Just One Foot

New Beginnings...Again

2012-02-03T12:08:00.014-05:00

It was chaotic. It was crazy. There was one moment, in a Taco Bell bathroom, where I said things into a cell phone that I’d love to take back. But in the end, it all came together and we’re in. We’re finally in a house, a home, a place where we’ll make some wonderful new memories in the years to come.

After almost a year of house selling details and drama, we no longer carry a mortgage. For the first time in a very long time, we don’t own a home. But after all we’ve been through this past year, we’re pretty okay with that.

This place we’ve found is laid out perfectly for our needs. It’s located perfectly for our daily activities. It’s right in the middle of the town we want to call home for the next few decades. And if the water heater breaks at 2 am on a Saturday morning, it’s not our problem.

Everyone has a bedroom. After sharing two tiny bedrooms, in that microscopic 800 sq foot condo for the past seven months, there is finally a chance to be by yourself. It’s something we’ve all craved for a long time. And yet, Jeff and I saw this coming; we will always kind of miss the togetherness that the tiny condo imposed upon us.

Yes, there were more snips and unnecessary comments made to siblings, just because there was too much shared space. But there were also many nights of what I like to call ‘summer camp fun’. Our accommodations felt so much like bunking at summer camp, that the usual antics that arise in such a setting were common.

There were several nights that our patient cat was wrapped in a ‘kitty burrito’, sometimes with a blanket, sometimes with a towel. These swaddling lessons went on for an hour or two, with much giggling and picture taking, and usually ended with the cat being carried around like a baby, in his bundle, the rest of the night.

This kind of thing didn’t happen that often, when we were all spread out in our 2600 sq foot New York house.

There was also a night of coloring. We printed pictures off sites we found online (who knew there were Halo Reach coloring pages out there?). Meredith did a lot of hair braiding…and not just mine. There was even a night (with incriminating pictures) that the dog ended up in a pair of leopard skin print bikini panties (you really don’t want to know details).

Most of it transpired in the Master Bedroom, which had just enough floor space for a double and a single mattress to be laid out on the floor, and a couple of cardboard boxes we used for dressers (our household goods are still in moving storage). There was barely room to walk around the edges of the mattresses, yet many of the pictures of the summer camp antics were taken in that room. All six of us somehow crammed in, or were continuously coming and going from that room, just looking for some boredom busting activity to keep us sane.

And then finally…oh finally…the day came to move into a real house.

If you had told me, a year ago, when we lived comfortably in our big home in NY, the one we owned, that I would be thrilled to move into a rental house, that was 800 less square feet than we’d enjoyed for over five years in New York, I’d have called you nutty.

But life circumstances are funny that way. It’s all perspective. It’s all relative.

Every day, even in the tiny condo, I’m aware that I live in a safe, clean, comfortable home. Especially when compared to a good percentage of the world’s population. I have clean water coming from my pipes and hot water when I need a good cleansing shower. I have appliances that wash my clothes and dishes, and a persnickety one that even sucks the cat hair out of our carpets. I don’t truly want for much.

It’s these thoughts that helped me fall in love with our new rental house. These thoughts, and the reality of six people living under one roof, two of them being legal adults and one of them in the thick of teenager-hood.

The morning of the switch over, we woke up at 5:30 a.m. We had our old landlord coming at 9:30, for the last inspection. All of our belongings had to be moved out. The small glitch was that there was no place to move them to. We couldn’t get into the new rental until later in the day. So there was a bit of juggling, of the fifty or so boxes, four mattresses, a futon and a kitchen table with six chairs. But minimally, they had to be out, and the place had to be spotless, if we wanted our large deposit back.

We’d been doing deep cleaning for a week, in preparation for this day. But final wipe downs and clean ups take time and energy. It was a crazy busy morning. Sam headed off to school, but Isaac stayed home, just to have one more big strong person to help move things out and in.

It’s been a very long time since we’ve had to answer to a landlord. In our early married days I had a few bad apples and the ‘inspection’ process had not gone smoothly, even though the houses had been spotless. I truly believe some landlords see the deposit as a bonus, and not something you actually give back to tenants when the lease is up.

So until that part of the day was over, I could not relax. By the appointed hour, all of our stuff was out, and moved to the long driveway of the new house, waiting for us to pick up keys so we could take it inside.

And of course there were glitches with the landlord. Of course. He’s a nice guy, but there were moments that I was so very glad Jeff had been left as the one in charge of the inspection process. He’s much more diplomatic and professional in those situations. When the landlord wanted to question the broken stick on the mini blind in the bedroom, which was that way when we moved in, and kept me from opening those blinds the whole time we lived there, I would have flown off the handle. It was so tempting to say, “So you wanted me to call you up here, from where you are, down in the valley, to fix the stick on a mini blind, on the day we moved in and discovered it?...” The same situation happened with a missing outlet cover, and a few other minor issues that we never ‘bothered’ to tell him about.

It was such a mental shift, for me, the one who usually cleans out houses for walk throughs before the closing papers are signed. In those situations, our level of spotless cleanliness is appreciated by the new home owner, not picked apart.

But finally, in the middle of a sunny, gorgeous day in Colorado, we had keys in our hand. We’d left the two boys in charge of watching the stuff in the driveway, as we went to the banks and moved money around, and by the time we got back , they had not only moved everything inside, they had unpacked a good chunk of it. Plates were in the kitchen cabinets. The furniture (the little we have) was set up and ready to go. The bathroom had toiletries, the coat closet had coats hanging in it. It was like a dream - walking into a much bigger house, that already had my stuff put away.

There is still unpacking to do, of course. For many boxes, they didn’t know where I’d want the contents. I still need to figure out which toiletries go in which bathroom (we have TWO now!) and where the bed sheets and blankets will be stored. I have to set up our new system, as moms do. Where the tape goes. Where to find scissors. Where the nail clippers will start out, before they get ‘borrowed’ then strewn about the house.

But being able to walk in and start life right away, was as exciting as the fact we all had space to breathe again.

Once Meredith came home from her new job, we all piled up in the downstairs living room, the one we are now calling The Cave. It’s the boys’ dream. A place for our big TV, once it arrives back to us, and a place to hang out with friends, that doesn’t disturb the parents. We ordered pizza, which Michael picked up when he drove to get Sam from school (Sam walked to school for his last time that day, as we no longer live right across the street).

Jeff had rented a Red Box movie earlier in the day, and we all hunkered down, spread out on TWO couches finally, munched our pizza and laughed for two hours at the silliness on the screen. Several times I looked around and tried to mentally soak in those moments, when all four of my kids were there, between me and Jeff, loving life and riding high on the excitement of new beginnings.

After so many months of being crammed in a small living space, we celebrated our new spacious accommodations, by cramming ourselves together again.

A few hours later, as bedtime was approaching for the school kids in our mix, Sam said something funny to Meredith and me, as he was getting ready for bed. I don’t even remember what it was, but it caused us all to share another laugh, which brought Michael sprinting up the stairs.

“What? What did I miss?....that’s not fair! There’s fun stuff going on up here and I’m missing it, way down there in the Cave!”

It reminded me of the first night we spent in our Utah home. We’d been living in a Residence Inn, for almost three months, as we hunted for a new house in our new state. Again, tight living quarters, claustrophobic days for the six of us. But after the closing papers were signed, we happily drove across town, to our big 2500 sq. foot house, and everyone claimed bedrooms. And again, before the sand man had a chance to visit, all four of the kids were sprawled out on the floor around the bed in the master bedroom, needing to be near each other for just one more night, before this new life spread us out again.

We are no perfect family. My kids get angry at each other, swear they hate each other when emotions run high. But watching life unfold, and how they respond to it, still brings me comfort. I know down deep they really do love each other. They really do like to be together. They really do know how to have fun together.

Our family’s sense of humor might not seem funny to outsiders. But we make each other laugh.

After I lost my mom in my mid 20s, I was so thankful that I had four siblings (and some extra foster siblings). It gave me some sort of peace, to know they’d come from that same family, loved that same mom, and would miss her for the rest of their days too. It also gave me people to turn to, when different stages of grief came along.

It was during those months that Jeff and I decided to have four children, not just the two or three that many would stop after. We didn’t think we were up for five, but four seemed like just enough. Just enough to be there for each other as the years passed by. Just enough to have siblings to pick from, if you had a joke to share or a frustration to vent.

When money is tight, I sometimes question our decision to have a larger family. But then nights like our first night in this house, remind me of our reasons. And I’m 100% sure we made the right choice.

Our family will be splintering apart again, very soon. As spring rolls around, Meredith will move down to Denver to start college again. Michael will head off to start his career in the military. And it will be down to just four of us. This new house will suddenly seem very, very big.

But I’m pretty sure of one thing. No matter how much space we have, or don’t have, there will still be many nights where we all end up in the same room. Harassing the pets, watching a movie, or playing another round of Settlers of Catan.

As much as we all crave our own space, there’s been something about this continuous moving process that our children have grown up with, that still draws us all together.

.

X Games- Xtreme Parenting

2012-01-30T09:50:00.012-05:00

If I’ve learned anything in my twenty years of being a mom, it’s that parenting is a roller coaster of extremes. When a newborn lives in your house, you vacillate between severe and utter exhaustion and severely incredible awe and joy. The toddler who can’t seem to figure out the potty chair can make you want to scream one minute, then melt your heart the next, when he proclaims, with his most sincere voice, “Oh, I just WUV you, mama!”

It continues into elementary school, then high school. And I guess I thought it would all even out, once they graduated from high school. This week I found out I was wrong.

My last post was about a heart wrenching night I had with my young adult daughter. Our life is in flux right now, and both of us are feeling it in our own way. A series of circumstances left both of us crying ourselves to sleep, until morning light could help us clear the air. The next day we took a trip to Sonic, and as we sipped our Slushees, we hashed it all out. I felt much lighter as we drove back home and dove back into our chaotic temporary living situation.

But it changed me just a little, as every upsetting (and joyful) parenting moment does. The familiar doubts about how I’m failing these children as their mother crept back in. I had to pull out the standard pep talks, to remind myself of the things I’m doing right, and to pull myself back up to get back in the game.

I love parenting older kids, but it’s also very hard. This fact didn’t surprise me, since I’ve been pretty much terrified of raising teenagers from the moment I laid eyes on my first newborn. I’m a toddler/preschooler kind of person. I got a degree in Elementary Education, but only partially because my college guidance counselor wisely reminded me that it would ‘go farther’ than a degree in Early Childhood Education. I’ve never, ever dreamed of teaching any child over the age of 10. Those double digit kids were hard to teach, I was sure, and even harder to parent.

But then my kids started turning double digits and I still liked them. In fact, they got funnier, since they could understand grownup jokes (finally) and the conversations we had went deeper. I could truly discuss things with them, and pour into them life lessons about love and relationships, knowing they might actually remember my words. I quickly learned that if I were flexible enough to adapt my parenting style, to respect their need for independence, there didn’t have to be a lot of yelling and slamming of doors.

But I also learned that the hiccups in our relationship could also go deeper and hurt on a whole new level. I became more vulnerable, as we started to form more friendship- like relationships. I find myself stepping back sometimes, and watching my two older kids, wondering who they are (one of them just turned 20 and the other turns 19 tomorrow). A good chunk of their life is outside my nest. They have friends, experiences, and interactions that I’ll never know about. Their lives are full of inside jokes that I’ll never understand, with people I may never meet.

I used to be in complete control of their play dates, friend choices and daily comings and goings. Now I’m a spectator, sometimes craving a peek inside. I feel like I’m on a tightrope some days, balancing the relationship, as I soak in stories they casually tell (if I don’t pry too much), then turning around and making their dinner and meeting their basic needs, like I did when they were six.

So back to my weekend of extremes. One night I’m crying myself to sleep, wondering how I once again failed my own child, and wondering if we’d ever find our middle ground, and then a mere 24 hours later I’m standing on a sunny hillside, watching three of my children have one of the best days of their lives (because of something *I* pulled off).

That part of the story started a few weeks ago, when I noticed that the Winter X Games were taking place just a few hours from our new home. We are a family of outdoor sports, mostly winter sports, and mostly extreme versions of those sports. Winter X Games is our Academy Awards, especially on years when there are no Winter Olympics to watch. Those athletes are our rock stars.

Last year, as we watched the Games, on our couch in New York, I made a mental note to myself. If the Colorado job came through, and we ended up moving there, we were most definitely going to be attending in person when 2012 rolled around. Then suddenly, the big move had happened, and the X Games were on the horizon.

My youngest was psyched. He is an excellent skier, and a beginning snowboarder. He can ski for six days straight, then want to turn around and ski the seventh. He’s all about the jumps at the terrain park, and dodging trees in the woods. Every event at the X Games makes him excited.

The two older boys were okay with going, but not as thrilled as I had hoped. It’s been a year since we saw the Games on TV and they’ve become involved in their regular lives here in our mountain town. One of them truly preferred to stay here, to be able to hang out with his friends, over driving to Aspen, to see the Games.

I had to go with my gut. I made them go.

I was deeply suspicious that once they got there, it would be a day they’d never forget. Their sister had planned to stay home alone, and have the apartment to herself for a whole day. I had no problem with that. She has her own (girl stuff) world , and the more space I give her, the happier she is. But the boys…I knew the boys needed to see at least one X Games in person, especially since we live so close to them. I had to insist they all attend, even the not so enthusiastic.

Saturday rolled around, cold but sunny. We crawled out of bed very early (terrible mom comments all around - waking up EARLY on a SATURDAY?) and hit the road. Within a half an hour we had to change plans. The highway headed west was bumper to bumper with ski traffic. There was no way we’d make it if we sat in that mess.

So hound dog husband found a smaller, side road, and we spent a few hours winding through the amazing scenery of Western Colorado. I couldn’t stop taking pictures. The sun streaming in the windows, the boys in the back, laughing and joking with each other, and suddenly it started to become one of those once in a lifetime days you never want to forget.

We stopped at the tiny store near South Park to get our favorite fudge. We found it on our house hunting trip to CO, nearly a year ago, and it has become family tradition. We made our way through small mountain towns, where you have to wonder where the residents buy their groceries and gas, and then down long roads with breathtaking views. Eventually we caught up with I-70 once again, and were relieved to see that the ski traffic had all found their resorts and cleared off our path.

The shuttle parking lot was right where the online directions had said it would be, and before noon we were walking under the big banner that graced the big blue X. Ahead of us were the things we’d only seen on TV. The Super Half Pipe. The Big Air jumps, made of ridiculously tall mountains of snow. The rows of vendor booths, giving away every kind of ski and snowboard related trinket you could think of. The awe started to finally sink in for my older boys.

By the end of the day my mommy gratitude tank was topped off. I’d stood at the base of the Boarder Cross race with my little guy, and been sprayed with the snow of the finishing racers, exchanging ‘Can you believe it?!’ glances with him. I’d watched my oldest son, my stoic boy, just at the edge of giddy, as he got a prime spot to watch the skiers fly 100 feet over his head. I was possibly more excited than he was, when my middle boy saw one of his few life heroes (a legend in the BMX world) and raced up to him with a sharpie to get an autograph he’ll probably keep in his possessions until he’s my age.

It was an amazing day. The athletes were awe inspiring. Seeing the X Games up close was a dream. But for me, the mom who is in a constant game of ‘am I doing right by them?’, it was perfect.

There was excited sharing of stories, as we stood in line, waiting for the shuttle bus to take us back to the parking lot. And it continued, as we drove the long dark road home. As we stopped by a Taco Bell halfway home, to feed empty tummies something warm, the magic was still in the air. The easy laughter my children shared, that I’ve seen so many times in the past, when conditions are right, filled up my soul.

I can’t say I ‘m thankful for extremes. When the pendulum swings to the bad side, I’m rarely considering the good parts of parenting. But oh, how sweet. How very, very sweet it is, when it finally swings back…so far back…and once again fills up my tank.

.

A Mother's Anguish

2012-01-27T10:26:00.002-05:00

It played out like every stereotype, when it comes to raising a teenage daughter. Even though mine just celebrated the birthday that ushered her into her 20s, the emotions and issues linger. The reason for the falling out isn’t really important. Misunderstandings, hurtful things said, many, many tears. None of it life and death. All of it breaking my heart.

It made me crave a good, deep weeping session. But we’re living in very tight quarters now, and there is just no place to go, at 10 o’clock at night, when one needs to get away. I have an 11 year old, who is very tender hearted, and internalizes everyone else’s stress, to get to bed. Hopefully in peace. Right now he’s even sleeping in the same room as I am, so there was no ‘crying myself to sleep’ to be had.

I go into the bathroom, run the water, and try to quiet the sobs that want to erupt from my core. This girl I adore, my one and only daughter, has the power to cause me such anguish. I’d poured my mothering heart out to her and been stabbed in the back in return.

My patient and wise hubby brushes back my hair and reminds me that she’s going through a tough time herself. Her life is in huge upheaval with no certain landing pad. She acts out of grief and fear herself, so we need to just be patient and love her through this.

He’s right. I know he is. All I can manage is a weary shake of my head, to let him know I hear him, through the tears that run down my face. Then I head off to bed, knowing the sunlight in the morning will help resolve this painful mess.

I settle in next to my baby boy, who is quietly reading his chapter book. I turn to face the wall and pop in my ear buds. Jim Croce is cued up on my phone and I am comforted by his melodies. These are the songs I went to sleep to when I was a fifth grader myself. These are the songs that make my blood pressure go down, in stressful times, because they remind me of childhood. They remind me of my mom, who loved her Jim Croce and his Bad Bad Leroy Brown, even though they didn’t exactly fit into the strict Baptist lifestyle she embraced.

Just as the tears seem to be drying, a fresh batch erupts. It’s times like these that I desperately miss my mom. She’s been gone for 18 years, and I still miss her mothering. I lay on my wet pillow and try to fight the longing, but it does little good.

So I play the logic game. If she were alive today I wouldn’t have necessarily called her when this night turned so sour. That’s not the relationship we had. Or at least that’s not the relationship we were beginning to have, as I had just begun to be a mother in the years before she died.

Instead, I would plow through the hard day, then spill all my frustration out to her, days later, when we’d finally meet up. She’d sympathize, then laugh, as she remembered her own trying days as a new mom. And her laugh would heal me. It reminded me that life went on. New days meant new tries and maybe new frustrations, but always new hope.

And I also realize that I have no idea how she would have reacted to this latest trial with my all-grown-up girl. I don’t have the years between to tell me how our relationship would have evolved and changed. This girl, who I know she would have adored, grew up without that doting grandma, who would have grown and changed with her. They didn’t have the preschool or elementary school years, to get to know each other.

My mom never got to encourage my girl, when she got braces, that she looked beautiful despite the metal in her mouth. And she never got to gush with pride as the braces came off to reveal a suddenly older young lady. She didn’t sit in the bleachers with us, as our girl marched across the stage, long blonde hair falling out of her bright blue graduation cap.

My mom doesn’t know my daughter. That’s a hard pill to swallow. I yearn for her comfort, her guidance in our latest speed bump. But I have no guide wire, no indication as to how it would all play out, if she were still here. She knows nothing of this grown up girl, nothing of our life.

And that fact makes me even more sad. So I do the next logical thing. I text my oldest sister. She’s four states and one time zone away, but thank goodness she replies. She’s the mother to three daughters. One of them was 12 weeks away from being born when we lost our mother. This sister understands my grief, and my anguish, and my occasional frustrations with raising my girl.

She needs no details of the events that led to my text. She just senses my sadness and says the exact right, encouraging words. She reminds me that it’s temporary. This spell will pass, and some day, we will see the fruits of our labor. Not today. But some day.

Fresh tears come, with her compassion. I sense the comfort that my mom used to provide, coming through the device I hold in my hand, a bit of technology that didn’t exist in the days when my mom was still here. We don’t have to call each other anymore, to ‘be there’. A simple text can sometimes do the trick.

And it does. A few tender volleys of words I needed so badly to hear, and I’m able to relax and drift off to sleep. This mothering thing is so complicated. It’s wrapped up in our own mothers, and the mothers that our sisters are to their children.

It’s a network I’ve yet to figure out, but has saved me more than this once.

It’s now a new day. Time for new starts. Time for a chat with my girl, to sort out the mess from last night. Time to build our relationship with one more brick of experience. I find myself hoping that some day, a few decades from now, I can be on the other end, when my girl is in tears, brought on by her own baby girl, and once again the tables are turned.

I want to be there, through text, or skype, or phone call, to remind her that it’s all just a part of mothering.

Chewy Feet

2012-01-25T18:47:00.007-05:00

It came around again.

That’s what happens when twelve calendar months fly by. Once again it’s the anniversary of my amputation surgery. A day I’ll never forget. A day I dreamed about for years, even decades. A day I did years of research about, so I would have no regrets.

And it worked. Not only do I have no regrets, I’m still just as happy with my new foot, as ecstatic as the day I got it.

January 12th. It’s my ‘other’ birthday. The day I got to start over. I had a lot of trouble finding a doctor who would do the surgery for me. It was a ‘healthy’ foot, after all…no disease, no imminent threat to my health…just a serious threat to my long term mobility, which I guess doesn’t count in orthopedic medicine.

But I finally found my man. He was skeptical, but willing. He was brave enough to trust that I wouldn’t sue him, if I found that having one foot missing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

So every year, on January 12th, I send him another thank you card. In it I tell him all the things I’ve been able to do that year, because he believed in me. Sometimes I send him pictures, to prove my stories. I don’t want him to ever forget how important he was in my story.

Most years I try to commemorate in some way. It’s a birthday, in a sense, and should be celebrated. But I don’t want to bore my kids to death, since to them it’s ‘just mom’s foot’. So I try to make it fun. In past years we’ve had feet shaped cake or a huge foot shaped cookie. Last year we made regular cupcakes, with the outline of feet on them. My kids joked that the ones I messed up on were my ‘old’ deformed foot. We ate them after dinner and no one complained about having extra treats that day.

This year life was crazier than usual on January 12th. One of my four was in Texas, visiting friends. One had a racquetball court reserved and wouldn’t be home until late. My oldest son and youngest son were all we had left. And it was the night of the big Middle School Open House. That had to be a higher priority than my foot celebration.

But after the Open House, my youngest wanted to celebrate the night by going to McDonalds. We realized we’d never been inside our local McDonalds since we moved here, six months ago, and he had gift cards he’d gotten in his birthday card in October. They were burning a hole in his pocket.

So we went to visit the Golden Arches. It was past eight, in the evening, so we practically had the place to ourselves. My oldest son and I had discussed the occasion of my foot birthday, as we’d run errands, earlier in the day. He brought up the topic, as we sat around the table, eating our fries. Then he decided we should have a contest.

To commemorate the day, we should do something new. Like see who could carve a regular, flat McDonalds burger into the best rendition of mom’s foot. He’s a teenager, and this seemed like a very logical way to make the night special.

Each boy was given one burger and one plastic knife. They brainstormed for a few minutes, then dove in. This is what one of them came up with (blood and all, since it was ‘post surgery’). I won’t tell you which one, so I don’t alter the judging.

This is what the other came up with (turn your head to the right, the picture is sideways). He nearly perfected the large humped big toe I used to have. Both are pretty impressive, I think, considering the medium and available tools.

And then, the ultimate winner emerged.

“Wait! Wait!”, my oldest son proclaimed, waving the plastic knife in the air, “I’ve got one more entry! Wait, just a second…”

He proceeded to tear open a packet of artificial sweetener and make a pile on the tray. Then he took some small pieces of straw wrapper and curled them into tight little knots. Once he placed the knots strategically in the middle of the powdery pile, he announced, “There! That’s PERFECT! I WIN!”

It took just a few minutes before we all got it.

But in fact, my big boy had indeed won the challenge. Because the reality is, my foot was taken from that hospital room, to a mortuary, and cremated on January 12, 2003. It now sits in a velvet box in my closet. Some day soon I will throw those ashes off a beautiful mountainside, in a grand gesture to say goodbye to my old life and welcome in my new one.

But for now it’s a pile of ashes. And it looks a lot like the pile of Sweet N Low with wrapper bits sprinkled throughout. We know. We’ve looked in that velvet box.

Another year has flown by. Hopefully, and almost definitely, this will be the year the book about my journey to mobility will be published, and available to give to others who might be facing some hard life choices. And before I know it, another January will be rolling around. We’ll find a new way to celebrate, I’m sure.

But something else I’m sure about - it will, without a doubt, not ever be as creative and ketchup covered, as our celebration in January of 2012.

Progress

2012-01-21T15:52:00.005-05:00

This is a picture of a McDonalds that sits across the parking lot from one of the two grocery stores in my town. It’s obviously seen better days. I have no idea why it’s being torn down, or what exciting business might be built in its place. But the first time I drove by it, as the back hoe began its work, I smiled. It’s a good sign to me.

I have nothing against Ronald’s place. We don’t go there very often, but I will boldly admit I do enjoy his food every now and then, especially his amazing French fries. But seeing his building falling to the ground made me happy because it’s a step in the process of feeling at home in my new hometown.

When we first drove around Evergreen, a year ago, we took note of where the groceries stores were, which fast food places existed in our mountain town (hint: not many), where I could find the local post office, and which roads led to the ski resorts. I did the mental mapping I do every time we move. Where will I go to run my daily errands, and which roads will I use to attend school functions?

This very McDonalds went on my mental map, mainly because it had a Red Box machine sitting out front, and it’s currently our favorite way to rent new movies.

Then autumn came, and we slowly but surely moved here. First the boys and Jeff, then I joined them. In December our daughter made the trek across the country, and we all officially became Colorado residents.

I’m still at the place where I rarely see someone I know in the grocery store. Our downstairs neighbor works at the floral department, so I sometimes get a wave from her. I often see people I think I know, because they remind me of someone I knew in New York, or Utah, or Missouri…but it’s never ‘them’. The reality is, I know about six people in our entire small town (not counting the checkout clerks, who I eagerly chat with every single week).

Meanwhile, I notice the other shoppers around me, greeting each other and giving hugs or handshakes, as they exclaim, ‘Hey there! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you!” I know someday I’ll have my first moment, my first, ‘Hey, I know you!’ moment as my cart crosses paths with a familiar face.

But the McDonalds being torn down, to be replaced by another building, gives me hope. Someday, maybe a year from now, maybe five, someone will ask for directions, and I’ll be able to say, “it’s down there, you know, by where the McDonalds used to be…” I’ll be an old timer. I’ll be a person who has watched our town grow and change. I’ll have memories of things that used to be here, but were replaced by other things.

Just this week I answered an ad from the free section of our local Craig’s List. I scored a huge tub of hypoallergenic (expensive!)laundry detergent that gave the woman’s daughter a rash. In the course of our meeting, we discovered our sons go to the same school, and are in the same class. In fact, my son’s best friend has a huge crush on this woman’s daughter.

We chatted about teenagers and shared some stories about our lives, and I now look forward to seeing her in the grocery store.
Who knows? Maybe she’ll be my first grocery store run in. I’ll come around the end of an aisle and realize I recognize someone.

Then I’ll be the one who pulls my cart to the side and says, “Hey! I know you!”

.

Why He's Home

2012-01-20T12:44:00.003-05:00

The end of January is coming at us like a brisk winter wind. I’m supposed to be taking my college boy back to the dorm. In fact, all of his besties from his first semester of dorm life have already returned. They text him like crazy, with messages along the lines of ‘we miss you, bro!’ (if that’s even the current lingo).

But my boy is still here, crammed into this tiny condo with us. He’s had a change of plans and suddenly it meant I was blessed with a few extra months in his company.

If you’ve gotten lost in the saga of our life this past year, I don’t blame you. I feel like I need Cliff Notes myself, just to remember the craziness we lived through in 2011. But here’s the nutshell (granted, the biggest nut you can think of).

Michael has always loved planes. His bedroom walls and bookcases were filled with posters and books about planes, from every war and every country. He also loves running, especially in the woods. He endured the two other track seasons, so he could be in shape for the only one that mattered, cross country.

He loves math and science (and hates English, books, reading…all the things his mom enjoys). As a child he was constantly figuring things out, taking things apart, putting them back together. When he was seven or eight, he walked through the kitchen and said, ‘Mom, you’re putting the dishes in wrong.’ At a glance, he could see that the way I loaded the plates in the dishwasher was ‘backwards’ from what the designers intended. I rarely load the dishwasher these days, without thinking about that moment. The moment I knew for sure my boy had an engineer’s brain.

It was logical that he would go to school for something plane related. He also wanted, very badly, to get back to that perfect snow in Utah, the place where he’d learned to ski and fell in love with the powder . Soon he found out that one of the top aviation programs in the country was at Westminster College, in Salt Lake City. He had no ‘second choice’, when he applied to colleges. It was Westminster, and their amazing flight program, or nothing.

He was also sure that he wanted to fly in the military. Eventually he might settle for commercial planes, but all the exciting flying happens in the armed forces. We spent a year doing everything necessary to apply for an ROTC scholarship, with no luck. The program has become extremely desired, as college tuitions rise, and the selection process has become very tight.

When the money didn’t come in for his freshman year, but his desire was stronger than ever, we made a deal with him. We’d help him pay for the first year, with the understanding that he’d do everything he could to get the 3 year ROTC scholarship to cover the rest. That one year would cost us the equivalent of four years at our local state school.

We drove him to Utah in early August, and checked him in. He spent the next four months making lifetime friends, the kind you can only create in a dorm situation. As he settled into college, the rest of his family slowly but surely moved from New York to Colorado. It was nice to have him only a day’s drive away, when the Thanksgiving holiday rolled around.

While we were distracted with a million move related details, Michael was doing research. Not just school research (drat, those stupid English papers!), but life plans research. He was talking to recruiters, professors (many who were pilots), and school guidance counselors. He started to realize he needed a new plan for the next four years.

With the military being in a wave of cut backs, those scholarships are becoming more and more rare, especially if you went to an expensive, private school. Even if he finished his four years of college, with an exclusive aviation degree, there were no guarantees he would be able to get a spot in flight school in the military. Some years there are very few openings and you take what you can get. We heard this from so many sources that we started to believe it.

So, as I spent a harried week in NY, organizing the moving truck logistics, trying to get our old house’s heater to turn on before the pipes froze, and doing house sales negotiations over the phone with an assortment of realtors and attorneys, my boy called me from school.

He had changed his life plan and wanted my advice. Because, you know, I had nothing else going on…

Long story short, here’s his new plan. He’s jumping straight into the military. In May he’ll report to boot camp, then one of the longest training programs they have, in the EOD field (explosives). He’ll give them four years. In those four years he’ll get valuable training (which will use his incredible math and science skills, which pleases his mother), then possibly move to a flight related job when the openings come up.

At that point, four years from now, he can choose to stay in the military, if the EOD training agrees with him as much as I think it will, or he finds a flight path that suits him. Or he can choose to get out, and go back to that flight degree, this time with everything paid for. Either way, if he wants, he can be in his mid 20s, with a pilot’s license, and a wide variety of career options.

