Just Keep Running

This morning I walked into the 40-degree weather wearing running shorts and a jacket. When I got from the back door to the alley, I started to run. I kept running until I felt sure I could come home and love my kids. That was it. My goal that I kept repeating in my head: Run until you love your kids.
I went to bed angry last night. I had yelled at the kids and smacked my hand against the black granite countertop. I don't yell often, so when I do the kids get a kind of stunned look on their faces.
I guess it was building up and I don't think it has anything to do with the fact that I received a couple of "Happy Mother's Day" comments from the kids, one about 5 p.m. when the 13-year-old called from a friend's house after he remembered it was mother's day, and a very sweet card from my husband. I have long since abandoned Mother's Day as a holiday.
But on Monday, after I came home from working and had a headache behind my eyes, I drove my middle child to tennis and sat in the sun reading a book and waiting to watch him play. He hasn't played tennis before so he had about one good shot for every 25 bad ones, but everybody starts somewhere. He was, of course, mad at himself about his awkward tennis abilities and when I dropped him to pick up the youngest, he apologized. "Sorry."
Sorry? About tennis? Come on. That's not important.
The 13-year-old climbed in the car with his guitar and I dropped him at his lesson. I ran home, defrosted the hamburgers and threw them on the grill.

My daughter, her bedroom door closed with music escaping beneath, was supposed to be going to work out with her personal trainer. This is her first month working with a personal trainer and it's kind of an experiment to see if she can build up enough muscle to swim with a division 1 college when she graduates next year. And, for our family, it's a pretty big financial commitment. I don't want to throw that in her face, but I do expect her to take it seriously.
So, when she was still in her room at 6:21 and she needed to be working out at the gym at 6:30, I nudged her along. "Why can't you get there on time? You're supposed to stretch before you start working out."
"I got this," she assured me.
When I returned with the 13-year-old, who was pestering me to sign his volunteer-hour sheet because he hadn't gotten it signed when he worked at the YMCA, I served dinner to the boys. The 13-year-old is just sullen and complaining most of the time. He answers me in grunts unless he is arguing to get his way with something.
The 15-year-old was reading. I know that's a good thing, but he had homework. He finally started it and took breaks to watch Dancing With the Stars before I realized, at 9 p.m. that he was filling out his government review sheet, which meant he had a test today. He wasn't anywhere near ready to study for the test. My daughter was working on a paper that was due today and had probably spent the afternoon on Facebook rather than working on it.
"Why are you so mad?" My son asked innocently. That's when I slapped the counter and said I was tired of him doing his school work "half-assed."
"You wanted to go to school. You're responsible for getting the work done and getting good grades."
His interim report this quarter was the lowest it has ever been with a C in one class. If he's trying, that's one thing, but if he's reading and playing video games and gets started on his homework at 9, that's another.
Then I turned on my daughter. "And it's ridiculous to think you can go to workouts late every week and then convince us to pay for swim camp."
I finished unloading the dishwasher in silence and cleared off the table where my daughter had eaten after she got home. I got ready for bed and closed the door behind me. No good night to the boys or Grace. No kiss on the cheek with an "I love you."
I know they aren't doing drugs or having sex or stealing from the local drugstore. They're basically good kids, just not stepping up to the plate without constant nagging.
When Grace printed out her paper, she came in and kissed me goodnight. And that was it.
Until this morning when I woke up, did my usual debate about whether to go for a run. That same headache was pulsing behind my eyes. I wondered if it could be high blood pressure. Maybe I'd run out onto the street and collapse. But I put on my shoes and plugged in my iPod and started to run. That's when the idea hit me, just keep running, until you can go home and love your kids again.

Prom Expenses

I saw a cartoon in the newspaper this morning that had a woman peering in a baby carriage then asking the parents if they've started saving for her prom yet. It reminded me how fortunate I am that I have a daughter who seems to have been born with a budget planner in her head.
Her prom was last week and the $80 dress was the biggest expense. It was on sale 25 percent off.
The boutonniere for her date was $12 from the local florist.
The night before the prom she and her girlfriends got together and soaked their feet in the tub, giving each other pedicures and manicures.
We splurged on an updo -- first time she's ever done that, but again that wasn't unreasonable at $45 from the girl who usually cuts her hair.

What are you guys going to do about dinner? I had asked, fearing an expensive restaurant.
"We're having a pot luck at Angela's," she told me.
"What about cars?" Again I pictured rented limousines.
"Oh, I think Robert, Kyle and Rosa are all driving."
So that was it.
A dress, a flower and a boutonniere. She came home an exhausted girl who had scattered glitter everywhere. But I thought she looked beautiful.

Spring Musings

This morning when I got up, I had a Weatherbug alert. Weatherbug is a tiny lady bug that sits at the bottom right of my screen and tells me the temperature all day, unless there's a weather alert. Then she chirps and flits her wings. Last week I was working at the computer when a tornado warning kicked in. The chirp nearly made me jump out of my chair.
This morning's warning was a fog alert until 9 a.m.
Perfect, I thought. I won't be able to run this morning. I'm not sure why I didn't want to run, but apparently I was looking for an excuse. I put in some laundry and read some blogs then walked to the front door for the newspaper and this is what I saw.
I'm not sure if you can tell how eerie, yet welcoming the fog seemed from my front porch. But here's a picture of my normal front porch view to compare with the downtown skyline in the background.

So I got dressed, snapped my iPod onto my shorts and went into the fog. This was my fourth run this week, if you count Sunday when I showed up 45 minutes late to meet my friends.
The fog added some mystery to my normal run. I saw a truck with its fog lights on and thought I should wake up Earl so he could try the fog lights on our new car. But I could see and be seen fairly well, just not the end of the road. Who knew what would be there.
And after my run and ushering the kids out the door to get to school, I took some pictures of what is blooming in mid-Ohio.

I thought the tulips were nearly finished, but this one is closed up tight. Do they do that every night? Love the gorgeous striping.

These gorgeous irises weren't open on Saturday when I was looking for a scenic background for prom photos. They come originally from my Mom and Dad's blueberry farm in Kentucky. They've traveled with us to each move from Michigan to three houses in Columbus.
And speaking of blueberries, Earl planted two bushes this year and had to sprinkle some soil fixer because our soil is too much like clay and lacks acid.

Sure they're small, but they look much better than the raspberry brambles.

How can this stick make delicious raspberries?
A special thanks to Ken for informing me how to add multiple pictures to my blog post. Next thing you know, I'll be able to put borders around the photos and add background colors. Here's Ken's blog: http://www.ckenb.blogspot.com/

Epiphany

I had this epiphany last week and it's been rumbling around in my brain. I've told it to a few friends and they usually laugh at me, but, here it is:
In order to be a writer, I need to actually write.
Seems obvious doesn't it, but I seem to spend very little time writing,either working on my current novel or revising the previous one or sending letters to agents. Am I finished? I've written two novels. Neither have been published yet. So is that it for me?
I have started spending more time talking about writing. I meet with my friend Lilli every two weeks. We were looking at my new novel, but it's hard to pick apart something that isn't fully formed yet, like pulling out the stitches on knitting and starting over again and again. Last night I gave her the prologue and first chapter of Trail Mix. She's great at seeing big themes and said some nice things about the questions women have after raising their families, like "was it worth it?" and "was it enough?"
Maybe we're the first generation of women to think about it because we were the first to have the choice -- stay home with the kids or full-time career. Some of us tried to compromise and do both.
Another writing group at the community college had promise. My former critique partner, Marcus, and I scraped together four people. I wasn't at the first meeting on Thursday but Marcus emailed that the group has been officially disbanded after one meeting. He and I will probably continue to meet and make each other miserable with our incredibly picky details, but I think we make each other's stories better.
I told my husband yesterday that I have to start writing. That may mean I leave the house with my handy laptop, something I haven't really done since the kids started school nearly two years ago. But now that my husband is home all day and always eager to go for a walk or have some coffee or go out for lunch, I seem to be accomplishing much less -- both with grading papers and writing.
This morning, 500 words before the kids wake up, I drop them at school and I rush to campus.
So, from now on, more writing, less lolling around.
I mean it this time.

