Like Deer in Headlights

When I went for my run Saturday morning, I was a little disappointed not to see more wildlife. I've seen cranes and herons and wild turkeys while running in Florida. Around a deserted, overgrown, brushy area, I'm always a little concerned about the remaining Florida panther jumping onto my back. I've even seen snakes slithering on the road. Yesterday, though, I saw only a few mockingbirds and backyard dogs. The statuary animals are plentiful though. That's when I decided to do a fake animal tour.
This woodpecker is in my parents' backyard. One day I called the kids to quietly come look because I thought it was real. Okay, I was at a bad angle at the time. He looks quite wooden now. This fish mailbox isn't pretending to be a real animal, but he is pretty awesome.
Why the fake duck? Are we really a country in need of more ducks or geese. In some business complexes they are poisoning the geese or letting dogs loose to get rid of the geese. Do we need more fake ducks and geese?
Bunnies in the garden? Really? These homeowners would probably go crazy if some real bunnies hopped into their flower bed. My mom, who used to have a lot of cats that hung around outside, says they now have a rabbit that sticks close by. As soon as we got out of the car the other night, a little bunny came dashing through the front yard followed by a big white cat with a black tail. These bunny statues are going nowhere.
I always have trouble remembering which is which, but egrets are tall white birds and herons are gray, I think. I'm guessing these guys are egrets. They look kind of regal don't they?
Pink flamingoes used to be ubiquitous in Florida. Now all I could find was these wooden versions with wings that flap in the wind. If you look to the right of the flamingo, you'll see a gray blob that turns out to be an actual animal. A cat that stood up and stretched in these weeds after I took the picture.
The pelican is an impressive Florida bird. He was going extinct not that long ago but now you see squadrons of them swooping over the Gulf of Mexico and diving down with a splash.

My final fake animal picture isn't of a fake animal, but a warning to a real animal. A man who lives not too far from my parents put up this sign and I love the fact that it is addressed directly to the animal, who we hope can read and heed the warning.
With threats like this, maybe that explains why there are so few real animals around for me to take pictures of!

Girl Road Trip

It's not the kind of Girls Gone Wild spring break that some might imagine, but our trip to Florida ended up being all girls. It was supposed to be a family vacation, but Spencer had a basketball tournament and Tucker had track practice so Earl "volunteered" to stay home with them. Grace then asked if she could bring a friend. So Sarah, Grace and I drove to my parents' home in Florida.
It started out dreary and rainy. As we drove through Cincinnati, the rain and clouds were so thick we couldn't see the next bridge over the Ohio River. We spent the night at my grandmother's in Kentucky and then left at 5 a.m. the following morning to drive to my parents' house. We listened to The Lost Symbol on tape and stopped at the perfect restaurant with a Dairy Queen and a Subway, but a college bus had beaten us to it. We ended up driving through a Burger King, which I wouldn't recommend. Then we made another stop at a gas station. While I filled up, the girls went in to use the bathroom, then came back and said it was all truckers and hookers.
"They were sending us upstairs to use the bathroom," Grace said. "Creepy."
Of course, Sarah was half way up the stairs before Grace called her back.
Thirteen hours after we left, with few traffic problems and beautiful sunshine the entire day, we arrived to burgers on the grill.
The girls were quick to hop in the pool. They have plans to meet a friend at St. Pete beach sometime this week and want to go hiking and bike riding at the state park nearby. Meanwhile, it's just nice to be in the warm weather, to go for a run with the weather at 60 instead of 30, to let my hair curl because the humidity is too high to straighten it.

More Tears

Just when you think the plane could be coming in for a smooth landing, things get bumpy again. Grace has been accepted at her number one college so things should be good.
Adding to her jubilation, this week, she found out she was nominated for Scholar Athlete. The newspaper asks each high school to nominate a male and female athlete. They get pictures and articles in the sports section of the newspaper, and 17 students are chosen to share a big pool of scholarship money. Grace was on cloud nine. The athletic director picked her from all the other female athletes in the school, including some with well-known parents. She learned that the athletic director talked to teachers and coaches before making her decision, so somewhere teachers and coaches are saying nice things about her. She felt like she had won for once.
Of course, the fly in the ointment, my husband works for the local newspaper. So he felt the need to clarify whether Grace was actually eligible to receive the scholarship money. After several rounds of phone calls, he found that although she could receive the plaque and the newspaper publicity, she couldn't receive the scholarship money since Earl works at the paper.
When I told Grace, she cried, leaving a wet spot on the leg of my pants. "I should give it back to them and let them choose someone else," she sobbed.
It's hard to know the right thing to do. Should Grace get the acknowledgement from the school and the city, or should she give up her spot to let another student at her high school have a chance at the scholarship?
I suppose even considering whether to return it means she's going to be okay either way. She thinks about doing the responsible things. Maybe she could be on one of those insurance commercials about people who do the right thing. Think she could get a scholarship for that?

Flush

I hate diets. I believe that dieting is at the heart of gaining weight, at least for me. If I limit myself, saying I can't have that one cookie, then I crave cookies and I'll eat a ton.
So I've always tried to eat what I want in moderation and exercise a lot. The past few years, it has caught up with me. That's when my friend Sheila suggested the Fat Flush diet plan. I liked a lot of what the book said about detoxifying the liver and getting rid of wheat, dairy and sugar to see if it is causing the fatigue or allergy symptoms. Plus, the first part of the diet lasts two weeks.
Knowing I probably wouldn't make it two weeks, I decided to give it a try yesterday.
My morning routine includes preparing a press pot of coffee, steaming some milk and pouring the coffee in to make it a lovely tan color then adding a teaspoon of sugar. Well, the fat flush requires no caffeine for the liver to deal with. So my morning started with a cup of hot water and half a lemon. Not nearly as satisfying. And a nagging headache started behind my eyes as I drank the cranberry water concoction that is required - 64 ounces each day. When I drank the cranberry water with a tablespoon of flaxseed, I gagged on the thickness at the bottom.
Breakfast was two hard boiled eggs with some cumin for seasoning. That wasn't bad. Then I walked for an hour with Sheila, chasing along behind her little, speedy dog.
My headache was increasing as I made my way back home.
I steamed some broccoli, sliced a cucumber and opened a pack of tuna for lunch. Then I gave up and headed to the couch for a nap.
Still my headache kept increasing and I felt pressure behind my sinuses.
This detox thing is really clearing out my sinuses, I thought.
That's when I started throwing up and it finally became clear to me that the headache/migraine was connected to my monthly cycle rather than the Fat Flush diet. I lay in a dark room for most of the evening, getting up to puke.
I was feeling little better as 9 o'clock approached and thought I would drive to pick up Spencer from basketball, about 20 minutes away. As I stood up, I ran to the bathroom to throw up.
Flax seeds? Again? How could they still be in my stomach after all day?
I prayed I wouldn't throw up as I drove to get Spencer and his friend. I had left it too late to send Grace to get them. She avoids driving on the highway so it would have taken her much longer to get there.
This morning I am walking carefully, as if I carry a dozen eggs in my head that must not be broken. I am having a cup of coffee to see if I can knock that nagging pain.
I may try the Fat Flush diet again tomorrow or once I get to my parents' house in Florida Friday, but as for today, I can't face any cranberry water or flax seed.
If you want to read about someone not puking on the Fat Flush diet, check out Sheila's blog called Life's Many Colors. http://lifesmanycolors.wordpress.com/