It was hard to swallow, at first. Especially as I sat in the middle of the chaos of the family relocation. We worked so long and hard to get him into the program and Westminster, and it’s an amazing school. But once we talked about it more, and I talked to the recruiter more, it all did seem to make a lot more sense.

Yes, I worry about his safety. Not only is he signing up for training that involves explosives (you know, stuff that blows up…) but he could very likely be sent overseas, where the locals might not treasure his life as much as his mama does.

But he’s excited. He is confident in his choices, and pumped about his future. Even as hard as it is to see his friends go back to that party- central dorm room without him, he’s stayed focused. He runs every day and lifts weights, to be ready for his next step.

He can’t wait to see other parts of the world, and be that guy who knows which wire you cut when there’s ten seconds before the bomb goes off (is it the red one or the blue one?...I always forget…)

And now that I’ve had some time to digest the new plan, I see other benefits to this timing. His younger brothers have now gone back to school. During the days it’s just me and him, and his older sister who is hunting for a job. We get to hang out, run errands together, and share life stories. I’m loving it.

And, another bonus. This mountain town we’ve moved to is not my son’s hometown. His high school memories will always reside in New York, and other school memories are scattered through the various states we’ve called home. Evergreen Colorado is only a place he visited with his family, back in April, as we took an early house hunting trip.

But now he’s having time to explore this beautiful town. He’s running her trails and running mom’s errands, learning where to find the nearest Red Box and groceries. Every day that passes, he builds more memories here, and it becomes a bigger part of him. I want him to go out into the world with a sense of ‘home’. If he didn’t have these four months, with nothing but time to explore, it would have taken a lot of school breaks and holidays to finally feel like he belonged here.

So that’s why my son is still in my household. It’s why he still shows up in pictures I post on Facebook, when all of my friend’s college aged kids have disappeared from their shots of daily life.

It’s not a life change I saw coming, just a year ago, but neither is our current family life situation. A lot can change in a year. But there’s nothing that says unexpected change can’t end up being a good thing. A new path. New opportunities. Hey, who knows where life will find us just twelve months from now.

I guess we’ll just have to keep our minds open, and patiently wait and see.

.

The Book Deal

2012-01-15T13:11:00.004-05:00

For most of my life I dreamed of getting rid of my left foot. When I was ten, it started twisting and turning into something that embarrassed me, scared me, and eventually had the power to shape my self esteem and character. I spent a good part of my life trying to hide it. I spent many weeks on crutches, after repeated surgeries did nothing to change it. It wasn’t until I was tucked safely into an encouraging marriage, to a man who didn’t care about my foot, but instead about my heart, that I was able to exhale, and stop letting it rule my life.

Once I got brave enough to get rid of it, eight years ago, I never looked back. Through all the ups and downs (mostly ups) that have come with adjusting to a metal leg, I have never, for one micro second, wished I had my old foot back. My worst day on this new leg is still a hundred times better than the best day on my old flesh and bone limb.

I have always loved to write, and when the kids were little I poured that hobby into writing essays and stories. Once I was propped up on our king sized bed, waiting for amputation stitches to heal, it suddenly occurred to me that the journey to becoming an amputee might be something good to write about. It actually happened something like this (an excerpt from the first chapter of my book):

We were laying in bed, watching TV, the cat curled up in the place where my calf would have been, if I had a lower left leg. The title amputee was still new and the results of my radical decision still up for grabs.

"I really think I want to write about this," I said to my life mate, out of the blue.

"Write about what?"

He could not connect my comment to the episode of the Daily Show that blared across the room.

"My surgery. My decision. The reason I had it cut off."

"Oh." He turned to face me. "Yeah, that'd be good. Write it all out. Get down the details. Tell your story."

His encouragement made the wheels of composition turn in my brain.

"But where do I start? Last year? The year before that? When we first began letting our family know I was choosing to lose a limb?"

He was quiet, reflective. Jon Stewart had been muted and my man was fully engaged in this new conversation.

"No…you need to start at the beginning. The very beginning. There's no other way to do it."

"But why?" It seemed excessive, vain.

"Well, because….because for someone to understand how you could be happy to lose a leg, they have to see the sadness that came before. To understand why a grown woman would beg a doctor to perform such a drastic surgery they first have to see the little girl who hid on the playground and forgot how to run. They first have to witness the life you had, the years you had, with a limb you grew to hate."

His answer made me silent. He was right. I had to start at the beginning. There was no other place to start. To understand the decision I made at age 37 you first have to understand who I was at age five.

And so I dove in. So much of my decision came from the events in life that shape who you are. I was raised in a big foster family, which made our natural family of seven constantly in a state of super sized flux. I noticed my foot starting to grow wrong, but hated bothering my overworked parents about it, knowing they had bigger things on their plates.

I hung out in the middle of the commotion, happy to fly under the radar, as I silently questioned and feared what that twisting foot meant for my future.

Years of doctors visits and quizzing any medical professional I could, about the idea of cutting it off and starting over, only to be told it was a foot with a pulse (not diseased) so amputation would never be an option, beat down my resolve.

Then marriage came, to the first man I had ever shown my naked foot (and he valiantly said, “What’s the big deal again?...”) and children arrived. More medical issues arose, this time not concerning me, but my mother and then my newborn son. I learned to step up, and fight for medical answers. I learned that doctors are just people. Many of them are heroes, but many of them are misinformed. It was up to me to decide my own fate, when it came to my wayward foot.

Finally, through a series of other events, and eventual access to a bigger and bigger internet world, I decided to have that surgery, that so many doctors had told me would never be possible.

And I love my new leg. I love my new options. I love sharing my story. It’s about much more than a leg that I lost. It’s about never giving up, on getting the life you really want. For some people it might mean losing that extra weight. For some it might mean working on the quality of their marriage. For me, it meant losing a limb.

It was scary. But it was so worth it, in the end.

I wrote the bulk of the manuscript for my book, that I’m calling “Just One Foot: How Amputation Cured My Disability”, then spent months researching how to get it published. This was over five years ago, when the publishing industry was just starting to wobble. E books were coming on the market, and everyone was scrambling, to figure out what it meant to traditional books.

I got many nibbles, many notes of encouragement from publishers, and lots of flat out rejections, but no takers. Life picked up in intensity, and the manuscript was buried in the back files of my computer for the past couple of years.

Then, for some reason, in the middle of this chaotic move from NY to Colorado, I pulled out my files again. I found a great memoir on the new book shelf of our local library that inspired me. I wrote the author and told her I loved her book, but that something about it had also inspired me to pull out my old files.

She kindly replied to my email (as many of my favorite authors do, something I’ll always be grateful for) and encouraged me in my own writing. She also shared with me that she had self published her book, then was picked up by a traditional publisher.

I’ve toyed with self publishing in the past. The main reason I’d dragged my feet about doing it myself, was the respect factor. I was in a wonderful writers group in NY, filled with published writers, and it just seemed like, to be picked up by a traditional publisher was the standard to meet. It meant your work was worthy and edited well. It meant it ‘deserved’ to be in print.

But in the past few years I’ve heard more and more stories that contradict that advice. Some really great books have been self published. My book can be a great book, without a traditional publisher, but it’s just up to me to make sure it’s right. The editing needs to be spotless. The layout needs to be professional. The cover needs to be perfect. And at that point, what’s the harm in getting it out there ‘myself’?

I’ve now decided I’ve reached the point where I’d rather have it out there, than wait for the stars to align, and have the Manhattan guys calling my number. I’d love to get my story into the hands that need it. The people who approach me at the gym and say, “My nephew just got back from Iraq and lost his leg. How can I encourage him?” The people who are brave enough to ask about my lost limb, then fascinated when I tell them I chose to have it taken off (there is just not time in the aisle of Walmart, to give them the deep reasons for my decision). And the friends I grew up with, many of whom had no idea I had anything more than a slight limp, as we navigated the years of middle school, high school, and college.

I truly believe, in this age of constantly changing technology, that my story will not be the exception, in years to come. The foot I wear today was not created a handful of years ago, when I was getting my first leg. I can’t wait to see what technology will bring me in the future. I see it in the same light as hip replacements and organ transplants. The old part didn’t work, there are parts that can replace it. Why would we not choose to start over?

I’d love to get my story out there, at the beginning of this new age, to introduce the idea to our changing world.

Because I really and truly believe in the subtitle to my soon to be published book - amputation most definitely cured my disability.

.

Thank you, por todo

2012-01-10T13:16:00.004-05:00

“Thank you! Thank you! Por todo! Por todo!”

The little man scurried in and out of the crowd of men that surrounded him, saying these words over and over again. Each man nodded in acknowledgement, as they shook each other’s hands. One turned to put the tow rope back in his trunk. Another kicked the small tree limbs to the side of the road, so vehicles could once again pass by.

We happened upon the scene just as it was unfolding. As we rounded a hairpin turn, on the mountain road we’d chosen to explore in our new home state of Colorado, we saw a commotion. Two small SUVs were parked on the right shoulder of the road. They were only half off the road, since the shoulder dropped off to a steep cliff. Huddled in front, between, and behind the vehicles was an assortment of dark skinned women and young children, all dressed in their holiday clothes, since it was Christmas Day.

On the left side of the road was the problem. A group of well dressed young men, in their shiny best shoes, surrounded a small truck, that had fallen off the side of the road, into a deep snow bank. Behind the wheel of the truck was a tiny, elderly Hispanic man. It was not clear which people knew each other, and who had just stopped to be good Samaritans. But it was immediately apparent that few of them spoke English.

We stopped, of course, because our vehicle contained three strong men, who could contribute to the rescue operation. One was my husband, who always seems to be the one to step up when someone needs rescuing, and the other two were my tall teen sons, whose characters are very similar to their dads. They eagerly jumped from our truck and hurried over to the action.

What followed was a series of tries, pushing and pulling that little truck, trying to release it from the grip of a greedy snow bank. With every attempt, it seemed to become more lodged into place. My sons, not understanding most of what the other men were saying, gestured and nodded, as they thought of new ideas, and followed the pantomimed instructions of the people around them. At one point my oldest son decided to hike a bit up the side of the hill, to retrieve some branches to use for traction. The snow bank that had the little truck trapped was thrilled to grab my boy’s legs, and when he sunk up to the top of his thigh with his second step, there were hearty laughs all around, no translation needed.

For almost an hour the effort continued. A group of people, pulled together in a common mission, in the middle of a sunny holiday afternoon. Finally, a truck came around the corner, that had another willing helper, but this time one who owned a tow rope. Our big Suburban had been no help, when there was no way to tie it to the little truck. Within minutes the two vehicles were attached and with one big thrust, the tiny truck was dislodged.

In the middle of the road, finally free from his bondage, the small Hispanic man jumped out of the truck and eagerly thanked the crowd around him. Most of them barely acknowledged his words. Men who choose to be silent heroes are generally not the accolade type. They were just content to pack up their gear and be on their way.

But their effort meant the world to one small man, who only spoke broken English. “Thank you! Por todo! Thank you! Por todo!” It was all he could say.

And I came away from the scene with just as much gratitude. We have tried to raise our children to be open and accepting of all people, no matter the color of their skin or the size of their wallet. For my fifteen year old, who rarely sees the value of his tedious Spanish classes, it was a lesson in how very valuable having language skills can be. And for my maturing teen boys, who both walked away feeling two feet taller that day, it was a great reminder that we’re all put on this earth to help each other out. Even if we don’t share a common language.

Someone needs help. You help them. And it feels good to everyone who comes out the other side.

To the precious little Hispanic man, who was so very grateful for the kindness of strangers, I have a message for you too. Thank you for giving my boys an opportunity to open their hearts on a sunny Christmas day. It’s a memory I know they will carry with them for a very long time. So gracias, for everything.

Thank you, por todo.

.

Home

2012-01-04T15:36:00.005-05:00

Home.

It’s a small word. Non assuming. Just four little letters that every kindergartener knows. So simple, and yet it has the potential to make me weep.

I’ll never forget the first time I heard a song by this name, sung by an adorable artist named Michael Buble. Its lyrics cut through my soul and immediately emptied out the reservoir of tears I hold in my heart.

May be surrounded by
A million people, I
Still feel all alone
I just wanna go home
I miss you, you know.

The first time I heard it, and it’s achingly beautiful tone and melody, I cried for my mom. For almost two decades she was my home. And I miss her, so desperately. She left the planet when I was in my mid 20’s- a new wife, a new mom, a brand new adult. I had planned to know her in a new way, and a sudden stroke took her from me.

With her loss came a loss of home. She was the glue that kept our family together. She’d organized our huge household for decades, and she put the magic in every holiday. I instantly felt at home, with every greeting that met me at her front door. I can still hear her voice, calling out in pure joy, as I’d come home from college. “Ju - deeeee! My Judy’s home!”

They’re three simple words I miss, as much as I miss the home base she embodied.

I envy my friends, who still have their parents, and because of it, their home bases. My dad remarried an amazing woman, who keeps him healthy and happy. But their home together is a place I visit, not a home I return to.

Let me go home
I’m just too far
From where you are
I wanna come home

And so I was forced to move on, and create my own sense of home. For the past decade and a half I’ve thrown myself into making a nest that my children can feel safe in. We’ve changed houses, moved from state to state, but my first priority, even before the moving truck shows up, is making my children feel at home. I want them to remember how my voice was filled with adoration as each one of them walked in the door, whether their bedrooms were unpacked yet or not.

Home. It sometimes takes a while. In our Utah house, the newest house we’ve ever owned, we were settled in quickly. Surrounded by a street full of friendly families, we felt very at home, in a few short months.

Then we bought our fixer upper in New York. It took several years to feel like we belonged there, as we tore down walls, sanded sheetrock, and built a new kitchen from the ground up. All four kids were in school, from kindergarten to ninth grade, and life got crazy. There was little time to do the things that make someone feel like they’re home. Many holidays came and went, and as we built new traditions, surrounded by those specific walls, home started to grow on us.

And here we are again. The New York house now has a new family creating their own memories surrounded by its renovated walls. Our furniture has been cleared out and moved to storage. Our pictures no longer hang on the walls. The only hint that we once lived there is the growth chart scratched in the dining room trim board. It snakes up the wall, a reminder of all the growth that took place there.

Another airplane
Another sunny place
I’m lucky I know
But I wanna go home
Mmm, I got to go home

Home. It’s time to find it again. We’re in a new state, a place that we love, but we still feel like visitors. The skiing is great. The views are amazing. But we don’t feel like we’re home yet. It doesn’t help that we’re stuck in a very small condo, the six of us trying to make do until better arrangements can be made. We were sucked dry by the New York house sale, financially, and it just might make sense to stay put, in this lower cost living situation, as we try to recover. But we’ve already been here since August, and we are all ready to move out, move on, to find our new nest.

Another winter day
Has come and gone away
In even Paris and Rome
And I wanna go home
Just let me go home

We’re still crunching the numbers. Technically we could go ahead and find the rental house we’ll call home, until we recover all the equity we lost in the house sale. But the bite it will take out of our monthly budget could be used, at least for now, to pay down the debts we owe from our nightmare year of 2011. It’s a hard decision to make. Move into a more home-like place, and be in debt forever, or make this arrangement work, and get on top of the finances faster.

We all crave home. I crave it when I’m reminded of things my mother is missing, with every year that my children change and grow. But I also miss it, as my children do, when it applies to our everyday surroundings. Having a place that feels like ‘your own’. Having somewhere that you can let your hair down at the end of a hard day. Having somewhere that’s filled with people who know you well, but love you anyway.

This week we’ll decide. Either we’ll extend our contract on this small condo or we’ll find a more permanent rental house in town. Both decisions come with big implications. But I’m telling you this - if we decide to stay in this place, this lovely small space that has always felt temporary to me, there will have to be some changes made. We will use a bit of money to tweak this place, to personalize it, to turn it into a place that isn’t just a safe place to sleep and eat.

We need, we crave, something that feels like home.

Real Christmas Joy

2011-12-26T17:19:00.012-05:00

I write this post, not to brag about its outcome, or to complain about its frustrations. I write it so I can remember.

Christmas 2011 was a very unusual holiday, to say the least. We’ve celebrated in many different houses, and in many different states. We’ve done the Santa thing so many years they all seem to blur together. We’ve never had a lot of money, but somehow it came together every year. That is, until this year.

This year we were more than lean. For the past six months we’ve been supporting two households, in two different states, while we waited for our NY house to sell. Our family’s been broken up, put back together in sections, then hung out to dry. We’ve been living in a tiny temporary condo, until we could figure out what was going to happen with the empty house we owned back East. Every penny we’ve taken in has gone out to some immediate need.

I saw the holiday approaching and had to give myself some quick pep talks. The kids are older, they’ll understand. This is a good life lesson for them. Sometimes crap happens in life and you push forward and make the best of it. It doesn’t mean life’s over, just postponed for a bit. It doesn’t take much money to just be together and make new memories.

We have all of the things that matter most - good health, loving extended families, a roof over our head, grocery money when the cupboards are bare, and a tight knit family who knows how to rally together when times get hard.

My daughter and I swung by the thrift store to get a small artificial tree (all of our holiday decorations are with our ‘stuff’ , in a moving company storage unit). While we were there, we picked up a few games and puzzles for our youngest family member, who, at 11, still needed something under a tree. We strung up some cheap lights and wrapped some garland around the back of the futon. Bring on the holiday!

We swung over to Utah to pick up my college son, one of my best gifts of the season. It felt so good to have all my chickens back in the nest. All six of us squeezed into our limited living space, but I heard very few complaints.

My kids all seemed to be enjoying each other and trying their best to give everyone the space they needed. No one argued when, at the family meeting, I announced that not only would there be no ‘real’ gifts under the tree, but that each of them would have one bath towel for the time being. (It’s the only way to keep my laundry under control and make sure I am not met with a pile of wet towels after every morning’s shower routine). No one complained that sleeping arrangements were going to be ‘snug’, at best. They just jumped in and did what had to be done, to get through the following weeks.

Christmas Eve came and we all looked at each other, thinking, “What do we do now?”

The only answer was to get out of the house. We piled in the car and drove down to a local pub. While jazzy Christmas carols played overhead, we had the pool tables all to ourselves. The pizza was hot and good, the friendly banter between my children was relaxed and comfortable.

I looked around and realized we’d raised some pretty great people. Two of ours are officially adults. So much of the time I can only see the ways I've failed them through the years. On Christmas Eve I had to step back and see them in a different light. They’re nice people. Kind and helpful to not only their friends, but their younger siblings too (most of the time). They are fun to be around and are going to find their way in the world, mistakes and all, in the years to come.

We came home, watched some Christmas clips on Hulu, then called it a night.

The next morning didn’t feel at all like Christmas. No little children rushing to wake us up, excited to see what Santa had left. But instead I found a note on the kitchen table. Next to the cookies and milk that were left out the night before by our way-too-old-for-Santa 11 year old, was a sign that said “Don’t Stop Believin’”. It didn’t take much asking around to figure out which of his older siblings took the Santa bites from the cookies and took the time to write the note.

Then, as we sat around the thrift store tree, so my youngest could unwrap his few token gifts, I noticed presents for the older kids, as well as my husband and myself. My 15 year old was grinning from ear to ear. He’d felt bad that there were so few gifts under the tree, so he’d taken the liberty to wrap up some things from around the house, silly gifts, so that everyone had something to unwrap.

Laughter filled our little condo as we took turns unwrapping our special gifts. My husband couldn’t imagine what could be in his small present, which sounded like rice when he shook the box. It was the box of matches from the kitchen. My oldest son couldn’t help but grin as he unwrapped his one (not two) flip flop. Little guy was very surprised to watch his older sister unwrap ‘her’ gift, which happened to be his ipod. My son whose name means laughter came through again, and made a pretty empty holiday feel rich and full once again.

An hour later all three of my boys were at the kitchen table, playing a board game we’d picked up for my little guy at the thrift store. Even when they figured out that it only had three of the dozens of pieces it needed, they came up with their own rules and played a few rounds.

After that, they set up the little guy’s simple hot wheels track set and had races down the long orange track, to see who could make their car jump and crash into our homemade gingerbread houses. Later they came up with variations to this game, hiding out in their one shared bedroom for hours.

Instead of concentrating on what we didn’t have, we all made do with what we do have. We don’t have much counter space, so we cooked a store bought lasagna and had a yummy non-traditional holiday meal. We don’t have TV service, so we pulled up holiday specials on Hulu. We don’t have room to spread out and have our own space as the afternoon wore on, so took advantage of what we do have - amazing scenery right outside our window. We all piled in the car and took some beautiful drives down snowy country roads.

Along a winding road we came across a family stuck in the ditch. My big strong teen age sons took great pride in jumping in to help dig through snow banks to find logs for traction, then anchoring their weight behind the vehicle, with every attempt to dislodge it. Somewhere on the outskirts of Golden we found an empty parking lot full of wet, slushy snow, and my boys took turns learning how to do the perfect donut with the family Suburban. There were many smiles that day.

It wasn’t the holiday I’d have dreamed of. There was very little Martha Stewart could have lived with. But it was special, so special to his mom who has tried so hard every year, to make it as fun as possible for her kids. For once, they turned the tables and gave back the gift of celebrating. They showed me, the one who usually farms out the pep talks, what the holiday is all about.

It’s about just relaxing and enjoying the people you love. It’s about finding fun in every day, from wrapping up one of your brother’s flip flops, to finding a way to make a board game with few pieces actually work. They were the gift I wanted. To be surrounded by these four people I love so much and their dad, my best friend. But surprise! I ended up with so much more.

Giving Thanks Week

2011-11-30T13:20:00.009-05:00

Finally, finally, finally, he came HOME! After dropping him off at his dorm in Utah, way back in the middle of August, I've missed my oldest boy every day and couldn't wait to hug him again. Finally he arrived to join his pack of brothers. (I can't wait to get their big sister in this picture...)

He's been out-grown by one younger brother,and the odds say the little one will tower over him in a few years too. He doesn't mind though. Pilots need to be small statured (or so he tells me.)

We had a fantastic long weekend...full of a wide variety of activities. We had a wonderful, simple Thanksgiving meal, and were joined by a college friend from New York. She took Meredith's spot, until my girl is back with us.

Isaac got a lot of practice driving in, trying out his new permit on many Colorado highways and back roads. This is one time when I'm happy to let Jeff call "shotgun!"

Sam and I did some old fashioned coloring. I colored flowers and lighthouses. He colored Halo video game characters. Great mother/son bonding time, either way.

We spent a huge chunk of time showing Michael all the bike parks we've discovered in the area. He was as pleased and excited as we thought he'd be. He's ready to get back for Christmas break, so he can perfect his BMX skills and catch up with little brothers.

There were a few video games played, by 'everyone' in the family except me. I still don't have a clue how to use a controller. But none of them can use a sewing machine, so hey, we're even.

We made great use of the new couch/futon we were given by an old friend in Boulder, who was doing some house decluttering. It's changed the way we live, finally having a couch. And Michael sure enjoyed not sleeping on the floor. The advantage was his, since our mattresses are still on the floor, within easy access to lonely cats and dogs who love to 'snuggle/suffocate' in the night.

We played a few fun rounds of board games. This night of Settlers I actually won. The only one at the table who really has no competitive bone in her body and usually just plays to put more players on the board. I have to admit - it was kind of fun to be the victor for once!
We also played a few rounds of The Awkward Family Photos board game. That's always good for a few laughs, although my witty Isaac seems to win every single time with his quick, hilarious answers.

I seem to remember that getting filled up with homemade cookies and buying new clothes are the two main reasons to come home from college, so we ended up in the Target Men's Department, where everyone found a few new treasures. Isaac just loves trying silly things on to make us laugh. It works.

Oh, did I mention we hit a few bike parks? As in about 12 hours total, throughout the weekend. The more time we spent there, the higher their jumps got. This is my little one, soaring through the air with no fear. He gets that from his dad's side apparently.

This little guy counted down the hours until big brother got home. He rarely left his side, and only sobbed for half the morning, when it was time to take big brother back to the airport.

A rare moment when I was able to convince them to stop long enough for me to take a picture. This seems to be their 'natural habitat', where they thrive the best.

And then it was time to visit DIA and let my boy go again. We watched him all the way through security, from our perch on the level above. Then he gave us one last wave before he disappeared down the escalator that leads to the gates. The weekend went by way too quickly. But it was a good trial run, for the four weeks we'll spend in December, when he is back, his sister is finally here, and there are SIX of us living in this cozy condo.

I'm off this week to meet a moving truck in New York, and reclaim all of our personal possessions. Correction: I get to see our personal possessions, as they are being loaded into a moving truck and hauled off to storage for three months. But slowly, slowly we are moving away from NY and placing our roots in Colorado. We've never taken this long to make the break before but the crappy NY housing market took a huge bite out of us.

I look forward to another week of adventure, finally reuniting with my girl back in NY, and having a long drive across the country together as she arrives at her new home state.

Time Marches On

2011-11-09T13:09:00.006-05:00

Our sparse furnishings for the past few months, including Sam's minimal birthday celebration.

Getting geared up for a couch to go where the table is now. It almost feels like a home.

(This is NOT the couch we picked, but I love this shot of my 'good sport' husband.)

It’s time to reorganize. I feel like I say that about every six months, as life circumstances change, but this time I really and truly mean it. The calendar is bearing down on me and I need to be ready.

Thanksgiving is two weeks from tomorrow. That’s the day my life goes into hyper drive. Either by train or plane, my college boy will be returning home from school, and I’ll get to hug him for the first time in three months. We’ll also be welcoming another visitor to our feast table. One of Michael’s best friends in NY has a sister who attends college in Denver and cannot get home for this holiday. So she’s joining our family. It’s a tradition my mom upheld through my childhood and I’m pleased to pass on.

So that weekend will be a blur of cooking in our tiny kitchen, serving meals on fancy paper plates, cleaning up as we joke around, and then lots and lots of board games. It will be over in the blink of an eye, I know.

Then as soon as Michael steps on that train platform, or boards that plane, I will be packing for my own trip. The last day of November, the day after my 45th birthday, I’ll be flying back to New York. For one long weekend my daughter and I will do one last purge, weeding out any item that’s not worth hauling out to CO. More loads to the dump, as trash, and to use their wonderful ‘free pile’.

Then Monday morning the packers arrive. For two days they will pack and box up all our belongings. I will have carefully kept out any items we might be needing in the next six months (that will fit in Meredith’s car) since all of our stuff will be going to storage until late spring. I’m trying to remember that ‘more Legos’ are high on that priority list.

Wednesday of that week the truck will be loaded and drive out of our driveway with all our worldly belongings. Meredith and I will spend a day getting the house ‘broom clean’ and then we set off on our own cross country drive together.

It will be the fourth time I’ve made that 2000 mile drive in the past nine months. I know it well now. This time we’ll hopefully have time to stop by to see some of my family, as we pass through Missouri.

Two days after we get back to CO, we load up the new Suburban and head to Utah. It will be time for Michael’s winter break. It will be our first ‘all family’ trip in years. I can’t tell you how excited I am for those moments. We travel well together, and I know the kids will feel like ‘kings’ in our new, bigger vehicle.

(Isaac already admitted that every time he gets in the Suburban he feels like it’s a rental car…it’s just too nice to be ours!)

When we arrive back in Colorado, two weeks before Christmas, we will figure out how six of us are going to fit in this space that has barely fit the four of us for the past few months. That’s where my schedule right now is affected.

I’m the mom. I will be the one who will pull off this feat, of having six very tall, independent people, living (and eating!) in 800 square of living space (with a dog and a cat). Bed space alone is a hurdle I’ve been brainstorming about for weeks.

I have to solve these problems now, because once Thanksgiving hits, my schedule is full and I don’t come up for air until the moment we pull into the condo parking lot in December, with six people unloading their stuff.

I am not even allowing myself to think about the fact that at the end of that journey Christmas will be a few weeks away and again, as the mom, I will have things prepared for that too. It’s always a trick, in the new house, to figure out how the holiday ‘goes’, and this year will be even trickier than most.

We’ve always known we would be getting a new sofa in Colorado. We dream of a large sectional, that we all could fit on to watch movies. We’ve never had that. We lived with my childhood, fifty year old couch, for every year of my kids’ upbringing. It’s time to get a couch that works for us.

But knowing we’ll be in this condo for at least six more months, a huge sectional is not going to work. So we need a temporary couch. One we can sit on to watch movies (we don’t have cable at the condo) that will also work for the person who didn’t get one of the sacred mattresses.

Right now we’ve had only a thrift store kitchen table. On one end we eat meals and on the other end we have our mini office set up. I live by the computer so it was high on the priority list to get an office set up. We also watch our few favorite TV shows on Hulu, so our computer monitor has become our TV screen.

This set up will not work for six people. For one thing, there’s just nowhere to sit down. Right now we either sit on straight back kitchen chairs to watch computer/TV or recline on the mattresses on the floor to read a book. We really, really, really need more (comfortable) seating, especially if this place is going to stop feeling like ‘temporary living’ and start feeling like a home.

Last weekend, we left the sports bar after my Seahawks (again) lost their game, and headed to the furniture store. While the boys hung out at the bike park for hours on end, Jeff and I sat on three bazillion sofas.

We didn’t want to spend a lot. This will be the ‘extra’ sofa, once we get the big sectional sometime next year. But it needs to be comfortable and it needs to be long. All of my kids, with the exception, for now, of the 11 year old, are five foot ten and taller. We need a couch that could accommodate a tall person stretching out for the night.

We finally found it. It was the longest one we found, fit the budget, and is comfortable to sit on as well. It will work great for our red box movie nights and also for the sleeping accommodations we’ll need for the month of December.

So the computer had to come off of the kitchen table and I had to make the living room work as a living room. Once again, the Habitat for Humanity Resale store saved the day. We’ve shopped at them in every state we’ve lived. We’ve always found treasures at great prices. It’s a fun way to feel like you’re ‘recycling’.

Yesterday I popped into our local branch and found a great TV stand and a small, perfect computer desk, then paid 30 bucks for the both of them. The computer desk even came with a rolling chair. Bonus!

Last night we moved the computer to its new home, and moved the TV out of the boys room. The kitchen table got cleared off, wiped down, and moved to the center of the room. For now we’ll still sit around it to watch our Hulu shows, but next week, when the sofa comes, we will officially move it to the small dining area. And if all goes according to plan, this place just might finally feel like a home.

The two older kids will never know how this condo felt for the past few months, when it was just the four of us, getting by on what we could find at thrift stores (while all our favorite furniture sits in a big vacant house in NY). But it was a bonding time for Jeff and me, and the two boys we now have in our immediate, day to day family. We’ve been carving out our new life in Colorado, and this small, nearly empty condo has been our home base. It’s worked. It’s safe and warm and clean.

