I cleaned my room. Can I have the GameBoy now?"

The use of "can" where they're supposed to use "may" would drive my older sister nuts. But I put aside my grammar notions and instead find myself shaking and sweating over the frustration of how focused they are on screens. Several months ago, my youngest asked if the window was media. "It has a screen," he said. He was joking, but I've thought about that question a lot since then, because, really, what is a screen? It's something that separates us from something else, right? I was watching 1776 a last week, and the men in Congress are all fighting about whether to open the window. Some say yes because it's hot and they could do with the breeze. The others say no because of all the flies. Screens are marvelous inventions to keep out things we don't want: flies, mosquitoes, moths, pollen, birds, goats. Whatever.

But sometimes they keep out the good things, too--like real life. Try to have a conversation with anyone (adult or adolescent or child) who is focused on Mario or Gondor or Madden, and they don't hear you, they don't see you. They are completely in that game which means they're out of reality.

This summer has been a constant of, "Mom, can I . . . ?" And it's been enough to drive me absolutely insane. When I was a kid, my mother worked, so I don't recall asking her for permission to do much of anything. And even when she was home, I don't recall asking. I didn't ask my father either. I just did whatever it was that I wanted to do.

I also ate whatever I wanted to eat. That's been the other half of my summer insanity. "Mom, can I have a cookie? Can I have a lollipop? Can I have a Pop-Tart? Can I have some chips?"

This morning, I cracked. I finally said, that's it, I'm done. Fed up. Finished. No more media, no more cookies or candy or junk.

And that's when I realized one of the huge differences between being a kid 30 years ago and being a kid now. Or maybe it's one of the huge differences between being a parent 30 years ago and being a parent now.

I didn't ask my mom if I could play the computer, because there was no computer to play. There wasn't a Wii. There wasn't a Leapster. There wasn't a GameBoy or a DSL or a Play Station. There was all the wonder of the world that was outside and there was what was inside: board games, art supplies, Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys and Legos. If I wanted to play with any of that, I could. No permission necessary. It was all good stuff!

As for all the junk food? My mom made cookies occasionally, and we had dessert every night--root beer floats, steamed chocolate pudding, coconut cake--so it's not like I was starved for sweets. But chips and candy and soda and every gummy product available from worms to snakes to bears? No! Absolutely not. The drawers and cupboards had food--real food. If I wanted something to eat, I didn't need to say, "Mother May I?" I grabbed an apple or a slice of cheese or a few crackers, and I was out the door again.

I'm not just letting my kids down by filling the house with screens and with all sorts of food they have to ask for permission to eat. I'm letting myself down because I'm setting myself to be a screen. They have to go through me to get to what they want, and what they want isn't good for them anyway. So what am I doing? Seriously. What?

Truly: I'm done. The junk food we have left in the house is all that the kids are going to see in here again. When they open the cupboards or the refrigerator in another week or so, they're welcome to have whatever they find, and they won't have to ask first. And Sunday through Thursday, all electronic games will be in hibernation mode. (I'm not a total party pooper.) And I'm looking forward to not hearing "Mom, can I . . . ?" every five minutes. I can feel the peace coming over me already.

"Someone oughta open up a window!" --"Sit Down, John" 1776

Lessons in Humility

2010-07-11T09:07:00.001-05:00

My junior and senior year in high school, I was the piano accompanist for show choir and musicals. I enjoyed the ‘behind-the-scenes’ role. It was just my size. I could perform without being noticed. I liked it that way. My mother recalls, however, me having a little more, uh, shall we say, confidence? ‘Hubris’ might even be appropriate here. She remembers me once commenting that I was ‘the best’ at the school, so, of course, I was the one to sit on that bench and play along.

When I was in fifth grade, my class took an IQ test. The teacher, once the results were in, said she couldn’t tell us what our scores were; she could only tell us the highest score. When she gave us that number, I vividly recall thinking, “Hm. I did pretty well.” I just naturally assumed I was the one who had scored the highest. I didn’t question it for a moment. Was that number mine? I don’t know. I never did find out. But I was more than confident at the time: I was positive.

I’ve had ample opportunity since I was 10 or even 16 to be humbled. And I’ve taken advantage of those opportunities—though not always willingly.

I grew up in a home where we kids were kind of on auto-pilot much of the time. Both of my parents worked, and they didn’t have the time or energy to hover over us to make sure we were doing our homework right or to make sure we wore our helmets when we rode our bikes. They didn’t pay much attention to our friends. They didn’t check our rooms to make sure our beds were made or our clothes picked up. I’m not saying they didn’t care. I'm saying they didn’t coddle or correct.