The Highs and Lows of Applying for College

This afternoon when we opened the mailbox, a big cream-colored envelope (recycled, of course) awaited us. It was addressed to Grace, but Earl and I tore into it since she was at school. The letter had finally come from her top pick college. She was accepted!
We rejoiced for Grace's acceptance to a school, a really good school where the incoming class hails from places like: Marblehead High School in Massachusetts, Seton Hall Prep School, Miss Edgar's & Ms. Cramp's School in Quebec, Lawrence Academy at Groton, and La Salle Academy in Rhode Island. I'm not sure Grace realizes the odds of a student from a small, public high school in Ohio getting into this elite college. I'm not sure that she realizes her good, but not great, grades were probably not enough to have pulled her into this school. Her freestyle swim stroke may be what twisted the arms of the administrators to allow her to attend. But we'll take it.
During her lunch break, I called and told her the news. She screamed then screamed some more. "I got in!"
The elation we felt for her rose to the ceiling, before falling to the wood floor beneath us when we saw the financial aid offer. The offer was so generous. More than $26,000 each year for Grace's college education. But the tuition is so much more. The college offer included a couple of loans and some work/study opportunity in addition to the $26,000 grant. The bottom line is that our family portion is still going to be more than $19,000 for tuition, room and board each year. Gulp!
It didn't take long before I was on the computer searching for our airline reservations, the ones that were supposed to take us to France next month. We still aren't sure if the tickets are refundable, but if they are, they can go a small way toward paying that chunk of tuition. We realize, now that the numbers are on the table, that we have to put the money toward college rather than a whimsical trip to France.
Even though we may not be going to France, I'm keeping the purse.

Swim World

While all around me here in Ohio people are obsessing about basketball, my weekend is all about swimming.
They call it March Madness and it's the college basketball tournament. Everyone, even people who care nothing about basketball, predict the winners of the 64-team tournament. Then they watch the results, suddenly invested because of those brackets they filled out.
As for me, I'm in a hotel room near Bowling Green State University for the biggest swim meet in the region. It's called the Great Lakes Zones and includes swimmers from Michigan, Ohio, Indiana and West Virginia. My kids events are conveniently timed so that they swim only one or two per day -- Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Both Grace and Tucker have dropped time on each event they have swum, so I guess it's a success. As for me, I am scrambling to finish grades which are due today and after I finish this swim meet Sunday then run to my writer's group on Sunday afternoon and take Spencer to basketball practice Sunday evening, I am taking some time to myself.
I mean it too.

Have Purse, Will Travel

Here's a picture of my new purse which I will be carrying in Paris this spring because we just bought our airline tickets! Yea!
I thought it wasn't going to happen. We went back and forth. Too expensive. Daughter going to college in the fall. Our 20th anniversary.
Finally, we found a good deal on airfare, $605 each round trip. And last night, I found this sweet little purse. It says spring. It says travel. It says. I'm going!

The "C" Word

No one has actually said the words.
Breast cancer.
Thud.
The words fall beause they have no meaning. I can't equate those words with my friend. Yes, I followed the saga from lump, no big deal, to mammogram, to biopsy, to now.
But that isn't my story to tell.
All I can say is that I'm scared for my friend, but I can't allow myself to think for a moment that she's not going to be the same person who meets me every Saturday morning at the trail.
This isn't some mother of a basketball player who I wave to across the gym. This isn't the woman who drives the silver car, you know, you see her pull into school a few minutes late every morning.
This time it's different because she is my friend. She's my friend who has spent years convincing me that I can run a marathon and I can write a book, no, I should write a book.
She has hiked with me on the Appalachian trail and she has run with me through snow and rain and beating sunshine. She has stopped to listen to bird calls, to watch geese take flight and to pick up a nursing bat that lay in the middle of the path.
She has listened to me whine about my marital issues and my kids' problems and she has shared her own.
Now she has to face something horrific and she will face it with guts and love, but I wonder what I will do. Because, even though my family has survived tragedy in the past, my modus operandi is avoidance.
And I don't want to be that person, the one who asks her other friends, "Hey, how's she doing?" because I've been too busy to actually spend any time with her.
So, I resolve to be there for my friend.
But I don't know what that looks like. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. I feel like I'm floundering when she needs me most.
Is there a right way to do this?

Teenagers

My Saturday night was spent not just dogsitting, but chaperoning this motley crew of 14-year-olds who arrived to celebrate Tucker's birthday.
If you'll recall, last year Tucker had the worst birthday ever. It included walking to school (late) in below zero weather. Getting two detentions. Not receiving the special lunch Earl dropped off for him so he had nothing to eat. And Earl learning that day that the newspaper was planning layoffs and he might lose his job, so we contemplated returning the birthday present.
I was determined that this year's birthday would be better and it was. After school I took him and five boys to a pizza place. Then this weekend we planned this party.
Tucker, out of all of my children, is presenting a challenge as he enters these teenage years. And sometimes I feel exasperated. At my wits' end.
Then I see my friend Ruth struggling with her son's anxieties that debilitate him. I see my other friend waiting to learn the results of her biopsy.
Each of us is walking our own path and sometimes things seem unbearable, but mostly just looking up from the path shows us that others have a more difficult climb. It reminds me to stop complaining.
I struggle to remember that the hardest and the easiest thing to do when a child wears me down, is to give him a hug and don't let go for a long while.

