Live, Love, Write

Basketball fun

2011-12-05T18:27:00.000-08:00

Emily and Matt played a little bit of basketball after Matt's practice today...

"Did you have fun?" I asked.

"Yeah," Em said without hesitating. Then she thought for a second and said, "but Matt kept claustrophobicating me!"

"She may not be a basketball player, but she's definitely a wordsmith...

Leaving Las Vegas...For Good

2011-01-16T07:57:00.000-08:00

Why does experience have to take the shine off the penny? How amazing would it be if every time we looked at something beautiful, we felt as we did when we saw it for the first time?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and it's one of many things that makes me sad. Take this last trip to Las Vegas, for example. We have been there a half a dozen times, and each time we go, we try to see something different, do something unusual. But each visit brings a little more distance, a little more disdain. The easy answer is that we are getting to old to enjoy it. But it's more than that. We see the same people, sitting at the same slot machines; the same dealers, handing out the same cards, killing themselves via their environment. We see the same casinos, the same peddlers with cards promising naked women and good times. I'm ready to leave after three days, and these people are living it every single day of their lives.
But it's not all the same. We travelled from one end of the strip to the other to see the Star Trek Hilton, only to find that they had given up their rights to Star Trek and converted their casino into something much more ordinary. A sad day for us Star Trek fans.
The amount of money that moves around in Las Vegas is beyond my comprehension. A friend explained that a new casino had been started, but when they got half way finished, they discovered that the builders had used the wrong kind of rebar, and the 40 story building would not be sound. So they stopped at 20 stories, and there the building sits, right in the middle of the strip, empty. Broke, they sold the building. The new owners liquidated the furniture, sold that furninture to another casino in a town up north (I had no idea they furnished these buildings as they build, but it makes sense, if you think about it...) and made back the ENTIRE cost of the building. Now, our friend says, the owner is thinking of flattening the building to free up the real estate. Incredible, when you think about how many people could eat for the cost of the supplies to build that mistake.
Maybe it's knowledge that makes the familiar less beautiful. Knowing what I do about Vegas, and comparing that to my naivete the first time I visited, I can see that something is definitely lost. I suppose it's like a kid at Disneyland: part of the wonder is the lack of understanding and the lack of suspicion and doubt.

I guess wisdom hurts a little. And it's a real party pooper.

Broken for You

2010-12-30T09:54:00.000-08:00

Thank you, thank you to my book club friends for introducing me to the novel Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos. What an amazing read. I stayed up late last night to finish it, then couldn't sleep afterward.

I enjoyed the tiny little things, like the odd change in perspective (the narrator brings the reader into the novel occationally by using "you," an unusual but interesting approach) and the well-placed quotes which caused me to stop and think: "Whether the stone hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits the stone, it's going to be hard for the pitcher."

Even more, I enjoyed the big things--the integration of the Hollocaust and remembering those who lost their lives there; the ecclectic mix of characters, and the way their lives were intertwined (sometimes without the characters' knowledge); the relationships that develop in the novel, unpredicatable, necessary, lovely.

And, of course, to me, the main point:

Look then at the faces and bodies of people you love. The explicit beauty that comes not from the smoothness of skin or neutrality of espression, but from the web of experiences that has left its mark. Each face, each body is its own living fossilized record. A record of cats, combatants, difficult births; of accidents, cruelties, blessings. Reminders of folly, greeed indiscretion, impatience. A moment of time, of memory, preserved, internalized, and enshrined within and upon the body. You need not be told that these records are what render your beloved beautiful. If God exists, He is there, in the small, cast-off pieces, rough and random and no two alike.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

2010-12-20T13:45:00.000-08:00

Why is it we can go to the most amazing places on earth, yet still yearn to come home again after only a short stay?

Matt kissed the house when he got out of the car last evening. Excited to be home? Obviously. Most of us are after a stay away. But this kid was coming home from Disneyworld...

We had an amazing trip, despite lost luggage, freezing (Florida) temperatures, and various layovers. Both Disneyworld and Universal Studios Orlando helped us create great memories.

There is a Girl Inside

2010-12-03T11:30:00.000-08:00

by Lucille Clifton

there is a girl inside.

she is randy as a wolf.

she will not walk away

and leave these bones

to an old woman.

she is a green tree

in a forest of kindling.

she is a green girl

in a used poet.

she has waited

patient as a nun

for the second coming,

when she can break through gray hairs

into blossom

and her lovers will harvest

honey and thyme

and the woods will be wild

with the damn wonder of it.

Baseball Boo Boos

2010-09-29T19:53:00.000-07:00

When the kids were a couple of years younger, we were lucky enough to have them on the same "little guy" baseball team. It was fabulous...only one schedule for practices and games, and all of that time to sit back and reflect on how clever we were to have them both in the same program.

As most parents do, we got sucked in to the parent-as-coach world and ended up running the team. My husband, Ryan, coached, and because I couldn't throw a baseball as far as my then 6-year-old son, I was the team mom (read: book keeper, band-aid carrier, bag girl). As coaching gigs go, it wasn't too shabby. A group of 6 and 7 year old boys (and one 8-year-old girl) can test the fortitude of a single mom, but not the armor of the united Dad and Mom army. We were invincible. Snotty noses, lost mitts, and boo boos were no match for this pair.

As we were just finishing up the season, Ryan was coaching from behind the batter (rookie move) when, as luck would have it, a foul ball bounced right into his face...

We were scheduled to leave for Kauaii three days later.

To make matters worse, our son Matt got hit in the face with a baseball on the very same night...

Seriously, what are the chances of that?

But they made quite a pair, united in misery...

They had battle scars, war wounds, proof that, while the rest of us were taking life easy, they were out there, taking one for the team. Literally.

So a couple of fat lips and a few chilly afternoon games, and the season was over as quickly as it had started. We said good bye to the munchkins and moved on. Now, two years later, and many miles away, I'm missing those little dudes who filled those cloudy spring afternoons with sunshine...

Luckily, one of the little dudes (and the little princess on Daddy's shoulder) is upstairs asleep in his bed.

High Anxiety

2010-08-31T13:46:00.001-07:00

I hate downhills. It's the story of my life. Whether I'm on a dirtbike or a snowmobile, skis or a sled, put me at the top of a hill and push, and I start screaming like a child who has just found out he's headed to Disneyland. But not in a good way.

I suppose some psycho-babble-ologist would say I have control issues. After all, in most of those situations, a person flying down the side of a mountain doesn't have a lot of control. And probably wants control. But I would argue that it's really more about...well, dying. Downhill=fast=painful crash=well, you can finish that equation.

But lately, I've been a little more than facinated with high places. Notice the distinction: I still hate downhills, but I don't mind the view from way up yonder. Our new home is at the top of a big downhill, and I don't like many things better than just sitting outside and looking.

This summer we ventured to a few 8,000 ft. peaks and were rewarded with spectacular views. I've been hankering for a trip to something higher. I think Everest is probably outside of my comfort zone (someone might give me a push, and that would be a super scary downhill). But maybe Pike's Peak or something in the 13,000 ft range. I could do that.

Perhaps it's age and relativity. When I was young, I was bigger than my body (to steal from John Mayer). I was so important to myself, and that outweighed everything around me. "Sure, yeah, that's a high mountain, a beautiful view," I would think.

But now, I am, if anything, smaller than my body (and I'm not even accounting for the middle age spread). The world seems so big to me, the universe unimaginable. I am stifled by the thought of everyone and everything existing at the same time. I am in awe of the view.

Bunny Love

2010-04-04T11:57:00.000-07:00

Today is Easter. Last night, when I was tucking Matt in, he said, "Mom, I know you are tricking me. Dad told me to 'SLEEP IN' tomorrow, and here you are closing the blinds. I know what you are doing."

Matt was up at 6 a.m. and the Easter bunny was sleeping soundly in her warm bed. He tromped through the house, woke everyone up, and decided that the Easter bunny had missed our house this year. Nothing outside. Nothing. He had checked.

I grumbled and rolled out of bed. "I'm sure he's just behind."

Ryan found a chore that he and Matt just had to do before breakfast, and off they went. (Of course, just as they left, Emily jumped up--I sent her back to bed with a conspirator's wink and she did a quick about-face. If you want candy, you gotta play along.) I hopped around like a good Easter bunny and got things ready so that, by the time they got back, voila, the eggs were all hidden and the baskets were waiting. Problem solved.

It was perfect, as usual. Matt charged around, crazy with excitement, while Em followed and picked up the eggs he had dashed past. It's a comedy every year.

And after almost a decade of mistakes, I've learned the real prize-winners in the Easter baskets. Bubbles. Music. Gumballs. Simple really is better.

And now here we sit, waiting for relatives to arrive, and I can't help but think about the miracle of children's minds . I so admire their ability to suspend their disbelief, to suspend logic, and to let their love of the moment overpower doubt and suspicion.

Just let it be. And it will be wonderful.

April Fool's Day

2010-04-03T11:25:00.000-07:00

Matt loves April Fool's Day. Loves it. Can't wait. In fact, during the last week of March, he asked 1) how many days were in March, and 2) what day it was.

The morning came and I had hardly gotten out of bed when Matt said, "Mom! Your car is rolling!" Good one. Before breakfast, Matt had pranked everyone (albeit not completely successfully) in our family. And it continued all day.

And I wonder, what makes him love April Fool's Day? I think I know. It's the pure, simple joy of knowing that you can tell someone you love something, and she will believe you. Because that's how life is. Or that's the way it should be.

"A teachable moment"

2010-01-18T18:18:00.000-08:00

I love the saying, "What you do stands above you and shouts so loudly I cannot hear what you are saying" (Emerson). To me, this epitomizes the way I want to live my life. I suppose that might seem a little odd coming from a writer, but Emerson said it, so why can't I? I believe a person should show their values and morals through their actions, not their words.

What good does it do to tell me how much you support me when, in the 11th hour, I am dangling over a precipice, hanging on with the tips of my fingers and you are nowhere to be found?

Why speak of morals and values when you apply a double standard with your own family?

How can you support someone with your words and NOT your actions?

I sincerely believe this is a problem with our society. When you say, "We should get together some time," do you mean it? "I'll call you." Do you call? We're all guilty of these little sins. I used to teach ESL, and I would make off-handed comments like "We should get together and make sushi!" What I didn't realize was that people didn't suggest such get togethers in other countries unless they meant it. So my students were waiting for their invitation. I had suggested we get together--why didn't I call to set a time? It was a humbling--if teachable--moment, and not something I am particularly proud of... "Oh, let me explain American culture to you...we say things we don't really mean."

Sure, those are little sins. But what about the bigger ones? How many things have you said that you didn't mean, or that you didn't follow up with actions? It's sobering and sad, but possibly a teachable moment for us all.

Matthew-isms

2010-01-16T19:50:00.000-08:00

I realize I haven't written a Matthew-ism for a while. I'm not sure if it's because I'm lazy or if he's just growing up, but I suppose it's a little bit of both. Yesterday, though, he had one I had to share...

We were driving up 21st Street and came to the stop light near Taco Time and the shopping center. A guy was standing on the corner with a sign. Matt said, "Mommy, stop and give him money!" I looked over and the guy was carrying a Jiffy Lube sign advertising a special for oil changes.

"He's working, Matt. That's his job."

"Yeah," he said, "He's trying to make money. So give him some!"

I know he was remembering the smattering of people who sit at the entrance to Walmart, hoping for some spare change. I didn't bother to correct him.

I hope he keeps that genuine concern for others into adulthood. We should all be so concerned.

Halloween Tales

2009-11-11T16:42:00.000-08:00

For the first time ever, I had sick kids on Halloween. What a terrible time to be sick...Em missed her Halloween party at school; Matt pooped out on trick-or-treating about half way through. And in the end, neither one of them had much fun.

Our neighbor, who is such a genuinely good person in any case, heard the kids were feeling bad on Halloween day and brought them each a candy bar--just in case they didn't get out to trick-or-treating. I love it when people affirm my belief that there is still much good left in the world. My charming boy-child has decided that if a costume isn't scary, it isn't worth putting on. This year, that philosophy resulted in a grim reaper who was put down by a tummy ache.

My precious girl-child is precisely the opposite. She believes in all things beautiful; it is still possible to be a princess, and if your costume is soft AND lovely, you couldn't ask for more.

