Christmas Traditions

Tonight I re-read one of my favorite books, The Twenty-Four Days Before Christmas, by Madeleine L'Engle. I like to re-read her books often, and that seemed like a fitting one for this time of year. I tried to read it aloud to my girls a few days ago, but they groaned and begged me not to. It's something new lately that they have lost interest in - read-alouds. I'm still not sure exactly when that happened. It was all still good this summer, when we read Redwall, but at some point this fall, they have become too "big" to be read to. I think I am in mourning for this, as it was something of a tradition for us, to read books aloud in the evenings. We've read Island of the Blue Dolphin, The Three Musketeers, Two Princesses of Bamarre, The Day They Came to Arrest the Book, A Wrinkle in Time, The Shakespeare Stealers, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Shabanu, and countless others. We passed through the time after Hurricane Ike reading Many Waters, and they loved it. Maybe no electricity and nothing else to do in the dark is the secret. I could always trip a breaker, I suppose.

But the book I read tonight talks about Christmas traditions, and how the protagonist's family had a tradition of doing something each of the 24 days leading up to Christmas, something to prepare. Since Advent literally means "to come," and it's a time of preparation, I love the idea of using each day to make preparations in a small way. I wonder if it's too late to bring in new traditions to our family.

We have a few, but even those have been challenged this year. Every year since before the children were born, we have decorated the Christmas tree while watching A Muppet Christmas Carol. This year we broke tradition - 7th grade finals were upon Katie and we decorated the tree to the less-soothing sound of Mr. Urbani's podcast on Roman, Ottoman, and African Empires. This is not a tradition I want started up - I'm hoping it dies with this Christmas. And speaking of trees, we've all had so much going on, our tree did not go up until a little over a week before Christmas.

We have not read A Christmas Carol together this year. And we have not - yet - baked cookies for neighbors and friends.

I did manage to buy each girl a Christmas ornament for their trees. The idea is that they will each have a box full of ornaments to take with them for their own first homes. This idea was born out of my frustration the first year I lived away from my family. I had exactly $45 to buy decorations for a tree. I was faced with buying a lot of very cheap ornaments, or having only a few very nice ornaments. I chose to buy an angel for my tree, and some beautiful wooden beaded garland strands. All of the other ornaments that first year were made by me, with the exception of some beautiful crocheted angels and snowflakes made by my grandmother. I still use those ornaments of hers, as well as the angel I bought that very first year as an "adult." It's become a tradition for my girls to fight over who puts the angel on top. Katie's too old to be lifted up any longer, and she had to stand on a step-stool this year. We have so many ornaments these days that we pick and choose what to use each year. I can't bear to part with them, and so I keep all of them, even the chipped and worn ones. Each one is a memory of its own - from dear friends, former students, family vacations, and silly gift exchanges.

Our Christmas traditions are skimpy, and with my children getting older, I feel that - in many ways - it is almost too late to start new ones. I grew up in a household without tradition. We moved often and we shed material belongings on a regular basis, and in our very logical, very functional home, there wasn't much room for traditions or unnecessary items. A few years ago, I found that my mother had thrown away all our childhood ornaments - including the handmade ones - and bought all new ornaments. Of my childhood holidays, only a handful of photographs survive. All of those are either me playing with new toys, by myself, or my brother and I propped up stiffly in front of the tree. There are no pictures of our whole family. This is because by mid-morning on Christmas, my parents would generally not be speaking to one another. Or they would, but it would be in the form of screaming and cussing.

Maybe the tradition I am leaving for my children is one of peace. If we don't have fabulous traditional outings or activities they can count on, then maybe the gift I can give them is one of remembering Christmas without cringing. Yes, there was the year a tornado knocked out our power on December 23rd and we spent Christmas Eve wrapped in dozens of blankets. And there was the Christmas that I was too sick to do anything but stare blankly at them while they opened presents. Yes, we ate at Denny's more than once for Christmas meals. But no one was fighting or screaming or throwing turkeys out windows.

So, this year my girls feel they are too old to be in the church's Christmas pageant. We'll sit and watch together, instead. And our Peter, Paul and Mary Christmas CD has been replaced by the Glee Christmas soundtrack. Change doesn't make our Christmas memories any less worthwhile. We're together, and no matter what changes, I'll still tear up watching the Christmas pageant, I'll still count to ten and hold my breath a lot while we're at my parents, and I'll still feel blessed to have my children with me on Christmas day. The gift of Christmas - the tradition - is, after all, to remind us how blessed we really are in Christ and in those we love. If we can find a way to celebrate that, and I mean ANY way, then it's a fine tradition to have.

Big Hair, Parachute Pants, and other Signs of Peer Pressure

So, Katie experienced her first break-up with a friend. Well, not so much of a break-up as a continental drift...her friend drifted from their little Omega geek world into the bigger world of complex social strata and is aiming for being a part of the popular group. And really, who can blame her. In the world of a thirteen year old, it's hard to hear you're hanging with the loser crowd. Katie and her other friends have shrugged and wished her well, though they are somewhat dismayed to find their numbers down by one. Their group doesn't know - at least not yet - how to play the right games to blend in with the larger herd. They don't care for fake affections or pretended interests. For now, they say they prefer it that way, and hopefully they really do...still...peer pressure is a fearsome thing at this age, especially when there are members of the opposite sex involved.

It seems fitting that I would have heard this story while I had a group of girls at the roller skating rink. Almost poetic justice in that, as another roller rink, in a distant galaxy, far far away...was the scene of so many of my own moments of peer pressure buckling. See, I was a child of the 1980's, and Friday night meant hanging out at the roller rink. It was awesome - I had the the classic white skate boots with the big pink pom poms on them - all the right footwear to go with my parachute pants, my feathered hair, and my off-one-shoulder tops. Height of tacky, and I looked just like everyone else. The Duran Duran hat came a little bit later, with the acid washed jeans and the asymetrical punk haircut....

Friday night at the roller rink meant a little bit of skating and a whole lot of posturing, flirting and sometimes making out. The rink where I take my girls is so much the same, and yet so different. Same carpeted benches and open lockers, but a lot better lighting and a lot more adults looking out on the action. So, maybe it's a good thing - the rink I frequented as an adolescent had no doors on the bathroom stalls to cut down on sex and drug use. Eek. Not a memory I want anywhere close to my own girls....but anyway...I did neither of those two things while I was at the rink, and didn't know anyone personally who did. Maybe it was just one of those urban legends. But the smell of the rink - slight sweat, greasy pizza, popcorn, and some undefinable smell that is only found in those old rinks - it was the same. It took me back to being thirteen years old and trying to figure out where I fit into the social structure as well.

My biggest peer pressure moment could be summed up with two words - Brian Dantona. Brian looked like Michael J. Fox (and that was a big deal in the early 80's), and he danced like Michael Jackson. OK, so he was kind of on the short side...who cared...he was Brian Dantona. Even his name was awesome. There are kids like him that we all know growing up - legends in their own time, for no reason other than that they possess that undefinable quality of "cool" that has all the girls wanting them and all the boys wanting to be them. Brian didn't go to my school - heck, not sure really how old he was or if he went to school. Didn't matter - he was Brian Freaking Dantona. Brian didn't have girlfriends for periods of days or weeks. He had Friday night girls, and he had his own spot on the mushroom shaped benches in the darkest corner of the rink. On any given Friday night, you could see a random girl sitting next to him - or on his lap, if she was lucky enough to be shorter than him - making out. Never mattered which girl, because we all pretty much looked alike. It was a girls' rite of passage to make-out with Brian Dantona. I'd made it through 7th grade and most of the summer before 8th without being one of Brian's Friday night girls. That summer I had a major crush on another guy, Andy - not so much of a legend, but still a pretty great guy. He raced dirt bikes, and he'd almost gotten up the nerve to kiss me one Saturday in a friend's treehouse. So, the next Friday night I dressed with extra care - plastering my feathered layers into place, putting on the palest glittery lip gloss, wearing my very coolest new shirt and the tightest jeans I owned - the ones I had to lay down to zip and pray I wouldn't need to pee. I figured I wouldn't even bother with skates until I was sure Andy was coming. In the way that things always seem to go when you are a teenager, that was the night I got the message from one of the other boys that Brian "oh My God" Dantona wanted me to come sit with him.

