Ecstasy and Ivory

This morning, like most, my guys are all sleeping. My husband, my two sons. My daughter is off in the Bahamas, and I have the luxury of reflecting on my girl time. That's what I have every Saturday morning when I gather with my friends and we run. We laugh, probably more than we run. Words tumble over each other as we all share our week, our emotions, our lives.
This is a picture of all of us when we attempted a hiking trip. It wasn't as successful as our runs are, as far as accomplishing the hike, but it was definitely successful in allowing us to spend time together.
Any problem or joy I have, I can take to the trail and know my friends will commiserate or rejoice with me.
The run yesterday (8.5 miles)involved a couple stops to remove pebbles from shoes (Najah), a bra flash that was probably seen by a dozen cars travelling along the nearby highway (Noreen), and an insistence that we make it all the way to the halfway point before we slowed and drank some water (Pam). Well, and the sprint at the end (me). I just think it is wrong to run 8.5 miles and not be breathing hard at the end. We run slow enough the whole way that we can talk and laugh. If we pushed ourselves to run faster, we could finish sooner, but who wants to leave friends sooner? So we run slow and talk, but at the end, we've started sprinting. My friends complain about it, but I notice they do it anyway.
The end of our run yesterday included a lap around the lake because we needed another mile. So we turned off the paved trail and took to the dusty path that goes 1.2 miles along the serene lake. As we turned the corner to reach the deck, Picabo and I crossed a grassy strip to run on the paved trail. Najah and Noreen stayed on the path. The incline (hill) at the end loomed ahead of Pam and me while the lake path stayed more level.
"I think this is where the sprint starts," Pam said.
I started lengthening my stride, feeling my thigh muscles stretch out. I felt powerful. After I reached the top of the hill, I let gravity keep pulling me down the incline and Pam continued to sprint, passing me. I ran until we both stopped beside the deck. Noreen and Najah joined us.
"That was so cool," Noreen said. She didn't have the energy to sprint, but Najah's stride lengthened and she began to sprint. Noreen felt Najah's energy pull her along. We were all breathing a little heavy as we returned to our cars.
After last week's near injury for me, my friends had discussed what they would do if I couldn't run.
"If I were injured, I'd bring my bike and ride along," Noreen said.
Pam said the conversation last week was, if Paulita can only walk, we'll walk. If she can only stand, we'll get together and stand. I guess it's really not about the run at all. It's about the friends. But luckily, we could all run yesterday.
Saturday's run included spotting a deer with an extremely long tail (could it have been a dog?), incredibly ADD conversations that were always caught up in diversions before they returned to the point (sorry Naj!), and a surprise reunion with one of our old running buddies (Yikes! A toad! said Richard as he leapt into the air like a male ballerina). We laughed at everything and nothing.
I love my running friends. They keep me sane.