Lucky Me

This little guy has kept me busy this weekend. No, I haven't lost my mind and adopted a puppy. The first few minutes of holding this wriggly guy, my thoughts were, "Oh, he's so cute."
But by the fourth time he peed on the one rug in the house and pooped on the wood floor behind the chair, I remembered why I don't have a dog.
Lucky is his name. He's a miniature beagle and pug mixture.
"What do they call that?" Spencer asked. "A bug?"
No actually they call it a puggle and Grace is dogsitting him. Of course, Grace has a very busy life, so while she's gone to swim practice and concert competition, I get to keep an eye on the dog. At first we let him run around the house. Then we figured out we needed to keep him confined to his kennel or outside. Last evening, I took him out twice and he peed twice within the span of half an hour. Fifteen minutes later, he peed on one of the girls at Tucker's birthday party while she was holding him. Back to the Kennel for Lucky.
He's 10 weeks old and about five pounds. I'll try to get a picture of him next to the cats so you can see how tiny he is, and so he doesn't look so evil.
We're making progress, I guess, because when I got up this morning, he hadn't peed in his kennel, which he did yesterday. Right now, while I have my morning coffee and check my favorite blogs, he's outside in the yard alone and he has stopped scratching on the door. I'd better go check on him. He goes home today. What a relief!

Oh What a Tangled Web We Weave...

It all started with an email about writing submissions. I'm part of a writing yahoo group that used to be very active, but lately only sends emails when someone gets a successful publishing deal. An email came across about submissions for an erotica anthology.
Now, I've never written erotica. Whenever a sex scene pops into my novels, I inevitably tone it down, leaving the details to the readers' imaginations. This submission called for erotica of 1200 words. I mean, who couldn't write that? The only problem was that I wouldn't want it associated with me. How embarassing for me, my children, my parents... So, I decided to create a pseudonym.
It took some thinking before I came up with a name that I thought would be innocent, yet provocative. Think sexy librarian. No, I'm not telling you because what would be the point of creating an anonymous pseudonym and then telling everyone.
What I didn't realize was how many steps it would take to create this fake persona. I thought I'd start a Facebook page. Before I did that, of course, I had to have an email. So I went to gmail and created an account based on my pseudonym. Then I went to Facebook. My pseudonym might as well be younger, one of us should enjoy it. She's about 10 years younger than I am, in the prime of her life. Aaah.
Of course, I can't post a picture of myself. Next I had to create an account to make an avatar. Remember that the avatar isn't of me, but of this erotica writer person. Am I giving it away by posting it on my blog? I have no idea how people can track down other people on Facebook. I sent a message to a friend asking her to add me to a group and then I wondered if that message is posted to her wall so everyone will know that it's me, posing as this other person.
I have resisted Facebook as myself. I don't want to spy on my teenagers. Really, I'd prefer not to know what they do most of the time. When I want to communicate with my parents (who do have a Facebook account but have no idea how it was created), I just call them.
I have a webpage called paulitakincer.com so any old friends searching for me should be able to find me pretty easily.
I spent a couple of hours this morning creating my fake persona.
I haven't written any erotica. Yes, I know the deadline is Monday, and chances are that I'll never finish it, much less submit it, but I did have fun playing dress up. Isn't this really the equivalent of playing let's pretend when you're a kid?
Now I'll go back to being a teacher who has papers to grade, a woman who needs to go work out at the gym, a writer who is 200 pages into her next novel, and a mother who has to get her teenagers out the door to school.
The fantasy was fun while it lasted.

Cat Toys

This morning in the dark (yes, it's still dark at 5 a.m. in case anyone wondered) as I put the kettle on for coffee water, I noticed both cats sitting together staring under the refrigerator.
I hate that. I hate when the cats stare at something. Sometimes they'll be staring at me, except not really at me but over my shoulder so then I have to turn around and look. Almost always, there is nothing behind me. Then I wonder if there's something there I can't see!
Anyway, cats sitting together staring under the refrigerator could mean a mouse. I put the water on the stove and rinsed out my press pot for coffee. The cats had shifted. They were both staring at the tile on the kitchen floor and Tupi reached out an occasional big paw to bat at something. Tupi, like Hemingway cats in Key West, Florida, has two extra toes, so his paws are really big.
I turned on the light in the kitchen to see what was fascinating the cats. I leaned over and saw there an innocent little bug. Now I'm no expert on bugs, but this was a little guy who wouldn't have frightened anyone in my house. The bug was about the size of one of Tupi's toes. He was brown and had a kind of shell on his back and a pointy head that looked like a rhinoceros horn. When I later looked him up, I'd say he falls under the category of a stink bug. They're called that because they emit an odor to keep from getting eaten by birds and lizards.
This stink bug no doubt was taking advantage of the warm weather. Since Sunday the weather has been in the high 50s. Earl has had the doors and windows open which fires up the cats' feisty nature anyway.
The cats continued to poke at the stink bug as he made his slow way along the tile.
I put a white napkin on the floor in front of him and he slowly climbed onto it. I took the napkin with the bug out the back door and tried to shake him off into the grass. Apparently, stink bugs have grasping feet because he didn't budge off the napkin. I just lay the napkin in the grass, figuring I'd retrieve it later once the bug had moved on to greener pastures.
Now the cats are staring at me as if I'd stolen their only toy in the house.
Considering that they woke me up at midnight knocking over a pedestal lamp, I think they're pretty lucky to still be in the house.

Baby Texts

Yesterday was Earl's niece's birthday. I don't know why I say Earl's niece since we've been married 20 years, but I feel too young to have a 32-year-old niece. She brought her 4-month-old over to spend some time with us while she ran errands. Caroline is a little hesitant to warm up to us (especially Earl). But she loves Grace.
We had another beautiful day, so 20 minutes before the end of school, I put her in the stroller and walked up to the high school to meet Grace. Caroline fell asleep shortly after Grace joined us, so we stopped at the coffee shop and continued our walk home. As soon as we got home, Grace scooped her out of the stroller. She hasn't heard the saying: "Let sleeping babies lie."
She wanted to play with Caroline. And, as you can tell from the photo, she had important things to teach her. What four-month-old doesn't know how to text? How's she going to stay in touch with all of her baby friends if she can't text yet?
Caroline is practically going cross-eyed trying to focus on that phone.

Break a Leg!

