Emotional Eating

My husband was going to the store for the second time yesterday in preparation for some evening guests when I asked him to bring home some cookies. Those chocolate kind with the marshmallow inside.
He didn't point out that I had been eating healthy for a couple of weeks sticking to fruits, vegetables and proteins. He just bought the cookies.
I guess I'm an emotional eater because a few hours of sorting things in my daughter's room, counting the days -- 3 -- before she leaves for college, made me crave cookies.
I ate two when he returned and got back to the business of helping her pack her clothes.
People keep asking how I am with the move to college. I don't have a choice. My role in this is to be positive and upbeat and to eat an occasional cookie.
Grace has taken the emotional road. She cries. She lays her head in my lap when I am sitting on the couch. She hugs me whenever we are within a foot of each other. She holds my hand as we walk through the store to look for new clothes.
She chose the college 10 hours away when she originally protested going away at all.
Now she says, "I don't think I can go."
The tuition has been paid. The classes scheduled. The roommate is waiting.
My only role is to be supportive. I can show no chink in the armor.
"You can do this" is my mantra.
Now her belongings are stacked in bins.
Earl has repainted and reconstructed the window seat that Grace sat on during the play Little Women last year. She will take that with her as a bridge between her high school years and this new independent section of life. She has filled the window seat with her bedspread and mattress cover still in plastic wrapping. Within it are sets of sheets and matching towels never used.
And I can't think about that moment when we pull away from the college and she isn't in the car, when it's no longer my job to put on a brave face.

Morning Sounds

Have you ever listened to one of those sounds of nature CDs? They always start off soft with maybe the sound of crickets. Then the crickets grow louder and there comes some running water. A bird calls softly in the background then perhaps louder while fading away.
That was what I heard this morning as I walked out my back door. I was attaching my iPod, ready to plug the earbuds into my ears when I caught the sound of the crickets. I laced the headphones around my neck so I could listen.
As I walked past the Rose of Sharon bushes, the crickets grew louder. Then out my gate down the alley, I passed my neighbor's water feature tinkling. The roads were so still. No cars moved. The air was cool enough that the air conditioners were not clanging to life.
I kept walking, trying to be aware of the sounds around me. A breeze stirred the trees making their leaves whisper and the crickets chirp louder. I turned the corner toward the east. That was the direction I wanted to walk, even though it was downhill, which meant I'd have to come back uphill.
In the orthodontist office the other day, I read an article, I think it was Real Simple magazine, that one way to energize is to face the east for 10 minutes every morning. Facing east was beautiful. The sun was past the point of sending up pinks and oranges into the sky. It was a definite yellow behind those trees and buildings in the east. But the sky was a clear blue and a trace of clouds looked like powdered sugar when it's sprinkled on brownies.
The birds grew louder. A man on a scooter puttered past. A plane engine droned overhead. Then I turned the corner again and the people sounds faded behind the rising sounds of the cicadas waking up for their morning buzz.
When I came home, I gathered my computer and sat on the front porch to continue enjoying the sweet breeze. I watched as a crow was chased by the other birds. He made raucous cawing sounds as the sun continued its yellow path higher in the sky. Like a nature CD set on replay, the sounds started over again with the crickets chirping and the crow harmonizing his protests.

Flight or Invisibility?

I was listening to This American Life which aired a show about superheroes. One guy makes parties more interesting by asking people which super power they would choose -- flight or invisibility?
Here's the link: http://www.thisamericanlife.org/
I stopped grading papers for a minute and thought about it.
Flight, I decided. It was practical. I could actually use flight to get places.
I couldn't think of a single reason that I would want invisibility. I'm not the sneaky type. I'm very forthright and am always surprised when other people aren't. People on the radio program talked about being invisible so they could steal sweaters from Barney's and get on airplanes to fly places. I'd have the power of flight. Why would I need to sneak on an airplane? And I wouldn't become a thief just because I could get away with it. That's not what keeps me from stealing in the first place.
One person on the program said everyone truly wants Invisibility but some people pretend to want Flight because it seems more admirable.
I thought of Harry Potter, who, with his invisibility cloak, could have been very nefarious. Instead, when he was on the run and hiding under his invisibility cloak, he would leave money behind when he took food.
Maybe I don't like people enough to want to be invisible. I can't imagine choosing to spend more time around people so I could watch them in secret. That's what reality shows are for, right?
So, I choose flight by default. I could fly to visit Mom and Dad in Florida. I could fly across the ocean to visit France. I wonder how big a suitcase I could carry with my superpowers?
What about you? Which would you choose -- Flight or Invisibility

Brush With Fame

My kids love when I tell the story about my brush with fame. They've built it up over the years -- "Didn't you go to prom with Woody Harrelson?"
"No," I'll explain again.
So here's the real story, saved for posterity.
I grew up in Lebanon, Ohio, a small town between Dayton and Cincinnati. And, in spite of the history that Woody grew up in Texas, he went to my high school. He was into theater, but the only show I remember him performing in was Li'l Abner.
Woody is older, my brother's age, and we spoke, but I wouldn't say we were friends.
Now switch focus to a couple at school. Paul and Alice were the kind of couple who dated forever. As a matter of fact, I heard they got married right after high school. Paul was always a guy who flirted with me when Alice wasn't around. One week during my sophomore year, Paul and Alice broke up. The tears from the break up weren't dry when Paul invited me to a party that weekend and I said yes.
He picked me up, I can't remember the kind of car he drove or what I wore, but we went to the party somewhere out in the country.
Everyone was at the party, including Alice.
You can imagine what happened. Paul and Alice got back together at the party, so there I was dumped and rideless. That's where Woody Harrelson stepped in to save me. He offered me a ride home.
I'm not sure why I didn't ask my brother for a ride since he was at the party.
So, I was feeling humiliated about being dumped by my date, and Woody was jovial as he drove me home. We parked in front of my house and talked for awhile.
I don't remember if he was particularly religious, but I do remember his confession that he felt bad, guilty, that he had kissed so many girls in his life. He said he had kissed 71 girls.
I can't remember how I reacted. I was probably awestruck because there weren't that many girls in our small town.
Before I got out of the car, he asked if he could kiss me goodnight.
That's when I laughed and asked if he wanted me to be number 72 on the list of girls he had kissed? He did. So he kissed me goodnight and he gave me his senior picture after he had signed the back: "To number 72."
I wish I knew what I had done with that picture so I could tell you what the rest said. I could even scan it and put it on this blog post, but I don't know where it is.
So here's a picture from his younger days, closer to the Woody that I kissed in his car in front of my house on Ridge Road. The picture is from http://www.triviatribute.com/woodyharrelson.html

As a reporter, I've interviewed Catherine DeNeuve and Al Gore. I even walked behind Ted Kennedy, but I've only been kissed by one person who became a star.
How about you? Do you have a story about a brush with fame?