But in just over a month, it will be brimming with a huge family. And we’ll find a whole different life, as we all learn to live together again, in this new space. I just hope all my planning, all my work in the past few weeks, comes together.

And for each one of my kids, this place feels like home.

Life and Lemons

2011-11-01T13:14:00.001-04:00

One of the tricky parts of moving to a new state is holidays. There’s the expected glitches, like trying to figure out where the tree should go in the new house when Christmas rolls around (in front of the window or in the corner out of the way?...) And there’s the new arrangements to be made, as some relatives are now too far away to visit on Thanksgiving and yet some are, for the first time, close enough.

For my kids, one of the most important holidays to figure out, way ahead of time, is Halloween. Every region of the country, every town, every neighborhood, has their own way of doing things on this all important kid holiday. You must figure out where everyone goes to ring the doorbells, if your own neighborhood is not conducive. You must pay attention to flyers on the grocery store bulletin boards and ads in the local papers, or you might miss the big community celebration just down the block.

When we lived near Washington D.C., our small street didn’t really participate in the trick or treating tradition. Instead we joined a family who lived nearby, and drove the kids to the nursing home, where the other family’s grandmother lived. The facility had set up stations where the residents could hand out treats to the children who showed up. Our kids got a bag full of candy, and a whole bunch of senior citizens had a ball, oohing and ahhing over all the clever costumes.

This Halloween found us as new residents in a mountain town in Colorado. We still have one child in elementary school so it was my job to figure out the system here. I happened to luck out when one of the room moms from my son’s class emailed about donations for the class Halloween party. I offered up some paper plates and napkins, then proceeded to pick her brain. If you can’t trust a room mom to tell you the scoop, who can you trust?

She informed me that all the parents show up at school to watch the all school costume parade, then they all file down to their classrooms for the parties. After that, everyone heads to our tiny downtown, where all the local businesses hand out candy and the lines of dressed up children becomes something like a second costume parade.
For round three, there were certain neighborhoods where you could hit the most houses, while climbing the fewest amount of hills. Much of our town’s population lives on remote, winding mountain roads. To snag a somewhat compact neighborhood, with plenty of porch lights on, was a gift.

Armed with that information, Sam was ready for his big day. But I still had another child to think about. Fifteen year old Isaac.

Isaac’s at that really hard age when you mostly want to be seen as a grown up, but on a few key days of the year it would be nice to be little again. Birthdays and Christmas are harder when your list doesn’t include half of the JC Penney toy catalog. The only fun things you can think of usually cost more than your parents are willing to spend.

Halloween becomes a problem too. Who doesn’t like free candy? But the ability to get grub for free depends on dressing up in a costume and ringing doorbells, right next to toddlers in teddy bear outfits. The scene is further complicated if you’re the new kid in town and risk social torture if you’re seen out fraternizing with those lowly elementary aged losers. This was where Isaac found himself last night.

He came up with a fantastic costume. He wore a plain white shirt with the word ‘LIFE’ across the front, and he carried a bowl of lemons. He was ‘Life, handing you lemons’. It’s pretty appropriate for our family this year, as we’ve hit many snags in our effort to move across the country.

There was no way he was lowering himself to go door to door with his little brother. Even worse would be heading out alone. His friends had been non-committal when he’d asked around at school. So he was stuck with me. He was stuck sitting by the front door of our condo unit, waiting for little kids to knock.

He was a pretty good sport about it, especially considering I told him I’d give him the leftover candy, if he helped me hand it out. We watched skits from Saturday Night Live on Hulu while we waited to hear footsteps on our stairs outside.

Then the heavens opened and his night turned around. He opened the door to find one of his best friends from school standing there, with his little brother. One was a ninja, one was a banana. I’ll let you guess which costume belonged to the cool high schooler.

With one friendly, “Hey Isaac, wanna come with us?”, my boy was gone.

He gathered his lemons, threw on a jacket, and was out the door in a flash. An hour later he came back, with a pillow case half full of candy, grinning from ear to ear. No sour lemons here.

We survived. Another Halloween of firsts and we got it worked out. I bought way too much candy, after being told by a neighbor that our condo unit usually had lots of kids show up. But it worked out well, when I overheard our downstairs neighbor tell some costumed kids she had run out. It was nice to be able to share my loot with these people we share so many walls with.

Isaac survived another transition into the world of big kids. Next year he’ll have his license and the whole story will change again. But we won’t be ‘new’ anymore. We’ll be experienced, with one good year under our belt.

Isaac had such a good time this year he’s already talking about next year’s costume. I haven’t been listening closely but it has something to do with stuffed animals hanging from an umbrella. My clever boy is scheming and dreaming and may show up on our neighbor’s doorsteps dressed as the phrase ‘raining cats and dogs’.

Or he may just be too cool to trick or treat at all.

We’ll just have to wait and see.

Born to Play

2011-10-23T11:49:00.003-04:00

The tiny homecoming parade was over, so Jeff and I wandered the short strip of stores that line the downtown stretch of Evergreen Colorado. We found stores full of nuts, pastries, original art, and funky clothes. I made several mental notes, ideas for holiday gift purchases next month.

Then we headed back up the uneven wooden walkway that constitutes a sidewalk in our town. Out of habit we popped our heads in the open doorway of a magical place called Little Bear. It’s a two story wooden structure, that shows the wear and tear of decades of lively nights and raucous fun. From the outside it looks like an old fashioned tavern from the wild, wild west. But inside it’s very obviously not a place set up as a cheesy tourist trap.

This place is authentic tavern. It’s a genuine bar, the kind that never seems out of style because it’s just there. It’s there and it’s been there, for more years than I’ve been alive. The stairs that lead up to the pool hall room and upper outdoor balcony are wooden, and literally have dips in the centers of them, where hundreds of thousands of feet have made their mark.

Little Bear is special to us because we stopped here one day, when we were house hunting in the area last spring. We had no idea where we’d be living, when autumn rolled around, and at the time it was just a unique place to grab some lunch.

We cruised through house listings on our phones as we munched on burgers and fries. The kids loved scouting the old battered license plates that lined the walls, looking for places we’ve lived. We all got a laugh out of the wild assortment of women’s bras that hung haphazardly from the ceiling over the small wooden stage.

We were told by the lone waiter/bartender/cook that Little Bear had basically been there forever. Their easy, relaxed atmosphere, and guaranteed live music on many days of the week, meant they were rarely empty in the evenings. We agreed that we’d be back, and moved on with our search for a place to call home.

And sure enough, we ended up in a condo just two miles down the road from Little Bear. And last night we found ourselves once again pulled up to a table. But this time it was a different atmosphere. The quietness of lunch time had given way to a small, but lively crowd, who were all bobbing their heads and tapping their feet to the music of the live band that graced the stage.

We sat down at a table and ordered drinks. It didn’t take long to realize that we’d be staying a bit, as the band was really and truly entertaining, so we ordered a small pizza. Then we sat back and soaked it in.

The guys on stage were a hodge podge of ages, mostly my age or older. But they knew how to play. There was no doubt about that. I’m not a musician, but I’m mesmerized by people who are. It’s a skill I respect because I can’t do it. As the guys rocked out to classic songs from the 60s and 70s I took turns watching each musician individually.

And they were all good. Really good. On their own. It amazed me. The keyboard guy’s fingers danced over the keys with perfect precision and amazing creativity. The drummer seemed to be in his own world, beating out the exact right rhythms that each song needed. The bass player and guitarist also seemed to have magical fingers, moving up and down the necks of their instruments with perfect accuracy.

And the lead singer. Let me tell you, this guy loved being on stage, loved being surrounded by these guys he genuinely seemed to care about, and loved putting everything he had into every song they did. From rock and roll to the blues, he swayed, danced, sang and grinned. They were all, as a unit, a joy to watch.

It reminded me of a song the Bacon Brothers Band wrote, called Not Born to Beauty -

Maybe they got day jobs
To support this rockin' jones
But the rhythm fits them like a skin
And the blues is in their bones

Turn on your MTV
And you won't find them there
You can read that Rolling Stone cover to cover
You won't find them anywhere
But in basements and garages
Hotel lounges, roadside bars
Close your eyes and hear the tunes
And you'll be seeing stars
They were born to do it
They were born to play

Not that these guys were ugly. Quite the contrary. But these guys were good. Playing in a small tavern, in front of just a dozen people, on a stage lined with bras, they gave us more for our money than some bands who actually charge for their shows, in stadiums that hold thousands.

Jeff texted our teenager at home, who loves playing his guitar and fits right in at this place, with his shaggy rebellious hair, and told him to ride his bike down to join us. Within minutes he was munching on our pizza, sharing my soda, and soaking in the great music with us.

I looked at all the empty chairs around us and wished they were filled with the people I love. I kept thinking, ‘I’d love to bring Kurt and Terry here…’ and ‘I’d love to bring Matt and Julie here…’. A few of my siblings, and my in laws, would all love the magic that we found last night.

It was one of those nights you never want to end. Once the pizza was gone, the sodas and beer refilled too many times, it was time to call it a night. When the band took their second break and came off stage to join their wives and girlfriends in the audience, we knew it was time to go. We got up, gathered our stuff, and headed for the door, passing by the table filled with band members.

I was captivated by the average-ness of these guys who made such magic onstage. If I saw them in the grocery store, I’d never dream they could be a part of one of my best nights so far in my new home town. I found one of them outside on the front porch, as we made our way to the car, and expressed my gratitude to him, for such an entertaining show. He was humble and appreciative, and thanked my family and me for showing up. The gratitude seemed backward.

We’ll be back. And I hope when we do get a chance to drag our visiting family to that old worn out bar, there is a band onstage even half as good as the guys we saw last night. In the chaos of life I sometimes forget just how relaxing a loud, rocking night, tucked in an ancient tavern with some people I love, can actually be.

I hope those guys, who maybe saw last night as ‘ just another gig’, realize how much they were appreciated by this middle aged mom. Their talent was impressive. Their love of music was palatable.

There is no doubt - they were definitely born to do it. They were born to play.

New Home Homecoming

2011-10-23T10:43:00.002-04:00

Yesterday we went downtown to see the high school homecoming parade. We live in a small mountain town, and our downtown strip is about twenty stores long. It’s actually what we love about this place, the quaintness you seek out on a vacation trip, that we have on a daily basis.

We were alone. Both boys found other activities that interested them more. Even our high schooler decided he didn’t want to be bored to death by a small town parade. He’s still figuring out his place here, so we gave him the room to refuse this obviously high school event. He’s a pretty friendly kid and I predict he will be in the parade next year. But for this year, it was just me and Jeff.

We gave up our folding chairs to a mother and daughter who had come unprepared, and we headed up to the top deck of Little Bear, the old wooden tavern in the middle of town. With no little children in our care there was no need for being close to the potential candy throwing action.

Soon the police cars stopped all traffic and the parade began. The town fire truck came inching down the street, sirens blaring. Little children below us lined up with their newly unpacked Halloween bags, and anxiously waited for the first signs of brightly colored wrappers flying through the air.

They didn’t have to wait long. The parade basically consisted of the school’s marching band, and then a long line of decorated pick up trucks, full of high school kids throwing candy. Every club and team was represented, and each of them came fully loaded with candy. For a half an hour we watched excited little people frantically scurrying around under our second story perch, scooping up handfuls of treats. The funny thing was, the big kids in the parade seemed to be having just as much fun as the little kids on the street. Every handful that flew through the air brought a new round of squeals and delight.

A few times Jeff convinced some of the young men in the truck beds to huck a few treats up our way. He didn’t want the candy. He just wanted to give them a challenge, and most of them accepted it. More than once our group, that lined the top deck rail, got pelted with sugary bullets.

Then it was over. Little kids scooped up the last of their prizes and turned to compare their loot with their siblings and friends. Moms and dads said goodbye to friends they’d found in the crowds and headed back to their cars, arms heavy with lawn chairs.

We’re new in town, so we quietly watched the magic of our small town - friends and neighbors gathering on a sunny day to watch their own, and their friends’ high school kids ride a half a mile down main street, throwing candy to younger siblings and friends.

Everyone went home happy. And Jeff and I wandered off to explore the shops in our new home town.

Letting Loose

2011-10-21T16:27:00.001-04:00

It’s been easy to justify not coming to this place. There are lists of things to do, as I’m still setting up insurance and doctors for all six of us, in three different states. There are new deductibles to figure out and paperwork to file. Open Season is on the horizon and, as new folks in this state, there’s even more incentive to review each plan carefully. There’s never an end to the things I could do in a day.

But I had a chance meeting with a blogging mom I’ve never met and her blog inspired me to get back to it. They are in the process of moving too, but she’s been much better about documenting the changes their family is going through. It reminded me of the original point of my blog.

I started my blog as a way to document our life. The adventures we took, the places we discovered, the challenges we met along the way. I also wanted to write down what it’s like, being a mom with a bionic leg. I kept up with this blog for a long time.

Then I started writing the parenting column for the newspaper. It was a ‘real’ deadline, due every Monday. It forced me to think about what was going on in our household, and explain it in an interesting way, in 900 words or less. I started to get lazy, and just relied on the column to be my consistent blog post.

I missed out on writing about a lot of little stuff, stuff that didn’t make it to the paper. I suddenly felt like everything I put on the blog had to be refined and polished. I put off coming here because I felt like I didn’t have time to meet that criteria.

But my new blogging mommy friend reminded me that this is not a formal setting. This is not a column I get paid for. I can write here every day, six times a day, if I want. It can be thoughts off the top of my head, or just an interesting picture. It’s my forum, not a bosses.

So here we go. Back to the original purpose. Today I’m going to write about….hmmmm…..what should I write about?

How about a simple moment that happened last night, in a quiet corner of my son’s bedroom? Sam and I have been reading a book called “Cracker”. It’s about a service dog from the Vietnam War, the kind that were trained to sniff out danger.

Sam picked it from the school library because it had a German Shepherd on the front cover. Oh, and some war scenes. What could be better than dogs and war?

He had saved it for my arrival in Colorado. The first night I was here, back with ‘my boys’, we dove in. It’s a long book, so we’ve been chipping away, chapter by chapter. It’s a wonderful story about a boy who gives his dog to the Army, to be trained as a service dog, and the young soldier who becomes his master. There were many good life lessons in its chapters, as well as history lessons.

The most striking was in the last chapters, that we read last night. The soldier is returning home from war, after almost losing his life in a rice paddy, and the pilot of the plane acknowledges him and his fellow soldiers over the loudspeaker. Then he advises them to change into civilian clothes, before they leave the plane, so as not to stir up conflict.

This was a hard concept for my 10 year old patriotic boy to handle. He lives in a world where people understand that soldiers don’t start the wars, they fight them. His view of the world includes people clapping for men in uniform as they get off planes from far away countries. It was hard for me, emotionally, to read the parts about the reality of a very different time in America. But it was an important thing for my boy to hear about.

During the last battle he had to fight, the young soldier loses his dog in the chaos. He has to live through recovery and rehab, not knowing if his dog survived. It becomes his mission to find him and bring him home.

(Spoiler Alert…) In the last chapters of the book, the dog is found, by a fellow dog handler, and eventually reunited with his own soldier handler. It’s an understatement to say it was an emotional ending.

I generally don’t like to ‘go there’. After my mom died, and I really felt out of control with my emotions, I have held a tighter reign on them. I cry. But not often and rarely in front of my boys. If I let myself analyze it further, it might have something to do with not wanting to start, not knowing how deep the tears might go.

But in recent years I’ve noticed that it’s not just me, and my raw emotions. Most moms are sappy and cry at silly things like book endings and movies. It doesn’t make me out of control. It makes me sensitive and real.

So I plunged on in Sam’s book. I’m embarrassed to say I almost let his dad read him the last few chapters, knowing I could avoid the tears altogether. But dad was helping Sam’s big brother with a biology assignment and the sciences are not my strength.

Within a few pages we were deep in the emotional stuff. But I just took a deep breath and moved on. Then my voice cracked. Sam could see I was feeling the emotions and he was wiping tears from his own eyes. I looked at him and we both broke into laughter, at our weepy selves.

Then we dug through the rest, short chapter after short chapter. I paused when it got hairy and sad, we giggled some at the shared emotions, then we moved on. And we did it. We got to the end and snapped the book closed feeling very satisfied indeed.

I love sharing a deeper book with my boy. There’s a place for Diary of a Wimpy Kid, but sharing a story with fleshed out characters is a real joy. He learned a lot about a part of history he’d never heard about before, a whole legion of dogs who went to the Vietnam War and saved a lot of lives.

And his mama learned to let her hair down a bit, and not be afraid of the tears.

Simple Life

2011-10-17T21:04:00.003-04:00

It’s time. I’m back. I have thought about this blog, and how I’ve neglected it, on just about every day that I have ignored it. It’s time to jump back in.

Colorado is wonderful. Just as we knew it would be. The climate. The mountain scenery that greets me when I drive to the small town grocery store. The elk herds that seem to enjoy the grass that grows just outside our back window. The endless list of outdoor activities. The droves of young families I see on trails and in the grocery store, all decked out in Patagonia gear. The high concentration of Jeeps and Subarus, each seeming to be stocked with a token Golden Retriever, Lab, or mix of the two.

My big girl is still back in New York, working two jobs and getting ready to dive back into school. Her brother, my college freshman, is working hard in Utah, loving his aviation program at Westminster College.

So that leaves us with only two kids at home. A fifteen year old who is thrilled that he can get a permit to drive in Colorado, when he would have had to wait until his 16th birthday in New York, and his 10 year old brother, who is counting down the days until he turns 11 next week.

The NY house is still on the market. After almost six months of deep price cuts, we are now over ten grand below what we paid for it. The New York market has tanked, and taken our house with it.

This means we are indefinitely residing in a small temporary condo. It has 800 square feet. Two small bedrooms, a galley kitchen, and a small living/dining area. The boys are surviving in such close quarters because they are seldom home. For hours after school they ride their bikes up the mountain trails nearby, or play with friends from the condo unit. On weekends we explore the Denver area and discover new places to play.

I’ve always said that I’d rather live in a cardboard box with my family near me, than to live in a mansion alone, and I guess I’m being challenged on that proclamation.

And I still say it’s true. I’m practically living it, and it’s true.

All our stuff is still in New York. We are surrounded by only what fit in the minivan on the drive out. Photo boxes, personal files, ski equipment and bikes had to be priority, so that left little room for extras.

Once we got here we bought a lovely, large kitchen table with six chairs at the thrift store. Its top is scratched up (Jeff wisely suggested it had been someone’s craft table) but it does the job. Our home computer is set up on one end of it, we eat dinner and do homework on the other. Best hundred bucks I’ve spent in a long time.

Otherwise, we’re pretty sparse on furniture. We sleep on three mattresses on the floor, and use boxes stacked sideways for a ‘dresser’. The last tenants left an old desk, which works out great for holding the $25 thrift store TV and leaves enough room for Lego building. We found a TV stand by the side of the road and it does the job of a bedside table, separating the boys beds. A small shelving unit, found sitting next to the dumpster, keeps all the kids’ school papers in order.

That’s it. The place is pretty empty, beyond the basic clothes, shoes and little bit of personal effects the boys brought with them. But it’s kind of nice. I have to say, I don’t really miss the stuff yet.

Life is very streamlined. It takes 15 minutes to ‘pick up the house’. The whole house. Vacuuming is finished in 7 minutes. There is virtually no dusting to be done. I have no bookcases full of books, or shelves with knick knacks. Everything in this house is here deliberately. It’s needed and used on a regular basis, or it wouldn’t have made the cut.

I have the luxury of knowing all that junk I care about is still out there. The tub with my mom’s personal effects, that I’ve moved around the country with me since she died. The box of journals from my childhood. The brass musical statues I adore, that have their place on a specific bookshelf. My dozens (hundreds?) of ‘favorite’ books. It all still exists and will be reunited with us some day.

But for now life is really simple. Peacefully and wonderfully simple. To keep the bills low, while we support two house payments, we’ve only signed up for internet service. No land line. No cable. The TV is used for occasional video games and our Friday night Red Box movies (when we stack the two single mattresses against the wall, line it with pillows, and pretend it’s our couch). Hulu gives us occasional episodes of favorite TV shows.

Have I mentioned that despite the temporary-ness of our situation, we’re all really content?

The boys have their basic needs met. Now that mom is back in their time zone, they have regular hot meals and clean laundry continues to show up in their cardboard box dressers. They get lots of fresh air, lots of exercise, lots of new experiences with new friends. There is no lawn to mow, leaves to rake or household chores to take up their free time.

Hubby loves his job. Now that he’s not worried about being the sole parent to two boys adjusting to a new life in a new state, he gets to ‘just’ do his job well. He is making his mark in his new office and seems relaxed when he shares stories of the adventures of his days. It’s really, really good to see.

And me. I have not shaken the feeling that we’re on a perpetual vacation. The slim living conditions remind me of the months we’ve spent living at a Residence Inn, on other cross country moves. Life was always pretty streamlined in those months too. A lot of my ‘mom’ responsibilities were condensed. If it weren’t for the fact the cleaning staff doesn’t show up every morning, I’d almost believe we were back at the Residence Inn.

And how can you not feel like you’re on vacation, when you live in a place where many people do spend their holiday hours and money? Just about every time I’ve driven home from the grocery store, and come over one certain rise in the road, where the valley is laid out beneath you and the mountains rise up in a different majestic fashion depending on the day’s cloud patterns and sunshine, I suck in my breath and think, ‘And I live here…’.

We’ve found amazing bike parks and endless bike paths in several parts of Denver and the surrounding area. We’ve driven mountain roads, pausing for wildlife to slowly cross, in their own time. We’ve laughed a lot, as we’ve had time to be with each other a lot, and share our family sense of humor. We’re moving quickly into ski season, where we hope to get season passes to the small mountain just 30 minutes up the road, and maybe sneak in a few hours on the slope before dinner some weeknights. The list is long, of other areas we want to explore and friends we want to visit all over the state.

Someday we’ll have a house. Someday we’ll have our flat screen TV back on the wall, with football games roaring out of it every Sunday afternoon (boy, do I miss that!) Someday we will all have room to spread out, and be surrounded by the things that we love. But in the meantime, we’re not suffering.

We’re doing everyday life things. Going to school. Going to work. Attending teacher conferences. Buying groceries. Making dinner. Doing laundry.

But it’s all streamlined. It all feels much more simple. I have to admit - I’m really liking this vacation lifestyle.

Finding Home

2011-09-14T11:33:00.003-04:00

It all looked very manageable on paper. Once the reality hit, that our ‘recession story’ would include how we couldn’t seem to sell the house in New York, so we could move to Colorado, we knew it was time to make new plans. The school year was looming and our two youngest needed to be out there, in our new hometown, so they could jump in on time. The only answer was that I deposit them in an apartment with dad and fly back to New York to continue selling the house.

The plan made perfect sense in theory.

But theory doesn’t always take into account emotions. Emotions like ten year olds missing their mamas and mamas missing being a part of the family.

A good friend reassured me, back in early August, that it might be a good time for me. With long stretches of time alone in our empty house, I could dig up my old writing projects. I’d have time to scan the 26 boxes of print photos into the computer. I could get to the gym every day, no excuses. I put out of my head the sad parts of leaving my family out west, and concentrated on these optimistic ideas.

Almost three weeks ago I flew back from Colorado and stepped into this quiet life in our vacant house. The first weekend I was home we weathered a major storm named Irene. Her wrath left us with a huge fallen pine tree in the yard and lots of unused, stockpiled flashlight batteries. The tree was cut up and hauled off into the woods by wonderful neighbors, then it was time for real life to start again.

It was weird, being alone, as I thought it would be. I jumped on the to do list, thinking I’d wrap up the not so fun stuff, like organizing bills and getting the house ready for showings, and then I could dive into my personal projects. Day after day went by and the list never seemed to shrink. People kept asking me, ‘So, are you bored?....What do you do all day?’ It was a tough question to answer.

Because it’s not as easy as just crossing things off a list. I’m living a long distance life and it’s more complicated than I ever imagined. I’m staying in touch with a son who is new to college in Utah. I’m doing my best to help him find the resources he needs to get settled in that new life on campus. I’m setting up services, cable, internet, electricity, for my gang, from 2000 miles away. I’m figuring out our new insurance plans, and whether they really will cover all of us, spread out in three states. I’m cleaning out files, so when the moving truck comes later, we won’t be hauling unnecessary paperwork with us. As soon as I cross one thing off the list, two more are added.

And I spend a lot of my time coaching from long distance. I start the day with texts, and sometimes phone calls, from a ten year old who doesn’t like this new set up. He’s loving his school, loving the new friends, loving the fact his front yard is often filled with Elk in the mornings…but not loving the fact his family unit is fractured.

He’s only known a two parent, nuclear family. He’s only known a mom and dad who generally get along pretty well and enjoy being together. He’s only known being the little guy in a big family, living in the center of fun chaos that having teen siblings can bring. Our family has moved four times in his life. People used to ask me how he adapted so well. My standard answer was simple. Sam’s home is where his family is. It has never mattered to him if he woke up in a big house in Utah or a small room at the Motel 6. If the people he loved surrounded him, he was happy. He was home.

These days he’s waking up in a tiny temporary condo in Colorado, by himself. Dad has left early to catch the bus for work down in the valley. Big brother has showered and left for high school. He’s on his own. Oh, he’s old enough to dress himself and make his own oatmeal. He’s old enough to turn off all the lights and lock the door behind him when he leaves for school. He’s old enough. He just doesn’t like it.

For the five years we lived in New York, Sam and I had breakfast together every morning before school. We had a routine. He fed the dog while I made breakfast. We sat on the couch, watching the Today Show as we spooned the warm oatmeal into our mouths. When it was time for the bus we hugged and high fived and he headed down the driveway. I’d stand at the front window and wave to him, and his wonderful bus driver. Then, as the bus pulled away, my day started.

Sam misses that routine stuff so desperately. Dad’s doing the best he can, as a single dad for the first time in his life. He’s loving and patient. He jumps into kid management the second he walks in the door at night. Dinner to make, school stories to be listened to. Papers to sign. Homework to supervise. The only time he gets to himself in the course of a day is the 30 minute bus ride to and from work, hemmed in by strangers. Dad’s doing his best for Sam.

But Dad’s just not Mom.

When the texts started coming late at night, saying, “But mom, I miss you….but mom, I need you…when will I see you again?” and I knew he was texting me under his covers, when he was supposed to be going to sleep, I knew something had to change.

His big brother, the only other child we have left at home at this point, is adapting well. He isn’t crazy about his new school, but only because it’s school, and not anything like riding mountain trails on his bike, which is his first love. He’s made good friends and often texts me pictures of all the wildlife they are surrounded by. If he’s not off on his mountain bike, he’s hanging out at the skate park on his BMX bike. Colorado fits him pretty well.

But once Sam started to struggle, I realized I was struggling a bit inside as well. From the time I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to be a mommy. And for the past twenty years I’ve lived out my dream. It’s not always easy and some days they nearly drove me crazy, but down deep, I’m happiest when I’m mothering someone.

As we began to discuss the option of me joining the family in Colorado, and selling the house long distance, it opened up new ideas to me. I started to think more about what I could do there, with them, than all the great projects I could be working on here.

I’m sure they are surviving just fine, as three bachelors on their own. But I miss adding the personal touches that only a mom usually does.

A long time ago I heard Dr. Phil’s wife say she told him, early in their marriage, “If you work hard to make a good living, I’ll work hard to make our living good.” That comment struck something in me. I know it sounds very sexist to a lot of modern women these days. But to me, it’s not about feeling like I have to be barefoot and pregnant while the big strong man takes care of me.

I have my interests and my strengths, outside of this family. I love being in the classroom and I love every one of my writing projects. But the times I’m feeling the most balanced in life is when I have some time for my interests, but also plenty of time to nurture the people I love and these four miracles I’m lucky enough to parent. I actually enjoy keeping this household running smoothly. I love the fact that my children come home to a (mostly) peaceful space because mom’s been there, keeping the balls in the air.

I love making their living good.

What I crave, right now, is a chance to add the mom touches to my boys in Colorado. I want to wipe down that bathroom sink every morning, knowing that if I’m not there, it will be cleaned only when it’s got a week’s worth of toothpaste stuck to the edges. I want to throw a festive autumn tablecloth over the kitchen table, to add a spark of color to the all white space they are living in. I want them to walk up the stairwell to our condo unit, breathe in deeply, and wonder where that amazing smell is coming from, only to open our door to find it’s coming from home. From their home.

I want to sit on the back balcony with them at the end of the day and hear the rambling stories, about how they saw this really sick bike at the skate park or how stupid their English teacher is because he expects them to read (read!) a whole book by next week. I want them to find clean, fresh smelling clothes, in their closets. I want to set up the family calendar spot so we never forget the night we were supposed to go sign up to play in the band or what time the ice cream social is next weekend.

I’m sitting here in New York, missing the good stuff.

Ironically, it’s the stuff that can make a mom feel unappreciated. That thought has not escaped me. How many times have I loaded the dishwasher, grumbling to myself that I wouldn’t have to be doing it if the child in charge of that chore hadn’t left the house and forgotten? How many times have I wished that the never ending stories, especially the ones about dreams, would just finally…end? How many times have I thought to myself, “If I could just get a minute of peace and quiet….’?

Now I have the quiet.

But I don’t have the peace.

Because deep in my heart, I’m a mom. And the dog is getting tired of being my only mothering project. I’m needed by my offspring. One is very aware of his need, the other won’t realize he needs me until I’m out there, making his dinner so he doesn’t have to.

My new goal is to get to my family. Get this house wrapped up and get on the road. It’s time for us to start this new chapter of our life. Together.

It’s time to be a family again.

Trusty Rusty Girl

2011-09-13T20:08:00.004-04:00

We had no intention of buying a van. We just weren't 'minivan people'. There was no category of 'crossover' when we welcomed our third child into the family, so we were determined to stick with our trusty Mazda sedan.

It had a wide back seat, after all. And it drove so beautifully. We'd bought it when we were first married and it had many good trip memories associated with it. We had no trouble turning our noses up at the minivan converts and happily strapping three car seats across our one back seat.

Then our third baby got sick. Like weeks in the hospital and they don't know what's wrong sick. And one day, as I rocked him quietly in the corner of his hospital room, his daddy showed up and looked shaken. I thought maybe he'd run into our baby's doctor in the hall, and knew something I didn't about a diagnosis. But it had nothing to do with our son.

It had to do with my husband's drive to the hospital. As he sat at a light, that had just turned green, the van in front of him pulled into the intersection and was immediately T-boned by a red light runner. The damage was extensive. Fortunately no children were in the minivan, but it was a graphic reality check for my husband.

"If there had been a kid in that second seat, he'd probably have been okay," he told me. "But what if I had been the one in that intersection? What if our children had been lined up across our back seat? Whoever's car seat was on that side wouldn't have a chance. They're just too vulnerable."