The musical this past week was FABULOUS. I got to sit through it twice and a third time I was on costume repair duty so I scurried from backstage to the rear doors to watch various parts, especially Grace's scene which begins the second act.
When our French friend Marie came to visit this summer, she found it impossible to believe that Americans actually have "high school musicals."
"No, zhis must not be true!" she insisted. She also couldn't believe there were real marching bands. But, it's all true. These pieces of Americana make up the high school experience.
I'd never seen this musical before, so my expectations were low. But the music, the acting and the kids were amazing. The musical is called HONK! and it's based on the story of The Ugly Duckling. A number of the high school kids decided this was beneath them and didn't even try out. They apparently weren't aware of the sexual innuendo throughout the play. As Grace said, "Mom, what do you expect? It was created in England."
So no one should have been surprised when the duck mother was explaining to the Ugly Duckling that the island was too far away to swim. "Good gracious, no. It's farther than you'd think. I've only been out there once when your father and I were courting and I didn't mean to go that far then."
Grace, a hen, and Queenie, a cat, have a scene where the tom cat is chasing down the ugly duckling. The tom cat sees Queenie and a "love scene" ensues. She calls the tom cat a "scruff" but admits that when "you've had it easy, you like a bit of rough!"
So this was definitely no children's-only show.
Some of my favorite parts from the show: Grace was sick on Tuesday night so she stayed home while they were rehearsing. She was texting. I asked who she was texting.
"Carl."
"Isn't Carl rehearsing?" I asked. Carl played one of the ducklings.
"Yes, he's in his egg."
I loved the idea that Carl was on stage waiting to be hatched and busy texting.
On opening night, we were in the audience. The cat's goal throughout is to catch and eat the Ugly Duckling. A little boy a few rows behind us. Began to whisper in fear, "Oh no. He's going to eat him. He's going to get him."
His mother had to take him out of the theater. Then when the cat goes running out of the back door, as part of the play, the child and the mean cat came face to face. Kyle, who played the cat, scared children, and enthralled them every night.
In the final night, a little boy in the audience had the funniest laugh, kind of craggly. When Kyle the cat ripped open his yellow rain slicker (the one he'd been wearing to pretend he's a duck) the little boy laughed a big, raucous laugh. Everyone on stage had to freeze because the whole audience cracked up at the little boy's laugh.
At the end of the play Saturday night, Grace sobbed and sobbed. Theater and music made her high school experience worthwhile. Yes, she loved biology and she was an expert at English essays, but this was something she could not have gotten at home.

Most Gorgeous Day Ever!

It may be that the long, gray winter has influenced me, and the fact that it was practically light when I met my friends for our run at 6:15 this morning buoyed my spirits, but I think today is the most gorgeous day ever.
Sure, it was cold, in the 20s, and I couldn't really feel my fingers for the first half hour or so, but I love running on the trail with my friends. The sunlight reflecting on the snow was like manna from heaven. Today is Princess' birthday and she started it with a 7.5 mile run. Everything has to be good now. So happy birthday, Princess.
One of the blogs I follow, http://willows95988.typepad.com/tongue_cheek/ asked the question today about who is the storyteller in your life and what kinds of stories do you tell. Well, that Saturday morning run on the trail is all about telling stories. We tell stories about our lives and our kids' lives. We talk about work and we laugh and laugh.
Today's stories were all over the place, as usual, as we interrupt each other to point out bright red cardinals, disappearing bunny tails and the smooth water of the river right before it gets bumpy over the rocks.
Stephanie told a story about her mammogram that didn't happen because the machine was broken. We began to speculate about what could have happened to the machine. We pictured it getting stuck with a woman's breast inside it and how they would have to call the firefighters with "the jaws of life" to free her pancaked breast.
We imagined running a marathon at Big Sur and how we wouldn't make it very far because Stephanie would stop to look at every hole in the ground, every scat on the path and every movement in the bushes.
The Queen of Secrets pondered how three of her friends at work could have the exact same birthdays that her three running friends have. Strange coincidence or karma?
Then we laughed about our hiking trip when we were all a little more out of shape, Princess was on Accutane which was giving her old-lady joint issues, and we decided to hike 25 miles in the rain and slippery leaves. We didn't even see the night sky because of the clouds.
"Why didn't we just spend another night on the trail instead of going home?" I asked aloud.
"Don't you remember that you sat down on that stump and refused to move?" Princess asked me.
Oh, yeah. Now I remember why we returned to civilization. I was miserable, along with the Queen of Secrets and the Princess. Only Stephanie was cheerful, trying to keep us walking.
That trip, that miserable trip, has given us so many fun things to talk about though, as we meet each week on the trail to run.
Maybe we'll go again for two nights and a much shorter hike -- just so we don't run out of things to talk about on the trail.

Springtime Moon

I know if I were more knowledgable about the moon and the night sky, I could explain this, but a couple of times each year, I awaken to find the moonlight drenching my bed. This week has been one of those times.
We have wooden shutters on the bottoms of the bedroom window, leaving the "architectural details" of our Arts & Crafts' house windows uncovered.
As the moon moves through its cycle this week, its light reaches our bedroom window during different parts of the night. Sometimes I'll wake up to find Earl not in bed yet, but the moonlight is there. Other times I'll feel Earl lying next to me with the moonlight pouring onto him.
This morning, after a late night at the theater, I slept in until 6:30. (I know. Pitiful.) When I woke up, the moon was there dousing our room with light. It shone in the navy blue sky, whose only purpose was to serve as background.
The glass of the window distorted the view, but I wanted you to see my morning greeting from the moon.

Feathers Flying

Last week, my 13-year-old picked up his backpack off the floor and gave a sigh of exasperation. "Everyday I go to school leaving a trail of feathers," he complained.
It's true. My house is full of feathers. And I don't own a bird.
The musical at the high school this year is the story of the Ugly Duckling and I am, once again, working on costumes. The borrowed sewing machine is set up at the end of our dining room table, right in front of a heating vent
When the heat kicks on, the cut off pieces of yellow boa feathers stream up in the air then float down like tiny jelly fish under the ocean. We'll be in the middle of a conversation when a little, yellow jellyfish boa comes floating down before our eyes.
(This may make a general statement about my housekeeping capabilities that may appall some readers.)
No one in the play is wearing a chicken suit, though.
Since the fall play, Little Women, Jennie and I have been going to the costume room every week and reorganizing it. We've removed, classified and folded every piece of clothing in there. Then suddenly spring musical was upon us. Luckily, with 35 cast members, some other mothers have stepped in to help, as well.
Jennie and I "pulled" the necessary clothes from the boxes then we set to adding feathers.
I'm in charge of the costumes for the four ducklings and the evil cat.
Every time I cut one of the yellow boas, the pieces flew everywhere, including up my nose. I've swiffered and vaccuumed, but those yellow jellyfish boas keep escaping, much to the consternation of the cats who thought the boas and yellow tulle were only for attacking anyway. They'll stare in suspicion at the piece of yellow feather flying through the air.
The ducklings are the smallest girls in the cast. I'm not crazy about their orangish tshirts and leggings, but I do love the yellow tutus. The male duckling has a tail with tulle and boas, but it is not nearly as poofy as the girls' tutus.
The cat is wearing a pin-striped suit and I had to add fur down his back. I twisted some pipe cleaners together to fill out the tail and give it a little shape. Then I added some fur to his lapels. He's supposed to have a sleazy, 1980s look to him.