So when I started to be corrected, I didn’t always take it very well. It’s not that I thought I was perfect; I just thought I didn’t need to be perfect, so why would someone try to make me that way. Good was good enough.

I started writing seriously about five years ago. And I began to learn a whole new brand of humility then. Posting your pride and joy on critique sites for anyone to see, read, and, yep, criticize is opening yourself up to some potentially serious punches to the gut.

When I first started getting back comments like, “This section moves too slowly” or “I’m not convinced here” or “You’re not making this character likable enough,” I would sigh, open my document again, and feel like someone had just told me my piano playing was sloppy or my IQ was actually middle-of-the-road and not the highest in the class at all.

But the more I’ve learned to trust the process and trust the few people who regularly read and comment on my writing, the more excited—yes, excited—I get about their critiques and even criticisms. When they say, “Bobbie, it’s just not working” then I know I have the chance to make it work, make it better. I can take what was good enough in my mind and make it good in someone else’s . . . maybe even make it great.

And that ability to take criticism has spread into other parts of my life as well. Separate from my writing, I’ve been making a conscious effort the last five years or so to not let myself be offended easily, to not take things personally. I’ve tried to learn to separate someone else’s issues from my own. And that’s what taking offense is, really: the lack of humility. I’m not saying everything someone else says is correct and you need to listen and become humble. I’m saying the opposite: they way they’re acting or what they say might have absolutely nothing to do with you, and if you believe it does, you’re also believing you carry way more weight in that person’s life than you truly do. That’s egotism.

Being less prone to taking offense means I can more easily accept the valid criticisms. I should have called the gutter guy before the rain storm leaked water into the basement? You’re absolutely right. I should have. I messed up. That dinner was less than delicious? I agree, kids. I promise not to ever serve curried broccoli soup again.

I’m not aiming for perfection. There’s no such thing, not in writing or in life. But I can make strides toward it and can accept with gratitude and humility others’ efforts in helping me get there. That’s what being part of a writing community—a community much like any other—has taught me.

Punch-worthy Heroines

2010-07-10T20:39:00.002-05:00

A. I don't really want to punch anyone. I'm talking figuratively here, so let it go.
B. I know heroines is passe. Heroes is now gender neutral. But I'm speaking specifically about female heroes. So, again, let it go.

This will be a short one, so you don't even need to sit down.

I'm watching "Percy Jackson" with my 13yo. Last night, I watched it with my 11yo. No, it's not that I love the movie so much I want to watch it twice, it's that I love my sons enough that I'll happily sit here with each of them as they watch it. I've folded the laundry. I've cleaned the room. I'm trying to be productive and good company. It's somewhat do-able.

But I have to interrupt with my own little commercial of how I can't stand female characters that are there solely for the purpose of being saved.

Disclaimer (call it point 'C' if you'd like): I've never read these books. So I'm going only on the movie here.

Percy's mother is annoying the ever-living daylights out of me. First, she runs off to the camp with him and Grover. Why? So she can drive? Uh... unnecessary. Are the boys worried about getting pulled over by the police, or are they worried about the minotaur? Because, really, I'd leave Mom at home and get a head start on the mythological monster. And she can't go into the camp, which is how she ends up hanging out with Hades for a few days. "No, Percy. Go without me. Go." So she didn't go with the boys so she could drive, right? She went so she could get captured.

(And the fact that we meet her while she is IRONING HER ABUSIVE HUSBAND'S SHIRT just adds to my irritation.)

And then Percy rescues her from Hades. Good son. Well done. It's what you should have done. I won't argue with you there. But you end up at the elevator leading to Mt. Olympus, and ... shocker! ... she can't go with you. She dials in the pass code (which she could have given you WITHOUT having to go with you) and send you on your way. "No. Percy. Go without me. Go." (And only moments before, she was lying on the ground saying almost the exact same thing, wasn't she?)

I'll give her credit at the end for kicking the husband out. Well done. And 'phew.'

But Percy still has to finish things off with Medusa's head in the fridge.

My point: Writers? Screenwriters or novelists? Don't. Do. This. Please please please stop. It's 2010. Either leave the maiden in need of rescue at home with the load of ironing, or give her a sword and let her do some fighting herself. But don't drag her around simply so she can either (a) get into trouble or (b) stand out of breath and the door saying, "No. Go without me. Go." Give us someone we want to cheer--not someone we want to scream at.

That is all.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Formidable

2010-07-09T12:49:00.006-05:00

So, I have a five-year-old that most people reading this have met. I was pregnant with him during Hurricane Ivan, and although we were way up in Pittsburgh at the time, we got smacked around pretty good by the storm. But my pregnancy cravings didn't care so much about the rain and wind. They cared about being satisfied. So my wonderful and understanding husband drove me and our three kids to my favorite Indian restaurant in Pittsburgh: Udipi.