HOT

I know that smoking is not healthy, but when I was searching for a photo of Obama and found this one, I just thought, "Wow, he is so sexy!" And, I wanted to share it with you.
Maybe it's the cigarette. Maybe it's the way he looks kind of tired and vulnerable.
Whatever it is, enjoy!

Hypocritical Catholics

I received a forwarded email this morning from a "friend" at church, praising the decision of Catholics who are protesting President Obama's visit to Notre Dame University because he supports abortion rights. That burns me up!
Where were they when George Bush started an illegal war or was instructing our military and spy agencies to torture people? Are they thinking Jesus would have been good with that?
So, I responded to her email. I think I get some points for output control because I didn't reply all. I replied and included the emails of my friends she had sent the letter to.
I told her I was glad that Grace isn't considering Notre Dame because I think the decision to protest is pathetic. I said Catholics need to support a president who is actually thinking about the needs of the poor, the elderly and the ill who don't have health insurance.
Maybe some would consider me a bad Catholic. I don't follow the rules to the letter. That whole idea about having as many children as God gives you -- no thanks. God gave me the intelligence to know when I had reached my threshhold. And, although I love two out of three of the priests at our church, I think a woman could easily do their job. I think priests should be able to marry and I think the Catholic church cheapened Mary's sacrifice by declaring she was born without sin. In spite of all of these differences of opinion, my kids are baptized Catholic, we show up to Mass most Sundays, and I've spent whole months of my life training for and teaching religious education.
No religion is perfect. The only one I could find to be a perfect match would be called Paulita-ism, and it would definitely be a church of one. So, I'll take the good with the bad. I'll enjoy the wisdom I hear from the priests I admire, and I'll try to remember that if I live the way Jesus taught, the world will be a better place.

Love, Children, Books

I'm reading a book that kept me up until after 11 last night, which is quite a feat since I get up at 5 (and, actually the big cat woke me up at 4:15 and I didn't get back to sleep this morning).
Anyway, the book is not a thriller. The title is Love and Other Impossible Pursuits and it's by Ayelet Waldman. It's about a woman whose baby died and she tries to deal with her husband, her stepson and figure out if she can survive. And it isn't morbid or even depressing, which makes no sense. I was really enjoying the voice and the story when I began to fear the book would take a turn.
The details about the death of the baby are fed to the reader slowly, and about half way through I got worried because I didn't want it to become a lesson in the dangers of bringing the baby into a parent's bed. The baby died in bed with the main character.
All three of my children shared my bed when they were infants. I don't know how other mothers do it. I would be lucky to stumble to the crib, pick up the baby and stumble back to bed. Lie on my side, let the baby latch on. If the baby was soaked all the way through, I would change his diaper, or prod Earl and ask him to do it. I can't imagine forcing myself to sit in a rocking chair to nurse, or, even more of a challenge, going downstairs to warm up a bottle, coming back, feeding the baby, putting her back in her bed. Yikes!
With my first, I was probably more paranoid about hurting her or rolling onto her. I remember that I would be careful to aim my breath away from her face so she wouldn't get my exhaled carbon dioxide.
Co-sleeping does have its drawbacks. I can't tell you the number of times I would wake up and throw back the covers and say, "Where's the baby?" Of course, those were times when the baby wasn't in bed with us.
And, co-sleeping let my children be comfortable joining us whenever they were scared or just wanted some cuddle time when they got older. One of my favorite memories is of my middle son. I would hear his footsteps as he ran from his room, across the landing and then dived onto the bed. He was blond then and we teased him that his feet were square. Thum, thum, thum, thum, dive. I tried to imagine him waking up in the bottom of the bunk bed and getting up the nerve to brave the dark landing before he leaped into bed between me and my husband.
I should think about these memories more often. They might help me get through these teenage years.

The Husband Thing

On March 2, we found out our life would change. The newspaper where my husband works was laying off a fifth of its newsroom work force. The next morning, we learned he would keep a job, just not his job. He was moved to copy editor and instead of working from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., his hours would be 3:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. We were relieved he had a job, but the new schedule frightened me. He wouldn't see the kids, who get out of school at 3, but on days that I didn't teach, he would be there -- ALL DAY.
So, in April, the new schedule began. I teach all day Mondays and Wednesdays. On that first Tuesday, Tucker was home from school sick, so we weren't alone, and that seems to happen frequently. With three kids, one of them is home for a little while. But on the days when all the kids are at school, surprisingly, I am enjoying my days home with my husband.
I was worried about his judgement, that he might stand over my shoulder and suggest more efficient ways for me to get my work done, to clean the house, to plan dinner. I was wrong. We spend our days together and apart, doing things we enjoy.
I'll forget all about grading and planning for my online classes and instead we'll run off to the garden store or the book store. Or Earl and I will walk to our little town center to have ice cream at Jeni's or lunch at Panera's. He'll be puttering around outside in the yard while I fix a salad and open a bottle of wine for lunch. Sometimes we'll take books onto the front porch and sit on the swing, enjoying the view of the downtown skyline before the spring leaves block it.
This new schedule makes us feel kidless through much of the week. And when we're home alone, we take pleasure in each other's company, like an old retired couple.
We're really grateful he still has a job, but we're also taking advantage of these stolen hours during the day -- just the two of us.

Important Things I learned at the Writing Conference

-- Never put your purse on the floor. -- There wasn't a gross reason for this like something crawled in it or got spilled on it, or even because the Oprah show did a test to see how many germs were on a purse that a woman routinely set on the floor. No, this is because a large woman moved her purse from an empty chair so I could sit down, and she set the purse on the table. "I'm sorry, I just can't put my purse on the floor. I know it's a superstition." I'd never heard the superstition, so she repeated it for me. "Don't put your purse on the floor or you'll go broke." Fair enough. My purse will be elevated, as will my bank account from now on.
-- My husband and I fight because we talk man speak/woman speak. See, this I actually learned in a writing seminar. The speaker's goal was to teach us the difference between the way a man talks and a woman talks. Now I understand why my husband says, "Just tell me what you want me to do!" while I'm carefully laying out all the facts and stating my case. "Well, it was really early when we ate breakfast." "I think there's a nice restaurant not too far from here." I guess what I'm supposed to say is: "I'm starving. Let's stop at the restaurant down the road." Funny, cause I think of myself as being fairly direct.
--The poet laureate is a woman named Kay. Anyone who thinks otherwise should be gently corrected.
-- Writing conferences briefly inspire people to start writing groups, but someone must be willing to follow that up and organize them. Maybe we should invite some business-type people to writing conferences so they can be in charge of follow through.

