The Vision, Not the View

When we moved back to New England five, almost six, years ago, we had to refresh our knowledge on the local political topics. One that was – and still is – getting a lot of press is an offshore wind farm in Nantucket Sound, off Cape Cod. The project is called Cape Wind.

There are small wind power projects around the area – a town a bit north of us has one and is installing a second. There’s one along the highway into the city that looks really cool at night when they light it with colored lights. They are well-designed, sleek windmills, and I think rather interesting to look at.

The windmills of Cape Wind will be in a shoally area miles from shore, and they will generate 75% of the electricity needed by the Cape and Islands (Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, Elizabeth Islands, including Cuttyhunk) – among many, many other benefits. They have had favorable evaluations from numerous environmental groups, aviation groups, and the Army Corp of Engineers. They have funding to build – and a decommissioning plan for years in the future. It’s not a perfect project (is there such a thing), but it’s pretty darn good, and we have to start somewhere. I think this is a good place to start.

But they are still stuck and can’t go anywhere. Mostly because of political maneuvering around regulations and permitting by people who think their views are going to be “ruined.” A senator from an Irish-American dynasty who typically champions the environment and a losing presidential candidate among them. Ahem. Tensions remain high around the issue, especially on the outer Cape and on Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. Sadly, like many issues, this has become a somewhat divisive one - a rift you can see daily represented on the backs of cars zooming up and down the highway to Cape Cod.

In the summer of 2004 we were extremely fortunate to take the kids on a trip to Ireland. We have friends there – friends we met while we lived in the south – and we had a great time. While in County Clare we stayed in a cottage overlooking the Atlantic and the Aran Islands. It was stunning.

There are windmills on the Arans, and along the coast of County Galway. It didn’t ruin the view at all. If anything, the rhythmic nature of the turning arms contributed to the calmness of the scene. Really. I wondered what the hell all the fuss was about back here.

When we arrived home, I decided to try to do something and drafted a letter to the Irish-American senator mentioned above. But I didn’t send it. I don’t know why, really. I had plenty of excuses – months old baby, going back to work, all that. The letter sat.

Over the next year, I met a person who was and is very active in supporting Cape Wind. He has been the interim rector at our church – Father B.

Watching Father B come into our fairly conservative old New England congregation and turn so many opinions around was inspiring. Even the crotchety old sexton now has a Cape Wind Yes! sticker on the back of his van. While competently performing all his other duties as a parish priest, he was able to convey eloquently how he feels that supporting this renewable energy source was a part of his spirituality and completely meshed with his religious views. I can’t begin to summarize all that here, but trust me, it was inspiring.

I took out that draft of a letter and started a little online research to revise it. It was then I found articles written by Father B that use the title I use above – that this is about “the vision, not the view.”

What a perfect way to summarize, I think.

I finished that letter (a darn good one, I think) to the senator and mailed it off. Of course, I haven’t heard anything back. I didn’t expect to. But I was and am glad to be a voice in supporting what I think is right. I also wrote a personal note to Father B saying how much his efforts impressed me and I was glad he was with our church. Nice guy, that Father B.

The botton line is that we need projects like Cape Wind, and we need them now. And we need more Father Bs and more yous and more mes to support them.

In an interesting twist, Father B is due to leave our parish in March. We are coming close to finding a new permanent rector and there’s another parish that needs him….on Nantucket.


(Also, if you get a chance, check out the article on Samso, Denmark in the February, 2007 issue of Outside magazine. The carbon-negative talk gets a little overdone, I think, but reading about the economic implications of the turbines was fascinating. People living off the revenue generated by a single windmill – that is, requiring no other income! Can I put one in my backyard?)

If Anyone Says I Have a Case of the Mondays, I Will Smack Them

I had one of those weekend that sucked for no real reason. Consequently my Monday morning feels suckier than usual.

So what did I do this weekend?

Um.....

Friday evening...made dinner...got the kids to bed...finally booked a place for a some skiing over winter break...watched "Vanity Fair" (which sucked).

Saturday....made breakfast...waiting online for TWO HOURS for baseball tickets, then got crappy seats to our third choice game...had major conflict with M...made lunch...settle S for a nap...did manage to row for an hour (12, 314 meters, or 7.65 miles)...returned a pair of mislabeled ski pants...bought dog food...made dinner...helped C and his friend get some music off iTunes (having forgotten how funny Weird Al is to preadolescent boys)...watched "Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby" while folding laundry (it was okay).

Sunday...made breakfast...made it to church, even staying for the annual meeting...made lunch...settled S for a nap....rowed again (6000 meters, or 3.7 miles)...went to the grocery store while husband and kids when on a short hike with some friends...made dinner...scrambled to help M with a project for school...more laundry...managed to forget to watch "Jane Eyre" on Masterpiece Theater, even though I had been looking forward to it for a week..

And that was about it. It was one of those weekends when I felt like I am losing my identity as an individual.

So I sit here wondering what the hell it is I want to be when I grow up. How do I figure it out at make it happen? Meanwhile the to do list for everyday life is a mile long.

To paraphrase David Byrne and Talking Heads, "Well, how did I get here?"

Just Can't Go There

Over the next few months, expect more posts relating to C's illness four years ago. I am trying to head off what happened last year, when, during the approach to the anniversary of his illness, I became extremely angry, almost debilitatingly so. I must process this in a more constructive manner. For my sake, for C's sake, for everyone's.

For the last day or so, I have been remembering reaction to C's illness, specifically the reaction of friends after the worst of it was over.

We were extremely fortunate to have the support of many family and friends during and immediately after the illness. However, there were some people - people to whom we had been quite close at one time - who somehow didn't get called or whatever during the crisis. That wasn't intentional. My brain wasn't exactly working right.

Immediately after C came home, we decided to apply our efforts to raising money for the hospital as part of a fundraising walk. Ironically, my husband and I had discussed participating prior to C's illness, but now it meant so much more to us. We took out the Christmas card list, wrote a letter about what had just happened and about the walk, and sent it out.

After the letters went out, we had many, many calls and cards of support, and significant financial contributions for the walk. It was a lovely outpouring. I'm still touched by it, and so pleased we could give back to the hospital so soon after they did so much for us. (And we continue to participate in the walk every year - more on that in May or so.)

Interestingly, we realized that there were several couples/families from whom we never heard a word. People we had been close (or closer) to. And in each case, C's illness seems to have been the catalyst to the relationship becoming a Christmas-card only relationship, in spite of later attempts at further contact by us.

It's sad, but I think I understand it.

What happened to C was beyond scary. Facing what happened means accepting the impermanence of life and how fragile it all is. It's a hard thing to think about. And thinking about it, for some people, means accepting that fragility in one's own life. I can see how one would not want to go there. The idea that a healthy, active 7 year old boy could be struck down so quickly and critically by (probably) a germ that is around us all the time...well, are you squirming in your seat thinking about it? I am.

So we have let these relationships go. It's sad, but it's okay. I respect them. Perhaps, if it I had been in their shoes, I would have reacted similarly. I don't know.

There are also a few people who think that we should be over this whole illness thing already - and have said some truly dumb things to that end. Hey, there's not one who would like to be "over" it more than me, but, as I have learned, it just doesn't work that way.

I am thankful everyday for the life and health of C, and the life and health of everyone in my family - but C's illness changed us. I remember bringing him home from the hospital, looking at the family pictures on the wall, and thinking, "Who are those people? I don't know them."

In addition to the process of recovery for C (some aspects of which took years - and some bits of which are ongoing), we had to heal as a family. We had to build a new foundation as we grieved for the innocence we lost when the code was being called in the hospital. And grief is a process. For months my husband I both cried every day. We felt fragile for so very long even as we need to be strong for our boys.

We don't dwell on this at home. I think we've done a good job of moving the kids and the family forward. It may seem like I focus on this issue all the time, but I really don't.

Clearly, I am not "over" it, much as I or others might like me to be. But like the friends with whom we have lost closeness, I respect the situation. For them to understand why it is not "over" would mean that they would have to face and understand what those weeks in the hospital and the process of C's recovery have meant.

And I don't wish that on anyone.

I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means

One of the guys I work with is not a native English speaker. English is his third language, I believe, after Russian and Hebrew. 99% of the time, it's not an issue. In fact, often his communication skills are better than most of the native English speakers in the office.

But every once in a while, he confuses a word or two.

A couple of years ago, this guy sent an email to several of us about a change he needed to make on the test systems. At the end of the message, he tried to write, "Sorry for the inconvenience."

What he actually wrote was, "Sorry for the incontinence."