That night, seeing how shaken my safety conscious husband was, I dropped my reservations and had that discussion with him. Maybe it was time to break down, for the sake of our kids, and take the minivan plunge.

Fortunately, baby was diagnosed and bounced back to health quicker than we could have dreamed would be possible. Four months later, we were on a car lot, pricing vans.

It was the end of the year. Practically the last day of the year. The dealer was ready to unload the last of his old year models. We weren't picky. We just needed something safe and something affordable.

And then we saw Ruby.

Shiny red, the kind of red they put on sports cars. Maybe it was her way of letting us know it was okay to get behind her wheel. She seemed to be promising us a compromise, her sports car color, for our dive into mediocrity.

She had no bells or whistles. She was the last on the lot. No tinted windows. No cruise control. No automatic seats. Not even power windows. She might be the only car our kids have ever seen that has crank windows.

The only perk she had was the second sliding door, which was a brand new idea in 1996. It was something we would have never asked for, but have adored since the day we took her home. It's much easier for hoards of kids to pile out of a minivan, when there are exits on each side.

The first time I drove her I was amazed by how much I could SEE! There were windows everywhere! And I loved how high I sat as we drove down the highway. No more cruising around 'down below'. I could practically see truckers in the eye. She won me over pretty quickly, and that was before I realized just how handy those extra cup holders could be.

And then we were hooked. Our many family trips, especially those that involved crossing many states to see Grammy on the East coast, were so much more comfortable. We never worried about her breaking down. She was our only vehicle for years, as my husband took the bus to work, then the metro, after we moved to Washington D.C.

And now we've owned her for 15 years. She's taken us almost 200K miles. She's been registered in four states. As long as I keep her pampering days down at 'the shop' scheduled, she never lets me down.

Eight years ago we bought her a companion. This time we got a few more upgrades (gotta love those power windows and window tints!) but stuck with the same company, and the same model. We're suckers for reliability, especially when it comes in spite of the hardship of hauling four children around.

Soon I will leave her behind, as I leave NY without her. She's just too elderly to make the trip. I'll find her a nice home before I go. But as much as she's worn out, and doesn't really smell all that great anymore, I have to tell you, it won't be an easy goodbye.

Ruby has seen our family through many stages of life. Her padded ceiling has absorbed our laughter and her cloth seats have been moistened by our tears. She's been privy to serious conversations, the kind that last long after you've parked in the driveway, but aren't quite done yet. She's cradled my children, from car seats to lap belts. Three of them have learned to drive behind her wheel.

And then there's the story that my boys swear is true, about an old Krispy Kreme donut that was placed (NINE years ago) deep in the storage bin behind one of the back seats. They say it was left there,'just to see what would happen to it'. I've never been brave enough to look myself, but I've witnessed several tours, given to my boys' friends, and the "EWWWW....!"s that followed, lead me to believe the story is true.

She's a ragged old beauty. She has a glitch in her electrical system that causes her wipers to come on randomly. You just have to be aware, so it doesn't scare you half to death, on perfectly sunny days. Every so often her interior lights will blink on their own and the 'you left your lights on' bell will ding and ding until she's gotten it out of her system. It's not a problem. Old people can be persnickety sometimes too.

But anyone who's owned an old truck (or a trusty old minivan) will understand. Sometimes love and loyalty comes from years and years of always being there when it mattered. Always taking us to new places, always protecting us on endless highways.

Ruby's seen a whole lot of this country. She is a part of our family, almost as much as our dog. But in just a few weeks I will have to say my goodbye. Just as I've done for a decade and a half, I'll tap her dashboard and tell her what a good girl she is. I'll tell her how much we appreciate her service and how stories will be told for years to come, about adventures that happened because she took us there.

Ruby was the van that wasn't supposed to be. She wasn't flashy or exciting. She wasn't the sports car I think she dreamed of being. But she was just the thing we needed, at just the right time.

Goodbye old girl. We may replace you with something fancier, in our new life in Colorado. But we'll never forget you. You grew up with our family.

You were definitely a part of us.

A Vanload of Birthday

2011-09-13T19:55:00.002-04:00

This picture was taken on my husband's birthday. No, it's not gifts for him. In fact, he didn't even get a card this year.

What he did get was a van full of supplies, the kinds of things you buy for your young adult child when they finally get their first apartment. A mop, a broom, laundry detergent, bath soap, a box of plates, a dozen glasses, four towels, two wash cloths, a large box of Cheerios, and six cans of Ravioli.

Oh, and a lot more than that. You might not be able to tell, but there are three children in that van too.

This was the day we signed the lease for the tiny temporary condo my husband and boys will share until our house in NY sells. They had to get set up in something beyond an extended stay hotel, so the boys could qualify to enter school two days later.

We lucked out and found a great, clean little place right across the street from both of the boys' schools. They don't even have to worry about catching a bus.

But the condo came with nothing but a nice back porch and a half a roll of TP in the bathroom. We had to stock it from scratch. Which is hard to do, mentally, when you know you have ALL of those supplies 'back home', in the house that is not selling.

But we sucked it up and grabbed two carts as we walked into our new Colorado Wal Mart. And a few hours later, the condo was ready for life.

The ironic thing about this picture, to me, is that we dropped our oldest son off at college just 24 hours later and never did this kind of shopping trip for him. He's in a tiny dorm room and really didn't need much beyond a few towels and a good desk lamp.

Something just feels backward in the universe, when the big 'stocking the apartment' trip is not for the 18 year old child. It's for his dad.

On his 45th birthday. Happy Birthday to you, sweetie.

Photographic Moments

2011-09-13T19:31:00.003-04:00

When I see this picture I feel love. That's my dad, the tall guy on the far right. I've always been confident in how much my dad loved me and it allowed me to feel secure enough to go out into the world and find my own way. I understand that not all girls are so lucky.

When I see this picture I feel awe. Deep inside of me there's still a little girl who dreamed of becoming a mommy. More than planning a dream wedding, or finding my prince, my grown up goals revolved around having little people to love and nurture. Some days it's hard to comprehend that these tall boys are the gift I dreamed of all those years ago. Along with their sister, they have been a joy to raise. I'm in awe of their presence in my life, as well as how quickly they passed me in height.

When I see this picture, as much as I don't want it to be true, I feel longing. The person missing in this picture is my mom. She died when my oldest son was barely a toddler. She never knew about my last two babies, and didn't get to see what incredibly nice kids all four of her grand babies turned out to be. Everyone in her hometown would have known their names. She had just started her campaign to show their pictures to every person she knew, when she was swiftly taken away from us.

When I see this picture I miss her spirit. I miss the excitement she beamed every time I walked in the door. I miss the way she joyously called out my name every time I came home from college for a visit. It was like we hadn't seen each other in years. She rejoiced at my mere presence in the room.

And now I miss hers.

If she had lived she wouldn't be standing next to my dad. She'd be perched in the middle of my sons, who would all be taller than her at this point. Her smile would make a camera's flash unnecessary. She knew how to love with all her heart and she would have showered it on my kids.

My step mother is a wonderful woman. She so kindly took this picture. She takes amazing care of my dad. He'll live an extra decade because she looks after him so well. She couldn't be more loving, to me and to my children. But the reality that she understands, is that she's not my mom. She's my dad's wife, a role she handles quite well.

When I see this picture I see three boys I love being with and a dad I don't see nearly enough. I see myself, smiling for the camera, because I was truly happy to be in that spot, at that moment, surrounded by people I love. But back behind my smile there is a bit of heartache.

Because even after 17 years, when I see a picture like this, she's still missing.

Giant Heroes

2011-09-13T19:25:00.002-04:00

One of my favorite lines from the drive out to Colorado came from my 15 year old son, Isaac. In the past year, I swear he's grown a inch a month. He inherited the tall genes from my dad, who is 6'5" (and often wears cowboy boots, making him seem even taller).

Isaac walked into Papa's front door, as we stopped in MO for a visit, and as he turned the corner to the kitchen, I heard him mutter to himself, "Papa used to be a giant...and I just looked him in the eye..."

He knows he's grown taller in recent months, but the reality of standing next to Papa, and holding his own, made him realize just how much his body has changed.

Charged Discussions

2011-09-13T19:19:00.004-04:00

I just got back from Best Buy.

No, I didn’t drive all the way over to the black hole called ‘the mall’ to see the new technology in televisions or research the surround sound system my son is begging for, I schlepped my way across the wide asphalt parking lot to buy (drum roll please…) a cell phone charger.

I’m a bit perturbed by this task because it seems to be stuck in a revolving spot on my to-do list.

Here are the facts - four months ago my family hit the jackpot, when our family plan came up for renewal in the exact 18 hour window of time that the Samsung Vibrant smart phone was being offered for ‘free’, with renewal. We jumped on the deal and, within the week, had five new smart phones in our possession.

We were all tickled to death, since we generally hang out in the phone quality category that hovers just above the burner phone. Need I remind you that with four kids, we use up all our extra lines and buy a plan on top of that? Smart phones just aren’t generally in the budget.

Of course we all fell in love with our new babies and have been happily texting each other like crazy. The point of this story is that with those five phones came five cell phone chargers. Handy little guys that charged in the wall socket, car, or USB port. For a short period of time we were all content and happy in our smart phone bubble.

Then things turned vicious. Someone misplaced their charger. Rumors swirled about who could be the guilty party. Surely someone stole it. There was no way it was merely forgotten, at school or on a weekend trip to Grandma’s house. Everyone became possessive with their remaining chargers. I had compassion and loaned mine out, but with warnings as dire as those I dish out for infractions like drinking and driving or bringing down a basket of dirty laundry on Sunday night.

The words ‘buy cell phone charger’ went on my list. And it never went away. Every time I bought another one, someone else’s would disappear.

I wondered if, somewhere in the attic or behind the sheetrock of our house, there were dozens of mismatched socks throwing parties with the handful of cell phone chargers that seemed to disappear with as much regularity. I decided to label one as my own. That way I could possibly track a thief, if our household indeed was harboring one.

With a big fat sharpie, I wrote “MOM”. When turned upside down, it read WOW, meaning “Wow….there’s actually a charger here for me to use!”

Then came our long drive out to Colorado. Hotels seem to be the worst place for cell phone chargers. I’d guess that all the discount replacement chargers on Amazon are really the stockpile collected by hotel room maids. Either that, or the outlets in hotel rooms suck it up as you’re sleeping, prompting you to walk out the door in the morning, in possession of one less charger.

Either way, we ended up in Colorado with, you guessed it, one less charger. So this mom got put on the plane back to New York without one. No way to charge my phone, no way to get the 179 fabulous trip pictures off of it.

So today I did my weekly trek to Best Buy. And I now own another charger. It already says WOW (I mean MOM) on the side. I’m the only one living in our house right now, as we wait for it to sell. I’m wondering if this will be the true test.

If I can go a full month using the same charger, every day, and still know where it is at the end of September, I might have to call it a miracle.

Upside Down Goodbyes

2011-09-13T19:13:00.004-04:00

I apologize that this post is a bit out of order. It was written weeks ago and never posted.

This is the longest, most drawn out move we’ve ever made. The last time we moved, I didn’t know to appreciate the circumstances, when all six of us piled in the minivan and pulled out of our driveway in Utah, headed to our new life in New York. We crossed the street to say good bye to our best friends. Last hugs and promises to keep in touch, and then we were off.

We traveled across the country together, and spent three months in a Residence Inn together. Every day we had lots of time together, house hunting and generally exploring this Upstate area. That’s not how it worked out this time.

This time the house didn’t sell and it changed everything. We did everything we were supposed to do. We updated the bathrooms, painted every wall a fresh neutral color, and put half our stuff in storage so every room looked bigger. We looked carefully at comparables in our area and decided on a list price we felt good about.

Then we sat. Week after week, we’ve been sitting. An occasional ‘looker’ here and there, but no offers. As time went on and we became more anxious to move along, we started dropping the price.

We now sit at over thirty thousand below our recent appraisal price and still no hopes of a bite. All this sitting has made this move a whole different experience.

As soon as I finish writing this article, I will jump in the minivan with just my three boys and we’ll drive out to Colorado. I’ll drop them off to stay with their dad. They will start school out there, living in a hotel. I will fly back to New York and wait for the right family to come along and fall in love with our great house.

In the three days that I’m out west, we will drive over the mountain and drop my oldest son off for his freshman year of college in Utah. Add that to the fact our daughter is staying back in New York to begin her independent life, and it makes for a very quiet house once we settle in Colorado. It feels very fragmented, upside down and backward, to be moving in shifts. My husband moved out there on July 5th. The boys will be there August 19. Who knows when I’ll get to join them.

I remember reading a short story in a church bulletin when I was a teenager. It was about a family who had five kids and one went away to college. When the mom would complain about missing him, people would always say to her, “You have four other kids. There are plenty of kids to keep you busy!” Her response - “Five minus one does not equal plenty. I miss that one.”

This story made an impression on me because my oldest sister had just left for college and, although I had three other siblings left at home, I missed the essence of her.

And now I get that story from a mom’s perspective. But my math is more drastic. Four minus two equals a practically empty house. No one will sit in the third row of seats in the van anymore. We won’t have to look for booths at restaurants. It might actually be affordable to take the kids out to the movies on a Friday night. But I will never stop feeling like two of us are ‘missing’.

I’m starting to feel like my neighbor. She’s five weeks away from having her baby.

I’m two weeks away from having mine leave the nest.

Her life will drastically change once that baby arrives. Her relationship with her husband and her young daughter will change. There are no guarantees that they will all be good changes.

I know our family dynamic is also changing. Two brothers who used to be under the authority of an older brother will have to find a new way of relating to each other. They might like the new changes, or it might be a bumpy road.

Just like my neighbor will walk into a hospital in a few weeks and walk out a few days later to begin her new life, in two weeks I’ll be moving boxes of my son’s dearest possessions into a dorm room then driving away without him. My new life, as the full time mom to only two boys will officially begin. My older sister warned me that she cried when she went through this last year. Not just cried. She sobbed. “As hard as I did when mom died…” were her exact words. I don’t look forward to that.

But it’s a necessary step in life. I’m thrilled that my son has found a school he is excited about and a degree path he can’t wait to jump into. I’m proud of him for not being a bit scared about moving into a dorm full of strangers, in a new state, and making new friends. All the moves, and being ‘the new kid’ have taught him that there are always friends waiting to meet you, if you just show up. And in two weeks he plans to show up.

His mama will be fine. I’ll have the distraction of getting the house sold and the household belongings moved across the country. By the time we settle in a new house in Colorado it will practically be Thanksgiving, and I’ll get to see him again.

We’ll be settled and established in a new place, a place where he has no memories and no bedroom. But I’ll do my best to still make it feel like home.

Because no matter where he roams, he knows there will always a place at home for him.

Why We Visit Memorials

2011-09-11T13:12:00.003-04:00

Jeff and the boys, looking over the field in PA, six months after the plane crashed on 9/11. The angels in front of them represent the passengers on the plane.

The day my mom died I cried the deepest tears of my life. I was young, she was young, it was all very sudden. None of it made sense to me. While my patient husband cared for our two toddlers, I waded through the months that followed, and finally found a bit of sunshine the next spring.

Then I woke up to see footage on my television, of a bombing in Oklahoma City. Hundreds of people were killed and injured. Pictures of lost little children, dressed in Easter outfits from the week before, flashed across the screen. New grief was stirred up inside of me.

Again, it was all very sudden. Hard to process. Hard to put in perspective.

A handful of years later I watched another horror play out on my television, this one broadcast live. With a toddler in my lap, I struggled to handle my own emotions while trying to explain to my five, eight and nine year old exactly what had just happened to those two tall buildings, while trying not to alarm them. Familiar grief, shock and tears welled up in my soul.

Two months later, as we drove through New England to visit Grammy for Christmas, we detoured down through New York City. I was amazed to see the streets just a block away from Ground Zero looking very…normal. No signs of the grey dust that covered everything, in every picture we saw on the news. Coffee shops were open. People scurried to and fro, on their way to work and school, back to regular life.

You’d hardly know that just a block away there was a great pit, filled with dust, debris, and remnants of lives lost.

Then less than a year after the 9/11 attacks we moved our young family to Washington D.C. On our drive across the country we stopped by that field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania and stood by the temporary monument that had been erected, a simple chain link fence. The children brought tiny flags and small stuffed animals to leave on the fence, a marker that they had come and paid their respects.

It’s a tradition we’d started when they were hardly old enough to understand stories of loss and terrorism. In the years after the Oklahoma City bombing, as the Oklahoma version of Ground Zero went from a pile of burnt rubble, to an empty lot, to an amazing monument, we stopped many times to see the site. We lived in Missouri and often traveled to Dallas to see family. It only seemed right to stop off and check up on the progress being made there.

And it only seemed right to continue reminding our children that what they were seeing was hallowed ground.

For many years I’m sure they didn’t really understand why we went. To them it was a chance to get out of the car and stretch their tired legs. But they heard the stories, over and over, and they saw that it made mommy sad to tell the stories. They got the part that mattered. The part about how there are bad guys in the world. Scary things happen. But in the end, human spirit wins out.

We remember the people who were just doing their jobs, on a normal day of the week, and never knew they wouldn’t be home for dinner.

Our children have seen all three crash sites from 9/11 and have clear memories of seeing the bombing site in Oklahoma City. It’s not that we have a morbid fascination with tragedy. We take our children to these sites so they can feel history. I spent my childhood reading history in books and never really connecting it to the outside world. My husband and I wanted our children to hear about something that happened in our country and say, “I know about that. I saw that monument. I stood by that fountain. I rubbed a name off that long black wall. I gazed over that field with my family. I know about that.”

And every time we go stand by the site that I’ve stopped calling Ground Zero and started calling The Freedom Tower, I tell them the story of that day once again. They fill in the parts they remember, and together we talk about it as a family. They are reminded that terrible, awful, senseless things happen. But life goes on.

More than I ever understood, as we drove away from the cemetery after burying my mother, my children are starting to understand the reality of life.

They see the pattern. Things happen that are sometimes hard to comprehend. They aren’t fair. They will never make sense. But for the survivors, life has to go on. It’s good to build a tactile reminder - a new building, a monument, even a park bench - to help us never forget. But the lesson will always be that life does move on. People rally together, comfort each other.

And then, as hard as it seems, we all move on.

This week we’ll remember the events around September 11, 2001. If you get a chance, stop by the site in lower Manhattan. Stop and gaze at that amazing new building that sparkles in the sun.

But I also encourage you to visit the Oklahoma City National Memorial, if you’re ever in the Midwest. I challenge you not to cry as you walk through the rows of empty chairs, each representing an empty chair at some family’s table.

And I challenge you to not weep when you walk by the 19 tiny chairs, neatly inscribed with the names of the 19 children who never got to grow up.

It’s important that we remember. Not to dredge up the horrible acts that caused our grief. But to never forget the people whose lives were cut short, and the families whose dinner tables will never again be complete.

Don’t forget to tell your children the stories, this week, and for years to come.

It’s their history too.

Take them to the walls. Walk them through the gardens. Let them touch the cold steel monuments. They need to understand how important it is, how incredibly important it is, that we never forget.

And that through all tragedy, life goes on.

Tough Stuff

2011-08-29T10:57:00.003-04:00

I had a friend once tell me that she didn’t read my columns because they were ‘too happy’.

She said it made her feel bad that I never seemed to have problems and her life was full of them. I was able to let her comments roll off my back because I know the truth. We have our fair share of problems. Trust me. How could a family with three teens and one tween not have some frost heaves in the road? I just don’t like to dwell on them. I’d rather focus on the good stuff that comes along the path.

But sometimes life just pushes and pushes and pushes until you want to scream, “Enough already!” I had that feeling recently, as one thing after the other seemed to fall apart in front of my eyes. So this column is dedicated to my friend who thinks I live a charmed life.

Oh, where shall we begin?

Let’s start with the house. We bought the house I’m sitting in because it had great square footage, great potential for improvement, and (some day) great resale value. It came with five acres of gorgeous woods, bordered by a stream. It’s kind of rare to find that in East Greenbush, especially when the house is in the middle of a quiet, lovely neighborhood near all major shopping. We spent all our life savings on supplies and then spent five years throwing our sweat equity into fixing it up. We added antique windows into interior walls, found and refinished original wood floors, and updated all the utilities. We painted every wall, added new trim, and replaced almost every floor in the house, not to mention gutted and built back a brand new kitchen.

So when moving time came, we thought we’d be set. We put our house on the market with confidence. And then we sat. And sat. And I’m still sitting. We dropped the price through June and July and are now almost back to the price we paid for it. And still, no takers.

That’s depressing enough, losing almost every penny of equity we’d put into this place, if it weren’t for the fact my whole family just moved out to Colorado without me. I’m stuck here until this fabulous house (that no one seems to want) sells.

Okay, just for fun, lets stir in another major life stressor. Two weeks before we were to drive across the country so I could drop the boys off in Colorado, my little guy took a big fall on his skateboard. Not only did he end up with a broken wrist, but despite a good helmet, he suffered a concussion that put him in the hospital for three days.

It’s a very scary thing to see your child not know who he is, or where he is. It was torture for his daddy to be way off in Colorado, as his little guy struggled to heal. For days he couldn’t seem to stay awake and we didn’t know when we’d ever get out of that hospital room. Well trained teens saved the day and we all got through it together.

So then it was time to take our big drive. The one where I dropped my oldest son off at college in Utah, then sent my two younger boys off to their first days of school in Colorado, before I flew away from them, back to the empty house in New York. Lots of emotions in every part of that plan. You’d think that would be enough, right?

Guess again.

On our last day in Utah, right before I said goodbye to my first college bound child, we stopped by to see our very best friends in the state. They had lived across the street from us when we lived there and quickly became some of our favorite people in the world.

I had heard that my friend was sick, but I had no idea she’d spent the past six days in ICU and was hooked up to respirators, fighting for her life. Seeing her in that hospital room, surrounded by machines, dredged up all the memories I had of losing my mom, seventeen years ago this week. I just wasn’t emotionally prepared to see someone else I loved in that situation.

It nearly knocked me flat.

Somehow we pulled ourselves away from that hospital room, after giving hugs to her husband and offering helpless encouragement. Twenty minutes later I pulled it together and hugged my son on the steps of his college dorm, trying my best to hold back the floodgates of tears and emotion.

And then, on the long drive back to Colorado, where in 48 hours I would be saying goodbye to my husband and my other two boys, I cried.

All the way through Wyoming I let the quiet tears fall. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t have access to a soundproof closet, because I’m not sure how out of control I might have become. So instead I just let the tears do the cleansing.

There is not room in this space to describe the other nightmare that played out in the past two weeks, when my main back account number was stolen and used to buy electronics in Texas. Freezing of major accounts two days before a cross country trip equals trials and tribulations you just don’t want to hear about.

So yeah, really crappy stuff does happen to us. And sometimes it seems overwhelming.

But if I’ve learned anything in my 43 years on the planet, it’s this.

Take stock of the good stuff. My husband has a great job that he loves. My children are all well (and healing well). There is hope for a great life in Colorado, once we all get there.

So for now I’ll just keep jumping over the bumps in the road that lead us to that destination. And keep remembering that there’s always someone else out there who has it worse off than I do.

Local Support

2011-08-08T14:20:00.002-04:00

Back in May I had my last official day at work. I never dreamed, when we moved to New York five years ago, that I’d ever work at a library. And I never expected to love it so much. But that’s how life goes. The story of your existence moves forward and chapters are added that have twists and turns you could never have imagined.

But on this particular Thursday, I was very aware that my routine was about to change. I stopped off at Stewarts on my way in, like I had so many mornings before. I swung into the parking spot that is so familiar. I’ve parked there hundreds of times in the past five years. When I came around the corner, the front door was held open for me by a friendly construction worker, as it often is when I’m stopping by for our almost daily gallon of milk.

I looked around this place that has become so much a part of my everyday life. My neighbor works behind the counter and never fails to ask me how Sam is doing. The other clerks are just as friendly. They always seem to have smiles to spare and I’ve seen them more than once go out of their way to help a an elderly customer. On chaotic free ice cream days, when they have a pretty valid excuse to be crabby, they always seem to be as excited as the kids who are asking for cones.

On that Thursday in May it occurred to me that I’m not only leaving behind friends and family, when we move to Colorado next month. I’m also leaving behind my neighborhood, the things that bring me a quality of life I’ve come to appreciate. As a person who’s moved many times in the past decade, I know firsthand how precious these basics in life are. It takes a while to build up a pattern and rhythm, when you move to a new place.

I left that Stewarts, the one I consider my own personal convenience store, and headed off to work that day. And as I went to open the front doors of the library I saw a familiar face. The same construction worker who’d held the door for me was now taking a minute to drop off his overdue book. This time I held the door for him.

I will never take for granted the web of comfort we’ve woven here in New York. It takes some time to find a good doctor and dentist, but it also takes time to find a good hair dresser and a good mechanic. I don’t think we’ll ever find a doctor we love as much as Dr. Karen (and her nurses) and Dr. Dong has done a great job of keeping my family’s teeth cavity free, in her efficient, friendly way.

I will miss my hairdresser, Lisa, who is one of the few people I’ve ever known who actually cut my hair the way I wanted, not the way she thought it should be. She is a great conversationalist and an even better hair dresser. I will be searching high and low in Colorado, to find someone who can match her standard.

And as I tell my daughter, the most valuable man you can marry is an electrician, a plumber or a mechanic. I lucked into finding my ‘car guy’, Norm. I always knew he’d never charge me for work that didn’t need to be done, and I’ve been suspicious that he’s undercharged me for work that was valid. I’m leaving him in charge of watching over my daughter’s car, as she stays behind to live here in New York. I always tell her, “If Norm says something’s wrong with it, something’s wrong with it!” It gives me peace of mind to know Norm will be looking out for her.

I discovered the magic of a transfer station in our years in New York. The guys who work there are my first go to guys when I need advice about who to call for products and services. They know who does the best work in every category imaginable and their friendly banter made going to drop off trash one of the fun things on my to do list.

I’ll also forever be grateful for George, my trusty oil guy. This state was my first experience with home heating oil and George not only answered all my questions with patience, I always knew he’d give me the best price he could on the oil he delivered.

As much as I think I’m unique and different, I have to admit the old saying is true - we are all just creatures of habit. We tend to shop at the same stores every week, and buy our gas at the same pumps when the gauge says empty. I’ve filled up more milk club cards than you’d ever believe and racked up gas points for being a ‘chopper shopper’. I will not miss the never ending commercials for Huck Finns Warehouse or the round man in the untucked shirts yelling “HUUGE!” through my television. But it’s all become a part of my life.

My daily routine will be different in Colorado. Just by the nature of living in a mountain town, the everyday habits I create will be unique to that climate. We’ll explore different areas on the weekends, but I’ll also have to get used to which gas stations have the best prices on gas and milk.

I’ve come to love the routine I’ve found in New York. It’s consistency gave me comfort. But it’s time to make a new routine and carve out a new life. Eventually I’ll find another ‘Lisa’ and another ‘Norm’. But I’ll never forget the ones I left behind.

I’ll always appreciate the cast of characters that made my five years in New York unique and special, just in the routine ways they did their jobs so well.

Protection

2011-08-01T13:05:00.004-04:00

I knew Sunday would be a crazy day, but I had naively assumed the craziness would be related to the fact we had a house showing at 11 in the morning, and the only people home (to clean up the house) were me and my youngest son, Sam. We got up early, then scurried around picking up trash and dishes, wiping down counters, putting away laundry. We’re living pretty streamlined these days. Half of our stuff is in storage. But the daily living stuff can really add up.

Especially when your only helper is a ten year old boy.

We flew out the door just as the potential buyers were pulling into the driveway. During our wait, we drove over to pick up his teenage brother, who had been camping with a friend. We waited patiently for the hour to be up, then drove back home and stepped back into life. I pushed the two of them out the door, saying, “Go play outside. You need the fresh air!”

Ten minutes later they were back. I heard Sam sniffling as he came in the back door and one look at him revealed why. He was covered in road rash from a skateboarding crash. But even more concerning was the red smear on his forehead that seemed to be swelling by the second.

As I put a cold cloth on it to clean it off, the words that freeze a mama’s heart came out of his mouth. “What happened? Where am I? How did I get here?”

Now we’ve gone through a lot of medical stuff with our kids. Mainly the boys, but even their big sister broke her arm sledding in Utah, bad enough that she had surgery and 8 weeks of casts. We’ve had many broken bones, dozens of stitches, plenty of blood. We’re no strangers to boo boos. But this was my first real head injury.

And it took all the courage I had not to fall apart right next to my boy.

I have a good friend who survived a traumatic brain injury. They’re not something to take lightly. Suddenly the red angry scrapes all over his body, and the very sore arm that may or may not be broken, didn’t seem to matter. I needed to get my son to medical treatment as soon as possible.

With a few deep breaths I went into action. I called the local urgent care center, just down the street, to find out if they were open on Sundays. I set up my teenager by the phone, in case his dad called from Colorado and wanted an update. I gathered up my boy and we headed for the car.

On the drive over to the clinic he kept asking me the same three questions over and over. It reminded me of the Alzheimer’s patients I used to work with. I would answer the question and ten seconds later he’d ask it again, not remembering my previous answer. It’s very unsettling to have your usually bright, happy go lucky boy be so confused.

Several times he’d ask me if he’d just woken up. He had no memory of going out to skateboard with his brother. He had no memory of the accident. He didn’t even remember getting into the car. I tried to force myself not to burst into tears right along with him.

A kind nurse ushered us into the exam room and a doctor quickly followed. He did a variety of tests to check Sam’s mental capacity. I explained the confusion I’d been witnessing. There was no question, as the doctor put it, that my boy had ‘gotten his bell rung pretty hard’. With a diagnosis of concussion, we were sent to the ER for a CAT scan.

Again, on the drive over, the questions started. “How did I get here?” “Did I just wake up?” “What happened?” Deep breaths. Deep breaths and patient answers.
Once we did our obligatory time in the waiting room, where Sam continued to whisper questions to me, and occasionally sob out of pure weariness and frustration, we were sent back to an exam room.

Another doctor did the tests, physical and mental. We walked down a short hallway to the CAT scan, and then an X-ray on a suspiciously sore elbow. More waiting. Then another X-ray on his wrist, that had suddenly stopped working too. After four hours we were finally headed home.

Home.

Just the fact we were headed home gave me great joy. My boy was going to be okay. A specialist will set his broken wrist this week and I will do my best to keep him ‘calm and quiet’, as the doctors ordered, so his brain can heal from the concussion. We escaped the big stuff. This time.

Laying in bed with him last night, after we’d finally uncovered all his oozing road rash wounds and put antibiotic cream on them, and set his temporarily casted arm up on a pillow, I finally breathed my sigh of relief. He was joking with his siblings. He had his sense of humor back. He was even working on his accident story, feeling like ‘a skateboard accident’ didn’t sound nearly as fun as ‘a bar fight’.