Now, I knew I'd been waiting for over a year for my turn. Not because I really wanted to make-out with Brian Dantona, but because I didn't want to be the girl he never asked. But in that moment, I was wavering, because I really just wanted to hang out by the snack bar and see if Andy would show up and maybe ask me to couples skate again. But my friends were all waiting, and Julie gave me a little push forward and asked, "what are you WAITING for?" in a pretty shrill voice. I'd like to say that I used all my common sense (because thirteen year old girls are known for that), and said "no." But I didn't. All these girls were looking at me expectantly, wondering what my problem was, and the speakers were pounding out REO Speedwagon, and I just sort of fog-walked over to the darkest corner and sat down with Brian Dantona. I spent the next two hours as Brian's Friday night girl, pretty much bored out of my mind, until the moment I opened my eyes and looked past Brian's blow-dryed perfection hair and saw Andy couples skating with Lynn. I tried to throw myself back into my legendary make-out moment, but my heart wasn't in it and quite frankly, my lips had gone numb by that time.

My friends all congratulated me as we waited in the parking lot for our rides, Brian having walked away at closing time, without so much as ever having said anything beyond "Hi" and "Thanks, see ya'." Andy walked to the other end of the parking lot to wait for his car. He never did speak to me again. I had a choice between a really great guy, or doing what was expected by my friends. I went with what was expected of me, because it was easier to privately hurt about Andy than to explain why on earth I wouldn't make-out with the guy that all the girls wanted.

I had forgotten all about those Friday nights and Brian Dantona until I was sitting in the rink watching my girls go round and round under the disco lights, and was thinking about what they had told me regarding friends and popularity. Who even really knows what it means to be popular or even to "belong," but we were all so afraid of not having that indefinable quality, we were willing to risk a part of who we were. Most of the time I'm so proud of my daughter and her friends for not caring what other people think and going down their own paths. Other times, I'm scared for them. It's hard to be the outcast - we moved around a lot when I was a kid, and I've walked both paths. I do try to help Katie find a balance - you can be yourself without being an out and out curiosity. I hope every single day that she'll make good choices. But if one day she has her own Brian Dantona moment, because just for one single Friday night she wants to be one of the girls...I'll understand, and I'll try to help her understand if her friends make that same kind of decision.

Family Blessings

I went to bed last night, still feeling emotionally raw from the ups and downs of this week. It was with great reluctance that I cooked and headed out to my parents' house today. See, my family is the original dysfunctional family on the best of days. Holidays have never been the best of those days. While other people have memories of cooking and laughing together, watching football, maybe getting out the Christmas tree, my Thanksgiving memories involve a lot of cussing in the kitchen, yelling, tense silence around the dinner table, and criticism. Those are the good holiday memories. Worse years include the year my mom threw a turkey through the window (well, that was the time at Thanksgiving...she threw one out at Christmas once, but it was on fire that time, so it almost made sense), or the time my dad stabbed a knife into the table top, right next to my brother's hand, or the year I walked out in a snow storm and just kept walking...you get the point. I've contributed too, like the year my mother accidentally on purpose forgot that I don't eat meat and included it in EVERY SINGLE dish, including the salad - that took talent and planning. So, when asked to say the blessing, I eulogized the turkey - then suggested we should proceed to the backyard for a graveside service. It was in poor taste, but they tend to bring out the worst in me.

I remember the first year I had a family celebration with John's family. It felt so weird - no one was fighting, they had all these little traditions and inside jokes. It was like the holidays I had only seen in sit-coms. I miss those family gatherings.

So, this morning I woke up, still feeling emotionally wrung out and wishing I had indulged in some wine last night, while I had a chance. The thought of going to my parents' for a holiday, without my full emotional armor in place almost scared me. I gave thought to taking some anxiety medication, but decided I'd rather have full use of my sensibilities, just in case I had to make a run for it.

It was an absolutely predictable evening. My dad called my mother an idiot. My mom cussed and threw things around in the kitchen. My kids acted up, because they know they can get away with it there. I pretended to read a book in order to avoid confrontations as much as possible. My dad gave the girls money for no clear reason, because he doesn't know what else to do with them. My mother cooked way too much food, and refused to eat a single thing that she had asked me to bring - my potatoes are weird, "who eats asparagus?" and the salad wasn't like she makes. OK...bring on the left-overs for us.

It was predictable. Except, I realized that I maybe don't need any armor anymore, except my sense of humor. This is my family - it's the only one I have, and they're not going to change any more than I am. The fact is that, strange as our relationships are, I will miss them when they are gone. I am thankful that I have them, though I sometimes have to keep them at a distance. My parents are getting older, and my brother lives 1200 miles away. The time I get with them is less and less frequent, and while we may not have perfect relationships, they are my family. I will create a new mantra to remind myself of this when we are together and they are driving me crazy.

I am thankful for my crazy, mixed up, emotionally goofy family.

And while I'm on the subject....

I am thankful for my children, and for the chance to learn from the family in which I grew up, so that I will not repeat the same mistakes. I'm breaking new ground and making all new mistakes of my own. And I do own them, admit them, and hope that my children can forgive them. I love my children - they are unique and quirky, and sometimes make me want to scream in frustration - and they are forever mine. I happen to think that they are particularly wonderful.

I am thankful for John. We rarely see one another, and are sometimes so frustrated when we finally do end up in a room together that one of us ends up mad at the other. But we have been together since before I was legal, and I am lucky to have this person in my life who accepts me - the one person who does so knowing exactly who I am and liking me anyway. We are partners in raising our children, and in every way that counts.

I am thankful for my friends - the ones I see often, and the ones I may never see in person again. Every one of them has touched my life in myriad ways and I think about all of them often in my life. My friends forgive a lot with me, and they remind me to keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds when I need it. They turn a blind eye when I act a little crazy, and they pretend not to notice how off key I am when I sing. Bless each and every one of them.

I am thankful to have a job I enjoy, challenges and all. I love my co-workers, and love the fact that I do something that makes a difference to people. We are our own dysfunctional family of a different sort.

I am thankful for having found a church home where I can contribute and be accepted as well. Having bounced from Baptist upbringing to Catholic school to Quaker meetings and marrying into a very Catholic family....it's been a long journey. Balance is a good thing, and I've found it in our church. It is a place where I can worship, question, celebrate, serve and watch my children grow in love.

I am thankful that we have a home - it's small, and its messy, and there are a million things needing some TLC...but it's our home. My children have grown here, and a million memories of every kind have been made inside these walls.

I am thankful that my family is in good health. This is high on my list this year, having watched loved ones let go of family, mothers agonize over their sick children, and children mourning their parents in recent days. Our days on this earth are short enough, and I am blessed to know that my family is well and able to take care of ourselves.

I am thankful for our own personal zoo...the cats, the mice, the hedgehog and frogs, the hamster and all the rest.

I am thankful for the opportunity to start over every single day. I screw up - a lot. But I know that it's because I am human and that it's just my humanity showing when I do so. I am thankful that with age I have learned to pick myself up a little more quickly and start over again. I am thankful that I am not done learning, because the day that that happens, I will have stopped living. Sometimes the lessons are painful, and some of them are almost beyond bearing, and yet I keep moving forward. I am thankful that we have a God who designed us this way, and who promises to never give us more than we can bear, despite how it feels some days.

I am thankful for my own ability to love. It's what saves me some days (not to mention the fact that it saves others on other days).

I am thankful...just simply, thankful, and feeling blessed.

Thankful?

Just when it seems like it should be one of the days for most counting my blessings, I'm finding it the hardest to be thankful. This has been a week so full of hurt - not as much for me, but for many who I love and care about. Sometimes the absolute raw, bitter hurt that is part of the human experience knocks my feet right out from underneath of me, and I can't understand why. Just when I know, deep down inside, that I should most be leaning on faith, I find it the most difficult to believe in the mercy of God at all. Today is one of those days, as I sit here, almost raw with empathy for loved ones, and absolute fury for a world where people could be hurt so badly.