The rest of the time, I've been hemming pants, shorts and skirts then sewing boas onto them.
Grace has a nice part as a domesticated chicken, which she plays with a thick southern accent. Her best friend is a female cat and they have a nice duet, along with a solo for Grace. I'm excited for this production to get on stage and then be over.
I'm so sick of feathers yet don't have the energy to clean up the ones that remain in my house. The show is this weekend, so after Saturday, I'm finished with feathers.

Angst-Ridden on a Dark, Snowy Road

I was driving alone in the dark tonight to a basketball game nearly an hour away. The road was smeary with snow, both blowing and falling, and I was late. The game had started three minutes before and I had no idea where I was.
I hated being late, although I frequently am late. I imagined Grace was in the car. She reminds me, "Breathe" in a kind of condescending way since she is much more likely to panic than I am.
I'd had a busy day grading papers. Then I had taken Spencer to pick up Subway for the basketball team and dropped him at the bus with the food.
"We need cookies," he said.
"I don't have time to bake cookies," I told him.
"Buy them. Two packs."
I had two packs of Oreos in the car ready to be delivered. And somewhere in this dark night, Spencer was sitting on a bench, a sophomore at a Varsity tournament game. He probably wouldn't even get on the floor. Still, I wanted to be there. I didn't want to let him down.
That's when I spoke out loud to the empty car: "You're doing the best you can."
The words kind of hung there for a minute. .
It's true. I try hard to be a good mom for all of my kids. Sometimes I succeed; sometimes I fail.
I felt tears sting my eyes because those words felt so true.
I'm doing the best I can. Nowhere near perfect, but it's what I have to offer.
I got to the game in the second quarter and maybe Spencer's eyes found me, but for sure they found the cookies on the bus after the game.

My Almost Perfect Birthday

After telling everyone that my almost-perfect husband baked a birthday cake in the middle of the night, I never followed up by telling you how the rest of the day went.
I woke up early to do some writing. I find that since the Writing Group actually complimented my writing, I'm not nearly as inclined to add words to the manuscript. SO that backfired.
I headed out the door for a Tuesday morning run - unheard of with my Tuesday schedule. I put my iPod in and pushed the button. Nothing. What? Dead?
So I plugged it in and ran without it. As I walked out the back door and heard the birds calling above me in the dark, I considered that the dead iPod might be a birthday present in disguise. Next I heard the drip, drip, drip of melting snow by the garage. Then "Aieee!" that was me as I almost fell on the pile of snow that had been slicked down to become ice. So I ran with only my thoughts to keep me company.
A sub was taking my morning classes, so I got the kids to school and had time to relax at home before I went to have a pedicure. My toes are a lovely, sparkly pink. And my feet are smooth without all of those running calluses.
Next I met my husband for lunch at a cozy Italian restaurant. We started with bruschetta - thick wedges of bread with tomatoes and mozzarella. Then I had a salad of romaine with candied walnuts, tomatoes and buttermilk dressing. My main course was chicken ravioli. Hmmm. Since it was my birthday, they brought a sampler for dessert that had small servings of tiramisu, creme brulee and a thick chocolate pots de creme.
Earl gave me my birthday present (what a cake, a pedicure and lunch out weren't present enough?) a beautiful wine-colored Pashmina. The material was paper thin and so soft.
I had to teach that afternoon and Earl headed off to work, but I picked the kids up for a carefully scheduled dinner -- in between basketball, swim and play practice -- at their favorite new burger joint that offers salty fries, thick hamburgers and shakes. I wasn't really hungry but the company was good.
The evening degenerated a bit into fights over homework and I snatched away one child's phone, grounding him simultaneously before I had to go to the high school to work on costumes for the musical.
At nearly 10 o'clock, Tucker called and pointed out we still hadn't cut into that birthday cake.
"Oh, yeah," I exclaimed to Grace. We were trying to put things away so we could make a hasty escape. "We haven't celebrated with cake yet."
"Celebrated what?" the other women asked as we skated out the door.
"My birthday!" I called.
"Happy birthday," their yells echoed as we hurried home in yet another snowfall.
We couldn't find candles or matches, so the kids sang Happy Birthday in French and I sliced into the three layer cake for a bedtime snack.
The next day, I went to the salon for a facial. I fell asleep on the table and woke up with a snort.
"You relaxed well," the technician assured me.
I did. Good thing birthdays only come once a year. Mine was expensive, but satisfying. And almost perfect!

Interval Training

My mom recently sent a batch of photos, one of which makes me wince when I think about it, much less look at it. I could convince myself that it was just an unflattering picture, or I can believe that's what I really look like. It definitely increased my wish to tone up.
I planned to work out this morning. I have more time today because my Friday class isn't meeting. So I would lift weights and run 45 minutes on the treadmill then maybe hop on the bike or the elliptical machine.
Instead, I was captured by the idea of interval training. An article on Roadrunner summed up some results and it sounded easy enough for me to try, so I did. Here's the AP article link:http://www.rr.com/news/topic/article/rr/8459870/10475262/Interval_training_can_cut_exercise_hours_sharply