Science Fair Season

(My, I'm chatty the last few days!)

Yesterday M brought home an entry form for the Science Fair. C should bring home an entry form today. Although we've been talking about potential topics for months, it's decision time.

Last year C won 2nd place in his division with a project on engineering the Hagia Sophia, demonstrated with cantaloupes (er, musk melons). M won third place in his division with a project on hurricanes. Two years ago, C won 2nd place with a project on steam engines, including a steam engine made out of balsa wood, copper pipe and a candle.

This year, M thinks he wants to do something on black holes. C is still considering. Extracting onion DNA, perhaps. Or some thing about the coliseum in Rome (did you know it had a retractable roof? C says it's the basis of design for modern retractable roof stadiums). My husband brought out some back issues of Make to give him some ideas. Do you know that magazine? Geek heaven.

I scoured the forms and attached information page to figure out whether there would be "winners" this year. Yes, looks like there's something to actually be won. The first, second and third place winners in each category (experimental, illustrative or technology) receive small trophies. The honorable mentions receive medals. Everyone receives a certificate of appreciation and participation.

A couple of months ago, all the families that participated in last year's fair received letters from the district coordinator. This letter included a survey about whether we, as participants, wanted there to be trophies. That is, did we want competition as part of the fair.

It seems that after last year's fair, a parent, who did NOT have a child participating in the fair, approached the district coordinator after the fair and said that she felt that it was wrong to have it be a competitive event. That no kid should receive anything other than a certificate of appreciation. Participating should be its own reward.

Oh please.

The coordinator said that she would be willing to look into the issue and survey participants, but before that could happen, this parent went to the PTA to complain that they should not support the purchasing of trophies for the Science Fair because it was unfair and everyone should just get certificates. She managed to make a pretty good stink about it before anyone directly involved had a chance to respond in a constructive manner.

Again, let me reiterate: this person did not have a child participating in the fair.

The Science Fair in our town is a completely optional event. It takes place on a Saturday in the spring (usually a beautiful Saturday when everyone would prefer to be outdoors), and relies on volunteers from the community - not just schools - to make it run. There's a research institute in town that offers significant support with financial contributions (the PTA pays for only a portion of the cost of the trophies and certificates) and by encouraging staff to be judges. It's well-done. If anything, it could use MORE support from the school community.

I immediately wrote an email to the district coordinator that said essentially this:

"My boys enjoy participating in the Science Fair, and they enjoy the competitive nature of it (and that's not just because we are three for three for trophies). The competitive aspect of the Fair pushes them to try a little harder, be a little more creative in their thinking and stretch themselves. I don’t think they would be as interested in it if there were no trophies for which to compete. Sure, there’s the possibility they will be disappointed, and it’s my job as a parent to help them manage that possibility, as well as learn how to be gracious winners if they do well. I’m not afraid of that task.

Competition is a part of life. While I do not want it to overwhelm my children and dominate their activities, some is healthy. And I think in this small arena, it’s good. I prefer it be introduced at the younger grade levels in the context of the Science Fair rather than on the soccer field or baseball diamond (given some of the sports-crazy fathers in town).

Yes to trophies."

This person who is so bent on removing competition? She'd better be consistent and be asking to remove all competition. In that case, there would be no entries to go to the state level for the Reflections program. Classrooms competing for a pizza party by how many boxtops or pennies they bring in? That would have to be out, too, I think. What about the competition to draw a cover for the school directory?

After receiving that letter, I called my friend N. Her kids have been more consistent participants in the Science Fair and have the variety of results to prove it. She also thought it was silly and said her husband also wrote an email to the coordinator about it. We're both pleased to see there is still some competition in this year's fair.

Now, back to focusing on kicking some Science Fair butt.

Psst! Did you hear….

Did you play that game as a child where everyone sat in a circle, then one person whispers something in the ear of the person next to them, and that whispered thing is passed by whispering around the circle? And the funny part was how the whispered thing changed through the group?

A few years ago, there was an incident in town where a man in a car tried to follow a teenage girl home. The girl was smart and aware and went to the closest trusted house and called the police. The police stopped the man, questioned him (read: put the fear of God into him), but let him go as he had technically done nothing. The man was (is) a local. Eyes are on him.

Shortly thereafter a series of emails went around town. One woman had the presence of mind to email the police department and ask if it was true, and if so, what can we do. The police were responsive and supportive. Overall, though scary, it was a reassuring series of emails. We knew our police department was on top of things and we were reminded to talk to our kids about safety.

I think I received email on the topic seven or eight times. What was most interesting/amusing/disturbing was how the story of the actual incident was embellished.

By the time I received the last email, someone had added, “I heard that when they stopped him, he had kitty porn in the car!”

No, I did not spell that wrong. That is what it said.

What happened next did not win me any fans around town. I emailed back and said, “Disturbing as it may be, “kitty” porn is not illegal. However, had he been caught with “kiddie” porn, he would have been arrested on the spot. Let’s please keep our focus on the greater lesson here and not embellish what is already a scary thing. We need to talk to our kids about safety and be aware as a community.”

And people in town want to cut our education budget??

Snow in the Southwest

More than we've had in this area of New England this winter!

Enough, even, to build a snowman!

January Blahs

UPDATE: Apparently, I am not alone.

Don't know what it is, but I can't seem to shake the blahs for the last week or so. Among other things, I'm getting pissy really easily.

Speaking of being pissy, a note to the woman in the new Range Rover in the grocery store parking lot: If you have to make a 5-point turn to get out of your parking space, you clearly don't know how to drive the damn vehicle and so clearly SHOULD NOT BE!!

My exercise has sucked lately. Sucked. Distances I was able to row two weeks ago feel hard and exhausting. I have no idea why. I am eating healthier now so in theory it should be better. But it's not. Maybe I need to go back to Christmas cookies.

It's finally cold out. This is both good and bad.

I can't seem to get on top of the house. For several months there we were doing well with keeping things tidy, if not clean. But since mid-December or so, it's like a permanent disaster zone.

Received an email yesterday from a local friend. It was a bill of sorts. On New Years this friend invited our family to meet them and other friends of theirs at a local Chinese restaurant. We said we'd stop by for a few minutes as we had other plans. We did just that. We were there for 30 minutes, maybe. Ate exactly one scallion pancake, two crab rangoon and three chicken wings. Paid for our own drinks. Our bill for our "share" of the food is $30. Excuse me? I expected to contribute, and was told don't worry about it on that evening, but then THIRTY DOLLARS? For one scallion pancake, two crab rangoon and three chicken wings. The others were there for several hours. Ugh. I hate this. But I should have known. This happened a couple of times before, but years ago. We'll probably just give it to her to make nice, but avoid any such situation in the future.

Had to put a new set of tires on my car on Friday. Ouch.

Don't get me started on work.

If anyone sees my motivation anywhere, could you please return it?

Bleh.

Denny Doherty, RIP

From CNN today comes the word that Denny Doherty has passed away.

Denny Doherty was a member of the Mamas and the Papas in the '60s, but I will remember him most fondly as the Harbormaster on Theodore Tugboat.

When C was very small, Theodore Tugboat was a show on PBS. Produced in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, it was about the inhabitants of the Big Harbour (note that Canadian spelling). Theodore was similar to Thomas the Tank Engine, but - I think - far more enjoyable and appropriate for young children. Where the inhabitants of the Island of Sodor were grumpy and crabby, Theodore and his friends were mostly soft-spoken and kind. I used to enjoy watching the show with C because we both were calmer at the end of the half hour.

Doherty, as the Harbormaster, exuded a certain gentleness without being smarmy. (Meanwhile, the American narrator for Thomas is...George Carlin. Fitting, I guess.) Doherty was perfect for the role on many levels, including because he was a native of Nova Scotia and the characters and locations in Theordore were based on his childhood home. That brought a certain extra fondness, I think, that came through in his role. (I also loved that there were strong female characters.)

C used to make us sing the Theodore song to him as we were driving places. I can still sing it from heart:

Theodore, he's a tugboat and a friendly tugboat, too
Oh Theodore likes to do that things that friendly tugboats do
Pushing and a pulling in the great big harbor
In the great big world its so much fun
So many brand new things to discover
Waking with the sun gotta get the job done
Oh Theodore, and Emily
Foduck, Hank, and George and the Harbormaster, too...(ending musical flourish)

When we moved south we were disappointed that Theodore was not on the local PBS station. I had my brother-in-law tape numerous episodes for us. We watched those over and over and over. M, once born, became a fan, too, and now S likes to watch the tapes.