Chain of Love

Nearly nineteen years ago, my husband and I stood beside a trickling waterfall and pledged our devotion, and I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've taken my wedding ring off since then. Until last night. Now it has been nearly 20 hours since I took the ring off and slipped it in my jewelry box. Taking it off is such a short phrase for the intense tugging I had to do to remove the ring from my finger.
"It looks like it's cutting into your finger," my daughter commented.
Look, none of us remain the exact same size we were 19 years ago.
And, after nearly a whole day has passed, the deep indentation remains on my finger, as if the ring is still there.
And so does the bright red spot that prompted me to remove it. I'm not sure if it's an outbreak of poison ivy or I scratched it or irritated my finger, but the rubbing of the gold against my finger was not helping. So I took off the ring and called my husband to warn him.
"It's not that I plan to leave you," I said. "It's just this weird spot on my finger."
Today, my husband looked under his glasses at the place on my finger and recommended neosporin.
"Aren't you worried to have me walking around without a weeding ring?" I asked.
Then I laughed and held up my hand again and showed him the deep groove.
"You have to rub it, get some circulation going," he suggested.
Hey! How does he know? Has he done this before?

Teenage Girls are Impossible

I remember when my kids were little, people would approach me and shake their heads in dismay at the rowdiness of boys. "Two boys," they'd say pityingly. I'd turn to my best friend Ruth and say cattily, "Just wait until those daughters are teens, we'll see who's crying then."
Well, my boys are teens now, and I'm still crying. I had determined to run away last night, but I'm still here.
The whining began yesterday when I made a carrot cake. Maybe it started earlier in the day when I looked in Tucker's lunch and saw he had packed a juice box, a Nutrigrain bar and some Sun chips. Processed food much? I forced an apple on him which he probably threw away. So while he was at school, instead of grading papers, I baked a carrot cake with yogurt, crushed pineapples and golden raisins. Grace took a slice of cake and gushed, "Hmmm. Delicious, Mama." When the boys got home from school, Spencer banged his head against the cabinet, pretty high on the cabinet since he's 6-foot, 2, now. "I wanted ice cream."
"Just try the carrot cake," I urged.
"Mom, can I go to a youth group party with J?" Tucker ran up the stairs, phone in hand to ask.
"No, his church doesn't believe dinosaurs existed. I don't want you hanging around with them."
"But, Mom...." I won't bore you with the details, because Tucker's ability to gnaw on a subject would rival a beaver trying to down a redwood. Suffice it to say that the conversation ended like this:
"Oh, my God, Mom. What is wrong with you?"
And, his opinion, seemed one that my older son would echo. When I suggested that if he wanted to lift weights he could go to the YMCA. "Oh, my God, the guys would all laugh at me."
I took the bait and we started arguing until my teenage daughter told him to stop. She helped set the table, she helped clean up after dinner, and she thanked me for the meal.
Today, those conversations might never have happened. I drove Tucker to Kohl's to find some new jeans and tennis shoes. He plugged his iPod into the radio and said, "Listen to these songs that my band is going to play."
He started the music, interspersing details like, "Listen to this sweet guitar solo."
"Do you like it?" he'd ask anxiously, as if he cared what I thought.
Once in the store, he latched onto some hooded sweatshirts. I said yes to the blue with little design, but vetoed the striped and the bright green with the design covering it.
"Why?"
"Because those kids who are always in trouble wear jackets like that."
"That makes no sense. Why can't I?"
The conversation continued in that manner as I searched for size 30-32 jeans in the men's department. Finally, I said, "Look, drop it or let's go home."
"Fine. Let's go home."
I hung up the blue jacket and began walking for the door, imagining the places I could run away to..

This is what I've been reduced to...

While I was at the store with my youngest son, I picked up two t-shirts for my older son. I've learned my lesson. These were plain, solid-color tees. The last time I bought him a brown t-shirt with surf boards on the front he practically bit my head off.
When he got home from his after-school outing to Panera, he settled down to the dinner of chicken a la king over noodles. I held up the first t-shirt. A nice, medium blue to match his eyes.
"I don't like the pocket," he barked, not pausing as he shoveled the food into his mouth. I put it down.
Next I held up a solid, chocolate-colored t shirt, no pocket.
"Looks too short." He didn't stop eating. I put the shirts away.
I think I get points for not responding to him and someday very soon, he may be going to school naked, but I tried.

Visualize

This is my vision board. Isn't it adorable!
The point of this is that I put pictures of things I want to visualize happening in my life. I have a picture from one of our hikes with the words "TRAIL MIX by Paulita Kincer." It's supposed to look like a book cover so I can imagine my novel being published.
And I have plane tickets from one of our trips to France. I have pictures of Provence. I'm not sure what else will go on there -- pictures of my daughter at the college of her choice, but really, that's her vision board.
We started making the vision board with a piece of wood from the garage. In its past life, it was the back of a cheap bookshelf or entertainment center. Earl cut it 15-inches by 20-inches.
I got some fiberfill from the fabric store at 40 percent off $2.99.
I lay the stuffing on the board and stretched my beautiful fabric over it, while Earl stapled it on the back with a staple gun. The material came from a fabric warehouse in Montmartre. We took le Metro to Montmartre and wandered past expensive boutiques. I remember Tante Marguerite warning my friend Michelle and me, "Do not be tempted by the small boutiques. Continue on to the warehouse." We laughed like it was Pilgrim's Progress and we should not turn away from the path.
I bought this cotton material, along with some blue cotton that I used for a table cloth and window topper. I'm so glad I had some left for this project.
The orange and blue ribbon came from the fabric store today, and Grace helped me figure out how to crisscross and weave it over the top of the board so I can attach my treasures.
Now what do I want my future to look like? Hmmmm. So many choices...

Chastity Cat and Largesse

This morning, with the kids off school and my husband off work, I slept in until -- wait for it -- 8 a.m. I know, to some of you this isn't really sleeping in, but even on vacation I'm up at 6:30 or 7 to go for a run or write in solitude.
Waking up in bed next to my husband, with him awake, gave us a chance to talk and laugh and plan.
As he first stretched awake, he moved his hand under the cover toward me. Immediately, the kitten, which had been sleeping down near my knees, pounced on his hand.
"Watch out for my chastity cat," I warned him.
But he didn't take heed and moved his hand again, causing the chastity cat to attack. He's only looking out for my best interest.
This prompted me to list the things we needed to get at Target today. Cat litter, shampoo.
"And bird seed," he added. He got some bird feeders for Christmas and those birds go through 10 pounds of seed a day.
"Those birds are living off our largesse," I complained.
"I like your largesse," he said.
Which prompted a version of, "I like largesse and I cannot lie..."
Maybe I'll sleep in more often.

Spring Runs

When spring arrives, I remember how much I love to run. I come to dread runs when I walk from the cold into the gym and step on the tread mill. My eyes glaze over as the televisions in front of me flash news and weather and talk shows. But when the ice clears from the roads and I feel free to venture outside again, ahhhh. I love running!
Visiting my parents in Florida gives me a little respite from the spring fickleness. I step out the door to the flat, still roadway and run a circuit past stucco houses and a farm called The Half-Ass Ranch that always makes my kids blush.
One morning, I walked outside with my headphones already playing Kanye West when a strange cacophony reached my ears. I pulled the earplugs out and followed the sound. Two large sand hill cranes delicately picked their way across a yard. They were tall, probably reaching as high as my chest (no short jokes, please). I stood in the road watching them and listening to the strange calls. I walked on the far side of the road, more intimidated by them than they were by me. Listen to them here: http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/birds/sandhill-crane.html
They were not my only wildlife encounters. I was chased by a yellow lab-type dog, stalked by a tiger-striped cat, and raced by an Australian shepherd that I thought was chasing me until he ran past and looked back with contempt.
Being outside for those runs helps make me more aware of the awakening earth. This morning, although I didn't run, I was knocked over by the sight of the round orange ball hanging low in the sky. And last night, my husband texted: "Look at the moon."
I stepped onto the front porch and there, hanging like an old fashioned globe light over the downtown skyline, was the moon.
My pale yellow daffodils have orange centers and some flowers that I can't identify have burst into red and purple.
Maybe it isn't running that makes me love spring, but so far, it's working for me.