In complete irony, I have a song running through my head that Erin Elizabeth used to sing with her choir - "Thankful." And, yes, I am thankful today that my family is safe, that my intimate world moves on as before - my 12 year old is whining, my mother is acting pre-holiday crazy, my house is messy and my cats are running amok. But it seems all the more strange to be thankful for these ordinary days in my own life, when so many other things are wrong.

It reminds me of when a friend died, back when I was still in high school. He'd had a long, drawn-out, battle with lymphoma that had eventually left him thankful to let go of the pain. Another friend and I went to one of his favorite spots, up on a mountain, as our own way of saying good-bye. I remember being so very angry that children were still playing in the park, and that dragonflies were still buzzing by, and the whole world was still moving on. It felt as though life should have stopped, suspended, for a moment, just out of respect. But it didn't. In a surreal way, the colors were more bright, the smells stronger, and my thoughts louder the whole way up that mountain trail. I stood on the edge of a cliff, looking out, from a vantage spot that had scared me in the past, and I was no longer afraid of those heights. Or, well, I wasn't on that particular day. My fear of heights was no longer the scariest thing for me, because for the first time ever, death was real to me. It wasn't just for the old, or those I didn't know. Death could touch the young, rob futures, and invade any and every moment in our lives. It wasn't just closure at the end of a long life, and it was most definitely forever. Standing on the top of that mountain, I understood the finality for the very first time.

Over and over in my life, I have relearned this lesson. I've tried to minimize the pain for my children, knowing that their moments on the mountain will come some day as well. But my anger never does fade in moments like I've had in the last couple of days. We're granted such incredibly short lives, and yet we make such incredibly bad decisions all the time, in our own human fallible ways. If I could only keep that knowledge front and center in my brain, maybe I'd make better decisions of my own sometimes. Maybe.

But right now I am marveling at how I can both feel gratitude and love and still be so absolutely angry with a God who is allowing so much hurt to happen, and so many lives to be shaken. In one single moment, any of us might make a decision that ends lives, tears apart families, hurts children, scars friends and loved ones, or turns us further from the light of God's love. And He allows all of that to happen. I've always truly believed that free will was one of God's greatest gifts to us, but what about that unknown factor, that moment when free will isn't the guiding force anymore, and we are adrift. Years of Catholic schooling whisper to me that it is a test of faith, and I am failing....and it just makes me all the more angry. In moments like this, I want to know, with absolute certainty, that He is hurting with me - every single step of the way - because it's just NOT FAIR.

I suppose I should be thankful now, that our God is not the vengeful one of Abraham, for surely I would have been struck down by now, in all my temper tantrum glory. And so this year, as I count my other blessings, slowly and painfully, I will stop to be thankful that our God is one who will forgive that I am angry and doubting right now, and will wait patiently for me to learn whatever terrible lesson it is that is expected in this moment. For, I know that it is not all about me and mine, but is the way of human life. The rhythm of our world continues whether I am thankful for it or not, just as it did on a mountaintop twenty some years ago, and for all my weaknesses, doubts, and angry, I am thankful for the hope that I'll find my place in the rhythm again.

Hitting the Wall

The kids and I have been living life at break-neck speed these last few weeks, or maybe it's months...it's all been a blur, to be honest. I should have known that speed was dangerous and we were bound to hit the wall eventually. We sure did tonight, in a big way. Or at least Katie hit the wall. See, she was gone all week on a class trip, immediately leaped into dance class, went back to school, partied all night, and got up early for a soccer tournament this morning.

As her mom, I have every sympathy for the pace of her week. But also as her mom, I need to know she is prepared for the week ahead, so that meant laying out expectations and meaning it when I said what the consequences would be for not meeting those expectations. Well, she napped instead of doing chores or school work, and I completely understand that. So, why do I feel so mean for telling her that she needs to spend tomorrow doing all the things she didn't complete today? I feel, absolutely, like an ogre, because she'll miss girl scouts, and EYC, and all the things she's been looking forward to doing. Or at least I felt bad until she slammed her bedroom door in my face....

That's when I hit my own personal wall. Out came the hammer, out came the screw driver, and I started to remove her bedroom door. Seriously, I was taking the door off the hinges. I've done it before, but I had to stop this time and step back and get a grip on reality.

We're all tired. None of us feel that great. I've worked through solid since last spring break, and I badly need a week off. It's the three of us day in and day out, as their dad is rarely around. We're getting on each other's nerves at this point.

Thanksgiving is coming and I think we have a whole new something to be thankful for this year - a chance to catch our breath collectively. We're all racing like mad little hamsters upon our wheels and at some point, somewhere, this has got to stop.

So, my job as a mom is to prepare my kids for the life ahead of them, once I'm no longer there to wield the heavy hammer. Which kind of prepared is the better prepared? I mean, I think that they live ridiculously busy lives, and they shouldn't be doing all the things they are doing. They're kids, and they should be kids. Heck, I don't think I should be doing all the stuff that I am doing. But this is the culture in which we live, unless I'm willing to throw it all away and go live on a tropical island somewhere and raise goats and eat coconuts (and I don't like coconuts all that much, and goats stink), then I've got to have them ready to live the lives ahead of them. That means finding a balance between not doing too much, and learning how to handle living in what amounts to carefully balanced chaos on some days.

Let's get a grip here - my kids are 10 and 12 years old. They're not supposed to know how to handle this much pressure, are they? I read an article a few days ago that said that the median age for girls to give up dolls when I was growing up was 11. Now, it is 6. Six year olds are too old to play with dolls? They're marketing dolls for "older" girls now, the Moxie Teen dolls and the like, in the hopes of keeping girls interested until they are 8. Wow. Katie is 12. She does not have one single toy in her room (I won't count all the stuffed penguins, those are different - they're companions, collections and obsessions, not really toys). She hasn't had a toy in her bedroom since she was younger than Erin Elizabeth is now. My younger daughter doesn't give a darn what anyone thinks - she still has tons of toys and plays with them without shame. Katie sometimes sneaks in there and plays too - she needs a break from worrying about taking the SAT, what heels to wear to a party, and how she can earn money for a trip to Costa Rica. She needs a break.

We all need a break. We need to play more, and worry less. We need to not schedule things, to not plan things, and not care about world issues for just one week. Not only do my children need to be children - even if it's only for a few days - I'd like to be a kid myself. I want to play with my kids this week, and not fuss at them. I want to listen to what they have to say, not worry about how I'm going to manage to get them to the ten million appointments and classes we've scheduled.

I'm teaching my kids to cope with the world in which we live, but I think Erin Elizabeth might be the smartest one of all, as she is more concerned about changing things that don't fit her vision of what the world ought to be. She's the one who will, maybe, make it a better world for all of us. Well, that is if I don't do my "job" too well, and spend too much time teaching her to cope and meet deadlines.

A friend told me this week that I need to learn to relax. She's right. I need to learn to let go, and give up some control. But again, there's a balance, because I can't lose my job or let my kids fail out of school while we learn to let our hair down.

In the meantime, in the words of millions of women who have gone before me - "Calgon, take me away." I sent Katie to bed - tomorrow won't be what she wanted it to be, but she can at least get some rest tonight before she tackles her tasks again. Me, I'm climbing into a hot bath, with a glass of wine, and the dishes can just stay dirty for tonight.

I've hit the wall in a big way, but there's no reason to let it hit me back.

Here Be Chickens

I've never really been one for signs in my life. I mean, I don't believe in predestination, because I think we all make our own choices in life. But the chickens this week have been hard to overlook...I mean, chickens. I don't eat them, so they can't be out for revenge. And, yet, everywhere I look, it's been chickens these last few days.

