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.

To France or Not To France?

Earl and I may not be the best at making practical decisions. When the kids were 2, 4, and 6, we decided to take a three-week vacation to Europe with them. We had a big old house that could have used work but a vacation seemed more important.
This spring, we're facing a similar dilemma. Our 20th anniversary is coming up so we hope to go to France.
Oh, it's more than we "hope" to go to France. We read books about it. We drink wine and talk about it. "Remember when we were biking through Provence and we had climbed that long hill, we stopped at that little restaurant?"
"Yes, we had pork and rose wine. That was the best meal ever."
"It looked out over Aix en Provence."
"And we could see Mt. Ste. Victoire from there."
Which leads us to the next conversation: "Remember when we rode our bike to Mt. Ste. Victoire?"
"Look the guidebook said the road was around the mountain..." I always reply.
So we dream of France. Sitting in cafes and walking along the streets hand in hand. We take our dance classes and say we'll have to find a place to dance in France this spring.
We read travel websites and compare airfare. I've organized my work so that I miss the minimum number of classes if we leave at the end of April and come home 10 days later in the beginning of May.
But practicality raises its ugly head.
Or to save money for college?
Financial things are looming, like Grace going to college. For anyone unfamiliar with the cost of American college, it's about $20,000 per year -- that's for a big state school like Ohio State or the University of Cincinnati. Smaller, private colleges run around $33,000 per year, but they offer scholarships. She's been offered $17,000 from one, $13,000 from another, so the price tag is reduced to about $20,000 per year. We're still hopeful more money will arrive for college.
Then last week, the outside water tap was turned on for days. It flooded the basement, saturating the carpet. Another purchase of new flooring for the basement is another imminent cost.
Or to buy a new car?

Our second car is getting old, a 1998 convertible. Spencer will be getting his driver's license soon. Should we buy another car to replace the old one?
Leaving the kids behind always makes me nervous, right up to the time we step on the ground in France. I won't be able to sleep for at least a week before we leave worrying about the possibilities of us not returning to raise our kids.
In spite of all these complications, Earl and I reallllllllly want to go to France this spring.
Should we be practical or follow our hearts?

The Trauma of Turning 18

It's official. My eldest child is now 18 -- an adult.
This is how fast it has gone: One minute she is a two week old with colic, crying and crying, inconsolable - the next she is a 5-foot, 10-inch young woman slicing through the water like an arrow, bobbing up with a smile.
She's been in tears for nearly a week now imagining the horror of this birthday and the responsibility of becoming an adult.
To her turning 18 means she has ended that blissful state of childhood. And I have to admit, Grace has taken advantage of childhood. She has squeezed every drop of imaginary play and kicking tantrum that she can from childhood. Even without the birthday numbers though, she became responsible and inched her way into adulthood before 18.
"I can be arrested now!" she bemoaned.
"Don't do anything illegal," Tucker advised.
"If I hit Tucker, it's illegal instead of just a brother and sister fighting," she cried.
Tucker and I listed all of the benefits of being 18. She can get a tattoo. She can get piercings. She could gauge her ears.
Of course, we're cracking up at the thought because Grace hates pain -- hates it and would never do any of those things.
"You can sign yourself out of school," I suggested. That one quieted her down a bit.
"Will they still call you?" she asked.
Having one child reach adulthood doesn't feel like the relief I might have imagined. It doesn't seem like the burden has left my shoulders. I haven't brushed off my hands and said, "That one finished."
I can't protect her forever, but I have brought her to this place, to this adult line and helped her cross over fairly intact. Now I'll have to watch while she inches forward trying to decide if she wants to try her wings.
Are you sure this is the same kid? Grace in the Luxembourg Gardens at 14 and then at 17 in her senior picture