Every once in a while, I wonder if I had realized how much joy my kids would bring me, would I have started sooner and had more of them? Other times, like this morning when they were screaming and fighting with each other, I thank goodness that I had the good sense to know my own limits.

In any case, our days of trick-or-treating are limited. In my own case, I went for the last time in 6th grade. At that age, I had reached my full height, and I got strange looks from some of the older folks who clearly thought I was too old to be out trick-or-treating. I say let a kid be a kid--and if that means trick-or-treating into your teens, so be it. I hope my kids continue to want to go long after they get "too old."

Car Talk

2009-10-29T08:51:00.000-07:00

Today, as we were walking to school, a man drove by in a small pickup. "Toyota," Matt said. "I like Toyotas."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because they are a toy for Yoda. That's so cool."
Of course.
Not one minute later, we passed a larger pickup in a drive way. "Ford." Then, "For-D."
"Hmmm?"
"For-D. That one's for Dad, because he's 40."
I wish, I wish, I wish I could see the world the way I did as a child again.

Coming Home

2009-10-27T11:37:00.001-07:00

When I graduated from high school at 17, I was absolutely certain of one thing: I would not live in that same small town as an adult. I had nothing against the town or the people. I suppose it was fear which followed this logic: 1) my parents were there, 2) my parents were old and ready to die (in retrospect I realize that my mother was younger than I am now), ergo 3) if I lived there, I would be old and almost dead. What would be left of life?

I remember clearly my young perception of age. People in their teens were the "right" age, and people in their 20's were getting old. During my first year of college, I met a young man who was living in the dorm at the ripe age of 23. His hairline was receding, and I let my gaze linger when I looked at him. He probably thought I had a crush. The truth was I was having trouble imagining ever being that old.

As a kid, one of my favorite movies was Logan's Run. If you don't remember, when a member of the society turned thirty, they were cast out and allowed to run away from the group, only to be hunted down and killed. This was how the society dealt with the burden of the elderly. I thought it was practical. What do people really do after 30 anyway?

There's nothing like the passage of time to set one straight--that and knowing that I would have been dead over a decade if those Logan's Run people got a hold of me. I can't help but wonder if we aren't doing our kids a disservice by allowing them to think this way. How can a child plan for her future when she can't see past 30? Still, maybe there is nothing we can do. Kids will be kids.

This kid is tasting humble pie. I've eaten my words and moved back to the small town where I grew up. And you know what? I'm not here to die; I'm here to live.

A Playground for All Ages

2009-05-26T21:23:00.000-07:00

This is where we jumped off the waterfall....so fun!

A Day of Rest

2009-05-26T10:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we rested mostly... spent a little time at the beach, then went over to the mall for lunch. A local recommended this little place called Sone's, and we tried it the other day. It was SO good that we went back. It was really hot here mid-day (for the first time since we got here), so after lunch, we went to the new Terminator movie. When we came out, it had rained and cooled off. We went back over to the mall where they were having a farmer's market in the parking lot. We picked up all kinds of interesting vegetables (some of them weren't what we thought they were!) and brought them back to our hotel for a stir fry. It was delicious!

On the way home, we stopped at Wialua Falls (which up until this moment we thought was Opaeka'a Falls again, just from the other side of the canyon). They were very pretty and the lookout was quite close. I think it's hard to tell how much water was moving over the waterfall.

Another Day of Hiking

2009-05-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

What a hike! We took the Kalalau Trail on the North Shore today. This is the part of the island that you can't get to by car. If you want to see it, you have to hike or pay for a helicopter ride ($250 per person). We opted to do the damage to our bodies. Even so, the trail is a whopping 11 miles long, so we didn't see all there was to see. In fact, if you want to go past a certain point on the trail, you have to have a permit to camp...it's that far (and difficult).

Two miles in, we arrived at Hanakapi'ai Beach, and all along the trail just before the beach are signs saying "Don't swim!" and "Dangerous Undercurrents!" Another sign said, "Be careful! This many people have died on this beach!" followed by dozens of slash marks and room for more. You get the point...

Of course, Ryan went swimming. I stood on the edge of the surf and still got knocked on my butt.

After a rest at the beach, we headed up to the Hanakapi'ai Waterfalls, which was a gruelling hike over boulders and sliding along the side of cliffs (well, maybe not quite that bad), but it was worth it. It started to rain about a quarter of the way up, which made the trail and the rocks super slick.

We ate lunch right next to the falls, then headed back to the beach for a swim in the rain. (That's the beautiful thing about the weather here: even if it's raining, it's so warm that the rain is more of an annoyance than anything. Sometimes it comes at just the right moment, when you're sweating and just need to cool off.)

6 hours later, we were back at the car and didn't even have the energy to go out to dinner like we had planned. Still, so worth it.

I know it looks like Daddy drowned, but he's just fine, I promise. :0)

A Visit to the Plantation

2009-05-23T22:39:00.000-07:00

Today, we went to the plantation and took the train ride. It was a pretty low-key day; we were tired and moving slowly. The train ride was okay, but it made me miss Emily and Matt, as they would have really enjoyed it. We rode around the plantation, looking at the trees and plants, and stopped at the pig pen to feed the pigs. They are the wild kind. The guide said there are thousands and thousands (28,000 is the number that comes to mind) of wild pigs on the island, and people can hunt them any time. If someone finds a baby pig, they can take it home and keep it for a pet. I can't imagine that happens very often, but we DID see a guy with a tiny baby pig at a park yesterday.

After the train ride, we went to the beach for a while, then over to "Kalapaki Joe's" where they were showing the UFC fight. Steven met us there to watch it. It was good.

These are banana plants.

This is the mansion on the plantation. It doesn't look like much, but the cloak room (aka closet) is bigger than our new living room. The house is 16,000 square feet. By comparison, our house is 1,800. My question is...how do you keep a place like that clean? (With a full-time maid, of course!)

Ryan and Steven at the fight.

Diving and Secret Places

2009-05-22T23:01:00.000-07:00

Today we went diving, then spent the day on the north side, which is even more tropical than the rest of the island. Diving took most of the day, but we managed to see a few other things. One of them was Secret Beach, which is right next to the Secret Lava Pools. I don't think either one is much of a secret anymore, but they were still beautiful. Here is a cave we visited...

2009-05-21T21:10:00.000-07:00

This is called the "LOVE rock" because it's shaped like a heart. :0)

We took it easy today...did some shopping and some local sight-seeing. We just got back from dinner at this place called Kaua'i Pasta and, well, WOW it was good. I had pesto pasta and Ryan had the house pasta. We had caprese for an appetizer, and a German import beer. Yumyumyumyumyum. I feel like my belly will burst any minute.

Here are some pictures of the things we saw today. After visiting the Opaeka'a Waterfalls, we wandered through the Kamokila Hawaiian village and learned about Kaua'i's culture. Finally, we went to Lydgate State Park and did some snorkeling. It was a good day.

Luau

2009-05-21T10:46:00.001-07:00

Last night we went to a luau at a tropical garden. It was pretty cool...

Day 4, Beach and Canyon

2009-05-20T18:49:00.000-07:00

Here is the beach we went to today; the waves were huge...so big that we couldn't really go out in the water for fear of being swept away! Some guys came out to surf just before we left, so we got a quick video of one guy. They were pretty good...

On the last leg of our trip today, we went to Waimea Canyon. It has been called the Grand Canyon of the Pacific. It's pretty spectacular! The road up is windy, and the temperature is about 10 degrees colder than down by the ocean.

Day 3, Tunnels Hike

2009-05-19T23:11:00.000-07:00

Here we are on our "tunnels hike." What an adventure. We started hiking at 9:20 a.m. and finally finished at 6 p.m. We are pooped! What a great day, though. The tunnels are cool--kind of spooky. The longest one is a mile long...a whole mile! It took about 1/2 hour to walk through that tunnel. The next tunnel had a very low ceiling, and at the end, we had to crawl through a tiny hole to get out of it. There was water in the bottom of the tunnels, and in some places, the water was up to our thighs...it was tough to move through the water, let alone walk. At the end of all of the tunnels, we came upon "Beautiful waterfall," and it was really amazing. We enjoyed it there for a while, but had to head back because the hike was so long, we knew we would be getting back late.

We made it back safely: no dinosaurs, and no injuries. I'm thinking we might have some pretty sore muscles tomorrow, though!

Day 2, Diving

2009-05-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

This video is from yesterday. This morning, we went diving and spent two WHOLE hours under the water. We did two dives with a surface interval in between; you come out of the water and rest, snack, and drink (and use the rest room because diving really brings THAT out in a person--they don't tell you that during your certification) for about 45 minutes, then go back in.

A ray and a sea turtle. That's us hanging out, too. Ryan is so good, he doesn't even need air. ;0)

Kaua'i: Our Hotel

2009-05-17T17:05:00.000-07:00

Speed Racers

2009-03-02T14:32:00.000-08:00

Do you ever make a plan to make a memory? For example, have you planned a trip with your family with the idea, "This is something the kids will never forget!" Does it work for you? Because it sure doesn't for me.

To me it's one of those "best intentions" scenerios. We want it to be perfect, unforgetable, inspiring (insert your adjective of choice), but for some reason, good times are kind of like relatives. You just don't get to choose.

This weekend, we created one of those unexpected good memories. It was just another trip for us. We headed to Elk River to go snowmobiling with the kids. They each have their own snowmobile now, and they can head down the trail to a destination (albeit not very fast). We can go for a ride as a family. It's a big milestone for us. We have looked forward to the time we could go for a ride with minimal whining and not take all day to get where we were going. Mission accomplished.

We went on our family ride Saturday, then spent a lazy afternoon in Elk River walking through the streets, playing in the snow and eating huckleberry ice cream. On Sunday, Elk River hosted the snowmobile drag races. We were planning to watch; the kids and I hadn't seen them before. Ryan raced a couple of years ago and got a trophy, and we think that's pretty cool.

Sunday morning, we were hanging out waiting for the races when someone asked if the kids were planning to race. "It's free! It will be fun!" and before I could make a mother's objections (Bleaaahhh! My baby! Danger! Help! Run away, run away!), they were signed up with numbers on their sleds.

It must have been so exciting for them. The start had pre-stage and stage lights, and a tree with yellow and green lights ("watch it closely," Ryan said, "yellow-yellow-yellow-green and go!") for the start. They had to ride through a little gate to get to the starting line...and Matt was in the first heat. He sent that little snow scoot out for all it was worth, but alas, it is a snow scoot with a top speed of 25 mph down hill. Still we were so proud.

Emily was intense. She was so focused that when Ryan walked up behind her and touched her on the back to tell her it would be a minute or two..she jumped. Her sled spun a little on the start, so she was late getting out of the gate, and at the end, she lost to a much bigger person on a bigger sled. It was over, but they seemed to enjoy themselves, so it was worth it.

We didn't stay for the awards--it's a long drive home from Elk River, especially when you have gear to unload and showers to take. But that evening, we got a phone call from our host. Emily had won first place in her age group (7-12) and received a trophy. Apparently, the young guy she was racing was in a different class and the winners were based entirely on times.

We were disappointed that she hadn't been able to pick up her trophy in person...I would love to have THAT picture...but still, she was so proud. It's the little victories that make us who we are. And that was a little victory.

And so our kids both have their first race under their belts. It wasn't what we expected, and honestly, I don't think we could have planned it any better. Of course, now Matt has to have a new snowmobile because he can't win on the Scoot, but overall, I would say it was a victory for all of us. We made an amazing memory.

Mornings

2009-01-11T13:35:00.000-08:00

The painful clamor of the garbage truck startles me at predawn--
I roll over and sink into the warmth
And will myself back to sleep.
Instead,
My mind is ready.
Planning, checking, anticipating…

I give up the fight.
The darkness is deafening
As I tiptoe, wandering
But wishing to accomplish some task,
Anything that will lessen my load
Without waking the little fairies
That live in my midst.

Too soon, they are around me,
Tumbling, bubbling, giving me purpose.
I am caught up in their reverie
And ride the wave.

Suddenly,
As if to remind me this cannot last,
The light fades and my body slows.
The little trolls collapse,
And I, not much stronger,
Take to my bed as if summoned.

Again, I wake.
A poor fellow up too early
Delivers my paper in a car
That should have been put to rest long ago.
I do not rise.
I do not think,
But I cannot return to where I was.