Awards

Photo by http://images-2.redbubble.com/img/art/size:large/view:main/70911-11-legs.jpg



"Great day!"
The text buzzed me while I was in a cubicle filled with students looking for help on their English essays.
My daughter was in school, but that never seemed to interfere with her ability to text. The trick, she'd told me, was to look straight at the teacher and the teacher would never glance down to see my daughter's hands busily pushing keys on the bright purple phone.
I couldn't wait to find out why my normally subdued daughter used a word as effusive as "great." Must have been bomb scares and fire drills that kept them out of class all day.
"What happened?" I texted back while feigning interest in an especially scintillating narrative that compared life in a nearby suburb with the gritty toughness of our community college.
"We had awards in French club and I won best legs!!!"
I pictured the high school boys sitting in their wooden desk perusing the girls legs as they jutted from beneath the desks. And even though I knew she'd worn jeans that day, I suddenly pictured her in the plaid shorts that ended high on her thigh, her legs pale and bare as the boys raked them with their eyes before casting a vote for her.
I felt protective, but, as someone whose legs resemble Greek columns more than sexy gams, I was a little proud. My daughter, standing nearly five inches taller than me, and those five inches all in the legs, would never have to hem pants or settle for ones that fit tight in the thighs and loose around the waist. Best legs.
The phone vibrated again.
"Oh, I was nominated for National Honor Society too. Love you."

FOCUS!

By far, the best line spoken on our vacation was when my 15-year-old, slightly ADD son complained, "No one in this family can focus!"
Was it important that we focus? Of course, it was. We were in the swimming pool trying to break the record for the number of times we hit a ball back and forth without dropping it. If that's not important, I don't know what is. But his brother and sister weren't taking it seriously. Even his father was likely to make a splashing dive in the middle of our circle, disrupting the attempt. We got to 101 before the younger son dragged a raft, upright, between us. My father said he had already called my brother to tell him his record is safe.
So, we dried off and went for a bike ride around Lake Jackson. It's about nine miles around the lake and a couple miles from Mom and Dad's house to the lake. I rode Mom's "beach bike." A heavy, purple bike with seven speeds that is likely to switch gears whenever I go over a bump. Earl brought along his road bike, attached it to the back of the car. So on our ride, he sped along easily. About seven miles around the lake, we stopped at a Mexican restaurant and sat out on the terrace drinking margaritas and eating chips with guacamole. Then we rode back home, a little slower. I can still feel the salt on my face.

Gulp

This morning, like a swimmer who has been submerged for too long, I raise my head and take a big gulp of air. Aaaaah! Feels so good.
For the first time since the winter quarter started, I am caught up on grading papers and preparing lessons and answering students' questions.
High school sport seasons are wrapping up for two of my kids in the coming week. I can feel the spring light beginning to filter through the trees. The long winter of two-hour, daily practices are ending.
I won't kid myself. I know that on Sunday, two classes will electronically submit their final essays on their future careers. Then on Monday two classes will hand me their rough drafts on age-old mysteries, like "How Did Kurt Cobain Die?" Monday afternoon, my birthday, I plan to be busy scribbling things like "pronoun referral" and "remember to follow up a quote with an explanation of how that proves your point."
But for Friday and Saturday and a few brief hours on Sunday, I'm free to surf the web and throw bouncy balls for the cats. I'll go to the District swim meet this afternoon and cheer on my daughter, hoping that she makes it to states so she can endure one more week of practices. One more week of her long, pale arm reaching so far over the water then diving down to pull her forward.
I'll go to the final junior varsity basketball game tonight and watch my freshman son lope off the bench onto the court, living for that moment when his feet leave the floor and a long arm shoots up to send the basketball away from the opponent's basket.
And, I'll pick up wadded tissues without complaint for my youngest who caught my cold and is skipping school today to watch his sister swim, thinking of the day in two years when he may be at districts with the high school.
Maybe I'll even take the time to peak at the far away sun promising more light very soon.

Riches

"What was your good fortune?"
That's the question my mom asked yesterday. Last week I had forwarded one of those emails with an angel and floating dollars that promised good fortune if I sent it on to friends.
My mom emailed that she was notified she won a drawing she had entered last year and had won big bucks.
"So far, my only luck is this email from you," I told her. But, that was early in the day.
That was before the Junior Varsity basketball game where Spencer played and won.
That was before the swim meet where Grace won both her individual events and the relays.
That was before the dark drive home on the cold, slick roads and the phone call from Grace.
"Mom, I just wrecked the car. I've got a bloody nose. I'm so sorry. I think it's totaled."
I wasn't home yet, so I swung by the house where Earl hopped in the car. We got on the highway and could see the red and blue lights flashing not far away. We had to exit and get back on to reach her.
That day, I had suggested she drive my car. The newer car. The Pilot sat higher up and I thought it might handle better. She was driving home from the swim meet with two friends. She started to get over and the friend in the passenger seat warned of a car in the lane. She swerved. The story there is fuzzy. She hit a guard rail on the right -- a guard rail that prevents cars from driving into the wide stretch of river there. Somehow, the car careened across three highway lanes and ended up against the concrete median in the middle of the highway, facing the opposite direction. No cars hit her in this wild ride. She hit no other cars.
The air bags deployed and the girls dissolved into tears.
"Call 911." I had told her as I rushed out of the high school gym.
When we got to the accident, the girls were in the back of the ambulance with two cute medics. I signed a form that Grace refused treatment. They didn't think her nose was broken. The other girls weren't hurt, but one was leaking tears.
I hugged her, because she was the closest to me.
Grace was calm. I was surprised and proud that she wasn't hysterical. She talked with the police officer. The parents of one of the other girls showed up and gathered them into warm hugs and the heated car. They took them home. Grace returned to our car with a citation for failure to control and then she cried.
"I could have killed my friends," she sobbed. "I thought I was going to die, like Aunt Millie."
My husband's oldest sister was killed in a car accident by a drunk driver.
I held her hands and then dropped her at home before I followed the tow truck and the mangled car to the auto body shop.
So, if my mom asked today, "What is your good fortune?" I could answer.
"I have my daughter."