According to the article, interval training can be more effective than slogging 10 miles every week. Although trainers thought interval training should only be done by elite athletes, they've found that it can work for middle-aged runners, swimmers, bikers, like me.
My goal was to follow the instructions of running faster than usual for four minutes, four different times and walking three minutes in between each one.
The trainer wasn't at the Y this morning so I couldn't ask her how fast I should set the treadmill. I usually run about a 10-minute mile on the treadmill. Should I set it at an 8-minute mile, I wondered? The women working at the front desk were nervous that I was asking.
"Can you wait about 20 minutes?" one woman asked.
"Why? Will the trainer be here?" I asked.
"No, but I'll be gone," she said.
"Wear the clip," they warned. The clip automatically shuts off the treadmill if I fall.
So I climbed on my favorite treadmill, right under the air conditioning vent, and the old guy next to me, who has a white beard down to the middle of his chest, explained that the treadmill actualy has an "interval training button." I set my "jog" speed and my "fast-paced" speed. He advised me to just increase the speed slightly for that first day, so I set it at a 9:30-minute mile.
Of course, the problem with asking someone for advice is that they continue to give it throughout the workout. He said he wouldn't want to walk for three minutes in between. He wouldn't want to run for four minutes either. He'd stick with a minute or a minute and a half. I couldn't imagine focusing enough to change speeds every minute. So I followed the instructions in the article.
When I finished, I had only gone a little over three miles and thirty minutes. Pretty close to my usual 10-minute mile pace. But the article promises that my metabolism will be up and that the oxygen to my muscles will increase. I will probably look like a totally different person the next time anyone sees me.
My butt muscles were a little sore, but I like working out and then having sore muscles; it makes me feel like I've accomplished something.
As the old guy was leaving, he said, "You probably only need to do that interval training once a week."
"Are you kidding, I'll do it three times a week if it can take the place of my two-hour workout," I said.
I lifted weights and then came home to watch those pounds and inches melt away. I'll keep you posted.

Sad Grace

Tucker is in charge of the picture slide show for the high school swim team this year so we have over 600 photos of swim team members. This one kind of sums up how Grace felt after her disappointing swim at Districts.
As we were driving home from play practice at 9:30 last night, I broached the subject of skipping swim championships for the Y next week. She will have play performances Thursday, Friday, and twice Saturday. Then she'll have to get up at 6 on Sunday and drive two hours to swim. She is setting herself up for more disappointment.
"No, I can't skip. It's my last championships."
Then I pictured how the "last" anything is so sad for Grace and I imagined the tears I will have to deal with.
"Well, if you skip this year then last year was your last year so you won't have to be sad," I reasoned.
She didn't buy it.

Midnight Baking

I woke up at 2:30 a.m. and stirred in the dark.
My husband, who works evenings, was not in bed next to me. He should have been home around midnight.
Then I smelled it. Birthday cake baking. Rich chocolate.
Happy Birthday to me.
No, I don't deserve a husband who stays up in the middle of the night to bake me a birthday cake, but I'm still keeping him.
He put the three layers in the microwave to cool.
I went back to sleep.

Writing Group

Today I am joining a new writing group. I went last month, but it was only two other women, professors, who shared their work. I didn't take anything I had written. I gave them a synopsis of my current novel. The three other professors couldn't make it, so we were an intimate group eating soup and bread. The talk veered from writing to teaching and back again. I nearly nodded off as the other women read their work. (Note to self: Don't drink the wine before the readings.)
This will be different today. I have printed off seven pages to share with the group and I find myself very nervous.
One of the women in the group is a playwright. She has had plays produced off, off Broadway. That's much closer than I've ever gotten. One of the guys is a poet. I can't imagine I'll have much to add when he reads. Poetry swims somewhere over my head for the most part.
One of the no-nonsense women is writing a mystery. She has hard-boiled detectives searching for clues. Another woman is writing a short story about a married couple who settled for each other. She is a little quirky, but has never been married, so this may be interesting.
I struggled with which of my scenes to take. I don't want to spend 10 minutes setting up the novel which none of them knows anything about, so I chose a scene near the beginning where Great Uncle Martin calls Fia and asks her to come to France to run his bed and breakfast.
The pages are spread out in front of me now. Black type on white paper. I read them and read them again. I jot down notes. I hope they like it.
That's it basically. I want them to like what I wrote. I want them to give me a pat on the back. I suppose they'll have suggestions for improving it, and I kind of dread the conversation that will go: "Yeah, I explained that in the pages before." Or, "I go into more detail on that in the next chapter."
Somewhere in this blog's history is a brief synopsis of my current novel, but I can't find it to link to it. So here it is in a nutshell:

Fia has lost her job as a home design reporter and is avoiding phone calls about bills, but she's certain something good will come her way when the phone rings with an offer from her great Uncle Martin. He and his wife Lucie run a bed and breakfast in France. They want Fia and her husband Grayson to run the B&B while they take a break – maybe a permanent one. Uncle Martin sends airline tickets and Fia convinces Grayson to use some of his long-acquired vacation time to travel to France with their 14-year-old twins. She feels sure that this is a chance to cement the family that is growing more distant and to just LIVE and learn from another culture.
What she doesn’t know is that Uncle Martin has a secret from World War II that he has hidden from everyone, including his wife. The clicking on the phone convinces him someone has discovered his secret. As an innocent Kentucky teenager fighting in World War II, he took a rolled up painting from a church in northern Italy. The painting is the most famous piece of art still missing from World War II – Painting of a Young Man by Rafael. He can’t, he won’t, be punished for a teenage mistake and he won’t spend his few remaining years behind bars or bring shame to his French wife, Lucie. He wants to leave the country before his secret is revealed and he must face the consequences.
Fia and her family land in Provence. Grayson and the children are immediately swept into the French culture, making friends and sightseeing, while Fia is left to run the bed and breakfast and wonder about the family closeness she hoped to create.

Obviously, this story line is evolving and has gone past the synopsis above. I'm at 54,000 words now.
I think I described before that reviewing a novel as I write it is like knitting while someone pulls the stitches out behind me. It's hard to make progress.
In real time, in real life though, my novel is progressing. It beckons me during the day when I'm grading papers. I wake up at five and stumble to the computer to type pages about an American woman and the famous painting her uncle took during World War II. I feel like this woman as she rides on the back of a motorcyle, resting her helmeted head against the back of the man in front of her, the man who is taking her to Poland to return the famous painting.
I hope they like it.