Now my day extends before me
Like a vast, barren wasteland.
I have no fairies, no trolls.
I move through a thickness that slows me
And steals my will.
The day is long.

I hear a folktale
About a man who lives his life backwards,
Beginning with old age and ending as a baby.
That would be the way
I think.
I would appreciate it then.

--Jill Rossiter

If the answer is blowin' in the wind, what the hell is the question?

2009-01-08T18:00:00.000-08:00

In this quaint little town of Pomeroy, the people are friendly, the schools are good and the weather is temperate. It's the perfect small town. Except....

The wind. I think all real estate listings in the county should be required to list "buyer understands that this area has very windy conditions" on the sales agreement.

In the spring, when the sky is blue and the flowers are considering flashing their colors, when one longs to fling one's jacket to the ground and roll in the green grass...forget it. The temperature might be sixty, but the wind chill is 60 below, and you probably can't stay out in the weather, let alone work outside in a t-shirt. I have learned to layer just like I do for snowmobiling. Even then, my hands quickly numb and I have to come inside just to thaw them out so that I can start again.

In our 8 year stretch in Pomeroy, we have lost so much to the wind. Some of the things everyone loses, like garbage cans, buckets, watering cans, boxes...but others might be more surprising. We've lost gates (yes, two of them), very large tree branches (there's nothing like a nice big branch crashing into the roof in the middle of the night to let you know you're alive), and even a greenhouse. During one particularly enthusiastic wind storm, a gust tore my greenhouse from it's frame and flung it all the way around our house. I couldn't lift the carcass (ironic, I know) and had to tear the damned thing up just to get it to the junk pile.

I whine, I whine. But I am getting to my point (really). The wind has been blowing constantly for the past three days. And when I say blowing, I mean that in the kindest, most dynamic sense of the word. It BLOWS and BLOWS. It has been blowing that "tie anything down that you really want to keep" kind of wind. I just thank goodness the trees don't have leaves because they would be in our living room by now.

Yesterday, someone said to me "it breaks you down" in reference to the wind, and I thought she had caught the essence of it. It makes me want to go to bed and wait it out. This must be what depression feels like, waiting and wondering if it will ever end and feeling powerless to make it go away.

Christmas Un-Tuned

2008-12-21T14:11:00.001-08:00

My little Bach and Beethoven performed at the nursing home for their winter recital. Emily has officially passed Ryan and me in skill. It's humbling when your nine-year-old is better than you at something. I knew it would happen; I just didn't think it would be this soon.

The piano was last tuned circa 1942...

Call your Mom...

2008-11-20T16:50:00.000-08:00

You are watching someone on television who is realizing his 60 seconds of fame in an interview or other short blurb. What does he say?

"Hi, Mom!"

And of course, there is the one about the boat... Imagine you are in a boat with your sister, your child, your mother and your friend...and it's going down. You can only save one other person. Who do you save? The "correct" answer is "your mother" because, no matter what, you can only have one of those, and you will never get another.

Whether you agree with that or not (and I don't; sorry mom, I would have to save my child...it's the mom in me), we can't deny the power of our mothers. If we are lucky, they are the center of our universe, at least during early years. Mothers shape us; they mold us by telling us what to do and how to do it, but more importantly, they mold us by example. They teach us how to love without condition. They teach us values; they teach us the value of ourselves. Who is on your side if not your mother? Who cheers for you, encourages you, supports you, rallies for you, believes in you when no one else does? And what happens when your biggest advocate disappears from your life?

My dear friend's mom died last night, and I cried for her today. My friend is younger than me by several years, and I think about what my life would have been like if I had not had my mom to turn to over the past decade. How many times have I called Mom for advice, or just to have her listen? And who would I call if I didn't have her? Probably no one.

I know not everyone has the same relationship with her mother that I do. But Carla did. They were friends. They shared the journey and the joy of raising her children, just as my mom does with me. They enjoyed each other's company. They helped each other through the muddle and the muck.

And now Jane is gone, and so is a little piece of my friend, Carla. I think I'll wipe away these tears and go call my mom. Maybe you should, too.

Squashes and Pumpkins and Candy, Oh My!

2008-10-28T14:55:00.000-07:00

In my eyes, October is nature's gift to children. The weather is mild, the colors warm and embracing, and the leaves fall from the trees like star dust. Kids can gnaw on apples, drink cider, carve pumpkins, and even eat the seeds that they pull from the wonderful, squishy guts.

And just in case that isn't enough to make every kid jump out of bed in the morning, we have fall festivals and pumpkin patch visits. Finally, we add the grand-daddy holiday of them all, the candy-giving, prank-inducing, scream-through-the-streets-at-night, give-me-candy holiday of Halloween.

Our October has been one of the best ever. Temperatures hover around 60 degrees, the leaves fall from the trees in fits and starts, and the mood at our house has been one of pleasant anticipation. Matt asks, "How many days until Halloween?" and both of them draw pictures of bats and ghosts and vampires.

Friends celebrated fall with a community gathering of parents and kids where we ate chili and spaghetti, carved pumpkins and traded stories. The kids played basketball and flashlight tag into the evening. To me, such a gathering represents the essence of small-town living.

Yesterday, Matt's class took a fieldtrip to the pumpkin patch. Wilson's Banner Ranch gives tours to grade school children from all over the area. During the tour, the kids get an apple and cider, then they head out to the patch to pick out the perfect pumpkin, and wrap it up with a turn at playing in the straw fort. The first graders were back in class by 1 p.m., but the teacher said she lost three of them to la-la land during story time. A day like that can wear a kid down...but I bet those kids will be dreaming of pumpkin patches and straw forts when October is just a memory.

Girl Scout troop 373 had a Halloween party on Sunday. The girls came in costume, enjoyed a slimy green punch and chocolate cookies, and then headed out to bob for apples. We did the same gig last year, and this year they were feeling pretty confident. In fact, they took turns bobbing until every one of the 30 or so apples were gone from the tub. We might need a new activity next year...

Mortality Issues

2008-10-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

Matt has been having bad dreams. Specifically, he has been dreaming that either Ryan or I die nearly every night. Poor little guy. I'm guessing the reality of mortality has taken hold in his 7-year-old brain. That's a tough concept for anyone, but especially a little guy who loves life as much as he.

He likes to tell me about those dreams, and I have to say, I really enjoy it. I mean, if you have to go, he has some great ideas on how to do it. One night, Ryan died from going out into space (he just flew up there and couldn't get back). Last night, I was riding my motorcycle and fell into a puddle and died.

"A puddle?" I said. "I drowned in a puddle?"
"Yeah," he said. "You were splashing around and it was, like, 100 feet deep."
"Well, puddles can't be that deep."
"Okay, it wasn't a puddle. It was, um, some deep water. And, mom, you DIED."
"But I can swim. I wouldn't die in a puddle. It's okay. It couldn't happen."
"But it already did. You were splashing like this (add your own vision of Matt flailing his arms) and then you disappeared and died."
"Well, okay. I promise I won't go into any puddles while I'm riding my motorcycle so that it can't happen again."
"Okay, mom."

And on it goes.

This was a morning hot tub conversation, and Emily sat quietly while we hashed it out. What was going through her mind? I have no idea. She didn't seem to think Matt was silly; she had a serious, pensive look on her face. It breaks my heart to think that she has had such dream but was too afraid to talk about it. (Doesn't telling things like that increase the possibility that they might happen?)

I knew a little girl like that once. I remember lying in bed shaking, afraid of dying, afraid of my parents dying, afraid of my dog dying. Why did everything have to die? If I could, I would take all of that fear away from my kids and carry it for them throughout their childhood. Then, when they were old enough, I would gently hand it back to them. It's tough enough to be a kid today...

Matt had another dream.

"That bad guy was here, pounding a hole in our roof."
"What bad guy?" I asked.
"You know, the one you told us about...the one who lives in another state and he killed a whole bunch of people."
"Another country," Emily corrected. "He lives in another country."
"Bin Laden," I said. They were referring to my convoluted explanation of what happened on 9/11 (both had too young to understand at the time...).
"Yeah, him. He was on the roof, and he pounded and pounded and the roof fell in and crushed dad, and dad died."

Sigh.

If there were no Bin Laden or the millions of other bad guys that rape and pillage and plunder and bomb and destroy our happiness, would we still have bad dreams? Sure. But I know this: I would much rather have my kids dream that I died by going up into a space ship than from a terrorist beating on my roof. Wouldn't you?

Learning the Basics

2008-10-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

In honor of Columbus Day, the kids studied Christopher Columbus and all of those details we sort of remember from grade school. Matt came home brimming with information:

"Christopher Columbus was an Indian who was here first and all of the other people came from him!"

Close enough.

Maui Built

2008-10-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

Little Mo was built in Maui. He has a little hat that says, "MAUI Built." That's a cool story to tell your kid....

"Well, son, you see your mom and I, we made you in Maui. What I mean to say is, well, um, that's where we were when, um, well. Let me think. Yeah, never mind."

Okay, maybe not your little kid, but your teenager....

"You know son, your mom and I were in Maui when you were conceived."
"WAAA? Ah, gross Dad. Don't ever talk to me again!"

Okay, so they might have to wait until the kid is an adult...

"You want to hear something funny, son?"
"Dad, if it's about your sex life, please spare me."

Well, Ryan and I think it's a great story, even if the kid will never appreciate it. We were on vacation with Mark and Jenny when, with a twinkle and a poof of fairy dust, the little guy came to be. It was a great vacation...lounging on beaches, diving and snorkeling, and jumping off of huge waterfalls. The baby was like a door prize or a jackpot on the airport slot machine. Super bonus package to take home.

Now, Mo is at the charming age of 7 months. The four of us got to spend the weekend with their new little family a couple of weeks ago. Babies are awesome, especially when they live at someone else's house. They are so curious, and even I can make them laugh. What irritates me about Mo though, is that he doesn't like me much. To add insult to injury, he DOES like Ryan. Now how is that possible? I am the baby lover, the coddling, bouncing, change-your-diaper, clean-your-puke one, while Ryan prefers to stare at a baby from afar, or, if necessary, give it a quick pat on the head.

Not Mo. We were babysitting while Mark and Jenny were out riding, and Mo woke up from his nap. I saved him, rescued him from his baby prison, bounced and coddled him...and he cried. Ryan said, "Give him to me," took Mo under his arm like a football, and off they went like two of the three musketeers. I still haven't lifted my jaw off of the floor.

But I know some day he'll come around. Or maybe not. Ryan and Mark will have him on a motorcycle as soon as he can walk...and then I've lost him for good.

A "Fair" Affair

2008-09-17T11:39:00.000-07:00

Everyone in Pomeroy seems to breathe a sigh of relief when the Garfield County Fair wraps up. I think most people really love it, but it's a big production for a small community. Pomeroy is the only town in Garfield County, so while a fair usually represents a gathering of various towns, this one is mostly a gathering of one community.

In a way, that's what makes our fair special. After living here for 8 years, I know many of the people. And when I go to the fair, I know almost everyone there. If I browse the exhibits, I see something from someone I know in every single area. And chances are if I don't know someone, I will meet them before the fair is over.

Example: my kids and I were finishing up our day at the fair with an elephant ear. The kids found a table (the big long tables are "community" tables; people sit together without knowing each other), and I pulled up a seat at the end. It didn't take long before we were having a chat with our fellow table-ettes, a group of women originally from the Seattle area. Their dad was in the nursing home out here, and they stopped to visit him and enjoy our fair before heading home. Before we left, they knew where we lived, what we did for fun, and what we had entered in the fair (my kids are SO friendly).

Another example: I was the superintendent of the craft department this year (it sounds like a much more important job than it really was, if truth be told), and at the end of the fair, I commented to one of the women who did crochet and knitting that I loved her work. I had met her briefly at last year's fair, and spent a little time getting to know her this year. (Her work was AMAZING; I can't imagine having the patience to create a pair of socks by hand; they were so beautiful that I can't fathom wearing them if you did!) Before the fair was over, she had blessed me with a beautiful piece of her work. I am in awe.