Hidden Treasures

It started with a crash. Maybe a year ago. I think Grace was in the living room when the framed picture fell from the wall above the fireplace. The glass shattered and I stood, accusatory, with my hands on my hips. Who knocked it down? Was it the cat? Was it the kids? Turned out, the wall was slightly soft and the picture hanger had just come loose, taking with it the heavy picture.
We had lived in the house less than a year, so Earl called the man who had renovated it. He hadn't touched the wall over the fireplace, he said, but he offered to come help tear it down, see what was back there. Instead, we opted to merely set a painting on the mantle and lean it against the wall. But, as the year passed, we saw signs of water damage around the molding. Water was coming in the chimney.
We had the "brick doctor" grind out the mortar and shore up the chimney.
Earl wanted to tear out the wall but I urged him to wait until my parents' visit ended. They left yesterday and today he dug into the wall.
I vacated to the front porch, expecting lots of drywall dust. I still had three classes of papers to grade and then I needed to record grades by today's deadline. The occasional curse word drifted out the window.
He pulled two layers of drywall off. Wallpaper remained on one of the drywall sections. Then he started in on the plaster that had been applied directly to the brick chimney. The drywall and plaster weren't crumbly and dusty, instead, they were wet and came off in big chunks. He threw them into plastic trash bins and pulled off the next section.
"Look at this huge hole," he called at one point. A hole in the brick. He reached his hand in. "I think this is the chimney."
Did a hole in the chimney mean that the smoke wasn't going up? But there had been drywall there. I wasn't sure. I went back to grading papers; he kept ripping down wall.
He concentrated on one side of the wall, believing the other side to not be as bad.
"I was wrong," he called, as he began pulling out clumps of wet wall.
Then "Shit. Ants!" He jumped from the ladder and went out the back door, for bug spray I assumed. I stood in front of the gray mantle and heard a sound like pop foaming, just little bubbles bursting. It was the ants falling from the wall to the debris on the mantle.The cats stood, heads poised, watching the wall, unsure what to think.
I grabbed a plastic trash bag while I waited for Earl. He came back with a red can of ant spray and drenched the wall. The ants froze in place. The smell of bug spray mixed with the scent of mold and old people's house, filling the living room.
Earl kept at it for awhile, using a chisel to pry off sections of concrete or plaster to the brick chimney. The hole in the bricks started at the place where a metal encased electric wire began.
"I can't figure out," he started. Then, like a light going on, he said, "Sconces. They gouged holes in the brick and inserted an electric wire to put sconces over the fireplace."
I saw the neighbor climb from his car and I hailed him. I knew that Earl needed a man to show this mess.
"What'd you find?" the neighbor asked. "Better not be treasure."
"Oh, don't you worry," I assured him.
When Earl was finished, we had two huge, heavy trash cans of debris that previously formed a soft wall. We had a brick wall over the fireplace with a hole an electrical wire, no molding and concrete patches.
Still, somehow, the pink of the brick chimney shows promise. If the brick doctor can fix the holes and somehow match the mortar to the bricks,make it look a little neater and less jumbled, it might turn out to be a hidden treasure after all.
Picture by artisanpainting.biz/images/exposed_brick.jpg

Travelling

I'm feeling a little anxious about my daughter's trip tomorrow. I have full confidence she'll be safe, but something feels empty knowing she's growing up and travelling without me.
She is going with Science Club and a great teacher Mr. W. to the Bahamas. No, you don't need to picture night clubs and alcohol and slinky dresses. Instead, she's packed a mask and snorkel, fins (always attractive) and lots of bug spray. Twenty-eight students from her school are going to this rather primitive island to study Tropical Ecology and they'll earn college credit while they're there.
This is the kind of thing Grace thrives on. She loves animals and studying their habitats. As long as she doesn't run into any snakes, she'll be fine. I picture her slightly sunburned sitting in the common room sharing her notes in the evening, tired but happy.
As much as I complain about my kids, it feels very satisfying to see them branch out. It's taken 17 years for her to practice flying from the nest and returning. I have full confidence she'll succeed, but suddenly I feel like maybe I'm not ready for her to go. That must be why they call it empty nest syndrome.
I have another year with her here at home. I hope I remember to enjoy it. I'm sure this trip will be a nice nudge, reminding me how quick the time spins away.

Riches Galore

Sometimes people think about, if I won the lottery, or if I were rich, I would... People have all kinds of different answers. I'd shop at Whole Foods or I'd buy all the books I want. Some people want designer clothes and others want huge mansions.
Well,for me, I'll know I've made it when I can buy sufficient raspberries to satisfy myself and the kids. During raspberry season in June and September, I limit myself to buying two pints and I carefully separate them into bowls. We sprinkle them with sugar and pour some milk on them and eat them for dessert or breakfast. I usually pay $2 to $3 per pint, so that's $4 to $6 for a small bowl for each of us. Luckily, my husband is not a raspberrry fan so we don't have to share with him.
This week though, my ship came in. No, I didn't win the lottery or sell a book, but there must be a bumper raspberry crop because they were only $1 a pint at Kroger. I stocked up. Then I went back and stocked up again. Last night, preparing for the arrival of my parents, along with my brother and his family today, I bought some raspberries to mix with cantaloupe for a fruit salad. I love the contrast of the red berry against the melon. And Grace is making chocolate mousse and requested some raspberries as garnish along with the whipping cream.
Of course, now I'd better go get started on the shish-kebabs, chicken or steak with tomatoes, zuchinni, summer squash, peppers, onions and red potatoes.
And maybe I'll make one more trip to the store for more raspberries before the sale ends tomorrow. This week, I'm rich!