I was thinking about it while I had one of those "I Love Lucy" moments in which I often find myself. See, I can dance with grace and elegance, but truly, I have no grace in daily life. I am as clumsy as clumsy can be. I can trip over a line drawn on the carpet. One of my good friends calls me "Grace," because I don't have any. And I get myself into situations - the keystone cop kind of situations. And yes, I can laugh about it, usually while I'm in the midst of one of these nearly impossible predicaments, making it even harder to recover some dignity. The latest loss of dignity involved pipe cleaners and a giant bean bag. I blame Carlo....it's his bean bag, and it attacked me. See, when I say giant bean bag, I mean big enough for fifteen middle school kids to sit on at one time - I know, we used it for photos at the last school dance. Somehow, "take it back to the Youth House for Carlo," sounded just like, "put it in my storage shed." So, when I run into the storage shed to get a package of pipe cleaners, I find that the targeted storage box is - of course - at the back of the shed, and on the bottom shelf. But the giant bean bag loomed between me and my goal. Undaunted, I shoved it up and to the side, and retrieved my pipe cleaners. In typical graceful fashion, I turned, lost my balance, fell, and landed on my back with the giant bean bag on top of me.

I laid there, listening to the sound of children playing on the playground behind me, and hoping that no one would come along and shut the door - imagine my kids' dismay when I didn't pick them up...no one would ever know what happened to me, unless they came looking for more art supplies. I was pushing ineffectively at the gelatinous blob, but kept giggling and just had to stop and rest for a moment. It was then the chickens came back to me. They'd been in the road that morning, a whole gaggle of them. Well, a flock, I guess, because geese run in gaggles. But I like the word gaggle better than flock, so I'm going to call them a gaggle of chickens....I don't live in the country, and I don't live near a poultry farm. Why there were chickens on Bingle Road during morning traffic, I'll never know. But there were chickens in the road.

This brought back to mind the portion of a bizarre dream from the night before when the pastor and associate pastor from my church were wrestling with a chicken in the sanctuary. Was that a premonition of chickens to come? Who knows, I was reminiscing and probably losing oxygen from being folded up under the enormous bean bag....

I finally managed to get my legs up and under and heaved myself out from under the bean bag of death. I probably looked a little strange, with my hair frizzed out in every direction, stomping back to my office, and breathing a little funny. Still, I had visions of chickens dancing in my brain.

So, I ran into a friend, who launched into a story about how her three year old was randomly screaming, "fight, chickens, fight" and I started to think there was more than mere coincidence at work here in the universe.

I mean, there has to be a reason why common threads come to gether and knit ugly wool scarves like the chicken stories. Ooh, OK, really failed metaphor. But I wonder if I'm wrong about fate? Maybe we have to rise up to meet it with grace. If that's so, I"m in trouble, because I REALLY don't have any grace of my own....but seriously, do I really get to make my own choices, or are all these seemingly random bits and pieces of my life really not so random at all. I might choose my friends, but I can't pick my chickens? I'd never try to count them before they hatched, because, well, that would just be weird.

No, no I'm pretty sure I can't get a concussion from something as soft as a bean bag.... but my thoughts have been racing today, and I wonder again how much of who I am is about the choices I have made - which is what I have always believed - and how much is who I was made to be. There once were two roads, and I chose the one less traveled, but there were chickens in the middle of it anyway....oh, dear....no matter which road I choose, am I destined to come back to the chickens? How much of our lives has to do with free will, which I have always belived was God's gift AND curse to us - the gift of choice? How much of my life has already been written and I just have to go along for the ride? If chickens are inevitable, then will it matter that I choose something else?

The answer, still, is that I refuse to believe that we are predestined to chickens or any other absurd realities. I've thought about it a lot today, and I certainly have had the time, you know, lying about under bean bags and such. I went and reassuringly opened my freezer. I have chick 'n - no chickens here. I choose to keep them alive and healthy somewhere else. Here there be eggs, but no chickens. We have cats, and frogs, and mice, and hamsters and hedgehogs - but no chickens. I still choose my own path, and if that path contains chicken, I'll bolster up my patience, and just walk on by. Or, maybe I'll lock them up with the giant bean bag and let them fight it out.

I have my own demons to fight on a daily basis - the chickens are on their own.

Mating Rituals of the Serengeti and Other Observations

I was watching a nature show earlier this week, while drifting in and out of awareness, letting my extra strong cold medicine take me off into a drug induced nothingness. The truth is, I am addicted to useless facts. I mean, they're not useless for everyone, but pretty much useless to my daily life. In order to feed my useless fact craving, I often turn on Discovery Channel, History Channel, Biography Channel, etc. and listen while I'm doing other things. But I'm finding that while with a fever and taking multiple cold medications is not the time to listen for useless facts. It creates weird dreams, for one.

So, out on the savannah, the lion is king. No surprise there. Lions travel in prides - so called, I'll assume, after the prevailing characteristic of the male. Each pride is comprised of one or two males - they would be the Alpha and the Beta - and a whole lot of females. The male with the biggest muscles, coolest mane and loudest roar is the Alpha. All those Omegas roam on the periphery of the prides, and either live as bachelors, or they form their own lesser prides. They don't have access to a good trainer or a stylist, so they just have to make do with what they have.

So, I'm listening to all of this as I drift in and out of reality, but in my mind I'm picturing my daughter and her friends. This has been a year for social adjustments and a learning curve for my middle school girl. Listening to the mating habits of the lions could be describing the social circles I observe on a daily basis in my girl's school. It's still all about the hair and how loud they can roar. I picked Katie up from a dance party on Halloween, and I was sort of superimposing the lions' terms right over the mental images I had of those adolescents.

I mean, my kid is most definitely an Omega kind of lion. She's aware of it, and she doesn't strive to be anything else. Her friends are Omegas, and they've formed their own pride. It's all good, and I think some of them have pretty good hair - they've got reason to have some pride in their, um, pride. But I think every once in a while, she wonders what it would be like to be part of an Alpha group. She doesn't care enough to pursue the subjucation required of the lioness to join one of those prides, so she just stays with the Omegas. As she says, "we're weird, but you know, we're all the same kind of weird - it's good."

So, by this point, I had weird images in my brain of lions standing upright, wearing Halloween costumes, and dancing, or just trying to be cool Alphas...whatever the situation called for. I watched the Alpha male surrounded by his lionesses - they had staked out a distinct center advantage spot on the dance floor. Beta groups surrounded the big Alpha group. The Omegas had claimed the two corners. And there were "bachelor" males roaming the perimeter. I could almost smell the zebras downwind at this point.

We're so not different from the animals. We all have our own proving grounds, our own social strata, our own pecking order. Adult humans have the advantage that the animals don't have, that we can choose to abandon the social matrix and create our own - although some cling to this animalistic order into their 40's, but hey, it's a choice. It's a right of passage as adolescents, though, to learn to navigate the ins and outs of the grasslands. As long as my kid isn't taking down any hapless wildebeasts, it's all OK with me.

My friend Carlo has a theory that children are born not so different from animals. We "train" them to recognize dangers, to know right from wrong. We use conditioning, rituals, and occasional swats on the behind until they can make decisions on their own. It's a parent's job to help children overcome instinct and use reason instead. Hmmm...I thought he was crazy when he first brought this up. More and more, I'm seeing the transformation, and seeing that he might have had a point. I'm still not planning on putting out a giant kitty litter box for the girls, I mean they're human - no, really. Despite the sometimes unpleasant smells coming from Katie's gym bag, I'm pretty sure they're 100% homo sapien. They walk upright and everything. Then again, I don't have any boys of my own - maybe I would see more evidence of animal nature in that case. Carlo does, after all, have a boy of his own. A good kid, a sweet kid, but the need to spit, tell crude jokes, and spread his scent all crop up from time to time. It's part of the nature of the beast.

So, I wonder what kind of rituals are still ahead of us. I've seen posturing, circling, swoop and strike conversations, and outright ambushes (but those are usually the girls). Maybe I'll just get her some jungle red nail polish and let her battle it out in a primal away. In the mean time, I think I'll see if I've got any more of those good drugs - maybe it'll help me get through the next five or six years of primal social time.