While we ate, the power went out once or twice. Thank goodness for generators, because I really needed my channa batura and peas paratha and my mango lassi. Needed. With my cravings thus satisfied, we headed out to the car to return home . . . and had to take a different route because the one we'd come in on had been closed due to flooding. We made it back safe and sound--and full--and had enough leftovers for lunch the next day.

It's only a coincidence that we named our son Ivan. My husband has an ancestor by that name (spelled Ivin, however) and the name just seemed to suit Ivan from the very beginning.

It still does (although I take at least partial responsibility for his stubborn streak). Let me quote from that reputable source, Wikipedia:

"Historic sources present disparate accounts of Ivan's complex personality: he was described as intelligent and devout, yet given to rages. . . . His contemporaries called him 'Ivan Grozny' the name, which, although usually translated as 'Terrible,' is actually associated with might, power and strictness, rather than horror or cruelty."

Ivan is intelligent. I don't know yet about devout. And, yes, he's given to rages--though he hasn't broken anything yet. And he's a strong little kid--a strong personality. "Formidable" is the word I use for him. My sister-in-law said that he's the kind of child who will grow up to be a man who knows what he wants and will go after it with everything in him. I'm sure she's right. But I admit that sometimes I have a really hard time with all of the above: his smarts, his temper, his stubbornness, his determination. It's hard to parent a five-year-old who doesn't understand he's five.

We were at the pool this morning, and Ivan saw a group of three boys about his age. And being Ivan, he swam over to them and asked if he could play with them. The oldest child--probably about eight--said no. Emphatically. "Yell" is the word we're looking for here. Ivan was unfazed. "I wasn't talking to you," he said. "I was talking to him." The older kid said, "I know, but he's my brother. And we don't want you playing with us." I waited for the boys' mother to say something. She did: "Billy. Be nice." But it was more a whine than a command. So Billy, of course, was not nice. "But it's more fun to be mean," he said. She sighed and glanced at me as if now waiting for me to say something. I did. I took Ivan's hand, pulled him out of the pool, and said, "Come on. You don't need to play with them. You can play with your own family." The sighing, whining mom looked away as her sons continued to play alone.

I was tempted to say more. It was on the tip of my tongue to say more. I could have been snide or snotty. I could have been mean to the kids. The Mama Bear in me really wanted to.

But the thing is, Ivan was fine. So the kids didn't want to play with him. Big deal, as far as he was concerned. There were other kids at the pool. Plus, he had his three older siblings to hang out with. If I'd made a big deal about this one pool punk, Ivan would have thought there was a reason to make a big deal. So I didn't. I dropped him off with the rest of my kids, and then I sat down and read my book.

I don't think it's okay for kids to be brats to other kids. Had one of my kids acted like that child, I'd have yanked him out of the pool so fast, he would have been dry before his feet landed on the cement.

But it's not up to me to parent other people's children. It's not up to me to tell other parents what a cruddy job I think they're doing parenting their own children. But it is up to me to make sure my kids can handle the pool punks that will inevitably come their way.

It's up to me to make sure they're formidable, whether they were born that way or not.

A Handy Thing

2010-07-07T13:42:00.003-05:00

I'm sick of looking at my old post, so this one is for my benefit. Well, all of my posts are, really, since I read them more than anyone else. And that's not a plea for sympathy. It's me babbling.

A couple of nights ago, my 13yo came into my room and said, "Y'know? Talking comes in handy."

"Handy?" I said. "Yeah . . ." And I waited.

"When you're, you know, like, in 1st grade or whatever, you don't want to just talk with your friends. You want to play, because talking is boring. But then you get older and realize talking can be kind of fun."

Fun. Or handy, apparently. Okay.

My husband and I just got back from lunch out. It was our first "date" in a while. We've hit that stage where we don't necessarily feel the need to escape our children, so neither of us is desperate for time away. In fact, my idea of a good time is to go to my room at about 8:00 (or earlier) and not come out again until morning. I like to read or work or just enjoy the quiet. You know . . . the lack of that handy thing called talking.

But Ron was out of town for two weeks, and as wonderful a thing as Skype can be, talking or listening to someone--even if you can see them--while the reception comes and goes isn't a blast. It varies from being irritating to being frustrating to being stressful. So we needed to reconnect in person.

The original plan was to go to dinner this past Friday night. And then we got into a fight. We don't get into a lot of those, but this one was a doozy.(Why does the spell checker nab me on that? Come on, we all say 'doozy,' right?) Halfway to the restaurant (we were walking), I turned around and headed home. I was done talking. In fact, I was about as close to speechless as I've been since I was 13 and finding out what a handy thing speech in general is.