And I was reminded again about the importance of helmets. Sam is never allowed to do any sport without his helmet. Skateboarding, biking, skiing…no sports without head protection. In this case, it might have saved his life. I will go out to buy him a new helmet this week. His old one is pretty chipped up. But I don’t mind. It’s a pretty small price to pay for my boy’s future mental health.

As the seasons change, and skateboarding boys begin to mountain bike on Colorado trails, then ski on Colorado slopes, I will continue to insist my boys put on their head hear. It’s a non negotiable in this house.

As it should be in every household.

Trust me, your child’s brain is worth it.

Follow up: Two hours after I wrote this column, I was once again back in the ER with my boy. After having a very 'normal' morning, he suddenly started shivering, got very lethargic, and couldn't seem to stay awake. We spent the next three days in the hospital, trying to figure out why his temperature kept spiking, and he couldn't manage to eat anything. They were suspicious that he had internal injuries that we just couldn't find.

It was decided that he had picked up a virus from somewhere, and it hit just 24 hours after his wreck. So the symptoms from both were mixing together, causing a mystery that included many CT scans, ultrasounds and blood tests to figure out.
The doctors were pleased as he began to show signs of recovery, and even more pleased that he had been wearing his helmet. Once he's up to it, we're headed to the store to purchase a new one.

In the meantime, he has a new, bright green cast, and will get it changed in ten days, the day before we drive off to Colorado. Then I have to dig up an orthopedic guy out there to continue his healing process.

Seeing Me

2011-07-25T12:09:00.003-04:00

I have a long history with wearing glasses. When I was a fourth grader I went to the eye doctor for the first time. I didn’t realize exactly how blind I’d become until that unforgettable day when the optician balanced that first pair of glasses on my face and said, “look out the window and tell me if that’s better…”

Wow. The trees had individual leaves? I’d not even realized that trees off in the distance weren’t just a smudge of greens. With these magical new glasses I could see each individual leaf. It was a moment I’ll never forget. The eye doctor, a family friend, had told my parents I might not be committed to wearing them, since my prescription wasn’t that strong, and most elementary aged kids strategically left them at home. But I was intoxicated with the brand new crisp clean lines of the world and I gladly wore them every day.

Then middle school hit. My older, very popular sisters kept chanting an ominous rhyme in my direction, ‘guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.’ I struggled enough, being the little kid sister to two Farrah Fawcett look alikes. Having glasses sure didn’t help my cause. Eventually I broke down and got past my squeamish side, gathering up the courage to poke two plastic discs directly into my eyes. Although switching to contacts didn’t magically improve my standings with the cute males on my radar, I eventually found a few nice guys who were willing to date me and not pine over my sisters. One of those nice guys became my lifetime best friend.

Then along came babies. With the upside down schedule of caring for two babies, born 12 months apart, I soon reverted back to wearing glasses full time. Not just any glasses. The huge round spectacles that I try to convince my children were popular in the early 90s.

Then it just became a habit. Glasses are easy, most of the time. There is no solution to buy, no mirror needed at night before you go to bed. If I have to get up in the night, I can pop them on in a second. As styles became more fun I almost looked forward to needing a new prescription, so I could try out some new frames. For almost 20 years I didn’t even consider wearing contacts.

But in recent years I’d started considering trying them again. Why not have a back up pair of contacts, that I could wear on certain occasions? It would be nice to have contacts when I wear goggles on the ski slopes. It would be nice to have contacts when we’re at the beach, or hiking, and I’m wiping sweat off my face on a regular basis. When it was time for my latest check up, I decided to dive in, and get the exam for contacts.

I was surprised at how easily I was able to put them in. Just like riding a bike, I guess. I wore home the trial pair and waited to see if my family would notice. Once I got home I looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like me. Well, I looked like me, just an older, more tired version of me. I never realized how much I hid behind my glasses. Suddenly I noticed wrinkles I’d never seen before. And my eyes seemed to disappear on my face. Time to pull out the eye liner and mascara. I’m a pretty low key person and, hiding behind glasses, rarely used eye makeup. It was time to bring out the expired cosmetics.

The kids noticed, but didn’t seem to mind the difference. As long as dinner was on the table, they were fine with how mom looked. My husband noticed right away too. I think it might be the longest he’s gazed at me since we were dating. “Hmm….mama got out the eye make up!” The boys just groaned. All through dinner I kept catching him giving me long glances. He was trying to figure out if he liked this new, glasses free look.

I wore them for almost a week. Every day I diligently put them in, then applied the makeup that had been neglected for so many years. And even after a week, I still barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror. I just didn’t seem like myself without glasses. It wasn’t just the hassle of having to accentuate tiny eyes that seem to disappear without a touch of eye liner, there was something missing about me. I began to realize that some of my personality might be tied to my glasses.

Finally I gave up. I threw in the towel and accepted the fact that I’m just a glasses person. I like the way I look in glasses. I like being able to pick a style by the frames I choose. I like not having to bother with little round containers and contact solution, especially when we’re traveling or camping. For some moral back up, I took my oldest teen son to the frames store with me. He helped me pick out the frames I’m wearing today. They are a bit more bold than I would have picked for myself, but I have really grown to love them.

I’m old enough now that I don’t make decisions based on whether it will get me dates or win me favor with others. I get to pick for myself. And I’ve come to peace with the fact that I’m a glasses person. And now, once again, I recognize myself when I look in the mirror.

Moving Changes

2011-07-18T14:08:00.002-04:00

The changes keep coming. Three days ago my first born moved out of our house for the first time and happily landed in her own apartment. It’s a bit ironic that she’s not the only one packing boxes. We continue to stash things away, getting ready for our own move across the country in a few weeks. It’s our season of change.

My sister texted me the day after my girl moved out. She asked me one simple question. “Was yesterday hard for you?” By then I had survived the first night of her being on her own, in her own grown up living space. It wasn’t an usual feeling, since she often sleeps over at a friend’s house. But just picturing her in the bed I bought for her, across town, in what is now considered her bedroom, just felt odd. Not necessarily sad (yet). Just odd.

I almost laughed out loud as I read my sister’s inquiring text. At the moment I received it I was flanked by situations. On one side I had Sam, telling me in great detail his latest dream, and wanting me to pay attention to every single detail, including hand motions.

On the other side sat our old family dog, sweet as the day is long ,but falling apart quicker than I am, as she passes middle age. She’d been having some troubling doggie symptoms and I knew a call to the vet was imminent. I could only hope it wouldn’t cost more than the balance of my checking account.

I knew that after Sam finished his story, and after the vet was called, there was a list of six other things I needed to get done, including calling Colorado to check in with my significant other, who has been out there for two weeks now. The gravity of this life milestone my daughter had experienced was quickly lost in the craziness of our own life details.

I was more than happy to see my daughter again, as she showed up later that day to pick up some more items from her bedroom. She so lovingly took the time to compliment her littlest brother on how well his personal effects looked in her old room. She hadn’t been gone three hours before he had claimed that big, vacant bedroom as his own. At least for the three weeks he has left in New York.

It was fun to dig through my kitchen cabinets and give her all of the duplicates I’ve collected through the years. Every pasta strainer and mixing bowl that I could give her was one less thing she’d have to buy for herself. This is when it pays off that both of us are moving at the same time. She was thrilled to get my leftovers and I was happy to clean out my stash before the moving truck arrives.

Then she moved on to the kitchen cabinets. As she pulled out her plastic bag and ‘shopped’ from my shelves, picking out spaghetti sauces and rice mixes, it brought back such familiar memories of doing the same thing in my mom’s cabinet, when I would go home to visit her during my college years. It was one of those surreal moments when you ask yourself, “When did I become the mom in this picture?”

And for a brief moment it made me miss my mom terribly, and being able to call and tell her about this moment. One of a million special moments I lost when she died 17 years ago.

My daughter loaded up her car, with boxes of kitchen supplies, bags of clothes, and piles of food, and she drove off. I didn’t let myself dwell on the fact that she was now forever on her own, out of my nest. It’s a day I’ve dreaded since she was a toddler and I realized just how much I enjoyed having her around. Through the years we’ve been the solo girls in the house. When the boys got loud and crazy and stinky, we could just look at each other and know we were not alone in this house full of testosterone.

And now it’s down to just me. Me and this pack of boys. Not that I love them any less. It’s just a different household, when four males sit around the kitchen table. Just as I seem to be guarding my emotions and don’t yet fully feel the loss that happened in my life this week, I cannot even comprehend how the sadness will be compounded when, in just five weeks, we drop off our second child to start his first year of college in a different state.

I’m losing two in two months.

I have no doubt that the tears will fall, when I finally drive away from New York for the last time, knowing my daughter is not tucked in her place in the back of our family van. In fact, I suspect there will be more than tears, there may even be sobs. Everyone in our family is going through huge transitions. Most of them are good.

But that doesn’t mean parts of the process don’t tear out a mother’s heart.

Young adults are supposed to move out and support themselves once high school is over. Young adults very commonly haul their belongings into unknown dormitories and begin their new independent college lives apart from their parents. Lots of dads get new jobs and move their families to new states.

It’s just our family who find it necessary to do it all at the same time.

Favorite Places

2011-07-11T14:35:00.002-04:00

A few weeks ago I woke up on a Saturday morning and realized we had nothing planned for the day. There was no reason to rush out of bed. A cool breeze was coming through the window. It felt wonderful to pull the covers up and tuck myself deeper into my bedroom nest. Soon I was joined by my youngest, who still loves to snuggle while we watch TV together. As he easily settled in next to me, and I rested my chin on his tousled hair, all seemed right with the world.

The stress of selling this house, and finding new lodging out in Colorado totally disappeared. Our life no longer revolved around homework and school obligations, it was finally low key summer time. And tucked into that soft cocoon with my boy, watching Spongebob’s antics, I found myself wishing that time would stand still. As I pondered that idea, I realized that snuggling in my fluffy king sized bed is one of my favorite places to be.

You’d probably get a wide variety of answers, if you asked a hundred people on the street, “Where is your favorite place to be?” Some might say a beach on a tropical island. Some might say a dark movie theater, watching a blockbuster movie. Many of my library friends might say being curled up on a couch with a good book is the best place to be.

I enjoy all of those places but if I had to be honest, and name my truly favorite places, they’d almost always involve the people I love. Maybe it’s because we have rarely lived near our extended families, that being in their presence seems so important. The fact that hubby and I both come from large families also means that when we can manage to pull everyone together, it’s a rare day indeed. So here are a few of my favorite places to be. I’ve been lucky enough to experience each of these places in the past few years.

I’d have to start the list with my own children. As crazy as it sounds, some of our best memories have been made when we’re all trapped in the van together. So on the top of my list of favorite places, is the passenger seat of our Caravan. When hubby’s at the wheel, navigating us down new roads, as we find new adventures, and the back seats are filled with all four of my children, life is very, very good. Oh, my kids bicker sometimes. They’re normal siblings with normal frustrations and issues, but many times, when we’ve left the distractions of friends and TV behind, we can get into a really good groove. They let their guards down and start creating inside jokes with each other. They start, just for those frozen moments of time, to act like they’re friends. I could live in that place forever.

Next on my list of favorite places is sitting in a lawn chair around a fire pit. Some of my best life memories have been made in this place. We built the relationship that turned into our best friends in Utah, around the fire pit outside their back door. Just last weekend I sat across from some of my favorite relatives, at a campsite in NH, and we laughed and talked while campfire smoke seeped into our clothes. Once darkness falls, and faces are lit up by the flickering fire light, people open up and become their truest selves. A guitar in the background is just icing on the cake, and I’m never really ready to leave that chair and head back to our tents.

A related location, when it comes to our east coast life, is my mother-in-law’s backyard. Every time I visit her house in New Hampshire, whether I’m sitting at a picnic table or throwing a few hands of horseshoes, I’m in a happy place. The kids run free and mix with cousins who are like best friends. I get to catch up with brothers and sisters in law. We all get pampered by Grammy, who knows every person’s drink of choice. Time does seem to stand still when we enter that grassy field, bordered by shady trees. Kids and grownups alike play endless games of ladder ball and bocce ball, then we all gather together for one big game of wiffle ball.

I’ve only had scattered visits from my family, who are all spread out across the country. Almost two years ago we all gathered in Missouri, for a sibling reunion, and every minute I shared with them in that hotel conference room we used as our gathering spot was treasured time. I got to play cards with nephews and nieces I hadn’t seen in years. I got to laugh with my siblings, as we so easily went back to childhood memories, each of us remembering them a bit differently. I hope to find more times like those once we’re back in that area of the country.

I’m constantly telling my middle son how much he reminds me of my brother and I look forward to the day that he knows what I mean.

So if I ever win the lottery or hit the jackpot on game show, and the prize is a trip to my favorite place on earth, I may shock a few people with my choice. I’d have to pass on the week in Tahiti and the tour of Paris. I’m sure those are lovely places, and I wouldn’t mind seeing them some day. But when it comes to truly priceless places, where I feel the most comfortable, I don’t have to look very far.

Every time I sink into a lawn chair, around a campfire with friends or in a yard full of kids I’m related to, I find myself saying, “Yes….now this is heaven!”

Campfire Love

2011-07-04T13:57:00.002-04:00

Step by step this process of relocating to the other side of the country moves forward. We mark the milestones one by one and try to savor each one. It’s been a month of ‘lasts’, with more to come. My youngest son finished his last days of fourth grade, in a building that has been his academic world since kindergarten. My middle son finished his first year of high school in a building where both of his older siblings received diplomas. Our oldest son walked across a graduation stage in a cap and gown that are already packed in a moving box.

I said ‘see ya laters’ to co-workers who feel more like friends. My poor husband has said endless goodbyes, as he’s built a large network of professional acquaintances during our time in New York. And then today, one more huge step, flinging us into this new life that’s on the horizon. Very early this morning, before the sun even broke the horizon, I drove this man I love to the airport and said my tearful goodbyes. He is flying off to start his first chapters of our life in Colorado, as he starts his new job this week.

It surprised me how big that one goodbye felt. I struggled to maintain my composure as I gave him a last hug. We tried to make small talk, to crowd out the suffocating reality of what was about to transpire. Then he turned and made his way through the security lines, slipping off his shoes, emptying out his pockets, and raising his arms on cue.

At that moment I couldn’t help but think about how attached I’ve become to that man. I met him in a college dorm, in the early spring of 1987, having no idea he would become my life cheerleader. We had mutual friends and slowly found ourselves spending more time without them. Long lunches in the cafeteria became my favorite part of the day, as we discussed everything from religious beliefs to childhood experiences. It wasn’t romantic dinners at fancy restaurants that won me over. It was a patient listening ear, while eating turkey and cheese sandwiches off a plastic cafeteria tray.

After a few years of sharing friends, dreams, and travel adventures, he showed up in my dorm room one Sunday night, wearing a red pull over jacket that smelled of campfire smoke. One of the things that attracted me to him was his love of the outdoors, and that woodsy smell did more for me than any cologne ever could. A few hours later he proposed, and I was wise enough to say yes.

We had spent that weekend apart. I had to go home to help out my ill mother, and he had been on a camping retreat with our friends. As I lay next to my mother, who was recuperating from back surgery, I surprised even myself, as tears rolled down my face when I told her how much I missed not being with him, even for that one night. I think I knew at that moment that I needed this man for the long haul.

The ‘yes’ had come easily, when the ring was presented, 24 hours later.

There was a wedding, and more schooling, and then came children and jobs. A decade passed by, then another. A change in jobs led us to several cross country moves and more years rolled by. Life was not always easy, but we found our way together. We both lost a parent early on, and we almost lost a child. We’ve survived a decade (so far) of raising teens and what seemed like endless years of changing diapers. But we’ve done our best to cling to the friendship that started it all. We both adore our children, but we both understand that they are separate from us. The ‘us’ will always stand on its own and have its own place.

The ‘us’ is what keeps us sane.

So now we come to this place, where circumstances dictate a separation. In every other move we’ve made, we’ve all gone together. But his time is different. This time the house has not sold, and plans had to change. As we sit and wait for the special family, who will love this house as much as we have, to show up, the calendar page flips to July, and the new job calls. And I find myself at an airport, saying goodbye to this man I love. We will be apart for at least six weeks. We’ve never been apart for more than one week, and now the calendar will flip pages once more, before I see him again.

In all of the planning and scheduling, I knew, in my head, that this separation was coming. But it was all on paper. This past weekend I found myself in a lawn chair in New Hampshire, telling my sister-in-law our plans, and she turned to me and said, “You’re going to be apart for SIX weeks?” The tone of her question left a lump in my throat. Six weeks. Yeah, six weeks.

The reality of those words sunk in.

He left the family party a day early, to come home and pack. I stayed back to camp one more night with the kids. I missed him even that night, knowing our real goodbyes were coming in mere hours. The next morning we drove home, and I purposefully didn’t take off his red pull over jacket, that I’d borrowed for our camping trip.

It smelled of campfire smoke.

And this time I wanted to be the one who showed up, smelling of the outdoors, and proposing my love for a lifetime.

Beginnings and Endings

2011-06-27T11:40:00.002-04:00

Today I watched my son graduate from high school. I was in this exact same spot one year ago, when our first born made her way across the stage. And yet, just as they have been so very different in their eighteen years of growing up together, their high school finalities were also very different.

We thought we’d have an advantage this year. Last year we read all the handouts and mapquested all the locations, figuring out the graduation ceremony for the first time. It’s somewhat like throwing a sweet sixteen party, or being in charge of a bridal shower. There is much to know, that the first timers have to learn, either by reading, researching the internet, or being guided by those who have gone before. Then, once you’ve survived all the steps the first time, you feel confident, much less like a rookie. You go into the next experience feeling like you somewhat know the way.

But, just our luck, the system changed this year. It was a new venue, a new set of details to figure out. We felt like the newbies all over again. And even this year’s successful navigation won’t add to our expertise, as we are preparing to move two thousand miles away. Our last two sons will most likely graduate from high schools in Colorado.

Three years from now, we’ll start all over again.

But as much as the set up was different - the parking, the seating, the place we met up after the ceremony, the system for tracking down his actual diploma - the feelings were very much the same. The swell of emotion every time that crowd of gown-draped kids cheered, radiating the excitement of their accomplishment. The struggle to maintain my attention span, as speaker after speaker shared thoughts on the day. The pride I could hardly contain when my boy’s name, the same name his grandfather carried, ricocheted across the auditorium.

It’s all part of the graduation package.

There are times that I wonder if we’ve cheated our children somehow, by moving to different states, several times in their childhood. Many of my son’s friends have known each other from elementary school. Some even shared classrooms and playgrounds in their preschool years. My son will never know that feeling.

But just when I start to beat myself up about my son’s transient life, I hear familiar names. Kids he’s run track with for all of his high school years. Kids he’s hung out with at countless movie nights and sleepovers. Kids who’ve walked through my house, smiled their huge smiles, and answered me so politely when I’ve quizzed them about the details of their evening plans. My son has connections here.

One of the benefits of all the moves he’s made in his lifetime is adaptability. He knows how to walk into a new school, a new classroom, and soon a new college, and hold his head high. He knows that a friend is always somewhere on the other end, and that if you put yourself out there, relationships will follow. He will carry many New York friends with him, in spirit, as he ventures across the country to start his college career in a West coast school. He’s already figured out who else is going West, and planned ways that they can all find each other in the months to come.

Facebook and texting are a gift of the times. He will never have to ‘dig up’ old high school friends on Facebook. They’re already there, and will continue to be a part of his life, even two thousand miles away. As he plows his way through yet another new school, and more new classrooms, he’ll build his friend base. He’ll collect more like minded people into his orbit, and find his way into new adventures with them. They won’t replace his old friends in New York, they’ll only add depth to his already rich life.

We have a lot of transition in our life right now. We’re still knee deep in selling a house we’ve grown to love. We’ve lived in this house longer than any other since we began our cross country moves ten years ago. There are marks on the wall that show the inches (and feet!) our children have grown, since we first set up our beds in this structure. We’re very ready to make our move to a new state, but I never underestimate how hard it will be to walk away from this house.

Today I still have four children living under my roof. In two weeks my oldest will move out, into an apartment with a friend. A month after that, we drop off our newly graduated boy at his college dorm. And suddenly we will be a family of four. The last time we were a family of four was fifteen years ago. It will be a mind boggling adjustment.

But as I saw once again today, life is about beginnings and endings. This boy, who landed in New York five years ago as a tiny, timid eighth grader, marched confidently across a graduation stage today.

Life moves on. We move on. And as Helen Keller once said, “Life is nothing, if not a daring adventure.” The gown has now been tucked in the closet, the tassel packed in a box.

My boy is quickly wrapping up his experiences in New York and mentally moving on. I guess I should follow his lead.

I guess it’s time for the next adventure to begin.

Life Rewards

2011-06-20T11:33:00.005-04:00

At the end of a busy day, we made our way through the crowded hallways and found seats in the high school auditorium. We’d received a letter in the mail, informing us that our son was to receive an award of some kind and we were invited to attend the senior awards ceremony. We had no idea which award it might be, but as we waited for the festivities to begin we made a game of narrowing down the choices.

To begin with, we crossed out all the drama/theater awards. Our boy was not involved in any variety of the performing arts, beyond attending occasional movies with his friends on a Friday night. Then we moved onto music awards. No to the drum and fife award. No to the jazz band award. No to the orchestra honors. Our boy loved playing the trumpet in fifth grade, but had not pursued it on the high school level.

Now we were down to academics and sports. We both knew which category we should be alert for. Our son studies hard, and he’s very diligent about disappearing up to his room every school night, to plug away at assignments and projects. He has good grades. But we all know that good grades don’t win awards. Wonderful, perfect, top of the line grades do. So we were down to the one category. Sports.

My son has always loved to run. As a six year old, he and his father used to take a one mile run together every morning. He looked forward to it every day. He was born into a track and field heritage. A handful of his uncles set records in high school, and one even attended UVM on a track scholarship. It didn’t surprise me that one of my boys took to running not long after he’d learned to walk.

He was thrilled to have the chance to join the high school track team, the first year we lived in New York. He was just an eighth grader, but the older guys and coaches accepted him with open arms and boosted his confidence with endless encouragement. Five years later, he’s the one who takes the little kids, full of spirit but not so much muscle, under his wing, and encourages them to do their best, in every race. It did not surprise us that the award he received had nothing to do with theater, or music, or proficiency in a specific subject, but rather was a testament to his first love - running.

He walked away from that night with a plaque honoring him for having the most varsity letters. Five seasons of track, three seasons a year, slowly adds up.

But as I sat through the ceremony, clapping for many other deserving award recipients, I had conflicting thoughts and emotions. A lot of the awards were handed out for truly amazing accomplishments. As the lists were read, outlining the reasons a specific student received a specific award, it almost didn’t seem real. Was it even possible that one student could be in so many clubs, volunteer at so many charities, participate in so many school activities, and still get perfect grades? I had to fight the twinge of inadequacy that snuck in. And to be honest, the feeling of a shortfall had nothing to do with my son.

I was taken back to my own high school years. I attended a very large high school in Missouri and served as a student council officer for several years. But I was far from the star students who got the top awards. I plugged away and got good (not great) grades. I spent my after school hours working at a retail store, to save money for college. There was no time for volunteering, or clubs, or theater productions. But I’m okay with that.

I found myself, and my purpose, in those after high school years.

I think a lot of people do. I know many people who did marginally in high school and then found really great lives in their adulthood. I have the greatest respect for those kids who walked across the stage last week to receive their much deserved honors. But I couldn’t help but think there should be other types of awards too.

Awards for kids who helped their families through a life crisis.

Awards for kids who worked several jobs so they could eventually attend some kind of college.

And kids who have been solid, trustworthy members of their families - taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, and doing what’s expected of them (most of the time) without complaining.

Here’s the one my son would have been a shoe in for:

“The All Around Good Kid Award:

This award will be given to a student who has proven himself in character and trustworthiness. He has been an upstanding brother to his younger siblings and an important part of a strong family unit. He has adapted exceedingly well to three cross country moves. He has been compassionate to a brother in need, giving much needed hugs in the form of living room wrestling matches. He’s graciously handed down countless cool clothes and toys, including millions of Lego pieces and remote control vehicles. He can always be counted on to be polite to adult friends and relatives and his smile and companionship keep his mother inspired. His tender heart (which he doesn’t like to talk about) and sturdy nature (including many survivalist skills)will take him far in life.”

I know that no such award exists. At least in the real world. But I also know that my son will leave high school as a solid citizen of the world. He’ll make a difference to the people around him and find his own path to a good life. That means more to me than any award he could ever receive.

What's in a Name

2011-06-13T13:35:00.001-04:00

I’ve always liked my name. The older I got, the more I realized that it really fit me. Until the day I walked down that long aisle, I introduced myself as ‘Judy Johnson’. It was very sing-song and alliterate. It was easy to remember. It was unique, and yet not strange. It was just what I desired to be, as a person. The day we said our vows, I lost my sing song ending, but hung onto it as a middle name, because I never wanted to forget the person I was before two became one.

Having named four babies in my lifetime, I can appreciate how tricky the task can be. We’ve all met people who don’t seem to fit their name. A Bob who looks more like a Steve. And we’ve met people who seem to perfectly fit the name their parents so wisely bestowed upon them. My son Isaac, has a name that means ‘laughter’, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that his quick wit makes me laugh every single day.

But in the last few years I’ve started to notice that no one uses my name anymore, when they’re picking out just the right title for their newborn daughter. It never shows up on popular baby name lists. In fact, it hasn’t for decades. I think working at the library increased my curiosity. I started to notice the names of the little patrons who showed up for story time every week. There were many Sarahs, and Owens, and Emmas, but not a single Judy.

The more the idea turned over in my brain, the more I started to do some research. Every famous Judy I could find was over the age of 50. I started to think I might be the youngest Judy on the planet, as I currently hang out in the mid 40s. I found a name database online, designed by a parenting website. It’s a pretty nifty thing to play with. You punch in any name and it will tell you how popular it was, in any given year, from the turn of the century until today.

It was no surprise, I guess, that Judy hit its peak in the fifties. In the mid sixties, when I showed up, it was beginning to tank in popularity. Which explains why every character named Judy in a movie or on a TV show is nearing retirement age. It’s not a name given to the perky, beautiful teen character.

Which is why I got a bit excited when a new kid’s movie hit theaters recently. I’d been aware of the children’s book series named “Judy Moody”, and was very pleased that my name finally claimed a young character. But it was doubly thrilling when Hollywood grabbed onto it and put it on the big screen - ‘Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer’. My name, in the big lights!

Then a popular singer, someone who’s on the radio all the time (and my teens even have on their ipods!) gave birth to a baby girl last week. I almost missed the news of the baby’s name, since celebrity babies are not really on my daily radar. But flipping through a magazine I stumbled upon it. This music artist named her daughter Jude. Now I know…my kids have already told me, it’s not the same. But I’m going to claim this one. You can’t tell me that at no time in this child’s life, will someone slip, and in a moment of sweetness, call her Jude-ey. Which comes out of the mouth in the same way my name does. The name that hasn’t been popular since the fifties.

It’s coming back. I just know it. My sisters and I were all given names (Mary, Nancy, and Judy) that were popular at our births, but never seemed to be popular again. I’ve been pretty happy with mine. I’ve got a broad imagination. I can imagine that ‘Hey Jude’ was about a Judy, not John Lennon’s son, Julian. And I can ignore the fact that the other famous song to include my name, ‘It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want to’, was released the year before I was born. I think it’s still a great name, worthy of a little more use.

So I’m starting to lobby friends and relatives who are of child bearing age. Are you looking for a great name, that’s widely recognized, but not yet trendy? Are you brave enough to start the trend to bring Judy back? There’s been a recent surge of old names that have become new again.

All of those Emmas and Margarets need some playmates with classic names too. It’s time to call their friend Judy for a play date.

Hair Cut

2011-06-06T13:32:00.002-04:00

Today I cut their hair. It’s one of those family rituals that seems like it will last forever, like trimming fingernails and nagging about teeth brushing. Every month or so I start noticing stray hairs shooting out from behind their ears. The son with the shaggy cut starts looking more shaggy than usual. So I start warning them about what’s to come.

“Someday soon I’m cutting everyone’s hair,” I’ll warn at dinner one night. There will be groans all around. No one enjoys it, including me, but it’s a necessary evil if I want to continue seeing their eyes. Everyone gets to pick how long or short they want their particular style. Runner boy complains that his is too long when it’s long enough to pinch between his fingers. Guitar loving son wants it long, but not anything close to a mullet. Little guy goes back and forth between super short and long, curly and unruly.

Finally the afternoon arrives when it’s time. No more putting it off. No more ‘I’m too tired tonight’ or ‘but my friend is on his way over…’. We pull out the token stool and dig out the yard and a half of silk that we fasten with a safety pin around the first subject’s neck. We get set up in front of the TV, because it keeps my victim distracted and buys me some extra time.

Every once in a while there will be fussing, and squirming and enough complaining that I have to pull out my standard line, “Okay, if you don’t want to cooperate, I’ll have to take you to the lady…”

This line has worked since they were small. They have no idea who the lady is. I don’t either, for that matter. But when they were young we’d see hairdressers on television and I’d say, “See, that’s where some kids go to get their hair cut.” It all looked very fru fru and feminine to my rough and tumble boys. They really didn’t have any desire to go to that place where women sat with foil sticking out of their heads. So ‘the lady’ line continues to work.

As I was cutting my oldest son’s hair yesterday, just hours before he’d leave for his senior prom, it occurred to me that I might only have a few more opportunities to perform this service for him. He goes off to college in just a couple of months, and there are no guarantees that he’ll be home on a regular basis.

We are moving to Colorado, but he’ll be going to college in Utah. So close, but also a mountain range away. There could easily be times that he needs a haircut and has no imminent plans to travel home. Someday soon, my boy may indeed have his hair cut by ‘the lady’ (and discover she’s not so scary after all).

This shouldn’t surprise me. It’s exactly how I came to cut his hair in the first place. I started by learning to cut hair on his daddy, when we were both in college. We lived in the same dorm and shared a circle of friends. He was two thousand miles away from home and had never had anyone but his mother cut his hair (sounds familiar). So one day I offered. I had no idea what I was doing. This was back in the stone age, before the option of googling or youtubing existed.

I had to actually walk all the way over to the college library, pull out long drawers from a tall wooden cabinet, and flip through a series of yellowing 3x5 cards, to find a single book on the art of cutting a man’s hair. But, as it turns out, one book was enough.

There were bumps along the way. One memorable afternoon I was cutting his hair while three friends of ours sat on a bunk bed across from us. In the midst of the joking and laughing my scissors slipped. In an instant a huge chunk of hair was missing from the side of his head. He couldn’t see the shock on my face, since I was standing behind him. But all three friends saw. With our eyes we agreed to not say a word. One of them continued with the conversation and we moved forward.