If the Shoe Fits

Last weekend, I helped Katie clean out the shoe bins in her closet. Her feet grow so rapidly these days that some pairs don't fit from week to week. We bagged up tennis shoes, soccer cleats, flip-flops, party shoes and cowboy boots, to be given away. Out with the old, and in with the new, I suppose. I wish there weren't quite so many new, though. For example, she owns four pairs of dance shoes - jazz, tap, character, and ballroom. I would have thought we had covered the bases. She came home from dance practice Thursday and said she needed ballet slippers, because her feet aren't gliding during the warm-up.

Size ten ballet slippers. It's almost comical - like she's standing on pink leather skis. I took them out of the bag tonight and looked at her pink slippers, then got out her first pair of ballet shoes. I've saved them, along with her baby shoes. I could fit three of that first pair, end to end, inside the ones she bought today. I remember her first day in Ms. Susan's ballet studio, how she learned to tuck her shoes up inside her leotard when she put on her street shoes - just like a real ballerina, Ms. Susan assured the girls. She danced to "Spoonful of Sugar," that first year, in hot pink and silver costume. It was comedy gold. Now she doesn't care about how she dresses - her dance clothes smell worse that then boys' locker room during football season - but she loves the movement and the musicality involved. My daughter, who is growing so quickly that she's often gawky and awkward, is so graceful and different when she dances. I'd be tempted to save these shoes when she's done with them (hopefully she'll wear them out, rather than outgrow them), but as I said - they smell after a while.

I held those little girl slippers in my hands tonight, and started thinking about how many milestones in my kids' lives could be measured by the shoes I bought. It seems there have been so many occasions and activities that required their own footwear. Katie got her first shoes when we traveled to visit family in the northeast, because it was cold there and shoes helped keep her little feet warm. The next summer she got her first pair of "jelly"sandals - she called them her tap shoes and clomped up and down the halls, listening to the sound of them on the hardwood floors. That second Halloween, she was Dorothy and wore her ruby slippers until they fell apart. Elizabeth got new Bob the Builder shoes to wear on her first day of school. She got her first flip-flops, which resulted in her first busted lip. Kindergarten brought their first soccer cleats. Dress shoes for choir. White shoes for Easter Sunday. Riding boots to take to camp. Cowboy boots for rodeo.

I could line them all up, and they'd circle our block. A parade of where my kids have been, and pointing - toe to toe - to where they are going. These days, Katie still wears mostly shoes that let her do what she likes best - dancing, volleyball, soccer or plain old Sperrys for school. But high heels are starting to creep into the wardrobe. She borrowed mine for a while, but now my shoes are too short for her. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or sad about that. I've certainly proven that a mom can get nostalgic and irrationally weepy over anything, even a smelly pair of soccer cleats.

My own shoes are less exciting. Oh, I had my first high heels days, and those have gone by. Sometimes I think about my grandmother and her shoes - she had about a hundred pairs. At 4'10", she felt it was necessary to wear heels at all times. At 88, she was forced to wear practical shoes, and she said it was the worst thing about growing old she'd found yet. Her feet were gnarled, with bunions and corns. But, oh, how she loved her shoes. In my punk phase, she threw out my black boots more than once, telling me to get something "cute and girlie, so the boys won't be confused." I didn't have the heart to tell her, it wasn't my shoes that the boys were checking out.

These days my shoes are like me - mostly practical, with a really fun pair thrown in here and there. But if I had my way, I'd just go barefoot all the time. Barefoot would be wonderful - no more sore toes, no blisters on my heels, always able to feel the world beneath my toes. But then, if we all went barefoot, I'd have no memory trail of shoes. Now, if Katie's feet would just quit growing....

so how did that happen?

I was driving home this evening, car loaded with grumpy, hungry kids, and I did it again...I just sort of blocked things out for a few minutes, came back to awareness, and had a momentary panic. For about four seconds, I absolutely had no idea where I was or how I got there. Where I was, was driving down a road I drive several times a week. But for just those few seconds, I, well, I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Well, I've never been in Kansas for more than a pass-through, but you get the point. It got my heart pumping for a moment, wondering if I'd turned on a strange road and not noticed somehow. But if I had turned onto an unfamiliar road, ironically, I would have noticed right away. It just goes to show how easy it is to miss the ordinary, the every day, and how scary it is when we realize those things aren't right there in front of us any more.

No, I haven't been drinking, and there is no need to call to have my license suspended. We got home safely and with a minimum of whining (and no wine at all, because I was, afterall, driving). But it all resonated so clearly, because it's exactly what I do on a regular basis. I wake up, I get dressed on autopilot, and I don't do anything wacky like put my bra on the outside of my clothing (not yet...senior moments are rare still), but I don't think about what I'm doing, or where I'm headed. It's all routine. And every great once in a while, I look up and wonder where I am, and how the heck I got here. How did I get to be thirty something? How did I become a mother, and oh, wow...shouldn't someone have made me take a test on that or something? How did I get to where I am in my life?

I remember the major milestones. I remember learning to ride a bike. I remember starting high school. I remember my first car. Going to college. Getting married. I remember the days my kids were born. Those are clear. It's all the stuff in between that's a blur. I look up and wonder, "so how did that happen?" It's amazing to me that the things that most clearly define who I am and where I am at this particular juncture in time are the small things. It's making a bad choice in a minor way, but learning something major from it. It's parenting day after day and not losing my temper (and I need a sign like hazardous work sites with a ____ days since the last explosion warning). It's the jokes with my friends. The hugs from my kids that I take too much for granted. The glasses of wine. The monotony of cleaning my house, and a million other little things that have led me down this road. All the twists and turns are minor, and so familiar to me. I'd notice if something big happened. Say, I won the lottery tomorrow...I'd notice. It would not slip by me. It wouldn't slip by anyone in the near vacinity, because it's hard to ignore a woman screaming and dancing naked in the streets. But...my shoe has a hole in it, and I promise you it won't bother me at all until I step in a puddle...just won't notice until there's something worth noticing.

So, if I'm driving in a daze, thinking about what I need to get done or how mad I am at a coworker, or if I should go for a long walk or skip it but also skip dinner, and I suddenly look up to be derailed by a familiar street missing a sign and am thrown into a panic of "how did I get here," it's perfectly normal and to be expected, right? (And wow...that was a major disaster of a run-on sentence.) It's admirable of me to say I'm going to appreciate the little stuff and take time to really look instead of just seeing...but it's not realistic. We're hardwired to overlook the little stuff, the familiar stuff...there's a reason we call it the big stuff. It's big. It's worth noticing. It's what reminds us of where we've been along the way. All the little road markers are no more than a green blur on the side of the road, as we whiz past, racing toward the next small thing. So, tomorrow when I say, "how the heck did this happen?" Tell me to blame it on the little stuff.

gender bending

I've been thinking a lot about gender roles this week. In all the years I taught early childhood, the argument of nature vs. nurture came up...a lot. I never had a clear cut answer for anyone. I'm certain, no matter whether it is politically correct or not, that little boys are hardwired for different kinds of play than little girls. Give a four year old girl and a four year old boy the same Barbie doll, and they'll both play with it. But the girl's Barbie will be groomed, go to a wedding, and play with friends. The boy's barbie will be tied up with string at some point, be dragged through mud, and possibly interrogated. In particularly sophisticated play, the Barbie might actually become a gun - little perfect plastic legs pointed and "pow, pow" sounds resonating through the air. But.....little boys love pink just as much as little girls, and I'm certain that it's only society that makes blue preferable. After all, purple was once the color of kings - women would never have been allowed to wear such a rich color. We teach them a lot - girls dance ballet, boys play football. We teach them that boys are good at math, and girls talk too much, so they're better in English class.