Sunday Morning Musings

This morning, as I sat at my desk in the dark early morning, listening to the snuffling sounds of my sleeping family, I heard a faraway rumble. I'd already heard the next door neighbor warm up his Land Rover and leave, so I paused, wondering what that sound could be. It could be the train from down the hill chugging along, but that was usually a sustained rumbling. I clicked on WeatherBug and saw that thunderstorms were possible today with the temperature hovering around 44 degrees -- a winter thaw that is welcome. The thunder is like the hand of spring waving, "I'm here. I'll be back."
The warmer temperatures Saturday morning were a relief when I met my friends for our 6:15 a.m. run. In less than a mile, I'd pulled off my fleece and tied it around my waist. We ran the whole way, not stopping to walk and watch deer or adjust socks. The weather must have inspired us. I know it won't be long now before some of my friends are suggesting that we increase those Saturday morning runs from 7.5 miles to maybe 10 then maybe 13. Hope I'm ready when they do!
I'm up early on this Sunday morning, grading papers. I'm teaching eight classes this quarter, about 25 students per class and three essays each to write, along with rough drafts to review. Someone else can do the math because if I were teaching math, the grading would be much easier. There's a right answer and a wrong answer and I would just check it off. Instead, I read through the essay and suggest that they tie back to their thesis and don't forget transitions and remember to use in-text citations.
Friday evening a college coach came to Grace's swim meet to watch her race. We'd already visited his college and it remains on her list. I like the coach a lot - a blond giant of a guy. When the meet was finished, he talked to Grace and said he was glad to see that she was smiling at the end of the race. He liked that she cheered for her teammates.
And that seemed so weird when Spencer's basketball coach recently pulled him from a game because he had smiled.
The college coach's visit left a warm feeling for me, and hopefully for Grace. It was a reminder that she's good at swimming; she's special. It was the final "home" meet for her team this season, her senior year, which, of course, resulted in tears and a bit of melancholy afterward.
Here's Tucker on the left and two of his friends enjoying a smile at the Middle School championships on Saturday.
The warm feelings on Friday night didn't carry over on Saturday to the middle school championships, and I'm trying to figure out the uncomfortable feeling I had when Tucker took second place, by less than a tenth of a second, in both of his individual events. He swam well, had good times, but still barely missed first place. I think I'm too competitive. I'm used to seeing him win and I felt sad that he didn't. Then I start thinking maybe it's because he hasn't worked hard enough this year. Maybe I need to push him to practice more and harder.
Then I dope slapped myself and suggested I get over it before I become one of those parents who scream: "Get him! Catch him!" as Tucker is swimming. I need to stick with "Go, Tucker!" which is the cheering I limit myself to.
A weekend of highs and lows, and it's only half over. Who knows what joys the rest of the weekend might bring if I ever get these essays graded!

Senior Pictures

After wading through proofs and more proofs, we've finally chosen the senior pictures that will go out in Grace's announcements. I remember that it was hard when I was a senior, and that was back in the old days when they actually used film. Imagine how many more shots they can take with digital.
For anyone who hasn't received a graduation announcement lately, the "in thing" is to hand out cards. The cards have the student's name, along with cell phone number and email address. Some of them have Facebook information too. The card has a picture on the front and back, which means we have to narrow it down to two favorite pictures. Here's the photo that we chose for the front of Grace's cards:

There's something about the way that the blue of the pool is reflecting on her face that I just love.
For the back of the card, she chose a picture because she loves the look of the stones that she's leaning against. It reminds her of a castle in France or Ireland, she says. She's so much like her mother, living in that fantasy world! Here it is with the contact information clumsily blocked out:

I remember my senior pictures. I wore a maroon velvet blazer, and don't even get me started on my hair with its swoops. I hadn't yet learned to live with my curly hair and they hadn't invented really good straighteners yet.
How about you? What was your senior picture like?