We went to Nova Scotia for a vacation several years ago and spent a couple of days in Halifax. They have a tugboat there decked out at Theodore for harbor tours. We took the boys out on the boat and they had a blast. It's one of my favorite memories from that trip.

Theodore Tugboat ceased production about five years ago. We were disappointed. We were sad that a really good children's show couldn't make it. Instead we get insipid shit that grates every nerve (big purple dinosaurs and flying dragons - don't get me started!).

When I told C this afternoon about Denny Doherty, he was sad. He said, "Oh, so now Theodore really can't come back."

For Denny Doherty, the Harbormaster, a moment of silence please.

Thursday Night Tears

So here I am watching Grey's Anatomy, managing to remain fairly detached. Poking around the the Web.

Then George's father dies, and Christina approaches George. After a brief exchange come these lines:

George: I don't know how to live in a world where my father isn't.

Christina: That doesn't change.

Someone pass the tissue.

Suburban Code

There are certain understandings among the women in my town. One has to do with Tupperware-type parties.

You know, the type of “party” that is really meant to sell you something which you may or may not need. Tupperware, Southern Living at Home, Mary Kay, just to name a few.

The understanding is that, unless you are going through a major financial crisis or the cost of the items is utterly ridiculous, you will, if invited to such a party, purchase at least one something. A token. It is further understood that you are not to be invited to more than a couple of these parties per product line in any given year, unless you are an enthusiastic devotee.

I have adhered to this code, and I have some crap to prove it. Heck, someday in the future, I may need the support of these same women in my own business venture. I appreciate what they are trying to do.

In October I received an invitation to a Mary Kay party. An acquaintance in town had just started selling it and her neighbor was throwing a party to help her along. I responded that I would come. I went. I made a small purchase (sunscreen).

A day after this party, I received an invitation to a Mary Kay “skin care class” on a Friday morning November – same seller, different neighbor. As it was an opportunity for S to play with a friend, I agreed to go. This time I bought some lip balm.

I have subsequently received invitations to two additional Mary Kay parties. Same seller. Four parties in four months. That is so against code.

I also received several phone calls from this seller, telling me about some “great new products” that are "just up my alley."

I have done my duty. I have no interest in the line, but have purchased my token

Enough already. Were it not for other aspects of suburban code, I might say something. As it is, our children ride the same bus, our husbands are friendly, and it’s a freaking small town. I did create some convenient excuses not to attend the later parties.

But I’ll tell you what. This Mary Kay seller went straight to the top of my list for people to hit up for donations for the walk we do for the hospital every year. I’m sure she’ll make a nice contribution.

Just wish what I spent on that sunscreen and lip balm were tax-deductible!

Weather Update

Regarding this post.

The high was 21 today. Farenheit.

I'm not saying I like it this cold, but I can deal with it. We need it. And I did choose to live here.

If it holds, the cranberry bogs (just flooded, to protect the plants) will freeze and we can go skating.

Yeah, That Was Silly, and The Best Cooking Show

So. No suggestions for a new bag. I'm not surprised. It was a silly topic.

As it happens I found cool little number at TJMax this morning. While it doesn't address my desire for color (it's black), it's sleek, modern, and made of buttery soft leather. I've looked in vain for a photo of it on the 'net, but I did find a site for the company in Spain that makes it. Lupo of Barcelona. I got an excellent, excellent price on it. TJMax is awesome (and sister store Marshall's).

Of course, this evening comes the news that the computers of TJMax and Marshall's parent company were hacked and an unknown amount of customer information, including credit card data, has been compromised. Great.

We've been through this three times in the last year with other companies. Please no. Please not again.

I've decided the firmly stick my head in the sand on the above issue and talk about my favorite cooking show: Good Eats.

Ever watched Good Eats? With the quirky, geeky host Alton Brown? Science mixed with tasty grub.

Now, I enjoy cooking, but I enjoy watching cooking shows even more. Ina Garten, Giada Delaurentis, Emeril, Paula Deen. Well, Rachel Ray and Sandra Lee, not so much. But I watch A LOT of the Food Network.

From Good Eats, I finally learned to make good pancakes. Before Good Eats, I was trying to make donuts apparently (see "Flap Jack Do It Again"). I make pretty good fried chicken ("Fry Hard II: The Chicken"), cinnamon rolls ("House of the Rising Bun"), and many other things, all thanks to this show. I have started to collect the Good Eats DVDs and have been known to row to certain episodes for "motivation" (see "Art of Darkness III").

If it's on Good Eats, my there's a chance the food in question will cross my children's lips. A few days ago, C even said he'd be willing to try okra ("Okraphobia").

Okra.

I almost took his temperature to see if he was ill. This is the boy who will not ingest potatoes unless they are in the french fry or chip form. No mashed potatoes. No latkes. No au gratin.

Last week C also wrote a letter to Alton Brown to ask about possibly purchasing a prop from one of the pie episodes (see "A Pie in Every Pocket"). I don't know if he'll ever really get a response (or if acquiring this prop is at all realistic on his allowance), but he had a lot of fun writing the letter and asking.

It's truly a show we all enjoy. So - if you haven't seen it - go find it....you will not be disappointed.

Evening Ramblings

WARNING! This post is completely, totally fluffy.

Part One

I need a new bag.

Perhaps "need" is to strong a word. "Really want" is more appropriate. I'm just bored with the bag I have.

I currently am using a medium zip tote from www.seatbeltbags.com. The color is a limited edition acquired last spring. I think it was called "Seashell" or some such. It's silver and pale gold webbing.

I like the bag well enough, and would consider something like the messenger bag, but for color options. I like to go beyond the basic colors. I don't know about the prints being offered in the seatbelt bags right now. I kinda like one of the new limited edition colors (Cherries Jubilee), but not enough to jump on it tonight like I would need to, and it's a little pricey for the actual size of the bag. Maybe I just need to go in a different direction for a bit. I could use something slightly roomier, too.

I've done the Vera Bradley route. Not looking to go back, but not ruling it out either. About five years ago Vera Bradley had a great silk plaid special edition bag that I loved. But it did not wear well. Generally speaking, Vera Bradley is so overdone in these parts. I'm not a Stepford Wife.

Kate Spade bags are pretty common here, too. Her bags have become cliche, I think.

I used to like Coach bags and would use bags for years at a time. I don't like the new Coach stuff. Too trendy. I did like their poppies bags about a year ago, but the cost was rather out of reach, and I wasn't the only one who took notice. They were a limited edition and were snapped up quickly.

I think this bag by Pia Wallen is just stunning. But can't justify it in leather (2650 Swedish Kroners = $378) and wool felt isn't what I am looking for for spring.

I had a bag by Brooke Lovett a while back - pink houndstooth "Tuesday." I like the size of the "Monday" bag, perhaps in brown velvet with pink lining. But not exactly spring-like, either.

I've used one of these Harken bags made out of sailcloth. Fine, functional, but not quite it, if you know what I mean.

I have a wallet that has been in use for almost five years. It's turquoise leather on the outside and lavender suede inside. It's made by Designers Guild. I'd love to find a bag with this level of style. I'd probably stick with it for quite a while. Of course such a bag probably has a certain level of price, too.

Even though I knit and could whip up something quickly, I'm not into the felted bag scene. Not quite refined enough.

If money were no object I'd probably pick out something from Hester van Eeghen's line. For now, however, those bags will have to remain a daydream.

I don't like the current trendy look with all the buckles and outer pockets and all that. Too fussy.

Suggestions, anyone?

Part Two

I've been renting a lot from Netflix. Love, love, love "Weeds." Mary-Louise Parker rocks.

I also enjoyed the first season of "Big Love." I might even have to get HBO before season two begins in April.

In watching all these movies and series, I have noticed that the song "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys is quite popular on soundtracks. The original version, covers...

Told ya. Fluffy.

Before and After

The other day I realized that when I think about various events in our life, I think of them in terms of whether they occurred before or after C was sick.

Before: My dad getting sick. K moving to town. Re building the front steps. Finishing the quilt for the living room wall. Innocence. Naivete.

After: My dad dying. My brother and his family visiting. Learning to surf. Rebuilding the rock wall along the driveway. S. Understanding that it could all be gone in a heartbeat.

About some things around that time, I am incredibly superstitious. For example, there's this one restaurant a couple of towns north. Our area isn't known for a plethora of decent dining opportunities, so decent restaurants tend to be latched onto with vigor. We had takeout from that restaurant the Saturday night before C became ill. I still cannot eat there, almost four years later.