Some of us grew up with the idea that there are men's jobs and women's jobs. So, it all came back to me in a rush tonight, while I was doing the dishes. How fitting. I worked today - all day- came home, cooked dinner, did laundry and then cleaned up the dishes. John is on vacation this week....he took the kids to Academy, and then he watched television while I cooked, cleaned and fussed at the kids. When he's not around - sometimes for weeks at a time - I take care of whatever needs to be done. But it never occurs to him to do all the things I do...the man could walk past a pile of dirty clothes for months, and it would never occur to him to wash the smelly socks. He'd just go buy new ones. I know...he's done it before. I've spent years conducting experiments to see how long I can leave things to fester before he'll turn a gimlet eye in their direction. Now...he does vacuum. Vacuums make noise, they have moving parts...they are manly.

Is it a learned gender role, or are grown up boys still playing different roles than grown up girls? I wonder....

When Katie slammed her bedroom door one time too many (which would be only once, for those who know me), I threatened to take her door off the hinges. Her answer to me, "you can't, my Daddy won't let you use his tools." Wait, wait, wait...I have my own tools. They're not even pink.

For those who know me, my only brother is gay. He is a gay, brilliant musician...he does not use tools, work on cars, or care about my dad's war career. I was the only person left for my dad to teach. I can paint a house, shoot a gun, replace a car battery, and am quite good at maintaining the lawn. But even my dad maintains that just because I CAN do those things, doesn't mean that I should. Women should be kept safe. Well...I'm all for safe, but I'll gladly trade some grass mowing for someone else putting away the freaking laundry.

I've never told my girls that there are any kinds of limitations on what they can do as females (except peeing standing up...there ARE some lines you just don't cross). Yet, as puberty rounds the corner for Katie, I see she's embracing what it means to be a girl in our world.

So, the water was growing cold on my dishpan hands while I was thinking about all of this tonight, and I refuse to believe that I am destined to smell like clorox forever, just because I have a Y chromosome. I'm pretty sure the lack of that same chromosome didn't deprive the males around me of the ability to put laundry in a machine. It's a machine, guys, it makes noise and it even walks across the floor with a really manly swagger, if you put in enough heavy stuff. Maybe if I paint it camouflage colors and call it Rambo...in the meantime, I think I'm sad that I never had a little boy so I could observe some of these things from beginning to adulthood, and draw some conclusions. Then again, one person leaving the toilet seat up at my house is probably enough.

mirror, mirror

Tonight I watched Katie posing in front of the mirror in our hallway. She spends a lot of time doing that lately. So much, we put a full length mirror in her bedroom. The hope was that this would prevent half-naked prancing in the hallway. Yeah...she likes the hallway one better. She came out with hair up, blue pajama top. She skipped out with pigtails and red pajama pants. Back to the green and white pajamas. Then she took a shower...and started all over again.

I found myself wondering, "what does she see when she stares into that mirror?" I know what I see when I look at my daughter. I see a beautiful girl, who can look pretty ugly when she's angry. I see a talented kid, who all too often coasts by with the bare minimum effort. I see the enthusiasm of childhood, tempered by the onset of teen angst - being too enthusiastic would be uncool. I see the shadow of the toddler who never left my side, and frightening glimpses of the woman she will become. I see the battle between wanting to be accepted and being true to herself. I see the pig-tails and mascara, the stuffed animals and texts to boys, the elation and frustration, cartwheels and high heels - all in equal, scary measures. When I look into her face, I see the baby I carried and the soul I have known since before she was born.

What does she see?

I was in a workshop last week when I was asked to say three words that would be said by co-workers at my retirement party. Now, first of all, I hate these types of questions...."if you were a root vegetable, what kind of root veg would you be?" ummm...turnip? Oh, is that bad? Anyway, I was so stumped by that question, it was embarrassing. I stammered, stuttered, and couldn't think of a thing. When pressed to say how I thought co-workers see me, I answered "insomniac, overly-demanding, quiet." The people at my table were shocked, as they said none of those were words that would have come to their minds - well, maybe the insomniac part...that's legendary. One person even went so far as to say she's concerned if that's really how I see myself. Other people described themselves with such hope, such optimism...

I look in the mirror every day. If I'm not seeing myself, then who do I see? I think a lot of the person in the mirror is the girl I was TOLD I was the whole time I grew up. It was summed up in two words, "not perfect." If it's not an A+, then it's not perfect. If there's one thing out of place in your home, then it's not perfect. If your hair is messed, then it's not perfect. I look at the things I have done, and see only the mistakes...keep looking for perfect.

When I look at my children, I don't see what they have done wrong (well, yes, I do, but I don't see that as who they are). I don't measure them by how many mistakes they make, or how many others have done better. I expect my kids to be true to themselves, and they're for sure not perfect. I don't want perfect - I prefer lovable and learning. Perfect kids wouldn't go with my imperfect furniture anyway.

When Katie is prancing in the hallway, I have two hopes for her. I hope that - and I really do mean this - she is wearing something more than a bra. But even more, I hope that she sees what the rest of us see smiling back at her - all her imperfect glory. All the possibility. All the dreams. All the lovable mess that is her.

hello...good-bye

This evening I had the sorrowful moment of saying good-bye to a friend. She is moving half a world away and we may well never see one another again. In today's electronic world, it's never really good-bye, except our friendship will change. For a moment, I didn't want to go to her farewell dinner, because - childishly - if I don't say "good-bye" then she can't really leave. Right?

I grew up moving so often, that I was forever saying good-bye. To friends. To pets. To schools. To teams. To dreams. I wonder if it's easier to be the one leaving or the one being left? So many places that I have lived, so many people have touched my life. All my life, I have remembered them off and on, for many of them have shaped a part of who I am today.

Through social media, I have reconnected with many of these friends. Through messages, tweets, blogs, and photos, I know who they are now. It doesn't even feel strange, because I've carried them with me all along. I never really left those friends. Never said good-bye completely. We share memories, experiences based on where and when we were in that moment in time, and shared bits and pieces of one another. I still get to share my life with a childhood neighborhood playmate, talk about my family with the first boy I ever kissed, and exchange recipes with someone whose locker was next to mine in high school. We've become the strangest global family I could ever imagine. And, yet, before Facebook or My Space, or even AOL chirped out "you've got mail," I thought about them and recalled their words and laughter over the decades.

In college I wrote a paper about whether technology was bringing us closer together globally or just reducing personal connections. My answer today is the same as it was then - both. We're connected to loved ones all over the world, but sometimes we slight those right in front of our noses, choosing to engage in electronic communication instead of face-to-face. Conversation is almost a lost art with many people. Language is ever changing...but people don't, and we have the same basic needs as always. I think we are only now experiencing electronic media that allows for true connections. I can't wait to see what the next ten years bring.

So, as Carol sets her sights on the East, I can look forward to sharing her adventures from afar, and enjoying the pieces of herself that she has left behind. We share a love of cats, a love of books, and a love of kids. Her enthusiasm for life is an inspiration.

I only hope that somewhere, I have changed some people as well.

hair follicles...er...follies

OK, so I am most unfeminine in that I do not color my hair, cut it myself, and generally treat it as the dead locks of keratin strands that it is. But....today I thought I'd try something different. I haven't changed my hair color purposefully since high school (read - red dye disaster), and I have never done highlights. For whatever reason, I was standing in Walgreens, buying my millionth hair brush (either the kids steal them, or we have a hairbrush eating monster that lives under our sink - either way, I don't want them back), and I decided I wanted to highlight my hair. Oh, yeah, this was just a greaaaat idea.

So, I got home and thought, "not doing it." And then I realized I paid $13.99 for that box of color, and oh yes I was. There were more directions on the box than my computer came with, and it was really hard to read the directions through the translucent plastic that was a pair of gloves. Now, why they felt the need to attach the gloves to the directions, I don't know. Is it an extra bid to make sure users USE the gloves? Protection from water on the instructions? I just know that somewhere out there, some woman doesn't see them at all, and thinks she didn't get a cheap pair of plastic gloves. So, I fearlessly mixed up some blue paste with the little plastic paddle (which would make an excellent canoe paddle for outdoors Barbie, but, oh...nevermind), and tried to apply it with the little fingertip brush. But the brush kept getting stuck in my hair, and leaving globs of blue paste in odd places. And then I lost the brush entirely, and I kept thinking, "fifteen minutes...is that from the start or finish of application?" and I started to have visions of locks of my hair falling out. So, I abandoned the little fingertip brush, and just started finger combing it through my hair.