Meditation

That's twice now this year I've sat down and tried to meditate. For someone as flighty as I can be, that's not bad.
I've been listening to Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love on CD in the car. I love that book. At least the eat and pray parts. Funny that I'm not tempted to start making Italian meals to copy the eat part of the book, but I do want to follow the author's lead in the prayer and meditation.
No, I'm not inclined to go to an ashram for four months, or even a month or a week, but I would sometimes like to quiet the thoughts whirring through my head. She talks about climbing through levels and being in God's palm.
I have had times where I've felt like I was above my body, transcendant even, but it was never while I was sitting still. I've had it happen a couple of times while I was running. I never realize it is happening until a thought suddenly jars me -- You'd better get back in your body before you fall or something.
I know, it sounds crazy. How much smarter to have a transcendental experience sitting still instead of running along the road. Maybe that is actually chirunning, where you can leave behind all thoughts of the physical. The body works like a machine while the mind soars above.
My biggest meditation problem is finding someplace in the house to be alone. Our kitchen, dining room and living room are all open together. Even at 5 a.m., I can't be alone because most nights Tucker chooses to sleep on the couch. He's asleep, but I still feel him close by which interferes with my meditation.
I like to sit in the living room facing our big Arts & Crafts window that looks straight out into the trees.
The only things I know about meditation are what I've read, and one time I went to a "Centering Prayer" session taught by Father Vinnie. I think centering prayer is the same thing as meditation. Father Vinnie didn't suggest a Sanskrit mantra, but he did say we should choose one word to concentrate on, one word to bring us back when our minds started to drift.
At the time, I remember I chose the word "Peace."
Then Father Vinnie told us that of course other thoughts would interfere. He said we should think of those thoughts as cars passing on the street. Just let them go past but don't run after them and try to catch them.
So this morning, after I started the kettle with water, the darkened living room called to me.
Tucker and two other boys were asleep in the basement; the television still rumbling before I switched it off.
I sat cross legged on the rug and turned my hands palms up. I tried to imagine a string running from the base of my spine through the top of my head, keeping my back straight.
I had the sound of one of the chants from Eat Pray Love running through my head, and I matched my breathing to it. This morning though, instead of peace as my centering word, I chose gratitude.
I tried to ignore those passing thoughts, letting them scurry by, but it was harder to ignore the cats. Each took turns coming over to rub their faces against my upturned hands, and when the little one started biting my fingers, I pushed him away.
He came back and I pushed with a little more oomph.
Try to concentrate, I reminded myself.
I wouldn't call it a success exactly, but by the time the water on the stove began to churn and boil, just before the whistle, I opened my eyes and saw the cats, both black and white as if ready for a formal night out, sitting in front of me and staring at my face, as if they were my disciples.
I can't imagine I will ever reach the goal Gilbert talks about: being still enough to have a bird land on my head. But I can be sure that if a bird ever did land on my head, my tuxedoed disciples would take care of it pretty quickly.
My cats practicing their own brand of sun worship

Drip, Drip, Drip

That seven inches of snow that has been on the ground for the past few weeks was beautiful, but when I woke this morning to the sound of drips, I felt like spring has come. I know I still have the rest of frigid January and I can't even think about the gray days of February, but the drip of the melting snow gives me hope.
When Tucker checked in with me yesterday after school as he was walking home, I heard birds in the background. Actual birds singing, as if we weren't in the middle of winter. Isn't it funny how you don't notice things like the birds not singing, until you hear them again?

Watch Those Facial Expressions!

That's my boy in blue going up for the rebound.
Many of you know from my previous rantings, that I do not think highly of sports coaches. I've seen them do so many dumb things. Last night's just made me laugh.
Spencer was playing with the JV team and it was the 3rd quarter. Our team was ahead by a good 15 to 20 points.
We had the ball and were coming down the floor when the small boy (point guard) dribbling had the ball stolen by the other team. Back they all ran to the other end. The other team scored and so the same boy started down the floor for our team again with the ball. Spencer sprinted ahead to get under our basket. Before the small boy reached mid court, he had the ball stolen again.
The next thing I knew, Spencer was pulled out of the game. The coach moved the entire team down so Spencer was sitting at the end in isolation and the coach was in his face yelling. I couldn't hear what was being said, but I could tell from Spencer's posture that he was pissed. His long legs were askew. His mouth curled up at the end in contempt.
I pointed out to the other mothers that Spencer was in "time out."
"He wasn't anywhere near the ball. How could he have gotten in trouble?" I wondered.
He didn't go in the game again for the rest of the night.
When I picked him up from the bus that night at 10:30, I asked him why he was in timeout.
"I smiled," he said.
"What?"
"Yea, coach said I smiled when we lost the ball. He asked me if I thought that was funny."
"So what did you say?" I asked.
His friend Dakota said, "You say, 'I dunno.' And then he says, 'I dunno.' And he's mad."
That just made me laugh. Coaches say the darnedest things.
Now, in addition to his shooting and his jumping and his dribbling, Spencer needs to work on controlling his facial expressions.