Aborted Run

Well, the mileage on today's run is a little shaky, but according to the Gmaps Pedometer (which refuses to recognize the bike trail so counts the road mileage)that is how far we went before I felt that jab on top of my foot.
"Go on without me," I called to my running friends. "I've got something in my shoe."
I bent over, swiping my finger under my sock. It felt like a thorn had worked its way under. Nothing. I ran a few more steps. There it was again. A jab.
I sat down on the bike trail, untied my shoes and peeled off the sock. I turned the sock inside out. Nothing. I put it back on and noticed a red spot on top of my foot. Maybe my shoes were too tight. I loosened the tie over the part of my foot next to the ankle and ran a few steps again. Weird!
It seriously felt like something was jabbing me and was that just a little twinge going down that tendon toward my toe. We were almost at the turn around, so my running friends were rounding the corner and coming back toward me. I had just managed to get warmed up in my shorts and short-sleeved shirt in the brisk morning air. Walking was making me cool and that pain in my foot persisted.
I explained my dilemma, Pam took my shoe and relaced it, advising me not to wear it so tight. "Let's walk some," she suggested.
After only a few steps, I felt a twang. That's the word my running partner Stephanie had used. A twang. Something definitely feels wrong.
Now the old me would have toughed it out and run back to the lake, twang or no twang. But the new me wants to avoid injuries, especially now that those size 10s are fitting comfortably.
"I don't think I should go," I said.
Funny, because as I walked up to my friends, they had been in the process of saying that at this point, at the halfway mark, you get back to the beginning even if you have to crawl. Here I was saying, nope. Not gonna make it.
"Did you bring your cell phone?" I asked Najah. I thought I could call Earl who was dropping Grace at the SAT at 7:45. Nope, no phone.
Noreen suggested I wait while they run back and then someone would come pick me up. Then Najah turned to me with her big eyes wide. "You need someone to wait with you, don't you?"
I know she was only pretending she didn't want to run so I wouldn't be alone, which I appreciate, but I hate that she ruined her own run.
As we walked toward the parking lot, searching for some sun to wait, a couple ran by and said the time was 7:38. We sat and talked, chill bumps covering our legs.
Najah pulled her long sleeved shirt over her legs. We talked about scars and kids and teachers.
We walked toward the road, wondering what time it was and how long it would take them to run back to the car before Noreen came to retrieve us. We watched people walk in and out of the coffee shop and regretted that we didn't run with money.
We watched people drive up and park so they could go on walks and runs. We thought about asking if we could borrow a blanket or even just a dog to snuggle with. No one even spoke to us as we waited.
When Noreen arrived (YEA!) we climbed in the car and that twang was still there.
I don't regret the run, though on this gorgeous day with the clearest sky ever and the mist rising off the lake. I only regret that I didn't make it back to the lake.

Teenage Influence a la francais

I didn't run this morning because I was up at 5:30 working on a French essay. Oh, you didn't know I was studying French? That's because I'm not.
I was helping my daughter with her French essay. I'm pretty rusty in French. I can make myself understood, but the writing and getting all of those le and la and de and des in the correct place is a little sketchy for me. I sent the essay to my friend Clare, who teaches French, last night without even reading it through. The glance at the essay haunted me through the night and called me to the computer early. She had used conditional tense when she should have used future tense. We worked for over an hour on the essay, but it still has many mistakes. I discovered later that the email to Clare had bounced back.
After I dropped the kids off at school, I drove to the library to return some overdue books and thought I'd run when I got back home. That's when I got the urgent text message. "Email project to Mr. Hecker asap. Can't find flash drive."
The flash drive held the powerpoint project on the book SeaBiscuit that she finished at 10 last night. I'd reminded her twice to get the flashdrive before we left the house.
If I hadn't gone to the library, I would have been on a run without my phone when she texted. As it was, I was across town, driving home from the library and she would have to wait until I got home to send it.
I didn't run after I sent the essay because a heavy fatigue had settled on my shoulders. I unloaded the dishwasher and made a cup of tea, ready to read the newspaper when the chimney guy walked up the back sidewalk and said he would start putting up scaffolding.

I suppose people are tired of reading complaints about my children. Truthfully, I'm tired of complaining.
I let the whining children ruin my morning. They kept me from a run that would have helped my mood and my health. I need to be responsible for myself and rise above their squabbles. That's why I'm going out the door now for a run.
Oh, did I mention I confiscated Tucker's phone this morning too. I'll save that for another post. Or maybe I'll just let it go while I'm running rather than boring you all.