Generosity

When I returned home from Florida, I found a thin, pliable package with a return address in France. Shouldn't everyone find gifts in their mailbox? The possibilities are endless.
Inside the package was a beautiful silk scarf from my blog friend Gina.

Okay, it's still a little wrinkled from its travels, but you can see the beautiful colors and I wish you could feel how soft the material is, like a whisper in the night.
Gina started a blog last year before her family moved from Texas to Paris. Her husband's job required him to go to Paris for the year. (I know. My husband is obviously in the wrong line of work.) They also have an adorable set of boy/girl twins who just turned 7 this week.
I loved watching Gina discover France, and I have to admit that she reminded me that it isn't all stars and red wine. Moving to another country is full of challenges.
Gina handled it like a champ and when the company changed hands and the family needed to return to Texas five months early, again she rolled with the punches. But before she moved, she took the time to send presents to some of her blog friends, including me!
Thanks for sharing your adventure, Gina, and for your generosity, a trait I'm still trying to learn.
My links never work on blogger, but you can find Gina's blog in the column along the right under "My Blog List." It's called "A Year of Change" and boy, has it been.

Lessons from France

Twenty-five years ago today, I was in France. That was my longest trip to France where I spent three months shepherding two young American girls as their grandparents spent a month each in Corsica, the French countryside near Bourges and then their apartment in Paris.
Aaaah!
Although the trip was long and I began to miss home, the trip definitely changed my life. One of the things I learned was that education was a priority for the French, and although I had my bachelor's degree, I came home determined to further my education. I entered graduate school the following year and received my master's degree. Maybe my need for more education came because of the cute doctor, Francois, who trying to explain sailing to me asked in a puzzled voice, "Didn't you ever take physeeks?" Of course, he meant physics, and I still haven't taken it.
Maybe the love for education came from lying on the beach in Corsica while reading F. Scott Fitzgerald. Aaah! There is no better place to read Fitzgerald than on a French beach. Maybe the need for education seeped in during the heated political discussions with the German cousins. Maybe it came from being surrounded by a strange language, although I had minored in French in college, that finally began to be understandable. I loved being able to decipher the words so that slowly the family had to stop talking about me when I was in the room.
And that master's degree has really paid off for me, finally. I'm not just a stay-at-home mom writing occasional articles for the newspaper. I'm teaching at two different colleges and making enough money to send my daughter to college.
But, in spite of all these ways that visit to France changed my life, that isn't why I started thinking about my trip 25 years ago.
It was the simple peach that brought it back to me.

When I was a kid, I was fairly persnickety. I remember sitting at the dining room table all afternoon because I refused to eat the apricots my mom served. She made me stay at the table until I ate them. She finally gave up.
So when I went to France, at the beginning I was turning down offers of cantaloupe and watermelon. The French would look at me in astonishment. How could someone not like these fruits?
When they offered me a nectarine, I took it curiously. I had never eaten a nectarine. They asked me what the word was in English and peach was as close as I could get, but that wasn't right.
That nectarine in Corsica was heavenly. The juice would have dripped down my arm if I'd eaten it like an American, which I didn't, since I was in France. We used a knife and fork to slice up the nectarine and delicately eat each juicy morsel. It was the best fruit I had ever tasted.
This year, the peaches I've been buying from Trader Joe's are rivaling those nectarines. The scent rises from the box tempting me as I pass. And I do pick up a peach with its red and gold soft skin and bite into it, allowing the juice to drip down my arm. And it makes me think of Corsica and France and cute French doctors who say "physeeks."

Then and Now

The problem with kids and the good things about kids is that they grow up. One year we visit Florida and they are busy building sand castles or burying each other or collecting coquina shells. That's Grace looking at the camera. Anna has her back to the camera and Maggie is the smiling red head. Tucker is tiptoeing along the sand in the background.

The next time we visit, they're all grown up and awkward with each other. They complain before being dragged together, but once they're all there, a niche opens and they begin to talk.

Plus, there's always ice cream to draw them together.
And it helps to have a good-natured 11-year-old to act as comic relief. Since he was little, Patrick has been the one that drew the older kids together, from the time he was one-year-old and we visited during the 2000 election recount. The kids would ask him, "Who's going to win, Patrick, Bush or Gore?" Little Patrick, who was just learning to speak would make a proclamation and the other kids would fall about laughing, no matter who he tagged as the winner.

Family Day at the Beach

From the looks of it, it was a perfect day to visit the beach. But those clouds building up had already turned dark behind us. The water in the Gulf of Mexico was warm, warm, warm. Tucker had been watching Shark Week, so he refused to go near the water.
We mostly sat in the sand and caught up with our friend Kathleen who dragged her three children along to the beach.
Once the thunder rumbled, we packed up and headed to miniature golf. Spencer decided that shirts were optional while in Florida and especially on the miniature golf course. The golf course used to be fairly exciting. Now the management seems to have lost its verve. A giant tiger and green painted python are the extent of the excitement. Some holes have nothing more than a big rock or a ceramic bunny rabbit. Earl kept score and tried to encourage us to follow the rules. We were reluctant. According to his caluclations, he won the game.
Grace pulls off the Florida look with her hair piled on top of her head to stay cool and her sunglasses secured above her hairline.
Atterwards, we debated whether we should buy a French silk pie from Village Inn or go to Coldstone ice cream. We headed to Tom and Kathleen's house and then out to dinner.