The kids' favorite part of the fair is not the exhibits, but the fun. In small town fashion, our fun consists of Chicken Scrambles (youngsters chase three horrified chickens around an area fenced with humans until the children are able to pounce and capture the chickens); the Straw Search (candy and money and prizes are mixed in with oodles of straw--the kids continue to dig long after the competition is over); the headless bull ride and the bungee jump. Between these festivities and the petting zoo, it's a wonder I ever get them to come home again.

Back to School

2008-09-03T19:38:00.000-07:00

Ah, that first day of school. Ted and I would pick out that perfect outfit (less important for him than me, surely) and pose for the photo. There was always a photo.

"Oh, gee Dad. Come on, hurry up! We're looking into the sun. We're going to miss the bus. Take it tomorrow. Take it later. Come on, come on, come on..." until eventually, he would release us to start our day.

Would I be a good parent if I didn't subject my kids to exactly the same yearly initiation? To be honest, I think they still love the first day pictures. They are hams--they have their picture taken so often, they know what I'm going to say before I say it. They get together (get closer--you love each other!) and show me the best toothless grins imaginable. And I, of course, snap away.

That's where the photos of my youth differ. When Dad was paying for film and developing on every picture, we usually only got one chance to look awesome. And so we didn't. Our eyes were closed, our hair was sticking up, our pants were unzipped. In a way though, it was better because he truly captured the moment. My kids are going to think they looked perfect all the time. "Gosh Mom, what was wrong with you?"

Rah, Rah, Sis, Boom, Bah!

2008-08-20T14:42:00.000-07:00

Meet my girls. They are my pride and joy and my biggest headache all wrapped into one. They please me, tease me, but most often test me. They are...my cheerleaders.

The first year I took this job, it was a real wake-up call. So THIS is what my teenaged-girl will act like? I looked at myself as a mother-in-training, getting ready for my own little girl to grow up. Expect the best, but prepare for the worst. I kind of live by that motto, come to think of it.

Now, in my third year, I'm over the honeymoon stage and riding the wave of football cheerleading. I enjoy the time I spend with the girls, and I have to admit I've learned a lot from them. I could probably win a trivia contest on teen lingo (especially if my competition didn't include parents of teens or anyone younger than 40). I've learned about high school fashions and re-learned about romance (I have been married for 15 years, after all). They have taught me dirty jokes, nasty songs, secret handshakes, makeup techniques and hair styling. I have learned to always be prepared (extra bobby pins, safety pins, tampons, spankies, socks, tissue--for the tears;there are always tears--and band-aids). They have taught me SO many ways to avoid working that I believe I have expert status now. They have taught me to see life through young eyes again. For that, I thank them.

So here's to a good season girls! We can be strong, united, and awesome!

You Should Be Dancin', Yeah!

2008-08-19T13:42:00.000-07:00

The saddest comment of my summer was when someone said to me, "Do you remember when the cute little ones were ours?"

We were at a dance recital watching our little angels, and the 3 and 4-year-olds were on stage. It really doesn't matter what they do; their cuteness steals the show. Dance? What dance? One of the little girls kept adjusting her dress so that at least one of her tiny nipples peaked out at all times. "It should be off your shoulders," her mom said. She was just following directions.

Another group dressed as bunnies and stomped/hopped their way around the stage. Those were the days.

My daughter was, as always, perfect. I didn't see her miss a step. My mommy radar couldn't take my eyes off of her. What a doll.

But she and her friends have certainly grown since that first year. They used to color as they waited in the dressing room. This time, they pretended to be "dead dolls" lying all over the floor, making all of the little girls nervous. Times, they are a changin'.

Mem'ries.... It's Pretty Dark in the Corners of My Mind

2008-08-15T16:41:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid, I got so irritated by all of the old folks who talked about the "good old days." What about NOW? Afterall, they had ME now. How good could it have been when I wasn't around, anyway?

Well, obviously I've grown up a little and finally come to realize the world doesn't revolve around me (now it's my kids who know the world revolves around them....pay backs, I realize). In fact, I've grown nostalgiac in recent years. I've even been known to talk about the "good old days" from time to time.

Memories, for me, are odd. Some people can remember places and times at any prompt..."Oh, yeah, in 1982 I was just finishing...." yeah, whatever. It's not like that for me. I remember a few names, and some places, but mostly my memory bank suffers from a lack of funds. I wish I could blame it on drugs or alcohol, but the truth is I think I just wasn't paying attention.

Sometimes a memory will come flying at me out of nowhere. It hits me up side the head: I remember something from my past with such clarity that I get a little flustered. This past weekend, we had a family reunion, and my aunt and I were talking about a trip we took when I was a kid. All of a sudden, I was 6 years old again, waking my aunt and stumbling through the dark to the outhouse to pee. The whole trip bubbled up to the surface, but only vaguely. But that one midnight event was as clear as if I were standing there.

I guess the whole reunion was like that: bam! whack! hiya! Three-second memories slapped me silly. Of course, my memory is so bad that now, a week later, I can only remember the one.

Cooking 101

2008-08-07T13:47:00.000-07:00

Today, in an unanticipated RAK (random act of kindness) Emily offered to make Easy Mac for her little brother. If there's one thing I've learned about sibling relationships, it's that mom definitely should not intrude in RAK's; it is too easy to disrupt the fragile dynamic at play during these rare occurances.

I felt like an adventurer on safari, and being careful not to spook, I watched from a distance. I saw Emily with the tools: bowl ("no, honey, that's not big enough"), measuring cup, microwave. She had it under control. I wouldn't have been a proper mom if I hadn't offered, "Don't touch the bowl when it's done--it will be super hot!"

I continued to make the grown-up lunch while the two of them moved to the microwave, and the light shown on their little faces as they watched the turntable go round. "Yummmm, it smells like popcorn!" Maybe that should have been my first hint, but I really wasn't paying attention: I had a good three and a half minutes until that microwave beeped and the potential for an argument began again. Then Em said, "Ewww, it's turning brown!" Uh oh. I flung the door open to find that Em had missed one key ingredient: the water.

"Did you read the package?"

"Yes. I got excited and forgot the water."

"Of course. Mac and cheese does that to me, too. Toss that in the garbage and try again."

And so, the second try was successful. Matt enjoyed his mac and cheese all the more because it was made by his older sister. And I have the memory...that and the smell that just will not leave my kitchen.

Waiting to Inhale

2008-08-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

I was in my early twenties when I first thought, "This must be what dying feels like. I'm going to die." I didn't die, obviously, and not only am I fine, but I walked away from the experience a mere 10 minutes later. Still, it was one of those moments that you never forget, no matter how hard you try.

I was a novice waterskier, skiing behind my dad's boat on a board wide enough to float a small cooler. And what I lacked in talent, I made up for in style...wrecking style, that is. I went down hard, right into the wake and expelled all of the air from my lungs with such brute force that they decided not to work for a staggering 1o seconds or so. It's a frightening thing, not being able to breathe. And like so many things in life (really, I need to make a list), it's one of those things that no one ever tells you until after it happens. ("Oh, yea (ha, ha), if you hit the wake like that, it can knock all the air clean out of your lungs. You'll be OK in a minute.") Gee, thanks.

Well, I did survive and however stupidly, continued to ski until it became not a hobby but more of an obsession. I have had many wrecks that make that first one pale in comparison. Of course, it's that first time that you never forget.

Ryan now has a brand new ACL (carved from his own hamstring) all because of our mutual obsession. While I haven't done quite that much damage, there have been times when I had to be hauled into the boat rather than climbing in under my own power. Today was one of those days.

Ryan calls it a "cingular" (think little orange guy with arms and legs spread wide) because when you have a great wreck, well, that's what you look like. I didn't think this one was a "cingular"; it was more like the back of my head and the back of my legs decided to have an emergency meeting. The result was me moaning and crying...first because I had no oxygen and couldn't convince my lungs that taking it in again was a good idea, and second because my back felt like it had been run through a pasta machine.

And here I sit. Still moaning and unwilling to do anything that makes me hurt (which is just about everything except type). I can't take a deep breath; I'm pretty sure there's some rib damage. So, what am I thinking?

I wonder how long it will take before my back feels good enough to ski again? I know, I know. I deserve it.

My Little Musician

2008-07-31T17:51:00.000-07:00

Matt wandered around the yard with his guitar today, casting meaningful looks in my direction. He was passionate about his music. Late this afternoon, he came up and told me what he'd been working on. The name of his song? "Emily, I Don't Make Your Life Miserable; You Do." He's so clever. And thoughtful.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

2008-07-31T16:46:00.000-07:00

When do birthdays stop being the most exciting thing on the planet? Matt, who has a birthday next month, can't wait to turn seven. He has a list of wishes three miles long, and he is sure he wants to go bowling (Bowling? Why bowling? My protests fall on deaf ears.)

I think I was still excited about my birthday in my twenties--the dark shadow of time hadn't engulfed my special day. Perhaps around thirty, I started to think birthdays weren't all they were cracked up to be. On my 29th birthday, a friend gave me a card that said something like, "say goodbye to your twenties!" She might as well have said, "Ha, ha, sucker, now you join those of us who dread our birthdays."

My mom, at 66 today, doesn't really seem too emotional about the whole thing. I guess it is what it is, right? Let's worry about the things we CAN control and celebrate the things we can't...like birthdays. So Happy Birthday, Mom! You are the best mommy in the whole wide world. I'm glad you are mine.

Summer Fun?

2008-07-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

For about six weeks each summer, our lives are controlled by swim team. The kids practice five days each week, and when they aren't practicing, we are spending long afternoons and evenings at meets. It's fun, but exhausting. The biggest benefit, of course, is that at 6 and 9, the kids are terrific swimmers. Either of them could beat me in a 25 meter butterfly race (I look like a drowning victim when I try it), and they are catching me in the others.

While I realize that even a good swimmer can be swept away, the kids' knowing how to swim well is a great piece of mind. We spend so much time on or near the water, that I would be a nervous wreck if I thought they couldn't fend for themselves at all. Besides, when they are old like me, they will have a form of recreation that doesn't make their bodies hurt everywhere.

It's easy to tell whose kids are in their first year of swim team. These parents are green. They are the ones at meets without umbrellas, blankets, coolers. Naively, they think they can relax with a bottle of sunscreen and a can of diet soda...

Not so. Even though the coaches have strict rules about kids running around, the air takes on a certain level of hysteria. Pomeroy has 54 swim team members, around 30 of which attend any one meet. These kids range in age from 5 to 18, and they are all starving from the minute we arrive until the time we leave. The sun is either hot enough to pan-fry vegetables, or strangely absent from a hazy sky. The kids are either whining because they are hot and not allowed in the pool (NO swim team member can get wet except when he/she is competing), or freezing because they are wet on a surprisingly cool July day. Sounds fun, huh?

Add to that tears of disappointment, everyday arguments between 6-year-olds, and spilled drinks and snacks, and you have a typical day at a swim meet. Still, we come back, send our kids out to the edge of the pool, and force them to work their way down doing whatever stroke is required. Why? I guess because some day we hope they will be better people for it....better swimmers of course, but also people who understand competition, people who do their best every time they step up to the line, people who understand team work and commitment, people who understand the value of exercise. Or maybe they will be people who resent their parents for taking away their summers. Either way, we have a meet today, and we are going.

Camp Food

2008-07-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

Someone should write a book on the relationship between food and camping. I think many families are like ours, with deep-seeded traditions linked to their camping experience. For example, I always buy Tostido's cheese dip for camping trips. It's expected. If we showed up at the camp site and my husband found out that there was no cheese dip, we might have to turn around and go home.

A long standing tradition in our family is that of pudgy pies and camping. Other people call them less-attractive names like sandwiches made with pie irons, but for us they will always be pudgy pies.

Our favorites are pizza pudgy pies. In fact, we rarely do any other style. Even the Wonder Bread tastes good when it's cooked in an iron over a camp fire. Add a little pizza sauce, cheese, pepperoni and olives, and you have a little bit of heaven at your camp site.

We also do hobo dinners, which I think encompasses any food folded up in aluminum foil and cooked over an open fire. On our last camping trip, I cooked them in the camper's oven because no one wanted to build the fire (which I realize is a sign of my generation's laziness and a "hallelujah" to my previous comments about camping today). Still, they were the best I've ever made. Hmmm. A new tradition?