Apologies

Yesterday, I apologized to my husband for something that happened 15 years ago. It's not like he was holding a grudge, but I felt the urge.
Lots of things happened 15 years ago, most noticeably, our second child was born. Almost exactly 15 years ago, our friends the Kamikazes http://www.suburbankamikaze.typepad.com/ visited us in Michigan where they, childless at that point, went skiing with my husband while I stayed home with the kids and dropped one on his head, resulting in an emergency trip to the doctor where the car broke down and two guys in a pickup truck picked me up... but I digress.
The thing I apologized to my husband about was that span of about a month where he contemplated going to law school. He was working as an editor at a small newspaper. I was staying home with the two-year-old and newborn. Life was a blur to me and suddenly, he wanted to make major changes.
I remember saying that I wish he had told me he wanted to go to law school before the birth of our second child. We might have held off on that decision. (Ouch!) I'm sure that comment didn't have a huge effect on him though.
I recall that he talked with some good friends who were finishing law school and they told him that legal assistants were making as much as lawyers because of the glut on the market. I'm sure that's what convinced him to trash his dream of being a lawyer and continue his daily walk to the local newspaper.
Last week, my husband turned 53. He told me, "I'm getting really tired of life in the newsroom." I gave him a grin with too much gum and told him that we only have nine years to go. Nine years until the youngest will graduate from college. Nine years, according to Quicken, before all of our bills including the mortgage are paid off. Nine years and we will be just like the couple we were before children and mortgages and excessive age brought us to where we are today.
So, I'm sorry, honey, that I put the kibosh on your dream. Maybe you should have left me right then and gone in search of your desires, the ones that don't include me. But, I'm glad you stuck with me, and the kids, although they'd never say it, are glad you're here too.
Now I promise to work like crazy on my dream, so I can release you from the nine more years in the newsroom. Promise.

Personal Legends

Am I a writer? If you had observed me for the past month, you would no more call me a writer than you would call me a runner. I haven't climbed out of bed early in the morning and sat before the computer, my fingers scrambling along the keys as the ideas pour out. I haven't turned off the college football bowl games to find a quiet corner where I can write. I haven't packed up my computer and slid along the wooden bench at Caribou Coffee, sipping from a macchiato. For the past month, maybe the past four months, someone tracking me would not have much evidence that I am a writer. The day after I turned in grades this quarter, I woke up and went for a run. A huge, 15-hour load lifted from my shoulders. But I didn't return to my new novel.
"I told you not to burn the house down," my 16-year-old daughter said when I left the story on the computer one day. Maybe she's right. Maybe my story has taken a turn that leaves me stymied, or maybe I've been led astray from what I thought was my purpose in life.
So, now, as I face 2009, what am I going to do about it? I've wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl. I think it was around second or third grade that I would get up, before anyone else in the house was awake. I would pack a peanut butter sandwich and gather a spiral notebook and pencil. Then I would roam the neighborhood looking for adventures to write about. I would end up back in my front yard, under a big maple tree where I would scribble furiously, not just the things that I had seen, but the things that I imagined.
I have boxes full of old notebooks that are scratched with my childhood musings. What will I do about that as an adult? I have two novels written and a third one in the works.
I am a writer, and that doesn't mean that it flows spontaneously. It may mean that I have to set a schedule and follow it until once again, my passion for writing, my need for it is stronger than my malaise. I know I can.
I am a writer.

Lowest High Point

If I'd only known that puking in the parking lot foreshadowed my week as a college teacher.
Picture a bustling community college campus. A brisk breeze whips between the buildings, as it does on every college in the United States, and there strides a woman, leaving behind an office building as she heads toward her classroom. She wears a brown wool coat with a shawl collar. A fuzzy pink scarf peeks out from the v in her coat. Her steps pause there, by the parking lot where a bed of dead, dried plants wave in the breeze. Her hand goes to her mouth and she bends over them, spewing orange juice and shredded wheat.
And that was Monday.
Yes, after 40 something years, I didn't make it to the bathroom to throw up. Embarrassing, yet slightly fascinating, apparently, since I keep telling everyone. I think I'm kind of intrigued by the idea that I assumed I could force myself to keep going, no matter how bad I felt.
But, as I said, that was only a foreshadow of the pain and misery to follow. That Wednesday in class, I had to tell two clean-cut boys that I couldn't see them passing class. The one boy, a tall, blond, paled and began to shake a little bit. "But I could have my third essay to you today." The essay was due on Monday and he hadn't even turned in a rough draft. "Sorry, I don't accept late work."
The other boy tried, his hair shaved close to his head, his smile appealing. "I have my rough draft and final draft right here." "But, you didn't turn in your rough draft. I have to see your process work."
I was feeling bad. Maybe I didn't have to be so strict. I pulled out my gradebook where I keep attendance. "Look," I told the blond boy, you haven't been to class since November 7. Today's December 3." The other boy hadn't been there since Nov. 11. I tried to put my guilt behind me. They needed to attend class and turn in assignments on time. It wasn't my fault.
I spent the next morning grading papers of students who had gotten their assignments in on time. I gently explained to one guy that when he used someone else's material exactly, it needed to be in quotation marks and credited. Otherwise, that's called plagiarism.
Then I went on to the next paper that had strange blue hyperlink's underlined. I clicked on one of the hyperlinks and went to a Wikipedia page. Not only had he copied and pasted the essay directly from Wikipedia, which isn't an acceptable source, but he had left the hyperlinks. This was definitely an insult to my intelligence. I just wanted to walk in front of a fast-moving bus by this point.
Today, I girded my loins and handed him back that paper. "What happened?" I asked.
"I was just really swamped," he said.
"I don't think that was the solution," I said.
He came to the front of the class and asked whether he could still pass the class. I let him check his grades on the computer. Not much chance, he decided.
I wonder what he'll tell his parents and his friends. Will I be the villain in the story?
I try to assure myself that this hasn't happened in other classes. Students have perservered and written their own work and succeeded. But the weight remains on my shoulders. Maybe puking in the parking lot was the highpoint of the week.

Revival Sex

This morning, as I blearily read the newspaper, I thought for sure I must be mistaken. But there it was, a preacher called for married couples to have sex for seven straight days (no pun on the straight/homosexual thing). A pastor in Texas, the Rev. Ed Young, is asking his congregation's married couples to have sex for seven days straight.
"God says sex should be between a married man and a woman. I think it's one of the greatest things you can do for your kids...," Young said.
Of course, this was a story I couldn't share with my 16-year-old who sat at the table reading a book for Honors English. And I tried to imagine attending a church like this, with my entire family as the preacher stood in the pulpit and admonished me to have more sex with my husband.
My teenagers would be mortified. What teenager wants to imagine her parents having sex? None! I'm betting the teens avoid church this weekend so they don't have to witness it. Thanks for the warning, Rev. Young.
And, if this church happens to be one of those that frowns upon birth control, it can look forward to a baby boom nine months from now. The teenagers can look on that as a whole school year's worth of evidence that her parents still have sex. Ooooh!

ONE

Not until the end, when they were all standing on the platform together, little blonde girls and dark-haired ones; bright-smiled, clean cut white men next to grinning, handsome black men. And there, on that platform, a shot of a middle-aged white woman with her arm around a young black man, squeezing his shoulder as they both beamed at the unending sea of people. That one picture made the tears begin as I realized: It doesn't matter who's white or black or alike or different. We're all one. We're all in this together and we did this. Now, we're starting again.
I know that the world will not be suddenly perfect and I know that I had promised I would never trust a politician again, but I want to trust this man. I want to believe that whatever he does, he is trying to make things better. I fear for him already, the challenges he must face. But he promised his girls a puppy and he has promised us so much more. And I think he'll try.