Lagging Self Confidence

Since we're in Florida, we plan to visit some old friends in St. Petersburg. We'll go to the beach where the wife and their three kids will join us. Then we'll all go to dinner joined by the husband when he finishes toiling at the nationally-known newspaper where he works.
Earl worked with Tom in St. Louis 30 years ago. When that paper folded, they both moved to Florida. We all worked together 20 years ago at the Tampa Tribune. Then we paired up, married off and had kids. Once a year or so, we get together. When the kids were little they would play happily building sand castles and swinging high. Last time we got together, the middle child, a tomboy of a girl, was beating up on our boys. This time with their girls 17 and 14 and the boy 11, it will probably be awkward with teenage gaps in the conversation.
Two days ago, Earl made plans to see them.
As the days pass, I find myself dreading it.
It's all because I don't feel good about myself. I hate to admit it, but it's true.
Maybe it is the fact that I'm spending a lot of time in a bathing suit. Maybe it's because I've put off finding a new stylist to cut and color my hair so it's curly with strands of gray. Maybe it's because I'm eating vacation food instead of only fruits and proteins.
I'm judging myself and assuming they'll do the same, which is stupid. We've all aged.
Generally, I consider myself a fairly confident person. I don't stand in front of the closet and throw aside outfit after outfit. I don't spend hours looking in the mirror and criticizing lines around my eyes. I'm smart, accomplished and sometimes even witty.
This time, though, I feel inadequate.
So, I asked Mom to call and see if her stylist can give me a trim and color today, straightening my hair in this humidity with the hopes that it will hold through tomorrow where I'll sit on the beach refusing to get my hair wet in anticipation of meeting up with old friends.

Pets

Mom and Dad used to have cats that lived outside and came twice a day for food. They were always breeding and bringing along their kittens. The kids would argue about who got to name the new kittens. One year when Mom and Dad came to Ohio for their month-long visit, the cats went elsewhere looking for food and they've never come back.
This year, Mom and Dad have some different kinds of pets hanging around outside the screen door.
I sat on the patio and looked outside the screen. What I saw looked like some kind of windchime. It curled down like a spring and it had a star shaped spiky thing in the middle. I didn't have my contacts in, but instead of getting up to look at it, I asked Mom and Dad when they joined me on the patio.
"Is that a wind chime?" I asked.
"Oh, no. It's our new pet," Mom joked.

I walked closer and saw that it was a big spider on a bigger web. The part that looks like a spring is the reinforced web in the center.
Mom decided to leave the spider and its web so the kids could see it. She planned to tell them that the spider, and its two smaller friends on the webs next to it, were replacing the cats. She hasn't let them name the spiders yet.

Here's a closer look at this spider. The common name is Banana Spider. But it shouldn't be confused with the Central and South American banana spider which is venomous. This guy is longer and leaner. The venomous guy is thick and hair looking.

Here's a comparison to Tucker's hand. He is on the other side of the screen, of course. Tucker has the biggest hands in our family, so you can see that this guy is no small fry.
I hope Mom doesn't want help pulling the webs down. If she does, I think I'll send Earl to help.

Peace Part 2

I lay on a blue raft in the blue pool staring at the very blue sky.

Peace

I slid the glass door from my parents' living room to their patio and stepped out into the stillness. The water in the swimming pool is a sheet of blue. The air does not move. Even the birds are quiet. No traffic.
This is what I need after a day packed into the car with four other people, driving, driving.
Then a bird in the palm tree behind the pool squawks. A morning dove coos. An air conditioner kicks on.
The trees behind the screened-in patio are prehistoric palms and live oaks with big vines climbing. The ground is thick with fan-like palms that block any path.

Thoughts on Afterlife

I get up sometimes before the sun, so I try to get to bed early most nights. The other night I was in bed by 10:30. I was awakened at 11:50 when Spencer came in and kissed me on the cheek to let me know he was home.
Then, around 12:30, Tucker climbed into bed next to me.
"I can't sleep," he said. "I keep thinking about what happens after you die."
Maybe I should have anticipated this question.
A boy from his school died last week after he touched some live wires. The boy, a tall lanky kid with curly blonde hair, was on the track team with Tucker. Tucker declined the opportunity to go to the candlelight vigil.
But this week, as he lay alone trying to sleep, the question began to haunt him. Where was this boy now? What happens when people die?
We are Catholic, so Tucker has grown up hearing stories about Jesus, and he knows the timeline includes some point in the future when there will be "a new heaven and a new earth."
I couldn't bring myself to remind Tucker of that story in the dark of the night. It seemed too much like a fairytale that I would tell a six year old.
I told him that I thought there was more after this life. That our spirit doesn't just snuff out.
"What happens?"
He's 14. He wants black and white.
"Maybe we come back again," I suggested.
"Everybody?" he asked.
He realized that I wasn't able to comfort him in my groggy state. He decided he would read his "boring" book for Honors English and that he would probably be able to sleep once his dad got home from work, and he stumbled away without a definitive answer.
That's one answer, whether morning or midnight, that I won't be able to give him.
Maybe I should tell him about some of the near-death experiences that people have written about. They tell the same stories about a bright light and seeing figures. They talk about watching the efforts to revive them and the wonderous feeling. That's about all the hard proof we have.
I do believe in God and I believe that there's an afterlife, but I don't believe in hell, which makes it harder to think there's a heaven where everyone is having a big family reunion.
Maybe our spirits stay close to those we love. Maybe we all hover some place waiting to be needed by our loved ones. And when they need us, our spirit goes to comfort them with a familiar smell or a feather on the ground.

Pony Tail Holders

Just to get rid of the photo of the asparagus that creeps out Dream Girl, I'll write my yearly fashion column.
Have you seen these new pony tail holders?

Grace brought one home from a swim meet. She always pulls her hair in a ponytail before she puts on her cap, but she frequently doesn't have a ponytail holder. She borrowed this one from Leah, and I love it. It's my current favorite.
It looks like tie dye, don't ya think?
I found some similar ones at the store and bought them.