Of course, like all other Americans, we toast marshmallows over an open fire. The new twist is this (and if you haven't tried it, you HAVE to, because, well, wowee): coconut-covered marshmallows. You can find them with the regular marshmallows in the baking isle. They don't puff up like regular marshmallows when you put them over the flames. Instead, they seem to carmelize on the outside, creating a crusty, coconutty shell with sugar inside. Divine.

Enough for now. I need to go eat.

The Graduate

2008-07-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

Even though I'm a little slow on this, I thought I should share some pictures of my recent graduate. He's so cute.

It's funny to watch the moms at kindergarten graduation. Those of us who are on our first child get weepy and sentimental, while those who have done it before sit with quiet resignation. But it still hurts inside. Just not as much.

Maybe we don't cry because we have suffered through enough half days, the mid-morning panic as we rush to pick up the child we nearly forgot. My mom tells a story about my brother in kindergarten. For some reason (and I'm sure it was a good one--she had me at home to take care of after all), she forgot to pick my brother up at kindergarten. He sat on the steps and waited until the last child left, and then after the teacher abandoned him as well (can you IMAGINE that happening today?), he started to hoof it. Realizing her error, my mom found him along the road on his trek home. He was not pleased.

So, I'm offering congratulations to my little graduate. I'm not sure he understands what's really in store (except for the "three recesses" thing), but I'm confident he will be successful. Good luck, little guy.

Deep Thoughts about Camping

2008-06-17T21:21:00.000-07:00

Ah, camping! It just isn't what it used to be.

We just returned from a weekend of roughing it... cooking on a gas stovetop, sleeping in a foam-topped bed, relaxing in a climate-controlled 29-foot camper with a grand slide-out. Our twenty-something selves would shake our heads in disgust.

In our early days, Ryan and I would have proud conversations about roughing it. We packed the necessary supplies into our boat and headed out to the mini-camps along Dworshak Reservoir. We shook our heads in disgust as we passed the motor homes and campers in the Freeman Creek Campground. That wasn't camping, that was pretending. Why not just stay home?

Ah, but we've become wise. The variable we never considered in our youth: kids. It's one thing to take care of yours-truly in a camping situation, but another situation entirely when you add multiple small, needy people to the mix. Multiply the work load of camping by 100 and add whining, and without modern conveniences, you have a recipe for disaster.

Such deep wisdom brings to me a new respect for my parents. We went camping--and I mean really camping--a lot . . . mom says we went every weekend in the summer. They must have been crazy.

We had a tent that defines the word "tent" for me. So unlike these new-fangled get-ups with "rooms" and "porches," ours was shaped like tents in children's drawings: a triangle with guy lines running off of each of the four corners. It was an ugly yellow color that must have been a little gray with age. And while it was sturdy, it had breakdowns. Nowadays, if you broke a pole or got a hole in your tent, you would run out and buy a new one ($30 at Big 5!), but not back then. I remember broken poles, torn seams, broken zippers... I remember the dread when one of those disasters happened: I just knew my dad was going to make us pack up everything and head for home. He never did. We somehow managed to cobble it together well enough for use on that trip.

And, of course, sleeping in a tent meant middle-of-the night calls from nature. I was too young to venture out alone (and my Dad told me a bear's favorite dish was a little girl in the middle of the night), so I always woke my Mom to take me out. We stumbled over my brother and Dad into the vast darkness and wilderness. And my Mom never complained or groaned or rolled over and ignored me. Thanks, Mom.

We even had a boat for venturing out on the lake, combing the beaches, waterskiing and soaking up sun. It was not much of a boat, but how much of a boat do you really need when you are happy?

It seemed normal to live with less back then, and I like to think I'm better for it. But does that mean we should give our kids less to make them better people? Should we suffer through the painful weekends with miserable whining kids, just to teach them a lesson? It's tempting to say yes...but I would also like to keep the harmony in my family. So for now, I'm sticking with the modern conveniences. Maybe Mom and Dad were stronger than me--or maybe each generation needs to grow differently.

On the Water

2008-06-08T18:17:00.000-07:00

We skied today...for the first time this year. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a painful day, waking up hibernating muscles. Still, it's worth it. The feeling of sliding across the water, finishing turn after turn as I work my way down the course, is like nothing else. I miss it in winter.

I learned to ski when I was a kid, but didn't really try to improve until after Ryan and I got married. We both became obsessed, and since that time 15 years ago, we have spent countless hours on the water. When we were young and childless, we typically started skiing in March. One spring, we went snowmobiling and waterskiing on the same weekend. We thought that was pretty cool.

Our first boat was a big yellow tub that we bought from my dad. I can't remember the name, but it was made by a company that built ocean liners, and while it wasn't an ocean boat, the wake was large for waterskiing. Still, when that's all you've got, and you're the only one with a boat, it feels good. Since then, we've had three different boats, each on an improvement on the last. We've settled on the Malibu as the boat of choice. It's all about the wake.

At first, we were just recreational skiers. Skiing was relatively new to both of us, but we both had the bug. In 1995, we went to Moose Country Waterski Camp, where we worked on conquering the slalom course. It was the beginning of a long journey.

Soon after, we decided to try a competition, and headed up to Long Lake to our first ever INT waterski competition. They set the course up in the launch area, and boats coming in and out of the marina made constant rollers in the course. It's a wonder we ever went back.

Slowly we became obsessed, I mean involved, with the INT, attending more competitions and getting to know the people. There are worse ways to spend a summer. In 1998, when I was pregnant with Emily, Ryan earned a trip to the national competition in waterskiing. It was a true highlight of our waterski career.

The following year, we joined the INT team, which means that we were the worker bees of the tournaments. We drove the boats, judged the skiers, and did all the set up and tear down of the equipment and signage. Being team members was not without its perks; we sometimes got to practice before anyone else, for free and more often than regular participants. The biggest perk, though, was in relationships. We made so many new friends, life-long friends, that are still so important to us today. Mark and Jenny, Little Mike and Big Mike, Kevin and Stephanie, Matt and Teresa, Kevin...people who we count among our dearest friends.

Maybe the best thing about waterskiing is that it's possible to be better as you get older. I did better last year than I have ever done before. In what other sport can you improve even as your body gives out? I love that. When I'm 60, I had better be awesome.

Back to My Roots

2008-05-29T08:58:00.000-07:00

Usually, our family stays home on Memorial Day weekend. The crowds and the weather (doesn't it always rain on Memorial Day weekend?) are reason enough to boycott the holiday, or better yet, to use it as it was intended and visit loved ones at the cemetary.

This year, though, my cousin called with an invitation to go to Christmas Hills to ride. It's a 2 thousand-acre piece of land dedicated to motorcycle tracks and trails. A true paradise. We hadn't been there before but decided to take a chance and venture out on this dreaded holiday.

We had a great time. What an amazing place! I estimated over one hundred campers and motorhomes were scattered over the rolling meadow, and even then, we had no neighbors except for those we had chosen. Out on the trails, we would come across other riders occationally, but I was surprised that at no time during the three days did the place ever seem crowded. The kids were in extacy. Even after three full days of riding and playing their guts out, they were sad to leave and insisted on our setting a date to return before we pulled away.

But to end here would leave out the most important part of the trip for me personally. The most important part of the trip was not the place or the riding, it was the people. We were invited by my cousin, but also joined by four of his brothers and sisters and several of their relatives. It was a true family affair.

I suppose it's pretty typical, but I haven't spent much time with these people from my past since I became an adult. Life has shifted and bumped us around a bit; we've ended up in different areas geographically, emotionally, personally. And yet, when I look at these people from my childhood, I see a raw piece of who I am. In some of them, I see myself (strong family genes, I guess), and in some I see my brother...or my brother as he would be now had he survived. It is surprising how years of your life can be stripped away. In one way, I felt like a lifetime had passed, and the world had changed completely. But in another way, and perhaps a more important way, I felt like everything was exactly the same; we were like children again, but with the perspective and appreciation that comes with being an adult. And it was good.

So thank you to my cousins for making this the best Memorial Day weekend I've had in a long time! I enjoyed the time I spent riding and playing, but more importantly, I enjoyed knowing them again. Sometimes we forget to miss each other, and there is value in missing, I think.

Disneyland Rocks!

2008-05-16T09:04:00.000-07:00

Our trip to Disneyland was so much fun! We had a four day adventure, with two days at Disneyland, one at California Adventures, and one at Universal Studios.

Em and Minnie Mouse (after the encounter: "ewwwh, she kissed me right on the cheek!").

Jedi training was a highlight of Matt's trip. Very cool. I plan to post a video of highlights.

The kids are in a cage made of human bones (okay, maybe not real human bones!) on Tom Sawyer's Island.

Grief Management

2008-05-02T10:19:00.000-07:00

The theme at our house this week was death. What surprised me was that I was most affected. I thought the kids would fall apart, but they are resiliant little bugs.

On Tuesday Matt and I came home to find a baby squirrel in the clutches of Fern, our dog. Amid much screaming and wresting, we managed to get the squirrel away from her. He was bleeding through the nose...it didn't look good. Still, we brought him inside and gave him some water and a blanket to lay on. He struggled all day. In the afternoon, I picked him up and looked into his eyes, and I could tell with near certainty that this was the end. I wonder how we know when a person or animal is going to die? It has happened to me before. I look into the eyes and see a lack. I think a lack of resolve to fight. It's that point when a person (or an animal) has had enough and surrenders. It breaks my heart.

Where is his mamma now? Does she know or care that her baby is gone? It seems a little silly to worry about a squirrel, but I can't help but think that she's somewhere right this moment, mourning the loss of her baby.

My cousin died last weekend, and mom and I headed to the funeral yesterday. This may seem like a ridiculous sentence, but funerals are not fun. In addition to reminding us that a loved one has died, they usually remind us of our own mortality. And how we are going to hell if we don't shape up soon. Call me crazy, but the last thing I need to hear when I'm feeling sad about losing someone is how I had better get my act together.

My cousin's mom passed away a few years ago, and at the funeral, I couldn't help but think that she was lucky not to have to sit with my uncle and mourn the loss of her only son. It was devastating to watch my uncle... he lost his wife, then his sister, and now his son in a matter of a few years. How is a person supposed to hold up to that? I wish there were a way to re-distribute grief, to take it from someone who has too much and to suffer for them so that life becomes more bearable.

If only life were that easy.

Oh, Boy...

2008-04-30T09:35:00.000-07:00

This morning, Matt said he wanted to make a pea shooter.

Em said, "What kind of pee? Pee like pee, or pea like food?" She was serious. I can only imagine the images that swim around inside these kids' heads.

Trees

2008-04-25T14:10:00.001-07:00

Behind our house, behind the barn was a pasture which decended steeply into a canyon. That canyon was my playground as a child. When I think about the places that define me, that canyon is always on my short list.

At the bottom of the pasture sat a pond--not useful to a child as it was neither clean enough nor deep enough to swim in. The pond was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence that this six-year-old girl was, of course, forbidden to cross.

The real treasure lay just below the pond in a stand of aspens sprinkled along the hillside. A path worn by cattle meandered through the trees, and I would linger there in summer just to listen to the trees as the wind softly shook the canopy. On one of the trees, a bold SIR was carved with purpose and dignity. On another, TSR, and another, JLR. Lower down the path, ARN, my friend from childhood. I would labor over my carvings, trying to make them perfect, give them style.

I visited the aspen stand again last year, 30 years after the carving and more than 20 since my brother died. I was looking for the initials. It was important, really important, that I find them. I'm not sure why. Validation? Proof that those times were more than just a memory? A permanent mark on the world?

I took my kids (big mistake), and after a series of crises (broken flip flop, knee-high thistles, barbed-wire fences), we made it to the aspens. The cow trails were gone. Amid much whining and distress, I combed the hillside for some sign of my past. Nothing. No wait...finally a sign, as magestic as the day he had carved it: S - I - R, 1974--my dad. I finally gave up on my search for the others. The kids were done, and frankly, the magic was lost in their shrill discomfort.

I'm planning another trip. I need to see those carvings, if for no other reason than to remind myself that I existed in that point in time. And it was good.

More Matthew-isms

2008-04-25T08:14:00.000-07:00

Ohhhh, Matt was full of it this morning! It makes me wonder what's really going on inside his head. When I think of a brain working, I see a series of cogs and wheels turning in unison; inside Matt's head I see birds flying in every direction, symphonies playing, and children laughing. The utter chaos and commotion makes for interesting mornings.