Ten minutes later he was standing at the small mirror that hung above my roommates dresser. He took a quick look at the final product, then paused, and went back to inspect one side again. He moved closer to the mirror. The rest of us held our breath. “Hmmmm….what’s going on here?” he asked, innocently. The four of us burst into fits of laughter. We couldn’t help it. He was just so cute, trying to be polite about the fact that I’d carved a bald spot on the side of his head.

Maybe that’s one of the millions of small moments that I knew he’d be a keeper for life.

I continued to cut his hair, through college, in the week before our wedding, and then year after year as we moved through life together. It only seemed natural that I’d tackle our daughter’s hair, since all she wanted was long and straight. I could do straight lines. Then three little brothers followed, and having inherited their daddy’s hair, it seemed only logical that I’d cut their hair too. When the toddler wisp turned into shaggy preschooler locks, they joined in the line up on hair cutting night.

And now we’re at the other end of that line. I may be losing one of my best clients soon. Someday soon, in a sweet smelling salon in Utah, my oldest son may put on another woman’s silk cape and hand over his loyalties.

Or maybe it will be a pretty classmate who lives in the next dorm who offers to do the job.

Either way, it’s almost time to hand over my scissors. And I’m not so sure I’m ready.

Colorado

2011-05-31T16:14:00.002-04:00

We arrived home from our house hunting trip several weeks ago. The minute we hit the road for home, with the mountain ranges in our rearview mirror, I knew that the fun part was over. Somehow the long roads home were mile after mile of mental lists, while the long roads out to Colorado had been mile after mile of excited anticipation.

On the drive west we came to appreciate living in states that have beautiful scenery. I give full credit to the farmers who keep our grocery stores stocked with foods, but I have to say I’d have trouble living in the land of wide open fields. Acres of scrubby grassland stretched on for miles, occasionally dotted with cows. We passed a few large corporate feed lots, making comments about the origins of our last McDonald’s hamburger. But there were also plenty of smaller farms, and many fuzzy dots curled up in the shadows of mama cows, indicating that spring breeding had been successful.

We took the northern route, not having time to stop along I-70, where most of our friends and family live. Across Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska, the roads go on forever. It was common to see turkeys on the side of the road, who seemed unaware of the inherent risk of hanging out next to a path of zooming vehicles. Signs for the Pony Express popped up along the way. Rest areas were way too far apart to be entertaining and we counted it as a personal victory when we could find a small Subway sandwich store tucked into the back of a truck stop.

Then suddenly, after three long days in the car, we were there. We rounded a corner and there was civilization. First a smattering of houses, then a full fledged town, on the east side of Denver. Before we knew it we were in the middle of the city, practically giddy with relief that we’d actually survived the trip. A quick stop for drinks, then it was back in the car, to keep driving west. Denver’s great and all, but our sites are set on some mountain towns outside of the big city.

We oohed and ahhed at the wide highway that took us up in altitude, toward white capped mountain peaks. We teased my husband, that he’d have such a ‘horrible’ commute every day, up and down this strikingly beautiful corridor. We soon went into full camera mode, meaning the cameras and cell phones with cameras were never again put away. Around every bend was something new to capture.

We began to notice some themes. Every vehicle seemed to have a dog riding along. Every stoplight had at least one vehicle with the word Jeep on it. Neighborhood after neighborhood had wildlife running rampant. Elk, foxes and deer were as common as squirrels and chipmunks in my neighborhood. Early on, my boys started a game where each animal got a number of points assigned, depending on how rare they were. Deer were low points. Porcupine and skunks got higher points. I was impressed with their game until I realized that points actually translated into punches. If the animal ended up in our grill, there were even bonus punches to be given. Did I mention how much I missed my daughter?

Another common sight, which seemed sad and ironic, was the number of lost cat signs hanging on utility poles. As we roamed residential areas, through thickly wooded areas and switchback roads that led up the mountains, we saw sign after sign. Each had the familiar plea, “Lost Kitty!” and an adorable picture. Cats of all ages, all colors, seemed to have been rounded up and taken away. Considering the number of wildlife we witnessed in these same neighborhoods, many of which are carnivores, it seemed obvious to us that most of the missing felines would never make it home. It led us to believe that the people of Colorado are a very optimistic group, indeed.

After spending five days roaming the area, we really aren’t that much closer to finding the house we’ll call home next fall. We drove almost every street and road in the two towns we’re considering and have a better feel for the area, but finding a specific home is tricky. Many great homes, comfortably in our price range, with amazing views, are perched on lots that are almost impossible to access. The endless switchbacks almost make me woozy at times. Other homes, with easier access to the main roads, are in remote, rugged areas that would make a bike ride after school almost impossible for my boys. It will be a trick, once we physically arrive in Colorado, to find a place that has everything we need, and that we can afford without winning the lottery.

But I know it will be there, waiting for us, right when we need it. With every move we’ve had the same concern, finding the right house in the right location. So far we’ve done very well, and every house has felt very much like home. The long trip out to Colorado was the first step. Getting the scenes of our new town swirling around in our heads helps the process along. Now we’re back, and it’s time to wrap up this great life we’ve created in New York.

Because way off in the distance we can hear it. Colorado’s calling us back, wanting us to come home.

Tornado Terror

2011-05-23T13:16:00.002-04:00

As I stood in the driveway last week, talking to my neighbor, the familiar sirens went off a few blocks away. I hear them often. They’re a signal to our local volunteer firefighters that their service is needed. It took me a long time to get used to these frequent alarms.

Especially on stormy days.

As my neighbor and I chatted, there were storm clouds rolling in. Big, ominous, dark clouds, full of rain and probably a bit of lightening. Then the fire house sirens went off. And my blood pressure shot up. I had to mentally coach myself that everything was okay.

Because, you see, I grew up in the Midwest. Bad weather in the spring brings lightning and thunder. And sometimes tornadoes. When you live in the Midwest you learn to live by the tornado sirens. You have tornado drills at school, where you end up crouched in a hallway with your hands cupped around the back of your head. And you never ignore a siren.

So when I hear warning sirens, as I’m standing outside watching dark clouds roll in, I’m pretty confident there’s a tornado headed my way. And my gut reaction is to gather my children and run for the safe corner in the basement. My neighbor, who was raised in tornado-free New York, and mostly concerned about the fact he wanted to get home before he got drenched by the approaching storm, had no idea the level of anxiety I was feeling.

And then, just days later, I turn on my TV on a quiet Monday morning, to see that my home state has been once again struck by a big one. Joplin is just over an hour from Springfield, where I went to college, met the love of my life, and gave birth to my first two children. I know that part of the state well.

I’ve crouched in closets and basements, waiting out similar storms, in that part of the state. I know what those people were feeling as the storm began to hit. And I’m deeply affected by the images I’m seeing on TV, of the aftermath. While riding the bike at the gym, I had to look away from the screen of the news channels that are running continuing footage of the devastation. I couldn’t afford to burst into tears in the middle of my work out.

And it seems selfish to even say it affects me, that it upsets my day. Who am I to complain? I have a safe, intact home, that will never be blown away by a tornado. I have survived a few blizzards in this house, but I’ve never dashed to the basement to take shelter from a tornado. I don’t personally know anyone in Joplin. I’m not waiting for funeral arrangements to be made for someone I love, who wasn’t safe from nature’s fury.

But my heart hurts the same.

Out of shock, and sorrow, from a weather event that I grew up fearing.

The randomness. The inconsistency. The disturbing potential for destruction. For the past decade I’ve lived in states that are not at risk for tornadoes. As a mom, it’s been a relief to take it off my list of things to worry about (at least until the next fire house siren blows).

I live in relief that I don’t ever have to try to outguess a tornado again. I don’t have to live through so many false alarms that you start to take them a bit more lightly. Then a big one hits nearby and you’re reminded once again, of its terrible unpredictability.

I’m sure the residents of Missouri, the state I still hold dear to my heart, will rally up and take care of their own. Every person I know in Missouri is the type of person who would stand in line to give blood and volunteer to clean up debris, if asked. That’s just how the Midwest works. I’d like to think that’s how America works.

So although I can’t do much more than give to the Red Cross, my money and my blood, from this long distance, I can think of my Midwest neighbors, and pray they get through this awful ordeal with a sense of peace and community. I will pray that they can bury their dead with respect, and be spared more storms that might come along this spring.

It’s a tough way to live, waiting for the next big one. I’d guess it’s not unlike the earthquake weary in Japan. Except the Japanese people don’t get anxiety every time they see a dark cloud in the distance.

My fellow Missourians in Joplin have a long haul ahead of them. Heart wrenching clean up and thoughtful rebuilding. It won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. But I know they’ll do it. It’s really all they can do at this point.

Pick up and move on with life. Salvage what you can, of your belongings and your emotional fortitude, and plow forward.

And wait, wait, wait, for the next forecast.

Making sure the safe corner of the basement is stocked and ready. Knowing that if the big one hits, and you survive to walk out into the chaos of its aftermath, your friend, neighbors, and countrymen will be there to help you start again.

Becoming Myself

2011-05-16T16:15:00.003-04:00

Living in New York has changed me. Every season of my life, and every state I’ve lived in, has contributed to the person I am today, but New York has caused some of the biggest changes of all. When I moved to this state, almost five years ago, I knew I loved to write, but I didn’t yet think of myself as a writer. This is the place that changed all that.

When the moving truck arrived at this address, I had a quiet project tucked into the hard drive on our family computer. Right after I had my amputation surgery, I began writing about it. I had lots of sitting time, as my residual limb healed, and I decided to write out the journey that led me to this new title of amputee. By the time I got to New York I had pecked out a significant manuscript. Significant in size, not necessarily in quality. I knew it needed a lot of tweaking but it was nice to have a starting point. But because it wasn’t even close to being published, it didn’t even cross my mind that I might be a ‘writer’.

Sure, I’d always kept a journal, even when I was a ten year old and had little to say beyond ‘cleaned my room today…’. Then, when the kids were small, I pecked out essays about what they were doing, what we were doing, and how I felt about it all. After my mom died I wrote more, trying to hash out my grief with words on a screen. But I was always fully aware that to be a real writer, you had to have a book on the shelves of Barnes and Noble.

Then one day, early on in our time in New York, my son got off the bus bubbling with news about an author who had visited his school.“She was just like you, mama! She loves to write and she loves kids!” I looked her up and found a website. Something in her presentation had lit a spark in my boy and I wanted her to know it. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a reply to my email, just a few days later.

The author, Coleen Paratore, was gracious and warm. She had come to Sam’s school to talk about her new book The Wedding Planner’s Daughter. But her school talks were as much about finding your own passion as they were about promoting her latest book.

She encouraged me to attend the local meeting of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). It met nearby, in Guilderland, and anyone who loved children’s books was welcome to attend. It piqued my interest. I’d never really written for children, but the idea of hanging out with writers sounded fun. The night of their next meeting I made my way to the Guilderland library and walked into a room full of strangers.

To begin the meeting, everyone went around the room and shared their connection to writing and children’s books. It was amazing to hear each person’s journey. Some were published authors, many times over, and some were still learning the craft and writing when they could find the time. Being new to the state, and knowing very few people well enough to call them ‘friend’, I felt unusually at home in that room.

These were people who didn’t think it was strange that I had files full of half finished projects. These were people who also had scraps of paper all over the house, bits and pieces of words and phrases that would later remind them of some writing idea. These were people who knew how painful it was to carve out a manuscript of heartfelt stories, then have to go back and cut it down. That night I returned home and announced to my husband, “I have found my people!”

Through that meeting, and the many meetings since, I’ve been inspired, watching these new writer friends follow their own paths. Some have become published in the four years I’ve been attending, some are still plugging away. Coleen has become a writing powerhouse, publishing a handful of books in the short time I’ve known her. Even when I’m not working on a project for kids, my friends at the SCBWI writers group remind me of how important it is to claim what’s important to me, and keep writing.

Not long after I found my people, at the SCBWI writer’s group, I landed an incredible gig, writing the parenting column for the local paper. Every week I think I’ve run out of ideas to write about and yet every week another one finds its way to my computer screen. It’s been a gift to me, tracking our life and all its ups and downs, as we’ve explored this great state of New York. It has given me a valuable deadline every week, one of a writer’s best friends.

And there you have it.

I just officially called myself a writer.

It took many years, a lot of concealed writing, and a well placed encouraging email from a published book author to help me find my path.

There’s a room full of people who will continue to meet, month after month, long after I’ve moved away. They will encourage each other and helpfully critique each other’s work. They will say good bye to members who are moving on and they’ll warmly accept the newbies who wander through the door. I’ll always be in debt to these people, my people.

They helped me to define myself as a writer.

And I’ll never forget them.

.

Alphabet Lessons

2011-05-09T09:55:00.000-04:00

Just as I suspected, the trip to Colorado came and went in a flash. Any person who has ever gone on any vacation knows the feeling. The days creep by as you await the magical date on the calendar, then once it arrives, time speeds up, and in a nano second it’s all over. As soon as we pulled into the driveway back in New York, real life kicked into high gear again. Hubby unpacked, then re-packed, to go on a work trip to Connecticut. The kids jumped back into school. I split my time between work, unpacking, and once again preparing the house to go on the market.

But just as I’d predicted, we made some great new memories on this trip that re-introduced us to our identity as a nomadic family. It was a new experience for me, traveling with all boys. Our daughter stayed home to work, so for the first time I was the only female in the car. I held my own pretty well and only once became misty eyed, when an innocent comment was made by the woman creating my sandwich at a Subway in the middle of Indiana. She crafted the orders for my hubby, then each of my three sons, and when she finally got to me, she flippantly said, “Boy, I guess you wish you had a daughter…”

It was the end of the trip, day nine of our ten days on the road, and I was definitely ready to see my girl again. After swallowing the lump in my throat, I calmly replied to the Subway lady, “Oh, I do have a daughter. She’s at home. And I do miss her.” I’m sure it was a forgettable moment in that woman’s life, but I can immediately be in that moment again, reminded of the way our family is changing as our children grow older and move on with their lives.

From our very first day on the road, we played many rounds of the ABC game. It started with just finding the letters, on any sign or license plate. Then, to make things more challenging we changed the rules. Each letter had to be at the beginning of a word. That might not sound like a big deal, but when you’re driving mile after lonely mile through the flat fields and empty highways of Midwestern states, a billboard of any kind is a treat, and one with the correct words on it can be a gold mine.

Electronics were put aside as everyone in the car rallied up to play. Who knew teen age boys could be so easily entertained? They all groaned as we passed a semi truck with the word ‘Zemmert’ printed on the side. We weren’t even close to needing a Z yet, and we’d struggled to find J and O words. The chances of finding another perfect Z word when we’d need it were pretty slim.

Slowly, slowly we clipped our way through the alphabet. We got a bit tripped up again when it came to X, but a good hospital sign with the word X-ray on it saved the day. After a quick Y (Yummy!), we were finally in need of that magical Z. Mile after mile, billboard after billboard, and no Z. Then suddenly, Jeff pulled to the side of the road. As we came to a stop on the gravel shoulder, the mood in the car changed. We all assumed there was a problem with the engine. From my perch in the back seat I could see my hubby’s face in the rearview mirror. He didn’t seem concerned.

Then I saw the smile lines form around his eyes. He was up to something. After a minute of quiet confusion, he simply said, “That Zemmert truck should be along shortly…” Knowing we’d passed it a dozen miles back, he was sure if we sat for just a minute, it would come along and give us our Z. The nervous tension in the car erupted into laughter and high fives. It would’ve never occurred to me to pull over on the side of the road, on the first day of a four thousand mile trip, to wait for a Z. Hubby got huge points with his boys.

A few days later, as we were driving in downtown Denver, out of the blue my husband commented on a license plate we’d just passed. “Wow, look at that. WQJ. What a dream…” We were all confused, since we’d been out of ABC game mode for several days. Silently we were all wondering how he would think a WQJ could mean anything related to dreams.

Then he spelled it out. To pass that specific car on the highway would have been a dream, when we were desperately searching for difficult letters. My boys decided that if they ever lived near a highway, they’d have huge billboards in their yards, filled with words starting with every letter of the alphabet, just in case there were other travelers in need of a good Q word.

And before you start thinking I have genetically altered children, who just love being in the car for 86.5 hours over the course of ten days, let me set you straight. There were plenty of fussy moments, and a few random, well placed punches, thrown by frustrated brothers who’d had just a little too much togetherness.

But as the mom I don’t dwell on those fleeting moments. I like to remember the laughs, and the playful wrestling that threatened fragile lamps on hotel room tables. It makes me smile to remember all the new places we explored and the inside family jokes that were born on this trip.

And one of the best memories of all is the mental snapshot, of a car full of these people I love, sitting on the side of the highway, waiting patiently for a Z.

Frozen Numbers

2011-05-02T13:26:00.004-04:00

It was surprising news to wake up to on a Monday morning. After almost a decade of hunting for him, the mastermind behind the destruction of the World Trade Center had been found and murdered. Swirled into the constant updates on the situation were references to the attacks on our country, that occurred almost a decade ago. That news was almost as hard to believe as the assassination news itself. Ten years. It’s been ten years since we turned on our TVs to find out that our country had been attacked.

I remember it like it was yesterday, as does almost anyone who was over the age of ten when it happened. But the anniversary date has come, year after year, and life has raced ahead in between. If given a minute, I could always tell you exactly how many years it’s been, but I never had the number as a constant in my head. Heck, I have to do some mental math just to tell you how old my own children are, at any given time.

It led to me ponder how some numbers are slippery but others become frozen in time, especially when tragedy strikes. We are about to celebrate another Mother’s Day. It’s my nineteenth time to enjoy the honor. That’s easy math. My daughter’s birth ushered me into this sacred position. But every year I also do some other math. Without wanting to, my mind always, without fail, stops to calculate how many years I’ve had to celebrate without needing to buy a card for my own mother.

She died almost seventeen years ago. This will be my sixteenth year of missing her on a day I want to pamper her. The sixteenth year that I’ll walk by the aisles of Mother’s Day gifts as I make my way to the section of graveside flowers for Memorial Day. The irony catches in my stomach every single year.

To be honest, I had to stop and do the math on that last paragraph. My daughter was born in 92, my son in 93 ,and she died in 1994. Quick math gives me a seventeen. But another number is burned into my memory. I don’t have to do any math to come up with it. A big five and a zero. She was 50 when she died.

A night of country dancing, as she powered through a terrible headache, ended in the ICU, with a stroke that eventually took her life. In the shock and grief that followed, the number fifty was seared into my brain. It seemed like an ‘older person’ age, although I felt way too young to be without her. And every year that has brought me closer to that number myself, helps me to see just how young she really was.

I have a personal tradition, to ease my own longing for my mom. Every Mother’s Day I send a card to a woman I’ve never met. She lived in my neighborhood when, just two years after I lost my mom, she lost both of her daughters on TWA flight 800. In one fell swoop she lost all of her children. Their plane crashed on the month after I gave birth to my third child.

My house was full of life and little people, and hers was suddenly, permanently quiet.

The next time a Mother’s Day rolled around I thought of her, and how her heart must be aching also. So I sent her a card, and my heart felt better.

Every year since I’ve repeated the gesture. We’ve exchanged holiday cards and she usually sends me follow up cards, in the weeks after Mother’s Day, but we’ve never met. That doesn’t mean I don’t think about her, when I’m pondering this crazy thing called grief.

I’m sure she has a couple of numbers seared into her own brain. The numbers 25 and 28. That’s where her daughter’s lives ended. At ages 25 and 28. They will never be 26 and 29. Just like my mom will never be 51. Those numbers will forever be frozen in time.

I’m sure almost everyone you meet has a frozen number or two in their brain. The grade they were in school when their father died. The year they lost a baby to miscarriage. The day their spouse asked for a divorce. We all walk around with some number imprinted on our soul.

Today I plan to put a special card in the mail to my mother in law, my stepmom, and the friend I’ve never met. Then I’ll wait for Sunday to roll around, and I’ll enjoy the day with my own children. Because for as much as I miss my own mom on that day, I never take for granted the gifts I have living under my own roof.

Our family is still very much full of life and love and new memories. Every year my children are growing, and changing, and becoming new people. No frozen numbers here.

Mother’s Day can be a time of reflection, but it’s also, very much, a time to treasure the numbers that continue on.

A Family Path

2011-04-15T16:11:00.002-04:00

I sat down today to write this week’s column and nothing came. Some weeks I have a dozen ideas circling around my head, begging to be the topic of the week. Other weeks, it’s more slim pickings. This week, it was downright anemic.

It might be in part because my brain is otherwise occupied. In less than 12 hours a rental car will pull out of my driveway and will head West. For three days we’ll drive, then for three days we’ll explore the mountains of Colorado, and finally, for three days we’ll drive back. As the mom, if anything is forgotten along the way, it will always be my fault. So as the stack of ‘must takes’ slowly grew on the kitchen table (including, but not limited to video gaming devices, iPods, sunglasses, Sudoku books, drawing pads, granola bars, assorted chargers, and a fully charged camera), I suddenly had to slam on the brakes of my rattled brain and come up with something to write about this week.

When the afternoon started slipping away, still with no ideas, I resisted the urge to panic. Then my middle son walked through the door. His school day was over, but my writing day had just begun. I sat for a few minutes and listened to his latest stories from the halls of the high school, then I sighed deeply and told him I needed his help. I told him I needed an idea, something exciting to write about this week. I warned him that I felt like people were probably tired of hearing about our move, so what other topics did he think might interest readers?

He didn’t hesitate to offer his advice. “How ‘bout you tell them how you’re going to stuff your three kids into the back seat of a car, and make them suffer for three whole days?” You see, my boy is upset that we’re not renting a minivan for this cross country trip. The last time we drove that far, he had lots of room to spread out. But this time, we’re only taking three of the kids, and we figured we’d save some money (almost eight hundred dollars, to be exact) by getting a large car, instead of a van.

I’m fairly confident that he’ll survive. Heck, he might even have some fun. I’ve tried telling him this fact, but he’s currently under the teen spell of filtered hearing and all he can process is that he has to share breathing air with two brothers, for six days of total driving time.

But that same teen spell also prevents him from remembering the things his mom remembers. I was sorting through some old pictures the other day, and I got lost in a bad case of nostalgia. There on my screen were hundreds of snippets of memories, pockets of time that we got to block out the world and spend time with just the six of us. No ringing phones or work obligations to distract us. The open road was our path to family bonding. I was reminded, by the snapshot after snapshot of smiles, of just how much fun it is to just be ‘us’ for a bit.

The interesting thing is that the family dynamic changes with each trip. As my children age, and slowly turn into the people they are going to become, they go through personality spells. On one trip the littlest one will bond with his only sister. They’ll split sandwiches at Subway and share the headphone splitters on the DVD player. On the next trip he might latch onto his oldest brother, making their own special memories along the way.

The sad part about this trip to me is that our magical window is closing. This is our first big trip without one of our children. Job obligations are keeping my girl home. We’re down to three boys. In just a few short months, as my son heads off to college, we’ll suddenly be down to only two boys in the house. Only two boys to share the backseat and the booth at the diner. The pattern of our family, and our family trips, is changing.

I look forward to the next ten days. I know there will be conflicts. If three brothers could travel two thousand miles together and not fight once, it would concern me. But I know my gang. We’ll also laugh a lot. We’ll see some crazy sign on the side of the highway, for some weird truck stop or fudge warehouse, and we’ll beg dad to stop. If the pleas don’t work, someone will fake a bathroom emergency. Because, no matter what, we’ll get our fudge and buy that old fashioned rubber band gun.

We’ll stop in big cities and small towns. We’ll count down the mileage signs, as we get close to places the kids have heard about on TV. And then, when we finally arrive in Indianapolis, and Chicago, we’ll make the kids put down their distractions (“headphones OUT!”) and pretend to gaze at the city, from our highway view at 65 miles an hour. Then, for the four thousandth time, we’ll discuss whether driving by a major city counts as having ‘been there’.

Today it’s all ahead of us. I’m trusting that the rental car will be ready for us in the morning, and all my planning will pay off. If this trip turns out like the ones in the past, in a blink of an eye I’ll be back at this screen, our trip over, the bags unpacked, and I’ll wonder just where the time went. So if you run into my middle son, and he tries to complain to you, about how his mother must not care about him because she forced him to (gasp!) share a car seat with his brothers, do me a favor.

Ask him if he’s had any good fudge lately.

Eye on the Prize

2011-04-04T11:02:00.001-04:00

The other day I told my husband that the details of this cross-country move we’re about to make sometimes make me feel like I’m in the middle of a difficult pregnancy. I get so tied up with the anguish in the middle that I forget about the baby we’ll see on the other end.

When we first realized we’d like to settle long term in Colorado all I could think about was the ‘baby’ - the amazing scenery we could call our backyard, the dry climate that would remedy some of our health issues, and the wide variety of National Parks we’d be able to explore on long weekends. After a long, winding road of events, the job finally came through. That western state would be our new home. But suddenly the pictures of the baby slipped from my mind.

In almost an instant the lists began to form. There were so many things that needed to be done, to get our family uprooted from this home we’ve had in New York for a handful of years. Colorado was no longer in the forefront of my thoughts. New York was. The things we loved about New York and the things that needed to be done before we could walk away from this East coast life.

Of course getting the house on the market was a top priority. All of those ‘let’s finish some day’ projects had to be done, today. We did major updates when we moved here, but a family of six can be hard on a house, especially when that family includes three active boys. There were finger prints to wash off every light switch and dings to repair in bedroom walls.

We’ve watched the shows on HGTV. We knew all those fun colors that the kids picked for their bedroom walls would have to be made more buyer friendly. The ceilings, which were the only surfaces not to be changed when we moved in, finally needed a nice coat of paint. The bathrooms got simple updates, with new flooring, fixtures and bead board. One of my friends wisely commented, “It’s like you’re doing every HGTV show, all at once!”

I’m sure my Facebook friends are tired of hearing about it. I’ve been scattered and weary for the past few weeks. The silver lining has surely been the visitors we’ve had the past two weekends. A week ago we spent some quality time with my mother in law and father in law, as they helped us clip away at our lists. Then this past weekend my handy brother in law, and his wife, blessed us with their home repair skills also. The irony for them is that the memories we’re making are just propelling us closer to a move far away from them.

Besides the undying support of wonderful in-laws, the other thing that keeps me sane is the little snapshots of what’s coming in our new life. Just when I’m getting caught up in the chaos of my current home life, I get a blast of fresh encouragement. The other day it was a man and his young daughter, checking out books about the National Parks in the west. They were planning a family trip there and wanted to do some research.

As I scanned the book’s bar codes and slipped the due date cards in their slots, a comment slipped out of my mouth. “I’m moving out west in a few months. I’ll live right next to these parks.” The little girl’s eyes grew wide. Her dad graciously replied, “That’s really great! Good luck with your move.” It hit me again. I’m moving. To a place that’s in the shadow of those amazing parks. Don’t forget the image of the baby.

Then a significant date arrived on the calendar. My dad’s birthday was Sunday. I sent him a card and then an email, but it’s been way too long since I’ve given him a hug. In the five years since we’ve lived in New York, he’s been able to come see us just twice. We’ve traveled back to his house in Missouri just once. I’ve seen my dad (and my kids have seen their maternal grandmother and grandfather) just three times in five years. That fact hurts my heart.

He and my stepmom volunteer at a YMCA camp in Colorado every autumn. I’ll get to see them every year once we live there. At least once a year - maybe even more. My siblings in the western part of the country will become more familiar to my children too. My crazy little brother, who has always been able to make me laugh, will be able to drive to my house in just over a day. His son, who’s growing up way too quickly, will soon have active memories of his Aunt Judy. The same can be said for most of my other nephews and nieces, the children of my own siblings.

It will be very difficult to drive away from the large, loving group of people I married into over two decades ago. But it will be a joy to spend more time with my side of the family too. It’s the ultimate definition of bittersweet for me.

Every big change in life has benefits and drawbacks. Every decision changes the road that memories will take. This is the hard part about being a grown up. Having to weigh the good and bad for a family with so many personalities and opinions can be daunting. The day we decided to move our family away from this great place called New York, we were very aware that it would change the course of six different lives.

But the train’s on the tracks. It’s hurling forward. It’s time to stop pondering the implications of what’s coming down the tracks and pick up a paintbrush. Those bathroom walls aren’t going to paint themselves.

Mother Love

2011-03-28T15:42:00.003-04:00

As excited as we are about moving to Colorado, there are many precious things we’ll be leaving behind. One of the hardest will be a firecracker of a woman who has been a major influence in my life. I knew her by reputation long before I got my first hug from her.

When I met her son, back in the mid 1980s, I never dreamed I’d marry him some day. He quickly became one of my best friends and I loved trading family stories with him. He was a long way from his New Hampshire home as we got to know each other at our southern Missouri college. He had four brothers, I had four siblings also. He understood the concept of never getting a bowl of the good cereal unless you grabbed the box from the grocery bag the minute it came home from the supermarket.

He told me about this woman he called mom, and how she grew up thinking she’d never have kids, because she wasn’t really into babies, but then was blessed with a house full of boys. She was the perfect mom for boys - willing to coach any sports team and able to cook huge, filling meals. She took to the task so well that she began to take in exchange students from other countries. To this day she has ‘sons’ who live around the world.

It wasn’t long before her son and I saw our friendship grow into affection, then full blown adoration. My family knew him well but he was determined that his family should know me too, before any lifelong decisions were made. He and I made a flight back to New Hampshire the January of our senior year in college.

That’s when I first met her in person. Surrounded by sons who towered over her, she kept it all juggled perfectly. Hot, delicious meals showed up on the table three times a day. Family sports were organized during the day, board games around the table at nights. She always had a smile, and was always ready with a hug or a punch on the upper arm, whichever was appropriate (remember, she had all sons…).

After our wedding in November year she officially became a relative of mine. In the next year I watched her with great respect as she suffered through the loss of the love of her life, always carrying herself with class and grace. It was an accurate peek as to what this woman would be to me in the years to come.

She was the one who comforted me when we lost our first baby to a miscarriage, and the one I was most excited to tell when we found out we were pregnant again. I have always known that if anyone understood the joys and pains of life, and how to plow forward, it was this amazing woman I called a mother-in-law.

Then her fortitude was challenged again, as her son and I decided to move across the country, away from her, so he could attend graduate school. She could have been bitter, since her first grandbaby was growing in my belly and just four months away from being born. Instead of cradling a newborn in her arms, she would have to settle for a phone call, and the precious sound of her granddaughter’s first cries. But she never doubted our choices. Instead, she helped us load our Subaru station wagon and gave us warm hugs and bags of cookies as we hit the road.