They're very mod, and the colors are fab, but I still like the white and peach one better.
How can they come up with new, improved ponytail holders. They've been around for years.
Have you found a little thing, like a change in ponytail holders, that makes you think, why didn't they do that before?

Eating Changes

Well, I, and some commenters, have mentioned changes in my eating plan, and since it has actually lasted more than four days, I guess it's safe to write about.
Grace and I have been doing P90X this summer. P90X is an intensive exercise program We do a different exercise six days a week. They usually last an hour but sometimes an hour and a half. We're on Week 7 now. We're feeling stronger and more flexible but some of those muscles are still hiding beneath fat. So we decided to eat better.
We were going to start two weeks before our trip to Florida, but Grace had swim meets through last Thursday. We knew we couldn't diet while training and competing was still going on. We marked Friday as the day to begin.
Friday morning, I woke up with a headache. Now, keep in mind that I hadn't actually begun this new eating plan, so I couldn't blame the headache on that. Our plan was to try the Fat Flush Diet that, some of you may recall, I tried last spring and ended up with a migraine and throwing up.
Just call me a glutton for punishment because on Friday morning, I poured the cranberry juice (unsweeted) and flax seed into a cup and downed it. Then I spent a few minutes leaning over the toilet puking it up. Apparently flax seed and I don't agree.
The Fat Flush Diet encourages cranberry juice, a few proteins, unlimited vegetables (on the list), and some fruits. As Sheila commented, the diet doesn't promote exercise the first few weeks. I think that's crazy! Why would I give up exercising to diet? Won't I get better results if I combine them?
The other thing that I don't realize most of the time is that other people don't exercise nearly the amount that I do. I should have realized when Dream Girl went for cancer treatment and they said she was in too good a shape to participate in the exercise and chemotherapy treatment. If I looked around me, beyond my running friends, I'd realize that most of my friends don't do hard-core exercise. I've slacked off on my running this summer and run three to four days a week. But I've added the P90X. So I exercise a minimum of an hour a day and sometimes more than two hours a day. How can I even need to lose weight? I'm convinced that all the exercise, especially training for the marathons, messed up my metabolism.
Because of all the exercise, and after feeling too tired to move the first few days, Grace and I have changed the eating plan a little bit. We are now eating proteins -- grilled chicken, cattled-fed beef, eggs; veggies -- zucchini, asparagus, tomatoes, spinach, lettuce; and fruits -- pineapple, peaches, melon, strawberries, blueberries. Grace is not a big vegetable lover, so she eats more fruits. We also added a baked sweet potato the other night that made a big difference in our energy level.
We have done away with sugar, fats, dairy and grains. We both feel like we've slimmed down and I can't complain about the food I'm eating. Most mornings I have an omelette with tomatoes and spinach. Lunch is usually a salad with some left over chicken added, along with walnuts, tomatoes, cucumber and dried fruit. Last night for dinner, Earl grilled some yellowfin tuna steaks with a kind of vinaigrette, and we ate it along with asparagus and canteloupe. I cheated and had a glass of wine to relax with my husband.
See, that's all good food and when we get hungry we grab a banana or a peach.
We plan to stick with it until we leave for Florida and then it's vacation food all the way.

Recovering

Just an update on yesterday's horrible run.
When I walked outside this morning, it felt as good as a glass filled with ice and fizzing Coke. Truly refreshing. (Yes, I have been truly affected by advertising.)
So I ran my usual 3.5 mile route with only a few pauses to walk. Whatever is going on with me, I think I'm recovering.
I'm not hanging up my running shoes yet.

My Yearly Tour of France Over

I'm so sad that the Tour de France has ended -- even though it was eating into a lot of my time with its four hours of coverage on Versus every morning.
We started watching the Tour de France to see the beautiful countryside. Then, of course, we got into the competitiveness of it.
So if you didn't see the bicycles zooming around mountain roads without guardrails or the camera panning over castles, I'll give you a brief run down of the highlights that I saw.
Andy Schleck, a lanky 25-year-old from Luxembourg, took the lead in the mountains ahead of Alberto Contador, a 27-year-old Spaniard, who won the tour last year. Contador was on Lance Armstrong's team last year. He always rode for himself instead of the team so he wasn't my favorite.
Biking has some strange rules. It isn't everyone out for himself. They work together as a team. And if someone wrecks or has bike difficulties, the rest of the race will slow down and wait for him. It's kind of bizarre because it isn't cut throat like most sports are here in the U.S.
I was watching on the day that Armstrong crashed three times and found himself unable to win the Tour de France. I felt bad for him.
I was watching during the mountain phases when Contador stayed right on Schleck's tail. Schleck was 31 seconds ahead of Contador and the two of them stayed together, keeping an eye on each other. As Contador followed the wheel of Schleck's bike down a winding mountain, I suggested that Schleck try a "Wronski feint" which is a term from Harry Potter. In Harry Potter, they are on broomsticks and the person dives toward the ground so the other person follows. Then the first person pulls up at the last minute, while the second person crashes. I thought that might work for Schleck if he headed toward the edge then pulled back at the last minute. Contador might go right off the side of the road. But it didn't happen.
The next day in the Pyrenees again, Schleck still in the lead with 31 seconds, he makes a move in the mountains. He starts to take off and Contador starts to follow. Then Schleck hesitates like he can't pedal his bike. The chain comes off. Contador is about 50 feet behind him and he speeds away while Schleck must stop and fix the chain. Schleck rides like mad to catch up but ends up 8 seconds behind Contador.
There was a lot of controversy about this and whether Contador should have "attacked" while Schleck had mechanical difficulties. It wasn't the gentlmanly thing to do.

Photo from www.lexpress.mu
That's Contador in the yellow jersey and Schleck in the white jersey on the right.

The two of them stayed together the rest of the mountain stages and Contador won a time trial by 31 seconds, putting him 39 seconds ahead of Schleck overall.
It still seems like a slightly dirty win.
I loved watching them zip through the streets of Paris around the bend at the top of the Champs Elysees and past the Tuileries, which the British announcers called the Twillery.
My yearly vacation to France through the television is now ended.