Tough Love is Hard

None of my friends are answering their phones, so I turn to my blog hoping to assuage my guilt, my mother guilt.
This morning, as most mornings, quite a bit of complaining and yelling happens at my house as we get ready to go out the door. And that's just me. I used to say that the best part about homeschooling was not having to be anywhere first thing in the morning. I still believe that's true.
So, we're almost at the end of the year and this issue has been building up for awhile. Spencer stays up late working on homework or watching the NBA playoffs and he is difficult to wake up. He usually needs a couple of wake up calls. Sometimes I'll wake him up, go feed the cats, come back again. He always says, "Just a sec."
And my response frequently is, "we don't have a sec."
When he's being especially manipulative, he'll say "Why don't you lie down here with me just for a minute?" I know, at 15, he isn't that interested in snuggling with his mom. He just wants more sleep.
This morning I was still yelling to his room at 7:15. "Spencer, are you up?" I'd get a moan. Finally, I watched until he trudged from his room to the bathroom. Much nudging and yelling followed as I tried to get him to move along. I warned Grace that we might be leaving late at the rate things were going. I promised her we'd leave at 7:50. The first bell rings at 7:55 and the late bell is 8.
And, for those of you who know that we live seven-tenths of a mile from school, Grace is still in a walking boot because of the tendonitis in her ankle. So I told the boys we were leaving at 7:50. I gave warnings at 4 minutes and 2 minutes. Spencer was spreading butter on his second English muffin when I picked up my purse and walked out the door. The other kids were already in the car.
As I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the garage, I expected to see Spencer with his backpack dangling from an arm come running through the back door. I watched the garage door close and paused in the alley, looking at the door. Nothing.
I drove to school, dropping Tucker at the middle school. Next Grace clomped off into the doors of the high school.
Should I go back and get him? No. I should let him ride his bike to school and be tardy. I forced myself to go get a coffee at Caribou Coffee. Then I became worried that Spence might be clueless enough not to notice we were gone and just hang out at home, wondering why no one was leaving for school. I called home and woke up my husband. He called out a few times. Noted that Spencer's lunch was still on the counter and said he must be gone.
As I left Caribou, I drove down the main street and saw Spencer there walking at 8:05.He leaned slightly forward with the weight of his heavy backpack. He was nearly to school.
I raised a hand. He saw me and returned the raised hand. Not a waving hand, just an acknowledgement.
Maybe he'll get a lunch detention for being late to school, or maybe he hasn't been tardy this quarter and he'll breeze through the rest of the school year without another tardy. I'm sure he has put it behind him as he nears second period.
I still feel a gnawing of guilt.

Body Image

Let's face it. Most American women have poor body image, and, although I like to consider myself above that, as I've gotten older, I've been struggling with it.
Going to dance class this spring has reinforced the fact that I am no longer the slightly chubby, but healthy woman who can ignore her weight. I hate even walking in the door. My reflection in the doorway of Dance Plus Ballroom is bigger than my reflection in any other doorway -- my house, Macy's, work. I look huge as I walk toward the door.
Once inside, the room is lined with mirrors. The first week I wore a casual outfit and was shocked to see how bad it looked on me. I was obese! I've worn each of my favorite outfits only to vow I'd never wear each again after seeing myself in those mirrors. I convinced myself the mirrors must be distorting my image so this week, I managed to stand next to another woman. I compared how she looked in real life to how she looked in the mirror. She wasn't distorted. She looked the same both places. So what's going on?