Enjoy This Moment

I stood there 90 feet up in the air, ready to jump and slide among the treetops. "Wheeeeee!" I yelled as I zoomed along. But on the ride, whooshing along a cable that stretched between multi-colored trees in the Hocking Hills, I had to remind myself.
"Pay attention! Enjoy this moment!"
So much of my life is spent planning the next step in my too busy life. I don't even write down much of it, instead filing it in my head until it is too full to hold it all. Two kids to swim. One needs new shoes. Don't forget the orthodontist appointment. Need to grade those papers and don't forget to plan for Wednesday's class.
The thing I have the hardest time with, as my husband can attest, is living in the moment -- putting away all of those extra things and concentrating on the pleasure or pain that awaits me. I have a hard time with now.
So, as I was zipping through the trees on a brisk fall day, I remembered to remind myself. "Concentrate!"
And I did. I felt the cold air sting my cheeks as my mouth opened in a yelp and a smile. I forgot about being a mom and a wife and a teacher for a little while and just enjoyed the thrill of jumping off a platform to fly over a chasm below.

No Regrets

Fifteen years ago, I remember driving down the road in Jackson, Michigan. I can still picture the expanse of concrete parking lot that led to the back of the brick newsbuilding. We stopped there. Looking straight ahead, I told my husband, "I don't think I can do this again."
My belly was swollen with our second baby. The first one, not two years old, sat in the backseat.
"I don't think I can do this again." I swept my hand toward my stomach.
"Okay," he shrugged. "This'll be our last one."
"No, I can't do this one. I can't finish. I can't give birth - again. It's just too hard."
I realize now, 15 years later, that put my husband in a no-win situation. I was weeks from meeting my son -- a bald then blond energetic fire plug who has grown into a stretched out rubber band. Every move he makes around the house could result in broken glass or bloody knees, all arms and legs with size 12 feet and the slightest shadow of a mustache.
Born two weeks before his due date, he was my smallest baby, although the birth didn't seem that much easier. Everyone he met was his friend. Everything he encountered an opportunity to explore.
He taught me that boys and girls can be given the same toys, the same movies and come away with totally different viewpoints. To my daughter, Pocahantas was a love movie. To my son, it was a movie about war.
He has imitated the dance moves of Michael Flatley, played chess against masters, fiddled the violin with ease at many recitals, broken an ankle while playing football before going back into the game, and hunched down in the car in embarrassment when I have been driving.
Sometimes he's my easiest, most loving child. Other's he's the one most likely to make me weep.
For 15 years now, he has made my life better. Happy Birthday, Spence.

Fun on the Trail

This is an addendum to my previous post for anyone who might have thought that, because we abandoned the Appalachian Trail early, we didn't have a blast. Is there any possible way to travel with three girlfriends and not have fun? I don't think so. First, there is the leaving behind of children and spouses. You could just sit in the car for three days and have more fun than you would at home.
Okay, but we didn't do that. We did sit in the car for eight hours as we sped south to North Carolina. And we talked constantly, except for Najah who kept falling asleep in the middle of the conversation because she hadn't slept the night before.
So, why is it hilarious when the two car-sick people ride in the front seat and don't notice that we are almost out of gas in the Tennessee mountains. Or because I look down to program a number into my phone we miss our turn and drive miles out of the way. Hey, am I the only one paying attention here?
We laughed when Najah decided that our trail call "Hooty Hoo!" should be replaced by "Hey Laaadies!" in a Jerry Lewis voice. We found that call didn't carry quite as far. And no one went for my suggestions that we yell a hearty, "My friends!" in honor of the election season.
My husband claimed that a ball of, basically, kite string, was strong enough to hoist our bear bags over a branch. We ended up splitting our food into two separate bags and pulling it over a branch. The string was so skinny it cut into our palms so we had to work together to pull it. The branch was the right size and location, out away from the trunk of the tree so a bear couldn't get it, but it did happen to be right next to another tree trunk where a bear could have shimmied up and grabbed our food, like convenient take out. It wasn't until we left that trail that we saw the sign warning about bear activity on the trail and a bear that had been stealing packs. Ooops. Noreen had been so proud that she kept her pack in the vestibule of her tent so it was handy the next morning and didn't get soaked by the rain overnight. That bear warning deflated her pride a little.
After our night in the tent, we all swore we hadn't slept. Yet, I thought Pam didn't move all night while I turned over every 15 minutes. She said the same. And Naj claimed to have called our names all night long.
The next day had its miserable moments, I must admit. But we were so proud of filtering our own water and filling those empty bottles. Noreen sang "This is the trail that never ends" as we walked along. And when I became too tired to go on, I simply sat down. Najah was on a positive swing and was in the middle of a motivational speech about how we could accomplish our goals, we could go the distance, we could... She turned around and saw me at the bottom of the trail, staring into the multi-colored leaves that covered the trees. "Hey!"
And I decided that was it for me. My hiking days were over.
In the end, we're typical Americans. Although the hike wasn't what we imagined, we were already plotting a way to make it better the next time. Boots and a pack that fit. Naj claimed she would only carry five granola bars and a water bottle. I thought sherpas might solve the problem.
When I walked out of work on Monday, and the air had that sweet tinge of fall while the sun made me blink, I texted Naj: "I'm ready to go again."
"Me too!" she replied.

Bailing on the Trail

Maybe we can blame it all on Mapquest. Maybe if Mapquest hadn't sent us on US 129 through the Smoky Mountains things would have turned out differently. Of course, my friend Naj hadn't told us she gets car sick until we began winding up and down the mountains. We met only motorcycles zooming around those hairpin curves and pulled over three times for police cars or ambulances. When we finally sped into the parking lot to meet our shuttle to the trail, Naj jumped out and puked beside the river.
Hmmm. Not a great start. We pulled our packs from Noreen's van and piled them in the trunk of the shuttle. Maybe if we hadn't been in such a hurry, I wouldn't have left my water bottle in the van.
Maybe if the driver, Mark, had not been one of those people who drives with a foot on the brake and another on the gas, accelerating and braking over the mountains, then he wouldn't have vomit on the interior of his Lincoln Town Car. And maybe if we hadn't stopped several times for Naj to throw up, we would have gotten to the Appalachian Trail earlier than 4 p.m.
Maybe if we hadn't started at Winding Stair Gap in North Carolina and planned to hike nearly 4 miles to the campsite, we would have gotten there in time to eat dinner in the light, rather than in the pitch black night. Adjusting packs, stopping for photos, admiring the changing leaves -- those were all part of our plan. But as the light began to fade, we hurried on, worried that our first night would arrive without a campsite.
Maybe if it hadn't started to rain the minute we set up our tents and continued to rain through the night and all the next day. If we hadn't cooked in the dark and hung our bear bag from a tree limb in the dark. If we'd broken down camp faster in the morning and hadn't needed to hike down a side path to filter water.
Maybe if the rain hadn't made the leaves on the path slippery and the misty fog hadn't made the view from Siler Bald disappear.
Mostly though, if our packs hadn't weighed too much and fit poorly and if the trail hadn't been straight up then maybe we would not have left the trail earlier than we planned.
Noreen and Pam hiked ahead with their longer legs while Naj and I lagged behind. The second day was pure misery. The rain fell. A blister swelled on my heel. And a thick fatigue settled on my shoulders. I felt like I couldn't go another mile. So when I pulled myself up to a gravel logging road and found Noreen and Pam there, I was so relieved when Noreen said, "I know what you're thinking because I was thinking the same thing."
Thank, God! She knows we need to leave the trail, I thought.
But then she continued, "I thought after all that climbing the trail would level off."
Behind her, wooden stairs were built into the mountain to continue the trail toward Wayah Bald.
"Wait! That's not what we were thinking! We were thinking we need to get off the fucking trail!" I said.
I rarely use the F-word, but I thought it was appropriate at this juncture.
The problem was that we needed to hike 27 miles in four days. Something we'd imagined was manageable. We had all run marathons in the past, going nearly 27 miles in less than five hours. How could we fail to go the distance in four days?
But, at 2 p.m., we had to face the fact that a day of constant walking had gotten us only four miles. We were eight miles from the beginning of our hike and we had nineteen miles to go.
"Let's get to Wayah Bald and set up camp for the night."
That would put us at 10 miles from the beginning. We couldn't imagine we could go farther. Too exhausted.
"But we're wet and cold. We can't sit still for 15 hours," Noreen protested.
So we located a road where someone could pick us up. My husband, disappointed in our choice to leave the trail, called around and found us a ride. We hiked two miles in an hour and met the car. We were going home.
When my 12-year-old called out in the middle of the night and I comforted him before climbing into my bed and snuggling against my husband's back, I thought, I'm so glad I'm home in my warm bed and not out on the cold, wet trail, changing positions on the hard ground.
Does that mean I won't go backpacking again? Well, not anytime soon. And not with my boots that are too small or a backpack that doesn't fit right. But I do have a date with the woods later this month when we go ziplining through the Hocking Hills.