Going Backward

This morning when I walked outside at 6:30, either I had a hot flash, a cold sweat and fever, or it is just incredibly hot and humid outside.
Any of those seem plausible, although I haven't yet had hot flashes, but I have been sick the past couple of days.
The heat and the illness combined with a new "eating plan" are what set me back this morning as I attempted to go for a run that felt like an uphill climb the whole way. I literally was too weak to run very far. I thought about turning back and coming home. Then I determined to run a block and walk a block throughout my whole route.
It felt humbling to go from running 9 miles a few weeks ago to running blocks at a time. Sometimes I would run two blocks then walk a block. As I was on my way back from my 3.5 mile route, in one of my walking blocks, a guy in a Jeep pulled up next to me.
"I saw you running tired. Want some water?" He held out a small bottle.
"No, thanks," I said. "Almost home."
(See, Earl. I'm not paranoid that people pay attention in our little burg whether I'm walking or slacking off.)
My friend Dream Girl claims that you never regret going for a run.
I'm not sure I feel grateful that I went for a run/walk, but I am glad that it's over for today.

Relax

I spent the entire day grading essays, answering emails and juggling the 20 hours of classes I am teaching this quarter.
I took a break around 8 and flipped on the television. I could watch a rerun of the movie The Holiday, I could go back to grade the remaining six essays, or...I spied on the bookshelf beside the couch -- Emma.
So I popped in the movie and now I have a calm evening, kids gone to their various activities watching Emma. What could be better?

Swim Stars

David Sedaris tells a terrific story about overhearing a conversation on the Metro by some American students who debate which city is better, Paris or Austin. After all, in spite of Paris' benefits, Austin does have air conditioning and the Sonic burger. One of the points he makes is that no country or city has the motto: "We're number two." Everyone thinks they're the best.
Yesterday, Tucker's motto was "I'm number two" as he came in second in every race he swam at the day-long, outdoor swim championships. Tucker is a great swimmer and he is used to winning everything in the outdoor swim meets, because the swimming isn't as competitive. At championships, sometimes swimmers show up who might not have been at the regular meets. Every race Tucker had Wednesday was against a boy named Orion, like the constellation.
And Orion's times were much faster than Tucker's.
When I saw him on the blocks, I thought he looked like a man and wondered how he could be 14. Tucker is big for a 14-year-old, but this guy had the pecs that stand out. Gulp!
Each time Tucker returned from a race, having taken second behind Orion, he had a little more information about the boy. He was homeschooled, Tucker said. Of course, so was Tucker for six years.
He's graduating from high school next year. Okay, Tucker is not doing that.
All of Tucker's times were good. He dropped seconds in each race, but always came in second to Orion.
"I'm sorry, Buddy," I said to Tucker. "I knew I should have named you after a constellation."
"Yeah," Tucker said. "Little Dipper."

Of Course

As if to prove me wrong in my past two blog posts, yesterday I managed to run 3.5 miles, work on my novel, exercise with Grace, make pancakes for Grace before she left for work and Spencer after he finished his workout at the gym. Then I answered emails to my students and planned my next class. I successfully wore all my hats, although my husband, who did laundry and moved a new refrigerator into the basement, may point out that I didn't play the role of wife very well. Today, I'm just tired and going to get to work on grading papers.
My other blog post, reminiscing about those chubby little hands, was put to rest when both of my boys were incredibly surly rather than snuggly. They both got grounded in the space of 10 minutes as they sniped at the rest of the family. Of course, this was as we were planning family night -- enforced time together.
All three of the kids requested an at-home family night. I think they were afraid we'd plan another 22-mile bike ride. We talked about dinner and renting a movie. Grace was scheduled to work until 5. In the middle of the afternoon, a thunderstorm came through so she walked in the door at 3. Shortly thereafter, we lost power. We opened the windows and the air outside that had cooled during the thunderstorm quickly heated back up into the 80s so we had a nice sauna effect.
I looked through the newspapers for a movie we could all agree on. At least it would be cool in the theater. No concensus.
So I made dinner early, goat cheese pasta with peas and ham. Sitting around the dinner table, we were sweltering. I grabbed a section of the newspaper to fan myself. Earl remembered the hand fans we had at our outdoor wedding, little paper fans shaped like palm fronds on wooden sticks. He got one for each of us and we sat at the dinner table fanning ourselves in the heat. Well, Tucker, in a snit about something, had already abandoned the dining room for the couch.
We talked about walking to the ice cream shop downtown, but the kids protested. The car had air conditioning.
"Couldn't we just drive around in the car and listen to Harry Potter?" Spencer asked. We all still love the Harry Potter CDs.
We drove to get ice cream then, ever the optimists, decided to rent a movie in case the electricity came back on.
I stood outside the grocery store waiting in line for the Redbox Video rental. It began to rain. Thunder rumbled. Lightning struck close enough to make me jump. Still, I valiantly waited for the video. (Where are all the heroes today? People willing to brave a lightning strike for a good movie?)
I got Men Who Stare at Goats and when we returned home, the power was back on! We closed the windows and turned on the air conditioning. We're becoming such typical Americans. We used to go most of the summer without air conditioning so I could leave the windows open and hear the kids playing outside. Now they don't play outside.
No complaints from the movie. Everyone stayed to watch, but family night broke up early after that. I went to bed, Grace went out with friends and the boys headed to the basement of entertainment -- XBox and computer games.