The kids are going to a special event with their grandma this weekend.

Matt said, "I'm going to do a candle line!"
"What's a candleline, little buddy?" I asked.
"You know. Da-ta-da-ta-DA-TA!"
"Ohhhh. That's a CONGA line."

And then... "I want you kids to get ready, lickity split, this morning," I said.
"Who's that?" he asked, "some man?"
That one took me a second or two.
"Oh, like Lemony Snicket?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "him."
I had to give him that one.

At breakfast:
"Mom, mom, the milk went down my throat and hurt my heart!"
I laughed and said, "Matt you are giving me a lot of Matthew-isms this morning."
He wasn't pleased. "Oh, yeah? Well, you are giving me Jillo-isms."
I'm not sure he got the gist of that conversation at all, but that kid has a comeback for everything.

Another One-Liner

2008-04-22T10:46:00.000-07:00

Matt gets 90 minutes of "Wii time" each day. That's plenty. He loses 15 minutes every time he gets in trouble. Most days he loses 15 minutes, and that's all. But this weekend, while we were traveling, he lost it all with a little lie. "No Wii time tomorrow" from Dad brought him to tears. Still, I think he got the lesson.

We were sitting in the hot tub for our morning ritual, and I said, "Well, Matt, if you play your cards right, it looks like you will get to play Wii today!"

Both Em and Matt turned to me and said in unison, "What cards?"

You're Gonna Miss This

2008-04-15T21:04:00.000-07:00

I made this slide show for Emily, and on my computer it plays to Trace Atkins' song, "You're Gonna Miss This." Apparently, adding the music to the slide show on my blog is beyond my technical capabilities at the moment, but I plan to keep trying. You just never know...

Sleepover Success

2008-04-01T20:53:00.001-07:00

We survived! Matt had his first sleepover last night, and miraculously, all of us are still here to talk about it. In fact, I've decided (based on the limited evidence at my disposal) that boys may be easier to manage at sleepovers. Who would have thought?

In all honesty, the little guy we had stay over is about as good as they get. I'm sure I could count the words he mumbled on two hands, and all of those were in response to direct prodding from me. Aside from peeing with the bathroom door open (as any six year old might), his manners were impeccable. And when it came to be bed time, they were snoring almost before I turned out the light.

The boys stayed with Ryan while I went to teach my class, and Emily planned to "babysit" while I was gone (because everyone knows that little boys need a female eye on them). When I got home, the boys were playing outside, and Emily was nowhere to be found. I hunted her down; she was up in her room playing alone.

"Uh, Em. What about those boys?"

"What about 'um?" (She's turned into quite the little sassy pants lately.)

"Where are they?"

"I don't know."

"Are you babysitting?"

"Ohhhhhhh. I forgot."

No babysitting license for her for a few years. Luckily, she had backup.

Yeah, OK, I Did It Again

2008-04-01T17:28:00.000-07:00

I really have a hard time tooting my own horn, but since one of the three words in the title of this blog is "write," I almost feel obligated to share my latest accomplishment. Drumroll, please. (Oh, come on. In your head, you can do it. Humor me.) My third book, The MLA Pocket Handbook, is finished and available at Amazon. All I can say is "whew." It's been a long road.

Such a work should be easy. In theory at least. Unfortuately, creating a comprehensive, readable, intuitive handbook on MLA documentation the size of your pocket is harder than it sounds. So many decisions, so many examples. Anyway, I'll quit whining and celebrate. I'm happy with it--I wish I had had it when I was in school.

The book has actually been finished for almost a month, and for a while Amazon was selling them at a pretty good clip. But as I'm learning, Amazon is such a mamoth company that sometimes the right arm bites off the left one and has to grow it back before it can start selling your books again. That has already happened to me with this book. Amazon says "out of stock" when we know they are in their warehouse. Can you imagine the size of that warehouse?

I'm sure it will sort itself out. In the meantime, take a look here.

On Turning 40

2008-03-27T14:15:00.000-07:00

When I was 15 years old, my dad spent two weeks walking around the house singing, "Life begins for me...I'm 40 Now." I thought he was weird. And old. Now, as I get comfortable in my early 40's and watch my friends hit that magic number, I realize he might not have been as ancient as I thought at the time. Perspective is a wonderful thing.

I'm not full of wise and wonderful sayings about dealing with turning forty. I don't have any advice. In fact, I'm not particularly good at it myself. Who likes getting older? But really, in the end, I don't know what difference it makes. People who love me are going to love me whether I'm 21 or 41, and people who hate me, well, I guess it gives them more ammunition.

Topping forty does change your perspective. When I go out in public, I worry more about having clean hands and teeth than whether or not I have makeup on (I don't really think it took me forty years to figure that one out, but almost.) I have finally realized that no tan in my 20's and 30's is worth what it does to my skin in my 40's. (Unfortunately, I realized that one a little late.) I don't see value in large breasts, excess makeup, high heels, or men who value these "attributes" in women. And in my 40's, I have realized that I do have control over what I do and when, who I see, how much I work and play, and everything else that makes my life my own.

My very, very special friend Gena celebrates that landmark birthday tomorrow, on March 28,

2008. I'm proud to say she is handling the occation with more grace and wisdom than I did. But of course, if I had had a best friend to go first, I'm sure it would have been easier for me. All joking aside, I love her and wish her the best birthday ever. Life is good. And better now that we know what's up. Watch out world, for women in their forties.

Matthew-isms

2008-03-17T18:19:00.000-07:00

Some things are just too good NOT to share...

This morning as we took our morning dip in the hot tub, Matt told me, "We have to wear green today, mom. . .you know, for Abraham Lincoln."

Matt is a big fan of Harry Potter. He has seen all of the movies, has the games for his PC and just got "The Order of the Phoenix" for Wii. He told me he "really wants to go to Hogsqueal" and meet "A-mile-y." (I think he means Hogsmead and Hermione, but I could be wrong).

And the latest... "Mom, what if the only word we could say was "Euwgh" (or "eewh" or "eeewwww").

Matt's First Short Film

2008-03-11T19:53:00.000-07:00

What can I say? He's a genius. Give him a camera and watch him work. I have no idea where he comes up with this stuff. (I like the gum; it's a nice touch.)

Perspective

2008-03-04T18:55:00.001-08:00

When I was in the third grade, I won the hoop shoot contest. It was truly a miracle. I shot "granny style" and managed to sink 10 of 20 shots. Not remarkable, but enough to send me to the shootout up the hill. I was thrilled. It was my basketball debut (and interestingly enough, my last real attempt at the sport).

The day of the shootout came, and my family piled into our '56 Ford--four across the front seat, ready for the world. Ready, that is, until we got half way up the hill, and our pickup ceased to function. My mom tells me it was a tire, but I swear I remember smoke billowing out from under the hood. The smoke makes it seem so much more dramatic, but I'm probably mixing memories...

We headed back to town and got the old rig fixed up, then headed out again. Needless to say, we arrived late. They were still shooting, but my group had finished, and I was informed that by no means would I be allowed to compete. Game over, as it were.

My heart was broken. I was devastated. I had missed the opportunity of a lifetime. When I think of it now, I realize I was probably saved from no small amount of humiliation. I doubt if I could have repeated my 10 for 20 record (which at this shootout, wouldn't have made me a contender), and I'm pretty sure several of the boys would have snickered when I pulled out the ol' granny shot. Still, at the time, it was the most important event of my life.

Monday evening, Emily had her own hoop shoot in the form of Missoula Children's Theater tryouts. And, you guessed it, she didn't get a part. I thought I understood how she felt--after all, I had forever lost a career as a star basketball player (I might mention that I'm 5'4" here for emphasis) because I missed the hoop shoot. She could have been the next Hannah Montana, or whatever her real name is. But no. Those college students couldn't see her talent.

I joke, but my heart goes out to my sweet little Em. She didn't go to tryouts on a whim: she's been planning on it since school started. She LOVES the productions and longs to be involved. She has done two so far, and last night she informed me that they are her "favorite thing about school." Ouch.

I think we all have our hoop shoots...missed opportunities that seem so grand, so life changing at the time. I know I had my share of disappointments, like any kid. What I wasn't prepared for is how painful her disappointments would be for me. It's like I'm standing there with tears in my eyes, pleading to do my granny shot all over again. Poor little Sis. How do I give her the perspective that only years can bring?

Wrestling with Motherhood

2008-03-03T14:50:00.001-08:00

My little baby boy is in "Little Guy" wrestling. It's awful. Practice is bad enough, but this past weekend, he had a tournament. Honestly, I'm surprised more moms don't break up the matches by chasing down the competition with their purses.

It's tough to see some smart- alec kid beat the snot out of the little guy you have worked to keep bruise-free. I don't have the heart for it.

The tournaments are frightening for me...I can only imagine what they feel like for a five or six year old. Eight matches take place simultaneously. The backboards shake from the roar of parents and coaches screaming instructions to their kids. The dads are the worst--you can tell they were wrestlers in school...or always wanted to be. Their deep voices echo and clash against each other as they fight to be heard. I swear, I SWEAR that last year I heard a woman scream "kill him!" to her kid who was wrestling. Are you kidding me? If she says that in public, I am afraid to know what she says at home.

Matt is not a fighter. I don't know if he knows that yet, but I suspect he does. He likes to win, but he doesn't really want to hurt the other kid. If they could settle the match without contact, I think he wouldn't mind. This is the same little boy that HAS to give his momma a kiss every morning before he runs off to the bus. Perhaps he's a late bloomer agressively, but I hope not.

Well, the end result was not too bad. Matt ended up with a medal, which made him truly happy. However, it did not make him happy enough to try and win another one. (Yippie! We are done with tournaments for one more year.) Good job, Matt. You're awesome.

I Love My Kids

2008-02-08T19:56:00.000-08:00

The wind has been blowing hard for three days straight here. Garbage cans, coolers, even the awning of the shop roof have all gone off to live in someone else's yard. When Matt and I came out of the store the other day, it was really gusting. And right in front of him was a tumbleweed flying by.

"MOM!" he said, "MooUUM!" (If you know him, you can hear that, I'm sure.) "We live in the OLD West." It was like a revelation. He went on to tell me about other places (specifically Texas and Alabama) where people live in the "OLD West." Apparently, living in a certain proximity to tumbleweed is the most important factor in determining OLD West status. He's got me looking for cowboys and saloons (how does he know that word?) everywhere we go now....

Emily has very sensitive skin, and a couple of days ago she got a rash all over her body from wearing clothes that still had sizing on them (she wore them without washing first--bad mom!) She was covered in little bumps that itched and made her crazy. One night before bed she piped up, "I should live in Missouri, because I am 'Misour'able!" She's gonna be famous, I just know it.

She's a Star!

2008-02-06T18:52:00.000-08:00

Mrs. G's third grade has a special weekly program called "The Star of the Week." Emily came home in early September so excited about it. "I want to be Star of the Week," she said. "Every week, Mrs. G. draws a name out of a hat. I hope it's me next week!"It couldn't come soon enough.

In keeping with our family's luck in lotteries and drawings, Emily's name was not drawn in September, or in November, or in December. She came to accept that she would be the last one drawn. Then miraculously she came home last Friday with the coveted blue bag. She would be The Star.

"So, were you the last one?" I couldn't help asking.
"Yeah, I think so," she said matter-of factly, as if she weren't surprised to be last. Poor child, she is definitely ours.

But enough whining. Star of the Week is awesome! She got to pack up half of the stuff in her room (you would not BELIEVE what she managed to stuff into that bag) and take it to school to explain and put on display. Mrs. G. said Em took over a half an hour to talk about her things, and finally Mrs. G. had to cut her off. At least Em isn't afraid to talk in front of a crowd. I can't imagine where she got that.

On Tuesday, she took a book and read a story to her classmates. Emily LOVES to read out loud (give that girl an audience and away she goes). She practices on Matt, making voices better than I can. Choosing the best book took a while, as you might imagine.

On Wednesday, I wrote a story about Emily that Mrs. G. read to the class. I thought it was fabulous, but I don't think Em really understood it. Ah, well.

On Thursday, we get to have lunch at school (grilled cheese, which Em informs me is yum-ME). Wish me luck!

I'll take a picture of Em with her treasures and post it here.... Stay tuned.

Frailty, thy name is...