It makes no sense. None. I know that restaurant has no relationship to C's illness. It had no bearing whatsoever. Heck, I can look back on photos from that weekend and see that C was already a bit unwell. But still, I can't go back there.

About other things, it's just a strong association and the difficult memories. For example, C and M have been asking to go skiing for a couple of years now. The last time we went skiing was - you guessed it - in the weeks before C became ill. In this case, it's more the memory than an aversion to skiing. Heck, I miss skiing, too, but it's freaking expensive taking a family of five to the slopes, and when two of the family members likely won't even make it onto the slopes (S and a parent), it sounds less appealing. I don't want to drive four hours to sit in a skanky lodge. But that last ski trip was great, and I had pictures from it up in C's ICU room. For days when C was in critical condition, I was afraid those were our last family pictures. That's a hard memory to get over. We're trying to plan a ski trip now, someplace where S can go to a little ski school so we all can get some enjoyment out of it. I find myself hampered by memories. Fears.

It's ridiculous, I know. Truly. I know.

A project I was involved in leading up to the time C was ill was running the PTA Reflections program for his school. I was an art major in college so I figured I should do something art-related in my volunteer work at the school. There was little that was artistic about the job - all bureaucracy (bureauCRAZY) and suburban housewife politics. Ick. C didn't even participate. But I completed the project and sent some interesting student artwork off to the state program (where it languished, but that's a whole 'nother story). I finished up the final paperwork and report to the PTA council the week before C became ill.

This year, for the first time, C decided to enter a piece in the Reflections program, and I've been bombarded by those little memories with "before he was sick" attached to them. This afternoon I picked up messages at home and C's piece has been selected to go on to the state level. The message also asks if we can make it to a little reception for all the participants on Friday afternoon. I remember doing that. Before, of course.

I'm thrilled for C. He's going to be pleased when I pick him up this afternoon. Yet I cannot shake this whole association with his illness.

This before and after thing is my own private hell.

Putting Yourself Out There....and Falling Flat on Your Ass

Sometimes, the extra efforts you make in life turn out swimmingly. Sometimes not.

Recently I decided to try to make contact with someone I knew long ago. As you might conclude from the title, it didn't go so well. Bear with me while I provide the backstory.

When I was in 7th and 8th grade, I had two best friends, A and D. We three did everything together. Everything. Our lockers were all in a row. Some matching clothing items, I think. We even had the friendship rings. We were going to be best friends forever. Uh huh.

In 8th grade, just a few days after my birthday, A and D started acting a little odd. Finally I asked them, during post-lunch recess, what was going on. They told me the didn't want to be my friend anymore. In fact, they hated me and never wanted to talk to me again. D did most of the talking, while A nodded along. They threw the friendship rings at me. I was crushed. I cried (a lot). It was awful. To this day, I do not know what happened; I do not know why.

Over the next four and a half years, we all still went to the same schools, we were all in band, and things like that. D, especially, was cruel and made comments or talked about me behind my back whenever possible. During the friendship I had glimpsed this side of her and so over time it was easy to write her off. But still, we walked it different circles and never spoke.

A tried to say hello to me a couple of times after the big blowout, but I could never bring myself to respond. I was too hurt. I moved my locker, hung out with new people (though I always felt like it was just because they felt sorry for me). I noticed in time that A and D weren't best buddies anymore. In high school, A's crowd was closer to mine, as were some activities. Again, we never really spoke.

I admit was rude to A in some situations. I had made marching band before she did, but she was brought in late season to fill a space. While she was trying to learn the routines, I was snappy. I yelled at her on the field what direction to go and such. Not my proudest moment.

I put a big defensive wall around myself where those two were concerned. Big. Tall. Thick. But I can also say that was one of the first times I felt my own determination to leave that town and go make it on my own terms. Much as my father pushed me academically, it was that inner drive that made a real difference.

Fast forward fifteen years. We are living in North Carolina and planning a summer trip to New England for my husband's cousin's wedding. She is having her reception at their mutual grandmother's house, as we did. It's a place all the grandchildren know and love from many summers and holidays. The bride sent us a new commercial map of the area - one of those maps put out by business associations that highlight local businesses that have paid into the association. Looking through the map, I see an ad for a real estate company. The name is the same surname as A.

A's surname was not a common one. Her parents were in real estate back when I knew her. It can't be, but it must be. I go to the Internet and find their Web pages. It has a photograph...and it's the parents. I call my one high school contact who, conveniently, lived across the street from A and pimp her for information. The parents had moved but A was still out there. Interesting.

It was amazing how all the thirteen year old feelings came right back to the surface that day.

I still had no idea why A's parents would move to that small town, next to the small town where my husband spent summers, where we were married, where his mother is buried, but there was too much going on in my life to consider it. We went to the wedding, had a lovely time...but in the back of my mind, I worried about encountering the parents by accident.

Fast forward another two years. We are living in New England again, about forty miles from the grandmother's house. We establish a new family tradition for Father's Day. We plan to drive down to my mother-in-law's grave and clean it up and plant flowers, spend the day in that area with various activities and end the day at a local restaurant. Driving around the area each year, we see several of the real estate signs. Each time I am reminded of my adolescent self. It's not comfortable.

In the meantime, I see A's sister in magazines. She's done some interesting things in her life.

Then, about eighteen months ago, D contacts me. Really. D send me an email and apologizes for her behavior. She says she doesn't remember what really happened, but is sorry anyway. I knew people would be able to find me after my father's obituary was in the paper, but I never expected D. I accept her apology and say we should write it off to the trials of adolescence. She seems to want to become friends, but I don't think I can quite do that. Anyway, it's an interesting turn of events.

D's contact and apology had me thinking. Isn't it about time I make some peace with my thirteen year old self and my life out west? I'm pushing 40 here. It's about time.

Last summer, after another Father's Day and seeing those real estate signs, I did a Web search on A's last name. I found her grandmother's obituary, and understand that her parents moved back here to care for her. And in reading the obituary, A's family and my husband's family may well have crossed paths over the years, in several generations.

And now we get to the present. In the December issue of a magazine was an article on A's sister. I decided it was time to make contact. I sat down and wrote an email (retrieved from the real estate company's Web site) to A's mom reintroducing myself and explaining that I thought it was interesting that people who knew each other decades ago on the other side of the continent might have other connections as well. Offered some details on possible connections, and was honest about how I figured out those connections. Said I was sorry that I had put up such a wall in high school. And so on.

So I put myself out there. And I have heard back....exactly nothing.

I'm not expecting that A and I will become best friends again. I'm not expecting a jolly and frequent correspondence. I thought maybe I'd hear a "Hi, nice to hear from you, yes, I think these connections are interesting, hope you're well," and so on.

But nothing. Silence is cruel. I feel like I have made a complete ass out of myself.

I'm thirteen all over again.

California Dreamin' on Such a Winter's Day

Except it's not so winter-like outside. And not necessarily California, but sun in general, and wishing the weather would go one way or the other, dammit. Preferably toward winter, at least for a little while.

There are robins on the lawn, the magnolia is trying hard to bloom, there are buds on the hydrangeas and daffodil shoots on the edges of the planting beds. It is January 8, 2007.

Wrong, on so many levels.

Not that I love shovelling snow, much less driving in it, but one of the things I love about New England is seasons. I didn't have those growing up.

I love the first real coating snow in winter. When it gets so quiet and still out and you can watch the wonder on children's faces.

I love the week in spring when the buds on shrubs and trees burst into that new bright spring green.

I love the lazy days of summer that, though hot and humid, stretch into late evenings of eating dinner on the beach or screened porch.

I love the change of colors in the fall, when the oranges and golds on the trees seem to make the fading light glow.

Honestly we need a good hard freeze for a week or so. Yes, I know the buds and sprouts that are emerging already are going to burn, and when they actually do bloom the edges will be tinged with brown, but we still need a hard freeze. Even if just for practicality's sake.

If we don't get a hard freeze it will be a bad roadkill spring. Think about it. Eau de flat skunk.

If we don't get a hard freeze, flowers will bloom too soon and we'll have a colorless mid-growing season. And the annual weeds in lawns and planting beds will become even more firmly established.

If we don't get a hard freeze, it will be a bad tick year - for animals and humans alike

If we don't get a hard freeze, there will be no skating on the cranberry bogs.

If we don't get a hard freeze, there will be no bundling up for some activity with the promise of a warm fire and hot cocoa at the end of our efforts.

If we don't get a hard freeze, the sense of renewal with spring won't bring the same joyous promise of rebirth.

Of course, if we don't get a hard freeze, the winter heating bill will be more manageable.

Can't win, I guess.