Chubby, Little Hands

At the Newman Center on OSU's campus where we go to church, we sit to the side in a section filled with families. Our kids aren't little and restless anymore, but it is a habit we got into and so we continue to sit in the family-friendly section. This morning, Earl and I both seemed to be noticing lots of adorable kids. He was fascinated by an Indian boy and then a baby who looked like a mafia member.
I watched our friends who sat on the steps with their son, who is Spencer's age, 16, and their little girl who is 6. The girl has thick, gorgeous dark hair. She was born with a full head of hair that she now pulls out of its ponytail holder and smooths down again before trapping it. I can tell this is a new skill that she takes great pleasure in. But what really got to me today was when she leaned over to whisper to her mom.
If I'm going to whisper to someone, I may cup my hands around their ear. This little girl, Elizabeth, reached her arm around her mother's neck, her little hand pressing her mother's head toward her mouth as she whispered her secrets. And I remember little hands pressing me closer.
When I nursed Tucker (until he was 3!) he would rub his finger against a mole on my cheek. Grace would twirl my hair while she nursed. My own children had those little chubby hands that were always reaching for me and caressing me.
This morning, Tucker sat next to me in Mass and I reached over and rubbed his broad back a few times. But I know there are limits to how long I can maintain touching this 14-year-old before he shrugs me off.
Still, there are days when Grace will lie down on the couch and rest her head on my lap. Sometimes if we are walking somewhere, she will grab my hand and we'll swing them along like we did when she was little. And both of my boys, although 6-foot, 3-inches and 6-feet tall, will push my office chair away from the desk where I am sitting and climb onto my lap for a quick hug and talk before they're off again to their teenage boy activities.
I remember feeling overwhelmed with the physical contact of little kids, especially while I was nursing. I didn't think I could stand for another person to touch me. Now, I realize how rare those days of constant touch are because they slipped away so quickly. So I take the hugs and hand holding where it comes these days.

Passions

Sometimes it's hard to keep all the balls in the air at the same time.
If I decide to focus on writing, my running slips. If I decide to really train for running, my writing falls off a cliff. I won't even tell you where mothering and teaching fit in.
One of the problems is that I am most productive early in the morning. At 5 or 6 a.m. I am usually either at the computer writing or on the road running. And that is my window of opportunity.
If I write for an hour or two, I'm not likely to then go for a run. I might head out the door, but I don't make it too far.
If I go for a nice run, when I return dripping sweat, I'm more likely to sit on the front porch and read the newspaper than I am to sit at the computer and write.
Many days these past few weeks, my early morning hours have been spent preparing for class or grading papers. I'm teaching four online classes this summer, but once everyone is out of bed, if Mom is home, the expectations are that I'm not really working. I can make lunches and run to Target, and all those other little errands that eat into my day instead of grading and preparing for the classes I do have to go to teach.
Grace and I have also been following an exercise program that takes an hour to an hour and a half everyday with only one day of rest each week. We've finished five weeks of it so far. Grace is not an early riser, although I may roust her out of bed at 8 on mornings when she has to work. So this is another thing that is eating up my time.
There's always the evening, someone might suggest. But they haven't seen me in the evenings. I'm wiped out. Whether I've been teaching, grading papers, running kids to doctors appointments or meeting friends for lunch, come 8 p.m., I'm useless and am lucky to hold a book in front of my face or lift up the remote to change the channel until I lurch to bed at 10.
I guess I'm kind of the opposite of ADD, people who can't pay attention to one thing. Instead, I end up focusing on one passion at a time and the others fall to the wayside.

Flourishing Plants

This summer, Earl cleared the garden in front of the garage and planted strawberry plants. Strawberry plants come back every year and they spread. They shouldn't be allowed to grow fruit their first year. Instead, Earl had to pull off any flowers so the plants would grow well.
After the first few weeks, a couple of volunteer plants stuck their heads through the soil in the strawberry patch. A tomato plant began to grow in the front corner away from the strawberries, so we left it. Then some sort of melon began to grow right in the middle of the strawberry bed. We love a good melon at my house, so we let it grow too.
We weren't too surprised about the volunteer plants since we had grown tomatoes and melons there the previous year.

Here's a picture of the leaves on the melon plant.
All of a sudden, the melon plant began to grow up instead of crawling along the ground. And then it sprouted this:

Something that was not a melon was definitely on its way.
And mid-morning, the plant would flower into a tiny yellow bloom with a reddish center.

It closed again before noon, so I was the only one in my family who ever saw it since everyone else slept most of the morning.
One morning, before the sun became ferocious, my neighbor Sandy joined me in the garden with a couple of wildflower books. We searched until we found the same bloom with the same leaf shapes. It was called "Flower of an Hour." Well, that made sense because it only bloomed for an hour. And it was a wildflower from "Eurasia." Truthfully, it was a weed.
Earl asked if he could pull it since it was a weed. I said no.
"Why?"
"Because it's pretty."
And in spite of its beautiful blooms, as it grew, it began to look weedier -- tall and rangy.
Finally, when Earl asked his weekly question about pulling the Flower of an Hour, I told him to do it.
Now our nobbly strawberry patch is without the gangly weed in the middle.
Here are a couple of actual flowers growing around our house. I'm not going to let Earl pull them. This is a Chinese bellflower, or a baloon flower, and I love it.

This is how it looks before it blooms, like a Chrysler symbol.
We also have a rose bush for the first time at this house. It has bloomed for nearly a month now.
I don't spend a lot of time on flowers. I usually plant some things in the spring and hope they continue through the summer. About this time of year, I run out of color in my garden. Before long though, the mums will begin to bloom and I can stop worrying about whether the neighbors are whispering about my garden or lack of it.

Happy

Today I am filled with joie de vivre. So many things have gone my way, starting with my morning when I wrote the end of my novel. I still have to go back and add a chapter, along with editing. I'm sure many things will change, but it makes me so energized and thrilled to know that I'm nearly there. Things have really come together the past few days.
Grace asked if she could edit for me and I explained that my experience with Earl as an editor when I was a journalist had convinced me that family shouldn't edit each other's work. I remembered arguing about specific words and big ideas. Nevertheless, I printed off the 280 pages today and handed them to her in a file folder. When she came home from work, she sat alone and ate her dinner of chicken sausage with apples. She read page after page. I walked past and assured her that she didn't need to read it all now. I still planned to write that extra chapter and get it to her. She read more than 80 pages as she crunched on carrots and sat at the table long after she'd finished her dinner. I know she has to tell me that she likes it, but she claims she would be honest if she didn't.
And now, as evening falls, the kids have dispersed and I am home alone. I love being home alone. Probably because I don't get the opportunity very often.
Since I had kids, I have worked from home. We home schooled so I never had time home alone while they were gone to school. They all started school about two and a half years ago then more than a year ago, Earl's job changed and he is home during the day while the kids are at school.
It's not like I do anything special when I'm home alone. Sometimes I do housework, sometimes I exercise, sometimes I surf the web, watch mindless tv or read a book. It's just nice to be alone occasionally. And tonight, I can pour myself a glass of wine and feel satisfied that my writing is progressing.
Then it's back to my papers that are waiting to be graded.