2008-02-02T21:28:00.001-08:00

I suppose I am lucky that I have been this long without a computer meltdown. It was bound to happen. Inevitable, right?

Losing a computer feels a little missing a friend. I usually sit down to my computer without thinking about it, without a plan. Now, I sit down to my desk and wonder why I'm there. And why does it look so strange? Ah, the desktop is missing. It's away at the desktop doctor. So I stare at the worthless screen for a minute, then turn to my surrogate friend, the laptop. But it's just not the same. It feels like cheating.

And I've lost so much. My address book, my photos, my notes. Who knew twenty years ago that my life would revolve around a black box no bigger than our Tivo (who knew there would be Tivo????). Frailty, thy name is... technology! I like that better than Shakespeare's version, don't you?

Because I Said So

2008-01-18T15:25:00.000-08:00

You know how some words are so much fun to say that they almost taste good? As I mentioned before, Em's a big fan of "marmalade." I prefer marmalade's first cousin "marshmallow," along with "levitate" and "wheedle" (which might not be a real word, but it's part of my family's vocabulary...that's another post).

Well, when you have kids, some phrases are just as fun: "Let's go have ice cream," "You're staying at Grandma's all weekend," and "It's a beautiful day; go play outside" all come to mind. Others, though, are not quite as attractive. You know, the ones you have to say because you are a parent..."Stop hitting your sister," "Yes, you have to eat that," "How long can it possibly take to poop?" and, of course, "Because I said so."

Like 99 percent of the parents on the planet, I too, swore at my mom (sorry, Mom) under my breath when she would say those words. What a stupid thing to say, I thought. I will never say those words to my kid. Ever. Yeah, right.

I am most likely to say those words when I am asleep. Matt is always asking me "why?" in the middle of the night. (Seriously??? You want to know why NOW?) I have no patience for anything in the middle of the night (how did I ever get through the first year of motherhood? I have no idea), least of all explaining why. Our conversations go like this:

"Mom, I had a bad dream."
"Uhggg."
"Momma, momma. I had a bad dream."
"It's okay. Go back to bed."
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"My BAD dream."
"Go back to bed."
"But momma, I'm scared."
"It's okay. Now go."
"Can I sleep with you?"
"Absolutely not. Go."
"Why, Mom?"
"Go."
"But momma, why?"
"Because I said so."
And he's gone.

Now, you might think I'm a horrible person because I'm not more loving at 3 a.m., but in my defense, this does happen on a regular basis, and this is a tearless conversation (how scared could he be, right?). Also, my husband is lying next to me with ear plugs in JUST SO he can't hear the conversation. Compared to him, I'm a saint...right?

I'm trying to think of a replacement phrase, something I can say instead of "because I said so." Somehow, "If you keep doing that, your face will stick that way" just doesn't seem as satisfying. Or as effective.

Do You Believe?

2008-01-15T17:04:00.001-08:00

I'm just now getting around to reflecting on the Christmas season.. so if you are DONE with Christmas (and so many people are right now), feel free to put off reading this until next November.

I always have mixed emotions around Christmas. On one hand, I am giddy. Some days I feel like I'm ten years old again...I anticipate the giving and receiving of gifts, the Hallmark moments with loved ones, and the food, ah the glorious food, that everyone (but me) is so good at preparing. On the other hand, I don't always feel the love. The Hallmark moments can turn in to "All in the Family" moments in a flash; the gifts bring refrains of "what WAS she thinking?" and the food, well, we all know what happens because of the food.

The one constant for the past eight years has been the wonder and the glory of the big man himself. While maybe I should be talking about Jesus, I'm not. I'm talking about Santa Claus.

Santa Claus has changed my husband's and my life. Pre-2000 Christmases were, of course, B.S. (Before Santa). The two of us went through the motions, but the pained look on my husband's face as we visited family always told me that he was coping and little else. B.S. Christmases were, well, B.S.

Then came Emily. On her first Christmas (she was nine months old), we bought her a Red Rider wagon and sat on the couch drinking coffee and wishing her awake. When she finally woke up, we showered her with gifts and, like every other nine month old, she played with the paper and boxes. But it was the beginning of the magic.

Fast forward through another baby (poor Matt, he always gets the short version of the story) and 8 years into the future. This past Christmas, Emily was eight years and 9 months old, and Ryan and I dared to speak the fear that was in our hearts... Will this be THE year?

We waited for the inevitable. We were poised with the words, "Don't ruin it for your brother!" As Christmas approached, I thought maybe we were losing her. She wouldn't sit on Santa's lap. She wouldn't write a letter to northpole.com. (Santa's high-tech, right?) And then, four days before Christmas, we received a call.

Our savior (in the form of our fabulous, second-to-none, small-town mailman) called and offered to visit our house dressed as Santa. He just happened to show up the Sunday before Christmas while both sides of the family were visiting. Even though he drove up in his Ford Taurus, Em bought it, chips, dip and all. She had that look of wonder on her face that made me feel all fuzzy. He brought them a gift, sat and talked for a while, then went on his way. It was probably the best moment of my 2007.

And so Christmas 2007 was saved. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.... Santa showed up, ate the cookies, fed the carrots to his reindeer, and left the presents, just like we knew he would. The kids woke up bright and early to find everything they ever wanted (or as Matt likes to say "just what I ever wanted") waiting for them. It was glorious.

The grey cloud above all of this, I'm sure you realize, is Christmas 2008 or ...the inevitable. How long will the magic last? And without it, will Christmas go back to being just B.S.? Maybe it will be P.S...post Santa, like an afterthought in the memory that will be our kids' childhood. Whatever it is, or whenever it is, I'd like to put it off as long as I possibly can.

Resolutions

2008-01-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

Ah, January. The month for resolutions, new beginnings, do-overs. Yeah, right. The cynic in me believes that resolutions are just another advertising ploy...
"Get organized!" (Translation: buy storage containers--which do not, by the way, organize for you the junk you can't throw away. I've tried that. Now I have junk I can't throw away sitting next to empty boxes in my basement.)
"Lose weight!" (Translation: join gyms! Buy exercise equipment! Buy special diet food with no calories or taste! Buy new running shoes! I have to admit, I buy into this resolution from time to time. I teach fitness classes and like to encourage people to improve their health. But resolutions about weight loss and dieting usually set people up to fail. In the end, overall health is about lifestyle changes.)
"Help others!" (Translation: Give money so that you can feel better about the triple, half-caf, non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte you spend $5 for daily. But the bottom line is I can't even help myself.)

So...in spite of all my cynicism, I have a resolution. I resolve to post to my blog three times each week. Will I be able to keep it? Well, the way I figure, no one is making money off of my success or failure, so my cynical side is at peace. If I am able, the question becomes "will anyone read it?"

2007-12-20T17:25:00.000-08:00

Well, my video is right when I upload it, but when it comes up here it's sideways. I guess we'll all just have to turn our heads to the right to enjoy Emily's beautiful songs. Now... name that tune!

Oh, Brother

2007-12-13T16:49:00.000-08:00

As I get older, I have more and more trouble processing the duplicity of time. On one hand, it seems like Emily was born just yesterday; on the other, it seems like she has been around forever. I can't articulate a life before she was here.

It's that duplicity that bothers me when I think about my brother. He died 20 years ago this fall, and I remember it like it was yesterday. His presence is etched into me. At the same time, it hurts when I think about everything he's missed. Of course, he didn't get to see his two beautiful children grow up into well-rounded, responsible adults. He didn't see the Berlin Wall come down. He wasn't here to share the grief involved in 9/11.

Strangely, it's the little things that bother me most. He would have LOVED the new Mustang. He never listened to a CD or owned a cell phone or a computer. He never got to ski on the new D3 waterski, which is the bomb. He missed Tivo! He would have LOVED Tivo. He missed the UFC. He never had an awesome snowmobile.

He never met my husband, which is hard for me because I think they would have been kindred spirits. They missed snowmobiling trips together, waterskiing tournaments, dirt bike weekends.

He never traveled overseas, vacationed in Hawaii. He never got to go scuba diving, which I know he would have enjoyed. He never jumped out of an airplane.

But he didn't miss everything. He married his high school sweetheart and stayed married until the day he died. He had two kids that, despite losing their father at 2 and 6 months, have turned into amazing young adults. He bought a house, worked a job he liked (I think), and spent time with friends and family.

He fought a battle that no one deserves to fight. He suffered through radiation treatments that forced him to lose his hair and his strength. He wore a tuxedo with a mohawk to my cousin's wedding, because the radiation had taken his hair.

So important to me now is the fact that both in life and in death, he changed who I am. He taught me the life lessons everyone learns growing up with a sibling. And he taught me to value what I have now, because you just never know when it can all be ripped away from you.

I miss him every day. And I wouldn't have it any other way. It helps me remember who I am. And why.

A Dinka Klinka

2007-12-12T08:56:00.000-08:00

Some childhood memories sit at the edge of your consciousness, just waiting to be discovered. That happened to me yesterday evening. A simple song in the background of a TV program sent me reeling into the past. A good memory.

My dad was a passionate singer. We had one of those huge old stereos, the kind that took up half of the living room, with two big orange (or avacado green) panels on either side where the music escaped. Dad loved to sing along with the radio. He sang with such passion and commitment. He sang loud and deep; in my eyes, he was the best singer, ever.

One of the songs I remember best was "The Love of the Common People." It was the Waylon Jennings version (we listened to country music, of course). Hear a sample of it here.

I sang along, but my little ears never got it quite right: "Daddy's gonna buy you a dinka klinka, Momma's gonna love you just as much as she caaaaaan....and she caaaan." I don't remember if I ever asked what a dinka klinka was, or if I thought to ask. All I knew that it must be pretty cool if dad was gonna buy it for you, and by golly, I wanted one. I think I might have even asked for one for Christmas.

Here's my favorite part of the song:

But the closer the knit,

The tighter the fit,

And the chills stay away

--Just take 'em in stride for family pride.

You know that faith is your foundation
With a whole lotta love and a warm conversation,

But don't forget to pray.

Just making it strong where you belong.

And we're living in the love of the common people,

Smile's from the heart of a family man.

Daddy's gonna buy you a dream to cling to;

Mama's gonna love you just as much as she can.

And she can.

Thanks for the memory, dad. I love you.

2007-12-11T09:55:00.000-08:00

"Mar-ma-lade," Emily said to me. "What is mar-ma-lade?" I've never been a big fan of marmalade, so I give her what I consider to be a textbook definition: "It's a jam made with oranges and stuff, kind of tangy. Grandma likes it." "Hmmm." She's quiet for a good two minutes, maybe more. Typical Emily. I think we are moving on.

Softly, she says, "It sounds so good." I lift an eyebrow. If anything, I thought I had not done marmalade justice. In truth, the world must be filled with people who love marmalade.

"Marrr-maaaa-lade. It sounds good." Ah, of course. It SOUNDS good...like marshmallow and lemonade.

And later, "I wonder if it's named after a person: Mr. Marmalade?" Do you need to know? I did. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmalade

2007-12-10T14:36:00.000-08:00

The other day, my baby lost his last front tooth. Life is officially over. I can't imagine how I'll feel when he graduates or worse yet (gasp) gets married. One of my favorite TV lines comes from Monica on "Friends" when she says to her new baby: "I'm gonna love you so much no woman will ever be good enough for you!" I hope I'm not quite that psychotic, but I do love him an aweful lot. Anyway, I digress.

So I was putting him to bed with his tooth in its box under his head, and my six year old said, "Mom, what if YOU were the tooth fairy?" My heart dropped. How could my six-year-old be so grown up? How could he know about the tooth fairy? My eight year old daughter still believes, for goodness sake. I said, "What if I were?" (Being an English teacher, I see it as my civic and parenting duty to use correct grammar at all times, so yes, I really did say "were"). And he said...wait for it...

"You would get so TIRED flying all over the world picking up teeth and giving kids money every single night!" God, I love that kid.

The APA Pocket Handbook

2007-12-10T14:24:00.000-08:00

Ah, the pain! My APA Pocket Handbook has been for sale on Amazon for about four months now, and I just got a one-star review! It cuts, let me tell you. All of those five star reviews are no salve for the burning I feel.

I usually consider myself good at taking criticism (especially when it's positive :0), but when it's directly connected to my livelihood, well, you can see how that would make it more difficult.