Morning Light

Happy New Year!!

Getting in Touch with My Inner Slug

I feel alternately guilty and free today. I am not erging today. I am still in my pajamas. It is 3PM.

After a month of serious erging to complete the Concept2 holiday challenge, I woke up today and decided to just...not....row.

I completed my 200K last Friday - and added another 6K Saturday morning to make my 2,000,000m - but I need to take a break from organizing my day around that machine. It's good to be in better shape (though I still can't shed these last five baby pounds almost three years later - ARGH!), but it's not good to be obsessed about anything. I don't even particularly LIKE exercise. I just have been exceedingly disciplined about it because I know if I'm not, I'll stop altogether.

It's not like I haven't rowed this week - I have. I even achieved personal best times in 10K, 6K and 30 minute rows. Don't quite know how those happened. Maybe the Christmas cookies were the extra fuel I needed.

I'll row tomorrow. I'll even try for an hour row.

Off to have another cookie. Gee, wonder why I can't drop those last five pounds.

Creepiest Christmas Card of the Year Award

Yesterday there was just one holiday card in the mail. It was most unexpected.

I saw the return address and instantly had flashbacks to childhood. It was from the ex-husband of one of my mother's sorority sisters. Yes, all those things. This person has narcolepsy and I remember him falling asleep at our dinner table more than a couple of times. Among other weird things.

Inside was 1) a note that my mother - referred to as "Aunte"- had given him my address, and2) a photograph of him hiking. Without a shirt on.

So I have this new image of this person. A 70+ narcoleptic hiker. Shirtless.

Euw.

Things You Don't Want to Hear Three Days Before Christmas

M came into our room at 3:30am saying he didn't feel well. Several hours of vomiting followed.

The stomach bug that has been going around town has made it to our house and the timing sucks. We're supposed to see family tomorrow and Sunday (and M is supposed to be in the pageant at church).

Lots of hand-washing today, and we were able to get an anti-nausea medicine into M so the vomiting has subsided. I hear it's a quick bug, but I don't want anyone else in the family to get it.

I'm going to go stick my head in the sand now and pretend this isn't happening.

The Moments You Hold On To

I'm sitting up in bed, sipping some coffee, kinda listening to the Today show. S is next to me, and M has crawled in on the other side. We're being a little lazy this morning, but shouldn't be. Need to get moving.

S. scooches down under the covers and turns toward her brother. M scooches down, too, and is face to face with S.

M whispers, "I love you, S."

Just Breathe

For the last week or so, C has had increased asthma symptoms. As soon as we noticed this exacerbation, we put him back on some maintenance meds and started regular nebulizer treatments throughout the day. We were slowly making progress, I thought. And although his peak flow numbers weren't in his green range, they were creeping higher in the yellow range.

On Saturday morning, C started to say he didn't feel so great, and his coughing sounded a little wetter. I cut our morning errands sort, took the kids home and took his temperature. It was normal, though he did feel slightly warmer to the touch. He perked up Saturday afternoon, so I didn't think much of it and kept him on regular nebs.

On Sunday we went to church and he sang in the choir, though watching him, he wasn't singing exuberantly, or even heartily. I'm not sure if that was his not feeling well or just trying to be pre-adolescent cool. By the time we arrived home, his cough sounded a little wetter, he admitted to something coming up his throat with coughs, and said he was starting to feel lousy again. This time the thermometer registered a fever, though low-grade.

When my husband arrived home from work, we decided he needed to be seen. My husband took him up to the covering pediatrics office. (My husband can converse with the pediatricians on a different level than I can, but as a Mommy, it's hard being out of that loop.) They gave him another nebulizer in the office so they could hear his chest better, then sent him home with prescriptions for a pulse of steroids and antibiotics to cover the suspected beginnings of pneumonia.

C handled the whole thing well. Two days later, I can see he's feeling better, and he's had a few green readings on his peak flow meter.

The emotions in brings up in my husband and myself, however - well, I don't even know how to describe them. Just the word "pneumonia" makes me a bit of a wreck.

C is doing better and better with processing his illness of 3 1/2 years ago. For a couple years, he wouldn't talk about it, and asked me to never talk about it with anyone. I would tell him that I couldn't do that, because I needed to deal with what happened, too, but that I would make sure I didn't talk about it with him in earshot. But this year, C took a breathing mask into school with him on a day the kids were to bring items that represented something unique about themselves. I was stunned, but pleased. He actually talked about it openly with his classmates. And last night he asked for a list of all the medications he had while he was sick, just because, he said, he wanted to know. It's a long list.

Interestingly, I realized that as C has become ready to talk about what happened, I want to push it all deeper down inside me. I'm afraid, if we do talk about it more, I wouldn't be able to keep myself together. While I have been working hard to make what happened to him just a part of his life, it's more than that for me. It is an incredibly difficult episode that I still have trouble thinking about.

I guess it makes sense in some ways. C doesn't remember a good chunk of that time - any of the time in the hospital, actually, and I do. He was sedated and medicated and didn't see the 14 tubes in and out of his little body. By the time he was home, he was just weak and tired and his 7 year old psyche couldn't comprehend how perilous his journey had been. Now that he is older he wants to know a little bit more and a little bit more - but the distance of time separates him from the raw trauma of it all. Thankfully.

Through this little asthma episode, my gut instinct has told me that he's going to be fine. I learned to listen to my gut that awful day in April, 2003, when I looked at my pale son and thought, "This is not right. We have to go to the doctor. Now." But today, now, the gut says it's going to be okay - he's going to be okay. But will I?

I don't know how to tie all this together. C wanting to know more and my own anxiety and anguish. He's here and alive and healthy, and for that I am so thankful - but there are still emotions to be processed for all of us. I want to do it right for all of us, but I'm not sure I know how.

Editing

I often think of things to write about here. Usually when I am alone in the car, worrying whether I will make it to work on time or whether I will make it to pick up the kids on time, or on some time-limited errand.

But then I get to the computer and the topics feel either lifeless or too dangerous.

I think most of the blogging world has been freed from the myth that blogging is a private thing. Even if you don't use your whole name, and limit other identifyung features, people can still find you. And if those people perhaps read something that offends, then the real world and the virtual world collide and fallout can be ugly. I'd rather not go there, thanks. My real world is complicated enough.

And so I edit.

Some people don't care, of course. Perhaps those people have a touch more courage than I do.

But, oh, I could write some really juicy things.

Guess I'll keep them to myself. For now.

(And I'll keep looking for appropriate things to write about.)

In the Spirit of the Weekend...

'Tis the season to write a sappy list of the things for which I am thankful. Yes, it's cliche. But it's all true.

I am thankful for (not comprehensive):

• Entenmann's Cheese Filled Crumb Coffee Cake
  
• Coffee
  
• Hydrangeas
  
• Healthy, thriving children
  
• Healthy, loving husband
  
• Strawberry yogurt
  
• Internet shopping (saving me from the crazed masses in the stores)
  
• Wet dog noses
  
• Friends
  
• A job at which I continue to learn new things, even if the politics sometimes annoy me
  
• Peonies
  
• Perspective (about some things, anyway)
  
• Sand between my toes
  
• Weather
  
• Belly kisses
  
• A roof over our heads that is not too big, not too small - it's just right.
  
• Ice cream
  
• Wooden knitting needles
  
• Sappy Christmas music
  

I readily admit that I have a good life. I am lucky in so many respects.

Town Circus, I mean, Meeting

Last night I attended a special town meeting.

Ah, town meeting. That curious and quaint method of town government peculiar to New England. It can work so well, and yet, so often, it doesn't. But it's what we have. And the kind of arguments and personal attacks that come up at town meeting are enough to sway me from ever formally suggesting anything different - because anything suggested would have to be brought up, argued and voted upon at town meeting, of course.

I'd forgotten about this town meeting completely, until K, an acquaintance and member of the town's school committee, called to remind me. I knew that at least one of us should go. As faithful as I am about voting in town elections, I admit to trying to avoid town meetings Especially after the full-day Kindergarten debacle a few years ago. On the special warrant were three items related to the schools. They were items that desperately needed support - and defense from the usual town meeting suspects.

Sure enough, the usual suspects were there. Were it not for our talented town moderator we might have been sucked into the vortex of endless circular complaints about anything and everything.

What we were voting on, in the first four warrant items, were transfers from the town's free cash (essentially, emergency reserves) to various departments to cover collective bargaining agreements with various unions, expense overruns and unforeseen expenses. This was bargaining with unions and contracts that were not complete at the regular town meeting in March and much as departments tried to budget, they could not know exact amounts. The various town committee representatives gave their opinions on the warrants, recommending them for approval, for the most part, and noting that concessions were made on all sides.