Expectations

On Friday morning, I debated whether I should whisper in my daughter's ear, whether I should warn her not to get her hopes up too high. It was the District competition for swim. She'd easily made it past sectionals and she had high goals for Districts. 30 swimmers move on to districts, but only the top four move onto states.
I stopped myself though after giving myself a talking to about my Midwestern values. It is so typically Midwestern to caution against high hopes. But it doesn't make the fall any easier even if we guard against high hopes. We still have them.
So I don't warn her. And that afternoon, her friends came searching for me at the swim meet and said, "You have to come. Grace is crying inconsolably in the shower."
I lied to the gatekeeper whose job is to keep parents away from the pool.
"My daughter's injured," I told him.
And I found her, her face flushed red. She lay her face on my shoulder and sobbed some more. At Districts, she finished 10th in her 50 freestyle and she didn't swim as fast as the previous year. In her eyes, she had failed, although she finished higher than anyone else on her high school team.
She went on to swim the relays which finished well and made it to the podium for the top eight places. She also swam the 100 back with a decent time.
When the day ended, she wasn't miserable, but she wasn't happy. This isn't the end, I reassured her. She moves back to the YMCA swimming and then onto college swimming.
Today I drove my son home from basketball, a game they won by nearly 30 points.
"Did you see me miss those layups?" he asked. "And the foul shots?"
I wonder why my children and I all focus on the things we didn't accomplish. I think we have high expectations, but maybe we need a contingency plan, a back up for when things don't go the best possible route.
Because, even when my son doesn't make all the baskets he attempts, or my daughter doesn't swim as fast as she had hoped, or I'm not the best possible wife, mother or teacher, maybe we should all cut ourselves some slack. Maybe we can think that whatever our best is on this day is good enough.

An Army of Snowmen

The population in our little town has really exploded since we received that first foot of snow a few weeks ago. Kids, maybe parents, have been out building snow people.
Some of them are traditional, like this little guy:
This one is pretty run of the mill, except for the open, welcoming arms. Good thing since his smile faded.
This one just came back from sledding and he has some crazy pine cone hair:
I love when people use creative add ons to the snowmen. This one doesn't have a face. Unless he is looking toward the house and waving with his big old wooden arms:

We had enough snow for more than one snowperson. Here are a male and female version. The man tipped forward, the woman tipped back. I worry that they may have been involved in some sort of marital dispute that has left them at odds!
This one is very creative. I think it's the Pillsbury Dough Boy surrounded by minions who are worshipping him with their little branches. Either that or the branches are chains holding onto the little dogs of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. This just in -- My husband has identified this photo as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters. He's probably right and the little figures are either people running in terror or the ghostbusters blasting him with their sticky goo:
This final one is a masterpiece of evil genius. Who even knew snow could do this?
Here's a close up of the serpent heads. These people should win some sort of prize.
How about you? Have you had snow? Have you played outside? I haven't, but if we have a free day tomorrow, I'm going to. Four to nine more inches on their way today.

Non-Romantic Valentine's Day

Sometimes the stone of family obligations starts rolling and it's impossible to stop it. That was our Valentine's Day.
We missed our dance class, where we were learning how to "hover" in fox trot and waltz. But we knew ahead of time that romance wasn't on our calendar today.
We went out for lunch on Friday in a pre-emptive attempt at romance, but the martini which mixed some sort of hazelnut liquor with kahlua did not sit well. It tasted good, like a Nutella martini, but I felt awful the rest of the day. I only ordered a martini because Earl wanted me to "relax." So that didn't work.
I looked half-heartedly for a Valentine card to give Earl. He finds romantic cards for me. They are always blank and he writes heartfelt sentiments about how he's so glad he found me. Well...I'm not doing them justice.
I made him vow that this year we weren't giving gifts or cards. I couldn't add something else to my list of things to do.
This morning, as the merest of Valentine gifts, I slept in until 7. I looked in his eyes and said if I'd found him a card, I would have written: "Thank you for making every day special, for doing things that will make me happy not just on Valentine's Day, but every day."
Even if our Valentine's Day is not romantic and special, we're counting on all those other days of the year when we have a chance to sneak away for a meal or a drink or just a walk in the sunshine.
Happy Valentine's Day, Earl.

Free Time? What's That

So many things I'm missing right now, like time to write blog posts, time to run with my friends.
It's 6:15 on Saturday morning. The trail is dark and snowy. So, of course, two of my crazy friends are meeting there, their breath rising in dark clouds as they run along. Their feet slipping in places where the snow has frozen unevenly. Wish I could be there and laugh with them.
I have to get Grace up in a few minutes to be at the sectionals swim meet at 7 a.m. Tomorrow we are going to a college for a scholarship competition. I'll miss dance class with my husband.
Everyone always told me how busy senior year is for the students. They never told me how busy it would be for me, the parent.
Then again, I have to consider that this is Grace's last sectional high school meet. I should enjoy these moments instead of complaining about how little time I have.
I'd better get a few papers graded before we go.
What are you doing this weekend? Things you want to do or things you have to do?

Tonight I'm Going to Party Like I'm 18!

We had Grace's 18th birthday party at a dance studio with 35 to 50 of her closest friends.
Other than writing the check, it's the easiest birthday party ever. We lugged in chips and pop. Grace made cupcakes so we didn't have to do a birthday cake, blow out the candles scene in the middle of the party.
She sent out Facebook invitations. She rushed to a camp counselor meeting an hour before and the outfit she had planned to wear didn't work. Luckily, a friend who came to fix her hair in the spare 15 minutes before the party brought 3 outfits. Grace grabbed one of hers, and voila. Instant glamorous 18-year-old.
People showed up. And showed up. And showed up.

We just kept welcoming them and directing them toward the coat rack until Ron, the dance instructor/dj got them out on the floor and led them through their moves.
Then they danced.

They took breaks to grab drinks, mostly water, in spite of the pop we'd carried in. Then they danced some more. Sheila came too and took pictures. Thanks, Sheila!

There was no dirty dancing, except for one couple and they weren't even very good at it. Instead they focused on group dances like the ChaCha Slide and the always fun Snake Dance.

There was a lot of sweating and laughter, so overall, I'd definitely call this a success.

A Free Weekend

The snow. The kids were disappointed that the snow didn't come in time to give them a snow day. It started about 9:30 a.m. Friday morning. I was leaving the house to teach and when I opened the door, I heard the tinking of ice hitting the frozen ground and the house.
"Do you hear that?" I turned back and asked Earl.
"Yeah, I hear the birds."
But, no. Not the birds fighting over the bird feeder and filling the bushes. The sound of the snow and ice. Tiny little pellets were spitting from the sky.
In class, I looked out the window and the snow flakes were huge, big as a baby's fist as they pelted from the sky. The weather was still fairly warm, hovering around 31 degrees so the flakes were big and wet.
I wore clogs to class. Snow filled my shoes as I walked outside two hours later.