Family Night Rides Again

With the temperature in the mid-80s rather than the mid-90s, we decided that a bike ride would be a perfect family night.
It was a little complicated with five people and five bikes. We ended up taking two cars because the bike carrier holds three bikes, so we put the top down on the convertible and stuck two bikes in the back of it. Of course, one of our bikes was missing because Tucker had ridden it to a friend's house and left it where it was locked in a garage. We borrowed a bike from Earl's sister's husband.
Spencer was focused on getting family night over with. "How many miles?" he asked.
Eleven there, eleven back with ice cream in between, I told him.
And he took off. The bike trail runs from Johnstown to Granville. The trail is shared with walkers and runners and crosses several roads, most of them not too busy.
As we started off, we came to a wooden bridge. A squirrel ran onto the bridge at the same time Spencer rode onto it. The bike scared him and he scurried across Spencer's path then ran and dove off the edge, hopefully onto a tree.
That was about the last we saw of Spencer as he decided to ride ahead. He later told us he managed the whole 11 miles in 35 minutes. He turned around and came back to find us since he didn't know where the ice cream shop was.
The path goes through woods and farm fields. It was full of strong odors, like skunk and cow manure. It also had butterflies and birdsong. The woods were protecting and ominous. The fields full of corn that stretched as high as an elephant's eye.
Tucker's bike has issues. Earl says it's because he throws it on the ground when he finishes using it. I say they should have put a kick stand on it if they didn't want kids throwing it to the ground. Nevertheless, he would be riding and the chain would just pop off and he would pedal going nowhere until it reattached.
I found this hilarious. Him, not so much.
Some swear words were thrown around when we left the flat path of the trail to climb the hill up to Granville. It's a steep hill and I called "every man for himself" before we got to it.
Earl and I rode on the street, but the kids all headed for the sidewalk, which meant they couldn't pass each other so were limited to the speed of the person in front of them. Anyway, they all made it to the top without stopping to push their bikes, which is more than I could say for myself the first time I did it.
The ice cream parlor in Granville served up floats and milk shakes that helped get us the 11 miles back to the cars.

This guy fed ice cream to his dogs. He made them take turns and share a spoon. He used a different spoon and somehow thought that was sanitary, even though they were all eating from the same bowl. Ick.
After ice cream, Tucker needed a grilled cheese.
Grace and I headed back to the trail while he waited for his food. We knew we would be slower than the guys. We rode steady for a total 64-minute ride on the way back, along with a few stops for photos. I figure less than a 6-minute mile isn't bad for us.
The boys stayed at the ice cream parlour to eat the grilled cheese sandwich then took off at a pace that might have done the peloton on the Tour de France proud. They shoulted a hello and Spencer's red shirt billowed in the wind as they passed and rode toward the lowering sun.

The sun was setting as we finished at the grain mill in Johnstown.
We were all pretty tired when we got home, except Spencer who of course ventured out to "hang" with his friends at "the turf" which is the high school football field.

Au Naturel

I know that it is healthier for me and my family to eat locally grown foods fresh from the garden. That's why I stopped by our pitiful excuse for a Farmer's Market yesterday where there are two vegetable stands and two homemade soap stands, along with some fresh-baked goods.
I bought some peppermint, tea tree hand soap and then got down to the business of buying vegetables.
Not a lot is ready to be harvested here in Ohio. I bought two zucchini with shiny green peels, two tomatoes that need a little more time on the window sill to ripen, some small red potatoes and a big green cabbage.
When I got home, I pulled off a few of the showy outer leaves of the cabbage and flushed it with water to get rid of the dirt that gathers around the stalk. Then I set it upside down beside the sink where it stayed until I got home about 8 p.m. from a marathon swim meet.
Around 9:30, when I thought I had the energy to get up and eat something, I decided a few slices of cabbage would be a healthy snack. I pulled off another outer leaf of the cabbage and it felt a little slimy underneath. How many of the outer leaves are you supposed to pull off, I wondered. Then I saw a couple of tiny, quarter-inch slugs. They really were too small even to be considered slugs, more like snail wannabes.
So I pulled off their leaves and a few more then a few more just to be sure.
At this point, having dealt with dirt and slugs, I really didn't want to eat the cabbage. I was feeling a little queasy.
I reminded myself that the reason cabbage in the grocery store doeosn't have slugs is that it is sprayed with toxic chemicals to kill things, which is probably much worse for me than anything left behind by the slugs.
I forced myself to eat a wedge of cabbage sprinkled with salt.
I guess it's a good thing I didn't grow up on a farm. Then again, I'd probably be much thinner if it were down to picking off bugs and slaughtering chickens.

Motherhood Changes Everything

I was working tonight in a tutoring session with a couple of other teachers. One of them is in her 20s, recently married. The other, a single man in his late 40s, was wondering how to handle a situation where a woman left his class repeatedly to take cell phone calls. She said she had to answer her phone because her son was epileptic and the school might try to reach her.
This could be a reason why she needed to check to see who was calling her, but the school probably hadn't called her twice during that hour. The male teacher wondered what he should do about it.
The earnest young teacher turned to me first and asked, "Do you have kids?"
I said yes and she said, "I will probably offend you then."
She turned to the other teacher and said, "I would tell that woman that having kids is her hobby and not my problem."
I was biting my lip to keep from laughing. I wonder if I ever felt that having kids was a "hobby."
This woman was so sure that she was right. Her students' personal problems, even if it was epileptic children, had nothing to do with her.
I remember talking to another teacher who now has two young children. She lamented that she had been so unfeeling toward her students who were single mothers who worked fulltime and took care of their children.
I told the young teacher, "Someday, you'll look back and cringe that you said having children was a hobby."
She didn't believe me.
That's okay.
Was I ever that naive about being a parent? Probably. The more vehement they are, the harder they'll fall when they have their own kids.
BTW, I don't allow my students to leave in the middle of class for cell phone calls either, but not because I don't respect their dedication to their children.
It's disrupting to the class.
"If you have to take a call, just take your things with you and go," I tell them so you don't interrupt the class again by coming back in.