Okay, so the police went first. They got all their money, no "nays." As did the town clerical staff, town library staff and the firefighters. I'm sure the group of uniformed officers standing around looking down on everyone with crossed arms had no influence. None at all.

But when it gets to teachers - well, then it got nasty. And I just wanted to shake some of these people. But I didn't. I didn't want to stoop to their level. These are teachers we were talking about, teachers who teach our children, who help shape our future, to use all the cliches. There is no evil agenda.

Our school budget is already bare bones. Our budget overall only rose about 3% from the last fiscal year and that's AFTER the approval of this additional appropriation. That's less than the cost of living! Which means our hard-working teachers essentially are taking a pay cut when you consider cost of living increases. We spend less per pupil than surrounding towns (and it's starting to show, in my opinion). We have a business manager for the schools that manages the school budget within millimeters-and deals with the people in town who berate him on a monthly basis for wasting their money.

I'm not saying the school department or budget is perfect, but they do a damn good job, with far more accountability and transparency than other departments. The school committee made a few fumbles in presenting the warrants, I think. But, two of the three school appropriations made it through, thankfully.

I absolutely understand the desire of towns people to want their tax dollars spent well. Of course I do. But why attack the schools when our small town police department has spent tens of thousands of dollars on a K9 unit and training that I have yet to hear of being used other than for show and tell at the elementary school. Our fire department has a Hummer. In addition to eight or nine regular fire vehicles. Why? We are a small town! The Senior Center gets whatever it wants. And I do mean whatever. It's getting a whole new parking lot installed but there was never anything wrong with the old one.

I would bet, that if you divided the police contract appropriation by the number of staff affected by it, and did the same for the teacher contract appropriation, the police each received a much heftier salary increase than the teachers.

There's this contingent of older town residents that say, why should we support the schools when we don't have any kids in the schools? Well, they did have kids in the schools once upon a time, and they fought for the schools then. It seems very shortsighted. What if one of their children moves back to town and wants to enroll their grandchildren in the schools? Will they be good enough then or will the years of the constant battering of the school budget have done irreparable damage by then? And don't forget, these kids going through the schools now are the one who are going to be responsible for supporting our economy-and their retirement investments-in the coming years.

There's the contingent in town with school age children who isn't active enough in defending our schools. I admit to being part of that group at times. With everything else we need to accomplish for our kids and families, it's hard to get excited about adding in hours and hours of tedious town meeting (which is why the debacle of town meeting 2003 occurred). This is also short-sighted. We need to fight for and protect our schools and other issues in town that affect us.

I'm tired of all the acrimony in town under the guise of accounting for tax dollars. When it comes down to it, it's just one side attacking anothers values.

Stop it.

Party at the Polls

The middle school in town was a surprisingly hopping place at 6:08 AM when I went in to vote. Who woudla thought. Not just business people stopping by before the long commute into the city, either. It was heartening.

There does seem to be some excitement with this election, a feeling of change in the air. Regime change begins at home, after all.

An election shouldn't have to be exciting or controversial to get people to the polls, though. It's our privilege and responsibility to vote. I usually take at least one of the kids with me and sometimes let them fill in a bubble or two. A friend of mine recalls being ushered through the snow in northern Vermont by her mother to get to the polls; her mother setting the example that one votes when an election is held, period.

I had this notion drilled into my head from an early age, too. I know exactly the look my father's face would have if I did NOT vote. As it is, I know he's looking down on me, watching me vote for members of the other political party and thinking, "At least she voted." With a heavy sigh.

Last spring in the town elections, I almost didn't vote. We were doing some house and yard work and completely forgot about it, until someone called to remind us. I rushed and made it with about ten minutes to spare. Later the next day, I learned that an acquaintance who was a candidate for library trustee was won her spot by two votes. Two. Votes.

As much as I believed in voting before last spring, and made the effort to vote in every possible election, it was that election that drove it home for me. My vote counts.

So does everyone's.

And that's just really cool.

Guess I Am Sticking Around for a Bit

When I started this experiment I wasn't sure I'd stick around. I still don't know how long I will last, but I'm here for now.

I've started telling a few people about it.

So...

Welcome.

I think. :-)

Suburban Strife

What makes for a bad day in suburbia?

One

My husband had to be away for most of the weekend. I decided to take advantage of his time away and watch one of the ultimate chick flicks possible - the BBC mini-series version of Pride and Prejudice. Two discs, five hours of classic chick lit translated to film. The discs from Netflix arrived in a timely fashion. I had good wine.

Friday night went as planned. Got the kids to bed, poured a glass of wine, put in disc 1, and curled up under the duvet. Ah.

Saturday night was all set to repeat. Got the kids in bed, poured a glass of wine, and put in disc...hey, wait a minute. This isn't disc 2. It's another disc 1.

Nooooo!!!!!

I checked the disc sleeve. Yup, it said disc 2. I check the other disc sleeve and disc. They match in saying disc 1.

Sigh. Thanks, Netflix.

Two

My hair is extremely thin, fine, and straight. I hate it, of course. I'm slowly learning to live with it. Maybe by the time I'm 90 I'll be at peace with it. Because of the nature of my hair, it's extremely difficult to cut. The slightest error in the cutting line is very visible.

Over the years I have struggled to find people who can cut my hair well, much less at all. There was one woman out west during my high school and college years; I would actually go six months without a cut so she could do it rather than risk a bad cut. Then she left the business to start a family and I tried for about 12 years to find someone - yes, 12. In that time I don't think I ever saw one hair dresser more than twice. Once I left a salon and not even the receptionist would tell me I "looked great" in that falsely perky manner that seems to be required of salon support staff.

A little over five years ago, just after we moved here, I tried the local Aveda salon (as I did and do enjoy Aveda products). It was one of the worst cuts I have ever had. The owner had to try to fix the damage, but the fix was barely better than the original. A woman I knew actually asked me if I'd had my hair cut that way on purpose.

After that fiasco, I decided I needed to go to the city, that I would have a better chance there. Suburban scissors would not do. After a little research and some building of courage, I called a specific salon and asked for an appointment with the owner of the salon. It was more than I'd ever paid for a haircut in my life - and it was perfect. Worth every penny. Even my husband recognizes that splurging on a good haircut reaped benefits with him, too. No more whining about bad haircuts for months on end!

I found my person. Over the last 4 1/2 years, I had come to trust him so much that I would sit down and not even tell him what I wanted done. I would just say, "Make me look good." And he would. I referred several friends for him. I even started getting highlights from him (fabulous, natural-looking), though I did not keep that up because finding that block of time to get into the city on a regular basis was difficult (and the cost was hard to justify-if the cut was more than I'd ever paid before, imagine partial foils! Worth it for the quality and time spent, but still pricey).

Because I am out in suburbia, and because of the relatively craziness of our life, I do not get into town for cuts as often as I would like. The last time was mid-August. I realized a couple of weeks ago I really needed a cut and started looking at the calendar for a time I could get in. Once I figured that out, and cleared it with my husband's schedule, I called.

Me: I'd like to make an appointment for a cut with David on November 17th, late afternoon.

Salon: Um, David is no longer with the salon.

Me: What?

Salon: David is no longer here.

Me: Who owns the salon now?

Salon: A woman named Monica.

Me: Do you know where David is?

Salon: No, I don't.

Me: Uh...Okay...Uh ...Um...Thanks...Uh, bye.

Obviously, I was shocked. When I was in for my cut in August, I asked how business was going and he indicated it was going well. And not to have a postcard or some contact information for loyal customers is surprising unless it was a sudden decision and/or he has left the business altogether. It may well have been sudden, as his father's health has been up and down in the last couple years. Wherever he is, I hope he's okay.

I guess I'm growing my hair out.

Things They Say

Every family has their own lore. Tales told over and over again about funny things that have been done and said by members of the family.

I woke up this morning thinking about something C said maybe a year and a half ago.

When I was pregnant with S, C was not particularly thrilled about a new addition to the family. It was only months after his illness and he was struggling with his own feelings around that. He openly expressed to me his desire not to have another brother or sister.

When S was born, and C and M came to the hospital to meet her, his first words were, "Can I hold her?" And from that moment on he has been a loving, doting and caring big brother. S is lucky girl. M is a lucky boy, too, as C can be a wonderful big brother to him, but it seems to be different with S. Less fraught with competition as it is between C and M. Hey, I'll take what I can get.