So, here I sit, with blue paste applied very unevenly all over my head. I kind of stink...I'm almost positive this was a mistake...and I am wavering between washing it out before the 15 minutes are up, or sticking it out to see what happens.

And why am I doing this? There is no reason why my mousy, dishwater blonde hair shouldn't be just fine. No need for streaks of light...except, I usually get these for free from the summer sun. The sun I haven't seen much of this summer, and it's depressing to end the summer with winter dull hair. So...I've gone the chemical route. I feel so illicit. I feel so cheap. And I really feel kind of itchy. So, maybe I'm developing hives. Then I can be bald AND lumpy. Good plan.

Why all this fuss over how I look anyway? I get mixed messages. On the one hand, I'm told it's what's on the inside that counts. But to be sure, if my outside showed up to work with no make-up, flip-flops and a bathrobe, I wouldn't have a job by noon that day. Certainly media gives us crystal clear messages that women are expected to uphold certain ideals of what is or is not attractive. Why settle for what nature provides, when we can chemically enhance ourselves.

So, I'm sitting here waiting for the structure of the cells in my strands of keratin to change, so I too can look nothing at all like Malibu Barbie - because I'll never be a Barbie doll kind of girl. Who knows...maybe it'll be a good look for me. Maybe I'll try red again after all...surely disasters can't happen twice, right?

the things Julia Child won't tell you

A co-worker today was telling the story of making Julia Childs' roast chicken for Sunday dinner. She and her husband have taken it up as a challenge to cook each and every Sunday from the classic cookbook. They take turns being chef and sous chef...they have stocked up on butter. It all sounds so cozy. She talked about playful banter about who was in charge that week. She described the melting butter, cooking a sauce without garlic, and rotating her bird. No, really, she made it sound like they were having the time of their lives.

While I am a decent cook, I do not eat nor do I cook meat. I have two children. They do not eat tofu, eggplant, portabella mushrooms, and several other vegetarian kitchen staples. There are limited things you can do with beans, brown rice, cheese, and pasta. Of course, they enjoy the standard vegetables - peas, carrots, broccoli, green beans, zucchini. It's the more exotic flair they resist. So, Julia has little appeal for our household.

I think sometimes that I will write my own book - all the things that Julia Child won't tell you. It would be sort of a cookbook for moms, or those of us who live in the non-gourmet world. I'd include all my wisdom...it would be a short book.

• You can spend half an hour chopping your mise en place, cook the perfect pasta primavera sauce, and your kids will ask at the last minute if they can have "just noodles with butter."
• You can whip up the perfect lemon creme brulee and be told that it is "almost as good as the jell-o pudding cups."
• No one in the real world actually eats capers.
• Ditto for anchovies.
• Houston humidity and the leavening agent in yeast do not play well together. One might even say they fight it out. The humidity wins, every time. Much like when it tangles with my hair. Darn humidity.
  
• Those who can actually flip an omlette or turn a perfect crepe are freaks of nature. They are to be viewed with awe and fear. Mostly fear. For they could take over the world if they chose to do so. But, fear not, for most of them are too busy admiring their perfect crepes t0o worry about world domination.
• The best vegetables in the world are the ones you pick out of your own garden. Sometimes the peas don't even make it into our house - I just find a trail of pea-pods, leading from the garden to the garage and a bowl with three full pods for the table.
  
• Okra, however, does not improve with age or size. It becomes stronger and fiercer, and well...wood-like. We picked some overripe okra last year - I could have built an ark with it. None-the-less, Houston weather grows some champion sized okra.
• A ten year old can set ANYTHING on fire given a toaster oven and enough time.
• You can hide anything in a muffin. Anything...seriously.

Enough of the good French wine...well, you won't care what you cook.

Bon Appetite!

geriatric technology

I am spoiled, and I will be the first to readily admit it. I live in a house where we have several computers - more than one per person, which is ridiculous - and all are networked. We all know how to program the DVR, use the satellite television, use the assorted smart phones and i-this and that's in our lives.

And then I step into my mother's house. And it is the proverbial dead-zone of technology. Except, she keeps trying to change that, and turns it into the Twilight Zone with every attempt. My mother has done things in Microsoft Office that I doubt Bill Gates ever thought of doing. She has killed printers, fried DVD players, completely broken down CD players and made remote controls run screaming under the couch.

Today, my mother announced that she wants a new computer with...wait for it...a web cam so she can "scrape" with my brother. Took me a minute too...finally decided she was talking about Skype. By the time I had this all figured out, I was breaking out in a cold sweat. See, my brother lives 2300 miles away, and he can safely suggest that mom just pop out and buy a webcam, knowing full well that I am going to be the one left to deal with the reality of trying to teach her how to use it. The first 45 minutes will be taken up with showing her how to plug it in, and then the fun begins.

First, however, I have to help her to replace her geriatric PC. Until two months ago, she was still using the hand-me-down desktop model I gave her more than ten years ago. At Easter this past year, she handed it back to me saying that it doesn't work anymore. Now, I wouldn't have been surprised if the PC DIDN'T work - it's older than my kids, and was obsolete before the first time she cussed at it. But...it works...just fine...I still don't understand the mysterious "doesn't work." I am too afraid to ask if she had it plugged in.

See, I am torn here - I truly believe that everyone should take full advantage of technology, and the best way to learn is to dive in and just get your hands dirty. I tell older coworkers all the time not to be afraid, that they're not going to break it unless they throw it across the room. But, my mom? I'm not so sure she won't break it. And if she doesn't break the PC, the web cam, or the new headset she'll need to Skype, well...she might break me at last.

And while I was pondering all of this, I had a thought. I could complain, or I could profit from this experience...by writing the world's first geriatric to English tech dictionary. See, then those of us who live our lives in the modern world could look up "swiping the moose" and realize that someone is trying to talk about moving a mouse around. Or we'd know to say "the little clicky thing," instead of the cursor. It begins to make total sense for me...at last, a way to come out ahead. In the meantime, I plan to send my brother a plane ticket...so he can come give mom the lessons in using her new web cam. And I can just sit back and take notes for my new bestseller.

inertia

I can still remember the first time I heard the word, "inertia," it was in fifth grade science class. An object at rest will stay at rest, unless acted upon by an outside force. An object in motion will stay in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force. It fascinated me. As some of my friends know, I am obsessed with words, and often get caught up in using them, thinking about them, wallowing in language. Inertia is even fun to say. I wrote a story once...not quite a book, but close, and named it "Breaking Inertia." It was about a woman who walked out on her very ordinary life and came back ten years later - after many adventures - to find her husband and children still living their own very ordinary lives and how they didn't really need her to move forward, but accepted her back into their lives just as easily. As the story progressed, it became more clear that she was the one who had truly remained inert, never growing as a person or breaking from her own selfish existence, while they had been living quiet lives that were none-the-less full of meaning and purpose. Her one act of breaking away had not been enough to change her from that inert soul.

Inertia. I feel like I am there now. I become restless when I realize that I can predict so much of my life, despite moving forward in an every day kind of way - am I really being acted upon, and am I acting upon others? I am inert as a human being if my own essence is not growing and changing. Unlike a ball at rest, I cannot count on someone else to come and propel me forward, but I must be self-propelling instead.

Those who know me well, know that I am restless by nature. I resent sleep because there are always more things to do than I have time to finish - more books to read, more trips to take, more work to do, more time to spend with friends and family. Inert, I tend to wallow in my own thoughts, without acting. I pull inward and live in my own head if I allow myself to do so, and so I remain without growth or action.