Showtime

Lights. Camera. You're on!
I stand blinking in front of a new college class.
More and more, teaching feels like acting to me. I have to be "on" in front of the class. I have to be prepared. I have to be entertaining yet informative.
Truthfully, I love it.
Last quarter and again this quarter, I've had four online classes at the main college where I teach. This week a new semester started at my back-up university. I have two classes where I get to be in front of actual students.
I'm always nervous before I start.
I have my lesson plans. Is this enough to get me through four hours and keep them awake? Where will I add the ice breaker that makes them get up? Where should I include the small group sessions so they start to know each other? How about the youtube videos that will make them laugh?
I dressed carefully. A linen dress with a straight skirt that nips in slightly at the waist and pooches out a little where my belly isn't quite flat. My Jambu shoes that are comfortable to stand in for four hours. My hair is curly, pulled back from my face.
The first few minutes are chaos. Students who have been reassigned to my class coming from another class. Conferring with the other professor. Done. 21 students sit before me. Some like baby birds ready to be fed. Others like Missourians with their arms crossed daring, "Show me."
There is Mulu who was in my class last session.
"How'd you get stuck with me again?" I tease.
"I knew it was going to be a tough session," he replies. "I asked for you."
I smile but I'm flattered. Mulu is from Africa and English is his second language, although his speaking and writing are excellent.
I begin class.
The computer isn't working so I can't flash the syllabus onto the screen. I move on to the next thing on my lesson plans. I ad lib. If students start to look bored, I tap dance faster, trying to keep their attention.
By the end of the evening, by 9:30 p.m. as we move to the computer lab, they are approaching me individually to clear up questions. They are handing me their prewriting for their first essays. They are asking for confirmation that they're on the right track.
I soothe them. I flash smiles. I offer words of reassurance.
And then they are gone. I sit alone in the computer lab, plugging in attendance and going over the successes and failures for the evening.
Probably 15 years ago I took a personality test that confirmed I was an introvert. That means I gain energy from being alone rather than being in a crowd. But these things can change, I think as I walk toward the car.
I call Earl so his voice can keep me company through the dark parking lot. I regale him with my performance.
The voices of the students echo in my head like so much applause.
I'll be back for an encore the following week, perhaps to a more receptive audience or to a tougher audience as they judge how successful I am at performing.

Sock Shortage

This morning for my run, I wore yellow fuzzy socks with lady bugs on them.
I knew it was probably a mistake as I put them on and felt the seams along the toes, but my drawer was empty of athletic socks.
I had only walked out the back door and taken time to locate a quarter moon, shaped like the one that is always used to illustrate "the cow jumped over the moon" and a single star/planet shining in the 5 a.m. sky, when the seam on the sock started to rub.
I sat down on the hammock, took off my shoes and turned the socks inside out before putting my shoes on again. Then I went for a run and figured I'd just live with the socks.
Obvioiusly, they aren't running socks. Apparently athletic socks are at a premium in my house.
Just last week I caught Tucker, size 12 men's shoe, wearing my running socks, size extra small womens. They were running footies with pink at the heel but he had stretched them over his giant feet. The day before he'd had on my Thorlo socks, which are padded at the heels and balls of the feet.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I needed some socks," he shrugged.
He claims they were laying on the dryer, which is where we pile the boys' clean clothes for them to put away.
I either need to step up the laundry or find a boy who won't wear pink-trimmed socks.

Runner's Hangover

On Saturday morning, we ran 9.5 miles.
When I left the house, I was already tired and dreading it. If my friends hadn't been waiting for me, I would have skipped. That's the reason to exercise with friends, isn't it?
I took some vitamin B12 for energy and ate two shot bloks on the way to meet my friends. Shot bloks are like gummy candies that are "electrolyte chews" to give energy and replenish the things we sweat out.
Princess joined us for our morning run, so there were four of us. Princess just bought a new house and moved so she has a legitimate excuse for missing some of our runs. She also is a single mom with a son, so she always has a good reason to sleep in rather than run with us.
We ran our normal route of 7.5 miles, talking and laughing the whole way. I ate two more shot bloks at the turn around, but I wasn't feeling as miserable as I had anticipated.
We went on past the parking lot an extra mile south before we turned around. That made for a total of 9.5 miles. The training schedule called for 9 miles and we're trying to keep that .5 edge.
I "sprinted" the last half mile or so, but only because if I didn't run faster and finish then I was going to stop and walk. I felt good at the end and relieved it was over.
When I got home, I drank more water and sat down to finish reading a book. Slowly I began to feel like a dishrag that had been rung one way then the other. Nothing really hurt, I was just exhausted.
My husband got up and came into the living room where I was lying on the couch. I explained why I was taking a nap at 9 in the morning. My daughter got up and I repeated the scenario.
The rest of the day, the headache slowly built. Dehydration? Possibly. Maybe I should have had Gatorade after my run. Allergy headache? Always a possibility in Ohio. Hormonal-related? The timing was right.
I pulled myself together for a cookout at Earl's sister's house then spent the rest of the day doing nothing. Grace and Tucker stayed home with me since they had been out late the night before and I was in bed early, hoping to vanquish the headache with a good night's sleep.
The next morning, a trace remained, but I didn't even notice it as Grace and I did our morning core workout.
Is it worth it to continue training for the marathon, even though I don't plan to run the marathon, if I'm going to face days when I feel like a limp noodle?