One day while walking the dog, I asked C, "So, bud, you weren't too thrilled with the idea of a sibling while I was pregnant. What happened?"

And with a completely straight face, C replied, "I didn't know she'd be so cute."

Say it with me now..."Aawww."

Happy Birthday, M!

My dear, sweet boy, there is so much to say that there's no place to begin.

Just know that I love you with all my heart and soul and I am so proud of you.

love, Mommy

Messing with Natural Selection

I love our dog. Truly. But there are some aspects of dog ownership I could do without.

Yesterday was a decent day, even if the night before was unsettled for a couple of us at home. The bags under my eyes made that plain to all around me. But I did manage to get through most of my to do list, make a big dent in a work project, and hold my cousin's seven-week-old baby. Even managed to pick up the kids with time to spare and felt in a decent mood. I was looking forward to the pasta dish I planned to cook.

But then when we opened the door of the house, all that flew out the window as we were smacked in the nose with the scent of doggie diarrhea.

Euw.

Yup, the dog was ill, and there was a nasty mess in her crate that needed cleaning RIGHT NOW. Apparently it had just happened because the mess was, uh, still warm. If I had just left work a few minutes earlier...

Thank goodness C is old enough to really help out because trying to clean up such a mess with a two-year-old underfoot would have been too much. Over the next several hours, we took her out frequently, but she still messed on the screen porch and we no longer have cushion for the wicker love seat.

This dog, Miss T, is a sweet dog. She's a retriever-collie mix and we adopted her from a rescue organization that saves dogs from kill shelters. She'd been in Kentucky before she was rescued and came up here.

Miss T is not the brightest bulb. She has the attention span of a gnat. There are times she clearly needs to relieve herself, but when we take her out she smells something in the wind and can't refocus to her original goal. I've taken her out 19 times on windy days before she's actually peed! She has a delicate stomach but loves to scavenge. We work hard at keeping everything off the floor and keeping her away from the garbage, but sometimes she manages something. I have no idea what it was this time. If she did not have a family of humans looking out for her - and willing to clean up after her - she would have exited the gene pool long ago.

But I will never get rid of this dog, unless she physically harms a member of the family. What she does and has done for C is what it's all about. When we moved up here from the South, C begged for a dog for a couple of years. I kept intending to do the research and find one, but something always came up. On that first awful day in the PICU, while C was coding in the next room, I bargained with God. I asked God to save him, he has so much life still to live, that I'd get him the dog he wanted, I'd take him to LegoLand.

So when it became likely in the following days that C would survive, I emailed an old boss who now runs a rescue organization and asked her to start keeping an eye out for a dog for us. Three months later, Miss T joined our family.

There are aspects of dog ownership that I don't like and bits of Miss T's personality that drive nuts. Messing with natural selection or not, she completes our family.

P.s. Yes, we did go to Legoland, too. It was awesome.

Anxiety

When I put in my profile that my son M is 7, it wasn't quite true. He's 6 3/4. He turns 7 on Thursday.

I am extremely anxious for this birthday.

On my 7th birthday, I was admitted to the hospital with double pneumonia. I don't remember how long I was in the hospital, but I remember the oxygen tent, and the nurse and a doctor flirting and my grandfather's contact popping out and it being crushed under the rail of the rocking chair he was in. I remember sharing a tv with a girl who had just had her leg amputated. I especially remember it being a big deal that I was in the hospital because my mother was Christian Scientist. But it all turned out fine. I'm fine. I went home soon enough and resumed 2nd grade.

On C's 7th birthday, he had a stomach bug, then had a low-grade fever for a few days. He was a little pale at his birthday party, but we figured he was fine. But two days later he was diagnosed with pneumonia and the day after that was in the local emergency room, then transferred that night into the Pediatric ICU at a children's hospital in the city. And thus began the most terrifying and awful period in my life. I sure hope it is the most awful period in C's life, too, because if anything is worse than that, well, I don't think I can go there.

C ended up on coding, being put on a ventilator for 9 days, having part of his lung removed, and all sorts of other insults. We were so lucky in the end - he survived. He missed a lot of school, required physical, occupational (and emotional) therapy, and his body took literally years to recover completely. But he's here. That time, that experience changed our life.

(I think, really, that is blog is for finally getting out everything about that time. I wrote lots of snippets at odd hours in the hospital, but never did anything with them. When my father died a month after C left the hospital, it became all tied up together, and until now I think, was just too much to consider all at once, or even in parts.)

So, M turns 7 on Thursday.

Wtih M, we also have to consider a birth defect that he has. He was born with a bicuspid aortic valve. At his young age it really should mean very little - antibioitcs before going to the dentist, knowing he'll never play American football, rugby, or any other sport with upper body straining. But at last year's annual check in with his cardiologist, Dr. B told us he also has an enlarged aortic root. Right now it's *just* within normal range for his size (tall), and it goes along with the valve about 50% of the time.

I struggle with what to do. Part of me wants to say - sit here on the couch with me, and be my sweet boy. Don't exert yourself. But if you knew M...well, that's not going to happen. He's exuberant, joyful. We struggle with how to discipline him without squashing his joie de vivre. He's smart, too. He asks why. His birthday party is on Saturday, climbing this thing called the "Pinnacle" at the local REI store, followed by pizza. I have to tell the employee running the belay line not to give him much slack, help him up a bit. Because I want him to feel like all the other kids, but I don't want to take an unnecessary risk. I want him to grow into all his potential, and I just pray his potential and growing aren't mutually exclusive.

We see the cardiologist on Wednesday. He knows my fears and understands them. Even before he met M for the first time, he consulted on C in the PICU when there was some question of whether C's heart had been (unrecoverably) damaged in the code. I don't even know where to begin in what to talk to him about. I need a lot of reassurance. I need to hear that M will be okay. I don't know if he can give me that.

I think I will be holding my breath a bit, through the appointment on Wednesday, through M's birthday on Thursday, through the birthday party, the days that follow...through his whole life, really.

Sightings

The power went out about 7 o'clock this evening. The kids and I were finishing up dinner, watching a rented DVD, and it just went. The storm that is moving through the area includes a high wind warning, and I guess that wind knocked something out somewhere. We'd been busy inside, so I hadn't realized the wind had started to pick up.

S was quite upset, but I found the flashlight quickly, found some candles and we were able to get her settled. C read to her and M kept asking if he could light the candles with the matches. Uh, no! He's seven, and I'm not crazy -- despite appearances to the contrary. I also managed to find the camp lantern in the basement.

After about 20 minutes it became clear that this could be a prolonged outage, so we blew out the candles and brought the camp lantern upstairs. Everyone found pajamas and we climbed into Mommy and Daddy's bed for some reading.

Luckily, just after 8 o'clock, the power returned. C asked if we could look for the weather on the TV so we could know how long the wind might last. I said sure.

I turned on the TV and started flipping to different channels trying to find some weather.

Wait a sec, what was that?

I quickly try to backtrack and find it...could it be?

Oh.

My.

God.

I went to grade school and high school with that guy.

It really is Bobby! Or, Bob, I think it was by the end of high school. He lived on the next street over from me. My friend shared a backyard fence with his family.

What's this he's on?

Oh.

He's an ambulance chaser. It's an ad. One of those, "If you've been injured/taken this drug I can get you lots of money, here's my 800 number." Lovely.

I'll be honest and say that I am in touch with only one person from high school, and even that contact is spotty. I rather like it that way. After my father died, I figured someone with minor sleuthing skills could find me without much difficulty after my full current name and location were printed in the obituary. I was right - a girl who had once been a close friend emailed me and actually apologized for her behavior when that friendship ended (adolescent girls can be ruthless). In another twist, her partner in that ruthless behavior all those years ago has ties to this area, and that girl's parents now have a realty business about 40 miles from here.

Over the years, I've occasionally seen, heard of, or run into people in random places, always interesting since I live 3000 miles from where I grew up. I saw one guy from high school on a game show in the early 90s. I was unemployed at the time and watching game shows was the height of my days, aside from opening thanks-for-your-resume-we'll-let-you-know letters. Saw one kid in the St. Louis airport as we were getting on the same flight home for the holidays.

I saw this other kid on the subway platform in 1990 or so. I swear he looked exactly the same as he did when he was 13. He was the school genius and went off to the local college every afternoon for high level math classes. For one project in eighth grade he decided he was going to build a model rocket that would fly higher than a certain brand of model rocket. When asked how he was going to figure out which rocket went higher, he replied, "Simple trigonometry," and proceed to describe in detail the equations he'd use.