An hour later we were fine, and not because we talked about it. No, that wouldn't have been brilliant. It's been five days, and talking about it still wouldn't be brilliant. And at this point, there's no . . . well, no point to it. The issue we were arguing about is over and done, gone, finished. I'm perfectly fine with letting that sleeping dog lie (not my husband--the subject).

I've always been a big believer in talking things out. I like closure. I love it. I need it. I'm a little addicted to it. And I love talking. A lot. And I'm more than a little addicted to it. It's handy. I'll agree wholeheartedly with my 13yo on that one.

But sometimes--and I'm no marriage expert here--NOT talking things out with your spouse is the way to go. I'm not talking about sweeping problems under the mat (I'm wondering how many metaphors I can use in one post). I'm talking about realizing that for the sake of not making a mountain out of a mole hill (which I've never seen, by the way--a mole hill--so I don't know how close to a mountain one is in the first place) (I'm also going for a lot of parenthetical asides here), it's okay to just pretend the problem wasn't there in the first place, especially when you're pretty sure it's going to be a one-time kind of problem.

And you can always say, "Remember back when . . ." if the problem does come back. I'm sure that's something every marriage expert would support. Right?

So our lunch today was nice. The food wasn't great, but we don't eat out for the food. We eat out so we can just pay attention to each other for an hour. And so we can talk--if we feel the need.

Onlies

2010-07-01T17:18:00.002-05:00

I wrote this a few years ago for a newsletter. Excuse the intensity of it. I was feeling a little intense at the time, as my father had only passed away the year before.

Have a safe and happy 4th of July.

When I was four years old, my family moved from Tucson, Arizona, to Lynchburg, Virginia, on little more than a whim. My parents packed up our Volkswagen van, a rented moving truck, and our camper and off we went. Dad was leaving a teaching job where he was loved and respected and appreciated. He was leaving his favorite brother. He was leaving his best friend who had baptized him. He was leaving his beloved West. And why? Because he fell in love with Virginia and her history. Once in Virginia, my impulsive father, my patient mother, and we six kids camped out at a lake for eight weeks while Dad looked for—and found--a job and a house. It was only recently that a friend of our family pointed out that we were technically homeless at that point in our lives. But for us it was a marvelous adventure experienced all for the love of history.

I grew up in Virginia with evidence of my father's love for this country all around me. We weren't a flag-waving, 4th-of-July picnicking, red-white-and-blue parading family; we were simply a family that knew George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and Ben Franklin better than we knew our aunts and uncles. We knew all of the words to every song in "1776." We visited Revolutionary War battlegrounds on virtually every family vacation. We used Dad's own personal library for every history paper we ever wrote. Our home was filled with Americana antiques and framed copies of the Constitution and Declaration of Independence and iron-cast figures of red and blue soldiers and their canons.

When July rolls around, thanks to my childhood, the men and women who struggled for this nation's freedom come to my mind. The miracle of so many brilliant minds and strong hearts and courageous spirits leave me with an immense sense of awe and gratitude. These were individuals who seized not just the meaning of freedom, but of free agency. Read a bit about our founding fathers and mothers and we find that they were "only" farmers and lawyers and printers and carpenters and wives and mothers. Yet they found power within that propelled them forward regardless of those "onlies."

Think about the percentage of time you allow fear to dictate your decision-making process: fear of failure, fear of disapproval, fear of rejection. And when we allow fear to control out lives, how free are we? How truly are we exercising our God-given free agency? My favorite scripture is 2 Timothy 1:7: "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." What power are we giving into if we hand ourselves over to fear either through our actions or inactions?

Where would we be today if not just Adams, Jefferson, Washington, and Franklin had given into their "onlies," but if every nameless hero in the years surrounding the Revolution had given in? And are we giving into the "onlies" in our lives? "I'm only a mother, a wife, a student, a secretary, a professor . . ." And where would we be if we found the courage to reach beyond our perceived limitations? Where would we be if more of our decisions were based not on fear, but on true power and love and soundness of mind?

Had my father been afraid to move to Virginia 30-plus years ago without a job, a house, or connections, I'm sure my life would still be a happy one, but it's been so much richer thanks to my association with this nation's past. I'm truly full of thankfulness this time of year for this country. Our history isn't always a proud one and certainly not a perfect one. But I believe God has always been in the details, whether as the conductor of events or the strength within those who struggled and survived and brought us to where we are today.

May we all reach beyond our onlies and in so doing find who we are meant to be.