The male cardinal is easy to find in this tree.
Can you spot his mate?
As the snow continued to fall, cancellations filled the television screen.
No basketball game that night. Check. I could mark it off my list.
The swim meet on Saturday was cancelled. Another check. Grace has a cold anyway so she should stay home and get well.
The snow continued in the dark, somewhere between 9-12 inches they estimated. And this morning, the cold had settled in and the newly dried snow blew wildly around the sky. Was it new snow or the old snow blowing?
It didn't matter, because we all slept in and the college we were supposed to visit on Sunday called to cancel.
Cha-ching. Three cancellations and I could spend all weekend at home grading papers.

Tucker took a picture of the bird feeder.
He said it had an afro that needed some styling.
I made a pot of Beach Bar Tomato Soup that includes cream cheese and half & half. Imagine how rich it is with chunks of stewed tomatoes. I put Italian-style croutons in the soup and sprinkle some sharp cheddar on top.
Grace baked cupcakes in preparation for her 18th birthday party tomorrow and we hardly left the house. This is luxury. Even if I do still have a ton of papers to grade. At least, I have time to do that now.

Images From a Basketball Game

Anyone who knows me, knows I enjoy watching sports and I'm pretty competitive. Last night was just another ordinary basketball game night. Earl got to come to the game since it was his day off. His observation: Spencer has matured on the court.
My impressions:
Long arms like spider monkeys snatching the ball out of the air.
His hands like gecko feet stick to the ball whenever they touch it.
Long loping gallop, ball dribbling beside him as he leaps up for a layup.
The JV won by 30 points, so he sat most of the second half and the boys who don't usually get a chance to play had a turn.
Then the Varsity team comes running out. Spencer has managed to pull on his warm up jersey and run out before the rest of the JV team has even gotten to the locker room.
His white shorts dangle. The strings from the shorts hang out. He holds the shorts in a bunch with one hand and shoots with the other. He lets go of the shorts for just a minute to rebound then grabs them again before they can fall.
The moms in the stands, figure the drawstrings have come out. One mom has a safety pin. Earl had left by that time so I hand it to a dad who isn't afraid of being rebuked by the coaches or the boys. A couple of the coaches and some of the senior boys gather around Spencer. They stand in a circle examining the long strings and the loose shorts.
I laugh and laugh. I wish I had a camera.
The game begins. Within the first few minutes, one of our boys goes down on the floor, sliding along on his butt. His hands are over his face, his eyes watering.
He sits on the bench with an icepack on his face. Then the trainer hands him cotton. He twists it and stuffs it up his nose which swells throughout the rest of the game.
The game ends and long, tall Spencer comes out, the blue strap of his gym bag crossing his chest. Joe accepts a ride from us and the two of them laugh in the backseat about how Spencer co-hosts parties at Joe's house.
We drive through Wendy's to provide Frosties and Baconators.

Annoyed

That's the word I would use to describe myself these past few days. And it seems ridiculous. I just wrote a post about a woman who is dying, who isn't going to have years to spend with her kids, and I'm annoyed at my teenagers.
I'm trying to snap out of it, but they live up to my lowest expectations every time.
"My knee hurts."
"Did you take your Advil like I told you to three times?"
"No."
Aaargh.
"I have another chapter to read," said at 10:30 at night from the boy who won't get out of bed until 7:30 when school starts at 8.
"Why did you go play Xbox at your friend's house if you have a test and another chapter to read? You know you can't get out of bed."
Aaargh.
"My elbow hurts. I'm so far behind in my online PE class. I haven't turned in all the tests for my correspondence health course. I don't have my paperwork in for my camp counselor application. Can you go pick it up? I'm feeling very stressed," she says as she harvests peaches on farmville.
Add to that the rude emails I get from online students who never see my face-to-face so they feel free to be rude.
Aaargh.

The Words We Don't Say

Yesterday afternoon I spent about three hours working in the costume room. We have taken out every item of clothing in the hundreds of bins and the four big closets. We have organized them according to article of clothing, length, color. We have looked at every item and found some incredibly long pants that would have gone under my armpits, and some incredibly big pants that one teenager each fit into the legs. We have tried on hats and capes and ahhhed at the beautiful gowns. We've thrown away some hideous stuff too.
So Jennie and I were working and her daughter Olivia, a sophomore, was there sorting and helping us complete the final work. Olivia's boyfriend Ben came to help.
He's a dark-skinned boy with dark hair, not very tall but lithe muscle. I've seen him race around the soccer field and he is fast. If I had to guess, I'd say Ben has some American Indian in his blood (from the looks, not the quickness.)
He's a very nice boy. He climbed up the 8-foot ladder and handed down bins then helped arrange the ones that were already on top of the closets. He climbed into the very big pants next to Olivia and, as a joke, held up a bottle of Fuze Slenderize to show how much weight he and Olivia lost to fit in the size 60 pants.
He asked me about Spencer and we commisserated on the miserable English teacher they had last year.
"Still, he should have stayed in honors English," Ben said. "He's really good at English."
What a nice boy.
As we finished, Olivia tried on a pair of old-fashioned roller skates and I told the two of them that Ben is supposed to skate backward while Olivia skates forward. They were off down the hall.
"She is so good for him," Jennie said when they were out of earshot.
And she wasn't just bragging about her daughter.
None of the three of us had asked Ben how his mother was. None of us mentioned that he had spent a few hours away from home in what might be his mother's last week of life.
The only time the subject was broached was when Ben told Olivia how he, his father and little brother had gone to Nordstrom's to look for suits -- suits to wear to their mother's funeral. They couldn't find anything at Nordstrom's so they ended up at Macy's and found suits there.
I'm not sure if I can think of anything sadder than a 5th grader and 10th grader going to the store to buy suits for their mother's funeral.
Their mother, although I don't know her well, is always smiling and energetic. She fought off cancer last year and would come to the pool with a scarf wrapped around her bald head. This year, her hair grew a short and spiky brown. She worked hanging up coats at the swim meet over Christmas break.
Then the cancer reappeared and her time with those boys and her very kind husband is short.
But Ben wants to not have to think, every minute of the day, about the fact that his mom is dying. So he escapes to spend time with Olivia, to be silly and to be part of a normal family.
I remember when my sister died that I enjoyed laughing with my friends and not thinking about that other part of my life, that I could put away for whole minutes at a time.
So I'm happy to see a smile on Ben's face and that for a little while he can be a teenager who doesn't have to focus on how his life will change one day very soon.