I decided to approach. I said who I was, that I went to school with him out west, and he was stunned. He started to ask about certain people, if I knew what had happened to them. As it turns out, I did know, because my one contact was part of that crowd. When I told what I knew (it wasn't pretty), he became angry with me and asked me why I was telling him this. Really. I resolved that if I ever saw anyone else from the west on the subway platform - or anywhere else for that matter, I would say and do nothing.

The sighting tonight on TV has me thinking about why I am so ambivalent about contact with people who knew me then. I kind of like knowing where certain people are - as much to avoid them at all costs as anything else - but don't really want those same people to know where I am. Am I the only one who feels like this? What is it about that part of my life that I still need to come to terms with? It was high school, for goodness sake, more than half my lifetime ago! And didn't we all have at least a little bit of insecurity about who were and who we would become?

How long will I be wrestling with my inner adolescent?

Just Some Photos I Like

Le Chateau Frontenac, Quebec City, August, 2006


Gerbera Daisies in the Rain



Afternoon



Evening



Black Sand



Arch

Me

Fracture of the First Metatarsal

On Satuday, my oldest, C, tripped while running to my car from baseball. Note that baseball was over. He was just trying to get to the car to go home.

I thought it was just a little sprain. Shake it off, I said.

When we arrived home after picking his spanking new spectacles on the way, he wanted to put ice on it. I thought he was being a little dramatic but let him.

That afternoon we drove north to do some apple picking and see some friends. He limped through the orchard, but was just as active. I told him to stop favoring it, that it would feel better more quickly if he walked as normally as possible.

Sunday he went to a friend's birthday party at a sports complex. Flag football, and all that. He limped less, was just as active as the other boys. I figured he was fine and just milking the minor injury for best effect. He is 10, afterall.

On Monday morning he was still complaining of discomfort, so I took a look at it.

Oh.

It was swollen and starting to bruise.

Bad Mommy!

I saw the other children off to school and took C to the doctor's office. They sent us to the radiology center for an xray. The xray techs told us it usually took about an hour to get films read, but nothing jumped out at them when they looked, so their money was on a bad sprain. But, they said, this isn't an official doctor's opinion. Remember that. It was 10AM.

I took C to school and went home to do some work while I waited for the pediatrician's office to call. Noon came and passed, one, two, three o'clock. Children climbed off school buses and still no phone call.

Finally at 3:45 I called the pediatrician's office. No read back yet, call again before 4:30.

I called at 4:15. Finally the read is in. (I really dislike the hospital associated with the radiology center, for many reasons, and this didn't help. But that's a post for another day.) The nurse says C has a fracture of the first metatarsal, she'll have Dr. H call me in a few minutes. At 4:35 she calls and says Dr. H just says to call an orthopedist; it needs to be stablized properly. They give me some local names.

I start calling. It's 4:37.

"Hi, I have a 10 year old with a fracture of the first metatarsal and it needs to be stablized."

"We close at five o'clock."

"I can be there in five minutes. I live in town."

"We close at five o'clock."

"I really don't know what needs to be done here. I need some direction."

"We close at five o'clock."

"Can you help me at all?"

"We close at five o'clock."

The conversation deteriorated from there, and that was just the first place I called.

Finally, my husband called his pediatric trauma friend in his hospital's ER. He told us to pick up the xrays from the other (closer) hospital and come on in. We live 33 miles from my husband's hospital, and we try to use local resources for what appear to be smaller things like this, but apparently, in this case, that was a waste of time. The big city hospital was the only one that was going to care.

My husband and C went off to the ER in the city while I gathered the other children, released another chipmunk at the conservation area and scrounged leftovers for us for dinner. They were back before bedtime.

The fracture was confirmed, but the orthopedist in the ER said he needed to see a specialist in the morning because the fracture might involve the growth plate.

He's there right now.

Our adventure continues.

Catching Chipmunks

Chipmunks have lived in the rock walls around my driveway since before we moved into this house. When we built the tiered rock walls on the other side of the driveway last summer, I imagined the critters sticking their heads out of their dens and saying to one another, "Hey, Alvin, get a look at the condos going in across the way!"

In the past several months the chipmunks have become a bigger nuisance. They annoy the dog and induce her frustrated barking from the porch, they make certain parts of the planting beds among the rock wall unstable and promote erosion, and they try to dig up some flower bulbs. Just a few days ago I tried putting in some fritillaria meleagris (guinea hen flower) bulbs for next spring and they've already gone for those.

In late June or early July I bought a Havaheart trap and set it by one of the chipmunk holes by the front step. I made sure it was stocked with the bait that I read was perfect for chipmunks: peanut butter, apples, raisins and such.

Nothing. Not one chipmunk in that trap.

Oh, we did catch something...we caught a toad. But no chipmunks.

I figured I just needed to be V E R Y patient and eventually it would work.

On a whim, on Monday, I put a piece of homemade chocolate chip cookie in the trap. Within two hours, we had a chipmunk.

The boys were so excited. I was at the grocery store with S, their little sister, when they called to tell me the news. After I arrived home and unloaded the groceries from the car, we loaded in the chipmunk, still in the trap, and we drove to a nature reserve area in town and released the little critter far from us.

I figured that wasn't the only chipmunk, so we set the trap again, and yesterday afternoon we had another chipmunk. Another trip to the nature reserve, and we set the trap again. This morning I made a third trip to the nature reserve before heading into the office.

Three chipmunks in less than 72 hours. And chocolate chip cookies seem to be the difference.

I smell a Science Fair project.

Update (10/17): We're up to five chipmunks in eight days. And we didn't have the traps set for two days.

RIP, SC(KPMBS, the ones I remember)G

It's interesting that I mentioned my aunt of many marriages in my first post. She died last Thursday. I didn't know she was sick. Rather, I didn't know her breast cancer had recurred. I learned of her death from my sister, who read it in the newspaper.

Yeah, my family, we're close.

I hadn't had any contact with my aunt for three and a half years, since the nasty scene at my father's memorial service, and contact had been spotty for six or seven years before that, as we disagreed on how my father's wife was treating him and providing for his care.

Regardless, it's sad that she had to go by such an awful disease.

I would say that what I am feeling now isn't exactly grief for her, but it's some kind of feeling about that side of my family. The lot of them have been, at the very least, fodder for some crazy tales. My husband doesn't miss a family gathering on that side purely because of the entertainment value.

I don't have a ton of aunts and uncles or extended family. One aunt, by my father, and one uncle by my mother, six cousins total, from both sides. I used to think my aunt was so glamorous, so beautiful. I saw the clothes, the cars, the houses, the done-up hair and manicured nails. Somewhere along the way, I realized that the chain smoking, the Screwdrivers for breakfast, the cast-off husbands, the cast-off children, the tantrums when she didn't get her way were the signs of a deeply unhappy and troubled woman, and I somehow created a separation from her and her kids (mostly her daughter, nearest in age to me). I felt apart from them, different. Oh, I still saw her for several years when I went out to visit, saw her daughter on trips to California, but it was never the same. I'm sure she resented that and saw it as a rejection. She had a similar falling out with my sister.

In truth, I think it was really an acceptance of all the insanity that was that part of my family, and not rejection, that enabled the separation - the moving on - for me. I was able to talk about the crazy family history and laugh and try to learn from it, but she never was able to do that. She was embarassed by what her family had been, and tried to hide it. We were polar opposites in this respect. I wanted to take the family skeletons out and dance with them, and she wanted to make sure the kneecaps of those skeletons were well-broken so they would just stay put in the closet. (Dad was somewhere in the middle.) All this became so evident around the time my father died. It's still painful for me.

Maybe what I am feeling is renewed grief for my dad.

I noted in her newspaper obituary that the surname of one of her sons was left off. After being married to her current husband for over ten years, she was not close enough to this son for her husband to know his last name. That's just so sad.

I wish that she could have had more acceptance in her life. Maybe she would have been less bitter toward her sons, less angry around my father's memorial service, less a lot of things, more a lot of things.

I hope she's finally at peace.

What Do I Want, Anyway?

(In no particular order, and not comprehensive.)

Warm toes.

Kisses from my husband and kids.

The dog to pee and poop where and when she's supposed to.

The cat NOT to regurgitate hair balls on my bed.

Oreos.

A self-cleaning bathtub.

A lawn without crabgrass.

Fully funded college accounts for my kids.

Red wine. Good red wine.

Extended family who...nevermind.

A manager who...nevermind.

Erging to NOT be bulking up my legs and behind.

A healthy relationship with food.

To be able to wipe away all the stress and strife my kids have or will experience.

Time to knit.

Sunshine.