What were we thinking?

Sure, it's all fun and games when you're setting up a tent in the backyard, but really who wants to go traipsing along the Applachian Trail in late October? Well, apparently my marathoner friends do and I got sucked in with them.
So, we leave on Thursday. We'll drive 8 hours then walk 27 miles over the next three days before we drive back home.
I am not someone you can picture camping. I'm not a wimp, but you don't really think of me as an outdoorsman or woman. I like early morning runs, but I've never been one who enjoys watching worms wriggle in the dirt or dissecting scat found in the woods. Now I'll be the one with my bright orange shovel, digging a hole and leaving my own deposits.
I feel guilty about going. I've been trying to finish grading papers because I'll be away from my needy online students for four days. I've found subs for my "live" classes. As for my three children, Grace has a concert Thursday night and they are all off school on Friday. My husband, of course, must work Saturday too this week. That leaves my children home alone on Friday and Saturday. So, I'm torn. Should I skip the hike to oversee the children? Should I skip the hike and avoid using a shovel in the woods?
As I pondered my ambivalence, I received a call to fetch my basketball-weary son from practice. I walked out to the car and an ivory-colored butterfly flew along beside me. I opened the door to the convertible and there, in the middle of the driver's seat, was a yellow oak leaf. Nature beckons and tries to reassure me. I guess I'll go and watch the full moon wane.

Follow through

I know follow through is always important in tennis, but I had no idea how much it meant in parenting. Until now, just now when my youngest, the 12-year-old, said "I don't care!" That was in response to my decision that he was banned from screen time tonight. Screen time is, of course, anything that involves a screen -- the computer, the television, the Wii.
Once upon a time, when we were homeschoolers, and I kept track of these things, each child was allowed one hour of screen time everyday. Now that the kids are in school and I work too many hours, along with cooking, cleaning and computing the other hours, the kids are really free to overindulge all they want. Complicating things, the boys have a bedroom in the basement, right next to the family room which contains, you guessed it, a computer, a television and the Wii. The laundry room is down there too, but I rarely catch them surreptitiously washing clothes.
So the most recent fight with the 12-year-old came because of the way he was speaking to me. The tone -- isn't it always about the tone -- came when I asked him whether the math teacher considered 2 a perfect square. He's memorizing perfect square numbers.
"I don't know!" he said, in that tone.
"Well, how are you going to find out?"
"I don't know!" he said again. Same tone.
"That's it. I'm requesting a meeting with her."
"Wait! Why?" he asked, his voice rising.
"Because you don't know the answer and you don't know how to find out the answer."
He pulled out a piece of paper.
"It's on here. No, 2 doesn't count so you can stop YELLING at me!"
But now, it's not about what he knows or doesn't know, it's all about that TONE.
So, I parried with, "Until you can learn to speak nicely to me, no screen time."
That's when he slipped in the classic, "I don't care."
And, I do know why he doesn't care. It's because he knows I have no follow through. He has a paper to type, so I'll let him type it. Then he'll pull out his guitar and start looking up songs on YouTube, learning which chords go with "Nowhere Man." And I'll think, "Well, that's kind of educational." So I won't stop him. I won't call down to the basement. "Hey, no screen time for you."
I know this is a slippery slope. But he's my third. The other two have turned out very well. Two out of three, ain't bad, as the song goes.

It's all French to me

"In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language." Mark Twain- The Innocents Abroad
One of my kids has a harder time with school than the others. His grades are all A's and B's, but he works at it. We study for tests and do homework at the kitchen table. The other children rarely carry books home, finishing everything at school.
His biggest challenge is organization so I try to stay on top of tests. Just last night I quizzed him about tests. Just finished math. Ask about a retake in science. Forgot about the one in geography on Monday, still waiting for that grade.
"What about French?" I asked.
"Lemme call Joe."
"Joe? When's our next French test? Next week? Okay. Bye."
So he told me. "Not 'til next week." He began to put away his books. This is his second year of French and the teacher keeps me informed when he needs to work on things.
"You know, Mr. Hedge puts information about the tests on the board," I said. "You should write it down."
He stopped and looked at me for a minute.
"But, Mom. I can't read it. It's all in French."
I guess we have some more work to do.

Straight Talk

My parents visited this weekend and I am lucky to have avoided a stroke. It's not that my parents and I don't get along usually, but I made the mistake of bringing up the presidential election. Not in front of my dad, who had already commented that the president doesn't have that much power, so Bush couldn't be responsible for this mess. I choked out something about 6-years of a Republican congress before I stifled myself.
But the afternoon my parents were leaving, as we sat at the dining room table without my dad, I approached my mom. She'd made some reasonable remarks recently about no one in Washington to look out for the people. I thought she might be rational on the topic. Instead, she was the farthest thing from it.
When I mentioned Obama's name, she said, "Well, you know he's only where he is because of the Chicago mob."
My husband choked on his chili and a vein started throbbing in his forehead. "The Chicago mob would NOT put a black man in a place of power," he roared. I motioned to him to calm down. We could return this conversation to a sensible one yet.
"Mom," I started, "you know those e-mails you get are always wrong."
"Well, his stepfather raised him as a muslim."
I had nothing on the stepfather.
"And, he said that he'd visited all 57 states and there are 57 states of Islam. I saw that in the paper!"
This was the point where I began to bang my head on the table. No, I didn't, but I wanted to.
"Mom, if you want to vote for McCain then do it for a real reason, not this made up crap."
I wanted to spend some time imagining what my mom thought would happen if Obama was elected. Would he take over the country and force us all to be muslim, was that her fear?
I got up and walked over to the sink. "I guess we can't talk about this, because you don't realize how panicked I am about the idea that we may have three years to leave the country before Spencer turns 18 and is drafted into a needless war."
"FDR started the biggest war ever and he was a democrat."
At that point, I went downstairs to do laundry. Hmmm. Let's compare World War II and the Iraq War. My mom still thought we went there to fight Al Quaeda. She thought the terrorists who blew up the World Trade Center were from Iraq instead of Saudi Arabia.
Deep breaths as I pulled warm laundry from the dryer and carefully folded the towels into squares.
What would be the reason to vote for McCain? The newspaper the next day gave me a good reason. So, Mom, if this is you, under the McCain tax plan, taxes will go down for the top 1 percent in the country by $125,000 per year. I can understand voting for McCain if you want that $125,000 back. I mean, I can understand that people don't want to pay a lot of taxes. And that money the top 1 percent gets back, that's more than we gross a year. But, if you need the money, vote for McCain. Maybe we can borrow that tax return money to buy a new house in France or New Zealand, where my boys will be safe from unnecessary wars.