I am inert, and seeking some outside force. Any takers?

choices

I read once that we are defined as human beings by the choices that we make. I wonder what my choices say about me? It sort of drifted to me as I stood in front of the refrigerator tonight, pondering what I was going to eat for dinner, and thinking that there was nothing here. That is, of course, not true at all. There was nothing easily accessible that I WANTED to eat. It finally came down to a choice of pick something or go to bed without dinner. Seen in that light, I chose to enjoy my homemade vegetarian chili for one more night. And, you know, it was just as good tonight as it was on Monday - when I first made it. It was simply the feeling that there was nothing else here, and not having a choice that made me kind of picky for those few minutes. Kids need the freedom of choice, why not adults?

Today I chose to quit complaining about the clutter in my office and clean it up. I chose to procrastinate about exercising, and I regret it now that it is bedtime. I chose to keep my mouth closed when I disagreed with a coworker, because there was no glory in debating a moot point. I chose to make a joke at the expense of another person, and although that person was not there to hear, I know what I said and know it makes less of me. I chose to not have wine with dinner, knowing that I took Benadryl and the combination is one that will not let me get by on less than ten hours of sleep. I chose to nit-pick with one daughter, and overlook a bigger issue with the other - because I didn't have the energy to argue. I chose to put off calling my mother back, and I'll feel bad until I do it.

My kids make choices every day, and the older they get, the fewer I get to make for them. Oh, I was fairly bragging today to a coworker about being the law and order in my house, and sometimes I am. But the truth is that I pick my fights - sometimes I pick them well, and sometimes I choose to fight the the bad fight. Sometimes I give up the battle to win the war that waits over the ridge of puberty. My oldest daughter has been making choices about who she is lately, and how she wants to represent herself visually. I disagree with her on many occasions. I could have made the purchase of a new bathing suit into the bikini wars of 2010, but I chose not to do that. Instead, I stealthily sewed the strings on the sides together at the knot, so no wayward dive will leave her without half a suit. And I'll choose to believe that she'll make good choices of her own.

Goodness knows my parents never had confidence in any choices that I made. They're still hoping I will choose to change careers, find a new husband, lose some weight, buy better clothes, and live a whole new life. Some of the choices I've made are in direct and purposeful opposition of what they would have wanted for my life. I see that now, though I chose to ignore it for years. Some choices have been very much my own. I don't eat meat. To me it's simple, I love animals, and there ARE readily available options that can feed a person and still keep them healthy, so I choose to not eat animal flesh. I don't force my choice on others - my kids eat meat sometimes, and I try not to preach at them. It is something of a family joke to "forget" that I don't meat and serve all carnivorous options at family gatherings. To them it is a ridiculous choice to make, and they do not respect that it's my right to make that choice, no matter what. I promised myself I would never do that to my own children.

Sometimes I miss the days when I got to make all the choices for my kids, and the most they got to do was pick the red one or the blue one. Make that the RED ONE or the blue one. ISAID the REDONE or the blue one . Yeah, subtlety was never my strong suit. I have to hope all those years of guiding their choices has led them to understand how to make their own. I'm not with my kids all day, and it won't be far down the road that they're away and making bigger decisions. Hopefully they'll choose to share with me and ask my advice. In the meantime, I'll choose to hold my tongue when it's not such a big hairy deal, in hopes of not burning any bridges. Hey, I can always choose to change my mind.

dreams

Just like other children her age, as I would totally hope she does, my older daughter has dreams for her life. Unlike my younger child, whose philosophy is, "I'll grow up and then figure out what I want to do when I get there" (which is practical, since it's what most of us do anyway), my oldest daughter has always known what she wants to do with her life. Since she was five years old, Katie has wanted one of two career paths. Path A involves studying biology and becoming a penguin keeper at Sea World. Strange, but suits her perfectly. Path B involves being a Broadway actress. Suits her as well. And, yet, the odds are stacked against her ever doing either of those things. Both are life occupations that require hard work and a good bit of luck, and talent in the case of the second.

My twelve year old should not have to change her dreams for today, but at what point do I, as a parent, start talking about "back up plans" and more realistic plans for her life? I mean, I know I grew up hearing that America is a wonderful place to live and you can be anything you want to be. But that's not true, is it? I mean, there are billions of people living in our country, and only one person every four years can be elected president. Only a handful of people will ever be astronauts. Sea World only hires a handful of penguin keepers. And New York is littered with waitresses who are dying to work on Broadway. At what age do I have to burst her bubble? See, I still want her to aim for her dreams, even when she knows the odds. I want her to work hard, seek goals with determination, and still be able to accept that plans have to change in our lives. I want her to find the balance of taking blind leaps of faith, but also know how to pick herself up out of the dust when that leap doesn't work out.

I'm missing the days when parenting meant teaching my girls to not run into the street, how to write their names, the dangers of a hot stove, and what it's like to walk barefoot after a rain. No one told me that being a mom meant sometimes being the bearer of bad news, and often times the only one with the guts to give that news. The lessons just keep getting harder, and reality is crushing in on them.

When Katie was two years old, we were sitting in our backyard, after playing on her hand-me-down trampoline. She was enchanted, watching the sun set over the neighbor's house. She turned to me and said, "I love sunset, it's when the sky gets to make magic colors." Her dad started to give a detailed explanation of where the colors come from and using scientific terms. I stopped him, because I thought my two year old needed to hold on to magic a little bit longer, the way that she needed to hold on to the Easter Bunny.

I still want my kids to hold on to magic and their dreams a little bit longer. I think our dreams help define who and what we are. Without dreams, why do we bother to try a little bit harder, push a little bit more, aim a little bit higher?

To me, she's still the same little girl, in a grubby pink dress, carting her favorite stuffed penguin around the backyard, talking about magic colors and putting on shows for us on our back patio. I didn't want the reality of reason to intrude on her enjoyment of life then, and I still don't want that for her now.

I'm so entrenched in the day-to-day of my life now that I am not sure I'd recognize my childhood dreams if I met them coming down the street. I am sad to think that I'm not sure when I gave them up, or how hard I tried to follow their path. I hope my children follow their dreams to wherever the path might lead, but keep a map back, just in case it doesn't work out.

Words...only words

From my earliest memories, I have been taken with words. I love the sound of them, the way they look on paper, the satisfying feeling of tapping out thoughts on my keyboard. I love words. I love the fact that I can convey the images in my head to someone I've never met, and the idea that I can understand someone's soul, without knowing their name. I love that there are emotions that can be expressed with words, and those that cannot. Some things are beyond words.

Every great once in a while, I read a book that leaves me speechless. Sometimes it is their imagery, the author's way with words. Some authors can paint a picture so vividly, my Nikon pales in comparison. Some authors develop great characters, despite their stories going virtually nowhere. Some words make my laugh - irony is good for the soul, I believe.

Tonight I read a book that contained characters who are not startling in their depth, nor a story that is breathtaking, nor was it full of vivid imagery or breath taking metaphors. It was a story that managed to convey so much raw emotion, however, it quite simply took my breath away. It isn't often that I read a book, or see a movie for that matter, that leaves me wrung out and breathless. This one did. A simple love story, though the great love was not between the man and woman, but rather between the two men who shared her life, and the friendship between them. It was a story that talked about the difficulty of letting go, and the greater difficulty of moving on with life after you have lost any part of love. The absolutely raw emotions laid bare by the author, whose writing style was adequate at best, has left me restless and feeling so very lost and human. Bravo then to any who can leave me speechless as this author has done.

A New Year

I love the idea of any kind of new...new years, new starts, new shoes...new means shiny and fresh and full of possibilities. It's the possibility part that gets me up each and every morning, as I start a new day. Despite carrying around enough baggage to keep a 757 grounded, I look forward to starting over new each day. And a new year is a reminder of that possibility.

I don't make New Year's resolutions, however, as I believe in resolving each and every day to live up to my goals. I don't always make it, but that's what's so nice about getting up the next day for something new and fresh. I make more than my share of mistakes, in fact, I think I've already taken up some of my kids' shares. But it doesn't matter, because every single day is a do-over.

So, it's the first day of 2010. I know so little of what this year will bring. I know my children will turn 12 and 10. I know that I have a job, at least through July, and I know that I have a place to live, a car to drive and food to eat. I'm OK with everything else being a suprise.