Maybe my body image is the opposite of what most women have. Maybe I haven't dealt with the way I really look. In high school, I thought I was fat. I remember the counselor/driving teacher Mr. Vandergriff who frequently told me that Paulita was supposed to mean little Paul. I distinctly remember myself in size 5 skirts. When I forgot a pair of jeans to change into after band, someone suggested that Tracey had an extra pair. "I'll never fit into her jeans," I insisted. But I did and we've been friends since.
I did gain weight and bulk up in college. I can still picture myself in the bright green tights and leotard I wore to do Jane Fonda aerobics -- the album. My weight slid up and down after that. One of the first things I understood in French was when a member of the family I was staying with was talking about me. Someone said I must enjoy the French food because I was heavy. The host family assured them I had arrived that way. No wonder I saw myself as fat.
The problem was in my mid-20s, when I stopped thinking about food and weight, and my scale settled on 118, where it returned after each baby, I still considered myself fat. I was wearing size 4 or size 6 jeans but thought I was chubby. What is that all about? Why couldn't I enjoy being thin? Why did I still need to be critical?
Raising a daughter, I always focused on being healthy. We didn't talk about dieting, but I regularly hit the running trail, as much for the emotional reward as the physical one. Over the past few years, injuries like the torn ACL and the stress fracture have prevented me from running as much. That must be when those extra pounds snuck on. And now they act like a vicious cycle, making me tired when I do run. No wonder, I'm dragging around the equivalent of a five-year-old in addition to the weight I was before. I complain of feeling fatigue. My lungs are fine, my leg muscles are fine, but a sense of "I can't possibly run anymore" overtakes me. I'm fighting that feeling now as I slog through my morning runs. Some of them are beautiful and some of them are like wrestling a two-year-old into a car seat.
So, I need to face the mirror and admit I have gained weight. I need to get out of bed every morning and run. I'm trying to follow the marathon training schedule, even though I don't plan to run the marathon. The training should help me get my body under control.

And, I need to admit that dieting only makes me crazy and crave foods. So I have to allow myself to eat what I want in moderation and increase my exercise. I tried to buy larger shorts that will be more comfortable but I still run into the difficulty of shorts that fit in the thighs and hips but are too big around the waist.
I'll keep looking and hope that soon the size 10s will be comfortable again. My goal, and everyone should have one, is to be a comfortable size 8 by the time the Columbus Marathon rolls around. I plan to stand on the sidelines and cheer for my friends while showing off some newly muscled thighs. Now about those varicose veins. Oh, never mind. No one is perfect.

Tolerance and other dangers in Kentucky

I drove to Lexington on Thursday morning, leaving the house before anyone else was awake, so I could be at the hospital when my 91-year-old grandmother had her pacemaker batteries replaced. Nana is a slip of a thing now with pale blue eyes and see-through skin. I saw her briefly before she went into the procedure and then spent an hour talking with my 70-year-old aunt. It took only a fraction of that hour for me to remember how much I hate the fact that everything in their lives revolves around God.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a church-going Catholic (okay, I missed the ascension service Thursday, but overall). This is a different kind of obsession with God. Every conversation about any person requires a discussion about this person's religious background and how they had or hadn't been saved, what age they'd been saved, whether they had backslid...
My aunt started one conversation with the fact that she really approved of homeschooling. I homeschooled my kids until last year. For me though, it was about the learning rather than the avoidance of other people's ideas.
"In schools today," my aunt dropped her voice and leaned forward, "they're teaching tolerance!"
I couldn't hold in the little burble of laughter, which probably sounded something like, "hah!"
"My kids hopefully learned as much tolerance from me at home as they would in school," I said.
"But have you heard about that new hate law? Soon it's going to be legal to beat up Christians."
I hadn't followed the law, but I didn't think that was the direction it was going.
"I think it's going to be an extra crime to hurt people because of their beliefs," I tried to explain.
"But it will be illegal for Christians to even speak out."
"No, no. I'm pretty sure it won't affect freedom of speech," I said, while I tried desperately to steer the conversation away to safer topics, like vegetables.

The rest of the afternoon was just a walk through minefields while I tried to say the right things without getting dragged into criticisms of my cousin (too fat), my former sister-in-law (never signed love on the cards until after the divorce), my own parents (too busy with their own lives to help take care of their mother). I'm lucky I was there to avoid the criticism that would have come my way.
So I skipped out early, claiming the three-hour drive made my departure a necessity. As I approached Cincinnati, I called my best friend from high school. She met me at a Panera not too far from the highway and I spewed all of my impatience with my relatives in a three-hour catch up session. Thank God for friends. But when was the last time she went to church? I'll need to check before I visit my relatives in Kentucky again.