What Life Could Have Been

Disclaimer: This is a post I didn't want to write, but like a broken down car in the fast lane, it seems to be blocking my forward progress. So, here it is, more than 30 years after, my attempt to understand.
This week was my sister's birthday. I usually call my parents and we talk around the birthday, not usually about it. My sister, Tammy, four years older than me, died when she was 18 at the Beverly Hills Supper Club fire in Cincinnati on May 28, 1977 -- the night before her high school graduation.
Growing up, we were like normal sisters. We shared a bed until I was about in the fifth grade. I remember playing dress up and tea party and tying up our little brother. I remember lying in bed and talking after the lights were out. I remember the time she asked if I would "freak out" if her boyfriend tapped on the window one night. Yes! I told her.
She seems to have been incredibly stable. Good grades, steady boyfriend, in the chorus of the high school musical The Sound of Music. She was pale and thin, probably not even 100 pounds. She had big brown eyes and a tiny mole that looked like a beauty spot on her face. She liked to curl up on the couch and read, which I loved to do too, but I picture her calm while I was whooping about the neighborhood loud and rowdy. If we played Little Women, I was always Jo and she was Meg.
Her life was going places I couldn't begin to imagine. Her high school graduation was the next day. My mom had cleaned the house and gathered food. Relatives were coming, even my grandmother from Kentucky.
That Saturday night I had a Rainbow Girls event. I don't remember where we traveled to -- Blanchester or one of those far outposts. I do remember that Tammy's friend Jane drove me home. We went through a neighborhood in my small town that I couldn't find again, but Jane pointed out a spooky window where someone is said to watch for someone who never returned.
My parents were in the remodeled basement playing cards with another couple. I could hear their laughter carry up through the floor. I turned on the television and plopped onto the couch.
The Carol Burnett show was on. Was it the end of the show or did they interrupt it with news of the fire? I'm not sure now. Did I yell downstairs to my parents or did they come running up because they heard something on the radio? I can't recall. But I remember that we huddled in front of the television watching the place where my sister and her "fiance" Brent had gone to celebrate -- his new job, her graduation. I don't remember when my brothers came home, Craig, two years older than me, Kevin, two years younger.
I tried to stay awake waiting for news. We saw survivors and searched the crowds hoping to see Tammy and Brent. About 2 a.m. I went to bed, my single bed in the small room that I had moved into after we remodeled the basement. I cried and cried.
When I woke the next morning, I remember my mom hugging me and with eyes red and swollen she said they had found her. Hope soared before she continued that my dad had gone down to identify her body.
"They wouldn't let me hold her," I remember my dad crying when he returned. "They wouldn't let me hold my little girl." He seemed frail, this dad who had always been strong.

Photo from PBS.org
Her friends filtered through the house for confirmation. Graduation continued with a red rose on her chair. Relatives filled the house and ate the food that was prepared for a celebration.
I selfishly wanted things to return to normal. I wanted to finish all of this so we could be normal again. I didn't understand that normal was gone.
160 people died in that fire. My sister was just one of them. Her picture and her story filled the papers. People called and brought food. Relatives stifled laughs as they reminded themselves of the reason they were all together.
My cousin Kim came to stay. The two of us slept in Tammy's room. One morning, I don't remember how long after, a day, two days, we were lying in bed and the sun was filtering through the curtains. Kim and I talked and we giggled some. My mom stuck her head in the door and smiled, "What are you girls laughing about?" Maybe it was nice for her to stand outside the door and hear girl laughter, to imagine that life might go on. I felt guilty about being happy even for that minute.
I don't remember moping or crying as we passed Sunday and Memorial Day. Some friends who owned a dress shop opened the shop on Memorial Day so I could find something to wear to the funeral. As a 14-year-old tomboy, I owned no dresses. And the stores were closed on Memorial Day -- too weird to think about now.
We held the visitation and funeral at our church. I was okay through the visitation until it was time to leave. We couldn't just close the casket and leave Tammy there all alone. The idea was horrifying. I started to sob and didn't know if I would ever stop. I turned to my parents who were making their way methodically around the church checking the cards on all of the flower arrangements. They couldn't deal with my crying right then. They were too numb themselves.
I ended up sobbing into the chest of the minister, a tall man with a tailored suit that I covered with tears and snot. I couldn't stand the idea of leaving my sister there alone in the church. Maybe the fact that she had died was just hitting me.
The funeral was a blur. My cousin Kim sat with me. My brother's girlfriend squeezed into the pew next to us. We were crowded together in that pew like an overloaded life boat.
I don't remember the burial. I'm sure that I had to block it out because alone in the church was too much, alone in the ground would be unbearable.
After that, life was supposed to return to normal. I missed a few more days of school and was voted into student council -- sympathy vote.
We started the summer and I began a life of how everything would have been different if Tammy had been there. I busted through high school in three years and moved on to college, the one where Tammy had originally planned to go. Each step of my life, I wondered what she would have advised. College, boyfriends, career.
The magnitude of the loss came when I held my baby girl in my arms and thought "I have no idea how to be a mother. If Tammy were here, she'd be beside me offering helpful tips. She'd know how to do all of this."
But she wasn't there when I was married or had my three kids. She wasn't there for the fights or the falling in love. She's not here now as I watch my own daughter approach high school graduation.
Maybe because I now have an oldest daughter at the same place my sister was, maybe I'm standing in my mom's shoes and I can't imagine the devastation. Or maybe I just need to look at the life I've lived and realize that a gaping hole was torn in it that day in May 1977. It's a hole that I can never patch over as much as I try to stretch the material to reach the other side.