The Handbook has actually done pretty well so far (though it may not, after this), and the response has been positive. Personally, I think it would be helpful for my own Research Writing students, which is why I wrote it in the first place....

It turns out life is not all fairy tales and ice cream sundaes. Mom, how could you?

Check it out for yourself at: http://www.amazon.com/APA-Pocket-Handbook-Format-Documentation/dp/1933878134/ref=pd_bbs_sr_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1197326021&sr=8-3

2007-11-07T18:07:00.000-08:00

September Snow

This is a non-fiction essay I wrote after a trip into Burgdorf, a primitive resort outside of McCall, Idaho:

Just as we catch sight of Burgdorf Hot Springs, a few drops of snow hit the windshield. Ryan perks and glances at me to make sure I’ve noticed. I smile, and that’s enough. As we round the corner and head through the gate, I read the sign again, “Open 10 a.m. to dusk.” Just below these words, written in Magic Marker, “10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Sundays.” We suspect they close early to take naked baths in the pool, but don’t begrudge them the two hours of relaxation each week.

This time, we are camped up the hill, away from the pool and the store. That means a hike, as motorized vehicles are not allowed on the trails to the upper cabins. It’s worth it. When the town is full, this distance from the parking lot provides more respite. Our cabin is called “Broken Wing.” It is small: just one bed, a table, and a stove. The front window is butted by a counter. The construction is functional and fun. We can stand at the window, cooking meals on our single burner stove, and see the whole town.

We get busy, loading our gear into the cart. This one is dilapidated, the sides flopping out dangerously, as if the whole load might explode at any minute. But it doesn’t. We head up the hill, pulling together. “Quit pulling so hard,” Ryan says, “I’m not doing anything.” I ease up. I guess I’m just excited to hurry up and relax.

We’ve done this before…once, twice, a dozen times. Probably closer to two dozen times by now. The routine of arriving, of preparing for our stay, is comfortable. We don’t talk much. We both know what needs to be done, and we each start on a task. We don’t have expected roles as many couples might. Ryan starts working on the fire. It’s chilly here. I kick away the boulder that is holding the door open and move to create the bed out of sleeping bags and pillows. When I’m finished, the fire is burning and Ryan has moved on to another chore. These four walls are becoming ours again.

The cabin warms slowly. The stove is small, and it takes time to heat the log walls. Even so, we know that tomorrow we will probably need to use the boulder to block open the door—the logs retain heat well. Ryan has his indoor/outdoor thermostat: 38 degrees outside, 52 inside. It’s warming up.

Outside, the snow continues to fall without commitment. Nature cant’ seem to decide if she wants to make our world white or not. We brought our dirt bikes this weekend, but I wouldn’t be disappointed if the snow turned the ground white. I know snow can’t last in September.

Finally, we relax. We want to take a dip in the pool, but we can hear the screams of small children and a general ruckus in that direction. So we decide to wait. We brought our children two weeks ago; this time, we came for us. It’s nice to go someplace you love, and even better if there isn’t much to do once you get there. I have a difficult time sitting still when I know there is work to be done, but at Burgdorf, I don’t have laundry or dishes or my job. Once the gear is settled and the fire is roaring, it’s all about us.

We do take a dip in the pool after dark. Only guests who are spending the night are allowed in the pool after the sun goes down, and children are expressly forbidden. On this night, the snow is still falling softly, but the clouds seem to open as we move around the pool, and for a brief time, the stars come out to join us. As we bundle up and head for the cabin, the night closes in again and the snow starts in earnest. “The ground will be white in the morning,” Ryan says. And that will be okay.

Unfortunately, I am awoken the next morning by the alarm clock in my head, the one that won’t ever let me sleep past seven. The sky is bright, and I rise to one arm to look out the window above our heads. At least an inch of snow covers the ground and flakes fall from the sky as though a million tiny fairies are racing to earth. I smile from the inside out and look over at Ryan. His eyes are open, but he looks at me doubtfully. “You’re gonna love this,” I say. He looks to where I’m pointing, and sure enough, a grin covers his face. Witnessing that early snowfall, when snow doesn’t really belong in this place, is almost like a gift, a special privilege. We don’t say this to each other, but we feel it. We don’t complain about the cold or the day’s ride that may not happen. In this moment, it is enough to be here, in this place, with the snow thickening the sky outside.

We read books and magazines and eat four meals instead of three…because we can. The warmth of the cabin makes me feel a little fuzzy, and I move from chair to bed and back again only for a change of scenery, as the view from each of these places is out a different window. Finally, after lunch, Ryan decides to brave the weather and take a turn on his motorcycle. He will head up to Jeanette Creek. It’s a short ride, and while steep, he should be able to get there and back before the weather gets the best of him. I don’t volunteer to go along, of course; my riding skills won’t get me through the muck and snow that covers the single-track trails. I tell him to have fun (which is code for “be careful”), then turn to a package of peanut butter chip cookies. Ahhh.

I’ve only eaten two cookies when the solitude gets the best of me. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t get at least some exercise today. The snow is falling at a steady pace, but the sweatshirt I brought has a hood, so I decide to venture out in a light layer and my tennis shoes. As I begin to walk toward the store, I resolve to buy myself a new pair of hiking books when I get home.

But the walk to the store is painless—and downhill—so I decide to continue on. The Jeanette Creek campground is just outside the gates of Burgdorf; I take a right into the campground and head up the loop. At first I think the campground might be completely empty, but halfway up I see I was definitely mistaken. In the middle of this remote mountain campground stands a makeshift house, complete with a stack of wood for a stove. It’s a hunting camp, and it will stand in this campground for the rest of the month, and probably into the next. The hunters will spend mornings out scouting for deer and elk, and afternoons cozy in their home away from home. Chances are, on a day like this, they might venture over to Burgdorf for a dip in the pool. I don’t see anyone and move on up the road.

At the end of my climb—it’s a gradual climb, but it is uphill—I see the Jeanette Creek trailhead sign. I have ridden up this trail with Ryan in better weather, and I remember that it wasn’t an easy trail, but I might be able to walk up it a ways. I know that water covers the trail early in the ride and I probably won’t be able to get across. Still, I would like to walk a little farther, and it will be nice to get into the woods. My hood is tied tight around my chin, and I’m sure the teenaged me would be aghast at how ridiculous I look right now. Still, I’m alone with no one to impress but the squirrels. I forge ahead.

The trail is narrow: single track trails are only about eight inches wide in places, and some of them, many of them, the ones I remember best, slice through the side of a mountain, straight up on one side, straight down on the other. I like this trail because it is surrounded by trees and underbrush, and even though it does cut through hillsides in places, it doesn’t seem so dangerous. Of course, that just might be because both of my feet are on the ground today.

I have mixed feelings about autumn, about winter. The cooler air is refreshing after the dense fog of heat that has surrounded us this summer. Still, to me it feels like I am always relinquishing something, letting go of loves, like my garden, my yard...and of moments: splashing with the kids in the pool or sitting in the dusk relaxing on the swing. These times I will miss, I will wait for again.

But right now, I’m not missing warmer weather. I’m taken in by the forest, by the snow as it falls through the trees. The ground is white, though the air is warming, and I can see that the snow is melting under my feet. Squelch. My sneakers sink into the snow and mud that lies underneath; the ground holds onto my foot for a split second, then I pull free and take another step. I feel transfixed by the weather, by the surreal quality to this day, and wish for it to last. When I move into the canopy of trees, the snow begins to crunch under my feet, and I realize that here, where the sun cannot reach, the snow has a chance to stay.

I hear a thump up ahead, and I stop where I am, muscles tensed and waiting. This is hunting season, and I don’t want to be the casualty of an over-zealous hunter. Still, the signs of foot traffic on the trail are obvious. I see one set of boot tracks heading up the hill, one set coming down, and Ryan’s single tire track. The hunter has come back, Ryan has not.

I wait. I consider the possibility that an animal waits ahead, a big one. But then, I’m confronted by my mother’s words, and my eight-year-old self realizes that any wild animal in these woods would be more afraid of me than I would be of it. Again, the noise. I look ahead and see a large puddle in the middle of the trail. The puddle runs up to the root of a large pine, and falling from its branches, fifteen feet up: large clumps of snow. My scary monster, my monolithic stranger, my man with a gun, becomes something as simple as a snowball falling from a tree. I try not to see this as a philosophical message on my state of mind. But now, as I walk, I can’t help wondering about the larger issues of life, of nature, of being here in the forest, in this world, right now.

Suddenly, I begin to worry about Ryan. This snow is dangerous, treacherous even. He is an experienced rider; I know this. But he is alone. I worry that I may come upon him on the trail, pinned beneath his bike. The worry turns into a slight panic, and before long, I’m seeing him around each turn as I move up the trail. I quicken my step, and my heart speeds up accordingly. The worst part is that I know he probably won’t return this way and ease my mind. This part of the trail is the most difficult, and if he’s tired, he might ride the last little jaunt down the road, missing me entirely.

But just as suddenly as my panic began, I hear the low growl of a four-stroke dirt bike, and I have no doubt of who or what is headed toward me. I move off of the narrow trail and squat on my haunches to wait.

It doesn’t take long. Even through the helmet and the goggles, I can see the surprised expression on Ryan’s face. “What are you doing up here in those shoes?” practical to the end. We laugh and he offers to take me back down the hill. “Finish your hike up to the road. I’ll pick you up.” He continues down the trail, looking for a place to turn around.

I’m only about 100 yards from the point where the dirt road intersects with the trail, so I begin to jog, double time now, filled with the energy that comes with relief. How silly I am. He picks me up, and the bike hiccups down the dirt road, through the snow and slush.

Alas, the snow is gone the next day. But I realize that beautiful things—good things like that September snow—can last, can persevere, can survive even when we are sure they won’t. And as we ride toward Loon Lake the next day, I find myself weaving in and out of the canopy of trees. Under those canopies that dot our trek is the snow and the memory of the day before.

2007-11-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

The College Guide to Essay Writing

This is the first book I published (2006). I wrote this book for college freshmen, mainly because I get so frustrated with the high prices of textbooks. I use it in my English 101 classes, and students seem to find it helpful. I wish I had had it when I was a freshman...

If you would like to see the inside, search "college essay writing" or "Jill Rossiter" in Amazon.

Halloween Fun

2007-11-01T17:14:00.000-07:00

We had a great Halloween this year. Pomeroy is a trick-or-treater's dream. Several families invite kids into their homes for tours, treats and more. Two places handed out hot chocolate and cider. The streets are crowded with kids and parents, and we knew practically everyone we passed. Emily was a car hop, while Matt was Harry Potter.

Humble Beginnings

2007-10-02T19:26:00.000-07:00

Humble beginnings...

The farm where I grew up. I never realized how humble it was until I went back later in life. As a kid, I thought it was fine...a little small when I was fighting with my brother, no shower (just a tub), but otherwise, nice enough.

The house was an original homestead. In layman's terms, that means no water and you pee in an outhouse. Luckily, by the time we moved there, it was fully plumbed with a kitchen sink and a fully-functioning bathroom. Still, our water supply was limited. My dad, always the inventor, set up a light bulb above the door of the cellar. When the light turned on, that meant the pump was running; no one could run water or, God forbid, flush the toilet during that three minute hiatus. I still remember the dread shooting through me when I flushed without checking for the light. Hell to pay, as they say.

These are actually recent pictures. A raised pig pen flanked the barn on the right side when I was a child. An incredible garden ran down the left side, from the junk shed to the house. The whole setting looks calm, almost serene here..and I remember it as anything but. It was busy with children and dogs, old cars (dad was always working on old cars--still is), a rabbit hutch, and a small wire pen for the latest crop of geese or ducklings. My mom was (still is) a flower gardener, and all of that has been lost with time and negligence.

To me, home is what is left when you peel back the layers. This place is my core.

2007-09-29T14:21:00.001-07:00

I'm a multi-tasker by nature, so this blog will be multi-purpose...

As a mom, I need to show the world (or at least my immediate family) that my children are nearly divine, so I'll post pictures and trivialities about their day-to-day activities, landmark birthdays, lost teeth, and other show stoppers.

As a teacher, I will help others when necessary, as long as it has to do with writing, because I don't know much about other stuff.

And, as a writer, I will try to post something...but obviously, it's last on my life priority list, so I will do my best.