Today I'm feeling...

Satisfied, like I finished a good meal, but not full and bloated and unable to move. I want to do a happy dance. Yesterday, after months of procrastination or brain freeze, I finished the revision of my novel Trail Mix.
Like a patient after bariatric surgery, the manuscript shrank from 99,000 to 87,000 words. From 360 pages to 326 pages. And, I think it improved - a lot.
I think I can blame part of the delay on my friend Marcus. He methodically began to sift through the book and we would meet each week over turkey sandwiches (sauce on the side for him, what kind of bread is that?) or espressos with flavor (only 3 squirts of raspberry in his coffee, please, and skim milk). But the loitering over lunch and coffee also led to the refinement of my manuscript. He'd come up with comments like: "This page is very -ingy." And when I read it, I realized he was right. I puzzled over sentences like: "Wearing only a blue jogging bra and her Nike running shorts, she scrubs her hands at the sink before popping some bread into the stainless steel toaster." What's with all the detail? Marcus would ask. How does the reader know which ones are important?
I got the point, and I think I reached a new writing phase where I could zip through pages and hear Marcus' nagging voice in my head. So the manuscript is better.
Now I feel anxious. I've given three copies to literate friends and asked them to read them -- fast. I want to send out query letters and manuscripts to agents who will love it! Okay, like it enough to ask to see the full. And maybe, that one agent who will say, "I can sell this."
So, what sort of incentive can I offer my friends to read my manuscript in record time? Well, I do hope they enjoy it and want to keep reading. Maybe, like the actor Bob Hoskins, who takes scripts to the toilet and knows they're good when his butt goes numb, maybe my friends will find themselves unable to put my book down.
Just in case, though, I'll offer a gift certificate to COSI or Panera or Borders to whoever finishes it first and gets it back to my greedy little hands.

What I learned living without power for 5 days

The morning after the Ohurricane blew through dawned clear and cool. Not cold, but a humidity-free cool that made the sky an eye-blinding blue. The landscape of splintered trees and blown leaves seemed surreal as kids raced by on bicycles and the quiet of an electricity-free neighborhood rang in our ears. Anybody can last 24-hours without power but how long would it go. We lost power on Sunday, and on Thursday, with a blink of off/on power at the high school, electric service was restored at our house. I knew because Earl texted me: "Ta da."
Here are some things I learned:
10. Showering by candlelight is not romantic when it's your only alternative.
9. There's no point in getting out of bed before it's light when you have no electricity and no school.
8.Taper candles work best for homework and reading at the table. Those little pillar candles don't shed much light below.
7.I will always burn myself trying to light a candle with a lighter rather than a match.
6.The night is incredibly long when it begins at 8 p.m.
5.12-year-olds need electronics way more than teenagers
4.Necessity is the mother... well, you know. I made pork chops on the grill for dinner in time for Grace to eat before swim practice, but Spencer wasn't home from soccer. How could I keep them warm? I lit a burner on the stove and filled a skillet with water. I set the plate over the skillet and put a lid over the plate. Voila. Warm pork chops when Spencer got home.
3. Midwesterners are disgustingly optimistic. I can't count how many conversations I heard that started with "It could be so much worse..." as we listed the benefits of having running water, warm weather, a gas stove and water heater
2.Don't gloat about the fact that you have electricity when much of the city is still in the dark.
1. I am no Laura Ingalls Wilder

No Power, the True Black Hole

That first night the power went off wasn't so bad. Tucker pulled his acoustic guitar from its case and played songs while we sang along. When he grew tired, Grace practiced the piano as the light waned. I set a candle on top of the piano, but she said she was only playing from memory so she didn't need the light. We sat on the front porch, legs propped on each other's laps and laughed about childhood memories.Then we went inside and played Apples to Apples while Spencer tried to read The Hobbit and shushed us for breaking his concentration.
The whole situation was a little pioneerish. Music and stories and family games. The boys bunked down in the living room and I blew out the candles before going to bed.
The next day I only needed to light a match to the gas stove to heat water for tea. We put the two gallons of milk in a cooler with bags of ice and we salvaged the ham and turkey lunch meat, along with the block of mozzarella and goat cheese. Sandwiches for lunch. The bread was thawing anyway. Hash browns with bacon thrown in for dinner because they had also thawed. As the light began to fail on the second day, Tucker approached me.
"How much longer? I can't go without power. Can't we go to the Knotty Pine to watch football?"
One of his friends has power. "Go to Matthew's house and watch TV," I suggested.
"It's not the same, I can't flip through the channels. I need power."
He lay his head on the table.
I tried to reassure him. "We're safe. We'll be okay."
Apparently safety is not uppermost in the 12-year-old's mind. "I need power. I can't go for six more days."
Well, I don't know if I can either. But I have hot water. I can take a shower. My hair is curly rather than straight, but really, we're fine.
Spencer has almost read all of The Hobbit and Grace sat on a trampoline with friends late into the night before walking home and finding her way to bed by flashlight.
Our radio/boombox has batteries, so I let Tucker put a CD in and he set it beside his pillow, listening to We The Kings "Check Yes, Juliet" as he fell asleep. Any kind of electronic device is better than nothing when you're desperate for civilization.
School was canceled again today and people are lined up out the door at Panera where the lights and power, along with the coffee and bagels are going full strength. So, Panera doesn't exactly make it pioneerish, but a little roughing it won't kill us

Ohio Hurricane

How was I to know that the "high wind advisory" was actually a hurricane blowing through? Seriously. Who thinks hurricane in Ohio? I went for a run in the morning and spent the day baking banana bread, cleaning, helping with homework. I noticed that the trees were bending in the breeze and my husband came in from reading on the front porch predicting that the wind might knock down limbs. I disregarded him as I handed the car keys to my 16-year-old. She was headed downtown for her dance/vocal group. I left a few minutes later.
"I'll ride my bike," I called to my husband.
"No, take the car. The wind's too strong."
I pshawed, but took the car anyway. As I drove along the main road, half a mile from our house, I swerved to avoid major branches in the road. This mile drive was fraught with wind gusts, malfunctioning traffic lights, and blowing debris. What had I sent my 16-year-old into? During the meeting, I tried to reach my daughter by text. "Let me know when you're safe."
Finally she called. "Mom, I'm having really bad stomach cramps."
She was safe. My husband and I drove down so we could both drive cars back. She seemed chipper. "I'll get my stuff."
The dance instructor confided, "She was cramping up."
"I think it might be anxiety," I replied.
When we ran to the car, the wind ferociously howling, she burst into tears.
"Is it that black hole thing?" she asked. We'd recently read about the semiconductor in Switzerland that could, possibly create a black hole that might or might not engulf the earth.
"No, honey, it's not the black hole. It's the hurricane."
So Hurricane Ike, which took hours to move across Houston, reached Ohio within a day and swept away our electricity, along with lots of tree branches. On the bright side, it wasn't a black hole.