Remembering What's Important

As the new year dawned, I decided to slack off on the hair straightening. I was getting tired of all that time with the flatiron. Although my hair started off with nice long curls in the morning, it frizzed as the day wore on until I looked like Roseann Roseanna Danna from Saturday Night Live. To combat the frizzes, I tamed it in a high ponytail, imagining how romantic the curls looked cascading down to my bare neck.
Before mass on Sunday, I had pulled my hair into the ponytail with a clip and I stopped in front of the mirror to loosen one curl so it hung down from the nape of my neck. Sexy!
Then I got to church and was thrilled to see many of the friends I hadn't seen during our busy fall schedule. That's when Michelle walked in. She beamed and looked radiant and wore a blue knit cap on her head. Michelle's hair was very like mine, dark and curly, but she had lost it all in chemotherapy since I'd last seen her. Michelle is two years younger than I am but has much younger children -- four of them ages 9 to 3.
Here are Michelle's beautiful
children from last Easter
Seeing Michelle, whose latest MRI shows tumors too small to measure, I wanted to pull down the curly ponytail which seemed ridiculous. I at least wanted to tuck up the errant curl that I had so lovingly released. Michelle didn't notice. She hugged me and asked about Grace's college search.
And I sighed, realizing that once again I'd been caught up in the minutiae of life with hair and teaching and kids' sports eating up my thoughts and my time. I bet Michelle doesn't spend time thinking about those things any more. I bet she sits with her kids and reads; I bet she gives them hugs that never end. I bet she doesn't give a thought for the long curls that are missing, but gives thanks every day that she can comb her little girls' hair.

Changes

My daughter is averse to change. It sends her into a tizzy, and many times, I think I'm not the right kind of mom for her. I have inadequate amounts of patience for her angst.
So the beginning of a new year with the beginning of a new decade were traumatic. Around nine o'clock New Year's eve, she was preparing to leave the party I was at and go to another party. She hugged me and said, "I'm not ready for 2010."
"Well," I said, taking a sip of my pina colada, "you've got another three hours to get ready."
See, probably not too comforting.
2010 is the year she turns 18 and joins the "adult" world. She must picture me with a big pair of scissors cutting the knot between us. She will become adrift in the adult world, forced to make every decision for herself. My mother tells me she hated turning 18 too, so maybe it's genetic.
2010 is the year Grace will graduate from high school and go off to college. These are things to embrace, but she clings to her life, afraid of what may come.
The next morning she was bemoaning that a whole decade had passed. I suppose she may have been old enough to remember New Year's of 2000 when she was 7, almost 8.
"Look," I told her. "You've accomplished so much in the past decade."
Her big eyes looked up, begging me to list her achievements.
"You kept trying out for parts at OperaColumbus until you landed one with the children's chorus. You're in Singers. You do solos at all of the performances. You got a big part in the play and in the upcoming musical. You learned to Irish step dance and continued ballet until you were 12. You can ride a horse and jump the horse, plus you won ribbons for it."
Grace and her dance partner perform at the Ohio Statehouse.
I continued to think of all the things she'd done in the past 10 years. Sailing and swimming and geography bees. Switching from home school to high school was painful, but she has succeeded.
"The only time you need to look back on a decade and regret that it's gone is if you are still in the same place you were when it started," I said.
"If you are sitting at the kitchen table in front of our laptop the morning of 2020 then you need to rethink your decade," I said, looking at her in front of the smooth wood table.
She smiled, a wry smile.
She seemed not to hate the new decade as much and I hope eventually she'll be able to embrace changes, at least the good ones that move her life forward inch by inch.