She’s always been there for us, in a way I hope I can be there for my kids some day. She’s a great example of how a mother can lose her son but gain a daughter, letting go of what she needed to, to let him be the man she raised him to be.

When my own mother died, and I was so lost in grief, this is the woman who stepped in. I wasn’t ready, right away, to have a replacement mother, and she understood that. She stood in, as whatever I needed her to be, and never doubted my path of grief. She’s known grief, and she knew how important it was to just be present.

Two years later, when I thought I had already endured my dose of life tragedy, our third child became deathly ill from an undiagnosed metabolic disorder. We never told her what to do, or where to be. She just booked the flight and showed up. Always there exactly when we needed her.

And so it shouldn’t surprise me, that when we are once again breaking her heart by moving this house full of grandkids she loves so much far away from her, she has not responded with hostility or anger. Just support, love and encouragement. She’s loved having them in New England for five years and has treasured every new memory they’ve made together. But she knows us, and knows what’s best for our family. She accepts it, even if it’s not what’s best for her.

Last week, when I was quickly becoming overwhelmed with getting our house ready to sell, the phone call came. She and my step father-in-law were on their way. They showed up early on Saturday and for two long days they painted and patched and led the charge of house repairs. And, of course, as she always does so well, she fed us.

I’ll never be able to adequately thank this woman who has been such a great life role model for me. She’s set the bar pretty high. But my plan is a simple one. I’ll do my best to raise her grandkids in a loving, supportive home.

And some day, when they go off and have kids, I hope to be an amazing grandmother myself.

I’ll know I’ve succeeded the day one of my kids says, “You remind me of Grammy Berna”.

Serious Sorting

2011-03-24T07:57:00.003-04:00

I hate to break it to you but my posts might start sounding like a broken record. Ever since my husband got the news of our impending move to Colorado, our life has been turned upside down. And much like my repeated themes of ‘letting go’ this time last year, as my oldest daughter was nearing her high school graduation, the new theme for the next few weeks might be ‘packing up and letting go’.

This week our lives centered around sorting through stuff. It’s a topic that many of my co-workers could relate to. You don’t have to be moving to be interested in the topic of cleaning out stuff you don’t need. In every stage of life there is a point you have to stop, regroup, sort out, and move on.

Every elementary school child knows the feeling. The last day of school is exciting and all, but in the end, that desk has to be free of personal stuff by the time the last bell rings. It usually means hauling home a big, brown grocery sack full of assorted papers and old pencils, that will be thrown under the bed until mom’s next cleaning frenzy.

Every freshly graduated kid, heading off to college, knows the drill. The entire contents of their bedroom is under the microscope, analyzed for its nostalgia factor. Every poster on the wall, every tattered stuffed animal, and every trophy sitting on a shelf gets its moment of decision. Is it important enough to be thrown into the box labeled ‘take to college’? Will it end up in the box headed for mom and dad’s attic? Or has it’s useful time been used up, its final destination to be a donation center?

Those of us who have lost parents have gone through it in a different way. It’s an odd feeling to be making those same kinds of decisions about someone else’s stuff. I will never forget the uneasiness I felt as my sisters and I sorted through my mom’s closet, as a favor to my dad, after she passed away. I turned to one of my sisters and said, “I just can’t get over the feeling that mom’s going to be really mad when she comes home and finds out we’ve given all of her stuff away…”

And then there are those of us who move a lot. Military families understand. They pack up and move at a moment’s notice and rarely complain about it. I have a friend who has six children and thinks nothing of moving every year or two, following her Marine husband’s career. She runs a streamlined ship and keeps me inspired.

We haven’t moved as much as she has but we’ve done our fair share. This will be our fourth move in ten years. It’s enough to make us feel like we halfway know what we’re doing this time around. Some aspects are similar with every move - the selling of the old house, the life in temporary housing, and the search for the new place we’ll call home. And of course, the sorting of the stuff.

We’ve been in New York for five years. That means you have to compute the following equation: Six people, times five years, adding in a dozen sports and a half a dozen hobbies…oh yeah, and thirty different birthday celebrations and five Christmas celebrations (that brought in countless assorted gifts) and you’re talking a lot of…um…“treasures’.

Which is why a very large dumpster was delivered to my driveway last weekend. We started with the garage and by mid morning we had finally found the floor. At lunchtime we all stepped back, admired our finally efficient space, and took a deep breath. It was now time to hit the basement, otherwise known as the place to throw things that we didn’t know what to do with.

Through one weekend we cleaned and purged. Everything was touched and analyzed. The giveaway pile filled the living room. The dumpster gradually became less empty. There is something about moving to a new house, in a new state, to make you feel like starting over.

For a few months I’ve known this move might be coming. I could have started the deep cleaning six months ago. But I didn’t. It’s easier to keep stuff if you think you might be staying. All the unused coloring books and fresh boxes of crayons I bought dirt cheap at back to school sales, but never used, were very comfortable in the cabinet upstairs. But once I knew I would have to pack them, move them, then unpack them, if I wanted to keep them, they easily went to the giveaway pile. All the stuff I tell myself I might use ‘some day’ is looked at with fresh eyes.

I look forward to setting up a more streamlined house in Colorado. It begins by clearing out all the extras before the moving truck even comes. But it continues by thinking, really thinking, about every item I bring into my house. Do we really need it? Is there justification for making room for it? Is there a way I could comfortably live without it?

I’ve been blessed with several cross country moves, in that they have forced me, time after time, to rethink what surrounds us in our home. It can be freeing to realize how little it takes to really be content. I’m hoping this is our last move for a decade or so. But maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to pretend, every year or two, that a move is coming. It might help me keep our house more orderly and peaceful.

And maybe, just maybe, I can avoid having another dumpster in my driveway five years from now.

Mental Moving Math

2011-03-14T13:04:00.002-04:00

The upheaval has begun. If you caught my column last week you know that our family is leaving New York. We’ve loved living on the East coast but the dry climate of the Rocky Mountains is pulling us back in that direction. The past week has been a roller coaster of activities and emotions.

It’s hard to believe we’ve been here five years. It’s been a unique time in our family’s life. In our first weeks in New York our oldest child started high school. When we leave in June, we’ll have two who have graduated from that same school. Each of our kids has lived a chunk of their childhood here, the years that you actually remember of childhood. To some it might seem hard, to move as often as we do, but as far as lifetime memories, sometimes it helps to keep the memories of life in order.

My kids will be great at current history questions when they are playing Trivial Pursuit in the future. They can tell you the year (and month) that the sniper attacked the Washington D.C. area because we lived there at the time.

My oldest son’s fourth grade teacher made her class dance in line as they walked from their classroom trailer to the main building every day, knowing a moving target is harder to hit. My daughter helped me pick out groceries online so we could have them delivered to the house, avoiding the vulnerability of walking across the grocery store parking lot. None of us will forget the day the sniper was taken into custody and we were allowed to go back to our normal lives.

My two oldest children have vivid memories of September 11th, not just on the day it happened, but the months after. We drove to New Hampshire to visit grandparents eight weeks after the tragedy, making a point to stop by every crash site. We saw the fence in the middle of a field in Pennsylvania, covered with tokens of grief for the plane that crashed over the ridge from that spot.

Then we drove through Manhattan, a block away from Ground Zero, and inched past the fence covered in posters of missing loved ones. On our way home we headed south and caught a glance of the gaping hole in the side of the Pentagon as we passed through D.C. History becomes so much more relevant when you have personal experiences with it.

I watched in horror as the news reports started coming out of Japan this week, and instantly I knew I would never forget the year of this tragedy. I’ll always recall that it was in the New York house, right before we moved. It’s how history is burned onto my brain - which house did we live in when that happened?

The huge waves that destroyed so many Japanese lives reminded me of a sunny day in Utah, and a conversation I had with my visiting stepmother. She was reading the daily newspaper as I cleaned up the breakfast dishes. I remember so clearly my stepmother saying, “It’s hard to believe…this paper says that hurricane that hit Louisiana flooded a big part of New Orleans….they say a large percentage of the city is underwater..” I was sure she was being an alarmist, being dramatic. “Oh, I don’t think that can be true,” I answered, “The reporter must have his figures wrong.”

Unfortunately, the report was correct and our country’s history took another major turn. But I remember that conversation taking place the year before we left Utah, so it had to be the summer of 2005.

Living in different places can also help in more personal family memories. My oldest learned to walk in a small duplex down the road from the college her daddy was attending. Her brother’s first steps were on that same hideous, multi colored shag rug. My middle son toddled for the first time in the house by the park and my baby boy became upright in our barn shaped house on the edge of town.

As we were cleaning out the basement this weekend we came across the old metal high chair we used for all of our babies. It’s the same one I sat in as a baby. I had repainted the tray for each of my children, decoupaging pictures of them to it, to entertain them during meals. My oldest son wondered why the pictures currently on the tray were not of our youngest child. With some mental moving math, I figured it out.

My baby boy was barely in a high chair when we began our cross country moves. The prime years he would have used it, it was traveling around in moving trucks and stored in temporary storage units. He missed out on having his face glued to the high chair tray.

As we move on to call a new state ‘home’ now, we carry with us a treasure chest full of memories that will always be associated with New York.

My oldest son finally got to run on a school track team, something he dreamed about since he was six. My daughter got her first car here. We were blessed to own a patch of woods, that became the kid’s personal playground, with air soft wars and tree forts. We’ve sledded down our own little sledding hill, that drops off right outside our mud room door, probably a million times. I found a writing group that inspired me to become the ‘real’ writer I’ve always wanted to be.

Life will go on.

Major national news events will continue to unfold. Our family’s history will change in big ways. And after this summer, those memories will be in Colorado. But each stage and each state has had its value and its beauty. Each major event will forever be framed in the context of where we lived when it happened.

It’s not such a terrible way to help this busy mom remember the important stuff.

Moving News

2011-03-07T14:41:00.003-05:00

I will remember this day for a very long time. And the reason today was memorable has nothing to do with the fact that we woke up to freezing cold house because the heating oil ran out in the middle of the night. I didn’t panic. I knew George, my dependable oil guy, was already on his way this morning, to do his scheduled oil delivery.

I probably won’t remember that we were forecast to get a bunch of rain and a little snow, and instead woke up to a little rain and a whole lot of snow. Another snow day, which left me with a house full of kids.

But I’ll remember today because it was the good kind of ‘house full of kids’. The kids I’m surrounded by are in good moods, who have a special enthusiasm. They found out exciting news a few days ago. After nearly nine months of going through a difficult waiting process, their dad got a phone call on Friday that changes our lives. He got a job in Colorado.

We’ve loved living the past five years in New York. There are lots of great things about living here. We’ve explored the big City to our south and discovered fun places in Boston too. We know the roads to New Hampshire very well, having spent many weekends mixing and mingling with a whole bunch of fun family over there. Thanks to Grammy and Grandpa, the kids are familiar with the beaches of Maine and know the best place to get lobster there (Barnacle Billys!).

Albany has many treasures we’ll miss. The Plaza area under the Egg is a great place to take visiting friends and family. The State Museum is a treasure to explore, and their September 11th display will always make me cry. I’ve dragged my kids along the Indian Ladder Trail so many times they groan every time I say we’re having people come visit, knowing that’s my favorite place to take them.

We will leave behind many great friends too. Five years is a long time to build relationships. Sam almost set a record in our family, coming within a year of experiencing his whole elementary school career in one school. Each of our children has put down roots and built long term friendships. I’ve found a job that fits me perfectly and friends I will never lose touch with.

But we all knew we wouldn’t be in New York forever. Each of us missed the lifestyle we left back in the West. We loved the perfect snow, the dry climate, and the breath taking mountains. As the one who does the bookkeeping in our house, I desperately missed the lower cost of living and lower taxes.

So when our son was accepted into his first college of choice, a school in Utah, and we all realized that maybe it was time to think about another move, Colorado seemed like a really good fit.

We almost moved last fall. Then the job offer changed and it no longer worked for us. Out of the blue, another job opportunity came up and we began the waiting process again. So by the time the phone call came, saying it was real, we could hardly believe it. It was hard to comprehend. It’s still a bit difficult to wrap my brain around. But if I am to believe my usually trustworthy husband, it is true, and now comes the chaos.

I’ve been in this place before, knowing we are on our way out, but still very firmly grounded in a place I love. My most recent memory is of our transition from Utah to New York. Our very best friends lived across the street. Every day of packing ended with looking out my front window and seeing them, and their children, coming and going, and knowing I would forever miss that view. I knew there would be good friends in New York, but no one would specifically replace Jeff and Laura.

So today I am getting those familiar feelings. My children are all in good moods, which doesn’t happen a lot when you have four kids, three of them teens. They are all still in the excited phase, the one where we don’t have to think about the goodbyes yet, only about the fun parts of moving. They are dreaming of new bedrooms and new woods to explore. They are ready to have season passes to ski slopes that have perfect powder six months of the year.

I have them in cleaning out mode, as the house needs to go on the market soon. Suddenly, if it means packing it or not, they are seeing our belongings in a new way. More than half of our family board games didn’t make the cut, as one of my boys sorted through them, making a huge pile to donate. He was so enthusiastic about cleaning out that I had to save some of my favorites from the chopping block (I can’t live without all three versions of Apples to Apples).

I spent the morning photographing Lego creations that will now be dismantled and packed away. As we all worked together the radio blared in the background. My extra son, a neighbor who has become a part of our family and will always carry a part of my heart with him, hung out on the extra bed across the room, strumming the guitar and discussing chords with my boys. My little guy patiently and diligently filled ziplocs with the colorful pieces of each creation.

It was a magical snow day, that had very little to do with snow. It was our first day of living out our news and our first day of taking steps that will lead us down a new road. It was all good and exciting. No tears yet. Today held its own innocent brand of magic.

All of the excitement and none of the pain.

March Forth!

2011-02-27T23:21:00.001-05:00

I just finished reading an amazing book called The Council of Dads. The premise caught my eye. A dad, about my age, finds out he has an aggressive cancer and may not be around to raise his three year old twin daughters. After much soul searching he comes up with a list of men he’s known in different stages of his life, men who each live some kind of character trait he’d like his girls to find in their growing up years. Men who could be trusted to remind his girls on a regular basis, what he was like and how much he loved them. Then he called his list “The Council of Dads.” Not unlike a team of godfathers.

The thought terrified and intrigued me. I lost my own mom when she was fifty. As I get closer to that age I realize more and more how young she really was. I can’t comprehend having to leave my kids without a mom in the next decade. But it happens. After it happened to my mom I understood on a deeper level that it does happen. Even to good people who love their kids. For mental health reasons I generally try to stay away from dwelling on the concept, but reading this book forced me to face the idea once again.

It’s not a sappy book or a ‘feel sorry for me’ book. It’s a book about a guy who got some pretty crappy news and decided to do what he could, with what time he had left. And the part that intrigued me was the gathering of friends. I’ve lived in many places since I became an adult, and always found new friends along the way. With each move I reminded the kids that there was a new friend waiting in our new home state. And every time, it’s been true.

As they found friends, I did too. Each became special to me for a different reason. Each personality touched me and changed me in a unique way. I’m a different person today because of the influence this broad list of women have had on my life. I really hope I never have to create a council of moms, to pick up the slack after I’m gone. My plan is to finish raising this pack of kids who’ve been entrusted to me, then spend a few decades being a crazy, permissive grandma to their offspring.

But taking a minute to think about friends, and how they’ve changed your life, is not a bad exercise to do as this endless winter, and being cooped up for months, leads a person to reflect a bit. Christmas cards are a nice way to keep in touch, but maybe this year you could start a new tradition. On the first of each month pick a friend, someone who has made you a better person, and write them a quick note to tell them what they mean to you. It doesn’t have to be eloquent or long. Just a paragraph or two, reminding them how much your life is better because you call them a friend.

In fact this week is the perfect time to start. Friday is going to be March the fourth. A few years ago I read somewhere that it’s the only date that is a command, “March Forth!” The author of the article suggested that it’s a good day to move forward aggressively, to take the name of that date and do something good with it. So maybe this year you can use your March Forth date as an excuse to think about the people in your life who make you a better person.

Life gets nutty once the grown up years hit. Jobs and spouses and kids can soak up every free minute of every week. It’s the job of a good friend to bring us back to who we are, apart from all the complications of life. It’s the job of a good friend to encourage us when times get tricky and remind us how great life is when things are going well.

Who are those people in your life? Are you being that person to someone else? Be sure you take the time this year, to take stock of who matters to you. And don’t let a life changing diagnosis be the only thing that inspires you to tell them how important they are.

Get out a note card. Make a phone call. Heck, I’ll even let you off easy and say it’s okay to send an email (although I’m going to insist you write more than a sentence or two if you decide to wimp out in that way). But slow down, on this day that’s a command, and take a moment to take stock.

Stop all the madness of everyday life for a minute and don’t be afraid to begin a new personal tradition, and March Forth!

Best Laid Plans

2011-02-21T16:10:00.002-05:00

It looked like a pretty sweet evening for me and my girl. Her dad was taking the house full of boys off to a local mountain, to go night skiing, and the empty house belonged to just us girls. I couldn’t wait for some quality bonding time with my only daughter.

I have started seeing her childhood more clearly now that she’s become an adult. For years she was my big girl, my helper, my second set of hands. She was nurturing and capable and loved being a part of the mommying team. It made her feel mature and important to be trusted in tasks like pacing the floor with her newborn brother so I could get a much needed shower.

But somehow, letting her be the grown up girl she wanted to be, made her grow up twice as fast. Suddenly I was putting my 14 year old girl on a plane to visit family friends in Brazil, and her confident stride through the boarding gate, alone, made me weep on the way home.

“When was she SIX?” I wailed to my patient husband. “When was she SIX?!”

He assured me that she had, indeed, been six once. We had pictures to prove it.

Boxes of pictures to prove it.

When she was six, headed off to first grade, she led her little brother through the school hallways, and dropped him off at his kindergarten class. She kissed her baby brother good bye before she exited our minivan in the morning, then accepted his squeals and hugs when she returned in the afternoon.

She had been her version of six, always looking after those brothers.

I’m like most parents, I think. I look back and think about how I’d do things differently, if I had the chance. I’d spend more time with just my daughter. I’d sit with her on the couch and ask a lot more about how she was feeling on a daily basis (which of course is silly, because I know that she would have hated that kind of direct assault parenting).

I keep thinking I would have noticed more, asked more questions, given more hugs, but maybe that’s not possible. Like the mother of a newborn, who can’t ‘cherish these moments’, as she’s instructed to by older women, because she’s so exhausted by sleep deprivation and daily baby maintenance, I look back and wonder if I really did just ‘do my best’ as much as I could. I had my failing moments. But we had a lot of great, relationship building moments too.

So on this night, a week ago, when I was going to have a chance to get to spend some alone time with my girl, I was excited. There are no more babies to distract us. No more potty training toddlers to dictate our evening. We had grown up plans. We were ready to order of favorite pizza then settle down to watch a chick flick together, something that would never make it into our house when all the boys were home.

Then her dad called from work. He has spent a week traveling and was headed out again, the very next day. He was tired, bone tired. Would I mind taking the boys to ski?

Uh oh. This was one of those selfless parenting moments. Where you’re supposed to think about your spouse’s feelings and needs first. Especially if it ‘only’ meant missing a relaxing pizza and movie night. I am embarrassed to say I resisted. I tried to think of every reason why I couldn’t do it. My girl and I had plans, after all!

In less than an hour I had caved. My girl, the one who spent her childhood being the second mom to her brothers, stepped up and saved the day. “Why don’t I go too, and snowboard with Sam?” This suggestion was huge. Sam is a great skier, but in the process of crossing over to being a snowboarder. At ten, he’s only allowed to go boarding if someone is willing to go along with him. His sister is usually the sucker he convinces first.

So we all headed up to the mountain together. Hubby got to stay home and wrap up loose ends so he could travel again for work. I ended up spending several hours in a car, and then on the mountain, enjoying conversation with four pretty great kids. I watched my girl, who had given up her warm, comfy night on the couch watching movies, as she strapped on snowboard boots and escorted her little brother to the ski lift.

They all had a great time. Everyone got along (a miracle!) and by the time we were headed home, the exhaustion was relaxing. We got our traditional hot fries at McDonalds for the drive home and as the big red box was passed back and forth through the car the conversation was relaxed and peaceful.

And I realized, once again, that parenting is all about being flexible. Memory making doesn’t always go as planned. Instead of having new time alone moments with my girl, I got some pretty great moments watching her do what she does best - take care of her brothers. Our family dynamic works for a reason. Everyone has their place in our nest. Everyone’s pretty comfortable with the way it’s set up.

In a van that smelled of salty, hot french fries, I settled into the drive home. And tried my best to burn the feeling of that priceless night into my memory bank.

True Love and Chocolate

2011-02-14T15:10:00.002-05:00

Another Valentine's Day has come and gone. Although we probably agree that the greeting card companies and florists have practically hijacked the holiday, there is some value in taking a moment to think about the ones we love. If only we could go back to the days when February 14th stood for something that simple - love and appreciation.

Now it stands for many things, including the token day to get engaged. Almost every girl with a ticking clock and a halfway serious boyfriend is hoping that a little square box will show up sometime after her romantic dinner on that night. The jewelry companies start early, reminding young lads (and old) that now is the time to plunk down a month’s salary on a sparkly bobble to put on her left finger. It’s a lot of pressure, for fragile relationships that could probably use a bit more time to bloom and grow.

Couples break up right before the holiday and feel cheated. If they break up after, they feel used. Little ones slave over shoe boxes, trying to find the exact right mix of construction paper, stickers, and glitter to make their box stand out when it’s time to pass out little white envelopes at the school party. That’s not to mention the mysterious task of assigning the exact right Valentine to every person in their class. It’s important to guard against unintended romantic crushes caused by misplaced heart shaped cards.

Married folks have similar pressures. Finding a sitter. Hoping to find a restaurant that’s not too expensive, crowded or over booked. Figuring out if flowers are necessary. Guessing what kind of jewelry might express the right kind of affection. Single people look at married people and wish they had a built in Valentine. Married people look at their single friends and try to remember what it’s like to have no pink and red heart shaped obligations. It can be a lot of pressure if you believe any of the hype.

But love is way too big to be defined by a single day. No chilly winter day in February can represent the enormity of what loving someone really means. It has very little to do with the token gifts of Valentine’s Day. Because true love is about making someone else’s life better, every single day of the year. Quality relationships are what gives meaning to life.

I recently read the follow up book to the best selling Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. It’s called Committed, and is an examination of marriage, through trials in the author’s life. After suffering through a painful divorce, then meeting a new love who had also been divorced, she and her new man decide to stay out of the justice of the peace’s office and just contently be lifelong companions. It works out well for them until immigration comes into the picture (her new boyfriend is not an American) and insists they get married or face exile. Suddenly she’s forced to choose between her frustration for the institution of marriage and her love for her foreign man.

It’s a long book, as her personal journey is woven into some pretty interesting cultural and historical studies of marriage. Determined to enter into the union much more educated about how they can find success, the author discovers some practical truths along the way. In a nutshell, marriage is a lot like a business deal. Both parties lay out their needs and desires and then work to create a mutually successful union.

Having been married for over two decades, I found myself agreeing with much of what the author spells out. True love has very little to do with Valentine’s Day. Day to day life is the battlefield where marriage is played out. Romance and affection are important, but just as important is the obligation we have to see each other clearly, and understand each other’s true needs, if we hope to find happiness on this journey.

It’s more about showing practical love every single day of the year. Living with a man who is always thinking of ways to make my life easier, every single day, is what I want for this special holiday. The fact he scrapes the ice off my car for me, or picks up milk on the way home so I don’t have to, means so much more to me than how many roses he brings me on one day of the year.

Watching him interact with our children, whether they’re skiing, hiking, or just playing video games together on the couch, I am more content than I ever would be with a box of expensive chocolates. The way he patiently coaches our young adult daughter as she files her own confusing tax forms makes my heart swell, more than a dozen roses ever could.

I have never been known to turn down a box of chocolates. I enjoy a beautiful bouquet of flowers in the center of my dining room table. But I also know better than to take one day on the calendar too seriously. Sometimes I can feel the devotion from the love of my life just by the way he brings home my favorite brand of chips when he gets back from the grocery store. That makes him my Valentine every day of the year. Not just a single, overhyped day in February

Snow Love

2011-02-07T12:54:00.002-05:00

I have to say, this has been a pretty amazing winter, if you’re a snow lover. I’m one of those crazy people who thinks every storm is exciting. Well, I think every snow storm is exciting. If there is any ice involved, I’m out. I’ll take twelve inches of fluffy snow over one inch of ice any day. Ice makes me fall down and I don’t fall down gracefully. Bad things happen when I fall down.

But give me a driveway full of new snow and I am in awe. A fresh, white blanket of newness to cover up my pot hole ridden driveway. No grass to mow, or flower beds to weed. Just a beautiful white cover over every surface.

I sometimes wonder if my fascination with snow comes from my upbringing in the Midwest. In the middle of Missouri we never got a lot of snow. Every winter we’d dream of a big snow fall but end up having to make do with a few inches, if we were lucky.

Every few years a big one might fall, usually in March, and we’d romp and play in it non-stop, until it inevitably melted away in a day or two. Missouri winters are known for being bitter cold one day and balmy and spring- like the next.

It was a reassuring sign to me that a huge snowfall came on the night I said yes to a marriage proposal. We almost got snowed into the car we were sitting in when he popped the question. Snow fell so deep around us we barely got the car doors open.

Then, for the first time in decades, the college shut down the next day. We told all of our friends the school closing was in honor of our big announcement. Just another reason why I will always be in love with that sparkly white stuff that falls in the winter.

When we moved our young family to Washington D.C. we didn’t really expect a snowy winter. But of course that was the year D.C. got their record snow falls. Two feet came in one storm. The kids had five straight days of snow days. The city was paralyzed and we made snow families that filled up the yard. I loved every minute.

Then our next move was to Utah. The state motto is engraved on the license plates - “Greatest Snow on Earth”. Apparently, a state that was made for me. Indeed we had perfect snow in the three years we lived there. We moved in August and by Halloween night, the first flakes were falling from the sky. The yard was covered in a white blanket until Easter. The kids learned to ski and, because season ski passes were dirt cheap for residents, we had them on the slopes every weekend. Only more reasons to love snow.

Now we’re in New York. The first year we were here, there were back to back huge storms in February. The kids helped their dad build a snow ramp off the garage roof. They were able to break out the skis and practice their skills right here at home. What followed were a few winters of lighter precipitation. We started to get worried that New York was going to turn into another Missouri - with snow falls few and far between. Then this winter rolled along.

I’ve successfully brain washed three of my four children into being snow lovers too. My only girl prefers a good beach to a frozen tundra, thank you very much. But while she’s curled up under a blanket, her brothers are usually outside, finding some kind of fun in the snow.

My single request every winter is for one big snow man. I spent my childhood dreaming of having enough snow to make a decent sized snow guy, complete with coal for eyes and a carrot nose. Most years the boys will oblige and build me a quick one before they run off to do their own thing, and this year they wisely positioned him right outside my office window. He makes me happy every time I look outside.

Some years we’re all about sledding. The boys make ramps and jumps and do everything they can to earn a cast or stitches before the winter months end. Sometimes they drag their sleds out to our woods, shooting themselves down trails as they weave between trees, increasing their chances for injuries.

This year, the year of endless snow storms, is also the year of the snow fort. They began as our driveway became flanked by five foot high banks of snow. It was easy to carve out cubbies, great places to hide for the massive snow ball fight.

Then a larger crevice was carved out, big enough for three lawn chairs.
Soon it was covered by the biggest tarp we own, held up by strategically placed ski poles. An inevitable next step was to run an extension cord out to a music player. Lamps were strung up, windows carved out, and they had created a downright comfy little dwelling.

Of course I took tons of pictures, shots that we’ll hardly believe in July, when we’re wearing shorts and sandals and hoping to catch a cool breeze.

Because that’s the most special part of snow. It will only come certain times of the year. You can’t make it come, you just have to wait until it’s ready to fall. It’s not a given, even in typically snowy states. So when it shows up, all sparkly and magical, you have to make yourself step back and take it in. It can bring special memories and miraculous moments, if you’ll give it a chance.

So take the pictures while you can. Before you know it, it will be gone. Grass will grow again and seasons will change. And we’ll all sit around in our lawn chairs, drinking lemonade and wiping our brows, reminiscing about snow men and frosty forts.

Strategic Spaces

2011-02-04T15:54:00.002-05:00

Sometimes people are startled when I tell them I have four kids. I’m not sure if I come across as too sane to be mothering that many offspring, or too crazy. Even to people who grew up in large families, having more than two or three kids seems like a lot. I had way more than four siblings and I never appreciated how much work my parents did to keep us all fed and clothed. At least not until we started having our own.

Since we ended up with four, on purpose, I inevitably get asked some of the same questions over and over again, from people who are still in the middle of planning their families. Besides the obvious, ‘How do you do it?’, one of the most common is ‘how far apart should you space them?’ I have several answers for that question.

The easiest answer, for those who have less than 30 seconds for a reply, is ‘I have no idea. What we did worked for us, but I have no idea when it comes to anyone else’s family.’

And maybe I should stick with that answer. Because a lot of how the spacing of children turns out depends on things that are unique to each situation. The child’s personality plays a role. The gender of the children plays a role. The dreams and desires of the parents plays a big role. If a mom is not happy at home with a bunch of little ones, or overwhelmed by the idea of packing up a car full of preschoolers to head to day care every day, it can dictate the best choices for that family.

Our first two are just under thirteen months apart in age. During their baby hoods we lived in a tiny duplex while Jeff went to graduate school. It was not as hard as I’d imagined, when I found out I was pregnant while holding a four month old in my arms. Our diaper service had a discount for families with two babies. Our minuscule living room was dedicated to a baby swing and baskets of toys.

It probably helps that they were both pretty easy going babies, and I made sure we got out of the house on a frequent basis, going on walks and visiting the local library.

It also helped that I didn’t feel a need to impress anyone. We didn’t have a fancy house that made me a slave to dusting and mopping. I could clean our whole duplex in just over fifteen minutes. Jeff and I had decided that I would stay home when the kids were young, putting my teaching degree on the shelf. I had always dreamed of having babies and was thrilled by that decision. Everyone in our family felt heard and respected, and it made raising two babies a lot easier.

Now here comes the disclaimer. We didn’t pop out two more right away. My oldest was almost in kindergarten when we finally had number three. She was getting ready to celebrate her tenth birthday when her last little brother arrived. We went from one extreme to the other. Our first two are just over a year apart, but our first and last trips to the maternity ward spanned almost ten years.