Benadryl & Sudafed & Crutches, Oh my

My friend Angela thinks she really wants a baby. I try to update her on life with my kids as birth control incentive.
Yesterday, two of my kids were at the doctors. One with an indeterminate rash and the other with mystery pains in her ankle. My husband took Tuck to the doctor because I was working. Contact dermatitis, like poison ivy. Look, it's not poison ivy. I am a pro at recognizing the blisters once they're on the skin. I just can't recognize the plant to stay out of it.
Tuck has these big red welts on the back of his neck and the underside of his arms. But I wasn't there to argue, so he got a cortizone cream prescription and a quart of Haagen Dazs ice cream. He also is taking Benadryl (store brand!) and it upset his stomach, so the pharmacist suggested ginger ale and crackers before he takes it.This rash is paying big sugar dividends.
Grace had been on two Aleve each morning and night for the pain in her shin/ankle. The sports med doctor at Children's Hospital put her in a knee-high boot and told her to stay off it. Not stay off it like using the crutches to get to the pool and then swimming, but stay off it. I don't say it, but am I thinking what about the personal training, what about the week at the University of Louisville Swim Camp? Yes. What will happen to this summer's swim season. Maybe a nice division three college will suit her just fine.
Then last night that little nagging cough of Grace's turned into a full-blown head cold. She was up blowing her nose and coughing. I took her some Sudafed (store brand!). When I got back from my run she was already up and in the shower getting ready for school.
Are you going? I asked.
"I've got a choir concert tonight and if I don't go they won't let me sing."
If she doesn't sing, her grade drops.
"Go back to bed for awhile. I'm taking Spencer in later," I told her.
And Spencer, well he got up in his Ohio State sleep pants, ate a bowl of cereal and a cereal bar and settled into the armchair to finish an essay he should have written last night.
Even when they can feed and dress themselves, they continue to be full time jobs. Most of the time I enjoy their company, but the times that I don't (obnoxious 13-year-old) there's no escaping.
You sure you want kids, Angela?

Model Child

Since my friend Sheila, who apparently never plans to blog again, has not written about the excitement in her family, I'm co-opting her story. Maybe this will convince her to tell the story in her own words.
Her 16-year-old daughter is about six-feet tall, all arms and legs and swingy caramel-colored hair. She was on a school trip, in an airport in Colorado when a woman approached her and asked who her teacher was. The woman left a business card with the teacher and requested that it go to the girl's parents. She represented a modeling agency! I know! Every girl's dream is to be discovered in some out of the way place by a modeling agency who wants to make her a star. And apparently, this may be happening to Sheila's daughter.
Since Sheila was out of town at the time, the teacher gave the card to her husband, who considered throwing it away. But he didn't! He looked up the agency on the web, he called and talked to the owner.
Next week, they are going to a large midwestern city for a photo shoot.
Oh, I hope Sheila wants me to serve as her translator when they go to Paris for fashion week!

Big Footprints

After my tough day with my teenagers (see previous post), I was on the lookout for some magic to repair our relationship. That magic came in the form of an email from the moms' list -- a group of mothers in our small town who send out tips and events, and ask for help when they need it. This email said the elephant walk would be that afternoon.
When the circus comes to town, the train parks in our small town then the elephants and horses walk along the road over the highway to the stadium where they camp during the performance.
Eureka!
My husband and I stopped by the convenience store and bought Yoohoos for the kids. I went to the middle school; he went to the high school to take kids out.
"Will they want to go?" we had wondered beforehand.
Maybe not the youngest, we thought. He is still close enough to the age to worry that it is a little kid thing. The others are past that. .
Sure enough, after I took Tucker out of class, he asked where we were going and begged off. "We're watching Remember the Titans in class." Aaah. My education dollars at work. I shrugged. He didn't realize how much we needed family time.
The other kids jumped in the car as if they'd just achieved a jail break.
They popped open their Yoohoos as we drove down to the circus road. We parked and I saw an aquaintance pushing a stroller along the street.
"Will we be able to see the elephants from here?" I called
"They went almost an hour early," she replied. "We missed them too."
Earl, not one to be outsmarted by elephants, drove over to the stadium. We fled the car like circus clowns and milled around the fence, admiring the elephants who were bathing after their hot walk.
"We're the only older kids here," my son pointed out as little heads bonked into his knees.
We watched the elephants and meandered past the cages with the tigers, most of them sleeping. Hmmm. Wonder why they didn't get to walk?
We spotted some miniature ponies and a sleek palamino. The sound of a roar made us jump and then we debated whether it was one of the cats or the elephants. If we lived a little closer, maybe we could the roars and squeals through our windows at night while we sleep, dreaming of life on the African plain.

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.