I highly recommend it. Having two in the independent ages of the preschool world when their brother came along made my life easier. It made them feel big to keep the baby quiet by singing to him and shaking his rattles, and it made my trips to the grocery store much easier. Then, having an almost ten and almost nine year old, when the last baby came, really helped our family retain peace and harmony. The older kids could carry that fussing newborn around the house while I made dinner. They were off at school most of the day so errands and house cleaning involved only one baby, not four. I’m telling you, this is the ‘cheater way’ to have four kids.

The plan seemed to work well for our family but I’m sure feeling it now. As I sit at this computer, writing this column, my second child is turning eighteen. We now have two children who are legal adults.

Two children who are navigating college options and huge life choices. Two children who may not be living under my roof in a matter of months. Having two so close together means they hit all the milestones together. Getting a drivers license. Graduating from high school. Finding a college and moving away from home. I’m sure it’s a familiar feeling for the parents of twins, but it’s a bit unsettling for this mom.

I was at the elementary school this morning, watching the morning assembly. Little bitty kindergartners filed by as they made their way into the auditorium. Moms, dads and grandparents snapped pictures and doled out hugs as little hands accepted character awards.

My boy has one more year in that building. He’s one of the old ones, in the sea of smaller school mates. I’ve spent a lot of years in elementary school auditoriums. Now it seems that my days are numbered here too. In a very short time we’ll say good bye to those hallowed hallways and move once again up to being middle school parents.

I cling to the fact that I’m still, at least for now, an elementary school parent. I belong there, right next to the moms of the teeny ones. If we’d had all four of ours in a row, I’d have no place here. But we made a different choice. Part of it was a conscious choice and part of it was pure luck, but for our family, the spacing that happened is a spacing that worked.

I think I bought some time and mental sanity by waiting so long to have numbers three and four.

Big Wishes

2011-02-02T16:28:00.006-05:00

I suppose this is sufficient snow for a snow day.

Last August, when Sam and I were looking through pictures of the first winter we lived in New York, he wondered why we didn't ever get 'big snow' anymore. That year we had two huge storms within two weeks.

He wished, out loud, that we could have another 'good winter' this year.

I guess I should start having him say blessings over lottery tickets.

When The Music Moves You

2011-01-24T16:11:00.004-05:00

It was not the way I would have preferred to spend a very cold, snowy Thursday night, but it meant a lot to my son. For the second year in a row he had signed up to participate in his elementary school’s annual lip sync night. Their last practice was Thursday night. Sam is my child who spent most of his first five years hiding behind me whenever we were in public. How could I not support the fact he seems to be bursting out of his shell with wild abandon?

For an hour and a half I sat in that auditorium chair and watched group after group file onto the stage, practice their dances and try out their props. From kindergartners to fifth graders, every act had something unique to offer. And as often happens when I’m given more than ten minutes of down time to reflect on life (and not dinner, or laundry, or dishes…) I came to some interesting revelations.

For one thing, I would have never been able to pull off such a feat in any year of my elementary school career. Every mom I talked to said the same thing. Not a chance you would have coaxed me onto that stage. And I began to wonder why things seem to be different today. Why is it that there were so many kids signed up to put themselves ‘out there’ in such a vulnerable way, that we had to have two nights of practice, just to fit them all in?

I think part of it stems from the influence of music and videos. The generation of kids I saw perform last week have been surrounded by video input since they were toddlers. They begin with Elmo and Barney, who have a few simple moves in their songs, but they also have shows like the Backyardigans. If you’ve never seen this show, it’s an amazing cartoon, geared to the 3-5 year olds, where the characters not only harmonize, but do some pretty impressive dance moves too. It’s a great way to get preschoolers off the couch, dancing along with their favorite cartoon friends. It also starts a chain of events that make kids more comfortable with moving their bodies (I was a preschooler in the early 70s. Mr. Rogers was great and all, but he didn’t do much groovin’. Neither did Captain Kangaroo or his trusty moose).

Next, this generation has had access to music and videos like no other generation before. Many TV commercials are filled with popular songs and dancing people. Even kid oriented stuff is more sophisticated. I don’t remember the nursery rhyme songs of my childhood having a back beat. “I’m a Little Teapot” had motions, but they were so simplistic, your grandma could perform them. The kids in elementary school today know who Michael Jackson is as well as the artists who play on current radio stations. There seems to be a very thin line between ‘kid music’ and ‘adult music’ these days.

And we can’t have this conversation without bringing up the existence of dance games. Dance Dance Revolution got everyone off the couch and in recent years the dance games offered for Wii and Xbox have had the power to make anyone feel comfortable showing off their moves. In our house, the general opinion before Christmas was that we didn’t need the Dance Revolution game that went with the Kinect system. Then Santa left it under the tree and we’ve had to have family meetings to discuss who gets to have their friends over on which nights to play it. I’m convinced that kids today are much more comfortable dancing in front of their friends.

Which brings me to my favorite part of the lip sync show. I was amazed by how many boys had signed up for it. When I was a kid, this would have been a ‘girl’ thing. Girls took dance lessons. Girls were the performance types. Guys were guitar players and rock stars. But guys didn’t dance and sing.

But this is a new generation. Today’s ten year olds have seen many cool guys (singers and dancers) carve a new path for males everywhere. It’s suddenly really cool to have some dance moves up your sleeve and show them off when asked. There are as many guy icons in the video dance games as there are girls. Sam gets mesmerized in the effort of copying the character on the screen and has become very confident with the new moves he’s learned. I’m convinced it’s part of the reason he was so at ease up on that stage, when the real show started on Friday night.

The auditorium was packed. All three of his older siblings, as well as three of their friends, were in the audience. But he didn’t care. He knew his moves. He felt the music. And it was all about having fun putting the two together.

Side note: Two weeks ago I wrote about missing one of the best games my football team has ever played. I may never know who took mercy on me and left a copy of that football game in my mailbox at work, but whoever you are…THANK YOU! It had to be one of the best gifts I’ve received in a very long time.

Now here's a short video of my boy (the one in brown) at his big debut..

Slow, Sudden Change

2011-01-14T15:20:00.003-05:00

A very important letter showed up in our mailbox this week. My oldest son’s name was right there in the middle of the envelope, with the name of a very special college printed in the top left corner. This was the envelope we’ve been waiting for. It’s the letter we’ve been hoping for since the college application process started almost a year ago.

You have to understand that my son only really wants to go to one college. It’s a beautiful private school set right in the middle of the gorgeous Salt Lake City valley. It would not only put him back in a state he’s missed since we moved away four years ago, but this specific school has the exact, specific degree he wants.

Knowing that he might not get his first choice, he eventually picked some back up schools. He browsed through their websites and read their catalogs with indifference. Because that school in Utah was the only place he really wanted to be.

So when the envelope arrived, with what we knew was the acceptance or rejection letter, we all held our breath. He scanned the first paragraph and broke into a huge grin. He was in. He could officially plan his big move west. We hugged, I cried. He just grinned a whole lot.

We made the calls and sent the emails. Grammy had to know. Aunt Mary (my sister) would be thrilled to know, since she pretty much kept me from jumping off a cliff through the application process. He texted friends and I changed my facebook status. It was all so exciting and unbelievable.

Then slowly it started to sink in. Although I know I won’t feel the full pain of what it means that he’s leaving my nest until August, it started to settle into my soul that my boy was now very much on borrowed time. I’m not the only one who understood what this magical letter would mean to our family.

We went out to dinner as a family to celebrate. On the drive there I began to tease my son, that as excited as he was to move on in life, he might be surprised to find he’d miss us, even just a little bit, once he moved so far away. My other teen son teasingly said, “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t miss you!” Then, quietly from the back seat a small voice piped up. “But I’ll miss you…”

As much as my ten year old complains about his big brothers, there’s something pretty special about the brotherhood of brothers. For every play punch, he also gets a ruffling of his hair when he finishes first in the race at school or brings home a 105 on his spelling test. For as much as my almost college bound boy pushes his baby brother’s buttons, he’s also the one who scoops him up and gives him bear hugs when he’s sad, or sick, or just feeling low. My baby boy will still have a big brother to pick on him, but the dynamic of two brothers is very different than that of three. He might not even realize it yet, but my little guy idolizes that big boy. There’s no question in my mind that he’s going to feel that hole in our family as much as I do, once his biggest brother flies away.

That letter in the mailbox changes us all. In obvious ways it changes the boy whose name was on the envelope. He’s hunkered down into schoolwork again, inspired to get the best grades he can before he jumps into the college level classes. He’s scheming and dreaming about his new life, in the shadow of those mountains where he first learned to ski when he was a much smaller boy. He plans to take full advantage of discounted lift tickets for college kids and spend just about every weekend possible on the slopes. He’s so ready to start that new life. So ready to take his next step.

But that letter also changes us as a family. And it changes every person in our family. He’s been a part of our unit, a part of the pecking order, and a part of the balance we’ve found in our time together. He has a place in our family dinner discussions. He has a place in our van as we drive to see grandparents in New Hampshire. He has a place in every one of our family traditions. And all those parts of our life will have to stretch, constrict, and change, as we find our new order without him.

My biggest boy has been in a great mood since he got the letter. I know he’s still floating on his acceptance high. And we’ve all started treating him differently. I don’t know if it will last, but for now my children (especially my boys) all seem to be getting along very well. They’re making up games to play in the evenings (glow stick wars!), like they used to before two of them turned into teens. I sense a coming together, a unifying while they still have time. They might not even realize it, but I think they all sense the impending change and are eeking out their last moments together as the clock ticks toward a huge change.

Life’s still rushing forward. Now we have forms to fill out, deposits to send in. The list of logistics is long, as we prepare to send our son to a college that’s two thousand miles away. And as I work on every last detail I’m so fully aware of the months, weeks, hours, and minutes I have left with this amazing kid I call my son. We worked so hard to get him to this point. So why does it suddenly feel like the clock has sped up and I’m not as sure anymore that I’m ready for him to go?

Silly Sadness

2011-01-09T12:10:00.002-05:00

I know I write a lot about being optimistic and positive. Always seeing the good side of a situation. I’m generally a glass half full (even three quarters full!) kind of person. But sometimes I get knocked down by the reality that pretty insignificant things can still make a person pretty sad.

If you’re not a sports fan you might not get the story I’m about to tell. We’re a football family. I grew up watching my mom, not my dad, watch the NFL, following her hometown Cowboys, while we lived in Missouri. I found my own team when I was in high school and began a thirty year love affair with the Seattle Seahawks (I picked them way back then, honestly, because I loved their uniform). I married a guy who’d played college football. We naturally began hosting the yearly Super Bowl party for our friends. In 1993 I gave birth on the morning of the big game and brought the baby home by the fourth quarter, to show him off to the friends who had gathered at our house to watch the game.

So yeah, we kind of like football around here. One of our best friends in Utah teases me that I have a list of favorite teams, when others have just one allegiance. I tell him that I love each team for a different reason. I started watching the Colts after reading Payton Manning’s book, and then continued to watch them because I love a good passing game. I’ve stayed loyal to my Seahawks, many times feeling like I was their only fan in the country outside of Seattle. I loved watching the Packers when Brett was in his glory days and only in the news for his sports accomplishments. And after moving to NY I’ve become a mild Giants fan, since Payton’s little brother is on my TV each week.

But my all time favorite team has always been the Seahawks. They’ve never had a stellar season, plugging away, year after year, and making me crazy when they dominate a top team one week, then lay down for a losing team the next. The year they made it to the Super Bowl, one scrappy game at a time, I was more than elated.

We built a huge snowman out in the front yard, put my Seahawks helmet (found at the goodwill one year) on his head, and a Seahawks flag in his hand that announced our love for the team. I was pretty sure they’d get creamed, but having my team in the big game was a day I never thought I’d live to see, so it really didn’t matter.

So that brings us up to this season. I rarely get to see my team on my TV. Even when we lived in Utah, three states away, the programmers never found it fit to show a Seahawks game in regular broadcasting. I’ve had to rely on the rare Monday Night games to catch a glimpse of them. So when I found out my team was going to be in an important game last week, against the Rams, on my TV, I couldn’t wait.

It was a night game, which I usually can’t see to the end because, well, I’m old and get tired by 10 o’clock. But this one was important. I stayed up for every minute, saw every down. And the Seahawks won.

Unbelievably, my team, who went in the record books as being the only team ever in the NFL to go to the playoffs with a losing record, were on their way to playing the Saints in the first round of the play offs.

For the entire past week I gloated. I wore a Seahawks t-shirt all week. I was pretty sure they’d get run over by the Saints, because the Saints are an amazing team and, oh yeah, won the Super Bowl last year, but I couldn’t wait to see my team on my TV one more time.

There was only one problem. Sam’s year end football banquet was at the exact same time as the big game. Although it did cross my mind, I really didn’t think I could justify missing his big night, just so I could sink into my couch and watch a football game. So we set the TV to tape it and went out for the night. There was one minor glitch when one of the dad’s at the table blurted out “The Seahawks are winning in the fourth quarter!”, after discreetly checking his phone.

When he found out I was a fan, he respected my desire not to know the score, but toyed with me until I just had to know. With disbelief I saw the final score on his cell phone. My team had beaten the amazing Saints, scoring an amazing amount of points. I couldn’t wait to get home to watch the game. I knew they must have played very well, and since that’s not always a given, I couldn’t wait to see my team shine, on my TV.

I got up early on Sunday, got myself set up, and turned on the TV. But there was no game in the queue. Somehow the game, that I had personally set up, had not taped. Either the machine had malfunctioned or one of the kids pressed a wrong button, but my game was nowhere to be found.

I’m embarrassed to say I was heartbroken. It took awhile to sink in. I was not going to see this game, which was by far one of the best my team has played in years. It was over. All that’s left is highlight reels. And for some reason, that’s just not enough for me. I was ready to spend three hours lost in a game that my team played well, and seeing only the best plays from the game only breaks my heart more, reminding me of what I missed.

I did my best to control my emotions. My internal dialogue went something like this, “It’s just a game. It doesn’t really matter in the bigger picture. It’s just one game. For heaven’s sake, there was a shooting in Arizona last night that’s worth being sad about, this is just football.” But I have to admit, littered in between those thoughts were some others that went more like this, “YOU’RE KIDDING ME! One of the BEST games my team’s ever played and I didn’t SEE it? It was on MY TV and I didn’t get to SEE IT??”

It still feels like I have a rock of sadness in my stomach. Hopefully at some point this week I’ll be healed (mature) enough to watch those amazing highlights. But for now it hurts too much. Some silly, insignificant- to-the-good-of-the-universe game has knocked me down a notch.

I’m still an optimist. I still try to see the good in most things. But sometimes I think it’s okay to be sad about silly things. If it’s the little things that bring fulfillment in life, then I think it can also be the little things that bring us unexpected sadness.

Now I need to start gearing up for a big game this weekend. My team has one more shot in the playoffs. I won’t be setting it up to tape.

I’ll be watching it live.

On my couch.

On my TV.

So don’t even think about calling me during that three hour block. Don’t expect me to answer the door. And if you happen to be watching the game yourself, have some compassion and become a temporary Seahawks fan.

No matter how they play.

My Boys in Brazil

2011-01-02T11:22:00.002-05:00

It’s my last day of being the daily mom to only two kids. For over a decade my household has revolved around the needs of four separate children. Four different developmental stages. Four different academic, emotional and physical needs. Then suddenly two of my boys boarded that plane to Brazil.

We have family friends there and have traded kids back and forth for a few years now. My two oldest boys, ages 14 and almost 18, fought the crowds at JFK on December 17th and left my cozy nest for almost three weeks. They are having an amazing visit, as always. We Skype them every few days, and their tanned faces and wide grins keep me from worrying.

But our household completely changed the day they boarded that plane. For the past few weeks we’ve been the parents to a 19 year old and a 10 year old. And because the college girl comes and goes on her own independent schedule, it really meant we were down to one, very lonely, ten year old.

No big brothers to bug him, playfully punch him, tell him what to watch on TV, take apart his treasured Lego creations, or make him do their chores. He’s not been banished to the back seat of the van when we go somewhere. He’s had the whole couch to himself when he wanted to watch his shows. He got to pick what we had for dinner so many nights in a row that he lost interest in the process.

And I’ve felt the change too. There have been days in the past week that I did no laundry (gasp!). In our household of six I don’t dare let the washing machine take a break. It just means I’m forced to spend an afternoon catching up again. But in the past few weeks my laundry room has been eerily quiet.

One of the reasons comes down to two words - sheets and towels. I changed the sheets on the beds of my two traveling boys the day they left and they are still fresh and clean, waiting for their occupants to come home. There are two fewer sheets in my laundry and four fewer pillowcases (not to mention blankets that the cat covers in fur when he sleeps with one of them).

And for the first time in years there has always been a clean towel waiting for me when it was my turn to shower. One of my biggest pet peeves used to be reaching for a fluffy fresh towel in the morning, only to be greeted by an empty shelf…after spending so many of my day time hours washing and drying loads of them. Since the boys have been gone, that shelf has overflowed with towels, ready and waiting for the next person to shower.

My pantry has also been eerily full. I brought home the huge load of weekly groceries almost a week ago, and there are still some left today! There are crackers on the snack shelf. There is ice cream in the freezer. Heck, there’s cereal (the good kind!), in the top of the pantry. And milk. For almost three weeks there has been at least one full gallon of milk in the fridge, in that same spot where there’s usually a jug that’s one gulp away from being empty.

I had to stop my habit of buying a gallon at the local quick stop every day. About a week into my social experiment with just two kids, I brought home a gallon and discovered we had two others, almost full, already in the fridge. I honestly stood in front of the open fridge, letting all the cold air out, mouth hanging open, unable to process this new turn of events.

It’s been so quiet around here that I’ve started thinking of Sam as my grandchild. Our days are mostly centered around the activities of two old people (me and hubby) and this little guy just happens to live here too. It’s a lot like I imagine grandparenthood to be.

But before you misunderstand this to mean I’m liking the fact my boys are gone, let me set you straight. My boys are gone. GONE. Half of the offspring that I’ve been in charge of for many, many years, are not here. As quiet and ‘good’ as it all could seem, instead it mainly feels ‘off’. Our household has lost its electricity, its energy, its intensity. I’m always aware that something, someone, is missing.

When we go out to dinner and there are only four of us around the table, I can pretend that the boys are away at a track meet. Or at a friend’s house. These were common circumstances this fall. But once we get home, and I dare to open the fridge and see a full gallon of milk, I am reminded. They are not gone for the night. They are gone for weeks. And it hurts my heart once again.

I am very aware that our family dynamic is changing rapidly, as we have older kids who are heading off to college and finding their own adult lives soon. But I had mentally prepared for it to be in steps. One would go. Then the other. Then we had four more years before the next one went. I had time to adjust. Time to make peace with the new circumstances. Time to get used to it. This idea of putting two kids on a plane and not seeing them for weeks doesn’t fit my plan.

This time tomorrow my chaos will be back. My nest will be full. My milk jugs will be empty. Because after a long trip south, to that crazy land called JFK, my mommy heart will be full again. Life will be in balance.

Because, at least for a little bit longer, my boys will be home.

Do The Right Thing

2010-12-27T15:00:00.003-05:00

We really hadn’t intended to be a part of a high speed police chase but somehow that’s what transpired. Because hubby had been tired at the last Thruway rest stop, I was at the wheel. We were having a really lovely chat, the kind that can materialize when darkness falls on the highway and there are no ears buckled into the back seats. We’d just dropped our oldest two boys off at the airport in New York City. They were on their way to sunny Brazil, to spend their Christmas holidays with family friends. We had about an hour to go before we could collapse into our warm beds.

Then we saw him. A white full sized car in front of us was weaving around a bit. Then a lot. He started spending more time crossing over the lines than he did driving between them. I stayed back just enough to stay out of his way, but tried not to lose him, knowing he was tragically close to striking an innocent victim.

Suddenly our casual conversation had disappeared and we were frantically wondering what we should do about our fellow driver. Should we call 911? Who has jurisdiction on the open Thruway?

Then, before we could make a move, he put on a blinker and headed for the exit. Immediately we realized we’d be able to catch his license plate as he slowed down for the toll gate. I put on my blinker and we followed him. He approached the easy pass lane and barely slowed down enough for the sensors to register. In that brief moment, we caught his plate number and wrote it down. Then we zipped through the easy pass lane after him.

If I had been alone I probably would have let it go. I would have called in the plates and turned around to make my way home. But my husband is a man who takes responsibility. For years I’ve called him our ‘undercover super hero’ because he’s always the one who steps up and does the right thing, even when it puts himself in danger. By the time we entered the dark winding roads of rural Upstate New York, my man was committed to stopping this guy, hopefully before he killed someone with his reckless driving.

For almost 20 miles, as he continued to cross the center line (causing other cars to honk as they barely missed him) and weave around the corners, we followed him. For most of that time we had the 911 operator on the phone, describing to her the landmarks we were passing, so she could send the authorities to the correct location. Around hairpin curves, at speeds higher than I was usually comfortable with, we tracked him and kept the 911 operator up to date on his status.

Finally, as we passed through a small town, we saw the fruits of our effort. Two local police cars were standing by, ready to intercept this obviously intoxicated driver. Our part of the journey was over. We hung up the phone and turned around, winding our way back to the Thruway. But as the adrenaline continued to course through our veins, we had a different discussion. This one about the senselessness of a traffic accident caused by an impaired driver.

For much of our chase we were certain we’d eventually be assisting at a crash scene. The driver of that white car was so out of control, it’s a miracle no one died that night. All of those public service announcements, preaching the dangers of drinking and driving, suddenly became very personal. We talked about the reasons a person might be stupid enough to get in a car when they’re not able to drive safely.

The holidays bring more than the usual circumstances that would lead to a person driving while impaired. It starts at the office holiday party, or a friend’s Christmas party. Everyone’s relaxed, joking around, the alcohol is flowing freely.

Then someone decides it’s time to call it a night. Everyone knows he’s had a few too many to be getting into a car. But it’s an awkward situation. No one wants to spoil the fun. No one wants to be the one who stands up and says, “Maybe you should call a cab.” It’s easy to tell yourself, ‘I don’t know that guy very well. Someone who knows him better should say it.’

Because let’s face it, it’s a hassle to call a cab. It’s a pain to have someone drive you home. There’s the expense of the cab ride, or the favor owed to the chauffer friend. And there’s logistics of getting back to the scene to pick up your car the next day. It’s so much easier to look the other way. “He’s a really good driver, he’ll be fine.” “She doesn’t live that far from here. I’m sure she’ll make it without a problem.”

This weekend, as you celebrate the ringing in of a new year, think about the choices you’re making. If you’ve ever seen a drunk driver on the road, you’ll ignore the wimpy excuses. When it seems too hard to stand up and do the right thing, imagine the innocent car that may never see that drunk driver coming. The one with toddlers buckled into car seats in the back. The one traveling to grandma’s house for the holidays. Then step up. Do the right thing.

Consider it a gift to the universe.

Consider it a gift to yourself.

Tis the season to do the right thing.

A Santa Good Bye

2010-12-20T12:43:00.003-05:00

Disclaimer: This column contains material that might be considered adult content. Please preview before sharing with any person under the age of ten.

It’s finally happened in our house. After almost two decades of welcoming the red suited guy into our home, the last of our offspring has stopped believing. It’s a milestone I never thought about until it suddenly popped up this past weekend. It's a big deal to me, because it says so much about how our household is changing, so quickly, from young kids to young adults.

I guess I’m lucky that we got to squeeze a few extra years out of the whole magical process. Our firstborn stopped believing about the time our last born was, well…born. So as one belief evaporated, a new little person began his path to embracing it. It was a good run in our family. As older ones stopped believing, they took great joy in helping little ones hold onto their faith.

It’s a magical thing, to believe in something as special as a grandfatherly man who spends his whole year thinking about your desires. Sometimes it’s hard to let go. When our number three child stretched his believing years out longer than we had ever thought possible, the only way we could comfort him, as reality became too much to ignore, was by letting him stay awake into the wee hours of Christmas morning, to be a part of the giving. Suddenly playing Santa seemed just about as fun as believing in him.

I should have known this would be the year that our Santa run would end. Our youngest is in the later elementary school years. Most of his friends have stopped believing. But he is the baby in our family, so we all did what we could to stretch out the tradition.

In the past few years he’s jumped on the assignment of writing the letter. I’ve had to be pretty sneaky to get my photocopy of said letter (for my heirloom files) before he rushed it out the door to the mailbox. But this year he’d lost his zeal.

I reminded him several times over the course of last week. He never got around to it. I assumed he was just thinking about other aspects of the holiday and distracted by studying spelling words and book report projects. But then it all came together. At one point, in the lazy part of Sunday afternoon I said, “Sam, you should go write your Santa letter now.”

He didn’t answer me. He quietly kept working on the Lego creation that was in his hand. I pulled him in close to me on the couch and whispered in his ear, “Is there a reason you don’t want to write your letter?”

He quietly mumbled back, “I just don’t feel like it.” I took his chin in my hand and turned it to face me. “Is there a reason you don’t want to write that letter?”

He grinned.

And instantly I knew.

I knew that he knew.

And I knew our Santa era was over.

Once it was out in the open we curled up on the couch and had a long conversation. The football game we’d been watching was paused as we soaked in this historic moment. His dad and I laughed and talked about how old he suddenly seemed to us. This ‘baby boy’ who would forever hold that title in our family, kept passing milestones that told us otherwise.

He had questions of his own. He ran upstairs to retrieve the ‘signature’ Santa left him last year. “So, who did this?” he asked, accusingly. Then he wanted to know logistics. Who drank the milk and ate the cookies? How did we sneak presents out in the middle of the night when he knows for a fact that we’re old and desperately need our sleep?

It was entertaining but surreal to share stories with him about trying to pull the whole thing off, right under his nose. It got especially tricky when we started visiting Grammy’s house for Christmas, after we moved to New York. That van trunk full of ‘presents’ covered by coats and blankets made more sense now.

I told him I knew his belief was slipping when he lost his excitement about the letter. I reminded him that last year he’d been diligent about getting his desires sent to the North Pole. He looked reflective for a minute, then said, “Yeah, and do you know how many hearts I put on that letter last year?!” I suspect he was in his last stages of believing when he wrote that letter, and every heart included on his wish list was a small plea for validity.

Once the questions were asked and answered, we snuggled on the couch and turned on a holiday episode of the TV show Glee. I had been protecting him from it since the story line included a teenage girl who still believed, as her friends rally up to help her hold on to the magic. It held special meaning for my boy, now that he was one of the big kids, the ones who knew the truth. Several times in the course of that show he turned to me and grinned, with that knowing grin only a non-believer can possess.

And then came the sweetest moment of the night. Just as he was headed up to bed, he gave the regular good night hugs. But before he pulled away he whispered one sentence in my ear. “Thanks for taking it so well, mom.”

I think my boy is definitely gaining maturity. Even he could see that his not believing anymore was as big a deal.

To him, but also to his sappy hearted mom.

So good-bye, jolly Santa. You will be missed. Don’t stray too far away though. Someday down the road, when grandchildren start ringing my doorbell, I’m going to be thrilled to call on your services again.

Great Characters Make Great Kids

2010-12-13T13:44:00.003-05:00

My youngest son, Sam, has spent his lifetime trying to keep up with the three older kids in our family. He skipped the Fisher Price people and moved up to Hot Wheels as soon as he could sit up. He strapped on roller blades and skis before he started kindergarten, he was so determined to do what the big kids did.

So when my fourth grader came home from school one day and announced he wanted to read a book called Hatchet, which is a book most kids read ‘for school’ in the fifth grade, I was not surprised.

He plowed through the first chapter and realized it might be an easier read if mom helped him out. So for the next few weeks Sam and I went on an adventure together. Every night at 8:30 we snuggled in my bed and found out ‘what happened next’. The book is about a young boy who gets stranded in the woods by himself, in a remote area of Canada. He has no supplies (except a hatchet) and has to figure out how to survive. The draw was obvious for my adventure loving/woods loving boy.

As the character discovered new ways to find food and provide shelter for himself, Sam and I went along for the ride. As he had set backs and frustrations, Sam and I sympathized, and soon felt like he was a friend of ours, stuck in a bad situation. Sam saw him as a kid he might definitely be friends with and my protective mommy heart craved a chance to save him.

Soon it was time to do the monthly book report project and Sam was determined to use this book. It was imperative that we finish it up so he could dive into his project. We met on the couch on a Sunday evening, knowing we had to read until the end.

The story picks up a lot in the last chapters. The tension builds as the boy tries, almost in vain, to retrieve an emergency supplies kit from the crashed plane that put him in the situation in the first place.

Finally, finally he gets his hands on it. After two months of figuring out life in the wild, and setting up a pretty logical and productive system for survival, the boy is suddenly surrounded by simple supplies that can mean the world to a person, if your only possession is a hatchet.

Pots and pans.

Fishing line.

A small gun that could replace his crudely built bow and arrow.

And dozens of packets of real food.

Sam and I had become so involved with this boy’s plight, that as we read the list of supplies he’d found, we were giddy for him, like it was Christmas morning.

These items that are so accessible to us in our daily life, were so priceless to this boy who was lost in the woods.

I paused my reading and we sat for a minute, just looking at each other, in awe.

Sam had been literally bouncing up and down on the couch next to me as I’d read the list of supplies, he was so excited. As we got to the part where the boy is setting up his first real meal, a bowl of hot beef stew, boiled in his precious new pot, and realizing his long term survival seems even more likely, we were both struck with gratitude.

You can imagine how excited we got then, when just a few pages later, a plane touches down to rescue this long forgotten boy. Talk about cheering and high fiving; we were ecstatic.

We did finish the book that night. Then we ran off to tell Daddy about how it all had ended. It somehow felt like this boy was our friend and we were ready to call the papers to announce his rescue, but telling Daddy had to do.

As I laid in bed that night, trying to go to sleep, I realized something. Through the gift of that well written book I learned a few things. I became more educated on wilderness survival for sure.

But I was also reminded of the value of character dense books. That kind of story that makes you feel like you are a part of the character’s life, and have a vested interest in the resolution to his problem. The kind of book you don’t want to end because it means saying good bye to a new friend.

And I realized that with child number four I’d become lazy. It was too easy to set him up with books that were easy reads. The kind of books I’d call fluff books. Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Captain Underpants. Goosebumps. He can read through those quickly and feel good that he’s finished another book. Those books are fine every once in a while. But it’s important I give him a steady diet of meatier books too.

They might take longer to read, and sometimes he might need me to encourage him to tackle those harder books, but they have such value. He gains so much by seeing how more literary books are written and naturally falling in love with their characters.

He sees how other people live and react to life, outside of his own experiences. It makes him a better writer, having read deeper books, but I think it also makes him a better citizen of the planet.

I know the books I’m going to encourage him to read. I made his siblings read them when they were his age. I’d just forgotten how important it was to make sure my last little guy had good literature in his hands too.

It took a very special evening on the couch, cheering together for a good solid character, to remind me to pay attention.